The Point of the Story

Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Author: BJ (Page 11 of 34)

Boy, Would I Kill For A Little Extra Social Skill…

28 August 2022 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

We all have regrets, both large and small.

But the real trick is figuring out how to get away from them all…

“Hello Ashonta,1Not my wife/the Boss Lady’s real name….merely an anagram.

I was overjoyed to see Myra’s2Not my younger daughter/The Younger’s real name…but it will soon become apparent that is the point of the story. application come on for Folk school. How is her big sister doing? It’s seems like such a long time ago now that she was here…”

The Boss Lady intently watched me as I read over the email she had received from Ms. Heidi, the middle-aged hippie lady that ran the Fairy Farm where our now 9-year-old daughter, The Elder, had attended kindergarten.

“Um…maybe it was just a typo? I bet she was so excited that we might be sending our youngest child to preschool there–“

“JUST KEEP READING,” the Boss Lady firmly commanded me.

At this point, it was mid-June, and one could reasonably make the argument that we had dropped the ball in applying to potential preschools for the upcoming year. For the sake of convenience, our first choice had been the school The Elder was attending, but our lazy asses had been rightfully immediately been put on a waiting list there.

So, our backup plan, of course, was to send The Younger to join Ms. Heidi on the Fairy Farm, a delightful childhood experience in its own right.

But as I continued scanning Ms. Heidi’s reply to our application, I noticed things were amiss–such as the fact that we were applying to the preschool, not the Folk School, which was altogether a different part of the Farm.

Oh, and there was the issue of our child’s name. It was one of those “close, but no banana” type situations.

“Sh*t, she misspelled it with an ‘M’ three times in her short email. Is ‘Myra’ even a real name?!? “

“I know, right?”

“Ja…well, this is awkward. So…you’re going to correct her, right? She sent the email to you, not me.”

The Boss Lady and I sat there in awkward silence for a minute or two before I piped up:

“Welp, I guess we have no choice but to legally change her name to ‘Myra’, right?”

The Boss Lady concurred.

“The poor kid is going to be so confused come this fall…”

“Hello, this is Jake calling on behalf of the N.C. Troopers Association. Could I speak to Robert?”

Sh*t. The State Troopers calling me, again? I was just a newly-married graduate student at the time, and so somehow had even less money when I was a single graduate student–back when I had made the initial regrettable mistake of feeding The Beast–er, I mean, “donating to their non-profit association.”

The NCTA was, like most charitable organizations, pretty much a homeless person when it came to soliciting donations: no matter how many fat twenty dollar bills you threw at them, they would always come back asking for even more. (Not to mention that they blab to all their homeless associates about how loose you are with your purse strings!)

Sure, donating money to help the families of Troopers fallen in the line of duty is a worthy cause, but was it the worthiest? By that point, there were legion other causes–like credit card and student loan debt–that were easily worthier. Plus, I had gotten fed up with them incessantly calling me.

“This ends NOW.” I thought to myself.

“Hi Jake, I’m sorry Robert won’t be able to come to the phone. You see–*sniff!*–he tragically passed away a few months ago.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear tha–“

Thinking on my feet, I realized that I would have to take swift action before Jake could force me into creating an alter-ego–and then subsequently guilting him into making endless donations.

“OK, see you!“

*Click*….

“Are you effing kidding me?!? You want to move to Finland, but Canada is ‘too cold’?!? You’re out of your gosh dang mind, woman!”

About halfway through this summer, The Boss Lady and I were revisiting an idea we lightly toss around every so often: expatriating to another country and actually getting our daughters a decent education–and hence why cold-ass Finland somehow weasled its way to the top of our hypothetical list.

Attempting to get my life partner to consider a more feasible option, I decided to play the Anne-With-An-E card:

“What about Prince Edward Island? Remember how you forced me to watch the entire 6-hour Anne of Green Gables miniseries before you would agree to marry me? And you’re always talking about taking a vacation to see Anne’s stomping grounds.”

“Ooh, I could do Prince Edward Island…”

“Good, then…”

A few days later, I found myself checking my Zillow app for the 4th time that day–which had become an ingrained ritual for me this summer, as we’d been in the hunt for some acreage in the nearby countryside.

But instead of staying focused on Central North Carolina as per usual, I decided to zoom my search map out, and see what was happening in the real estate world in, say, Northeastern Canada.

I quickly decided that Prince Edward Island wasn’t quite what I wanted, being in the middle of an inland sound and all, so scooted down to check out some of the bright red dots on the southern coast of Nova Scotia.

I only needed to look at two listings before stumbling upon this little coincidence:

“1588 Myra Rd.?!? I gotta share this listing with the Boss Lady!”

You know what the funny thing is about sharing a real estate listing through Zillow? They automatically think you’re super-interested in actually buying that property. You know, never considering the possibility that you might have just found the street address mirthful in a very, very narrow context that only your wife could appreciate.

Wouldn’t you know it though, about a week later this shows up in my email inbox:

“Welp, Honey, it looks like we better book our plane tickets to go see this place…”

“Ooh, you look just like Elsa from Frozen! Is that what you’re wearing to go Trick-or-Treating tonight, Little Girl?”

Last Halloween, I had taken the Younger with me to our usual grocery store to grab some last-minute candy supplies, and she had insisted on wearing her costume, an Elsa princess dress. As we were ringing up our goods in the self-checkout, a guy who was clearly the manager started chatting up my wee one.

The Younger, being 3-1/2 and still a bit shy, just nodded enthusiastically without saying a word.

“Let me guess…is it…wait, one second, I’ll be right back!”

A moment later he returned holding a Barbie-like Elsa doll still in its package.

“Is this who you’re going to be?”

More enthusiastic nodding.

“Awesome! Do you have a doll like this?”

At this question, The Younger seemed more uncertain. And me, being a complete social idiot, almost grasped what was happening in this situation, but panicked nonetheless, deferring to my daughter to handle it.

“Do you have that doll? I think you might, but I’m not sure.”

With a thick layer of uncertainty, she whispered to me, “yes.”

“Thanks, but she says she already has that doll,” I told the manager.

“Uh. Okay. You sure, though?”

Looking again to the Younger, I threw the grenade of social responsibility back in her lap: “Wait, do you have it? Maybe you don’t have it…you have it, right?”

A very tenuous nod was all we got from her.

“Yeah, she has it already. Thanks, though.”

He seemed disappointed as he wished her good luck with her candy-schlepping and walked away.

As I continued to check out, I overhead an older lady, who had been nearby and watched things unfold, quietly ask the manager, “You were going to give that doll to her, weren’t you?”

“Yup…” he said as he shrugged his shoulders in resignation to the fact that his attempt to delight a child had been rebuffed.

From the moment we left the store, I instantly became obsessed with the mistakes that were made…ones that were clearly my mistakes. I had the chance to make my little girl and a middle-aged man both very happy by accepting his very generous gift of a $20 doll, yet I blew it. Ugh, I wasn’t looking forward to the next time I might bump into that guy.

Two weeks of mulling it over later, I had to go on our bi-weekly grocery run. My daughters, along for the ride seemed confused when we passed our turn to the store.

“Uh, Daddy, where are we going?”

“Sorry, girls, but we can never show our faces in that store again…”

“Congratulations! We would like to offer Lyra3Not our daughter’s real name, but this time ’tis I misspelling it for the sake of her privacy. a spot in our half day program at our Children’s House!”

I tell you what, the email from the admissions office at the Elder’s school was like music to our eyes! Sure, it would cost us $100 a month more than sending Lyra/Myra to the Fairy Farm, but it would totally be worth it just to get us out of the pickle with Ms. Heidi.

“So, you finally replied to Ms. Heidi that we wouldn’t be sending our baby to her school, ja?” I had to confirm the obvious with the Boss Lady.

“Ja.”

“And did you address the fact that her name isn’t actually ‘Myra’, ja?”

“Ja…kinda…”

More awkward silence.

“You told her ‘Myra’ died, didn’t you…”4A few days after I cracked this joke, I finally realized why it seems a bit familiar. There was an episode of Seinfeld that culminated in Elaine actually holding a funeral for ‘Suzie’, her alter ego that was accidentally created when a new co-worker called her by the wrong name, and she never had the courage to just correct her.

Content created on: 26 August 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Whoever Said Nicknames Were Supposed To Make You Feel Special?

21 August 2022 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

What?!? A special name just for me???

Oh, wait…that kind of ‘special’…

“BEE-YAY! TELEFONO!”

In the beginning, those words were music to my ears. You see, in high school I lived on a farm a few miles outside of our local raging metropolis, Rolla–no, not the one in Missouri, but rather it’s lesser-known red-headed stepbrother in Kansas. And for quite some time I didn’t have my own transportation, so just walking or driving to a friend’s house wasn’t an option at my disposal.

So you could imagine that nothing could break my serial sense of boredom quite like those blessed words, “Bee-Yhey! Telefono!” That, my friend, was the sound of my bestie, Phillip K. Ballz (aka PKB) blowing up our home phone,1This was circa 1996 after all, before I could ever dream of having my very own cellphone. perhaps offering to come pick me up in his mom’s forest-green Ford Explorer so we could go back and kick it at his place in town.

“But, why the, uh, ‘unique phrasing’?” you are indubitably asking the screen of your mobile device.

Well, I’m glad you asked! My dearest stepmother, “Daisy”, was Mexican, and despite living in the U.S. for at least 10 years and having mastered the English language, she never really got around to figuring out how to master the pronunciation of my commonly accepted moniker, “B.J.” As they say here in the South, “bless her soul.”

Anyways, every time ol’ PKB or anyone else called for me and she answered, the silence of our double-wide trailer would soon be broken by broken-sounding English reverberating off every wood-paneled wall in the place:

“BEE-YAY! TELEFONO!”

Somebody calling just for little ol’ me?!? I feel so special…

“BEE-HEY, TELEFONO!”

Well, as it turns out, that phrase, when heard muffled on the other end of the phone line, can be music to other people’s ears as well.

It didn’t take long before I found out that my dearest dipshit, PKB, found this to be comedic gold and soon was using it publicly in our high school, whether referencing me directly or indirectly. And high schoolers being the immature bunch of dumb-asses that high schoolers tend to be, it wasn’t long for this very much unwanted moniker spread like wildfire through the hallowed halls of Rolla High School.

Sometimes, I got the short version lobbed in my direction–“Bee-Yay!”, “Bee-Hay!”, “Bee-Yhey!”–no matter what ‘flavor’ of my newfound nick-nickname my fellow students preferred, they were always sure to include the very important “!” Well, technically, if this were a comic book, their speech bubbles would need to include the bonus upside Spanish exclamation mark–aka el signo de apertura de exclamación:2https://www.spanishdict.com/guide/what-is-the-upside-down-exclamation-point *ahem* “¡Bee-Yhey!“

Other times, when my cohort of jackasses were feeling particularly ornery, I might be lucky enough for them to include my nick-last name: “¡Bee-Yhey! ¡Telefono!“

Usually, referring to someone and including their last name would be a sign of respect. This was not one of those times.

In fact, The Legend of ¡Bee-Hey! got so out of hand that in our Sophomore English class, when tasked write and illustrate a children’s book, the Real ¡Bee-Hey! chose to write about a substance-abusing (but very sanguine3I’m using definition #3 here: https://www.merriam-webster.com/thesaurus/sanguine.) extraterrestrial. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the classroom, my brother-from-another–my classmate with whom I not only shared a first name, but also a birthday–ol’ Roberto chose to immortalize ¡Bee-Hey! for generations to come.

Did he write of tales of a dashing and debonair young man, the kind that men want to be and women want to be with? Were we regaled with all the adventures and conquests of a man in a foreign land who, like Cher or Beyonce, had a last name but never needed it? Are millennials worldwide indoctrinated from childhood with strange-yet-true stories that someone only as special as my alter ego could generate?

Nope, not so much. But at least Roberto managed to nail that “special” part on the head. A little too hard actually: this version of ¡Bee-Hey! appeared to suffer from a brain injury or some other developmental issue. I.e. he was “special” in all the ways one wouldn’t want to be.

Por ejemplo, did this ¡Bee-Hey! have a modestly successfully career as a published physicist/neuroscientist? No, but his employment was almost as illustrious, with him tackling the challenging task no one else at the local restaurant would even dare think of attempting: sorting out the clean forks and knives after they were ran through the industrial dishwasher.

But fortunately, ¡Bee-Hey! was blissfully obliviously to his station in life, and never once did that smiling idiot caricature of me ever cynically wonder” ¿Cómo se dice en English ‘chinga mi vida’?”4Mother, if you’re reading this, please don’t bother running that through Google translate. This, in stark, stark contrast to the real-life ¡Bee-Hey!…

The irony of all this is that occasionally I find myself envious of ¡Bee-Hey!’s unburdened and uncomplicated life. It’s taken awhile, but I have slowly come to embrace my inner idiot–er, I mean ‘simpleton’–and I guess you could say the point of the story is: take ownership of whatever it is that makes you “special.”–even if some of things aren’t exactly the most flattering.

Oh, and there’s definitely an upside to this naive optimism: I get to enjoy a little chuckle to myself in those very special moments when I have the pleasure of making a new acquaintance with a native Spanish speaker.

You know…that moment when I get to explain to them that “my name is Robert, but I go by ‘B.J.’,” and without fail, they repeat back to me “¿Bee-Yhey?”

*snort*

And always, also without fail, I can’t help but mentally respond with “That would be Dr. ¡Bee-Hey! ¡Telefono!, PhD to you, buen señor or señorita…”

Content created on: 19 August 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Make This The Last First Date Of Your Lifetime

14 August 2022 / / 1 Comment
7 Min Read

You know what I really, REALLY hate?

The inevitable no-good, horrible experience of The First Date…

“So it was you all along!”

When I last left y’all, I had fell ass-backwards into what was maybe a date with my cute’n’kind af ,neighbor/church friend, “The Dimpler”. Pretty sweet, right? Well, as they say, “the night is young”, and when they say it they usual mean “don’t worry, you still have plenty of time to screw this up.” Let’s just see how this all pans out. But first…

Now, one who is already up to speed–aka, have already this post and this post–might point out that writing drug-themed-yet-romantic poetry and sending it your crush via FaceBook messages, attributing it to a mystery author that you “personally know”, subsequently spamming her with a random trivia questions (also via a FaceBook message), then “awarding” her a dinner with this made-up mystery author when she gets the question right–you might point out that this may more fall under the purview of “deception and deceit.”

You know what though? I didn’t really care, because practically speaking I was going to get an evening with her all to myself, and I wasn’t about to ask too many questions such as “who tricked who?” or “am I straight up lying to this chica?” or “wait, what if she is expecting some illicit drug use as part of this dinner date?” to kill my vibe. And also, isn’t there is a universal rule, “if the Universe drops a beautiful potential life partner in your lap, just shut up and roll with it” or something like that?

Anyways, after work on that fateful Tuesday evening in August 2007–the one in whence I accidentally discovered Nerd Plutonium–I donned my finest blue jeans and t-shirt and hopped in my sweet ’95 Camry…and drove just around the corner to The Dimpler’s apartment. I then subsequently strolled up to her door and with a surprising sense of calm, knocked on her door…

Speaking of “surprising,” I was somewhat surprised that she was somewhat surprised that I was indeed the Mystery Author. But then again, just the day before I had cleverly added to her uncertainty and confusion by stealthily delivering to her apartment a real book about poetry and physics.

Oh, right, I had totally forgotten about that. You see, I had gone over to her apartment at I time when I was pretty sure her and her roommate weren’t home, and so thought it best to just slip the book into the mail slot in their door.

When the book got slightly jammed in the slot, I knelt down to get it unjammed and to then make sure it made it safely inside. Well, wouldn’t you know it, once the book suddenly popped past whatever it was catching on, I was slightly shocked to see two pairs of very wide eyes staring back at me from across the room.

THEY WERE BOTH HOME AFTER ALL!

Sh*t. And now I’m a certified Peeping Tom. Well, this has backfired spectacularly.

“Just give us a minute!” I could hear one of them shout through the now-shut mail slot flap.

Moments later the door opened and they both greeted me with smirks on their faces.

“What’s up–“

“I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING I SWEAR!”

“Protest too much, my lady?” quipped her roomie, henceforth to be known as A Hot Piece of Ash (or using her more convenient anagram-acronym hybrid, “the Hapa”).

“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE HOME!”

The Hapa turned to The Dimpler, “Oh, yeah, he’s definitely protesting too much. What do you think? Should we report this perv to the church elders?”

“Oh, definitely. I’m pretty sure he caught a glimpse of my **censored** without my consent.”

My jaw about dropped to hear those words coming out of her mouth.1Okay, time for a disclaimer. Those words didn’t actually come out of her mouth. She said something more PG like “You might have seen Muffin naked.” Note that she did not use the word “my”.

“You mean our **censored**?” The Hapa corrected her.

At this point I was scrambling to extricate my jaw, which was now buried in 3 feet of their concrete porch.

“Yes, our Muffin likes to lounge about in nothing but fur…”

Now I was just confused.

“Ok, now you’re just messing with my head. Who–or what–is ‘your Muffin’? Like, we know each other from church…right? Or have I slipped into some perverse parallel universe? (Not that I’m complaining, *ahem*)”

“Muffin’s our cat, you big doof. And next time, just knock first. At least give Muffin a chance to put a bra on…”

“Ok, confession time: up until I saw you show up at my door step alone, I was about 50% sure that the Mystery Author was real and wasn’t just your alter-ego.”

We were about halfway through our dinner, and by some miracle things were going pretty smoothly. Funny story: it turned out that the Peeping Tom incident only endeared me to her. Oh, and also it probably helped that I considered the whole evening with her a freebie–the proverbial icing on the cake–a date that I had never expected to even happen. The end result being I was able to continue my “George-Costanza-philosophy-of-doing-the-opposite-of-my-instinct” and, instead of nervously and anxiously saying stupid sh*t trying to impress her, just relax and enjoy the ride.

Even though she was confiding to me that she had been confused by my “gonna-trick-you-into-a-date” strategy, I wisely decided that it was too early in the game to confess to her that I had genuinely thought she was insulting me when she told me High-ku was “good”. Too soon to release the inner cynic into the wild, know what I mean?

Anyways, yada-yada-yada, and, after a failed attempt to hang out with an Indian guy from my lab and a bunch of his friends that we randomly met on the street after dinner, and another failed attempt at finding dessert, we decided to just wind down our surprisingly pleasant-in-spite-of-me-wearing-jeans-in-August evening by wandering around our shared neighborhood and chatting.

“Welp, seeing as how it’s almost 2 in the morning, why don’t I escort you to your door and call it a night?” I suggested like a true, confident, gentleman would.

…

What I had thought was a natural pause in the conversation (finally!), I soon realized that she had something on her mind, but was having trouble finding the right words for.

“Oh…ok. So I see you have something to say?”

If she was about to give me the axe, her intentions were sure hid pretty well behind that huge genuine, single-dimpled smile on her face.

“Yeah…um…well, first I want to say that I have really, really enjoyed this evening. Thanks so much for dinner and great conversation.”

“Sure–it was my pleasure indeed! But clearly you weren’t trying to figure out how to that. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Okay…so, as you know, I just recently broke up with a long-time boyfriend, and well, I just thought I would need to take a break from dating for awhile.”

“Cool…cool…”

“Also, I feel that the Universe2At the time, the exact term she used was “the Jesus”. is steering me towards being a missionary overseas, and well…you’re a physicist.”

“Oh. Okay, well th–“

“…but…this night went differently than I had expected, and now I’m not sure of anything.”

Well, that was a plot twist.

At this point I noted to myself that, historically speaking, now would be the time I would normally argue with her and perhaps convince her that those were hair-brained notions and she should most definitely become my girlfriend (or at least go on a second date with me).

Or, as Seinfeld would say to his arch-nemesis, “Hello, Instinct”:

Obviously, my a-hole Instinct hadn’t exactly served me well in the past–time for a new tack.

“Well, sorry I won’t be able to help you out with that. I mean, c’mon, I’m not exactly unbiased here, and I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t trust any ‘advice’ I could offer you.”

“Huh?!?” Clearly this was not the response she expected.

“Yeah, the best I can suggest is you find some older, wiser woman from church that you trust, and see what advice they might have for rebound-dating a domestic heathen scientist like myself. Oh, and take all the time you need…”

“Oh. Okie-dokie. That sounds like a pretty solid plan…thanks?”

“Sure thing, Kiddo. Now how about I walk you home? It’s not safe for a sweet young thang like yourself to be walking around by yourself at 4 in the morning.”

As we got to her door (where I could have sworn I saw The Hapa peeping out through their mail slot), she paused and subtly leaned in towards me–a move that was promptly met with a side hug from me.

“Yeah…so, I would love to give you a kiss goodnight, but I feel the Universe3Again, a more philosophically flexible euphemism for “the Jesus”. wants me to wait until my wedding day for that very special ‘first kiss’…”

“Well?!? How did those unorthodox methods work out for you!?! First, you welcome her back to town in your way-too-flattering bike tights, then you lean quite hard into illegal substances when looking for inspiration for poems you send her but won’t even claim as your own, after which you completely fabricate another persona to whom you give writing credits, followed up by a trivia contest that she didn’t even consent to participate in, meanwhile you decided engaging in a bit of light voyeurism would be a sure way to seduce her, and of course you had to follow up your “contest”4No, this is not a reference to “The Contest” episode of Seinfeld. by awarding her a trick prize that entrapped her with you for an evening. If that wasn’t bad enough, you go tell her ‘don’t even think about dating me unless you get a clear non-me sign from the Universe’, and–the icing on the cake–refuse to kiss her until she likes it enough she puts a ring on it.”

Let me just respond with: and yadda-yadda-yadda…now every Sunday morning I get to enjoy The Dimpler’s freshly-baked muffins, if you know what I mean…

…

…

…and by that I mean that The Dimpler is now the be-ringed Boss Lady with whom I have a standing weekend, um, “arrangement.”

…

…

…and in this “arrangement,” I get up with the kids on Saturday mornings and make breakfast so The Dimpler/Boss Lady gets to relax for a few sacred hours, and then she returns the favor Sunday mornings. Though, instead of muffins, I typically make pancakes or waffles.

It’s pretty much the sweetest arrangement known to mankind5Wait…what did you think I meant? You ----- pervert.…

The point of the story, Young Nerdlings, is that if you follow the exact opposite of your instincts, along with listening to the Universe for the occasional bit of divine inspiration, one day you, too, could find yourself in a mutually beneficial baked-breakfast-goods-on-the-weekend relationship with a fine lad or lass waaaaaaay out of your league.

Or who knows? Maybe it’s just my instinct that is faulty and you should go with what your gut tells you instead. What do I care? It’s your funeral…that this person will be planning if all goes well and you die before them at a ripe and mature old age.

P.S. The Dimpler, if you’re reading this (LOL): Happy 15th First Date-versary!

P.S.S. Kinda Fun Fact: I found out later that from the outset of our ‘date’ her one and only goal was to preemptively give me the axe. Had I known that I had one shot at changing her mind, I would have most definitely utterly and completely bungled everything. Sometimes that well-known PSA from the childhood of every 80s baby should instead say: “The Less You Know…”

Content created on 14 August 2022 (Sunday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Land The Most Exotic Hottie In The Hood

7 August 2022 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

The Good Lord hath blessed you with a real angel next door.

But alas, barring some miracle, she shall never be yours…

“James Earl Ray.

Adobe.

The Man of La Mancha.

Al Green.

Red Skeleton.

James Earl Ray. Adobe. The Man of La Mancha.

Al Green. Red Skeleton.

James Earl Ray. Adobe. The Man of La Mancha. Al Green. Red Skeleton…”

What do you do when you hear the begrizzled man loitering at the bus stop muttering these words under his breathe like some bizarre version of the Lord’s Prayer? You should pay no him mind, but…

But then again, once you hear those words, the mystery of it all is bound to haunt the darkest recesses of your mind until the day you die.

Well, as that begrizzled man, I’m here to say: you wouldn’t be alone in your insanity.

You see, I myself am doomed to be frequented by this very same specter for all eternity; this random list of trivia(l) facts fluttering through my mind at unexpected moments, causing an inexorable shudder, an indubitable pang of regret.

But what are These?

These? They are The Ones That Got Away…

Believe it or not, I wasn’t a jock in high school, but *ahem* that doesn’t mean I wasn’t a stud in my own right. Back in those glory days, I was a member of a juggernaut Quiz Bowl1AKA Scholar’s Bowl, Knowledge Bowl, Trivia Bowl–basically competitive Jeopardy at the high school level. team, the one that the mere mention of struck fear in the hearts of opposing team of schools all across Kansas, both large schools and tiny schools alike: Rolla High School.

Look at this picture. Just look at this picture:

Figure 1: The 1996 Kansas State Quiz Bowl Champs. Am I the blonde on the left or on the right? You’ll never know…

I mean, wouldn’t you poo your pants if you walked into an academic showdown and you saw these intellectual beasts at the opposing table?!?

I would like to try to #HumbleBrag here, but I can’t: the fact is, we were good. Real good. And me? I wasn’t just some B-Team backup, clinging onto the coattails of more successful and competent members of my team. Even from my Freshman year, I was carrying my share of the load, and from my Sophomore year on, my name was a name to be reckoned with for those who dared face…Rolla High School *dun-dun-duhhhhhhn!*

Out of my four years of high school, we were State Champions three of those, I made the Santa Fe Trail All-League Team all four years, and my Junior year we pulled off a feat that no RHS Quiz Bowl team has been able to pull off before or since: we went 10-0 in all our tournaments. We were the 1972 Miami Dolphins.

But for all that personal and collective success, there were still failures. In fact, when you’re that good, those rare incorrect (or inexplicably forgotten) responses that end up costing you have a way of really sticking in your craw.

It’s like regret on steroids. I mean, James Earl Ray? C’mon, how do you ever forget the name of an asshole like that?

Yes. It’s true. Even studs can have their down days…

“Surely you didn’t write that beautiful and strangely romantic haiku about drugs yourself…did you? I mean, it’s just…really good.”

Oh, right. I forget that I previously left everyone on a cliffhanger last time, wondering if my newfound George-From-Seinfeld-Do-The-Opposite-Of-What-My-Instinct-Tells-Me strategy was actually going to profoundly impact my life in any way, if it was going to finally get me somewhere with the ladies, if you will.

In case you need a refresher, you can pop on over here for a sec to get caught up. And as always, I’ll wait…

…

…

Yeah, so to catch you up, I had started FaceBook flirting (kinda) with The Dimpler, the hottest and most exotic young lady at my church–and my new neighbor.

She had accidentally thrown down the gauntlet and challenged my poetry and prose skills unknowingly, and got surprised when a professional-grade haiku ended up in her inbox. So good, that she didn’t believe I had written it.

And when she shared how good she thought it was, I couldn’t believe that she was being sincere, and got pissed that this pretty girl was turning out to be just another mean girl. Like, geez, did she have to mock my attempt at the written verse.

Last I left you, though, I had remembered that my natural instinct hadn’t exactly served me well in the past, so instead of firing back and telling her to f**k off, I just ghosted her for a few days. You know, let us both digest the situation.

Well…around that same time, one of my roommates–also neighbors/church friends with The Dimpler–came back from a visit to her place with a sh*t-eating grin on his face.

Turns out, he had inadvertently learned that this seemingly off-limits beauty had recently broken up with her long-time boyfriend (side note: do you know how flipping hard it is to flirt/”not flirt” with your hot af neighbor when you have to assume they have a boyfriend? Didn’t think so). One might even say she “\finally “kicked his ass to the curb.”

An interesting development indeed…

Flying monkeys. Would I ever be able to redeem those ----- stupid flying monkeys? That was yet another question that perpetually haunted me.

The year was 1998, and it was my Senior year of high school. Recall that the previous year our Quiz Bowl team had went undefeated in all 10 of our tournaments. And now it was supposed to be my turn–Quiz Bowl Stud Extraordinaire–to lead our fabled team to another undefeated year.

But it was not exactly going well. It was early in the season and we had suffered two Second Places in a row–no one wants second place–and in the current tournament we had made it to the championship match and were looking to break that streak of bad beats.

Late in the tight match, all tied up even with our challengers, the moderator began their question: “In the book, The Wizard of Oz…”

*BUZZZZZ*

I realized that I had instinctively reacted to the trigger phrase “Wizard of Oz” and ol’ Quick Draw McGraw here had buzzed in prematurely.

Normally, I would know the answer and leave the audience in awe at my ability to conjure the correct response with such little information and with such great confidence.

But…fuuuuuugggg. It was the Don Quixote/Man of La Mancha fiasco all over again (for the record, that was another premature answer on my part that effectively cost RHS the chance to achieve another unthinkable: winning the State Championship 4 years in a row).

The best, exasperated, I-am-fully-aware-of-how-ridiculous-this-situation-is, “educated” guess I could proffer with a chuckle was…flying monkeys.

I mean, it had as good as a chance of being the right answer as any other character/item/scenario from that beloved American book/movie.

But of course it wasn’t. And instead of being awarded 10 points and securing the win going into the final question of the match, we were dinged 5 points because I buzzed in early and got it wrong.

We went on to lose that championship match moments later. By 5 points…

“In the book, The Wizard of Oz, what color were Dorothy’s slippers?”

Not knowing what else to do with The Dimpler, I broke the 3 days of FaceBook radio silence with–you guessed it–the full version of the question that screwed me over roughly 10 years earlier.

Honestly, I didn’t have a plan of any sort. I just wanted to get back to chatting with her online, because when she wasn’t ambiguously insulting/complimenting me, it felt good. Real good. It was a bit of a high, and I feared I might be getting willingly addicted.

A day later, her response came back:

“Silver.”

I later found out that she Googled it, but obviously I didn’t give a rat’s ass whether she cheated to win or not. And yes, in the movie, they’re ruby-red, but in the book they are indeed silver. And the only reason I know this…well I just regaled you with all that.

Was I surprised that she got it right? No.

Did I have a well-calculated move waiting in the wings when she did? Also no.

And then…and then the Universe shined kindly on my dumb face with another inspired moment.

It felt as if I was watching somebody else control my hands as they typed out my response: “That is correct! And for your correct answer, you have won an evening with…the Mystery Author of the High-ku!”

…

“Awesome. When?”

…

“Does tonight work? He happens to be in town from Virginia.”

I had been playing along with her doubt about my authorship, going so far as to claim not only was the High-ku from an anthology of poetry written by current and former drug addicts, but to actually write another addiction-themed piece of work called The Light. Yeah, I was having a bit too much fun with the power that came with keeping things a mystery.

…

“Sure. I’ll be available around 6.”

…

“Sounds great. I’ll bring him by around then…”

The point of the story is that what you ultimately do with some of your deepest regrets is up to you. You can sit around and forever kick yourself for your Flying Monkeys Moments and all the stupid silver medals they won you.

Or you can turn around and find the Silver-Slippered lining in your hilarious, face-palming mistake and use it to trick and/or fall ass-backwards into a date with the hottest girl in the ‘hood.

In the end it’s up to you…

“But wait! Does the whole trickery about the Mystery Author blow up miserably in your face? How long can you last before your luck runs out and/or you return to your natural instincts and blow it all? Can you stick the landing, or will you add The Dimpler to your long list of The Ones That Got Away???”

…you are indubitably asking.

Well, stick around a bit longer and you just might funk around and find out…

(*Ahem* That’s how I say “To be continued…“)

Content created on: 5 August 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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:[+]

Two Toe-tally Terrific Ways To Use Your Stupid Time Machine

26 June 2022 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

It’s a war–a war on bugs, that is.

But I think I have may chosen the wrong side…

“Man…it’s just the darnedest thing. Blue-green skin…I’ve never seen anything like it…”

“Wait…what?!? What skin?? Where??”

In retrospect, I don’t know why I thought casually mentioning to my grad school roommates that “I got blue-green skin” would be met with “Ooh! How interesting!”

Yeah, on second thought “what in the actually f***?!?” seems like the proper response. But, alas, hindsight is 20/20 and this cat was already out of its bag.

“Huh? What? Oh yeah, it’s just that my athlete’s foot has taken on a blue-green hue. In my 25 or so years of having athlete’s foot, this is—“

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Back this train up a sec! First, off: you have athlete’s foot and didn’t tell us?!?” Sue1Almost her real name. was apparently unhappy with this revelation.

“We share the same shower, you prick!” Patty2Again, almost her real name. quickly clarified exactly why they were so pissed at me.

“And 25 years?!? Dude, you just turned 26! What the heck?!?” Also apparent: Sue’s grasp of basic math.

“Well, it’s not that big of a deal, really. I’ve had chronic athlete’s foot pretty much my entire life. You see, my toes unnaturally curve onto each oth—“

“No big deal?!? You don’t get to decide whether or not it’s ‘a big deal’—we do.”

“No, no, you don’t understand, it’s pretty much just a ‘me’ problem.”

“No, you understand. Man, we don’t want none of yo’ nasty foot fungus. So here’s the deal: you’re wearing sandals in the shower until it clears up.”

“And that’s non-negotiable.”

“Dammit.” I muttered under my breath. I knew that I had no choice but to acquiesce.

“Ok, fine. I’ll go get it checked out and in the meantime I suppose I’ll wear flip-flops in the shower. I really regret saying anything though—all this drama is completely unnecessary, in my humble opinion…”

I just had to throw that last comment in there, didn’t I? Patty for one sure wasn’t bemused by it.

“Well, in my humble opinion, I can’t believe you even considered not telling us! Bad roommate. Bad roommate!”

Ok, ok, so they had a point–and if I could travel back in time and provide some spiritual counsel to my younger self, I’d tell that jackass to be more thoughtful and considerate of those with whom he shares personal spaces.

Even though the both of me know ----- well that “what they didn’t probably would never have hurt them”…

“So there I was at the gym locker room, and I realized ‘oh crap, I forgot my shower sandals!’ True story…”

‘Twas a few years later, and I found myself regaling my sole3Pun intended. roommate—aka my wife, aka The Boss Lady—with the perhaps the world’s most boring gym-related story.

“And then what happened?!? What did you do? Shower in your sneakers? Skip the shower altogether? Tap into your inner MacGuyver and make some sandals solely out of paper towels?”

“Huh? What do you mean ‘what did I do?’ I just took a shower barefoot. Duh.”

“Oh my god! Who knows what disease or calamity you could have picked up from the shower floor! How could you put your feet in such grave and imminent danger?!?”

“Listen Toots…um…how do I say this? Oh! I know! Even though this is the year 2009, I figure I could best illustrate my point with a clip from the August 21, 2011 episode of the hit AMC TV show, Breaking Bad.”

*hops into time machine, buzzes back almost instantaneously with the DVD boxset of the complete series of Breaking Bad*

*Ahem* “In this scene, the role of my toes will be played by Walter White…”

Now hop in your dumbass time machine one last time with me and fast forward to the present, whence a pandemic ravishes the globe. Mask-wearing seems to cyclically fall in and out of vogue.

Free-facers are shunned like pariahs. Faithful maskers are mocked. And thus the pendulum swings back and forth.

Which camp do I fall into, you ask? Well, let me tell you a little story. A little story about a little mask…

Once upon a last week, a very close friend of mine went to an indoor concert at a venue where masking was optional. What did my friend do? Well, he and his date were 2 out of about 8 total people at that show who actually opted to wear a masks. Because…seriously, what the ----- are those 2,7044https://dukeperformances.duke.edu/venues/dpac-durham-performing-arts-center/ other people thinking?!?

Funny thing, though: it’s hard to prove how hardcore of a fan you are when no one can see you accurately lip-syncing with a mask plastered over your face. But, for one brief moment, in an attempt to prove to his date that he indeed knew the words to some of the songs at this show he had dragged her to, he removed his mask, belted out 3 lines of The Remedy directly in his date’s face, and promptly replaced the mask back on his face.

Now, unbeknownst to this very close friend of mine–in spite of over two years of diligently masking no matter how uncool it became (and zero infections)–ye ol’ COVID had finally come for him, a cold hard fact that was confirmed approximately 5 hours after this particular concert.

(“You gotta be ----- kidding me!” he thought, no doubt.)

But, one to always find the silver lining in any situation, he later told me, “You know, I sometimes wonder if I infected anybody at that concert–besides my date–when I took my mask off for those 10 seconds. But then I realized, hey, if those unmasked ----- picked up anything from me, then that one’s kinda on them.”

He continued, “Yeah, I could feel at least half of them staring at me and my multi-colored mask, mocking me in their heads. But the joke’s on them, cuz as it turns it out…”

*dramatically whips head to the side to look Camera 2 dead in the eye*

“…I am the one who knocks!”

…

…

…

Me. It’s me. I am the one who knocks…*cough cough*

Content created on: 25/26 June 2022 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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