Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 8 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!

Great News, Poorly Delivered: This Is What Dads Do Best

19 March 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

Sure, Dad, LOTS of people were cool with hearing news 6 months after the fact.

They were called “People who lived before the 1840s…”

“Please enter your 24-Digit PIN now to connect your call…”

Oh, the humanity–er, I mean the humiliation. All I wanted to do was make my weekly call to check in with my dad, like any good college student. But was I being rewarded for being a good and faithful son?

No. No I was not.

Let’s start with that 24-Digit PIN. I know it was 2001, but still, for anyone to have to resort to using a pre-paid calling card was an indignation that no one deserved to suffer. In fact, it was this very situation that made me go out and get my very first faux-wood paneled cell phone only a week later. But, alas, in this moment I was sans cellular telephone, and my private access to telecommunication services had just been cut off.

This wasn’t really my fault, though. You see, I had been subletting a friend’s apartment for the summer, and, on account of it being the first of August, his lease had just expired and I had to relocate to his new house. However, his future roommates at this place were all hip and ‘with it’ and already had cell phones, so they had eschewed the idea of shelling out money to pay for such an antiquated concept as a ‘landline’.

Okay, so I had to use a pre-paid calling card–big whoop, right? Well, not so fast, slick. Did I mention from whence I was making this phone call? No? Then please allow me to enlighten you. I wasn’t about to subject myself to the abject debasement of being seen using a gas station payphone, so, thinking on my feet, I said to myself, “Ah-ha! I know of a semi-private phone from whence I can call my Noble and Beloved Father!” And subsequently set off on foot to the breezeway of Dickens Hall¹It wasn’t actually Dickens Hall, but one located symmetrically on the other side of the library, but was demolished in order to expand the library. I couldn’t remember the name of this hall, nor could Google. on K-State’s campus.

What awaited me there? Oh, just one of those metal emergency phones mounted on the wall. Did it have an actual handset for my convenience? No! Just a speakerphone. But what it did have was a key pad, and as it turned out, you could get away with calling other phone numbers besides 911, if one only dared try. With calling card in hand, that was all I needed to repurpose the ‘Emergency Use Only’ technology for my own devices. (Side note: this was around 8 at night, so virtually no one would be around to witness me making a personal call via speaker phone. Doing this midday? No way, José!)

Now, any dignified gentlemen would have made his way to such a prestigious appointment on the finest of bicycles, but I didn’t even have that base-level luxury. As noted previously, I had to hoof it the several blocks to campus on account of being bike-less.

This wasn’t really my fault, though…

*checks notes*

Wait, strike that–this part really was my fault. Only a week or two earlier, I was peddling on my way to somewhere, and the campus library happened to be along my route. Now, back in the dark ages of 2001, I didn’t have my own computer or internet access, so any time I wanted to send or receive electronic mail (‘e-mail’) I had to go to the computer lab in the library’s basement.

During that particular summer, my good friend (and future ex-girlfriend), the acclaimed Tiffany Chestnut, was studying abroad in Mexico, so I spent many an hour hammering out mini-tomes to send to her to keep her company whilst in such a strange and foreign land. On this fateful July day, though, I assured myself that since I had somewhere to be, I would only send her a brief missive–one, maybe two paragraphs, tops.

“This will take me nary but 5 minutes!” I assured myself as I parked my bike literally in the middle of the sidewalk, eschewing the security of a bike rack only 10 feet away.

Well, I ended up composing digital ramblings for a good hour and a half, yet somehow I was still surprised when I came out back into the daylight only to find that my precious bicycle had been stolen…

“So what’s new on the farm, Daddy-o?” I cackled into the general vicinity of the emergency phone’s microphone.

Having successfully swallowed my pride and having done what I had to do to make this phone call happen, I finally started to relax and was looking forward to a routine (if not boring) chat with ol’ Papa Bob about what had transpired in his neck of the woods in the past 7 days. (Just kidding–there aren’t any ‘woods’ in Southwest Kansas. Maybe I should have used the phrase ‘neck of the wheat fields’ instead?)

“Welp, Kim had her baby. It’s a boy!” my dad crackled back through the speaker.

“Oh, you mean that Kim’s pregnant, and they just found out they’re having a boy via ultrasound, right?”

“No, she actually had him. His name’s Reed, and he’s a flaming redhead like the rest of that family,” my dad corrected me.

Now, I wasn’t perfect when it came to keeping track of my older brother, ‘Lyle’,²That’s his middle name, and ever since I found that a year or so ago, I can’t resist calling him that every chance I get. and his family, but the fact that he and his wife Kim were even expecting their 4th redheaded child came as complete news to me.

“What the hell, Dad? Was anyone going to tell me that she was even preggos in the first place? A little heads-up would have been nice.”

“What? How did you not know that? Get with it, Son!” my dad patronized me.

“How did I not know that??? I didn’t know that! Because you didn’t tell me!”

“Well, who’s fault is that?” Dad busted out one of my most-hated phrases of his.

Unlike the stolen bike, and very much like the disconnected landline, this was–repeat after me, class–wasn’t really my fault, though.

“Who’s fault?!? Yours! It’s totally on you–you’re my singular source for family news, you old fart! Don’t you try to pass the buck off to me–it was your responsibility to tell me. Geez, Dad–we worked together every day for 6 weeks this summer, and you never thought once to let me in on the news…”

“Oh, holy sh*t–I would know the silhouette of that bike from a mile away, but surely it couldn’t be, could it?”

Despite being blindsided by the news that I was an uncle yet again, I was feeling pretty chipper about the fact that my prized brood of nieces and nephews was one larger than when I had awoken that morning. And now…this?

Dickens Hall was right next to the library, and as I walked out of there and away from 9 o’clock phone call with Dad, I saw something in the darkness that left me in disbelief: my previously stolen bike.

Or so I suspected, at least. I sauntered on over to the library bike racks to inspect it, and sure enough! ‘Twas my bike! I couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact that whoever had stolen was, like I had been, pretending to lock it up but not actually doing it.

You see, I had one of those U-locks on it that I kept locked to the body when not in use, until one day the lock mechanism froze up, rendering it permanently attached to the bike. And if you can’t unlock a lock, then you can’t lock up your bike to a post or anything…but, if you lean the bike against the post/rack, it actually creates the illusion that the lock is attached to both. So even though I hadn’t technically been locking my bike up for the last year, I was faking it well enough that it never got stolen under those circumstances.

Whoever stole my bike, though, hadn’t counted on me showing up and seeing through this little charade of my own invention. Mwah-hah-hah-ha!

Vengeance was mine! I promptly re-stole my bike and rode off into the night, with my dignity (mostly) restored…

The point of the story is, dammit, if you’re the main source of information for friend or family member, be responsible and make sure you keep them informed of the important things. And don’t you dare try to victim-blame them for not knowing what they didn’t know–you know, the exact thing that only you could have told them. That’s just undignified.

Of course, though, it’s important to keep perspective right? At the end of my story, I ended up one nephew and a bike that I had previously (and stupidly) practically given away. So, really I can’t complain.

My only regret in all of this? I really wish I would have staked out that bike rack so I could have seen the look of confusion and disappointment on the face of that book-loving opportunistic bike thief as they realized Karma had come back around to give them a swift kick in the ass..

Content created on: 18 March 2023 (Saturday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	It wasn’t actually Dickens Hall, but one located symmetrically on the other side of the library, but was demolished in order to expand the library. I couldn’t remember the name of this hall, nor could Google.
↵2	That’s his middle name, and ever since I found that a year or so ago, I can’t resist calling him that every chance I get.

The Bulldog Wanted Baloney. You’ll Never Guess What Happened Next…

12 March 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

Look, don’t judge me for honoring a homeless guy’s request.

Oh, but you’ll never guess which of his weird-ass requests I’m talking about…

“But don’t worry–I never cook my baloney sandwiches in the tent, I only run my little camping stove outside the tent. And I make sure it’s completely off and cooled before I bring it back in. I’m all about ‘safety first’–don’t want no fumes messing up my brain cells, ya know?”

“Yup, yup, safety first. Good thinking…”

I stood there, still pumping gas, wondering if it was the gasoline fumes was messing with my head. One moment, I’m thinking about how I’m actually going to be home at the exact time I promised My Beautiful Bride I would be, after a sedatively long afternoon of shopping for the finest vinyl flooring with ‘Gladys’, and the next? The next moment, I’m having a semi-surreal–and frankly, quite sad–conversation with some random guy about the proper way to cook processed meats in the wild.

Well, let me back up the story a hair, and maybe things will make slightly more sense.

You see, it all started when I decided I would save a buck or two on a full tank of gas…

“Hey there! How’s it going? You live around here?”

On my way back from my aforementioned flooring expedition, I had a choice between two routes to get home. Noting that the slightly longer journey happened to take me through downtown of the hamlet in which I reside, I thought to myself, ‘A-ha! Ima be going by that one mini-mart with oddly low gasoline prices, I might just stop in and fill ‘er up!”

And right about the time I had done gone and filled ‘er up, seemingly out of nowhere, this older Black gentleman appeared and made a beeline right towards me.

Seeing as how I was the only person at the gas station, I was pretty much a sitting duck.

“Oh, jeez, here we go…” I thought to myself, as it became pretty clear pretty quick where this conversation was headed as soon as the guy started conversing with me while he was still halfway across the parking lot.

“Hey there, I was just passing through on my way to the grocery store, hoping to get a jumbo pack of baloney and a loaf of bread, you know…just trying to maybe put together some meals for the next few days…”

I had started carrying a handful of twenties in my wallet for just such occasions, and I knew it would feel good to help hook a brother up with his baloney.

“Sure! I’d love to hel–“

But before I could get my hand halfway in my pocket, my dude just kept on with his stream-of-consciousness ramblings.

“…yup, I got myself a nice little tent up the road behind Lowe’s–“

“You mean Lowe’s the hardware store?” It was my turn to interject.

“Nah, nah, Lowe’s the grocery store,¹In my neck of the woods, this is indeed a problem, in which “I’m headed to Lowe’s” is an ambiguous statement because there are two completely different typed of stores with the same ----- name. but as I was saying, I don’t want you thinking I’m doing anything dangerous with all that baloney…”

My mind wandered a bit as he dove headfirst into his schpiel from earlier about fume safety and not cooking in his tent and what-not…what had me slightly puzzled was the fact that it would have made more sense if he had been talking about the hardware store instead of the grocery store. I mean, this guy was clearly on foot, and the hardware store was only about 2 miles up the road, while the grocery store was eleven miles up the road.²It just occurred to me that perhaps he was talking about the Lowe’s grocery store that they are just now building, which is only 1/4 down the road from the Lowe’s hardware store… Why the heck would he be wandering so far from home?!?³Okay, maybe ‘home’ was a poor choice of words, given his circumstances.

Next thing I remember, I was mumbling in agreement about the whole ‘safety first’ thing.

“Dangit!” I thought to myself, “For once I was actually going to be home on time, but noooo, I just had to get accosted by homeless James Joyce here.”

Before he could get much further along in his run-on sentence (but after somehow triangulating where I lived within a quarter-mile radius, on account of my proximity to Lowe’s the hardware store), I finally found enough social willpower to get him to stop chattering for two frickin’ seconds.

“Well, I think I can help you out with all your baloney needs, my man,” I said I as whipped out my stack of Jacksons, but was immediately embarrassed by the fact that I had just rifled through 5 of them (while hiding the $100 bill still in my wallet)⁴#HumbleBrag? only to pull out 1 measly $20 bill for him.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I really need to get home to my–“

“God bless you, son! G0d bless you, indeed! Say, what’s your name?”

Welp, it looked like that throwing money at the situation had failed to get me out of the conversation, seeing as how my conversational partner was still bravely soldiering on in our dialogue. But hey, the least we could do would be to give each other the dignity of being called by their name, right?

“Who me? Sure. My name is B.J…”

…and it was at this point that the conversation took a turn for the…er, not even sure how to describe it, but it took a turn, that’s for sure.

“Guess what my name is!”

Gotta admit, I didn’t see that response coming. Was there something about him that would give me a clue as to his name?

“Umm…let’s go with ‘Terrance’!” I mean, the dude did just ask me to guess his name. And that just happened to be the first name that telepathically appeared to my mind’s eye.

“What? Huh? No, man, it’s A.P.!”

Get a load of this ----- guy. He just asked me to guess his name, and then he acts all shocked when I get it completely wrong? Seriously?

And on top of that, his name was A.P.?!? Not in a trillion alternate universes would have I–or anyone else, for that matter–even come remotely close to guessing ‘A.P.’

But he didn’t let any of that deter him from the conversation at hand.

“Yeah, it’s A.P., but people call me ‘Bulldog’. I’m always around here downtown, and all the people know me and when they see me on the street, they give me a fist-pump and say ‘What’s up, Bulldog?!?’ “

“Oh, yeah. That’s a cool nickname…”

“…and since you live around here, next time you see me on the street, just pump your fist and say ‘What’s up, Bulldog?!?’ And I’ll say, ‘What’s up, A.J.?!?’ “

This ----- guy…

“Uh, it’s ‘B.J.’, actually…”

“Huh? Oh, right, then I would say, ‘What’s up, B.J.?!?’ “

“Cool, cool. Welp, see you later! Enjoy your baloney…”

“Wait?!? You mean you actually guessed his name? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Hey, don’t you judge me! I bet you would do the same if some rando blindsided you with the same question after you had just freely shared your name.”

I had unexpectedly found myself defending my actions and words when attempting to regale My Beautiful Bride with the Tale of Why I Was Ten Minutes Late.

“And the best part is that you went full racist with your guess–‘Terrance’?!? Oh, lord, I’m crying! He was Black, wasn’t he?”

*sigh*

“Yes, Dear, he was Black. But I vehemently disagree that ‘Terrance’ was a racist response. Did I go with something like Ty’Queaf? No. No, I did not. Ergo, I’m not (as) racist.”

“Aaahh! I can’t breathe!”⁵Okay, this wasn’t meant to be a reference to Eric Garner…but here we are, retrospectively acknowledging how ----- up of joke that would be.

And yes, she was literally crying and out of breath from laughing so hard. Apparently she found it exponentially funnier than I had. Sure, I was bemused and perplexed by Terrance’s antics, but tears and shortness of breath? Maybe I was just too close to the situation?

“*Ahem* Anyways…I can’t help but wonder if that’s why the gas is so suspiciously cheap there–it’s a ----- honeypot!⁶Maybe this word doesn’t mean what I think it means… I wonder how often a hapless sap like me pulls up for some low-priced petrol, and then BOOM–they’re caught up in the seriously sad story of a dangerously under-balonied Terrance, and then next thing they know, they’re handing over large denominations of U.S. currency just to get out of the conversation…I bet the gas station gets a healthy kick-back from all his collections.”

“Interesting theorem. A tad racist, but interesting nonetheless…”

“Damn. Now that I think about it, that was the most expensive tank of gas I’ve probably ever purchased in my life…”

The point of the story is…well, this is kinda evil, but I just can’t help but recommend you try out Terrance’s–er, dammit, I mean A.P./Bulldog’s–socially screwed-up strategy. Give it a whirl–next time you meet someone new, and when the moment arrives in which you would normally exchange names, go ahead and ask them their name. And when they politely oblige, quickly demand that they “Guess what [your] name is!”

And whatever you do, do not relent until they actually try guessing it. Because you were dead serious, right? If you have to, look them square in their [potentially racist] eyes and let them know “That wasn’t a rhetorical question…”

Oh, and after you’re done waterboarding them into guessing a culturally-insensitive name for you, don’t forget the chef’s kiss: you calling them by the wrong name…

Content created on 10 March 2023 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	In my neck of the woods, this is indeed a problem, in which “I’m headed to Lowe’s” is an ambiguous statement because there are two completely different typed of stores with the same ----- name.
↵2	It just occurred to me that perhaps he was talking about the Lowe’s grocery store that they are just now building, which is only 1/4 down the road from the Lowe’s hardware store…
↵3	Okay, maybe ‘home’ was a poor choice of words, given his circumstances.
↵4	#HumbleBrag?
↵5	Okay, this wasn’t meant to be a reference to Eric Garner…but here we are, retrospectively acknowledging how ----- up of joke that would be.
↵6	Maybe this word doesn’t mean what I think it means…

When A Poor Boomer Is The Only Thing Standing Between You And A Beautiful Floor

5 March 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

5 Min Read

Why give ’em a call when you can knock on their door?

C’mon on down, and little ol’ Gladys will gladly help you find the perfect floor…

“Welp, looks like you’ll need to call for the pricing on this flooring.”

Gladys, the little older lady at the ‘Carpets-And-More’ store peered over the counter at me with her I’m-here-to-help smile.

“Call who? I thought that meant call you!”

Color me confused–you see, I was in the thick of remodeling a new property we had just bought, and my Google research into the finest of vinyl flooring had originally led me to Kimi’s Carpets’ website. But when I went to attempted to see how much the brand I wanted cost, all it said was ‘Call for Price’.

So what did I do? Did I call them? No! I said, “Even better than calling, I’ll drive 50 minutes to the dang store and talk to a professional in person!”

I was starting to regret that decision, in part because I had to loaf about for 20 minutes or so before Gladys could ‘assist’ me, and in part because I’m not sure if what she was providing qualified as ‘assistance’.

Nevertheless, she soldiered on in her attempt to provide the best customer service possible.

“I suppose you’ll have to call the manufacturer when you get the chance. But, while you’re here, I can gladly order some samples for you!”

“Sure! That would be great. How much is each sample?”

“Three dollars each.”

“Oh, ok, not too bad–that’s pennies compared to our bigger remodel budget. Heck, you’re basically giving them away at that price! And good thing, too–I have about 10 I’m interested in…”

“Well, I can make it even cheaper. They give you the first 3 samples for free, so what I’ll do is have them ship 3 to you, 3 to your wife, and 3 to anyone else in your household. So you’ll pay next to nothing!”

“Wow, Gladys, you really are the best–thanks! My first sample I’m interested in is…”

*40 minutes, the names of 10 different colors, and approximately 300 clicks of the mouse and/or keyboard later…*

“Ok, Sonny-Boy, it looks like your total is gonna be about $35…”

“Seems kinda high for all the free samples I was supposedly supposed to be getting, but oh well…” I half-mumbled in my head.

“What’s your phone number? I think kids these days can pay just by using those 10 digits–isn’t that simply amazing?” Clearly, Gladys was a little star-struck when it came to any modern technology.

I gave her my number, and moments later, a text from a well-known 3rd-party payment processor buzzed my phone. I quickly rambled off the confirmation code to Gladys, before randomly commenting as I am wont to do.

“Ah! Stripe–yes, I used to use this to pre-pay the ice cream man back in the middle of the pandemic. Real easy to use!”

“Um…”

“We all good here?”

“Er…”

“So…is my order in or not?”

“Well, that payment’s not going through. Do you want to try a different card?”

“Um, that card should be good–I mean, 43 empty ice cream cartons can attest to that fact–but, sure, I’ll try a different card. Lemme know whenever you’re ready.”

*16 digits (repeated thrice), 1 expiration date, and a 3-digit CVV later…”

“Okay, I think I got it,” Gladys prematurely celebrated, “just let me hit submit…”

“Awesome…”

“Shucks, it’s still not going through. Can I have your credit card info again.”

“Sure, the number is [redacted for privacy], the expiration is [redacted for privacy], and the CVV is [redacted for privacy].”

“Okay, let me repeat those back to you…the card number is [redacted].”

“Yup.”

“Expiration, 06/1926…”

“Sounds good–wait, huh?”

“And CVV is [redacted].”

“Uh, well the CVV was accurate, but what do you have for the expiration date? I’m sure you put in the right date, but did I hear you say…?”

“Oh my, you’re right! I don’t think your card expired in 1926…*chuckle chuckle*–let me change that to 2026…”

“So you did say ‘1926’…I thought I was going crazy for a second there. Ah, livin’ in the past, are we, Gladys?”

“Uh, oh my. It still won’t go through,” she said for what was probably the 5th or 6th time by now.

“Hmmm…don’t know what to tell you. You’re the one looking at the computer screen,” I said without the least hint of sarcasm.

“Oh! I see what the problem must be. I oopsied, and tried to order 7 samples of the Yukon River for you.”

“Man, they must really want me to buy that one, eh?” At least I was trying to find the humor in what was turning out to be a real time-suck of my afternoon.

“Just let me fix that…and there! Now let’s try it…”

*milliseconds later…*

“NOPE, still not going through. Nuts.”

*5 minutes of Gladys pointing, clicking, and staring at her screen later…*

“Ohhh…it looks like a few of these are out of stock. Just let me take them out of your order….”

“Now we’re making some progress!” I prematurely declared.

“Ah-hah! Success! The order is submitted. And let’s see…you’re total was $35.31…”

*30 seconds of mental math later…*

“Say, Glads, doesn’t that sound a little high to you for 7 samples at $3 each–6 of which were free?”

“Oh, my, you’re right! Let me see what’s going on here…”

*5 MORE minutes of Gladys pointing, clicking, and staring at her screen later…*

“Ah, the rascally system changed that back to 7 of Yukon River. So sorry about that! Let me call them and get a refund for you.”

“Uh, no need, no need!” I was on a schedule and couldn’t afford to go down yet another rabbit hole with ol’ Gladys.

“I insist, it’s the least I can do.”

“No need to spend more of your time on this. See here, I got the confirmation email pulled up right here on my phone, and I can just reply directly to their customer service.”

“But I feel so bad! Let me take care of it for you, puh-lease?!?”

As politely as I could, I just had to draw the line somewhere.

“No, no, you’re about to close, and it’ll take me just a few sec–ah! There! See, I already emailed them back and we should essentially consider the matter resolved…”

“Hey, hey, hey! What’s happening here? Is Gladys taking care of you, Son?”

A guy in his 50s appeared out of the backroom and was kind enough to check in on us. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

“Uh, yeah, she’s been an excellent sales rep–helped me get some samples ordered even!”

“Sales rep? Oh, no, Gladys here is just the part-time receptionist,” the guy enlightened us.

“You don’t say! I would have never known the difference!” I continued with my web of lies.

Gladys piped up, “Well, he was actually looking for some prices, but the system said he would have to call to get them.”

“What are you talking about? Were you looking at our website again? I told you, you need to open up the Excel sheet with all our prices for that.”

*5 excruciatingly detailed steps repeated 2 and half times later…”

“Great news! I got the prices for all 10 of those colors you were interested in!” Gladys seemed delighted to be finally helpful, and didn’t pick up on the fact that I was dead-exhausted by now.

“Ok, I guess I can spare another, what? Ten-fifteen minutes? At least it will save me the inconvenience of a phone call…”

The point of the story is never let a boomer get between you and a computer. You did pick up on that, right? She was on her store’s website instead of being in their internal system. So, save for that last part about the Excel spreadsheet, I could have just as easily ordered those samples myself, from the comfort of my own home. And I could have done it in 12 minutes, instead of an hour and 12 minutes!

So next time you or I or anybody you know that values their time finds themselves in a situation like this, don’t be afraid to jump in with this handy phrase:

“Okay, Boomer, please step away from the computer…”

It’ ‘s a phrase that might even save your life.

*A few seconds of reflecting on my over-usage of hyperbole later…*

Well, maybe not your life, but at least an hour of your time and a good chunk of your sanity…

Content created on: 3/4 March 2023 (Fri/Sat)

That Boy Sure Has Got An Odd Relationship…And It’s Toxic, Too!

19 February 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

What in the world does love got to do with a relationship that is literally toxic?

Well, you’ll just have to read on, my friend, read on…

“John would like to see you in the manager’s office…again.”

Say, do you remember that sh*t-job of counting cans and bags of frozen vegetables with the Crypt-Keeper that I talked about last time? You know, the one where I got into trouble because I dared to don a racially-dubious hairstyle? Yeah, that’s the one.

In that tale, I had basically pulled a “You can’t fire me ‘cuz I quit!” and actually made good on that promise two days later. Why would I do such I thing? Well, somebody had to stand up for Black people (and other People of Color) round the world who suffer persecution discrimination when they embrace the hairstyles of their culture. Can you believe that my boss, John, actually had the gall to tell me that I had to take out my dreadlocks or else? Or else what? Or else, he said, I couldn’t keeping doing inventory for whatever random grocery store had hired his crap-tastic company.

*Ahem*…Now that I have reminded you of all those facts, surely you must be wondering, “Wait! I thought our hero had quit…how is John asking to see him in his temporary office again? I thought his days of meddling with that fool were now days of yore?”

Well, as it turns out, I actually quit the first time because it was time to start another semester of college. But college semesters don’t last forever, and Christmas break had rolled around, so I decided to make a little extra fun-money and work for ol’ QIS again for 2 or 3 weeks.

And importantly, you know what happened during that fateful Fall semester of 2001? Uh…I mean besides 9/11? What happened was that my itch to have dreadlocks had been thoroughly scratched (both figuratively and literally–those things dang itchy!), and I had bittersweetly decided to bid my albino tarantula farewell.

And that is where find ourselves in the story…

“Hey El Jefe! Long time, no see! Now what’s all this hub-bub about? Word in the aisle has it that you wanted to see me?”

John somberly shut the door behind me before speaking.

“The HAIR?!? Are you kidding me? Did you learn nothing from last time?”

I was somewhat taken aback. This little pow-wow was about hair? My hair?!?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on John! What are you talking about? I thought you would be pleased as a properly counted jar of pickles to see that I had cut my dreadlocks off. What gives?”

“Son, have you looked in the mirror lately? I can’t have you working public looking like that.”

Man, this follicly-challenged guy was going to bust my chops no matter what I did with my hair, wasn’t he?

…but to his point, I guess technically I hadn’t considered what John might think if I were to show up to work with…um…well…fuchsia? Red, maybe? No, no, I know: ‘orange’–show up with orange hair.

Okay, it was actually a bit complicated. You see, when I cut my beloved dreads off, I couldn’t just go back to being another boring ol’ vanilla-looking white guy. So what did I do? I popped on down to my local drugstore and bought a box of what was advertised as red hair dye.

Let’s just say that I got more than I had bargained for. Depending on the light, the time of day, and whether or not I had gel in my hair, one could have veritably described my hair color as red, fuchsia, pink, lavender, purple, light purple, orange, cherry, and/or cinnamon.

So that’s what John was going on about. Ah-hah! It all makes sense now…he just hates anything ‘cool’. What a ----- nerd.

“I’m going to have to personally drive you back to the hotel and you had better be blonde when it’s time to go to work in the morning.”

Talk about déjà vu. Just like last time, we were doing a multi-day stint far enough away from home that they had put up the whole inventorying crew in hotels–but this time it was Kansas City instead of Wichita.

However, this time John had caught me early enough in the day, and our hotel was far enough away, that he had no other choice but to load me up in his Subaru and drive me 45 minutes across town.

Dear lord, that was the longest and most awkward 45 minutes of my life. It would have been fine if it had been awkward silence, but noooo, yours truly doesn’t know how to handle silence, so I insisted on chatting the whole way.

Have you ever tried to make casual small-talk with a disapproving superior? I don’t recommend it. On top of that weird dynamic, it doesn’t help that…hmmm, how do I put this? Oh, I know: I’m sad to report that Balding John may very well have been The Least Interesting Man In The World…

“Hmm…the woman on this box of dye looks super-blonde…seems promising…”

While, I wasn’t exactly excited to get rid of my rad-looking hair, I was at least optimistic that it would be problem going back to blonde–and therefore returning to my paying job. I snatched up Platinum Blonde #7, and scurried to the CVS checkout counter, eager to get back to the hotel and get this whole thing over with.

*90 minutes later…*

“What a rip! I’ve been duped by false advertising–I mean, just look at me. I look nothing like the lady on the box!”

The random co-worker I was bunking with in the hotel kinda gave me the side-eye from across the room.

“What’s that you’re going on about?”

“I bought blonde hair dye, but this ain’t working worth crap! Now my hair has gone from red to pink.”

“Maybe you accidentally bought a bleaching product instead of a dye?” he suggested.

“Yeah, that must be it. You hold on…Ima run down to the CVS and be right back!”

*40 minutes later…*

“Okay, I think I got the right stuff now. You mind giving me a hand with this?”

“Yes. I mind. I’m trying to watch a football game here.” Did I mention this guy was a bit of an asshole?

“Fine. I’ll do it myself again!”

*55 minutes later…*

“Sh*t, it looks like I’ve been duped again!” I exclaimed after rinsing out the dye, having it let sit in my hair a little bit longer than the suggested time.

“I don’t know dude, I think light pink looks good on you.” The roommates sincerity was quite dubious.

“Aw, shut your pie-hole, you ass-face. You’re not helping any.”

“Well, John’s going to absolutely love your new look. Or, if you’re concerned he won’t, you can always try dying it again!”

Anyways, I could go on with dialogue like this, or I could cut more directly to the point. Turns out that I gotta learn a little life lesson that wintery day: did you know what there is no such thing as blonde hair day? It’s all bleach. Every last ----- product on the market that claims to be blond-ifying: bleach. Bleach. Bleach.

If I recall correctly, I know chemically treated my hair at least 3 times over the course of two days–though I think it might have been closer to 5. Five! Five bleach treatments–that can’t be good!

Let me tell ya, my hair was fried af. And the best part? I still wasn’t blonde. I had to argue with John to let me go back to working, in spite of my pinkish hair.

“Look, John, I’m pretty sure I’m developing scalp cancer with all the ----- bleach I’ve exposed it to. You gotta give me some credit for trying!”

“Hmm…I don’t know…”

“Dude, I know it’s technically still ‘pink’, but I don’t even have the benefit of it being punk-rock pink. It’s more like old-lady pink, or unintentionally effeminate pink. I don’t look cool. I look like a complete idiot. Please take pity on my soul!”

I’m pretty sure my pleas went something right along those lines. It must have worked too, because John finally relented and let me go back to work. Hooray.

Sure, I was going to be earning a sweet paycheck at the end of all of this, but at what cost?

Well, I’ll tell you ‘at what cost’: I would end up suffering the relentless ridicule of my peers and colleagues, for with such light pink tips–and eventually naturally blonde roots as well–you can only imagine what I looked like…

The point of the story is: I looked like a damned Valentine’s Bear. You know, the white ones with the lightest of pink tips? Yeah, I looked just like one of those.

Though that reminds me…Happy Semi-Late Valentine’s Day!

Ah, yes, therein lies this week’s true nugget of wisdom my friends: why suffer all those fools rushing in to your fave restaurant on the 14th or the weekend immediately preceding it? Be smart and celebrate V-Day a week later and I guarantee you that you will enjoy it ten times more.

Especially on account of the NFL switching to a 17-game regular season, and thereby pushing the Super Bowl back a week…right on top of Valentine’s time. You can’t help but wonder how many relationship disputes have arisen because of this inherent scheduling conflict. You know what? I’ll bet you the extended football season was a conspiracy put together by the American Association of Divorce Lawyers. Seriously, I would love to see the divorce statistics before and after that change was implemented.

But like I said, you can neatly side-step that whole marital fiasco by waiting a week or less to pop the cork on that pink champagne. (And no, that is not an overtly amorous euphemism…)

Content created on: 15/18 February 2023 (Weds/Sat)

‘The Revenge Of The Balding Boss’? Now That’s Just Dreadful…

12 February 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

8 Min Read

If I’m being oppressed on the job because of my hair, then we agree my boss is being racist, right?

(P.S. We’re both white…)

“Wait, wait, wait–hold up. You think I look ‘unprofessional’?!? Have you ever looked at the guy you hired to supervise us?”

Maybe I wasn’t saying it out loud, but it was definitely what I was practically screaming in my head. John, the owner of the small inventorying company I was working for that summer, had called me into his temporary office at the back of the grocery store we were currently working, and he was more or less temporarily firing me.

“Go out there and look at that walking skeleton Greg, the guy you literally chose to be the most visible face of your company. He looks like the Crypt-Keeper a few days before he died!”

As I continued my internal rant, I couldn’t help but realizing that I was right–Greg’s resemblance to this guy was uncanny:

“Son, although you don’t work for this here fine grocery store, you have to understand that in the eyes of most customers, you do. And I just can’t have you out there on the floor counting cans looking like that.”

At this point, John had me worked up into a combination of livid and embarrassed. I was out there doing my job, when he had yanked me into his little lair, only to berate me for the style of my hair. Add that to the logically airtight case (in my head) positing that his right hand man was waaaay more publicly unpresentable than me.

This is the first of two points I need to expound upon: Greg, our supervisor. I first met him in an Arby’s, where Quality Inventory Services, Inc, decided to hold their interviews. I kid you not. Arby’s. Give me a break, though–I had moved back to Manhattan (KS) in the middle of the summer for reasons that are of no import right now, and I was desperate for some income. And do you know how hard it is to find somebody that is hiring in the middle of the summer in a college town? Well, besides Wendy’s–but they wanted somebody who would work during the school year too, and this was before I learned how to lie and tell them ‘Sure! I want to work here until I die!”

Anyways, myself and several other people from various walks of life (but all equally hard up for some cash), had gathered at this fine establishment to try to impress this semi-homeless looking guy with how fast we could punch numbers into a calculator. Okay, so the bar was pretty low for this company, but still…you would at least expect the guy to cut his fingernails, right?

Oh, and the one thing that he said that I remember all these years later was “Most people use filing cabinets and what not to keep track of their stuff. Me? I find that stuffing everything in my back pockets works best for me!”

And this is no exaggeration, either. This yellow-toothed dude was about 4 inches higher off his seat than he should have been as he sat across that Arby’s booth from me, all on account of the myriad–nay, plethora–of folded up pieces of paper that called his back pockets ‘home’.

Hey…did I mention that he had the exact same hair as the Crypt-Keeper? Oh, I did already? You saw the picture above, you say? Alright. Now you have a pretty complete picture of the man, the myth, the legend: Greg.

Now on to point #2: the gross imbalance of power. At the time of this conversation with John, it was the weekend before the fall semester of my junior year at K-State started up. We were in the middle of a 3-day job down in Wichita, and it was going to be my last one before calling it quits to focus on school and doing other, much funner, college stuff.

Normally, a day working for an inventory company would consist of waking up at 4:30 in the morning to go meet up in the Food4Less parking lot, and then all of us esteemed employees would pile into a company van and head out to wherever a severely under-inventoried Northeast Kansas grocery store might be located. After starting actual working around 6:30 or 7, we would work until 2 or 3 pm before piling up in the van again and commuting back to home base.

But, in this case, since we had 3 stores in Wichita to do, QIS instead put us up in hotels for a few nights, as opposed to making 3 arduous commutes back-to-back-to-back.

So, how do all these seemingly unnecessary details lead to a ‘gross imbalance of power’? Surely that’s what you’re wondering. Well, what that means is that I was basically an indentured servant to QIS.

No matter how badly I wanted to tell John to take his right-hand man’s greasy pinky fingernail and shove it where the sun don’t shine, I really couldn’t. Otherwise, I would find myself homeless and carless in Wichita, a good 44 hour walk¹Google Maps will back me up on this fact. back to my dorm!

So there I was, unable to protest or even stick up for myself, feeling like a kid who got called to the principal’s office for wearing too-baggy pants to school. I couldn’t say a dang word when John gave me the ultimatum:

“Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to take you back to the hotel, and you use the rest of the afternoon to undo what you’ve done to your hair, mmmkay? Then, if you look presentable in the morning, I’ll let you go ahead and work the other two days we’re here. Got that? Good.”

Oh, my dear Johnny-boy, you ----- racist simpleton. One does not simply “undo what I’ve done to my hair…”

“Umm…what time did you say you had to be at work? 5:15? Well we better get to working on your hair…*yawwwwwwn*”

Flashback to approximately 8 hours earlier, where we find our hero attempting to build a loft for his dorm room in the middle of the night. As bad of an idea as that sounds–at least when our hero has to be in a sh*tty company van in the Food4Less parking lot at 5:15 am–it’s made even worse when you consider the fact that yon hero had asked a fair maiden–we’ll call her ‘Em’–to do him a favor and style his hair before they all got swept up in the hub-bub of the new school year.

Okay, I suppose I’ll stop referring to myself, your noble and beloved protagonist, as ‘our hero’, mainly because it just gets so tedious telling (and hearing) a story in 4th-person.

As I was saying, Em was one of those female friends that were barely across the ‘acquaintance’ line, one you would feel comfortable with asking favors from that might keep her up all night. And not in a sexy, fun way.

In retrospect, it was probably bad enough that I had asked her to fix up my hair around midnight that night. Well, it wasn’t horrible of me to ask that–we were young college bucks and does, after all–but nonetheless, I could have been a bit more considerate of her time and sleep schedule.

Where it really went off the rails into ‘am I a horrible human being?’ territory was the fact that I said, ‘Hey, could you help me build this loft real quick before you get to my hair?’ Sometimes I seriously don’t know what is wrong with me.

Anyways, as you can imagine (and My Beautiful Bride can heartily attest to), is that my ability to estimate how long a given task might take to complete was wildly and widely inaccurate that night. If I recall correctly, we didn’t even get the loft fully built, abandoning it around 3:30 in attempt to tackle the task that sat atop my head.

“You did bring all the supplies I’ll need, right? *yawwwwwn*” Em wearily asked, with a slight quiver of hope in her voice that maybe, just maybe, I forgot and she could get out of this ill-advised favor.

“You bet I did! Look–I got a complete kit right here!” I had been waiting for this moment since the day I had Spanky Spankowich destroy what remained of his techni-color creation, allowing him to buzz my hair short enough to get rid of my multi-color tips and start growing my hair out with a clean slate.

That had been 9 months earlier. Now, like a child growing in its mother’s womb, my follicles had gestated long enough. Their moment of rebirth was at hand.

“Fine then…hand me the wax and let’s get this over with. *yawwwwwwnnnnnn*…”

Resigned to her fate in the moment, Em dutifully set to work, transforming my beautiful blonde bowl-cut into the head-turning locks I had dreamed about my whole adult life. Ninety minutes later, with just enough time to for a speed-limit-ignoring trip to the Food4Less, her masterpiece was finally complete.

“Ughhh…just let me go wash off my hands real quick and I’ll be right back,” she said as she scurried off to the restroom, leaving me there to admire myself in the mirror, thinking:

Em came back shortly, still trying to wipe the grease off her hands.

“So are you happy? Is this what you really wanted?”

“Yeah, man, this is pretty sweet. Thanks so much!”

“*yaawwwwwwwnnn* So am I free to go now?”

“Sure…go get yourself 2 hours of sleep, kid–you earned it.”

“Umm…whatever. Oh, before I go, you know I’m a true friend, right?” she said.

“You bet–especially after this!” I was so clueless as to where she was going with this, it was almost cute.

“Then, as a true friend, this might as well come from me before any one else says something.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Well, if I’m being honest…you should know that you look like you have an albino tarantula living on top of your head…”

The point of the story, kids, is that so-called ‘white dreadlocks’ will always and forever be a bad idea. Just don’t do it! No matter how fun you think it will be to culturally appropriate a laid-back, low-maintenance ‘lifestyle’, it will always always always be a ----- stupid idea in the end.

But, if you go against all the best learn-from-my-mistakes-kid life advice this blog (and just about anybody else you talk to) has to offer, I will wholly support you when some jack-ass boss of yours thinks your albino tarantula is somehow more offensive to grocery shoppers than the soon-to-be-deceased Crypt-Keeper, and that ----- fool tries to tell you to ‘go back to your hotel room and undo your filthy dreadlocks.’ You know what you do then? You sure as sh*t don’t cut off your locks–no! You’ve sacrificed so much already to get here! And of course you can’t ‘undo’ them. Does this clown even understand how dreads work? Probably not. In fact, he’s probably just jealous because he suffers from male-pattern baldness.

What you do is you tell John to suck it up for 2 more days, then you will literally be out of his hair (or at least where his hair used to be–hah!). Then you go back to your hotel room and convince your co-worker/roommate to walk to the nearby theatre an see the hit Rowan Atkinson (aka Mr. Bean) hit movie, Rat Race with you. Seriously, as dumb of a movie as it was, the two of us have never laughed harder in our lives.

And speaking of laughing way too hard at something incredibly stupid, I leave you with this comedian’s commentary on white dreadlocks that, by pure happenstance, came across my YouTube feed a few nights ago (warning: adult language)…

Content created on: 10/11 February 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Google Maps will back me up on this fact.

Watch How Colorful Plumage Attracts The Female Of The Species…

5 February 2023 / BJ / 3 Comments

7 Min Read

Yeah, sure, David Attenborough nature documentaries can be fascinating and informative.

But as a source of relationship advice? Not so much…

“Oh, you got a full-ride scholarship? Wow, you’re not only handsome and funny, but smart too–that’s a lady-killer combination you got going on there. Tee-hee!”

As my new-found hair stylist busied herself dying my hair half electric-blue and half neon-pink, we had started chatting to pass the time as one does. And it wasn’t long before she landed such a devastating blow to my ego, catching me completely off guard.

Wait, let me clarify: I don’t mean ‘blow’ as in the ‘it hurt so bad and now I have zero self-esteem and want to shuffle off this mortal coil’ type of blow. No, I mean ‘blow’ as in the ‘one hit of that white powdery goodness and now I’m high as a kite’ kind.

Cocaine. Blow is slang for cocaine, if I have to spell it out for you. It’s a frickin’ controlled substance joke.

Anyways…What I mean to say is, even though she was a much older woman at 31 years of age–it’s hilarious what a college freshman considers ‘old’, lol–as I sat there basking in the afterglow of such an ego-stroking comment, I couldn’t help to wonder if I had accidentally engaged in some type of secret college town mating ritual. Was it possible that she, upon seeing my beautiful plumage, couldn’t help but to call out with a series of irresistible vocal chirps and squeaks in an attempt to lure such a lucrative life-mate into her little love nest?

The thought bemused me, particularly because not only was I a poor college student, but a cheap one at that–and the whole reason I was sitting in her chair was because her hair-transmogrifying prices were the cheapest in all of Manhattan.¹Manhattan, Kansas–home of Kansas State University So if she was looking for a bread-winner to provide financial security for our future children together, then the joke was on her.

When our time together finally came to a close, and I had to pay my bill, she had me feeling so good about life that I did something very much out of character: I left an embarrassingly large tip–somewhere around 50%! Yup, that’s right: thanks to her little compliment, I ended up blowing all the money I was supposedly saving on her tip.

And it wasn’t until days or weeks later that it occurred to me that was the whole point: she didn’t see me as a potential suitor and/or genetic donor–no! She saw me as a paying customer who–on account of his requested hair colorings–apparently was crying out for validation and/or attention, and he might just pay a little extra were she to lavish either or both of those upon him.

Alas, she was right. But again, if there’s a life lesson that I wish I would have learned long before then, it’s that a little flattery never hurts no one. Heck, if you’re good enough at making people feel good about themselves, they might even pay you handsomely.

Hmm…

The more I describe the situation…well, the more it starts to sound more akin to a trip to the local brothel. You know…a whorehouse, or whatever y’all Boomers used to call it back in your day. Hooker hotel, maybe? Does that ring a bell? Or is that too Cival War Era-y for you? Not that old, eh…

Ah! I got it! ‘Prostitute’–there’s a term I think that everyone will understand. In retrospect, it was kinda like going to a Prostitute Place–dangit! That doesn’t sound right either, does it?–anyways, you get the analogy here, ya? You go somewhere and you pay some rando to make you feel real good. Like, what am I actually paying for here, anyways?

On the other hand…wouldn’t that line of thinking call into question the moral fidelity of any one who frequents a masseuse?

Wait…NO. I’m not taking all y’all’s suffering souls down this philosophical rabbit hole. I came here to talk about how I had really cool hair when I was in college, and somehow here we are talking about crack cocaine and escort services. Needless to say, “I digress…”

So…um, yeah. Fun fact: a mildly interesting side effect of my choice of hair colors was that they looked suspiciously close to the colors of our sworn enemy and intrastate rivals, Kansas University (blue and red), rather than that of the hometown team, Kansas State (my favorite color, purple). Ultimately, I tried to navigate that situation with some snappy-yet-incredibly-stupid comeback like “red and blue make purple, you ass–I’m surprised a cross-eyed inbred idiot like yourself didn’t see that already!”

Yes. Witty. I know.

I really had to bust this out when KU rolled into town to play us in football. It got pretty old pretty quick, being mistaken by my own comrades in the student section for a heinous traitor. Can you believe it? They thought that I identified with the goofiest-ass of all the birds in the imaginary animal kingdom: the JayHawk. Oh, the indignity…

“Man, I appreciate where your heart is, taking a seasonal approach to your choice of hair color, but…”

A few months later, it was time to move on with my life and say goodbye to my now-fading red and blue ‘do. And one of the first people to see my new look was my good friend, Gfeller, who, like any true friend should do, was excellent at shooting straight with me. So…kinda the complete opposite of ol’ Compliments-For-Cash Candi, or whatever my hairstylist’s name was. Yup, he was definitely never one to feed my ego.

And as his voice trailed off, I knew exactly where he was going with his silence: I had made a gross error in judgment.

“…but maybe celebrating Thanksgiving by going half-brown, half-orange wasn’t the best idea?” I finished his sentence.

“Yeah, let’s just say you’re not going to be picking up any chicks anytime before Christmas.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Gfeller paused a moment before speaking some hard truth into my life.

“Dude, you look like a ----- turkey…”

“Welp, at least it’s better than last year’s orange-and-brown fiasco…”

Gfeller. Again. This time around he was seeing me for the first time since the beginning of our sophomore year. After a relatively vanilla (i.e. naturally blonde) spring and summer, my first order of business upon returning to campus was to revert to my old ways and chemically assaulting my follicles.

“Yeah, I’ve never really tried going with complimentary colors before, so…y’know…ta-da?” It seemed like any time I was in Gfeller’s presence, I would eventually end up questioning my life choices.

“Mmm-hmmm. I see. You know, if you really wanted to go that route, you probably would have been better off waiting until Christmas.”

“Pfft! Red and green is too bougie for me! Why would I want to be just another lemming running off a cliff with the rest of the crowd?”

Gfeller lost himself for a moment amidst yet another bout of wise and sage-like reflection.

“Nonetheless, orange and blue is a pretty, erm, ‘bold’ move, even for a bold guy like you. I can’t help wonder if there’s more to your color selection…”

“What exactly are you getting at, my dude?” I felt slightly attacked.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain female in our friend-group that you’ve been writing letters to all summer, would it?”

“Hey man, the fact that orange and blue happen to be her alma mater’s school colors is a complete and utter coincidence! Not that I would know what the colors of the Olathe East–I mean, ‘whatever high school she happened to attend’–would be. C’mon, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

“If you say so…” G-man clearly wasn’t convinced by my protestations.

It wasn’t but a day or two later when Gfeller and I ran into this particular female–whom shall remain un-nicknamed–and I swear the first words out of her mouth were: “Hey, orange and blue! Just like my high school! Go Ha–“

“Go Hawks!” I replied just a few microseconds before I should have.

Gfeller gave me a long sideways glance laced with a smirk.

“My, aren’t you rather knowledgeable when it comes Kansas high school mascots?” he said in a not very brothers-before-those-who-might-become-mothers²In college I ran with the Christian crowd. This was our adaptation of the incredibly misogynistic phrase “bros-before-hoes”. In retrospect, we weren’t doing any better of a job on the not-being-a-sexist-shitheads front than the heathens. tone.

“Or…um…whatever random animal your mascot might be…’Hawks’ you say? I guess I’m just good at guessing…so yeah, ‘Go Hawks!’…or whatever…does it feel hot in here to you two? He he….um…so, yeah…”

“Uh…you sure you want an Ichthus on your head? Umm, whatever you want, dude. It’s your hair, your dye…your funeral…”

It wasn’t but a month or so before it became clear that orange/blue wasn’t moving me any closer to marriage with…um…nobody in particular–I was just getting bored with that ugly color combination, okay? So, just like in the world of tattoos, the best way to fix a semi-permanant mistake is to cover it up with an even bigger, more permanent, mistake.

And for this task, I had eschewed the insincere services of ‘Candi’ and instead enlisted my #1 frenemy, ol’ Spanky Spankowich–who, curiously enough, was later revealed to have been interested in the same nobody-in-particular at the same time as me. I didn’t know about his pursuits, but he sure knew about mine because we took a road trip to KC at one point, and guess what happens if you get stuck alone with me for more than 3 hours? I don’t stop talking until you know every last detail about what is currently consuming my thoughts at that particular point in time.

Now that I think about…perhaps the fact that we were unspoken romantic rivals explains why he was more than happy to let me self-sabotage myself into oblivion…

Oh, Spank, you rascal! I entrusted you with my hair, and you return the favor by obliging my request for a green Jesus-fish running from front-to-back of my scalp…

…filled in with purple in the middle…

…with red on the outside on the left…

…and with blue on the outside on the right…

…and so thoughtful!–You even remembered the eyebrows…

…blue on the left, red on the right!

Jesus-fishin’ cries for help,³If you didn’t follow that stretch of humor logic, it was an attempt to be a play on “Jesus effin’ Christ”, with a dash of attention-whore self-judgment thrown in for a nice little circular reference. dude, true friends don’t let friends self-destruct like that! What were you thinking, letting me lean into my own poor af fashion judgment like that? Spank, you dirty bastard, you!

Yeesh.

One look at me, and you would have to ask yourself: “Is this guy trying to attract college girls or pea hens, amiright? You know…cuz he looks like a mother- ----- peacock…”

The point of the story is that if you want to randomly #HumbleBrag to whoever will listen about all the edgy sh*t you did with your hair when you were but a youth, may I suggest weaving them together with a common theme like, say, ‘birds’? Never mind the emergent theme of how your hairstyle choices played pretty directly into your repeated failed mating rituals. Don’t pay that no mind at all, My Little Pretty…

Oh! But speaking of ‘weaves’–we haven’t even got to the dreadlocks yet. That’s a whole ‘nother tale or two of poor-yet-humorous life decisions that’ll have to wait until next time…

Content created on: 3 February 2023 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Manhattan, Kansas–home of Kansas State University
↵2	In college I ran with the Christian crowd. This was our adaptation of the incredibly misogynistic phrase “bros-before-hoes”. In retrospect, we weren’t doing any better of a job on the not-being-a-sexist-shitheads front than the heathens.
↵3	If you didn’t follow that stretch of humor logic, it was an attempt to be a play on “Jesus effin’ Christ”, with a dash of attention-whore self-judgment thrown in for a nice little circular reference.

But Dad! I’ll Never Get Sick And Tired Of Being Unique!

29 January 2023 / BJ / 1 Comment

7 Min Read

You ever wonder why you fought with your dad so much when you were a teen?

Oh, if only we could ever get to the root of it…

“Dammit, son, not again…again! You’re an embarrassment to all the farmers of Morton County…dear lord, why me?!? Why am I stuck with the kid who can’t appreciate his G0d-given beautiful blonde hair?”

Honestly, I’m not sure how I was expecting Dad to react when I unveiled my latest hairstyle featuring half-red/half-black on top, with natural sun-bleached blonde on the bottom.

I mean, I was doing it for the proverbial sh*ts and giggles during an uncharacteristically boring stretch of my final summer on the farm before college. Yes, yes, you remember that summer right? The Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99? Yeah, that one. This was the product of the sole week that defied one of our mantras of that summer, “Never a dull moment!”

Ol’ Papa Bob, on the other hand, didn’t seem to appreciate neither the “sh*ts” nor the “giggles” aspects of the situation. In retrospect, I would venture to say he seemed a little tired of my version of teenage angst playing out as me running around the country side looking like a techni-color jackass.

“Tired?” you ask? Oh, yes, this wasn’t the first time him and I danced this little dance…

“Whoa! Who’s the new guy?!? Seems kinda odd, ya know? Like, who transfers high schools in the middle of November?”

“I can hear you–I’m standing right here!” I reminded my classmates as they murmured about me from a few lockers down.

“Wait…what?!? I mean, Who?!?” was the inevitable reply each time, as their eyes told them one thing, yet their ears told them something completely different.

“‘Tis I, the Noble and Beloved Junior Class President Runner-Up!” I would reply every time.

“The heck is going on here…wait…can it be? BJ, is that you? What in the tarnation did you do to yourself?!?”

Honestly, when I dyed my hair black on a lark, I didn’t anticipate the most enjoyable benefit of doing so: confusing the living ----- out of everyone I know, and getting to watch it play out in real time as they look me directly in the face and slowly but surely put the pieces together.

“Uh, yeah, so I thought I would try something new and dyed my hair black. What do you think?”

“I think you look like a totally different person…and also, damn, son, I never realized you had such thick, bushy caterpillars for eyebrows. But, hey, props to you for really committing to the part and dying them as well…”

“Yeah…I didn’t realize my eyebrows wear so bushy either, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have pulled this stunt…”

Speaking of ‘stunts’, you probably already guess that my Diddy was none too plussed to come home from a hard day out in the fields to find that his son had conned his stepmother into letting him make use of her leftover black hair dye.

“Oopsies! Well, I guess were stuck waiting for it to grow out now!” was logic that didn’t do me any favors, nor managed to make him any less irate.

Quick side note here: ‘Daisy’–the one who supplied me with the dye and applied it–wasn’t really upset with me, in part because she had as much a hand in it as I did. Well, she wasn’t upset until she had one of her rolls of film developed and found that I had taken the liberty of taking a black-headed selfie with her camera.

How did I discover this factoid? I totally bet you’re wondering that right now, right? Well, I’ll tell you how: once when I borrowed her sweet, sweet Eagle Vision, I discovered torn up bits of something in that part of the door you pull on to shut it. I soon realized it was that one selfie I had totally forgot I had taken. Not to let my effort to be in vain, I collected all 30-40 tiny pieces, and successfully reconstructed the picture, holding them all together with masking tape on the back. In fact, I probably still have that ~~trophy~~ picture to this very day…

But I digress…

Later that spring…

“Oh happy day! Our spring school portraits are in!” all of us students exclaimed, though we were all still unsure of why we had school pictures taken again despite knowing full well that the ones they took in the fall would be the ones used in the yearbook.

“Oooh, that’s unfortunate, buddy,” one of my random classmates commented as the looked at my pictures over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I suppose I didn’t put much forethought into what I would look like several months after dying my hair black…”

“Don’t worry,” they half-assedly tried to reassure me, “I’m sure you’re dad will still proudly distribute these regal pictures of you to all your family members. Even if you look like a ----- skunk…”

“Stone Temple Pilots are playing in Amarillo?!? Tonight?!? Phillip K. Ballz, you best not be yanking my chain, ya hear?”

“Nah, man, I swear I’m shootin’ straight and true–do you think your dad would take us?” Ol’ PKB wistfully inquired with his trademark half-assed Texas accent.

“I doubt it, but it’s worth a shot…I’ll get right on it!” I said with measured optimism.

Seeing as how it was the last day of my Sophomore year of high school, and was about to head off to live in sunny Southern California with my mom for the summer, I felt there was a tiny glimmer of hope that Dad would at least be open to taking us two dumbasses 2-1/2 hours due south to see a band he had never heard of play…right?

Okay, actually I wasn’t that optimistic at all, so you can bet your buns that I was quite surprised when he said he would take us–“If we can score some tickets, that is,” he said.

“Holy sh*t! He said ‘yes–contingent upon the logistics working out!’ Can you believe it?!?” Yup…I’m pretty sure that’s how I shared the good news with PKB.

“Well, hot dang! I better pack my bag–the concert starts in like, 4 hours, right?”

“Oh, right, yeah, I guess we better start heading that way whether we have tickets or not…”

Now, friends, I need to remind you that this tale is taking place in 1997, a good few years before Ticketmaster started ruining the experience of live music for concert-goers all across this fine nation. So if one wanted tickets to a concert, then most likely you would have to call up the box office and see if they had any available.

Also, cell phones weren’t ubiquitous back then, and even if you were lucky enough to have one of those bag-phones in your car, one surely couldn’t afford to waste their precious 45-minute monthly allotment on hold with the Amarillo Civic Center.¹I did my homework, and the internets verified my memory of this whole ordeal: https://www.setlist.fm/stats/concert-map/stone-temple-pilots-bd6b9ee.html?year=1997.

Somehow, these factors, combined with the fact that the only ride me and PKB had was Peppermint Paddy–my less-than-reliable red-and-white pickup whom you might remember from this story and it’s sequel–ended up with us following this convoluted plan as follows:

Step One: My adult sister, Denise, who lived in Amarillo, would try calling the venue to see if she could get us tickets. I’m not sure if somebody thought that her being physically closer might give us a better chance, or what the logic was here. I suppose it would be cheaper for her to be on hold, since it would be a local call…and I guess she would be stationary after all, unlike the rest of us, thus allowing her to make the call in the first place.

Step Two: Dad would get cleaned up after a half-day farming in the dusty-ass fields of Kansas, and would then hop in Daisy’s much more reliable–and very, very, sweet–Eagle Vision, and then proceed to our rendezvous locale: the metropolis of Goodwell, Oklahoma, about 45 minutes into the route to Amarillo.

Step Two: Meanwhile, PKB and I would pack up in Peppermint Paddy and putt down the road to Goodwell as well…and for the life of me, I don’t remember why we all didn’t all just drive together. But we didn’t.

Step Three: Once at Goodwell, Dad would call Denise from the payphone of the lone convenience store in town, to see if we had tickets or not.

Step Four: The three of us would then proceed to Amarillo in the Eagle Vision, arriving just in time to rock out to the sweet grungy vocals of a fuschia-headed Scott Weiland & Co…

Um…Step Four of course was the contingency, depending on Step Three to come through with tickets for us.

Well, as you probably have guessed by now, this is not the story of “that one time I saw STP live.” Nope, nope, nope. The one time the Universe shines kindly on me, in whence Dad actually agrees to one of our dubious schemes, it has to turn right around and deny us with a sold out show.

Or, as Hercules would say:

“Welp, what do we do now, Dad?” I inquired, kicking stray rocks in that Goodwellian parking lot.

“Well, boys, I need to go take care of some more farmy-type stuff while I have the daylight, I ‘spose…you got your truck, so go do whatever you want for the rest of the afternoon, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Whatever I want, you say? Hmmm…interesting…”

“Ok, see you later, Farmer Bob!” unlike me, PKB wasn’t one to mince words.

Well, I’ll spare you the details (I mean, haven’t you suffered enough already?), but let’s just say, yadda yadda ya, and that’s how I ended up in a McDonald’s bathroom in Guymon, Oklahoma, getting my hair dyed a not-as-bright-fuschia-as-a-grungy-sixteen-year-old-would-like by his best friend.

Later that evening…

“What in the funk?!? Dammit, son, why is your hair pink?” my old man demanded to know.

“It’s fuschia, Dad. Or at least it was supposed to be…”

“Oh, your ass is going to be fuschia once I get done bustin’ it! Dammit, boy, what’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I’ll be leaving for California in a few days, so you won’t have to worry about the corn or the wheat or some random cows seeing you with a pink-headed boy in your pickup, heaven forbid…”

Later that summer…

“Welp, here I am at the Amarillo airport to pick up my youngest child…I hope he has literally outgrown that pink hair of his…” Dad no doubt thought to himself as he waited at my gate–remember when you could still do that?–ever so patiently.

“‘Tis I, the Noble and Beloved Son!” I proclaimed when I finally stepped off the plane.

Dad just stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of my hair, which by now had grown out about an inch and a half of blonde roots. Oh, yeah, and that half inch of pink hair I had at the beginning of summer? That was now a half inch of orange tips, thanks to the SoCal sunshine.

Dad just buried his face in his hand.

“Cheeses H. Crikes,²Actually, he would have said something more like “Jesus H. Christ” but I’m trying to keep this story Mom-friendly somehow you look even dumber now, son…”

The point of the story is that another fantastic perk of being blonde–male or female–is that you have a blank canvas right there! Sitting on top of your ol’ noggin’! Just waiting for Teenage You to paint a picture for all the world to see! One that is an expression of your True Self, your Inner Soul!

Or, as in my case, you can vandalize it with a spray-painted message to your loving father that simply says “Suck it, Dad…”

Content created on: 27/28/29 January 2023 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	I did my homework, and the internets verified my memory of this whole ordeal: https://www.setlist.fm/stats/concert-map/stone-temple-pilots-bd6b9ee.html?year=1997.
↵2	Actually, he would have said something more like “Jesus H. Christ” but I’m trying to keep this story Mom-friendly

Hey Man, Don’t Hate Me Just Because I’m Beautiful

22 January 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

Boy, you got yourself some pretty hair there.

But with great beauty comes great responsibility, son, so you better beware…

“Honey! It happened again!” I hollered in the general direction of My Beautiful Bride as a stumbled in the door after a morning jog.

“Who was it this time? A car full of unruly teenagers? An entitled rich white guy driving a sports car?” she asked, doing her best to play the part of the concerned wife.

“Well, you see, there I was, just pounding the pavement, minding my own business, when I hear a truck come speeding up behind me and–“

“Oooh, a truck you say? That’s a new one…” she interrupted, clearly more bemused than concerned.

“Yeah, you know that distinct sound a pickup truck makes? Anyways, right before it got to me, it suspiciously slowed down. I didn’t think too much about until I heard someone start to whistle. And just as soon as I turned to see who be whistling at me–and also to make sure I wasn’t about to be man-napped–the whistler abruptly stopped and the truck sped off.”

“Did you see who it was? Did you know them? Should we call the cops???” she was doing her best to stifle a guffaw at this point.

“According to the side of the truck, it was ‘Garcia’s Landscaping’, and, no, I don’t know them, and –hey! Are you making fun of me? Look, you simply couldn’t understand the blow to the ego when you only get half-cat-called?”

“Oh, my Love, I imagine it must be horrible! Unfathomably unbearable! Oh the humani–“

“Of course you couldn’t! You always get the full cat-call! ‘Oh, look at me! Look at me! I’m a woman from behind and from the front!’ Ugh. You make me sick.”

“Yeah, poor you. You’ll never get the full experience of wondering if that car slowing down or that cat-call is a harbinger for your impending sexual assault and possibly even death. You live such a deprived life.”

*long pause*

“Ok, so you make a good point. I’ll stop whining about it for now.”

“Thank the good lord! Oh, and if you refuse to get a haircut, then maybe I should get you one of those bright yellow jogging safety vests…”

“Umm…I mean, that might stop me from getting hit by cars, but it’s not gonna do much to keep me from getting inadvertently hit on.“

“Aht! Aht! Ah! I wasn’t finished! And on that back of the vest, I’ll have them custom print ‘Keep movin’–I’m a DUDE.’–in both English and Spanish. Oh, I just can’t stand to think of the heartache my husband might be causing with that luscious blonde ponytail of his…”

“Wait, wait! Don’t look just yet! Wait until they’re right next to us, then on the count of three we both glance at them. Got it? Okay!” I instructed My Beautiful Bride under my breath.

Years later, one evening when the two of us had got all gussied up for a date night and headed out to the local theatre, we unfortunately embroiled in a little “incident” en route.

Recognizing that signature abrupt-yet-casual slowing down of the vehicle behind us in the left lane, I had enough foresight to make the moment really count.

“One…Two…Three…GLANCE!”

We both look over just as the car pulled even with us, and, boy, let me tell you, their face was a stage and the three-act play that unfolded was more dramatic–and more entertaining–than anything else we would experience that evening.

Act 1: The eyes of the two guys in the car land on my wife first. She is very pleasing to look at it, and this is reflected in the young men’s expressions. Oh, the passion! The pleasure!

Act 2: In eager anticipation to see what beauty may be awaiting them in the passenger seat, their eyes flit past Eye Candy #1, only to be met by handsome-but-very-much-not-female lightly bearded visage. I bat my eyes at them seductively. The plot thickens. How can we tell? By the confusion and delay on their faces as they try to process the cognitive dissonance they just experienced. Also, they almost drive off the road.

Act 3: A split micro-second later, reality hits them like a ton of bricks. For a fleeting moment, the anger of being made out to be a ----- fool skitters across their faces, before settling into a look of dejection–as if they phrase “aww, nuts!” was a facial expression.

We gave them a little wave–the wife wearing a light smirk, and me with a pretty big sh*t-eating grin–before they quickly looked away in embarrassment and sped off.

“Oh, toodle-loo, boys! Enjoy your evening!” I couldn’t resist mouthing.

“What? That’s it?!?” you, Dear Reader, are no doubt asking of your tablet or mobile device, “When you said ‘incident’ we were expecting, I dunno…something more…violent, maybe? Like an accident. Or at least some road rage!”

Well, sorry to…um…let you down. My luscious blonde ponytail is a pacifist and eschews all forms of violence. No, no road rage here…only a little dose of drive-by disappointment…

“¡Muchas Gracias!” I yelled in appreciation to the Costa Rican roofers busy at work on a roof on the route between our honeymoon accommodations and the Pacific Ocean.

My Beautiful Bride of only 4 days gave me a sideways glance.

“I think that cat-call was meant for me, my dear,” she gently suggested.

“Yeah right. Like how could anyone possibly even know that?¹That, my friend, is a Napolean Dynamite reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IiIHzfXEiA And besides, no one would actually cat-call a woman right in front of their husband!”

“Um…we’re in Central Amer–“

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that was directed at me,” I asserted.

She paused for a moment or two before turning to me.

“So…is this going to be a whole ‘thing’ for the rest of our marriage?”

“Indubitably…”

The point of the story is beware the unintended consequences and pitfalls before donning a ponytail, young man! You coif your majestic mane in such a manner, and you might find yourself apologetically uttering “Sorry to disappoint!” more often than you might like.

On the other hand…if you’re the kind of chap that takes a sort of perverse pleasure in disappointing overly-lusty lads, then if you ask this doctor²Yes, I am a real (non-medical) doctor, #HumbleBrag. if a ponytail is right for you, that joker might just reply, “Ancient Astronaut Theorists say ‘yes’…”³Watch any episode of History Channels Ancient Aliens for 3 minutes and you’ll get that joke.

Content created on: 18/20 January 2023 (Weds/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	That, my friend, is a Napolean Dynamite reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IiIHzfXEiA
↵2	Yes, I am a real (non-medical) doctor, #HumbleBrag.
↵3	Watch any episode of History Channels Ancient Aliens for 3 minutes and you’ll get that joke.

How To Be Living Your Best Blonde-Man Life

15 January 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

5 Min Read

Yeah, yeah, you know what you said: “I wanted to be reincarnated as a blonde!”

Well, maybe you should have been a little bit more specific…

“When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!”

Good lord, I hate that stupid ----- saying. But sometimes you gotta admit that even stupid ----- sayings can hold nuggets of truth and wisdom. I mean, finding the silver lining to whatever negative-seeming situation life (or Karma-with-a-capital-K) might send your way is an incredibly valuable life skill, if you’re willing to learn it.

For me, my personal “lemons”–my burden to bear–would be being bestowed with luscious locks of hair more yellow than any lemon you’ve ever seen.

Now, before you go laughing at my perceived woes, consider this: I get the brunt of more than my fair share of the archetypal¹I’m intentionally using the wrong word here for humorous perhaps, ya jackass. “dumb blonde jokes”, yet I don’t enjoy anywhere near the numerous mating advantages that a blonde female might.

Sure, I get compared to Chris Hemsworth regularly–as in “you might be able to pass as a poor man’s poor man’s Thor” or “you like what would happen if G0d hated Chris Hemsworth”–but it’s just not the same.

But I digress. What I’m really getting at is that if you, like me, find yourself in that Venn diagram of people with driver’s license that say “Sex: M” and “Hair: Translucent”, don’t despair! In fact, I say “rejoice!”–for you have a rare opportunity on your hands.

So for all the fellas out there who will never get the chance to be a “tall, dark stranger” in a real-life romance novel, allow me to show you how to make the best of your station in life, and then some, perhaps…

“I kinda liked having a beard…you know, not having to shave every day. It was pretty sweet for a chill surfer dude like myself.”

I started to nod in agreement as my boss from my stint in Hawaii, Vandrew, waxed philosophical about male facial hair. But before I could clearly signal my agreement, he continued his thought.

“It’s fantastic, man, I’m telling you! You really should try it someti—”

He stopped short and squinted at me for a second.

“Oh wow. You already have a beard. Holy cow, I never realized it…have you had it this whole time?”

“Dude…yeah, I had this beard when you interviewed me for this job almost 2 years ago, and I’ve had it every day since.”

“Sweet…”

“Seriously, though? How many times have you looked me in the face, and you’re just now seeing it. I would call you ‘Captain Obvious’ but I wouldn’t want to drag his good name through the mud like that.”

“Oh…um…sorry…I guess I just–I, uh…”

“Hah! I’m just busting your chops, man! You really shouldn’t feel bad about your utter lack of observational skills. In fact, let me tell you about my, um, ‘social experiments’ from my college days…”

“You notice anything odd about me?”

It was already Day 9 of the first of such inquisitory explorations of mine, and I was getting a little impatient with the rotating group of 20 or so of my friends that I would regular eat at in the dining hall. Emphasis on regular here, mind you.

All I got was blank stares, so I tried to nudge them in the right direction.

“You notice anything different in this region?” I hinted as a waved my hand in a circle around my face.

“Are you…wearing lipstick?!?” one of my lady friends gasped lightly.

“What? No–my lips are always naturally that plump and juicy. No, let me try this again: Anything odd…up here?” with my updated hand gesture, I was now limiting their options to the bridge of my nose and up.

“Ah! You’re wearing colored contacts!” another one of these yahoos exclaimed with complete and unwarranted confidence.

“Dammit, no. Those are the irises the good Lord gave me from the day I was born. Are y’all seriously not seeing it?!?”

By now my finger was wildly circling one very specific region of my face. Surely they would get it now.

Chong, my Vietnamese friend whose racist nickname was bestowed by my Korean friend– ----- Asians, amiright?–was sitting next to me and had the best view.

“What you talking, dude, you look completely norm–SWEET BUDDHA, WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR EYEBROWS?!?”

A light rabble passed through the peanut gallery as the others finally saw what he was seeing: the product of an eyebrow trimming that had gone completely off the rails. And I do mean completely…

“Wait…did you shave pinstripes in your leg hair?!?”

“Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!”

I raised the arm of my friend J-Maker²For the record, her last name is spelled ‘Makar’, but it reads better as J-Maker–the pun being that it sounds like ‘Haymaker’ the name of the dorm that me and many of my friends lived in at Kansas State. like she was a ----- heavy-weight champion.

“And this time it only took you 3 days–and no hints! You’re getting better gang!”

“Another slip of the Bic?” one of my buddies without any sense of forethought wondered.

One of the other females tried to get ahead of any potential untoward mental images.

“Aht! Aht! Aht! I don’t think any of us want to know what you had to be shaving for you to end up with stripes down your leg.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought she had just put in my head. But I couldn’t let the crowd continue with the notion that I would be so careless with sharp objects around my, um, ‘family jewels,’ so to speak.

“Oh no, just sheer boredom this time, actually…”

“Hey, hold on a minute. Look that way for a second…mmm-hmmm. Okay, now look the other way…holy sh*t, you didn’t–you couldn’t–you wouldn’t dare!”

I swiveled my sh*t-eating grin back and forth so the fabled Tiffany Chestnut–my future ex-girlfriend at the time–could get a good hard look at what I had allegedly done.

“I…I…I have no plausible theory as to why you look like a supervillain from Batman,” she stuttered.

“Whatever could you be talking about?” I coyly feigned ignorance.

“How long have you been like this? HOW LONG?!?”

“Care to clue me in?” I was savoring every last drop of this moment.

“Your face!”

I did my best Home Alone impression, clasping my hands to my face, but without the overwrought expression of terror on my face.

“Oh…yeah, that,” I said while stroking my whiskers with my left hand.

“You gonna explain or not?” she half-demanded.

“It’s just that shaving…well, it’s just so ----- exhausting. And I guess I’ve just been a little lazy lately–but hey, who’s gonna notice if I stop shaving the left side of my face?”

“Well, me, for one.”

“Really though? It only took you six days…”

The point of the story is: “when life hands you lemon-colored hair, you grab your Gillette and some shaving cream and make the most of it by ----- with people’s heads.” I’m pretty sure that’s the moral is here.

Either that “or that you can’t trust a blonde guy to be alone in a room with a razor…”

Content created on: 14 January 2023 (Saturday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	I’m intentionally using the wrong word here for humorous perhaps, ya jackass.
↵2	For the record, her last name is spelled ‘Makar’, but it reads better as J-Maker–the pun being that it sounds like ‘Haymaker’ the name of the dorm that me and many of my friends lived in at Kansas State.

‘Tis A Most Excellent Wish! But Why One So Preposterous?

8 January 2023 / BJ / 2 Comments

6 Min Read

Time travel? Nope. Invisibility? Nah. Flying? No thanks!

Like Bill & Ted, I could only hope to know how to “be excellent to one another”…

“If you had one super power, what would it be?” I pondered this classic question on a recent family road trip, as part of an ice-breaking card game called Chat Pack.¹https://www.chat-pack.com/

Now, before I go any further, you may be wondering why I was playing an ice-breaking game with my own family members. Well, as it turns out, there is a lot we don’t know about those nearest and dearest to our hearts. For example, when your dearest mother somehow manages to incorporate having large tracts of vegetable gardens into almost every question–no matter how unrelated having large tracts of vegetable gardens might seem to the questions in question–then you might finally get the hint that you better get on the ball on purchasing a large tract of land for which she can retire and garden her heart out.²Yes! We did it! We just bought that “large” (10-acre) tract of land! Just this week! We finally did it! But more on that later, as I’m bound to have plentiful remodeling/homesteading shenanigans stories in the very near future.

Anyways, as I was saying, I was left to ponder what super power that I would actually like to have. I once read an article on the vast moral/ethical rabbit holes that burdened the classic answers of “flying” and “invisibility”, so I had to come up with something more original. I had long maintained that the proper answer for me would be “the ability to speak any language, and fully grasp all the cultural nuances associated with each.” And this would indeed be a very bad-ass super power.

However…well, I figured I would try to stick with something more realistic and less self-centered. The answer I came up with? Well, I think it would just be dandy to have the ability to know what would make somebody happy (even if they don’t).

Heck, I’ve spent too much of my life running my mouth off and staying stupid shit that has hurt other people way too many times. Maybe I’m just trying to atone for those sins. But seriously, what a great power that would be? You know, actually making the world a better place?

While I haven’t been the best at being a compassionate empath, I have on several occasions managed to achieve the goal by dumb luck. And in honor of my traditional writing strategy of clumsily trying to tie together several random thoughts bouncing around my head, I’d love to share with you those two, very magical, times…

“Welp! It looks like I’ll be staying up all night working on my philosophy project that’s due tomorrow…”

My college girlfriend, the (in)famous “Tiffany Chestnut”³Not her real name, you dummy. That’s just what the Pornstar-Name Generator just spit out for her. paused after sharing the fact that she her procrastination had finally caught up with her. I really wanted what was best for her…but, what, oh what, could that be?

“Well, looks like it’s past 8 pm, so I better get on home so you can focus on that!” I didn’t say.

That’s what I wanted to say, because honestly, I thought if I stuck around, my constant goofing-off and joke-cracking would selfishly make it impossible for her come up with “Forty examples of analogies”–or at least that’s what I think the assignment was.

Whatever it was, she had to fill out 40 index cards, and she was currently sitting at ZERO. It would take her forever with me distracting her, right? Right…?

By some dumb stroke of luck, I instead hesitantly asked if she would like me to help her, that I would be happy to, though I was tired and didn’t know how late I could stay up with her.

To my surprise, she said ‘yes!’ I mean, you saw that plot twist coming, but to me, in that moment, there was no logical reason for her to want to keep my borderline-ADHD ass around when real work needed to be done.

Happy to oblige–but incredibly tired–I suggested I go back to my apartment and take a 45-minute power nap before coming back to help her power through those 40 index cards.

In the end, it turned out to be one of the best memories we made together–you know, coming up with one outlandish analogy after another until 4 in the morning–stuff that quintessential college memories are supposed to be made of.

And to think that I about left her high and dry had I trusted my grasp of the situation! Thus I prove my point that I would have loved to known from the get-go that a late night of loopy “likes and ases” with her funniest friend was what her soul desperately needed in that moment.

Honestly, though, I had no idea the positive emotional impact it made on her until a month or so later, when she confided that moment was the moment that I won her heart over.

*checks notes*

*Ahem*–correction: almost won her heart over. In the end it wasn’t quite enough to convince her to go along with my ill-fated plan to get married (thank the Lordy Jesus in retrospect, though, amiright?!?).

Ah, yes, I clearly remember now…that was the part of the conversation where she broke up with me. To be clear though, it was the later part of the convo that essentially turned into a heartfelt eulogy for a friendship that had seen it’s share of touching moments.

If it helps you better emotional visualize the that of which I speak, just imagine it as a montage of still image from our memorable moments, all while The Golden Girls’ theme song sentimentally plays over it all. You know how it goes: “…Thank you for being a friend…”

“Old buddy, old pal! We don’t hang out enough–what say we meet up every Wednesday for some Chick-Fil-A?”

Again, ’twas back in my college days, and I had ran into a friend of mine from my Freshmen and Sophomore years, one that I hadn’t kept up much since then. Given that it was both fifth year at Kansas State–roughly a full 2-year gap–that translated to approximately 12 years in post-college time (it’s roughly equivalent to calculating the age of a dog, I do believe).

“Uh, yeah, that would be great,” my friend said in his trademark reserved manner.

Now, spoiler alert: nothing really exciting or notably humorous came of our several-month arrangement of breaking breaded chicken together every seven days. It was just to friends hanging out, mostly reminiscing about “the good ol’ days” in Putnam Hall, and commiserating over the fact that we were now the weathered old geezers on campus. We probably ruminated over our futures once we left college, and even shared a good laugh of the several girls that comprised the overlapping area of our respective “girls we attempted to date” Venn diagram circles.

Much like with Tiffany Chestnut, I actually never gave much more thought to those moments after he graduated and moved back to his native homeland of Johnson County, KS.

That was until I stepped off the plane in the Kansas City airport a few years later, when he was my host for the weekend while I was in town for the wedding of a mutual friend of ours. There he was holding a sign like all the chauffeurs do, but instead of my name, it simply said “My Best Man”⁴Technically, I think it said “Best Man BJ”, but honestly I don’t like actually spelling out my name in these blog posts, despite at the very top it says “By B.J.” Lol?

That was one of the most pleasant surprises in my life, I must say. A little scary, yes, because immediately I realized that meant I would probably need to give a wedding toast in a few months when they actually got married. But overall, it was one of the most humbling honors bestowed upon me.

He could tell that I was slightly surprised, and later that weekend he kindly gave me more context for why he asked me to fill that once-in-a-lifetime role. Now, out of respect for his privacy, I won’t really go into detail, but the main takeaway is that at time in his life when he really could have used a friend–remember, being a 5th-year Senior in college usually means that the vast majority of the friends you made as a Freshman have already moved on–I was there for him.

Simple as that.

And again, it’s not on account of me being super-sensitive to the needs of others. There is a long and well-documented history of evidence to the contrary, my friend.

Nope, this was one of the times that I accidentally got it incredibly right. And again, further support for my claim about what one of the best super powers one could have. It would be great to have that lightning a bottle–you create magic twice and you want to figure out how to capture it, no?

And sure, I made Tiffany Chestnut feel pretty good in the above anecdote. But with ol’ Roger Dodger? This time, it was so good that I actually made it to the altar with him…

Hmm, now that I think about it, the proverbial point of the story might actually be “always gamble on being kind and thoughtful to anyone you meet–even flattering is an acceptable standard mode of operation. “Unabashed flattery???” you say? Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with recklessly making somebody feel good about themselves…

…okay, I just thought of one exception to that statement. You remember Nurse Cami, right? Yeah, we all saw the moral logjam “being kind and thoughtful…and even flattering” got me into that time. Hell, if I would have had that wonderful super power that I’ve been gushing about, well…I would have desperately avoided any and everything that would have made ol’ Cami happy. Um…yeah…that’s definitely one person I would never want to end up at the altar with (in keeping with the theme of this essay, of course).

What’s that you say? “Sheesh! Going on about Cami again? Seriously?!? Another shameless plug for The Long Tale Of COVID?” Oh brother, let me tell you: I ain’t gonna stop shamelessly, unabashedly self-promoting everyone that fustercluck of a misadventure until it’s picked up by NetFlix as a miniseries…

Content created on: 6/7 January 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 8 of 26)

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↵1	https://www.chat-pack.com/
↵2	Yes! We did it! We just bought that “large” (10-acre) tract of land! Just this week! We finally did it! But more on that later, as I’m bound to have plentiful remodeling/homesteading shenanigans stories in the very near future.
↵3	Not her real name, you dummy. That’s just what the Pornstar-Name Generator just spit out for her.
↵4	Technically, I think it said “Best Man BJ”, but honestly I don’t like actually spelling out my name in these blog posts, despite at the very top it says “By B.J.” Lol?

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Previously, on “The Point of the Story”…

The latest word on the street

Dig into the vault for lost treasure

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)