Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 18 of 26)

Well, it was either “ignoble death” or “registered sex offender for life.”

I quickly came to terms that I was probably going to die right there in the water…

I’ve long maintained that I’m pretty sure that I have an utterly stupid and/or ridiculous death awaiting me. If you think I’m joking about this, then you may want to think again. I’m dead serious.

You may have already read about my urine-related brush with death, but I can understand if one piece of anecdotal evidence isn’t enough to convince you of this immutable life-truth of mine. So I thought maybe I would toss another example your way…

Every summer, The Boss Lady and I make an annual trek to hit up one of the many beautiful local beaches, much like many a folk who live within striking distance of one of an oceanic coast. Of course, these days this is now in the form of a luxurious multi-generational beach vacation, but this belies the much, much more humble beginnings of this yearly tradition.

One fine Saturday morning during the first summer of being married, we decided on a Lark¹This is a play on words that absolutely nobody is going to get: we lived on Lanark Road at the time, and we had people mistaking our address for “Lark Road” ALL. THE. TIME. to take a day trip to the beach. I had never been to a Carolina beach before, and she thought it would be fun to check out where she grew up vacationing. As a bonus we could hit up the NC Aquarium and nosh on some genuine seafood while we were at it.

Oh, and of course we would frolic in the water and sand a little bit too. I mean, what would be a beach trip without a little sand in the shorts, amiright?

We actually ended up doing the whole beach thing twice in the few hours we were there. The last time, right before we headed home, was a spur-of-the-moment last-hurrah type of affair where we were like, “Hey what say we pull over at this random beach that we’re completely unfamiliar with and get one last bit of salt water in our system?”

It was all fun and games at first, but soon it was time to go, and I found that I indeed had more than just a “little sand in the shorts.” Now the beach we had gone to earlier was the one she had gone to growing up, and a key feature of that familiar beach was that there were showers for rinsing off conveniently located just across the street. No such amenities were to be found at this beach, though.

But that’s not an obstacle that couldn’t be overcome, right? There was an easy enough solution: just go out far enough in the water, take me trunks²Pirate joke or typo? I’ll never tell! off, rinse them out in the ocean, and put them back on. Duh. It’s not rocket science.

I had made it through Step 3 of this Easy 4-Step Plan before running into a slight snag. And I blame it all on the dang geography.

The particular spot in the water that I had chosen in which to do my deed was strategically located between, on one side, a large formidable formation of sharp and jagged rocks. On the other, a large family with many small children playing in the sand.

Still, this doesn’t seem like it should be a near-death experience, right? Well, that’s because we’re overlooking one small detail: the power of the ocean.

Due to some rare combination of the tide and local topography of that particular spot, there was an extreme variation in the depth of the water as each wave would roll in.

I found this out after I found myself naked in the water, unfortunately.

The first time I tried putting my shorts back on, a wave came in, and all of a sudden I found myself unable to touch the bottom. And it turns out that it is incredibly difficult to put pants on without any secure footing and without having enough free hands to dog paddle and keep your head above water.

But as soon as that wave crashed, the water only came up to my ankles, so in an effort not traumatize a flock of youngsters–and to avoid getting arrested for indecent exposure–I sat down immediately in the half-foot of water, as that was the only way to avoid showing off my family jewels to the whole entire world.

It turns out that there was no “in between”–I was either desperately struggling to keep my head above water or trying to hide my Biblical shame in 6 inches of water or less. There was never enough of the “just the right amount of water” for long enough to get my shorts back on successfully.

Very soon I had booked myself a trip on the proverbial Struggle Bus, and struggle I did indeed. The more I fought, the more exhausted I became; the more exhausted I became, the less able I was to stay in the same spot…wait, why am I so close to those rocks? Oh shit ! This got real, real fast!

My life started flashing before my eyes. Was this it? Could it be true? Was this how I was going to die?

Ass-naked and smashed upon some rocks?

Yeah, you know what? This seems pretty on brand for me. And why not? Who wants a boring Bougie death anyways? Not me! I’m pants-down and Heaven-bound, baby!

Plus, there was some strange satisfaction of having it all end just how it all began. After all, naked and flailing I came unto this world, and naked and flailing I shall leave it…right?

You know, I don’t recall how I ultimately got out of that jam, but much to The Boss Lady’s relief–who was watching this all unfold from the shore with a concerned-yet-laughing look on her face–a somehow survived while also managing to not show off too much of my flesh to that very confused family of onlookers.

Anyways, there you have it, folks: yet another ignoble way that I almost died. Maybe there isn’t really a moral of a story to be had here, but that’s okay, I give you permission to go ahead and laugh at my expense.

And if nothing else, I got to sneak a little bit of Maranasati in, which is actually pretty fitting for the Thanksgiving season: though we may eventually die, let us give thanks for still being alive.

As they say, this is what the holidays are all about…

Content created on: 12/20 November 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

During my first year of grad school, I shared an office with an affable Chinese grad student named Gongpu. Given that he was a non-native English speaker, there were many moments in conversation when we would have to pause to explain some American pop-culture reference or another to him. Eventually, this morphed into “Gongpu’s vocab list” on the blackboard in our office, featuring such entries as “Richard Simmons,” “Zach Morris,” and “Festivus,” amongst many other interesting and/or amusing items that escape me at the moment.

However, the real joy of having him as an office mate were the chestnuts of wisdom and/or misunderstanding that he would bring to the conversation.

Without further ado–and at the risk of coming off as slightly racist–here are some of my favorite moments from my time shared with the ‘Pu…

Eating our lunches together in the office:

*Looks at the vinagrette covering my mixed greens in judgment*

“Ah, I prefer Franch dressing on my salads…”

“I honestly don’t know if you meant French or Ranch…”

Helping me plan my road trip, with a possible stop in western North Carolina:

*Pulls up Google Maps, begins typing*

“Asheville…uh…how do you spell that? A-S-S-V-I-…?”

*The rest of us, trying to catch our breathes from laughing so ----- hard*

“Gongpu, you seriously thought that town was called ‘Ass-ville’, didn’t you?”

Walking to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a celebratory lunch in honor of him getting his Ph.D.:

“I like Bandido’s food, but I don’t like their beans at all. They look like semen.”

*Me, unable to believe what I’m hearing.*

“Uh, did you say ‘semen’?”

*Pointing frantical to the ground.*

“Semen! Semen!”

At this point, even though we had a frank and open friendship, I was getting a little embarrassed by his very interesting choice of appetite-ruining analogy.

*Looking nervously around the street, whispering quietly*

“Um…you mean like…’jizz’?!?”

*Gongpu, clearly frustrated with me, is practically slapping the ground by now*

“CEMENT, you know, what they make sidewalks out of!”

*Awkward pause*

“Oh. ‘Cement.’ Yeah, I suppose their refried beans have an unusual gray tint to them…”

Okay, so maybe that one was on me. But, in my defense, may this last story provide a bit of exonerating context…

Randomly scrolling through some far-flung acquaintance’s FaceBook profile together:

*They have an abridged quote from the movie Bull Durham on their profile, which I begin to mindlessly read out loud*

“Well, I believe in the soul… the small of a woman’s back… the hangin’ curveball… high fiber… good scotch. I believe in the sweet spot, soft core pornography…”¹https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mn5crhTusSA

*Gongpu cuts me off with a sense of urgency, and states judgmentally, yet matter-of-factly*

“Ah, I prefer hardcore pornography.”

…

“Well, that’s not what…oh, nevermind. Good for you, my man, good for you…”

That always tickled my funny bone, the way he had to make it clear that softcore erotica was well beneath him.

So humorous in fact, that I found myself retelling the tale to a captive audience a few years later:

“…and then he looks at me with disdain and says, ‘Ah, I prefer hardcore pornography.’ Can you believe that?!?”

*crickets*

“Nothing? I guess you had to be there…”

I walked away, without getting a single laugh out of them. I couldn’t help but wonder: was it because they were Chinese-American and found my portrayal of Gongpu racist? Or was it because they were married women and were uncomfortable with me talking about such sensual things as ‘the small of a woman’s back’?

Or maybe–just maybe–the Wisdom of Gongpu wasn’t welcome at our church?

I guess we’ll never know the answer to this one…

Content created on: 12 November 2020 (Thursday)

Actually, I’m rather surprised.

…surprised that my kids didn’t turn out to be freaking mutants, that is…

Back in my Sophomore year at ye ol’ Rolla High School, I had the pleasure of taking Chemistry from the most beloved teacher in all the school, Mr. Raff. Now, Mr. Raff was an affable older gentleman, who was seemingly constantly teetering on the edge of going full Nutty Professor.

In my humble opinion, the best part were his quips, constantly bestowing us with trademark phrases such as “…and then I say to myself, ‘Self, two plus two is four!’ And then I pat myself on the back…”

That was definitely my favorite. And he was definitely my favorite teacher from my long and storied academic career.

But…

But, he did have one little blemish on his record…

It was a lovely autumn afternoon back in ’96, and Mr. Raff had just challenged us Chemistry students to use our scientific skills to determine the chemical composition of a mystery liquid. I clearly remember that one of the specific tasks was to measure the density of said liquid.

Me and my lab partner, David–the only two underclassmen in the group–sat out to measure the volume of it straightaway, employing the services of a trusty graduated cylinder. If you don’t recall, a graduated cylinder is basically a tall glass measuring cup, with a base so it can stay upright on its own, and a c-shaped plastic ring that you can move up and down to get a more accurate measurement of what your liquid level is. For your convenience, here is a stock photo of one almost identical to the one in this story:¹Image source: https://labcommerce.com/labequip_productdesc.php?catid=52&prodid=1329

There I was, sitting at the lab bench, waiting for David to jot down our scientific observations, when I had the brilliant idea to pop the ring off of the cylinder. Don’t know what I thought I would achieve by doing this, but apparently in that moment I felt compelled to fool around with the lab equipment. This was easily achieved by merely twisting the ends of the ‘C’ in opposite directions, and–boom! Pops right off!

However, I had made the fatal mistake of not taking a Physics class before I took Chemistry, as I then would have known that “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

As I popped the ring off away from me, the cylinder had to compensate by tipping over towards me.

With a loud “thunk” it landed on its side on the lab bench, draining all 21.4 ml of Mystery Liquid over the side…and directly into my chair and general crotch region.

And to top things off, my lab chair had an ergonomic butt-shaped seat,²I tried finding an image of this online, but I couldn’t, probably on account of the fact that shit like this happened to too many teenage scientists and they had to be discontinued. allowing the Liquid to conveniently pool in my Netherlands, completely soaking the underside of my blue jeans.

You can’t even imagine the sheer horror of a teenage boy realizing that he just spilled an unknown substance all over his untapped genetic reserves. “Oh, The Humanity!” indeed!

Worse yet, much to my consternation, I found myself “scientifically observing” that our Mystery Liquid “caused an unbearable burning sensation of the balls.”

As expected, David was doubled over in laughter at my predicament and was far too thoroughly incapacitated to be of any medical assistance. And by that time, the rest of the class had figured out what was going on as well, but not a ----- one of those bastards seemed very sympathetic to my plight. I was literally fighting for the lives my future children here, and all I was getting was breathless howls of laughter from the ----- peanut gallery.

Of course, the esteemed Mr. Raff would be there for me in my time of need, right? Right…?

I turned only to find him literally slapping his knees and guffawing so hard that he could barely get any words out.

I was beyond frantic at that point, and desperately needed him to get his shit together and help me out, as pre-enacted in this scene:³From the 1980 hit movie, Airplane! Gif source: https://thumbs.gfycat.com/BountifulUnconsciousDuckbillplatypus-size_restricted.gif; Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0GW0Vnr9Yc.

This is not one bit an exaggeration of what happened: I actually did have him by the shoulders trying to rattle some sense into him, accompanied by the only appropriate thing to say in such a moment:

“STOP LAUGHING AND TELL ME WHAT THE HELL I JUST SPILLED ON MY SCROTUM, Howard, you Heartless Fool! Oh! The BURNING!”

As much as I loved the old fart, I maintain that it was borderline child abuse on his part to continue laughing for another good 2 minutes before advising me “Not to worry, just go to the bathroom and rinse them off as best as you can.”

When I returned 15-20 minutes later–now with only moderate groin discomfort and a stack of paper towels stuffed in my underwear, (my clothing in that area was still soaked, after all)–I still had many unanswered questions.

Well, just the one question actually: “Will I ever be able to have children? You know, ones with exactly 10 fingers and exactly 10 toes?”

If I recall correctly, the Mystery Liquid turned out to be “just benzene,” and good ol’ Mr. Raff assured me that “[my] junk would be fine once the rash goes away in a few weeks and the hair grows back.”

Fortunately, he was only messing with me about the whole “few weeks” part. I, however, was not bemused.

And I must say, I am even less bemused now that I have access to Google and I can fact-check his lying ass:

I can’t believe I trusted you, Howard. You and your balled-face lies…

Content created on: 21/22 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

I knew that doggy yoga position, alright. ‘Twas none other than “Canine Arching Back Skyward In Glorious Defecation”…

Probably the best thing to ever come from the wonderful technology that we know and love as ‘GPS’ would have to be Geocaching.¹For more info on geocaching, check out www.geocaching.com.

“What is this ‘geocaching’ of which you speak?” you may be asking with unnaturally correct sentence syntax.

Well, as I like to sell it to my daughters: it’s basically “treasure hunting” with a smartphone (or any other GPS device). Someone will hide a ‘cache’–a stash of trinkets, pen, and a paper log–in some fun location, use their phone to note the precise latitude and longitude, and then post them online for others to go out and find.

If you’re looking for a hobby, I highly recommend it. In addition to feeding the urges of your inner pirate, you typically get to see new and interesting places along the way.

Recently I decided it was time to introduce our 2-year-old, aka The Younger, to this family pastime that the 7-year-old (The Elder) and I have partook in at least once or twice a year since she was 3. So on a beautiful-yet-fateful Saturday morning in early October, I loaded up the girls, some lunches, and a backpack full of unwanted toys, and we headed out on a great adventure.

In addition to a paper log found within cache, each one has a digital cache on the geocaching.com website. This is typically used for leaving a short note of with whom you found the cache, thanking the owner of the cache for hiding it in the first place, and any other random comments/hints for those who may follow in your footsteps.

Usually the contents found therein are pretty run-of-the-mill. For example, see Figure 1.

Well…after an experience we had with a certain cache, I felt it necessary to leave a slightly wordier log entry. Indeed, I was divinely called upon to leave a cautionary tale for those who might come after us; prithee, that the same fate that befell us may not befall them…

From My Official Geocaching Log (*Lightly edited for your reading pleasure. Also re-gendered the possibly male, possibly female antagonist in order to squeeze more humor out of the situation.*):

[ Didn’t find it] Saturday, 03 October 2020 by f***m******* (20 found)²Proof that I actually spent the time to write such a long-ass cautionary tale for future geocachers can be found here.

Well, this was an interesting one.

Cruising around with my 2 daughters, ages 7 & 2, introducing The Younger to “Treasure Hunting.” She had just fallen asleep, and for unrelated reasons, my phone had died at the previous Randolph-Boundary Hunter (the name of the series of geocaches we were hitting up) cache.

I actually didn’t know this one was here; I was just wandering southwardly, looking out for any county line signs.

Well, what do you know, I see this one and I’m thinking, “Hey, this might be another easy find. Let me try to find a place to pull over and check it out…”

Directly across from this cache, however, is a house. As I started to pull off the side of the road (and approximately in front of this house), I look over, and a kid of about 10 years is approaching our car…pointing a [toy] gun directly at us.

Okaaaaaaay…so maybe we won’t be checking this one out.

As I tried to pull back onto the road, I had to slam on my brakes as a big black lab bolted out in front of me–and I was shocked that I didn’t nail her.

So now my adrenaline level is jacked through the roof. I try to calm myself and scoot on down the road (remember, I still didn’t know where I was going–just knew I wanted to get away from 2A Boy).

Welp, that dog was a tenacious pup, she ’twas indeed. Friendly, but tenacious.

About a half mile down the road, she was still jollily jaunting beside us. Dang it.

I didn’t want to be responsible for this dog ending up in the next county over, so I slowly turned around and tried to “guide” the good little b*tch back towards her home. As I got to a fork in the road near where this whole debacle started, she raced a ways out in front of me so I slowed down and tried a stealthy U-turn.

I could see in the rear-view that she had figured out what was up, but I had a good enough lead on her that I figured I could gun the engine and leave her in the dust.

Nope. NOPE.

She was in front of me, in my blind spot, within 5 seconds flat. This canine had a death wish, but I wanted nothing to do with it.

This went on, back and forth–lead her home, roll down the window, tell her to “Go on, git!” sneak a U-turn, gun it, have her back IN FRONT OF ME in 10 seconds, yada yada ya…

There was a moment where I was like “have I somehow died and am now stuck in the weirdest f*cking form of purgatory?!?”

After about the 5th round trip, I was puttering along at about 10 mph with her beside me, when I noticed her pause and…shorten the length of her body?

Oh, wait.

I knew that doggy yoga position, alright. ‘Twas none other than “Canine Arching Back Skyward In Glorious Defecation.”

Could it be? Was this my serendipitous window of opportunity I had been longing for so desperately and deeply in my loins?

Yes. Yes, it was.

I turned to The Elder and imparted all the fatherly wisdom I had to offer: “A dog can’t chase you while she’s pinching off a turd!”

“Go for it, Daddy!” she hollered in encouragement from the back seat.

Reaching back, I grabbed her hand and slammed my foot on the gas pedal as hard as I could.

In beautiful unison, we did our best William Wallace impression, screaming “FREEEEEEDOM!” while tearing ass the ----- out of there.

via GIPHY

A few minutes down the road, she piped up, “You’re going to write about this in your blog, right?”

Yes, my child. Yes indeed, I shall³Original ending from geocache log, instead of those last two lines: “And The Younger slept through it all…”…

Content created on: 3/4 &10 October 2020 (Sat/Sun/Sat)