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Month: July 2022

How To Make The Ladies Want More Of That Hypnotic Moose Knuckle

31 July 2022 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

Was running around town in those way-too-tight bike shorts a bad idea?

I guess you’ll never know…

“You’re doing it all wrong. Almost 100% for sure, you are doing it absolutely wrong.”

Realizing this truth about your many failed romantic pursuits is not the easiest cookie to swallow. It’s my fault? Nah, man! If at 26 years old, and I’m already seriously weighing my options between dying old and alone versus a mail order bride–surprisingly logical choice of–then that must be for reasons entirely preordained by the Universe, right?

Right?

Well, if you don’t recall, I recently related my “Aw, well screw me, then!” moment in which I realized that maybe–just maybe–I wasn’t so innocent when it came to the untimely deaths of past romances in my life.

What am I thinking? Of course you’ve already read 3:45–The Perfect Time To Full On Panic At The Disco. And if you read that then you definitely read The Unexpected Value Of Rump-Shaking With An Average-Ass White Girl.

So I know at this point you’re indubitably wondering if I actually learned anything from my horrifying self-realization experience. Like, did anything really change for me after that?

Well, I’m pleased as a pickle you asked…

“If every instinct you have is wrong…then the opposite…would have to be right.”

Who, pray tell, spoke such sage words of advice? Ghandi? Einstein? The Buddha? Jesus?

No, someone much insidiously wiser…Jerry Seinfeld. While his eponymous hit show, Seinfeld, claimed to “be about nothing”, I believe it was all a ruse to sneak in some of the best life advice to an indifferent 90’s generation.

I essentially grew up on Seinfeld as ‘tween and teen, and so it’s no surprise that this clip playing in the back of my mind ever since the aforementioned fateful night on a Greensboro dance floor:

So…easy peasy, right? Whatever I thought should do or say, just not do that and do the exact opposite.

I’m being only half sarcastic here–of course it takes some thought and effort to restrain your natural instincts–but at the same time, could you possibly have it laid out for you any easy, you ----- numb-skull?

“Sure, why not? Why not give it a whirl?” I thought, and I set about giving the whole whacky-ass, so-crazy-it-just-might-work strategy a chance to change my luck, my love life, and my life forever.

Talk less.

Ask more questions.

Maybe not make that cynical jackass comment.

Make eye-contact for more than 1.3 seconds.

Given the choice, say the nice/uplifting thing, even if it makes you feel sappy inside.

Compliment others…behind their backs.

Perhaps we don’t have to share every little extraneous detail when telling one of our little tales.

Okay, okay, the irony of that one is not lost me. Clearly, I’ve reverted to my old ways, at least in part.

But otherwise, I gotta report that, yeah, doing the opposite of what I wanted to pretty quickly made my summer much more interesting.

Within a week or two, I was already playing some low-key footsie with two young ladies from my church–something that I had never really been able to pull off in the previous 25 years of my life.

I figured between the two of them, it would work out with one of them sooner than later, and I might just find myself with a–gasp!–GIRLFRIEND…

“Wait, what are you doing back already?!?”

I had gone out cycling with my friend The Wooly Mammoth, and had come back to my new apartment to the surprise of THE cutest girl from my church sitting in my living room, chatting with my roommates.

Not only was this single-dimpled beauty the most all-around attractive single lady in our church, but The Dimpler was also my new neighbor. Well, technically, I was her new neighbor.

Oh, and yeah, I’ll admit this way-out-of-my-league lass had also caught my attention several months ago, before she had headed off to Central America for the summer–but, ALAS! I ultimately learned she had a boyfriend that went to a different church.

And also, that whole “outta my league” thing.

So why was I so surprised to find her in my humble abode? My roommates and I ran in the same social circle at church with her and her roommate, so inevitably they would be dropping in at our place just around the corner from theirs.

Two words: Moose. Knuckle. I’ll let you ask the interwebs yourself if you don’t already know what that means.

You see, I hadn’t expected her to be back from her summer trip for a few more days, otherwise I would have avoided being seen publicly in our neighborhood in my cycling tights had there been any chance of running into her surreptitiously.

I guess you could say that my instinct was telling me that perhaps welcoming her back into town with my Moose Knuckle wasn’t the best idea.

Then again, by now we all know how reliable my instinct is…

“Cocaine!”

Now it’s debatable whether or not it was instinctual that I responded to the midnight FaceBook message from The Dimpler with drug-related humor or not. But, in retrospect, I would argue it was the ----- right way to answer the question “What are you doing up so late?!?”

Though FB had been around for 2-3 years at that point, The Dimpler had just signed up, and since I was a neighbor/friend from church, I soon became one of her first FaceBook friends. Also, back then, it was much harder to control your “Active” status on FaceBook–and therefore much easier for your crush to know whether you practiced good sleep habits or whether you were an addict of some kind.

In my case, it was the latter. Or at least that’s what I told her, referencing the 70s hit Eric Clapton song, Cocaine!

Now wouldn’t you know it, but she responded with “Oooh, drug abuse! How romantic!”–which I took as a personal challenge to my creativity. I promptly turned around and composed a haiku based exclusively on the indifferences between drugs and being totally high on somebody’s love (or, on occasion, your lust for them).

The next morning, I got a reply from her that started, “Wow…that was actually…pretty good! Did you right that yourself?”

Clearly a sarcastic personal insult.

Man, I put myself out there and make myself vulnerable, and what happens? She come back all rude and demeaning? Geez, I should have known I was going to get roasted for attempting to talk to talk to pretty girls again…

…

But…

wait…

just…

a…

tic!

My instinct is telling me that she thinks I’m stupid and I’ve written some trash-ass poetry. Which is interesting, because, if taken literally, is not at all what her message said.

And, before I blow up any chances with her by responding to her mean-girlness in anger, maybe I should stop and listen to my instinct…

…and tell him to shut the ----- up, you ----- idiot.

So…if my instinct is indeed dead wrong, then I should do the opposite. But, responding sincerely to a genuine compliment from a veritable Greek Goddess? This was new territory for this cynical self-saboteur–I had no idea how to actually accept that praise (assuming she wasn’t being sarcastic, of course–you can’t just let go of your instincts and in-grained ways that easily).

I had no choice but to…stall?

I mean, there still was the possibility that I was right, and she thought my haiku was stupid, so I didn’t want to claim responsibility just yet. So, in a move totally, completely, and utterly opposite of me, I simple shot back:

“You’ll never know…”

Ooh, go with being coy…maybe a little mystery will keep the spark alive. Kinda makes sense, seeing as how my instinct is to share every detail and look where that’s got me in life, amiright?

What intrigue! What mystique! What the hell was I thinking?!? What made me think my crazy anti-plan might work?!?

…

Well, friend, I have good news for you: unlike The Dimpler, you might actually get to know what happened next if you stick around until next week.

Sorry I have to leave you hanging, though. I wanted to tell you everything, and I wanted tell you everything now.

That’s what the little voice inside my head was telling me.

But then again, we all know he is a certified dip-shit…

Content created on: 29 July 2022 (Friday)

Look Here, You Stupid Students, I Was A Great Teacher!

24 July 2022 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

If you’re aspiring to be an educator, why not take it for a spin first?

You never know what you just might learn…

“Yeesh! These physics students can be a real tough crowd…they seem to really enjoy busting the chops of us teaching assistants!”

Back in the day, before Yelp! and Google Ratings were a thing, reviews were handled the old-fashioned way: all accolades and raking-over-the-coals alike were in writing, on good ol’ paper.

In my case, it was August 2002, and as an aspiring high school physics teacher, my college side-gig was teaching labs in the physics department at Kansas State. I had taught the previous semester, and to kick off the TA1Short for Teaching Assistant. training session for the new semester, our lab directory was handing out our performance reviews–the ones our former students had written.

And boy, was I excited for the feedback! A little constructive criticism and a few compliments would surely only help my future career in education.

Welp, a mere two reviews in, and things are already getting…um, “interesting”.2I am sad to report that while I kept the best-of-the-best comments as mementos, I couldn’t locate them when I went to look for them. I really wanted y’all to see with your own eyes that I was not exaggerating.

He never seemed prepared to teach lab, and quite honestly, appeared to have no idea what he was talking about.

Anonymous Student #1

Ok, that’s not what I want to hear, but they do make a fair point: I would rarely review the material before class, pretty much just improvising as I went. It may be criticism, but hey, at least it’s constructive, right? Let’s see what else we got in here:

Worst TA I have ever had. What else do you want me to say?

Anonymous student #2

Ouch. I mean, c’mon…the worst? Like, how could you possibly know that? Ok, I’ll just file that one away as “Not a fan of my teaching style. And probably a poor student at that.” Next!

He was super-helpful, and happily provided his undivided attention any time our table had any questions.

Your favorite student *wink wink*

Ok, FINALLY, someone who speaks the truth. I was helpful. I was an attentive teacher. Those other haters are just jealous. I’m sure the rest of these are just like—

The absolute worst TA I have ever had…

Anonymous Student #3

BORING! I’ve already heard this one, buddy. Maybe try out some original material next time?

Wait, what’s that? There’s more?

…this guy was a total clown. I sincerely pity any future student of this bumbling buffoon. I somehow actually know less about physics after being his student.

Anonymous A-Hole #3

Ok, I gotta give this clearly disgruntled, low-achieving student points for creativity. They may not have science down, but at least the got a grasp on the English language. But I’m not going to let a few squeaky wheels get me down…

He sucked pretty hard at his job. The end.

Anonymous Butt-plug #4

Hmmm…am I crazy, or I’m starting to see a trend here? Let me flip through the rest of these…I’m confident that whoever went through these must have stuck all the glowing reviews singing my praises in the back…

He seems like a great guy…

A truth-seeing student

Yes…do go on…

…but sorry, he’s not a very good teacher at all.

I take that back, you, you sitter-on-a-throne-of-lies!

Okay, let’s just skip to the back, where the really good ones are surely awaiting me…

Unbelievable. He couldn’t be bothered to help us out at all. He would literally trip over himself like a damned fool to help the more attractive students, completely ignoring us regular folk.

Sounds like somebody has some self-esteem issues

Now, see, I gotta take issue with a comment like this. I enjoyed helping everybody. You know how some people claim “they don’t see race”? Well, as a teacher at least, I don’t see beauty or lack thereof, I merely see hungry minds, yearning to learn..

He only talks to pretty girls.

Someone who clearly doesn’t identify as a pretty girl

Ok, that’s it! Who wrote this? WHO WROTE THIS?!? This is nothing but a lie! I’ll admit that some groups of students connected with me better than other anti-social ones. And yes, therefore I spent more time engaging with those who bothered to engage back. And no, there was ZERO correlation between the perceived beauty or attractiveness of these students–heck, there were plenty of dudes amongst them–and how much time I spent with them. Sure, there might be some relationship between a student’s pleasing appearance and their social confidence–and thus more likely to respond to my attempts to connect with my students on a human level. But were there…um, “teacher’s pets” that one might argue were objectively less-than-attractive? Yes! Plenty of them! Don’t I get credit for talking to the not-pretty girls? Doesn’t it count for anything that I spent plenty of time talking to dude-students?

Oh geez. Doth I protest too much?

Do I really come off as a guy who “only talks to pretty girls?”

This is so embarrassing…

“Whew! These students are just really dragging our asses, aren’t they? How bad were your reviews?”

I knew I wasn’t a bad teacher. I didn’t have a bias towards students who were more physically blessed than the other students. Heck–I better not!

So to prove that, while I may be a mediocre educator, I’m overall an alright guy and these students are just sadists, I turned to my fellow TA, the K-Man,3I think his name was Kevin, but I can’t remember for sure. who surely got roasted by his students as viciously as I had.

“Huh? Well, actually, no…all my students loved me.”

“You’re kidding me! Why don’t you read some of yours out loud?”

“My pleasure…”

Absolutely loved being his student! Best TA ever!

YOu’re not helping my cause, other TA’s Student

“Oh. I bet it feels good to hear that. But surely they’re not all like this?”

“Let’s see…”

The K-Man knows physics, and knows how to teach it to us students. Wish every teacher was awesome as him. I love you, K-Man!

A little too glowing of a review is you ask me

“Okay, I believe you. You can stop now…”

“Ah! Here’s another gem:”

K-Man is the best. Women want him and men want to be with him…

A Student in the arts of hyperbole

“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH, DUDE.”

“Just one more…”4I shit you not, this was really written in this guy’s TA review.

If there was one thing that the K-Man taught me in his class, it would be that I want to bear his children…

Definitely not my student

“Oh, you and your students can go ----- yo’ selves, K-Man!”

The beginning of the end. That’s what I like to call that particular moment.

It was indeed the beginning of the end of my budding career as a teacher. It made me really step back and wonder to myself, “Is it possible…could it be…maybe–just maybe–I’m not cut out to be a teacher?”

Incredibly, it would take another whole year before I fully accepted this cold hard truth and changed my major from “physics teacher” to just “physics”–but that’s a story for another time.

Eventually, though, the trauma induced by my mean, mean college-level physics students caught up with me. A couple of years later, when I was trying to decide if I should pursue my PhD in physics, I was thiiiiis close to walking away and saying “nope, not today mother fuckers!” And all because I knew that for the first year of my studies, the way I was going to put food on my table was being personally indentured to the UNC Department of Physics and Astronomy…teaching physics labs.

But, Young Grasshoppers, I am here today to tell you that shouldn’t let being a sh*tty teacher deter you from pursuing your dreams. And–fun fact–you can actually get better if you put some serious elbow grease into it.

Not only did I face down my fear of snarky students by diving headlong into the entire grad-school experience, but I actually did a pretty decent job teaching my labs. And you know why? Because, I took those less-than-fun feedback forms from years earlier to heart…

…and stopped talking to the pretty girls.

…

J.K. Kidding. It turns out that 30 minutes of prep work before class goes a long ways. That’s the real trick to not sucking butt as a teacher.

Oh, and if you need proof of what a slightly-above-average job I did my second time around as physics lab TA, you’re in luck; I brought receipts.

Not to brag…but…

Since you probably didn’t read every single one, I’ll paraphrase them for you: the students enjoyed my enthusiasm for physics, but felt that maybe the lab was not the proper venue for me to workshop my stand-up routine.

So that’s the good news. The bad news? None of my students wanted to bear my children. ----- you, K-Man, for setting the bar so high…

The point of the story is if you’re the type of guy (or gal) who only talks to pretty girls, you probably should give some thought to your choice of career.

Perhaps, for example, you might want to reconsider the notion of being a high school teacher–a scientifically proven formula for horrible, horrible, you-just-might-end-up-on-a-national-registry disaster…

Content created on: 22/23 July 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Unexpected Value Of Rump-Shaking With An Average-Ass White Girl

17 July 2022 / / 1 Comment
6 Min Read

You asked the Universe for a modest amount of booty.

Butt you got a whole lot more than you bargained for…

“Oh, man, I couldn’t believe my good luck! Ladies fighting…over me?!? And not only that, the hot af, out-of-my-league one was winning??? Was this really happening, or was I just really, really drunk?”

Yes, this is exactly where I left you last time, with yet another cliff-hanger mystery…

…and this is the point in the story where I tell you to go back and do last week’s homework (aka take 3 minutes to read 3:45–The Perfect Time To Full On Panic At The Disco) if you haven’t already.

As usual, I’ll wait…

…

…

As it turned out, the correct answer was “both”.

At the end of the night, as I perambulated with the rest of the gang I had originally came with1If you were wondering how I ended up in a strange city dancing with strangers, the backstory is that I had joined my roommate, her boyfriend, my roomie’s female friend and her boyfriend, and my roomie’s female friend’s roomie for a Saturday night on the town in Greensboro, where one of them had recently moved. Since there were already two natural couples in the party, me and my roomie’s friend’s roomie was left to keep each other company for the night. Even though it shouldn’t have mattered, it seems that the fact that she was a lesbian contributed to her being as cold as ice towards me, despite my low expectations of having some platonic companionship for the night. Thus, I essentially found myself alone in the club. back to my roommate’s friend’s nearby apartment, I couldn’t help but feel like I was walking on clouds the whole way.

That really had happened! Both incidences had indeed actually had come to pass.

But, alas, when one is so drunk on wine and high on newly-found female affirmation, they are presented with a dilemma: do I drive the hour home under such influences? Or do I pass out in my clothes in my acquaintance’s abode, get 3 hours and 45 minutes2That’s a 3:45 Ass reference, folks. of sleep, and then drive directly to church at 7 am so I can fulfill my duties of setting up chairs for the worship services slightly hungover?

Pro-tip here, my friends: driving drunk is never the answer, and I had enough God-given sense to come to that conclusion as well.

As I drove to church the next morning, the hour ride gave me time to contemplate and ruminate over the previous evening’s events.

Was I filled with regret and remorse? Ah, hell no! Why would I want to take back such a euphoric life-changing experience? Nope, no regrets here, folks!

However, one thing gnawed at the back of my mind that I couldn’t ignore: why was I dancing with the average girl in the first place? Clearly there was a prime specimen next to her, shaking her tush in my general direction.

Yet…yet I distinctly remember thinking, “my best bet is to go for the average girl, a wager optimally balanced between having a modestly high chance of her accepting my advances, while the reward of being able to enjoy her modest level of beauty makes it worth the risk.”

In other words, going for the “personality friend” may have been close to a sure thing, but it wasn’t exactly a desirable outcome. On the other hand, the highest reward could be achieved by pursuing the attention of the “hot girl”, but my chances of success seemed too low to be worth the risk.

If you’re wondering why I would frame the problem in such terms, especially for someone who had had a few drinks, it should be noted that I had just finished a pair of PhD-level courses in quantum mechanics and thermodynamics about a month earlier, and so I couldn’t help but think of such choices in terms of “expectation values”.

Now, I won’t bore you with the granular details–you can read up on them here–but I will tell you the results of my off-the-cuff-and-inebriated dance floor calculations from that night. Using a superficial 1-to-10 attractiveness scale, I wanted to know where upon the scale I could expect to find the booty that would be grinding all up ons me, based on which of the three lasses I “chose” to pay attention to.

This value was found by multiplying the candidate’s perceived attractiveness by the estimated fractional chance3Note that this does not need to be normalized, i.e. the probabilities do not need to add up to 100% (or 1, actually), as my success with each of them was independent of the other, and there was no guarantee I would be successful with any of them. of success with that particular one. Ergo:

Hot girl (20% chance of success): 10 x 0.2 -> expected outcome: 2.

Friend with personality (90% chance of success): 3 x 0.9 -> expected outcome: 2.7.

Average girl (70% chance of success): 7 x 0.7 -> expected outcome: 4.9.

No choice (i.e. just wonder about the potential of the situation, but don’t take a ‘measurement’): (2 + 2.7 + 4.9)/3 -> expectation value: 3.2.

As you can see, making a move on the average girl was a well-calculated risk and a sound decision. But surprisingly, despite aiming not too high nor too low, I ended up with an outcome of 17!

Okay, so I shouldn’t have just added 7 + 10. Instead, it’s more appropriate to calculate the time-spent-with-each-girl-grinding-all-up-ons-me-weighted average, which, assuming 15 seconds and 135 seconds of booty-against-my-boys, respectively, comes out (7*15 + 10*135)/(15+135) = 1455/150 -> observed value: 9.7!

As you can tell, 9.7 is clearly much higher than 2, 2.7, 3.2 or even 4.9…so how were my calculations so far off???

It didn’t take long for me to realize where my error was hidden: in my estimated odds of success with each.

Not only did I not account for two very important factors–beer goggles and the lack of male competition–but I notably underestimated my chances of success with the hot girl.

Come to think of it, why did I assume that I didn’t have much of a chance with her? First off, I may be no Adonis, but I was the hottest guy in [that corner of] the room. In retrospect, it makes complete sense that she thought, as the hottest girl in [that corner of] the room, she would be entitled to the hottest guy, and hence the Hussy hostilities towards her average friend that I mentioned last time.

Secondly…well, there is no secondly. My physical appearance was pretty much all that she had to go on to make a judgment ass to whether or not I was bump-and-grind-worthy. So…if she clearly thought that I was so bump-and-grind-worthy that she would physically assault her supposed friend to get to me, that must mean…

Ok, so this definitively confirmed something I had suspected for quite some time. Do I have an inferiority complex? No, as I would have gone after the friend-with-personality. Do I have a superiority complex? That can’t be the case, otherwise I would have had made a bee-line towards the hot girl.

I went straight for the average one. Sh*t…I have a mediocrity complex (TM).

…

You have no idea how long I’ve waited to use that punchline, LOL. But I digress…

No, that’s not the worst of it, though. I could feel an even worse realization looming just over the horizon. True, it was a lack of sobriety that had led me to this eye-opening experience, but now, staring at the rising sun on my way to church and in the thrall of sobriety, a new level of enlightenment–some form of twisted nirvana, if you will–was coming over me.

What was really gnawing at me was: Why did I have such incredible unexpected luck last night? In theory, she should have taken one look at me and scoffed haughtily and ran off in indignation. I’ve felt that, much like the friend-with-presumed-personality, I’ve had to ride my own personality pretty much my whole life, attributing my lack of luck with the ladies to my average, non-Adonis physical appearance. And, alas, that is something that I can’t change too much.

But…wait just a tick. If my looks weren’t ruining romance for me–a new-found fact which was just unequivocally confirmed by my little dance-a-thon the night before–what else could possibly be sabotaging my love life (apart from dirty old bastards)…?

Oh. Oh, no.

No…no…no.

A twist in the plot unfolded just then as if my life had been written by M. Night Shyamalan himself: it wasn’t my physique that was the culprit here. It was something even more me: my big fat mouth and my “personality” had been screwing me over all along!

That was such a complete and utter shock to my sense of self that I almost drove off the road. It was pretty horrifying, actually. Here, what I thought were my best assets (no pun intended, seeing as how “ass” has been the theme lately), have turned out to be my own worst enemy all along–and I’m only finding out about this now at age 26!

On the flip side of this uncomfortable and worldview-shattering revelation though, was an incredibly shiny silver lining. It is true that one can only do so much with the looks ----- gave them–and so the good news is that this is not my problem!

Social skills, speech filters, being an intentional listen, working to be a kinder and more thoughtful soul…these things I could do something about. I had the power to actually change my love life luck, instead of just being a whiny shmoe who only pouts about what I crappy hand life has dealt him.

Indeed, what had been a night of mild hedonism for an innocent li’l church boy had somehow turned out to be perhaps the most life-changing moment of my life (yet whether or not that is the case, is a tale yet to be told here).

Or, in terms of my original title for this post (read like a newspaper headline):

Local Man’s Drunken Ass Gyrations Lead To Unexpected Self-Realizations

The headline from that night, if my life were captured in an Onion article

Content created on: 8/15 July 2022 (Fri/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

3:45–The Perfect Time To Full On Panic At The Disco

10 July 2022 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

You won’t go to hell for a little tail-shaking on the dance floor.

Hell, son, it just might send you right to heaven…

“Whew-wee! You sure got some moves for a white boy!”

Yes, those were actual words that were directed at me, believe it or not. Well, not the “white boy” part–I think everyone around here knows that I’m uber-Caucasian by birth–that’s not surprising in the least. So, then, you might ask, why was it that particular phrase stroked my ego like nothing that had ever came before it?

Come, friend, let us dive into that mystery…

Okay, I feel like I need to state a few disclaimers up front here if things are to make sense.

One: I’m not exactly a party boy, so the fact that I was on the dance floor at a bangin’ club in Greensboro was an unexpected turn of events in itself.

Two: I’m not exactly a player/playboy,1The term I really should be using here is “f*ck boy” (pardon the term), but I got to keep things halfway clean if I want to keep my Dear Mother as a Dear Reader i.e. I don’t exactly have an illustrious history of being smooth with the ladies, and in fact–fun fact, even–I was a virgin up until my wedding night.2”…when I engaged in a raging orgy involving all the bridesmaids!” Hah! I so badly wanted to throw that (fictional) twist in there, because, admit it, that would have been a hilarious and unexpected turn of events. Further, I had exactly one girlfriend in high school, and one in college–and one could argue that the latter, the fabled Tiffany Chestnut, was reluctantly so.

Alas, woe was me; for I ’twas not born with the looks of Adonis. Um…for those needing help with the Adonis reference, I’ve included this screenshot of what comes up when you search for that term amongst the images of the interwebs:

Figure A: What an “Adonis” looks like, according to DuckDuckGo.

Three: To quote the great Phil Collins: I can’t dance. As in “I can’t dance worth a sh*t.” Coordination and a sense of rhythm were just two more things that I wasn’t graced with at birth…

“Whew-wee! You sure got some moves for a white boy!”

Right…right…that’s where we left off. So, anyways, there I was, a lightly inebriated, white-as-funk single grad student, burning up the dance floor with a woman of color that would have been worthy of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s praise. For one brief moment in my life, I got to experience what it was to be like to be a true Ass-Mastar.

Nevermind that she was probably 10 years my senior. And had a huge diamond ring on her finger that cut into my hand so deeply it almost drew blood. Thanks to a bit o’ alcohol, I had finally achieved nirvana.

And by “nirvana”, I of course mean “having a lady sporting a 3:45 ass tell me that I was a great–*gasp!*–dancer.”

Oh, right. For those of you who don’t know what a 3:45 ass is:

“Out of my way, you Hussy! If anyone will be doing the bumping-and-grinding, it will be me!“

Later that same night–and presumably with even a bit more of that liquid courage in my system–I found myself in yet another first-time-in-my-life incredibly ego-boosting situation: 3 girls viciously vying for the coveted real estate of my full-clothed crotch (remember: you’re talking to a bona fide virgin here).

In a different corner of the dance floor I had (literally) stumbled upon 3 young white party girls dancing by themselves, and subsequently had the divine inspiration that they desperately needed a male companion to keep them company.

Now, not be too superficial, but it must be stated that these 3 young ladies were not exactly, er, “created equal.” There was the stereotypical “hot girl,” her stereotypical “average friend,” and last but not least, their friend that no doubt had a great personality going for her.

I centered myself amongst the three-way throng of my adoring fans, and before I knew it, I was dancing a little bit closer to the average girl than the other two. However, my enjoyment of her physical touch was short-lived, as it wasn’t but maybe 15 seconds before the hot girl body-checked her out of the way before promptly spinning 180 degrees and planting her rump flag in my Lapland.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bump! Ass-to-the-crotch! Grind! Derriere-to-the-groin!

Oh, man, I couldn’t believe my good luck! Ladies fighting…over me?!? And not only that, the hot af, out-of-my-league one was winning??? Was this really happening, or was I just really, really drunk?

And–even more importantly–would this moment of momentous hedonism (by my choir-boy standards, anyways) even matter in the bigger picture?

Indeed, we find ourselves with yet another couple of mysteries–mysteries that will have to wait until next time…

Content created on: 8 July 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Move Right Along Folks, Nothing Interesting Here On The Bus…

3 July 2022 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

Wanna get on, get off, or just get away?

Ask your doctor (or lawyer) to see if The Bus is right for you…

Ahhh…public transportation. Even if I’ve become a man of somewhat modest means, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a free ride on a regular basis. But the benefits of burning less fossils fuels, wasting less of my hard-earned blogging dollars on gas, and helping reduce traffic congestion are just the beginning of the myriad benefits of pub-trans.

For example, we already know that it is a great way to stay connected to the common, salt-of-the-earth folk. It can also provide some great opportunities for performing acts of charity (and on occasion, opportunities for deep regret due to your own inaction).

However, I would argue that not everything in this world has to be so utilitarian. Sometimes, riding the bus can be an art form–or more accurately, a form of entertainment–in its own right. So please, I invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride as a regale you with a threesome of pointless Tales From The Bus…

“Why didn’t you catch the bus in front of me, you big jerk?!?”

I was shocked. Simply shocked. I was just trying to catch a ride to yet another one of my PhD-level classes (#HumbleBrag), and the last thing I expected was to have to defend my choice of bus in a court of law. I’m no law student, buddy–I’m just tryin’ get my physics doctorate on here, mmmkay?

I mean, whew! This bus driver was a real prick and a half. Like, Dude, your job is to stop the bus and let passengers on and off. And that’s pretty much it.

But, nooooo, not this asshat. He took it upon himself to demand a full and thorough explanation as to why, in the rare instance of two buses running the same route hitting a bus stop 90 seconds apart, that I chose the second bus instead of the first one?

Goodness gracious, heavens forbid I inconvenience Princess Bus Driver!

Ok, first off, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to justify jack sh*t to the cracker-jack behind the wheel of the bus. My tax dollars pays for his salary. Homeboy works for me.

But in case you’re wondering, I had a ----- good reason for catching the second bus. And because I like you, Dear Reader, I will share that reason with you.

You see, in order to get to the bus stop in question, I had to cross a busy intersection first, and then walk/run about 100 feet. If I was real desperate to get to class, and the first bus was my only option, then maybe it would have been worth the risk playing Frogger with the heavy traffic that morning–i.e. jaywalking and putting my life, health, and well-being in harm’s way.

But, guess what? Lo and behold, as I watched my bus roll up to the stop, leaving me to impatiently wait for the crosswalk light to turn in my favor, I spotted a second bus barrelling towards the yellow light at the intersection. ‘Twas but a miracle! Two buses back-to-back? I couldn’t believe that the gods of public transportation were shining down their favor on me…again!

So, given the choice, no duh, I was not going to risk my life to catch that first bus, when I could calmly cross the street and casually stroll up and catch the second one.

Even saying all this out loud feels pretty stupid. I mean, it makes complete sense and was totally the wise and right decision, but…it’s just so…asinine.

Now imagine your butt-face bus driver surprise attacks you with his overly aggressive line of questioning: “Why did you make me stop?!? Why!?! WHY?!? ANSWER ME, YOU WORTHLESS, INCONSIDERATE, SELF-ABSORBED LITTLE TURD!!!”

Ah, I guess the point of the story is that they really shouldn’t let their bus drivers smoke meth before their shift. Or maybe it was steroids? Homeboy had some serious ‘roid road rage going on…

“Oh, you got assigned the Inetianbor v. Western Sky Financial case study, too!?! Man, I’ve heard we’re in for quite the treat–it’s a real classic!”

I may not have been a law student, but given that my university could brag that its law school was tied for #23 best-in-the-nation,1This statement was supposed to carry much more heft, as I was confusing the law school for the business school, which is ranked much higher. But, alas, that’s what happens when you fact-check yourself before you fact-wreck yourself. it should be no surprise that at least one of these budding douche-bags would take the same bus home at the end of the day as me.

The real problem, though, is when you get more than one of these guys in the same place at the same time.

And in this case study, the particular place was the door to the bus, as they decided to pause embarking the vehicle to have a full ----- conversation about their common class work. Yup, we’re all waiting for these oblivious jack-holes to finish debating the merits of mandatory arbitration in the context of financial law so the bus driver could close the door and we could all get home to dinner.

While the vast majority of us riders were collectively rolling our eyes at these guys, our heroic bus driver jumped into action.

In the most incredible gravelly “old female smoker” voice you’ve ever heard, she simply yet forcefully stated: “GET ON THE BUS.”

This may only sound mildly interesting to a third party hearing this story, yet to witness this glorious moment when The Smoking Bus Driver put the two idiot law school students in their place had quite the emotional impact.

In fact, in our household, it’s become a bit of a shorthand meme for any time we need to communicate “get on with it already!”–and it’s actually surprisingly versatile:

Is your spouse telling yet another long-winded pointless story around the dinner table instead of saying grace?

“GET ON THE BUS.”

Is your child stalling instead of going to bed on time yet again?

“GET ON THE BUS.”

Is your significant other bogarting the only comfortable toilet seat in the house for the third time today?

“GET ON THE BUS.”

Have the, er, “warm up” activities in the bedroom gone on just a bit too long?

“GET ON THE BUS.”

Indeed, from supper-time prayers to foreplay, the possibilities are endless…

“That’s a lot of rakes!”

In full disclosure, it wasn’t me thinking to myself that the amount of rakes this homeless (looking) guy was struggling to get on the bus was impractically large. No, unfortunately, this story I could only experience second-hand from another grad student in my department, Adam.

Adam had once lived near where I did, and after discovering this commonality over a couple of beers, we found ourselves bonding over experiences we had on the G bus.

Of important note, the main nodes for the G bus were our campus and the local, modestly-sized mall. It was there at University Mall that we would both often catch the bus.

One of these times, when Adam was chilling on the bus waiting for it to depart, this random guy comes aboard carrying between 15-20 rakes. Now this was only half-surprising since at that time there was a Rose’s, a medium scale lawn, garden, and home improvement store, at the mall.

But, naturally, so many questions abounded. Like, was this guy starting a lawn-care business or what? And why was he in such hurry? As we all know from our first story, he could always just catch the next bus.

Adam put it out of his mind as the bus pulled out and was on its way. “Might as well try to take a quick nap…” he thought to himself.

However, two blocks later, he was jolted awake by flashing lights and sirens. Or as Kermit T. Frog would put it:

“Please pull the bus over, sir” he heard coming from a megaphone outside the bus.

As soon as the bus pulled over, three cops boarded and swarmed Our Dude, promptly and swiftly hauling his rake-hauling ass down to the station.

Yes, you read that situation exactly right. Not only did this dude think “hey, I’ll just walk out of Rose’s with a cumbersome amount of rakes without paying for them,” but also “you know what would make a great getaway vehicle? A bus!”

I repeat: first, this guy decided that the most lucrative items he could steal were RAKES. Second, he literally chose to take off with more than he could carry.

And last but not least: he used a ----- bus as his getaway vehicle.

You know what I think? I think those law students are wasting their time on Inetianbor v. Western Sky Financial. No, their time would be much better spend studying the psyches of criminal masterminds like this guy…

Oh, what’s that? You’re absolutely insisting that there be a moral to this story?

Well, I suppose if there were a point to this story it would be that maybe–just maybe–if you’re going to steal rakes, at least be reasonable about it. Stick to five or six at a time–max. That way you can make a run for it when the po-po inevitably pull your getaway bus over.

Trying to full-on sprint with 15 rakes in your arms, though? Come on, good sir, don’t be ridiculous…

Content created on: 1/2 July 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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