Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 10 of 25)

Was running around town in those way-too-tight bike shorts a bad idea?

I guess you’ll never know…

“You’re doing it all wrong. Almost 100% for sure, you are doing it absolutely wrong.”

Realizing this truth about your many failed romantic pursuits is not the easiest cookie to swallow. It’s my fault? Nah, man! If at 26 years old, and I’m already seriously weighing my options between dying old and alone versus a mail order bride–surprisingly logical choice of–then that must be for reasons entirely preordained by the Universe, right?

Right?

Well, if you don’t recall, I recently related my “Aw, well screw me, then!” moment in which I realized that maybe–just maybe–I wasn’t so innocent when it came to the untimely deaths of past romances in my life.

What am I thinking? Of course you’ve already read 3:45–The Perfect Time To Full On Panic At The Disco. And if you read that then you definitely read The Unexpected Value Of Rump-Shaking With An Average-Ass White Girl.

So I know at this point you’re indubitably wondering if I actually learned anything from my horrifying self-realization experience. Like, did anything really change for me after that?

Well, I’m pleased as a pickle you asked…

“If every instinct you have is wrong…then the opposite…would have to be right.”

Who, pray tell, spoke such sage words of advice? Ghandi? Einstein? The Buddha? Jesus?

No, someone much insidiously wiser…Jerry Seinfeld. While his eponymous hit show, Seinfeld, claimed to “be about nothing”, I believe it was all a ruse to sneak in some of the best life advice to an indifferent 90’s generation.

I essentially grew up on Seinfeld as ‘tween and teen, and so it’s no surprise that this clip playing in the back of my mind ever since the aforementioned fateful night on a Greensboro dance floor:

So…easy peasy, right? Whatever I thought should do or say, just not do that and do the exact opposite.

I’m being only half sarcastic here–of course it takes some thought and effort to restrain your natural instincts–but at the same time, could you possibly have it laid out for you any easy, you ----- numb-skull?

“Sure, why not? Why not give it a whirl?” I thought, and I set about giving the whole whacky-ass, so-crazy-it-just-might-work strategy a chance to change my luck, my love life, and my life forever.

Talk less.

Ask more questions.

Maybe not make that cynical jackass comment.

Make eye-contact for more than 1.3 seconds.

Given the choice, say the nice/uplifting thing, even if it makes you feel sappy inside.

Compliment others…behind their backs.

Perhaps we don’t have to share every little extraneous detail when telling one of our little tales.

Okay, okay, the irony of that one is not lost me. Clearly, I’ve reverted to my old ways, at least in part.

But otherwise, I gotta report that, yeah, doing the opposite of what I wanted to pretty quickly made my summer much more interesting.

Within a week or two, I was already playing some low-key footsie with two young ladies from my church–something that I had never really been able to pull off in the previous 25 years of my life.

I figured between the two of them, it would work out with one of them sooner than later, and I might just find myself with a–gasp!–GIRLFRIEND…

“Wait, what are you doing back already?!?”

I had gone out cycling with my friend The Wooly Mammoth, and had come back to my new apartment to the surprise of THE cutest girl from my church sitting in my living room, chatting with my roommates.

Not only was this single-dimpled beauty the most all-around attractive single lady in our church, but The Dimpler was also my new neighbor. Well, technically, I was her new neighbor.

Oh, and yeah, I’ll admit this way-out-of-my-league lass had also caught my attention several months ago, before she had headed off to Central America for the summer–but, ALAS! I ultimately learned she had a boyfriend that went to a different church.

And also, that whole “outta my league” thing.

So why was I so surprised to find her in my humble abode? My roommates and I ran in the same social circle at church with her and her roommate, so inevitably they would be dropping in at our place just around the corner from theirs.

Two words: Moose. Knuckle. I’ll let you ask the interwebs yourself if you don’t already know what that means.

You see, I hadn’t expected her to be back from her summer trip for a few more days, otherwise I would have avoided being seen publicly in our neighborhood in my cycling tights had there been any chance of running into her surreptitiously.

I guess you could say that my instinct was telling me that perhaps welcoming her back into town with my Moose Knuckle wasn’t the best idea.

Then again, by now we all know how reliable my instinct is…

“Cocaine!”

Now it’s debatable whether or not it was instinctual that I responded to the midnight FaceBook message from The Dimpler with drug-related humor or not. But, in retrospect, I would argue it was the ----- right way to answer the question “What are you doing up so late?!?”

Though FB had been around for 2-3 years at that point, The Dimpler had just signed up, and since I was a neighbor/friend from church, I soon became one of her first FaceBook friends. Also, back then, it was much harder to control your “Active” status on FaceBook–and therefore much easier for your crush to know whether you practiced good sleep habits or whether you were an addict of some kind.

In my case, it was the latter. Or at least that’s what I told her, referencing the 70s hit Eric Clapton song, Cocaine!

Now wouldn’t you know it, but she responded with “Oooh, drug abuse! How romantic!”–which I took as a personal challenge to my creativity. I promptly turned around and composed a haiku based exclusively on the indifferences between drugs and being totally high on somebody’s love (or, on occasion, your lust for them).

The next morning, I got a reply from her that started, “Wow…that was actually…pretty good! Did you right that yourself?”

Clearly a sarcastic personal insult.

Man, I put myself out there and make myself vulnerable, and what happens? She come back all rude and demeaning? Geez, I should have known I was going to get roasted for attempting to talk to talk to pretty girls again…

…

But…

wait…

just…

a…

tic!

My instinct is telling me that she thinks I’m stupid and I’ve written some trash-ass poetry. Which is interesting, because, if taken literally, is not at all what her message said.

And, before I blow up any chances with her by responding to her mean-girlness in anger, maybe I should stop and listen to my instinct…

…and tell him to shut the ----- up, you ----- idiot.

So…if my instinct is indeed dead wrong, then I should do the opposite. But, responding sincerely to a genuine compliment from a veritable Greek Goddess? This was new territory for this cynical self-saboteur–I had no idea how to actually accept that praise (assuming she wasn’t being sarcastic, of course–you can’t just let go of your instincts and in-grained ways that easily).

I had no choice but to…stall?

I mean, there still was the possibility that I was right, and she thought my haiku was stupid, so I didn’t want to claim responsibility just yet. So, in a move totally, completely, and utterly opposite of me, I simple shot back:

“You’ll never know…”

Ooh, go with being coy…maybe a little mystery will keep the spark alive. Kinda makes sense, seeing as how my instinct is to share every detail and look where that’s got me in life, amiright?

What intrigue! What mystique! What the hell was I thinking?!? What made me think my crazy anti-plan might work?!?

…

Well, friend, I have good news for you: unlike The Dimpler, you might actually get to know what happened next if you stick around until next week.

Sorry I have to leave you hanging, though. I wanted to tell you everything, and I wanted tell you everything now.

That’s what the little voice inside my head was telling me.

But then again, we all know he is a certified dip-shit…

Content created on: 29 July 2022 (Friday)

You won’t go to hell for a little tail-shaking on the dance floor.

Hell, son, it just might send you right to heaven…

“Whew-wee! You sure got some moves for a white boy!”

Yes, those were actual words that were directed at me, believe it or not. Well, not the “white boy” part–I think everyone around here knows that I’m uber-Caucasian by birth–that’s not surprising in the least. So, then, you might ask, why was it that particular phrase stroked my ego like nothing that had ever came before it?

Come, friend, let us dive into that mystery…

Okay, I feel like I need to state a few disclaimers up front here if things are to make sense.

One: I’m not exactly a party boy, so the fact that I was on the dance floor at a bangin’ club in Greensboro was an unexpected turn of events in itself.

Two: I’m not exactly a player/playboy,¹The term I really should be using here is “f*ck boy” (pardon the term), but I got to keep things halfway clean if I want to keep my Dear Mother as a Dear Reader i.e. I don’t exactly have an illustrious history of being smooth with the ladies, and in fact–fun fact, even–I was a virgin up until my wedding night.²”…when I engaged in a raging orgy involving all the bridesmaids!” Hah! I so badly wanted to throw that (fictional) twist in there, because, admit it, that would have been a hilarious and unexpected turn of events. Further, I had exactly one girlfriend in high school, and one in college–and one could argue that the latter, the fabled Tiffany Chestnut, was reluctantly so.

Alas, woe was me; for I ’twas not born with the looks of Adonis. Um…for those needing help with the Adonis reference, I’ve included this screenshot of what comes up when you search for that term amongst the images of the interwebs:

Three: To quote the great Phil Collins: I can’t dance. As in “I can’t dance worth a sh*t.” Coordination and a sense of rhythm were just two more things that I wasn’t graced with at birth…

“Whew-wee! You sure got some moves for a white boy!”

Right…right…that’s where we left off. So, anyways, there I was, a lightly inebriated, white-as-funk single grad student, burning up the dance floor with a woman of color that would have been worthy of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s praise. For one brief moment in my life, I got to experience what it was to be like to be a true Ass-Mastar.

Nevermind that she was probably 10 years my senior. And had a huge diamond ring on her finger that cut into my hand so deeply it almost drew blood. Thanks to a bit o’ alcohol, I had finally achieved nirvana.

And by “nirvana”, I of course mean “having a lady sporting a 3:45 ass tell me that I was a great–*gasp!*–dancer.”

Oh, right. For those of you who don’t know what a 3:45 ass is:

“Out of my way, you Hussy! If anyone will be doing the bumping-and-grinding, it will be me!“

Later that same night–and presumably with even a bit more of that liquid courage in my system–I found myself in yet another first-time-in-my-life incredibly ego-boosting situation: 3 girls viciously vying for the coveted real estate of my full-clothed crotch (remember: you’re talking to a bona fide virgin here).

In a different corner of the dance floor I had (literally) stumbled upon 3 young white party girls dancing by themselves, and subsequently had the divine inspiration that they desperately needed a male companion to keep them company.

Now, not be too superficial, but it must be stated that these 3 young ladies were not exactly, er, “created equal.” There was the stereotypical “hot girl,” her stereotypical “average friend,” and last but not least, their friend that no doubt had a great personality going for her.

I centered myself amongst the three-way throng of my adoring fans, and before I knew it, I was dancing a little bit closer to the average girl than the other two. However, my enjoyment of her physical touch was short-lived, as it wasn’t but maybe 15 seconds before the hot girl body-checked her out of the way before promptly spinning 180 degrees and planting her rump flag in my Lapland.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bump! Ass-to-the-crotch! Grind! Derriere-to-the-groin!

Oh, man, I couldn’t believe my good luck! Ladies fighting…over me?!? And not only that, the hot af, out-of-my-league one was winning??? Was this really happening, or was I just really, really drunk?

And–even more importantly–would this moment of momentous hedonism (by my choir-boy standards, anyways) even matter in the bigger picture?

Indeed, we find ourselves with yet another couple of mysteries–mysteries that will have to wait until next time…

Content created on: 8 July 2022 (Friday)

Ah, it’s that time of year to fondly remember those men we call ‘Dad’.

Just try not to remember TOO many details, though…

“Hey, son! I got a new starter for your pickup–why don’t you and Phillip K. Ballz¹Do I have to point out that’s not his real name? But may I point out that Phillip K. ----- is a real name? come on outside and help me get it up running again!”

Despite it being one miserably cold Kansas spring evening, you better believe that it wasn’t more than 30 seconds later that me and my bestie, ol’ PKB, found ourselves on our backs on the half-frozen ground, one holding a flashlight and the other passing parts and tools to my dad. But lemme tell you boy: the pain, suffering and sacrifice was going to all be worth it.

Getting ol’ Peppermint Paddy up and zooming around Rolla and surrounding countryside again? I mean, what more could two teenagers with 1 driver’s license, 0 reliable modes of transportation, and 31 total years between them ever dream of?

Now, I need to back up a sec because you’re probably thinking, “Hey, who or what is this Peppermint Paddy gal? Obviously, you’re trying to retroactively name a vehicle from your youth, but you’ve never mentioned any other sweet, sweet rides other than Kountry Kommodities and Moby D*ck. And that one tractor of your neighbors that you royally effed up.”

While ’tis true that Moby D*ck was my first true vehicular love as a teen, before that there was Peppermint Paddy: the old red-and-white striped ’87 Chevy Silverado flatbed farm pickup that used to be my Grandpa Harold’s before he passed away. It had been sitting abandoned in one of our fields halfway on the other side of Morton County for a good 4-5 years, when one day, my dad says to me, “Son, I’m tired of hauling your ass to and from school every day. Now that you finally got your license, it’s about time we hauled that pickup out of the weeds and fixed it up so it can be your very own. And, also, so you will stop bothering my wife²I.e., my stepmom. to let her lend you her sweet, sweet Eagle Vision every time your want to go bum around in town with you city-slicker friends like that dipshit, PKB.”

And let me tell you something: you would be surprised at how out-of-my-mind excited I was to hear those words coming out of his mouth. Sure, one might listen to him and hear: “I’m going to spend almost exactly zero dollars on a vehicle for you, and instead going to give you this old, stinky, mouse-infested, barely-running, incredibly unsexy, busted-ass pickup that I totally forgot we even owned.”

Or, if you were like me, desperate for any set of wheels that could transport me off and away from the boring-ass farm any time I wished, you would have heard: “Hark, my youngest and most beloved son, behold: something that barely qualifies as a ‘vehicle’, all for thine own sole possession! Verily, I know you have wept countless nights out of desperation for such a miracle, and, lo, I have heard your cries, and I have answered them.”

In other words, I cherished that gift like he had just given me the keys to a shimmering-purple Lamborghini instead. Sure, it actually had been mouse-infested when I took possession of it (both dead and alive, and plenty of murine fecal matter thrown in just for funs).

And it was greasy. And it was dirty.

And it was stinky because Grandpa had been a smoker.

In fact, it was such a teen-girl-turn-off, Hot-Wheels-hot-mess, that for a moment I had to question my memory of the chronological events of my high school days on the farm, because I’m almost certain that–though impossible without the aid of time travel–the legendary “Dirty Bob” must have been driving it regularly before I got it. Dirty Bob–you remember him, right?

But I digress; back to my love of this motorized means of transport: I mean, who has two thumbs and would spend an entire dreary Saturday in March with a bucket of soap and water, scrubbing down every square inch of a piece-of-shit pickup, inside and out?

I’ll tell you who: this guy! *points at self with both thumbs*

And, seeing as how, well, you’re never going to get some of those particular smells to ever truly go away, I even treated my baby to not one…not two…but THREE of those vanilla and/or coconut-scented cardboard trees you hang from the rear-view mirror. You know, the ones that most people think don’t actually exist outside of the smoke-filled taxi cabs of the silver screen.

Ah, yes, my Sweet Chariot…she swung low for me and carried me away from my boring-ass home on the farm maybe 10-15 times before her starter went out, and instead of finding herself abandoned in some wheat field, she found herself abandoned in our driveway where she would sit for weeks before that fateful day Dad came home with a new starter in hand…

“Oh my god, I know sometimes he can be a real oaf sometimes, but sometimes Dad can be the best dad in the whole world!”

I couldn’t help mildly gushing to PKB behind my dad’s back while we both lay there in the dirt with random rocks indubitably poking us in the kidneys. Dad had just ran inside to grab one last tool before we put the finishing touches on ol’ Peppermint Paddy’s new starter, and we were taking the opportunity to let our inner giddy schoolgirls shine.

It would be an understatement to say that we were both pleasantly surprised by Dad’s somewhat out-of-character act of altruism, yet there we were, on the verge of having a ride that would allow us to actually hang out after school once again.

“All right, boys, fire it up! Let’s see if we’re back in business!”

I hopped in the driver’s seat as PKB dusted himself off before slamming the hood shut. Dad, for his part, just stood back to admire his handiwork as I held my breath and turned the key.

“VAAAAAROOOOOOM!”

She fired right up just like the day she was driven off the lot.

I hopped out of the pickup and on over to PKB, where we proceeded to exchange a copious and unnecessary amount of high-fives.

“We’re back in business! We’re back in business! We’re back in business, Babyyyyyyy!” we chanted.

Dad looked at us kind of funny and flashed his sh*t-eating grin like he knew some secret we didn’t or something.

“What do you mean ‘we’, Kemosabis? You two turds aren’t back in nobody’s business. When I say ‘we’re back in business,’ what exactly did you think I mean?”

“Well, Kind And Loving Father, you did just fix my pickup, no?”

“Son, what kind of ‘business’ are you ever involved in? Pfft! I’m talking about the family business, where real work is done. Our farm is back in business.”

“Uh, dude, what is your old man talking about?” PKB, in his sincere confusion, unintentionally did one of his best Beavis and Butthead to date (’twas 1997, after all).

“Oh, I forgot to tell you? Yeah, um, so I’ll be needing to use your pickup in the morning. And for the indefinite future. My pickup blew a transmission line and I’m not sure when we’ll have enough money to get that fixed, so…”

*crickets*

“Yeah, well anyways thanks for your help boys. I couldn’t have fixed ‘er without ya.”

Why, that son of a biscuit…

Content created on: 11/12 June 2022 (Sat/Sun)