The Point of the Story

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Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 3 of 25)

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!

Never Trust An Innovative Tool Made By A Damned Fool

24 March 2024 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

Thinking of helping ol’ Dim-Witted Daryl fudge on his geography test? Don’t be such a dumbass!

Don’t forget: he’s also really bad at math…..

“Dude, my dude! Let me sit next to you during the geography test, and, uh, ‘borrow’ some of your answers.”

I looked at my eighth grade classmate Daryl with wary eyes.

“Hey man,” I said, “I know you would love to get out of taking freshman geography next year, but if I let you cheat off of me during this opt-out test, they’re bound to get suspicious when we turn in identical answers. And then I could end up having to waste my precious freshman time on stuff I already know because of your dumb ass.”

In fairness, Daryl wasn’t a complete and utter dumbass, but he probably would actually benefit from taking freshman geography. And, besides, he was stretching the truth a little bit when he called me “my dude”–we were solid acquaintances, but actually hang-out-level friends? I think not. And I don’t put my academic career on the line for somebody I’ve never spent a moment with outside of the walls of Ocean View Junior High (or the school the buses that serviced such a fine academic institution).

“Nah, amigo, I wouldn’t dare think of asking you to take such risks on my behalf. But that’s okay, I got a fool-proof plan: I’ll change enough of them so as to not raise any red flags,” he assured me.

I sighed a heavy sigh.

“What the hell, I’ll throw a bone. Maybe at least that’ll be one less class that you’ll inevitably flunk out of…”

“What’s that?” Daryl hadn’t quite caught my snarky under-my-breath comment.

“Ummm…nothing. Anyways, at least give me plausible deniability. You can sit next to me during the test, but what you do with your beady little eyes is up to you. I know nothing of this stupid little scheme of yours, and this conversation never happened.”

“Aww, bro, you’re the best! I promise I won’t funk this up…”

“Well, if I don’t end up moving back to Kansas for high school, it looks like I at least won’t have to take the geography class mandated by the State of California for all you other mortals–er, I mean ‘freshman’, hehe,” said somebody that most definitely wasn’t Daryl.

“Daryl,” continued this same non-Daryl person, “how did your plan work out?”

Daryl peeked at the his results from the test for the first time, then looked up at me with eyes that were waaaay sadder than the occasion could ever possibly call for.

“They’re putting me in Remedial Geography. I won’t even be taking regular freshman geography.”

I about choked on the gum I was illicitly chewing in class.

“Damn, dude, exactly how many of my answers did you end up changing?”

“I don’t know, maybe 10 or 15?”

“What the actual funk, man? There were only 25 questions on the test! You mean to tell me your big plan to get out of freshman geography was to take 40% to 60% of the answers that were almost for sure right–I mean, we’re talking about me here–and then change them to be almost for sure wrong?”

I planted my face firmly in my hand.

“Yeah, well it worked didn’t it? No one ever suspected us of cheating, did they?” he somehow thought he was defending his plan.

“Dude it worked too well, and in all the wrong ways. Though technically, you did get out of freshman geography, so I dunno, maybe I’m unknowingly standing in the presence of a genius…”

I stared at Daryl for good half a minute as he stared back at me blankly.

“Nope, that’s definitely not the case. Welp, I think I’ll go have a talk with Principal Anderson. She desperately needs to pass on the message to the high school to put you in remedial math as well. No offense, man, but you might be as dumb as a rock.”

“So? What’s your point?”

“The point of my story is that normally most people cheat to gain an advantage, but yet somehow you defied all odds and found a way to cheat such that you’re almost guaranteed to lose. I’m honestly amazed by your ability to elevate the art of dumbassery.”

“Still not following…”

Oh, poor Daryl, bless his soul.

“Dude, if you would have just taken the test all on your own, you probably would at least be placed in regular freshman geography–heck, you would have had a non-zero chance of actually getting it out of it all together!”

“Whatever you say, man.”

“Well, at I hope you at least learned a couple of important life lessons: first, who the hell cheats on geography?!? If you ever thinking to yourself ‘maybe I should cheat on my geography test…’ then you probably should seek immediate mental help. And, second, of course is the obvious: if you’re going to cheat, Daryl, cheat to win, man, cheat to win…”

Content created on: 23/24 March 2024 (Sat/Sun)

Your Homeboy’s Little Hack For Getting That Hi-Q Edge Back

10 March 2024 / / 1 Comment
6 Min Read

You swear you weren’t meaning to get a leg up on the competition.

But now you gotta fix the situation without drawing too much attention…

“Hello, old man! Hi there, old woman!” I said in my head as I tipped my proverbial hat to the elderly couple sitting at the table at the front of the relatively small room. “Don’t mind me,” I said aloud. “I’m just killing time until my old teammates show up for their turn.”

Back in December of ’99 I was a freshman in college, so I was still tight with my younger homies from the Rolla High School Scholars’ Bowl team–especially Jerome1Okay, so his real name is Jeremy–and yes, it’s true, I’m pretty much half-assing this whole ‘protecting the innocent’ schtick., the current senior and captain of the team. So when they traveled to Wichita right before Christmas break to try out for Hi-Q, you bet your sweet ass I hopped in ye’ olde Taurus SHO and drove the 2 hours from my college town to show them my full-throated support.

And maybe, just maybe, relive my glory days just a well bit. Have I ever mentioned that during my time at RHS I was a 3-time State Champion, was on the only Rolla team to take first place at every tournament in a season,2Unless the 2023 tea managed to accomplish this feat… and made the Sante Fe Trail All-League all 4 years of my career (sorta)? What? No, I haven’t? *stifles laugh*

Anyways…sorry, I forgot to explain what Hi-Q was…it was basically a Jeopardy-style tournament for 16 of the finest academic teams in Kansas. This was different than our regular quiz bowl business in two respects: first, it was televised. Sure, it may have came on at 7 am on Sunday mornings, but it was televised nonetheless. And secondly, they held open tryouts and invited any and all high schools to send a team, regardless of size.

Sure, Rolla could smack around other Division 1A schools all day long. When we would pick on someone our own size–specifically schools with an entire Freshman-to-Senior student body of 69 students or less–it was not uncommon for us to p*mp slap up ’em up side the cranium. Being a big fish in a little pond is nothing particularly special. But Hi-Q? That was our chance to take down some of the biggest dogs in the state. The year before I started high school, the Rolla team got runner-up, and ever since then the following iterations had been chasing that achievement…but sadly, the furthest any team I was on only made it to the second round. Even though I had never been able to take care of unfinished business, I would have been almost equally as content to vicariously bask in any victories Jerome, et al. might attain at this year’s Hi-Q. I may have not been officially on the team that year, but I definitely was full-fledged member in spirit.

And apparently I was a little over-eager, as I had showed up to the Community College that was hosting the tryouts for the morning session, unaware that Rolla wasn’t due to give it a whirl until the afternoon session.

“Ah, what the hell, I might as well see what kinds of questions they’re asking this year,” I muttered to myself as I sat down to watch some random school do their best to field the set of 50 or so morning-session questions this particular elderly couple was about to lob at ’em. Unlike regular competition, the tryouts only featured a single team at a time in a room with two moderators–and the top 16 scores throughout the day got the privilege of partaking in the real tournament held at a later date.

“Eh, not too many of us here in the audience,” I noted as I looked around to see what appeared to be a total of 6 or 7 other random-school supporters sitting with me. “Not that it matters…”

“Oh, I’ve been here since 9 am. Where the ----- have you slackers been?” I razzed Jerome when they finally showed up. “In fact, I sat in on one of the morning tryouts…y’know trying to get a feel for what kind of questions are on the docket this year.”

“No sh*t? So what was your take?” Jerome replied. “Was it all stuff we know like the back of our hands? Or was it obscure, fancy big-city type of stuff we can expect people from Wichita to come up with?”

It was pretty clear that he was carrying on the tradition of carrying a small-school chip on his shoulder.

“Mostly stuff that we practice regularly, and you better get those questions right lest I beat yo’ ass otherwise, I simultaneously assured and threatened him.

“That’s good to hear, good to hear…”

“Oh But there were at least 2 or 3 that I had never heard before today.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jerome looked at me inquisitively. “Such as?”

“Well, since you’ll get a totally different set of questions in the afternoon session, you might as well know that Margery Williams wrote The Velveteen Rabbit,” I intimated freely.

“Really? I never had a clue who had written that children’s classic. Heck, I barely recognize the name of that book, now that you mention it.”

“Yeah, I know right? What kind of snooty left-coast question is that? Anyways, um, lemme see. Here’s a few other bits of trivia I picked up today. Did you know that…?”

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. Good afternoon, Sir,” I greeted the elderly couple as nonchalantly as I could manage.

I turned to Jerome right before I took my not-so-randomly chosen seat.

“What the ----- are they doing here?” I half-joked through gritted teeth.

“Who?” he asked with a confused look on his face.

“This old couple, man…ha, ha…what a coincidence: this is the same room I was in earlier today. With the same elderly man and woman as moderators, too.”
“Hah. That’s mirthful,” Jeremy flirted with patronizing me. “Now if you excuse me, I gots me a Hi-Q to qualify for…

“Attaboy! Go get ’em, Tiger!” I straight-up patronized him back.

We all took our seats and let the proceedings get under way. I, for one, was eager to see what the set of afternoon session questions looked like.

About 3 questions in, an internal monologue started up in my head.

“Hmm…why am I getting a sense of deja vu? Ah! Maybe it’s because the answer to this question is…”

Right about then Jerome buzzed in. In unison, we said, “The movie Groundhog Day.”

Ah, yes, already it was the classic deja-vu-themed point of cultural reference.

“Wait a minute, now this next question seems oddly…familiar,” I thought to myself about Q #4. “That’s probably because the question asked what the term was for a vampire’s assistant. So that makes sense.”

Question Five was a different story altogether.

“What British author is best known for her work…” the elderly woman paused dramatically, “The Velveteen Rabbit?”

Jeremy looked back at me chuckling in mild disbelief with a look that clearly said “You gotta be ----- kidding me!”

I kinda shrugged back at him, with the expression on my face indubitably communicating, “How was I supposed to know they were going to ask the exact same set of questions during both sessions?!?”

To which he silently replied, “Well, I can’t unknow anything I may or may not have learned in the 30 minutes before I entered this room…”

“Wait!” I mentally reached out to him like Nic Cage trying to retrieve a loose ball of bio-toxins in the movie The Rock. “Don’t answer that! That contraband information can be traced directly back to me!”

But it was too late; he had already buzzed in.

“Margery Williams…I suppose,” he said, doing his best to pretend that this was foreknown factoid for him.

He looked back at me with something of a sheepish grin, implying “What’s a guy to do?”

I just planted my face in my palm, though I quickly looked back up at him with piercing eyes in order to send him a very clear message: “We’re in this together now, you cheating mother fucker.”

He kinda nodded. “We take this to our graves?” he said only with his eyes.

I nodded back. “To our graves.”

He then looked at the elderly couple then back to me. “And the eyewitnesses?” This time there was a certain sadness in his eyes.

We were long past the point of no return by now: we were no longer the two upstanding citizens that had walked into that room. I wiped a nascent tear from my eye–they were a precious and kind old couple, after all–and steeled my resolve.

With the slightest of nods and the gaze of a man who no longer had a soul, I telegraphed to Jerome those fateful words:

“To their graves as well…”

Which was a real shame, seeing as how, despite our bumbling cheating scheme and the ensuing cover-up, in the end Rolla didn’t even qualif for Hi-Q that year…

Content created on: 9/10 March 2024 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Confidential Tale Of The Know It All Going To Hell

25 February 2024 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

Just cuz somebody is a real smarty-pants doesn’t mean they don’t make dumb decisions on occasion.

And, no, I’m not returning my medal, man…

“And in fourth place…”

I held my breath. There were only five spots on the All-League team, and three out of my four teammates already had had their names called. I was but a lowly freshman, and I could merely hope to land a spot behind Ryan, the junior on our team, who was still aspiring to make the cut himself.

“…well, it looks like we have a three-way tie! All earning the honors as co-fourth-seats on the team are Ryan H. and BJ A. from Rolla High School (no surprise there), and Hanston High School’s very own, Local Kid! Come on up and get your medals–you earned them!”

I was slightly in shock. As a freshman, not only had I pulled it off, but I tied with the big-headed junior on our team!

The three of us walked to the front of the lunch room where the awards ceremony was being held. It didn’t take much more than that short walk for us whiz kids to quickly realize that the math didn’t add up here.

“Uh…I’m sorry, Local Kid, but we’ll have to send you your fourth place medal later in the mail,” the Hanston principal, who was emceeing the show, looked as compassionately at his student as he could, hoping not to kill the buzz of the dude’s modest victory…

Back in the day when I was attending Rolla High School, I had the great pleasure of partaking in the one activity in which our humble little school from Kansas was consistently a powerhouse: Scholars’ Bowl (aka Quiz Bowl, aka Jeopardy Light, etc). ‘Twas my freshman year, and at the time I was the runt of the proverbial litter, usually just relegated to watching the four upperclassfolk on my team kick intellectual ass. If I was lucky, I would get to sub in a late round once the tournament was already well in hand and I couldn’t possibly screw us over.

But at long last, here at the Santa Fe Trail League tournament–hosted by perennial football rival and now-defunct Hanston High School–I finally had the chance to prove myself and give the world a glimpse of the 100% Grade-A Quiz Bowl stud that would soon rise to state-wide domination over the next 3 years. Making the All-League Quiz Bowl team was an honor that any scholar could attain strictly on their own merits, even if they had 4 other mental dead-weights dragging them down.

Conversely, even if your other 4 teammates were frickin’ brainiacs–as was my case–you had to punch your own dang ticket onto the team.

And unlike most other Scholar Bowl activities which were oral-based and relied on one having speedy reaction times, admission into the exclusive All-League team featured a written test as it’s bouncer. Halfway through the tournament, the academic administrators running the show would herd all 35 or so of us youths into the Hanston lunch room and let us sit wherever we wanted. It should go without saying that they would precede to hand out pencils and sheets with roughly 20-30 questions,1The typical quiz bowl round consisted of 16 questions, so maybe that’s how many questions were on the test…but it seems like they should have given us more in that situation. Hell, I don’t remember. It’s been almost 30 years! set a timer for 15 minutes or so, and let us go to town.

Apparently, it was just the right conditions for my species to thrive…

“Ah, crap, a trigonometry question!” I muttered under my breath. “I won’t take trig until next year…I have no chance of getting this one right.”

Up until that point on the written test, I had been doing fairly well, but for some reason, not being able to throw out a wild guess and thus having a non-zero chance of getting this one right seemed to stick in my craw. It was only one of many questions, so I should have just counted my losses and moved on, right?

Wrong.

I simply could not bear the horror of that lone blank spot on my paper staring back at me.

I looked up from my test and locked eyes with David, the sophomore on our team and young man of noble character, who was sitting two feet away from me on the adjacent side of the lunch table. Yes, you heard me right–the dumbasses running the show haphazardly let us all sit together as a team. With my eyes, I drew his attention to the sad little empty spot on my sheet.

“I got you covered, my man,” he replied only with his eyes, as he slightly angled his answers just enough so I could see his chicken scratch scrawled at the bottom of the page.

“Tangent!” I proclaimed in my head as if I had just had an epiphany. “Hah! I knew it was something I would have never guessed on account of my complete lack of acquaintance with the topic of trigonometry. But now I will always and forever know that the tangent is ‘the ratio of the vertical leg of a right triangle to its horizontal counterpart.’ Done and done!”

I gave David a nod of appreciation and proceeded to jot it down, finally feeling at peace about turning in my test–all of which I had otherwise answered all on my own with my little freshman mind…

“Sorry, Local Kid, but we’ll have to send you your fourth place medal later…”

Those words hit a little differently now, don’t they? Now that you, Dear Reader, know that it should have been a two-way tie for fourth place and, ergo, enough medals to go around. Poor Local Kid.

“Sh*t. Had I known that one question would end up being so significant, I wouldn’t have even cheated on that singular occasion,” I thought to myself, acknowledging that I hadn’t really thought about how my error in judgement might possibly play out–it was only one question for crying out loud! I hadn’t done it to win, I had done it to avoid the wounded pride and shame that comes along with leaving one question blank. But whether premeditated or not, I was in this predicament either way.

“Welp, looks like I’m in too deep now,” I thought as I accepted my medal, still stunned not only by making the team as a freshman, but under the circumspect circumstances which it had happened.

“Guess I’m taking this one to the grave with me…”

“Why come clean now?” you may be indubitably asking.

Well, Dear Reader, that is a fantastic question. After all, I’m not dead…yet.2I do have some unresolved health issues indubitably related to officially becoming middle-aged over the last year, so my longevity actually can’t be taken for granted. Well, if nothing else I’m honest, and honestly it was never that big of a secret. I’m sure I’ve told some people over the years, including past girlfriends and current wives.

Heck, I figured I would just toss it out there for sh*ts ‘n giggles…and, in the spirit of Primary Season during an election year, I thought that just in case I ever want to run for President, I might as well get out in front of this scandal. Control the narrative and what-not. And I do want to point out that at least on the bright side, I hadn’t robbed anyone of a rightful spot on the All-League Team–had I let the tangent question go, Ryan and Local Kid would have filled the last two spots on the team, and I would have been left with the bragging rights of “making All-League 3 out of my 4 years of high school…”

So basically the point of the story is that if you’re going to cheat, you better be prepared to win–and all the emotional baggage that comes with carrying that unwelcome weight around until the statutes of limitations expires or you die, whichever comes first.

Anyways…I almost forgot the coda to the story: the following year when it came time to head to the host lunch room and take the All-League written test?
“This year we’re making a slight change,” they announced. “We’re randomly assigning you to a table, children, as no two of you from the same team are allowed to sit together…”

Okay, now I can’t confirm that the little stunt that David and I pulled was the cause for this much-needed ----- common-sense rule to be put in place–as far as I know that secret stayed between the two of us well into our college years–but a part of me can’t help be just a wee bit proud for perhaps making the world a tiny bit better place.

Of course, leaving an ass-backwards legacy was already kinda my thing by then.

What’s that? You don’t what I’m talking about?

Oh, my friend, just listen: the answer is Blowin’ In The Wind…

Content created on: 23/24 February 2024 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

I’m Not Lost, Man! I’m Just, Uh, Pioneering

18 February 2024 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

Not all those who wander are lost and then there are those who, deep down, wonder why we wander aimlessly.

Me? I blame the deep blue sea…

“Good lord, it’s…it’s…it’s THE END OF THE WORLD!” I was totally freaking out, man.

“The hell you talking about, dude?” my junior high buddy, Nick, asked, obviously much less concerned.

“The sun…the sun–don’t you see it–it’s setting in the north!” I gestured emphatically in the general direction of our nearest global pole.

We had just come out of the bowling alley on the Navy base we both lived on, and I kept rubbing my eyes in disbelief as they adjusted to the surprisingly bright dusk, and my mind tried to handle the overwhelming amount of cognitive dissonance.

“Uh…that’s west, dumbass, where it usually sets,” Nick calmly stated.

“Dude, no it’s not. Here let me draw a map for you.”

I grabbed a stick and etched out an approximation of this map:

“We’re on the West Coast, see?” I explained. “The water is that way–west. You turn 90 degrees to your right, and you’re facing north–and staring at a setting sun. And you don’t see anything wrong with this picture?!?”

“Oh, you silly Kansas kids. It’s cute that you think ‘water equals west’ here in California,” Nick condescended to me. “Here, let me fix that map of yours…”

He then preceded to sketch out approximately the following in the dirt:

“You got your map turned 90 degrees, jackass,” he pointed out. “As you can see, in these parts of the West Coast, about half the time the ocean is to the south. Such is the case for our current locale, Point Mugu.”

I stared hard at his hand-carved map.

“You sure about this? This doesn’t seem right. I’m pretty sure the West Coast runs straight north and south,” I double-downed on my dumbassery.

Nick just rolled his eyes hard.

“I’ll show you an actual map made by real cartographers and printed on real paper when we get back to my place. Will you believe me then?”

“I don’t know…maybe. Are these the same cartographers trying to trick us all into thinking the world is round and not flat?”

“Wait, what?”

“Just kidding, Nicholas, jeez. Yes, if you present me with solid evidence, then yes, I would be able to override my opinions and gut feelings.”

*moments later, at Nick’s place*

“Well, I’ll be jiggly-darned,” I said as I let out a low whistle. “The water isn’t always to the west.”

“Thank you,” said Nick, still in disbelief that it had taken this much to convince me.

“Dude, I’ve lived here for almost 7 months now,” I said, turning to face Nick. “And now you tell me? What kind of friend lets his best buddy run around for that long with his mental map rotated a full 90 degrees like a complete jerk?”

“Me??? This is somehow my fault?” Nick was incredulous.

“No…I suppose not,” I conceded. “But, dang…this is just plain embarrassing.”

I paused for a moment to digest this earth-shattering revelation.

“Well, at least that would explain why I’ve felt this inexplicable feeling of ick every time I’ve stepped foot outside since I’ve been here…”

“Oh, sh*t. Not again,” I muttered to myself.

Nearly 20 years later I had landed a dream job in a land that was all coast–Hawai’i. And as I expectantly awaited My Beautiful Bride to pick me up on a side street near the hospital where I worked, I just couldn’t figure out why the sun was setting in the south.

I gotta briefly point out, though, while it is somewhat discomforting to see the sun on the southern horizon, it’s somehow not as unsettling as it was before when it appeared to be in the north.

Nevertheless, I had somehow incorrectly set me internal compass.

“Let’s see…I’ve already accounted for the water being pretty much straight south here in Honolulu. And the H11One of the main ‘interstates’ on Oahu. runs pretty much east-west, and that’s to my right hand side–making that north…and to my left the sun is setting. Dammit.”

I was baffled.

“What’s even worse is that I’m facing the same direction as my work desk…which I could swear faces south. Yet, based on past experience, when I see the sun setting, I should know better to believe it when it’s telling me I’m looking west…and since I have to look to my left, that would mean that…I’m facing north. WTF, mate???”

At this point I was full-on having a conversation with myself out loud.

“Alright, I’m just going to look this up on Google Maps when I get home.”

Wisdom of the ages had taught me not to fight this insanity without facts.

*moments later, in front of my home computer*

“Ah, Google Maps, you have explained so much to me,” I said as I looked at this properly oriented map:

I even annotated it for you, with the big arrow in the middle representing the direction I’d be facing when I exited the building where I worked at Queen’s Medical Center. As you can see, my main orientation point was the H1 running parallel to what would be my right. And of course, this point would have to be the exception to the general east-west directionality of the H1, and that a-hole would have to be running north-south right when I was counting on it to be consistent.

“Well, at least the world isn’t ending,” I said, relieved. “But that doesn’t answer why my desk feels like it’s facing south…”

The only upside to this secondary mystery was that it only to plague me locally. Nonetheless, for the next two years I had to sit there in my windowless workspace, nearly in tears knowing that everything I knew about which way I was facing was dead wrong…

“I’m not going to miss sitting in this disorienting af room, I’ll tell you that much!” I quipped to Eric, the guy who had sat next to me my entire time there.

It my last day of work, and while I really did not want to leave Hawai’i, I was ready to bid good riddance to my chronic compass-related discombobulation.

“Ah, so you feel it too then?” Eric asked somewhat cryptically.

“Uh..feel what?”

“That that way feels like north,” he said pointing directly behind us, though we both knew dang well by this point that it was south.

“YES. So I’m not the only one?” I was relieved to know that I wasn’t suffering alone at least. (After all, why should I be the only one in complete misery?)

“Oh, yeah, pretty much any male that works in this space has thought that was north,” Eric informed me.

“What? That is weird!”

“Not really,” Eric said. “We’re pretty sure it’s the 3-Tesla magnetic field of the MRI machine.”

“Aaaaahhh…” I said as I gazed fondly at the MRI room that had been there this whole time, a mere 25 feet behind me. “Well, sh*t, that explains that.”

But this new insight brought up new questions.

“Dude, I’ve worked here for almost 24 months now,” I said, turning to face Eric. “And now you tell me? What kind of co-worker lets his trusty colleage run around for that long with his mental map rotated a full 180 degrees like a complete jerk?”

“Me??? This is somehow my fault?” Eric was incredulous.

“No…I suppose not,” I conceded. “But, dang…this is just plain embarrassing.”

I paused for a moment to digest this earth-spinning revelation.

“Huhn. We really do have reliable compasses in our noses after all. Neat…”

“Honolulu…Long Beach…Málaga…New Orleans. Honolulu…Long Beach…Málaga…New Orleans. Honolulu…Long Beach…Málaga…New Orleans.”

No matter how much I told myself that my temporary home for the next 5 weeks was just like all the other places where I had successfully tuned my intuition to tell me that the water was to the south, I could already sense that I was screwed. As you may recall from a few years ago, the family and I had to take refuge at the beach while our house was being repaired and remodeled. And that particular fun house was located on Oak Island, NC.

I’m sure you, Dear Reader, are aware that North Carolina is on the East Coast…yeah, you can already see where this is going.

Anyways, yada, yada, ya and next thing I know I’m watching a beautiful sun rising in the north.

Okay, okay, I admit that I knew going into it that the entire beach on Oak Island ran almost perfectly east-west, thus putting the Atlantic Ocean due south. But alas, the point of the story is that you can lead a Kansas boy to water, but you can’t teach that old dog that that water he’s looking at isn’t necessarily due east just because it’s the Atlantic Ocean.

…

…

Hmm…I think I mixed one too many metaphors there. What I’m really trying to say is that for some of us out there, directional discombobulation can be a very real, very debilitating affliction. If there is someone in your life like this that finds them in improperly-oriented situation, show them some mercy.

But whatever you do, keep them far, far away from misaligned coastal maps and strong medical-grade magnets…

Content created on: 16/17 February 2024 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Wedding? Gift? Baby? Wait–There’s Another Kind Of Special Registry?

11 February 2024 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

There’s this special type of list that our great state makes–but it’s on you to check it twice.

Not knowing anyone naughty? That’d be nice…

“Did you see on NextDoor that there have been a pair of registered sex offenders lurking around downtown?”

In typical Mom Fashion, my dearest mother just had to ruin my peaceful lunch by bringing up yet another “likely benign” thing for me to worry about in this world.

I gently rolled my eyes, and then turned to acknowledge her apparent concern.

“No, Mother, you know that I stay far away from that website. NextDoor is essentially tantamount to a Karen Convention.”

“Well, you should be on there so you aware of what’s going on in your neighborhood. Especially things like this where there’s a pair of perverts on the prowl in these parts,” Mom replied.

“Cool, cool. I really would like to enjoy the rest of my meal with a bit of Zen, so, ya know…” I attempted to subtly change the topic.

“You know you do have two young girls you should be worried about,” she said, obviously not getting the hint.

I realized that she wasn’t going to drop the matter, so I figured the only way to get her to let it go for now was to acquiesce.

“Well, I’m not on NextDoor, so I guess you’ll have to fill in me in on the details as best as you can.”

“I thought you’d never ask!” she said a bit too excitedly as she whipped out her iPad.

“So, let’s see here…” she skimmed over the NextDoor post. “Ah, yes, so there’s a taller skinny guy. Looks like he was following a couple of 12-year-old girls all over downtown PBO, and they had to seek refuge in the ice cream shop.”

“Oh, good, so it had a happy ending at least?” I couldn’t wait for this story to be over, obviously.

“Nope, he followed them in there, and the owner had to call the cops.”

“Great, so the authorities handled the situation, and at least got his shady ass off the streets for a few days?”

“Not exactly. Cops came but said that he wasn’t technically doing anything wrong, so they didn’t do anything about it. I guess they just contacted the girls’ parents to come pick them up.”

“But surely the police officers at least shared a Type-2-Diabetes-Special Banana Split with the girls, since they were all there anyways, right? You know something like this would at least help take a slight edge off of the traumatic experience.”

I reminded Mom of what I was talking about by pulling up this classic pic on my phone:

She really does take after her old man. Got his eyes and lips, at least…

“What? No! Please take this seriously. I need you to do what you can to protect my grand-babies!”

“Fine, fine. So I won’t be taking them to the ice cream shop any time in the near future. Apparently it is too ‘child-predator-friendly’. I get the message.”

“Thank you,” Mom said.

After a brief awkward pause where I was waiting for her to fill me in more, I decided what the hell and prompted her for the rest of the story that she had started.

“Okay, so that was Pedo #1. Didn’t you say there was a second guy?”

“Oh yeah, but the post didn’t say much about him…they just shared his entry from NC Sex Offender Registry.”

“Super. Just text that to me so I can be on the lookout for the guy…”

“Wow, check out the jawline on this guy!”

Later that afternoon I had finally gotten around to looking at the official NCSOR page for the second guy. Take a peep at this dude and you’ll see exactly what I mean:

Amiright? Or amiright?

“Hah, hah!” I thought to myself out loud. “That dude almost looks like a bulldog.”

I continued chuckling softly to myself, while in the meantime some gears started spinning in the back of my head.

“Why is the word ‘bulldog’ jarring something in my memory?” I wondered.

I continued working on my project, trying to put it out of my mind, but a piece of me seemed fixated on the idea.

“Have I met this guy before? Nah, it couldn’t be the dude who hit me up for sliced-meat money at the gas station downtown…”

My inner dialogue unfolded slowly over the next ten minutes or so.

“His name was what? Terrance? I bet I can prove that it wasn’t the same dude. Let’s see…this guy’s name is…”

*zooms in*

“Ah hah! See there? Couldn’t be him–this guy’s name is Anthony,” I told myself, content that I had shut the book on the matter.

*moments later*

“Wait, that wasn’t his name, though that’s what My Beautiful Bride would call him. I think he went by his initials…what were they again?”

I flipped to an older post of mine to confirm the facts of that particular encounter.

“A.P.! He said people would him see him on the streets of PBO and call out, ‘What’s up, A.P.!’ Yeah, lemme prove that this isn’t him…let’s see what his initials are…”

*scrolls down*

“See, I told you so! His initials are ‘A.M.’ I don’t know this ‘A.M.’ character.”

I could feel that I was on the verge of resolution, when it occurred to me that there was more than one way to skin the proverbial bulldog, and likewise there was more than one way to construct an initial-based nickname (think M.J.–aka Michael Jackson/Jordan).

*zooms back out and scrolls back up*

“Oh…well I guess if uses his last name, this guy–in theory–could technically go by ‘A.P.’ But still, it is highly unlikely this is my du–“

*eye gets caught by something embarrassingly obvious*

“Oh, right…A.P. also said people would see him on the streets of PBO and say, ‘What’s happening, Bulldog?’ Oh, jeez.”

Yes. Yes, I do know this guy. I tried to prove the anti-null hypothesis,1This is the opposite of the regular null hypothesis, in which the assumption is that two things being compared are the same until proven otherwise. and put the full burden of proof that they were one and the same on my shoulders.

Despite all my skepticism, I am forced to admit that I have, in the past, financially supported this guy.

I think at this point, you probably should hop in my time machine to an event that happened right about this time last year, and either refresh your faithful memory, or get up to speed, you lackadaisical infidel.

Just click this link to read about how The Bulldog Wanted Baloney. You’ll Never Guess What Happened Next. Don’t worry–I’ll be waiting right here when you get back.

…

…

…

Oh, hello! There you are! Welcome back to the present day.2Technically this occurred back in October 2023, roughly 4 months ago.

While you were gone, something else caught my eye about our old friend, Bulldog.

*scrolls to the bottom of the screenshot*

What was his first (and, seriously speaking, only one that might be humorous) offense? Oh, just a little Felonious Indecent Exposure.

Let’s just say that I had no idea how lucky I was last year. Thank the good lord I never caught a glimpse of the Bulldog’s…uh…um…er…”baloney”…

Content created on: 10/11 February 2024 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Candy-Man’s Secrets Of The Summer That Got Out Of Hand

4 February 2024 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

Who can make a boy’s wildest dream come true? The Candy Man can!

And who can trash that dream? The Anti-Candy Ma’am can! Or so she thinks…

“My wife says I’m getting too fat…”

As a youngster, this was probably the first time I heard this phrase come out of the mouth of a grown-ass man. Of course, it wouldn’t be long before I wizened to the ways of the world, and realized that, actually, this was sort of a theme in many marriages.

The grown-ass man that first uttered those words to me was Matt, a military co-worker of my brother-in-law, Joe. The previous year we had lived with Joe and my sister on the local Navy base–right around the corner from Matt–and while I had moved back to Kansas to live with my old man for the school year, Mom had got her own apartment in the nearby town. Though I had come back for the summer, Mom had her day job, so most days I would try to convince somebody to sneak me onto base. Otherwise, I would have been stuck by myself in Mom’s apartment with nothing to do but play videogames, watch reruns of Mr. Belvedere and Dinosaurs, and eat the stupid health food with which Mom stocked her pantry.

Anyways, so there we were, the three of us dudes, plus my slightly older brother 1SkinnyJ, chillin’ in Matt’s garage (for a youngster like me, it was a real treat to get to hang out with ‘the big boys’).

“…so, lads, today’s your lucky day,” Matt continued. “Gentlemen and, well, uh, boys, behold: my candy stash!”

I looked at 1SkinnyJ, mouth agape, to see him giving me that same look. We could not believe our eyes. We had never seen so much candy in our lives outside of Mr. Bulky’s infamous sweets shop.

“Sadly for me–but great for you–the wife is making me get rid of every last bit of this sweet, sweet junk food,” Matt lamented. “Please. Take it all out of my sight before I change my mind.

“You’re just messing with us, right?” 1SJ asked Matt. “There’s no way any man with half a sweet tooth would let this go freely.”

While 1SJ probed the veracity of our apparent windfall, I eyeballed the stash up and down. Kit-Kat. Snickers. Pay Day. Twix–both caramel and the highly sought-after peanut butter version. And that was just a mere sampling of the American varieties. I mean, this dude had it all. Even several boxes of exotic Asian candies. I’m guessing they were mostly of Japanese origin, though I had yet to learn Kanji, so I couldn’t be 100% sure what the strange writing on the packaging said. However, I suspect they were from Japan mainly based on the fact that they were weird af, which just screamed ‘I’m Japanese!.’

“Nope, I sh*t thee not,” Matt confirmed the good news. “But I told the wife I was throwing it away, so you best skedaddle out of here with it all before she finds out what we’re up to. She’ll lose her mind if she finds out I’m contributing to the cavities of minors.”

“I have no place to keep this on base,” 1SJ turned to me with a solemn look on his face. “We’ll have to smuggle it into my room in Mom’s apartment. I’m entrusting you to protect it when I’m not around. Can I count on you, bro?”

“You got it, dude!” I said, despite not actually being a bona fide fan of the 80s sitcom, Full House.

I turned to Matt, placing my hand of my heart, “You can rest at ease: I promise you that we’ll provide a safe and loving home for your candy. Don’t you worry, it’ll be thoroughly enjoyed.”

“In your chubby little hands, I have no doubt it will be,” he replied. “Just don’t let your mom find it, or else…well, ya know…”

“Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity-dog!” I sang to myself as I woke up mid-morning the next day.

Mom had already long headed off to work and I finally had the apartment to myself. What kid wouldn’t be incredibly enthusiastic to greet the day, knowing what sugary delights that lied in wait for him? Especially an adipose-advantaged adolescent1I.e., “fat kid”. like me?

Knowing I would need my energy if I intended to spend my day indulging in all sorts of confectionery delights, I amazingly had the patience and discipline to start off with something that actually had some nutritional value: a big ol’ bowl of soggy Grape Nuts. I dutifully chowed down, one mushy mouthful at a time, all whilst fantasizing about which treats I wanted to eat first (there is something to be said for letting some anticipation build up, know what I mean?).

At long last, it was time to engage in some pure, unadulterated hedonism. I couldn’t help myself from skipping across the apartment and back to 1SJ‘s bedroom, where I carefully peeled back the layers of bean bags that I had employed to abscond our precious cache to reveal…absolutely nothing.

How could this possibly be??? I shook my fists to the heavens, fell on my knees, and rent in half the Nirvana smiley-face t-shirt I had been wearing.

My heart caught in my throat, while simultaneously the pit in my stomach dropped like a brick, as the realization overwhelmed me: Mom had found us out.

And not only had she found us out, but she had completely wiped us out. Not a wrapper, nor a crumb, nor any trace of the glorious treasure that had sat hidden in our room only mere hours earlier.

“How could I have been so sloppy, so stupid?” I chided myself. “I knew I should have hidden it so much better! Dammmmmmit.”

And just like that, all my hopes and dreams for what should have been the most glorious summer ever, down the drain…

“Down the drain…down the drain…down the drain…” I kept muttering to myself.

I pounded the video game controller in frustration as I processed the cold hard fact that I had blown the opportunity of a lifetime. Needless to say, I wasn’t getting over the heartbreak quickly.

“Down the drain…down the drain…down the–wait just a tic!” I was starting to realize something.

“W.W.M.D.–What Would Mom Do?” I pondered.

“If it had been 1SJ’s weed stash she had found, sure, I could see her flushing it down the toilet. But…but…but, there’s no way in hell that’s what she did with all that candy. What did she do with it?”

I mean, something like that doesn’t just vanish into thin air, right?

“Hmmm…I wonder…no, surely she would have been more careful–surely!”

I about completely put the thought out of my mind. Almost.

“Oh, what the heck do I have to lose at this point?” I continued my monologue with myself. “Buckle up, Buttercup, it looks we’re going dumpster diving…”

Not that I thought that anything would really come of it–as evidenced by my lack of footwear–I nonetheless wandered casually out to the nearest dumpster, which happened to be right next to where Mom tended to park her Pickle Wagon.

Needless to say, I was completely unprepared to find sitting completely unblemished and easily within arms reach, there on top of the rest of the rubbish, basking in an angelic beam of light shining on it from upon high…every last piece of candy that had been prematurely ripped from their loving candy-daddy’s arms.

I sh*t thee not, I swear I heard this playing in that moment:

As much as I had been in shock when I discovered my goodies had gone missing, I was twice as much so when the Good Lord smiled upon me and gave me a totally undeserved second chance at achieving diabetic Nirvana. There really is no greater feeling in the world than that of a dead dream being brought back to life with a vengeance like ol’ Lazarus…aaaaahhhhhh!

Eventually, though, I gathered my wits and collected the goods before Mom could come home for her lunch break and spoil the party permanently. You better believe I hid My Precious much better this time–so good in fact, that I can’t find the slightest of slivers in my memory where I had squirreled it all away for the rest of the summer.

The interesting part is that Mom never said a word to me about what she had discovered amongst those bean bags, presuming that such a gut-wrenching loss would be punishment enough.

Oh, ho ho ho! Little did she know that Child Protective Services would have come and taken me away had they known all the abuse my teeth suffered that one glorious, glorious summer…

Content created on: 31 January/2/3 February 2024 (Weds/Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Don’t Punish Me, You Old Fart–Punish The Technology!

28 January 2024 / / 1 Comment
4 Min Read

That sweet tooth of yours already got you in trouble once, kid.

But just you wait until Dad discovers the second half of the damage you did…

“Dammit, son! I thought we were done with this whole candy-peepin’ business!”

I looked up from my comic book1Well, if we’re going to be completely accurate, it was probably my Game Boy. to see one very pissed off father figure holding some papers in a tightly-clinched fist.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t gone near any of that since last month–and that was a one time thing! Believe you me, I’ve learned my lesson…” I stated, figuring that since it was a matter of fact(s), then the facts would exonerate me.

“You went and put $200 worth of your childlike foolishness on my credit card behind my back, and now this?!? Boy, I oughta beat your ass into oblivion right here and now!” he seethed through increasingly gritted teeth.

“Yes, I know–you made such a big to-do about the AOL charges last time,” I said, and I would have sighed in exasperation, but even then with my only partially-developed limbic regions of my brain–and specifically my visual cortex2https://www.forbes.com/sites/carolkinseygoman/2013/02/26/this-is-your-brain-on-body-language/?sh=322534296632,3https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limbic_system–I could read ol’ Papa Bob’s body language and tell he was about to lose his sh*t.

(You remember the whole AOL Incident, don’t you, Dear Reader? Of course you do! You just read all about that last time…right?)

Anyways…I retroactively blame what happened next on account of my prepubescent amygdala kicking into high gear. In a truly meta moment, what little executive function I may have had at that age was not enough to stop from blurting out:

“I’m a frickin’ kid, Dad–you don’t actually expect me to have any executive function, do you?”

Ah, yes, if I had a time machine, I would go back and advise my younger self just to plead the Fifth and keep my mouth shut (not that that was a particularly self-incriminating statement, or anything).

“Don’t you try to get out of this by using your big brainiac words with me, boy!”

Did I mention that Dad’s intelligence got insulted easily?

“Oh, sh*t!”

Did I also mention that besides a love of sweets, another of my father’s legacy passed down to me was cussing like a sailor–even though I was waaaaay too young to be so proficient in potty words.

I skedaddled out of the kitchen where we had been having our discussion, through the office and into the living room, as I attempted to evade an encroaching ass-whooping.

“Get back here!” he demanded, further pursuing me on through our weird dining-room-like area and back into the kitchen.

“But I didn’t do anything!” I protested. “Whatever you’re pissed about, it wasn’t me racking up charges on your credit card this time!”

“Wait…credit card?” Dad wheezed as he stopped to catch his breathe. “Who said anything about a credit card?”

“Well, then what’s that in your hand?” I asked suspiciously, safely on the other side of the window-like opening between the dining room where Dad was now, and the living room, where I had scurried around to.

“This?!?” He held up the papers, shaking his fist at me. “This is the phone bill!”

“Oh, schnappes!” I muttered under my breath realizing what had happened.

“You can’t be angry at me about this–please!”I attempted to mount my defense. “I can explain everything…”

“I’m pretty sure I would know if candy factories or stores had 1-900 numbers that you could call and listen to them describe the experience of eating exotic sweet treats that you’ll never get to enjoy in your lifetime–” I didn’t let Dad finish his sentence.

“Wait, what? That’s a thing? Good to know, good to know…”

“NO, that is NOT a thing. Weren’t you listening to what I just said?”

I should also note that I had sort of a talent for frustrating Dad when it came to the Communications Department (and a talent for aggravating him when it came to the Actions Department).

“This clearly isn’t a 1-900 number,” he continued, “so who the hell are you calling in Amarillo in the middle of the night for hours on end? Is it the local Mrs. Bulky’s candy store down there?”

“Dad, Dad, I wasn’t talking to anyone. That’s the AOL Internet Service Provider access number…” this time Dad didn’t let me finish my sentence.

“WHAT THE HECK?!? You said you were done with AOL, you lyin’ little bastard!”

“I AM DONE WITH THEM!” I shouted back. “You already grounded me for this, don’t you remember, you old fart?”

“That was for the credit card bill. This is the phone bill, you dummy!” he retorted.

“IT WAS THE SAME CRIME! You can’t punish me twice for the same offense! That’s double jeopardy!”

“Well, your step-mother isn’t going to see it that way, and frankly, neither do I, so you can expect to be grounded another 3 weeks.”

“DOUBLE JEOPARDY! DOUBLE JEOPARDY! You can’t do this to me! Help! I’m being oppressed!” I said, making a big scene for an unseen audience.

“Son, it was $350,” he said, literally bringing the receipts up to my eye-line so I could inspect the evidence.

“Oh, damn, Dad, you need to call the phone company–those per-minute long-distance rates are tantamount to highway robbery! We can’t let such skullduggery stand!”

“Again, with the big, fancy words,” he warned me.

“Oh, right. In words you can understand: yeah, I kinda deserve another 3 weeks…”

The point of the story is–much like a progressive (or German) parent might do with their teenager when it comes to alcohol or recreational drugs–perhaps you should let your kids have sweets in moderation, where they will at least be under your supervision.

Or you could, ya’ know, just leave them to their own devices–devices like 1400 baud modems–and learn about their midnight shenanigans after the fact. Oh no, I’m sure you won’t be cleaning up after their short-sighted sh*t-show for months or years to come.

Oh, and maybe even more importantly, parents please, please, please understand its never to early to have the dreaded “technology talk” with your kids. Sure, it may be even more difficult and awkward for you than infamous “candy talk”, but I cannot stress how crucial it is.

I mean, how else are we budding Boomers going to learn how to run the latest new-fangled devices and navigate the dangers and pitfalls of the hottest social media platforms? We sure the hell ain’t going to figure it out on our own…

Content created on: 21/27/28 January 2024 (Mon/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Sweet Magic Of The Boy’s First Tragic Dial-Up Download

21 January 2024 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Young man, pay no heed to the siren’s call of 90s technology!

It’s not worth the cost for some sweet eye candy (and I mean that literally…)

“Pshhhkkkkkkrrrr​kakingkakingkakingtsh​chchchchchchchcch​*ding*ding*ding*!”1https://twitter.com/briannekimmel/status/1076677576314310656?lang=en

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” I muttered impatiently to myself.

“Keeeeyyy errrrr beeeep ong dee ong waaahhh urrrrrr!”2https://www.reddit.com/r/AdviceAnimals/comments/1u5qam/keeeeyyy_errrrr_beeeep_ong_dee_ong_waaahhh/?rdt=33107

“You gotta be kidding me! I gotta start all over again??” I exclaimed in impertinent disbelief.

“Urrrr EEEE urrr NNNGGGG CRRRRcrrrr KEEEEEEE grrr nnnnnng!”3https://forums.nasioc.com/forums/showthread.php?t=2598943

“What the hell are you doing?!? Connect already!” I seethed, but quietly so I didn’t wake up anybody else in the house.

…then out of the darkness came a digitized voice…

“Well, since you asked, let me show you exactly what I’m doing…”

On my computer screen flashed this overly-informative diagram:

I rubbed my bleary eyes and took a good hard look at it. I rubbed my chin as if deep in thought and pretended to understand what it all meant–but I didn’t have time to waste so I just faked comprehension as best as I could so we could get on with the show.

“Oh…okay, I see now. As you were then, Mr. Dell, as you were…” I said humbly.

In response, my Dell computer with its blazing-fast 1440 baud modem simply replied:

At that sound, a chill of excitement and anticipation went down my spine. If all went well that night, by dawn we all know what kind of pictures I would be in possession of…

“Candy, candy, candy!” I half-bragged to my elementary school classmates.

“No. Friggin. Way! Really?” one my buddies was clearly in disbelief.

“Yes friggin’ way!” I replied. “Come hang out at my house after school, and I’ll show you all the pictures I have of people eating candy on my computer.”

“So, like, do you have alot of these pictures, or what?” he gave me a side-eye look, suspicious whether I had the goods.

“Well, okay, not alot alot…maybe 15 or 20?” I confessed. “It also depends on how you count…I got a bunch that are mostly foreheads, maybe eyes too–can’t really see what they’re actually eating. I mean, do you know how long it takes to download a single picture at 1440 baud?”

“No, not really,” he admitted as well.

“Um…neither do I because I keep falling asleep before the picture even gets to their hairline…”

…And thus was the blessing and the curse of coming of age at the same time as the internet.

Oh! The promises the world wide web held for us sugar-deprived youngsters who had a healthy sweet-tooth streak in us. Like most kids, we rarely were able to get a first-hand sugar fix, but then along came AOL and with it, the allure of being able to vicariously watch someone else enjoying some gratuitous simple carbohydrates. When you’re that young, there’s a certain thrill in dreaming about one day, when you’re all grown up, what all different kinds of candies and other goodies you’ll be stuffing your face with–whenever you want, wherever you want!

Of course the down side to all this was that if you hoped to get anything besides plain text from the internet, you had to have patience that certainly no 7-year-old I knew4I never said I was 7 years old… possessed.

“Um…does your dad actually know that’s what you’ve been doing with your AOL subscription?” someone else just had to chime in and bring our little party crashing to Earth.

“Look, that old man eats junk food all the time–” I attempted to deflect the question, but no one was really buying it.

“So, he has no clue. Hmmmph. Figures.”

“Uh…yeah…so I sorta kinda snuck his credit card out of his wallet to sign up for all the interwebs stuff. Don’t worry, though, we signed up for AOL for a month or so last year when we first bought my computer–I told that Boomer that it wouldn’t work at all unless we paid a monthly fee, and he totally bought it!” I was back to half-bragging again.

“Yeah, dude, I’m sure this will end well…”

“Son, what in the hell have you been doing on your computer?”

So…Dad apparently gotten his credit card bill, eh?

“Uh…candy?” I timidly replied.

“Candy?!?” he replied incredulously.

“Well, actually just pictures of people eating candy,” I said, somehow even more timidly.

“Son, there is a charge on here from something called ‘AOL’ for almost $200!” he said, admirably holding himself together given the situation.

“Oh, snap! Did you just say $200? It was supposed to be $9.95 a month…for the first 5 hours, at least.”

“And after that? Hmm?” he inquired impatiently.

“…and $2.95 for each additional hour…”5https://money.cnn.com/1996/11/01/technology/aol/ I barely eeked out.

“When the hell did you have that much time–wait, no, it doesn’t matter. There’s an important life lesson to be had here,” he said, seemingly cooling off a bit.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I let out a sigh of relief.

“For $200, I could have just taken you down to Mrs. Bulky’s on Amarillo Boulevard and buy you waaaay more candy than your little mouth could ever eat.6For the historical record, no, my father did not offer to take me on a a questionable candy store shopping spree. That would just be some downright irresponsible parenting… So much, in fact, that you might not be able to eat candy for the rest of your life… But I digress. Really the point is, my boy, if you need a candy fix, you don’t have to go behind my back. In fact, your old man is something of a junk food connoisseur himself…”

“Awesome! So, I’m off the hook then?”

Dad looked at me like I was crazy.

“Oh, hell no, you’re not. You know what you’re step-mother–and mother!–thinks of candy: ‘it rots both the teeth and the mind!’ Yeah, even just finding salacious pictures of candy anywhere in the house will really set her off–whew, lemme tell you!”

“Wait, wha–” I attempted to protest.

“Yeah, and you think she didn’t see the credit card bill? I’m going to have to sit here with you and watch you delete every one of those ‘goody pics’ off of your computer,–or she’s going to be up my ass about this for lord knows how long.”

“Oh, c’mon, man!”

“Oh. And you’re grounded for 3 weeks…”

You gotta be ----- kidding me…

Content created on: 19/20/21 January 2024 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Neo’s New Unbearable Terror Of Being The Chosen One’s Heir

14 January 2024 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

You think it would be cool being suspiciously similar to that one certain guy from The Matrix.

However, even Neo can’t dodge every bullet…

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, youths of all ages (but mainly ages 11-14)” our principal, Mrs. Anderson1No relation. paused for dramatic effect, “…as voted on by all the teachers at this fine learning institution, I am pleased to announce that Ocean View Junior High’s 1995 Female Student of the Year is…Melissa Yamaguchi!”2I’m too lazy to track down my yearbook to confirm her last name–but at least I didn’t call her Melissa Tamaguchi!

A moderate round of applause erupted amongst the roughly 800 teens, pre-teens, staff and teachers that filled our gym/auditorium. I for one was pretty happy for Melissa–I knew that it would have been either her or our mutual special ed classmate, Trisha P.–and they both equally deserved the honor. Or at the very least, they didn’t have science fair projects that sucked butt.

After the clapping subsided, I went back to doing what I usually did: gabbing with anybody within earshot of me as I chillaxed in the backmost row of bleachers, like the too-cool-for-school guy that I was. You know, the exact behavior that made me Enemy #1 of our Asian Mr. Clean lookalike science teacher, one Mr. Donald Sogiyoka. You remember that, right? Of course you do, because you read it right here.

I really wasn’t paying much attention to this little end-of-year awards assembly anyways. In fact, I didn’t give a flying rat’s caboose about any of it, since, in addition to having a few haters amongst the faculty, I had done gone and made a bone-headed mistake and ruined my perfect streak of Straight-As by getting a B in ----- P.E., of all classes. While these seemed like an unfortunate pair of facts on their face, I had made peace with them–nay, embraced them–once I had realized that, hah hah, jokes on ya’ll, now I couldn’t be Valedictorian, and ergo/vise vie/concordantly, I wouldn’t have to give no stupid speech at graduation. Y’all remember how that went the last time for me, all the way back in Kindergarten, right? Of course you do, because you read all about it right here.

So sure, I wasn’t going to be getting any particularly noble accolades that afternoon–but that was just the way I liked it…

“Wait, what?!?” I jerked my attention away from the random story I had dove into, back to the floor of the gym after having been so rudely interrupted by one of my friends in the row in front of me trying to high-five me.

I looked down to Mrs. Anderson with a confused look, because honestly I had no clue what was going on.

She looked directly at me with an excited smile on her face and gracefully repeated herself:

“Ocean View Junior High’s 1995 Male Student of the Year is…YOU! Come on down here and give me a hug!”

In addition to being our principal and sharing the same last name, Sharon Anderson–not to be confused with our Algebra teacher, Mary Anderson–was also my Home Room teacher that year, and we had grown quite fond of each other. So it made sense for her to be giddy to crown me with one of the highest honors a junior high could bestow, and it made sense that she would want to congratulate me with a hug (in case you were wondering).

Blushing every step of the way down, I soaked up every ounce of adulation I could get from my peers, hand shaking and high-fiving any appendage that was offered up to my ego’s alter. I know, I know–only moments earlier I was Mr. Indifferent, but hey, what can I say? It felt good to unexpectedly be anointed the Biggest Fish In A (Relatively) Big Pond.

By the time my feet hit the gym floor, there was a newfound pep in my step, and from there I basically glided across the rest of the way to give ol’ Sharon a big hug.

“Congratulations! I knew you could do it!” she whispered in my ear as we embraced.

I thanked her heartily, and in spite of my elation, I managed to withhold a cracking wise about “no relation!” lest any student thought I got where I had gotten because of faux nepotism.

I eventually found my way back up to my seat, where I now could eagerly await to hear what chumps and/or chumpettes had landed the gigs of Valedictorian and Salutatorian.

Ah, indeed, there I was, resting comfortably on my accolades, when Mrs. Anderson finally got to the real heart of the show.

“Well, gang, that wraps our awards ceremony for the ’94-’95 school year. And again, let’s give Melissa and BJ another hearty round of applause–I’m sure they’re going to give wonderful commencement speeches!”

After that I was in a bit of a daze, and I barely even remember wandering aimlessly out of the gym…except for one detail: as I passed my nemesis Mr. Sogiyoka, he clearly could tell that all the blood had drained from my face. In that moment, it became obvious that I had been outmaneuvered.

While most of the other teachers were only verbally congratulating Melissa and me on our achievements, ol’ Donny-Boy made it a point to shake my hand. With a sh*t-eating smirk on his face, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear:

“Checkmate, mother ----- , checkmate…”

Content created on: 13/14 January 2024 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Now That’s A Story That, Surprisingly, Really Sticks Out…

7 January 2024 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

For a young guy, what’s the worst that could possibly go wrong?

Well, I’ll tell you–but pay no mind if I unexpectedly go a little long…

“Of course you know what an ‘N.R.B.’ is right?” my college buddy Beecher spontaneously switched gears in the middle of our late-night conversation.

No, I didn’t know what this is so-called ‘N.R.B.’ was, and no, I had no idea where he was going with this random train of thought.

“Uhhh…isn’t that that rap group from the 80’s that had Christian moms all up in arms and boycotting Walmart for carrying their albums?” I fathomed a guess.

“Naw, dude, that’s N.W.A. you’re thinking of. What I’m talking about are NRBs–No-Reason Boners–ya’ know? Like, it’s a scientific fact that every young guy gets them. The real question is: what does a lad do when he is bequeathed with a pNRB–a Public No-Reason Boner?” he intimated with a completely straight face.

“Ok, I think we need to back this conversation up just a tad. First, you do realize that we are in a semi-public venue, right?”

I grandly gestured around the Baptist church where our Christian college ministry, The Navigators, was regularly meeting every Thursday that year. Though our meeting had officially ended about 15 minutes earlier, there were plenty of us college kids still milling about.

“Aren’t you concerned any of the young ladies here might overhear us?” I asked in almost a whisper.

“Naw, man, they probably need to hear this. I almost guarantee you that they are all completely oblivious to this common affliction that we are all stricken with from time to time,” Beecher attempted to assuage my concerns. “It’s much better that they’re educated ahead of time, so that when it does happen to one of us in their presence, our dear Sisters in Christ won’t think we’re a bunch of raging perverts.”

“You do make a good point. But if we’re gonna have this conversation now, can we at least be gentlemen about it? Let’s call this phenomenon by it’s medical-slash-scientific name, shall we?” I countered.

“Oh yeah? And what would that be?” he inquired.

“Why, Spontaneous Involuntary Erections, of course! Or S.I.E.s, for short,” I said, before fully considering my choice of words.

“Hey, who you calling ‘short’? There ain’t nothing short about my NRBs–sorry, my SIEs!” Beecher could have retorted, but didn’t because he was a grown-ass man in his second year of college, not a boy in junior high. But that didn’t stop that train of thought from leaving my mind-station.

Needless to say, Beecher was slightly confused when I continued with that unspoken line of thinking.

“Speaking of which,” I said out of nowhere, “it really would have been nice to have had a name for that monster that terrorized me when I myself was a junior high boy…”

“What we now know to be NRBs–or ‘NeRBs‘, if it makes it easier to say aloud–terrified this nerd,” I gestured to myself as I began regaling Beecher against his will with my ‘back-in-the-day’ tale.

“You see, in 8th grade I had just moved to California, and for the first time was at a big school with a bunch of kids I didn’t know. Ocean View Jr. High’s demographic was primarily kids of Mexican migrant workers and military brats from the nearby Navy base–not exactly the crowd I was used to. Not that it’s relevant to the story, but ironically, of all them, I was probably the most ‘illegal’ one, seeing as how I was very much illegally living on that particular Navy base with my sister…”

“Anyways, every day at 10:05 a.m. sharp, I would find myself in a locker room with a bunch of these guys. At first, I thought the pit in my stomach was just part of the nerve-wracking experience of moving to a different state and going to a new school as an extreme introvert.”

“Yes, believe it or not, I was quite the introvert then–I’ve always been one at heart…”

“Anyways, the point of the story is1Yes, I was infamously misusing this turn of phrase back in my college days–and well before that, even. it wasn’t the New-School Nerves that almost had me throwing up every day at mid-morning. My NSNs subsided relatively quickly, and it wasn’t too long before I realized that I was just absolutely certain that I would have a case of the NeRBs befall me during the two windows of time at the beginning and end of gym class when we would be changing into and back out of our gym clothes.”

“I probably got an ulcer from all the anxiety the specter of a NeRB caused me for those 10 long months back in ’94 and ’95…”

“Speaking of ‘B’s: Jack Oliver, that old bastard…” I just barrelled right on into my next thought, as I was wont to do.

Beecher just gave me a ‘WTF’ look, but nevertheless made no attempt to stop me.

“Yeah, Mr. Oliver was our ironically-overweight gym teacher–one could even say he was ‘fat’. But what made him a fat bastard is that he had the audacity to make us jog laps for the entire gym period every Tuesday and Thursday, the whole ----- year long.”

“But that wasn’t the worst part–what made him diabolical was that our grade in his class was based on whether or not we met his arbitrarily-determined quota of laps for the day.”

“Not only was I nerd in junior high, I was a chubby nerd who absolutely hated running or jogging of any kind. So now in addition to my petrifying2This is an obtuse attempt at a pun–you see, petrified wood is wood that has become rock hard…and I was terrified that I would be sporting some rock-hard wood…um…it’s a pun, dammit. fear of getting a so-called chubby every day in gym class, I had the additional trauma of the bi-weekly anticipation of some state-sanctioned self-flagellation. And the real terror was that this masochistic ritual of mucking about in circles in a former California strawberry field could very easily result in the ruining of my pristine streak of always getting straight-A’s throughout my entire academic career!”

I paused for dramatic effect, but Beecher was already well aware of my penchant for #HumbleBragging–he’d already been wowed by every detail of all the scholarships and grants that was supporting my collegiate endeavors–and wisely chose not to further indulge me on that front.

“Dude, is there even really a point to your story? You made that promise upwards of 3 minutes and 12 thoughts ago, and you have yet to deliver the goods,” Beecher was starting to get a little impatient with me–no doubt he really wanted to keep talking about adolescent erections rather than how ----- smart I was.

“Okay, fine, I’ll get to the point: After all was said and done–and despite all my accumulated irrational fear–I never got a single NRB my entire 8th grade year–not one! I did, however, get a single ‘B’–as in the letter grade–on my third-quarter report card.”

“I almost never forgave that bastard for ruining my Lifetime Straight-A bragging rights…until I realized that that bastard–said this time with utmost affection–saved me from my ultimate fear: public speaking.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Beecher inquired, slightly exasperated that my non-erectile story was managing to go long and strong all night long like a guy who had popped one-too-many Viagras on Valentine’s Day.

“Well, with my perfect 4.00 GPA no longer intact, I was guaranteed to be knocked out of the running for Valedictorian. Sure, the honor would have been nice, but who needs the stress of not only writing, but also delivering, a contrived speech to a bunch of peers and parents who simply don’t give a flying fudge?”

“Wait just a tick,” Beecher said, slightly surprised by this twist, “you mean to tell me that you don’t have a life-long grievance with Jack Oliver that will eventually get aired in a future Festivus?”

“Oh, I got grievances to air, alright. What? You thought I was done with my story? Hah! I’m only just getting started.”

“Dammit,” Beecher muttered as he looked wistfully at his watch. “You mean to tell me that this story is to be continued…“

Content created on: 6/7 January 2024 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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