The Point of the Story

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Author: BJ (Page 13 of 34)

Have You Or Someone You Love Been Taken For A Fool?

13 March 2022 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

You’ve always dreamed of being part of an international heist.

You should have been a bit more specific…

“You’re going to send how much via Western Union???”

“Only $800. This is a great deal on a laptop–I can’t pass it up!”

“…and you’re sending it to Spain?”

“Yeah, duh! That’s where the laptop is.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yup.”

“Okie-dokie, Artichokie…”

*Turns to Western Union Teller*

“I would like to send $800 to Spain.”

“Are you sure about that…?”

That particular conversation transpired in a Dillon’s grocery store back in 2002 between myself and one Tiffany Chestnut1Not her real name…it’s actually her proverbial “Pornstar Name”, and I must say, I have never seen the pornstar-name-generating-algorithm work so ----- well in my life as it did in her case.–my forever friend-girl and occasional girlfriend back during my college days.2Side note: I had expected to have regaled you with many more tales about her and our relationship by now, but surprisingly, I think there is only one other reference to her, which you can read about in The Olde Timey Wheelchair.

Now, I’m not going to say which one of us was getting a sweet deal on an Iberian laptop, and which one of us was just along for the ride–that wouldn’t be fair to one of us. Nor am I going to disclose which one of us was contacted directly by an eBay electronics-monger moments after losing out on an auction–remember when that’s all eBay did?–for a laptop.

Should I specify which one of us thought, “Hey, I thought $1200 for a laptop with these specs is a steal, but now I can’t believe my good luck–I have the opportunity to get it for the low, low price of $800 (USD)!”

No. No I shouldn’t, as that could be considered to be in poor taste.

And you can already guess what my answer will be when you ask, “Well, which one of you felt totally cool with pulling $800 out an ATM before scampering over to Western Union?”

That’s going to be hard “negatory.” I don’t want to embarrass her. Or him. Or maybe her after all? I’ll never tell.

Hey, let me just stop you right there and pre-empt you by sharing this short list of three other questions that will forever remain Unsolved Mysteries:

  • “Which one of you was too busy congratulating themselves on scoring such a great bargain that they didn’t pick up on the not-so-subtle skeptical vibe the Western Union teller was putting out?”
  • “Who, oh who, was brimming with confidence that they would have some portable computing power in their hands in no time, after they received a confirmation email from FedEx International with a tracking number and the status that a ‘Shipping Label Has Been Created’?”
  • “Which one of you two characters was slowly drained of all hope and joy as they realized that, after two weeks, the package status remained stuck at ‘Shipping Label Created’?”

As a proxy for one or both of us, I do believe I have the authority to plead the Fifth on all 3 counts.

But this I can tell you for sure, that one of us would definitely like to pass this very important message on to you, Dear Reader:

“The point of the story is that one should really learn how do some basic risk/reward analysis. For example, let’s say the odds of this unnamed person losing their $800 in a classic online scam are 50/50 (which is being generous, given the many, many red flags). At the same time, they stand to save $400 since the laptop was going for $800. The expectation value of the monetary result of this transaction is thus calculated: $400*0.5 + (-$800)*0.5 = $200 – $400 = -$200. So, if the deal is 50/50 suspect, then on average, he/she/they can expect to lose $200.

In fact, with these numbers, it would need to be 66.7% likely that this dude hawking hardware outside the terms of eBay is legit, and only 33.3% chance that he’s blowing smoke up your naive ass before you would ever expect to break even: $400*0.667 + (-$800)*0.333 = $266.67 – $266.67 = $0.

So, in your better judgement, would you take 2-to-1 odds that this deal is for real? Hmmm?

And this risk/reward analysis isn’t that hard to handle: a probability estimate that one can easily intuit plus some basic quantum-physics-style math, and voilà! Pretty much anybody can make a wise, informed decision.

Practically anybody.

Anyways…

Oh, and more importantly, the other point of the story is you really need to trust your gut when it screams a whisper in your ear: ‘Everybody knows not to send large sums of cash to strangers–much less those in a foreign country–via Western Union, you ----- moron!'”

While I may be a little coy about who-did-what and what-not, I do have a question for you that I will gladly answer:

“Which one of you was actually going to Spain in a few months to study abroad, and thusly made some rather stern threats to the scammer? Oh…and has two thumbs?”3This is a reference to last week’s story where alcohol ruined the punchline of that tried and true comedic trope.

The answer, my friend, is “This guy!”

*Proudly points my two thumbs at myself.*

The money was sent to Salamanca, Spain. I was going to be living Ronda, Spain for 5 months. Hmmm…Google Maps, could you please help out us folks who aren’t so familiar with Spanish provincial geography?

Figure 1: The short, short route from Ronda to Ass-Whoopin’, Spain.

Well, looky what we have here. This phallus-face was only going to be a mere 592km from me. You better believe I was openly indignant to this guy’s (or gal’s) face. Well, not to their face, but yeah I definitely sent them several strongly-worded emails, letting them know they better be looking over their shoulder and sleeping with one eye open for a while.

In fact, thanks to my very specific skill set, I was able to hunt down a dramatic preenactment of how that conversation went down:

“If you return the $800, I will not look for you…”

Even though, Taken wouldn’t be released until several years later, I kid you not, my email was dang-near verbatim:

“I will look for you. I will find you. And I will kill you. Or at least recovery the $800 you stole, you prick.”4For the record, I never followed up on those threats. I mean, hey, 592 km may not be Trans-Atlantic, but it’s still a long ----- ways, especially when you’re relying on public transportation in a foreign country.

Now, I imagine you have one last question for me:

“Well, were you being a valiant knight defending the honor of the vulnerable maiden under your charge? Or were you merely a ----- moron trying to defend his own besmirched honor?”

Hah. I knew you’d ask that.

You’ll never know for sure…but you can always do your own expectation value calculation and take you’re own scientific wild-ass guess….

Content created on: 11/12 March 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Juice Love, Pizza Lust, And A Great Melon-Farming Job

6 March 2022 / / 0 Comments
7 Min Read

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:

Enlarged to show texture.

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)

Footnotes & References:[+]

A Few True Lies: The Best Way To Get Résumé Results, Guaranteed!

27 February 2022 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

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

“You gotta believe me!”

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)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Hurry Up, There’s About To Be Some Old Man Murder Up In Here!

20 February 2022 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

You’re dad is cut and bleeding, son, what do you do?

Hop in the farm truck and throw it in Gear 2…

“Schlop! Schlop! Schlop!”

That was odd…last time I had heard that noise, it was the sound made by an over-zealous (and hotly contested) kiss shared by two star-crossed lovers. Yet there I was, in the middle of a Kansan field, working on an irrigation motor with my dad. And we sure the heck weren’t doin’ no kissin’…

“Uh, son, I think I might have cut myself.”

I turned around to see Dad, sitting flat on his ass on the ground next to the pipe running from the pump to the underground riser.

“Geez, Dad, how the hell did you end up on your butt?”

“I, uh, must have slipped in the mud, and tried to catch myself on that,” came his lightly dazed response.

My eyes followed to where he was pointing, a smaller pipe protruding from the larger one, the one which fed coolant back to the motor.

Then my eyes retraced their path, back to his pointing finger suspended in mid-air.

“Schlop! Schlop! Schlop!”

There was that sound again! But this time I could clearly see from whence it came: Dad’s right palm had a huge gash in it and it was pumping out blood like an Apocalyptic Old Faithful or something.

“Oh. ----- . You did cut yourself. I better get you to the Emergency Room ASAP!”

But first, my curiosity had to be sated. My eyes followed their original path once again, and landed on what must have inflected so much damage to his hand.

“Those rascally adjustable steel clamps–they’ll getchya every time…” I half-chuckled to myself.

But then, my attention abruptly jerked back to the copious amount of blood he was losing, and I realized he was barely clinging to consciousness. Not even thinking about it, I grabbed the nearest greasy rag I could find and, dodging the intermittent spurts, managed to get it wrapped around his hand and got the flow at least partially under control.

“Hold onto this for a sec–be right back!” I hollered over my shoulder as I scrambled to Big Red, our Ford F350 flatbed diesel work pickup, and rummaged through our unorganized pile of parts, tools, and supplies on the back.

“Hah! It’s a miracle! I found it!” I came trotting back to where he still sat on the ground, victoriously holding aloft the farmer’s fix-all: a fresh roll of Duck-Tape.

“It’s okay, I’m a future doctor…” Apparently, I thought it to be the perfect time to bust out my best Dana Sculley1From the hit Fox television show, The X-Files. impression as I secured that greasy rag slightly tighter around his gaping flesh wound.

“Alright, now let’s get this blood-bath in Big Red and get you to the ER…”

“Stay with me! Dang it Dad, don’t make me smack you again!”

As it turned out that the Duck-Tape was only doing so much, and I was relying on Dad to stay conscious enough to keep pressure on his make-shift bandage.

“Can’t…you…go…any…fa–” as his words trailed off, I did the only things a son like me could do in a situation like this: smacked his jowly cheeks hard enough to help him keep his eyes open.

Now here’s the irony of all this: flashback to right about 10 years earlier in 1989, when I had broke my arm while staying on the ranch in New Mexico we had at the time. After he gave my arm the full Boy Scout treatment, he loaded me up and hauled tail to the nearest hospital in Raton. About half of that trip was on dirt roads, and when I say he hauled tail, he was hauling tail. I remember glancing at the speedometer from the back seat and seeing that we were pushing 80.

“Whoa, whoa! Geez, Dad, drive safe! My arm isn’t getting any more broken, and I really don’t want to get into accident on the way!”

Yes, I really said that. And yes, he was taking a very unnecessary risk going that fast on curvy dirt roads, even 8-year-old me could clearly see that.

“Dude, you listened to Alanis Morrisette way too much, didn’t you? You clearly don’t know what ‘ironic’ actually means…” you are indubitably uttering aloud right now.

Well, my friend, have you forgotten what year came 10 years after 1989? Yes, that’s right: 1999.

And in which season do you think all this was happening? If you said “summer,” you would be half right–the correct response would be “Crazy-Ass Summer.” (Hey, if you don’t know what I’m talking about when I refer to the “The Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99”, then I suggest you go catch up here.)

One very important detail about that Summer that I’ve yet to share was that Big Red had, shall we say, a slight transmission problem. And it was perhaps this that really made that summer “interesting.”

Okay, so where we now? Oh yeah: Dad’s trying to slur the phrase “Can’t you go any faster?”, and I’m concordantly smacking the sh*t out of him.

I may claim that it was to keep him awake, but deep down, I know I was boxing his overgrown ears because he was harassing me about driving too slow to the hospital, as if it were my fault.

Did I want to be driving that speed? Heck, no! I honestly thought I was going to see my dad bleed out and die right there in the pickup with me.

But what could I do? Had he got the Big Red’s transmission fixed, then maybe–just maybe–we would’ve been able to drive faster than 28 mph, if ever the urgent crisis did arise.

But nooooooo, we were stuck with driving all over Morton County in 2nd gear that entire summer, and now it was all culminating with this, an actual life-or-death situation,

I tell you what, even though it was only 19.8 miles to the hospital (which Dad could have covered in a mere 15 minutes going 80, no doubt), that was the longest 42 minutes of my life.

Good news, I was able to get him there before he bled out, and, after 23 stitches and shot of antibiotic, he was back in the field by then end of the day.

Of course, with him unable to really use his right hand, that meant I was back in the field by the end of the day, doing all the work for both of us…

Now, for entertainment’s sake, I truly believe it’s worth noting here the other headaches and amusements that Big Red’s busted tranny provided for us that summer.

First, there’s the obvious problem of only being able to get into 2nd gear and therefore having to tut from field to field at around 30 mph. The fields that Dad, The Bard,2the friend and classmate who helped us our regularly that summer and I had to service back then were spread all over MoCo3I’m trying to make Morton County sound “hip”. so this really was a drag, man.

If we were ending our day on the other side of the county, near the Colorado state line, then just getting back home would take at least an hour. And driving that slow can mentally wear you out–I don’t recall a single time that the Bard and I went somewhere together where the non-driver wasn’t passed the ----- out by the time we reached our destination.

Verily, one time we were so intent on both of us staying awake, that we decided to take advantage of the fact that our route included a stretch of highway that was under construction, and therefore had plenty of those bright orange and white safety barrels off to one side of the road. But what made this trip so special was that we “just happened” to have some long heavy pipe that was “accidentally” sticking out about 5-6 feet from the edge of Big Red’s flatbed.

So it was a real shame then that I “just happened” to knock over 12 of the 14 barrels I passed with that pipe.

What was even more of a shame was that the Bard nailed all 14 of the ones we passed after we switched players–er, I mean “drivers” halfway through…

Wait. Let me just back up a moment. I forgot to tell you the best part: we couldn’t back up.

You read that right: a farm truck. With no reverse.

Whenever we went to town for parts or lunch, we always had to be very mindful not to pull into a traditional parking spot like a normal human being. Nope, we always had to find some spot off to the side where we could parallel park.

There were a few times that the driver forgot, so you can bet that it was the Bard and I out front comically pushing the truck backwards with Dad steering in those situations.

Even worse than the occasional city-folk parking problem was just day-to-day farming. For example, have you ever tried to hitch up a trailer to your truck without backing up? Didn’t think so. Yet, we had to figure out a way, and yes, it usually involved an unnecessary amount of manual labor on the part of the Bard and me.

And of course, there was the mud issue: it’s not uncommon throughout the regular course of farmin’ that one gets their vehicle stuck in a patch of wet dirt (aka “mud”). Now, ordinarily you would get out of that pickle by alternating between Drive and Reverse, and eventually you will rock yourself onto a spot where you can gain some traction. But did we have that luxury? Noooo. It was only “Forward, Ho!” for us.

Ahh…good times, good times…

Well, y’all, the point of the story really comes down to this: just get your sh*t fixed when it breaks, will you? Sure, relying on a half-assed transmission will provide your son with some interesting dysfunctional farm storied with which he can regale his city-slicker friends 20 years down the road. That’s all fine and dandy.

But then again, instead of bequeathing him with fun and cheeky tales, you just might very well easily burden him with the lifelong trauma of seeing his parent bleed to death while he hauls your tail to the ER at 28 mph.

“Dang it Dad, don’t make me smack you again…”

Content created on: 18/19 February (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

What’s So Rah-Rah-Wrong With Falling In Love With A Cheerleader?

13 February 2022 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

“Rah-rah-Rolla hats off to thee!

Wait one sec, let me double-check my family tree…”

“I’ve never seen Titanic, and I promised myself that I never will…”

“I never drank alcohol until my 21st birthday…”

“Oh, and as a rule of thumb, I don’t date cheerleaders.”

Yes, these pompous phrases are ones that I have actually uttered…on multiple occasions each. Ugh. I can’t say I’m exactly proud that I was actually proud of these achievements.

Except that last one–yeah, yeah, the one about the cheerleaders–that wasn’t me being a pompous ass so much as, well, let me just regale you all about it and it’ll all make more sense…

In high school, I actually did have a literal rule of thumb about not dating cheerleaders. And before you go judging me, thinking I was some stuck-up academic ace who looked down up the perceived diminished intellect of your stereotypical cheerleader, to you I just say, “Slow your roll!” You have to understand that I wasn’t exactly dealing with your stereotypical cheerleaders.

I do have to wonder though, if my situation perhaps had stereotypical small town Kansas written all over it…

You see, it wasn’t so much that I was worried about eventually having average-IQ children if I were to date–and heavens forbid–marry a cheerleader. I was more concerned about having kids with the right number of fingers and toes, if you will.

As it were, during my time roaming the hallowed halls of Rolla High School, an ungodly percentage of the cheerleaders were…uh, how do I put this? Um…they were my cousins.

So, statistically speaking, if I were to blindly go out with a member of the RHS Spirit Squad,1Or whatever the hell we called it back then. I would have been running the very real risk of stumbling into some good old-fashioned inbreeding. Yee-Haw, Milo-Farmers, Yee-Haw!

Not to brag or anything, I would say that I may have been in the running for “Most Kansas High School Experience” award. Like they say, “If you ain’t kissing yer kousin, then you ain’t Kansasing right…”

“Wait, she wasn’t technically off-limits!”

There, I went ahead and pre-emptively expressed mild outrage for you. I wouldn’t say that I was fibbin’ or anything, but…but, well, that whole “cousin” thing comes with a few asterisks. And I hope you’re not mad at me for being rather liberal with how I define my family tree.

Now without further ado, allow me to give you the run-down of ~55% of the RHS Cheerleaders between 1995 and 1999, and then you can cast judgement upon my soul (for the sake of privacy, we’ll only be using first names here):

Mendee: First cousin. Since we shared the same last name, yeah, it would have been pretty obvious that we were Kissin’ Kousins.

Marcee: Younger sister of Mendee; first cousin. Again, the whole problem of having the same last name.

Whitney: Second cousin. I think that’s the right term…our dads were first cousins. Our grandmas were sisters. We have the same great-grandparents–whatever that term is, we have enough common DNA that sophisticated city folk would have indubitably looked down their noses at such a cozy familial relationship.

Erica: First cousin…of Whitney; second cousin. *checks notes* Er, that should actually be Step-First Cousin/First Step-Cousin of Whitney. Her mom married my dad’s cousin. So…common DNA? Not that we knew of! Nonetheless, we might have been “cousin enough” in the eyes of the law, so it was better not to risk it.

Patti: First cousin…to my step-siblings. So we’re back to the whole “Are we “Step-First Cousins or “First Step-Cousins?” debate. In this case though, my dad married into their family instead of the other way around (i.e. I’m the proverbial red-headed stepchild in this scenario). Though I suspect that detail doesn’t really change the state of affairs much…

Lisa P.: First cousin…to Patti. My cousin’s cousin is still my cousin, right? What about my step-cousin’s cousin? Okay, at this point maybe I’m stretching the definition of ‘cousin’ pretty thin. I feel like if only she was my step-cousin’s step-cousin, then I would have been in the clear.

Though, now thinking back, there was actually a brief period my Sophomore year I thought about asking her out. So either I’m completely inconsistent when it comes to identifying who my actual cousins are, or I’m the type of guy who wouldn’t let a little 23andMe get in the way of a good time. Though I don’t know which interpretation would be less offensive…

Kate: Not a cousin. I didn’t date her, but at least I got one good kiss in! Though, the legitimacy of even that is questionable. But again, hey, at least our family trees weren’t intertwined, something that, as you can see, shouldn’t be taken for granted in this here part of the country.

“Ashont’a”:2Not her real name, dummy. Not a cousin; never went to RHS. I did date her, though, and yeah, you could say that I got a couple real good kisses in.3So good, in fact, that they both got her pregnant.

So, about “Ashont’a”…yeah, I guess I kinda forgot that my lovely wife4AKA “The Boss Lady” was a cheerleader when she was in Junior High,5…in a state far away from Kansas a fact that I can indubitably attribute my amnesia to how embarrassed she is by this secret from her past. Welp, either way, I guess this revelation blows a huge hole in my whole “I don’t date cheerleaders” excuse for a total lack of love live in high school.

Oh, and if it wasn’t clear from context, let me be absolutely clear here: I didn’t date her while she was a cheerleader. Good heavens, I don’t want Chris Hansen mysteriously showing up on a barstool in my kitchen with a camera crew or anything…

The point of the story is, Young Grasshopper, if you wait long enough, a smart, funny, beautiful—and kind!— cheerleader might just come your way one day. And if you’re real lucky, she won’t even be your second step-cousin’s step-first cousin…

I guess what I’m trying to say is…Happy Valentine’s Day to my very own and very wonderful former-cheerleader-not-my-cousin-wife. To you a say:

“Give me an ‘I’! Give me an ‘L’! Give me an ‘O’! Give me a ‘V’! Give me an ‘E’! Give me a ‘U’! What does that spell? ‘Rah! Rah! Rah! I LOVE U!'”

Oh, and also Happy V-Day to all you non-cousin-lovers and cousin-lovers6Who am I to judge your love? alike. After all, “Love is love is love,” amiright?7As an unrelated bonus trivia fact, I was really planning on getting in a zinger about “as a rule of let’s-try-not-to-have-kids-with-fused-thumbs”, because, ya know…incest-induced-birth-defects-based humor and all that.

UPDATE/CORRECTION: My sources confirm that there is at least one more name to add to the list…

Lisa O.: No relation to Lisa P; first cousin (to me). Seriously, even dating a cheerleader in another town wasn’t a safe strategy–while I was a Freshman, she was busy being a Junior High cheerleader in the neighboring metropolis of Hugoton. I just couldn’t catch a break.

Our mothers are sisters, so the “Same Last Name” issue never came into play, but obviously the whole “we share roughly the same amount of DNA as half-siblings” thingy is quite the deal-breaker…

Content created on: 11/12/13 February 2022 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Updated on: 14 February 2022 (Mon)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Some Even Called It ‘The Breakthrough Performance Of The Year’…

6 February 2022 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

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)

Footnotes & References:[+]

42 Reasons Why Liberal Elitist Driving Tests Should Be Outlawed

30 January 2022 / / 0 Comments
7 Min Read

Hey all you bureaucratic fat-cats down at the DMV!

Yeah, that’s right, I got a bone to pick with you…

It had fiasco written all over it from the start. Then again, it wouldn’t be a trip to the DMV if there isn’t at least some level of extraneous drama, now would it?

You see, normally for a Kansas teenager, the mere act of turning 16 would be enough to earn one’s driver’s license. Heck, we had all been unofficially driving for 5+ years at that point–or at least those of us had the privilege of being born into a state of child lab–er, I mean to say “the privilege of growing up on a farm.”

So in that sense, yes, I was a “normal” Kansas teenager. Double heck–I had been driving1My definition of “driving” here is rather broad, up to and including sitting on a parent’s lap and being allowed to steer while they ran the pedals. for 10 years by the time my Sweet Sixteen rolled around.

Yet, lo and behold, there I was almost 3 months after my birthday, and I was still undocumented as the day I was born. “Why?” you may ask?

Because just like the rest of my life, the simple task of passing a major life milestone necessitated an overly complicated plot line for a back story. Noooo, it just couldn’t be straightforward, now could it?

I should have taken Driver’s Ed the summer after 8th grade alongside my other Kansan colleagues. I should have been handed my Learner’s Permit long before that summer was over. And I should have been able to watch that Learner’s Permit magically transform into a bona fide Driver’s License right before my very eyes on my 16th birthday.

The problem? Though I was living in Kansas that particular summer, I was technically a citizen of California, at least in the eyes of the law. That was the Summer of the Custody Battle of ’94, and it wasn’t until that Battle ended in early August when I would officially be a tax-paying Kansan. But by that time, well, I had already missed the boat. And by “boat,” I mean that land-yacht Chevy Suburban that U.S.D. 217 used for their Driver’s Ed classes.

Well, you can see that my teen life was already complicated enough between the custody battle and being denied the full trappings of a Learner’s Permit. And, in the words that make absolutely no sense to anybody who has ever lived in Kansas, “it all just went downhill from there…”

Where to start, where to start? Oh, how about scheduling? The whole reason that I was 16.25 years old and still license-less was because of the “2-4pm, every-other-Thursday” hours that the nearest DMV offered for driving tests. So the first appointment I could make was directly correlated to the first day I wouldn’t be stuck in school at that oddly specific time frame: i.e. Spring Break.

It’s not like I would have been in Cancun otherwise. But still, I had fields to plow–and no, that is not a sexual euphemism–and a trip to Hugoton to take my DL test was going to annoyingly eat into my plowing productivity.

Putting our farming grievances aside, Dad dutifuly pulled my ass off the tractor that fateful day and chauffeured me to my appointment in my step-mom’s hyper-futuristic Eagle Vision.2Because y’all know that the Eagle Vision was the bomb-diggity of cars back in that day! But when we showed up to the Steven’s County Department of Transportation–ok, I confess that in B.F. Egypt-Middle-of-Nowhere Kansas we weren’t even sophisticated enough to have a proper DMV–we ran into an even more serious issue: identity fraud.

Well, maybe not so much as “fraud” as “parental negligence:” no one seemed to really know what my Social Security Number was. I have no idea where the ----- Dad got that number from, but it sure wasn’t mine. Unless…unless they gave out the same number to all Roberts born in Kansas in 1980? Well, at least me and this other guy had that much in common, which may have just been a coincidence. But, no, I was not that Robert, the rightful owner of what I had thereforeto thought to be my SSN.

Somehow, some way, between Dad and the DOT, they eventually figured out my correct number, but in the interim there was a moment there where I truly wondered if I had been swapped at birth…or maybe I had got lost in the system and was, as they say “undocumented”…or was I perhaps a clone, only being grown so the Original Me could harvest me for my body organs as needed…oh, how my mind digressed.

Eventually, after acing the written and eye exam portions of the whole charade, I got my opportunity to go on the World’s Most Awkward Date with a certified driving instructor (famously trained in all things automobile). Yes, I speak of none other than The Road Test.

Of course I was nervous, but for the most part I felt like I was actually kinda nailing it. Until…

Okay, so first you need to understand that Hugoton was literally a “One Stoplight” town. And I was doing just fine until we got to The Stoplight, and I had to make a left turn onto Main.

Light turned green. I paused. I looked. I waited. Oncoming traffic came on, and then finally, it was all clear.

But as I turned left, I took it a little too wide. And I realized halfway through the turn: “Aw fudge, I’m turning into the far lane. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be turning into the near lane.” [In audio slow-mo:] “Nooooooooooo!”

A millisecond later my inner monologue continued: “Well shit, if I correct it now, I would have to swerve hard to make it to the proper lane, and it would be, as the youths say, ‘totes obvs’ to Mr. Instructor that I had done ----- up.”

“Best to just play it cool and hope he didn’t notice,” I mumbled to myself, as I pretended like I was supposed to do what I had just done…

“Okay, nice job parallel parking. Now just release the parking brake, and we’ll head back to the headquarters. and wrap up the paperwork!”

Oh my god, I couldn’t believe it. Despite my turn-lane screw-up, it looked like I was home-free and bound to be licensed within the hour.

The “Can You Parallel Park/Do You Know Where The Parking Brake Is?” tests were the last items on that clipboard-carrying melonfarmer‘s checklist, and I had aced both of those with flying colors. Nothing was going to stop me now.

With the bravado and hubris of someone who had just kicked some ass and taken some names, I reached down to pull the parking brake release…only to come up empty-handed.

“The fu—?!? What? How? Where? Why is the brake release not here???”

“Son, if we can get going? We need to get back to HQ before they close up shop.”

“Um, yeah, about that…”

It was dawning on me that I had never actually used the parking brake release handle on that car before, and had just assumed it would be in the same spot as in every other vehicle that I had ever been in.

But this fancy-ass, hyper-futuristic Eagle Vision? I guess they forgot that basic part when they were designing their sweet ride. Because it simply did not exist.

And thus, with the parking brake firmly stuck in place, I found myself firmly stuck in a very embarrassing situation. So embarrassing, in fact, that I did the most embarrassing thing a man could do in that moment: ask another, more knowledgeable, man for help.

“Um…so I kinda can’t find the release. Would you be able to help me out here?” I humbly petitioned Mr. Instructor.

“SIGH. Okay, swap seats with me and I’ll help you out of this pickle.”

Well, it turned out Mr. Expert couldn’t figure out the riddle any better than I could:

“Oh, uh, yeah. That is odd. The release handle should be right here. Yet it isn’t…”

“Wait, how do you not know this??? Aw man, now we’re really screwed!”

We then proceeded to turn that sweet, sweet ’94 Eagle Vision inside out and upside down searching for some release mechanism of any kind, sadly all to no avail.

We were growing ever more desperate by the minute…

So desperate, in fact, that we then collectively did the most embarrassing thing a grown-ass man and a half-ass teenage boy could do: we consulted the Owner’s Manual.

I mean, have we no pride?!?

After a good 10-15 minutes of toiling in absurd futility, our sacrificial act seemed to pay handsome divedends when we came across this nugget of wisdom: “To release the emergency break, slightly angle your toe forward as you depress it further a second time.”

We looked quizzically at each other.

“What the heck does that even mean?”

“Aw, hell if I know.”

It was totes obvs that neither of us gave a shit at that point in time and just wanted to get on with our lives.

Surprisingly, it only took us about another 5 minutes of collective effort to decipher the true meaning of that cryptic message and to get the ----- thing finally released.

Needless to say, we had both been so utterly emasculated by that animate object that neither of us said not a word the rest of the way back to HQ…

“You are allowed to get penalized up to 40 points and still pass. That little stunt you pulled turning left at The Stoplight–yes, I saw you ----- that up from a mile away–that only cost you 36 points…”

Finally safe and sound back at HQ, Mr. Expert Instructor was going over the results of the road test with me.

“Whew! That was close! Well, all that matters is that I passed on my first try and won’t have to wait until summer to come back and take the test again…” I didn’t see the need to wait any longer for my hard-earned victory lap.

“…and I had to knock off 5 points for not knowing how to release the parking brake.”

“But you didn’t either!”

“Erm, I wasn’t the one being tested…”

“Wait, then that means–38, 39, 40, 41,42…awww ----- …”

“Sorry son, you failed…”

The point of the story is that I hereby call for the immediate drafting of and subsequent passing of by the Kansas State Legislature, SB42–also known as Robert’s Law–a bill “outlawing any testing relating to and/or pertaining to knowledge of the application of and/or the mechanisms of release of vehicular parking brakes, in the course of issuing driving identifications and permits by the great state of Kansas.”

Let me reiterate that last part: this is Kansas, for fuck’s sake. We FlatLanders have no need for your fancy elitist contraptions, and it’s a violation of our children’s dignity to be tested such offensive and anti-anti-gradientist concepts!

So next time some pompous elevated-living ass-hat tries to use the phrase “It’s all downhill from here,” do just like my stepmom’s Eagle Vision did that fateful March day in 1997, and don’t you dare budge an inch from where you’ve been firmly-yet-involuntarily planted.

Nothing is “downhill from here” around here, you bunghole…

#HiPlainsPride #FunkYoMountains #ICantBelieveIFailedMyDriversTestOverSuchAUselessPieceOfKnowledge #TheWholePremiseOfThisPieceIsABitIronicGivenThatManyEastCoastLiberalFolkLiveInACoastalPlain

Content created on 28/29/30 January 2022 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Now Me College Graduate, Me Use The Most Big Words

23 January 2022 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

My vocabulary didn’t expand just because I graduated college.

It was because of the WAY I graduated college…

“Well…congratulations, me?”

I hung up the phone with the Kansas State University Registrar’s Office, and was trying to process the emotional turmoil that had just blindsided me. Maybe it was because those feelings were completely unexpected–after all, my academic advisor did give in and grant my special request.

Yet, for being an education-oriented young lad my entire life, I was feeling pretty empty inside for having just graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Physics.

Correction–I meant to say “for having just found out that I had graduated”…

“Anti-Climactic Denouement”–that’s the Word of the Day.

And no, I know what you’re (probably) thinking, but that phrase does not refer to the act of some jackass getting up on their soapbox and declaring global warming to be nothing but a hoax.

Nor does it refer to the Puritan movement back in the 1800’s that declared the female orgasm to be “the work of the Devil himself, that horny bastard.” Hell, I don’t even know if that was a real thing, but knowing those Puritans, I wouldn’t put it past those prudes to come up with some load of horse crap like that. But I digress…

Instead–as you may have gathered from context–“Anti-Climactic Denouement” is the perfect descriptor for my, shall we say, “nontraditional” graduation journey.

Officially earning my college degree–and doing so with dang-near perfect grades at that (#HumbleBrag)–should have been the pinnacle of my academic career. But nooooo, I just had to be “special” and couldn’t let things play out in a much more typical–i.e. linearly synchronous–fashion.

And I blame the Love of (Free) Money for all the resulting emotional trauma I endured. Well, that, along with a healthy dose of Not Knowing What (the ----- ) I Wanted to Do With My Life.

You see, most youngsters my age were set to graduate in May 2003. However, I needed a bit more time to wrap things up, and so had concordantly applied to graduate the following December. This wasn’t too uncommon, though: December graduations happen all the time.

But as that time neared, it occurred to me that I had no idea what I was to do after that. True story–I never had any intentions of using my degree in Physics, believe it or not.1If you’re not aware, I have my PhD in Physics, a fact that would have shocked my Past Self to hear. My future career was a blank canvas. Trust me, though, that’s not nearly as fun as it sounds.

Anyways, I had a few ideas I was kicking around, one of which was becoming a photographer. One of my friends suggested that I could explore that more by taking K-State’s Digital Photography class. You know…the one that was being offered in Spring 2004.

You know…after I was no longer a quote-unquote “student.”

And if you’re not actually a student, guess what? You ain’t getting none of that sweet, sweet free FAFSA monies from Uncle Sam–and you know how much I love me some of them FAFSA monies, right?

I didn’t have a job lined out post-graduation, so the last thing I wanted was to have to pay $453.802Based on this and this, accounting for the Campus Privilege Fee for Residents, the cost of a credit hour in the Spring 2004 would have been $118.60. Three credit hours would be $355.80, and when you add back in the Campus Privilege Fee of $64 for the first credit hour and $17 for each hour thereafter, you get $355.80 + $64 + $17 + $17 = $453.80. Ta-da! in tuition and so-called “Campus Privilege Fees,” especially since my Spidey-sense was telling me that ultimately photography would not be how I earned a living.

So I got creative. Shortly after that Thanksgiving, I called up ye ole’ Registrar’s Office, and was like, “Hey, what-say we put my December graduation on hold and how about I graduate in May like a normal person a year younger than me? Oh, and how about some of that free money?”

And they were like, “Looky here, young whipper-snapper…well, uh…yeah, I guess we can do that. Sure. A May graduation it is for you. Enjoy your free money…”

“You want a decent-paying job? Then I suggest you get your danged college degree, son!”

Those words–or something very close to those words–were uttered by my slightly-older-but-much-wiser roommate, the Beautiful Love Muscle. BLM was commiserating with me, as I wasn’t having any luck landing a job after spending most of that January job hunting.

“Just think of how many more job opportunities would be open to you with your degree in hand!”

“But…but…but I would have to pay back all my free monies!” I blubbered in response.

“Nah, man, just think–you’ll probably have a much better paying job than without your degree, so you’ll make up that $500 within your first couple of paycheck!”

“Dude…your logic is…airtight. Alright! I’ll do it!”

…

“So…I just call them and ask them to go back in time and give me my diploma in December?” It was dawning on me that I was blazing a path that probably had never been blazed before.

“Huhn,” BLM stroked the stubble on his chin, “I hadn’t really thought that far out.”

Welp, I had nothing to lose by simply asking, so that next day I gave ol’ K-State yet another friendly phone call:

“Uh, yeah, hello there Registrar’s Office. You see, I was wondering…um, how do I say this? Could you have me in your system as having officially graduated in December? I already had an application approved and everything…”

“Sir, we haven’t even started processing graduation applications for December 2004 yet…”

“No, not this coming December. I mean this past December–December 2003. I’m needing you to back-date my graduation. Please. Pretty please?”

I conspicuously omitted any questions about whether I would have to pay back the free money they had given me, hoping that they would overlook it amidst the confusion.

“Oh. Okay…I guess I’ll have to talk to my boss about that…”

It wasn’t but a few days later that I received the so-called good news that it was official: I was a Bachelor of Arts,3You would think that I would have been a Bachelor of Science, but due to my scheme that enabled me to avoid taking Quantum Physics and Electronics Lab, I was able to skate by with “Arts” instead. Physically speaking!

The realization that immediately followed hearing that news, though, turned my mood sour pretty quick: “Dammit, I missed the pomp & circumstance of my own graduation! How did I manage to miss such a major life milestone?!?”

And before you go judging me for throwing myself a little pity party over the matter, consider this: the feeling with which I was beset? That was indubitably the same feeling that a bride would have if she, say, missed her own wedding. Or a father, unintentionally missing the birth of his first child.

Like I said–using the big college graduate words that I’m now entitled to use willy-nilly–it was a true “Anti-Climactic Denouement”. What should have been a high point in my life ended up being nothing more than a pathetic let-down…

“Welp, this must be what it feels like to be a criminal running from the law,” I thought to myself–over and over, for the next 4 months. You know, always looking over their shoulder, wondering not if but when The Man was going to come knocking on their door, demanding the justice that was due.

But, in the end, no one ever said anything about me paying back that $453.80 I was so worried about. So…hooray me?

Oh, and I also ended up getting a job a couple months later…that didn’t require a college degree.

So after all that, I could have just graduated in May like every one else, minus all the drama. Go figure.

But on the bright side, when anybody asks me “So, when did you graduate?” I get to flex my hard-earned scholarly vocabulary, humbly replying:

“Well, you see, a kind of a funny thing happened…I’ll spare you the details, though, and just get straight to the point of the story…

“The point of the story is that in January 2004, I retroactively graduated summa cumm laude4For the record, I know that it is “c-u-m” with one “m” and not “cumm.” But my Censorship software will blank it our (“—-“) if I spell it like the synonym for jism (male ejaculate). in December 2003, ergo necessitating the caveat explicationibus that it had been conferred expo facto–but, fortunately, not posthumously.”

You know…just your average graduation story.

Every time I tell it though, I can’t help think of this classic scene from The Matrix 2 (also pay attention to around the 8:06 mark of the clip) :

Content created on: 21 January 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Know When You Need To Surf Or Hit The Turf

16 January 2022 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

For those of you who believe “time is a prison”:

My Dude, you gotta look to the Surf Watch for wisdom…

“Never! I’ll never wear this prison-on-a-wrist! I simply refuse to do it.”

“But it’s that weird-ass shade of green that you seem to love so much. Not only will it make you look like you know what you’re doing out there–and lord knows you need every bit of beach-cred you can get–but it will coordinate perfectly with your board shorts and rash guard. Practical–and stylish, too!”

Admittedly, I probably wasn’t in the best emotional state to be shopping for a surf watch, which almost certainly factored into my over-reaction to the Boss Lady’s suggestion that I treat myself to such a purchase.

Being fairly new to Hawai’i, I had yet to learn some very important rules when it came to surfing. And that particular morning, I had learned from a very, very angry surfboard shop proprietor that you never ever go into a surfboard shop, take one of their surfboards, put it on the floor, and give it an in-store “test ride”.

Like, how the hell was I supposed to know? I mean, how else are you going to know if it is of the right proportions for your bespoke surfing style? It would seem that common sense would dictate that you do exactly that. But noooooo, you almost break a board floor-surfing one time, and you dang near get banned from surf shops state-wide…

Speaking of “surf” and “style”, back to the topic at hand (or should I say at wrist–#DadJoke): the alien-green surf watch.

Bonus lifestyle tip–“thou shalt not take surfboards for test rides in store”–aside, there was actually some philosophical nuggets of wisdom awaiting me in that water-sport accessory that I was convinced would only make me miserable.

You see, I’m what you might call a “wild spirit”–in general, I detest rules and other types of constraints on my personal freedom (or at least that’s the self-image I have of myself). For example, if I want to eat Miracle Whip on my bananas, that’s none of the Food Police’s ----- business. And I’m sure many a soul out there can relate. Well, maybe not to the Miracle Whip example, but I know that a disproportionate number of you out there are anti-establishment hippies at heart.

You can then easily imagine that the last thing a freeman like me wanted while surfing was to be enslaved to some turgid1To quote The Princess Bride, “You keep using that word…I do not think it means what you think it means.” timepiece hanging off his wrist. Who would want a constant, ever-present reminder that their time to enjoy themselves was steadily dwindling away?

Not me, that’s for sure!

“I bristle at your arbitrary chronological construct of ‘time’!” I shouted in my head at The Man.

However, despite my defiance and shaking of my fist at the wind, I ultimately gave into the Boss Lady’s observation that I would never regret buying and wearing an item of such a counter-culture color of green.

I mean it’s kind hard to argue with logic like this:

“Just think, Honey: with this, you can loudly and proudly give the Fashion Police the finger whenever you like. Oh–except when you’re out in public with me…”

It wasn’t too long before I made an utterly shocking, earth-shattering discovery: I was wrong.

Dead wrong.

That watch was no prison–nay, I dare say it was pure freedom. Yes, this was absolutely contrary to my preconceived notions about “personal liberty,” as I elaborated on above.

Instead of constantly wondering if I had overstayed my welcome in the water, and whether I was risking being late for work–yes, I had the luxury of surfing before work on a regular basis #HawaiianHumbleBrag–I had the peace of mind knowing that I was still on personal time, and that my only job in that moment was to enjoy myself. All without feeling the least bit guilty to boot!

On top of that, I got pretty good at estimating how long it would take me to catch a nice wave, ride it, and subsequently paddle back out and be ready to catch the next one. That meant I could pretty reliably tell myself, “Alright, My Dude, we can savor three more sweet, sweet waves until we need to paddle in.”

I wasn’t selling myself short by accidentally calling it a day too early, and thereby robbing myself of joy. Nor was I unintentionally cutting into my work day, and thus what could arguably considered stealing from my boss who faithfully employed me.

It was juuuuuust right. You know, like Goldilocks. Which is kinda appropriate, since, thanks to my luscious lion’s mane, I’m something of a Goldilocks myself.

In the end, it came down to this: knowing exactly when and where I was supposed to be, and fully embracing the moment of being there, then. That is a luxury we often don’t afford ourselves in this day and age…

The point of the story is please don’t get caught up in ideals about “personal freedom” and such, my friend. Trust me, unlimited freedom is way overrated anyways.

It’s that time of year2If you’re reading this expo facto, note that this is my first original post of the New Year. when we often take on new self-imposed constraints in search of a better self, whether it’s a diet, trying to stick to a budget, or a resolution to spend approximately 150 minutes a week showing yourself some self-love surfing under the early-morning Hawaiian sun.

The key is to be thoughtful about how you want to spend your calories, money, or time (or whatever limited resource you may have) ahead of time. Be deliberate about it.

Then, instead of feeling shackled to an arbitrarily-defined set of so-called ‘rules’, you can embrace the situation for what it really is: knowing exactly when and where and what you’re supposed to be doing, and fully embracing the moment of being there, then, doing that.

That, My Dudes, is the Wisdom of the Surf Watch.*

*Note: Blindingly-neon-green-give-the-Fashion-Police-the-finger-but-just-don’t-embarass-your-wife-in-public surf watch optional…

Content created on: 13 January 2022 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

ICYMI: The Long, Winding Reads Of The Year 2021

9 January 2022 / / 0 Comments
< 1 Min Read

No, you didn’t come here to read long-winded novels.

But that never stopped me from writing a few anyways…

“But wait! There’s more!”

Harrumph. How many times have we heard that line while watching yet another late-night infomercial?

But fear not, I’m not segueing this site into some sort of capitalistic whore of Babylon, only trying to eek every ounce of value out of our Dear Readers by trying to secretly sell you something. No, I’m doing nothing of the sort–but, for the record, did you know I am actually trying to openly sell you stuff: merch from our merch store–go check it out here…though I really need to update the inventory.

But I digress. The real reason why I have gathered us here today is to champion the cause of something that emerged in 2021: The Long Read. Whether it was from a concerted effort to make each post more digestible, or whether it arose from a never-ending saga that started with leaky sink, many of the stories from 2021 were part of a bigger plot–something that might have been lost had you not read the companion posts.

So in hopes of allowing you the chance to fully savor the non-sense and deeply asinine nuances of those posts, allow me to present you with the Long Reads of 2021. Pull up a chair partner, and pour yourself a drink. You might be here awhile…

Enjoy!

Eden Cove 9: 5 Weeks in Purgatory
Eden Cove 9: 5 Weeks in Purgatory

< 1 Min Read

The Year 2021: The Year of the Endless Home Renovation.

Pfft! More like “The Year We Almost Ended Up Homeless”…

Read more
The Crazy-Ass Summer Of ’99
The Crazy-Ass Summer Of ’99

< 1 Min Read

The Year: 1999, Summer Time. Location: Our Family Farm.

Excitement Level? “Never A Dull Moment”…

Read more
The Godfather Of The High Plains
The Godfather Of The High Plains

< 1 Min Read

It’s kinda like a ‘Rags to Riches’ story.

Except by the end, I barely got to keep my polyester britches…

Read more
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Content created on: 3 January 2022 (Monday)

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