It’s So Full I’m Gonna Die – No, Not Really

It’s going to get real messy in here.

When my head explodes — and you know it’s not going to be that long from now that it happens — I’m going to leave behind a horrifying hodgepodge of pop-culture trivia, Florida Gator facts and an appalling amount of Pokémon. And I can blame it all on the spawn.

Being a stay-at-home dude means I got to interact with the spawn far more often than really was good. For both my sanity and my lower back. Sure picking them up and slinging them across my shoulder, then marching across a crowded grocery store and ignoring the constant ear-grating wails coming from said spawn was good exercise of a sort, but not really good for the back.

The sanity thing. . . Sure, it’s really not up for debate. Now.

But I once was a remarkably sane, well-balanced individual who didn’t know that Pikachu is an electrical Pokémon, who is especially susceptible to attacks by water Pokémon and absolutely no good against rock Pokémon. But, now. . . Oh sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, now. . . 

Now I know too much.

And it hurts.

It hurts so darn much.

Being around the spawn all the time meant that I had to learn about what was important to them. Partly it was about bonding with them by sharing their interests. But mostly it was because I grew tired of the constant scorn directed my way because I didn’t know why Donatello was obviously the best Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. D’uh!

So I started doing something no parent who wants to keep even a slight grasp of sanity should do. I started paying attention when the spawn were talking to each other. I listened, payed attention and actually asked questions.

There is a difference between Digi-mon and Pokémon. They’re not the same. Not at all, despite the similarity of their names. 

Not only did I have to start learning so I could converse with the spawn in a way that didn’t cause them to run screaming from the stupid, stupid man (well, less than they had before I started paying attention to their gabble), I also was forced to actually attend movies that they wanted to watch.

Okay, fine. I wasn’t forced to do it, but I did want them to have their own likes and dislikes and not be governed solely by what I liked. The only problem with that was occasionally having to see complete stinkers like Master of Disguise and the travesty that was Paul Blart: Mall Cop.

Admittedly, there were some good bits about being immersed in the culture of proto-humans. For instance, without the spawn, I’d probably have never known why “Not in the face!” is such a good battle cry or why shouting “SPOOOOOOOON” can cause laughter for a record seven straight minutes.

Now, most of this wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for one little quirk.

I’m tremendous at a table game called “Trivial Pursuit.” If you’ve never played it, the game consists of players answering trivia questions about a broad range of subjects. And I am very, very good at it. Mostly because trivia doesn’t make a quick visit in my brain. No, it drifts in and gets stuck somewhere in my brain like a fly on sticky paper. And I’ve got a lot of flies stuck to the brain sticky paper.

I’ll pause for a moment to let you enjoy the image of dead flies stuck to paper strips in my brain.

So the original 150 Pokémon remain engraved in my brain. Along with far, far too much other detritus that wandered in while the spawn were young. They no longer insist on cramming cartoons in my brain, but now I’m becoming overloaded with video game information.

And it comes out in surprising ways. For instance, I was out walking Buzz, The Garbage Disposal That Walks Like A Dog, now on Twitter @BuzzTheDogg, (seriously) and a young neighbor came over to pet him.

The cute little girl, no more than three years old, stroked the dog fur and then looked up at me. I knew what she was going to say.

“It’s so fluffy.”

I started cracking up because. . . well, it was perfect. And Despicable Me was an actual good movie. The little girl’s dad, though, looked at me like something had broken loose from my head. He sidled up to his daughter, grabbed her by the hand and hustled her away from the crazy man who kept asking, “Is it so fluffy you’re gonna die?”

Yes, that’s the big warning here, gentlemen. 

As a stay-at-home dude, you’re going to need to immerse yourself pretty deeply into the pool of pop culture. Just do better than I did and find some way to squeegee the stink off your brain before it sets up shop and begins reproducing.

Like I said, my brain hurts from being stuffed so full.

Still, when it does explode, at least Squirtle will be there to hose it away.