Ingallside*

Today included a number of moderately frustrating tidbits which left me feeling a little antsy by the time I arrived at my final delivery.

When I went inside this guy's apartment to set up his mattress, I found him propped up on his hospital bed facing a gigantic front projection TV from the early 90's blasting Little House on the Prairie.

Before this evening I would have assumed that Little House on the Prairie would be a fairly innocuous show to have blasted at me while I set up a mattress after a frustrating day. But as I finished up, I discovered the mattress I had put down had a hole in the middle and I needed to get a new one from the van and start over. At that point the full weight of schmaltz and the melodramatic Ingalls came down upon me.

In this particular episode some kid had just died. I'm not sure whose kid he was, or how he managed to buy the farm, but I do know he had "the best newspapering instincts of any boy in town." And while I know losing a loved one is hard, "life just has to go on. It just HAS to!" While I don't know how he died, I'm pretty sure I know why he died.

I didn't remember until today how awful the show was. I think I used to like it, but I was young at the time and didn't know any better. Now I do know better and have one more reason to be glad I don't get the Hallmark channel.




*I couldn't come up with a good title for this post. I live in the Ingleside neighborhood of San Francisco, and the Ingalls were the family from Little House, and, well, sorry about that.

The Pot Calling the Kettle Blech

Tonight I finished off the last of a particularly vast expanse of chicken pot pie.

I went to Costco on Saturday to buy soap, toilet paper, and laundry detergent. And on impluse I bought a chicken pot pie and the Wallace and Gromit trilogy on DVD. I'm still happy with 4 out of 5 of those purchases*, but the pie was a big mistake.

I like chicken pot pie, or so I thought. What I like is my Mom's chicken pot pie, where the crust is thin and the pie filling isn't a solid mass. Costco's pie was like eatable cement covered in a layer of quarter-inch thick plywood pie crush. (Piewood.**) My Mom's pie filling is like a blissfully pealess and really chunky chicken soup filled with, among other things, plenty of celery. (An ingredient disturbingly absent in Costco's monstrosity.) I like peas, but not in pie form.

Possibly worst of all, the piewood tasted terrible and was the bulk of the pie. I ate about a quarter of the pie, crust and all, on the first night. I ate the rest by digging the filling out, putting it in a bowl, adding a little water, and microwaving it. After all was said and eaten, the remaining 3/4 of a pie's worth of crust neatly filled a little more than half the pie tin. That's a lot of piewood.

I'm going to stick to frozen food from Trader Joes.

* It turns out I had plenty of toilet paper. Now the kitchen cupboard closest to the bathroom is now completely full of toilet paper. I can't fit one, single, extra roll in my apartment.

**
-What's your tree house made of?
+Piewood.
-Oh. It's leaving grease stains on my pants.
+Yeah, it does that. And it looks like it's about to rain, we should probably get down.

Pub Quiz Update

Thanks for the suggestions, but in the end we went with "Someone Stole My Leg Again." We came in third behind some ties for 2nd, and I have no idea if we won best name because it was 11:30 by the time the quiz ended. If you go to the Napper Tandy pub quiz, make sure Marissa is running it. Accept no substitutes.

Due to a perfect storm of an imprint soccer game and a beer and pizza special, the bar was stuffed full of quizzers, eaters, and loud Irish soccer fans. We had to move to the back room and huddle around the pool table to hear they guy read the questions. He was no Marissa, but he wasn't terrible. Apart from a few odd pronunciations (Lenny Kravitz pronounced Lenny crevice) his major problem was that he didn't speak loudly enough. So even after we moved to the room without the soccer fans, we still had to listen like we were trying to find a pinhole leak in a blimp. (You'd have to listen pretty hard to find that I would imagine.) And after each round everybody asked for every question to be repeated at least twice. 5 question rounds with 10 questions each is a lot repeats.

The biggest problem with pub quiz recently is the pub quiz helper. I'm not sure if she's an official member of the Napper Tandy staff. I hope she isn't because she's very nearly useless, and she's not even Irish*. She came around to our table and asked if we were going to play the quiz and we said that we were. We also asked for a pitcher of Fat Tire ale, and she said sure. 15 minutes later a real waitress came by asked, "Are yous guys ta ones who oredered ta Fat Toier? And ta pizza? Roight. We'll haf dat roight out fur ya." I picture Mrs. Useless going over to the real waitress and saying, "Somebody ordered something." Then pointing in our general direction.

The Pub Quiz Helper (PQH) is also not very friendly. When other people have taken on the task of being the PQH, they ask politely if you're done with a round, and if you aren't she'll either come back or ask you to bring it up to the table when you're done. Not the useless PQH. She walks around demanding the answer cards, and if, god forbid, you aren't finished writing because you were laughing at the pronunciation of fillim (film), she sighs heavily, rolls her eyes, and walks away, not returning until the next round.

Her other duty as PQH is to score the answer cards. This involves making sure the answers are right and then adding up the points. For instance we got 2, 10, and 8 points in rounds 1, 2, and 3 respectively. PQH added these up for a grand total of 18 points. We were seriously considering buying her one of those calculators with the insultingly large buttons.

I'm hoping next week will come baring a lot more Marissa and a lot less Useless PQH. And maybe we'll be "The licensed Purveyors of Poison." Although I'm sure it would take 2 or 3 rounds to finally pronounce the word purveyors correctly.

*Which is to say that if you are going to be working in an Irish bar and have no redeeming personality traits or skills, you should, at the very least, be Irish. It would at least give the tiniest of explanations of why the other employees let you stay. With that said it should now be apparent that I was not saying the Irish are useless.

Rock the Vote

I've been trying to gather pub quiz team names by reading Reuters Oddly Enough and stealing headlines and phrases from the articles. Here's my list so far. You can all vote and see whose gets picked. (If any of these do get picked.) And while you are at it, suggest some good ones for next time. It's surprisingly hard to come up with a fancy quality team name.

240,000 liters of pig manure
Turning dog waste into power
Killing over toilet paper
Would-be rock star plunges from bed to death
Death by misadventure
Well, that should wipe the pandemic right out
$4,000 for bird flu
Anterior crotch length
Competing under false pretences
En route to 96th place
Dart injuries rise sharply
Someone stole my leg again
Tiger poo is scary
Fun with horse(s) stencils (Not for Reuters, from Kristin.)
Chub quiz (Also from Kristin.)
Not Shane's dentist (There was a team that always won called Shane's dentist.)

Amazon Dot Rub It In

While trying to figure out if my sister's birthday present ever made it out of the void that is the Amazon.com warehouse, I clicked on my gold box offers. Gold box offers, for those of you who don't know, are things Amazon thinks you might like to have which have been bless with a special, minute gold box discount for 60 minutes. You have 10 things to choose from, each choice revealed after you've cast away the previous choice forever. As I was clicking through my offers, Amazon showed me no less than 4 books about having and/or getting a girlfriend. Apparently the online shopping community has taken it upon itself to pressure me into giving them grandkids.

In completely unrelated, but still irritating news, on my way home from work I was trying to turn left across a fairly busy street. Both my lane and the lane to my right are left turn friendly, and the car to my right was a very nicely restored yellow roadster. As we both took our lefts a guy started out crossing the street and stopped right in front of my van to watch the roadster go by in front of him. After he admiringly watched it drive off down the street he looked over at me as if we might share a common bond about seeing the great car drive by. We had no bond. When he noticed that I was not sharing in his celebration of automotive aesthetics and was instead looking mightily irritated that he had left me sticking out in traffic, he hustled the rest of the way across the street, only narrowly avoiding me honking at him.

Misc

- Up until yesterday at about 9:30pm, I wrongly assumed that the Taj Mahal was the Tajma Hall. Or at the very least, the Tajmahall. These are the things you learn while eating Indian pizza. (Which is quite good.) I had always thought of it as one of the several ornate halls of India.

- Over the past few weeks I've been working my way through all the William Gibson books. His first three are set at some point in the future and I like all his predictive details. For instance, people have little slots behind their ear into which they can insert little disks of information which he calls Microsofts. In the 80s, when the book was written, Microsoft was no where near the powerhouse it is today. He also uses the term The Matrix in roughly the same way the movie The Matrix uses it. Those kinds of things are cool. The next two books, which I originally read 5 or 6 years ago, are set 12 years in the future. Unfortunately they were written in 1993, which means they took place last year. I still like the stories, but now I have to get over the fact that he's just wrong about how the world turned out. Nobody lives on the Bay Bridge, California isn't divided up into two states (Northern and Southern, although it's not a bad idea), and nobody's building cities with nanotechnology yet. I've gotten past all this by pretending that both stories are set in the near future. It makes reading them a lot less distracting.

- Today was a medium grade holiday, which means that I was at work and doctors were not. That, in turn, means that we had nothing to do all day. (Our mattresses are prescription, so doctors have to be around to prescribe them.) Boredom coupled with the after effects of sleeping on a couch, and then an air mattress near a snorer over the weekend is making me crave climbing into bed.

- Flakey McOnion emailed me to say she was up for dinner tonight at 10:10pm yesterday. But since I got home late, went right to bed, didn't have time to check my email this morning, and don't have email access at work, I didn't get the message until 6:30pm today. If we're still using the whack-a-mole analogy, then it's like the mole has popped up after I've gone to ask the manager to refund my quarter.

- And finally, my dentist seems to be trying to sneak the full cost of my cleaning into my bill. They sent me a letter asking me to send them a check for $125 for "Balance Forward." After calling for a more detailed bill (i.e. a bill with ANY details), going over it for a half hour with a calculator and my insurance statements, and googling the term prophylaxis, I discovered what they were up to. Why not charge my insurance for a cleaning? After I get this straightened out I'm never going there again. If anybody out there is trying to choose a dentist in San Francisco, send me an email and I'll give you one to avoid.

neither Funny nor Interesting

I was emailing this girl from The Onion Personals, and I thought things were going well until she disappeared. So then I thought I had somehow offended her. It's not like girls haven't disappeared on me before. But then out of the blue she reappears, asks if I want to meet up, and disappears again. So I think I'm going to either say no thank you or ignore her if she resurfaces again. She's like the online dating verion of whack-a-mole.

I'm currently irritated at the flakey people of the world.

(I'm on the fence about whether to even post this in all its bland mediocrity. But I've been so good about posting since Sunday, I hate to ruin my streak. Then again, since I'm getting comment numbers in the single round digits lately, maybe nobody's reading and I can be just as boring as I'd like. So there. ZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.)

Alas, The Pub Quiz Update

We came in at a miserable 6th place.

Our first round got us off to a great start, but round two was our first death nail with only 3 points earned. Then we made a rousing come back until the last round where we again only got 3 questions right.

Still, we hoped to beat the irritating girl who kept challenging people to arm wrestle last week or maybe to get best name. Alas we did neither. Irritating-ette came in a couple places ahead of us, and although Hunting with Dick was an excellent name, there was no best name category for some reason.

We could have also won most gay sounding name. Especially because we got all the questions about musicals and Barbara Streisand.

Click

I've been having very poor luck with Onion Personals. Actually, I've been having poor luck with girls in general.

This weekend I went to a party and talked for a good long while with a girl. I thought it went rather well overall. Although there were moments where I wondered where I was going with pieces of the conversation. I don't seem to be able to avoid such moments.

As a for instance, she mentioned that she had recently started running. I made some comment about how running is AWFUL, then worried that I had offended her and explained that running isn't intrinsically awful, I just hate running when I do it. I went on to say that I have the utmost respect for runners. She looked a me quizzically for a second and said, "it's not like U.N. peace keeping or something. We aren't taking our lives in our hands when we run." And I countered that runners kind of are, especially if they feel like I do when I run.

She assumed that maybe I hadn't run regularly, but I pointed out that I had been on the track team for my first 3 years of high school. I even told her about the coach making my friend and I run with the girl's team because we couldn't keep up with the guy's team, and that he had a heart murmur and that I just sucked.

Anyhow, I managed to recover from that and we talked for a while longer, and then we went our seperate ways. I should have asked for her phone number, but I'm dumb and I didn't. I did, however, find her email address via Google by searching for her school program. I didn't have to work that hard at it, so I felt like it wasn't toooooo creepy to email her. So I did, but needless to say I haven't heard back.

Back in the personals department I've had a pretty poor email response as well. So I'm thinking I need to post a close up picture. All the featured people have close ups, and I think it's the ticket to fame and popularity on the internet. With that in mind I took maybe 25 pictures of myself, which I've narrowed down to 3, which I've further narrowed down to 0. It is apparently very difficult to catch my face in a pose where it resembles a well mannered human being's. In various pictures I look stoned, asleep, retarded, seethingly angry, marginally irritated as somebody just out of frame to my left, psychopathic, and caught in a soul crushing bout of despair. Oh, and lets not forget the ever popular out of focus.

Hopefully by next year this will all be behind me and I'll be out and about with somebody who enjoys the disturbingly varied faces of me.

Concert

Ah, the Fillmore. The performers may change, but the audience remains the same.

On Thursday I went to see a solo Jeff Tweedy. I'm actually not a big fan of Wilco, his band, but I had heard the Tweedster on some radio interviews where he played sans Wilco. I liked him on the radio and I really liked him live. That's not really the point of this post though.

The point of this post is people smoking stuff inside and how it's marginally irritating depending on what it is. It seems to be pretty standard fare for people to produce a pipe or joint and pass it around their group of friends at a show. And while I think it smells really bad, it doesn't really offend me, although my shirt kind of smelled after Thursday's show and that made me a little cranky.

It may not have been the pot people's fault though. Part way through the show the people directly behind me starting smoking something that smelled an awful lot like burning leaves with a magnifying glass. But to me that's not a bad smell. It reminds me of torturing ants as a kid in Portland.

Unfortunately they ran out of leaves and/or sunlight and they switched to smoking a Louis Rich turkey dog in a plastic bubble pipe. I didn't turn around for fear that I would actually see the end of a turkey dog bobbing around as it waited to be engulfed by the flaming end of a plastic bubble pipe, and that would have made me want to leave. I swear up and down that's exactly what it smelled like though. And I'm qualified to know. I have an excellent sense of smell, I like turkey dogs but can't cook, and I have set a number of pieces of plastic on fire.

Finally, on the theme of good ideas, here's an excellent name for a business and an excellent idea for a business:

Cocinar Con Miguel*

On Friday night I whipped up quite the feast. I had salad (in a bag), an artichoke with butter (margarine), and pan fried, seasoned, wild turbot (pre-seasoned and frozen in a bag from Trader Joes). I made it all myself AND it tasted good.

I measured out my oil and put it in the pan to pre-heat. As the oil started to smoke I put the fish on and turned on the oven hood fan. The smoke continued to spread through the kitchen as my fan began to make a horrible inward sucking fart sound. I had neglected to remove the saran wrap I use to keep the offensive cooking smells from upstairs from invading my space through the vent. In order to remove the plastic wrap I had to unscrew the vent cover, so I reached into my junk drawer to get my Swiss army knife. As I rushed to unscrew the vent I got a little more motivation from my smoke alarm whose sole purpose in life is to warn my neighbors that I'm cooking something. Within about a minute I had the vent uncovered and sucking, my microwave timing the fish, and my smoke alarm on silent mode and tucked safely under my comforter in my bedroom.

With the turbot well on its way to becoming food, I started on my artichoke. Easy enough, just put it in a little bowl with some water, cover, and microwave for 5 minutes. The artichoke cooking went smoothly apart from a slight steam burn when I removed the cover.

With the artichoke and fish both done I scooped some margarine into a little cup for dipping and put in the microwave for 40 seconds. The margarine itself came out fine, but its lid suffered some injuries. Here's a cooking tip: Don't set a plastic lid on a burner cover. Burner covers sit over open flame and are hot. Hot things melt plastic. There, I've now imparted all my cooking knowledge.

Looking back over my evening a theme emerges - covers, both good and bad. The bad: My vent cover, the artichoke cover, and the margarine lid. The good: The covers of my bed who valiantly make sure that my smoke alarm doesn't go off twice during the same cooking session**.



*I'm sure the title of this post translates to me being used as an ingredient or something.

**It stays under my covers until I go to bed, stretch out my legs, and find it lurking there all cold and plastic. Then it spends the night on bedside table and goes back up in its holder first thing in the morning. Such is the life of a smoke detector in my house.

Shoe String Budget

I have some old Adidas Sambas that I wear to work. The leather is getting cracked and worn and the soles have no traction, but I still like to wear them. I'd get a new pair except you can't find them anyplace. (eBay has a pair once in a while but they are waaay too much.)

I was thinking of retiring them because one of the stripes on the right shoe was starting to let go and stuck out like a little wing from the side of my foot. This fact often goes noticed* and many a stranger has pointed out that maybe it's time for new shoes. It's just that I don't want to spend money on shoes which are going to go slogging through pee-smelling trailer park carpets.

So, being my mother's son, I've sewn the stripe back on to my shoe. It was really hard to push the needle through 2 layers of shoe leather, but I persevered and a half hour and some perforated fingers later my shoes are as good as new. Or at least as good as they were before one decided to grow a wing.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to the Tenderloin to pick up a bed frame. Yet another example of a neighborhood where one doesn't want to wear new shoes.

* As opposed to going unnoticed. I was thinking of saying does not go unnoticed but I am trying to stay more positive lately.

Dos Thingos

Today I delivered a bed frame and mattress to a little old nun with a penchant for watching sports. She mentioned her love of sports 4 times in relation to her new LCD TV, the fast approaching winter Olympics, plasma TVs and how they are bigger and therefore the action is easier to see with her failing eyesight, and finally how she's not good with electronics, but is okay with the TV as long as she can find the sports. Her other little quark was that she was getting a bed as kind of an experiment. Apparently she's been sleeping in a recliner for 15 years.

Speaking of sleeping, Wednesday night I dreamed that I was having a picnic with some of my friends on the grass surrounded by a u-shaped KQED building. KQED is our local NPR affiliate and I was at this picnic because KQED was having an event to showcase their newest pledge drive membership gifts.

This year they had gone well past the tote bag and had introduced the apocalypse bear. The apocalypse bear was actually a little, furry, black, robot dog which came over to repeatedly bite my feet. (Kind of like Norbert.) I thought it was kind of an overly melodramatic name for a robot that was most just annoying. But Norm Howard explained that if all goes well each apocalypse bear will die, become diseased, and will cause one of the 7 plagues.

Anybody want to analyze that?

Pub Quiz Update

1st place tonight. We actually tied and it came down to our representative (whose name escapes me, we have roughly a million people on our team tonight) and an oddly aggressive girl who kept offering to settle things with an arm wrestling match.

The final question: In which year was the presidential election first predicted using a computer. Our representative's guess: 1956 (after scratching out 1952.) Her guess: 1980. The correct answer: 1952.

So the $30 voucher for the Napper Tandy was ours, One Chicken in Arkansas.

On a related note, did you know that Apocalypse Later is the name of a band that apparently nobody likes?

Horray for Wednesday

And not just because it's pub quiz night, but because it means Tuesday is over. Today did not go well.

My first stop was a delivery of a bed frame to waaaay out in the middle of nowhere. When I got out there I discovered that the address I had been given was wrong. I called up the patient's daughter and she spelled the street for me and also gave me their apartment number. Helpful information to have. Unfortunately I still couldn't find it so I called her again and she grudgingly gave me directions. The reason I couldn't find it was that customer service gave me the wrong street, no apartment number, and had me in the city 9 miles too far down the road.

Once I got to the place I had to lug 250 pounds of bed (in more than 1 trip, I'm not that strong) into an apartment that smelled as though somebody had been continuously letting go of a fart since the beginning of the universe. And not only was the apartment maliciously odorous but it was also full of junk. It's very difficult to lug heavy pieces of bed-shaped steel over junk. And it kills your sense accomplishment when you discover that the room in which the bed is supposed to be placed is already full of an old and particularly nasty hospital bed. The daughter and I fixed that problem by lugging the disgusting thing out into the living room.

During all of this lugging there was a large, strapping, and seemingly capable guy who observed the goings on from the most irritating spot he could find. If I was trying to move the new bed into the room, he'd stand in the doorway so I'd have to squeeze by. If I was trying to weave between the patient in his wheelchair, the blasting TV, and the old hospital bed, he would set himself up as yet another obstacle to crossing the living room. Mr. Helpful I think his name was.

The best part, my favorite part, was when I was trying to put the two halves of the new bed together and I had to move stuff to make room. I'm okay with moving stuff. It doesn't bother me ... usually. But today I had to move a half gallon glass jar full of hypodermic needles. A house just isn't home without one.

To top off this particular delivery, the moment I was ready to get the 20 pages of paperwork signed was the same moment that this lady's kids needed to be picked up. Mr. Helpful, sensing that he could be more irritating elsewhere, disappeared leaving me to wait around until the lady could go get her kids and come back.

I hate customers.

That's not true. My last delivery of the day was to a guy who had to type everything to me. He'd tap away at his keyboard and then press the talk button and a little computer voice would let me know what he had typed. Since TTS engines aren't perfect he had to spell some things phonetically to get them to sound right. He got a big smile on his face when he typed that I should contact his nurse at hoss piss. I liked him.

I did not, however enjoy trying to find him. Customer service paged me with all his information: Name, mattress type, address, and phone number. They got the type of mattress right. That was it. The only reason I had any luck finding him at all was that I happen to have the number to hospice memorized.

So I say again: Hooray for Wednesday.

Elder Something or Other

The Mormons came to visit tonight. I have often seen pairs of them wandering around the city with their white shirts, black slacks and backpacks; but I've never actually had any come to my door.

This is not to say I've been blessed with a total lack of people trying to convert me. Whenever I was in the Memorial Union at school (usually trying to do homework* and drinking a bathtub sized Coke) the Christians would come and harass me. And I have to say, I like the Mormons much better. The Christians pairs always kind of creeped me out. There'd be one normal guy who would approach me, introduce himself, and then introduce his creepy friend who always lurked 3 or 4 feet back from my table. It was like they were playing good cop/weird cop. I would tell them I needed to get stuff done and they would ask if they could leave some literature. Usually I'd say sure, and they'd leave, and I'd recycle it.

On one occasion the same normal-creepy combo found me 2 days in a row and came over to quiz me on the literature they'd left.

"Did you read it?"
"Yep."
"Well then, what did it say?"
"Something along the lines of accept Jesus and I'll go to heaven."
"Um. Well. That's not quite all of it."
"Yeah, sorry, I really need to have this circuits homework done by 1."

I just think it's a little weird that the extremely religious try so hard to recruit people. Especially when they know it is going to annoy the vast majority of people. And it's not like the evils of the world try that hard. I've never had anyone approach me and ask if I've welcomed the calming influence of heroin into my life.

Anyhow, back to the Mormons. They looked a little surprised when I answered the door. I guess they weren't expecting a white guy. When I said I wasn't interested, they gave me a little postcard and asked if I knew where the Chinese people live. I said I didn't know specifically, but they had a good chance of finding some by sticking to my street. They thanked me and left.

The postcard they offered posed some questions designed to make me think about spirituality and where my life is going. What is the Nature of God? What is the Purpose of Life? (Their capitals, not mine.) And it directed me to Mormon.org, where there is a picture of a guy sitting on a mountain contemplating the big questions of life in acid-washed jeans.

I went to their site and I even watched their Mormon.org video, which took some doing as the site isn't compatible with Firefox**. The video didn't enlighten me much, but it did re-feature the acid washed jeans guy.

Come to think of it, he may just be trying to figure out how to get off the mountain.

* And by do homework I mean look at girls.

** Nerd Alert: Their site is plenty compatible with Firefox, they just coded it so it would see that I wasn't using Netscape or IE and tell me I couldn't watch their video. And yet once I dug through 2 pages of code and found the link to the video I watched it just fine. That's probably the best way to get me to watch a video about your religion: Tell me my software is incompatible so I can't watch it.

Tuesday Night

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock: 11:00 on the dot. Was it time to get up already? Do I usually get up now? What does my alarm say?

Flicking the switch on my clock made the display read 6:00. Is that what time it is now? Am I late for work? Why was it on the alarm setting when I looked the first time? What's with all the even times?

Stumbling out of bed, I stabbed at my computer's on button before making a move toward the bathroom. A step outside my bedroom door I paused while a groggy epiphany gurgled to the surface of my barely formed consciousness: It's 11pm, I've been asleep for 45 minutes, and I don't know why I woke up but it certainly wasn't because my alarm went off. Go back to bed.

I turned around, clicked my computer screen off, and happily went back to bed. I had a feeling I hadn't had enough sleep when I woke up. And I was right.

And this, my friends, is why I don't take naps.

The First Pub Quiz Update in a Very Long Time

Tonight we came in 4th place with the team name "Superman Wears Chuck Norris Pajamas."

I didn't catch the 1st place team's name, but the winner of funniest name was "Gimme You Tots." We were robbed, which was possibly due to the fact that the person reading the names kept saying Norris's instead of Norris. Superman wearing Chuck Norris's pajamas is a whole other thing. How did he get Chuck Norris's pajamas? Was there a mix up in the dark where Superman ended up with a robe and black belt and Chuck turns on the light to discover he's wearing red underpants on top of his blue tights?