Month: March 2021

Disclaimer: no gold was harmed in the making of this film.

But, fellas, you’re probably not going to like it when you hear what was harmed…

“Keep It Simple, Stupid”–aka the KISS Principle. Many scholars maintain, present company excluded, that the less complicated a plan is, the less likely it is to go off the rails, and therefore the better it is. And personally, I think it’s simply ----- stupid. But that’s just me, over-complicater extraordinaire.

However, every now and then an idea floats past me in the aether that is just the right amount of simple that I can’t deny its beauty and its genius.

And before I float this beautiful, genius, simple idea, I’m just gonna throw in the disclaimer that, on account of its simplicity, that there’s no way in hell that it can be an original idea of mine; I’m sure this has been posited by someone else long before I showed up.

Also, you may utterly hate this idea, so I may or may not actually want to take credit for it, even if it were actually original. Anyways, I digress…enough intellectual foreplay–let’s get to the real action…

“It’s a story that’s tragically familiar, and all too easily avoidable: another man with a gun, another tragedy…” At some point in the last week I scrolled past an article that started this way, in reference to recent mass shootings in Georgia and Colorado. And yes, the article was making a case for common sense gun control.

Now I’m well aware that gun control is a rather controversial topic, but just humor me for the next 2 and 1/2 minutes, will ya?

That line from that particular article got me to thinking, “What singular characteristic best predicts who may be responsible for future mass shootings?”

Of course, the answer one gets when they ask that depends pretty heavily on who you’re asking. Some might say that if you look at the cold, hard data, it’s actually white men you need to be constantly giving the side-eye. But focusing on this demographic would have let the shooter in Denver–who is most definitely not your average white guy–slip past unnoticed until it was too late. Others might point out that it is precisely these guys with “hard to pronounce names” are exactly who you should be afraid of, and warrant an extra level of surveillance and/or restrictions of personal liberties.

In short, it’s a politically loaded question, and we all know that if it’s that subjective, then we’ll never agree enough on how to combat the problem effectively.

But hold up–has the obvious blown right on past us?

Really, though? What’s the single most accurate predictor of the perpetrators of senseless gun violence?

This particular scholar maintains that the undeniable answer is: a penis.

Indeed, the one thing nearly every last one of these assholes have in common is a dick.

So I’m just going to throw this ri-dick-ulous idea out there, and let you do with what you will. What if…what if we simply banned men from owning or handling guns?

Yeah, that may be a bit of blunt tool for a nuanced issue, but let’s just stop ----- around already and solve this problem. Us men have repeatedly proven to society that we simply cannot be trusted with firearms. In-laws, outlaws, crooks, & straights–if Brooks & Dunn can sing about them, then they are statistically way too likely to shoot someone or something that they shouldn’t.

Only female cops get guns? You know what, that sounds pretty ----- good to me.

Only female soldiers get to handle loaded weapons? That one probably doesn’t matter because it won’t be too long before the military has outsourced all their violence to drones and robots. In the meantime, though, sure, I think we would do just fine with that policy.

Oh, and would this solve all the domestic violence problems in the country? No…but, yeah, maybe. I say it’s well worth the risk, the Patriarchy be damned!

Girls, go get your guns! If you can’t be trusted with them…well, it’s going to take a lot to prove to us that you can’t be trusted with guns, given the infinite amount of heart-breaking and senseless shit that we’ve tolerated thus far from your brethren…

Like any idealistic and naive proposition like this one, there are bound to be unintended consequences that the creators never could have foreseen. And no doubt that would be the case here. But after all the dust settles, I would wager that our society would be a much better place for the vast, vast majority of us.

There is, however, one unintended consequence that I can foresee, and it makes me chuckle a wee bit: I can only imagine that the support for transgender rights would suddenly find proponents from previously untapped and unexpected sources (this is not to denigrate the very real struggle of fellow citizens who are very worthy of basic respect, but rather a critique of those who for some ----- reason think they have an opinion in the personal matters of other people).

Is it morally wrong of me to take some sort of secret delight in envisioning gun-loving gentlemen across this great nation of ours agonizing over that age old question? You know the one: “Which do you love more: your dick…or your gun?”

So…how much do you really love your guns, buddy?

*Giggles like a schoolgirl packing heat*

Content created on: 28 March 2021 (Sunday)

Usually, it’s the Easter Bunny doing the hiding.

But seriously, somebody should have hid the fire water from these two drinking bunnies…

“Hide my presents and then I can search for them like a pirate searches for treasure!”

The Elder, our older daughter, was celebrating her 8th birthday at the beach and was understandably overly-excited and full of um…”interesting” ideas for the present-opening portion of the festivities. Now, in fairness, hiding her gifts and then sending her on a scavenger hunt wasn’t that bad of an idea…had 1) we been in a familiar location, & 2) us adults had some time to prepare ahead of time. Without those two pre-conditions, though, the whole scheme could quickly become much more of a dubious endeavor.

But fortunately, I have enough life experience under my belt to foresee how this seemingly fun and cheeky idea could turn out to be a darker shade of shenanigan. So I waved The Elder over and said, “Come young lass, I have a very important story to share with you…”

Back in my early grad school years when I was a single young buck, I would spend my holidays with either my brother (One Skinny Jay) or sister, who lived near each other in Virginia. One particular Easter we were at my sister’s place out in the country, and 1SJ had brought the wife and kids over that morning to celebrate.

And celebrate we did–it seems that us bros had the idea that there was no better way to commemorate the rising of the Lord Jesus Christ than raising a few bottles of booze “in remembrance of Him.” Further, just like Jesus’ female fans found His grave empty early that Sunday morning, we made sure that we likewise found our previously-full bottles empty this fine Sunday morning.

Oh, what’s that? Oh. You wanted to know how the kids celebrated, not the adults? Gotchya.

Well, seeing as how there were 5 of my nieces and nephews running around by that point, it was only logical that us adults hosted an Easter Egg hunt, a classic neo-Pagan American vernal pastime, indeed.

Our sister, seemingly the only responsible adult present that day, had filled up a bunch of brightly colored plastic eggs the night before with candies, quarters, and one-dollar bills, so us boyz only had to hide them in her front yard. It should come as no surprise (or maybe it does) that we knocked out our part of the bargain lickety-split without any trouble.

In less than 5 minutes we had hid all 25 eggs in and under the porch, in the thick half-dead grass, and in/under/around the small lone tree that stood in her yard. Given how starkly featureless the space we had to work with was, we were actually a bit proud of ourselves for finding hiding spots for all of them. Patting ourselves on the backs, we called the butt-munchkins¹This is a bespoke portmanteau, created by yours truly for his siblings children, an amalgamation of the words “butt-munch” and “munchkins”. out into the yard and let them go buck-wild with their Easter baskets.

After all was said and done, we sat around the dining room table, eating ham sandwiches and deviled eggs, helping the kiddos sort through all their loot. Eventually, when we compared notes, we discovered that only 21 eggs had been successfully recovered. Not wanting to leave any valuable booty left undiscovered in the yard, me and 1SJ headed back out to there, bottles o’ rum in hand.

We quickly found one of the stray eggs, but the other 3…well, even after another 20 minutes of combing through the yard, we simply could not figure out where the hell they could have disappeared to. I mean, c’mon, there was 1 porch, 1 tree, and…grass. They couldn’t have gone too far, right? Apparently that logic wasn’t as air-tight as one might guess.

We finally had to call off the search for the sake of our sanity, and all agreed that we would just chalk this loss up to the alcohol. Still to this day, though, we still wonder if there is unclaimed silver doubloons languishing in oblivion at the bottom of her yard…

The point of the story is you probably should avoid the responsibility of hiding the kids’ Easter Eggs if you’ve been day-drinking (again). But, if you do, drink & hide responsibly–make a map of your treasures as you go, you big enebriated pirate, you!

Content created on: 18 March 2021 (Thursday)

Finding that perfect baby name is every expecting couple’s dream.

But the process can be a real nightmare…

Naming a child is no easy task. While it’s a great honor indeed, it is also a great responsibility that one must not enter into lightly. I mean, the poor kid is going to have that name yoked around their neck for the rest of their life, so you gotta choose wisely!

Now, I’m not one to over-think things…wait, that doesn’t sound right. I am one to over-think things, and believe you me, naming our first daughter something less generic than The Elder was the grand-daddy of all the many over-thought thoughts I’ve had in my long and storied career as a professional over-thinker (with the lone exception being what I should get for a tattoo).

And it doesn’t help that the Boss Lady and I are a notoriously bad combination when it comes to making mutually agreeable decisions in an efficient manner.

I mean, we actually ended up watching the 1994 Tim Robbins/Meg Ryan/Walter Matthau not-so-much-of-a-hit-movie, I.Q., on Netflix once, for fuck’s sake. The only good decision we made that evening was to call it quits on I.Q. 20 minutes into the bore-fest, and just re-watch the 1997 Bruce Willis/Milla Jovovich/Gary Oldman/Luke Perry/Chris Tucker actually-entertaining-movie, The Fifth Element instead.

And that example is, incidentally, how we coined the term “Netflix Name.”

Giving our child a Netflix Name was our worst nightmare: the fear was that we would do such a crap-ass job at compromising that we would end up giving her a name that no one was happy with. Just like is bound to happen when any couple–you know who you are (everybody)–tries to jointly decide what movie to watch on that ubiquitous content-streaming service.

Anyways, after collaboratively slaving away at the task for a good 7 months, the prospect of coming up with a name that was desirable to one of us and at least satisfactory to the other was looking pretty bleak.

It even haunted me in my sleep.

One night, with less than a month to go before The Elder was due, I had a dream that I was a miner of precious ore and gemstones, and that I had fallen victim to every miner’s worst nightmare: trapped in a cave-in.

In dreamland, I was trapped underground for over two weeks before being rescued, and when I came to the surface, I received the fantastic news that the Boss Lady had had our child in my abence.

Now usually one would be irreparably upset at missing out on the once-in-a-lifetime of an event like the birth of their first child. But strangely, I wasn’t.

In fact, I was ecstatic–it meant that she had figured out what to name her! After being tormented for so long, I would finally have the resolution of knowing The Name To End All Names. Oh, sweet revelation!

I got on the phone with the Boss Lady, and with tears of joy trickling down my face as I wept, I told her how much I loved her and the new life we had brought into the world together…and then I immediately pivoted to “So what did you name her?!?”

…and then I woke up.

The point of the story is, the Universe can be so ----- cruel sometimes. May you never forget that.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to The Elder! Here’s to 8 years of knowing the true Name To End All Names…

Content created on: 10 March 2021 (Wednesday)

Nothing tears apart close friends like a friendly disagreement over…condiments?

What the fu…

Honestly, I’m not the type of guy to make a scene. At least not in public, anyways. But every once in a while, a hill comes along worth dying on, so to speak.

So, pray tell, is the one hill that I can remember actually almost dying on? What was the topic so controversial, the opponent so clearly wrong, the stakes so unbelievably high, that I would be willing to come thiiiiis close to getting into a raging fist-fight and nearly getting hauled off in handcuffs?

The hill I chose to die on, my friend, was the one slathered in an undeniably delicious sweet, tangy zip.

You see, back in my grad school days I was on the Physics Grad Student Body’s Social Committee, and me and a couple of my fellow chums in the department were in charge of putting together the annual end-of-the-school-year/spring picnic. We had met up for lunch at a restaurant near campus to do the most banal of all tasks imaginable: put together the shopping list for the event.

It was easy enough to agree on the condiments we felt we should have in ample supply: ketchup, mustard, relish, and mayonnaise…wait, what?

Back that up just a second buddy!

No, I don’t agree that mayonnaise is the universal white condiment of choice! I mean, if that’s what you need to lube the food before you shovel it down your gullet, then who am I to judge? People who prefer the Good Stuff–Miracle Whip–are probably nearly as prevalent as the folk who somehow enjoy vinegar mixed with eggs, and should be considered as well.

I made the completely reasonable suggestion that we should just get both and everyone would be happy.

But in the name of all that’s holy, I have no idea how such a simple topic and such a clear-headed suggestion took the turn it did. But a turn indeed did it take.

Wool E. Mammoth, one of the other committee members, decided to be a complete troll about it, and basically forced me to decide whether I was passionate enough about my ‘Whip to defend its honor to the end.

Turns out, I was. I’m almost ashamed to say that things got a little heated and a little loud, and some of the other patrons at the restaurant were starting to give us nervous looks. Yeah, I might have yelled a little bit.

But here’s the deal: when I reflect on that interesting moment in my life–one that cooled off before the cops were called or punches thrown, by the way–I only regret it so much. Why? Because I realized that it wasn’t a matter of oozing white slime on sandwiches that was at issue.

It’s about giving a voice to the voiceless…considering those with slightly less popular opinions…being a champion on behalf of those who are not there to defend themselves…standing up to the condiment bullies who are trying to screw over the little guy…

*Braveheart music*

*Fist-pump of victory*

Huh? Oh, pardon me, I got caught up in the moment, righteous anger, social justice and all.

Now only if I would get off my sandwich high-horse and actually champion a truly worthy cause…

Content created on: 4 March 2021 (Thursday)