When all other categories fail (or absentmindedly forget to be assigned), General Cerebral Leakage, fresh off his third tour of duty in the war against wise insurance providers, steps in to save the day!
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:
Figure A: What an “Adonis” looks like, according to DuckDuckGo.
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.
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…
The 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
”…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.
Ask your doctor (or lawyer) to see if The Bus is right for you…
Ahhh…public transportation. Even if I’ve become a man of somewhat modest means, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a free ride on a regular basis. But the benefits of burning less fossils fuels, wasting less of my hard-earned blogging dollars on gas, and helping reduce traffic congestion are just the beginning of the myriad benefits of pub-trans.
However, I would argue that not everything in this world has to be so utilitarian. Sometimes, riding the bus can be an art form–or more accurately, a form of entertainment–in its own right. So please, I invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride as a regale you with a threesome of pointless Tales From The Bus…
“Why didn’t you catch the bus in front of me, you big jerk?!?”
I was shocked. Simply shocked. I was just trying to catch a ride to yet another one of my PhD-level classes (#HumbleBrag), and the last thing I expected was to have to defend my choice of bus in a court of law. I’m no law student, buddy–I’m just tryin’ get my physics doctorate on here, mmmkay?
I mean, whew! This bus driver was a real prick and a half. Like, Dude, your job is to stop the bus and let passengers on and off. And that’s pretty much it.
But, nooooo, not this asshat. He took it upon himself to demand a full and thorough explanation as to why, in the rare instance of two buses running the same route hitting a bus stop 90 seconds apart, that I chose the second bus instead of the first one?
Goodness gracious, heavens forbid I inconvenience Princess Bus Driver!
Ok, first off, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to justify jack sh*t to the cracker-jack behind the wheel of the bus. My tax dollars pays for his salary. Homeboy works for me.
But in case you’re wondering, I had a ----- good reason for catching the second bus. And because I like you, Dear Reader, I will share that reason with you.
You see, in order to get to the bus stop in question, I had to cross a busy intersection first, and then walk/run about 100 feet. If I was real desperate to get to class, and the first bus was my only option, then maybe it would have been worth the risk playing Frogger with the heavy traffic that morning–i.e. jaywalking and putting my life, health, and well-being in harm’s way.
But, guess what? Lo and behold, as I watched my bus roll up to the stop, leaving me to impatiently wait for the crosswalk light to turn in my favor, I spotted a second bus barrelling towards the yellow light at the intersection. ‘Twas but a miracle! Two buses back-to-back? I couldn’t believe that the gods of public transportation were shining down their favor on me…again!
So, given the choice, no duh, I was not going to risk my life to catch that first bus, when I could calmly cross the street and casually stroll up and catch the second one.
Even saying all this out loud feels pretty stupid. I mean, it makes complete sense and was totally the wise and right decision, but…it’s just so…asinine.
Now imagine your butt-face bus driver surprise attacks you with his overly aggressive line of questioning: “Why did you make me stop?!? Why!?! WHY?!? ANSWER ME, YOU WORTHLESS, INCONSIDERATE, SELF-ABSORBED LITTLE TURD!!!”
Ah, I guess the point of the story is that they really shouldn’t let their bus drivers smoke meth before their shift. Or maybe it was steroids? Homeboy had some serious ‘roid road rage going on…
“Oh, you got assigned the Inetianbor v. Western Sky Financialcase study, too!?! Man, I’ve heard we’re in for quite the treat–it’s a real classic!”
I may not have been a law student, but given that my university could brag that its law school was tied for #23 best-in-the-nation,1This statement was supposed to carry much more heft, as I was confusing the law school for the business school, which is ranked much higher. But, alas, that’s what happens when you fact-check yourself before you fact-wreck yourself. it should be no surprise that at least one of these budding douche-bags would take the same bus home at the end of the day as me.
The real problem, though, is when you get more than one of these guys in the same place at the same time.
And in this case study, the particular place was the door to the bus, as they decided to pause embarking the vehicle to have a full ----- conversation about their common class work. Yup, we’re all waiting for these oblivious jack-holes to finish debating the merits of mandatory arbitration in the context of financial law so the bus driver could close the door and we could all get home to dinner.
While the vast majority of us riders were collectively rolling our eyes at these guys, our heroic bus driver jumped into action.
In the most incredible gravelly “old female smoker” voice you’ve ever heard, she simply yet forcefully stated: “GET ON THE BUS.”
This may only sound mildly interesting to a third party hearing this story, yet to witness this glorious moment when The Smoking Bus Driver put the two idiot law school students in their place had quite the emotional impact.
In fact, in our household, it’s become a bit of a shorthand meme for any time we need to communicate “get on with it already!”–and it’s actually surprisingly versatile:
Is your spouse telling yet another long-winded pointless story around the dinner table instead of saying grace?
“GET ON THE BUS.”
Is your child stalling instead of going to bed on time yet again?
“GET ON THE BUS.”
Is your significant other bogarting the only comfortable toilet seat in the house for the third time today?
“GET ON THE BUS.”
Have the, er, “warm up” activities in the bedroom gone on just a bit too long?
“GET ON THE BUS.”
Indeed, from supper-time prayers to foreplay, the possibilities are endless…
“That’s a lot of rakes!”
In full disclosure, it wasn’t me thinking to myself that the amount of rakes this homeless (looking) guy was struggling to get on the bus was impractically large. No, unfortunately, this story I could only experience second-hand from another grad student in my department, Adam.
Adam had once lived near where I did, and after discovering this commonality over a couple of beers, we found ourselves bonding over experiences we had on the G bus.
Of important note, the main nodes for the G bus were our campus and the local, modestly-sized mall. It was there at University Mall that we would both often catch the bus.
One of these times, when Adam was chilling on the bus waiting for it to depart, this random guy comes aboard carrying between 15-20 rakes. Now this was only half-surprising since at that time there was a Rose’s, a medium scale lawn, garden, and home improvement store, at the mall.
But, naturally, so many questions abounded. Like, was this guy starting a lawn-care business or what? And why was he in such hurry? As we all know from our first story, he could always just catch the next bus.
Adam put it out of his mind as the bus pulled out and was on its way. “Might as well try to take a quick nap…” he thought to himself.
However, two blocks later, he was jolted awake by flashing lights and sirens. Or as Kermit T. Frog would put it:
“Please pull the bus over, sir” he heard coming from a megaphone outside the bus.
As soon as the bus pulled over, three cops boarded and swarmed Our Dude, promptly and swiftly hauling his rake-hauling ass down to the station.
Yes, you read that situation exactly right. Not only did this dude think “hey, I’ll just walk out of Rose’s with a cumbersome amount of rakes without paying for them,” but also “you know what would make a great getaway vehicle? A bus!”
I repeat: first, this guy decided that the most lucrative items he could steal were RAKES. Second, he literally chose to take off with more than he could carry.
And last but not least: he used a ----- bus as his getaway vehicle.
You know what I think? I think those law students are wasting their time on Inetianbor v. Western Sky Financial. No, their time would be much better spend studying the psyches of criminal masterminds like this guy…
Oh, what’s that? You’re absolutely insisting that there be a moral to this story?
Well, I suppose if there were a point to this story it would be that maybe–just maybe–if you’re going to steal rakes, at least be reasonable about it. Stick to five or six at a time–max. That way you can make a run for it when the po-po inevitably pull your getaway bus over.
Trying to full-on sprint with 15 rakes in your arms, though? Come on, good sir, don’t be ridiculous…
This statement was supposed to carry much more heft, as I was confusing the law school for the business school, which is ranked much higher. But, alas, that’s what happens when you fact-check yourself before you fact-wreck yourself.
That’s funny, cuz I’m the one getting short-changed here…
“Karma is a biscuit–“
Wait. That doesn’t sound quite right…
Oh, yeah, that’s right…what the proverbial “they” say is actually ‘karma is a b*tch’, but for some reason we don’t use that ‘b’ word in these parts of the internets…I guess you get the lame ‘biscuit’ instead when one indecisively attempts to be politically correct and/or non-misogynistic, yet still wants to spit out certain quotes that reference colloquialisms involving female dogs.
Anywho…so y’all know what I mean when I say ‘karma is a biscuit,’ then, right?
*wink, wink*
Well, if you’re wondering why I bring up the concept of karma–or as we white appropriatin’ folk say, “what goes around comes around”–may I turn your attention to Exhibit B: aka last week’s tale about my first vehicle, Peppermint Paddy.
Seriously, if you haven’t read it yet, take a few moments to go back and enjoy it. Otherwise the rest of this won’t make as much sense. Ya really gotta get the full context to appreciate it, ya know?
…
…
…
So…you read it, right? Sure…sure you did.
Just in case you maybe didn’t, the brief summary is that my wonderful father gave me a gently used farm truck for my first vehicle in high school. When the starter went out and when, many weeks later, he decided to get around to fixing it, what appeared to be yet another act of parental altruism just turned out to be a ruse to get free labor out of me and my friends. And then he appropriated my truck for his own purposes. Yup…that sounds about white–er, I mean ‘right’.
But even if you didn’t read all of the story, at least you read the punchline at the end right, so I don’t have to remind you how it all ended.
Yes, yes, you already knew that the final zinger was “Why, that son of a biscuit…”
So now that you’re all caught up, you surely understand that I couldn’t help but go full-on schadenfreude when that very same starter we replaced in last week’s episode lasted him…wait for it…a whole whopping 2-and-a-quarter days before going kaput.
Not being one to tolerate any crappy craftsmanship unless it was his own, Dad promptly pulled the busted starter out (well, he made me pull it out, actually) and marched right on down to the local Co-op–which, in no relevance to this story but should be noted anyways, was managed by the dad of none other than my buddy from the original Peppermint Paddy fiasco, Phillip K. Ballz–and demanded an exchange for the defective part they had sold him.
Now, PKB’s dad, being an honest businessman (unlike some other dads in this story *ahem*), obliged and promptly replaced the now-completely-ruined starter with a brand new one, a $79 value (that’s $143.87 in 2022 dollars, you know).
And though it was April by this point in time, it quickly started to feel much more like Groundhog Day. Not the holiday itself, but the 1993 Bill Murray sci-fi comedy about living the same ----- day over and over.
After that second starter suffered the same suspicious fate as the first, Dad marched once again back down to the Co-op and gave them an earful about selling such cheap parts…then promptly asked for another exchange, because, well, we got to keep the family business in business, and fixing his own ----- truck still wasn’t an option.
“What are the odds?!? Either that whole dang factory is just pumping out worthless starters, or–more likely–they’re intentionally sending all their rejects to me!” Dad said after demanding an exchange for the fifth starter that somehow had mysteriously broke within two uses.
The whole time I was shaking my head and laughing at the same time. Like, how was Dad failing to grasp Occam’s Razor: “The simplest explanation is most often the right one”? No, instead the man was literally coming up with highly, highly improbable conspiracy theories instead of facing the cold hard truth that was staring him in the face.
Like, Dude, maybe–just maybe–it’s not the five–no, now six–starters that are what’s broken. Perhaps you should take Peppermint Paddy back to the wheat field where you found her and ask it for a refund.
The funny thing is you’d actually get that refund, because, ya know, you spent a whopping $0 on it.
Anyways, the whole literal and metaphorical situation couldn’t help but make me think of a particular “inspirational” poster I once saw at a Hot Topic in the mall.
Dad, this very special Father’s Day point of the story goes out to you (RIP, Papa Bob):
And you know what? In the end I find that I love you all the more for all that rascally dysfunction you breathed into my life.
Why? Because you taught me that when it comes to being a father, there is nothing more important than being “a man, a character.”
*checks notes*
Oh, wait. Oh, fork me. That was supposed to be “a man of character.”
Son of a biscuit…
Speaking of which, Happy Father’s Day to all you dirty sons of biscuits out there!
Go ahead–sit back, relax, and enjoy the fruits of the fruits of your loin’s labor!
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*ckwas 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.”
I just never thought it would be a metaphor for my life…
On a sunny Thursday in mid-June of 2018, I took off early from work to prepare for a family reunion I would be hosting the next day. Meanwhile, Our Dearest Mother was busy praying for the safe travels of her four other children and their families who would be traveling many miles over the next 24 hours to join us.
Let’s just say she forgot to pray for me.
What you are about to read is a real-time documentation of the events that followed…
June 14th, 2018, 11:51 A.M.: A Logistical Miscalculation
In addition to preparing for the family reunion, immediately after that I was going to leave for a work conference in Paris. This, too, weighed heavily on my mind. Apparently, it did for many of my co-workers as well, which became painfully obvious when I had an uncomfortable realization about my plans for the day…
So, in summary: my commute to work usually consists of driving to a shopping center parking lot, and catching a public bus from there. On this fateful day, though, I didn’t realize that I couldn’t catch my usual bus back to my car because it stops service during the middle of the day.
Despite my very unhelpful work friend, disaster was averted when I found an alternative bus route that would get me to where I was going.
Eventually…
12:22 P.M.: Better Notify The Wife In Case I Go Missing…
12:25 P.M.: A Harbinger1Did I mention how recently The Boss Lady kept talking about trying to find a ‘harbinger’…only to eventually realize she meant carabiner clip? LOL. Appears On The Horizon
Meanwhile, I receive the following text from Mom, which she sent to all of us kids (at the time, Our Dearest Mother worked at an assisted living facility, taking care of an elderly woman in her private apartment):
You know it’s not a good sign when your mom’s work shenanigans ends up with “…and so there I was locked in a burning building with a bunch of older people, my bladder about to explode…”
12:29 P.M.: Better Be Safe And Begin Two Live-Texting Feeds…
You know, to help out with the inevitable future police investigation*…
*Please ignore the extremely classist remarks my younger, much-richer-than-my-even-younger-self, self makes*
I better keep the family informed too:
Wait…what???
At this point–and, again, not to be too classist–I am rightfully starting to wonder if I should be concerned for my safety:
12:34 P.M.: Out Of The Frying Pan And Into The Fire…
Immediately upon disembarking the What-In-The-Actual-F**k-Bus:
12:35 P.M.: Oh, This Family Conversation Is Far From Over…
Yes, you were saying mother?
What was that comment about me and ‘tips’ again?
You have no idea how long I have waited for the following two words to come out of my mother’s proverbial lips:
Thanks for clarifying, Mother. Fun fact, though:
12:30 P.M. Some Of Us Are Actually Trying To Have A Serious Conversation Here…
3:10 P.M.: Seriously, Though…
Of course, it wouldn’t be a true family-style text buffet without a typo-ridden run-on text from the elderly matriarch thrown in just for fun:
Confused? You’re not alone. It was so bad that our normally silent Sister “A” felt she had to say something:
My dude just outed himself as someone who does not read my blog. If he did, he would have known what a Venn diagram was from one of my very first posts.
So…maybe it was Bro #2 that would have felt more at home on that bus ride than me?
3:53 P.M.: No, We Will Not Let It Go, Mother, Thank You Very Much…
LOL, Mother, “lost” is a pretty appropriate typo to describe my entire day and the collective time of everybody unfortunate enough to be involved in this group text…
4:07 P.M.: First Trapped In A Burning Building, And Now Lost In A Viciously Confusing Grocery Store? Sheesh, Mother…
For the uninformed, those popular sweet fizzy drinks that are causing a nationwide obesity pandemic? In the Flyover States from whence my family comes, we don’t call that ‘soda’ like they do here on the East Coast and other more highly educated parts of this fine country.
Sometimes, you just have to speak in Elderly Kansas Woman’s native tongue, amiright?
Oh, good effin’ lord, Mother…
Anyways, once again, if you’re exhausted by this entire conversation at this point, rest assured, you’re not alone. Just ask Sister A:
Jeez…her very own little brother could have very well been inadvertently swept up in a bootlegging/panhandling/child pornography sting operation, entrapping all occupants of Durham Area Transit Route 10, Bus 2122, and she couldn’t have given a rat’s ass!
Harrumph!
The point of the story is always make sure there’s an elitist bus route to take you to wherever you may have parked your car.
Otherwise–and whether or not you want to–you might just learn exactly how long it takes to bum $7 off complete strangers, exactly how much booze that will buy you, and exactly what, pray-tell, do they do to kiddie smut-mongers in prison.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go scrape this gum and/or dog sh*t of a life experience off my soul…
Content created on 14 June 2018 & 27 May 2022 (Fri/Fri)
What do you do when someone wants to pay you to eat poo?
Oh, what to do, what to do, what to doo-doo…
“Ring! Ring!“
Great. Just great. The one night in my entire college career that I decide to go to bed before 10, and some jack-hole has to go and be blowing up the phone in my dorm room.
“Uh, hello?”
“Dude, dude, ’tis I, the Beautiful Love Muscle!1No, his initials aren’t actually BLM. Howdy!”
“Howdy yourself, BLM. Why the hell you calling me when I’m trying to get a healthy night’s worth of rest?”
“Yeah, uh, so there’s a bunch of guys here hanging out at my apartment, and…”
“…and what, you huge oaf?”
I didn’t give a crap if my impatience came through loud and clear over my landline or not.
“Well, we have a dare that we all thought for which you would be the perfect candidate.”
“Um, okay. What is it?”
I gotta admit that my ego was slightly flattered that little ol’ me was who they thought could handle this mystery challenge like no one else.
“We’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Nah, ----- that, amigo. I’m hanging up now…”
“No, wait! There’s could be a sizable amount of cash in it for you.”
The man sure did know the way to this poor college student’s heart.
“You don’t say? How much? I ain’t getting out of bed for any less than fif–“
“Two hundred fifty in cold hard cash. So are you in?”
Silence…
“Dude are you still there?”
*Ding-dong!*
BLM opens door…
“Nah man, I’m here…”
“So, it’s pretty simple: you eat some poo, and we pay you $250. Any questions?”
I couldn’t believe that BLM actually was able to keep a straight face while he suggested that I eat a steaming pile of crap, all for the mere purpose of the juvenile amusement of the gaggle of dumbasses–many of which I called ‘friends’–that had congregated at his place.
“The ----- is wrong with you man? And me??? When someone suggested, ‘Hey, let’s see if we can dare somebody to consume human fecal matter!’ All y’all biscuits unanimously came up with my name? Noooo, that’s no disturbing at all…”
“Aw, c’mon man! We’re offering you a quarter of a cool grand. And don’t be too offended we thought of you–after all you yourself brag about how you’re a ‘human garbage disposal’, amiright?”
“Yeah, ‘human garbage disposal’–not ‘walking septic tank’. There’s a bit of a difference there, Broseph.”
Amidst all this banter, a plot to part these fools of their money started to incubate and then hatch in mind. At that point, I thought that I had bought myself enough time. I just need to build a little more suspense…
A “Please, oh please!” spontaneously came forth from some nugget-head in the crowd.
“Yeah, you already got out of bed and traipsed over here–you might as well make it worth your trip.”
“Do it! Do it! Do it!”
All of sudden there was a chorus of jackasses all chanting their encouragement.
“Okay, okay! I’ll think about it–and on one condition: only if it’s the dung of my beloved roomie, B-Nye, Not The Science Guy–wait. What are you doing here? You’re in on this scheme, too???”
B-Nye just gave me his trademark sheepish chipmunk grin.
“Ok, whatever. Let’s just go somewhere private and discuss it. If all y’all need us we’ll be at Jen & Em’s2Female friends of ours who just happened to live in the apartment across the hall from BLM. place across the breezeway. See you suckers in a few minutes…”
“Brownies! Brownies! You ladies got any brownies?!?”
I didn’t have time to mince any words on useless pleasantries.
“Oh, hey, it’s you two. What’s up?” Despite my brusqueness, Jen was as pleasant as ever.
“No time to talk. I need whatever brownies you might have in this apartment, stat! And whole corn–you got any whole corn?”
I could see out of the corner of my eye that B-Nye was starting to put the pieces together.
“Ahhh, I see now…so you weren’t really planning on eating one of my fresh turds? Well, that’s a relief–pun intended!–cuz I don’t think I quite have a proverbial ‘bullet in the chamber’, so to speak.”
Jen, on the other hand, had no ----- clue what we were going on about.
“Ummm…are you guys talking about eating poop? ‘Cuz one time I heard about some frat guy that ate poop, and then after that all the sororities put him on a do-not-date list. They even had Wanted-style posters printed with his picture on it stating ‘Do Not Kiss This Man!’ It was cray-cray, I say…”
“So…he got brown-listed, eh?”
“Yeah, I suppose you could say that.”
“Well, fear not, my dear Jen, I don’t plan eating poop for realz.“
“Then why are you here?”
“Those fools across the hall have pooled their money together and will pay me $250 to eat crap. Fifty of that is yours if you can help me make a fake turd out of brownies and corn, and fifty of that will be B-Nye’s to pretend it was a fresh loaf he just pinched off. What say you?”
“Shouldn’t we split it evenly 3 ways?” B-Nye piped up.
“Oh ----- off. I’m the one risking my reputation here for a measly $150. No need to get greedy.”
“Okay, well you’re welcome to any brownies you can find, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have any.”
After a solid 10 minutes of turning their apartment upside down to no avail–and twice rebuffing BLM and the dumbass mob’s knocking on the door with ‘Go away, or you’re going to scare off B-Nye’s shy chocolate prairie dog!’–we sadly came up completely empty-handed.
In the end I totes be like:
“Noooooo!”
“Sorry to disappoint fellas, but I’m out. B-Nye couldn’t produce the goods.”
I wasn’t ready to reveal to this crew that my plan to take their money and run had only been foiled by Jen & Em’s tragic lack of baked goods in their household.
“But, you thought about it. Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell every girl we know that you seriously considered eating crap!” Cody, one of the many jackasses present, was all too quick to point this unflattering technicality.
Okay. So, I guess I was ready to reveal my plan to fleece them after all.
“You big dummy, I didn’t consider eating poo for a single second! I was going to eat a fake one made out of brownies and make off with your money. I was going to literally walk away with a pocket full of cash and a shit-eating grin.”
“But you still thought about it!”
“No, you see it was actually quite a diabolical genius plan–“
“Hey guys! He almost ate sh*t! He almost ate sh*t! Tell everyone you know!”
“No–wait–oh, fudge,3While that could be considered a pun, what I’m really trying to say is ‘FUCK’. nevermind. You’re all a bunch of ----- idiots…”
The point of the story is that the world is full of turds who don’t give a crap about nuance. Appearances matter. Simple interpretations and salacious stories–those are what are usually remembered.
If something you’re thinking about doing–like, say, pretending to eat sh*t to make a few bucks–that, on the surface, may reflect poorly on your judgment and/or character, well, you better think twice before you even think once about doing it.
Later on you can lay out in great detail all you want about how brilliant you really were, but take it from me: no one will still be listening by then. No one cares about the asterisk. No one gives two toots about parenthetical statements. No one has time for your lengthy over-explanations.
It will already be too late, your good name will be forever smeared4Fecal-based pun intended…
I’m basically a God(zilla) in this strange nation…
“Hello, Tokyo…HELLO, TOKYO!”
I tell you what, finally getting to visit the Land of the Rising Sun was just so ----- exciting. While I wasn’t technically a fake 80’s rock star, I couldn’t help but thinking that this is what it must have felt like to have been Spinal Tap visiting Cleveland for the first time…
Yes, as I pre-call it, ’twas the Spring of 2025, and the proverbial Japanese cherry blossoms were in full bloom. And thanks to an invitation of dubious sincerity from old friend who had resettled across the Other Pond, I had loaded up the family and hauled them across the Pacific Ocean to enjoy these world famous blossoms and all the other cultural experiences this strange and foreign land had to offer.
Soon enough we were finding our way through the airport, and that was when I noticed that we seemed to be attracting quite a few stares. I found that surprising, ‘cuz surely they had seen their share of super-Caucasian middle-aged men in a cosmopolitan metropolis like this, right?
We had almost made it to the respite of our taxi when we were stopped by a random Japanese couple.
“Shashin! Shashin!” I heard somebody excitedly chatter from behind us.
“The heck they talking about!?!” I muttered to myself as I whipped out my handy pocket Japanese-English dictionary.
“Shashin! Shashin!” They were pretty intent on getting whatever it was that they wanted.
Soon enough, I found “Shashin” in my dictionary–though, had I looked up sooner, it would have been obvious from them frantically pointing at their phone that it was a “photograph” that they wanted.
“Well, if it’s a selfie with the White Devil himself that you want, than it’s a selfie with the White Devil you’ll get!”
I mean, I had no better guess as to why they insisted on getting a picture with me, but hey, what harm could it hurt in humoring them? I tried flashing the ubiquitous Asian peace/victory hand sign for the pic, but they stopped me with their broken Engrish:
“No, no, rike this.” Both of them pressed their palms together and stood on one leg while placing the foot of their free leg against their knee.
“Is that…is that Tree Pose from Yoga???” This situation just continued to get more and more bizarre.
But, as it turns out, I’m a huge fan of the Tree Pose, so it was no problem for me to handle their, uh, “interesting” request.
So, there we stood in the middle of the airport, the three of us in Tree Pose, as The Elder took a picture of us on their phone.
“Domo arigato!”
They profusely thanked me before heading on their way. But as they walked away, I could clearly see they were already posting our picture to social media.
What in the world were they up to?
I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I proceeded to hail a taxi.
“Oh, those clazy Asians…”
“ようこそ ハワイのサーフィンヨギ !”
My entire family stood there in shock in the middle of Shibuya Crossing–“the Times Square of Tokyo”–trying to comprehend what we were looking at.
There above us, plastered across the giant LCD screens on the side of one of the buildings was…a really tan version of me?
“Okay, this is getting creepy…first off, we’ve had to stop and take pictures with what I guess are your fans 8 times in the 2 hours we’ve been in this country. And now…this? Is there some secret life of yours that I should know about?”
Honestly, “overly suspicious of a possible double life” was the last response to the situation from the Boss Lady that I had expected.
“You kidding me right now? I have no ----- idea where that picture of me came from. And when would have I had the time to sneak off on a Trans-Pacific flight to build an international fan base? I’m just as confused as you are, Babe!”
“Well, I for one think it’s impressive that my very own Daddy is a world-wide superstar. Even if he has no clue why, it’s still pretty danged cool!”
At least The Younger, our 7-year-old daughter, ever the optimist and drinker-of-life-to-the-fullest, was enjoying the weird-as-hell moment we found ourselves in.
The Elder, the pre-teen problem-solver that she was, then pointed out something that seems patently obvious in retrospect:
“Well, from all the Ryan’s World that I watched when I was younger, can tell you that ‘ようこそ’ means ‘Welcome!’ in English.”
“Now only if we could figure out what ‘ハワイのサーフィンヨギ’ means, then maybe we could get to the bottom of this mystery…”
“Ahhh, it’s nice to finally get away from the crowds, isn’t it, fam?”
After being relentlessly hounded for fan-pic after fan-pic–all of them demanding we assume Tree Pose, nonetheless–I finally decided to give everyone a break with a relaxing visit to Chidorigafuchi Park.
It was only natural that we would end up in C-Park, as this was one of the premiere spots to enjoy the cherry blossoms–and wasn’t that half the reason we were there in the first place? Plus, as an added bonus, there were all sorts of sculpture art to enjoy at the same time (The Boss Lady is infamous for her pastime of “watching art”).
“Holy. Sh*t.”
I was kinda shocked at the words coming out of my wife’s mouth. Normally I’m the one to drop a cuss word or two in the family.
“Hey Babe, I don’t think the girls are quite old enough to hear potty-words like that coming out of your pie-hole…”
No response. She seemed to be frozen in shock and/or awe at something over my shoulder.
“What in the world are you starin–“
My mouth stopped dead in its tracks as I turned and saw what it was that she was staring at.
There, in front of us, in the middle of beautiful park halfway around the world from our everyday lives, was a bronze statue of…me?!?
“Uh, Dad, why is there a sculpture of you doing the Tree Pose next to a palm tree?” The Elder had an inquiring mind that wanted to know.
“Hey check it out–here on the plaque is that strange inscription again, ‘ハワイのサーフィンヨギ’–maybe it’s time we ask the Googles what that means?”
Leave it to The Younger to point out the obvious fact that we could have done a bit of internet sleuthing this whole time (but personally, I kinda enjoyed revelling in the mystery of it all–shhh! Don’t let the kids know!).
The Older snapped a pic of the plaque on her smart phone and plugged it into Reverse Image Search.
“Let’s see…ah, yes, here it is right here! ‘ハワイのサーフィンヨギ’–it looks like you’re known in these here parts as the ‘Hawaiian Surfing Yogi’. Says here they erected this statue in honor of an unknown Haole in Honolule who was a popular tourist attraction at Waikiki Beach from 2011 to 2013 before he mysteriously disappeared. According to his Wikipedia page, ‘The Hawaiian Surfing Yogi’ was known for his elaborate public post-surfing stretching routine. In fact, for a couple of years there was actually a Japanese social media challenge where tourists would mimic his poses and try to take pictures with him without his knowledge. Most famous of these poses…”
“…was the Tree Pose. Yes, kids, I suppose it’s true: I am indeed the infamous Hawaiian Surfing Yogi–though this is the first I’m hearing about it!”
“Those crazy Japanese tourists must have been pretty good at taking pictures of you without you knowing it, eh, Dad?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But now that I think about it…I do vaguely recall during one of my stretching sessions noticing an elderly Japanese tourist off yonder making a horrible attempt to copy my moves. I tried my best to ignore him, but I couldn’t help notice that he was killing it with his tour group. Indeed, his fellow travellers all seemed to be getting a good chuckle out of that joker’s antics at my expense…”
At that point, the Boss Lady piped up with a pity summary of all the events that had transpired.
“The point of the story is, girls, that you gotta be somewhat careful when ‘doing your own thang’ in public. You never know who is watching, and you could unwittingly become an international celebrity like your father here, for better or for worse.”
She then turned her attention to me:
“And as for you, don’t go getting any ideas about lightening striking twice. You may have fell ass-backwards into fame this time, but I promise you, there aren’t going to be any alien archeologists in the future stumbling across your obscure blog and thinking to themselves, ‘Hmmm, so this is what the typical Earthling’s life looked like…’
“Ignore her, girls: I’m telling you, one day far in the future, in a galaxy far away,there’s going to be a sitcom based on my writings. I’ll be the intergalactic Laura Ingalls Wilder of the Zeta Reticuli solar system, all because I was never ashamed to ‘do my own thang’…”
This episode was brought to you by Google Translate and one very over-active imagination.
We all hope to be remembered fondly for our charitable deeds.
But which one actually gets memorialized? Well, that depends…
“Hey Babe, I have to show you something you’re not going to believe!”
The Boss Lady and I were out for a stroll in a local park one fine evening in the summer of 2027, and she had apparently stumbled upon something that she thought would blow my mind.
“Okay, I’m going to cover your eyes and lead you to the surprise…no peeking, okay?”
I literally had no ----- clue what she was about to show me. Even when we finally stopped near the park bathrooms and she uncovered my eyes, I was no less confused.
“What the–?!? What am I looking at here?”
“Well, maybe you should read the inscription…”
I leaned over to examine the back of a beautiful park bench, and what appeared to be a limerick engraved on a immaculately-polished plaque.
My eyes skimmed over it several times, but each time only deepened my confusion. Was this some type of riddle?
“Yeah, I still have no idea what’s going on here. ‘R. Hendersen’?1I slightly modified my name to protect my privacy. Is that supposed to be me? If so, how did the heck did they get my name? And ‘depends’? Depends on what?”
“Well, first off, it’s clearly a park bench dedicated in your honor, silly!
She spoke as if it were patently obvious. It wasn’t.
“But…why?!?”
“Well, I was puzzled at first too, but I think I finally figured it out…”
“Please, enlighten me then.”
“So, do you remember back in 2020 when we were in the middle of the pandemic, and we started ordering all of our groceries online?”
“Uh-huh.” I still didn’t see what this had to do with the price of rice in China.
“And do you recall that after a few months we had upwards of 100 paper grocery bags cluttering our garage?”
“Yeah, that did get out of hand, didn’t it?”
“And since you ordered online, every single one of them had a sticker with ‘R. Hendersen’ on them so they would know it was yours when you picked them up.”
“Of course. Yet…”
“Patience, it will all make sense soon, Young Grasshopper. Anyways, between the paper bags and the pandemic, you got so overwhelmed with it all that you asked me to take care of the bags.”
“Ja, those bags took a surprising toll on my sanity…”
“Well, did you ever wonder what I did with them?”
“Uh, I always just assumed you threw them in the recycling…”
“Err, not exactly. I never told you this, but around that time, I happened to be dooms-scrolling on that site we used to call Facebook, and I randomly came across a post by a local charity requesting paper bag donations.”
“Okay…”
“Well, when I showed up with a trunk full of bags, I was surprised to learn that they needed them for delivering adult undergarments to senior citizens in our area. I was even more taken aback by how profusely the guy thanked me.”
” No sh*t? That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, apparently they were super-desperate for bags, and to him, I might as well have been an angel sent directly from heaven. I could swear he almost cried.”
“But…the park bench?”
“Oh yeah, thath. Our donation must have meant quite a bit to the local loose-sphinctered elderly folk, I guess. So much so that they must have showed their appreciation by erecting this bench in honor of their generous-yet-mysterious benefactor…”
“…’Mr. R. Hendersen’!”
“Exactly: ‘Mr. R. Hendersen’.”
“Well, apart from the fact that it should be ‘Dr. R. Hendersen’, I gotta say I’m quite flattered. Now that I know the backstory, let me re-read that plaque…”
With toilets afar from whence we sit, Shall we worry when our bowels move a bit? Nay, a million thanks to one Mr. R. Hendersen And his ample supply of much-needed Depends, Allowing us now in our pants to peacefully sh*t!
Forever Grateful, ChathaM County Council On Aging
“Hey, wait a minute! Does that mean what I think it means? And after all I did for them?!?”
The Boss Lady couldn’t help snickering a bit, taking a wee bit too much delight in confirming my fears:
“Yup. It sure sounds like to me that those old farts are literally taking a huge dump all over your good name…”
If you love her, you’ll give her whatever she needs.
Even if that “whatever” involves 8 gallons of the slippery stuff…
“Thar She blows!”
I quickly ran to the window of our humble trailer home and looked out towards the dusty-ass dirt road that connected our farm to Kansas Highway 51. Soon enough, I saw what the heck my bro, 1SkinnyJ, was going on about.
However, the image of a white whale of a car–an early-80s1I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember the exact year, and may have been as old as a 1978 model. Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, to be exact–barrelling down our driveway amidst a whirlwind of dirt and sand just didn’t quite compute in my head.
“What in the heck? We don’t know anybody who drives that kind of car…right?”
I turned to 1SJ, hoping he knew who might be paying us a visit on such a fine spring evening, but he appeared to be lost in thought.
“Let’s see, it’s 1998–that car must be pushing 20 years–yet from what I can make out, it’s in mint condition…”
We both stood there, frozen in suspense, as moments later it pulled up to our driveway, and out popped…
“DAD?!?” we exclaimed in unison, still not understanding what was unfolding before our eyes.
” ‘Tis I, your Noble and Beloved Father, and I come bearing gifts!”
I had never seen a bigger sh*t-eating grin on my old man’s face before in my life.
He continued: “Well, not ‘gifts’ per se, just one gift…”
His two dumbfounded sons just continued to stare blankly back at him.
“Do I really have to go all Oprah on y’all? Okay, here goes…*ahem*:”
Technically, this is an anachronistic cultural reference…
“Well…to be clear, you two get a car to share…”
Seeing as how, at the ages of 17 and 19, respectively, we were basically grown-ass men who hadn’t had their own vehicle up until that point, you can only imagine that we were pretty ----- pleased as a pair of pickles with this turn of events.
I feel I need to pause here for a sec and provide some context regarding our transportation situation at the time. You see, during the entire 1997-98 school year, we would roll up to RHS for class in Kountry Kommodities, a sweet, sweet–but somewhat awkward–ride…that looked much like this:
An artist’s rendition of what Kountry Kommodities might look like today…
“Holy shizzle, it’s even got that velvet-like interior!” 1SJ exclaimed as he peered inside our new ride.
“This day just keeps getting better and better!”
I could not contain my joy, as this was indeed one of the best unexpected and very pleasant surprises of my entire life.
Dad went on to regale us with the tale of how he was at an auction a few towns over, and saw this car, which had been owned solely by an older couple for its entire existence, and since they had mostly kept in their garage, had only 30k miles on it(!!!). He proudly recounted how he decided ‘what the heck!’ and put in a few strategic bids on, driving away with it for only $1200.
Dang straight, he should have been proud of himself–you score for your sons classic wheels like that that’s in mint condition, and for only $1200? That’s Dad of the Year level sh*t right there.
Unlike us, though, “Daisy”, our stepmom was none too pleased that he had gone out and dropped that chunk of money on a lark, but for once he put her in her place, and let her know that dammit if he wanted to do something nice for his boys, he wasn’t going to hear any crap from anyone who might think otherwise.
That there? Now that was a Dad of the Decade performance…
“Oh, one last thing, boys…”
The two of us turned our gaze away from our newfound love, and back towards the Amazing Father of ours.
“…you can do whatever you like with your car, but I will need you to drive it to work.”
Not that the “other shoe dropping” could put that much of a damper on our day, but nonetheless, the realization that our beloved Moby D*ck2If you’re curious, my censorship software can’t tell when I use words such as D-I-C-K in a non-profane manner, and will indiscriminately censor it unless I trick it by spelling it “d*ck”. would have to double as a farm truck wasn’t a pleasant one. So much for keeping it in mint condition…
…anyways, that’s how the Summer of ’98–not to be confused with the Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99–got off to a hot start.
We drove the hell out of that thing–well, 1SJ, in true big brother form, did most of the driving, and if I got lucky, I got to ride in the front seat on the rare occasion that one of his pothead friends didn’t join us for one of our many, many late-night joyrides around the desolate 5-state area.
Of course, during the day, ol’ MD served us faithfully as our farm vehicle, and surprisingly didn’t get too trashed or greasy as one might have expected under such conditions.
At least that was the case when I left my love behind in late June, as I headed off to Southern California to spend the remainder of my summer with my mom. But 1SJ was a pretty responsible guy, and I knew he loved Moby as much I did, so I was confident that our beloved white whale would be in good hands…
“So…she developed a bit of a drinking problem while you were away…”
It was early August, and my first full day back from SoCal, so 1SJ was catching me up on all that I had missed while I was gone.
“If you’re going to be driving ye ol’ D*ck to sunrise football practices, it’s important that you understand the oil situation. She’s been burning through motor oil like crazy, and you’ll need to fill her up with 2-3 gallons3Or was it 2-3 quarts? Maybe my inability to tell the difference was what led to the following events… every morning.”
“Dang, she burns more oil than gas…that’s crazy!”
“Yeah, I know, but we don’t have to really worry about it since we’re on the farm, and have plenty of 55-gallon drums of oil just laying around…”
“That makes sense…”
“…so just make sure you always have at least one 5-gallon jug in the trunk, and be sure to top ‘er off every morning before you take her out, okay?”
“You got it, dude!”
Never in my life had I encountered instructions so simple and so clear…
“That’s odd…the oil line hasn’t changed, and I’ve already put a whole gallon in…”
I stared at Moby Dick’s dipstick, slightly confused. Normally, you could pretty easily tell where the oil level was as you topped her off, but not this day.
Dad and Daisy were headed away for the weekend4The historical veracity of this needs to be double-checked, as another shit-hits-the-fan-when-the-parents-are-away story also happened under similar circumstances. and 1SJ had already took off for the day. Although I had taken a different vehicle to football practice that morning, somebody had picked it up and so our grand plan involved my grandma bringing me back out to the farm to pick up MD, and then I would ultimately meet 1SJ at the field he was plowing that day.
Okay, look, I know it sounds convoluted, but it made sense to Dad at the time, and the upshot is that I was the first one to drive her that day, so the responsibility of oiling her up fell squarely on my shoulders–and thus denying me the luxury of a second opinion in my moment of discombobulation.
I poured another gallon in, yet it still appeared that I wasn’t making any difference. I was starting to get nervous–last thing I wanted was to burn up the only reliable vehicle we had for the next few days, simply because I didn’t put enough oil in it. It would be another classic Farm F*ck-Up on my part, and I desperately wanted to avoid that if I could.
“Well…” I mused to myself, “…it’s much better to have too much than too little I suppose. Guess, I’ll just dump this whole 5-gallon container in here, and hope that the leak is slow enough that it’ll at least get us through the day…”
“SCHLUB SCHLUB SCHLUUUUUUUB…”
“Well, shoot, so much for ‘getting us through the day’!” I muttered as I rolled to a dead stop.
Not even 4 miles down the road, and I was discovering firsthand what a dying (land) whale sounded like. But given that I had no clue if I had really put enough oil in MD, I wasn’t exactly surprised when I found myself stranded on the side of KS-51–aka, ‘The Road Less Traveled.’
“Dang it, cellphones aren’t going to be commonplace for folk like us for another 2-3 years, so…I guess I better start walkin’ then, hadn’t I?”
In reality, it took me much longer than that to assess the situation in which I found myself, and only after being pointlessly pissed off at the situation for a good 15 minutes, did I realize that my ass was walking those 4 miles back to the farm, where I could call Grandma for a ride and get on with my day.
Eventually, once Dad got back into town we towed Moby back to the farm, where he could try to bring her back to life. He was only on the ground underneath her for 2 or 3 minutes before he solved that mystery.
“Let me just inspect the oil pan here…wait! What the he–?!? *glug, glug, sputter, sputter.”
Dad rolled out from underneath the car, looking like he had just made the poor life choice of going to a Halloween party in black-face.
“Who the ----- put 8 gallons of oil in this thing?!?”
“Don’t look at me!” 1SJ was way too quick to rush to his own defense. “I only put 2 gallons in her before I left for the field that morning.”
“Well sh*t, now you tell me!” That information would have been good to have had.
“Dammit, son, so you’re telling that you put another 5 gallons in it after it was already full? Sheesh, sometimes, I swear, kid…”
“Hey, at least it didn’t burn up, right? Now that it’s drained (all over you, mfffph!) to a normal level, it should be good to go, right?” I was optimistic yet that Moby D*ck had many voyages left in her.
“I dunno, maybe. 1SJ, you want to test drive her over to Hugoton5A nearby town about 15 minutes away. and see what your pothead friends are up to?”
“Sure thang, Dad!”
Sadly, that was to be her final voyage, ultimately finding herself forever beached in the church parking lot across the street from Druggie Drew’s house, never to see the black waters of the highway-ocean again…
The point of the story is, believe it or not, there is actually such a thing as too much of a good thing–and specifically in this case, that good thing was “too much lube.”
Remember this, kids, when one day you might find yourself falling head-over-heels in love with a sweet Supreme Ass–er, I mean “a sweet Cutlass Supreme”–of your very own. If you treat her to just the right amount of lube, you might get to sail the seven seas in her for years to come…
And no, if you’re wondering, this is not some kind of sexual metaphor. Just a whale of a tragic tale of a boy and his first car…
If you’re curious, my censorship software can’t tell when I use words such as D-I-C-K in a non-profane manner, and will indiscriminately censor it unless I trick it by spelling it “d*ck”.
The historical veracity of this needs to be double-checked, as another shit-hits-the-fan-when-the-parents-are-away story also happened under similar circumstances.
What happens when the brightest minds are banished to the back of the room?
Indubitably, sparks will fly and things will go boom…
“Hey, Howard, this boredom is killing me back here!”
Alas, my cries of ennui fell upon deaf ears–well, actually they were “ears solely focused on the academic struggles of my plebeian cohort”–of our (mostly) beloved Mr. Raff.
You see, that’s the problem when science comes easy to you: your smart ass gets stuck sitting in the back of your Freshman science class, at the lab tables…with minimal supervision…with nothing to do.
And the teachers at Rolla High School, much like the teachers at any other ‘Merican school–always justified such involuntary isolation with, “Well, we don’t want you distracting the other students, blah blah blah…”
Now riddle me this, Oh Wise Sages: how the heck do you expect us nerdlings to develop proper social skills if you’re always separating our ilk from the regular salt-of-the-earth kids?
Dear Teachers, hear me now: this barbaric anti-social practice of yours? I darn-sure guarantee you it’s just begging for some anti-social behavior in response.
Now, is that what you really want? To create the next generation of evil-geniuses? Do you really want to be responsible for the next Ted Kaczynski?
I didn’t think so…
“ZIP! ZAP! ZIP! ZTTTTTTTTT!”
You know, I gotta be honest: I expected a few sparks to fly, but, man, whew! Let’s just say that my scientific inquisitivity was promptly rewarded with quite the little Fourth of July fireworks display.
And I gotta say, I was a little disappointed that none of my fellow students got to enjoy the fruits of the labor of my lightly burnt fingertips. You know, on account of me being stuck in the back of the classroom and all…
Now, before you go judging me for recklessly endangering my classmates for my own amusement, I just wanna say in my defense: that was probably the most truly scientific event to happen in that classroom all year.
Think about it: what is the true spirit of experimental endeavors? What is the motto of the scientific community? I can’t remember exactly, but I believe it’s something like:
“F*ck Around And Find Out”
the battle cry of curious minds around the world
Yeah,yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere before, and I’m pretty sure that’s what means…right?
So naturally, when a little voice in my awkward little future-physicist head whispered into my awkward little future-physicist ear, “Hey, don’t you ever wonder what really happens when you stick a paper clip into an electric socket?” what do you think I did?
Dang straight:
I f*cked around and found out…
“Whoever the mastermind is, they overlooked one key detail: Mr. Raff is not a smoker.”
I averted my eyes as un-suspiciously as possible, trying not draw the attention of the Mr. P & Mr. B, RHS’s principal and vice principle, respectively.
“Youths, if any of you know who is responsible for this attempted act of terrorism, please tell us now.”
“That’s right, this is no laughing matter: had there been the slightest spark, the entire science classroom–and probably the library, too–would have been blown to high-heaven.”
I continued to act as nonchalant as possible.
“Children, we know that an entire classroom doesn’t magically fill with natural gas by itself overnight. Whoever the culprit is, we can can guarantee you this: we will sniff you out.”
“Heh, heh, nice pun.”
“Thanks! Glad you appreciated it…” Despite the gravity of the matter, Mr. P. had no problem accepting Mr. B.’s complement of his incredible egregious Dad-joke. But, fear not, he quickly regained his serious demeanor:
“Hey! Who’s that trying to whistle all innocently at the back of the room?”
“Yeah, you–sitting at the lab table…”
“…next to the gas valve for the Bunsen burners…”
Misters P. & B. looked at each other in shock as an uncomfortable realization washed over them, before turning to glare at Mr. Raff.
“Dammit, Howard, you’ve gone and done it–you’ve turned RHS’s star student into the next Unabomber!”1Bonus fun fact: Ted Kaczynski was arrested almost at the exact same time as the events in this story happened (+/- 1.5 months), on April 3, 1996.
“Son, a word, please?”
I knew finding myself in a huge pile of deep doo-doo was inevitable from the moment I arrived early that morning at my first-period math class–also held in the science room–only to find the door oddly propped open by a trash can.
But I loved Mr. Raff–he was “beloved’ after all, was he not?–and I had never meant to almost blow him to the Great Beyond. Aww, man, if I wanted to avoid being sent off to Juvenile Detention, I only had once choice: to come clean–no matter how embarrassing the truth may be.
I nervously cleared my throat, not sure if they would find believable what I was about to tell them.
“So, you see what happened was…well, I had finished all my homework as usual, and was sitting by my lonesome there in the back, when heard a little voice in my head. It said, ‘Hey, what do you suppose would happen if you, oh, I don’t know, say, jammed a chunk of paper in the Bunsen burner gas valve2As opposed to “in your ears“… and then turned it on real quick-like?’…”
“Okaaaaay…and…?”
“Of course, I had to test out that theorem…it worked pretty well, I might add–launched them spitwads about a quarter of the way across the room…”
“Sure, but that doesn’t explain why you left the gas on all ----- night.”
“Oh, right. Well, that Voice wasn’t satisfied with just 1/4 of the classroom, hissing into my innocent little hearing-orifice: “You know, you really need to let the pressure build. Why not jam a SUPER-BIG wad in there so it takes a few minutes of the gas being on before it blasts out at a high velocity? Inquiring minds want to know: is it possible to blast it all the way across the room?’ And you can’t ignore sound logic like that, right?”
“Hmmm…go on…”
“So, like any scientist worth their salt, I, um…”
“You what?”
“…well, I kinda ‘f*cked around’…”
*beat*
“…but I forgot to stick around and, uh, you know, ‘find out’…”
Mr. P. let out a sigh that was somewhere in between exasperation and relief.
“Well, today’s your lucky day, son. Fortunately for you, ‘unadulterated dumbassery’ is not a crime…”
“…and as for you…”
The two principals turned their attention to Mr. Raff.
“Dammit, Howard, you may have not created an evil genius, per se–just what appears to be a ‘stupid genius.’ And that’s probably even more dangerous…”
The latest word on the street