Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Tag: 2023 Essential Reading (Page 1 of 2)

All Is Fair In Love And War And Scientific Research

6 Min Read

Face it: your science project sucked, but it can’t be that bad, right?

On the bright side, at least that nightmare is finally over…


“Um…how about I use ‘laser beams’ to measure the speed of light?” the 14-year-old me hesitantly suggested.

I looked expectantly at my mustachioed science teacher, hoping that this would be a solid enough idea for my mandatory science fair project.

“We already know what the speed of light is. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come up with something original,” Mr. Susman calmly replied.

And thus began my career as a half-assed scientist…


Actually, now that I think about it, the half-assery began a year earlier, when I was in 7th grade at Christian Schools of Springfield (Missouri). That year, the science project I really wanted to do was to put various metals in the microwave and see how long it took before the sparks started to fly. I honestly don’t know why that got shot down without any reasonable discussion; nevertheless, I was forced to come up with a different project altogether. Finally, the night before it was due, I threw together a project that measured how long it took various small objects, such as string, a button, belly button lint, etc. to fall/float to the ground when dropped from about 6 feet up. I know, I know: half-assery, at it’s finest, but I figured since my Christian school didn’t take science seriously, then why should I?

When I showed up the next day with my hand-drawn charts and graphs exploring the aforementioned topic, I was directed to setup next to my dyslexic best friend, Josh. What was my C-Average amigo’s science project about? Surface tension of water. Even if you accounted for the gross disparity in access to resources (his dad was a doctor; mine wasn’t–if you get my drift), the contrast in our core intellectual content was stark. Needless to say, for being the token smart kid in our class, having my kindergarten-level experiment on display directly next to real science was incredibly embarrassing.

Fast-forward roughly 12 months to my 8th grade year, where I found myself at Ocean View Junior High, a public school in California, in the extremely science-focused ‘Research & Development’ class for so-called ‘gifted students’.

If I didn’t want to be laughed out of the classroom by my high-IQ peers, then I had to seriously up my science game from the sloppy shenanigans I had pulled in 7th grade.

But in the end, the most original idea I had come up with wasn’t much more evolved–sorry, I mean, ‘intelligently designed’– beyond the stereotypical model ‘erupting volcano’: at the heart of both was the well-known chemical reaction of mixing vinegar and baking soda to make bubbles. In my case, though, I posited that dosing young tomato plants with a little carbon dioxide on a daily basis would result in a measurable growth spurt.

In retrospect, it wasn’t a completely horrible idea, but it wasn’t the most imaginative either. But when you combine that with limited financial resources, then the execution really starts to suffer.

To begin with, mixing a cup of vinegar with the appropriate amount of baking soda for each plant in the ‘treatment’ group probably only provided a barely perceptible boost in the CO2 available to that plant–and even though those two ingredients are cheap, they still aren’t free, Bub (I did at least have the plants isolated from the surrounding atmosphere by having them covered in plastic bags, though).

Of course there was the cost of the tomato plants themselves, and thanks to my budget, I was able to buy a whopping FOUR plants–2 ‘control’ plants (no dosing) and 2 ‘treatment’ plants (dosed). Honestly, if I would have been able to, say, triple the dosage, and, ya know, have 50 plants in each group, then it might have passed for a decent scientific endeavor. Alas, this ’twasn’t the reality I was living in.

But, wait! There was even more poor-kid shenanigans afoot…


“Thanks for printing these graphs for m–hey, what is up with the colors? That’s not how it looked on the computer I borrowed to make them!”

I peered over the several sheets that Michael, one of my richer, computer-with-a-color-printer-owning friends had printed off for me the night before our science projects were due. My sole graph, which charted the growth of the four plants over several weeks, was supposed to feature four lines of four different colors, yet what I was staring at was 2 red lines and 2 blue lines.

“What can I tell you? My printer ran out of yellow ink,” he replied, communicating the helplessness that he, too, felt about the situation.

I let out a heavy sigh.

“I guess beggars can’t be choosers, right?” I said, honestly acknowledging my current lot in life.

“Hey, it still looks pretty good. I’m sure it will be fine…well, mostly fine.” said the guy who would go on to become the Chief Scientist at Numerai (and, coincidentally, uses the exact same WordPress theme for his neuroscience/machine learning blog that I use here).

“Yeah, I guess no one will notice and and it’ll still get the message across,” I figured aloud.

*Later that day, in R&D…*

“So you’ll see here in Figure A1The joke being is that there was no Figure B, so calling it Figure A was a bit misleading… a plot of the plants’ growth from Week 0 to Week 6.”

I didn’t have the strongest project, but I was trying to at least pretend that I did.

A kid halfway back in the classroom raised his hand–oh dear lord, it was that Jackass Jacob.

“So…which line is which plant?” he queried with a smirk on his face.

“Well the blue line is…oh, sh*t, uh, I’m not sure which blue line is Control 1 and which one is Treatment 2. Uh…um…dammit, Oliver,2Michael’s last name you and your printer have screwed me over!”

I eventually fumbled my way through the rest of my presentation, buoyed only by the promise that, no matter what, 10 minutes from now this nightmare of a scientific endeavor would be over forever, never to haunt me again…


“Listen up, youths, we got the Ventura County Science Fair coming up in a few weeks, and unfortunately, we can only send a select few of you,” announced Mr. Sogioka, our other R&D teacher (there were so many smarty-pants 6th, 7th, and 8th graders at our school, they needed two classrooms to contain us all and two teachers to wrangle us rascals).

Half the class groaned in disappointment, already knowing full well they weren’t going to make the cut. For my part, I could have cared less. My project had sucked chestnuts and I knew it. I was at peace with that hard truth.

“Let’s see here…first on the list: David Chandler,” Mr. Susman announced.

“Good for David,” I thought to myself. “If your project is ‘The Impact Of Computer Monitor Radiation On The Development Of the Fruit Fly’, you sure the hell deserve to go show that sh*t off to the world. You sir, are a true scientist. A bit of a pompous ass, yes, but a ----- good scientist nonetheless.”

“Next: Michael Oliver…” Mr. Sogioka proclaimed.

“…for his study, ‘The Impact of Not Knowing How The F*** To Change A Depleted Printer Cartridge On Your Lower-Income Resource-Strapped Classmate’, no doubt,” I quipped as I elbowed Michael sprightly.

“Har, har, you’re hilarious,” he responded.

“Seriously, though,” I whispered to him, “I’m kinda glad you suck at printing things off in color. It got me out of the County Science Fair, at least!”

“…B.J.!”

I jerked my head back to the front of the class at the sound of my name.

“I’m listening! I’m listening, I swear, Mr. Sogioka! I promise,” I lied. I had been chatting Michael’s ear off the whole time and hadn’t been listening as our two most esteemed educators had read off the rest of the List of the Damned, the poor souls who had to go to the county science fair.

“Huh, what? I was just announcing the students moving on to the next level of science.” Mr. Sogioka seemed confused.

“Congratulations, B.J., you were the last one to make the cut–you’re going to County! Wait…what?” Mr. Susman said, seeming just as surprised as I was at this turn of events.

“Nooooooo! Why me?” I rended my shirt in two and shook my fist to the heavens.

“Oh, you know exactly why,” Mr. Sogioka looked at me with…no, it wasn’t quite a sh*t-eating grin on his face..it was more of sh*t-eating smirk.

“Dammit, Sogi-yoki, you’ve screwed me again!” I muttered.

“What was that you said, hmmm?” he inquired, clearly full of the power he be trippin’ on.

“Nothing, Donald, I didn’t say anything at all.”

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Michael interjected, “At least I can reprint your graphs in full color this time around.”

I stared daggers at him.

“Yes,” I replied with all the sarcasm I could muster, “CYK graphs will prevent it from a being a complete and utter fustercluck this time around…”


The point of the story is never make fun of your bald Japanese American teachers by racistly butchering their name and calling them Sogi-Yoki. Yeah, you read about that last week right? Of course you did. And of course you would have also known that it was just an honest, oh-fudge-I-wasn’t-really-paying-attention mistake on my part. But not in ol’ Donnie-Boy’s eyes, no sirree, Bob!

And now, finally, Karma had smiled upon his shiny dome of a head and had given him the chance to rain down retribution on me, the proverbial thorn in his side: he was sending my sorry ass to the county state fair–not based on merit in any way, shape, or form–only for the sole purpose of seeing me scientifically embarrass myself on an even bigger stage.

So, in the spirit of the holiday (Festivus, of course), I am officially airing this grievance in the general direction of one Mr. Donald Sogioka. Sogi-Yoki, sir, what you did to me was just plain ----- -up. If I were a lesser man, I would blame my lack-luster scientific career on you, but I won’t. The mere presence of three tiny letters after my name gives me the last laugh in this matter, and that is enough for this chatty slacker:

P.

h.

D…


Content created on: 7/9 December 2023 (Thurs/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Prepare A Speech For Your Smug Old Teacher

5 Min Read

The teacher smiled an evil smile as her devious plan came together.

But when that plan done blew up in her face? That was oh so much better…


“And in conclusion, fellow students, that is why Greek mythology is still relevant to our lives today, even in this modern era of technology and hyper-connectedness.”1This was not the topic of my speech–that particular detail is left to the annuls of history. But it was similar in nature, tone, and depth.

As I wrapped up my 3-minute impromptu speech in Mrs. Murray’s Freshman English class, what I heard wasn’t quite the thunderous applause every orator hopes to elicit from their audience. Instead I got the second best response: the rest of the class sat stunned in silence, except for a few scattered whispers of “damn, that was good.”

In fact, I think one of those whispers came from me–I don’t think anyone was more stunned by the eloquence and coherence of the auditory gem I had just dropped than yours truly. Like many folk, I’m not the biggest fan of public speaking, so you can imagine my anxiety after Mrs. Murray–out of nowhere–announced to the class that we would all have to give mini-speeches on the topic of her choosing with exactly –*checks notes*–ZERO preparation.

Oh, and guess who was hand-picked by ol’ Suzanne2If you’re wondering why I’m name-dropping my freshman English teacher, it’s because I finally remembered not only her last name but her first name too–after wracking my brain for over 4 years! to go first? I’ll give you one hint: it was the same guy she had sent to the principal’s office earlier in the semester for–and get this–“acting insolent and insubordinate when intentionally and habitually failing to bring a library book to class” to read when he was done blazing through his in-class work.

Yeah, I’m still a little miffed about being on the receiving end of the ‘Dumbest Reason For Getting Sent To The Principal’s Office (1995)’ award.

But now here I was on the other side of a terrifying speech that had seemed like it would most assuredly go sideways on me and end in embarrassment and humiliation. Not only had I survived, I had knocked it out of the frigging ballpark. And it felt ----- fantastic.

After a few more moments basking in the glory and admiration of my peers, I couldn’t help my newfound confidence peek through the curtains.

“Alright, who’s next?” I quipped3Okay, okay, I admit this probably doesn’t technically qualify as a ‘quip’–what are you? My Freshman English teacher or something? nonchalantly, scanning the crowd for anyone brave enough to try to follow my act.

In the process I happened to glance over at Mrs. Murray, to whom (not ‘to who’) I couldn’t resist flashing half a sh*t-eating grin.

She just glared at me.

“Okay, class, it looks like it’s time to move on to today’s lesson about past participles…” she said, brazenly gaslighting the entire class.

Not that my colleagues minded the deception–I’m pretty sure that the munchkins all away across the school in the Kindergarten classroom could hear the collective sigh of relief let out by everyone else in the class. I’m sure none of them was exactly chomping at the bit to endure the bullcrap I just had.

“Wait, what the hell is happening???” I confess that I was slightly confused by this turn of events. Wasn’t the entire class supposed to be partaking in this exercise? And now she’s acting like it never happened? Seriously, what the funk, Mrs. Murray?

I sat there silently for the rest of the period, mulling over the situation in my mind. Occasionally my gaze would wander across over to Mrs. Murray, who (not ‘whom’) had returned to her desk after a very brief, very half-assed lesson on past participles. And every time, I would catch her staring daggers back at me.

By the time the bell had rang, I finally understood what had transpired.

There never was an ‘impromptu orations’ in her lesson plan! She had no intention of making anybody else give a speech (though it was pretty cruel of her to make them sweat it out). That skinny witch had set me up–she had made that all up in hopes of harassing and embarrassing me–and only me–with a speech that she thought most assuredly would suck balls. No doubt it was because I was being a real Chatty Kathy in the middle of class (again), but that is very much beside the point…


The point of the story is karma can be a real b*tch, ain’t that right Mrs. Murray? You very unprofessionally attempted to publicly humiliate a rascally-but-ultimately-harmless student of yours, and what do you get for giving in to your petty impulses? Oh, that’s right, you ended up make him a g0d amongst [fresh]men, all thanks to a short speech that went a little sum’thin like this (with all apologies to my dear mother):

Side note: do you realize how hard it is to choose amongst all the Google image search results for ‘flipping the bird’??? So many great options…Mister Rogers, Dolly Parton, a newborn baby…oh the options were endless, I could barely pick one.

Anyways…despite realizing that I had bested Mrs. Murray and her nefarious scheme, I gotta say…a full 28 years later, and I’m still a little peeved about her big batch of nonsense that was targeted specifically at me.

But then again, isn’t this is what the holidays are all about?

Oh, sorry I forgot to remind you that around this time of year I often find myself expressing my thoughts in the universal language of gifs from the 90s NBC hit sitcom, Seinfeld.4Who I got to see performing live just last night, not to brag or anything. *Ahem*…

To which holiday do I refer? Thanksgiving? Christmas? Hanukkah? Chinese New Year’s? Nay, I’m speaking of…

And we all know that the tradition of Festivus begins with The Airing Of Grievances:

So buckle ups, Buttercups, cuz we got a couple weeks of celebrating this fine holiday ahead of us…


Content created on: 17/18 November 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Silly Rabbit, Affordable Dental Care Never Killed Anyone…Yet

5 Min Read

Was the question: “Eh, what’s up, Doc?”?

Ah, hell naw, the answer should never be “malpractice insurance premiums and patient death rates”…


“I finally got me some health insurance, so I’m going for The Trifecta, Doc–are you ready for Phase One?”

My new dentist just stared back at me blankly through his special tooth-pulling glasses that, for some reason, were designed to make him look like a buck-toothed rabbit–“ah, a guy with a sense of humor,” I surmised.

“What’s this ‘Trifecta’ of which you speak, young man?” he sincerely inquired.

I was more than eager to oblige his request, as I was just certain he would find my idea to be genius.

“Well, I’m glad you asked, Doc. See, it’s like this: I figure that us modern humanoids have three extraneous body parts that are more of a liability than an asset…” I intentionally left a pregnant pause hanging for dramatic effect.

“Ok…and to which three body part are you referring?” the Doc bit hard for my bait.

“The obvious ones of course: wisdom teeth, tonsils, and the appendix. What good are any of those doing us, amiright?” I said, again pausing, trying to draw him in to what I was selling.

“Uh, sure, I guess. Where are you going with all this?” the Doc seemed a bit more dull-witted than you would want in somebody who is about to take a set of over-sized pliers to your face.

“So what I’m proposing is that we, as a nation, get out ahead of all these potential unforced errors. Within 2 months of every U.S. citizen’s 18th birthday, I say that we should offer them completely free-of-charge a one-stop chop-shop: a single surgical event in which they get all three removed in one fell swoop. It’s genius, right?” I looked at him expectantly for affirmation of my ----- brilliant outside-the-box idea.

Instead, I got another blank buck-toothed bunny look before he eventually spoke up.

“That may not be such a good idea,” he said. “If those things aren’t causing any particular issues, then one probably shouldn’t be taking those unnecessary risks. And don’t even get me started on doing all three at the same time–the human body isn’t designed to be able to recover from that much trauma all at once.”

“Well, my wisdom teeth are indubitably the source of my occasional halitosis, so minor procedural risks be damned–grab your pliers and get those suckers outta my face! What’s the worst that could happen?” I implored him.

I had had those 4 calcium fortified bungholes in my mouth causing me to have bad breath for the 5 years of my entire adult life, and I couldn’t wait a moment longer to bid them good riddance…


“Just keep your eyes on my bunny nose, and we’ll be all wrapped up before you know it,” the Doc gently reassured me.

I wasn’t so much nervous as I was excited. Nevertheless, he had opened up the clinic just for me on that late Saturday afternoon, so it was borderline creepy having not another soul around, save for my Mother Dearest–my designated driver, if you will–waiting patiently in the lobby. So even though I had no doubt it would be smooth sailing to my newfound fresh breath and slightly-better-spaced toothy smile, I appreciated his calming presence.

After getting me nice and numb, we cruised right on through Tooth One and Tooth Two. On Tooth Three, well, that was a different story.

I was chilling like a villian when Doc gave that final tug to pop ol’ #3 out. Out it popped, indeed–the loud ‘schluuuuuup-POP!’ was immediately followed by the even louder metalic ‘CLACK!’ of his pliers snapping together. Empty, that is.

“OH,” was all the Doc managed to say aloud. But the look on his face said it all.

And by ‘all’, I mean ‘OH SH*T’–so dramatic that including an exclamation mark would do the sentiment a disservice.

“Don’t…move…” he said, clearly trying to not to lose his nerve.

“Why, whaass up, Dawk?” I attempted to quip, but was foiled by facial anesthesia.

“Uhhh…oh…uhhh…this is bad. This is real bad…”

I could see beads of sweat forming in real-time on his brow. I figured I would let him sweat it out a few more seconds. Meanwhile, I was feigning alarm on the outside, but was cool as a cucumber on the inside.

Why? Because I had an ace up my sleeve.

And by ‘ace up my sleeve’, I really mean ‘tooth caught in the back of my throat’.

But what the Doc didn’t know was that–very, very fortunately for his sorry malpractice-insured ass–was that I had reflexively caught my maverick molar with my tongue, and, if I didn’t ----- around too long, I wouldn’t have to worry about finding out what choking to death on my own esophageal blood in a deserted dentist’s office would feel like.

“Ahhhh…” I could hear relief wash over the Doc as he realized that the cat-like reflexes of his patient had saved him from watching another one of us bleed out in his dentist chair.

I could also see the relief wash over his face. And, oh, was it awkward…


If the so-called ‘point of the story’ for the last three weeks was that it is absolutely insane that we don’t have free, universal healthcare in this country, consider this the ‘counterpoint of the story.’ In pursuit of The Trifecta, I was mere microseconds from dying–dying!

And that was just Phase One. Do y’all remember what went down a year later when I got to Phase Two? Please tell me you do. Please tell me I didn’t not suffer through pure hell–replete with a visit from the Grim Reaper himself–to not have my story told. Go ahead, go back and read one of the most popular posts I’ve put out, Touched By An Angel, and its counterpart, My Time To Go, and behold the most amazing and stupid way to die from a tonsillectomy.

You do see what’s happening here, though? You give a ‘genius’ numbnuts like me absolutely free, no-strings-attached health services, and what do we do? We go run off and have completely elective ‘out-patient’ procedures that end up with us in the morgue. Y’all gonna have a smart-people blood-bath on your hands, I tell you what.

Oh, and though it’s beside the point, guess what? I still haven’t got around to Phase Three–the appendectomy–but guess who’s been having occasional discomfort in that exact region? And guess who’s getting the idea in their head they might just want to get a jump on a potential exploding appendix and have that sucker taken out against the advice of medical professionals?

And guess who didn’t learn the lesson from Phases One and Two that he is indubitably ill-fated and is destined to die in the most statistically improbabilistic way during a routine, yet unneeded, medical procedure?

Who has two big toes, and one of them has a tag on it?

No, Dear Reader, the answer is not ‘this guy!’–you think I would use such a bourgeoisie ‘who has two thumbs’ punchline in such a grave and earnest post? No!

Instead, I implore you to look at the Toe Tag1Yes, this is very much indeed an unpop-culture reference to the grunge band ol’ Phillip K. Ballz and I were in during our early high school years. of that handsome body on the slab…


Content created on: 11/12 November 2023 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Celebrating 25 Years Of The Great 21-Trap-Flap Compromise Of ’98

6 Min Read

What’s that? You’re worried that maybe this ahistoric moment in sports may have scarred me for life?

Just wait until you see the other guy…


“You gotta be kidding me, man! I gave you a hole you could drive a truck through!”

I was one irate pirate, to say the least…

Now, we all know that scholars maintain that I wasn’t exactly what one might call an “athlete with some semblance of coordination.” But that didn’t stop me from playing football for good ol’ Rolla High School, no sirree, Bob!

Well, to be honest, it wasn’t like I really had a choice. With a student body weighing in at a whopping 69 students across 4 grades, just about every male was peer-pressured into joining the football squad so the Pirates could actually field a team. So despite my near complete lack of athletic ability, I was nevertheless involuntarily drafted to play.

And since I had hands of stone and an athletic mind just as dense, I landed on the offensive line–the center to be exact. Coach L figured that apart from the concentration needed to snap the ball to the quarterback or punter without screwing up, that position required the least thinking, and therefore where I could do minimal damage to our offensive efforts.

Heck, by my junior and senior years–when I was actually on the starting squad–I had made the poor life decision to eat so healthy that it was unhealthy, and was pretty light for a lineman (like, a good 20 lbs. lighter than your average corn-fed Kansan lineman). So for the most part, having me on the field was only marginally better than having no center at all and just having the quarterback snap the ball to himself.

In short, I plain sucked at football. And I felt bad for the 3-4 truly athletic guys who had to suffer thanks to me and the rest of the crew of mediocre players.

So, then, pray tell, why was I so pissed off that day in the locker room? Because despite all my sucking, there was one play that I executed like a mothertrucking champion: “21-Trap.” And how did I know I was so dang good at running this so-called 21-Trap? Because I, along with the entire team, was staring at videographic evidence of me actually doing my job right for once.

Just one tiny problem: our running back, an otherwise fine and intelligent athlete, couldn’t grasp the concept that he was supposed to run through the “1” gap.

Oh, what’s that? You’re not familiar with 8-man football plays? Well, fear not, Dear Reader, because I found a little resource to help you out. Please, observe the diagram below, in which the players on my team (on offense) are represented by circles.

In this diagram, I’m the center (black circle) and once I snap the ball, I take a hard right and block the dude trying to rush through the hole that will soon be created by our right guard (“RG”–red circle, and the “2” in “21-Trap” but not the “2” in the diagram) who was “pulling” left behind me and “trapping” whatever schlub he first ran into. And the result of this should be a big-ass gap where the left guard (“LG”, the “1” in “21-Trap”, but not the “1” in the diagram) was before he blocked to the right like me.

So now, our running back (the yellow “2” in the diagram)–who will remain mostly anonymous–had it easy: our running back, who I shall only call “Double-B” (who, incidentally, was the brother of “Double-D”, of Shotgun Wedding infamy), just had to run slightly left and directly on through that hole and, more often than not, right into the end zone.

But three games into the season, and what did every game tape show? They all showed the same dang thing: RG pulling left, LG and me blocking hard right, and Double-B…absolutely not running through the huge fricking patch of amber waves of grain in the 1-Gap. Instead, homeboy would do something like this:

Now, it doesn’t take a wild imagination to realize that about 1.5 seconds after the ball is snapped, the black circle and the yellow “2” circle will be occupying the same physical space. So is it really a surprise to hear something like this:

“STOP GETTING IN MY WAY!”

Yes, that’s right, upon watching the game tape, Double-B had the, um, ‘footballs’ to yell at me. So I had to set the record straight.

You stop running into me, you dumb jock! The “1” gap is on the LEFT…you know, where the GAPING HOLE in the line is,” I retorted. “I’m tired of being the one to receive the credit for the tackle just because you don’t know how to count to 3. Do you know how embarrassing it is for the announcer to give me credit for doing the other teams job? You’re making me look like a ----- moron out there…”


“Holy sheets, dude, that is one gaping hole!” Phillip K. Ballz, my best friend and star tight end on the football team, exclaimed as we trotted off the field after failing once again to make into the end zone against those pesky Satanta Indians.

“Thanks..I guess. But you meant to say ‘that was one gaping hole’, right? Yet another gaping hole that our ol’ dipsh*t Double-B didn’t have the sense to run through…” I muttered in disgust.

“No, man, I mean your elbow…you got a flap of skin flowing in the breeze and you’re gushing blood everywhere!”

I looked at my right elbow, which was a little sore after the full force of the barrelling train we called Double-B smacked into it during–you guessed it–21-Trap.

I gasped lightly in horror at the sight of an almost entirely red forearm.

“Darn you, Double-B! Darn you to heck!” I shouted as I shook my fists–one pink and dry and the other one sanguine and bloody–into the air.

“Dabnabbit, BJ, stop being such a drama queen!” I could literally hear Coach L’s eyes rolling behind me. I turned around toward him to reveal my bloodied arm, channeling my inner Carrie.

Coach L was non-plussed.

“Put a BandAid (TM) on that and get your lily-white ass back in there! I need you to at least pretend to play defense…”


“Bum Ba-dum Bum Bum Bum Bum!”

The photographer handling my senior pictures cocked her head at me quizzically.

“Huh?!?”

“You know, the commercial1Okay, so I’m pretty sure this commercial wasn’t out back in 1998; I openly admit I am using it here for comedic effect.…’We are Farmers, Bum Ba-dum Bum Bum Bum Bum!’ ” I replied.

“The insurance company? Okay…”

“You asked me about the BandAid (TM) covering half my right arm that you are going to have figure out ways to strategically cover up, right?”

“Yeah…and…? I’m not making the connection here,” she said, with a lost look in her eyes.

“Ok, I admit that it’s a bit of a stretch…you see, my family and I are a bunch of farmers, and therefore very ironically, don’t have health insurance to cover stitches when you lose half the flesh on your elbow playing football. Yup…it’s just superglue, BandAid (TM), and bit of Duck Tape holding me together,” I regaled her.

“Oooh…maybe we shouldn’t cover that up after all. It’s like a badge of honor showing off your raw masculinity while playing a man’s-man’s sport–“

I cut her off before she could make the situation any more awkward.

“A teammate did this to me. I caught some friendly fire during the one play that I know how to run…which happens to be the one play where he cockily thinks he knows where he’s supposed to go, but actually doesn’t,” I explained.

“Oh,” she murmurred quietly, “I see. So are you, like, holding a grudge or something? You sound pretty bitter…like this is something you would still be ranting about 25 years later…”

“What? Who me? Do I look like the type of guy who would let something like some mild physical disfigurment fester for a quarter of century and then finally air his grievances in a semi-public forum? Pfft! Please!” I said dismissively.

“Ok, I believe you. But then tell me this: how are you emotionally handling this betrayal then?” she asked gently, as if this had somehow become a therapy session instead of a photoshoot.

“Oh that’s easy. With my incredibly poor blocking abilities up front on the line, my dude gets the living sh*t knocked out of him just about every other play. By my calculations, they guy’ll have CTE by the end of the season. So it all basically evens out.”

“Really? You think long-term brain injury and a barely noticable scar on your elbow are roughly equivalent?” she asked humbly-yet-increduously.

“Look, that butthead ruined my senior pics, so no, I ain’t never letting that sh*t go…”


Content created on: 14/15 October 2023 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

What? You See Sum-Ting Wong With The Great White Hope?

5 Min Read

Did you know…racism comes in many flavors?

Well then, ret me tell you a story–though I might not be doing anyone any favors…


“Let’s go get some Chinese food.”

I jerked my head up from my lab computer, startled to see Mark, my soon-to-be-roommate and slacker extraordinaire, standing in my lab doorway.

“Wha– wha– what are you doing here? And why the h*ll would we go get Chinese food at 3:45 in the afternoon?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“Scoot aside. I need to show you something on your computer. And then it’ll all make sense, Young Grasshopper,” he said, with that sh*t-eating grin of his plastered across his face.

I gave him a long sideways glance.

“You not going to pull up an inappropriate video, play it at full blast, and then run off, are you?” I asked suspiciously, seeing as how that is exactly the type of prank he would find hilarious.

“Nah, man, you’re gonna want to see this–and I promise it won’t get you kicked out of grad school,” Mark reassured me with the face of a man with a couple of aces in the hole.

“Okay, but I swear, it better not be NSFW,” I said as I reluctantly gave up my seat to him.

With a few quick strokes of the keyboard, Mark had logged into his academic record in UNC’s system.

“The grades from my summer class posted today,” he said, utterly failing at acting nonchalant.

I perked up. Now he had my attention.

Quick side note here–if he doesn’t have your attention, Dear Reader, then would you be dear and go read my most recent musings here, which crucially has set up the story for today. (As usual, I’ll wait…)

“Sooo…I didn’t exactly get that ‘easy A’ in my Health class that I was counting on, but I did get a B+.”

I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop–or in this case, the other grade.

He continued: “And apparently, I didn’t totally bomb the final in my math class…I got a B+ in it as well, thanks to your help, my friend.”

He intentionally paused for a moment, a comic attempt at letting the tension build.

“Don’t be a sh*t head, dude, just get to the ----- point.”

He grinned at me.

“You are not going to believe this…” he said scrolling down the page, past 10 years worth of transcripts, finally landing on the Cumulative GPA section.

My eyes rapidly scanned the page for the single-most critical number of Mark’s academic career.

“Speaking of ‘the ----- point’,” he quipped, “How about ‘point-zero-zero-six’ for a ----- point?”

It was an incredible moment. In fact, I have footage of me, staring at his GPA on the screen:

In front of that ‘.006’ was the most beautiful number in all of the English language: ‘2’.

“No, my friend, we did it,” Mark said with utter satisfaction. “And with a GPA over 2.0, I get to avoid the most shameful fate that could befall an Asian son: never graduating from college. Now let’s go celebrate with some effing Chinese food!”

For a brief moment, my stomach felt like it was trying to digest a bolder, as I realized how harrowingly narrow of victory it was. Just one more wrong answer over the whole summer in either of his two classes, and Mark would have had jack-squat to show for the last decade of his life.

I was pretty sure that had we known it would all come down to such a razor-thin margin of a singular question, we would have caved from the pressure.

I let out a long-ass sigh of relief, knowing that irregardless of how close we had come to driving off the proverbial cliff in the proverbial fog, we had done what we had set out to do: Mark was going to be able to graduate. The 10-year nightmare of his was finally over.

My mid-afternoon appetite for crab Rangoon quickly returned.

“I know just the person to ask for Chinese restaurant recommendations…”


“Ha ha–You don’t want to go any of the Chinese restaurants in Chapel Hill…” Dr. Wu, the head [Chinese] head of our lab proclaimed, his voice laden with the wisdom of the orient.

For a moment I was starting to question whether it was racist (or at least culturally insensitive) to ask a Chinese person which Chinese restaurant one should eat at. A

Dr. Wu continued: “…because they’re all run by Mexicans–hah!”

I about spit out my drink, and likewise I could see Mark trying desperately trying not to snicker. We definitely did not see that plot twist coming.

But I suppose if one asks a racist question, they shouldn’t be too surprised when they get a racist answer, after all…


“Ahhhh, moo-ving to-daaaaay, B-Jaaaay?”

With the ‘most authentic Chinese restaurant in Durham ran by actual Chinamen’ recommendation from Dr. Wu in hand, Mark and I were scurrying across the parking lot to his illegally parked car when we heard that unmistakable Chinese cadence from behind us.

I spun around to address the accusations Charles, the Chinese post-doc in our lab was lobbing at me.

“Huh, what? Oh…oh yeah. Yup, yes, that’s where were off to right now!” I stammered, as I suddenly recalled my conversation with him the previous week–the one in which I had told him “Sorry I can’t help you with whatever you’re asking me to do–I’ll be moving that day.”

Mark gave me that look that says, ‘You sir, are so full of sh*t,’ because he knew dang well that we weren’t going to be doing anything moving-related until 7 that evening when we were to pick up the UHaul truck.

I doubled-down on my half-lie: “Good memory, Charles, we are indeed moo-ving to-daaaaay. Thanks for remembering–but we really gotta go!”

As we got in Marks car, I finished my thought.

“…got get some Chinese food, that is, motherfucker…”


The point of the story is sometimes it’s pretty darn hard to figure out if you’re Asian-racist. Seriously, for realz–even for someone like me who may think themselves to be somewhat woke.1Like in it’s real sense, as originated by Erykah Badu–not the dumbass ‘anything that might make me be considerate of anyone unlike myself (heavens forbid!)’ meaning imposed on it by Fox & Friends. ----- dipsh*ts.

You see, the story didn’t quite end there in the parking lot of Phillips Hall. The problem is that Mark witnessed that infamous interaction with Charles, and of course he found it ----- funny, particularly because of how Charles said what he said. And that inside joke got repeated so much that it quickly migrated to my newfound marriage a few months later and infected My Beautiful Bride.

And even then it wouldn’t have been that bad, except that, coincidentally, I-as-a-physics-grad-student had joined the American Physical Society about that same time…which came with a complimentary subscription to their flagship publication:

Listen, I’m not going to apologize for My Beautiful Bride–who happens to be half-Asian herself–when she would once a month toss my mail on my desk in our home office and say-…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

“Phy-siiics, to-daaaay, B-Jaaaay?”

Could it possibly be a legacy of racism we got going on here? Nobody lily knows.

But what is certain is that it’s ----- hilarious every time.

Oh, dear The Jesus, I feel so conflicted…


Content created on: 22/23 September 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

So You Made A Dumb Deal With The White Devil…Now What?

4 Min Read

What do you do when you realize there’s no time left on your collegiate clock?

Well, that’s when you best call in the BWC (Big White Cauc)…


“Uh, sorry, my dude, but I can’t help you with your experiment–I’m moving to my new apartment that day.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, thanking my lucky stars that I happened to have such an airtight and ironclad alibi/excuse to keep me from getting wrangled into somebody else’s scientific inquest. I mean, I was smack-dab in the middle of trying to get my own advanced physics degree–I didn’t have time to be doing Charles’ dirty work just because he was the senior post-doc in our lab and I was but a lowly grad student.

“Ahh, okay, I see. Good luck moving then, BJ…” Charles replied in his very distinct Chinese-is-my-first-language cadence before wandering off to go find another more willing lab-mate.

Once he was out of earshot, I allowed myself to ponder my thoughts freely (ya know, just in case I accidentally thought my thoughts out loud, as one is oft wont to do).

“Geez, I hope he doesn’t think I didn’t help him just because he’s Chinese–I’m not racist, I’m just lazy! Plus, I am technically moving that day, even though I’m not sure what time Mark plans to take me to pick up our U-Haul truck…” I told myself.

“And speaking of Mark, he’s about to become my new roommate and he‘s Asian–not to mention our third roommate, Oliver, who’s Black–so I’m like doubly non-racist…”


“The professor said we could do the homework as a group,” Mark told me excitedly.

“Yeah, I get that,” I responded. “But one little detail you’re overlooking–I’m not exactly one of the so-called ‘students’ in your math class…”

Mark was unfazed, his confidence in his plan undeterred.

“Hey, he didn’t specify who could work on the homework problems, just that it could be done in a group. C’mon, help a brother out!”

I sighed a deep sigh of resignation instead of relief this time. I knew I couldn’t leave his sorry ass hanging on account of hypothetical ‘integrity’.

“Ok, I’ll help you with your stupid homework, but I swear, I better not get kicked out of UNC for helping you cheat your way to graduation.”

Now, now, I know what you, Dear Reader, must be thinking, all judging me for doing my friends’ homework for them all willy-nilly, but I swear I’m not that type of guy. If you could just reserve your jumping to conclusions just for a few seconds and lemme explain.

You first gotta understand Mark and the position he was in back in the Summer of ’07. You see, when Marky-boy started as a freshman here at UNC even further back in the Fall of ’97, did he ever in his wildest dreams think he would achieve tenure at such a prodigious young age…

Wait a sec…

*checks notes*

Oh, that’s my bad, I said ‘tenure’–like what every professor hopes to achieve so they can become virtual impossible to be fired by their university despite their academic output and/or sexual misconduct–when what I meant to say was ‘ten-year’,1For the record, like me, Mark is a pretty ----- funny guy, and this was his joke, not mine. which has a slightly different meaning.

As it so happened, Mark had gotten a letter from UNC earlier in the year, notifying him of their ‘ten-year’ policy: if you don’t graduate with a GPA of 2.0 or higher within 10 years of taking your first class at Carolina, they will be like Ice Cube in the hit 1995 movie Friday:

That’s right: he was on the verge of getting permanently banned from taking classes (and therefore, banned from graduating) at UNC. EVER. No matter how many classes you took or how much money you had given them, all of it would be worthy exactly jack-squat–they wouldn’t even let a dude transfer credits to another institution of higher learning with lower standards!

Now, I’m not going to get into the details of why, 9-1/2 years later, Mark still hadn’t graduated, but one notable factor was the whole “you need a GPA 2.0 or higher” thing. So, sitting at a solid 1.85 circa January 2007, and only one required class away from a math degree, Mark hatched a himself a little scheme to finally achieve what all previous versions of Mark had failed to do: get over 2.0, get his diploma, and wash his hands of UNC before they washed their hands of him first.

And there I was discovering that I was now going to be an accomplice in his plan. Well, at least the ‘summer math class’ part of the plan–not trusting himself to be able to land an ‘A’ in the math class, he wisely decided to hedge his bets and also enrolled in a ‘summer health class’–“sure to be an easy A!” he said…


“I’m so screwed.”

That’s about all my future roomie (yes, I’m talking about Mark, duh) could say after he got his first test score back.

“I thought you said that your math class was all homework except for the final exam. What are you even talking about?” I asked, slightly confused.

“It’s not the math class–it’s the health class! UNC is really trying to screw me over aren’t they? Baiting me into the ‘easiest class in the catalog’ and then switching it up by asking questions only white girls would know the answers to!” he complained.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa–are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That UNC, as institution, is systemically racist against Asians and other non-white minorities? Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying!”

“Huh. That’s funny, because what I’m hearing is that my lily-white ass is going to be pulling weekly all-nighters this summer, seeing as how now you’re going to need an A+ in math to graduate. Let it never be said that, on account of all my sacrifices I make for you, my token Vietnamese friend, that I am racist against Asians…”


So…you maybe wondering where this is all going. Well, you’re going to have to wait until next week to find out answers to questions like: Will I have a drama-free move? Will Mark ever graduate?

And most importantly, will we see any more Asian-related racism? Stay tuned, Dear Reader, stay tuned…


Content created on: 14/16/17 September 2023 (Thurs/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Could The Truth About This Life Possibly Be Any Dumber?

5 Min Read

Most people can’t quite put their finger on what feels ‘off’ about their lives.

At least until what’s ‘off’ is a little too ‘on the nose’…


“Wait, our real estate agent’s name is what?!?”

My Beautiful Bride had to do a double-take when I told her the name of the agent that would be handling the sale of her parents’ previous residence–but not for the reason I had expected.

“Why isn’t her name ‘Beth’? I told you I wanted Beth, so why are we getting stuck with ‘Marsha’ instead? This is bait-and-switch!” she protested.

“Look, if you don’t like Marsha, then you can spend 3 asinine hours on Realtor.com trying to find an agent. You know it’s bad when you realize the only thing helping you make a decision is automatically eliminating anyone who is the type of person that wears the ‘Merican flag in their Realtor.com profile pic,” I shot back.

I wasn’t joking either–you’d be surprised how often people around here are willing to professional desecrate Ol’ Glory. But poor clothing choices aside, there were a few metrics the website offered to help you choose an agent–namely ‘number of active listings’ and ‘total number of closings’. And of the 4 arbitrary finalist I had passed on to MBB to choose from, ol’ Beth stood out from the others on those two counts. However, my concern was that somebody that prolific would be too busy to give us the attention our modest house deserved. This one is kinda on me, as I should have known better–sure enough, my discerning wife would only accept the best of the best if given the choice.

“But I wanted Beth!” she continued her protest.

“I told you she would be too busy for us and that we would get assigned one of her random minions! But you’re missing the whole point here–look at her business card again. I’ll give you a hint: it’s not her first name that’s cracking me up…”


“Yo, Marsha, the landscaping guy you recommended flat out told me our job wasn’t worth his time.”

We were trying to get the grass cut before Marsha’s photographer was scheduled to come in a few days, and since we lived an hour away, we were at the mercy of Marsha’s recommendations.

Now you would think that when someone says, ‘I know a guy,’ that they have a solid enough relationship with them that that ‘guy’ will take good care of you. The wife might have been on to something…perhaps Marsha House–despite her name–is no ‘Beth’.

But to her credit, Marsha had a proper lawnmower man in her back pocket.

“Here, let me give you the contact info of my other lawn guy.”

I glanced at the contact card she had just texted me:

“You gotta be ----- kidding me–first, my real estate agent’s name is House and now my lawnmower man’s name is Blade?!? I feel like I’m living in an episode of Seinfeld!” I muttered to myself.

Namely, the episode entitled “The Library,” where you’ll never guess what the last name of the Library Cop is…

Oh what the heck, I’ll let you find yourself with this clip. Though you’ll get your answer within the first 15 seconds (or just by looking at the name of the video), I highly recommend you watch the entire clip. It’s one of the best performances by any one-off characters in the whole show…


“Son, the water’s lookin’ might rusty again!”

These were the last words I wanted to hear from my mother. Or my father-in-law. Or my mother-in-law.

But alas, all three residents of our Farmstead–“where we put our parents out to pasture”–had complained to me about the water a the new place after living out there for barely a month, so I begrudgingly supposed I had to do something about it.

I sighed a heavy sigh.

“Fine, Mother, I’ll call my water guy and have him come out and take a look.”

Right before everyone had moved in, I had the well tested for bacteria, and also looked into having a manual pump installed in our well. The company had sent out a sales guy that was real friendly and reminded me of my older brother Lyle. While I ended up not buying what he was selling, we did build enough rapport that I felt comfortable calling him ‘my water guy’–but that was partly because I couldn’t remember his name.

“Let’s see here,” said the receptionist at The Water Specialist, “It looks like you’re on a well, so I’ll go ahead and just have him come out since he knows the place already.”

I found her wording a little odd. I mean c’mon, Captain Obvious, of course we’re on a well–aren’t all your clients?

“I’m sorry, who did you say you were sending out?” I kindly asked for clarification on account of her using too many pronouns.

“Will. Will will be coming out,” she replied.

“Ohhh…that makes much more sense. You said ‘Will’, not ‘well’. Hah! His name almost sounds like what he does for a living.”

“You just wait and see…” I could have sworn she said.

“Come again?”

“We can’t wait to see you on Monday,” she said.

Odd. My hearing must be off…


Monday came and went, and so did Will, but not without first telling us that the only way to really deal with the dissolved iron in our water was to drop $6k on a water sanitizer. Not ‘softener’, but ‘sanitizer’–a few steps above and beyond the bougie softener that every Joe-Schmoe seems to have.

And in the meantime, my curiosity got the best of me, and I started wondering what Will The Well Guy’s last name was. Fortunately, this time I had his business card.

“Hmmm…I wonder what Will’s last name is,” I pondered. “I bet its something mirthful like ‘Smith’–then I can crack stupid #DadJokes about how he must always be ‘gittin jiggy wit it’, or ask him if he knows any ‘guys who were up to no good, startin’ makin’ trouble in [his] neighborhood.’ (#FreshPrinceOfBelAireJoke)”1Yes, if I would have actually said these things aloud to myself, I would have even said ‘hashtag Fresh Prince Of Bel Aire Joke.'

I rustled around in my wallet until I found what I was after.

“Lemme just check his business card…”


The point of the story is, when your real estate agent’s name is ‘House,’ your lawn guy’s name is ‘Blade’, and your water guy’s name is ‘Atwater’–water, for fuck’s sake–then you know that the conspiracy goes deeper than just living in an episode of a famous 90’s sitcom, much deeper than even something truly conspiratorial like the 1998 Jim Carey hit movie, The Truman Show.

That’s when you know that not only is your life just some dumb TV show, and not only have the writers of said show gone on strike with the rest of Hollywood, but that the asshole producers of your life’s show are perfectly fine with ChatGPT taking over writing duties…


Content created on: 31 August/2&3 September 2023 (Thurs/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Look Out, Neighbors! Someone’s On The Prowl For Big Favors!

6 Min Read

Quick question: do you have to actually know your neighbor before you call in that big favor?

Asking for a friend (or vice versa)…


“Uhhh, I don’t know if my boss will be cool if I just drop off 300 pounds and $1300 worth of shower walls just on the side of the road.”

Well, at least that’s what I claimed the driver of the big-ass semi-truck being used to ‘deliver’ my shower wall panels said when I demanded that he leave them with me. And let me remind you that this is a continuation of the remodeling shenanigan from last week (catch up here!), in whence ‘with me’ in this case did not mean the Farmstead–our new country property where we are literally putting our pre-elderly parents ‘out to pasture’–where the shower wall panels in question ultimately needed to be.

Oh, ho, no! It would have been too simple to deliver the product to the address on the package, right? Instead some dumbo at the shipping company put my goods on a over-sized truck that couldn’t navigate the back-roads leading to the Farmstead. At least not without taking a ton of tree branches and/or getting the truck stuck trying to turn around.

So, then, did ‘with me’ mean the garage of our Town House, nestled in a neighborhood with wide, well-paved roads? Not in the least, Dear Reader, not in the least…apparently, again, ‘too many tree branches’ and ‘too narrow roads’, according to ‘M.T.’, the mother-trucking truck driver.

Ah, then that must mean that I told him to drop it off ‘here’, meaning I was at the Lowe’s Home Improvement store across the street from my neighborhood. You know, the store I ordered it from in the first place. Surely, they would be like, “cool, that’s something you ordered from us, we’ll hold onto it for you until you can come back with an appropriately-sized vehicle”. (Quick reminder: I did not have an appropriately-sized vehicle at my disposal. Hence the tension this little 2-act drama we find ourselves in).

Nope, that was shut down by Ass. Man. Paul.

Wait, what’s that you say? “That’s not how you properly abbreviate ‘Assistant Manager! ‘Asst. Mgr. Paul’ is the correct full title of that particular dipshit of a mid-level manager.”

Nah…I’m good with ‘Ass. Man. Paul.’ It suits him well.

Anyways, pardon the digression–the point is that AssMan wasn’t about to do me any favors that day.

…and thusly I found myself on the side of the road across the street from the gas station near the entrance to my neighborhood. That’s where ‘with me’ was. Just a strip of grass in the middle of the woods, a full mile from my house.

And I claimed that M.T. would have been reticent to ‘deliver’ my 8’x6′ wooden crate and package to a location that didn’t have a proper address.

But I was lying. Really, he was like, “Cool. If that’s what you want, let’s rock n’ roll this off of here…”

He was so cool with the idea–an idea that I would think could put his career as a delivery driver in jeopardy–that once we got the package safely off the truck and out of the road, and I was like, “Alright, do you need me to sign something saying that I received it?” he simply said, “Nah, you’re good. I can see your name here on the package…”


“Soooo, Mom…could you step out on the porch for me?”

It was about to start raining, and I had a hot date with My Beautiful Bride in about an hour–it was time to find me an appropriately-size vehicle. But of course, I personally couldn’t go find one. I was stuck on the side of the road guarding my prized possession.

Which, in retrospect, I find hilarious, that I anticipated that such an unwieldy and cumbersome item could possibly become the victim of a crime convenience. What did I think was going to happen? Some youths were going to ride by on their bikes and a see prime opportunity to renovate the bathroom in their treehouse? And then what? They call their parents to come pick them and their loot up? Hah.

Anyways, My Beautiful Bride was still busy with her day job as a health care executive (#HumbleBragAboutMyWife), so I was calling in the favor from my pre-elderly mother, who was at our house watching our girls.

“I’m already on the porch. What’s up?” she replied.

“Look across the street. Is John’s big-ass truck in his driveway?” I breathlessly asked her.

“No, I don’t see his truck in the driveway.”

“What about Joey? Is his large-and-in-charge pickup parked in front of his house?”

“Who’s Joey?” Mom asked quizzically.

“Dangit, Mom, John’s neighbor–the brown house kitty-corner across the street from us.”

“Oh. Okay. The big brown house, you say? Well, I don’t see any truck th–“

I didn’t have time for any of her trademark soliloquies.

“Yeah, okay, so what about Matt’s truck? Do you see Matt’s truck?” I impatiently interrupted her.

“Who’s Matt?”

“Arrgghh, you’re killing me, Smalls! Alba’s dad! Eden’s dad! You know–just a few door’s down from us.”

“East or west?”

“West! West! WEST!”

“Oh, right. Well let me go check…”

Thirty seconds later…

“So which house is theirs again?”

“Ackk! How do you not know which house is theirs? It’s the one with the bay windows 2 or 3 houses down from ours–look, I just need you to tell me if you see any large-bedded vehicles when you look down the street. I don’t care who’s it actually is.”

“Uh, let’s see…no, not really…”

“Not even the cop who does power-washing as a side-hustle?”

“Which house is his again?”

“Just past Matt’s–wait! It doesn’t matter. We just need a neighbor with a truck–any neighbor will do.”

“Hmmm…well, there’s the house as you go around the bend on our street. I’ve seen a truck in their driveway. Maybe they’ve seen me and the girls taking walks around the neighbor and will recognize me and not be freaked out by my request to borrow their truck…”

“You mean on the other end of our street? Across from Natalie’s house? And also across from the Highway Patrol officer’s house?”

“No, no, the house next to it. The neighbors with the RV.”

“Great thinking! Those bungholes are always parking their huge RV in the middle of the street and I’m barely avoid crashing into it every day. They definitely have to have a big enough truck to haul that–and they owe us a favor for not reporting them to the HOA like we should!”

“Okay, give me a few minutes to walk that way. I’ll call you back…”

“Great! Thanks!”

In the meantime, I needed to hedge my bets in case she wasn’t successful.

Dials My Beautiful Bride…

“What’s up? I’m work–“

“No time to explain–does Lynn have a truck I can borrow?”

“Huh? What are you talking about? Lynn, my co-worker?”

“Yes, that Lynn. She lives in the country, so surely she or her husband have a pickup.”

“Dear, I don’t think they have a pickup…”

“Well, what kind of country folk do they think they are? Imposters, I say!”

BUZZ! BUZZ!

“Oh, that’s Mom calling me back! Gotta go!”

“Okay, see yo–“

*click*–or whatever sound cell phones make when you abruptly End Current [Call] And Accept Incoming [Call]

“What’s the good word, Mom?”

“‘Jesus loves you’–but that’s not important right now.1Fun fact: this fabricated line from our conversation was inspired by the movie Airplane! The guy who lives on the corner–I think he said his name was John–has a truck and is willing to help you. He needs to know where you’re at.”

“Wait, which house? Luna’s house?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it is the house where we always see Luna, though I haven’t seen him in a while…”

“That’s because Luna died last year, Mother (Rest in Peace, [Lion] King)–but, that’s beside the point. Tell John that I’m right across the street from right before you turn into the gas station. He’ll know it’s me when he sees the CRV with the flashers on. I’ve already about got ran over 3 times.”

“The gas station in our neighborhood?”

“Jeez, Mother, YES, that gas station.”

“Okay! He’s on his way to you…”


“I’m flashing my lights! I’m flashing my lights!” I shouted at the inadequately-sized pickup in front of me, in the bed of which my precious shower walls were precariously shifting about.

John had graciously helped me load up the huge parcel–first the wooden pallet, then the package itself–in the eager-and-willing-but-almost-too-small cargo area of his pickup. And the plan was for me to follow him in my CRV, that way if it were to fall out, at least it would hit me and not some innocent vehicle.

Of course, we had agreed upon a method of communicating any shifting of the cargo. That would be ‘I’ll flash my lights.’ Which I was furiously doing, to no avail.

I rolled down my window, and tried frantically waving my arm at him, but that did no good either.

Fortunately, he barely made it to our house without it falling out.

“Hey, I was flashing my ligh–“

I cut myself off. When you have a good neighbor like John come swoop in and save your ass, maybe critiquing his form is not the best course of action.

“What’s that?” he cupped his lobeless ear and leaned in towards me.

“I said, ‘I would really like to give you $20 to show my appreciation’. Clearly, that’s what I said…”

“Thanks, but no need for that! It was a pleasure just to help out a neighbor.”

My Dude is true a hero. The kind of hero that will inspire you to get a pickup of your own so you in turn can help out neighbors caught on the side of the road with their pants down in the pouring rain.

Well, maybe not a pickup. Those things are expensive af. Perhaps a 5’x8′ utility trailer…


The point of the story is sometimes you should just be grateful. As in, ‘grateful for your mother’s mad knocking-on-every-door-in-the-neighborhood skills.’ Sure, all those Saturday mornings sacrificed in service of our church’s bus ministry may have desecrated the only sacred time slot in her children’s lives (and the lives of other poor unsuspecting kids), but you gotta admit: The Jesus had a plan for all that pain and suffering.

Totally worth it…right?

Riiiiight…


Content created on: 15/16 July 2023 (Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Really, What Would Jesus Do…With All That Insanely Affordable Lube?

4 Min Read

When religious ministry and wordplay collide, ya better butter up, BuckleCup.

Slipe ‘n slide and glide, it’s gonna be one heaven of a ride…


“Uh…wow…that’s a lot of Crisco. You boys plan on frying up enough fried chicken to feed an army?”

The cashier at the local Manhattan1Manhattan, KS–“The Little Apple”, that is. Food 4 Less gave me and my buddy Chong a suspicious sideways glance.

“Our campus group–the Kansas State Navigators–is having a barn party to celebrate the end of the school year, and somehow we got put in charge,” I replied.

Diversion: a classic tactic when you’d rather not answer somebody’s question.

“The Navigators, eh? What is that? Like a sailing club or something?” the clerk asked curiously.

“No. We a Christian group,” Chong2Hailing from Vietnam, Chong’s assumed the name ‘Justin’ when he emigrated to the U.S. as a child. Upon arriving at college, our half-Korean friend, James, decided to call him Chong instead. Asian on Asian hate crime is real, my friend. replied curtly in his lightly broken English. “Would you like to hear about The Jesus?”

The threat of proselytization: another classic tactic to get people to mind their own ----- business.

“Uh, no need for that, my good man,” the clerk stammered. “Your total for the 6 tubs of Crisco is $23.34.”

“Here’s $25 in Holy Christ Cash. You can keep the change, you Pagan sinner,” I said with a generous, yet passive-aggressive, tone.

Hurling insults and throwing money at the problem: two more tried-and-true methods for making snoopy strangers forget about your suspicious behavior.

“Okay, see you!” Chong shouted over his shoulder as we high-tailed it out the Food4Less door.

“You think that chump ever figured out we didn’t have any chicken in our carts?” I pondered aloud in Chong’s general direction.

“Nah, we good…”


“Come one, come all! If you just walked in, then welcome to the Navs’ First Annual Hawaiian County Fair! The surprise activity is about to start in a few minutes, but in the meantime why not try the Bobbing For Pineapples booth?” the M.C. shouted at random students as they wandered into the barn we had rented.

They seriously shouldn’t have put a certain somebody anywhere near the planning committee for this shindig. I’m not going to name any names, but take one guess which clever mf came up with ‘Hawaiian County Fair’ for a theme in the first place? I mean, bobbing for pineapples?!? What was this dude/dudette even thinking, amiright?

No doubt similar thoughts were going through the minds of many of these hapless Jesus-seeking students–especially when they were directed to the field across the way for the ‘surprise activity’ that the M.C. had been relentlessly teasing.

“Ladies and Gentlemen–er, I mean just ‘Gentlemen’, for religious reasons that will soon become clear–the moment you’ve been waiting for! The highlight of your entire academic career, the apex of every memory your will ever have, the zenith of–“

“Enough with the hyperbole–just get to the point!” a heckler shouted from the crowd at the overly verbose M.C.

“Gentlemen–and Lady observers–no county fair would be complete without a little competitive chasing and capturing of a well-lubed animal–“

“We’re Christians–we can’t even say the word ‘lube’ outside of marriage or an auto shop, much less use it!” shouted out yet another heckler.

The M.C. was about to lose his sh*t with this crowd.

“Okay, Chad,3GlutenFreeDad, this joke is for you. You know who I’m talking about. how about ‘well-oiled’? Would Jesus approve of that?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, now that we have that cleared up, may I present to you–*ahem* drumroll please–“

Chong and I peeked out from behind the adjacent out-building.

“Alright, it go time!” Chong stated with utmost determination.4Spoiler alert: This is a 100% verified memory: We gave each a big ol’ nasty hug before heading out the field. It was supposed to get us amped up for what was to come. But with double the dosage (see below), it was pretty darn inducing of the ickies.

The M.C. paused for another beat to let the tension build.

“…the Greased-Surfer Chase!!!

Right on cue, the two of us ran out wearing nothing but board shorts and approximately 18 lbs. of Crisco each.

“Aloha, Gentlemen, come and catch yourselves a slippery surf-dude–if you can!” I taunted.

What ensued, Dear Reader, I assure you was as delightfully disgusting and surprisingly difficult as you might imagine. I’m proud to say, though, that it took about 4-5 of ’em to take me down for good.

Of course, I ain’t got nothing on Chong: at barely 5′ 3″, it took a full 8 grown-ass men to pin him down for good…

The point of the story is: cleverness is empty without commitment.5Hey, you know what? That really does sound like some of the pithy, stupid things we would say in Navs, doesn’t it? *eye-roll* Sure you may have some witty idea, some fantastic play on words–but it means nothing if you’re not willing to sacrifice your body (and to a lesser degree, your dignity) to make sure it actually happens. After all, isn’t that What Jesus Would Do?

Hmmm, now that I think about it…almost naked…all-male…well-lubed…we were basically engaging in some good ol’ Greek wrestling. I guess that’s pretty appropriate–it’s June, after all. To all my old Navigator friends (and everybody else): Happy Pride Month!

Now, hopefully this particular month will go a little smoother than last year


Content created on: 2/3 June 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Hello, 911? It’s Urgent! An Unauthorized Intruder Is Terrorizing Mother!

6 Min Read

When an unknown pervert starts lurking about, you know it’s time to whip it out.

Uh, whip out your cell phone, just to be clear…


“Someone is here,” is all her ominous text message read.

My mother had only the day before moved out to our country plot o’ land, and was celebrating by having a picnic with our 5-year-old daughter, The Younger. I had honestly expected to see some cute picture of The Younger frolicking in the meadow or the pasture when my phone buzzed in the middle of the workday.

But instead of being overwhelmed with cuteness when I looked at my phone, I was slightly awash with dread instead. I had just spend my entire day the day before lauding the praises of secluded country living, including confidently reassuring mother dearest that it would be plain crazy for anyone to go through the effort of creeping around out there.

“Hold on for just one moment,” I turned to my co-worker who had been expecting me to help her run scientific experiments on live mice all day. “I have situation I need to attend to.”

“What do you mean ‘someone is here’?” I said the instant Mom picked up her phone–cause this was not time for fiddle-farting with texting. “Is it a delivery truck? Though I’m not expecting on more delivery trucks any time soon…”

“Well, the two of us were just sitting on the porch and enjoying lunch, when a car came down our driveway, and then disappeared down the road beside the garage,” Mother informed me.

“Wait, what?!?”

It’s hard to explain it without a picture or a diagram, but that was totally unexpected. It would be like seeing somebody walk past you in the hall and then go through a door that wasn’t there. To the untrained eye, our driveway ends after you pass the main house and then dead-ends into our detached garage. But if you look closely, there’s almost a secret path that you can veer off onto, and it’ll take you to down by The Holler.

“What’s down in The Holler?” you, Dear Reader, might be asking.

Well, I’ll tell you what’s down in The Holler: Nothing. Well, except maybe some Possum Juice–the jug of used cooking oil the former owner of this place used to leave out as food for the local possums. There also used to be a water-logged sailboat parked down there, but that’s neither here nor there, but less so ‘here’ because I gave it to our electrician the instant he offered to haul it off.

So a rando car just rolling onto our private property and on down there was quite bizarre–an incident we had a hard time coming up with a plausible explanation for. In fact, my first thought was, “Oh, yeah, that was definitely a ghost stuck in a timeloop.”

“So…it was a ghost car?” I asked Mom. “Just great. The place haunted.”

“No, it was real. At first I thought it had just been my imagination…except your daughter saw it, too. And I now I can see it parked back in the trees, camouflaged amongst the foliage.”

“What can you tell me about the car or the person?”

“Well, it was a green car, kinda like a Jeep. And when they got out of the vehicle, it was a white guy with brown hair, kinda pudgy, and wearing a blue shirt with orange sleeves.”

“Orange sleeves?!? The heck? So was it like a uniform?”

“No, not a uniform, short sleeves.”

“Well, that is weird.”

The picture she had just painted in my mind involved a Zach Galafankis-looking guy wearing a head band and a tube top for some reason. I definitely had to get to the bottom of why some weirdo perv was creeping all up ons my mom and baby girl.

Of course this all had to happen the one day I went into work, which put me a good 45 minutes away from the action, otherwise I would swoop in to the resolve the situation like any good lord of the manor would.

“I would just have you go find the guy and aski him what the hell he’s doing on our property, but you got the kiddo with you, and we can’t afford anything happening to you and leaving her to fend for herself.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening…”

“You’re right, it’s not. I think we have no choice but call the police. You wanna do it, or you do want me to?”

“I’m going to get your daughter in the car, and go stake out down the road. Meanwhile, you call the Sheriff and have them send someone out…”


“Nine-one-one, what’s the address of your emergency?” the dispatcher dutifully asked me.

“Uh, it’s [redacted for our privacy–jeez, we don’t want every Tom, Dick, & Harry on the internet knocking on our the door of our secluded Oasis of Peace (TM)]. It’s where my mother is, all alone with her elderly self; I’m at work.”

“Sir, that address is in [redacted]. We don’t have the number for that county.”

“Uh, so what are you saying?” I couldn’t believe that we were wasting precious seconds with this nonsense.

“You’ll have to dial 411 and they can transfer you over, good bye.”

And just like that 911 hung up on me.

I begrudgingly dialed 411, but not without cussing and mumbling under my breath about how they were dang lucky this wasn’t a super-emergency, one where 20 seconds could easily be the difference between life or death.

And good thing, too–apparently, just yelling ‘EMERGENCY’ at the automated operator doesn’t do much good, and it ended up taking me a couple tries to figure out that I needed to specifically ask for my county’s Sheriff’s department to get where I wanted to go.

*Approximately 3 minutes later…*

“[redacted] County Sheriff’s Department, what’s your emergency?”

“Help! My mom is alone out on secluded farm with our daughter, and there is an intruder on our property!”

“Okay, sir, just calm down. We can send someone out to check things out. I’ll need to call your mom and talk to her. What’s her number?”

“Oh good, she can give you a detailed description of the creep. Her number is [redacted].”

I hung up and anxiously awaited to receive any updates. It was a good 5 minutes before I checked back in, only to find out that Mom had been off the phone with the Po-po for a couple of minutes (which felt like eternity, given the situation).

“Yeah, they’re sending someone out straightaway. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in my hiding spot, where I’ll be able to see the guy whenever he leaves–he has no other way out!”

“Good thinking, Ma! What a heckuva first day of living in your new place, eh?”

“Oh wait! I see him! But he’s turning the other way. He’s headed up to the neighbors’ place up on the hill. I have his license plate now, though!”

“What in the world is that turkey up to? Anyways, we better call the police back, since we have his license now.”

At that point, I 3-way called into cops, as I wasn’t about to get off the phone with my beloved maternal figure. As we were relaying the license plate number, the dispatcher assured us that a deputy was in the area and would be there soon.

“Jeez, ‘in the area’?!? We could have a potential rapist and molester on our hands, and you’re sending someone over only because it’s convenient. Maybe you are the real monsters here…” I of course said this only in my head.

“Oh wait!” Mom all of a sudden interjected. “He’s coming out–I repeat, he’s coming out now.”

“Follow that car!” I barked through the phone.

“Sir, I don’t think that’s a good–” the dispatcher didn’t get to finish her admonishly sentence before Mom piped up again.

“And I see the deputy coming from the other way. Oh, thank heavens, not a moment too soon!”

Even on the other end of the phone, we could hear a vehicle passing, followed by unexpected silence from Mom.

“Mom, you still there?”

“Yeah, it’s just…it’s just that I would make a terrible witness in a court of law.”

“Whatchyou talking about, Willis?” I asked.

“Well, the car was tan, not green, for one…”

“Okay, no big deal.”

“And you were right he was wearing a uniform: blue sleeves and an orange vest…”

“Okay, that’s encouraging. Unless that is a prison uniform.”

“And it’s a Black guy. Totally could have sworn he was white…”


“Yes, that’s right ma’am. He was a surveyor, not ‘Sir Voyeur’. He was legit, had a name tag and equipment in the back and everything.”

I could hear the deputy fill Mom in on the details of his conversation with the potential perp before he let him drive off into the day.

“Did you catch all that?” she asked me after she had wrapped up the conversation.

“I did indeed. Well, that’s a relief. I bet that was related to our [neighbor’s name redacted]’s efforts to make all these wooded acres out here part of a nature conservancy. I’ll let her know that if they’re going to poke around on private property, that they better notify the owner first. In these parts, that’s a good way to find oneself staring down a shotgun barrel!”

A day or so later, this particular neighbor informed me that they guy was probably not a land surveyor, and that there was a good chance he was surveying the land for any potential endangered wildlife living in the area.

…and it was in that moment I knew it was official.

I mean, think about it, dude:

I had called 911…

…on a Black guy…

…who was just bird-watching.

Don’t you get it? It’s me–little ol’ woke me–I’m the neighborhood Karen.

*Facepalm*.

But wait! Let the record show that I had thought I was calling 911 on a white guy.

Heck, I didn’t even technically call 911 on him–remember, I had to dial 411 just to get to the right person in order to tattle on his wandering ‘white’ ass.

Unlike my poor startled mother, you had better get these details right if the Woke Police come around asking about me…


Content created on: 28 May 2023 (Sunday)

« Older posts
error

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)

RSS
Follow by Email
YouTube
YouTube
Instagram