Author: BJ (Page 14 of 34)

42 Reasons Why Liberal Elitist Driving Tests Should Be Outlawed

30 January 2022 / BJ / 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:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	My 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.
↵2	Because y’all know that the Eagle Vision was the bomb-diggity of cars back in that day!

Now Me College Graduate, Me Use The Most Big Words

23 January 2022 / BJ / 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:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	If you’re not aware, I have my PhD in Physics, a fact that would have shocked my Past Self to hear.
↵2	Based 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!
↵3	You 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.
↵4	For 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).

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

16 January 2022 / BJ / 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:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	To quote The Princess Bride, “You keep using that word…I do not think it means what you think it means.”
↵2	If you’re reading this expo facto, note that this is my first original post of the New Year.

ICYMI: The Long, Winding Reads Of The Year 2021

9 January 2022 / BJ / 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

< 1 Min Read

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

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

The Crazy-Ass Summer Of ’99

< 1 Min Read

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

Excitement Level? “Never A Dull Moment”…

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…

Content created on: 3 January 2022 (Monday)

The Year In Review: Your Guide To The Best Of 2021

2 January 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

< 1 Min Read

It’s that most wonderful time of the year.

Time for a heaping serving of our creme de la creme…

Welcome! Welcome! Welcome! Welcome to the end of another year that, for many of us, we summed up by saying “Welp, I guess we should be grateful we survived the last 12 months…”

I don’t know about you, but I really really hope that 2022 is not another one of those years. But what can you do? Hope for the best my friends, just hope for the best…

Speaking of “Best,” I thought I would help you celebrate ringing in 2022 by looking back at the Best posts the Point of the Story had to offer in 2021. Okay, so it’s hard to objectively say these were “the best,” but they were some of my favorites from the past year. It was hard to decide which stories to put in slots 7 through 3, as they were many other worthy candidates, and they probably could have ranked in any arbitrary order.

But #2 and #1? Yeah, those are undoubtedly the Top 2 Posts of 2021.

So, whether you missed them the first time around, or just back for a second helping, here are the Editor’s Top Seven Pointless Posts of 2021.

Enjoy! (And Happy New Year!)

Slide

Stop Sabotaging My Love Life, You Dirty Bastard!

4 Min Read

Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, and it’s time to get your funk on, baby! But first, you’re gonna have to get that funk the funk off you…

Slide

When Your Love Of The Sauce Takes You Sideways

5 Min Read

It all started just like any other regrettable college moment:

“Chug! Chug! Chug…”

Slide

Getting The Best Seats In The House For His Buttercup? This Farmboy Will Never Compromise!

6 Min Read

When she said “Farmboy, fetch me the finest seats in the house,” you know what he said?

“As you wish…”

Slide

Life Lesson #2: Quickly Kick Cookie Cravings To The Curb

4 Min Read

“Oh sh*t…” you say, as you do your best Fred-Savage-from-the-Princess-Bride impression. “Is this a pooping story?”

“This is a pooping story, isn’t it…”

Slide

When Casper’s In The Car, Scary Good Times Are Never Afar

6 Min Read

What would Jesus do?”

Surely not be giving out rides when it’s not his car…

Slide

An Unsurpassed Tractor Tale That Will Never Get Tired

6 Min Read

Attention, all you agriculturally ignorant city-slickers out there!

This one’s for you…

Slide

Honestly, It’s Unholy: The Prom Theme Delivered From Upon High

4 Min Read

Are you sick and tired of prom themes that over-promise and under-deliver?

Well, have I got just the theme for you…

Content created on: 2 January 2022 (Sunday)

The Godfather Of The High Plains

31 December 2021 / BJ / 0 Comments

< 1 Min Read

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

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

Ironically, this story, which took place during my freshman year of college, probably could have been shortened to “One time, I saw a lot of money.”

But where’s the fun in that? Why say it in 8 words when ~3600 will get the job done just as well?

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

4 Min Read

It’s like they always say: You really put the “son” in “prison”…

This Is My Reward For Handling Your Dirty Money, Old Man?!?

4 Min Read

Me: “OMG, we’re rich now!”

Dad: “What’s this ‘we’ stuff, Kemosabe…?”

Great News, You Get To Be The Family Fall Guy!

4 Min Read

Well, this is a crap deal. You get the loot while I get looted…

Content created on: During the colder parts of 1999-2000.

The Crazy-Ass Summer Of ’99

31 December 2021 / BJ / 0 Comments

< 1 Min Read

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

Excitement Level? “Never A Dull Moment”…

The summer in between high school and college, I had the pleasure of working on ye olde farm with me olde man–and, fortunately, a more competent friend & classmate, “The Bard”.

Now, while I could wax long and poetic about those glory days back in SW Kansas, I think I’ll do you a solid and wane short and prosaic¹For the record, I had to Google “antonym poetic” to come up with that one. instead. Let me just put it this way: Me. On a farm. Of course, I’m gonna have a story or two to tell…

Unborn On The 4th Of July

5 Min Read

What could possibly be more interesting than life on the farm?

Death on the farm. Definitely “death on the farm”…

An Unsurpassed Tractor Tale That Will Never Get Tired

6 Min Read

Attention, all you agriculturally ignorant city-slickers out there!

This one’s for you…

Insider Tips For Fighting Fires Down On The Farm

6 Min Read

The field, the field, the field is on fire. We don’t need no water, let the mother ----- burn.

Burn mother fucker, burn…

…And Then Suddenly We Were World Famous Fire-Starters

5 Min Read

We need your tractor. NOW, MOTHER****ER!”

I got to admit, this was not how I imagined my first tractor-jacking would go…

Three Farm-Tested Words Of Wisdom For Living A Happy Life

5 Min Read

Ignore those who will try to tell you “Happy wife, happy life!”

No, true happiness can be found in 3 very different words…

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

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…

But Dad! I’ll Never Get Sick And Tired Of Being Unique!

7 Min Read

You ever wonder why you fought with your dad so much when you were a teen?

Oh, if only we could ever get to the root of it…

Content created on: During the hottest parts of 1999.

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	For the record, I had to Google “antonym poetic” to come up with that one.

Eden Cove 9: 5 Weeks in Purgatory

31 December 2021 / BJ / 0 Comments

< 1 Min Read

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

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

Indeed, the Year 2021 turned out to be the Year of the Endless Home Renovation. What started as simple puddle of water under our kitchen sink ended up making our 2021 almost as bad as 2020. Yeah. That bad.

While remodeling in and of itself was no walk in the park, it was taking refuge from all the remodeling that ended being the more “interesting” part of the whole ----- fiasco. Five weeks at the beach in the spring? Sounds pretty sweet, right? Well, in theory, yes. In practice…well it wasn’t Heaven and it wasn’t quite Hell.

Read on, and discover why I can only describe the those fateful 5 weeks in Eden Cove 9 as “Purgatory”…

PS: If you feel like you need to know more about the events leading up to and surrounding the following tales, you can find even more reading here and here.

Better Beach Rentals: Blurring The Line Between Luxury And Purgatory

4 Min Read

To say that it was “A Vacation From Hell” might be a bit of an exaggeration.

Just barely, though…

I Really Wish This Elevator Story Was More Uplifting

5 Min Read

Now, if you’ll turn in the Good Book to Proverbs 20:17:

“Stolen bread tastes sweet, but it turns to gravel in the mouth…”

You Fool! You Think Murder Will Stop This Beeping Heart?

4 Min Read

Being audibly abused is never thrilling.

It just might make a nice guy resort to killing…

I’m Warning You: The Plumbing Around Here Is Pure Evil

6 Min Read

I never thought I would be compelled to publicly complain about plumbing.

Yet, here we are…

Luxury And Lies: The Truth About That Better Beach House

6 Min Read

They claimed they spared no expenses when they built this place.

If only they had spared me their bullshit…

It’s A Trap: The Unexpected Challenge Of Escaping A Bathroom

3 Min Read

I may not be the best at remembering song lyrics.

But I’m pretty sure it’s “When the lights go down in the shitty…”

In The Spotlight Now: Payback Is (Almost) Hell

4 Min Read

Like the pirate with a steering wheel in his pants once said:

“Argh! It drives me nuts…”

I’ll Shut Up About Better Beach Rentals When Hell Freezes Over

8 Min Read

Hyperbolically speaking, my ranting and raving about Eden Cove 9 will never end.

Or will it…?

Content created on: Pretty much all of 2021.

It’s A Holiday Miracle On Willow Drive, My Dudes

26 December 2021 / BJ / 0 Comments

5 Min Read

Sometimes, there are no gifts under the tree.

Sometimes, the real gift is the tree itself…

“My dudes, it’s already February. Are y’all going to help me haul our Christmas tree out to the curb or not?”

“No man, we can’t do that! Look at it–it’s still green as the day we brought it home. We can’t give up on our Miracle Tree now!”

It was indeed February already, and my roommates (and, coincidentally, my fellow physics grad students) and I were trying to come to a consensus about what to do with the Christmas tree we had all pitched in to buy almost 2 months earlier.

“You want my humble opinion?” P.F. Chaz, the least humble¹The guy was–and is–a bit of a pompous jackass of the four of us, chimed in. “I think it’s like the Big Lebowski’s rug that got pissed on…”

“You’re right…it really does tie the room together,” one of us concurred. “Nice Cohen Brothers pop-culture reference, there.”

We sat there silently for a few moments, basking in the glory of the Ol’ Tannenbaum that sat in the corner of our living room.

In our heads, we knew that it wouldn’t be kosher to keep it around any longer. Not to mention that we would look like a bunch of asses that didn’t know how to move on with their lives if we attempted to keep the Christmas Spirit on life support any longer.

But if we went through with it, we could sense that it wouldn’t just be our bachelor pad in which its absence would leave a gaping hole. There would be 7-ft Douglas Fir-sized chasm of emptiness in our hearts as well…

“Ladies, ladies! Welcome to our humble abode…”

“Oh. My. Gawd. Becky, look at that tree. It is so big. I can’t believe it’s so round, it’s just like…out there (in the middle of their living room)…it’s just so GREEN.“²If you’re wondering to which stalwart of our pop culture that referred, just click here.

P.F. Chaz & I, on top of everything else, were also in a Bible study together, and the gentlemen of our study were hosting our sister Bible study for a belated non-Valentine’s Day dinner at our place. Now, this would end up being the first fancy meal shared by not one, but two, future husband and wife duos–yours truly included–and this particular scholar maintains that we all owe it to The Tree.

You gotta admit there was a streak of genius to it: the second thing the young ladies saw when they walked in the door that evening was, as “Becky” pointed out, a very much alive and well holiday tree in the living room. And–BOOM!–just like that, they’re spending the rest of the night preoccupied with where the hell we got a live tree in the dead of February, and but…why? Why? WHY?!?

And, just like that, with their guards completely down, they had no defense against any crafty subliminal messaging us potential young suitors might or might not have sent their way…

…

Nah, I’m just messing with ya. It wasn’t some grand Get-A-Wife conspiracy.

It was just a humble Valentine’s Tree, born part out of ingenuity, part out of laziness, and 100% out of candy canes and red streamer…

“Green, purple…and gold, right?”

“Yeah, I think those are the right colors.”

“And beads…we need to put plenty of beads on this thing.”

“Oh, right. I forgot where your grandparents were from. I guess that makes you our expert on the matter.”

‘Twas but mid-March already, and our Miracle Tree just kept on being miraculously green, so what else were we supposed to do? As we snacked on the candy canes that had previously adorned our arborous roommate–because at that point “roommate” was the more appropriate term–we quickly yet carefully decked it out with decorations that were never really meant to go on a tree.

Afterwards, we sat our dining room table, enjoying some Sweet Baby Jesus cake,³Okay, so that’s not the right name for it, but the proper name escapes me at the moment. immensely proud of ourselves for having what was indubitably the one and only Mardi Gras tree in all of Chapel Hill…

“Dang, man, this tree is like some kind of Energizer Easter Bunny: it keeps going and going, right on up until the time on the Hebrew lunar calendar when we glorify ancient forms of capital punishment.”

“Welp, you know what that means!”

“You bet your egg-decorating, grown-ass-man ass, I do!”

*All roommates in unison: “IT’S EASTER TREE TIME!!!”

“Hmpph, that’s a bit ironic though,” one of us mused aloud. “Instead of being raised from the dead, Miracle Tree just seems to never die in the first place…”

“Dudes, oh, my dudes!”

“What? What is it? Oh, no, don’t tell me our basement flooded⁴For historical accuracy, the event which is alluded to, the flooding of our basement/lower level/my room, didn’t actually happen until about 3 weeks later. again?!?”

“No, no, nothing like that. You’ll never guess what I found at Party City.”

“Oh no you didn’t!”

“Oh, yes. I did.”

“I always thought that their existence was a mere Mexican urban legend. Like the chupacabra…”

“Gentlemen, behold: our very own red chili pepper party lights. Cut your limes and raise your cervecas, pinche cabrons, ’cause we’re gonna drink to what is indubitably the one and only Árbol de Cinco de Mayo in all of Carolina del Norte!”

Editor’s note: The Four Ghost-Faces of Willow Drive wisely chose to forego an attempt to make a “Juneteenth Tree.” Good call, my dudes, good call…

“Welp, it’s just you and me, Miracle Tree. Let freedom ring and what-not.”

I sat in solitude in our–no, my–living room, celebrating my first Independence Day all alone…by talking to a ----- tree.

Remember the basement flooding back in May? Well, that had set off a chain of events led us to collectively realize that it would probably be hazardous to our health to continue living in that place–something about “gray water” or “black mold,” I can’t exactly remember–and I was the last one to find alternate housing.

“I know, I know, Miracle Tree. I miss my dudes, too. But the holidays just aren’t the same without them.”

*rustle rustle rustle*

“What’s that? Yes, you are still somehow green as ever, despite not being watered for the entire month of June. But I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

*gentle weeping like a willow*

“You have been ever faithful my friend. But, alas, you have fulfilled your purpose here on Earth, one of providing a life lesson which I will be able to share with the readers of my popular blog many years from now…”

“…a lesson about not being too quick to throw out your Christmas tree, just because the calendar says January. Or February. Or March, April, May, or June.. Screw what society says–I say follow your heart.”

“Or maybe the lesson is deeper, like something about being adaptable to the ever-changing seasons of life?”

“Hmmm..or perhaps the lesson is actually super-shallow, like how to pick up women with unconventional Feng Shui tactics?”

“No, no, I got it. This is the lesson: no matter the colors, no matter the foods, no matter the arbitrary traditions, what makes celebrating special is celebrating with the proverbial ‘My Dudes’–whoever that special group of people may be–that is what the holidays are all about…”

“Yeah…that sounds profound enough to me. Now, My Dude–because after living with you for 7 months, you, Oh Christmas/Valentine’s/Mardi Gras/Easter/Cinco de Mayo/definitely-not-Juneteenth Tree, you will forever be My Dude in this dude’s heart–let’s go make one last everlasting memory…”

EXT. WILLOW DRIVE – DAY

A lone evergreen tree sits along the curb, waiting to be recycled, its branches quickly browning in the summer heat.

The local garbage man approaches as he makes his usual rounds. The garbage truck’s tires screech as he slams on the brakes when he passes by the tree. He gets out and quizzically scratches his head, unable to fully make sense of what he sees before him.

GARBAGE MAN

“What in the actual f*ck? Have I been in a coma for 5 months? Where am I? When am I?”

A be-ponytailed physics grad student pokes his head out the front door of a nearby home. He has clearly been waiting several hours waiting for the perfect moment to deliver his punchline.

GRAD STUDENT

“It’s ‘Christmas in July,’ mother ----- !”

END SCENE

Content created on: 23/24 December 2021 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	The guy was–and is–a bit of a pompous jackass
↵2	If you’re wondering to which stalwart of our pop culture that referred, just click here.
↵3	Okay, so that’s not the right name for it, but the proper name escapes me at the moment.
↵4	For historical accuracy, the event which is alluded to, the flooding of our basement/lower level/my room, didn’t actually happen until about 3 weeks later.

Holiday Hints: How To Make Lasting Memories With Your Parents

19 December 2021 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

Sure, your mom’s insomnia may be cured.

But now you’re the one who can’t sleep at night…

“Side effects may include overly honest opinions, acute TMI,¹Too Much Information temporary amnesia, and traumatization of your progeny. Do not take this drug if you have, or are expecting to have, adult children visit you…”

Unfortunately, you’ll never find such warnings on the side of a bottle of prescription Ambien. But I’ll give you three guesses as to why this scholar maintains that it should be included on the label post-haste…

Reason #1

“I feel so sorry for Mason.”²Not quite his real name.

When the Boss Lady and I were on the verge of moving from NC to Hawai’i almost a decade ago, we temporarily found ourselves homeless so were staying with her parents for a few nights during this transition phase. I had spent plenty of time with my in-laws before this, but the woman who sat on the couch across from me on the other side of the room? I had never had the pleasure of meeting her before.

No, this wasn’t the Ma³Almost, but not quite, what I call my mother-in-law. I knew and loved. This was Sleepytime Ma, and let me tell you this: when you spend time with someone who just took their Ambien, you truly get to know a, err, “different” side of them.

While Sleepytime Ma had started out just being only slightly loopy (and therefore mildly humorous), as the evening progressed, she turned the conversation towards a much more interesting topic: my wife’s dating history, pre-me…in its entirety.

If this were a CD you could buy off a late-night infomercial, it would be called “Now That’s What I Call Entertainment (Volume 23)”.

But back to our conversation:

“Hold that thought for one second, Ma…”

*Pulls out super-sized tub of theatre popcorn*

“Oh yeah, Ma? Why is that? Please do tell me more…”

“I feel so for Mason. He was just so ----- lazy, poor guy…”

Actually, she wasn’t so much going thru the Boss Lady’s dating history, as much as she was telling us what she really thought of each and every one of her ex-boyfriends.

While I found this little trip down memory lane to be extremely fascinating and quite hilarious, the Boss Lady meanwhile was vacillating between doubled over in laughter and mortified at the words coming out of her mother’s mouth.

And I hate to be such a tease, but I’m not at liberty to share more details for reasons which should be patently obvious. You’ll just have to let your imagination run amok and fill in all the juicy details that one could only hope a drugged-up mother-in-law might share when her filter is turned completely off.

But, in her defense, I will say just this one thing: most of her comments weren’t quite as racist as they may have sounded at first…

Reason #2

“You know, your niece is pregnant again…”

I had just rolled into SW Kansas all by myself late one night, and, as per usual, I was crashing at the apartment, of “Daisy,” my widowed stepmother. I did not, in fact, know my niece was pregnant⁴I’m not exactly sure this was the family news she led with, but given the timing of this trip and the birth of one of my niece’s second kid, it could have been. again, and so I can say that I truly appreciated the fact that Daisy–though definitely exhausted from her day job–was willing to stay up late with me to fill me in on all the family news I might have missed.

She proceeded to fill me in on every bit of small town news/gossip from the previous 5 months:

“So-and-so died (but it’s okay, because they were a bit of an asshole).”

“Such-and-such restaurant went out of business (but we’re all better off cuz the food was pure crap and was giving us Mexicans a bad name).”

“This friend of mine’s granddaughter is pregnant (but no one knows who the daddy is–not surprising because my friend’s daughter was a terrible parent and it shows).”

And so on and so forth.

Now, Daisy has more of an opinionated personality, but…but she was a little more eager to articulate those opinions than usual, it seemed. Though if I’m honest, I kind of liked her judgy commentary. Normally I could only handle 45 minutes tops of being regaled with all the down-home goings-ons, but her smack-talking just seemed, well, fun…

“You know, your niece is pregnant again…”

“Yeah…I know. I’m pretty excited for her.”

It was a rare treat to get to spend not one, but two, evenings full of quality time with her, so it was no surprise she kept the conversation moving right along–we had to pack as much into our time together as we possibly could.

“So-and-so died. It’s kind of shame, their grand-kids really loved him…”

“Hmmph. Yeah…this is the same guy you told about last night, right? Or did his brother die too, or something like that?”

“Huh?”

Daisy gave me a barely perceptible look of mild confusion, but didn’t so much as pause before moving onto the next, completely unrelated, topic.

“Such-and-such restaurant went out of business. It was your Grandma Smalls’ favorite place to eat. I guess that makes sense, because white people really loved that place, though I never ate there.”

“Wait, another Mexican restaurant shut down? So what? Hugoton must be down to only one Mexican joint in town if the other two closed up shop?”

“What?”

This conversation was starting to give me an eerie feeling. But apparently Daisy wasn’t getting that vibe, and instead just barrelled right along to her next thought:

“This friend of mine’s granddaughter–“

“Wait, wait! Don’t tell me–she’s pregnant. And no one knows who the little bastard’s dad is, right?”

“Well, she is pregnant, yeah. But I would never tell you such private details about whether or not the father is in the picture.”

“…or would you?”

In my mind, of course, I was saying something completely different: “Holy sh*t. She doesn’t remember our conversation last night at all. That explains this feeling of–what’s the phrase I’m looking for? Oh yeah: ‘Passive-Aggressive Déjà Vu.’ Oh, that rascally Ambien…”

Reason #3

“You know, your dad was very demanding in the bedroom…”

“Wait…WHAT?!?”

It was about a year later, and once again, I found myself visiting Daisy past her bedtime. Except this time, the Boss Lady was with me, and I didn’t want her to have to hear any explicit details about what I was pretty sure Daisy was casually referring to.

“Uh, you mean he liked you to keep your bedroom nice and tidy, right?”

“Well if by ‘bedroom’ you mean–“

“WAIT. Please, please, please don’t finish that sentence.”

Nevertheless, she persisted, and three word later, she confirmed every child’s nightmare: we were smack-dab in the middle of a conversation about her and Dad’s love life.

“What the heck is happening here?!? Uh, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be hearing any of this…”

I glanced over at the Boss Lady to see if my dear wife was just as wide-eyed and shell-shocked as I was, and sure enough, she was just frozen in place like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

It seemed there was nothing we could politely do to stop this Awkard-Ass Amtrak of a dialogue from chugging down the tracks.

And to this day, I rue not having enough gumption to be rude and do what was necessary. “Why’s that?” you ask?

Well, after she got done ranting about his raging libido (ugh–just typing that phrase in this context makes me throw up in my mouth just a wee bit), she moved on to cataloguing all the serious arguments they had over the 20 years they had been married. And when I say serious, I mean serious.

You know, things that no child is ever meant to hear about their parent, even as adults. It’s not like Santa Claus, or being adopted,⁵Fun bonus story: when my wife’s parents had to break the news to her older brother that her mom was not his mom, they decided to spread the childhood trauma around and broke it to her that Santa was a big fat jolly lie. How messed up is that, right? where at some point you are “old enough” to know the truth. Just don’t. Not now. Not never. Never tell your kid these things.

Especially in the presence of their spouse, for funk’s sake. All I could think the whole time was “Oh sh*t, she might preemptively divorce me out of fear that I’m going to eventually turn into my dad as I get older–i.e. become as horny and/or angry as Daisy is portraying him here! I’m nothing like him, Baby, I swear!”

My god, I wish all had been Roofied that night…

…

The following evening, we sat down for another round of chatting with Daisy before we headed back to the East Coast the next morning. But instead of continuing where we had left off the night before–dear God, please don’t tell me there’s more where that came from, I thought–we started from the beginning.

Though it was a completely PG and kid-friendly version this time, it had the same basic bone structure as last nights’ conversation.

It was…it was déjà vu, all over again. But why was I feeling this overwhelming sense of relief?

Oh yeah, that’s why: thanks to Ambien, only two of us have to bear the burden of remembering that very awkward conversation ever took place. To this very day, Daisy has no clue that she dropped a shit-ton of emotional baggage on me in sleeping-pill-induced fit of completely unnecessary honesty.

And unless she every catches me all doped up on Ambien, that’s a secret I’m taking to my grave…

The point of the story is it’s the holiday season, and before you start spending late-night quality time with loved ones, you just might want to check their medicine cabinet for a certain prescription medication.

And if you do find it there, you may very well be in for the most entertaining–or utterly horrifying–night of your life. Either way, you’ve been warned, my friend. You’ve been warned…

Content created on: 17 December 2021 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Author: BJ (Page 14 of 34)

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Holiday Hints: How To Make Lasting Memories With Your Parents

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Previously, on “The Point of the Story”…

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↵1	Too Much Information
↵2	Not quite his real name.
↵3	Almost, but not quite, what I call my mother-in-law.
↵4	I’m not exactly sure this was the family news she led with, but given the timing of this trip and the birth of one of my niece’s second kid, it could have been.
↵5	Fun bonus story: when my wife’s parents had to break the news to her older brother that her mom was not his mom, they decided to spread the childhood trauma around and broke it to her that Santa was a big fat jolly lie. How messed up is that, right?

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Reason #1

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Previously, on “The Point of the Story”…

The latest word on the street

Dig into the vault for lost treasure

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)