Wrong Again, Albert

I was on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, the one from Next Generation, not the original where there were only like six buttons that did everything. We were approaching an unknown planet, and anxiety gripped the officers, though I couldn't explain why. I wasn't the captain (Patrick Stewart was there, but thankfully, Jonathan Frakes was not) but I suppose I was someone important, being on the bridge. Suddenly, my little brother, I'd have to guess to be about six years old, comes off the turbolift and onto the bridge, wearing that ubiquitous red uniform sported by the sad underlings on the ship, and holding a bullhorn in his hand. He raised the bullhorn to his mouth and began to emit this most shrill and nauseating squeal that turned rhythmic and peircing after a second or two, forcing everyone on the bridge, especially yours truly, to cup our hands over our ears and start running about like crazed orangutans.

I was late. Shit.

I jumped out of bed, trying not to dwell on the fact that Ensign Wesley Crusher hadn't been wearing any pants, and started the shower. It was then that I heard the sound of the truck down the street. The garbage truck. Double shit.

No, to answer your question, the garbage had not been thoughtfully placed at the curbside the previous evening. I threw on a robe to hide my bulbous, pasty shame and opened the garage door just in time to catch two scruffy-looking dudes jump off the back of the truck and walk up my driveway to meet me. The first one grabbed the can from me, looking expectantly. In retrospect, he may have been waiting for a tip, but if you're stupid enough to think that some dude wearing only a robe and a pair of crocs has any cash on him, you should be prepared for a long career in waste management.

After the awkward moment passed, the garbage man casually swung open the lid to the garbage can and proceeded to rifle through my garbage right in front of me. In one hand he grabs an empty bottle of booze and and in the other, an old button-down shirt I'd thrown away the day before. He gives me a long, accusatory stare.

In retrospect, in his left hand, he was holding a bottle of Highland Park 12 year single malt, which I'd purchased months earlier for $42.99 to get me through the troublesome Christmas holidays. My other goal was to advertise to any house guests what type of scotch I liked to drink, in case they ever get invited back. If they knew what I drank during the week (J&B, the jug with the handle, $29.99) I'd never get anything else. It just so happened I'd finished the last drops of that sweet, sweet Highland Park the previous evening. In his right hand, he was holding a shirt with a Structure label, a shirt I'd bought years before at a second-hand shop in Boston for $2.00. What he couldn't see was the giant grease stain on the back, or the fact that the ugly shirt never fit me worth a damned anyway.

So there I am, standing in a bathrobe in my driveway at 7:45 AM while the garbage man secretly chides me for living the type of life of which I can only deam, where I drink Highland park every night and throw out designer shirts like so much kleenex.

Well, I thought to myself as I looked at the high-ceilinged, well-proportioned, palatial homes that surrounded our own, welcome to the neighborhood.

Like so many other of my seemingly endless barrage of erstwhile posts, I must begin with an apology. Not only because you, dear reader, have sunk so low as to find yourself reading this drivel in some puerile attempt to amuse yourself, but because, of late, you’ve had so little opportunity to do so.

This will be one of those rare narratives in which I talk about myself, so you may want to get another cup of coffee, and possibly some pink bismuth. Your only solace is that this post will also feature news of the new Maison d’Awesome, the fetching Mrs. Sonnier, the good brindle kitty, and the bad, bad black kitty.

The indomitable duo that is Team Awesome has vacated their previous Pacific Northwest headquarters at Fort Awesome and are proud to introduce you to the newest base of operations: Maison D’Awesome. As an organization, we feel this recent acquisition will strengthen our presence in the ever-growing American South and allow us a more strategic foothold in our plan for global dominance.

First, Acadiana, then the world, then Detroit, then we’ll give Detroit back and apologize.



May I introduce Maison D’Awesome (troublesome crack of lightning added for dramatic effect.) She’s a beautiful three-year old, two bed, two bath marvel located around an artificial retention pond that’s unevenly oblong like a Mike n’ Ike candy. She’s 1,634 square feet with a sweet garage, extra-big lot and, though it cost us a pretty penny, verification by the National Indian Burial Site Survey to be %100 vengeful Indian spirit free (margin of error %10-%45).



This is the great room. Very popular these days. The only drawback is that when you drop a dinner guests’ steak on the floor, they’re seated only a few feet away sipping on that wine you gave them that they never thanked you for. The amount of time you have to deposit spit on said steak is limited: these rooms are only for professional ninja-chefs.



I discovered that the so-called “great room” is not so great as to easily include most of it’s proportions in a single photograph. Alas, you shall have to make due with a tiny sliver of a view from the dining room. You may note beautiful Persian rug the fetching Mrs. Sonnier picked up for us and a recent estate sale. If you blur your eyes and shake your head, the pattern in the rug kind of looks like you’ve inexplicably blurred your eyes and are shaking at your head at a big reddish blob. Awesome.



This is my awesome kitchen. I say awesome because I have more counter space, prep space and storage space than any other human being on the planet. Go ahead, prove me wrong, you’ve never even been here.



The bitchin’ fireplace was definitely a big draw, especially for me. You see, the fetching Mrs. Sonnier is very torn when it comes to fireplaces: like most of us, she feels that a gently crackling fire not only warms the bones on a cold winter night, it also provides soothing ambiance and calmness to a room. On the other hand, Elise seems convinced that at any given moment, a golem of burning embers, comsumed with pure, bloodthirsty rage will spring forth from the fireplace, incinerating any and all who dare defy his will. Thankfully, she just drinks a little more on fireplace nights.



This is the Sweet Baby Kitten. She’s licking the furniture. This caption sort of writes itself.



If you ever find yourself in the unenviable position to be eating a saliva-covered meal prepared by yours truly, you have four seating choices: the dining room, the bar, the precious little breakfast area (pictured here), or your car. If you’re of the Irish persuasion, I would like to recommend your car.



This is our big boring yard. I say boring because we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of its possibilities. I say big because it fucking huge. Thankfully, Elise’s mother has given us these beautiful rose bushes to liven up the view. See, aren’t the beautiful?



I’m kidding, of course. Once spring hits, these puppies will be throwing out more color than a Turkish butcher shop. And I swear, if I catch you kids fucking with my roses one more time, I’m gonna tan your hide like it ain’t never been tanned.

Our backyard is the future site for the fetching Mrs. Sonnier’s painting studio. I will be overseeing the construction project and personally tending to all the necessary demolition. That’s right, I can build. Once I become a notary, I’ll be a triple threat. As an aside, I’d like to make a small mention of the fetching Mrs. Sonnier’s upcoming art shows at Gallery Hibou here in Lafayette. Snapshots of her recent work can be viewed here.



This is Edgar, and he likes to poop on, in and around inappropriate things. Once again, this caption writes itself.



Once again, I’m limited by aperature. To give you the full effect of our master bathroom, I would have to take about thirteen photos, not only because it, like my genitalia, is so friggin huge, but because it, also like my genitalia, is so oddly shaped. So just picture it, if you can (the bathroom… not my genitalia): sixteen foot ceiling, extra-large stall shower, extra-large Jacuzzi tub and right off to the left, is a walk-in closet. The elephant circus and off a few miles to the east, and the monkey butlers serve your every need.

The weather has not been overly cooperative of late, and it’s been dreary and cold. The sun will soon make its appearance, though, and by then we’ll have much more to photograph. We’re hoping to have the moat installed by the end of the spring and I’ve already begun measuring for the portcullis. As it stands now, we can probably house, feed and defend up to seventeen people once the zombie war begins. If suggest you get your spots early, and remember, no matter what the price, your family is worth it.

To view the rest of the (poorly executed) photographs of the new house, point your browser here.