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!
Nothing tears apart close friends like a friendly disagreement over…condiments?
What the fu…
Honestly, I’m not the type of guy to make a scene. At least not in public, anyways. But every once in a while, a hill comes along worth dying on, so to speak.
So, pray tell, is the one hill that I can remember actually almost dying on? What was the topic so controversial, the opponent so clearly wrong, the stakes so unbelievably high, that I would be willing to come thiiiiis close to getting into a raging fist-fight and nearly getting hauled off in handcuffs?
The hill I chose to die on, my friend, was the one slathered in an undeniably delicious sweet, tangy zip.
You see, back in my grad school days I was on the Physics Grad Student Body’s Social Committee, and me and a couple of my fellow chums in the department were in charge of putting together the annual end-of-the-school-year/spring picnic. We had met up for lunch at a restaurant near campus to do the most banal of all tasks imaginable: put together the shopping list for the event.
It was easy enough to agree on the condiments we felt we should have in ample supply: ketchup, mustard, relish, and mayonnaise…wait, what?
Back that up just a second buddy!
No, I don’t agree that mayonnaise is the universal white condiment of choice! I mean, if that’s what you need to lube the food before you shovel it down your gullet, then who am I to judge? People who prefer the Good Stuff–Miracle Whip–are probably nearly as prevalent as the folk who somehow enjoy vinegar mixed with eggs, and should be considered as well.
I made the completely reasonable suggestion that we should just get both and everyone would be happy.
But in the name of all that’s holy, I have no idea how such a simple topic and such a clear-headed suggestion took the turn it did. But a turn indeed did it take.
Wool E. Mammoth, one of the other committee members, decided to be a complete troll about it, and basically forced me to decide whether I was passionate enough about my ‘Whip to defend its honor to the end.
Turns out, I was. I’m almost ashamed to say that things got a little heated and a little loud, and some of the other patrons at the restaurant were starting to give us nervous looks. Yeah, I might have yelled a little bit.
But here’s the deal: when I reflect on that interesting moment in my life–one that cooled off before the cops were called or punches thrown, by the way–I only regret it so much. Why? Because I realized that it wasn’t a matter of oozing white slime on sandwiches that was at issue.
It’s about giving a voice to the voiceless…considering those with slightly less popular opinions…being a champion on behalf of those who are not there to defend themselves…standing up to the condiment bullies who are trying to screw over the little guy…
*Braveheart music*
*Fist-pump of victory*
Huh? Oh, pardon me, I got caught up in the moment, righteous anger, social justice and all.
Now only if I would get off my sandwich high-horse and actually champion a truly worthy cause…
Sometimes, the drunken truth can be the most sobering thing of all…
“I had a dream…” Is there really any other way to begin a tale of epic greatness? Of course not! And does every tale that begins like this end up being epically great? Meh. We’ll see.
Back in the summer of 2004, shortly after officially completing my undergraduate career at Kansas State for good, I had a dream that I had long hair. I don’t think there was anything special about this dream, nor was my hair particularly awesome, but I just woke up with this persistent nagging feeling “I need to grow my hair long.”
A few days later I was confident that this was exactly what I wanted to do, so I set about pursuing this newfound life goal of mine…by skipping my next haircut 6 weeks later. It turns out that you need a bit of patience if you want to have them luscious locks, so it’s good if you’re able to find a distraction to help you pass the time.
At first, my main distraction was repeatedly solving Rubik’s Cubes during my day job of solving cell phone customer’s billing problems. It wasn’t long before I realized that my brain was bored af at that job, and before I knew it, I had a new distraction, applying to grad school so I could fulfill a dream that, come to think of it, I never actually had in my life: becoming a Doctor of Physics.
Now, for anyone who has tried growing their hair out from a crew cut to a full lion’s mane, you probably know that there tends to be an awkward phase somewhere there in the middle (especially with my fairly curly hair, you kinda got to give up on the requirement that you’re stylin’ day in and day out).
Around February 2005, right when I was totally hitting peak awkwardness, I had a major breakthrough in my Doctor-of-Physics-non-dream/distraction. Hidden away in my spam folder, and thiiiiis close to being deleted without a second look, was an acceptance letter from the Department of Physics at the University of Florida. I hadn’t heard back from any of the other 3 schools I had applied to, so this was HUGE: I was going to get into grad school!
I was new to the grad school game, as I had never originally planned on doing anything of the sort with my life, and what I didn’t know before this moment is than an acceptance letter often will come with…A FREE TRIP TO FLORIDA! Well, not necessarily Florida, per se, but to wherever the fine institution of higher learning may be located, for a prospective grad student weekend. Pretty cool.
What wasn’t cool was the weekend I visited Gainesville happened to be the weekend that, for whatever God-awful reason, I was experimenting with using Nair as a longer-term solution for my facial hair. I vaguely recall that I had finally had it with shaving regularly, so decided to apply my genius-level problem-solving skills to the matter. On the other hand, I clearly recall that it made my face smell like a hot baloney sandwich–and it didn’t even work!
Fun fact, though, my ill-conceived adventures with Nair don’t actually have anything to do with the story. It’s just interesting to re-discover long-lost and/or repressed memories when one goes down the path of autobiographical exposition. But my hatred for my facial hair aside, I confess that I do indeed digress…
Despite the possibility that I reeked of old lunch pails, I hit it off pretty quickly with two other prospective students, Rebecca & Natasha. And, yes, the stereotypes are true: anyone named Natasha is probably Russian, so if you want name your kid Natasha but you’re a Proud American Patriot, just randomly change one of the ‘A’s to an ‘O’, and you should be good to go.1That sentence wasn’t supposed to sound that Russian, but I couldn’t help leave my typo in.
Anyways, back to the story. Given that I recently casually dropped the fact that I had multiple (simultaneous) girlfriends earlier in my life, you may think that this story is going to end with “…and that is how I became an Orgy Guy, kids.” But to that, let me reassure you:
Nope, me and my gal pals were strictly platonic. Anyways, that Saturday night a bunch of us went out and hit up the Gainesville bar scene, so naturally I was rollin’ two deep with my home girls.
At one point in the evening, after we each had had a moderate-yet-responsible amount of drinks, Natasha stopped what she was doing and started staring at me. She then leaned over and, practically yelling at me in her thick Russian accent over the thumping club beats, she said something that shook me to my core:
“You know you look just like Napoleon Dynamite, right?”2At one point in time I could remember what I thought she was saying. Due to her accent, the bar noise, and the ridiculous nature of her accusation, what I do recall is that it was something waaaaaaaay different.
Once I realized what she was saying, I gotta admit that I had to angrily disagree with her just a little bit on that point.
Nope. No way, no how. She apparently had gotten too comfortable with me and thought she could light-heartedly rile me up by invoking the nerdiest cultural icon of 2005. I mean, we were all physics nerds, but how dare she single me out as nerdier than the rest of us.
I told her she was clearly full of shit, because, for starters, I was blonde and Napoleon was a red-head, but she was unmoved by my argument. I looked to Rebecca to be a tie-breaker, but she just shrugged and mumbled, “Yeah, I guess I could kinda see it.”
I wasn’t completely butt-hurt over these accusations, but I did feel a little bit like they were picking on me, albeit in good fun. I got over it quickly enough, writing it off for the ridiculous claim that it was.
About an hour later, the ladies had finally managed to drag me on to the dance floor against my will. Against my will–because unlike Napoleon, I didn’t have the sweet moves of his that I’m about to show in you in GIF form:
But I was making the best of it, and thanks to the Power of Alcohol, was managing to have a pretty good time.
I was in the middle of groovin’, when out of nowhere from behind me I feel a hand on my shoulder. Since the only two people I actually knew in the whole town was right in front of me, I was a little confused as to exactly who the hell would be touching me without my consent.
I turned around to see it was none other than…two drunk dudes that I had never seen before in my life. While I was still trying to figure what the heck was happening, one of them blurted out:
“Napoleon Dynamite! Awesome!!!”
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I screamed that way you scream when you realize that you’ve been in denial with a very uncomfortable truth about yourself.
I was like, “You too, really? Did these girls put you up to this? The Russian girl put you up to this, didn’t she? TELL ME THE TRUTH, YOU DRUNK UNDERAGE BUMS!”
“Nope, dude, I don’t know that girl. But what I do know is that you look exactly like Napoleon Dynamite. I just figured you had to be doing it on purpose. I mean, it’s not even Halloween, though, so that takes some commitment, my man.”
At that point in time, the other drunken guy chimed in, “Just one line–any line–from the movie that’s all we ask!”
Trying to swear at the cursed situation I found myself in, I turned my face to the side and let out a “Gosh…”
But before I could finish my mild oath, the small crowd around me erupted in cheers.
“OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD! That was AWESOOOOOOOOME!”
*Sigh* While I had strongly favored my theorem that this was all an elaborate Natasha-prank, as I scientist I had to respect a statistically significant number of unbiased observations.
I was awash in a confusing cocktail of emotions in regards to my self-identity, so once I got away from the cheering masses I ducked into the nearest bathroom, took a good hard look at myself in the mirror, and way-to-accurately recreated both parts from this iconic scene:
At one point in time I could remember what I thought she was saying. Due to her accent, the bar noise, and the ridiculous nature of her accusation, what I do recall is that it was something waaaaaaaay different.
Take a look inside the Book of Forbidden Fruit, if you dare.
But, young lad, can you handle what you may find in there?
Mojo. True story: I once had it out the wazoo. You may recall just a few days ago I #HumbleBragged about one of my hot-n-heavy girlfriends from first grade. Yeah, that’s right I said one of them. There were multiple, if you didn’t pick up on that.
I forgive you if your immediate reaction is, “What the heck happened?!?”
Well, first, thanks for being so intimately interested in my life. And second, are you okay if I don’t exactly answer that question, but kinda do?
*Pauses for the consent of the Dear Reader*
Okay, I didn’t hear you say “no”, so I’ll take that as a “yes!”1Well, this is problematic. Consent granted!
Yessiree, Bob, I was indeed a stud muffin all the way up through second grade. Then third grade hit, and that’s when I moved from sleepy little Richfield, KS to the thriving metropolis of Springfield, MO.
Now, my new school, the fabled Christian Schools of Springfield, was actually about the same size as my school in Kansas, so in this case size truly didn’t matter. My theory is that my Kansas rad-itude must have just not translated too well to the muggy, humid atmosphere in Missouri.
However, still having the confidence of a hot dude, I thought myself to be all that and a bag of chips. Alas! Over the course of my third grade year, this metamorphosized into cockiness unbeknownst to me. Problem was, no one bothered to tell me.
Now, for most of that year, I had been pining after the cutest girl in my class, Andrea B., though my affection never seemed to be quite requited. But late in the spring of that year, my luck2I didn’t say good luck. You just assumed that’s what I meant. was about to change.
It so happened that the church I went to, the fabled Baptist Temple, was across the street from the CSOS grade school building and used the classrooms for Sunday School. Ever being the rascal that I was, about once a month or so, myself and another like-minded classmate/churchmate would stay in the building after Sunday School was over, and we would break into our classroom and pillage our teacher’s candy supply.
One of these times, I got a little too comfortable in my crimality and decided to poke around my classmates’ desks. Lo & behold, what did I find? A diary with Andrea’s name on it…SCORE!
There was a page in there where she had written down the name of everyone in our class, along with a short, very private sentence stating how she really felt about them. Oh, boy that was an interesting read!
Then I got down to my name: “Can be a real jerk sometimes!”
That wasn’t true! I wasn’t a jerk! What a jerk thing of her to say!
Oh, but the knife wasn’t done being plunged into my heart just yet. I could clearly see where she had erased what she had wrote at first: “Kinda cute. I think I might like him <3.”
Not gonna lie, that cut straight to the bone. Apparently my first impressions weren’t my problem. It’s the whole “getting to know me” part that seems to be sabotaging my relationships…
Well, one would think that this would have been a sobering experience for me, and that I would have lived a life on the straight and narrow from there on out. But, hey, where would the fun be in that?
What did I do with this newfound trove of forbidden knowledge? A few days later I thought it would be a GREAT idea to tell all the other boys at the lunch table all the little juicy nuggets I had uncovered in her diary. Well within earshot of her, too boot!
It wasn’t long before she realized what I was up to and immediately stormed over in a whirlwind of angry tears.
“And you wonder why I think your such a jerk!”
As she stomped off still sobbing, she left me standing there, completely stunned.
Holy shit, I really was a huge jerk. And what a meta way to find out such an ugly self-truth. Touche´, Universe, touche´.
And that, Kids, is sorta-kinda how I lost my mojo…
Content belatedly created on: 18/19 February 2021 (Thurs/Fri)
To all you dads-of-daughters out there, it’s never to soon to learn this key phrase:
“Sorry, but you’re like the Son-in-Law I never wanted…”
By the time you’re reading this, it’s probably already too late. If you came here looking for sage elderly advice on how to pull the perfect Valentine’s Day surprise out of your keister at the very last second–and why else would you be spending the most romantic of the day of the year here, with me1The only right answer here is that you, Dear Reader, are none other than the Boss Lady. But we all know that that is truly a ridiculous fantasy, amiright? of all people?–let’s just say that I was hoping I could ask you the same thing.
So as long as we’re clear on that point, we can get on with the show. I just didn’t want to hear you howling’ and hollerin’ at the end, asking for your money back because I didn’t save your procrastinating ass like you thought I had somehow promised and what-not. You wouldn’t believe the amount of belly-achers one would find roaming around these parts of the internet. *Sigh* But I digress…
Now, where were we?2Mother- ----- This is a quote from The Princess Bride, but all of the clips on YouTube cut off right before they get to this line from the opening scene. Dammit, you wouldn’t believe how much time I wasted trying to hunt that down for your viewing pleasure. But it’s riiiiight after this scene: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4bqtr8. Oh, right. I was in the middle of being a disillusioned ol’ hopeless romantic. I mean, I’m not one to complain about the joys of the institution of marriage, or anything. It’s just that if you’ve been building up your expectations for what “Wuv, Twue Wuv”3That’s a The Princess Bride reference, of course: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bY0fdgpISc is, like, since before you could read, then you’re bound to be a little off-target by time you get a taste of the real deal.
Awhile back, I foreshadowed future flashbacks in which would further illustrate that I was rather quite the little stud muffin in my early years. Specifically, in Back-To-School Not-So-Special, I left you hanging with the stunning reveal that I had multiple girlfriends during my First Grade year.
Apparently I was really gung-ho into the dating scene back then, never taking my eyes off the ultimate prize: spending an eternity with one–and only one–fine young lass.
This wouldn’t have been so bad had I not got cocky and left a paper trail of my way-too-early intentions. Come Valentine’s Day 1988, Peaches–er, I mean “Mae”–and I were taking a break, so I was left free to focus all my love and romantic intentions on the other lady in my life, Micky.4Not her real name, but you know who you are.
How this played out in reality was that she got way too many gifts from me, like a bracelet made out of all different color hearts, and multiple Valentine’s Day cards. These cards featured no-that’s-not-creepy-at-all messages such as:
“I’m so in love with you!”
“Will you marry me?”
“You’re such a hottie!”
“We definitely should get married.”
“Nice ass.”5Okay, so this one didn’t really happen.
“We’re going to have the cutest kids.”
“Let’s get matching tattoos!”
“Be mine. FOREVER.”
You know, harmless kid stuff. Except…except that somehow her dad–who, fun fact was the Best Man in my dad’s post-my-mom wedding–came across her little trove of tokens of affection from me.
Now, I don’t remember if what came next took place at the Valentine’ party at school, and he just happened to be there to pick Micky up, or if he made it a point to come to school specifically to talk to me, but either way he sat down and had a little heart-to-heart with 7-year-old me.
He didn’t really seem angry so much as, “Dear Lord, how do I deal with this young man with so much…premature passion?!?” In fact, he seemed a little embarrassed to have to set me straight, so to speak, and the part about that interaction that has stuck with me for 33 years was him giving an awkward chuckle before commenting, “It might be a bit early to be thinking about marriage, son…maybe in 20 years from now, yeah, sure.”
Of course my first reaction was to die of pure embarrassment. I mean, not only did her dad stumble upon what was the mid-80s equivalent of pecker-pics, but instead of being a considerate and thoughtful future father-in-law and pulling a Delores-From-Westworld and claiming “[It] doesn’t look like anything to me,”6https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXQ512JgDbw he goes and makes sure I know he knows. I mean, passive-aggressive much, bud?
Now, I may have only been in First Grade, but I could already handle mental math of that magnitude, and so immediately my second reaction was, “You’re one crazy mother- ----- if you think I’m going to sit around with my ----- in my hand until I’m 27! Please! I’d die if I had to wait that long to unleash my pure romantic prowess on a young lady!”
And here we are decades later, looking back, and my third reaction is, “Dang…Rod-strodamus was pretty spot-on. Lo & behold, I really did sit around with my ----- in my hand until I was 27 before this majestic beast was unleashed on the Boss Lady–amazing!”
Of course, this little Valentine’s Dinner of ours wouldn’t be complete without a fourth and final course, so let’s end this with my fourth reaction.
You know how when you go on to marry somebody completely different than your First Grade girlfriend but somehow–surprise, surprise–she turns out to be way better, and then you have a daughter or two of your own with this non-First-Grade-girlfriend, and then the older one hits pre-pre-puberty and you find out that her friend who is also 7 but a boy has been yelling “I love you” at her after their socially-distanced play dates and you’re just like “Shit, I like that kid and don’t want to have to casually show him my gun collection” and you really could use some sage elderly advice?
Well, now thanks to Rod-strodamus, you’ll know exactly how to deal with that little overly ambitious Romeo: just cast the 20-Years Of Celibacy hex on him, and–BOOM!–problem solved! After all, if you had to involuntarily learn the hard way the true meaning of that annoying phrase “Twue Wove Waits,” then why the hell should I–er, I mean “you”– suffer alone?
But you know what–and Boss Lady, I’m talking to you–those 20 years of “suffering” has only made the last 13 years all that much sweeter, because–and I regret to inform you that I need to drop another trite and overused cliche on ya–“It was worth the wait.”
Well, what do ya know? I guess this ol’ hopeless romantic is still hopeless as ever.
The only right answer here is that you, Dear Reader, are none other than the Boss Lady. But we all know that that is truly a ridiculous fantasy, amiright?
Mother- ----- This is a quote from The Princess Bride, but all of the clips on YouTube cut off right before they get to this line from the opening scene. Dammit, you wouldn’t believe how much time I wasted trying to hunt that down for your viewing pleasure. But it’s riiiiight after this scene: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4bqtr8.
“To the Le Pickle Wagon!” is what you got instead…
“This kid is one mother- ----- optimist” is what I’m pretty sure I remember hearing the doctor say the moment he pulled me from my Dearest Mother’s womb1I was born via C-section, if you’re curious about the odd phrasing. many moons ago.
Now we could argue about whether that was actually a false memory all day (spoiler alert: YOU’RE WRONG), or I could just provide yet another piece of compelling evidence to back up my bold assertion. Take, for example, being a member of a lower socio-economic class most of my life.
Contrary to popular belief, growing up without excess monetary funds in one’s family does, in fact, have its up-sides. My parents’ motto seemed to be “why buy a shiny new vehicle when you can buy one with character?”
Honestly, I kind of pity all the rich kids who had to grow up with reliable rides who were deprived of rolling around town in vehicles with fun names like “The Lime”, “Ol’ Rusty”, “The Lime The Second”, and, forever my personal favorite, “The Pickle Wagon.” The Pickle Wagon was my mom’s little station wagon that she had when she lived in Southern California, and it had to have been at least 15 years old at the time.
Also “at least 15 years old at the time”: Yours Truly. You see, during my high school years I lived with her in SoCal during the summers, and though I’ve known how to drive since I was 6, it wasn’t until I was 16 and legally licensed that I had the chance to learn how do drive in the Big City.
Occasionally I would get to drive my adult brother’s sweet Chrysler LeBaron convertible, but most of the time I was cruising the mean streets of Long Beach in The Pickle Wagon with my momma riding shotgun. It was probably for the best anyways, as–and I’m deeply embarrassed to admit anydeficiencies in my driving skills–I kinda fudged up once and misjudged the distance of an incoming car as I was pulling out of a gas station into the street.
CRUNCH! SCRAAAAPE! The other car didn’t slow down much as they tried to swerve around us, but they still ended up side-swiping us pretty darn good. I pulled over to the side of the road waiting for them to stop and unleash some road rage on my ass (or at least exchange insurance information).
I sat there for a good minute or so, freaking out cause I knew I had done gone and ----- up this time. Of course, during this whole time I was playing out all the worst-case scenarios in my head, including, but not limited to: going to jail; dying in a street fight; Mom’s insurance rates going so high that she became homeless; Mom murdering me for destroying her sweet ride and going to jail…you get the idea.
After about 2 minutes of me sitting there having a panic-anic attack, Mom pointed out that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t coming back. Ultimately we figured the best explanation as to why we had just been the victims of a hit-and-run–despite being totally at fault–was that we had just witnessed the same statistical process that allows nuclear fusion to power the sun.2https://lmgtfy.app/?q=what+powers+the+sun+
In this analogy, though, instead of having two very rare, super-high-energy hydrogen atoms somehow finding each and colliding and undergoing fusion in the process, you had the two shittiest cars in all of Long Beach somehow finding each other and colliding and undergoing a process where they are actually in better condition afterwards. Honestly, after getting out and assessing the significant body damage, we couldn’t put our hands over our hearts and say that it was in worse shape.
If anything, Mom had a fancier paint job, what with the new-found racing stripes running down the side and all…
The point of the story is: this Valentine’s Day, if you find yourself all alone and bummed out, don’t despair! If a humble character with a name like The Pickle Wagon could overcome all odds to find her3Don’t know why it would be a “she”–we didn’t have the benefit of proactive pronoun sharing back then. one-in-a-million perfect match that in the end made her a better car, then there’s gotta be hope for you yet!
*crickets*
Wow. That sounded way more condescending and insulting once I typed it out.
Maybe I’ll leave you with this instead: One day I happened to be thinking about the infamous “P*ssy Wagon”4https://lmgtfy.app/?q=pussy+wagon+kill+bill&t=i pickup truck from the Kill Bill movies, and found myself wondering what they would have named it if Buck, its criminally-high-libido-levels-having owner, had been female instead…
Before I could stop the chain-reaction of thoughts, I had already traumatized myself with the image of my squeaky-clean mother, standing next to her beloved PW, gruffly proclaiming “My name is Lilian,5Almost her real name. and I’m here to get it in!”6You know, on second thought, maybe you had better NOT Google “My name is buck”…especially if you’re my mom!
But even worse is when you get “close, and all banana”…
Lately I’ve been having minor PTSD1Real minor–nothing like real PTSD, just to be clear. episodes and I hadn’t been able to quite put my finger on what has triggered them. A few days ago it dawned on me that, somewhat surprisingly, it was our shower that’s been haunting my waking dreams.
Well, lack of a shower, that is. You see, a few weeks ago we discovered a leak under our shower, so now it’s become this huge ordeal involving the insurance company and a mitigation team that’s come in to dry things out. Step one? Mercilessly tear out the shower–and it turns out that they won’t be able to fix their little oopsie for another 5 weeks at least. Super.
Fortunately, we have moved up the socio-economic ladder enough to be able to afford a house with not one, but two bathrooms. Ergo, it’s only been a minor adjustment for us adults to perform our daily personal hygiene maintenance routine in the shower/tub that’s usually reserved for our kiddos.
However, my lot in life hasn’t always been so lush and luxurious…
*Ahem. Cue flashback sound effects, please*
During my final year of college, I lived in a 3-bedroom house with 4 other guys. And this 3-bedroom, 5-guy house had only 1 bathroom. That single bathroom served us surprisingly well, though…under normal circumstances, that is.
Some of my roomies were friends with our landlord (a fellow college student), and apparently they got the blessing from him to replace the shower/tub themselves when it fell in light disrepair a few weeks after I had moved in. Fortunately, the fellas in question were, like me, farmboys and therefore fairly competent DIY handymen.
Heading up the project was my good buddy, the Beautiful Love Muscle,2Not his real name, but it should be! and the ever-reliable BLM assured me that all would be back in working order by time I got back from my little Labor Day excursion to Kansas City. Honestly, I wasn’t worried–I knew I could trust these guys to get the job done. Especially if they had 3 whole days to do it…
You know that famous carpenter proverb, “Measure twice, cut once”? Well…
Lo and behold, upon my return I found that not only were we completely showerless, but all the water in the house had been shut off for the foreseeable future. It turns out that m’boys didn’t exactly get their measurements right, and had purchased a single-piece shower/tub combo that just didn’t quite fit. To borrow a phrase from football, home renovations can be “a game of inches.”
But Chiefs amongst our problems was that they ended up getting in over their heads and, caught with their proverbial pants down, they couldn’t turn the water supply back on without flooding the house until they had got a shower in place. So, there we were, stuck with no H2O for who knows how long. Fan- ----- -tastic.
After 3 or 4 days of dirty dishes piling up in our sink, one of them figured out a temporary work-around so they could actually turn the water back. What a relief it was to be able to at least wash our dishes and hands! And speaking of relief, there was a spot in the backyard where the grass was mysteriously dying, and some of us had a hypothesis that not having water running to our toilet bowl might somehow hold the key…
Anyways, the problem with solving all the non-shower water-related issues was that it allowed a sense of complacency to creep in, and our friendly local plumbers were suddenly not as motivated to fix their unresolved faucet fiasco as they really should have been. Apparently, they felt they had more of a duty to their classes than the cleanliness and comfort of their fellow housemates. And so what was supposed to be only a 3-day weekend inconvenience was now a full-on fuster-cluck that was dragging on for week after week.
Now of course, I didn’t just stop taking showers altogether this whole time–who do you think I am? Dirty Bob? No, I refuse to ever be like him! Instead, I adapted, by golly! Fortuitously, we lived a few blocks from where one could always catch glimpses of the whitest & barest old-man asses that Kansas State University had to offer: the old fitness center/natatorium (i.e. “swimming pool”). Instead of letting grime and stank accumulate on me, I would just pop in the locker room there in the mornings for a quick shower before heading to class, paying no mind to the wrinkly bare flesh that came with the territory. Now I don’t want to brag, but sometimes I can be pretty, pretty clever…
One of these particular mornings, by pure chance I ran into a guy I happened to know, Brian. Well, I knew him fairly well, actually: he was the associate pastor at my church and leader of the Bible study I attended. On top of all that, he and I would meet up once a week just the two of us, in which this upstanding be-spectacled man in his early 40’s would mentor me in All Things Jesus. Yet, even though we had a relatively close relationship, it was definitely a different type of experience to encounter him without a Bible in his hand.
For his part, he was pleasantly surprised to run into me outside of church:
“BJ! I didn’t realize you worked out here too!”
“Yeah, well I’m not technically working out. Funny story…my roommates have been ‘replacing’ our shower for the last few weeks, so I’ve had to come here to take my showers.”
Brian, not wearing his glasses, squinted as he stepped in a foot closer to me so he could see my face more clearly while we talked.
“That is funny. I just got done with my morning swim. Yup, I like to hit the pool at least 3 times a week. Keeps me young…”
“Cool, cool. Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re taking care of yourself…”
Brian, still apparently struggling to see me without his glasses, took another step closer to me.
“Thanks. Thanks. Where are you off to after this?”
“After my shower? Once I actually get to shower, I’ll be off to my Philosophy class. Speaking of which, I really should…”
“Oh, right, right. Don’t let me hold you up! I need to finish up showering myself, I just forgot to bring my towel with me and I was running back to my locker to grab it when I ran into you…”
Seeing my chance to cut off a conversation that had gone on 10 sentences longer than it ever should have, I graciously bid him adieu.
“Big Gulps, huh? Welp, see you later…” I said, wondering if he would pick up on the classic Dumb & Dumber reference.
“…fully-clothed, preferably,” I muttered under my breath as I made sure my towel was firmly around my waist before sauntering off to the showers…
The point of the story is, if you ever find yourself in a locker room, obliviously standing there Buccaneer-ass naked while making small talk with an acquaintance that is less-than-pleasantly surprised to see you, keep the conversation short. And, please, for the love of all that’s holy, keep your distance while you’re at it.
Verily, I say unto thee, just as in football and home remodelling, “It’s a game of inches!”
…
So…uh…are you going to give me credit for writing a Super Bowl-themed blog post or not?
Fun fact, fun fact, fun fact! Did you know…apart from 2 sips of beer separated by 14 years and 1 very delicious wine cooler somewhere in between, I successfully sustained from imbibing alcohol until my 21st birthday? Ja, it’s true!
Even then, though, the disappointment inflicted by that inaugural Dixie cup of red wine caused me a significant developmental delay in acquiring a taste for the proverbial sauce. I mean, let’s face it: red wine tastes nothing at all like what its cousin, Welch’s Sparkling Grape Juice, would lead one to believe…but I digress.
It wasn’t really until I went to grad school before I learned how to properly drink at an undergraduate level. But that first year? Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly all Rosés.1Alcohol-based pun #1! Yup, my pro career2Football-based pseudo pun #1! as a social drinker was definitely on the rocks3Alcohol-based pun #2! in those early days.
For example, about halfway through my rookie season,4Football-based pseudo pun #2! I went to a Super Bowl party hosted by a friend of a friend of a roommate. I knew maybe a handful of people there, so for the most part I was hanging out with a bunch of strangers, trying to fit in by arbitrarily rooting for Big Ben and the Steelers.
Now remember, we were a bunch of rambunctious 20-Somethings, so of course there was going to be alcohol flowing like wine at this gathering. There was just one problem though: I still hadn’t yet fully acquired a taste for traditional beer at this point. So it was pure elation when I discovered that one of the hostesses had made an impressive tray of Jello shots for us guests.
Real quick: if you’re not familiar with Jello shots, you basically just add in a liberal amount of the clear liquor of your choice–say, Vodka or Everclear–when making Jello, pour the mix evenly into single-serve containers for easy dispensing–like, say, Dixie cups–then let them firm up in the fridge like regular ol’ virgin Jello, and–BOOM! You have a fun and easy way to get your daily recommended amount of the party juice in!
Anyways, trying to further fit in with the cool kids, I casually took 2 or 3 J-shots, acting as if I had actually done this before. To my delight, they were tasty af, and before I knew it, I found myself going back for 2 or 3…or 5…or 7 more. Hey, it was a crazy night, and I sort of lost count, what can I say?
I’m guessing it was around Shot #10 that I decided to do what all cool cats do when they’ve had a few more drinks than the average Bear: nonchalantly mention to their comPatriots how much they’ve had, and how good it was subsequently making them feel.
So to a random bunch of people I had known for all of maybe 20 minutes, I intimated a bit loudly, “Man, these Jello shots are really hitting me! WHOO–Feeling gooooood!”
There was a bit of an awkward pause in the conversation for a couple seconds before our gracious hostess tentatively broke the silence, fumbling5Football-based pun #3! for the right words as she tried to gently break the news to me:
“Ummm…I actually forgot to add the alcohol to the Jello when I made them, soooo…”
Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, and it’s time to get your funk on, baby!
But first, you’re gonna have to get that funk the funk off you…
When I was a studly young Sophomore in high school, I lived on the farm with my dad in dusty-ass Southwest Kansas. Occasionally my unpaid labor on the farm wasn’t enough to get the job done to his satisfaction, so Dad would hire a farm hand to help him out.
Well, it just so happens that during this epoch in my life, Dad’s go-to guy was ol’ “Dirty Bob” Harris. I shit thee not–this was this guy’s actual nickname that people used when speaking directly to him. This moniker was well-deserved, too: he was a bachelor probably in his 60s who lived south of Rolla in a little shanty of a trailer, chain-smoked, and, when feeling particularly hygienic, would bust out his pocket knife and clean out the grit from underneath his grubby-ass fingernails. In fact, the one condition Dad had for his continued employment was that he had to take a bath at least once a week. Talk about setting the bar, pretty low, right?
I always thought that was kinda gracious of Dad, seeing as how a weekly bath wasn’t nearly enough to keep him from imparting a semi-permanent stank to our pickup, tractors, and other implements in which he spent more than 5 minutes. I would beg Dad over and over again to consider spending just a little more money on external farm labor, hoping that he would hire Clean Bob instead. But, NOOOOOO, apparently Clean Bob was outside of our price range. So there I was, stuck with the privilege of having Dirty Bob’s b.o. rubbing off on me any day I had to ride in the pickup with him.
It got worse though. You see, even though there were only three employees on the farm, there was definitely a power hierarchy. Dad (also a “Bob” FWIW), unfortunately, wasn’t afraid to pull a power-move when he had to. So being El Jefe of the whole operation, he got exclusive use of one of our two tractors to himself…meaning that us peons, Bob and I, had to share the other tractor.
His own flesh and blood–can you believe it? He made his own last-born son share a tractor with the stinkiest mother- ----- in all of Morton County! I really should have called Child Protective Services on his ass and reported him for cruel and inhumane child abuse….
If I was lucky, I would get to hang out with him on the weekend. And if I was real lucky, I would get to hang out with him the one and only Saturday night Leslie, his hot-as-hell cousin from Texas, was coming to visit him.
Sure, I may have been a bit, uh, “ambitious” thinking that my scrubby butt had a chance of romancing her, but what can I say? I’m a dreamer and an optimist at heart. In BF-Egypt3Bum-Fuck, Egypt, for you geography scholars out there. Kansas opportunities like this didn’t come along very often, so I had to give it all I had, right?
I could feel it in my bones that colder winter day in ’97: that evening I was sure to have a date with destiny. But first, I had hot date with Tractor #2, as Dad had graciously agreed to let me take off a little early that afternoon once I finished plowing one of our many huge tracts of land4Inappropriately applied Monty Python reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=g3YiPC91QUk first.
When I got in the tractor that morning, I could definitely tell that Dirty Bob had been stanking it up in there quite recently. But, I figured it would be no problem–I would just take a nice hot shower afterwards and go on my merry way to Phillip K.’s. Look out, Leslie! Here comes your Casanova!
Now at this point, you may be thinking to yourself, “Wait just a tick there, Buddy! I know the Boss Lady’s name sure ain’t Leslie. That must mean…no. It can’t be. How ever in the world did your plan to court and marry your high school best friend’s cousin from out of town go awry?!? ‘Twas foolproof!”
Funny you should ask. In the end what screwed me over was Dirty Bob’s dirty smoking habit. Apparently when you smoke as much as he did and rarely bath or wash your hands, it turns out those hands will get covered in the most horrible smelling layer of smoke/nicotine/sweat/dirt funk. And then when you drive a tractor, you forever funkify the steering wheel for the aspiring young Don Juan that has to drive it after you.
It was only when I got home that evening and had washed up that I made the gruesome and horrifying discovery–now my hands smelled like Dirty Bob! I washed them over and over until they were almost bloody, but to no avail at all. I was doomed. Doomed, I say!
I lathered them in Old Spice aftershave, hoping that would overpower my dear sweet Leslie instead of the scent of Old Dirty Bastard Spice that I couldn’t seem to quite shake, and headed on over to P.K.B.’s house in town. Ol’ Phillip K., though? He sure noticed the smell and started endlessly ribbing me about it.
Figuring he would have some sympathy for a brother-from-another-mother looking to become a cousin-from-another-grandmother (you know, by marrying his hot-ass cousin, and what-not), I shared with him how distressed I was on account of how the Universe and Dirty Bob had conspired and done gone and blown my chances with Leslie. Big mistake. My god, he simply would not let me hear end of it, about how absolutely ridiculous I was, thinking I had any chance in hell with her.
Harrumph! What a prick.
Oh, and it turned out that she decided at the last second to not come hang out with us after all.5At least I don’t remember hanging out with her… So it was a basic all-around shit-show in the romance department for me that weekend.
The point of the story is, don’t ever let your dad hire anybody who unashamedly has “Dirty” in his name. But if he does, at least you can always blame him for the reason why you’re not dating the hottest 17-year-old in the 5-State Area. And that’s the only reason.
After all, you’re nothing but a studly young Sophomore stallion, right?
Well, I bet you’re no Sylvester, though, you little punk…
“Bad-ass.” Oh, what a great phrase–and versatile, too! It can be used as an adjective: “Mess with Chuck Norris, and you can expect to get one bad-ass roundhouse kick to the face.” It works great as a noun: “Jackie Chan is such a bad-ass!” You can even add an ‘-edly’ and take it for a spin as an adverb: “He bad-assedly walked away as the building exploded behind him.”
Okay, so maybe that last one doesn’t work so well. But no worries–it doesn’t really matter, because we are only really interested in using it in its noun form today.
So I’m not gonna lie to ya: I’ve spent most of my life wishing that I, myself, were indeed “a bad-ass.” I mean, who wouldn’t want to be one? At least when it comes to the average American male demographic cohort, amiright? Perhaps at times I have achieved minor bad-ass status, but I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever sustained it for any length of time.
And if I ever get too cocky and catch myself me-thinksing me-self to be a full-time bad-ass, to keep my feet grounded I have found it helpful to remember the true bad-asses I’ve encountered in my lifetime. I would even argue that every non-bad-ass out there–and that’s most of us–should have that One True Bad-Ass that they can look to to disabuse themselves of any foolish notions that, when left unchecked, might lead to foolish choices like, say, buying a motorcycle or a completely unnecessary leather jacket.
“But, who’s your One True Bad-Ass, oh Wise and Noble Blogger?” you are absolutely most definitely asking me right now, even though you know I can’t hear you through the computer screen, right?
Well, my One True Bad-Ass is Sylvester.
No, not Sylvester Stallone–aka Rocky, aka Rambo. In all honesty, I think that guy’s a bit much, anyways, don’t you?
When it comes to bad-assery, my Sylvester is the real deal, yo. The romantic partner of one of the Boss Lady’s random co-workers from many years ago, a chica named Rose, I sadly never actually had the pleasure of meeting him in person, but let’s just say I’ve heard a story or two about the guy.
For starters, he was a bona fide gang member from some Central American country–think the infamous M13 gang–and to make this extracurricular association clear he had the bangin’ neck/face tattoo to prove it. Further, he had several deportations under his belt, so you know this guy had no problem with commitment.
Anyways, let’s just say he was more committed to their relationship than dear Rose was. For example, after one of the first times she thought she had got what I think we can all agree was a bad influence out of her life, this guy shows up to her work, with his 10-year-old son in tow, both of them wearing matching tuxedos, each carrying a bouquet of–you guessed it–roses. Because this mother- ----- believed in true love and figured that it was high time he proposed to the woman who just dumped his ass. Sorry–his bad-ass.
Yeah. That happened.
But my favorite Sylvester/commitment story is about one of the other times she had thought she had finally rid herself of him.
One day, she came home from work to find that her apartment had been broken into. To her horror, she found that nothing had been stolen. No, instead, that crackhead had broken in and moved all his shit back in. I mean, talk about legendary. If that move’s not gangsta af, I don’t know what is.
And that sure must have been one confusing 911 call: “…hold up one second, Ma’am, so…has anything been stolen or not?!?”
Oh, that rascally Sylvester…
*Wags finger disapprovingly yet with a mischievous grin on my face*
Yeah…now that I say it out loud, if being a bad-ass means being a complete ----- psycho dripping in toxic masculinity, well, then I suppose I’ll just find a way to be content with my lightly aromatic and pleasantly fragrant version of modest masculinity instead…
I don’t need no kid telling me how to eat my fries…
Just the other day, I had left the kitchen1I.e. “bathroom” door open when I went to put some ketchup on my fries,2I.e. “take a whizz” but instead of sitting like I usually do, for reasons unknown I decided to change it up and stay standing as I garnished my side dish.3I.e. “did my biz”
The Younger of our two daughters,4I.e. “The Younger” who just turned 3, walks in to chat me up, but immediately gets entranced by the stream of ketchup,5I.e. “stream of urine” flowing like a waterfall right in front of her little eyes. After all, she had only ever seen people saucing while sitting before, so this was indeed a novel and fascinating experience for her.
At first she felt the urge to state the obvious, yelling so EVERYONE in the house could hear (including my poor mother):
The latest word on the street