Tag Archives: remote control helicopter

Three hundred dollars of oops (pure awesome!)


Drunk me makes sober me really, really tired. Drunk me is full of ideas, just ideas coming out of every hole in my body full of ideas.

It’s up to sober me to filter them.

Here’s a hint drunk me, most of the ideas suck. Can you do a little better job at the filtering them yourself maybe? Help reduce the amount of ideas that you push through to morning maybe would really help? Perhaps you, drunk me, could apply some common sense sort of rules before you push the thought forward to the morning?

For instance you could ask yourself the following questions before forwarding the idea on to tomorrow.

1: Will the idea get me fired from work?

I'm not kidding. We really do have one of these at work. And I can verify, the temptation is overwhelming.

See this one is easy. At work we have a large, old fashioned, metal triangle fire alarm. Even sober I want to hit it with the handily provided medal bar while yelling nonsensical emergency things. “Salmon Attack” dong, dong, dong. “My balls itch”, dong, dong, dong. “Bring out your dead,” dong, dong, dong. “Antiquated fire systems test!” dong, dong, dong.

See it IS funny and I’ve often been TEMPTED at work to do just that. Thoughts about rigging cameras around the whole place to capture the reaction don’t help, so stop suggesting it. It would be funny, but only for about 10 minutes.

2. Does it involve me naked?

You’ve violated the wait till morning rule here a few times with mixed results. I admit the close up photo of testicles texted to, well more people than was sane or necessary, worked as a funny joke. But sober I never would have approved this idea. It was funny yes because the photo didn’t look like anything (other than a really close up picture of testicles) so the joke worked. I maintain you got lucky, most that received the text laughed and the ones that didn’t still talk to me so …

Don’t do that again, no more naked jokes unless I’ve (while sober) sanctioned it!

3. What does it cost?

I’m pretty sure I don’t need to remind drunk me of the strip club after the long business trip or the bill that followed.

like this only I don't remember and it was on a credit card.

After a grueling two-week trip in Italy I, the night before I left for home, made the decision, at the prompting of others and while blasted out of my mind, to visit a strip club. Sober, I in all honesty would never, ever, not in a million years, be up for this. Drunk though I think my brain did the math, boobies AND beer equaled me fully in. But here’s the thing just because I had a tough two weeks (you’re thinking tough, two weeks and Italy don’t go together in a thought, screw you it was tough) that was NO reason to go back into the private VIP area of the club and run up a visa bill that was both obscene and awesome at the same time. The memories from that night SHOULD HAVE BEEN epic yet all I can remember is at one point there were two girls with me, one said something to the effect of, “you can touch them” followed by me batting at large swinging breasts like a kitten plays with a ball of yarn. My wingman, sensing economic disaster, finally pulled me out of the back room and in the morning, when I asked him why he let me stay back there so long just said, “You looked like you were having fun.” He should have bought me a ball of yarn.

This reminds me, I should buy Dagmar something expensive. When I got home this was how the confession about the strip club went …

Me: Hey I should tell you something. I spent like 2k in a strip club.

Dagmar: Did you get laid?

Me: No.

Dagmar: You’re an idiot.

I’m thinking a necklace or ear rings but I’m taking suggestions.

Which leads us to …

About five days ago the $300 remote-control helicopter (Ar Drone for those that are curious) that I ordered while Maggie and Alex were visiting arrived. Even the next morning, sober, I considered canceling the order but besides that quote from Hemingway it passed the filter.

If nothing else I thought the damned thing would be good for a laugh and it LOOKED easy to fly. It synchs with your smart phone or iPad and you tilt the pad to the right and it goes right … how hard could this be?

The answer is hard. As Adrian pointed out in this video, the damned thing just sort of crashes a lot. The only bonus I can think of is that it scares the hell out of the cat and annoys the wife. Win some, lose some.

I say go left and it flies, with reckless abandon, right. Right into the wall getting one of its propellers locked in between two pieces of wood on the wall.

Forward, forward, forward … HOLY too much forward … BACKWARDS full … backwards into the clothes and into a full crash. The propellers are caught now in my shirts, the ones I have to wear to work. No wonder pilots are cocky … this shit is hard.

The battery lasts as long as your high-school boyfriend did, provided you’re a chick. If you’re a man the battery did an awesome job, high-five!

Here it is ... about to fly right into my face ...

You can kinda get it, hovering and adjusting the altitude easy enough. Spinning in a circle left or right — also easy. Movement from a stationary position is the trick. When attempting to command the helicopter to perform movements more complex than hovering a foot off the floor it all comes down to knowing what direction the helicopter is facing in relation to the iPhone… Work it out in your brain, calculate the direction it’s facing and the direction you wish it would go, add 2, subtract 67, multiply by 9, consider how old your grandmother was when she was happiest and it’ll fly into your wall with simplistic finality. Then subtract two.

Six year olds are insane …


See this is my idea of Sunday, or at least weekend, fun.

Look I’m just going to come out and say it, little kids are weird. They say, literally, whatever is on their mind, I’m convinced they’re all speed freaks (who has the much energy otherwise) and they all vaguely smell like milk that’s about to go bad.

Yeah this is about kids. One kid anyway, one six year old boy.

I don’t have kids and my exposure to any kid is somewhat limited. Okay it’s really limited. Limited to the occasional kid brought to the office because of some unforeseen babysitter crisis or limited to social function.

I don’t see or interact with a lot of kids.

Thus weekends at my house are pretty damned chilled out. Maybe a trip into town, the German sauna one weekend a month and otherwise a lot of glorious, and I do consider it glorious, lounging about. We’ve been in Germany a long time. The desire to walk up to baron batshit’s (and they were all bat shit) castle is reserved for guests.

It’s reading, television, maybe a little nap, light house work and just relaxing. Besides its winter who the hell wants to go outside anyway (you skiers, snowboarders and other outdoor freaks scare the hell out of me, its cold out there).

Thus as you’ve already guessed my plan for another Sunday afternoon of reading, watching political talk shows and napping was disturbed, nay destroyed, by the introduction of Tyler, a six-year-old pirate fighting, helicopter crashing meth head.

Three Points:

1.  Six year olds are insane, or maybe not.

These are really cool and I suggest everyone reading this buy one.

If doing the same thing and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity then I have to ask this question. What is doing the same thing over and over and over again and still laughing at the result the definition of, yeah I know, a six year old.

Tyler has a remote control helicopter which I have to admit is the coolest thing I have seen since I got the bionic man with the telescope eye and power arm thing when I was seven or eight.

The helicopter is modeled after the Apache Helicopter and even has little rockets mounted to it that sadly don’t work (count yourself lucky cat!)

As Tyler proudly pointed out it even really, no kidding, watch this Todd, watch this Todd … flew.

Right into the ceiling.

You’d have to have a house made of paper to have this toy actually damage anything (thus the need for real missiles) so the first time I kind of laughed too when it crashed to the ground like a giant wounded dragonfly.

I righted the helicopter and, bam, Tyler flew it right back into the ceiling. This, like the first crash, was met with maniacal laughter by the pilot, Warrant Officer Tyler.

This went on for every single flight.

Finally it was my turn, bam I flew it right into the ceiling and same maniacal laughter by Tyler. By the second or third try I was able to make it hover, I was proud of myself, easy on the gas, watch the yoke and whatever else it is helicopter pilots do outside of being pompous. Back to Tyler, this time with some advice about how to you know, not fly straight into the ceiling.

He had none of it. Straight back to a fiery death for pilot and gunner.

“You do the voice Todd,” he said.

“What voice?”

“The pilot voice.”

My additions of “prepare for takeoff, okay something’s wrong, OH GOD WE’RE GOING TO DIE, AHHHHHHHHHHH,” only added to Tyler’s near pant’s wetting laughter.

Point is this never became less funny, even when the batteries died, after we had recharged (an hour later) first new fresh-battery crash into the ceiling until the last, dead-battery crash into the ceiling … hysterical laughter.

Every. Time. Straight. Into. The. Ceiling. Never, not once, less funny. Same evil laugh.

I think I’m actually a little jealous here. If I found the same exact joke funny, over and over I’d save a lot of money on DVD’s and crap. Oh wait, I do have that, it’s called the Simpsons.

Little known fact, these never require reloading and can shoot through force fields!

2. Playing pirates sucks, don’t bring a knife to a gun fight and playing pirates sucks.

“Okay we’re going to play pirates,” Tyler said dumping a bag of crap on the ground. I see a mixture of plastic swords, a toy gun and what looks like a really badly-made dead raccoon. Apart from the ‘about-to-go- bad-milk’, there is no smell, thankfully.

I haven’t seen Pirates the Caribbean since the first one came out and I’m pretty sure Dagmar and I were drunk when we did see it. To me Jonny Depp is still Edward Scissor hands and the chick I saw it with in high school wouldn’t make out with me and he did a really good job of playing HST in Fear and Loathing … he’s still doing that pirate crap, doesn’t he live in France? Jesus.

Turns out the dead raccoon is Tyler’s pirate hat.

I’m trying to read my Kindle, which Tyler is really pissed off doesn’t have a touch screen (as evidenced by his constant finger swiping across the text). I’m about to discover that Kindle reading is off the table for the time being.

He hands me a do rag. The kind that office-cleaning crews or prisoners wear, you know to denote gang affiliation or who gets top bunk (I haven’t been to prison, yet.)

Do-rag upon my head, dead ferret upon Tyler’s head I am handed a sword. Tyler has a sword and a pistol. I point out the fact that this is not how I wish to start our “pirate fight”. He hands me a hand-drawn ninja star that, when thrown, lands on my foot.

“Okay come get me,” Tyler says. I had not considered this. I felt reasonably sure we could ‘pirate fight’ with my ass firmly planted on the couch.

“Nope,” I reply. “I’m going to fight you from right here.” In my defense I said this waving the sword back and forth.

“Todd you have to get up and come fight me.”

Listen kid, I was playing pirate before you were born, literally before you were born. See here I am being a pirate, on an ACTUAL boat.

“Nope, I’m not going to.” This is my house and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. Unless Dagmar tells me I’m going to do it, I mean.

“If you don’t,” and here’s where a six year old makes a critical mistake, “I’m going to put the pirate stuff away.” I’m laughing (on the inside) because this is something you’re mom has obviously told you and you’re not my mom. I’ve won right? If you and I, two grownups, just had this conversation I’d have just gotten exactly what I wanted. I’d have won the debate. Not so.

“Okay cool,” I remove the do-rag and Dagmar launches into some tirade about ‘responsibility’ and ‘being nice’. These are not Sunday afternoon words in our house. Normally on a Sunday afternoon there are a lot of please, thank you and can I, heard here. Dagmar talks too sometimes.

A six year old just outsmarted me. Most of you know that’s not hard but mind you this is stone-cold sober. As anyone that reads my retarded posts on face book feed (and if WordPress is right that’s all of you) knows that with 8 or so beers I have very little filter. Need I remind anyone of the ‘name my left testicle contest?’

I thought not.

What can I say, I got up and played ‘pirate fight’. I can tell you that Tyler has “armor” everywhere and that I have no “armor” anywhere. He has a magical doctor that, regardless of the HMO costs or clauses, fixes sword wounds really fast and that paper ninja stars don’t really ever work.

Oh yeah one final thing, six year olds have no issue with sucker punches and those plastics swords? With a good wind up they hurt like hell.

3. That bottomless pit we’ve all heard about? It’s a six-year-olds’ appetite.

College kids and men that have pissed off their wives know all about the joy of ramen noodles

One hour and three welts into the baby-sitting adventure Tyler announced, wisely to Dagmar, that he was hungry. Tyler’s mom had brought with her two packages of chicken Ramen (his favorite, pronounced ‘ramen noodles,’ – I was corrected several times about this) and a bag of cookie things called, Scooby snacks, not the kind the Fun Lovin’ Criminal’s sang about, sadly.

Shortly after making chick … I mean ramen noodles Dagmar went for a run. I do find it oddly suspicious that she started running only the day before (conspiracy theory, Dagmar giggled during the whole run). After finishing the bowl Tyler wanted more.

Are you sure, I asked. He was. Okay I made more, he ate them all. Less than 3 pirate sword fights later his mom had come to pick him up but opted for a glass (bottle of) of wine before leaving. Tyler ate his third bowl of ramen chicken noodles (my ramen noodles, from my own private stash I might add).

Three packs of salty, vaguely chicken flavored soup stuff. He’s like 50lbs wet, what the hell.

Yeah, yeah “you don’t eat Todd HAHAHHAHA”, I get the joke but the story isn’t over yet. I was sent to the local pizza parlor for a small cheese and a large grown up pizza. German standards not being up to our American girth this was not enough and I was sent back for round two. The German pizza parlor owner was not shocked that Americans come back 20 minutes later for more pizza (what do I care they serve beer there). I returned home with ANOTHER round of pizzas. Tyler didn’t finish this second pizza but did a dent that equaled exactly half of the second pizza.

All of this food is in the span of literally five pirate sword fights (five pirate sword fights = 3 hours adult time, by standard imperial measurement, Google it).