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.
Vacations: everybody could use one, and, in fact, many have earned one, too. But sometimes it’s hard to tell oneself “I earned this” and actually request one (much less actually enjoy it).
That’s definitely me. I typically earn more vacation hours than I feel compelled to use, and so on occasion I’m pretty much forced to take time off just so I don’t lose them hard-earned hours.
A couple of summers ago, I had been wrestling with trying to get a scientific paper submitted and published for what seemed like forever. So when I finally got an actual draft completed it seemed like a good time to cash in on a week’s worth of that much-needed vacay time.
We weren’t going anywhere as a family; instead, I had grand plans of getting sh*t done around the house that had long been neglected. You know, a lot of hands-on projects.
Come the Monday morning of my vacation week, the first thing I decided to tackle was very much so indeed ‘hands-on’: the strip of our lawn between the sidewalk and the street had been overgrown with a bunch of thick-stalked, deep-rooted weeds. And I was going to hand-pluck every last one of those m*therf**kers.
This turned out to be some rather intense manual labor, and by the end of the morning I wasn’t even halfway done–but my hands were full of blisters already, despite wearing garden gloves.
I figured I would give my hands a rest and would tackle the remaining weeds the following day. However, the next morning I discovered that my hands were so painfully blistered that they were useless for even the slightest hint of “manual labor” or “hands-on tasks.”
Welp, there went my vacation! I didn’t get jack-squat done with my precious time off. In fact, I was just miserable the whole time, thanks to my poor decision making. Great job, me.
The point of the story is choose your ----- battles, man. Simple as that. As you were, soldier, as you were…
On a very remotely related note…at my grandmother’s funeral a couple of years ago, my uncle was delivering the eulogy, and made some comment about “the grandkids coming in after playing in the woods all day.”
I remember turning to my brother and sharing this look that said “What in the ----- is he talking about? We’re in Southwest Kansas–there aren’t any ‘woods’ for at least 150 miles in any direction!”
Then, to great humorous effect, he corrected himself, noting that he meant to say “playing in the weeds all day.”
Everyone let out a chorus of chuckles: it was funny because it was true af.
Weeds–now that sounded a lot more like our collective childhood…
One time in college, I went on a road trip with a random group of acquaintances to a conference in Iowa. To pass the time, we decided to play “20 Questions”–a real road trip classic, right?
This must have been the Fall of 2001, because that was the only period in my life when I was a white boy rocking some dreadlocks. Being my own self-inspiration, I thought that would be an interesting one to do when it came my turn.
Oh, and to be clear, I had chosen “dreadlocks,” not “white boy rocking some dreadlocks”…though in retrospect the latter might have been the more humorous choice.
Anyways, at one point I was asked “Does it have hair?”
*Record scratches*
I’m pretty sure I short-circuited in the face of this unanticipated, yet obvious, question. It was not patently obvious what the correct answer was, and I desperately begged them to choose a different question, as I could foresee both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ only causing more confusion and delay.
Nevertheless, they persisted, and forced me to answer that bedeviling question.
After much agonizing and gnashing of teeth, I went with “No”.
After all, it was hair, and those hairs did not have their own little hairs on them, right?
I wasn’t surprised, though, when the other team ended up running out of questions before guessing what it was.
The guy who had asked the ‘hair’ question was particularly livid when he found out the answer was “dreadlocks”, and was furious that I had answered “No”.
A heated philosophical debate ensued, attempting to answer the question “Can hair ‘have’ hair?”
The result? Let’s just say that someone almost ended up stranded in an Iowan cornfield without a ride home that autumn evening…
Oh, and the two of us never really spoke to each other ever again.
I guess the point of the story is that if you have a mediocre relationship with someone and are looking for a way to discreetly and justifiably cut them out of your life, just play 20 Questions and choose “dreadlocks” as your magic word.
You’re welcome.
Content created on: 24 April 2018 (originally via Twitter) & 8 October 2020 (Tues/Thurs)
My mom has 11 grandchildren. Of those, the first two cousins missed being born exactly one year apart by less than one day.
Over two decades later, the Boss Lady went into labor with our first daughter (aka “the Elder”) late in the evening two days before the first of these two birthdays. Making the obvious assumption that the Elder would subsequently be delivered within 24 hours, I was all nerding out over the fact that Mom would have grandchildren with birthdays on 3 consecutive days. You know, like some sort of Grandkid Birthday Bingo or what-not.
Well, that rascal took 36 hours to show up, so instead of getting a Bingo, Mom finally got that pair of Birthday Twins she had just missed out on 21 years prior. Oh, right…what are Birthday Twins, you ask? Well, they’re simple two non-twins who share the same birthday.1Typically the birth year is ignored.
I suspect Birthday Twins, like phantom flatulence, must run in our family.2Two of my sisters are for-realz twins, FWIW. When I was in high school in Podunkville, Kansas, there were somewhere between 15-17 of us in my entire class. Yet, somehow within that small group, I was privileged to be a B-Twin myself. Even better, we not only shared the same birth-year (obviously), but we even had the same first name, LOL. What are the odds?!?
Seriously, though: what are the odds?
For simplicity’s sake, we’ll stick with the basic case of celebrating your birthday the same day of the year as someone else. Examining the odds of having the same name and birth-year, as in my case, is, as the academics say, “Beyond the scope of this text.”
I was introduced to this so-called “Birthday Problem”3https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birthday_problem on the first day of my philosophy class in college, and have been infatuated with it every since. This is actually one of the more well-known examples of how, by default, we humans are pretty dang terrible at estimating probabilities and assessing risks. And it all stems from fairly innocent-looking question: “For a group with a certain number of people in it, what are the odds that two people share the same birthday?”
But I say we should, as a shady character might say “make things interesting”–let’s put some hypothetical money on the line.
Say you’re a well-travelled social butterfly with a gambling addiction, living in the times before COVID-19. You attend many parties and gatherings all throughout the year, of all different sizes.
Feeling the irresistible urge to feed your habit, you need to find a sure-fire way to make bets without ending up in the Poor House. Enter the Birthday Problem–which, by the way, is actually a pretty great icebreaker at social gatherings in real life.
You know that since you go to so many parties, you can always put money on two people having the same birthday any time the probability of that being true is at least 50% or above, and bet against it otherwise. Over many parties and many wagers you’re statistically guaranteed to come out on top.
As long as you know roughly how many people are at the party, you can be confident whether those odds are above 50% or not.
Actually, the question that you need to answer is simpler than that: “How many party peoples need there be present to have at least a 50% chance of finding a pair of B-Twins amongst them?”
That’s right: one number. You don’t to memorize any fancy formulas and calculate them in your head in real time. You only need to know one number to guide your foolproof betting scheme.
Oh, man. You’re going to be so ----- rich.
Now, let’s run the numbers…
Bear with me, as I’m doing this from memory, instead of being smart and just googling it. FYI, my probabilities run between 0 (ain’t happening, ever) to 1 (it’s a certified irrefutable fact), which translates to 0%-100% in everyday-speak.
The key to this is asking the right questions. The first questions is: what are the odds 2 people don’t have the same birthday? Then you only need to subtract that number from 1 to get the probability that they do. So:
Pyep(pp) = 1 - Pnope(pp),
where Pyep is the probability that “yep, we got a pair of B-Twins up in heeeer,” while Pnope is the probability that “nope, they all be a bunch of unique snow-flakes in these parts,” and both of these are functions of pp, the number of Party Peoples present.
This one is pretty simple. The first person can lay claim to 1 out of the 365 days in a regular year, leaving 364 days that the other person can have without them making a pair.
Now bring in another person. Two days of the year have already been claimed, leaving 363 days for the third person. This probability needs to be multiplied by the probability that the first two people didn’t have the same birthday:
At this point Pyep almost quadruples to 0.82%, so we can see that this isn’t linear. Why is it important that it is not linear? Because linear usually == intuition. Intuitively, humans are pretty good at linear extrapolation: “Oh, housing prices have gone up steadily over the last 5 years; no doubt that will go up by the same amount over the next 5 years!” (Note: this intuition would typically be wrong; see 2008.)
And so it goes: with each new person, the number on top decreases by 1 day, and that fraction is multiplied by the previous Pnope. At this point I’m going to cheat and use a screenshot from Wikipedia4https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birthday_problem to show you the general equation:
Figure 1: A more general formula for what I call Pnope.
It may look kinda scary, but don’t worry: we don’t have to do this by hand or in our head. It’s not that bad if you have a good calculator or math software. To that point, I took the liberty of plotting it for you in MATLAB:
Figure 2: Odds of finding Birthday Twins, as a function of Party Peoples.
TWENTY-THREE PARTY PEOPLES. Not only is that going to be the name of my next band, but it is also the answer to your poverty problems. Twenty-two party peoples or less? Bet against Birthday Twins. Twenty-three party peoples or more? Bet on there being at least 1 pair in the crowd.
That’s all you need to know!
The point of the story is that if you can accept that your intuition might not always be right–and you know how to ask the right questions–you’re going to be rich.
Oh, man, you’re going to be so ----- rich.
Content created on: 10/25 September 2020 (Thurs/Fri)
Recently I was chatting with our 7 y.o. daughter “The Elder,” when I found myself lamenting how, while I can usually orally regale1Oh. Jeez. No, no, no, no. That is not a sexual ephemism. I just mean telling a story via the spoken word. You ----- pervert. someone with one of my many pointless stories in under 5 minutes start-to-finish, the same tale will always take a much larger chunk of my time to compose as a blog post.
This is actually a pretty big issue for me, as the time burden of producing written content can often really take the joy out of the whole process. It makes my Gift of Gab feel more like my Unbearable and Inescapable Curse of Gab most of the time.
And, you, Dear Readers, are the ones who end up suffering when you have to wade through my thoughts, only to be ‘rewarded’ with a punchline that was written in a state of exhaustion. Verily, you deserve only the finest puns and turns of phrase, and sadly I don’t always deliver.
Anyways, being a little problem-solver after my own heart, The Elder began brainstorming various ways that could help me churn out my milquetoast blog posts more efficiently.
She rattled off a few suggestions, with her ideas landing all over a spectrum that ran from moderately practical to implausibly fantastical. (She is only 7, after all, so you always gotta be emotionally prepared for at least one solution involving “rainbow-farting unicorns” to be thrown out.)
But then she got on a train of thought about how I could video myself telling my random stories, then go back and transcribe them.
“Wow,” I thought, “now she’s really on to something that might be worth trying out.”
“Not too bad, Kiddo. Not too bad…please, go on.”
“Oh, I know! You can even have some of my stuffed animals interview you…”
“That’s cute: ‘The Teddy Bear Tapes.’ It does have a nice ring to it…”
“…that way you can tell all those stories that I probably shouldn’t hear!”
I had to pause while my mind was being blown.
“Holy shit, that is genius!”
“Just one problem, though, Daddy.”
“Yeah?”
“You probably shouldn’t say ‘shit’ around me either. Save it for the stuffies.”
There. There you go. There’s your punchline. Hope it was worth your 2 minutes!2Ok, Judgy McJudgikins, for the official record, I didn’t actually say ‘shit’…out loud, at least.
I looked down at my bright red shirt before delivering my retort.
“What? You expected me to wear blue like every other ----- person at the game? Pffft! Please!”
Despite being a bona fide grad school at the University of North Carolina–and despite getting free tickets to watch our renowned basketball team play some podunk school over Christmas break–something irked me about wearing “Carolina Blue” and being just another drop of water in the ocean of UNC fans.
And this pompous roommate of mine who found it necessary to razz me about it? Well, this asshat was really irking me.
Further, him being a prick about it only served to reinforce my resolve to not be yet another bougie blue sheep in the herd. Screw him–I was wearing my plain Communist-red tee1It’s a reference to the band Plain White Tees, best known for their hit single “Hey there, Delilah.” One of our roommates at the time played it non-stop. True story… for sure now.
So off I went to the game with another of my roommates, Esteban, proud of myself for being such a rebel, but otherwise not giving it much thought.
It wasn’t the first time I had to deal with sticking out like a sore thumb, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. And I didn’t mind the occasional odd look–a small price to pay to march to the beat of my own drummer, I like to say.
In fact, it was kinda fun confusing people, seeing as how the visiting team’s color was orange, so it wasn’t really clear at all by the way I dressed for whom exactly it was I was rooting.
It was good times, indeed.
Later, coming back from the game, I was regaling Esteban with the tale about how P.F. Chaz (the roommate from earlier) was riding my ass about the red shirt.
Now usually Esteban lent a sympathetic ear to my various asinine causes–completely unlike ol’ PFC–so it took me slightly by surprise when he thought for a moment before simply stating, “Yeah, many people take a lot of pride in their team and its colors. I could see how they might find it a little rude…and it just seems a bit unnecessary on your part.”
Oh, it was a classic M. Night2You know, the writer/director of such twist-centric movies as The Sixth Sense, The Village, and Signs. moment, indeed: ’twas I who had been the asshat all along–what a tweeest!
The first point of the story is that there is something to be said about using your criticism sparingly. If you’re a full-time dickhead, your friends and family aren’t going to be able to hear you when that moment arises when they need to be told lovingly that they’re being a bit of an a-hole.
The second point is for all of those ‘Mericans out there who can identify all too well with me in this story. Yup, I speak of those of us who put a disproportionate premium on their personal rights. To all of us in this category, consider the following.
Sure, I could exercise my rights to be different and do my own thang. But at the same time, maybe–just maybe–I could think of it as an opportunity for me to willingly set those rights aside as an act of service and respect to those around me.3WWJD–amiright?!?
You know, and to not be a complete turd for no good reason. So, wear a ----- mask already. Rhonda.
Oh, what’s that? Did you really expect this story to end any differently? Pfft!
It’s a reference to the band Plain White Tees, best known for their hit single “Hey there, Delilah.” One of our roommates at the time played it non-stop. True story…
Editor’s note: This is the B-List of Mediocre Life Tips. If you’re looking for the A-List, you can find it here.
Hello Dear Readers! I hope you found my first list of tips to be life-enhancing–or mildly thought-provoking at the very least.
These “tips” I share often tend to be arbitrary and capricious, and are merely methods and madness that I have found to work well [enough] for me. Heck, I can’t even claim credit for the vast majority of them. To be clear: this is not professional advice from a trained expert (though I doubt any of you were clinging onto my every last word like it was the Gospel of John to begin with…).
The reason I bring up the casual nature of my Life Tips is because I know how annoying it can be when someone makes a suggestion for you to act upon, but somehow they have a disproportionately burdensome expectation for you to follow through on their opinion. I mean, when was the last time you had a friend highly recommend you read their blog and just know that they’re judging you when it becomes obvious you haven’t followed through?1If you’re reading this, then it’s already too late.
So, to be clear, I have no expectations that anyone will actually follow these tips. Take them or leave them at your leisure.
However, I am very interested in hearing about all the random life tips y’all out there might have, so I highly encourage you to share them in the comments. I can’t make any promises that I will heed your words, but you never know who else is reading that may find your tip to be the perfect human-experience enhancing tidbit missing from their life.
So, without further rambling, here’s another Chernobyl Handful2TM? of ways that the icing on the cake of my life has been made just a wee bit sweeter.
6. I can’t promise that every Life Tip list will include a butter-centric entry, but the streak isn’t gonna end with this one! I love me some grilled cheese sandwiches, and enjoy finding different ways to turn them into slightly fancier culinary experiences. In addition to the bonus tip of using copious amounts of butter, I recommend adding a little sweetness to all that savory by adding some butter-grilled pear or apple slices.
Before you begin grilling the bread, throw them in the pan with a quarter stick of butter, turning once to ensure each side gets nice and caramelized. Bonus bonus tip: be sure to perform some “quality control” to make sure they’re delicious AF before adding them to your sandwich.
5. Fun fact: I actually worked in customer service for a cell phone company for a year and half between undergrad and grad school. Early on in that career, I attended a mandatory “How to talk to customers” class with all the other noobs. My take-away from that class was that with a few slight communication tweaks, many of my human interactions could be made significantly smoother.
The one that really stuck with me was the phrase “If you would, could you…?” used when asking something of someone. The beauty of this is that it reframes the situation from you demanding something of them to them having the opportunity to do you a favor.
Would you like that used in a sentence? Sure!
“If you would, could you subscribe to the Point of the Story’s newsletter, and share your favorite article(s) with everyone you know?”
No? Too thirsty?
4. If you’re like me, the shower is perhaps the most fertile ground for interesting thoughts. The downside to that is that you may find yourself losing more time than an alien abductee.
If you’re trying to conserve water or just need to stay on schedule, try picking out 1 or 2 Shower Jamz to listen to while you wash up. Their running time should roughly add up to your ideal shower time, which should clock in around 2-3 minutes (I personally have a lot of shower thoughts, so I need 5-6 minutes).
As always, a word of caution is warranted here. If you use YouTube to supply your hand-selected Jamz, your cheap ass may want to consider upgrading to the Ad-Free version.
Let’s just say that there is no greater motivation to get the ----- out of the shower than the prospect of being held captive for 6 minutes by a St. Jude’s commercial featuring real kids with adolescent leukemia.
*Whomp whomp whommmmmmmp*
3. If you want to rock out in the shower but don’t want to shell out the cash for a BlueTooth speaker, at least take advantage of the laws of physics readily available in the bathroom.
The projection of the audio from your phone speakers can be easily enhanced by setting it in the [dry] sink with the speaker facing the drain as best as possible. This is approximately the same geometry as a satellite dish receiver or many modern large-scale telescopes.
You may be thinking that I’m over-hyping the situation, though I suspect that is probably because you’re thinking of the word hyperbolic when the one you’re actually looking for is parabolic.
Boom! I award myself two points for nailing both a geometric and a linguistic reference in the same breath.
2. Do you love to eat oranges, but hate making a juicy mess every time you peel one?
I, too, was once like you…when I was 3, to be exact.
I have a distinct memory of getting fed up with getting covered in fresh OJ every time I wanted a citrusy snack without adult supervision. With the utmost determination, I set out to divine the perfect algorithm for peeling oranges. After about a week of practice and 12-18 oranges later, I had mastered the Art of the Orange.
And, yes, I was ----- proud of myself then, and ----- proud of myself now…apparently.
Now, most of my techniques would fall under the categories of either common sense or basic fine motor skills, so I won’t bore you with the details.
However, there was one innovation–at least by toddler standards–worth noting: get a clean start to the peeling process by biting skin-depth into the pedicel region (the “polar cap” containing the stem).
You’ll want to go all the way through the flavedo and almost all the way through the albedo,4Yes, I just learned those two terms. Indubitably. just stopping short of breaking the inner membrane. With any luck, you should be able to twist the cap off and pull out most of the central column with it.
Tada! You’re 1/3 of the way done, and not a single drop of juice on your fingers!
Years later in grad school, when I was about to enjoy an orange in the lab, one of my professors strolls in and was like, “Ha ha–you know how to peel an orange right?”
Okay, first I gotta point out that this was a very poorly phrased question and made him sound borderline condescending.
Anyways, I responded the same way any other non-3-year-old should: “Uh…I think so. Why do you ask?”
Despite his choice of words, he actually had a pretty good hack for peeling oranges that I promptly added to my repertoire: before peeling, roll the orange around on a solid surface for 30-60 seconds. This will work wonders for separating the peel from the flesh, all without even breaking the skin!
As a bonus, this method will also provide you with a wonderful palm massage.
1. Speaking of massages…good lord, ear massages! This life-changing tip comes to us from my Korean Umma5I.e. mother[in-law] via my wife–just so you know who you should really be thanking.
I promise you, once you’ve been introduced to these, you’ll wonder how you lived so long without them.
Ear massages are a great stress reliever, on-demand any time you need it! While they are fantastic as a gift given, there is no shame in a little self-lovin’ when given to one’s self.
Start out by grasping the lobule and slowly and firmly tugging downwards (Fig. 1A). Use enough force to almost be painful; the edge of discomfort is where the tension really gets released. Hold for 10-15 seconds, gently massaging the lobule between your thumb and index finger. Release. Repeat if desired.
Figure 1. Tugging techniques.
Likewise, tug the upper helix upwards (Fig. 1B) and the outer helix towards the back of your head (Fig. 1C), again holding for 10-15 second while gently massaging between your fingers.
Next you will want to release the tension in the opposite direction. This can be achieved by “folding” up the lobule such that it meets the tragus (aka the flap that could cover the ear canal–Fig. 2A), and then pressing the now-exposed underside of the lobule to apply firm pressure to the tragus underneath (Fig. 2B). Hold for 10-15 seconds before releasing. Repeat as desired.
Figure 2. Folding the lobule upwards.
As with the tugging technique, you will want to perform the analogous exercises for the upper helix (Figs. 3A, 3B) and the outer helix (not shown).
Figure 3. Folding the upper helix downwards.
The last part is my favorite part: the tragus. Pushing firmly at roughly a 45-degree angle into and toward the back of your head, pulsate the tragus at a rate of about once per second (Fig. 4A) for 10-15 seconds. End with constant pressure on the tragus (Fig. 4B) for a final 10 seconds.
Figure 4. Working the tragus.
These massages can be performed on one ear at a time, or simultaneously on both ears at the same time. The latter is particularly nice during the tragus-specific massages.
Ear massages are meant to be indulgent, so please, enjoy with reckless abandon.
Again, please share any random-ass Life Tips you may have in the comments below.
Er, I meant, “If you would, could you kindly share us your favorite Life Tips in the comments below?”
And, as always, check out the Life Tips page for all the wisdom accumulated herein. Shalom!
I recently had the pleasure of seeing Jerry Seinfeld live, and something he said reminded me how much of an under-rated philosopher1I shit thee not, I have to credit the wisdom of Seinfeld for my marriage to a woman waaaaaay out of my league…one day, Young Grasshopper, I will regale you with that tale… he is:
“Forget the best–if you want to be happy in life, then ask for good enough. I don’t want to eat at the best restaurant–too much pressure and almost inevitable disappointment. Point me to a good enough restaurant and I’ll be 10 times happier.”
Jerome Seinfeld
So in honor of the genius behind “The show about nothing,” and also to throw a bone to the list-loving Bourgeois at there, I present to you 6 random middle-of-the-road Life Tips, in no particular order.
Are they the best Life Tips I have to offer? Ah, hecks, no. But, meh, good enough, right?
Without further ado, I present to you…
When eating toast, don’t settle for a peasant’s meal–butter both sides of the bread for an instant fancy feast. Because nothing says “damn straight, I’m worth it” like an extra pat of butter…
Speaking of “butt” and “both sides”…if you have somehow walked through life without being introduced to the pure revelation that are buttwipes, then chances are you’ve been walking through life with some unnecessarily crusty cheeks. Seriously folks, once you go Cottonelle,2Personally, my family uses Kirkland Signature Moist Flushable Wipes, available at your local Costco. you can never go back. I was 26 before my future wife showed me the light, and I seriously wonder how the hell I lived with myself for those first 25 years.
A word of caution though: if you or a loved one own a sceptic tank, you might want to consider trying to get by on half a wipe per flush. My in-laws didn’t use them until the year that the Boss Lady and I lived with them. Five months in and they had to pump the sceptic tank way ahead of schedule. You can imagine my father-in-law was not pleased when out came wad after wad of wipes–it was visceral evidence that our high-falutin’ hygienic habits of the heinie were the reason he was out $2000.
After hearing stories like that, it easy to understand why the packaging for these products are so very adamant about only flushing one at at time–almost rising to a comical level, even. But…PSSST! I have a secret for you: if you find yourself mildly displeased with your job and really want to stick it to The Man, do like I doo-doo, and flush 2 at a time when doing your business at work. That’ll show ’em.
Ahh, the simple guilty pleasures in life…
Are you tired of freezing your ass off after getting out of a nice warm shower? When I was about 7 or so, I realized that the hotter the shower, the more miserable I was when I got out into the air that was now relatively even more cold. It occurred to me that if the hot water was the problem, then logically, ice cold water should be the solution. I soon found myself in the habit of blasting myself with the coldest water possible for as long as I could bear, ~30-60 seconds, right before getting out of the shower–something I’ve done with every single shower I’ve taken since then. It wasn’t until roughly 30 years later before I was made aware of the scientific literature supporting similar practices.3Just google “cold shower circulation” for a selection of references. I guess I was just a boy years ahead of his time…#HumbleBrag?
Feeling frisky and want to tempt a date with diabetes? Then grab that bottle of Hershey’s syrup, and apply directly to the soda pop of your choice! I personally prefer chocolatinated Dr. Pepper or Pepsi.
This next tip is courtesy of my beloved mother. It was only in the last few weeks that I learned that she has this ritual of sending a different, typically higher-end, tea bag with the hand-written letters she sends to her long-distance friends, and likewise they do the same. So in addition to reading a heart-warming letter from a dear old friend, they brew up the tea and simultaneously enjoy having their bodies warmed in a delightful new way each time as well. Such a touching and thoughtful gesture is about enough to make me want to dust off my cursive skills and start hand-writing letters to my friends…almost.
Are your blog posts just too ----- long? Why not just split them in two! No one will ever notice you’re 4 short of a Top-10 list anyways. And as bonus, you’ve already got next Thursday’s post done as well!
I shit thee not, I have to credit the wisdom of Seinfeld for my marriage to a woman waaaaaay out of my league…one day, Young Grasshopper, I will regale you with that tale…
Autumn is my favorite time of year for many reasons, but I think taking my annual trip(s) to the North Carolina State Fair is in the Top Two of my favoritest reasons.
With this year’s fair in full swing it seems like Nothing Could Be Finer1This is the NC State Fair’s slogan. Year in, and year out. It kinda feels like GroundHog Day… than regaling you with a random collection of my fair-related thoughts.
A trip to the State Fair can be an exciting adventure, especially when it comes to trying new food and riding thrilling rides.
But the quickest way to ruin all the fun is going with a large group. Whew boy, did I learn that the hard way the first year I went with my in-laws with our 6-month-old in tow.
It didn’t help that I’m a planner and my wife’s kin are more of the improvisational type. While the details of that episode don’t make for a very interesting narrative, I just want to say: Good News, Everybody! We’re still married 6 years after that incident.
Now, we could have saved ourselves much strife had I listened to the Boss Lady’s wise suggestion of just her and I coming back a separate night. Yet it wasn’t until the next year that we made another date-night like trip so we could enjoy the evening vibe of the Fair.
It was two years ago, though, with the Boss Lady 8 months pregos, that I stumbled upon a truly magical formula. Just like the time I met up with a friend for lunch at Chick-Fil-A and he ordered two sandwiches, the possibility of taking as many trips to the Fair as I ----- well pleased was a mind-blowing revelation. I fancy myself to be fairly open-minded, so I’m not sure why it took so long in either case to realize what seems obvious in retrospect.
I took three trips that year: once with my 4-year-old daughter, once with the Boss Lady, and once with my gluten-sensitive mother.
The beauty of the multiple trips is that I didn’t have to act so insecurely–yes, it is possible for a grown-ass man to act that way–about doing the things I wanted to do and trying the tasty foods I wanted to try. It was a rather liberating experience.
The best part was that I could focus on making sure my current companion enjoyed her time as much as possible, on account of my bucket-list being 1/3 of its original size.
So to bring the boring part of this post to a close, my main two fair-going tips are:
Two’s company and three’s a crowd: take multiple trips if possible to keep your party size to a minimum. Trying to make everyone happy usually ends up with no one being happy.
Make a plan with a map in hand. Fair technology usually lags behind the rest of society, but they’re starting to catch up. Still, I wouldn’t rely on the false promises of a Fair-provided smart phone app. Sort out the top 3 foods and top 3 attractions that you really want to hit up, and make sure you have a real good idea of where to find them. DO THIS BEFORE YOU GO–actually at the Fair is not the time nor place to prove your wild-goose chasing skills
I think what I love the most about the Fair is that Nothing Could Be Finer than the level of People Watching that it has to offer. If you ever fear that you might be living inside of a bubble, there’s nothing like a State Fair to re-educate you.
There are several games you can play here, and can be even more fun with a partner.
My personal favorite is assessing the “economics of couples,” for lack of a better term.
Questions to ask:
Do they look like they belong together?
Which one is out of their league?
Which one is settling?
Perhaps they are well-matched and/or deserve each other?
Relationships, whether we want to admit it or not, are largely transactional. If there seems to be a noticeable relational economic imbalance, try to imagine what hidden variables there might be that could make that particular pairing make more sense.
A sampling of theorems:
Is he packing some serious heat in his pantalones?
Alcohol.
Alcohol-induced kid.
Does he make a lot more money than he looks like he does?
Perhaps personality does matter?
Unreliable contraception.
Maybe the classic “light vehicular manslaughter/blackmail” combo?
The only limit is your imagination!
Another fun activity is taking turns pointing out random people and trying to guess, on a scale of 1 to 10, what level of executive function they possess. Do they appear to have a history of making good life choices? Or, are the like one hapless chap I encountered last year…
I had gone to use the restroom, and was doing my thang at the long row of urinals when in walks a young guy holding a hot dog in one of those coffee-filter-like hot dog napkin/holders.
He steps up to the urinal, and I can’t help but notice out of the corner of my eye that he is hesitant about something. I recoiled in horror as I realize that he decided that he had no choice but to put his hot dog on the floor by his feet while he whizzed only inches above.
I watched him as finished his business, shook off the PVD,2Post-void drip, because I know you were wondering. retrieve his dog from the ground, and take a bite on his way out the door.
I keep running that series of unfortunate events through my mind, re-contextualizing it as one of those “Noooooooo!” scenes from an action/war movie where a character lunges towards the bomb/grenade in a last milli-second attempt to advert explosive disaster.
Figure 1. How I fancy myself saving that young dude from his pee-pee hot dog. A: Total Recall style. B: Doin’ it like Derek (Zoolander). C: I could only hope to match Nic Cage’s dramatic flair, seen here in The Rock.
I feel like it was a moral failure on my part letting him eat that hot dog. Had I been quick on my feet (and on the zip), I should have smacked it out of his hands before…ugh, I can’t even type it without having to choke down a little bit of vomit. Anyways, in this alternate universe in my head, I would have also kindly bought him a replacement one.
…’cuz if your life is such that you’re going to piss on your hot dog and still eat it, you deserve every ounce of compassion I can mustard up.
I find that I often get lost in my own head when People Watching. Well, maybe it’s more akin to the Five Stages of Grief. Therefore, I present to you The Six Stages of People Watching:
Stage 1: Shock. Remember what I said about stepping outside your bubble? I mean, holy shit, though. There are some specimen that I’m stunned to discover that they even exist. You know, people that I never imagined possible. And I’m always amazed by the incredible diversity…of white people, in particular.
Stage 2: Gratitude. In a brief moment of clarity, I’ll have a fleeting thought of just how ----- fortunate I am. No, I’m not saying that everyone at the Fair is a bunch of sad sacks. Rather, it’s just that when I behold the spectrum and distribution of all the human experiences represented at the Fair, it is clear that in spite of perceived imperfections, my lot in life has been more than most people could ever hope for. It’s a humbling experience.
Stage 3: Disappointment. While I actually had a decent chance of finding “my people” on the Fairy Farm,3See: Finding Yourself on the Fairy Farm. there ain’t no way in hell I’m going to find them in the cultural haystack that is the Fair. Or, more likely, I would find them but not realize it because I would be in too much denial, saying “NO. I am nothing at all like that guy…who is essentially my doppelganger in both body and character…who also has a half-Asian honey hanging off his arm…why is she even with that chump…wait a minute…uh, let’s just move on to judging the next couple.”4Goddamn you, Funhouse Mirrors.
Stage 4: Condescension. If you’ve read enough of my musings around here, you know that I often implore all y’all of us to be non-judgemental in spirit.5See, for example, Lawnmower Man or A Pound Casual AssHat. Understand that most of the time, I’m preaching at myself. My ability to be a judgy pompous ----- is usually limited in scope under normal circumstances. But get me on some fairgrounds and you best stand back, or else you’re going to be feeling a gust of my air of superiority to yo’ face. If I were to enter into a mockery skills competition at the Fair, I no doubt would be taking home a Best in Show ribbon. There’s just too many opportunities to pass up…
Stage 5: Self-loathing. Without fail, I will achieve some unwelcome self-awareness in the midst of Stage 4. It’s never fun to realize how shitty you really can be.
Stage 6: Acceptance. Eventually I find some stasis, and learn to live with myself. The key is to acknowledge that, like everyone else I’ve encountered during my excursions to the Fair, I too am a complex and nuanced mixed bag of goodies, worthy of at least a little bit of self-grace.
I’ll end this with a tale that I guess technically falls under the People Watching motif.
First off, it needs to be understood that I’m a borderline cheapskate, so the fact I’m able handle all the wastes of money that the Fair has to offer is an accomplishment in and of itself. I’ve learned to relax and blow a little dough on the foods, but I’m still pretty resistant to spend money on rides, games, or other such non-sense.
Several years back, the Boss Lady and I were enjoying a rare baby-free evening at the Fair, when we found ourselves romantically wandering to no place in particular.
Passing through the Midway, we saw several Ripley’s-Believe-It-Or-Not type mini-attractions. The World’s Tallest Horse, the Bearded Lady–largely scoffable stuff like that. “There may be a sucker born every minute, but you mother ----- aren’t getting a dollar out of me!” I proclaimed loudly in my head.
We came across the World’s Tiniest Woman, advertised to be something like only 2 feet tall. For some reason, we said “Screw it! It’s worth $1 each to call their bluff!” We each paid our dollar, and filed in and around to where this tiny human being was supposed to be.
Now, I really don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe some sort of obvious and cheap optical illusion using mirrors and lenses? I’m not sure.
But when I came around the corner, I guess I wasn’t expecting to see a real live woman.
Yet, laying in a basket was a real live woman.
She seemed to have some genetic disease and appeared to have severely stunted growth, but nothing like the to-scale tiny person with tiny head, etc. that I thought they were advertising. Oh, and I believe she was an amputee to boot6No pun intended.–which I kinda felt like was cheating a bit. After all they said tiniest, not shortest.
Anyways, when I came around that corner, I found myself unexpectedly making direct and deep eye contact with her.
I think it would have been a little gentler of an experience if not for that detail.
Honestly, the whole thing was a shock. She said hi to the pair of us, but all I could do was stumble out of there in a bit of a daze.
We talked about the experience for the rest of the night, as there was a lot to unpack.
Neither of us realized that we were literally walking into a situation where a real person was going to be turned into a money-making spectacle. We simply weren’t emotionally prepared to be partaking in the patron side of a what was essentially a classic freak show. Had we known that we would be implicitly mocking and ostracizing someone, we most assuredly would have passed on the experience.
On the other hand…the Boss Lady made an excellent point that she (the World’s Tiniest Woman) had the opportunity to make a living for herself, and that our $2 could be seen as contributing to a decent enough cause.
And of course there was the whole issue of making inadvertent eye contact. We agreed that it was one of those moments were the awkward thought dominating your mind is “I don’t know where to look…”
I think we both would have been fine, had we known what we were getting into. After all, if one were being thoughtful, loving, and compassionate, then eye contact is probably one of the most dignified and respectful things we could have given her.
The problem was, however, that she could no doubt see the cognitive dissonance in our eyes, as we grappled with reconciling our skeptical expectations with the reality in front of us. It was basically breezing through Stages 1, 3, & 5 in under a second.
And even to this day still, I’m not quite sure I ever reached Stage 6…
About once a month or so, I accidentally find myself going through my feed. And every time, I’m like, “Oh yeah. I remember why I never visit these parts of the interwebs…” Usually this is due to the fact that it reminds me that, *sigh*, I’m related to certain people.
Well, to be fair, it’s more that I’m related to certain types of Facebook people. I love my large extensive family through and through, but, damn, does Facebook ever bring out the dumbassery/face-slappery in all of us1By using the term “us”, the implication is that I include myself in the group of people susceptible to the negative effects of Facebook. or what? That’s largely why I stay far, far away from even making eye contact with the beast. It won’t end well for my public image.2…which is hilarious given what I’m up to here at thepointofthestory.com. The irony is not lost…nay, it is embraced.
Further, it should be a fair reminder why neither business nor family pair well with politics or religion. I posit that Facebook’s slogan really should be “Facebook: serving up only the shittiest parts of Thanksgiving, all year round!”
But avoiding interpersonal shenanigans with loved ones isn’t always easy. For example, it is typically my own mother who makes me regret visiting ye ol’ Book of Faces the most.
IRL,3In Real Life, in case you had to ask. we have a great relationship. She lives just down the street and watches our girls 3 days a week, and so I regularly see her in person. We even go for lovely evenings walks together most of those days. It’s a real treat, actually.
One would hope that would spill over into cyberspace, but…
LOLNOPE.
I blame the Noise. So. Much. ----- Facebook noise.4I prefer the version of this statement with “Facebook” removed. At least as long as I’m one of the noisemakers…
Even with her acts of digital motherly affection, the Noise is there ready and waiting to drown it out.
For example, if I were a musician and this blog were my heavy metal band, she would be that mom who brings fresh-baked cookies to every one of the band’s shows. But instead of cookies, it’s usually half-baked comments. And instead of me being like “Mo-om! You’re embarrassing me! I’m trying to be so metal here!”, in this analogy it’s “Mo-om! You’re embarrassing me! I’m trying to be so meta here.”
Obligatory maternal embarrassment notwithstanding, I was totes-magotes5 excited when I saw that she was the first to share a post from this blog’s official FB page. I quickly scurried on over to behold it in its full majesty in her Facebook feed. “What would my precious handiwork look like to the rest of the world? Majestic? Splendiforous? Magnificent?” I pondered to myself with giddiness.
I gotta admit, I was a little disappointed when, instead of finding it shining like a beacon, I found it only after tunneling through a blizzard of 13 other posts.
Way to make me feel special Mom. Well, at least as special as your 5 home-remedy, 4 patriot-on-steriods, 2 funny animal clips, and 2 super Jesus-fangirl posts…aka Noise.
Interestingly, I view my writing off most of her shared content as mere “noise” as a premeditated act of love.
Like anyone who is blessed with the combination of an oversharing mom along with a well-populated and diverse family tree, every time I log on, I’m statistically destined to see plenty of content that, um, how do I put this? “That doesn’t resonate with me,”–that’s how I’ll describe it for now.
The trick is, if I can reframe all the digital chatter as mere “noise”, well, is it still annoying? Abso-fudging-lutely. But is it relationship destroying? No. And that’s what’s important, at least in my book.
So there you have it folks. When one asks “what does true love in a digital age look like?” the answer is perhaps…”like the unsexiest beast ever to roam from West to East6Ok, so this reference is a little unfair in that it’s hinting at an unpublished and overly-frank song I wrote (at least lyrically) about the career trajectory of my sex life. It remains unpublished for a reason. Nobody wants to hear about that shit.…question mark?”
In other words, it looks like intentionally choosing the relationships with our loved ones over our own opinions. Even if/when those loved ones don’t reciprocate.7This word will forever remind me of the best (and worst?) Cards Against Humanity pairing I’ve witnessed first hand: “Today on Maury: ‘Help! My son is…’ “ “Not reciprocating oral sex.” You’re welcome.
And let’s not kid ourselves. This is Facebook we’re talking about. There’s no “if”–it’s always “when”, and that “when” is always. What can I say? The Peoples of Facebook love them some opinions.
So the point is, if you want to not lose your soul to Faceboook, be prepared to do a shit-ton of ignoring content incongruous with your personal value system.
Who says we can’t all get along?
If all that seems like an atypically optimistic outlook coming from yours truly,8Background reading: Fiddy Percent. then I applaud your keen sense of What the Fuck’s Up.
Sure, we can reduce life down to little nuggets of wisdom all we want, but in the end, that’s just us doing our damnedest to survive the traumatic and chaotic experience of being human. Reality tends to be complicated. We should never be so naive as to forget that.
Oh, so I forgot to mention that I can be naive sometimes.
Turns out, silence is the easy answer, but not always the right answer–and searching for that right answer can be a tall order.
Every now and then there comes a time when loving someone means having to tell someone else to kindly shut the ----- up. But, you know…figuring out how to do it with grace and respect, because you love that other person, too.
Curious? Then read on, Dear Reader, read on…
[Spoiler Alert: I’m not so sure that I was successful in my endeavor, so don’t get your hopes up too high.]
Facebook can be a real echo chamber…chamber pot,9(TM) that is. It’s a great place for people of all political persuasions to get together and bounce some really crappy ideas off each other until all the walls are dripping in fudge-colored poo.
Hmmph. Well, while I’m extremely proud of myself for coming up with the portmanteau-esque term “echo chamber pot”,10A google search of the phrase yielded only one direct match, and briefly reading over the article, the author didn’t appear to tie it to any particular concept. In other words, Bud, you wasted your chance to lay claim to it. Don’t worry though, it’s in good hands now. We’ll give it a good home and put it to good use. I think the visual imagery is getting a little out of hand. One can employ only so many fecal-centric literary devices in a day, and I really do need to ration my supply for later. We’ll just leave it there for now. You get the idea.
Anyways, let me take you back in time a few months, and regale you with the tale of the time I slipped and fell into one of these so-called echo chamber pots. And, instead of living by my easy-peasy maxim of “Well, that’s just, like your opinion, man,”11This is a Big Lebowski reference, which I have previously referenced here and here. and going on my merry way, I got in over my head trying to be a humble voice of reason.
For those of you following along at home, let me help you paint a visual picture in your head.
The scene: my bathroom, 0045 hours. Me, ironically sitting down on my own chamber pot for my pre-bedtime defecation session.12Thank ----- somebody wrote a song that gives the underrated pastime of philosophizing while pooing it’s due-due: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ur0dAeD4vY. I check my emails and find the following notification from Facebook:
Figure 1. Surely, this message ends in “Mosquite BBQ scent lovers to delight in”, right? It’s the only logical option (albeit misspelled and ending in a preposition).
I remember this moment vividly, as I truly did find it incredulous that Rolla (my home town) would be spraying for mosquitoes. Typically you need still water to have them, and in SW Kansas the only places you find that are…cattle tanks, I guess? I dunno, maybe I’ve suppressed so much of my memories about life in rural Kansas, that somehow it’s not uncommon for there to be a mosquito problem and I just don’t remember.
Either way, it was this asinine detail that I just had to confirm that sucked me into Facebook that night. And even after verifying that there indeed was a mosquito problem in a dusty little town 1500 miles from my current location, I went against my better judgment and continued perusing my feed.
Sure as shizz, it wasn’t long before I came across something that caught my attention…for all the wrong reasons,13Incidentally, I also enjoy our favorite local car sales baron…for all the wrong reasons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t61Hi0_omJ8 this gem of a [re]post:
Ugh. Now I remember why I don’t spend time on here.
And judging by the chorus of agreement from the peanut gallery, it appeared that we had ourselves a regular echo chamber pot on our hands, didn’t we?
Posts like these are a large part of why I find Facebook beyond useless and actually quite harmful. Don’t think that such sentiments don’t hurt anyone. They’re just an early step in dehumanizing the target group, which can lead to much more serious consequences.
And let me be clear: when I say “posts like these”, it is not because it reflects a particular socio-political viewpoint. No, it is the simple fact that it is talking at a group of people, clearly with no intentions of engaging in a meaningful, respectful conversation.
Also, maybe it’s the latent Libertarian in me, but it is really hard to see where people get off perv-splaining. Whatever happened to “live and let live”…mind yo’ own ----- business, por favor. Lemme perv how I see fit, and I’ll let you do the same. And is that some woefully, woefully misguided gay-splaining I hear? I can’t even.
BUT I DIGRESS!
Now, my first reaction was to indignantly respond with something like: “What is this pile of garbage? It appears you know little to nothing about what it’s like to be part of the LGBT community; so *clears throat* if you would, could you kindly shut the ----- up?”
And maybe that particular less-than-graceful response would have been exactly what was needed to be said. There are certain people who need to hear it bluntly and directly in order to be able to hear it at all.
However, there were several thoughts banging around my noggin that ultimately propelled me down a different path.
First, such, er, “directness” almost for sure would have just escalated the situation into a heated digital shouting match, indubitably devolving into personal attacks and only exacerbating whatever differences in opinions we might already have had. Basically, proving the point behind my opening treatise on “loving by ignoring.”
Second, if I was hoping to actually affect some positive change, it would have required a desire on the part of the listener to be a better person. I’m going to take a scientific wild-ass guess here and say that I’m pretty sure that this post wasn’t an open invitation for constructive criticism.
Third, Point #2 is underpinned by the assumption that somehow my definition of a “better person” is an objective truth, which may or may not be the case.
Ok…it’s starting to look like “righteous indignation” may not be the best response. So then what?
Let’s start over.
Well, the Golden Rule is a pretty good place to do that. How would I want to be treated if I were on the errant end of a potentially shitty opinion? What would being loved look like to me?
Yes! I know the answer to this one!
Love is giving the other the space and freedom to grow, with zero demands.14After all, I might be the one with the wrong idea of what “growing” looks like.
Yes, I’ve given this a lot of thought, particularly in the context of what I want–and want to give–within my marriage. Now, if I could only get my wife to actually read this blog…but I digress.
This particular Theorem of Love of mine happened to dovetail nicely with one of the secret ambitions I had/have for my nascent Point of the Story baby, and that is to subtly say “hey, here’s maybe another way of thinking about things. Not necessarily right or wrong, just here for your consideration, do with it whatever you will…”
In other words, it’s up to you to be your own ----- judge. My advice is 100% optional. Well, okay, maybe 97% optional.
So it was starting to look like that just maybe there was a way to out-think and maneuver the Facebook Beast after all.
It was also about this time that I had a critical “Eureka!” moment.
“Holy shit, Batman, I just might be dealing with a pack of #CasualAssHats!”15Pronounced “Pound Casual Ass-Hats” as alluded to in the title. One time the Boss Lady (aka my wife) had an older co-worker who was trying to motivate her colleagues in regard to a particular project. It would have been too embarrassing to tell her that she really meant “Hashtag” when she exclaimed “Pound: Teamwork!”, so no one ever did…and now it’s a family meme that’s being passed on to you. You’re welcome.
“But, BJ, exactly whatis a #CasualAssHat?” you most definitely should be asking, but probably aren’t.
Funny you should ask. It just happens that, in my infinite wisdom, I finally decided to throw in my two cents by providing an example of one, hoping those who needed to hear the message would get my drift.
Also, the idea for this blog had been conceived less than a week earlier at this point, so me, being in my “workshopping mode”16See also: The Olde Timey Wheelchair,17See also: Shotgun Wedding decided it was the perfect time to take the whole “the point of the story is…” concept18A critical component of this is the “recycle my less-than-flattering life moments for the betterment of mankind” motif. for a spin. Really lean into my catchphrase and see how it felt on the typed screen, know what I mean?
“Oh! Oh! Can we see what you wrote? Oh, please!”
Yes. Yes you can:
(Okay, right off the bat, I just want to admit that I kinda lost my thread there and started producing inconsistent analogies involving “ass” and “shit”, etc. It was late at night. What can I say? Anyways…)
So why did I suspect this crowd of potentially being #CasualAssHats?
Because, ’tis I, the King of #CasualAssHat Mountain himself!
You still may be wondering, though, how implying that my family members and their friends are #CasualAssHats can even remotely be considered an act of love. Fair enough question.
I got yet another love-themed life philosophy to rap at ya: loving is assuming the best in the other.
I think it’s far too easy to do the exact opposite and assume the worst in those with whom you disagree, or those who say something that rubs you the wrong way.
Honestly, when I was reading the original thread–and seeing who liked it (including an aunt–for shame!), my thought was “You should know better than to be spitting such venom!”
But reflecting on the experience I shared above, I realized that I hadn’t really been intending to be hurtful toward my classmate; I had simply been too lazy to consider the consequences for others when I indulged in gossip. I had acted like an asshat largely as a result of just being too casual with how I thought of others and how I regarded them in my heart.19Ergo, the birth of the term “#CasualAssHat.”
Let’s be honest. It takes a lot of mental and emotional energy to remain cognizant of the feelings of pretty much the whole wide world. In fact, I have a theory that this accounts for a significant portion of the backlash to political correctness: “Why does all this burden fall on my lilly-white ass?!?”
While my own LWA can somewhat relate to that sentiment, it’s really missing the point. At the heart of PC culture is not so much an onerous requirement to be perfect; it’s the hope that, when given the chance, we’ll afford each other the most basic levels of respect and human dignity.
So just like I would like to have the best assumed in me, and hope that 8th-grade me wasn’t an irredeemable dope rotten to his core, when I suggest that someone might be a #CasualAssHat, it’s a way of saying, “Yeah, I get it. I’ve been there. It’s all too easy to marginalize and disrespect the experience of others without realizing it or intending to. But I trust that you are really a good egg, too…”
Of course, letting AssHattery go unchecked can be a risky proposition. Remember, my story didn’t have such a happy ending; I got a much deserved “shut-the-fuck-up” sandwich served straight to my face.
Let it be a cautionary tale, so the same fate doesn’t befall you.
If you can relate, it may not be too late. You can still own thy shit today…
…and you can also own one of these overly-clever #CasualAssHats casual-ass hats today! Tell the world “yeah, I may be a #CasualAssHat on occasion, but I’m not okay with carrying on that way if I can help it!” Order now!20Or let me know if you encounter any technical errors trying to place an order…I haven’t had anyone try yet, so I can’t be sure it actually work, lol.
Seriously, though, you can buy these for real, and a portion of the proceeds helps support this blog. Please note, however, that what you see is what you get. They literally say “Plain White #CasualAssHat”, etc., so order wisely.
Appendix A
Now, Dear Reader, you have had the luxury of getting my fuller thoughts on how I attempted to handle the situation. But remember, the rest of the world was not privy to such things when this originally happened.
Since, at that time, I didn’t usually put myself out there into the virtual aether in such a vulnerable way, I was actually very nervous to see what type of response I would illicit. Would people appreciate my effort? Would I change hearts and minds worldwide? But first: would they even be able to tell what the hell I was going on about? Let’s find out:
I take it then, “K”, that the moral of the story was lost on you? Also, I’m guessing this wasn’t intended to be a compliment. But guess what? That’s some mighty high praise there, sir, when it’s applied to Yours Truly. Joke’s on you, sucker.
Another direct response I got:
Welp. I guess that’s two votes for ‘no’. But really my first question is: why are people thumbs-upping that comment? Why are we cheering on confusion and delay?21https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EF_68T9H0UM Anyways, I knew I was attempting to walk a fine line here, trying not to be too obtuse…hmm, it seems that perhaps I had overshot the Subtly Runway and landed in the Meta-terranean Sea?
On the bright side, at least one bystander appreciated my handiwork:
What’s even better than a book? A blog–the gift that keeps on giving!
Ok, so this reference is a little unfair in that it’s hinting at an unpublished and overly-frank song I wrote (at least lyrically) about the career trajectory of my sex life. It remains unpublished for a reason. Nobody wants to hear about that shit.
This word will forever remind me of the best (and worst?) Cards Against Humanity pairing I’ve witnessed first hand: “Today on Maury: ‘Help! My son is…’ “ “Not reciprocating oral sex.” You’re welcome.
A google search of the phrase yielded only one direct match, and briefly reading over the article, the author didn’t appear to tie it to any particular concept. In other words, Bud, you wasted your chance to lay claim to it. Don’t worry though, it’s in good hands now. We’ll give it a good home and put it to good use.
Pronounced “Pound Casual Ass-Hats” as alluded to in the title. One time the Boss Lady (aka my wife) had an older co-worker who was trying to motivate her colleagues in regard to a particular project. It would have been too embarrassing to tell her that she really meant “Hashtag” when she exclaimed “Pound: Teamwork!”, so no one ever did…and now it’s a family meme that’s being passed on to you. You’re welcome.
Speaking of showers and judgy assholes,1See: Lawnmower Man that reminds me…
During my second year of grad school, I lived with three of my fellow physics grad students. They were all [astro]nuclear physicists and my main research tool was Nuclear Magnetic Resonance (NMR), so we decided to lean hard into the whole “nuclear” theme and dubbed our humble abode “the Bomb Shelter”. We thought ourselves modestly clever with that one. Alas, that all has nothing to do with the story; it’s just for reference in the future.
Anyways, at the time, two of us had samurai-length hair, me and Jesus Christ.2Not his real name. But his real initials, though. One fine morning I hop in the shower and find a wad of dark hair on the shower wall. Clearly, it was Jesus’s hair,3We all know that Jesus wasn’t really white. He was Italian. and I was a little indignant about the whole situation. How rude to leave your hair in the shower for your roommates to take care of!
At some point I brought it up in a less than graceful manner, talking about how disgusting it was. I don’t even remember if I was adult enough to bring it up to Jesus–I think I was bitching to one of the other roommates. Either way, he heard me talking about it, and explained that he always does that, so his hair didn’t clog the drain. Then, when he gets out of the shower, he just grabs some toilet paper and easily wipes it off the shower wall and disposes of it properly in the toilet or trash. He offered an unprompted apology for having forget the last step that particular day.
Sometimes, life imitates art. In this case, the art being an M. Night movie, replete with the obligatory twist at the end: he was the one being considerate. I was the asshole.
Oh, and also, that’s a pretty solid strategy for longer hair management in the shower. I still use it to this day–I highly recommend it.
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