The Point of the Story

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Month: November 2021

You Can’t Spell ‘Prison’ Without ‘Son’, Now Can You, Dad?

28 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

It’s like they always say:

You really put the “son” in “prison”…

Something was amiss. I could just feel it in my Freshman bones.

I had been studying in my dorm lobby on a brisk fall Sunday evening, when I had heard the ominous ringing of a distant phone. Somewhere in the depths of my head, I heard a little voice whisper, “Maybe you should answer that.”

“Ha!” I laughed out loud to myself, “Like I could even hear the landline in my room from here.”

Despite how obviously ridiculous it was, I scurried down the hall to Room 410–and much to my psychic surprise–there was my phone, just ringing away. Almost scared of what awaited me on the other end of the line, I finally gathered the courage to answer it only moments before the caller gave up on me.

“Uh. Hello?”

“Son! We’re down in your lobby! We want to take you out to dinner!”

“Wait. You’re here? You were supposed to be back home in Rolla by now…”

Sh*t. Now I knew something was definitely wrong.

Sure, Dad and my stepmom, Daisy,1Not her real name, but I use this English equivalent so you don’t think her name is pronounced “Magoo”. had been driving the 5-6 hour trip in my direction just about ever other weekend that Fall, but it was never to actually see me. Instead, they were always going to Topeka to bankruptcy court, literally trying to “save the farm.”

And I would consider myself immensely fortunate the few times they bothered going 30 minutes out of their way to visit me at Kansas State.2Kansas State University, that is.

So what was the problem? The problem was that they had already had lunch with me that preceding Friday. There was no way in hell they would ever see me twice in the same weekend…

“HO. LEE. SH*T.”

I stumbled backwards from the passenger side of Dad’s ride, trying to distance myself from the felony that was unfolding right before my eyes.

“No! Stay away from me! You guys just robbed a bank, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?!?”

I was in shock. As Daisy was letting me into the rear of cab of the truck, she had slyly pulled out of her purse a gallon-sized Ziploc bag…bulging with Franklins, if you know what I mean.

That much cash in a see-through storage container? That was going against all of God’s natural laws. My mind simply couldn’t comprehend what it was looking at…and so of course, the only thing left for it to think it was looking at was two grown-ass adults that were about to go to prison, and their grown-ass son who was unwittingly going to be going with them.

“Uhn-uh! Nope. Y’all can’t do this to me! You know ----- good and well I’m too pretty for prison!”

“Relax, son…”

“No! You tell me what I’m looking at here, or I’m never getting in a vehicle with you again! You’re probably trying to set me up to take the fall as the getaway driver!”

They had about 10 seconds to come up with a good explanation. It wasn’t beyond me to turn my own poor-judgement parents into the Po-po, especially if they were trying to pin their illegal shenanigans on me.

“Dammit, just get in the truck, and we’ll explain everything on the way to dinner. Oh, and by the way…I’m buying…”

“So…$45k, after taxes, you say?”

Of course, I got in the truck with them. Sure, I know you’re disappointed in my lack of judgement, but c’mon: free food. I did mention that I was in college right? And–fun fact–even though almost all of my meals were provided by the esteemed Kramer Dining Hall, there was one glaring exception to this: all the cafeterias on campus would always shut down for Sunday dinner.

So, yeah, call me “food-motivated” all you want, but a steak dinner with the ‘rents would be well worth whatever potential jail time I might be facing. And that was if they convicted me.

All that drama aside, it turns out that they had not robbed a bank after all. Boy, was I relieved when they revealed that Dad had won $66,000 at the casino just north of Topeka when he had got a royal flush playing Caribbean Stud. And–this is a real hoot–when a lucky bastard wins such large sums of monies, apparently they just take the taxes out upfront and give said bastard the rest in cold, hard cash. In ----- Ziploc bags.

Oh! And another fun fact that I learned that night? Yeah, so they only had to go to bankruptcy court every other month. This whole time they had been blowing smoke up my ass as to why they never had time to see me, telling me they had these super-important all-weekend meetings with their lawyer. Which wasn’t a complete lie…if by “lawyer” you mean “Black-Jack dealer,” that is.

The point of the story is that you just might have a gambling problem if you find yourself knowingly let your child starve just so you can feed your insatiable addiction.

*checks notes*

Oh, wait. Sorry about that. There’s more.

That’s right, there’s more to this story than just my thinly-veiled attempt to earn your sympathy by playing the role of the emotionally and nutritionally neglected college student.

Turns out there was a proverbial fly in the ointment: this whole time, those two clowns had been legally forbidden from indulging in their favorite vice, as part of the Chapter Whatever agreement the bankruptcy court had drawn up for them, and into which they had subsequently knowingly entered therein.

No, no, no, this wasn’t going to come back and bet–er, I mean “bite”–them in the ass. No, not at all…

…

That was, uh…that was a “teaser,” folks. You know, a very effective technique to get you to tune in next week to see exactly whose ass gets bitten, and exactly how hard of an ass-biting it is…

(To be continued…)

Content created on: 27 November 2021 (Saturday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Surprise Bro, It’s A Feast For Your Eyes!

21 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

“I love you to the moon and back!”

…said no brother ever…

“C’mon Mom, you know you want to do it!”

I had hatched a plan for the ultimate brotherly revenge, but its success all hinged around the complicity of our shared genetic donor–aka Our Loving Mother.

“Just imagine the sweet taste of comeuppance for all the heck that little rascal has put you through over the years!”

I could tell that I was wearing away at her will to resist my irresistible scheme. Although I had only about 20 minutes left in this window of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I figured that would be enough time for me to crack her.

I needed to impress upon her the sheer brilliance of the idea; I just knew that would ultimately convince her.

“It’s all about the element of surprise. The fact that no one would ever suspect you would do something like this in a million years–that’s what will take his shock level to a whole ‘nother level.”

“But…but…but…his wife is in the car.”

“Aw, she’s a grown-ass woman, Mom. I think she will be able to handle beholding what the fruit of her husband’s lifetime of laboring to be a pain in your butt, in its full glory. Well…she might need a little help from a therapist, but she’ll manage. She’ll probably even think it’s hilarious.”

“…and his kids?”

“This is a 45-minute drive through the winding back roads of Virginia, Mother. They’re both indubitably asleep. Especially the newborn.”

“…but they’ll be scarred for life if they witness what you’re suggesting…”

“I know deep down, you want to do this. On the count of 3, I’ll pass him, and you take care of the rest.”

VRROOOOOOOM!

I pressed the pedal of my humble ’95 Camry to the metal, and sped around 1SkinnyJ‘s Civic, barely able to hold in my anticipation at knowing that by time he realized what he was looking at, it would already be too late.

I kept one eye on the road, watching for oncoming traffic, but couldn’t resist tracking him with my other eye as I passed him. This was going to be–pardon the overwrought word here–epic.

But the look on his face was not one of utter shock and dismay, just confusion as to why I would be passing him, see as how I had no clue how to get to his house.

“MOMMMMMMM! Where were you? We had one chance and you blew it!”

“I just couldn’t do it. In my heart, I knew that if I did, he would probably drive his whole family straight into the ditch. I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting my grandchildren…”

“ARRGH! Why is my genius always foiled by foolish mortals?!?”

“Sorry, kiddo. I love my son too much to ever subject him to the sight of my bare, lilly-white buttcheeks pressed against the window of the passenger side of my best son’s ride…”

“C’mon Mom, you know you want to do it!”

Unlike the failed “Moon Mission” only months previous, I knew this time I could convince her to be my accomplice.

“You know how lonely a man can get on a Navy submarine. Nothing sweeter than giving him a false sense of hope, only to dash them against the rocks–just like the Bible says your supposed to do to the babies of your enemies.”

“Maybe you should leave the Bible out of this one, yeah?”

“Well, technically I am leaving the Bible out of ‘it.’ Anyways, can you imagine the look on his face that he’ll have, once he realizes that you have bested him for realzzz this time?”

“I’m not sure we’re even allowed to put that type of stuff in a care package to a military man…and I’m not sure I even want to touch it when I put it in the package.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll wrap it in plain brown paper.

You’ll never have to know that inside is the salacious and suggestive cover of the latest issue of No Holes Unfilled! 1For the historical record, I believe this was just a subtitle on the magazines cover–I don’t remember the official name of this particular piece of pornography that I had my friend Andrew by on my behalf. magazine–and it will be too late for 1SkinnyJ by the time he discovers inside that that is not busty co-eds having their orifices used in inarguably ungodly ways, as he was hoping to find. Nay, instead he will find one of your old brochures for…Baptist Bible College! Mwah-hah-hah!”

“Well, I didn’t need to hear all that. But yeah, I guess if you want to anonymously donate to your seamen brother’s car package from me, I won’t stop you.”

“YAAAAAAS!”

Finally, the vengeance I had so longed for would be at long-last mine! This prank–the ultimate ‘Bate n’ Switch,2Yes, that is right. I absolutely just made an overt masturbation pun. if you will–this one was for little brothers everywhere, throughout time and space, from all corners of the Universe.

As I envisioned 1SJ opening my little surprise-within-a-surpise, I bowed my head, and thinking of all those little brothers whose burden of justice I bore on my shoulders in that moment, I uttered words that any good Christian Brother would be all too familiar with.

“I do this in remembrance of you…”

The point of the story is that evil genius best soars highest when flying solo. Sure, it would be nice to have some help executing your deliciously diabolical plans from time to time. But the best laid plans can easily be undone by any mere mortal that you mistakenly trust to do your bidding.

“I do this in remembrance of you”–my ass!

There’s a revenge-shaped hole in my heart–left unfilled–all because Mom couldn’t remember to actually put the care package in the ----- mail…

Content created on: 20 November 2021 (Saturday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

When Your Love Of The Sauce Takes You Sideways

14 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

It all started just like any other regrettable college moment.

“Chug! Chug! Chug…”

I shouldn’t have panicked.

But I did. And ultimately, that is what did me in.

I had to figure out how many ounces I could drink without ruining my stomach, and honestly, I had never really tested the limits of how big of a bottle I could handle.

On the paper before me, I had one shot to impress the judges, and I didn’t want to blow it by claiming I could only drink 16 ounces. I mean, for all I knew, the next college-aged blockhead could come along and say they could drink 24 ounces of that Nectar of the Gods, and then where would I be? Out in the cold, that’s where–just a mere spectator in the crowd and not a competitor.

“No, I better go big or go home,” I mused to myself. “Surely no one else would be daring enough to put down 36 ounces…”

Mere milliseconds from dropping my scrap of folded-up paper into the submission box, and a wave of regret started to wash over me. In my gut I just knew that 36 wouldn’t be enough. Luckily I was quick enough, and was able to jerk my hand back just in the nick of time.

Hastily, I added 36 to the list of scratched-out numbers–along with 8, 16, & 24–and penciled in my final answer, the one that would indubitably get me a spot in the finals.

“Forty-four, baby. Forty-four ounces to freedom…”

“Ladies and gentlemen of Haymaker Hall, I present to you our 4 contestants, one–and only one–of whom will leave tonight with a $100 gift certificate, good at any business in downtown Manhattan (brought to you by the Little Apple Chamber of Commerce).”

“Wait just a minute. A gift certificate?!?” I screamed in my head.

I had been under the impression that the winner of the “What’s The Dumbest Dare You Would Do For $100” contest would be awarded…ya know…$100. As advertised.

Dammit, they had suckered me in with the lure of cash, and now here I was with a cold over-sized bottle, about to sacrifice my stomach, and for what? A lousy hundred dollars to spend at the lamest stores in this whole college town? Well, if this wasn’t the Banana Split Incident all over again, then I didn’t know what was.

“Welp, too late to back out now. I better go big or go home, amiright?” I told myself as I awaited to hear what type of stiff competition I would be up against.

“First, we have Dominick, who has dared himself to…shave his legs!”

What was this amateur hour? It sounded like to me that this dude was more just looking for an excuse to shave his legs. He definitely wasn’t going to beat me.

And I was right. The crowd of about 50 students gathered in the basement of Haymaker Hall barely even murmured when Dominick followed through on his threat to shave his gams.

…

“Second, we have The Gator, who has dared himself to…eat 3 worms!”

Okay, so despite The Gator being a good friend of mine, and despite the fact that eating worms was pretty nasty given our Western culture, I had no doubt that his paltry 3 worms wouldn’t threaten my shot at that certificate.

Or so I thought. Seeing that third worm get stuck in his Adam’s apple before coming back up and then going back down again? That was actually pretty disgusting. But still not enough to worry me.

…

“Third, we have Goofus the Doofus, who has dared himself to…bite the head off of a goldfish!”

“Hmmm, interesting…playing to the crowd I see. But still, no one gonna beat nasty l’il me…” In my head, I just knew that darn-near-worthless gift certificate would be going home with me that night.

However, a little bit of doubt started to creep into my head when I saw that he, too, had decided to “go big or go home,” on account of the 5-inch goldfish that the bastard had busted out to sacrifice to the gods of collegiate stupidity.

And for a split-second–the one where we all heard that decapitating “CRUNCH”–I was worried. But then what did that lightweight do? He spit it out! The fish wasn’t even in his mouth more than half a second. Hmmph! Even The Gator and his worms should have him beat.

…

“And last but not least, we have Floyd,1That’s a self-reference: Floyd is my alter ego. who had dared himself to…drink 44 ounces…”

I was pleased that our Emcee spotted me a dramatic pause, just long enough to lull the audience into a false sense of complacency.

“…OF [CENSORED]!”

You could actually hear a few audible gasps from the crowd, though those were pretty much drowned out by the much more numerous “WTF?!?”s…

“I think I’m going to be sick…” one girl bemoaned, as she watched me guzzle those 44 ounces down with the utmost of determination.

I, too, was starting to feel the same way. I knew that I liked to drink the stuff, but damn, Homie, after the first 10 ounces, this schitt wasn’t fun any more.

Nevertheless, I persisted. In hindsight, I probably could have quit after downing half the bottle; the crowd by then had more than enough appreciation for the evil genius behind my choice of, uh, “beverage.” I just didn’t know when to quit.

In fact, after I had nominally finished the bottle, I wanted to make dang sure nobody accused me of not finishing what I started: I found the nearest water fountain and diluted the disgusting dregs that remained in the bottle. And, in what turned out to be waaaay nastier than I had anticipated, I sucked that bottle dry.

I had come to shock the sh*t of the crowd, and guess what? Mission accomplished.

Sorta.

After all of that, the crowd decided (by the cruelly not-so-objective Applause-O-Meter), that 500 milliseconds of shock factor was more worthy of a $100 gift certificate than 3-5 minutes of watching a grown man slurp down [CENSORED]. Of course, they ended up awarding it to Doofus-Goofus No-Neck McJock Face–though I knew that they knew in their heart of hearts that I should have been its rightful owner…

“Always have an exit plan”…was the too-late advice that came to my mind mere moments after my shocking defeat. I hadn’t really thought about what would come after I had achieved this forgettable milestone in my young life.

Having all that in my system couldn’t have good been for business. It couldn’t have been good for anyone.

Now, the version that my Public Speaking 101 classmates got the following year would have you believe that this all had an edgy (i.e. “interesting”) ending, with me getting my stomach pumped in the Emergency Department. You know, as one tends to do when they desperately try to self-induce vomiting by micro-dosing rat poison.

But I’m not going to blow smoke up your butt: I’ve already been more than forthcoming about all my stupid trips to the ED. And this one wasn’t one of them.

No, instead, I did boring dumb things. Like non-stop sprinting for 90 minutes playing Ultimate Frisbee (no luck). Or sticking my entire fist down my throat (don’t believe everything you see on TV, kids). Or even having my racistly nick-named Vietnamese pal, Chong, punch me in the stomach a few times (no dice).

In the end, all that did was make really thirsty for some reason.

Ultimately, the “exit plan” for all that junk that went in one end of me was remarkably predictable, in that it just came out the other. Let’s just say that for the next day or so, that was some of the weirdest sh*t I had ever seen…

The point of the story is, just because you have the unique skill of being able to drink [CENSORED] and enjoy it, doesn’t mean you should attempt to drink copious amounts of it as part of some dorm Double Dare knock-off contest. And if you’re going to poison your body like that, you might as well do it with something fun and cheeky. Like gravy. Or cold hard liquor.

Wait, you thought I was talking about booze this whole time?2Of course you weren’t. That would have been too obvious. Nah man, it takes someone truly special to put away one whole big-ass bottle of Heinz Ketchup.

Content created on: 13/14 November 2021 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Hey Grandma, Pour Some Sugar On Me, Baby!

7 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

You love sugar. I love sugar.

It never hurts to have more sugar…

“Boys, who wants a banana split?!? See how fast you can clean your rooms while I get them ready, okay?”

Man, oh man, who doesn’t love a good ol’ banana split? Indeed, Mom had found the secret to getting me and my bro, 1SkinnyJ, motivated enough to get off our elementary-school-aged duffs and actually help get our house tidied up for once.

With each Lincoln Log (TM) I gathered, in my mind I could already start feeling the juxtaposition of the textures of ice creaminess against the soft-yet-firmness of the banana as I bit into it.

I threw yet another Hot Wheels (TM) car into the toy box, and my thoughts lingered on the sensual saltiness of the chopped peanuts perfectly complementing the chocolate and strawberry sweetness of the Blue Bell (TM) frozen confections, as they exploded into fireworks of flavor as they first hit my lips and then my tongue.

And as I was finishing up picking up the last few of my oversized off-brand Lego (TM) building blocks, my imagination savored the thought of polishing off the remaining bits of whipped cream mixed with that inevitably awesome sweet syrupy muck–the by-product of any banana split done right.

Of course, there was the proverbial–and literal–“cherry on top,” which, being the best part of the whole experience, I saved for last–even in my childhood sugar-lust fantasies.

My mental pre-vouring1That, my friend, is a portmanteau of ‘pre’ and ‘devouring’. You’re welcome. of my future tasty treat perfectly ended in sync with the household task I had been charged with.

“Alright, Mom, I’m done! Now, where’s my sweet, sweet banan–“

…

“What in sweet Baby Jesus’ name is this abomination?!? Where’s my banana split?”

She just stared at me somewhat blankly, apparently unsurprised by my unpleasant surprise.

“This is your banana split. Surely you weren’t expecting something different, were you?”

In that moment, I was too embarrassed to have not known better. I had been duped and was too proud to admit it.

The fact that Mom–no-sugar-added, making-birthday-cakes-with-honey, health conscience Mom–would be offering me a concoction that involved not only Blue Bell (TM) ice cream and Maraschino (uh…TM?) cherries, but Reddi-whip (TM) whipped cream and Hershey’s (TM) chocolate syrup? That should have been a giant red flag waving in the Kansas wind.

How was I not suspicious of such an impossible offer? I knew that, apart from the bananas, we never had the raw the materials for a proper banana split on hand in our sad sucrose-less sanctuary.

At least not the kind of banana split I had oh so naively thought I was getting–you know, the real good ones that Grandma Smalls2This is hilariously not her last name. I don’t even know why I would bother to change her name… would buy for us at the Dairy Kreme (a violation of TM?) whenever we would go run errands with her in Elkhart. (Ah, Grandma Smalls: a fan of sweets, no doubt–and from whom I indubitably inherited my sweet tooth.)

No, what lay before me was…well, sure, the requisite banana was there…

…but piled high with cottage cheese, canned pineapple chunks, and generic unsalted peanuts.

And for that “cherry on top”? Oh, you better believe that did she not disappoint in her impeccable ability to disappoint…

Kretschmer (TM) wheat germ. Yes, you read that right: gosh darn, melon-farming, sock-clucking wheat germ. Who does that to their kid?!?

This trauma? This trauma was real. It scarred me for life.

So much so that now to this very day, “Banana Split” means one thing and one thing only amongst my family:

“Oh, I knew your offer sounded too good to be true. Pftt! It’s the Banana Split Incident all over again. I guess I’ll just sit here and be…”

You know who loves that crystalline crack, that sweeter-than-smack, the one, the only, the granulated sugars?

Grandma Smalls, that’s who.

And, by some stroke of luck, the house that she shared with my soft-spoken Pap-pap3Again, a ridiculous and unnecessary pseudonym… was conveniently separated from our house in Richfield by a mere cow pasture.

So whenever 1SJ and I could no longer handle our involuntarily-induced processed foods withdrawal that came along with living with Mom, we would literally just traipse across the field to Grandma’s and raid her kitchen–whether or not anybody was home.

During one of these adventures, I made a culinary discovery for the ages: you know what was better than Jif (TM) chunky peanut butter in your Roman Meal (TM) bread and Welch’s (TM) concord grape jelly PB&J sandwich?

Jif (TM) chunky peanut butter, lightly laced with a dusting of sugar, that’s what!

At first, it was just localized to the PB that I was putting on my own sandwich, but it only took a couple more Munchies-motivated food runs before the situation spiraled completely out of control. To help illustrate what went down, I’d like to enlist the help of one of my all-time favorite comic strips, the February 18th, 1981 Garfield, who will be playing the role of me:

I was a genius: by directly incorporating a few cups of sugar into the canister of Jif (TM), I was cutting out the tedious process of having to sugar-ify my PB each time. And I’m sure ol’ Sweet Tooth Grandma Smalls would thank me later for saving her the trouble as well…

“What in heaven’s name are you doing, boy?!?”

I was shocked. This was the first time in my 6 or 7 years of existence that I had ever seen Pap-pap upset in even the slightest of manners.

And now he was yelling at me, which I thought was a bit of an over-reaction.

Sure, he had just caught me red-handed lacing the new canister of Jif (TM) with the appropriate amount of sugar needed to give it that grainy crunch that I had come to crave. But was it worth the anger and wrath from an otherwise impeccably unflappable man? Naw, something wasn’t adding up.

Even though I was shocked, I still managed to fumble for a response.

“Uh…well…I know how much Grandma loves sugar, so I thought I would do her a favor and–“

“You know your grandmother is DIABETIC! Are you trying to kill her?!?”

“Oh. Sh*t. My bad, my bad…”

…

So, that’s what having diabetes was really all about, eh. Well, damn, no one bothered to pass the memo onto me.

And to think, this whole time I had thought the saying “Sugar Is The Silent Killer” was just some hyperbole that Mom would trot out to justify those sock-clucking banana splits…

*shrugs shoulders*

Welp, I guess you can consider this your weekly PSA…

Content created on: 5 November 2021 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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