Happy birthday ...

Today, one of the three most beautiful women I know is another year older – my grandmother, Maw-Maw Ham, for those in the know.

She was the first and only woman I ever seriously told I would marry – when I was five years old. She would fight anyone who made fun of me in school (she still hates the Reed family) and she let me watch wrestling after my parents told me I couldn't. There was never such a thing as a bad grade to her, and if I had decided to dress in rags, she would have told me how "pretty" I looked.

I love her more than anything else in this world, and though she won't see this, I hope she's having a happy birthday.

Variety is the colonel's secret recipe of life

Sometimes, a billboard or sign will catch your eye and make you think about something. Maybe you just think it's clever wording or maybe you wonder what that product being advertised actually is. Other times, your gag reflex goes off and you have to hang on to the steering wheel so you don't hit someone during your dry heaving.

Such can be the case when you drive past a KFC and see a "Variety Bucket" for $9.99. Something about that didn't sit well with my stomach at 7:40 this morning. It's not like they were advertising "A Grab-bag of Chicken" or a "Sack of Surprises."

Just a bucket of variety.

I think I'd rather use the school nurse's chapstick.

On love and mail ...

I get asked the same question over and over, no matter where I go, so to finally answer ... yes, these are my real breasts.

As I drove into work this morning, listening to F*** the Police (pron. POE - lease) by N.W.A., I thought about the group that Dre and his posse of ne'er do wells should have been railing against, and that is postal carriers.

I'm pretty sure mine is stealing my mail and leaving me with nothing but ValPaks and Dominos coupons, which he balls up before he puts them in box, making it look like I dug them out of someone's trash if I ever decided to use them.

Speaking of sage advice from unexpected places, our office cleaning lady is the wisest person I know. Sorry mom and dad. But this woman, who goes by the handle of "Mother Love," cuts to the core of every world issue with just a few words.

I don't know if it's because she spends most of her day sitting on a chair in a supply closet reading tabloids or what, but she is my 6' 2" Yoda.

In the words of Mother Love, sometimes "you gotta fall out of love, before you can fall in love."

Watch your back, mailman.

Genesis

I thought that the title would be appropo since this is the first ever posting to the blog, affectionately known as Uncle Nico's Audition Tape. It's named of course, for Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite and his constant effort to impress pro football scouts with his one-man throwing drills. And the Nico comes from my supervisor and friend's inability to say Rico.

But back to the title, I thought about it some more and decided that it might also work as a header for a discussion on one of the most underrated bands of our time. That's right ... Bachman Turner Overdrive.

It has been a difficult couple of weeks for me, topped off by the Powerade machine eating my $1.25 at the golf course this week. And don't try to get money for me using your name Powerade, because you owe me a buck and a quarter, so .... when you're ready, we'll talk.

It's hard not to dwell on your own problems, until you meet special people like a friend of mine who loses bowel control when he has to talk to girls. Most people use that as an exaggeration of how nervous they get. He actually has to do a sort of cheek squeeze and rigorous breathing exercise. What are my tribulations to this?

Finally, I would like to give credit for this and blogs across the world to the person it rightly belongs to.

Thank you, Doogie Howser. Even though Golden Girls came out on DVD before you, your impact will be felt long after the sexual romps of Blanche Devereau.