Author: BJ (Page 13 of 34)

If you’re lucky, a cat or mouse will only scratch you.

If you’re unlucky, they might just scar you for life…

“Mommy, Mommy! Where is the other half of Whiskers¹Not the cat’s real name, but not because I’m trying to protect that dumb-asses’ privacy, but because I just can’t remember it.?!?”

I can still vividly remember a time when shutting the car door all by myself was an achievement worth celebrating. Especially because back then our family vehicle was this ugly green, late 1970’s certifiable land yacht. I don’t recall the exact make and model–probably an Oldsmobile or Buick, no doubt–but the body of this mechanical beast had to have been made out of pure, solid iron.

For all practical purposes, there was very little that separated the front passenger door from it’s close cousin, the bank vault door. So, yeah, getting my little body to muster up the muscular strength of a 10-year-old (or two 5-year-olds, or ten 1-year-olds), and getting that door shut was something that was very much pat-myself-on-the-back-worthy.

However, when that big day finally arrived when my wildest dreams came to fruition, things didn’t play out exactly as I had imagined they would. Did I get a ticker-tape parade for being such a Big Boy? Was there confetti streaming down from the car’s rafters to enhance this magical moment? Was there any patting-on-the-back, whether by my own hand or that of another?

Let’s see…”no,” “nope,” and “negatory.” Does that answer my²I really wanted to type “your questions” here, but let’s be honest: you weren’t the one asking them. questions? Yes, it does.

Yet, I remember that milestone so clearly.

For all the wrong reasons, of course.

After a couple of really good tugs, I had finally overcome the friction on the door hinges, and to my sheer delight, the door quickly gained momentum and swung solidly shut. Well, almost solidly shut…

To my horror, in that split second between getting over the frictional energy barrier and the door latching in place, our idiot cat Whiskers–or whatever his name was–decided he wanted to come on our trip with us and, like a half-drunk motorist trying to race a train across a railroad crossing, he gambled when the odds were not “ever in his favor.”³I almost instantly regreted including a reference from The Hunger Games here… That little dipshit actually thought he could make it into the car before the door shut all the way.

To his credit though, it turns out he was half right.

The door started swinging shut, Whiskers appeared out of nowhere and prepared to launch, and all I could do was be awash in a feeling of helplessness as I had just enough time to not only realize what was about to happen, but to also realize that there was no way I could stop that door once I got it moving.

“NOOOOOOOOoooooooooo…!”

KER-CHUNK!

Next thing I knew, with my little eyes I was spying exactly one half of a cat inside the car–the front half, rib cage to nose, to be exact. And thus leaving only one logical conclusion as to where the other half of Whiskers was–outside the car.

Holy. Sh*t. Batman.

Had I just guillotined our precious feline friend right in two⁴TOOL reference!?!? Hello, instant childhood PTSD!

While I sat there, dazed and traumatized, Mom acted quick on her feet, leaning over and opening the door back up lickety-split (fun fact: it’s much easier to get those doors to budge when you’re a grown-ass woman).

…And just like a classic magic trick, voilà! The hind quarters and tail of ol’ Whiskers reappeared!

By some miracle, I had not, in fact, severed his spine. And apparently all his other internal organs got safely smushed to either inside or outside the car upon impact, and had slid right back into place once the door was re-opened. So, in the end, that lucky little bastard turned out just fine and no worse for the wear.

I, on the other hand, not so much. Verily, with a mere 4 years of worldly experience under my belt, I could put my hand over my little heart and swear to you, “I was in no way emotionally prepared for this…”

“Professor A., I think you are ready to learn how to run one of our scientific studies end-to-end. First things first, though: specimen preparation.”

It was halfway through my first year of working in a small-animal MRI lab, and my boss, Four-Quart Willie,⁵Not his real name, but if you can figure out what this real (professional) name is, and why I use this moniker for him, I think you would chuckle lightly to yourself as much as I do every time I type it. loved to feed the ego of those of us freshly off the PhD assembly line by referring to us “Professors.”

Indeed, it was a very effective way to convince me to move away from my expertise in image and data processing and/or wrangling, and to start getting my hands dirty directly dealing with the rodents his lab loved to study so much: mice.

Now, I had exactly zero interest in the whole proposal, but how could I resist someone who esteemed me at the level of professor? Amiright?

At this point, it is critical to understand that the bread-and-butter of our scientific endeavors is what is called ex vivo MRI scans. Instead of gently sedating a mouse or rat and scanning them while they are alive and breathing (that would be in vivo), we yada yada ya…and scan only their extracted skull and brain.

To get an idea of why this is preferred, here are comparative examples of in vivo (left) and ex vivo (right) MRI images of a mouse brain:

Take a gander at those two pics, and you tell me whether a scientist such as myself would prefer those little rascals dead or alive? Yeah, the choice is pretty clear: those mice are better off dead to us.

Anyways, the very next week I had the privilege of being trained in the ways of “specimen preparation”: the aforementioned yada yada ya that encompasses whatever happens in between “mouse starts day like every other day with a snack and a good poo” and “mouse’s skull and brain end up floating in a tiny sealed tube, ready to be scanned.”

I should also mention another very important thing to know about this business, and that is that animal comfort and safety is taken very seriously. There are like, a million-thousand rules and regulations about handling animals involved in experiments, especially when it comes to what we in the biz call “sacrificing” them–aka killing them until they are dead. We have to follow strict procedures to minimize any suffering they might endure in the process.

With such humane guardrails in place, I hadn’t given much thought to that whole part of the process when I walked into our surgery room for training that particular morning. I had no doubt in my mind that Step One would involve something similar to, say, putting them in a small box and, oh, I don’t know, maybe pumping it full of carbon dioxide, followed up with a barely noticeable shot in the tail that would dreamily send them off to never-never land.

Or, as I like to call it, “gently leading them into the dark.” Sounds almost…romantic, doesn’t it?⁶Probably because it hearkens memories of that Death Cab For Cutie song, “I Will Follow You Into The Dark.”

Well…at least I got the first sub-step half right. You know, the part about the mild sedation to initially knock them out.

After that? Oh boy…how do I put this?

Yada yada ya…and the next thing I know, I’m staring at a very much still-living mouse laying on its back, all 4 paws pinned back in what appeared to be some sort of sacrilegious attempt to accurately recreate a murine version of the whole Jesus-on-the-cross scene.

And how did I know it was still alive, you might be wondering? Did I feel for its pulse? Did I hold a mirror up to its tiny nose and look for it to fog up?

Nope. Nothing that subtle.

No, all I had to do was look at its heart, and…yup, still pounding away. Oh, did I mention that its chest cavity was split wide ----- open? Yeah, rib cages pinned to the side and everything.

I was in complete shock at the sight of its little lungs still rapidly expanding and contracting, its heart furiously pumping, and the rest of all its innards, just hanging out doing their thang, on display for the whole ----- world to see.

I kinda blacked out most of what happened after that, but I’m pretty sure once it was all said and done, I went and found a secluded spot outside and sobbed gently for a good 5 minutes.

I mean, what the ----- did I just witness???

It was, as we say in the business, a real mind- ----- .

Of course, when I went home that evening to The Boss Lady and she asked me how my day went, I had to relive the horror all over again.

Verily, with a mere 34 years of worldly experience under my belt, I had to put my blood-stained hand over my little heart and swear to her, “Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, I was in no way emotionally prepared for this…”

Content created on: 25/26/27 March 2022 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Like they say: “Food before beer–never fear!

Beer before food, though? You’re screwed, dude…”

“Hey, don’t lie to me–I really like all you melon farmers so don’t ruin it by lying to me about who’s married to who around here!”

Uggh…as soon as I said it, I almost immediately regretted it. I mean, who goes around calling people–people they’ve barely known for 24 hours, nonetheless– ‘melon farmers’? And of course you know that by ‘melon farmers‘ I mean that I was dropping the mother of all nuclear bombs on them, the F-Bomb to ruin them all: mother f***ers.

But, hey, it’s not like I’d ever see these people again…right?

Earlier that morning, I had just nailed my presentation during what was perhaps the most important business trip of my life, and now it was time to chillax like…well, like a melon farmer, with my hosts. A gang of youthful co-workers about my age were getting together at a local bar that evening, and they had kindly invited me to tag along. Heck yes, I’m accepting that invitation!

Seeing as how I didn’t have my own transportation, one of the older, more mature guys in the bunch–whom we’ll call “Jackie” for reasons that wouldn’t be racist even in the slightest–volunteered to pick me up from my hotel around 7. Sure enough, right on time, the ever-responsible and reliable Jackie rolled up to take me off to an evening of adult drinks and light socializing. As far as I was concerned, everything was going perfectly as planned.

“A varied sampling of high-gravity beverages?!? Can this night get any better?!?”

If you know me at all, then you will no doubt understand the utter delight I experienced when we showed up at the bar and discovered that not only was Jackie covering my drinks that evening, but the featured potent potables of the evening would be beers featuring higher-than-average alcohol content.

“And free pizza?!?”

I wouldn’t even have to buy dinner. At that point my head was essentially exploding on account of the streak of good fortune I was experiencing.

“Slap that wrist band on me, and let’s get this party started…”

“EXCUSE ME! OVER HERE! Dang it, it’s like she can’t even see us, even when she’s looking right at us!”

If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought some Sixth Sense shenanigans was going on, and that I was pretty much a ghost to the person doling out the pizza. Or was it, yunno…more intentional…more nefarious? Like this:

It was funny, though, you know? For some reason I didn’t have any problem at all getting my tiny servings of boozy goodness–one could say that it was literally flowing my way–but when it came to getting any sustenance to moderate and mitigate my intoxicating intake? My pizza-obtaining efforts were almost down-right comical.

Admittedly, in the beginning it was sort of my fault, focusing more on the ‘drink’ aspect than the whole ‘food’ part. But 45 minutes and 4 micro-doses of beer in, I started getting pretty dang hungry.

But any time I tried to get my hands on a slice of the ‘za only ended in heartache and disappointment. The first couple of attempts, wouldn’t you know it, the pizza person–despite heading right towards us–was intercepted by another group of hungry patrons and gave them the last few slices instead.

For convenience, we can just call those “Milton Moments:”¹A reference to the 1999 Mike Judge cult-comedy, Office Space.

Then there was the time when I tried to intercept somebody else’s pizza. But as you can imagine as it might go in a dark, crowded bar, that quickly devolved into a Kramer-esque fiasco:

Taking the matter into my own hands, and actually talking to someone about getting some pizza to us didn’t help either:

“Oh, so sorry about that, um…yeah, it seems that we’re out of pizza right now, and we’ll have to wait another 25 minutes for the kitchen to get a fresh batch out,” was the very unhelpful reply I got.

“You got to be ----- kidding me…oh well, might as well sample some more brew in the meantime…”

Three “samples” later, I finally spotted the fresh pizza coming out–and right towards me! Here’s a traumatic–er, I mean “dramatic”–reenactment of what should have been a glorious and triumphant moment:

You could say that I got “Elained” real good, i.e. the pizza person swerved slightly at the last second and walked within inches of me…but didn’t even bother to stop when I very obviously reached out my expectant fingers to grab a slice.

*Sigh*

Eventually, after serving pretty much every other ----- person in the pub, ye ol’ pizza prick finally circled back around to where I was, and–miracle of all miracles!–two slices remained! And they were all mine!

Yup, all of 1/32 of a pizza, to offset at least 32/1 oz of 10% ABV (or higher) liquid that was sloshing around my system by that point. Even after all the comedy-drama I had to endure just to get to this point, the Universe thought it would be hilarious that when I finally got my much sought-after prize, that it would be a great punchline if the slices were tiny af, similar to the one seen here:

Though small, here’s yet another reenactment of how it felt to eat them, on account of my inebriation, and all…

“Who wants some Chinese food?!?”

I didn’t know who suggested it, nor did I care; I was unintentionally drunk af and even hungrier. Plus, I needed to get some food in me, because I had big plans to go snorkeling in the morning, and I sure as heck didn’t want to do that hungover.

“This melon farmer does!” I pointed at myself with two thumbs, completely forgetting the rest of the joke about “Who’s got two thumbs and…” and what-not (And of course, I might note here, it’s not so bad to call yourself a melon farmer. Just gonna throw that out there.)

We gathered up the gang and all staggered off together in a gaggle towards some acclaimed Chinese restaurant a few blocks away.

And dang, they all must have experienced the same cruddy pizza-luck that I had, because we were ordering up a glorious spread like there was no tomorrow, hearkening to mind yet another Seinfeldian moment:

It was somewhere in the midst of feasting on all that food, that I, feeling real good and perhaps about to comfortable with these people I hardly knew, that–as you know already–I expressed my burgeoning affection for them by calling them all melon farmers.

Great job, me!

Alas, though, that wasn’t the moment that I rue the most from that evening. No, the nadir of my night showed up with the check–you, know, that piece of paper that lists all the things your party ordered, and how much you owe for said items. Yeah, that thing.

Well, there were two things about which I lacked foresight: 1) even though I was their guest, I shouldn’t have assumed that they were going to cover all my expenses; & 2) despite being on a business trip, it didn’t occur to me to have any cash on me.

So, there we were, everyone pulling cash out of their wallets and such, throwing it into the communal pot in the middle of table. Except for me, sitting there like a besotted asshat, with that panicked look in my eyes that said “Wait…I’m going to have to pay for my own food?” Followed by:

…except you need to replace “Hope you don’t mind I pay you in change,” with a good 20 seconds of awkward silence. Fortunately, Jackie–ever reliable Jackie–finally offered to cover my share, because why not? He had already paid for my beer and pizza and was my personal chauffeur for the evening. Sure! Just throw another $25 worth of Chinese food my tab!

Ugh. I couldn’t wait to finally get back to my hotel room, where I could die of embarrassment and regret peacefully in my sleep…

The points of the story are, first: if you ain’t yet ate the pizza-pie, don’t slam that whiskey & rye.

Second: if you’re the type of wino that uses ‘melon farmer’ as a term of endearment, maybe not bust it out the first time you go a-drinking with someone.

Third: always carry at least $40 in cash on you at all times (bonus tip: always offer to pay for at least yourself, dummy).

Follow these 3 handy tips, and perhaps you can avoid suffering the same fate as yours truly. You see, unlike Twinkies, the farcical free pizza fiasco wasn’t enough to disqualify me from landing my dream job as an MRI researcher in Hawai’i²#HumbleBrag…meaning that for 5 days a week for the next two years, this Freeloader In Paradise had to show his face to those melon farmers…

Content created on: 4/5 March 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Aim high, son, you go get that job of your dreams!

But don’t forget to mention those treats filled with cream…

“I appreciate you coming in today, son. Why don’t you take a seat. By the way, I must say, you’ve got yourself quite the impressive résumé…”

“Why, thanks for noticing.” I blushed lightly at the high praise coming from the man I hoped would be my future boss.

“A degree in physics…tuition fully covered–merit-based, of course–…exceptional collegiate GPA…I even see that you won a $5k scholarship to spend a semester in Spain. Nice.”

“Not to humble-brag¹This was before the age of hashtags, otherwise I would say ‘Not to #HumbleBrag…' or anything, but yeah, I’ve done alright for myself…”

“I am, though,” he continued, “a little bit confused about when you graduated…”

Just great. He had to ask about that.

“Oh, that? I’ll be graduating last month in a few weeks–wait, nevermind, don’t worry about that. It’s an unnecessarily long story…and one I will be more than happy to regale you with around that-there water cooler over there.”

I nonchalantly pointed to the office watering hole, trying to subliminal induce him into giving me the job.

“Hmmm…perhaps. Let’s see what else we’ve got here…”

As a more-than-qualified candidate with a veritable rap-sheet of accolades, I was feeling pretty good about my employment prospects in the fine establishment I found myself in.

“Interesting…it says here that you were–and I quote directly from your C.V.–‘Haymaker Hall Twinkie-Eating Champion (2000)*.‘ You must have been pretty proud of that achievement, I suppose?”

I was too engrossed envisioning the steady stream of mostly stable income that was no doubt in my near-future to bother with any subtleties that might have been present in his tone of voice.

“Yeah, I mean who wouldn’t? The guy who got second was only halfway through his box by the time I polished mine off–such a resounding defeat that even before I had got to my last package, he just gave up and started leisurely enjoying his cache. No one was even close to my level of competitive eating that day–all the would-be challengers? They had no choice but to humbly bow themselves before my mad noshing skills.”

“Uh…okay.”

“Yup. True story…”

“Sure, whatever. One last question…you don’t have too much direct experience in our field–which is okay, since you just graduated college (I think?)–so, please, share with me why you would like to work for our company?”

“Hey man, a job is a job and a paycheck is a paycheck, amiright? After all, one can’t defend their title of Twinkie-Eating Champion if they’re training with empty cupboards…”

Oh, yeah. I totally had this thing in the bag…

“There was a shortage! There was a Twinkie shortage, I swear!”

I felt like George Costanza from the hit 90s show, Seinfeld, making a rather futile effort to defend his, uh, “body image” after swimming in a cold pool:²For full context, please enjoy this clip: https://youtu.be/85MZ4c1EWkM

As much as I pleaded with him, Mr. Not-My-Future-Boss-Man, wasn’t having any of it. I desperately tried to explain to him that there truly was The Great Twinkie Shortage of 2000,³”Twinkie Strike Afflicts Fans With Snack Famine”. New York Times, published 23 March 2000, accessed 24 February 2022–see hyperlink and it wasn’t just another lie to go along with the other lies–no, alleged lies–on my résumé.

On my knees by this point, I humbly petitioned him to truly listen and hear me out as I attempted to explain the extenuating circumstances swirling about my perceived fabrication: yes, there was a Twinkie-Eating Competition, and yes, I won said competition by a mile. But thanks to TGTS2000⁴The abbreviated form of the aforementioned The Great Twinkie Shortage of 2000–again, an absolutely real event in American history–the organizers had to substitute Little Debbie brand Swiss Cake Rolls (TM) at the last second, in lieu of the advertised Twinkies.

And, hey let’s be honest, “Swiss Cake Roll-Eating Champion” doesn’t quite, well, roll off the tongue like “Twinkie-Eating Champion*.” So, sure, putting that down on my résumé may have been venturing into a moral gray area–however, I took the extra effort to include the “*”! How more honest could a guy get?

*Sigh*

But alas, ’twas all too little, too late. I was a bona fide liar in his mind–and you know that in this business, a man’s integrity is everything. He, in good conscious, could no way even consider hiring a documented liar such as myself.

All those grand plans and high hopes I had for my future? All foiled on account of the nuances of a ridiculous-sounding-but-actually-happened ----- Twinkie Shortage.

I mean, if not for those meddling bakery truck drivers, this could have been me (audio on):

…and that–and indubitably only that—my friends, is most assuredly why my promising life-long career of uttering phrases such as “She’s got a few miles on her, but she sure is a beauty, isn’t she?” and “What is it going to take for me to get you in this gently-used car today?” never got the chance to even see the light of day.

“Why are you even telling me this story?” you are probably wondering aloud right now, as if somehow I could hear you.

Well, I’ll tell you why–in the immortalized words of the late, great Bill Paxton:

Content created on: 23/24 February 2022 (Weds/Thurs)

There’s regular actors, and there’s voice-actors.

And then, regrettably, there are tongue-actors…

“Schlop! Schlop! Schlop!”

Oh, what a Prologue…

Act I: a soft gasp of unpleasant surprise, shortly followed by Act II, a gagged “harumph” of indignation.

And for her Third and final Act, a crisp whipping of the neck away from the encroaching tongue, lightly showering the audience and judges with an unholy admixture of our respective salivas.

Epilogue: she never spoke to me again…

Flashback to only moments before the award-winning performance described above, as we cast members donned our costumes backstage.

“Hey man, I dare you to slip Kat¹Let’s pretend like this isn’t her real name, poor soul. But the puns that would follow this incident only make sense if you have an idea of what her name might have been. the tongue during your kissing scene! It’s what any true Benedick would do for his love, Beatrice.”

This particular “Benedick” had gently (yet convincingly) kissed “Beatrice” about 5-10 times at this point, but, seeing as how we were in the middle of competing in the 1999 KSHSAA²https://www.kshsaa.org/public/speechdrama/Tournaments.cfm State Speech & Drama Festival, this would indubitably be the Last Kiss my co-star Kat and I would share during the climactic scene of our Rolla High School’s production of the 1598 Shakespeare classic, Much Ado About Nothing.

‘Twas going to be our last Hurrah–we definitely needed to go out with a “Bang!” (Or at least 2 or 3 good “Schlops”.)

And who could say “no” when dared by their local science teacher, good ol’ Mr. Bryan, husband to their English teacher and director of the play, Mrs. Bryan?

Well, maybe I could have said “no” to such a juvenile proposition proffered by this allegedly grown-ass man/supposedly responsible adult…had it not been for the overwhelming support vocally offered by the entirety of the other male cast members.

I mean, what better excuse for some light tomfoolery and mischievous misogynistic shenanigans than peer pressure? You got to give the be-testicled people what they want right?

“Heh-heh, she’s in for such a surprise…” I chortled as I agreed to Mr. B.’s ----- harebrained idea…

“What the ----- where you thinking?!?”

You gotta give Kat some professional actress credit: apart from her neck-whip in reaction to my last-second lingual assualt, she waited until we were backstage afterwards to give me the tongue-lashing³Pun intended. I so rightfully deserved.

“Just because the script calls for us to kiss, that don’t give you permission to slide yo nasty-ass slimy tongue halfway down my throat!”

“*Snort* But…Mr. Bryan dared me to do it.” I gestured in his general direction, fully expecting his show of moral support.

“Whoa, whoa, dude, I didn’t think you would actually do it. Like, what in the actual ----- were you thinking?”

“The heck, man? You asshat, this whole thing was your idea and now you’re throwing me under the bus?!?”

“Totally uncool, bro. You can’t kiss a lady like that without her permission,” chimed in one of the many male actors who had only an hour early been championing the cause of The Tonguing.

“I may be Benedick, but you’re a damned Benedict Arnold!” I couldn’t believe these two guys.

“Yeah, man. I would never do such a horrible thing.”

Yet another mother ----- was jumping ship on me.

What the hell was going on here?!? Sixty minutes early they were essentially chanting “Grab her by the p***y! Grab her by the p***y!” and now they decide to be the woke mob,⁴In case you’re wondering, I am very much mocking any ----- idiot who uses the term “woke mob” with a straight face. going all “#MeToo” and “My body, my choice” on me?

And as you can imagine, not a single one of the females in the room where it happened⁵”The room where it happened”–another Broadway reference, brought to you courtesy of Hamilton. were showing me any love…

“But wait just a tick, Mister!” you are indubitably shouting at the screen right now. “There weren’t any so-called ‘woke mobs’ back in 1999–especially not in Kansas!”

And, Dear Reader, you would be absolutely right about that.

Sure, I got hung out to dry by the drama nerds for what, in almost immediate retrospect, was a very egregious lapse in judgment on my part. Indeed, I wished, in my role as Benedick, that I wouldn’t have been, well, such a dick.

But did I truly suffer for my misdeeds? Even remotely close to as much as I should have?

No! In fact, for the last few weeks of school, I was more or less celebrated by my colleagues as a sort of anti-hero. You wouldn’t believe how many times I heard comments like “I heard she gave you a real tongue-lashing afterwards!” or “What’s the matter, the Kat got your tongue?”, all followed by a round of heavy and irreverent guffawing.

Poor Kat–I mean, talk about being re-victimized every time. And my beleaguered apologies were probably undermined by the sh*t-eating grin I had plastered across my stupid face half the time. I did feel bad for her for the suffering she endure at my hand–er, tongue. But it was obvious that irregardless of what the original perpetrator thought of the matter, as a whole, the larger society didn’t give a flying ----- about her pain.

For my part, I at least had moderate-to-severe remorse over the ordeal, and I can’t say I was exactly proud of my achievement. And once the initial hub-bub around the incident eventually died down, I generally avoided bringing up the incident.

But then, during the final week of classes came the annual school-wide Awards Ceremony. I don’t remember what the awards were exactly–probably stuff like Honor’s Roll and Perfect Attendence, et cetera, et cetera. Being a senior and the intellectual star of our cozy school, I garnered my share of awards and accolades…and one extra one that that caught me a bit by surprise.

As the awards were wrapping up, Ms. C., the EmCee and one of the Jr. High teachers, cleared her throat in preparation of making a solemn proclamation:

“I have one last award to give out tonight. For the first time ever, I’m proud to announce this year’s winners of ‘Best Tongue Action In A School Play’. When I call your names, please come forward to receive your trophies, these top-of-the-line gummy tongue-and-lips…”

“*Ahem* And this year’s winners are…”

Of course she called my name. But did she have to call Kat’s name as well? Poor girl was mortified.

I sheepishly stumbled forward, and graciously accepted my gummy tongue-and-lips. “Uh, thanks for acknowledging my efforts, Ms. C.”

Right behind me was one very red-faced Kat, clearly quite unhappy with the display of public humiliation.

As she snatched her gummy tongue-and-lips from Ms. C’s hands, I could barely hear her hiss at Ms. C. under her breath:

“Ughh, I so hate you for this, Mom…”

What was the point of the story again? I had it on the tip of my tongue…oh yeah, the point of the story is not to rely others for a moral compass. In the end you’re going to be responsible for your own actions, and “uh, everybody said it was a good idea at the time” isn’t going to hold up in Cosmic Court. Own your own actions boy!

Yeah…and, uh, maybe–just maybe–any suggestion that you violate someone else, even if for “comedic effect,” is one bad ----- idea.

#PSKateSorryForTheTrauma #PSKateSorryAboutYourMomma

Content created on: 4 February 2022 (Friday)