The Point of the Story

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Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 13 of 25)

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

28 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

It’s like they always say:

You really put the “son” in “prison”…

Something was amiss. I could just feel it in my Freshman bones.

I had been studying in my dorm lobby on a brisk fall Sunday evening, when I had heard the ominous ringing of a distant phone. Somewhere in the depths of my head, I heard a little voice whisper, “Maybe you should answer that.”

“Ha!” I laughed out loud to myself, “Like I could even hear the landline in my room from here.”

Despite how obviously ridiculous it was, I scurried down the hall to Room 410–and much to my psychic surprise–there was my phone, just ringing away. Almost scared of what awaited me on the other end of the line, I finally gathered the courage to answer it only moments before the caller gave up on me.

“Uh. Hello?”

“Son! We’re down in your lobby! We want to take you out to dinner!”

“Wait. You’re here? You were supposed to be back home in Rolla by now…”

Sh*t. Now I knew something was definitely wrong.

Sure, Dad and my stepmom, Daisy,1Not her real name, but I use this English equivalent so you don’t think her name is pronounced “Magoo”. had been driving the 5-6 hour trip in my direction just about ever other weekend that Fall, but it was never to actually see me. Instead, they were always going to Topeka to bankruptcy court, literally trying to “save the farm.”

And I would consider myself immensely fortunate the few times they bothered going 30 minutes out of their way to visit me at Kansas State.2Kansas State University, that is.

So what was the problem? The problem was that they had already had lunch with me that preceding Friday. There was no way in hell they would ever see me twice in the same weekend…

“HO. LEE. SH*T.”

I stumbled backwards from the passenger side of Dad’s ride, trying to distance myself from the felony that was unfolding right before my eyes.

“No! Stay away from me! You guys just robbed a bank, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?!?”

I was in shock. As Daisy was letting me into the rear of cab of the truck, she had slyly pulled out of her purse a gallon-sized Ziploc bag…bulging with Franklins, if you know what I mean.

That much cash in a see-through storage container? That was going against all of God’s natural laws. My mind simply couldn’t comprehend what it was looking at…and so of course, the only thing left for it to think it was looking at was two grown-ass adults that were about to go to prison, and their grown-ass son who was unwittingly going to be going with them.

“Uhn-uh! Nope. Y’all can’t do this to me! You know ----- good and well I’m too pretty for prison!”

“Relax, son…”

“No! You tell me what I’m looking at here, or I’m never getting in a vehicle with you again! You’re probably trying to set me up to take the fall as the getaway driver!”

They had about 10 seconds to come up with a good explanation. It wasn’t beyond me to turn my own poor-judgement parents into the Po-po, especially if they were trying to pin their illegal shenanigans on me.

“Dammit, just get in the truck, and we’ll explain everything on the way to dinner. Oh, and by the way…I’m buying…”

“So…$45k, after taxes, you say?”

Of course, I got in the truck with them. Sure, I know you’re disappointed in my lack of judgement, but c’mon: free food. I did mention that I was in college right? And–fun fact–even though almost all of my meals were provided by the esteemed Kramer Dining Hall, there was one glaring exception to this: all the cafeterias on campus would always shut down for Sunday dinner.

So, yeah, call me “food-motivated” all you want, but a steak dinner with the ‘rents would be well worth whatever potential jail time I might be facing. And that was if they convicted me.

All that drama aside, it turns out that they had not robbed a bank after all. Boy, was I relieved when they revealed that Dad had won $66,000 at the casino just north of Topeka when he had got a royal flush playing Caribbean Stud. And–this is a real hoot–when a lucky bastard wins such large sums of monies, apparently they just take the taxes out upfront and give said bastard the rest in cold, hard cash. In ----- Ziploc bags.

Oh! And another fun fact that I learned that night? Yeah, so they only had to go to bankruptcy court every other month. This whole time they had been blowing smoke up my ass as to why they never had time to see me, telling me they had these super-important all-weekend meetings with their lawyer. Which wasn’t a complete lie…if by “lawyer” you mean “Black-Jack dealer,” that is.

The point of the story is that you just might have a gambling problem if you find yourself knowingly let your child starve just so you can feed your insatiable addiction.

*checks notes*

Oh, wait. Sorry about that. There’s more.

That’s right, there’s more to this story than just my thinly-veiled attempt to earn your sympathy by playing the role of the emotionally and nutritionally neglected college student.

Turns out there was a proverbial fly in the ointment: this whole time, those two clowns had been legally forbidden from indulging in their favorite vice, as part of the Chapter Whatever agreement the bankruptcy court had drawn up for them, and into which they had subsequently knowingly entered therein.

No, no, no, this wasn’t going to come back and bet–er, I mean “bite”–them in the ass. No, not at all…

…

That was, uh…that was a “teaser,” folks. You know, a very effective technique to get you to tune in next week to see exactly whose ass gets bitten, and exactly how hard of an ass-biting it is…

(To be continued…)

Content created on: 27 November 2021 (Saturday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Surprise Bro, It’s A Feast For Your Eyes!

21 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

“I love you to the moon and back!”

…said no brother ever…

“C’mon Mom, you know you want to do it!”

I had hatched a plan for the ultimate brotherly revenge, but its success all hinged around the complicity of our shared genetic donor–aka Our Loving Mother.

“Just imagine the sweet taste of comeuppance for all the heck that little rascal has put you through over the years!”

I could tell that I was wearing away at her will to resist my irresistible scheme. Although I had only about 20 minutes left in this window of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I figured that would be enough time for me to crack her.

I needed to impress upon her the sheer brilliance of the idea; I just knew that would ultimately convince her.

“It’s all about the element of surprise. The fact that no one would ever suspect you would do something like this in a million years–that’s what will take his shock level to a whole ‘nother level.”

“But…but…but…his wife is in the car.”

“Aw, she’s a grown-ass woman, Mom. I think she will be able to handle beholding what the fruit of her husband’s lifetime of laboring to be a pain in your butt, in its full glory. Well…she might need a little help from a therapist, but she’ll manage. She’ll probably even think it’s hilarious.”

“…and his kids?”

“This is a 45-minute drive through the winding back roads of Virginia, Mother. They’re both indubitably asleep. Especially the newborn.”

“…but they’ll be scarred for life if they witness what you’re suggesting…”

“I know deep down, you want to do this. On the count of 3, I’ll pass him, and you take care of the rest.”

VRROOOOOOOM!

I pressed the pedal of my humble ’95 Camry to the metal, and sped around 1SkinnyJ‘s Civic, barely able to hold in my anticipation at knowing that by time he realized what he was looking at, it would already be too late.

I kept one eye on the road, watching for oncoming traffic, but couldn’t resist tracking him with my other eye as I passed him. This was going to be–pardon the overwrought word here–epic.

But the look on his face was not one of utter shock and dismay, just confusion as to why I would be passing him, see as how I had no clue how to get to his house.

“MOMMMMMMM! Where were you? We had one chance and you blew it!”

“I just couldn’t do it. In my heart, I knew that if I did, he would probably drive his whole family straight into the ditch. I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting my grandchildren…”

“ARRGH! Why is my genius always foiled by foolish mortals?!?”

“Sorry, kiddo. I love my son too much to ever subject him to the sight of my bare, lilly-white buttcheeks pressed against the window of the passenger side of my best son’s ride…”

“C’mon Mom, you know you want to do it!”

Unlike the failed “Moon Mission” only months previous, I knew this time I could convince her to be my accomplice.

“You know how lonely a man can get on a Navy submarine. Nothing sweeter than giving him a false sense of hope, only to dash them against the rocks–just like the Bible says your supposed to do to the babies of your enemies.”

“Maybe you should leave the Bible out of this one, yeah?”

“Well, technically I am leaving the Bible out of ‘it.’ Anyways, can you imagine the look on his face that he’ll have, once he realizes that you have bested him for realzzz this time?”

“I’m not sure we’re even allowed to put that type of stuff in a care package to a military man…and I’m not sure I even want to touch it when I put it in the package.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll wrap it in plain brown paper.

You’ll never have to know that inside is the salacious and suggestive cover of the latest issue of No Holes Unfilled! 1For the historical record, I believe this was just a subtitle on the magazines cover–I don’t remember the official name of this particular piece of pornography that I had my friend Andrew by on my behalf. magazine–and it will be too late for 1SkinnyJ by the time he discovers inside that that is not busty co-eds having their orifices used in inarguably ungodly ways, as he was hoping to find. Nay, instead he will find one of your old brochures for…Baptist Bible College! Mwah-hah-hah!”

“Well, I didn’t need to hear all that. But yeah, I guess if you want to anonymously donate to your seamen brother’s car package from me, I won’t stop you.”

“YAAAAAAS!”

Finally, the vengeance I had so longed for would be at long-last mine! This prank–the ultimate ‘Bate n’ Switch,2Yes, that is right. I absolutely just made an overt masturbation pun. if you will–this one was for little brothers everywhere, throughout time and space, from all corners of the Universe.

As I envisioned 1SJ opening my little surprise-within-a-surpise, I bowed my head, and thinking of all those little brothers whose burden of justice I bore on my shoulders in that moment, I uttered words that any good Christian Brother would be all too familiar with.

“I do this in remembrance of you…”

The point of the story is that evil genius best soars highest when flying solo. Sure, it would be nice to have some help executing your deliciously diabolical plans from time to time. But the best laid plans can easily be undone by any mere mortal that you mistakenly trust to do your bidding.

“I do this in remembrance of you”–my ass!

There’s a revenge-shaped hole in my heart–left unfilled–all because Mom couldn’t remember to actually put the care package in the ----- mail…

Content created on: 20 November 2021 (Saturday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

When Your Love Of The Sauce Takes You Sideways

14 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

It all started just like any other regrettable college moment.

“Chug! Chug! Chug…”

I shouldn’t have panicked.

But I did. And ultimately, that is what did me in.

I had to figure out how many ounces I could drink without ruining my stomach, and honestly, I had never really tested the limits of how big of a bottle I could handle.

On the paper before me, I had one shot to impress the judges, and I didn’t want to blow it by claiming I could only drink 16 ounces. I mean, for all I knew, the next college-aged blockhead could come along and say they could drink 24 ounces of that Nectar of the Gods, and then where would I be? Out in the cold, that’s where–just a mere spectator in the crowd and not a competitor.

“No, I better go big or go home,” I mused to myself. “Surely no one else would be daring enough to put down 36 ounces…”

Mere milliseconds from dropping my scrap of folded-up paper into the submission box, and a wave of regret started to wash over me. In my gut I just knew that 36 wouldn’t be enough. Luckily I was quick enough, and was able to jerk my hand back just in the nick of time.

Hastily, I added 36 to the list of scratched-out numbers–along with 8, 16, & 24–and penciled in my final answer, the one that would indubitably get me a spot in the finals.

“Forty-four, baby. Forty-four ounces to freedom…”

“Ladies and gentlemen of Haymaker Hall, I present to you our 4 contestants, one–and only one–of whom will leave tonight with a $100 gift certificate, good at any business in downtown Manhattan (brought to you by the Little Apple Chamber of Commerce).”

“Wait just a minute. A gift certificate?!?” I screamed in my head.

I had been under the impression that the winner of the “What’s The Dumbest Dare You Would Do For $100” contest would be awarded…ya know…$100. As advertised.

Dammit, they had suckered me in with the lure of cash, and now here I was with a cold over-sized bottle, about to sacrifice my stomach, and for what? A lousy hundred dollars to spend at the lamest stores in this whole college town? Well, if this wasn’t the Banana Split Incident all over again, then I didn’t know what was.

“Welp, too late to back out now. I better go big or go home, amiright?” I told myself as I awaited to hear what type of stiff competition I would be up against.

“First, we have Dominick, who has dared himself to…shave his legs!”

What was this amateur hour? It sounded like to me that this dude was more just looking for an excuse to shave his legs. He definitely wasn’t going to beat me.

And I was right. The crowd of about 50 students gathered in the basement of Haymaker Hall barely even murmured when Dominick followed through on his threat to shave his gams.

…

“Second, we have The Gator, who has dared himself to…eat 3 worms!”

Okay, so despite The Gator being a good friend of mine, and despite the fact that eating worms was pretty nasty given our Western culture, I had no doubt that his paltry 3 worms wouldn’t threaten my shot at that certificate.

Or so I thought. Seeing that third worm get stuck in his Adam’s apple before coming back up and then going back down again? That was actually pretty disgusting. But still not enough to worry me.

…

“Third, we have Goofus the Doofus, who has dared himself to…bite the head off of a goldfish!”

“Hmmm, interesting…playing to the crowd I see. But still, no one gonna beat nasty l’il me…” In my head, I just knew that darn-near-worthless gift certificate would be going home with me that night.

However, a little bit of doubt started to creep into my head when I saw that he, too, had decided to “go big or go home,” on account of the 5-inch goldfish that the bastard had busted out to sacrifice to the gods of collegiate stupidity.

And for a split-second–the one where we all heard that decapitating “CRUNCH”–I was worried. But then what did that lightweight do? He spit it out! The fish wasn’t even in his mouth more than half a second. Hmmph! Even The Gator and his worms should have him beat.

…

“And last but not least, we have Floyd,1That’s a self-reference: Floyd is my alter ego. who had dared himself to…drink 44 ounces…”

I was pleased that our Emcee spotted me a dramatic pause, just long enough to lull the audience into a false sense of complacency.

“…OF [CENSORED]!”

You could actually hear a few audible gasps from the crowd, though those were pretty much drowned out by the much more numerous “WTF?!?”s…

“I think I’m going to be sick…” one girl bemoaned, as she watched me guzzle those 44 ounces down with the utmost of determination.

I, too, was starting to feel the same way. I knew that I liked to drink the stuff, but damn, Homie, after the first 10 ounces, this schitt wasn’t fun any more.

Nevertheless, I persisted. In hindsight, I probably could have quit after downing half the bottle; the crowd by then had more than enough appreciation for the evil genius behind my choice of, uh, “beverage.” I just didn’t know when to quit.

In fact, after I had nominally finished the bottle, I wanted to make dang sure nobody accused me of not finishing what I started: I found the nearest water fountain and diluted the disgusting dregs that remained in the bottle. And, in what turned out to be waaaay nastier than I had anticipated, I sucked that bottle dry.

I had come to shock the sh*t of the crowd, and guess what? Mission accomplished.

Sorta.

After all of that, the crowd decided (by the cruelly not-so-objective Applause-O-Meter), that 500 milliseconds of shock factor was more worthy of a $100 gift certificate than 3-5 minutes of watching a grown man slurp down [CENSORED]. Of course, they ended up awarding it to Doofus-Goofus No-Neck McJock Face–though I knew that they knew in their heart of hearts that I should have been its rightful owner…

“Always have an exit plan”…was the too-late advice that came to my mind mere moments after my shocking defeat. I hadn’t really thought about what would come after I had achieved this forgettable milestone in my young life.

Having all that in my system couldn’t have good been for business. It couldn’t have been good for anyone.

Now, the version that my Public Speaking 101 classmates got the following year would have you believe that this all had an edgy (i.e. “interesting”) ending, with me getting my stomach pumped in the Emergency Department. You know, as one tends to do when they desperately try to self-induce vomiting by micro-dosing rat poison.

But I’m not going to blow smoke up your butt: I’ve already been more than forthcoming about all my stupid trips to the ED. And this one wasn’t one of them.

No, instead, I did boring dumb things. Like non-stop sprinting for 90 minutes playing Ultimate Frisbee (no luck). Or sticking my entire fist down my throat (don’t believe everything you see on TV, kids). Or even having my racistly nick-named Vietnamese pal, Chong, punch me in the stomach a few times (no dice).

In the end, all that did was make really thirsty for some reason.

Ultimately, the “exit plan” for all that junk that went in one end of me was remarkably predictable, in that it just came out the other. Let’s just say that for the next day or so, that was some of the weirdest sh*t I had ever seen…

The point of the story is, just because you have the unique skill of being able to drink [CENSORED] and enjoy it, doesn’t mean you should attempt to drink copious amounts of it as part of some dorm Double Dare knock-off contest. And if you’re going to poison your body like that, you might as well do it with something fun and cheeky. Like gravy. Or cold hard liquor.

Wait, you thought I was talking about booze this whole time?2Of course you weren’t. That would have been too obvious. Nah man, it takes someone truly special to put away one whole big-ass bottle of Heinz Ketchup.

Content created on: 13/14 November 2021 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Hey Grandma, Pour Some Sugar On Me, Baby!

7 November 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

You love sugar. I love sugar.

It never hurts to have more sugar…

“Boys, who wants a banana split?!? See how fast you can clean your rooms while I get them ready, okay?”

Man, oh man, who doesn’t love a good ol’ banana split? Indeed, Mom had found the secret to getting me and my bro, 1SkinnyJ, motivated enough to get off our elementary-school-aged duffs and actually help get our house tidied up for once.

With each Lincoln Log (TM) I gathered, in my mind I could already start feeling the juxtaposition of the textures of ice creaminess against the soft-yet-firmness of the banana as I bit into it.

I threw yet another Hot Wheels (TM) car into the toy box, and my thoughts lingered on the sensual saltiness of the chopped peanuts perfectly complementing the chocolate and strawberry sweetness of the Blue Bell (TM) frozen confections, as they exploded into fireworks of flavor as they first hit my lips and then my tongue.

And as I was finishing up picking up the last few of my oversized off-brand Lego (TM) building blocks, my imagination savored the thought of polishing off the remaining bits of whipped cream mixed with that inevitably awesome sweet syrupy muck–the by-product of any banana split done right.

Of course, there was the proverbial–and literal–“cherry on top,” which, being the best part of the whole experience, I saved for last–even in my childhood sugar-lust fantasies.

My mental pre-vouring1That, my friend, is a portmanteau of ‘pre’ and ‘devouring’. You’re welcome. of my future tasty treat perfectly ended in sync with the household task I had been charged with.

“Alright, Mom, I’m done! Now, where’s my sweet, sweet banan–“

…

“What in sweet Baby Jesus’ name is this abomination?!? Where’s my banana split?”

She just stared at me somewhat blankly, apparently unsurprised by my unpleasant surprise.

“This is your banana split. Surely you weren’t expecting something different, were you?”

In that moment, I was too embarrassed to have not known better. I had been duped and was too proud to admit it.

The fact that Mom–no-sugar-added, making-birthday-cakes-with-honey, health conscience Mom–would be offering me a concoction that involved not only Blue Bell (TM) ice cream and Maraschino (uh…TM?) cherries, but Reddi-whip (TM) whipped cream and Hershey’s (TM) chocolate syrup? That should have been a giant red flag waving in the Kansas wind.

How was I not suspicious of such an impossible offer? I knew that, apart from the bananas, we never had the raw the materials for a proper banana split on hand in our sad sucrose-less sanctuary.

At least not the kind of banana split I had oh so naively thought I was getting–you know, the real good ones that Grandma Smalls2This is hilariously not her last name. I don’t even know why I would bother to change her name… would buy for us at the Dairy Kreme (a violation of TM?) whenever we would go run errands with her in Elkhart. (Ah, Grandma Smalls: a fan of sweets, no doubt–and from whom I indubitably inherited my sweet tooth.)

No, what lay before me was…well, sure, the requisite banana was there…

…but piled high with cottage cheese, canned pineapple chunks, and generic unsalted peanuts.

And for that “cherry on top”? Oh, you better believe that did she not disappoint in her impeccable ability to disappoint…

Kretschmer (TM) wheat germ. Yes, you read that right: gosh darn, melon-farming, sock-clucking wheat germ. Who does that to their kid?!?

This trauma? This trauma was real. It scarred me for life.

So much so that now to this very day, “Banana Split” means one thing and one thing only amongst my family:

“Oh, I knew your offer sounded too good to be true. Pftt! It’s the Banana Split Incident all over again. I guess I’ll just sit here and be…”

You know who loves that crystalline crack, that sweeter-than-smack, the one, the only, the granulated sugars?

Grandma Smalls, that’s who.

And, by some stroke of luck, the house that she shared with my soft-spoken Pap-pap3Again, a ridiculous and unnecessary pseudonym… was conveniently separated from our house in Richfield by a mere cow pasture.

So whenever 1SJ and I could no longer handle our involuntarily-induced processed foods withdrawal that came along with living with Mom, we would literally just traipse across the field to Grandma’s and raid her kitchen–whether or not anybody was home.

During one of these adventures, I made a culinary discovery for the ages: you know what was better than Jif (TM) chunky peanut butter in your Roman Meal (TM) bread and Welch’s (TM) concord grape jelly PB&J sandwich?

Jif (TM) chunky peanut butter, lightly laced with a dusting of sugar, that’s what!

At first, it was just localized to the PB that I was putting on my own sandwich, but it only took a couple more Munchies-motivated food runs before the situation spiraled completely out of control. To help illustrate what went down, I’d like to enlist the help of one of my all-time favorite comic strips, the February 18th, 1981 Garfield, who will be playing the role of me:

I was a genius: by directly incorporating a few cups of sugar into the canister of Jif (TM), I was cutting out the tedious process of having to sugar-ify my PB each time. And I’m sure ol’ Sweet Tooth Grandma Smalls would thank me later for saving her the trouble as well…

“What in heaven’s name are you doing, boy?!?”

I was shocked. This was the first time in my 6 or 7 years of existence that I had ever seen Pap-pap upset in even the slightest of manners.

And now he was yelling at me, which I thought was a bit of an over-reaction.

Sure, he had just caught me red-handed lacing the new canister of Jif (TM) with the appropriate amount of sugar needed to give it that grainy crunch that I had come to crave. But was it worth the anger and wrath from an otherwise impeccably unflappable man? Naw, something wasn’t adding up.

Even though I was shocked, I still managed to fumble for a response.

“Uh…well…I know how much Grandma loves sugar, so I thought I would do her a favor and–“

“You know your grandmother is DIABETIC! Are you trying to kill her?!?”

“Oh. Sh*t. My bad, my bad…”

…

So, that’s what having diabetes was really all about, eh. Well, damn, no one bothered to pass the memo onto me.

And to think, this whole time I had thought the saying “Sugar Is The Silent Killer” was just some hyperbole that Mom would trot out to justify those sock-clucking banana splits…

*shrugs shoulders*

Welp, I guess you can consider this your weekly PSA…

Content created on: 5 November 2021 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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

31 October 2021 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

“What would Jesus do?”

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

“Aww! Poor dude really could use a ride…and so what would Jesus do? Jesus would most indubitably tell him, ‘Hop in, Broseph!’, amiright?”

It was Memorial Day weekend back in 2005, and I was kicking it with my best college buddy Andrew at his parents’ home in good ol’ Kismet, Kansas. He had introduced me to the hobby of “High Pointing” where you try to visit the highest point in as many states as possible, and thusly we had decided to take a day trip in Andrew’s mom’s car to go hike Oklahoma’s High Point.

Of course, that meant a ~3 hour little jaunt to Kenton, Oklahoma, home of one of the few topographically interesting features in the state, Black Mesa (see Figure 1).

Figure 1: In case you ever need to get from Kismet, KS to Oklahoma’s Black Mesa…now ya know!

“Wait!” you say, “That looks like you’re headed to New Mexico!”

And you would be right–as Andrew would say, “The highest point in Oklahoma is New Mexico!” He’s not exactly wrong, either: the highest elevation in the OK state is a hilarious 1000 ft from being in the wrong state altogether (see Figure 2).

Figure 2: Oklahoma’s High Point is comically close to just being Slightly Below Average1https://www.google.com/search?q=average+elevation+of+new+mexico Point, New Mexico.

Flatlander jokes aside, it’s actually a really lovely hike, and I recommend you plan an entire vacation around it the soonest chance you get. You won’t regret it!

Okay, maybe there’s a slight chance you might regret blowing all your PTO and savings just to get a scenic view of New Mexico rather than going to, say, Paris. But I digress…

I bet you’re still wondering what happened to ‘Broseph’, the dude in need of a ride. Ok, sure, I’ll humor you.

After spending a very Bro-mantic half-day hiking around Black Mesa, Andrew and I were all tuckered out and finally ready to head back to Kismet.2Fun fact: Kismet was one of the names I floated when were trying to name The Younger aka our second daughter. We had stopped in at the first gas station along our route–the trusty Toot N’ Totum in Boise City–to get some snacks and fill up on gas.

That’s when we met Casper, the aforementioned “Broseph.” And while he technically wasn’t a friendly ghost, he was short, scruffy and as white as one–as a ghost, that is.

He had approached us as we were rambling into the convenience store, and had asked us for a ride. In response, Andrew mumbled something along the lines of “we’ll think about it,” but we were mainly just trying to avoid the awkward interaction–because let’s face it, they’re always awkward af–and get back home and get some rest.

However, I made the classic mistake of giving a rat’s ass about what our Caucasian Savior might have hypothetically done, were he in our hiking boots. You can call it having a crisis of conscience, if it makes you feel less sacrilegious; either way my compassionate side had got the better of me, and that’s when I started cajoling Andrew into letting Casper hitch a ride with us.

To my charitable delight, Andrew, with a Slim Jim and Diet Coke in hand, finally gave in: “Fine, whatever. But you’re cleaning my mom’s car out if he leaves a funk and/or stank.”

“You got it, dude!”

I was so excited about actually making it out of my comfort zone and making the world a better place, that the risk of a phantom funk was well worth it in my book.

Outside, I shared the great news with Casper–though even in fulfilling his request, it was still much more awkward than I had anticipated.

“Hey man, which way you headed? You’re welcome to hitch a ride with us if you like!”

“Um, yeah…I’m trying to get to Oklahoma City…”

“Oh. Okay.”

Aww fudge-nuts. Had I just got us in over our heads?

“Oh. Well, that would add…*checks notes*…7 hours to our 3 hour trip, so…”

*awkward silence*

“I guess since we’re headed east and you’re headed east, how about we take you as far as Liberal?3Liberal, a city of modest size in SW Kansas, situated on the border with Oklahoma. It’s no Oklahoma City, but hey, it’s much closer than you are now.”

“Um, I guess that would work.”

“Sweet, well then, hop on in the back and let’s roll out!”

“So Casper, tell us about your life journey…”

While Andrew focused on driving, I took it upon myself to make Casper feel welcome in Andrew’s mom’s car.

Casper went on to regale us with how he had recently spent a year or two down in Florida…as part of the entourage of rapper Ja Rule (see Figure 3)–“just kicking it with Ja” as Casper put it.

Ja Rule performs during Q 100.5's Nightmare on Q Street
Figure 3: Ladies & gentlemen: Grammy-nominated musical artist, Ja Rule.

Wow, I had never really met anyone who had spent so much time with a celebrity. Fascinating, simply fascinating!

Of course, that also left me with more questions that I probably shouldn’t (and didn’t) ask. Like, “So how does a super-white guy like you get into a guy like Ja Rule’s inner circle?”

Or: “Was this before or after you started living on the streets?”

Or, now that I’ve looked up Ja Rule’s Wikipedia page, “Wait, isn’t Ja Rule based out of New York, not Florida?”

I honestly didn’t think much of these potential discrepancies in the moment, and we carried on conversing about this that and the other.

Twenty or so minutes later of me taking my turn to regale him with some much less interesting stories of my own, Casper got real solemn all of a sudden.

“I haven’t really told anyone this, but…”

“Oh, go ahead. You can tell us…”

“But…I used to be a Spook for the CIA. Of course, I can’t really talk about all the crazy sh*t I did for them…”

“Oh, okay. Cool…”

*moment of silence*

“What’s a Spook again?”

“A spy. I was a spy for the CIA.”

“Oh, okay…”

Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.

This dude must have been a prodigy or something. I mean, he couldn’t have been more than 24 years old, and already he had spent a few years living in Ja Rule’s Florida mansion and had spent multiple years as a veritable Man in Black?!?

I couldn’t believe that I was actually in the presence of a living, walking, hitchhiking legend!

What great fortune I decided to give this dude a chance by offering him a ride…in Andrew’s mom’s car.

It was like…well, it was like kismet…

“Are you out of your ----- mind?!?”

Andrew hadn’t been as gracious to our guest as I would have liked, and had somewhat rudely and abruptly dropped Casper off at the first truck stop we came to as we rolled into Liberal. And as soon as he was out of the car, Andrew had turned his attention to me.

“What are you talking about, man? We just got to share a vehicle with the Most Interesting Man In The World!”

This was the first time that I had noticed Andrew didn’t look like his usual unflappable self.

“He. Was. Crazy. How did you not pick up on that?!? He was making all that sh*t up, and I’ll bet you anything he was schizophrenic.”

“Now that you mention it…yeah, that makes waaaay more sense.”

“I started getting nervous once he started nonchalantly bragging about being so close to Ja Rule.”

“Oh. Yeah…”

“So, what were you thinking, having him sit in the back?!? You should have sat in the back and kept an eye on him. That way, if he decided to murder one of us, you might actually have had a chance to do something about it!”

“Oh. Sorry…”

“Thanks to you, I spent the last hour of that drive just waiting to be stabbed in the back any moment. Pfft! ‘Ja Rule’, my ass!”

We sat in silence during the last little leg of our trip back to Kismet, most assuredly pondering our good fortune to not have been slain by that hitch-hiking little ghost of a man. On the bright side, at least we had a better idea of what Jesus would have done: Jesus would have made his ass sit in the front.

At long last, we pulled into Andrew’s parents’ garage, and as we got out of the car Andrew breathed what I mistook for a deep, deep sigh of relief.

“First thing in the morning, I’m going to need you to help me clean the funk out of this car. Otherwise, one whiff, and my mom will know that we’ve been picking up sassy vagrants4https://youtu.be/Sv_hGITmNuo?t=42…”

…and that’s my story of how we survived an evening with Casper the Fu*king5The ‘*’ is standing in for the letter ‘N’ today, who is out sick with a cold. Crazy Spook.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

P.S. Please enjoy these other Halloween posts from the Point of the Story:

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

Kandy Karma, Part 1 (and don’t forget Parts 2 & 3)

Content created on: 29 October 2021 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Five Horribly Dumb Reasons To Hurry To The Hospital

24 October 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

This Halloween, why not visit one of the spookiest places on Earth:

The Emergency Department…mwah hah ha…

The Emergency Room. Remember that ol’ thang? Gone are the days of the Emergency Room, replaced by what I suppose is the politically correct term “Emergency Department,” and functionally supplemented by Urgent Care centers.

While the ER is in theory supposed to treat people who have suffered physical trauma, surviving a visit to one can be a traumatic experience itself. Just this past week, I had to accompany a family member to one of these God-forsaken places, and had the joy of staying there for almost 24 hours. Let me tell you, I had truly forgotten how ----- -up these places can be.

Some say that humor is one way of dealing with trauma, and so to help fend off some ED PTSD, I figured I would recount all the ways I have found myself in the ER.

All the stupid, stupid ways…

If playing on a swingset hasn’t sent you to the hospital at least once in your life, I dare argue you may have had a deprived childhood. By that metric, it took me until the summer before 6th grade before I truly experienced childhood.

Raise your hand if it was the “Watch me flip backwards out of this swing but not stick the landing” that did you in.

*raises hand*

Yup, good ol’ adolescent hubris did yours truly in–I landed squarely on my little ass instead of my feet after one such back flip. SMACK! Right on the ol’ tailbone. Man, I could barely walk back into the house to let my mom know I had messed something up down below.

Of course she kindly hauled me to the ER, where I promptly1Just kidding. It was the ER–it took 2-3 hours to be attended to. had my developing gonads bombarded by X-rays, only to learn that I only thing I had really bruised was my ego.

Okay, so that was admittedly a milquetoast ER story. What say we turn the stupidity up a notch…

The weekend before finals week of my spring semester of college, me and my frenemy, “Spanky” Spankewich, decided to proactively blow off some steam with a round of mountain biking on some nearby trails.

It had been raining recently, and when I tried going down a 2-3 foot incline, my back tire decided it would slide sideways down the hill instead of following its brother in the front in an orderly manner. But instead of crashing and burning, I suavely laid my bike down sideways, and landed on my feet at the bottom of the hill.

“Hooray! Did you see that Spanky? I totally should have wrecked but didn’t!” I exclaimed, pumping my fist in the air victoriously.

“Uh…dude, why is your arm all red?”

“Wha!? Oh, crap, that’s blood.“

Turns out, there had been some random-ass broken beer bottle hanging out on the side of that hill, and I just happened to slide my right wrist perfectly over it as I was laying down my bike. And now I was spurtin’ my life force all over the place.

Yada yada ya, and I found myself getting sewn back together by some ER doc.

At first I was bummed by the incident, but then I found a silver lining: I was taking an Engineering Drafting course that semester, and part of our final consisted of manually drafting orthogonal views of some complicated geometric objects. This may not sound like much, but I despised such things, and was not looking forward to the final exam at all.

Needless to say, I was disappointed when I learned that having a sliced wrist on your dominant hand wasn’t a good enough excuse to get out of the exam.

Yeah, I may or may not have “accidentally” bled just a wee bit on my final drafts before turning them in…

When we lived in Springfield, Missouri, there was this big hill next to our school that led down to the soccer field, probably a good 8-10 feet high. One January when I was in 4th grade, Springfield got hit with a big freeze–cold enough to call off school, even if there was no snow.

Since we lived only a few blocks from the school, my bro, 1SkinnyJ, and I wandered over to try to go sledding on the frozen grass of that sweet, sweet high hill. Only problem was that we were a bit, uh, ‘cash-strapped’ and didn’t actually have sleds. So we improvised–there just happened to be a stack of old boards laying against the school, and we learned that they worked quite nicely.

Around my 6th or so trip down that hill, I took it a bit too steep, causing my board-sled to come to an abrupt stop at the bottom. My bottom, however, did not get the message and justg kept on going.

Now, this wouldn’t have been a problem, save for one l’il rusty nail that I had failed to notice hanging out in the board. As my body stayed in motion, sliding across the now-motionless board, that nail pierced my winterized jams and caught hold of some of my wobbly bits as they whizzed past.

You can imagine how the rest of this ER story goes: naturally ending in a tetanus shot–and the punchline you all just knew was coming:

“Doc, I think I just ripped myself a new butthole…”

As a kid, I was huge nerd. So huge, in fact, that one time in 4th grade I got so fed up with my classmates not shutting the ----- up while I was trying to work that I put in some ear plugs.

Fast-forward a few days later, and Mom was starting to get concerned about a notable dip in my awareness of my surroundings.

“Um, Honey, are you okay? Every time I ask you something when I’m standing to your right, you never respond.”

“Nope, I’m fine as far I know, Mom.”

“Maybe I should just take a peek in your right ear…”

*Peeps in my ear with flashlight*

“Holy sm*kes, son! Have you put anything in your ears lately?!?”

“Oh, yeah…the kids at school would not shut up while I was working, so I may have possibly chewed up some wads of paper and used them as ear plugs. Why do you ask?”

*digs in futility in my ear for good 15 minutes*

“Well, you’ve done it this time, Boy Genius. It looks like we’re headed to the ER…”

In my defense, the idea of paper-wad earplugs was a pretty logically sound2Unintentional pun! one at the time, but after having to actually say it out loud a second time–this time explaining the origins of this fiasco to the ER doc holding the incredibly long tweezers usually reserved for removing cockroaches from ears–I began to appreciate the alternate perspective that maybe–just maybe–I was a bigger dipwad than I fancied myself to be…

It’s almost every kid’s dream to be a pirate. But it takes someone truly special to make that dream come true. I, being someone truly special, was on the verge of making that dream a reality. I just didn’t see it coming…

‘Twas the morning my dad was supposed to come and pick me up and take me back to Kansas. Fifth grade was behind me, and nothing but a summer of fun stood between me and sixth grade. Like any other day, I started out with a nice little shower, followed by brushing of the teeth and hair.

Except…except when I went to brush my hair, I somehow managed to brush my right mother ----- eyeball instead. Like I said, it takes someone truly special, and hey, what can I say, I delivered on that one.

The downside was that even after the ER fixed me up, my eye was sore as…hey, what’s that one word that roughly rhymes with “up” and flows well after “as”? I can’t think of that word right now, but you get the idea.

On the brightside, hell yeah, I had that eye patch I had fantasized about having since I was five (I’m not lying–I have plenty of drawings I had made from that era as proof of what my “ideal self” looked like).

Later that afternoon, when my dad rolled up and took one look at me, he exclaimed, in his best anachronistic Hank Hill3From King of the Hill. impression:

“Wha–Bobby Junior, what in the hell did you do to yourself this time, boy?”

Missing him completely as I went in to greet him with a hug,4Because of my lack of depth perception, dummy. I reassured him:

“Livin’ the dream, Dad. I’m just livin’ the dream…”

(But hey, at least I’m not this guy…yet.)

Content created on: 23/24 October 2021 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Never Bet On Your Brother To Be The Better Man

17 October 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Almost everyone has had that little brother that won’t stop whining.

Or been that little brother…

“That’s not fair!”

As those words reverberated out of my little 9-year-old pie-hole and into the chasm that was the cab of my dad’s farm pickup truck,1Not the same one from last week; ’twas Big Red’s predecessor. I could hear another more subtle–and more painful–sound amidst the echoes of my whining.

It was the sound of a dollar bill stealthily crumpling out of my hip af fanny pack and fluttering off into the money clip of one of my much older brothers, whom we’ll call “Lyle”–wait…what?!? That’s his middle name? Dang, I’m just now finding this out? I’m such a terrible little brother.

Anyways, I digress…

‘Twas the summer of ’91–a year after our recently detailed foray into juvenile delinquency, but still 8 long years before the Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99–and my closest-in-age bro, 1SkinnyJay aka 1SJ, and I once again found ourselves taking a break from the bustling city life of Springfield, Missouri, finding respite in our dad’s farm in SW Kansas.

This particular summer, Lyle, late in his college years, had decided to join in the whole family farm business thing, and so us 3 brothers found ourselves spending copious amounts of time together.

Also that summer, I apparently was rediscovering my keen interest in social justice, and it wasn’t more than 2 or 3 weeks in before Lyle started to pick up on that theme.

“That’s not fair!” he would silently mouth behind my back, perfectly in sync with my audible gesticulations describing what a grave injustice it was that 1SJ got to get off the tractor a whopping 5 seconds before I did.

I actually don’t remember if that was one of the legion of situations that made me think, “Hey, man, this aggression against the harmonious balance of the Universe will not stand! I better say something…” followed immediately by the whiniest “That’s not fair!”

My “That’s not fair!” refrain was like clockwork–eventually to the point that Lyle was fed up with me boo-hooing about every tiny perceived hardship I found myself not-so-quietly enduring.

“Alright that’s it, let’s make a deal–no a bet: For every day this summer you go without saying ‘That’s not fair!’, I will pay you three dollars. On the other hand, every time you say it, you’ll owe me a dollar. Sound, uh…’fair’ to you?”

“Oh man,” I thought to my greedy little self, “this fool is just practically handing me $200!”

“You got it, dude!”2Err…that would be a Full House reference. I replied, thinking to myself how that verbal handshake might as well have been the sound of some mad coin clanging around in my fanny pack…

“And that, my friends, was the summer I learned how to show some executive function, as well as developing the skill of eternal gratitude for the all the wonderful little things in my relatively privileged life…”

…said no me, ever.

Yeah, wouldn’t it have been nice to have learned such great life lessons at such a ripe young age? Probably would have made for a more balanced and well-adjusted adulthood, that’s for sure.

But nooooo, did I make off like a bandit with hundreds of dollars thanks to that foolish bet Lyle made?

No. No, I did not. I guess I already said ‘nooooooo’, so I suppose I ruined the plot twist on this one.

Fair or not, we kept a running balance sheet of who-owed-whom for the better part of the rest of that summer. With a few weeks left, Lyle mercifully cut off the bet. Was it because he was embarrassed by how money he had lost? Pfft! Don’t I wish.

Nah, it probably had more to with the fact that I had ran up a tab of about $113 with him by that point. So yeah, you could say he was embarrassed–embarrassed to have such a hopelessly self-entitled little brother, that is!

Anyways, I’m guessing you’re not surprised to learn that I managed to blurt out “That’s not fair!” 100+ times in the span of ~40 days (which seemed impressive until I realized that’s only 2-3 times per day–pfft!).

You’re probably even less surprised to learn that, for someone with such a keen interest in fairness, I never paid him a single dime.

But I’ll bet he already knew that before he even made his little wager with me. I mean, given what we’ve learned about him here today, we can be pretty sure that he had the following divine revelation by the age of ten:

“Your middle name is Lyle, kid…

*ahem*…

C’mon, you’re actually going to make me say it out loud?

Fine. I’ll say it:

‘Life’s not fair, kid. Get used to it.’

There I said it. You happy?

Oh, and be sure your little brothers get the message…Lyle.“

The Universe, who apparently is a bit of an A-Hole…

The point of the story is…

*checks notes*

Oh.

Oh sh*t.

That kind of ‘fair’.

Well, don’t I feel like a…um…”Universe.” I was supposed to be writing about the fair this whole time, instead of dragging my brother’s ass on account of his middle name.

Yeah, ‘fair’–you know, like the Morton County Fair, or the North Carolina State Fair. Fun and cheeky sh*t like that.

Well, though I may have copulated the canine on this one, you, Dear Reader, are still entitled to some fair-themed tales. So why don’t you enjoy my classic, The Prize Pig Story? Or perhaps take a philosophical stroll down the Midway with some deep thoughts about people-watching and other unsung Fair activities?

While you do that, I’ll be over here, feeling like this biker dude from the 2001 comedy classic, Super Troopers…

Content created on: 15/16 October 2021 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Unconditional Blood Lust: Could It Be The Best Gift Ever?

10 October 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Words your friend should never hear come from your lips:

“Man, I really nailed your mom…”

“Let’s kick his ass, Seabass! C’mon, after him!”

‘Twas a cold winter evening during my sophomore year in high school, and me and my bestie Phillip K. Ballz (aka PKB) had been chillin’ at the Corner Stop1As a reminder, it was/is the only convenience store in Rolla. minding our own ----- business. In the evenings Dad would sometimes let me borrow the farm pickup so I could go into town and have a bit of a social life, and since beggars can’t be choosers, there we found ourselves, sitting in the sweetest red Ford F350 flatbed diesel Rolla had ever seen.

I can only surmise we were just waiting for all the beautiful young ladies to come flocking to us because, c’mon, you know…the sweet kitty-magnet that I was driving and all.

Well, little did I know that such an ill-conceived plan was about to blow up spectactularly in my face…and it all started when that turd The Bard and one of his buddies streaked by on their bikes, talking some trash on us as they passed.

“But wait!” you say, “I thought you and The Bard were buds from Kindergarten, through grade school, and even after graduating high school! So what gives here?”‘

Ah, yes, a very keen eye you have, Dear Reader! Well, you see, at that time The Bard happened to be going through an awkward phase of being a little punk-ass b*tch, and PKB–also going through a similar phase of his own–had managed to get into some stupid schoolyard petty beef with The Bard over lord-knows-what.

Thusly on account of this pubescent feud, it was ol’ PKB who was that proverbial “scrub” that TLC so desperately tried to warn mid-90s teens about, hanging out of the passenger side of his best-friend’s ride, trying to holler at me.

Except instead of “me” being a beautiful young girl who don’t want no scrub, it was me, the driver of, um, how did I put it? Oh yeah: “the sweetest red Ford F350 flatbed diesel Rolla had ever seen.”

So what did I do at the mere suggestion of chasing down our arch-nemeses in a fit of bloodlust? I threw Big Red–I guess the pickup has a name now–in reverse, slammed my foot on the gas, and hauled [Phillip K.] Ballz out of that Corner Stop parking lot…

“THUNK…Crrrrrunch…Scraaaaape!”

We hadn’t got Big Red more than 4 feet out of his parking spot before our fever dreams of beating the sh*t out of our classmates came to a very sudden, very violent halt.

“What the ----- was that?!?” I asked PKB, as it was quickly becoming obvious that we (well, I) had backed right into an immovable object.

PKB glanced back–a basic precaution that I had foregone in my haste to get to our street fight–and then looked back at me with pure panic in his eyes.

“Oh sh*t. That was MY MOM.”

When I finally got around to using my rear-view mirror, I was met with the image of the sharp corner of Big Red’s flatbed firmly embedded in the front driver’s side panel of PKB‘s mom’s green Ford Explorer, with her arm hanging out the driver’s window, mere inches from utter mutilation.2For the curious cats out there, she had wanted to talk to PKB and had pulled directly into our path. You can’t blame her too much for assuming that I would see her parked behind me, and would stop so the two could converse before we scurried off to our future aggravated assault charges.

“Oh thank God, it was your mom’s Explorer, not your mom! You bout gave me a heart attack there, you ----- drama queen…”

“I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD STOP CUTTING STRAWBERRIES.”

*sigh* “I think I would rather have had to deal with vehicular manslaughter rather than this,” I mumbled under my breath.

“What’s that?” PKB‘s mom apparently wasn’t too pleased that I was taking time out from my strawberry-cutting duties to make smart ass comments under my breath.

“Uh, nothing, Ma’am. Just saying sorry for making a crater in your fender, that’s all.”

“Harumph! That’s what I thought. NOW BACK TO CUTTING.”

“Hah-hah! Oooh boy, Mom sure owns your ass now!”

I’m not quite sure why PKB just had to go and rub my newfound “Indentured Servant” status right into my face at this point. I mean, it was his stupid need to get into a donny-brook with The Bard–a need that I had been trying to graciously help him satiate–that started this stupid, stupid series of unfortunate events, after all.

Alas, I couldn’t argue with him though: in exchange for not getting the cops involved–and thereby avoiding the prospect of being unnecessarily handcuffed–it seemed I had tacitly agreed to humbly be doing his mom’s bidding for the next few weeks or so.

And those ----- strawberries were only the beginning…3I really really wanted to end this story here, with the line “What a twist. It looked like I was about to go through a little-bitch phase of my own…”

Fun fact: usually, if the cops don’t get involved, neither will the insurance company. This had the unintended-yet-hilarious consequence of it being months on end before the Explorer got repaired.

And of course PKB‘s mom didn’t stop driving it in the meantime, so everywhere she went, the citizens of Rolla and the Greater Morton County Area would behold this enduring testament to the utter dipshittery of which their Golden Boy was capable.

No telling how many of them swore under their breaths at the sight of that cratered fender: “And this is the guy we’re pinning all our hopes on to put Rolla on the map?? Well, I guess we better get used to being known as the Tool Capitol of North America…”

*sigh*

Folks, the point of the story here really shouldn’t have to be stated: if you have to scurry off in your pickup to chase down somebody on a bike, with the hopes of at least threatening physical harm, please please please at least use your dang mirrors before you back that azz up.4Bonus punchline #2: “If you don’t, instead of cutting a b*tch, you just might end up a b*tch cutting strawberries.”

Or maybe–just maybe–avoid hanging out with violent psychopaths who have delicate little snowflake egos. That’s always an option too.

…

…

Nah, I’m just kidding–I’m only busting Phillip K.’s Ballz because it only seems fitting as a rite of passage for a wrinkly ol’ sac like him as he goes Over the Hill.

Happy 40th birthday, PKB!5Bonus #3: I almost titled this post “That One Time I Really Nailed Your Mom”. Or I could have also done, “Banging Your Mom Was Not Nearly As Fun As I Expected”. Bwahhhahahaha! I crack myself up! You will be my favorite dipshit, always and forever…

Content created on: 6/7 October 2021 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Feasting At El Fiasco Loco

12 September 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

A Groupon for a date night at the Melting Pot and the movies? $70.

All the regrettable shenanigans that are bound to ensue? Priceless…

“A Groupon for $100 towards a Melting Pot feast and 2 movie tickets? For only $70? Sounds suspicious…”

I was in the middle of a conversation with The Boss Lady, and on the verge of making a decision that in no way I could ever possibly regret.

“No, I swear that’s The Deal: A Groupon for $100 towards a Melting Pot feast and 2 movie tickets! For only $70! And you know how I love the Melting Pot so…”

She batted her eyelashes at me with that “come-hither-and-dip-your-apple-in-my-melty-cheese” look. A look she knew would melt my willpower just like said melty cheese, and so of course I conceded to her wishes.

“OK, fine…”

Fine? More like fine print. As in, “It’s Groupon, so of course your ass better be reading the fine print.”

What this Groupon actually got us was $100 of credit at restaurant.com, the shady older brother of the (slightly) more reputable restaurants.com. Not a problem in and of itself, especially since it did indeed have Melting Pot certificates in $25 increments. So far so good, right?

Well…just one problem: you could only redeem one at a time, and only towards the 3-Course Meal For Two, which is roughly $100. And, hooo, boy! Let me tell you it’s pretty awkward to find out this fact from the waiter who is impatiently waiting for you to pay your bill. Anyways, if you do the math, you’ll realize that this oh-such-a-great-f*cking-deal Groupon only got us out of paying the tip.

So, to recap: we just paid $70 to have someone else trick us into going to the Melting Pot.

No. No, Honey, this was not fine at all…

All was not lost, though. Although we would have had to blown another $300 just to use the rest of our restaurant.com credit at the Melting Pot, there were a decent number of other restaurants where we could redeem the remaining $75 without having to drop as much cash up front.

I eventually managed to use up $25 of it on some verifiably mediocre meal, but that of course still left me with $50 burning a hole in my pocket.

Well, luck would have it that our annual apple pickin’ trip was nigh upon us, and as a tradition, me and the family would always eat Mexican in nearby Siler City on the way home from out little outing. Ah yes, a perfect opportunity indeed to extract the last bit of value still tied up on our foolish investment.

It wasn’t our usual joint, but I was able to find the one and only participating Mexican restaurant in town–one that we’d never been to before. But hombre, I was super excited because it appeared to be super authentic. And also I was pretty pumped that its deal was $25 off if you spent $50 or more–meaning we could wash our hands of restaurant.com for good after this was over.

Now I had the keen insight to do my research, as it turned out that they only took cash. Accordingly, I made sure to have $40 on hand–more than enough to cover the anticipated bill that would be $25-$30 after the discount. This Boy Scout was coming prepared this time!

We get there, and it turns out that I actually wasn’t prepared for exactly how authentic of Mexican restaurant this place was–in that they clearly never were expecting gringos. I shit thee not when I say that there was not a single English word on the menu. Not a single one!

Oh, and not a single price on the menu either (see Figure 1).

Figure 1: Good luck, Gringos!

Ok, that’s not completely true–there was a handmade sign when you came in advertising there especial: various tacos at only $1 each.

“Oh man, this place must be ridiculously cheap!” was the first thought that I had upon seeing it.

And “Oh sh*t, though–I did not anticipate that it would be a challenge to spend enough to be able to activate the discount,” was my second thought.

This was a few years back, so t’was I, The Boss Lady (who was rather pregnant with The Younger), The Elder, and my Mother Dearest. But, even with 4 1/2 of us, I knew we were going to have to work pretty hard to hit $50, espicialmente if we were going to have to do it $1, $2, or $3 at a time.

What it ensued was very much a Seinfeldian “More of everything!” moment, with me basically twisting everybody’s arms to order twice the amount of food they wanted or needed.

“I’m getting our $25 discount if it’s the last thing I do! Besides, you are eating for two!” I hissed at The Boss Lady when she gave me a look for doubling her fajita order.

Although we were flying blind–having no clue if we were even close to spending enough–if I was going to miss the mark, I was dang sure going to err on the side of spending a bit more than $50, amiright?

Well, after seriously feasting on way too much Mexican grub, we followed it with an excessive round of desserts…and we were long past the point of actually enjoying our meal, and well into the land of being extra miserably bloated and engorged.

Finally, the time came to settle up the bill and put this whole matter to rest, and while the cashier is ringing things up I’m like “Whoa, hold up a sec, some of these dishes are $10-$12!” I mean, based on those stupid ----- cheap-ass tacos, I would have never imagined anything in that place would top $7. “Sh*t. Sh*t. Sh*t.” I kept mumbling to myself like the pinche gringo that I was.

In the end the total bill was just over $60, so I was relieved to at least have spent enough…and it looked like I was going to have barely enough cash to cover the bill. Whew!

“Oh wait one sec…I have a coupon here for $25 off!” I couldn’t have been more excited to be such a tightwad in that moment.

The cashier looked over what I had pulled up on my phone, and stoically replied, “Oh, I’m sorry, we’re not participating in that any more.”

…

…

…

You have got to ----- be kidding me. THAT WAS THE WHOLE ----- REASON WE ATE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE!

“Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t quite have enough cash.”

“Okay…” the cashier stared back at me vacantly.

“Um, can I leave my mom and daughter here as a deposit while I go find an ATM?”

“Sure.”

So I left them just awkwardly loafing about while me and the Boss Lady drove a few blocks to a nearby ATM–which was not without its own set of shenanigans, such as our regular bank’s ATM had been relocated, but nobody had thought to tell Google Maps.

“Dangit, woman! I ain’t gonna pay no extra $5 ATM fee on top of not getting my ----- discount!”

Let’s just say I wasn’t taking too kindly to The Boss Lady’s suggestion to cut our losses and just get the money from any ATM we could find. Whether or not our loved ones got kidnapped in the meantime? If that was the price of sticking to the principle of the matter, then so be it!

It may have only been 10 or 15 minutes later before we finally rolled back up to the Human Pawn Shop, but ----- if it seemed like forever at that point. I quickly hustled my ass through the door, waving the money over my head.

“I got it! I got it! Here’s your ransom–I mean “dinero.” We’d like the other generations of our family back now, por favor…”

The point of the story is, next time anyone tries to cajole you into buying a Groupon, I have the perfect response for you:

“Chinga tu madre.”

Um, just whatever you do, make sure mom doesn’t Google the meaning of that…

Content created on: 19 September 2020 & 11/12 September 2021 (Sat/Sat/Sun)

A New Twist On The “With Friends Like These” Motif

17 June 2021 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

As the saying goes “With friends like these, who needs enemas?”

Your friends. Your friends need enemas. Because they’re ass-hats…

“You really worry too much about what people think.”

Well, this had just gotten real uncomfortable. I was a guest counselor at a summer camp for a week, and was hanging out with the full-time counselors when one of them, out of nowhere, decided to start going around the room and laying out uncomfortable truths about each person.

“You have some real daddy issues.”

Awkward.

“You need to break off your engagement. You know it deep down in your heart that you do.”

Shit, she wasn’t sparing anyone’s feelings.

“I bet you don’t even really believe there is a god.”

Damn, the hits just kept coming.

But was I worried? No! Why? Because I only had been there a few days, and this ----- girl barely knew me. What dirt could she possibly have on me?

Though I got to admit that I admired her bravery for telling her friends the hard-to-swallow things that they needed to hear.

“You–you talk about yourself waaaaay too much.”

I started to chuckle before she whipped around and pointed a finger directly at me, “And you too, Buddy.“

Dang, girl, that was stone-cold.

Now, extensive self-centered oration isn’t really that embarrassing…it’s just that she figured out that that was my cardinal sin after only a handful interactions…

More recently, I found myself hanging out with a group of friends. A TV was playing in the background, and it must have been on the Food Network or something because there was a gratuitous amount of meat being shown. Real mouth-watering stuff, I tell ya.

I leaned over to one of my friends, whispering, “Don’t tell anyone, that I, as a vegan, am watching–and secretly enjoying–this show!”

She leaned over and whispered back, “Again, that information has no value to me or anyone else. Can you see how it’s you just talking about yourself even more?”

Damn, girl…

So at this point, you maybe thinking that the point of the story is something like “Blessed be the true friend who is willing to give it to you straight” right? While, sure, yeah, that’s true, there’s one tiny detail that I’ve intentionally omitted thus far: these tales never really happened. Sorta.

The truth is that these were both actually my own ----- dreams.

In other words: it was ME all along!

I mean, how bad is it that, technically speaking, I’m calling myself out for characteristically blabbing about myself at great lengths, and at times, for no real reason?

But I think the real point of the story is: beware, beware, oh beware your dream-self. They might keep running their mouth off, and, like me, you might find yourself thinking “Ugghhh. This ----- guy.1I’ve been watching What We Do In The Shadows on Hulu recently, if you were wondering whether this was a pop-culture reference or something. I wish this asshole would just shut the hell up about myself already…”

[Bonus material, since we’re vaguely referencing The Big Lebowski:]

Content created on: 17 June 2021 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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