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Greg Bardsley

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Greg’s Friends Doing Amazing Things — Kim Kenny

kimkennyWhen I hung out with Kim Kenny in high school, she was one of the funniest people around.

And one of the smartest.

All these years later, Kim is still funny and smart. Now she’s sharing those talents with the world — with the help of her “little” brother, Chris Kenny. The two write and star in their own Internet comedy series, “Siblings,”  which has yet to disappoint.

Every time I watch it, I smile ear-to-ear.

Here’s what I dig about “Siblings”: It’s a great example of people rising from their day jobs, their everyday obligations and routines, their own exhaustion, the noise of life, to create something  really cool. It may not pay the bills, or even pay for itself, but it’s creative — and it’s funny, and it’s connecting with people.

They created something cool, and it’s out “there.”

Get your hit of “Siblings” here.

Or check out my favorite episode so far, “By the Book,” below.

Imagine my rapture

Imagine my rapture.

Imagine the delicious joy that coursed through my veins when I glanced the telltale signs of something wonderful — the sans-serif font, the classic black-and-white color scheme and the distinct humor screaming from the tabloid headline, “OBAMA CANCELS JUNE!,” and the sub-head, “11-month year will save Americans billions.”

Was I hallucinating? Was this a dream? Was this actually a flash of the defunct print mag, my dearly departed Weekly World News, right there beside the supermarket checkout line?

I took a closer look, picked up the tabloid. It was the Sun, a lesser tabloid, but in this issue it was offering a bonus insert of the World News, which broke my heart when it folded 2007.

Long story short, I gladly bought a copy and soon was enjoying stories about a 275-pound, 10-year-old boy who beat muggers to “within an inch of their lives,” a doll house that is haunted by a “tiny spirit” and a “killer-duck” crisis in the Midwest. Yes, I do know the Weekly World News offers stories online [see, “Tax Extension for Bat Boy”], but there was something so very special about having a new printed version in my hands.

Hillary’s alien lover would understand.

Some things never get old

Some things in life never get old. For males, it’s bathroom humor.

I will admit it. I’m not immune to the stuff. It can still make me laugh. It can make me laugh hard. And if all the bathroom-humor-oriented movies, books, stories and web sites out there are any indication, I am not the only adult with this weakness.

But now I have two sons. And there are times when, as their father, I really shouldn’t be laughing and pointing and nodding and even tearing up at their potty humor (namely, when at the dinner table or in public). But sometimes it’s damn tough, and I find myself forcing a straight face as I tell them to cut that out, you don’t talk about poo-poo sandwiches at the dinner table. And there are times when even my wife fails to keep from laughing at what our 3-year-old son Dylan has come up with.

Which, of course, causes Dylan to beam with pride — fortified by the laughter of his audience — as he resolves to dive deeper into his potty-humor repertoire.

For Dylan these days, songs, monologues, jokes and games centered around “poo and privates,” as he calls his subject matter, never lose their luster. He just can’t get enough. Case in point: This weekend, the boys were wondering how many days have passed since they’ve been born. I worked out the math, and they were fascinated. Then Jack wondered how many days have passed since “prehistoric bugs” roamed the earth and even offered his best guess: “Three million, two hundred, fourteen-thousand, twenty-five trillion and seventy-two katrillion days.”

I turned to Dylan. “And what’s your guess?”

Dylan takes a deep breath. “I think its been two-four-ten pee-pee-pillion, one diarrhea-rillion and one poo-poo-pillion days.”

I stared at him and bit my lip, fighting the urge to grin, thinking, Ah, to be three again.

Damn, I want it bad

I can’t get it out of my mind.

The thought of it hits me at all hours — in the dark of the night, at high noon, at dusk and even at the break of dawn. It burrows to the center of my brain, where it releases wave after wave of want and desire. I stare into space, my right eyebrow arched just so, and lick my lips. And I think about it over and over and over. My brain, my body, my mouth, my soul — they all want it bad. Real bad. And I’ve got to have it.

I’ve got to have one of those cinnamon rolls at Pilgrim Kitchen.

It all started when my youngest son Dylan and I enjoyed a special father-and-son weekend during the holiday break. Dylan’s No. 1 request for the weekend had been quite simple — “donuts.” Suffice it to say we had some donuts.

One of the joints we hit up was Pilgrim Kitchen in Belmont. Talk about a wonderful little slice of authenticity. This is a place where you can sit down with a ceramic cup of coffee and eat a donut off a real plate. What’s more, the donuts and other baked treats there are sublime — we’re talking hardcore, serious quality you rarely find in donuts these days.

As luck would have it, I got addicted to their cinnamon rolls. The first time I had one, my eyelids fluttered. I hummed happily. My mind floated. I think I may have even swayed back and forth. Dylan held his giant powdered donut as if it were a glowing chalice offered to the gods, his fingers under the treat, not around it, his cheeks caked in powered sugar. I smiled, he hunched his shoulders and giggled.

Suffice it to say, we returned a few times during my break.

Now, I’m back to work, the boys are back in school, and I can’t stop thinking of Pilgrim Kitchen — specifically, getting my hands on their cinnamon rolls.

It got me to thinking, Hell, I just love my baked goods. Case in point: I also happen to be lusting for cornbread muffins with just a bit of butter and honey on top. We had some with dinner the other night, and I’m telling you, it was unbelievable.

But at some point, I must resist. I’m 40, not 25. My metabolism doesn’t crank at the frenzied pace it once did. My gut is at a critical point — either I pull back now, or I risk seeing it expand for years to come. What’s more, my arteries don’t need this.

So send me white light. Send me the white light of resistance and self-control. Send me balance and moderation. I need it. Because right now, I want it. I want that cinnamon roll, and I want it bad.

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