Mon 13 Apr 2009
Where Have All the Fatheads Gone?
Posted by admin under Pop Culture Stuff, Shoppy Fun Times
[3] Comments
[ This Will Give You Background into Haus Lindemann. ]
The Inner Child in four wall form. That’s what The Hubs and I have endearingly monikered the laundry loo. Why?
Because we will always be secretly 14 in our heads, Dear Reader.
I, combat boots and eyeliner.
He, nose ring and skateboard.
Upon entering our little nook of Neverland? BAM. Posters. Concert stubs. Liner notes. Vinyl covers from broken records. Even Husband’s nifty lil’ skull and crossbones floormat from his teen years that he *sucks in air through teeth* just. can’t. bring. himself tothrowaway.
There are no rules in the laundry room.
[ This is The Point. ]
So Hubbles and I are perusing the aisles of Academy. Because of our sheer athleticism and incessant need to purchase large sports equipment for our numerous camping trips. *flex*
“Would you be mad if I bought you this?” I hold a Texas Aggie t-shirt to my torso, looking up for approval of hilarious wifey hijinks (I, Aggie. He, Longhorn fan.). “Hello?” I scan my proximity. Alas, he is located directly 20 feet to my left: The Fathead display.
For those of you not in the know, a Fathead is a life-size version, costing around $100, of a football/basketball player that men who like sports stick to their wall.
Husband: Ha! A Terrell Owens! (pause to search my eyes for recognition)
Me: Appropriately named. Fathead. Heh.
Husband: Of course you know… (invisible suspenders, sigh of pride) T.O. was released from the Cowboys this year.
Mental high five to me for knowing that pre-now.
Me: You should check to see if it’s on sale.
Husband: It’s 10 effing dollars!
Me: We totally have to buy that now. There’s no way we are leaving without it.
Husband: I can’t. I don’t want the cashier to be an a-hole, (mimic a-hole) ‘T.O.’s not a Cowboy anymore‘.
I, feminism at it’s best, hands on hips utter the following, “So we’ll go to a girl cashier.”
Because we are all ovaries and understanding sports is like learning Russian.
His eyes widen in boyish glee, his adorable nose scrunched. He whispers in excitement, “That’s… exactly…. what I was thinking!!”
[ Witness the Aftermath. ]
So we cleared an entire wall in our Inner Child Room for the fallen Cowboy. The man who single-handedly destroyed the Cowboy’s franchise.
And he couldn’t.
Nay shan’t.
Be more AWESOME.
Behold, T.O…. in his all his ginormous 6′4″ glorified splendor.


See that there bottle o’ herbal nature-y type pillsy pills to your right? Them’s what I like to refer to as God’s Lil’ Baby Skittles for My Brain Like Woh.


The Mister and I made plans to meet for lunch at Baja Grill for yum soft tacos and a beautiful view of the mountainy mcmountain green trees and hilly views of Austin.
Fight Club: The quintessential flick that (between you and me) somewhat insists upon itself.

Ya see those there shoes on ya left? At the time of purchase, I was of the unawares that they are The Most Painful Shoes in Existence. I made the hideous and awful mistake of going grocery shopping in them. I swore that day on my Bible, before God and man, that I would never torture my tootsies like that ever again.
I keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and guffaw, “Jus’ keeeeeddings! You’ze not hiredz! You’ze firedz!”







Dear Reader,
I think last night I may have gotten slightly overzealous with the newly purchased As Seen On TV PedEgg. Because today I feel like I just peeled my tootsies, dipped them in peroxide, and set them into a lake of fire to fry.
Look at that DMD over there to the right.