Never Let Your Husband Hold the Remote. NEVER!

The only time I ever get to be in charge of the television is when I am the only one home, which isn't that damn often. Our household boasts two -- one in the living room and one in our bedroom. The penis-bearing members of our family run a total racket on our entertainment.
After Rowdy came in last night, I stole the opportunity to fold some laundry, which was wildly overdue by the way, and watch a little tv in the back home. As I dragged one laundry basket into the bedroom, I was excited when I realized one of my favorite movies of all time, Prime, was one. If you've never seen it, it's a must.
Anyways, I've seen this flick enough times to know what happens next and I was right at the end, the heart-wrenchingly painful end when the channel suddenly changed.
What the hell, right?
Yeah, from the living room, Rowdy had started recording a 40-year-old western in the back room, TV 2 according to the DVR.
By the time I switched it, the movie was over and missed Dave pressing his face against the window to steal a peak of Raffi. It's so real, I feel it in my heart each time.
I stormed up front and gave Rowdy a good tongue-lashing. His response, of course, was that I had seen it before and, thanks to me, he was going to have an missing spot in his western. He then proceeded to tell our 3-year-old that Momma didn't want him to get to see his movie. Ridge cried. I cusses. Rowdy got to watch his dumb show. Asshole.

Don't Breed With A Cowboy, You'll Get A Cowboy Spawn!

I realize my blog's been a little Ridge-heavy as of late, but he's been kickin' out the quirky! I promise to post Adventures in Being Rolan soon. It's not like he's been laying low, after all.
Better than Christmas morning all covered in bows, Ridge's very favorite movie came on today, The White Buffalo staring thespian extraordinaire Charles Bronson. This cinematic masterpiece (cue super dry sarcasm) is the engaging journey through the legend of Wild Bill Hickok and Chief Crazy Horse and their hunt of a white buffalo. Why are these two historic figures from the Great American West chasing down this poor animal like rabid dog, you ask? Well, the answer is much simpler than you might think. The evil, treacherous white buffalo is terrorizing Indian villages throughout the countryside, blazing their camps to a fiery crisp along with many, many other murderous crimes. Hell, if this were true, US Grant probably would've made the white buffalo the official mascot of the Indian Wars.
Get back on track, Shonda. Okay, I'm done rambling post-Civil War propaganda.
As soon as the Western flick comes on the screen, Ridge is energized, bouncing on and off his rocking horse, passionately reciting lines seconds before they mumble out of Bronson the Bad Ass's lips. Then he runs to me, flings his arm towards the television, making sure I saw each and every totally believable thing in the movie.
In Rowdy's wicked scheme to dominate the television programming of this house for the rest of our damn lives, he, of course, only cultivates Ridge's love of ridicules old Westerns. The more our children's hearts beat for violent, sensationalized portrayals of the Wild West, cram packed with pitiful acting, the happier he is about it. I'd fight it harder, but in the very least, these movies are teaching the boys to correctly use cuss words, which is my great campaign in motherhood.
If you have, by some holy miracle, missed The White Buffalo, I suggest you watch. No, not because it's any good. It's not. (There's no sense in sending the hate mail, Rowdy Posse. I won't sway on this.) This flick will, however, make you think the shark in the first Jaws is totally legit.
Charles Bronson, "Oh Hell!"
Ridge, "Oh Hell!"
Fine day in parenting for the family Little. I hope I don't get the Bronson boot from the liberal left for letting my kid play with a toy guy, totally un-bleeding heart of me.