The Point of the Story

Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Category: Life Tips (Page 3 of 5)

A smorgasboard of suggestions for an improved quality of life. I wouldn’t be so bold as to call them “Life Hacks”, but they trend in that general direction of the spectrum.

Feasting At El Fiasco Loco

12 September 2021 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

A Groupon for a date night at the Melting Pot and the movies? $70.

All the regrettable shenanigans that are bound to ensue? Priceless…

“A Groupon for $100 towards a Melting Pot feast and 2 movie tickets? For only $70? Sounds suspicious…”

I was in the middle of a conversation with The Boss Lady, and on the verge of making a decision that in no way I could ever possibly regret.

“No, I swear that’s The Deal: A Groupon for $100 towards a Melting Pot feast and 2 movie tickets! For only $70! And you know how I love the Melting Pot so…”

She batted her eyelashes at me with that “come-hither-and-dip-your-apple-in-my-melty-cheese” look. A look she knew would melt my willpower just like said melty cheese, and so of course I conceded to her wishes.

“OK, fine…”

Fine? More like fine print. As in, “It’s Groupon, so of course your ass better be reading the fine print.”

What this Groupon actually got us was $100 of credit at restaurant.com, the shady older brother of the (slightly) more reputable restaurants.com. Not a problem in and of itself, especially since it did indeed have Melting Pot certificates in $25 increments. So far so good, right?

Well…just one problem: you could only redeem one at a time, and only towards the 3-Course Meal For Two, which is roughly $100. And, hooo, boy! Let me tell you it’s pretty awkward to find out this fact from the waiter who is impatiently waiting for you to pay your bill. Anyways, if you do the math, you’ll realize that this oh-such-a-great-f*cking-deal Groupon only got us out of paying the tip.

So, to recap: we just paid $70 to have someone else trick us into going to the Melting Pot.

No. No, Honey, this was not fine at all…

All was not lost, though. Although we would have had to blown another $300 just to use the rest of our restaurant.com credit at the Melting Pot, there were a decent number of other restaurants where we could redeem the remaining $75 without having to drop as much cash up front.

I eventually managed to use up $25 of it on some verifiably mediocre meal, but that of course still left me with $50 burning a hole in my pocket.

Well, luck would have it that our annual apple pickin’ trip was nigh upon us, and as a tradition, me and the family would always eat Mexican in nearby Siler City on the way home from out little outing. Ah yes, a perfect opportunity indeed to extract the last bit of value still tied up on our foolish investment.

It wasn’t our usual joint, but I was able to find the one and only participating Mexican restaurant in town–one that we’d never been to before. But hombre, I was super excited because it appeared to be super authentic. And also I was pretty pumped that its deal was $25 off if you spent $50 or more–meaning we could wash our hands of restaurant.com for good after this was over.

Now I had the keen insight to do my research, as it turned out that they only took cash. Accordingly, I made sure to have $40 on hand–more than enough to cover the anticipated bill that would be $25-$30 after the discount. This Boy Scout was coming prepared this time!

We get there, and it turns out that I actually wasn’t prepared for exactly how authentic of Mexican restaurant this place was–in that they clearly never were expecting gringos. I shit thee not when I say that there was not a single English word on the menu. Not a single one!

Oh, and not a single price on the menu either (see Figure 1).

Figure 1: Good luck, Gringos!

Ok, that’s not completely true–there was a handmade sign when you came in advertising there especial: various tacos at only $1 each.

“Oh man, this place must be ridiculously cheap!” was the first thought that I had upon seeing it.

And “Oh sh*t, though–I did not anticipate that it would be a challenge to spend enough to be able to activate the discount,” was my second thought.

This was a few years back, so t’was I, The Boss Lady (who was rather pregnant with The Younger), The Elder, and my Mother Dearest. But, even with 4 1/2 of us, I knew we were going to have to work pretty hard to hit $50, espicialmente if we were going to have to do it $1, $2, or $3 at a time.

What it ensued was very much a Seinfeldian “More of everything!” moment, with me basically twisting everybody’s arms to order twice the amount of food they wanted or needed.

“I’m getting our $25 discount if it’s the last thing I do! Besides, you are eating for two!” I hissed at The Boss Lady when she gave me a look for doubling her fajita order.

Although we were flying blind–having no clue if we were even close to spending enough–if I was going to miss the mark, I was dang sure going to err on the side of spending a bit more than $50, amiright?

Well, after seriously feasting on way too much Mexican grub, we followed it with an excessive round of desserts…and we were long past the point of actually enjoying our meal, and well into the land of being extra miserably bloated and engorged.

Finally, the time came to settle up the bill and put this whole matter to rest, and while the cashier is ringing things up I’m like “Whoa, hold up a sec, some of these dishes are $10-$12!” I mean, based on those stupid ----- cheap-ass tacos, I would have never imagined anything in that place would top $7. “Sh*t. Sh*t. Sh*t.” I kept mumbling to myself like the pinche gringo that I was.

In the end the total bill was just over $60, so I was relieved to at least have spent enough…and it looked like I was going to have barely enough cash to cover the bill. Whew!

“Oh wait one sec…I have a coupon here for $25 off!” I couldn’t have been more excited to be such a tightwad in that moment.

The cashier looked over what I had pulled up on my phone, and stoically replied, “Oh, I’m sorry, we’re not participating in that any more.”

…

…

…

You have got to ----- be kidding me. THAT WAS THE WHOLE ----- REASON WE ATE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE!

“Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t quite have enough cash.”

“Okay…” the cashier stared back at me vacantly.

“Um, can I leave my mom and daughter here as a deposit while I go find an ATM?”

“Sure.”

So I left them just awkwardly loafing about while me and the Boss Lady drove a few blocks to a nearby ATM–which was not without its own set of shenanigans, such as our regular bank’s ATM had been relocated, but nobody had thought to tell Google Maps.

“Dangit, woman! I ain’t gonna pay no extra $5 ATM fee on top of not getting my ----- discount!”

Let’s just say I wasn’t taking too kindly to The Boss Lady’s suggestion to cut our losses and just get the money from any ATM we could find. Whether or not our loved ones got kidnapped in the meantime? If that was the price of sticking to the principle of the matter, then so be it!

It may have only been 10 or 15 minutes later before we finally rolled back up to the Human Pawn Shop, but ----- if it seemed like forever at that point. I quickly hustled my ass through the door, waving the money over my head.

“I got it! I got it! Here’s your ransom–I mean “dinero.” We’d like the other generations of our family back now, por favor…”

The point of the story is, next time anyone tries to cajole you into buying a Groupon, I have the perfect response for you:

“Chinga tu madre.”

Um, just whatever you do, make sure mom doesn’t Google the meaning of that…

Content created on: 19 September 2020 & 11/12 September 2021 (Sat/Sat/Sun)

Three Farm-Tested Words Of Wisdom For Living A Happy Life

22 August 2021 / / 1 Comment
5 Min Read

Ignore those who will try to tell you “Happy wife, happy life!”

No, true happiness can be found in 3 very different words…

“Sh*t Happens, Okay?”

Oh, how that phrase–the battle cry adopted by The Bard and I during that hot, hot Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99–brings back memories. What originally sprung forth from a round of late-night conjecturing exactly what the hell the “SHO” in “Ford Taurus SHO”1As payment for all my hard work, Dad bought me my dream vehicular…a Taurus SHO. actually stood for,2Or to be grammatically correct: “…for which it stands.” “Sh*t Happens, Okay?” seemed to be slightly less gross than my girlfriends suggesting of “Sticky Hard-On.”

But then, as The Summer waned on, The Bard and I realized that it was the perfect description for the sh*t-show that constantly surrounded us as we toiled away on my family’s farm under Dad’s watchful eye. Nay, there was never a more apt mantra for maintaining a semblance of sanity through all the stray tires, busted transmissions,3I really need to get around to addressing the whole transmission situation, a la our work pickup, but for now all you need to know is that it provided a solid layer of “interesting” to that summer. and world-consuming forest fires we endured of those 3 months.

And to be clear, I’m referring to “Sh*t Happens, Okay?” There was nothing about that summer on the farm that should have been giving anyone a hard-on, of any kind…

Okay, so sh*t was happening alright. When I last left you, I was capping off a day chock-full of, um, “creative” fire-fighting techniques, that had left my eyesight barely functional thanks to all the smoke up in my contacts.

If you somehow missed out on those episodes, you can take a moment and catch up on them here and here real quick-like.

As always, I’ll wait.

…

…

Yeah, pretty messed up, right? You would have thunk that Dad would have taken not-burning-down-the-whole-countryside as a “win” for the day and we would have gone home while we were on top.

But noooooo. We had more ----- wheat to cut, so it was on to the next field!

In the course of moving all our equipment to this very important field ~20 miles away, I got assigned to Kountry Kommodities, our sweet semi-truck. Given that this was by far our fastest mode of transportation at the time, I wasn’t complaining too loudly about this. If I was going to have to drive anything with smoky contact lenses, at least I would be spending the least amount of time in misery rolling in ol’ KK.

Now, for some reason, Dad had me take the road less traveled, and not the highway like he and The Bard planned to do in the pickup and combine. While this sounds like an asinine detail, me traveling solo on some back road connecting Middle Of Nowhere, CO to Middle Of Nowhere, KS was more than enough for things to go even more sideways on me that day.

Ah, yes, now I recall the reason Dad had me take the less busy route: the transmission on the semi was starting to act up, so, you know, he better make sure that his youngest progeny is in Bum- ----- , Egypt if and when anything serious happens with the ol’ tranny.

Oh wait, did I spoil the surprise? C’mon, admit it though: you already knew in your heart of hearts what happened next.

Of course the ----- transmission went out on me in the middle of some lonely stretch of barely-paved highway, with ol KK slowly and dramatically grinding to a halt as it gave up the ghost.

So there I was, no cell phone, barely able to keep my irritated af eyes open, and nothing happening for miles in either direction. Well, this was a super-duper turn of events.

Nothing else to do, I started walking–no, “blindly stumbling”–down the road in hopes of finding some sort of human life that could help me out. Luckily–if you could call anything “lucky” about that day–the sole homestead on that road was only about a mile and a half away, and I ended up only having to blindly stumble for 20-30 minutes.

Some little old lady answered the door, and G0d bless that angel’s heart, she immediately took pity on me and took me in. After a phone call to one of my grandmas that lived about 15 minutes away, my personal angel gave me some wet towels to put over my head in hopes of helping soothe my very angry eyes.

In return for all her kindness, I repaid her the only way I truly knew how: as I waited for the cavalry to arrive, I regaled her with the tales of the clusterf*cky events that had led up to my showing up on her doorstep seemingly out of nowhere.

If hashtags had been a thing back then, no doubt she would have posted #Blessed across all of social media for having been graced by presence that day.

Anyways…I must have blacked out–or maybe it just seemed that way since “vision” was no longer a skill I could include on my resume at that point–because the next thing I remember was it being nighttime as I was reunited with Dad and The Bard on the combine.

And it was the heartwarming moment you’re no doubt imagining it to be, what with me having disappeared without a trace for a good 4-5 hours and all.

…

Of course it didn’t happen like that all. Somehow, Dad was pissed out of his mind at me for the transmission going out. You know, like it was my fault that he doesn’t know how to buy and properly maintain farming equipment.

Therefore, to this day, I maintain that it was an act of grace on my part when, in the middle of our yelling match, I found myself screaming spitting a fireball of Truth at him:

“Sh*t Happens, Okay!?!”

And even though I couldn’t technically confirm it was my two eyes–y’know, on account of the smoke-laced contacts, and all–I just know in my heart of hearts that in the corner of the combine cab was The Bard, solemnly nodding his head in knowing solidarity…4In order to not kill the flow of the story, I haven’t explicitly include how that day finally ended. For some reason, I can confirm that around 11 pm we found ourselves working on some completely unrelated farming equipment at our shop in Rolla, and I remember thinking to myself, “This has to be the longest ----- day in farming history.” I couldn’t have been too wrong, now could have I?

The point of the story is just that: sh*t happens, okay? Sometimes it just does. And while some people love to play the blame game and insist that all the less-than-perfect bits o’life–like faulty transmissions or raging wheat fires, for instance–be somebody’s fault, I maintain that you’ll have much healthier relationships and be much happier in life if you accept that sh*t just happening without much rhyme or reason is really the default mode of this world. Trust me, any sense of control is nothing much more than an illusion.

I just pray that others can acheive this enlightenment without having to endure a summer on a dysfunctional family farm…

Content created on: 21/22 August 2021 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

10 Easy Steps To Becoming Parents Of PhD-Worthy Little Pussycats

24 January 2021 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

So you’ve finally decided to take the plunge and expand your family, eh? But before you go and make any rookie mistakes that might doom your young’uns to a life of ignominy and infamy, here are 10 quick and easy pointers to help you help them get started down the path to prosperity instead…

Part Un: Preparing For And Procuring Your Pet

1. Do It “For All The Right Reasons”

Just like having kids in an attempt to save a marriage, getting pets for the wrong reasons can come back and bite you in the ass. For example, you may think this is a good way to teach your children responsibility, but be warned that will probably just end with one or more resentful adults in your household.

It is therefore critical that you have righteous motivations for your decision. If you want to rest easy at night, save yourself the heartache and choose from one of the following to justify your new lifestyle:

  • Companionship: Because making new friends is ----- hard.
  • Stress relief: Petting a furry family member can be quite therapeutic.
  • Family memories: You had the joy of growing up with pets. Why deprive your kids of that?
  • Paranormal sentry: Many people get way into real ghost stories and become paranoid that supernatural entities may be watching them while they sleep, but have formulated a theory that animals experience reality at multiple quantum resonant frequencies which allows them to see disembodied spirits from parallel dimensions that aren’t normally observable at the resonant frequency of the average human brain, thus making them excellent watch-cats.

2. Let Others Do The Leg Work

Now that you’re confident expanding your household is the right move, it’s time to make your dreams a reality. Many people make the mistake of trying to handle the impregnation and carrying of a kitten to full term themselves. But this is extremely difficult and requires technology that hopefully will never be invented. Don’t work hard–work smart: let somebody else do all the heavy lifting for you and adopt!

3. Buy In Bulk

Let’s be honest: nobody would choose to be an only child if they were actually given the choice, so why inflict unnecessary suffering if you can avoid it? Adopting brothers/sisters or a bonded pair of feline buddies may cost you more, but will pay off in the long run, as the natural sibling rivalry will toughen them up for the cruel world that awaits them. Also, the assholes at most adoption agencies won’t let you take a singleton kitten home with you, even if you wanted…

Part Deux: Choosing The Purr-fect1Go ahead and call the Pun Police on me. See if I care. Names

Acquiring the cats was the easy part. Now for the truly hard part: giving them names that will make them winners in life. After all, you plan on living vicariously through them, don’t you?

To demonstrate how to go about this daunting task, consider the curious case of these two cats: Flotsam–aka Brett (Figure 1) and his sister, Alana–aka Rylee (Figure 2). Cute cats, yes, but let’s not ignore the elephant in the room. The cold hard truth is that they’re guaranteed to go absolutely nowhere in life with loser names like those. Let’s see if we can fix that…

Figure 1: Flotsam/Brett.
Figure 2: Alana/Rylee.

4. Listen When The Universe Speaks…

Inspiration is all around you, if you only choose to look and listen. Take the time to carefully observe your new housemates. What/who do they look like? Sound like? Smell and/or taste like? Now close your eyes, clear your mind, and say the first ten names/phrases that come to mind. Congratulations! Now you and your co-parent have narrowed your name argument down from (1/2 x infinity) possibilities, to just 10!

Now let’s apply this principle to sweet ol’ Rylee. Despite looking like a clone of a previous pet and tasting like salty chicken feathers when licked, it just makes too much sense not to go with this little kitten’s most distinguishing feature…

“Alana”? Nope! “Rylee”? See ya later, you bougie-ass name! Ladies and Gentlemen, meet…Checkers! Because, uh…you know, the whole mouth-thingy…

5. …But Don’t Go For Looking Signs That Just Aren’t There

Like with any pair of siblings, parents tend to expend all their creative and emotional energies on the first one, seemingly giving the other one the short end of the stick. This is normal, so don’t feel bad about it. Pat yourself on the back for the job well done on Number One, and realize that efficient pragmatism has its value in life as well.

In practice, this means that the Pet Formerly Known As Brett is going to get the name he’s going to get and he’s going to have to learn to live with it. Buddy, you don’t necessarily look like a “Chess”, but, hey, we’ve got other important shit to do today.

6. Pets Are People, Too!

Now that you have their nicknames settled, you can decide what those cute monikers will be “short for.” This is your chance to truly give them the dignity all members of your clan deserve, so let’s start by giving them your last name–a solid choice, and frankly, a no-brainer.

Oh, and speaking of last names that end in “-on,” the inherit renown they bestow make them excellent candidates for first names as well. I dare you to tell me that Chesterfield Anderton and Checkerson Anderton2Not their real last name. But close… don’t sound regal af to you–you simply can’t!

7. Seek Inspiration From The Written Word

If they’re going to be distinguished in life, it is imperative to chooses names that help distinguish your wee ones from all the other “Emmas” and “Evas” in their kindergarten class. If you’re not sure where to start, French literature can provide an absolute abundance of options for high-falutin and uncommon names.

In fact, a renowned author’s last name always makes for a very memorable first name. I mean, how could you ever forget a Flaubert3https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustave_Flaubert Checkerson or Dumas4https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandre_Dumas Chesterfield Anderton5Again, their last name has been changed to protect the privacy of the minors. once you’ve met them?

8. You Gotta Keep ‘Em Complicated

A great way to make your kids–er, I mean, ‘kittens’–seem more interesting to strangers than they really are is to require them to recite a short novella every time they have to explain that their legal name and the name they go by aren’t exactly the same thing. Your parents hoisted such a burden onto your shoulders; it’s only right that you pass that burden down to the next generation.

When down the road they’re at a fancy conference of professionals, they will no doubt be thanking you for this automatic ice-breaker:

“So, I saw on your LinkedIn profile that you’re listed as Flaubert Checkerson ‘Checkers’ Anderton.6’Anderton’ is merely a nom de plume, people! How interesting!”

“Well, it’s a funny story actually…”

“Oh, that’s okay, I don’t need to hear–“

“…you see, my parents didn’t want me to lead an average life…”

9. Throw In A Dash Of Prestige…

With full names in hand, you’re finally ready to put the finishing touches on your masterpieces before introducing the kiddies to the rest of the world. If your looking to really up your name game, you can channel your favorite pretentious author and insist that people refer to them by their first initials and full middle names.

You can already hear it now, can’t you: “…and the Nobel Prize in Literature goes to…F. Checkerson Anderton!7Not. Her. Real. Last. Name. Amazing! This is the first time in history that one family has produced winners of the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes in the same year. You folks at home may recall that her, brother, D. Chesterfield Anderton,8You do understand the concept of changing names to protect the innocent, right? took home journalism’s highest accolade but a few months ago…”

10. …But Lastly, Keep Them Humble

Nobody likes a pompous prick. Nobody. To keep the haters at bay and your kits’ egos in check, it is highly recommended to throw in at least one slightly degrading detail before you close up the epithet shop for the day.

You never know when such attention to detail might come in handy. For example, if you ever catch F. Checkers trying to tell her kiddie kollege friends that her name “is pronounced ‘Flow-Bear’, like that old pervy French novelist,” don’t hesitate to step in and put her in place with a firm rebuke such as “Don’t listen to her bullshit! It rhymes with ‘Robert’, like that one renowned 21st-century American blogger. I knew I should have named her Flauberta instead…”

And of course, if you ever hear D. Chesterfield claiming “the D is for ‘Doo-Maw’ like that other old French guy,” you can remind him that he will always and forever be nothing but a “Dumb-Ass.”

Content created on: 13 & 23 January 2021 (Weds/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Perhaps The Most Outstanding Man Is He Who Sits Down

14 January 2021 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

You know how many a woman will tell you that they are deathly afraid of sitting down on the toilet, only to find that the seat has been left up? Well, ladies, you can rest assured that at least some of us fellas are listening.

Back during my first year of grad school I shared a house with three female roommates, and likewise shared a toilet with two of them. Being the thoughtful guy that y’all know and love me to be, I, in a moment of pure genius, decided that henceforth I would stop standing when I needed to go #1, and began regularly sitting during my time in the loo, regardless of the business at hand.

Though I’ll please have you note that I’m conveniently leaving out the fact that in doing so, I eliminated1No pun intended, but dang if that isn’t a clever one… any incidents of “stray spray”–because with no other males in the house to blame it on, the others would always have known whom to blame for any wayward droplets of urine. Yeah…we can just ignore that maybe my decision was just a wee bit self-serving, too.

Either way, the end result? Seat down, all the time. Problem solved! Ladies, considered yourselves considered!

You know, I even endured the mockery of pretty much all of my male friends and acquaintances, but nevertheless, I persisted.2I maintain that an Elizabeth Warren reference is always warrent-ed. Oh! Somebody stop me! Why? Because I’m a man of ----- character, that’s why!

Anyway, that’s not the point of the story. The point is, I believe I’ve discovered some sort of beautifully twisted symmetry in this Universe: all males should be TERRIFIED of the bizzarro/inverse scenario. Have you ever stopped to consider what might happen with the lid is down unexpectedly, hmmm?

Let’s just say it’s…uh, “disorienting” to scurry to the bathroom for a quick pee in the middle of the night, only to have your family jewels forcefully squashed up your ass by a cold and unforgiving toilet lid. Well, one of the jewels, at least…

I find this turn of events rather disheartening, indeed: my goodwill towards my fellow toilet-users has come back and ungratefully bit me in the ass.

Bit me with my own dang gonad, no less…

As the youths on the Twitter would say:

#IAmPrettySureThisIsNotHowKarmaIsSupposedToWork

I’ll leave y’all to ponder the cruelties of the Universe and/or develop a previously non-existent phobia of toilet lids with a little clip from the YouTubes. To all of those selfless and considerate ever-sitting men out there, this one goes out to you…

Content created on: 8 October 2017 (original Tweets) & 14 January 2020 (Sun/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Gift Of The Magic Fire Water

27 December 2020 / / 1 Comment
6 Min Read

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, with his Pillow-Sack-Of-Fun…

During that magical year in my life in between getting my undergrad degree and heading off to grad school, I lived in a house with 7 other fine young men. Most, if not all, of these fellas were “upright in the eyes of the Lord.”

One of the things that made this year so ----- magical was my best friend Andrew. Let’s see…I would describe him as “upright–but not exactly uptight–in the eyes of the Lord.” He wasn’t debaucherous by any means, but he did know how to appreciate a little bit of alcohol–in moderation, of course.

He lived just across town, so he would come over to our place after work and hang out several times a week. Since he had taken it upon himself to teach me the finer points of enjoying fermented drinks, he would often bring with him various liquors and spirits for us to imbibe whilst we chilled.

However, he seemed really concerned that he might offend some of the other roommates who perhaps, unlike him, had a different moral perspective on getting drunk on the holy spirits. His solution? Discreetly transport his goods in a plain, unmarked pillow case.

It was such a jolly sight indeed, him showing up at my door in the evening like an adult-themed Santa Claus, Pillow-Case-O-Fun slung over his shoulder.

Of all the fond memories we made together, my 24th birthday was not supposed to have been one of them. We had exactly zero plans for the evening beyond just hanging out and sipping on the booze du jour hiding in his PCOF–which was Vodka on this particular mid-December evening, I believe.

Well, “sipping” may not be the most accurate term. That would imply a small quantity and a slow rate of consumption. Let’s just say that 32-ounce Taco Bell cups were involved.

But don’t get too worried–it was mostly just Mountain Dew, with only about a fifth of the cup’s volume accounted for by the Vodka. We gotta give him some credit: he wasn’t just teaching me to drink–he was teaching me to drink in moderation.

We mostly passed the evening eating, drinking, and being merry in general. And maybe, just maybe, drinking a wee bit more.

But, seriously, while enjoyable, it was perhaps the most unnoteworthy 2-3 hours of my life.

About halfway through Taco Bell cup number two, I noticed that the alcohol was hitting me much harder than expected. I honestly didn’t know where I had gone wrong, because–I say this with a straight face–I had been drinking responsibly.

I sat there for a moment gazing into my cup before commenting to Andrew, “Man, this Vodka tastes oddly strong…”

Andrew paused briefly with a slightly confused look on his face before informing me, “That’s because that ‘Vodka’ is actually Everclear. I was wondering why you were hitting it so hard…”

“Aw, ----- , now you tell me. I had been mixing my drinks based on the assumption that this was Vodka the whole time. Dammit, now I’m drunk.”

“I would be worried if you weren’t at this point–Everclear is double the proof of Vodka. I’m surprised you’re even able to stand,” he said, trying to stifle his trademark chuckle.

*Tries to stand up, sits down immediately.*

“Uh, I think I’ll just sit here at the kitchen table for now…”

Though I was only 24, in that moment I felt wise beyond my years…

“Well, what do you wanna do now, Birthday Boy?” Andrew said, trying not to let my newfound inebriation–and my new-lost ability to walk on my own two legs–kill our buzz.

“Hmm, let’s see…I’ve been needing to re-order checks rather desperately. Since the laptop’s here anyways and I’m not going anywhere for awhile… ----- it. I might as well do that.”

…and I proceeded to do exactly that.

No, strike that thought. I proceeded to attempt to do exactly that.

For the life of me, I could not get all the way through the process successfully, despite multiple attempts. I mean, I knew I was a bit drunk, but not that drunk, for crying out loud.

…or was I? Maybe I was so drunk, that it felt like I was putting in all those number correctly, but in reality I was claiming my bank’s routing number was “1800MIXALOT.” Could it be possible?

I needed a second opinion. Despite being notably less intoxicated than myself, Andrew failed on both of his attempts as well.

There was no way that we were both so drunk that we couldn’t enter in ~20 digits correctly after 6 combined attempts. Or was the Everclear just really that good?

We needed a third opinion, and this time we had to eliminate the alcohol factor. For this task we summoned in Seth, one of the roomies that never drank, so he was guaranteed to be stone-cold sober.

When he failed after 3 attempts, that’s when we all erupted into celebratory cheers–“HUZZAH! We’re not as drunk as we feared! Hip-hip-hooray!”

A peculiar feature about this large house we all lived in was that there were two kitchens–one upstairs where we were, and one on the ground floor–thus naturally splitting us roommates into two seperate, but equal, groups.

It just so happened that all the while Andrew, Seth, and I were quietly celebrating my birthday/not being numerically-challenged-drunk, Zach, one of the downstairs guys, had been babysitting a pair of youngsters that belonged to the Youth Pastor at his church. He was so close to this family, in fact, that the kids affectionately called him “Uncle Zach.”

We had no idea any of this was going on below our feet–and frankly it didn’t matter–until the dad came back to collect his offspring. Zach came upstairs and insisted we come downstairs and meet him.

“Uhhh, no, man, that’s probably not a great idea, Zach, my man.”

I may have been under the influence, but I still had some common sense and better judgement left in the tank.

“Oh, no, it’ll be fine! Come on down before leaves!” Zach was clearly not listening to me.

Since I had stopped drinking over an hour earlier, I thought maybe I could fake being sober long enough to shake his hand and say “pleased to meet you.” I took a few deep breaths and carefully made my way down the stairs, bracing myself along the wall the whole way down.

Thank goodness the other guys were with me, as I was able to keep my speaking to a bare-ass minimum. More than 3 sentences of a speaking, and I’m pretty sure he would have picked up on my, um, “altered” state. I shook his hand, over-enunciated a few words, and kept my eyes coordinated at all times, though that last task took every bit of effort I could muster.

Just a couple of minutes of chit-chat, and we bid the dad adieu and made our way back upstairs to celebrate my Emmy-worthy acting performance. Only this time we behaved like the mature, responsible, grown-ass men that we were and enjoyed shots of straight water instead of that other, confusingly-clear liquid from earlier…

A couple months later, we were all hanging out one Sunday afternoon, when Zach came home from church with an odd experience he had to share with us.

“So after church Eva and Evan1Fuck if I know if those were actually there names. Seeing as how their dad was a youth pastor, I would say that’s probably a pretty good guess though. came running up to me…”

” ‘Uncle Zack! Uncle Zack! When are you going to be able to babysit us again? Every time Daddy says that you’ve been too busy, and to that, we say Boo!’ “

“They must have noticed the confused look on my face–or maybe just plain forgot what they were talking about–because only two seconds later they took off.”

” ‘That’s straaaaange…’ I thought to myself, ‘I haven’t been too busy to babysit them. And no one has even asked me to babysit since mid-December…'”

We all kinda chuckled because at that point, as we all knew what had really happened.

While my intoxicated numerical abilities were much better than I had perceived, conversely, my inebriated acting skills were much poorer than I had fancied them to be.

“Well, I’m truly sorry to hear that your babysitting gig is no more,” I half-assedly consoled Zach, who was at least taking it all in stride. “But to be fair, Uncle Zach wouldn’t have gotten himself into this pickle if he would have listened to Uncle BJ when he tried to warn him multiple times that Uncle BJ was not so much “Uncle BJ” in that moment as he was “Drunk Uncle.”

He gave me a begrudging grin, on account of the very fair point I just made. This one was probably more on him than me.

But, completely sabotaging Zach’s career in early childhood education aside, I stand by my assertion that that birthday ended up being one of my most delightfully memorable ones ever.

No, strike that–I sit safely at the kitchen table futilely trying to reorder checks by that assertion…

Really, though, the point of the story is, despite their uncanny resemblance, Vodka and Everclear are not “pretty much the same thing.” Only one of those two will get Child Protective Services called on your housemate, so you best figure out most directly which one you’re pouring into that over-sized Taco Bell cup of yours right now…

Content created on: 23 December 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Don’t Worry Little Buddy, Your Secrets Are Safe With Me…

24 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

Long ago, back when I was in kindergarten at Rolla Grade School, every morning I would take a ride on Ol’ Trusty Yellow School Bus #7. And almost every morning, I would always sit next to that one kid in our class who would eat glue. You know what I’m talking about–everyone had one of those kids in their class growing up.

“Elmer”–as I’ll call him for obvious reasons–may have been a bit of a spaz, but he was still my tried-and-true Bus Buddy. Indeed, there was a bond of trust there that was simply unbreakable.

On the last day of school before Christmas break, we sat next to each other on the bus just like every other morning. But unlike most school day mornings, the crisp Kansan air was abuzz with excitement and anticipation. After all, it was one of the few truly exciting days on the school calendar: Santa Day.

Now, there were many reasons for a kid to get pumped about Santa Day, but the one item on the itenary relevant to today’s holiday tale was the class gift exchange. I’m sure most everybody experienced these growing up, where you would bring a small gender-appropriate gift to school, which would in turn be distributed via a random sex-segregated drawing.

Since we had a level of trust like none other, Elmer naturally confided to me that his gift was…*suspiciously looks around to see if anyone is within earshot*…a set of 5 Hot Wheels cars.

That was a pretty decent gift for a 5-to-6-year-old boy, I thought.

For me, though, it wasn’t really a matter of how much I trusted him, per se, cuz I couldn’t keep a ----- secret to save my life. So, yes, of course I excitedly shared with him that wrapped up in my little package was….*eagerly looks around to see if anyone is within earshot, because hey, I got some inside info and what good is it if only one other person knows I’m so special?*…a set of wooden toy road signs.

He agreed that that was a pretty nifty gift as well.

Pleased with ourselves that we had Top Secret intel that no one else had, we spent the rest of our bus ride dreamily wondering aloud what super-cool toy the Universe would endow upon us at the gift exchange…

I have feeling that it won’t exactly come as a shock when I tell you that roughly an hour later we discovered that–surprise, surprise–Father Fate is a real dickhead to little kids who can’t keep secrets.

Sure as reindeer shit, we ended up drawing each other’s names, totally destroying the sacred element of surprise that every other little boy and girl got to enjoy that morning. I wouldn’t quite say Christmas was ruined, but it sure was a let down.

But on the bright side, I learned a new and very useful vocabulary word that day. Here, let me use it in a sentence for you:

“You’ve got to be ----- kidding me.”

The point of the story is, kids, if you know what is good for you, you’ll keep your dang mouths shut when it comes to Christmas gifts. The Yuletide magic you save may very well be your own.

I now would like to leave you, my Dear Readers, with a little bonus in your stockings this year: just for kicks, exactly how fool-hardy was it for Elmer & I to tell each other what our gifts were? Was it a just a fluke that we ended up with each other’s gifts, or we were actually tempting fate with our ill-advised actions?

Much like we did with Birthday Twins, let’s calculate the probability of such an event. Thankfully, it’s not as complicated this time around.

Assuming that there’s a protocol in place to prevent us from getting our own gifts, then there is 1 out of (the total number of boys in our class minus one) chance that one of us gets the other’s gift. My fact-checker tells me that there were 8 boys in the kindergarten class of ’87, so we’re looking at a 1/7, or ~14.3% probability.

What we really need to know, though, is what are the odds of two events both happening: I get his gift and he gets mine. This one is easy: we just multiply the two probabilities–in this case both 14.3%–to reveal that there was ~2% chance of this happening (approximately 1 in 50).

Now there’s a possibility that this actually happened in first grade, when there were only 7 of us boys, in which case those numbers come out to 1 in 36, or a 2.8% chance.

The irony here is that I just calculated those odds as I wrote this, and I thought I was going to laugh at how bad kids are at estimating such things. But, really, adult-me fully expected those numbers to be much higher, given the small size of the classes in our Podunk town. So it turn out I’m the one with crappy risk-reward intuition, eh?

Well, this disgression didn’t turn out as I had expected. So much for a “Christmas Miracle”…

Anyways, Happy Merry Christmas Eve! Or, for the Rest of Us, today1The day I wrote this, not the day you’re reading it, that is. is the day when we can officially say…Happy Festivus!

Content created on: 23 December 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Famous Last Words Of A Guy Needing A Reliable Ride

17 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

Sometimes I fancy myself a bit of a guardian angel:

Unseen, but always looking out for unsuspecting fine young honeys everywhere…

One of the wonderful benefits of riding public transportation to and from one’s job is that you get to meet all sorts of new and interesting people. For example, a few years ago, I was waiting at my usual bus stop waiting to head home after work. There I was, just minding my own business when one such new and interesting fella approached me. I could see hunger in his eyes, so I was fully expecting him to ask me for some money for food.

Instead, he proceeds to launch into this long and complicated tale that started out like any other “I need bus and/or gas money to get from Point A (our current location) to Point B (a very important place that I need to be most urgently).” I sat there and smiled and nodded politely, not paying close attention at first because, hey, if you’ve heard one of these stories, you’ve heard ’em all, right?

As you can imagine, his request was indeed for money for the bus fare so he could get himself on over to the neighboring city in a most expedient manner. “But what such pressing matters could there be for this young chap in the neighboring city?” you are indubitably wondering right now.

Well, it turns out, there was a “fine young honey”1I can’t remember the exact street slang he used here, but this is a pretty good approximation. in that city impatiently waiting for him to show up for their second date. And he made it pretty clear that if he didn’t make it in time, they wouldn’t be, um…”pressing [their] matters” together later. I mean, he was nearly in tears as he confided in me his worst fear: that there would be no bumping-of-uglies that night.

Oh, things were starting to make sense now. That hunger I had seen in his eyes? Pure sexual hunger. This dude wasn’t asking for gas money; he was asking for ass money.

But the best part was that he tried the classic empathy-inducing “We’ve all been there, right?” line on me.

No, dude, I can’t say I’ve been in your shoes. I have never had to beg strangers for bus money so I could make it to a 2nd-date booty call.

Though I gotta confess, I was tempted to give him the money, as I felt him more than deserving of points for honesty and/or creativity.

Trying to keep my professional demeanor I suppressed my grin as I told him I didn’t have any cash on me and sent him on his way. In the end, I really had to think of that poor young woman. I actually had enough cash to cover his bus fare, but I didn’t have enough to cover what he really should be spending his money on: rubbers.2Kids, this what people used to call condoms, believe it or not.

#DontWantNoScrubs3This tale was initially live-tweeted to my secret Twitter account, so #hashtags make much more sense in that context. And a few select people out there will appreciate this hashtag include in the original tweet: #Gintus.

Moments after this encounter, while I was busy patting myself on the back for helping that young lady dodge a bullet, I noticed the randy lad approach another regular bus stop patron who had just walked up.

I happened to be within earshot, so I got to listen in as he solicited this other guy. After the Scrub-Looking-For-A-Sensual-Rub finished his pathetic plea for ass-money, Guy #2 replied he had just spent his last bit of cash buying crackers at the nearby gas station for another guy who had asked him for money.

“But next time,” he reassured the Scrub, “I promise I’ll buy you some crackers.”

Clearly, this was not the outcome our pitiful supplicant was hoping for.

Before stomping off in disgust, he loudly muttered:

“Man, I don’t want no crackers!”

Now that I can relate to…

#DontWantNoCrackers

Content created on: 12 October 2017 & 17 December 2020 (Thurs/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Talking To My Parents About Drugs Sure Was Informative, Man

10 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

“And the award for ‘Least Amount Of Substances Abused Over A Lifetime’ goes to…”

*ahem* Drum roll, please…

When I was in my early twenties, my mom and I went on a road trip together, and it turned out to be a great opportunity to get to know her as an adult. Somewhere around Saint Louis the topic of illicit drug use came up, as I was curious as to what kind of wild youth she might have had before I came along.

To my surprise, that conversation was much shorter than I expected, as she was able to exhaustively inventory the handful of experiences she had in under 10 minutes. As one might suspect, she had samplings of beer or wine spread throughout her adult years.

Oh, and that one time when she was in grade school when she learned a very valuable life lesson the hard way: once she and her cousin Kenny once dared her uncle to let them have a puff or two on his cigar. In true King Solomon-like fashion, though, he obliged them…on the one condition that they smoked the whole thing.

I’m not sure who called who’s bluff here, but they oh-so-unwisely took him up on his offer, and–in a shocking turn of events–both got sick af. And, she hasn’t touched tobackkie since that fateful 1960 summer day…

While that the tobacco story was quite entertaining and in fact left me laughing so hard I could barely drive, I must say I was a just a wee bit disappointed.

No LSD. No drunken benders. Not even a single drag of the icky-sticky Mary Jane. Not a single ----- skeleton in her closet to incorporate into her eulogy one day.

If I was hoping to hear mind-blowing stories about popping acid I guess I chose the wrong parent to talk to about drugs…

Given her sparse history with judgement-altering chemicals, then, I naturally assumed that there were no new shenanigans of hers to be discovered if the subject were to ever surface again. Or at most, that said shenanigans would be of the “cheeky and fun” variety.1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNPW2wZ4D2s

Fast-forward to a couple months ago when we were just chattin’ away when one of us happened to joke that the two-year-old in the household was acting lightly inebriated. You know, the classic “toddlers are basically drunk midgets” joke and all.

“Ha ha, well you don’t exactly have a whole lot of first-hand experience with that, right, Mom?” I casually commented.

“Just twice that I can think of,” she replied.

Well, this was a mildly interesting development.

“Oh, you’ve actually drank that much before?”

“Yeah, on one of our dates your dad and I went to Hugoton and I drank an entire Bloody Mary. I was a little tipsy after that.”

“Hah! You’re such a lightweight, Mom!”

She just stood there in silence, lightly blushing.

“Hmmph,” I thought to myself, “I’m not sure why my mother’s inability to efficiently metabolize alcohol would warrant an awkward pause…”

After a few more moments of silence, it occurred to me that she seemed to be working hard to not say anything more about that particular incident.

“Wait a minute…”

No doubt she could tell by the look on my face that the puzzle pieces were falling in place in my head.

“Did I…did I just…”

No, surely it couldn’t be.

“Did I just accidentally hear the story of how I was conceived?!?“

Now, the correct response here would have been an immediate and emphatic “No, of course not, Sweetie! That’s silly–you were a spontaneous localized manifestation of multi-dimensional positive energy, just like any other angel.”

But instead, she only blushed harder.

After another pregnant2Yes, of course this pun was very much so indeed intentional. pause, I said the only thing I could think to say in that very dazed and confused moment.

“Welp, I guess I just walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

Looking at me with pity in her eyes, she simply replied, “Yup.”

While typically I would leave you with a singular zinger of pithy life advice, I thought I would change it up and share with you a few of the alternate endings I was kicking around. Here’s an excerpt from my notes as I workshopped the possibilities:

  • “I used to think that those who claimed ‘you learn something new everyday’ were full of shit. Oh, how I wish that were true…”
  • “Well, that was unexpected.” Narrator: “That’s what your mom said!”
  • “…and through all this, it was apparent that Mother had learned yet another very valuable life lesson, as she has never had another beer nor another child since…”
  • Or simply: “Beer: The Fountain Of Youths!”

The truth is, though, it’s alternate beginnings that I’m left wishing for.

Like, what the hell am I supposed to do with this newfound knowledge that I was a Beer Baby?!? Oh, the ----- humanity!

Content created on: 9/10 December 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Tis Better To Just Lust After Your Neighbor’s Wife Instead

3 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

Some call me The Human Garbage Disposal.

Unfortunately, I thought that was a compliment…

“You gonna finish that?”

Rosie stared at me blankly, pulled what little remained of her sandwich out of her open mouth, and stated flatly, “Probably not. Would you like my leftovers?”

“Sure! I let nothing go to waste–and that cranberry turkey sandwich was really what I should have ordered in the first place. You’re the best, Rosie!”

I proceeded to pick up that juicy morsel and devour it in a single gulp. Man, did she sure know how to order the most delicious dishes!

You know, in hindsight, though, I would have been much better served had I picked up on her dry sarcasm instead.

To the objective observer it would have been more than clear that she was not done savoring her sandwich–on account of it already being inserted halfway into her oral cavity and all. At that point y’all gotta know she’s pretty much committed to the act of mastication, and wasn’t exactly hemming and hawing any more about whether she was going to polish it off or not.

Yet somehow, all that was obvious in that moment escaped my grasp, and I sat there and enjoyed the final moments of her meal in blissful oblivion.

Maybe my social faux-pas wouldn’t have been so bad had I not been a grown-ass college student. At the time, I had a summer job toiling away my days with the maintenance crew at a resort in Colorado.1Snow Mountain Ranch in Winter Park, for future reference. Joining me there were a bunch of other Jesus-loving college students all taking part in a larger work-ministry project,2If you need more context, I was heavily involved in the Navigators Christian campus ministry throughout college, for what it’s worth. and we would get together twice a week and have ourselves little church-like meetings. Somehow I fell bass-ackwards into the role of bassist in the band that led the Jesus-loving music for these meetings.

Now, near the end of that summer, the handful of us that comprised the Band–Rosie included–had snuck into town to enjoy one last meal together and reflect on all the memories we had made. And in the midst of this sentimental and solemn moment, there I was, passive-aggressively stealing my bandmate’s food like a complete jackass.

Fortunately, this incident didn’t completely pass without at least one kind soul pointing out the error of my ways.

Chip, the band leader, had come to our celebratory lunch with envelopes containing personal letters for each of us, thanking us for our time and efforts over the last 3 months. Once we were all finished up eating and had a few minutes to chat amongst ourselves, he passed them out to us one by one.

I opened mine and as I read through one thoughtful and touching reflection after another, I found myself trying to not get all misty-eyed. And then, I noticed a last-minute addendum scribbled in the margin at the bottom:

“Seriously, though, you need to let people finish their dang meals in peace. I love you, man, but…what the hell is wrong with you?!?

In Christ, Chip”

Clearly, this was a very important life lesson that he felt needed to be passed on to me with an utmost sense of urgency…

Turns out, his wisdom has proven quite prescient. You wouldn’t believe how many times over the last 13 years the Boss Lady has given me the exact same advice. I’m embarrassed to say that all too often I’m still that same oblivious knucklehead that succulently harassed3It’s a sexual harassment pun…though on second thought, I’m not so sure it’s a funny as I thought it would be… Rosie 20 years ago.

On occasion, though, there are glimpses of hope. One time I had finished my pizza before the Boss Lady had, and caught myself gazing lustily at the half-piece left on her plate.

Realizing that it was already enough to ruin the remaining pleasuring of her palate, I rued quietly to myself, “I wish I could take back that look…”

Self-awareness takes time. But I’m getting there.

Ironically, though, it has been becoming a parent that has really driven the lesson home for me. Sure, it’s a bit self-serving for me to care about this now, but it’s for their own good that I constantly press this hallowed fatherly advice upon my insatiable little goblins:

Always remember: “The Last Bite Is Sacred.”

the #1 Rule of Social Eating

Seriously, though, somebody should have beat my ass in Christ’s name4This is a random place to bring this up, but, Fun Facts: Chip lived next door to me in the employee dorms where we were staying that summer. Then I later found out that Chip and Rosie ended up dating and getting married a year or two later. So in sense, I was lusting after my neighbor’s future wife’s final bit of food. True story. long ago for trying to take their precious final crumbs from them…

Content created on: 2/3 December 2020 (Wed/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Little Bo Peep Has Lost His…Respect For Mainstream Gender Norms?

29 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

Let me ask you something: how old were you when you discovered the True Meaning of Halloween?

Hint: It was never really about the candy…

‘Twas Halloween 1985, and I clearly remember being a 4-year-old boy excited to partake in his first “Spook Parade”1Also known as a costume contest. and the other Fall festivities hosted annually in the hallowed halls of Rolla High School.

Yes, I crisply recall seeing my little-boy Batman underwear as my mother changed me into my special outfit in the women’s’ restroom next to the RHS band room.

Ahh, the fond memory of her pulling a long beruffled shirt over my golden curls and past those Batman underwear, and thinking “well, this shirt is…interesting.”

I remember her tying the bonnet around the same little chin that one day, thanks to natural testosterone, would be covered in blonde whiskers.

Oh, how the feel of that toy shepherd’s crook in my future Man-hands2Seinfeld reference! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuwLFkpk4Lw is forever encoded in the depths of my cranium…

The one thing I don’t remember, however, is the family friend asking my mom with a quizzical look on her face: “Oh, who does this cute little girl belong to?”

No, that particular detail I had to get second-hand from the same mother who, being inspired by my luscious loopy yellow locks, decided to take indecent liberties with a child child’s Halloween costume that year.

Yes, Mother, I remember.

I remember (almost) everything.

And I precisely recollect staring at that strange-yet-familiar little girl in that bathroom mirror, and thinking to myself:

“So this is what the holidays are all about…”

The point of the story is, if you’re not bending your gender at least a wee little bit with your costume this year,3Here but a few examples: Finding Yourself On The Fairy Farm & No Cookies For Kesha (technically the latter is an example of “Halloween in February,” but nevertheless…). then I would argue you aren’t Halloweening right.

And don’t just take my word for it: One out of one mothers whole-heartedly agree.

Right, Mom?

Bonus: In case you don’t know “what the holidays are all about”… This is from the hit 90’s NBC sitcom Seinfeld, “The Gum”4 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0697705/ episode, which somehow gets quoted way too much around our household:

Pro tip: It’s the perfect zinger for any underwhelming holiday moment–especially ones that involve chewing.

For example, this November 1st, when you get busted with your mouth full of Halloween candy you stole from your kid, you’ll be ready with the perfect reply that’s guaranteed to go right over their little head!

“Moooommy! Wha-wha-what are you doing?!?”

*Trying to talk and chew 3 Fun Size Snickers at the same time* “This is what the holidays are all about!”

Parents…you’re welcome.

Content created on: 28/29 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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