The Point of the Story

Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Author: BJ (Page 23 of 35)

Now That’s What I Call A Second Act!

15 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

And now…your fun and cheeky conclusion to Zen Death Meditation!

Last time we talked, I was sharing with you the joys of contemplating my own death in light of what I was convinced would be an impending positive COVID test. If you haven’t already read And Now…Your Moment Of Zen Death Meditation, take a quick break and catch up–if nothing else, I won’t have to re-explain what the heck Maranasati is. But, given that your time is indubitably precious, I offer to you a brief summary.

In reverse chronological order, here are the two main conclusions I came to during that fateful COVID-induced Maranasati session:

Death may not be the end of my time on Earth…

and:

I am most definitely not ready to die…

Scratch that last thought–what I really should say is that I’m not ready to stop taking care of my family.1This makes more sense if you have read the Death Zen Mediation post already. But I’ll stop beating a dead horse now, I suppose… Death be damned.

In fact, I started to be downright belligerent about the matter: if I die, I’m going to simply refuse to “move on to the light” or whatever other long-term options supposedly await all the Bougie dead folk. All y’all can enjoy your shuffleboard in the sky or what-have-you; I got business left to tend to here in this realm, and I plan on keeping one foot firmly planted in this world.

First things first: I got some, um, “marital” duties that need to be fulfilled.

With all due respect to my overly-competent wife, she would be lost trying to handle the family finances in my absence (she may bring home the bacon, but I’m the only one who knows how to fry it up just right). I’m not kidding one bit: this is the very first thing I started fretting about when imagining my death.

Well, guess what? According to all those ghost-hunting shows your grandma watches, I should be able to manipulate most electronic devices. And guess what is done almost purely via electronics? Our finances.

Okay…so things are starting to look up. I may not necessarily have to leave my loved ones completely high and dry upon my departure.

Now, what else could I conceivably do on the Other Side?

You know…my employer wouldn’t really need to know that I’m legally deceased, would they? I’ve been working remotely for the last 8 months, and I’m honestly not seeing any hard and fast reason I couldn’t keep fulfilling my job duties from the grave. Just keep depositing those paychecks, baby, and I’ll keep on delivering those deliverables!2Web-based passive-income businesses (such as The Prissy Pet Project are another great candidate for providing longer-term financial security.

At that point in my thought adventure I realized, “Holy sh*t, for real what all could I do were I to take up a ghosting gig?” The fact that this whole crazy concept may not be entirely impossible was really getting me pumped about the prospect of dying. Oh, the places I could go!

Of course, “the places I could go” might be limited by whatever The Rules are–and I have no ----- clue what those are–so I technically have to include the disclaimer that the following claims have not been evaluated by the Food & Drug Administration, and should in no way be construed as a guarantee of what one might be able to do with their Afterlife. I’m just letting my imagination run wild here, folks.

Now without further ado, here is a sampling of things I might attempt to do if/when I arrive in the In-Between:3Alas, though, since I’m stuck with a Second Place Survivor’s medal–aka a negative COVID test result–and I don’t know if I’ll get to actually try out any of these theories any time soon, for now all these ideas will have to suffice as fodder for short stories, mini novellas, TV show premises, and/or movie scripts.

  • Do you know what an “incubus” is? I’ve heard the term, but am curious to find out what all the hub-bub is about.
  • I figure being a “guardian angel” to my daughters would keep me plenty busy. Especially when they’re of dating age. Guess who has 4 thumbs and getting chaperoned on every date until they’re engaged?!? Also, guess who has 4 thumbs and will never have to worry about being sexually assaulted?!? That’s right, these gals.4Images and names have been redacted to protect the privacy of minors, but you may know them as The Elder and The Younger. Why? Because their Ghost Dad will strangle anyone who has not obtained proper consent with their own limp ----- . Consider yourself duly warned.
  • I also plan on doing all the other “normal” dad things I already do. Critical to this plan is finding a way to have long-ass conversations, though. Using a Ouija board to communicate with the girls would never get the job done on account of how ----- tedious my verbosity would be one letter at a time.
  • Oh, you thought this blog was going to die with me, eh? That’s cute. You can rest assured that resting in peace won’t stop me from sharing all my wonderful philosophical thoughts on life (and death).
  • Well, if ghosts have unfettered internet access… I figure I would take advantage of having plenty of time5Interestingly, there is reason to believe that the dead have shit to do, including a very active social calendar. See: “Champ” from Spooked Podcast (https://bit.ly/3bfT6PJ — Luminary subscription required). to take online courses. I’ve been thinking about picking up a few more programming languages and perhaps an MBA from Strayer University…
  • Hacking could also be another delightful new hobby. It should be a snap to steal people’s passwords just by peeking over their shoulders! No doubt I would use this to clandestinely advance my radical political causes.
  • Speaking of politics, could I be a political assassin? At first I thought about being your run-of-the-mill assassin whose end game is the death of the target. But then I realized it would be much more entertaining to ----- with the targets instead. For example, I’m thinking of lightly choking them while they are publicly speaking so that their health and/or mental well-being is called into question. I’ll also have to look into whether straight-up possession might be an option. In that case, my first order of business would be to troll prominent Republicans by making them randomly blurt out “Black Lives Matter!” on the record. Oh, the horror!

Of all the fantastic ideas I’ve had, I think my favorite scheme is “Scientist On The Other Side.” This is exactly as it sounds like. I would be making observations like crazy, coupled with designing basic, yet informative experiments.

Is gravity the same there as it is here? Is gravity even a thing?

I’ve heard that ghosts often complain of being cold. What’s up with that? Where does that fit into the basic laws of thermodynamics?

What are the limitations of the forces that we dead folk can instigate in the land of the living? And where does that energy come from? Also: how does living human fear seem to translate into energy in the non-living domain?

What is it about salt that distorts the fabric of the Other Dimensions? I suspect that its basic crystalline structure and associated eigenfrequencies come into play some how…but how?

As you can see, I’m a physicist, and I have a few questions…

My fantasy here, though, hinges on having a living accomplice to whom I can channel all my findings. Now, I’ve already started recruiting for this, if you were curious, but I’m interested if you’re interested, ya know?

Okay, so to be clearer about what I want to do here: I want to establish an entirely new branch of science, one that takes the metaphysical and makes it physical, and takes the paranormal and makes it normal.

Honestly, I’m a scientist to my core, and frankly, I’m not buying this “the Devil’s running around doing all this crazy shit to test your faith” hand-waving voo-doo bullshit. There’s got to be rules, and I wager that they can be reconciled with our current understanding of science. Or, better yet, blow the modern paradigms away the same way Relativity and Quantum Mechanics did. I suppose in that case, they would have no choice to break the rules and award me the Nobel Prize posthumously…

I chuckle heartily at the idea of struggling to be a mediocre scientist in life, only to turn out to be a trailblazing, Earth-shattering scientist in death. Now that’s what I call a Second Act, my friends!

And consider this outside-the-pine-death-box thought, will ya: what a plot twist would that be if I’ve anxiously worried my days away, wondering if I will ever really do anything meaningful with my life…but never realizing that it was what I would do with my death that would make me bigger than Einstein!6And finally bringing long-overdue glory and renown my sleepy l’il hometown of Rolla, Kansas!

Now you can see why that negative COVID test was so disappointing–I got me some BIG plans for my death/afterlife! But you know what? My overly-enthusiastic attitude is not deterred one bit.

Let’s see…how do I put this?

Content created on: 6/7 & 13 November 2020 (Fri/Sat/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Best Place To Share The Ancient Wisdom Of GongPu?

12 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

During my first year of grad school, I shared an office with an affable Chinese grad student named Gongpu. Given that he was a non-native English speaker, there were many moments in conversation when we would have to pause to explain some American pop-culture reference or another to him. Eventually, this morphed into “Gongpu’s vocab list” on the blackboard in our office, featuring such entries as “Richard Simmons,” “Zach Morris,” and “Festivus,” amongst many other interesting and/or amusing items that escape me at the moment.

However, the real joy of having him as an office mate were the chestnuts of wisdom and/or misunderstanding that he would bring to the conversation.

Without further ado–and at the risk of coming off as slightly racist–here are some of my favorite moments from my time shared with the ‘Pu…

Eating our lunches together in the office:

*Looks at the vinagrette covering my mixed greens in judgment*

“Ah, I prefer Franch dressing on my salads…”

“I honestly don’t know if you meant French or Ranch…”

Helping me plan my road trip, with a possible stop in western North Carolina:

*Pulls up Google Maps, begins typing*

“Asheville…uh…how do you spell that? A-S-S-V-I-…?”

*The rest of us, trying to catch our breathes from laughing so ----- hard*

“Gongpu, you seriously thought that town was called ‘Ass-ville’, didn’t you?”

Walking to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a celebratory lunch in honor of him getting his Ph.D.:

“I like Bandido’s food, but I don’t like their beans at all. They look like semen.”

*Me, unable to believe what I’m hearing.*

“Uh, did you say ‘semen’?”

*Pointing frantical to the ground.*

“Semen! Semen!”

At this point, even though we had a frank and open friendship, I was getting a little embarrassed by his very interesting choice of appetite-ruining analogy.

*Looking nervously around the street, whispering quietly*

“Um…you mean like…’jizz’?!?”

*Gongpu, clearly frustrated with me, is practically slapping the ground by now*

“CEMENT, you know, what they make sidewalks out of!”

*Awkward pause*

“Oh. ‘Cement.’ Yeah, I suppose their refried beans have an unusual gray tint to them…”

Okay, so maybe that one was on me. But, in my defense, may this last story provide a bit of exonerating context…

Randomly scrolling through some far-flung acquaintance’s FaceBook profile together:

*They have an abridged quote from the movie Bull Durham on their profile, which I begin to mindlessly read out loud*

“Well, I believe in the soul… the small of a woman’s back… the hangin’ curveball… high fiber… good scotch. I believe in the sweet spot, soft core pornography…”1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mn5crhTusSA

*Gongpu cuts me off with a sense of urgency, and states judgmentally, yet matter-of-factly*

“Ah, I prefer hardcore pornography.”

…

“Well, that’s not what…oh, nevermind. Good for you, my man, good for you…”

That always tickled my funny bone, the way he had to make it clear that softcore erotica was well beneath him.

So humorous in fact, that I found myself retelling the tale to a captive audience a few years later:

“…and then he looks at me with disdain and says, ‘Ah, I prefer hardcore pornography.’ Can you believe that?!?”

*crickets*

“Nothing? I guess you had to be there…”

I walked away, without getting a single laugh out of them. I couldn’t help but wonder: was it because they were Chinese-American and found my portrayal of Gongpu racist? Or was it because they were married women and were uncomfortable with me talking about such sensual things as ‘the small of a woman’s back’?

Or maybe–just maybe–the Wisdom of Gongpu wasn’t welcome at our church?

I guess we’ll never know the answer to this one…

Content created on: 12 November 2020 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

And Now, Your Moment Of Zen Death Meditation

8 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

What do you do with your life when Plans A-F fail?

Why, you move on Plans G-H-O-S-T, of course…

“Maranasati,eh?” I thought to myself. “Now I can feel fancy af next time I decide to deeply contemplate my own death. Lat-lat-lah!”

Yes, it’s true. Over the last year or so, on multiple occasions, I have found myself reflecting on my own mortality and the possibility that I might have to deal with it much sooner than I had ever expected. Between being on the cusp of middle age, and you know, 2020 and all, there has been so many exciting exit options for me lately!

Enlarged organs the size of cantaloupes!1See: No Shit Sherlock, Act III. Losing too much weight before the Apocalypse!2See: Death By Hangnail/Pants Epidemic. Leading the Woefully Unarmed Resistance!3Well, I never got around to writing this blog post, but FWIW, it was going to be pithily entitled “This Is Not The Michael W. Smith Reference You’re Looking For.” The wit of that title would have epically gone over everyone’s heads, I’m guessing. The 21st Century Plague!4See: The rest of this blog post.

(On the bright side, I have yet to envision how the 2020 Election cycle will possibly take me out, but hey, the night is still young…)

Now, you might be tempted to brand such thought patterns as “creepy” or “morbid,” but thanks to my new friend Maranasati, I can legit argue that I am instead “enlightened” and/or “healthy-minded.”

And if you can’t tell, I just learned the term “Maranasati” in the last few days, and am indubitably5Yes, please watch this YouTube clips so you get the friggin’ cultural reference! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUUJSj3AzKo going to take the opportunity to drop it into casual conversation every chance I get. Fortuitously, though, it turns out that it is eerily relevant for the topic at hand.

I came across the concept of Maranasati–aka Zen Death Meditation–recently when reading up on my go-to stress reliever, Qi Gong. In short, it is the idea of taking all the crazy sh*t going on around you, and putting it in perspective by taking time to think about the nature of death–yours and of the ones you love (including–wait for it–your beloved pets). It’s a rather interesting idea, and you can read a much better exposition on it here.6Official reference: https://flowingzen.com/21294/zen-death-meditation-maranasati/

The point is, now I don’t have to feel so bad if I happen to get you thinking about your death after reading this After-Life themed post. Come, follow me down this path. If you dare…

This time, I knew it wasn’t just another false alarm. The symptoms were too real; too obvious. Sure, I could still smell, but I was pretty sure I had COVID. And, knowing my luck,7See Touched By An Angel and it’s companion article, My Time To Go. it was going to take me out just short of my 40th birthday.

I spent the 35 minute commute to my nearest available COVID testing site, thinking my deathly thoughts and listening to one of my guiltier pleasures in life, the Real Ghost Stories Online podcast. And the results were…not what I expected.

Oh–sorry, I didn’t mean the results of the COVID test. That? That actually came back negative (and I’ve never been so disappointed in my life!). What I was really referring to was the results of what happened when I followed the black rabbit down the rabbit hole.

Now, where to begin…

My COVID Commute didn’t start too well, seeing as how my very active imagination was running amok, and I found myself overwhelmed with the thought of possibly dying.

But I wasn’t particularly sad for myself, though. You see, one thing I’ve realized through all of my impromptu Maranasati sessions is that I’m not necessarily afraid of death. Instead, its the thought of leaving behind the ones I love to carry on without me–that’s what scares the ----- out of me.

My kids. My wife. My mom.

If I can’t take care of them, then I have failed at the one meaningful job I have had in this lifetime. Sure, I have a bit of life insurance that would help supplement the Boss Lady’s healthy salary. But other than that, I wouldn’t be leaving behind much in place to continue providing for them.

And so down that logical rabbit hole I went:

If I die, I can’t take care of my family.

If I can’t take care of my family, I have failed in life.

I don’t want to fail in life…oh, wait. I get it now…

I am most definitely not ready to die.

Well, poop. That doesn’t seem like a very Zen-like conclusion to me. I’m starting to suspect that I may not be Maranasati-ing it up right…

Meanwhile, my ghost stories podcast happened to be filling my precious little head with some interesting ideas. The particular episode that I happened to be enjoying throughout all of this was about a guy’s uncle who died unexpectedly in his thirties, but apparently liked to still hang out with the family and pull pranks on them. It killed me when I heard his favorite way to get their attention would be to make their smart phones play the last video of him playing with his band in concert. You can’t be ambiguous about who it is that’s doing the haunting, I guess. At least if you truly love those you’re haunting, right?

Now, the idea of something like this was not a new thought to me, and this episode just served to remind me of something that had already been mulling in the back of my mind for awhile.

Well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, but…I don’t know jack squat about what happens when one dies. Is it a binary divine decision between Heaven or Hell? Is it absolute nothingness? Is it the last thought one has before death that persists after that final breath?

I have believed various flavors of some of these theories throughout my life, sure, but I can’t say I have ever known the answer. In fact, a key foundation of my worldview is no matter how well I think I understand something, my understanding will be, at best, incomplete.8I believe I first discussed this (somewhat clumsily) in Surfboard Waxes Philosophical.

But here’s the deal: I have listened to a lot of people’s personal experiences,9Via 2 podcasts in particular: http://www.realghoststoriesonline.com/ and https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/spooked. and whether I like it or not, there’s vastly more anecdotal10While I stress that this is anecdotal evidence, if you collect enough data points, you start to get valid scientific-method-level evidence. evidence of a ghost realm than there is of a heaven. Not to exclude the whole concept of there being a heaven; what I’m really trying to say is that I’m starting to strongly suspect that there might be something in between–and it looks nothing really like your traditional imaginatings of “purgatory.”

Well, that’s an interesting thought.

Death may not be the end of my time on Earth...

I’ll leave you now to mull over these two main trains of thought (“I am most definitely not ready to die” and “death may not be the end of my time on Earth“). I’m curious where your mind might wander off to with those to ideas in hand. Think it over will you?

Come back next week, and we’ll compare notes. Trust me. It will be a lot more fun than you might expect.

I don’t want to get too cocky here, but I’m thinking I might just make you a fan of Zen Death Meditation yet…

Content created on: 6/7 November 2020 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Oh, To Be A Functioning Adult Human Being Again

5 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

I have a question for all you fellows1And you females too who have ignored the patriarchal “rule” that you couldn’t ask somebody out. out there. Have you ever been a nervous wreck from trying to muster up the courage to ask a young lady out? You’re equal parts scared shitless she will say no, and just as scared shitless she will say yes. And although you’re anxious in either scenario, you just need to know either way so you can get on with your life.

Anyone? Anyone? Show of hands? Surely I’m not the only one to have endured this quintessential male-of-the-species experience.2Again, pardon the patriarchal society that way too many people find themselves a part of. Not trying to reinforce it here or anything

Now, let’s assume that you had prepared yourself for if she were to say ‘yes.’ Hedging your bets, though, you also steeled your emotions and your mind if she were to say ‘no.’ You had your bases covered either way, and you were finally ready to finally ask her out and get some dang resolution in your life.

You took the plunge, you pulled the trigger, you popped the question. There was no turning back after that.

And then…

And then she said ‘maybe.’

Oops! You prepared yourself for either heaven or hell, but you forgot about the possibility of getting stuck indefinitely between the two. Welcome to purgatory my friend…

Purgatory. Yup, that’s a pretty accurate description of how I’m feeling right now, less than two days past the 2020 Election, right in the middle of a clearer picture of the results starting to take shape.

Are we as a country on the verge of falling into the-bad-kind-of-Socialism?3You know, the-good-kind-of-Socialism might be an option too… Or are we on the precipice of plunging into the deep end of tribalism overseen by an authoritarian government? Whatever your darkest vision of the future of America may be, it seemed like it was on the ballot in this wonderful, wonderful year of 2020.

And maybe you’re like me, trying to figure out what my future with the Land of Lady Liberty looks like. Are you, too, wondering if you and America have compatible enough values to last for the long haul? You know “Is this somebody you can see yourself raising kids with?” and all.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like I had finally summoned the courage to ask those big questions of her, and I guess I had just assumed that she was ready to give a definitive answer.

Silly me!

Have I learned nothing from the experiences of my youth? Sometimes a person4Or a person-like entity in an analogy, as the case may be here. just needs time and space to make up their minds and figure out who they really are.

Oh, it’s not the answer I wanted at all. I desperately need to be able to move on with my life.

But, nooooooo. Instead of resolution, what the ----- do I get instead? At least 2-4 more years of suspense. Just super.

You may be surprised to learn that all I really wanted to do here was have a heartfelt conversation about the struggle of trying to be a functional human amidst all of this. I mean, I barely found the will to sit down and write about anything at all today, so I’m taking this as a victory.

If things aren’t easy for you in the middle of this superb-a-licious shit-show in which we all find ourselves, I just want you to know you’re not alone. I truly hope you’re handling it better than me, but if you’re not, that’s okay.

Go outside and get some fresh air. Hug your kids and/or pets. Meditate. Pray. Do the dishes. Finally put new strings on your classical guitar, despite how overly-complicated of a task they make it. Take a break from the world and (gasp!) do some work. Fold some laundry.

The important thing is that you keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward…and on down to the passport office. It’s not too late to find a more suitable soul mate–if you know what I mean.

Just sayin’…

Content created on: 5 November 2020 (Thursday)

My Dumb, Crummy Destiny: Accusing Chestnuts Of Being Lazy

1 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Few people realize are even aware of it when they start heading down the path to becoming “Evil.”

I’ll just say this: beware if you find yourself making outrageous claims like “I invented cake pops…”

Tastebud bandit. Olfactory outlaw. Textural terrorist. Mouthfeel mobster. Call me what you want, but it when it comes to food, there’s one thing you should know about me: I don’t give a single solitary ----- about all y’all’s arbitrary ‘rules.’

I even once had a teacher1”…and Ms. Hansen was her name-o!” accuse me of “murdering a baked potato.” Honestly, though, I would argue that smothering a tuber in ketchup and then drowning it in even more catsup is halfway normal. I mean, hello?!? French fries, much?

Biscuit, please!

In college, I would get many a strange look for my habit of eating a banana with a packet of Miracle Whip in class. Growing up, my dad’s signature fruit salad featured apples, bananas, raisins, and Miracle Whip. I was just deconstructing what I already knew to be a palate-pleaser. While haters be busy talking smack, I be busy smacking my lips on a tasty-ass2And, in retrospect, slightly homoerotic. snack.

You get the idea: my jaw chews to the beat of its own drummer, and I’m…weirdly passive-aggressive about it?

Speaking of college, hands-down the best part of my university experience was access to communal desserts in the cafeteria. When everybody else was busy claiming the cake pan was 100% empty like a bunch of fools, I, the eternal optimist,3See also: Fiddy Percent. would be busy piling my plate high with a mound of 100% ----- delicious mixture of frosting and crumbs.

It wasn’t long before I was obsessed with shamelessly collecting cake crumbs like a bona fide addict. At weddings, I was infamous for always requesting that the cake servers scrape their cake knives off on a designated plate that I would later collect and consume with the greatest of gustos.

I mean, have you I ever even had a ball of that super-moist layer of wedding cake that always sticks to the platter? It’s flippin’ mind-blowing–and that’s even before you add that crack-laced wedding cake frosting!

I think I could laud the praises of CrumbBalls (TM) for hours–I mean, not to #HumbleBrag too hard, but they’re a pure palatial revelation. And, yes, I’m pretty dang proud of myself for having the guts to think outside the cake mix box, if you haven’t noticed already.

I must say though, the one downside is that once you’ve experienced cake this way, boring old cake just doesn’t cut it any more.

Fortunately for me though, through the sage life wisdom one can only acquire in their 20s, I eventually realized that I could approximate the effect by thoroughly smashing a well-frosted piece of regular cake with a fork until it was a yummy ball of crumby goodness. I even once opined to the Boss Lady…

Me: “This is genius! If we can find a way to market this we could be so ----- rich!”

BLM: “Um…I think Starbuck’s may have beat you to the punch…”

Me:4https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/all-your-base-are-belong-to-us

Someone has set us up the gut bomb.

BLM: “Yeah, isn’t that pretty much what a cake pop is?”

Me: “Noooooooooooooooo!”

*Does quick internet research*5References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cake_pop , https://www.bakerella.com/page/13/?s=cake+balls”No. No. NO. The first digital record of cake pops are from December 2007–I’ve been CrumbBallin'(TM) it up since 1999!”

*Slams laptop lid down* “You know what this means, right?”

BLM: …

Me: “I invented cake pops! Me–me, me me! And I’m getting none of the credit–oh, the injustice!”

Back in 2012 when we lived in Hawai’i, the Boss Lady and I got into the habit of hitting up the local frozen yogurt chain on a regular basis. We were trying to live the pono (healthy) lifestyle and all, so this seemed like a decent dessert option.

In theory, at least.

In practice, I would end up getting the tiniest of dollops of froyo before proceeding to lightly season it with M&M’s, Snickers, Butterfingers, Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cups, gummi worms, and, when available, Nerds. Oh, and by “lightly season” I mean “smother and drown.” Best of intentions, amiright?

I eventually gave up on pretending to be healthy and instead embraced the debauchery that it was. Being ever the witty fellow, I even dubbed my creation the “All-Hallow’s Day Special,” in honor of the beautiful, gluttonous sugar-orgy that the archetypical American kid experiences every November 1st. I know, I know. Clever, right?

Then I saw this on TV a few weeks ago:

What is this, Amateur Hour? Y’all don’t even have gummi worms. Pfffft!

Son of a biscuit...

The point of the story is don’t be that whiny little biscuit who won’t shut the hell up about all the credit they’re not getting. It’s just tiresome to be around, man. And trust me–I’ve had to listen to one of those asshats my entire life6In case it’s not clear, Mother, I’m referring to myself.…

Oh, by the way, here’s those chestnuts I promised you…just promise me you’ll watch to the end for the real, uh, “chestnut”:

“…it’s breathtaking, really. I suggest you try it.”

You’re welcome!

Content created on: 28/29 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Little Bo Peep Has Lost His…Respect For Mainstream Gender Norms?

29 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

Let me ask you something: how old were you when you discovered the True Meaning of Halloween?

Hint: It was never really about the candy…

‘Twas Halloween 1985, and I clearly remember being a 4-year-old boy excited to partake in his first “Spook Parade”1Also known as a costume contest. and the other Fall festivities hosted annually in the hallowed halls of Rolla High School.

Yes, I crisply recall seeing my little-boy Batman underwear as my mother changed me into my special outfit in the women’s’ restroom next to the RHS band room.

Ahh, the fond memory of her pulling a long beruffled shirt over my golden curls and past those Batman underwear, and thinking “well, this shirt is…interesting.”

I remember her tying the bonnet around the same little chin that one day, thanks to natural testosterone, would be covered in blonde whiskers.

Oh, how the feel of that toy shepherd’s crook in my future Man-hands2Seinfeld reference! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuwLFkpk4Lw is forever encoded in the depths of my cranium…

The one thing I don’t remember, however, is the family friend asking my mom with a quizzical look on her face: “Oh, who does this cute little girl belong to?”

No, that particular detail I had to get second-hand from the same mother who, being inspired by my luscious loopy yellow locks, decided to take indecent liberties with a child child’s Halloween costume that year.

Yes, Mother, I remember.

I remember (almost) everything.

And I precisely recollect staring at that strange-yet-familiar little girl in that bathroom mirror, and thinking to myself:

“So this is what the holidays are all about…”

The point of the story is, if you’re not bending your gender at least a wee little bit with your costume this year,3Here but a few examples: Finding Yourself On The Fairy Farm & No Cookies For Kesha (technically the latter is an example of “Halloween in February,” but nevertheless…). then I would argue you aren’t Halloweening right.

And don’t just take my word for it: One out of one mothers whole-heartedly agree.

Right, Mom?

Bonus: In case you don’t know “what the holidays are all about”… This is from the hit 90’s NBC sitcom Seinfeld, “The Gum”4 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0697705/ episode, which somehow gets quoted way too much around our household:

Pro tip: It’s the perfect zinger for any underwhelming holiday moment–especially ones that involve chewing.

For example, this November 1st, when you get busted with your mouth full of Halloween candy you stole from your kid, you’ll be ready with the perfect reply that’s guaranteed to go right over their little head!

“Moooommy! Wha-wha-what are you doing?!?”

*Trying to talk and chew 3 Fun Size Snickers at the same time* “This is what the holidays are all about!”

Parents…you’re welcome.

Content created on: 28/29 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Note To Self: Benzene On The Boys Is Never Bueno

25 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

Actually, I’m rather surprised.

…surprised that my kids didn’t turn out to be freaking mutants, that is…

Back in my Sophomore year at ye ol’ Rolla High School, I had the pleasure of taking Chemistry from the most beloved teacher in all the school, Mr. Raff. Now, Mr. Raff was an affable older gentleman, who was seemingly constantly teetering on the edge of going full Nutty Professor.

In my humble opinion, the best part were his quips, constantly bestowing us with trademark phrases such as “…and then I say to myself, ‘Self, two plus two is four!’ And then I pat myself on the back…”

That was definitely my favorite. And he was definitely my favorite teacher from my long and storied academic career.

But…

But, he did have one little blemish on his record…

It was a lovely autumn afternoon back in ’96, and Mr. Raff had just challenged us Chemistry students to use our scientific skills to determine the chemical composition of a mystery liquid. I clearly remember that one of the specific tasks was to measure the density of said liquid.

Me and my lab partner, David–the only two underclassmen in the group–sat out to measure the volume of it straightaway, employing the services of a trusty graduated cylinder. If you don’t recall, a graduated cylinder is basically a tall glass measuring cup, with a base so it can stay upright on its own, and a c-shaped plastic ring that you can move up and down to get a more accurate measurement of what your liquid level is. For your convenience, here is a stock photo of one almost identical to the one in this story:1Image source: https://labcommerce.com/labequip_productdesc.php?catid=52&prodid=1329

Figure 1. A graduated cylinder featuring the infamous c-shaped ring.

There I was, sitting at the lab bench, waiting for David to jot down our scientific observations, when I had the brilliant idea to pop the ring off of the cylinder. Don’t know what I thought I would achieve by doing this, but apparently in that moment I felt compelled to fool around with the lab equipment. This was easily achieved by merely twisting the ends of the ‘C’ in opposite directions, and–boom! Pops right off!

However, I had made the fatal mistake of not taking a Physics class before I took Chemistry, as I then would have known that “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

As I popped the ring off away from me, the cylinder had to compensate by tipping over towards me.

With a loud “thunk” it landed on its side on the lab bench, draining all 21.4 ml of Mystery Liquid over the side…and directly into my chair and general crotch region.

And to top things off, my lab chair had an ergonomic butt-shaped seat,2I tried finding an image of this online, but I couldn’t, probably on account of the fact that shit like this happened to too many teenage scientists and they had to be discontinued. allowing the Liquid to conveniently pool in my Netherlands, completely soaking the underside of my blue jeans.

You can’t even imagine the sheer horror of a teenage boy realizing that he just spilled an unknown substance all over his untapped genetic reserves. “Oh, The Humanity!” indeed!

Worse yet, much to my consternation, I found myself “scientifically observing” that our Mystery Liquid “caused an unbearable burning sensation of the balls.”

As expected, David was doubled over in laughter at my predicament and was far too thoroughly incapacitated to be of any medical assistance. And by that time, the rest of the class had figured out what was going on as well, but not a ----- one of those bastards seemed very sympathetic to my plight. I was literally fighting for the lives my future children here, and all I was getting was breathless howls of laughter from the ----- peanut gallery.

Of course, the esteemed Mr. Raff would be there for me in my time of need, right? Right…?

I turned only to find him literally slapping his knees and guffawing so hard that he could barely get any words out.

I was beyond frantic at that point, and desperately needed him to get his shit together and help me out, as pre-enacted in this scene:3From the 1980 hit movie, Airplane! Gif source: https://thumbs.gfycat.com/BountifulUnconsciousDuckbillplatypus-size_restricted.gif; Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0GW0Vnr9Yc.

This is not one bit an exaggeration of what happened: I actually did have him by the shoulders trying to rattle some sense into him, accompanied by the only appropriate thing to say in such a moment:

“STOP LAUGHING AND TELL ME WHAT THE HELL I JUST SPILLED ON MY SCROTUM, Howard, you Heartless Fool! Oh! The BURNING!”

As much as I loved the old fart, I maintain that it was borderline child abuse on his part to continue laughing for another good 2 minutes before advising me “Not to worry, just go to the bathroom and rinse them off as best as you can.”

When I returned 15-20 minutes later–now with only moderate groin discomfort and a stack of paper towels stuffed in my underwear, (my clothing in that area was still soaked, after all)–I still had many unanswered questions.

Well, just the one question actually: “Will I ever be able to have children? You know, ones with exactly 10 fingers and exactly 10 toes?”

If I recall correctly, the Mystery Liquid turned out to be “just benzene,” and good ol’ Mr. Raff assured me that “[my] junk would be fine once the rash goes away in a few weeks and the hair grows back.”

Fortunately, he was only messing with me about the whole “few weeks” part. I, however, was not bemused.

And I must say, I am even less bemused now that I have access to Google and I can fact-check his lying ass:

Figure 2. Oh, NOW you tell me.

I can’t believe I trusted you, Howard. You and your balled-face lies…

Content created on: 21/22 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Confessions Of A Man Who Lost His Struggle With Weed(s)

22 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

Vacations: everybody could use one, and, in fact, many have earned one, too. But sometimes it’s hard to tell oneself “I earned this” and actually request one (much less actually enjoy it).

That’s definitely me. I typically earn more vacation hours than I feel compelled to use, and so on occasion I’m pretty much forced to take time off just so I don’t lose them hard-earned hours.

A couple of summers ago, I had been wrestling with trying to get a scientific paper submitted and published for what seemed like forever. So when I finally got an actual draft completed it seemed like a good time to cash in on a week’s worth of that much-needed vacay time.

We weren’t going anywhere as a family; instead, I had grand plans of getting sh*t done around the house that had long been neglected. You know, a lot of hands-on projects.

Come the Monday morning of my vacation week, the first thing I decided to tackle was very much so indeed ‘hands-on’: the strip of our lawn between the sidewalk and the street had been overgrown with a bunch of thick-stalked, deep-rooted weeds. And I was going to hand-pluck every last one of those m*therf**kers.

This turned out to be some rather intense manual labor, and by the end of the morning I wasn’t even halfway done–but my hands were full of blisters already, despite wearing garden gloves.

I figured I would give my hands a rest and would tackle the remaining weeds the following day. However, the next morning I discovered that my hands were so painfully blistered that they were useless for even the slightest hint of “manual labor” or “hands-on tasks.”

Welp, there went my vacation! I didn’t get jack-squat done with my precious time off. In fact, I was just miserable the whole time, thanks to my poor decision making. Great job, me.

The point of the story is choose your ----- battles, man. Simple as that. As you were, soldier, as you were…

On a very remotely related note…at my grandmother’s funeral a couple of years ago, my uncle was delivering the eulogy, and made some comment about “the grandkids coming in after playing in the woods all day.”

I remember turning to my brother and sharing this look that said “What in the ----- is he talking about? We’re in Southwest Kansas–there aren’t any ‘woods’ for at least 150 miles in any direction!”

Then, to great humorous effect, he corrected himself, noting that he meant to say “playing in the weeds all day.”

Everyone let out a chorus of chuckles: it was funny because it was true af.

Weeds–now that sounded a lot more like our collective childhood…

“Woods?” Pfffft! Get the ----- out of here, man.

Content created on: 22 October 2020 (Thursday)

Your Complete Guide To Betting On Interplanetary Birthdays

18 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

Help!

I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole at 3.711 m/s² and I can’t get out…

A few weeks ago, I sang the praises of one of my favorite probabilistic puzzles, the Birthday Problem. As a refresher, this asks the question: “In a group of people, are there any Birthday Twins who happen to share the same birthday?”

An interesting alternative way to frame the problem is to gamble on whether or not there are any Birthday Twins at your party. In this case you would try to figure out how many people you need in order to have a 50-50 chance of finding some “B-Twins” amongst you. Then, if you have less Party People than that Magic Number, you bet against B-Twins, and bet on them if your number of Party People is the Magic Number or higher.

Now (as previously shown) the Magic Number is normally 23…

I say “normally” because this is based on the reasonable assumption that you’re on Earth, exclusively amongst native-born Earthlings.

But…but, what if…?

When I originally brought up the Birthday Problem, I thought it would be amusing to think beyond our little blue and green sphere and run the numbers for the rest of our planetary neighbors.

Interestingly, in the meantime there has been the explosive news that there very ----- well might be life on Venus1https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-020-02785-5–so what was supposed to be a mere fanciful exercise in number crunching may not be so far-fetched after all. Indeed, my handy-dandy guide to gambling at all your extraterrestrial social gatherings couldn’t be more timely!

Let’s get started, then, shall we? First, let’s review the ever so important equation2Figure credit: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birthday_problem that we use to calculate our probabilities, which we will subsequently plot and use to visually identify the 50-50 tipping point:

Equation 1: The probability that there are NOT a pair of B-Twins amongst a group of n people…on Earth.

Note that we will be looking at the probability that there IS a pair of B-Twins, which is just the number above subtracted from 1.

Alright, inspecting this equation, surely y’all will recognize a rather familiar number, 365. To generalize this to other planetary bodies, we only need to substitute 365 with the number of days in a year for our particular planet of interest.

No problem! Let’s just Google those numbers:

Figure 1. The length of a year on the planets of the solar system, according to Google.

For your viewing pleasure, allow me to plot those number of days:

Figure 2. The Approximate Length of Intrasolar Years, with log-y axis.

Plugging those numbers into our magic formula in MATLAB, we quickly get this octant of plots:

Figure 3. Birthday Problem Probability Plots for Select Planetary Bodies.

The x-axes of those plots range from 30 all the way up to 600, perhaps making it tough to digest that information. Let’s plot just the Magic Numbers (@ p = 50%):

Figure 4. The Only Numbers Your Gambling Ass Needs To Remember As You Wander The Cosmos.

Oh, shit. Forget everything you know!

Did you catch that? That was a pretty cocky human move that I just pulled there–I took the lazy geocentric approach. I was measuring the length of the years in Earth days!

That makes no ----- sense, right? Why would a civilization on Jupiter measure anything in the length of the rotation of some planet they may or may not know about? We would never create calendars based on Jovian days!

What foolishness! Throw your old guide away!

Okay, so this is about where I fell down the Martian rabbit hole. Little did I know what I would be getting into when I started this little ill-advised adventure.

Apart from Earth and Mars, the question “how many days are there in a year?” gets weird pretty quickly. It was almost as deeply philosophical as the question I posed only days ago: “Can hair have hair?“

It makes most sense to measure a planet’s complete trip around the Sun (a “year”) in units of the time it takes to complete a full rotation on its axis (a “day”). I found a pretty informative astronomical resource3https://www.universetoday.com/37507/years-of-the-planets/ that helped me recalculate my “days per year” numbers.

Here are those revised numbers:

  • Mercury: 0.5 dpy. Wait, whaaaat? A Hermian day is 2x longer than a Hermian year. Ok, so trying to work this into the framework of the Birthday Problem only made my head hurt. I tentatively promise that I will revisit the question of how they would theoretically construct a group of unique “Birthdays” at some later point in time.
  • Venus: 1.92 dpy. Ugh. Just like with Mercury, I’m not going to even try to conceptualize Cytherean “Birthdays.” That’s going to be a whole ‘nother post on that topic. Also, here “day” is defined as sunup-to-sunup, which is not the same thing as a full rotation on its axis. You can start to see why things get messy, no?
  • Earth: 365 dpy. Obviously there should be no change here. But we should note that we are ignoring Leap Days, etc.
  • Mars: 668 dpy. Notice that this is slightly less than the 687 days measured when counting with the slightly shorter Earth day.
  • Jupiter: 10,475 dpy. Shorter Jovian days result in over twice as many unique days per year!
  • Saturn: 24,491 dpy. Like Jupiter, shorter Cronian days result in 2.4x more days on which some native Cronan could be born.
  • Uranus: 42,718 dpy. A year on Uranus is like…no, wait, no time for juvenile puns.
  • Neptune: 89,666 dpy. Uranus and Neptune both have shorter days, but not to the degree of Jupiter and Saturn.

Here is an updated visual graphic reflecting these numbers:

Figure 5: The Proper “Days Per Year” To Use For Birthday Betting.

Alright, now we’re ready to crunch so numbers with some not-so-garbage input. Let me just lay out the 5 updated plots in larger detail for perusing at your leisure. If pressed for time, you can skip past them to the Summary Graphic.

Figure 6. For Mars, the Magic Number is 31 Party Peoples.
Figure 7. If you’re on Jupiter, the number so Super-Duper is 121 (Party Peoples).
Figure 8. All Hail Saturn’s Magic Number of 185 Party Peoples.
Figure 9. Don’t be the butt of the joke–you can bet Uranus that 244 Party People is all you need to make the moneys.
Figure 10. Neptune: 353. Need you know more?

I would like to just take a moment and point out something that I consider astounding. On Neptune, there are almost 90,000 unique days in a year–but you need only ~350 people before 2 of them share one as a birthday! That number is easily 10-20x lower than I would have ever intuitively guessed.

Figure 11. I probably should have led with this.

As you can see in our Summary Graphic (Figure 11), you’ll want to start attending larger parties if you really want to make some money off those poor souls born on planets past Mars.

Either way, you can consider yourself as prepared as ever to bum about about the solar system, hustlin’ your way into extraterrestrial infamy and fortune!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to this very interesting article confirming what we’ve all long suspected: Uranus is the best.

What? Did you actually think that I would be able to escape the gravitational pull of a juvenile butt-pun?

Content created on: 10 Sept. & 13/14 Oct. 2020 (Thurs/Tues/Wed)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Beware The Monumental Mistakes Of A Misguided Middle Man

15 October 2020 / / 2 Comments
3 Min Read

“And I would have gotten laid, too, if it wasn’t for you meddling florists!”

Haikus: Simple. Elegant. Minimalistic. Mathematical. And pretty much guaranteed to make a girl’s heart swoon…even when loaded with drug references.

Case in point: the single most important written work of mine, the Facebook message haiku that hook-lined-and-sinkered the hotty who would eventually become Mrs. Boss Lady.

Long story short, back when we were merely neighbors, I had jokingly referenced cocaine while Facebook flirting. Attempting to respond sarcastically, she instead inadvertently challenged me to somehow make the use of controlled substances…romantic.

Well, methoughts that to be not enough of a challenge, so I decided to make it harder by constraining my literary prowess to stanzas of 5, 7, & 5 syllables.

Yada, yada, ya, and 3 months later this ended up on a wedding program:

Fast-forward to a year and half after that. I’m still the sappy, hopeless romantic wordsmith that she fell in love with those many moons ago. I’m so lovestruck, in fact, that I get the idea to surprise her with an 18-month celebration. And what better way than to have flowers delivered to her workplace?

Now, it turns out that I can be unhealthily shy when it comes to talking on the phone, so instead of calling up a local florist, I found it much easier to use 1-800-FLOWERS.com. No human interaction required!

But wait! You can include a message…but there’s a limit of 175 characters. Hmm, sounds like a job for Haiku Man.

Challenge accepted!

I worked my ass off crafting the following masterpiece, proud of myself for clocking in exactly at 175 characters. I couldn’t wait for her to come home that evening, swooned off her feet and on to her back all over again:

Happy Anniversary Meet-heart1One of my pet names for her.

sweet rest comes softly
for my heart each night it lies
next to my beloved.

18 mths & we've
only just begun to see
our love blossoming.

happy 1.5
years of loving and learning--
dinner's on me t'night.

Love, Mee-Jay2One of her pet names for me.

However, the woman who came home that evening was…thoroughly confused.

“Uh, I’m not sure, but I think your brother sent me some flowers today.”

“What? No, that was–wait. What are you even talking about?”

“Yeah, it was real weird. I got some flowers delivered to me, and they came with this note:”

“DAMMIT. THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A HAIKU! Of course, you’re confused–the florist totally butchered it! All my hard work got turned into a babbling nonsensical stream-of-consciousness.”

“It was you? Then why is it signed ‘Jay’?”3Jay is my brother’s nickname…who happens to have the same first name as her clingy ex-boyfriend that immediately preceded me.

“F*cking florist. It was supposed to be ‘Mee-Jay’. I guess Mr. Know-It-All decided that ‘Mee-Jay’ couldn’t possibly be somebody’s name.”

*Thinks for moment.*

“At least he didn’t change it to ‘Love Me, Jay’…”

The point of the story is you can’t trust the internet and your local florist-who-minored-in-English-in-college to not team up to make your wife think she’s being stalked by a raging, emotionally-needy narcissist who may or may not be a brother-in-law or an ex-boyfriend.

Also, 18-months anniversaries apparently aren’t a thing, so you might as well lower your, um, “expectations” right now, bud.

Content created on: 14 October 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2026 The Point of the Story

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑

error

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)

RSS
Facebook
Twitter
Follow by Email
YouTube
YouTube
Instagram