Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 15 of 26)

I just discovered a new safe word for you to use when stuck in a conversation:

“When I was five, I found out my grandpa had a twin…”

“When I was five, I found out my grandpa had a twin, when I saw him after my grandpa’s funeral. A ----- heads up would have been nice.”

Of all the stories I’ve ever told in these parts, that is probably one of the best ones ever. It has it all: brevity, wit, a plot twist, an “OMFG” moment, and, best of all, a well-justified and appropriately-used f-bomb.

But wait just a minute, Buster: if you’ve been paying attention at all, you will know that at least one of those story-time traits is not characteristic of a Point Of The Story story. At all.

Yes, the whole “brevity” part is definitely a snitch that deserves a stitch: this is not my story at all, but instead a fantastic tweet by @oksheesh that I happened to stumble across:

Ja, I admit that the reason I share it is part out of admiration, part out of envy. Man, I wish could tell my tales like this! I just know that had this happened to me, I sure as heck would have written up a small novel about, including every last bit of context such as where Real Grandpa’s coffin was situated, whether it was open-casket, and what Doppel-Grandpa was wearing.

And no doubt I would have thrown in some completely unnecessary trivia, like how I was eating corn at the after-party¹Wait, that can’t be the right term for that… when I quipped to my mom something to the effect of “You know what I love about funerals? The food!” Because that part did really happen, so why wouldn’t I include that?

Anyways, during a recent road trip to our beach house,²If you haven’t read my post about the Fun House at the beach, then that just means I haven’t written it yet, and you should read that when I do write it up! I was sharing this fantastically tidy tale with my mom–from whom I most definitely inherited my extraneous verbosity–as I was gushing about what a perfect tweet/story it was and how I wanted to be just like @oksheesh when I grew up as a writer.

We both laughed heartily at that fanciful thought, as we knew that my genetic disposition to the contrary was so strong that it was highly doubtful that I would ever master the art of being succinct…

Later, as I was listening to my mom give a detailed account of where everybody was sitting at a particular meal that was the setting for the non-story she was sharing, I briefly experienced what it must be like to be you, my Dear Reader.

“Okay, so she’s telling me all these intricate details, but I have no idea how they relate to the story…well I better pay attention to all the noise just in case there’s a critical detail somewhere in there that makes all this make sense, or at the very least, mildly humorous…”

And just like that, my entire bandwidth was wasted on context, context, context, and I found myself too exhausted to give enough of a flying ----- to find out why we were having this asinine conversation in the first place.

Encouraging her to get to the point, I deftly referenced our conversation from less than an hour earlier:

“When I was five, I found out my grandpa had a twin…”

And it worked! She immediately got the hint and wrapped up her story lickety-split!

And, no, the irony of me using that phrase on someone else is not lost on me at all.

In fact, my trademark style of uber-self-awareness/wry self-deprecation is what compelled me to share all this in the first place–using waaaaay too many words in the process, of course.

If you ever need me to dispense with all the eye-witness-to-a-felony-criminal-act level of details that I’m sharing with you, all you need to do is leave in the comments section: “When I was five, I found out my grandpa had a twin…”

You’re welcome!

(And so sorry for using up all your mental capacity in the process…)

Content created on: 29 April 2021 (Thursday)

You know what they say: “The early bird gets the worm!”

What they don’t tell you is: “The early tax-filer might just get screwed out of all the easy monies…”

Okay, so today isn’t exactly “Tax Day.” Usually it is though, so I thought I would spit a quick tax-related tip at you, because, hey is there ever a more fun and exciting topic?

So I like to be a good citizen when it comes to filing my taxes, and in fact, I usually have them in to the IRS within the first week that they can be submitted in early February. Sure, we usually get a tidy little refund, so that makes it much easier to get sh*t done in a timely manner.

This year I was a little behind on my game and didn’t get them in until early March. No biggie, though–well within the time frame that still would allow me to go publicly bragging about such an asinine thing.

It just so happened though, that the third economic stimulus package was announced a week or two after getting our ‘fund. This time around, though, those checks came with strings attached: namely, if you and/or your hard-working wife make too much money, then you might end up getting exactly jack-squat.

This information would have been extremely handy to have had before I filed my taxes so ----- early like the exceptionally good member of society that I aspire to be. Turns out, had I been a dead-beat family accountant–or a notorious procrastinator, which I seem to be in just about every other area of my life–then the IRS would have been forced to determine our eligibility based on our 2019 taxes.

*Sigh*

If only.

I can neither confirm or deny our current gross household income, but let’s just say that DAMMMMMMIT! I JUST SCREWED US OUT OF A FAT FIVE-K STIMMY FROM UNCLE SAMMY!

You get the point, right? The year 2020 was a shit-show in general, but financially we did just well enough to miss out on all the free-money fun.

And all because I had to–just had to–go showing off to the IRS how much dough we be rolling in the first chance I got.

Wait–I mean, “I was an exemplary citizen, and thoughtfully filed my taxes early enough to help relieve some of the burden on the poor, poor IRS workers.”

What does my goodwill and excellent altruistic behavior get me? Jack. Squat.

The point of the story is, try to not fall into the sinkhole of cynicism if you can, but dang it, it’s true what they say: “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Call me a bad boy, call me Mr. Dangerous. Call me what you will but I say “screw this!” I’m filing my taxes on the last day possible next year!

Content created on: 15 April 2021 (Thursday)

Fame and fortune isn’t always fun and games.

Especially when it’s not really yours…

Katie Crouch had a doppelganger. She even was the same age, had gone to the same college, was also an aspiring author, and no matter where she moved, this Katie Crouch clone seemed to move there as well.

The best part? Her name was Katie Crouch too.

I came across this Tale of Two Katie Crouches while listening to one of my favorite story-telling podcasts, Snap Judgement. If you want to hear the full story, you can listen to it here, but for today’s purposes, let me skip ahead a bit.

Katie #1 thought it was the coolest thing that not only did Katie #2 exist, but they were so alike in so many ways. However, Katie #2 could have cared less though, and just went on living her life as if she was literally the only Katie Crouch in town.

Now, where things take a bit of a turn was when Katie #2 wrote a book that kinda took off. It even made the New York Times’ Bestseller list. The problem, of course, was that since Katie #1 was also trying to make it as an author, everyone she knew just assumed that she was the one who had just made it big.

Congratulations poured in. Friends took selfies with “her” book in bookstores. Everyone was overjoyed and elated for her. Even the media came knocking on the wrong Katie’s door.

Yeah, it was super-awkward.

And she found she couldn’t escape it no matter how hard she tried. She was constantly reminded that Katie #2 had beat her to making their shared name famous, even further reminding her of how from her dreams of being a big name in the book world she was.

Verily, verily, it was damn-near a nightmare…

Somewhere in between overwhelming success and abject failure, toils most aspiring creators of content–and yours truly is no exception. Is this blog the widely-read, much-talked-about source of wit, mirth, and life philosophy I envisioned it to be? Um, let’s just say it’s a “work in progress.”

At the same time, I have the consolation that I’m not just screaming into the void, and the hope remains that if I keep putting in the time and effort that eventually it will pay off in the form a decent-sized readership. (Dare I even dream of making a profit?!?)

Over the past month or so, thanks to some involuntary home renovations, the previously consistent creative output found in these parts has fallen off a bit. And without new content, one can naturally expect to see their traffic dwindle to a trickle.

Therefore, it was a very much a pleasant surprise to see a sharp uptick in visitors to this humble blog:

Could it be? Was I actually on the verge of success, fame, and fortune as humorist/writer/memoirist?!?

Of course, this couldn’t just be a random event, so I felt compelled to investigate the source of all these new readers. So I scrolled down a bit further:

Oh no…

*groans loudly*

Not The Conspiracy Theory Of Everything! I finally get some exposure, and this is the article that these new readers are using to form their impression of the larger body of work to be found here?!?

While not the worst writing that I’ve had the poor judgement to publish, it’s pretty close. In my head, the thoughts were rather coherent, and so when I needed to spit something out in short order so I could enjoy a beach vacation with my family, I thought it would be the perfect article to write.

Well, it turned out that my thoughts weren’t so coherent when I tried to put pen to paper, and eventually I gave up on making a cogent argument, basically just saying “F*ck this sh*t, I’m going on vacation! Peace!”

And now, this is what the world thinks The Point of the Story has to offer.

Well, this is embarrassing.

Even worse, I eventually started wondering “Why this post? And why now?”

It wasn’t long before I regretted trying to answer that question. It turns out a 4-hour YouTube “documentary” came out recently:

Oh, that’s super-fucking-awesome. It is pretty much the anti-thesis to my anti-conspiracy thesis. So pretty much all these new people accidentally discovering my site? People actively looking for conspiracy theories.

Son of a biscuit.

The only word that I can think of to describe this? “Katie Crouch #1, I feel your pain.”

Content created on: 11 April 2021 (Sunday)

Disclaimer: no gold was harmed in the making of this film.

But, fellas, you’re probably not going to like it when you hear what was harmed…

“Keep It Simple, Stupid”–aka the KISS Principle. Many scholars maintain, present company excluded, that the less complicated a plan is, the less likely it is to go off the rails, and therefore the better it is. And personally, I think it’s simply ----- stupid. But that’s just me, over-complicater extraordinaire.

However, every now and then an idea floats past me in the aether that is just the right amount of simple that I can’t deny its beauty and its genius.

And before I float this beautiful, genius, simple idea, I’m just gonna throw in the disclaimer that, on account of its simplicity, that there’s no way in hell that it can be an original idea of mine; I’m sure this has been posited by someone else long before I showed up.

Also, you may utterly hate this idea, so I may or may not actually want to take credit for it, even if it were actually original. Anyways, I digress…enough intellectual foreplay–let’s get to the real action…

“It’s a story that’s tragically familiar, and all too easily avoidable: another man with a gun, another tragedy…” At some point in the last week I scrolled past an article that started this way, in reference to recent mass shootings in Georgia and Colorado. And yes, the article was making a case for common sense gun control.

Now I’m well aware that gun control is a rather controversial topic, but just humor me for the next 2 and 1/2 minutes, will ya?

That line from that particular article got me to thinking, “What singular characteristic best predicts who may be responsible for future mass shootings?”

Of course, the answer one gets when they ask that depends pretty heavily on who you’re asking. Some might say that if you look at the cold, hard data, it’s actually white men you need to be constantly giving the side-eye. But focusing on this demographic would have let the shooter in Denver–who is most definitely not your average white guy–slip past unnoticed until it was too late. Others might point out that it is precisely these guys with “hard to pronounce names” are exactly who you should be afraid of, and warrant an extra level of surveillance and/or restrictions of personal liberties.

In short, it’s a politically loaded question, and we all know that if it’s that subjective, then we’ll never agree enough on how to combat the problem effectively.

But hold up–has the obvious blown right on past us?

Really, though? What’s the single most accurate predictor of the perpetrators of senseless gun violence?

This particular scholar maintains that the undeniable answer is: a penis.

Indeed, the one thing nearly every last one of these assholes have in common is a dick.

So I’m just going to throw this ri-dick-ulous idea out there, and let you do with what you will. What if…what if we simply banned men from owning or handling guns?

Yeah, that may be a bit of blunt tool for a nuanced issue, but let’s just stop ----- around already and solve this problem. Us men have repeatedly proven to society that we simply cannot be trusted with firearms. In-laws, outlaws, crooks, & straights–if Brooks & Dunn can sing about them, then they are statistically way too likely to shoot someone or something that they shouldn’t.

Only female cops get guns? You know what, that sounds pretty ----- good to me.

Only female soldiers get to handle loaded weapons? That one probably doesn’t matter because it won’t be too long before the military has outsourced all their violence to drones and robots. In the meantime, though, sure, I think we would do just fine with that policy.

Oh, and would this solve all the domestic violence problems in the country? No…but, yeah, maybe. I say it’s well worth the risk, the Patriarchy be damned!

Girls, go get your guns! If you can’t be trusted with them…well, it’s going to take a lot to prove to us that you can’t be trusted with guns, given the infinite amount of heart-breaking and senseless shit that we’ve tolerated thus far from your brethren…

Like any idealistic and naive proposition like this one, there are bound to be unintended consequences that the creators never could have foreseen. And no doubt that would be the case here. But after all the dust settles, I would wager that our society would be a much better place for the vast, vast majority of us.

There is, however, one unintended consequence that I can foresee, and it makes me chuckle a wee bit: I can only imagine that the support for transgender rights would suddenly find proponents from previously untapped and unexpected sources (this is not to denigrate the very real struggle of fellow citizens who are very worthy of basic respect, but rather a critique of those who for some ----- reason think they have an opinion in the personal matters of other people).

Is it morally wrong of me to take some sort of secret delight in envisioning gun-loving gentlemen across this great nation of ours agonizing over that age old question? You know the one: “Which do you love more: your dick…or your gun?”

So…how much do you really love your guns, buddy?

*Giggles like a schoolgirl packing heat*

Content created on: 28 March 2021 (Sunday)

Usually, it’s the Easter Bunny doing the hiding.

But seriously, somebody should have hid the fire water from these two drinking bunnies…

“Hide my presents and then I can search for them like a pirate searches for treasure!”

The Elder, our older daughter, was celebrating her 8th birthday at the beach and was understandably overly-excited and full of um…”interesting” ideas for the present-opening portion of the festivities. Now, in fairness, hiding her gifts and then sending her on a scavenger hunt wasn’t that bad of an idea…had 1) we been in a familiar location, & 2) us adults had some time to prepare ahead of time. Without those two pre-conditions, though, the whole scheme could quickly become much more of a dubious endeavor.

But fortunately, I have enough life experience under my belt to foresee how this seemingly fun and cheeky idea could turn out to be a darker shade of shenanigan. So I waved The Elder over and said, “Come young lass, I have a very important story to share with you…”

Back in my early grad school years when I was a single young buck, I would spend my holidays with either my brother (One Skinny Jay) or sister, who lived near each other in Virginia. One particular Easter we were at my sister’s place out in the country, and 1SJ had brought the wife and kids over that morning to celebrate.

And celebrate we did–it seems that us bros had the idea that there was no better way to commemorate the rising of the Lord Jesus Christ than raising a few bottles of booze “in remembrance of Him.” Further, just like Jesus’ female fans found His grave empty early that Sunday morning, we made sure that we likewise found our previously-full bottles empty this fine Sunday morning.

Oh, what’s that? Oh. You wanted to know how the kids celebrated, not the adults? Gotchya.

Well, seeing as how there were 5 of my nieces and nephews running around by that point, it was only logical that us adults hosted an Easter Egg hunt, a classic neo-Pagan American vernal pastime, indeed.

Our sister, seemingly the only responsible adult present that day, had filled up a bunch of brightly colored plastic eggs the night before with candies, quarters, and one-dollar bills, so us boyz only had to hide them in her front yard. It should come as no surprise (or maybe it does) that we knocked out our part of the bargain lickety-split without any trouble.

In less than 5 minutes we had hid all 25 eggs in and under the porch, in the thick half-dead grass, and in/under/around the small lone tree that stood in her yard. Given how starkly featureless the space we had to work with was, we were actually a bit proud of ourselves for finding hiding spots for all of them. Patting ourselves on the backs, we called the butt-munchkins¹This is a bespoke portmanteau, created by yours truly for his siblings children, an amalgamation of the words “butt-munch” and “munchkins”. out into the yard and let them go buck-wild with their Easter baskets.

After all was said and done, we sat around the dining room table, eating ham sandwiches and deviled eggs, helping the kiddos sort through all their loot. Eventually, when we compared notes, we discovered that only 21 eggs had been successfully recovered. Not wanting to leave any valuable booty left undiscovered in the yard, me and 1SJ headed back out to there, bottles o’ rum in hand.

We quickly found one of the stray eggs, but the other 3…well, even after another 20 minutes of combing through the yard, we simply could not figure out where the hell they could have disappeared to. I mean, c’mon, there was 1 porch, 1 tree, and…grass. They couldn’t have gone too far, right? Apparently that logic wasn’t as air-tight as one might guess.

We finally had to call off the search for the sake of our sanity, and all agreed that we would just chalk this loss up to the alcohol. Still to this day, though, we still wonder if there is unclaimed silver doubloons languishing in oblivion at the bottom of her yard…

The point of the story is you probably should avoid the responsibility of hiding the kids’ Easter Eggs if you’ve been day-drinking (again). But, if you do, drink & hide responsibly–make a map of your treasures as you go, you big enebriated pirate, you!

Content created on: 18 March 2021 (Thursday)

Finding that perfect baby name is every expecting couple’s dream.

But the process can be a real nightmare…

Naming a child is no easy task. While it’s a great honor indeed, it is also a great responsibility that one must not enter into lightly. I mean, the poor kid is going to have that name yoked around their neck for the rest of their life, so you gotta choose wisely!

Now, I’m not one to over-think things…wait, that doesn’t sound right. I am one to over-think things, and believe you me, naming our first daughter something less generic than The Elder was the grand-daddy of all the many over-thought thoughts I’ve had in my long and storied career as a professional over-thinker (with the lone exception being what I should get for a tattoo).

And it doesn’t help that the Boss Lady and I are a notoriously bad combination when it comes to making mutually agreeable decisions in an efficient manner.

I mean, we actually ended up watching the 1994 Tim Robbins/Meg Ryan/Walter Matthau not-so-much-of-a-hit-movie, I.Q., on Netflix once, for fuck’s sake. The only good decision we made that evening was to call it quits on I.Q. 20 minutes into the bore-fest, and just re-watch the 1997 Bruce Willis/Milla Jovovich/Gary Oldman/Luke Perry/Chris Tucker actually-entertaining-movie, The Fifth Element instead.

And that example is, incidentally, how we coined the term “Netflix Name.”

Giving our child a Netflix Name was our worst nightmare: the fear was that we would do such a crap-ass job at compromising that we would end up giving her a name that no one was happy with. Just like is bound to happen when any couple–you know who you are (everybody)–tries to jointly decide what movie to watch on that ubiquitous content-streaming service.

Anyways, after collaboratively slaving away at the task for a good 7 months, the prospect of coming up with a name that was desirable to one of us and at least satisfactory to the other was looking pretty bleak.

It even haunted me in my sleep.

One night, with less than a month to go before The Elder was due, I had a dream that I was a miner of precious ore and gemstones, and that I had fallen victim to every miner’s worst nightmare: trapped in a cave-in.

In dreamland, I was trapped underground for over two weeks before being rescued, and when I came to the surface, I received the fantastic news that the Boss Lady had had our child in my abence.

Now usually one would be irreparably upset at missing out on the once-in-a-lifetime of an event like the birth of their first child. But strangely, I wasn’t.

In fact, I was ecstatic–it meant that she had figured out what to name her! After being tormented for so long, I would finally have the resolution of knowing The Name To End All Names. Oh, sweet revelation!

I got on the phone with the Boss Lady, and with tears of joy trickling down my face as I wept, I told her how much I loved her and the new life we had brought into the world together…and then I immediately pivoted to “So what did you name her?!?”

…and then I woke up.

The point of the story is, the Universe can be so ----- cruel sometimes. May you never forget that.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to The Elder! Here’s to 8 years of knowing the true Name To End All Names…

Content created on: 10 March 2021 (Wednesday)