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Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 19 of 26)

When all other categories fail (or absentmindedly forget to be assigned), General Cerebral Leakage, fresh off his third tour of duty in the war against wise insurance providers, steps in to save the day!

The Earthling’s Guide To Social Gambling

5 Min Read

Oh, man. You’re going to be so ----- rich.


My mom has 11 grandchildren. Of those, the first two cousins missed being born exactly one year apart by less than one day.

Over two decades later, the Boss Lady went into labor with our first daughter (aka “the Elder”) late in the evening two days before the first of these two birthdays. Making the obvious assumption that the Elder would subsequently be delivered within 24 hours, I was all nerding out over the fact that Mom would have grandchildren with birthdays on 3 consecutive days. You know, like some sort of Grandkid Birthday Bingo or what-not.

Well, that rascal took 36 hours to show up, so instead of getting a Bingo, Mom finally got that pair of Birthday Twins she had just missed out on 21 years prior. Oh, right…what are Birthday Twins, you ask? Well, they’re simple two non-twins who share the same birthday.1Typically the birth year is ignored.

I suspect Birthday Twins, like phantom flatulence, must run in our family.2Two of my sisters are for-realz twins, FWIW. When I was in high school in Podunkville, Kansas, there were somewhere between 15-17 of us in my entire class. Yet, somehow within that small group, I was privileged to be a B-Twin myself. Even better, we not only shared the same birth-year (obviously), but we even had the same first name, LOL. What are the odds?!?

Seriously, though: what are the odds?


For simplicity’s sake, we’ll stick with the basic case of celebrating your birthday the same day of the year as someone else. Examining the odds of having the same name and birth-year, as in my case, is, as the academics say, “Beyond the scope of this text.”

I was introduced to this so-called “Birthday Problem”3https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birthday_problem on the first day of my philosophy class in college, and have been infatuated with it every since. This is actually one of the more well-known examples of how, by default, we humans are pretty dang terrible at estimating probabilities and assessing risks. And it all stems from fairly innocent-looking question: “For a group with a certain number of people in it, what are the odds that two people share the same birthday?”

But I say we should, as a shady character might say “make things interesting”–let’s put some hypothetical money on the line.

Say you’re a well-travelled social butterfly with a gambling addiction, living in the times before COVID-19. You attend many parties and gatherings all throughout the year, of all different sizes.

Feeling the irresistible urge to feed your habit, you need to find a sure-fire way to make bets without ending up in the Poor House. Enter the Birthday Problem–which, by the way, is actually a pretty great icebreaker at social gatherings in real life.

You know that since you go to so many parties, you can always put money on two people having the same birthday any time the probability of that being true is at least 50% or above, and bet against it otherwise. Over many parties and many wagers you’re statistically guaranteed to come out on top.

As long as you know roughly how many people are at the party, you can be confident whether those odds are above 50% or not.

Actually, the question that you need to answer is simpler than that: “How many party peoples need there be present to have at least a 50% chance of finding a pair of B-Twins amongst them?”

That’s right: one number. You don’t to memorize any fancy formulas and calculate them in your head in real time. You only need to know one number to guide your foolproof betting scheme.

Oh, man. You’re going to be so ----- rich.

Now, let’s run the numbers…


Bear with me, as I’m doing this from memory, instead of being smart and just googling it. FYI, my probabilities run between 0 (ain’t happening, ever) to 1 (it’s a certified irrefutable fact), which translates to 0%-100% in everyday-speak.

The key to this is asking the right questions. The first questions is: what are the odds 2 people don’t have the same birthday? Then you only need to subtract that number from 1 to get the probability that they do. So:

Pyep(pp) = 1 - Pnope(pp),

where Pyep is the probability that “yep, we got a pair of B-Twins up in heeeer,” while Pnope is the probability that “nope, they all be a bunch of unique snow-flakes in these parts,” and both of these are functions of pp, the number of Party Peoples present.

This one is pretty simple. The first person can lay claim to 1 out of the 365 days in a regular year, leaving 364 days that the other person can have without them making a pair.

So we have:

Pnope = (364/365) ~ 0.99726 (99.726 %), for pp = 2

This puts Pyep at 0.274%–roughly a quarter of 1%.

Now bring in another person. Two days of the year have already been claimed, leaving 363 days for the third person. This probability needs to be multiplied by the probability that the first two people didn’t have the same birthday:

Pnope = (364/365)*(363/365) ~ 0.9918 (99.18 %), for pp = 3

At this point Pyep almost quadruples to 0.82%, so we can see that this isn’t linear. Why is it important that it is not linear? Because linear usually == intuition. Intuitively, humans are pretty good at linear extrapolation: “Oh, housing prices have gone up steadily over the last 5 years; no doubt that will go up by the same amount over the next 5 years!” (Note: this intuition would typically be wrong; see 2008.)

And so it goes: with each new person, the number on top decreases by 1 day, and that fraction is multiplied by the previous Pnope. At this point I’m going to cheat and use a screenshot from Wikipedia4https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birthday_problem to show you the general equation:

Figure 1: A more general formula for what I call Pnope.

It may look kinda scary, but don’t worry: we don’t have to do this by hand or in our head. It’s not that bad if you have a good calculator or math software. To that point, I took the liberty of plotting it for you in MATLAB:

Figure 2: Odds of finding Birthday Twins, as a function of Party Peoples.

TWENTY-THREE PARTY PEOPLES. Not only is that going to be the name of my next band, but it is also the answer to your poverty problems. Twenty-two party peoples or less? Bet against Birthday Twins. Twenty-three party peoples or more? Bet on there being at least 1 pair in the crowd.

That’s all you need to know!

The point of the story is that if you can accept that your intuition might not always be right–and you know how to ask the right questions–you’re going to be rich.

Oh, man, you’re going to be so ----- rich.


Content created on: 10/25 September 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

No-Shit Sherlock’s Mystery Of The Disappearing Fingers, Act 3

3 Min Read

“This too, shall pass.”

Oh shit, did I just come up with the perfect motivational poster for bathrooms?!?


Previously on NSSMOTDF, Act 2: What’s Up Doc?

“S’pose I better double-check and make sure that there isn’t anything more serious at play here, like, say, a tumor…”

*snaps glove a bit too enthusiastically*

Doctor about to perform a Thorough Digital Analog exam

Act III: Following In His Footsteps

To put it succinctly, the week around Labor Day 2019 was a rather emotionally intense time for me. Everybody’s Favorite Blog had just gone live, and I was grappling with my impending internet fame (or lack thereof) which is quite a trip when you lean heavy to the introvert side of the social spectrum.

Trying to get my mother on a plane to California for her granddaughter’s once-in-a-lifetime event was such an utter and complete clusterfuck that that fiasco warrants a 3-part series on its own. For today’s purposes, you just need to get the drift that it was pretty ----- stressful.

And then the icing on the cake was that just about everyone in our household caught a fun-times virus that would make you vomit exactly every 30 minutes for exactly 8 non-stop hours. Did I mention we have 2 young children in our household?

But something much deeper than all these “This too, shall pass” type of worries was a’brewing…


Deeper in my bowels, that is!

To spare all y’all the glorious details, suffice it to say that my body must have decided to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the original No-Shit Sherlock saga that you recently read about,1Just in case you hadn’t click here for Act 1 and here for Act 2. and I found myself with some seemingly inexplicable digestive “irregularities.”

Typically such [fecal] matters wouldn’t be such a drain on one’s spirit, but I had some reasons to strongly suspect that some non-pooping related organs might be physically interfering with me taking care of normal human business, per se.

To understand the danger this thought posed to my emotional well-being, it is critical to remember that that Labor Day portended the 12th anniversary of my father’s passing.2As I recently alluded to in the Racist Ventriloquist and Dying Rancher posts. While he ultimately succumbed to a combination of pneumonia and lung cancer, the first step towards his relatively early demise had all begun years earlier when he he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer.

If you’ve lost a close loved one, it is not uncommon to find yourself in an existential funk every year when the season of their passing rolls around on the calendar. Not one to ever be an exception, I was already in that frame of mind before all this shit started happening–or not happening, as the case was.

So, with the inevitable fate faced by every member of humanity already simmering somewhere in the back of my mind, you can only imagine where my train of logic raced off to once the idea popped into my head that I might literally be following in my father’s footsteps towards Death’s door.

Making this all even more intense was that I found myself wrestling with my own mortality all alone, on account of the Boss Lady never really having liked my regular3Yes, that was indeed a bowel movement-themed pun. attempts to discuss my, um…”solid waste management” throughout the course of our marriage. You know, that makes it kinda hard to have a heartfelt conversation when “I can’t poop” is a critical plot point leading up to the denouncement of “I think I might be ----- dying” and all.

You don’t know how many September evenings I just laid next to my dozing-off-to-sleep daughters, hugging them tight with a tear in my eye, wondering if I was destined to haunt them with the smell of my farts.

Oh, you may think I’m joking, but I swear that I’ve smelled the Ghost of Bob J. in the bathroom with me on multiple occasions. I know it’s not the point of the story, but I can’t help but wonder if phantom flatulence runs in the family…


“Well…so did you die or not?” you may be muttering to your computer screen right now. “DON’T LEAVE ME HANGING LIKE A CHAD!” you are indubitably screaming right now, out loud and/or in your head.

Welp, you’re just going to have to tune in next week (or, if you’re from the future, click here) to find out whether or not I’ve actually figured out how to blog from the Great Beyond…


Content created on: 23 September 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

No-Shit Sherlock’s Mystery Of The Disappearing Fingers, Act 2

2 Min Read

“Hey doc, whatchya gonna do with that tube of gel?”

Sometimes, you find yourself asking a question that you really wish you didn’t already know the answer to…


Previously on NSSMOTDF, Act I: The Setup

…and, boy, was my ass tired…

Guy who Accidentally Added A 22-Mile Detour to His 3-mile Bike Ride

Act II: What’s Up Doc?

No, literally, my ass was tired. And real sore. Little did I know that my Tour de Middle of Nowhere was going to cost me the ability to poop for an indefinite amount of time.

I kid you not, I could not give a shit for the life of me. It sounds funny now, 21 years later, but having food go in one end of you but never come out the other end for weeks on end can cause some serious mental distress.

To make things worse, I lived in the dorms, so all my, uh, “efforts” to defecate weren’t exactly private. My futile attempts at producing even the slightest of turds usually only resulted in a staccato of high-pitched poots echoing loudly throughout our common bathroom.

And there was this one guy from Ecuador who found it particularly humorous. On multiple occasions when he would see me come out of the stall (and later in the hall) he would make a comment in between laughs in his slightly imperfect English: “Ha ha. You sound like a machine gun: dat-dat-dat-dat-dat!”

What an asshole.


After 3 weeks of being backed up, I finally caved in and went to the student health clinic, where the doc eventually came to the conclusion that my 3+ hours on my bike seat must have temporally damaged some important pooing-related nerves in my, uh, how you say “undercarriage.” He figured mineral oil would get me back on track and I should be just fine.

But before he let me go, he decided he needed to double check and make sure that there wasn’t anything more serious at play here, like, say, a tumor.

And, yada, yada, ya, that was the first time getting a finger stuck up my ass.

The point of the story is, with proper consent, a finger up the ol’ butthole isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Oh, and always take the time to read your dang map.

Now, if only I had a time machine, I know somebody who desperately needs to hear at least one of those two messages….


“But wait!” you say, “Isn’t this supposed to be the Mystery of the Disappearing Fingers? So far, by my count only one finger has gone missing in somebody’s rectum1…damn near killed ’em!…wait a minute…no, no. No. It can’t be.

Surely you wouldn’t have a Third Act…would you?”


Content created on: 10 September 2020 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The One Weird Trick That Will Make You A Racist Ventriloquist Overnight

4 Min Read

“Man, your brother’s friend is racist. Like really racist.”

Oh, Douglas, what have you done now?


A few days before Labor Day 2007, I got The Call that everyone dreads. My dad, who had been in the hospital in Kansas with lung cancer and pneumonia, wasn’t expected to pull through; I officially needed to haul ass back ASAP if I wanted to say my goodbyes.

My brother that you’re probably most familiar with, One Skinny J (1SJ), lived about 3 hours from me in Virginia, so we had planned on flying out together from RDU as soon as he could make it down here.

So the day before Labor Day, his buddy Doug drove him down to NC. After crashing at my bachelor pad, Doug took us to the airport bright and early around 4:30 the next morning.

Well, things with Dad and the family took longer than expected,1Yes, that should be interpreted in the saddest and heart-breaking way you can imagine. and 1SJ and I ended up staying in Kansas for 2 1/2 weeks before flying back. Even though it had only been 17 days, as you can imagine it seemed like an eternity since I had been in my own bed.

For the return trip, Doug had come straight down from Virginia, picked up 1SJ, and headed straight back. Though I only saw him for a brief moment at the airport, I made sure to thank him for helping us out in our time of grief. He had been a true friend, indeed–a man of unquestionable character, even! At least in my book…


At the time, I was living with two of my friends from my church. Now, not to brag about my [ill-advised] Race-Relations Resume (TM),2Okay, so this actually two separate references. The (TM) was a well-worn inside joke between me and one of the roommates. The Resume was hinted at in I Am White And Here To Be Incredibly White. but we were so ethnically diverse that I was actually the token white guy. Chicken Dinner,3Obviously not his real name. my best friend/partner in crime at the time, was full-blooded Vietnamese, while “Oliver”–more of Chicken Dinner’s friend than mine–was full-blooded American.

And Black. Oliver was Black.

Anyways, Chicken Dinner and I had a lot of catching up to do, especially the part where while I was gone I had decided to propose to the girl I had been dating4Yes, I indeed speak of the once and future Boss Lady. for a full 6 days before I got on that plane to Kansas.

But before I could get to that, he randomly brings up Doug, who he had spent a whole 15 minutes with when he had stayed the night at our place. And he comes out with the charges of blatant racism full force.

“I think you should know that Doug is like, super-racist.”

Well, this conversation took a rather unexpected turn…

“Really?!?” I was almost flabbergasted at the confidence in his statement.

“I mean, sure, Doug is a bit of a white country boy, but then again, so am I,” I continued. “Seriously, what in the ----- are you talking about?”

“Yeah, he threw Oliver’s toothpaste in the trash that night he stayed here. I mean, it was kind of an odd way to express his racism, but hey, at least he gets points for creativity, trashing the Black man’s toiletries, right?”

Oh. My. ----- This shit absolutely made my day. I howled in laughter for A good 5 minutes, desperately trying to catch my breath.

When I finally composed myself enough to form coherent sentences, I explained to Chicken Dinner that no, Doug had not been busy workshopping new forms of micro-aggressions on our unsuspecting roommate of color–it was me! Poor Doug, getting falsely accused of such a heinous act!

No, what had really happened was almost a plotline straight out of NBC’s hit Nineties sitcom Seinfeld. The morning before we flew out we were running late, so I had been in a real rush to get out the door. In the bathroom we all shared, the toiletry cabinet was situated directly above the toilet, and in an unfortunate series of events, I had managed to bump Oliver’s tube of toothpaste just enough to tip it over.

Well, gravity took it from there, and my reflexes weren’t quite quick enough to catch it before it went splashing into the toilet bowl with a dramatic “PLOP!”

Shit. Neither of the roomies were awake yet, and I was really late, so I had no easy way to warn Oliver of his toothpaste’s questionable history before he would indubitably brush his teeth a few hours later (I didn’t have a cell phone at the time, FYI).

Seriously, I had no other choice but to throw it away and figure out a way to let him know what happened when I got the chance. I simply could not live with myself if I had let him use it after its little trip to the potty.

As you can imagine, I totally forget to let one of them know before it completely slipped my mind. Until this conversation that is…

After hearing my alternate theory of what had happened, Chicken Dinner paused for a moment before busting out laughing.

“What’s so funny now?” I inquired suspiciously.

“You know Oliver wasn’t about to let that toothpaste go to waste, so of course he fished it out of the trash. He’s as been using that shitty toothpaste the whole time you’ve been gone!”

Le ooops.


Content created on: 9 September 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

No-Shit Sherlock’s Mystery Of The Disappearing Fingers, Act 1

2 Min Read

“Nebraska…I’m pretty sure you didn’t plan on biking to Nebraska when you woke up this morning.”

I was lost, and the last thing I needed was some sass from a road sign…


Act I: The Set-Up

By the time Labor Day 1999 rolled around, I had been a Freshman at Kansas State for a whopping 2 weeks and had made only a handful friends. Of those few friends that I had managed to make, every last one of them returned to their respective hometowns for the long weekend.

Given that my hometown of Rolla is literally the second-furthest Kansan town from Manhattan (KS, where K-State is), driving 11 hours in one weekend to guaranteed boredom never even occurred to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the memo that every other college student was getting the ----- out of Dodge,1Fun fact: yet another town in Kansas. so that Saturday morning I woke up to a ghost town and nothing to do.

At that time I was passionate about two things: dying my hair obscene colors and exploring my new world on my $100 Walmart mountain bike. I decided that my hair was starting to look a bit too natural, so first thing I did was make an appointment to get my hair trimmed and subsequently dyed half bright red and half bright blue.

That took up way less time than I had hoped, so around 2 that afternoon I found myself with plenty of time mercilessly to slaughter. Just a couple of miles outside Manhattan is Tuttle Creek Dam & Reservoir, so I thought why the heck don’t I hop on my bike and go check it out.

I had a general idea of where how to get there, and I figured that there would be more than enough road signage for me to find it without exact directions. I mean, it’s a dam towering over our town–it’s not exactly hidden.


Well, after piddling along for what seemed to be over an hour, I was certain that I should be coming up on a sign saying “Tuttle Creek This Way ->” any moment, so I kept forging ahead. Another good chunk of time passed and still nothing? Then I was starting to suspect that maybe–just maybe–I had missed my turn.

I was rather disappointed when I came to an intersection with another small highway, and in one direction the sign read “Riley, 4 miles” and in the other it said “Nebraska, I’m pretty sure you didn’t plan on biking to Nebraska when you woke up this morning.”

Confused that after all that I still hadn’t seen any signs of Tuttle Creek, I started to realize that the day was waning and since I was probably 5 miles from town, I was going to have to give up and head back from whence I came. I turned around and started to peddle home, when I almost immediately came across the mileage sign: “Manhattan, 13.”

Wait, what? THIRTEEN MILES. Oh, jeez, I had wandered in the wilderness more than I had realized. Welp, it was a good thing I decided to turn back then instead of going even further.

About a mile before I got back to Manhattan, I came across yet another sign, “<-Tuttle Creek Dam, 1 mile this way.”

Oh, ----- a mother. I guess had slightly overshot my destination, wouldn’t you say?

And, boy, was my ass tired…


What? You think this is merely a tale of a missed turn? Oh, just you wait…(until next week, that is!)


Content created on: 10 September 2020 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Rhymes Revisited: The Butcher, The Baker, And The Candlestick Wanker

3 Min Read

“Son, you really gotta stop rubbing-your-dub.”

Welp. This was going to be awkward…


Is it wrong to feel a sense of satisfaction to see yet another beloved children’s nursery rhyme fall from grace?

Okay, maybe “fall from grace” isn’t the right term. Perhaps “really is not child-appropriate at all” or “was about a bunch of perverts” would be more accurate.

Take, for example, the 1798 hit rhyme, “Rub-A-Dub-Dub,” whose original lyrics went something like this:1https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5038237

Hey! rub-a-dub, ho! rub-a-dub, three maids in a tub,
And who do you think were there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,
And all of them gone to the fair.

According to that same source,2https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5038237 this is essentially the modern-day equivalent of a tabloid publishing photos of Tom Hanks, Dr. James Dobson,3Of Focus On The Family fame/infamy. & Barack Obama at a strip club. No matter who you are, you would probably be shocked by the moral failings of at least one of those three fellows, amiright?

But, to clear up a misconception4If you work hard enough, you can see how this “spilling your seed on the ground” type of pun. that is most assuredly forming in your mind right now, “rub-a-dub” is not a euphemism for any type of rubbing you might suspect at such a venue of ill-repute, but rather a form of disapproval like “tsk-tsk, you naughty boy”5https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rub-a-dub-dub


When I was a Sophomore in high school, I was living with my dad and my stepmom “Daisy” out on our farm in rural SW Kansas. I didn’t have my own vehicle, so I often found myself stuck all alone on the farm with nothing to do.

Now, some people are completely content being bored all the time, but I’m not one of them. I’m one of those so-called “creative types.”

The problem with being a creative type who is constantly on the verge of mind-numbing boredom is that so-called “creative juices” tend to get pent up, and thus I was always looking for ways to find some so-called “creative release.”

Given the pre-existing condition of being stuck in the middle of nowhere, combined with a general lack of monetary resources, said release wasn’t always easy to come by. Fittingly, this is where being creative came in handy.

One dreary winter evening I got the notion in my head that nothing would be cooler than making a wax copy of my face. Yeah, I know, pretty awesome, right?

And it was simple enough: all I needed to do was take a couple layers of aluminum foil and press my face into them to make a mold, then burn my scented candle down while pouring the melted wax into that mold, and voila!

It was simple “in theory” at least. I sat there on my bed for a good hour or two trying to create my masterpiece, without seeing a single ounce of success. I don’t recall whether it was the aluminum mold or the recycled wax that was the fatal flaw; I just remember being rather disappointed that it was an utter failure.

Oh well. At least I had given it the ol’ high-school try6This is clearly a play on the phrase “the ol’ college try,” though I’m not sure what the hell that means either…


A month or so later, my dad and I were having a random conversation when the topic of laundry somehow came up. It puzzled me, then, why all of a sudden he got an embarrassed look on his face.

“I didn’t want to say anything, but…Daisy was in your room last week and decided to do you a favor and wash your sheets and bedspread.”

“Aw, that was thoughtful of her…”

“But, um…she said, um…she said she discovered, er…crusty ‘stains’ all over your comforter…”

“Wait, what?”

“Now son, I’m not one to judge…”

“WAX! IT WAS WAX, DAMMIT!”

“…but it’s kinda rude to the woman who does your laundry when you–“

*Buries face in hands*

“Let me stop you there, Dad. I was making candles, okay? I was making candles on my bed and spilled some red wax. How could she have even mistook that for–“

“It’s okay, you don’t have to lie about what every boy your age does…”

*Under my breath* “Shit. They think that I like to rub-a-dub-dub with reckless abandon all over my room. I’ve forever soiled my reputation, haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you were just ‘making candles,’ wink wink. I suppose I should at least give you points for creativity…”


Content created on: 3 September 2020 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Unfortunate Allegory Of The Gift Of A Lifetime

7 Min Read

The way I was laughing at the thought of the Universe getting in one last Cosmic punch to the gonads was clearly making him real nervous. The wild look in my eyes probably didn’t help much either…


Believe it or not, we’re still talking about that one time we tried to permanently relocate our car to Kansas before we moved to Hawai’i. All we ever wanted was to give a beloved family member the Gift of a Lifetime: a vehicle that is both functioning and reliable.

Okay, okay, so maybe “Gift of a Lifetime” is a little hyperbolic. But it’s still a pretty decent gift to give someone. We could have always just sold it and put a cool $2-3k in our pockets, you know.

As you may recall, we came really, really close–like, “1/10th of a mile” close–to getting the car to Kansas under its own power–and if you know not of which I speak, take a quick break and read up on it here.

Then, to add to the absurdity, I found myself staring into the mouth of madness when I attempted to get AAA come rescue us. You can relive the dramatic reenactment of that moment here.

Those AAA-Holes (TM) had pushed me so far into insanity that I had actually gone all the way through it and found myself in Hyper-Sane Land. It was in this altered state of mind that it became clear what I had to do: AAA Oklahoma wasn’t going to come save us any time soon, so I was going to have physically push the ----- car over the state line and into Kansas with my own two hands.

After all, we had a hot, hot date with the Morton County Fair that fateful day in August, and I sure wasn’t about to let no mechanical failure keep me from forcing the Boss Lady into watching me dramatical reenact The Prize Pig Story where it actually happened…


Well, as it turned out, after hanging up on AAA I took a moment to collect my thoughts before acting on my plan to push the car to it’s semi-semi-final destination.

At that point, it had been probably been a good hour since we had broken down, and I had replenished the radiator, so…yup. I could actually start it up!

It didn’t sound completely okay, but we were able to drive the few hundred yards into Kansas (!!!) and then the half mile or so on to the fairgrounds. Being the eternal optimist that I am, I was hoping that maybe the engine just needed to “rest” for the day, and then that evening we would be able to drive the last 33 miles to the car’s final destination, Hugoton, KS (see Figure 1).

Figure 1: Was 1,587 miles too much to ask of a car?

We ended up enjoying our day at the fair as best as one could, trying to ignore that nagging feeling in the back of our minds that we done screwed up real good this time.

Now, I had originally wanted to stick around for the rodeo that night, but at about 6 pm we decided that we should probably get going, just in the very unlikely, off-chance, remote possibility that the car might, just might not make the last leg of the trip on its own.

And confident as a cowpatty,1It’s a play on “sure as shit” in case you were wondering. we made it a whole 2 miles out of town (see Figure 2) before it was clear the car was on the verge of giving up the ghost.

Figure 2: Closer, but no banana-er…

Ah, but fear not! Recall that, being the certified genius that I am, I had upgraded our AAA membership to the fancy Gold status, entitling us to up to 75 miles of towing.

And guess what is less than 75? Thirty-one. The remaining 31 miles was most definitely less than 75, so…it was officially time to hail a glorified taxi for our vehicular.

Dialing up Kansas AAA, I pulled us slightly off the road and a little bit into a scenic cow pasture. At a certain point, you just have to embrace your shitty situation whole-heartedly, and we were bound determined to enjoy the relaxing prairie view while we awaited our ride.

It was actually kind of nice to be able to share that unexpected peaceful moment, not having other places to be, not having other things to do. The sun was setting, the August day was finally cooling down…and our sanity really needed the opportunity to sit and laugh at the ridiculous pickle in which we had found ourselves.

Of course, the day couldn’t end without at least a few more light shenanigans, though…

First, AAA wanted to send us a tow truck from Amarillo…Texas. Yup, since it was after-hours, that was the closest on-duty guy they could get ahold of…almost 2 1/2 hours away. After a bit of pleading on my part, they tried calling their guy in Elkhart again, and–praise be to the wide open Kansan heavens–he answered this time! Even then, though, the AAA operator had to coax him out of his house and into his truck, but in the end he agreed to come haul us off to Hugoton.

And then there was the issue of him locating us. He somehow managed to not find us alongside the highway, because you know, there’s no better hiding place than the ----- wide-open high-plains of Kansas. The tow truck passed 3 times before finally calling us up, and we had to explain to him yes, that domelight he spotted 30 feet out in the pasture was indeed his damsels in distress.

So FINALLY, at almost 10 pm, he and his teenage assistant got our immobilized car securely loaded up and on the road. And for everyone’s troubles, we were all richly rewarded with…the World’s Most Awkward Uber Ride, with all 4 of our sweaty bodies jammed in the cab of the truck, replete with 30 minutes of mentally exhausting small talk. It was unavoidable, though, because the only thing more awkward would have been to insist on staying in the car. But apparently AAA’s lawyers frown upon that…


At long last, at 10:30, we rolled up to–let’s call her ‘Daisy’–to Daisy’s doorstep. I’m sure that was a pleasant surprise for her…

“Tah-dah! Here are the keys to your NEW CAR!”

“Gee…thanks?”

Tow truck driver: “So, lady, where do you want me to put ‘er down?”

I felt like I needed to interject some context before she answered. “Um, you might want to choose wisely, because it might be in that spot for a little while.”

“Okaaaaay. Maybe take it to my friend’s place out in the country. He might be able to fix it. Better than pissing off my neighbors by leaving it planted in front of their house for the next 6 months.”

Tow truck guy: “Cool, cool. How far out in the country is his place?”2HOLY CRAP. I had forgotten about this last little plot twist.

Daisy thought for a second. “Let’s see…about 3 miles.”

*Tow truck guy pulls out his phone and studies his Google Maps app intently.*

“Just one tiny issue…I don’t think that’ll be covered. It’s about a 70-mile round trip from my shop to here and back, and then if you tack on another 3 miles each way…that puts me at 76 miles and AAA will only reimburse me if it’s under 75.”

*Crickets*

Technically, he was right (see Figure 3).

Figure 3: Fact Check: TRUE. 75.3 miles is indeed a longer distance than 75 miles.
Figure 4: Meanwhile, without the slight detour to Daisy’s…OH YOU GOT TO BE ----- KIDDING ME!

And technically, he was about to get a boot so far up his ass he would have shoelaces coming out his nose. Or at least that’s probably what he thought.

The way I was laughing at the thought of the Universe getting in one last Cosmic punch to the gonads was clearly making him real nervous. The wild look in my eyes probably didn’t help much either.

“…or maybe I can find a way to make it just under 75…heh, heh…GULP…right?”

“Whatever, man. Just please put us all out of our ----- misery already.”


Now, allow me, for those of you who have endured all 3 parts of this epic-ish journey, to put us out of our collective ----- misery already.

You see, it’s an allegory. Now, by definition, it’s supposed to be up to the Dear Reader to interpret the allegory to reveal the hidden meaning within.3https://lmgtfy.com/?q=allegory But haven’t you suffered enough already? I’ll do you a solid and just spell it out for ya.

Me and the Boss Lady? Baby Boomers.

Daisy, the beloved family member? The Boomers’ kids, Generation What-Have-Ya.

That gently-used-but-trusty car? America. Planet Earth. Hell, let’s just say both.

Sure, you wanted to leave something behind nice for your kids after you were long gone to “Hawai’i.” But you didn’t take seriously the warning signs that the engine was getting too hot. And then when things started to really break down, you got impatient and opted for the quick-fix instead of real solutions.

That’s okay, though. That “fix” was good enough to get you to your beloved fair and get the problems out of sight, out of mind, even if just for a little while.

Hope you enjoyed your time at the fair!

And at the end of the day, you show up at your kid’s door with an irreparably damaged Gift of a Lifetime on the back of a proverbial tow truck.

*Tosses keys to new owner*

“Welp! She’s all yours…you’re welcome!”


And, lastly, there’s the tow truck guy, aka The Year 2020 A.D.,4More like “in the Year of Our OVERLord” because silicon, alien, or regular ol’ fleshbag dictator, I know we’re all secretly thinking we’ll be subjugated in some form or another come December 31st… there to deliver the final blow to our sanity.

Please, just put us out of our ----- misery already…


Content created on: 21 August 2020 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Back-To-School Not-So-Special

3 Min Read

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“A new truck?!? How ----- sweet is that?!?”

I could feel it in my little growing bones. This was going to be one special year…


I had been looking forward to my very first Back-To-School experience for weeks by that point in time. I had even made it the first order of business on my first day of First Grade to check out the fresh crop of incoming Kindergarten ladies and select the cream of said crop to be my future girlfriend.

In fact, I had a classic 80’s rainbow-shaped eraser that I was going to bequeath to whichever lucky little lady I ended up choosing. And that eraser wasn’t just any eraser, either. For some odd reason it smelled a lot like candy and I remember always wanting to lick it like it was made of crack-cocaine.

Just a completely normal ol’ rising First Grader, I was indeed.

Well, ignoring for now how creepy I just made Six-Year-Old Me sound, the point is that it was a new school year, and I was more than ready to move on from the trauma of being a Kindergartner. So naturally I was a little bummed out when I found out that I was going to have put my hopes and dreams on hold for one more day.

You see, back in 1987 the first day of classes at Unified School District 217 just so happened to fall on the day after one of my older brothers was supposed to get on a bus in Colorado Springs and have his ass shipped off to Navy Boot Camp.

This must have been a particularly joyous occasion for our mom, as she insisted my bro 1 Skinny Jay1My sibling closest to me in age, a rising 3rd grader himself at the time. and I join her and our aunt–the Shenanigan Sisters, we’ll call them–on the 4-1/2 hour journey so we could bid him adieu and/or good riddance in person.

Well as it tends to go when you’re rollin’ with the Shenanigan Sisters, shenanigans inevitably ensued, and we didn’t quite make it all the way back home that night. Subsequently, us boys done missed out on all the basic grade school orientation activities the next day.

No problem, though, right? Surely, there couldn’t be that much of a difference between the first and second days of school.

Now, if I’m being completely honest (and probably a little sexist,2I suppose you could consider that a pun… as far as that goes), when I did finally make it to school, I discovered that the new bunch of Kindergartenresses3I’m pretty sure that’s the feminine form of Kindergartner, much like Master/Mistress. was, shall we say, a little disappointing.

Nope. Not a single rainbow-eraser-worthy chica amongst the whole lot of them…


But the Universe more than made up for dashing my rather shallow romantic plans that day. It wasn’t long before I found myself marching with my class past the playground on the way to the cafeteria for our early morning milk break…

Newly renovated playground, that is.

I just about creamed the crop of my pants when, behold, there before my eyes was all sorts of never-before-seen equipment for our enjoyment and recreation: Swings. Merry-go-rounds. Slides. Monkey bars and jungle gyms.

And The Truck.

Sure, it didn’t actually go anywhere. But you could sit in it and it had a steering wheel and it had enough room for at least two more friends in the cab and…

And I just couldn’t contain my excitement any longer. I turned to my classmates to see if they were seeing what I was seeing.

“Can you believe this?!? Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod! A ----- pickup truck.”

I paused a moment when I was unexpectedly met with nothing but dumb looks and blank stares.

“Yeah, whatever,” one of them replied dismissively, “we all saw it, like, YESTERDAY. Jeez. Get a life.”

As if joy-shaming me and making me feel like a complete ass wasn’t enough, he decided to go in for the kill, taking direct aim at my social jugular vein.

Turning to the others, he loudly proclaimed “Hey everybody! Get a load of this dork.”

Goodbye, Special Feeling.


Believe it or not, the point of the story actually is that you shouldn’t think twice when it comes to showing your fam some love.

Sure, seeing my brother off to the military almost cost me my nascent social life.4In addition to gifting me with a lifetime supply of FOMOOTFOA–Fear Of Missing Out On The First Day Of Anything…which was somehow supposed to be the whole point of this story.

But Karma richly rewarded me in the end, for it ’twas that very year the school counselor officially labelled me “special”5It is left to the reader’s imagination as to which kind of “special” I was.…which I think was a good thing.

Oh, and did I mention that was the only year that I had two girlfriends…at the same time?

Yeah, true story.

Who’s the dork now, y’all Brotherhaters?6[Ad voice-over:]’Brotherhaters’: for those times when you really want to say ‘Motherfuckers’ instead. ‘Brotherhaters’: now available in blogs nationwide –get yours today!


Content created on: 19/20 August 2020 (Wed/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Push Me Cuz I Am Close To The Edge

6 Min Read

“I’m sorry sir, but I can’t find your location anywhere on my map.”

At that point I was all but certain that I was stuck in the Twilight Zone. Probably the episode entitled “The Middle of Nowhere ” at that…


Last week, I left you with a real cliffhanger at the end of The Little Engine That Could Not GIve A ----- , and out of respect for those who have not read that just yet, ima pause right here while you go read it and get up to speed. That’s okay–the rest of us don’t mind waiting.





Okay! And…we’re back.

To refresh everyone’s memories, when we last left off, the Boss Lady and I were transporting her car halfway across the country on a 1500+ mile road trip in order to gift it to a family member before we moved to Hawai’i (see Figure 1).

Figure 1: With all apologies to The Proclaimers: “I would drive 500 miles! And I would drive 500 more! …and then 500 more! Just to be the man who delivers a car to your front door.”

We were confident that Kansas would be the place where our beloved ’98 Honda Civic was destined to live out the rest of its years, in faithful service to a hand-selected loved one. But as you know, within a mile of our semi-final destination (a day at the Morton County Fair) and with the Kansas state line a stone’s throw away (see Figure 2), our car decided to give us the middle finger and die alongside the road after overheating.

Figure 2: A reminder of how absurd our situation was, breaking down less than 0.1 mile from Kansas.

So there we sat, hoping that our breakdown would be but a temporary setback and that we would not miss out on too much of our special day at the Fair. Eventually a passerby stopped and lent us some jugs of water, which I promptly turned around and used to quicken the engine-cooling process.

“Keeeeer-RACK!” said The Little Engine.

“Oh, EXPLETIVE,” I gently gasped under my breath.

I feared that, in addition to not listening to the Boss Lady the day before when she expressed concern about the water level in the radiator, I had made Unforced Error #2: introducing water into the engine’s system before it was cool1Obligatory hipster reference goes here. enough, and had perhaps cracked a head. I gotta admit there was a lot of regret and self-hate encapsulated in that moment.

But all was not lost just yet.

One thing I had left out in my recounting of The Little Engine was that, in anticipation of our early August trip across half of the North American continent, I had shrewdly decided to upgrade our AAA membership.

It seemed like it would be worth the extra $80 or so once I realized that the Basic Membership only covered towing for a meager 3 miles–because 3 miles ain’t jack shit when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere! However, with the Gold Membership came the peace of mind that we would at least be towed to a repair station if anything happened, assuming that we weren’t more than 75 miles from civilization at that point.

And in this moment it was feeling just a bit ironic that, after investing that $80, we ended up needing it when we were well within 3 miles of several Elkhart-based auto shops.

But since we had that fancy Gold Membership, I figured we might as well use it, right? Nothing that a quick call to the toll-free number on the back of my beautiful golden-colored AAA card couldn’t fix, right…right?


“Good morning! Thank you for calling Triple-A Roadside Assistance! Could I have your location please?”

“Uh, hi. Yes, I was needing a tow truck…I’m just outside Elkhart, Kansas.”

“Ok, sir, this is North Carolina AAA. I’ll need to transfer you to Kansas AAA. Please hold for one moment, mmmkay?”

“Sure. I ain’t going anywhere.”


“Good morning! Thank you for calling Kansas Triple-A Roadside Assistance! Can I have your location please?”

“Hi there. Yes I’m just on the outskirts of Elkhart.”

“Excellent, yes, I can help you with that! Could you be more specific?”

[Runs back to double check the small state highway we had just turned off of.]

*Lightly panting* “We’re right at the intersection of Highways 56 and, uh…looks like 95?”

*Tapping on a keyboard, followed by a good 2 minutes of silence.*

“I’m sorry sir, but I can’t find that anywhere on my map.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that. That’s Oklahoma Highway 95.”

*More silence.*

“Sir, I see that you are actually in Oklahoma then. I’ll need to transfer you to Oklahoma AAA.”

“Really? But I’m essentially in Kansas. I’m staring at the “Welcome to Elkhart” sign right now. In fact, if you’ll just hold for 15 seconds while I cross the highway, and…there! I’m physically touching the sign. How about now?”

“I’m sorry, sir–“

“Seriously? You can’t send a tow truck from Elkhart? They would be here in like 3 minutes.”

“I won’t be able to help you at all as long as the car is located in Oklahoma, and it sounds like it is. Do you mind holding while I transfer you?”

“Do I have a choice at this point? Sure, why not? Transfer me yet again.”

At that point I hoped they could hear me rolling my eyes over the phone, cuz I was rolling them hard.


“Good morning! Thank you for calling Oklahoma Triple-A Roadside Assistance! Can I have your location please?”

“Okay, so I know I’m technically in Oklahoma, but I’m just a few feet from Elkhart, Kansas, and I was wondering if you could send out a tow truck from there.”

“Sure! I can help you with that! I need to know where in Oklahoma you are though, sir.”

“Good lord, man! How hard can this be?!? Isn’t like, ‘making maps’ half of what y’all do? “

*Hard sigh*

I’m not really sure how I was expecting them to respond to my clearly growing frustration. Nevertheless I paused for a second to collect myself before continuing.

“Ok, whatever dude…I’m at the intersection of Highways 56 and 95…just right outside Elkhart, KS.”

*Tapping on a keyboard, followed by a good 2 minutes of silence.*

“Ok! Good news, sir: I have found your location on my map, and it looks like we got a truck in Keyes that can be in there in about 45 minutes.”

“Now why on God’s green earth would you send me a truck all the ----- way from Keyes? I ----- near literally have one foot in Kansas. Just send me a truck from Elkhart already!”

For context, here’s a little geographical graphical reminder borrowed from The Little Engine (Figure 3):

Figure 3: I really shouldn’t have had to point out where ----- Keyes, OK–population 324–is on any of the maps related to this story. But alas, here we are…

“Oh, hold on one second…”

“This better be good news…”

“Yes, I see. My system was just refreshed and it looks like it might be an hour before the truck gets there now.”

“I FEEL LIKE I’M TAKING CRAZY PILLS!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. Do you want me to send the truck or not?”

“This is insane. You know what? NO. You know why? Because you people have not one ----- ounce of common sense amongst the lot of you.”

“Uh…so that’s a ‘no’ then?”

“Look, because of your collective dumbassery, here’s what I’m going to do: I’m just gonna have to go all Grand Master Flash2Ahh, so that’s what the title is all about: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLs2hv6f3Kw up in here and PUSH THE ----- THING ACROSS THE STATE LINE MYSELF. You happy now? Then it will be Kansas AAA’s problem then! Sorry to inconvenience you so.”

“Umm…”

*click*

And for the official record, it was me who hung up on those Triple-A-Holes.


Oh, no friends, this journey ain’t over yet. I mean, we still haven’t even made it to Kansas yet, now have we?

Please, won’t you join us next week, when I’m pretty sure I can delivery on the double promise of resolution and a moral of the story.

I think I can…I think I can…I think I can…wrap it up and finally get to the proverbial point of the story.

*Long silence*

It’s, uh…it’s a reference to the classic book from our childhoods, The Little Engine That Could.3In case you didn’t catch onto the fact that is where the title of the last post came from. You know, The Little Engine That Could…Not Give A ----- You get it now, right? Perfect. Humor conveyed; mission accomplished. Please laugh.4Be sure to watch with the captions on: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdCYMvaUcrA


Content created on: 14 August 2020 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Little Engine That Could Not Give A -----

5 Min Read

Say, do you remember those barnyard sounds toys from our childhood? The kind that had a giant plastic arrow that would spin around when you pulled the lever, and then for whatever it would land on, it would kindly inform you what sound that animal made. For example, “The cow says: ‘Mooo’!”

Well, I have a fun fact for you: did you know that the some concept works with certain inanimate objects?

Please, allow me to expound…


On this approximate day in history 9 years ago, the Boss Lady and I found ourselves embarking on the biggest adventure of our lives yet. I had just finished up grad school, and as a newly minted “doctor” I had leveraged my new credentials to land a sweet, sweet gig at a hospital in Hawai’i’.

Up until that point in time, both of us drove vehicles with a tax value of $3,000 or less. You know us, humble as ever, and all. Now when you consider that it would cost around $1,500 to ship a car from Los Angeles to Honolulu, and that we lived in North Carolina, it quickly became clear that our two beloved vehicles were not destined to make the journey with us.

My ’95 Toyota Camry had already had its share of misadventures, so we decided to sell it to some unsuspecting young girl who bought it to celebrate finally getting her GED.

Side note: you go, girl–don’t ever let the haters stand between you and your dreams!

As for the Boss Lady’s ’98 Honda Civic, it was in good enough shape that we felt comfortable gifting it to one of my family members back in Kansas, as they were in need of a more reliable ride.

Thus formed the basis for our big transition from NC to HI: once our lease ran out at the end of July and the bulk of our belongings already en route to the Islands, we would hang out with the in-laws a few days to catch our breath before leisurely road-tripping to Kansas. After delivering the vehicle and spending some time with my family out there, we would have the new owner of our car drive us up to Denver, where we would catch a flight to our final destination in the Tropics.

I had it planned such that when we arrived in Kansas after 3 days of cross-country travel (see FIgure 1), the very first thing we would do would be to spend a whole day at the Morton County Fair. Yes, I am indeed speaking of none other than the infamous site of the social PTSD I detailed in the hit blog post The Prize Pig Story, and a prominent staple of my childhood memories.

Figure 1: Could Our Car Make The 1,587-Mile Journey?

After 3 full days of (surprisingly) uneventful traveling under the sweltering heat, we made it to our last stop in Guymon, OK. We were pretty much home free at that point: our destination in the morning was Elkhart, KS–a mere 45 minutes and one state line away (see Figure 2).

Figure 2: Forty-Five Minutes To Freedom

I honestly couldn’t believe it. Everything was actually going according to plan…starting with rolling up to our hotel earlier than expected that evening. ‘Twas even early enough for a last minute respite of a little dinner-and-a-movie date before the impending ‘fun times’ with my family began. Oh happy day!


And speaking of ‘rolling up to the hotel,’ when we got out of the car upon our arrival there, the Boss Lady pointed out some water dripping underneath the car and wondered if we should be concerned. I told her, look, the car survived 1,509 miles of steamy midsummer day1Technically, this should be ‘mid-day summer’, but doesn’t sound as poetic. driving, so clearly it was going to be perfectly fine to make the 45-mile early morning trip the next day.

Several rejuvenating hours and 44 miles later, we found ourselves at the finish line, cruising into Kansas around 9 in the morning.

Well…sorta-kinda. Or maybe not at all.

You ever heard of the proverbial “last mile”?2https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_mile_(transportation) To be honest, the difficulty of making it the last mile isn’t supposed to apply in this context. But yet there we were, the Universe seemingly wanting to make an example of us.

We had one last turn before officially arriving in Kansas, and only one more and we would be at the fair (see Figure 3). I was so close I could even almost taste the wafting scent of piggy poo.

Figure 3: I cannot understate how f*cking close we were.

I pulled up to the stop sign, looked both ways before turning, and…HOLY SH*T why is it so hard to turn the steering wheel?!?

It took me a second to realize that the car had died, and glancing down I just then noticed that oh, yeah, I suppose it was running a bit hot. With no other real option, I pulled over to the side of the road in hopes that the billows of steam would subside and we could be on our way after things cooled down.

As I got out of the car, I happened to glance across the highway and couldn’t help but exclaim under my breath: “You have got to be f*cking kidding me.”

There across the highway, literally a stone’s throw away, sat one very smug “Welcome to Elkhart!” sign, relentlessly taunting me.

Figure 4: An artist’s rendering of ‘irony’.

But wait! There’s more! However, I regret to inform you that the conclusion to (and the moral of ) this saga will have to wait until next week. Before I take off and leave you hanging, I do want to provide you with at least a little bit of resolution…

And now, the moment you have all been waiting for: “What does the car say?”

Well, let’s pull that classic yellow lever on the side of our spinny-toy and find out, shall we?

[Pulls lever, arrow spins around, just happens to land on a 1998 Honda Civic.]

The car says: “F*** your plans, ninjas, I ain’t ever going to Kansas!”

Yes, that is most definitely what the car says.


To be continued…


Content created on: 6 & 7 August 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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