The Point of the Story

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Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 14 of 26)

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!

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:[+]

And Now, A More Wholesome Revelation From The Universe

10 June 2021 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

“Tell me what I want, what I really, really want…”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, if you really, really want to know…”

“Cat toys? My bus to work? Another stolen glimpse of the comely young lass waiting at the bus stop? Shit, I have no idea what I’m doing here!”

And thus went the internal monologue in my head.

It was mid-morning, and I was rushing around in a frenzy, but I just couldn’t seem to remember why. Taking stock of my surroundings–my usual bus stop, a nearby Petco, the bougie food shop that popped up where our beloved TCBY used to be–I was doing my darnedest to formulate a theory as to what I was supposed to be up to.

What I was doing just made no sense. Now I was at Trader Joe’s? The heck? I needed to figure this out ASAP. Especially if I was supposed be catching that bus.

I paused a moment to continue my internal dialogue. I guess I decided to cut to the chase–no pun intended–as I wondered aloud: “What is it you’re really chasing after, man?”

Holy shit, was I surprised when, loud as day I heard another voice that sounded exactly like my own reply without skipping a beat: “Self-respect.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned. I about screamed: “YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO ANSWER THAT! IT WAS A RHETORICAL QUESTION!!!”

By this time, I had realized nothing seemed to make sense because–wait for it–I was dreaming.

Just one tiny problem though: the answer that my dream-self gave me? It made waaaaaay too much sense.

The funny thing is, fully-conscious me would have never in a million years come up with anything close to that answer. I was literally blind-sided by my overly-honest sub-conscious. I had just revealed a deep secret to myself. Or maybe it was the Universe speaking to me, through me, in my dreams?

Either way, “self-respect” was, as I like to say, one ----- interesting theorem, explaining way too well so much about so many of my deepest desires and motivations throughout my life, even at a young age. That’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax, though, and maybe I’ll unpack it all sometime down the road.

Moments later, I woke up in a real foul mood. Later that day I had processed this newfound information enough to figure out why this whole ordeal made me so upset and, for lack of a better descriptor, icky.

The answer to that question, if answered at all–was supposed to be more like “financial security” or “the respect of my peers and/or wife.” You know, things that are somewhat beyond my control.

But self-respect? That means all the unhappiness and dissatisfaction brewing underneath the surface? That was my own ----- fault if I didn’t show myself some respect. Even worse was the thought that it was on me if I hadn’t earned on my own respect.

Uggh. No wonder I was angry. I was angry because it was true.

Anyways, I guess the point of the story is you really shouldn’t go around asking profound, meaning-of-life questions in your dreams. You may think that you’re Tom Cruise in the classic hit movie A Few Good Men, but deep down a part of you–the Jack Nicholson part of you–knows better:1Source: https://gifimage.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/you-cant-handle-the-truth-gif-14.gif

https://gifimage.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/you-cant-handle-the-truth-gif-14.gif

Dammit, it was the Napoleon Dynamite Incident all over again…

Content created on: 10 June 2021 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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

16 May 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

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

Well, have I got just the theme for you…

“C’mon! Y’all know my prom theme is da bomb! ‘Ten Steps’ is way more cool than just ‘A Step’. Why do y’all insist on being so boring!?!”

I was attempting to fulfill my duties as a member of the Rolla High School Junior Class Prom Committee, and give the Seniors–aka the Class of ’98–a prom they would actually remember. But no one was daring enough to actually do something cool for once.

Despite the tacit acknowledgment that my idea was indeed pretty ----- awesome, my fellow RHSJCP Committee members wouldn’t take the plunge and commit to my suggestion of having a classic Old West theme entitled, “Ten Steps Back In Time.”

I mean, who wouldn’t want to hearken back to the simpler time when cowboys would regularly resolve their differences in a civilized and gentlemanly gun duel that may or may not have ended in the death and/or maiming of one and/or both of them? There’s nothing quite as romantic as some unnecessary violence, amiright?

Nope, instead we were stuck with “A Step Back In Time”–still Old West themed, but with all the lameness that seems to be obligatory for high school prom themes.

Realizing that I was completely outgunned on this one, I eventually gave up. I had to simply resign myself to the very unoriginal gift that we would be giving to our upper-classmen and -classwomen.

The only solace I had was knowing that “a genius is rarely recognized in their time.”

Wait a sec…I think that is supposed to be ‘prophet’ instead of ‘genius’…

Putting me in charge of putting up the giant letters that would spell out our prom theme? That was their first mistake.

A month or so later, and apparently they had already forgotten that they had picked a super-vanilla theme over my Vanilla-Ice cool theme back during the planning stages of this whole she-bang.

But now it was go-time, and we had to get the lunch room decorated for the party that was about to go down later that evening. For some reason I was deeply unmotivated to do anything, and I found myself just sitting there, blankly staring at the letters in front of me:

Figure 1: The RHS 1998 Prom Theme, simulated here with Scrabble(TM) tiles.

As I kept staring, the letters started to swirl in my mind. I could see a message hidden in there, but I couldn’t quite make it out. Thank goodness I had been playing Scrabble since the age of 6, and in that moment I just knew that destiny had been preparing me for this all along. So I went to work…

Interestingly, this is the point where Present Me had to take “A Step Back In Time” himself, and do a bit of time-travel investigating.

You see, I clearly remember that a very important Message had been transmitted through Teenage Me–a mere humble conduit–but I couldn’t quite remember exactly what it was, only that the Greater Being(s) of the Universe had oddly chosen to include a slight typo in their Message.

Wanting to present an accurate account of what transpired that fateful day, I had to bust out ye ol’ Scrabble game and do a little historical reenactment. And I’m not going to lie: I’m not as spry in the mind as I used to be, and my Third Eye is going a bit blind. It took me awhile, but it was indeed quite the revelation when I finally figured out what very important Message could be constructed using ALL the letters from that lame-ass prome theme “A S T E P B A C K I N T I M E”. The very same Message that was revealed to us rural teenagers, all those years ago…

…

Are you ready?

…

Are you sure you’re ready?

…

I mean, once you have heard such a world-view shattering Message delivered from upon high, you realize your life will never be the same, right?

…

Okay, well, you’ve been duly warned. I wash my hands of anything that happens after this point.

…

Take a deep breath, and prepare to receive the Message:

…

Ok, J.K. Kidding! Call me a tease, but I feel the urge to keep you in suspense a little longer…

It occurred to me that high school proms are like modern-day versions of Araby–you know, the 19th-Century short story by Irish author James Joyce. Just like Joyce’s protagonist, you’re young, full of hormones, and ready to, um, “come-of-age”–and Prom is your very own Arabian market where you just know all of your youthful lusts will be fulfilled.

But does it ever work out that way? No! Or to be fair: Rarely!

It’s supposed to be this super-romantic night, yet for all-too-many youths, it doesn’t exactly go the way they really hoped it would go.

Tragically too often, the evening instead ends with disappointment and frustration…

And this singular thought, pithily summarized by the 1998 Rolla High School prom theme that almost made it past the teachers, passing through their mind:

(Read with the most depressing Redneck accent you can muster in your head:)

Figure 2: Spoken like a true prophet: “I Keep Mastubatin…” (sic).

Content created on: 14/15 May 2021 (Fri/Sat)

Don’t Leave Me Hanging, Bro!

9 May 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Man, if you’re going to jump ship and abandon me when I need you the most?

At least let me down gently…

“Well, we better be done by next Friday…that’s my last day on the job.”

“Wait, what? Like, last day on this project?”

“Oh, no, last day with this company. I’m moving on to bigger and better things in a few short days!”

Shit. This is not the conversation you want be having with the project manager of your slightly-more-complicated-than-usual home “restoration & remodeling”.

Yet here I was, almost 4 weeks into a home reno adventure with Daniel–our project manager–and this mother ----- couldn’t have bothered to mention this earlier? That party foul alone renders his right to anonymity null and void. I’m using your REAL name buddy here on out–no alias for you!

“Uh, congratulations?”

That was just about as a cordial of a response to this news that I could muster. I mean, good on him and all, but I know how this story ends. The Boss Lady reminded me of that fact the instant I told her, “Welp, Daniel’s last day is Friday…”

The Boss Lady and I? We like to be non-traditional. And not just with our home renovations. Nay, this trend started from our very first shared occasion of note: our wedding.

Despite being reliable members of our local church, we changed things up a bit and opted to have our matrimonial ceremony and reception in the butterfly garden of our local life science museum. But because of this unique setting, we needed a wedding coordinator who knew the place inside and out, so who better to ask than the director of said garden of butterflies?

We were quite ecstatic when she agreed. I couldn’t even help myself from shouting from the rooftops “She said ‘YES’!!!!!”

Okay, so I wasn’t that jubilant. But having her at the helm killed quite a few birds with one stone, so we were happy to have her on board.

Fast-forward 2 months to our wedding day. Guess what she casually mentions when she met up with the Boss Lady that morning? That’s right: “Oh, by the way, today’s my last day on the job. You’re wedding will be my last official act as the butterfly garden director before I head on down to Wilmington. How exciting is that?”

Cool, cool…

Later that evening, our festivities were going relatively smoothly. We somehow managed to awkwardly place 100ish guests along the path that wound through the garden.–and most of them even had a view of the happy couple!

We got to the part where the Boss Lady and I exchanged rings, wiped the sweat off each other’s brows (it was sooo ----- hot and humid in there), and shared our first kiss. You know, the usual. And then…it was time to escort the guests out of the stifling December heat and to the reception.

But did we get the orderly and peaceful transition that we had paid for? Hecks no.

Instead, complete disarray and chaos ensued. As the late(?) great Jeff Foxworthy would say, “It was pandelerium!”

Apparently our “wedding coordinator” decided to peace the ----- out early, because, hey, it was her last day. She had already gotten her $50 Target thank-you gift card–no reason for her stick around to see the job through, right?

Thanks for leaving us hanging like butterfly pupa, Tiffany. Dammit. I really wish I could remember your real name right now…you deserve all the public shaming I can conjure up!

Anyways, I found it all just a bit too ironic, considering that “commitment” was the whole ----- theme of the night and all…

Needless to say, we’re a bit leery of any ass-hat that is supposed to be working on something for us while they’re on the way out the door. So, yeah, Daniel was making us a bit nervous.

But, the good news is that history doesn’t always repeat itself.

The bad news? It usually does.

I should have known something was up when he would continually evade my simple question, “So when are going to have the mantel installed?”

He would reply with something vague like, “Yeah I looked at it.” Yeah, that tells me NOTHING.

Lo and behold, the Wednesday of his last week, he pops in at our house unexpectedly to do a quick final walk-through. And of course, I ask him about the mantel again. The mantel–the $300 piece of wood sitting in front of our fireplace, covered in paint cans, instead of being sanded, stained, finished, and suspended safely 5 feet off the ground.

“Oh, that…yeah we couldn’t figure out how to install it without possibly destroying the whole fireplace, and no one wanted to be liable for that. We’ll credit you back what we were going to charge you for the install.”

You. ‘Ve. Got. To. Be. ----- Kidding. Me.

I paid this ----- to literally “Leave the mantel hanging”, and instead he just decided to figuratively leave us hanging. A bit on the nose, don’t you think, Universe?

The point of the story is…well you get it, right? Never be anybody’s “last job”. They’re bound to screw you over one way or another.

Just don’t expect them to screw your mantel into your ----- fireplace like you hired them to do in the first place, though…yeah. maybe I’m bitter just a wee bit…

Special thanks to the Woolly Mammoth for heroically posing for the mantel picture…and going above and beyond getting me out of the home reno fiascos I managed to get myself into over the last 5 weeks.

Content created on: 7 May 2021 (Friday)

Better To Ask Forgiveness Than Permission, But Some Sins Are Never Forgiven

2 May 2021 / / 0 Comments
8 Min Read

What do you say to the unapproving insurance rep who doesn’t want to pay for your sea-side condo because it’s too fancy?

“Beach, please…”

So lately you may have been wondering why my pointless parables have been slightly more sporadic. Well, long story short, I’ve started a new career as an interior designer. Sort of.

About 4 months ago our house sprung a couple leaks, and it all appropriately started when my mom, who was in our kitchen at the times sent me this pic, accompanied by a pithy, yet ominous, message:

“Serious problem, lots of water. Xo”

*Sigh*

Welp, Mom-stradamus has turned out to be a modern-day oracle indeed. Not only did we have an obvious kitchen sink leak, but the insurance adjuster uncovered a much-longer problem with our master shower.

And yada, yada, ya, here we are, living 3 hours away at the beach for 4 weeks while are house is put back together with a few, er, “modifications.” Perhaps down the road I’ll document for you the domestic debacles that I’ve managed to get into by micro-managing the project manager of our repair/remodel project–as foreshadowed by my reference to becoming an interior designer–but that will have to wait for now.

Right now, if I may, I would like to #HumbleBrag about how I got my family a month-long beach-side stay courtesy of Amica Insurance…

As it turns out, insurance will pay for you to stay elsewhere while your house is being repaired as part of a home-owner’s claim. So early on, we got the bright idea to just jam out to a mountain cabin or a beach house instead of staying within 30 minutes of our hometown. Since we all either work from home or attend school virtually, there was no logistical reason why we couldn’t.

Now while our insurance agent had been doing a superb job of taking care of us, she was surprisingly cagey about the process of finding a place to stay during the repairs. When I originally floated the idea of staying in the mountains, long long ago when we thought it would be for maybe a week, she was hesitant, suggesting that I send her a link of any place we were thinking of staying so she could ask her boss for approval. Apparently, she’s dealt with people who had the same basic idea as we did, except these assholes went all out and booked a high-end ski resort and tried to get the insurance to cover it.

Fair enough, I thought…

Fast-forward to about 2-1/2 weeks before the contractors were going to start ripping our house apart. It was only at that point that we found out the exact dates we would need…and the first time we faced the reality of living in a strange and foreign land for 4 whole weeks.

I called “Emily”1Yes, that is her real name. What the ----- does it matter at this point? and had a Groundhog Day experience where we repeated the exact same conversation as before, and I walked away with even less of an idea of what a reasonable price for alternate accommodations looked like.

It being barely two weeks out, I immediately started scouring VRBO, AirBnB and other various mountain rental websites, only to come up with 4 or 5 decent options that were available for that entire time frame–and this didn’t even begin to address the “Anne” and “Frank”2Aka Checkers & Chess. situation. Again, details about the complications arising from being new pet parents are beyond the scope of this tail,3Do have to point out the pun here? and will have to wait their turn to be revealed.

The price tag for 4 weeks at these places came in between $4500-$6000, which all in all, was actually fairly reasonable. A brief cursory look at vacation rentals near us showed that was about what we would expect to pay if we stayed local, so I was pretty confident there would be no issue with our little plan.

Now, I hadn’t had the chance to run these options by the Boss Lady, but since time was of the essence, I fired off the links to these rental to ol’ Emily on this particular Friday afternoon. I wanted to get this ball rolling and a bangin’ cabin booked, ya know?

Over that weekend, the Boss Lady and I finally had a chance to discuss things, and it turned out that she really wanted to hit up the beach instead. Just great. All my hard mountain rental research had just gone down the drain. I told her if she found some suitable places, I would consider them at least.

Sunday afternoon she found quite a few options…except they were closer to $8k-$10k, rather than the $4k-$6k that I had already presented to Emily. I had to talk the Boss Lady down from some of the more expensive options, and we finally agreed that the luxurious “Eden Cove 9”–aka EC9–should be acceptable to all parties, given that I could save $500 by booking directly with Better Beach Rentals instead of through VRBO. Just over $6k, so no one should be complaining, right?

But before we continue, I need you to check out the listing for this place on VRBO here. Any description that begins with “absolutely the most luxurious town homes on Oak Island!” is going to be mother ----- winner, amiright?

Anyways, Sunday night I shot the manager at BBR a few important questions that I needed answered before attempting to get Amica’s approval–most importantly, “I see this property is pet-friendly. Are there any additional pet fees?” This was very coyly worded, in hopes of them revealing whether or not “pets” meant “cats, not just dogs” without me revealing that we very much so indeed need to bring our to feline family members with us.

Well, come Monday evening, and I haven’t heard a dang peep from either Emily or the BBR manager. At this point, I’m getting pretty antsy, because I know that all it takes to make any of our options suddenly unavailable is for some dingus to rent the place out for Easter weekend or some other asininely small number of days. So I decided to make an executive call: I just went ahead and reserved ol’ EC9–a non-refundable move, though, mind you.

I sent Emily the bill and explained to her that I pulled the trigger because time was running out, but, hey, I saved them $500 by booking direct, so all should be well, right?

Wrong.

Mid Tuesday morning, I hear back from Emily for the first time since Friday. Apparently, she hadn’t bothered to tell me that she had sent the mountain rentals I had shared with her on to her supervisor for approval, and she was “having some issues justifying the pricing” with him. Allegedly, they “were able to find some very reasonably priced rentals in [our] area.” Further, she made an argument that EC9 was too fancy, and that alone should disqualify it: “location can have a huge impact on pricing and obviously a rental by the beach with a pool is going to be more costly than a home in your area.”

Ah, snap. They were gonna give me flack for a $4500 rental? Had I totally missed out on local options in the “very reasonable” price range? What is that anyways? $2k? Either way, what was done was done, but I faced the very real possibility of being on the hook for $4k of our rental…ugh!

So I humbly set out to see where I had gone wrong and did a thorough search of the AirBnB and VRBO options near our home, as if we had decided to stay local instead. How did that turn out, you ask? Let’s just say the facts were not in Emily’s favor, and she got the full Point of the Story treatment, starting with a histogram of the options, excluding the one outlier that would have actually been cheaper than EC9:

What you can’t see in the picture is the cheapest option, a suspiciously cheap but otherwise decent-looking place in Durham (uh…no thanks!). While its nominal price was $2900 the additional taxes and fees would bumped that up to $3792. Tack on the $700 it would have cost to board our two cats elsewhere, and suddenly this “very reasonably priced” rental comes out to about $4,500. Yes, that’s right, the same amount they were “having a hard time justifying” us spending on a mountain cabin rental.

Lies! All lies, I say!

The best part about this is, see at the bottom of the picture “Executive Rental, Apex NC”? This was our second cheapest option. Its nominal price was $5,844, so appeared slightly cheaper than EC9, right? But by the time you actually checked out ($7,821) and added on the cat boarding ($700), those A-holes at Amica would have been looking at a bill around $8,500. Would they have us rack up a bill that is $2,400 more just based on the principle that we should stay local?!?

But here’s the real problem: check out the Executive Rental’s listing here. If you’re in a hurry, here’s a quick peek at the master bedroom, replete with a completely unnecessary sofa for some reason:

You basically have to call long-distance to talk to somebody on the other side of the frickin’ room, for frick’s sake! Apart from not having a pool, this place was waaaaay fancier than EC9–and our current house. I bring up our house, because they make a big deal of trying to match the luxuries and amenities of your house, but really don’t want to go beyond that if they can help it. This all lead to this little juicy nugget and I included in my fact-based and fact-filled response to Emily:

“[referencing the Executive Rental] Now, most of the other options in this price range aren’t quite as fancy. But that brings up a very confusing question for someone who is dealing with enough of a stressful situation already: would you force us to stay in less nice accommodations, even if they were more expensive?”

It was a serious question for these ----- fat-cat bureaucrats. I was certain they were going to make us stay in $9k local shit-hole, just to make sure that we weren’t one iota more comfortable than we would be in our regular home. Insane, I say!

Well, long story even longer, I fired off my courtesy reply to Emily, including thorough documentation of my research, and was left holding my breath hoping that cold, hard facts and basic common sense would prevail. Because of course she couldn’t have been bothered to shoot me a quick reply acknowledging the information I had just shared with her or anything like that.

I was a nervous wreck for a good day and a half before getting a text notification out of the blue, informing me that Amica had issued me a payment. I rushed to my computer and checked lickety-split, and confirmed that it was indeed for the full $6,123.86!

I had won! I had really won the battle with the insurance company! Oh, happy happy us, we’re going to the beach; oh, happy happy us, we’re going after all!

Okay, so that didn’t rhyme. So sue me. It was a huge ----- relief–especially because I had actually managed to bear that burden all by myself, and hadn’t mentioned a word of the situation to anyone.

And that gets us to the point of the story: in retrospect, I realized that they would have probably never approved our little beach trip had a obediently waited for Amica’s approval before booking it. Indeed, this a living example of the old adage “It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” Though, now that I say that out loud, I think it’s supposed to read “easier” than “better,” right? Oh well, you get the point.

Now, why would I cryptically hint that “some sins are never forgiven”? Well, I’ll get around to it, but I promise to share the, uh, “experience” that EC9 would have in store for us. Stay tuned…

P.S. Yeah, sorry I didn’t ask your permission to assault you with such a long meandering tale…I beg your forgiveness, Dear Madam or Sir…

Content created on: 1 April & 1-2 May 2021 (Thurs/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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