Tag: BLM

Has an unexpected interstate lawman come a-knockin’ at your door?

Demand they double-check–surely you ain’t the guy they’re looking for…

“Hey, bro, you got some mail from the Baca County Sheriff. Just thought you should know,” my college roommate–the one and only Beautiful Love Muscle (aka BLM)–said as he handed me a legal-sized envelope as I walked in the door.

“Ahh, it’s probably junk mail, asking me to Back The Blue¹For the record, I don’t think ‘Back the Blue’ was a thing back in 2004. or some other non-sense asking me for my hard-earned money,” I replied dismissively.

“Hah! Which local ordinance did you violate this time, you outlaw, you? Wait, you’re not the most wanted man in Kansas (again), are you?” BLM said chuckling.

“Har, har. You’re funny. It’s clearly old-school spam–I’m pretty sure there isn’t even a ‘Baca County’ in Kansas. Frankly, it all sounds made-up to me.”

“Let me see that envelope again,” he said.

After a moment of examining the return address, BLM heartily declared, “Yes, ’tis just as I suspected: this letter was sent from Springfield.”

“Well, I did live there for 5 years. So I guess that makes me the most wanted man in Missouri?”

“Bzzzt! Please try again!”

“Most wanted man in Illinois?”

“Nope.”

“Most wanted man in Massachusetts?”

“My dude, have you even ever been to Massachusetts?”

“So that’s a ‘no’? Dang. Seeing as how there’s 67 Springfields, we might be here a while. Can you just put me out of my misery?”

“Colorado, you dummy! Springfield, Colorado! Come to think of it, doesn’t Baca County border Morton County? Didn’t you once almost burn that whole place down?” BLM said, geo-shaming me.

“Colorado! Oh, that makes more sense. I mean, I guess I was there several months ago, yet I have no idea what the Sheriff there would want with me…maybe they want to give me an Outstanding Citizen award or something?”

“Maybe we should just stop hypothesizing and theorizing and just open the ----- letter, and find out what the hubbub is all about,” BLM suggested.

“FINE,” I said begrudgingly as I tore into the dang thing.

I had to scan the enclosed letter several times, trying to digest what exactly it was trying to communicate.

“Well, so is it junk mail or not? Don’t keep me in suspense!” he said excitedly.

“It’s…it’s…it’s a warrant for my arrest.”

“Huh?!?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. Says here I wrote a hot check for $200 to Tempel Grain of Lamar. What the hell? I’ve never wrote any checks in Lamar in my life!”

Just then something else fell out of the envelope. BLM picked it up and glanced over it.

“Sorry, bro, but they literally brought the proverbial receipts. This looks like one of your checks from your bank back in Rolla,” he observed.

“Let me see that!” I snatched the check out of from between his sausage fingers.

It didn’t take me more than a split-second of inspecting the signature on what was very much my check to figure out what shenanigans were afoot.

“DADnabbit! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you with my checkbook,” I muttered.

“Trusted who?” BLM inquired.

I let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m not going to name any names, but let’s just say that there’s a certain family member who could technically claim to have the same name as me. Now, before you go making assumptions, let me remind you that there are an abnormally high number of such suspects in my family–remember: even I don’t get to use my own name.”

“Anyways,” I continued, “this person–who shall remain unnamed–had some very specific banking needs, and conveniently for them, my hometown banking account could meet those needs nicely…”

“Let me guess: it was your–” BLM interjected.

“BOBdammit!” I cut him off. “I think you should Just stop while you’re ahead–AND, no, I will not confirm whethER or not I’m their nephew, cousin, or SON, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Well, that was suspiciously odd way of phrasing that. But, my bad, my bad. Please, do go on…” he said.

“Well, anyways, their business happens to be in the middle of bankruptcy procedeedings, and so the arbitrator has his eagle-eye trained on all of their financial assets and accounts. Now, since this anonymous person and I basically have the same name, they got the grand idea of using my account–which the arbitrator has no idea even exists–for some, uh, ‘parallel bookkeeping’.”

“Interesting…way too many boring details, but overall interesting nonetheless…”

“Interesting indeed…well, I wasn’t using the account anyways, and they would be depositing their own funds in the account instead of using mine, so I said ‘What the hell? Why not help them out with some light money laundering?’ I should have known better, though…it would only be a matter of time before they started writing checks that I couldn’t cash.”

BLM sat there pensively for a few moments.

“Well, that does make sense…sure does explain a thing or two…”

“Wait, what? What makes sense?” I asked suspiciously. “Out with it! What secret are you keeping?!?”

“So…uh…I forgot to tell you that you got another piece of mail a few weeks ago…” he said sheepishly. “…it was from the Morton County Sheriff…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, where is it?”

BLM disappeared into our shared bedroom and shuffled through some papers on our shared desk.

“Found it!” he said excitedly.

“Dammit, man, this isn’t a ----- Easter Egg hunt, you knucklehead!” I said, clearly much less excited than he was. “Let me see that!”

And so, for the second time that day I found myself tearing into a legal communique from an officer of the law.

I scanned this new letter, not nearly as surprised as I was last time, though.

“Well, at least it’s not actually a warrant for my arrest.”

“That’s good…” BLM commented, attempting to match my mood–though he was clearly enjoying the schadenfreude of the moment a bit too much.

“Yeah, I suppose so. But it looks like I owe Bultman’s Farm Supply $300 plus a $25 returned check fee.”

“Well, good thing you’re no longer unemploy–” BLM started before I cut him off with a piercing glance.

“Look on the bright side,” he said, this time trying to cheer me up. “It looks like you’re the most wanted man in Kansas after all…”

The point of the story is, believe it or not, this is my little weird-ass way of celebrating Dia de Los Muertos. I’m still trying to get over the unexpected passing of BLM less than a month ago, so I thought it would be nice to write him into one of my semi-historically accurate narratives about identity theft.

Fun fact, though: when researching this story, I came across the actual receipt of when I had sent the money to Baca County to cover the first hot check, and it turns out that at the time, I hadn’t lived with BLM for 4 months. So…I guess this is some form of reverse-identity theft? You know, where I’ve attributed entire conversations to him that clearly must have been with another friend or roommate of mine…anyways, I digress.

But let’s also not forget about my beloved family member who apparently had no problem with dragging my (our?) good name through the mud, as they too are no longer with us. Despite their deviltry, rascality, and roguery,²Yes, I did indeed just Google ‘shenanigans synonyms’. I still love them and miss them very much. And thanks to my 6-year-old daughter learning about Dia de Los Muertos at school and insisting on celebrating, this will be the first year that we properly celebrate the life of that beloved old fart-knocker.

Oh, and also, one practical point of the story: now you know why I absolutely detest the idea of naming one’s child so closely after another family member and/or one’s self. Turns out, these hot checks were just the tip of the ol’ same-name iceberg…you wouldn’t believe how long and hard I had to tussle with the credit score people to convince them that it wasn’t me who had gone and racked up a shit-ton of debt before my 22nd birthday.

Anyways, happy Dia de Los Muertos, y’all…

Content created on: 29/30 October 2024 (Tues/Weds)

My vocabulary didn’t expand just because I graduated college.

It was because of the WAY I graduated college…

“Well…congratulations, me?”

I hung up the phone with the Kansas State University Registrar’s Office, and was trying to process the emotional turmoil that had just blindsided me. Maybe it was because those feelings were completely unexpected–after all, my academic advisor did give in and grant my special request.

Yet, for being an education-oriented young lad my entire life, I was feeling pretty empty inside for having just graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Physics.

Correction–I meant to say “for having just found out that I had graduated”…

“Anti-Climactic Denouement”–that’s the Word of the Day.

And no, I know what you’re (probably) thinking, but that phrase does not refer to the act of some jackass getting up on their soapbox and declaring global warming to be nothing but a hoax.

Nor does it refer to the Puritan movement back in the 1800’s that declared the female orgasm to be “the work of the Devil himself, that horny bastard.” Hell, I don’t even know if that was a real thing, but knowing those Puritans, I wouldn’t put it past those prudes to come up with some load of horse crap like that. But I digress…

Instead–as you may have gathered from context–“Anti-Climactic Denouement” is the perfect descriptor for my, shall we say, “nontraditional” graduation journey.

Officially earning my college degree–and doing so with dang-near perfect grades at that (#HumbleBrag)–should have been the pinnacle of my academic career. But nooooo, I just had to be “special” and couldn’t let things play out in a much more typical–i.e. linearly synchronous–fashion.

And I blame the Love of (Free) Money for all the resulting emotional trauma I endured. Well, that, along with a healthy dose of Not Knowing What (the ----- ) I Wanted to Do With My Life.

You see, most youngsters my age were set to graduate in May 2003. However, I needed a bit more time to wrap things up, and so had concordantly applied to graduate the following December. This wasn’t too uncommon, though: December graduations happen all the time.

But as that time neared, it occurred to me that I had no idea what I was to do after that. True story–I never had any intentions of using my degree in Physics, believe it or not.¹If you’re not aware, I have my PhD in Physics, a fact that would have shocked my Past Self to hear. My future career was a blank canvas. Trust me, though, that’s not nearly as fun as it sounds.

Anyways, I had a few ideas I was kicking around, one of which was becoming a photographer. One of my friends suggested that I could explore that more by taking K-State’s Digital Photography class. You know…the one that was being offered in Spring 2004.

You know…after I was no longer a quote-unquote “student.”

And if you’re not actually a student, guess what? You ain’t getting none of that sweet, sweet free FAFSA monies from Uncle Sam–and you know how much I love me some of them FAFSA monies, right?

I didn’t have a job lined out post-graduation, so the last thing I wanted was to have to pay $453.80²Based on this and this, accounting for the Campus Privilege Fee for Residents, the cost of a credit hour in the Spring 2004 would have been $118.60. Three credit hours would be $355.80, and when you add back in the Campus Privilege Fee of $64 for the first credit hour and $17 for each hour thereafter, you get $355.80 + $64 + $17 + $17 = $453.80. Ta-da! in tuition and so-called “Campus Privilege Fees,” especially since my Spidey-sense was telling me that ultimately photography would not be how I earned a living.

So I got creative. Shortly after that Thanksgiving, I called up ye ole’ Registrar’s Office, and was like, “Hey, what-say we put my December graduation on hold and how about I graduate in May like a normal person a year younger than me? Oh, and how about some of that free money?”

And they were like, “Looky here, young whipper-snapper…well, uh…yeah, I guess we can do that. Sure. A May graduation it is for you. Enjoy your free money…”

“You want a decent-paying job? Then I suggest you get your danged college degree, son!”

Those words–or something very close to those words–were uttered by my slightly-older-but-much-wiser roommate, the Beautiful Love Muscle. BLM was commiserating with me, as I wasn’t having any luck landing a job after spending most of that January job hunting.

“Just think of how many more job opportunities would be open to you with your degree in hand!”

“But…but…but I would have to pay back all my free monies!” I blubbered in response.

“Nah, man, just think–you’ll probably have a much better paying job than without your degree, so you’ll make up that $500 within your first couple of paycheck!”

“Dude…your logic is…airtight. Alright! I’ll do it!”

…

“So…I just call them and ask them to go back in time and give me my diploma in December?” It was dawning on me that I was blazing a path that probably had never been blazed before.

“Huhn,” BLM stroked the stubble on his chin, “I hadn’t really thought that far out.”

Welp, I had nothing to lose by simply asking, so that next day I gave ol’ K-State yet another friendly phone call:

“Uh, yeah, hello there Registrar’s Office. You see, I was wondering…um, how do I say this? Could you have me in your system as having officially graduated in December? I already had an application approved and everything…”

“Sir, we haven’t even started processing graduation applications for December 2004 yet…”

“No, not this coming December. I mean this past December–December 2003. I’m needing you to back-date my graduation. Please. Pretty please?”

I conspicuously omitted any questions about whether I would have to pay back the free money they had given me, hoping that they would overlook it amidst the confusion.

“Oh. Okay…I guess I’ll have to talk to my boss about that…”

It wasn’t but a few days later that I received the so-called good news that it was official: I was a Bachelor of Arts,³You would think that I would have been a Bachelor of Science, but due to my scheme that enabled me to avoid taking Quantum Physics and Electronics Lab, I was able to skate by with “Arts” instead. Physically speaking!

The realization that immediately followed hearing that news, though, turned my mood sour pretty quick: “Dammit, I missed the pomp & circumstance of my own graduation! How did I manage to miss such a major life milestone?!?”

And before you go judging me for throwing myself a little pity party over the matter, consider this: the feeling with which I was beset? That was indubitably the same feeling that a bride would have if she, say, missed her own wedding. Or a father, unintentionally missing the birth of his first child.

Like I said–using the big college graduate words that I’m now entitled to use willy-nilly–it was a true “Anti-Climactic Denouement”. What should have been a high point in my life ended up being nothing more than a pathetic let-down…

“Welp, this must be what it feels like to be a criminal running from the law,” I thought to myself–over and over, for the next 4 months. You know, always looking over their shoulder, wondering not if but when The Man was going to come knocking on their door, demanding the justice that was due.

But, in the end, no one ever said anything about me paying back that $453.80 I was so worried about. So…hooray me?

Oh, and I also ended up getting a job a couple months later…that didn’t require a college degree.

So after all that, I could have just graduated in May like every one else, minus all the drama. Go figure.

But on the bright side, when anybody asks me “So, when did you graduate?” I get to flex my hard-earned scholarly vocabulary, humbly replying:

“Well, you see, a kind of a funny thing happened…I’ll spare you the details, though, and just get straight to the point of the story…

“The point of the story is that in January 2004, I retroactively graduated summa cumm laude⁴For the record, I know that it is “c-u-m” with one “m” and not “cumm.” But my Censorship software will blank it our (“—-“) if I spell it like the synonym for jism (male ejaculate). in December 2003, ergo necessitating the caveat explicationibus that it had been conferred expo facto–but, fortunately, not posthumously.”

You know…just your average graduation story.

Every time I tell it though, I can’t help think of this classic scene from The Matrix 2 (also pay attention to around the 8:06 mark of the clip) :

Content created on: 21 January 2022 (Friday)

Don’t be satisfied with those bougie pranks.

If you want to funk with someone’s mind, you gotta play the long game…

I like to think of myself as a prankster at heart–even from a young age and few solid hits, such as wrapping a rubber band around the sink faucet sprayer and ass-blasting my maternal grandma with an ass-ton of water when she turned it on. She was not bemused.

Or the time, when 7-year-old me was forced to hang out in my dad’s semi truck for a boringly long time while he was plowing or harvesting or doing some other farmy-type activity. That was when I took a tarp strap and hooked up the driver’s door to the truck’s horn, so my dad got ass-blasted with an ass-ton of decibels upside his head when he tried to get in the truck a few hours later. Unlike my grandma, he was bemused. Apparently, I get my jokester genes from his side of the family.

I’ve had some other good ones here and there, but if I’m being honest with you–and you know I am–I have actually lead a seriously deprived prank life. Growing up, it seemed that my best ideas would require at least one accomplice, but unfortunately, my ideas were too outside-the-box, genius, and/or dangerous for the comfort of my much more closed-minded acquaintances.

Alternatively, my college friends only seemed to be in a pranking mood when I wasn’t around, so I ended feeling left out and sorry for myself when, time after time, I found myself excluded from all the fun and cheeky shenanigans.

However, as an adult, there was one incident that I was particularly proud of…

During the summer after I graduated from college, one of my roommates at the time, the Beautiful Love Muscle–yes, that BLM–was preparing to get married and move to Colorado Springs at the end of July. Consequently, he would one or two weeks at a time scouting out this new and strange land, occasionally returning to grace us with his presence.

It was while he was gone one of these times that my concurrent co-conspirators, Andrew and Crash–a nickname earned by going over to friends houses only to involuntarily nap on their couches–had the bright idea to toy with BLM’s sanity a bit. And all we needed was a screwdriver…

In our kitchen, the fridge was in the middle of one of the walls, and its door–unlike in most kitchen layouts–did not necessarily need to open to the left or right. It literally swung both ways. In theory at least.

So just for ----- and giggles we decided to swap which side the hinges were on (an obvious consequence of which would be the handle would be on the opposite side). BLM came back and we could barely contain ourselves as we waited to see what type of confusion and delay our handiwork might cause him.

…but it never came. He seemed to be oblivious to our minor rearrangement, like the big doof he could sometimes be. I was rather disappointed that our collective stroke of genius had seemingly gone to waste.

Come end of the summer, when it was time for him to move out and move on with his life, I just had to know if he ever even noticed the difference, so I subtly asked him just that.

“Oh my god! THAT’s what’s been eating at me! Halfway through the summer, I could sense something wasn’t quite right, but I could never quite put my finger on it. I was going ----- insane!”

Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised and infinitely pleased to see that it had worked out even better than I could have imagined…I just had to play the long game.

Anyways, there’s not real point to this story, other than to give you the idea to go switch the fridge door on your mates and then…wait. It will be well worth it. If you’re getting antsy, then maybe you could up your game and switch the door back and forth every week or so. Either way, slowly driving insane the lovable assholes you find yourself cohabiting with will be well worth it.

Happy April Fool’s Day!

Content created on: 1 April 2021 (Thursday)