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Tag: Christmas And Other Winter Holidays

It’s A Holiday Miracle On Willow Drive, My Dudes

5 Min Read

Sometimes, there are no gifts under the tree.

Sometimes, the real gift is the tree itself…


“My dudes, it’s already February. Are y’all going to help me haul our Christmas tree out to the curb or not?”

“No man, we can’t do that! Look at it–it’s still green as the day we brought it home. We can’t give up on our Miracle Tree now!”

It was indeed February already, and my roommates (and, coincidentally, my fellow physics grad students) and I were trying to come to a consensus about what to do with the Christmas tree we had all pitched in to buy almost 2 months earlier.

“You want my humble opinion?” P.F. Chaz, the least humble1The guy was–and is–a bit of a pompous jackass of the four of us, chimed in. “I think it’s like the Big Lebowski’s rug that got pissed on…”

“You’re right…it really does tie the room together,” one of us concurred. “Nice Cohen Brothers pop-culture reference, there.”

We sat there silently for a few moments, basking in the glory of the Ol’ Tannenbaum that sat in the corner of our living room.

In our heads, we knew that it wouldn’t be kosher to keep it around any longer. Not to mention that we would look like a bunch of asses that didn’t know how to move on with their lives if we attempted to keep the Christmas Spirit on life support any longer.

But if we went through with it, we could sense that it wouldn’t just be our bachelor pad in which its absence would leave a gaping hole. There would be 7-ft Douglas Fir-sized chasm of emptiness in our hearts as well…


“Ladies, ladies! Welcome to our humble abode…”

“Oh. My. Gawd. Becky, look at that tree. It is so big. I can’t believe it’s so round, it’s just like…out there (in the middle of their living room)…it’s just so GREEN.2If you’re wondering to which stalwart of our pop culture that referred, just click here.

P.F. Chaz & I, on top of everything else, were also in a Bible study together, and the gentlemen of our study were hosting our sister Bible study for a belated non-Valentine’s Day dinner at our place. Now, this would end up being the first fancy meal shared by not one, but two, future husband and wife duos–yours truly included–and this particular scholar maintains that we all owe it to The Tree.

You gotta admit there was a streak of genius to it: the second thing the young ladies saw when they walked in the door that evening was, as “Becky” pointed out, a very much alive and well holiday tree in the living room. And–BOOM!–just like that, they’re spending the rest of the night preoccupied with where the hell we got a live tree in the dead of February, and but…why? Why? WHY?!?

And, just like that, with their guards completely down, they had no defense against any crafty subliminal messaging us potential young suitors might or might not have sent their way…

Nah, I’m just messing with ya. It wasn’t some grand Get-A-Wife conspiracy.

It was just a humble Valentine’s Tree, born part out of ingenuity, part out of laziness, and 100% out of candy canes and red streamer…


“Green, purple…and gold, right?”

“Yeah, I think those are the right colors.”

“And beads…we need to put plenty of beads on this thing.”

“Oh, right. I forgot where your grandparents were from. I guess that makes you our expert on the matter.”

‘Twas but mid-March already, and our Miracle Tree just kept on being miraculously green, so what else were we supposed to do? As we snacked on the candy canes that had previously adorned our arborous roommate–because at that point “roommate” was the more appropriate term–we quickly yet carefully decked it out with decorations that were never really meant to go on a tree.

Afterwards, we sat our dining room table, enjoying some Sweet Baby Jesus cake,3Okay, so that’s not the right name for it, but the proper name escapes me at the moment. immensely proud of ourselves for having what was indubitably the one and only Mardi Gras tree in all of Chapel Hill…


“Dang, man, this tree is like some kind of Energizer Easter Bunny: it keeps going and going, right on up until the time on the Hebrew lunar calendar when we glorify ancient forms of capital punishment.”

“Welp, you know what that means!”

“You bet your egg-decorating, grown-ass-man ass, I do!”

*All roommates in unison: “IT’S EASTER TREE TIME!!!”

“Hmpph, that’s a bit ironic though,” one of us mused aloud. “Instead of being raised from the dead, Miracle Tree just seems to never die in the first place…”


“Dudes, oh, my dudes!”

“What? What is it? Oh, no, don’t tell me our basement flooded4For historical accuracy, the event which is alluded to, the flooding of our basement/lower level/my room, didn’t actually happen until about 3 weeks later. again?!?”

“No, no, nothing like that. You’ll never guess what I found at Party City.”

“Oh no you didn’t!”

“Oh, yes. I did.”

“I always thought that their existence was a mere Mexican urban legend. Like the chupacabra…”

“Gentlemen, behold: our very own red chili pepper party lights. Cut your limes and raise your cervecas, pinche cabrons, ’cause we’re gonna drink to what is indubitably the one and only Árbol de Cinco de Mayo in all of Carolina del Norte!”


Editor’s note: The Four Ghost-Faces of Willow Drive wisely chose to forego an attempt to make a “Juneteenth Tree.” Good call, my dudes, good call…


“Welp, it’s just you and me, Miracle Tree. Let freedom ring and what-not.”

I sat in solitude in our–no, my–living room, celebrating my first Independence Day all alone…by talking to a ----- tree.

Remember the basement flooding back in May? Well, that had set off a chain of events led us to collectively realize that it would probably be hazardous to our health to continue living in that place–something about “gray water” or “black mold,” I can’t exactly remember–and I was the last one to find alternate housing.

“I know, I know, Miracle Tree. I miss my dudes, too. But the holidays just aren’t the same without them.”

*rustle rustle rustle*

“What’s that? Yes, you are still somehow green as ever, despite not being watered for the entire month of June. But I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

*gentle weeping like a willow*

“You have been ever faithful my friend. But, alas, you have fulfilled your purpose here on Earth, one of providing a life lesson which I will be able to share with the readers of my popular blog many years from now…”

“…a lesson about not being too quick to throw out your Christmas tree, just because the calendar says January. Or February. Or March, April, May, or June.. Screw what society says–I say follow your heart.”

“Or maybe the lesson is deeper, like something about being adaptable to the ever-changing seasons of life?”

“Hmmm..or perhaps the lesson is actually super-shallow, like how to pick up women with unconventional Feng Shui tactics?”

“No, no, I got it. This is the lesson: no matter the colors, no matter the foods, no matter the arbitrary traditions, what makes celebrating special is celebrating with the proverbial ‘My Dudes’–whoever that special group of people may be–that is what the holidays are all about…”

“Yeah…that sounds profound enough to me. Now, My Dude–because after living with you for 7 months, you, Oh Christmas/Valentine’s/Mardi Gras/Easter/Cinco de Mayo/definitely-not-Juneteenth Tree, you will forever be My Dude in this dude’s heart–let’s go make one last everlasting memory…”


EXT. WILLOW DRIVE – DAY

A lone evergreen tree sits along the curb, waiting to be recycled, its branches quickly browning in the summer heat.

The local garbage man approaches as he makes his usual rounds. The garbage truck’s tires screech as he slams on the brakes when he passes by the tree. He gets out and quizzically scratches his head, unable to fully make sense of what he sees before him.

GARBAGE MAN

“What in the actual f*ck? Have I been in a coma for 5 months? Where am I? When am I?”

A be-ponytailed physics grad student pokes his head out the front door of a nearby home. He has clearly been waiting several hours waiting for the perfect moment to deliver his punchline.

GRAD STUDENT

“It’s ‘Christmas in July,’ mother ----- !”

END SCENE


Content created on: 23/24 December 2021 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Holiday Hints: How To Make Lasting Memories With Your Parents

6 Min Read

Sure, your mom’s insomnia may be cured.

But now you’re the one who can’t sleep at night…


“Side effects may include overly honest opinions, acute TMI,1Too Much Information temporary amnesia, and traumatization of your progeny. Do not take this drug if you have, or are expecting to have, adult children visit you…”

Unfortunately, you’ll never find such warnings on the side of a bottle of prescription Ambien. But I’ll give you three guesses as to why this scholar maintains that it should be included on the label post-haste…


Reason #1

“I feel so sorry for Mason.”2Not quite his real name.

When the Boss Lady and I were on the verge of moving from NC to Hawai’i almost a decade ago, we temporarily found ourselves homeless so were staying with her parents for a few nights during this transition phase. I had spent plenty of time with my in-laws before this, but the woman who sat on the couch across from me on the other side of the room? I had never had the pleasure of meeting her before.

No, this wasn’t the Ma3Almost, but not quite, what I call my mother-in-law. I knew and loved. This was Sleepytime Ma, and let me tell you this: when you spend time with someone who just took their Ambien, you truly get to know a, err, “different” side of them.

While Sleepytime Ma had started out just being only slightly loopy (and therefore mildly humorous), as the evening progressed, she turned the conversation towards a much more interesting topic: my wife’s dating history, pre-me…in its entirety.

If this were a CD you could buy off a late-night infomercial, it would be called “Now That’s What I Call Entertainment (Volume 23)”.

But back to our conversation:

“Hold that thought for one second, Ma…”

*Pulls out super-sized tub of theatre popcorn*

“Oh yeah, Ma? Why is that? Please do tell me more…”

“I feel so for Mason. He was just so ----- lazy, poor guy…”

Actually, she wasn’t so much going thru the Boss Lady’s dating history, as much as she was telling us what she really thought of each and every one of her ex-boyfriends.

While I found this little trip down memory lane to be extremely fascinating and quite hilarious, the Boss Lady meanwhile was vacillating between doubled over in laughter and mortified at the words coming out of her mother’s mouth.

And I hate to be such a tease, but I’m not at liberty to share more details for reasons which should be patently obvious. You’ll just have to let your imagination run amok and fill in all the juicy details that one could only hope a drugged-up mother-in-law might share when her filter is turned completely off.

But, in her defense, I will say just this one thing: most of her comments weren’t quite as racist as they may have sounded at first…


Reason #2

“You know, your niece is pregnant again…”

I had just rolled into SW Kansas all by myself late one night, and, as per usual, I was crashing at the apartment, of “Daisy,” my widowed stepmother. I did not, in fact, know my niece was pregnant4I’m not exactly sure this was the family news she led with, but given the timing of this trip and the birth of one of my niece’s second kid, it could have been. again, and so I can say that I truly appreciated the fact that Daisy–though definitely exhausted from her day job–was willing to stay up late with me to fill me in on all the family news I might have missed.

She proceeded to fill me in on every bit of small town news/gossip from the previous 5 months:

“So-and-so died (but it’s okay, because they were a bit of an asshole).”

“Such-and-such restaurant went out of business (but we’re all better off cuz the food was pure crap and was giving us Mexicans a bad name).”

“This friend of mine’s granddaughter is pregnant (but no one knows who the daddy is–not surprising because my friend’s daughter was a terrible parent and it shows).”

And so on and so forth.

Now, Daisy has more of an opinionated personality, but…but she was a little more eager to articulate those opinions than usual, it seemed. Though if I’m honest, I kind of liked her judgy commentary. Normally I could only handle 45 minutes tops of being regaled with all the down-home goings-ons, but her smack-talking just seemed, well, fun


“You know, your niece is pregnant again…”

“Yeah…I know. I’m pretty excited for her.”

It was a rare treat to get to spend not one, but two, evenings full of quality time with her, so it was no surprise she kept the conversation moving right along–we had to pack as much into our time together as we possibly could.

“So-and-so died. It’s kind of shame, their grand-kids really loved him…”

“Hmmph. Yeah…this is the same guy you told about last night, right? Or did his brother die too, or something like that?”

“Huh?”

Daisy gave me a barely perceptible look of mild confusion, but didn’t so much as pause before moving onto the next, completely unrelated, topic.

“Such-and-such restaurant went out of business. It was your Grandma Smalls’ favorite place to eat. I guess that makes sense, because white people really loved that place, though I never ate there.”

“Wait, another Mexican restaurant shut down? So what? Hugoton must be down to only one Mexican joint in town if the other two closed up shop?”

“What?”

This conversation was starting to give me an eerie feeling. But apparently Daisy wasn’t getting that vibe, and instead just barrelled right along to her next thought:

“This friend of mine’s granddaughter–“

“Wait, wait! Don’t tell me–she’s pregnant. And no one knows who the little bastard’s dad is, right?”

“Well, she is pregnant, yeah. But I would never tell you such private details about whether or not the father is in the picture.”

“…or would you?”

In my mind, of course, I was saying something completely different: “Holy sh*t. She doesn’t remember our conversation last night at all. That explains this feeling of–what’s the phrase I’m looking for? Oh yeah: ‘Passive-Aggressive Déjà Vu.’ Oh, that rascally Ambien…”


Reason #3

“You know, your dad was very demanding in the bedroom…”

“Wait…WHAT?!?”

It was about a year later, and once again, I found myself visiting Daisy past her bedtime. Except this time, the Boss Lady was with me, and I didn’t want her to have to hear any explicit details about what I was pretty sure Daisy was casually referring to.

“Uh, you mean he liked you to keep your bedroom nice and tidy, right?”

“Well if by ‘bedroom’ you mean–“

“WAIT. Please, please, please don’t finish that sentence.”

Nevertheless, she persisted, and three word later, she confirmed every child’s nightmare: we were smack-dab in the middle of a conversation about her and Dad’s love life.

“What the heck is happening here?!? Uh, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be hearing any of this…”

I glanced over at the Boss Lady to see if my dear wife was just as wide-eyed and shell-shocked as I was, and sure enough, she was just frozen in place like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

It seemed there was nothing we could politely do to stop this Awkard-Ass Amtrak of a dialogue from chugging down the tracks.

And to this day, I rue not having enough gumption to be rude and do what was necessary. “Why’s that?” you ask?

Well, after she got done ranting about his raging libido (ugh–just typing that phrase in this context makes me throw up in my mouth just a wee bit), she moved on to cataloguing all the serious arguments they had over the 20 years they had been married. And when I say serious, I mean serious.

You know, things that no child is ever meant to hear about their parent, even as adults. It’s not like Santa Claus, or being adopted,5Fun bonus story: when my wife’s parents had to break the news to her older brother that her mom was not his mom, they decided to spread the childhood trauma around and broke it to her that Santa was a big fat jolly lie. How messed up is that, right? where at some point you are “old enough” to know the truth. Just don’t. Not now. Not never. Never tell your kid these things.

Especially in the presence of their spouse, for funk’s sake. All I could think the whole time was “Oh sh*t, she might preemptively divorce me out of fear that I’m going to eventually turn into my dad as I get older–i.e. become as horny and/or angry as Daisy is portraying him here! I’m nothing like him, Baby, I swear!”

My god, I wish all had been Roofied that night…

The following evening, we sat down for another round of chatting with Daisy before we headed back to the East Coast the next morning. But instead of continuing where we had left off the night before–dear God, please don’t tell me there’s more where that came from, I thought–we started from the beginning.

Though it was a completely PG and kid-friendly version this time, it had the same basic bone structure as last nights’ conversation.

It was…it was déjà vu, all over again. But why was I feeling this overwhelming sense of relief?

Oh yeah, that’s why: thanks to Ambien, only two of us have to bear the burden of remembering that very awkward conversation ever took place. To this very day, Daisy has no clue that she dropped a shit-ton of emotional baggage on me in sleeping-pill-induced fit of completely unnecessary honesty.

And unless she every catches me all doped up on Ambien, that’s a secret I’m taking to my grave…


The point of the story is it’s the holiday season, and before you start spending late-night quality time with loved ones, you just might want to check their medicine cabinet for a certain prescription medication.

And if you do find it there, you may very well be in for the most entertaining–or utterly horrifying–night of your life. Either way, you’ve been warned, my friend. You’ve been warned…


Content created on: 17 December 2021 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Gift Of The Magic Fire Water

6 Min Read

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Tries to stand up, sits down immediately.*

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

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


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

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

…and I proceeded to do exactly that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Content created on: 23 December 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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

3 Min Read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“You’ve got to be ----- kidding me.”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Content created on: 23 December 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Make Your Own Dang Christmas Miracle

3 Min Read

“No! Only I get to stuff the ballot box!” he hissed at me as he grabbed my wrists and wrestled the stack of raffle entries from my hand…


It was Santa Day–well, actually Santa Night–in our sleepy little Kansas town of Richfield, and the holiday magic was in the air! There were carols to be sung, brown paper bags of Christmas candy to be procured, and wishlists to be whispered into the ear of the shady-ass Santa who we later discovered drove a beat-up Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme instead of a sleigh.

Of course there were also various door prizes to be won by the members of our tiny rural community.1Population: 81 (per 1980 census) True, it was mostly boring ol’ frozen critters like turkeys or hams, because that’s how we country folk liked to roll. But there was one glaring exception to this rule: a small stuffed teddy bear that played Christmas tunes when you pressed its paw.

And 1SkinnyJ (my slightly older brother) wasn’t the only one who desperately wanted to win it.

Now, even though I was only 6 or 7 at the time, I already had a lucky streak going in my nascent life. Movie tickets…Easter egg hunts…definitely not greased pig chases…I wasn’t exactly winning the lottery (yet), but I was still doing nicely for myself when it came to profiting from random events.

“This ends tonight,” he stated firmly, glaring at me with pen in hand. “You always win everything, you lucky little bastard. Now, I’m going to win something for once!”

Unfortunately, I didn’t really hear all he had said because in my mind I had already figured out what that rascal was up to, and was like, “Okay, so we’re doing this. Funk yeah. Let me get my own stack of 25+ raffle entries to fill out…”

Once I got done with mine, I patiently watched him stuff the little shoe box to the brim with pieces of paper with his name chicken-scratched all over them, waiting for my turn to tip the scales of chance in my favor.

That’s when I discovered Step 2 of his evil plan: voter suppression.2Okay, so I wasn’t technically a ‘voter’ per se, but it’s an apt enough analogy when writing this in November 2020 (ahem). He let me put my name in once, but wasn’t about to let me put it in 24 more times. Because we both knew exactly what would happen if I did…which was the whole ----- reason I wanted to do it too.

So there we were, in the middle of the Richfield School gym3Actually, I’m pretty sure the table was on the north wall, at the east edge where the gym meets the hallway to the classrooms… scuffling over a stack of fraudulent ballots that I almost got into the drawing. But of course, being the big brother, 1SJ ultimately stopped me from doing exactly what he had just done.

Did his commitment to committing raffle tampering end there? Oh no, not at all. Later that night I tried to sneak back and finish the job, but he came sprinting in at the last second and darn near tackled me. That boy truly believed in his cause, that was for sure.

At that point I said “F*ck it” and gave up. You know why though? Because, it was true: I was a lucky little bastard, and I figured that all I needed was my singular entry to have my name drawn out of the sea of that cheater’s names. Joke’s gonna be on you, bro!

I wasn’t really that surprised when, lo and ----- behold, someone came and found us outside later to tell 1SJ that he had somehow overcome all odds and won himself a musical teddy bear.

Funnily enough, later in its ill-gotten life, that teddy bear’s battery cavity would go on to serve 1SJ very well as a hiding spot for various forms of illicit contraband . So I guess the joke ultimately was on the teddy bear, what with getting drugs stuffed up its butt like it were a Paul Frampton wannabe4Ah, yes, UNC Dept. of Physics & Astronomy’s most famous drug mule: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Frampton#Drug_smuggling_conviction

Anyways, the point of the story is, if you’re desperately in need of a holiday miracle, sometimes all you need is sheer grit and a little physical restraint to make it happen. And before you know it, you just might have yourself a merry little Christmas bear hitting them high notes for all the wrong reasons5Because, the drugs . All them drugs up its ass. Just so we’re clear.


Content created on: 18 November 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

A Degenerate Family Christmas

6 Min Read

No, not that kind of degeneracy.

I’m talking about a much more refined and pretension degeneracy.

Now, in quantum physics–and just bear with me for a few seconds–there’s this whole thing about being able to say what quantum state a group of particles1Or, more formally: a system. are in based on the result of some measurement, say, energy, for example.

But what if two different arrangements produced the same measurable energy?

Well, then, if you did your experiment and recorded this particular energy, you would be stuck not knowing which of those two states you were actually looking at.

This is called a degenerate energy level.

If you wanted to distinguish between the two possible states, you would break the degeneracy by doing something that can be thought of as measuring a different property of the system, like the total weight of all the particles.

Apart from breaking the degeneracy, you’re stuck never knowing exactly what arrangement your system is in.

At this point, it’s forgivable if all you’re hearing is “Laht, laht, lah! Physics, physics, physics! #HumbleBrag.”

Fortunately for you, the story of why in the name of ----- I ended up going through life using a synonym for fellatio as my name just so happens to be a pretty darn good analogy for degeneracy.

Now, if you will, take a step back in time with me, and all shall be made clear…


Christmas Day 1980, some undisclosed location in Kansas: during an otherwise routine family holiday gathering, an emergency meeting is called.

Unto them a child was born, and unto them they knew not what the hell to call him.

You see, this days-old youngster certainly had a name. It was just that this particular name was sorta…already taken.

And of course I was the hapless lad in this story, so I might as well stop referring to myself in the third person before we go any farther.

Figure 1. I await the decision of the Almighty Council of Nicknames…

So, there I was, just chillin’ like a villain, as depicted in Figure 1, oblivious to the fact that a major determinant of the arc of my life yet to come was hanging in the balance.

When I was born, “somebody”2Most definitely, unequivocally my dad. got the big idea to name me after his grandfathers, so the story about how I ended up with “Robert James” on my birth certificate is actually pretty run-of-the-mill. Big whoop.

But as I had alluded to, “Robert” was already spoken for–by my great grandfather, obviously–and so if from a physicist’s perspective in which one’s name is perhaps one of the most basic “measurements” of a human, I was clearly born into degeneracy.

If someone in the family starts talking about Robert, well, to whom exactly would they be referring?

One could break the degeneracy by a “secondary measurement,” such as age or size. Clarifying that they were talking about “Grandpa” would make it immediately clear that they were referring to the elder of us. Another option would be to call me “L’il Robert” and their point would be just as easily made.

Alternatively, the use of nicknames can be a reliable degeneracy-breaker, and the good news here is that “Robert” has many variants.

The bad news? My family tree (Fig. 2) is littered with one ----- Robert after another.

Figure 2. My abbreviated family tree.

First, there’s my namesake, my great grandfather Robert on my dad’s side, who everyone just called “Bob.”

Then there’s my maternal grandfather, Albert Robert, who–by the way–for some reason went by “Pat.” Go figure.

Moving down to the next generation: there’s my dad whose legal name actually is Bobby Jim, I shit thee not. Turns out that he got stuck/blessed with the nicknames of his two grandfathers.

Switching back to my mom’s side is her brother, the One True Robert. That’s just a fancy way of saying that of all the Roberts in the family, Uncle Robert was the only one who didn’t use a nickname as an adult.

And, for good measure, my mom & Uncle Robert had a cousin who was beaugarding the title of “Robby” all to himself.

Now, my dad was aware of all this when he haphazardly slapped a name on my back, and so honestly I don’t know what the hell he was thinking bringing yet another Robert into the mess.

Reviewing the situation: we now have six-fold degeneracy at the Robert name level, and the members of my family in the emergency Christmas meeting were hoping to break that degeneracy with a nickname.

Perhaps it went down something a little like this…

Individual 1: “So, what about Bob?”

Individual 2: “Nope, Grandpa Bob took that one.”

Individual 1: “Dammit. Of course he did.”

Individual 3: “Well, we can’t call him Pat…”

Everyone else: “Why the hell would we call him that?”

Individual 3: “Good question…why do we call Pop-Pop ‘Pat’? That makes no ----- sense.”

Albert Robert “Pat” “Pop-Pop”: “Yeah, why do you call me Pat?”

Everyone else: “NOT NOW, POP-POP!”

Individual 1: “Okay, okay…and I guess it’s obvious that Bobby is off the table as well. Yes, I’m looking at you, Bobby. YOU did this, we’re in this ----- mess because of you. We’re wasting our Christmas because of your utter lack of creativity and imagination. Good lord, we can only hope he doesn’t take after you in that department.”

Individual 4: “Remind me again what was wrong with plain ol’ Robert?”

Individual 3: “Uh, because you kinda took that one, Uncle Robert. Anyways, we can’t do Bobby, but how about this…[with a dramatic flourish] Robby?”

Individual 5: “Sorry, but there’s Cousin Robby…”

Individual 3: “Well, shit…”

Individual 1: “Okay, we got to start thinking outside the box here, folks. How about Bert?”

Bobby Jim “Bobby Jim”: “Sure, let’s name him after my ex-wife’s dad. That won’t be awkward at all.”3I had a rough idea of all the details up until this one. This one I discovered for the first time while researching this story.

Individual 1: “For you and me both. Though I still think he looks like he would make a fine Bert.”

Individual 5: “I’ve got it! So, I think we’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ve been trying to come up with nickname that is supported by some basic logic and would be patently obvious to any new acquaintance why he was called thus.”

Individual 4: “Go on…”

Individual 5: “Instead, we should eschew all logic and give him a name that will wear out anybody who is unfortunate enough to ask him about its backstory. How about Bobby’s initials?”

Individual 3: “Ummm, you mean B.J.?”

Individual 5: “Exactly.”

Individual 1: “No, I really don’t–“

Bobby Jim “Bobby Jim”: “It’s perfect!”

Individual 1: “Hey, I don’t think I like tha–“

Individual 5: “We don’t really care about your opinion, even if it was your womb. Let’s vote on it.”

[The Council–save a vigorously protesting Individual 1–all murmur in agreement or nod in approval.]

Individual 6 [whispering to Individual 3]: “You think maybe we should tell Grandma what a Blow Job is exactly before the poor kid gets screwed over?”

Individual 3: “Nah, I wanna see where this goes…”

[Seemingly out of nowhere, the meeting is interrupted by a frantically screaming Time Bandit…]

Future Bandit: ” ----- -sucker! ----- -SUCKER! Don’t you all know that’s what a ----- -sucker does?!?”

Individual 2: “The hell you say?”

Future Bandit: “Please, don’t doom me to a lifetime supply of ----- -sucking references! Especially with these lips! Nooooooo! It’s too late! I’m fading already…don’t…let…me…be…a…B.J………..”

[And just like that the Time Bandit is ironically sucked back into the vortex from which he came…]

Individual 4: “Was it just me, or did anybody else get the feeling that they were looking at a weird clone of Bobby’s when gazing upon that strange fellow?”

Bobby Jim “Bobby Jim”: “Yeah, it was like looking in a mirror…it must be a sign!”

All except Individual 1: “Hear, hear! Then B.J. he shall be! Merry First Christmas, Kid!”

Individual 5 [underneath her breath as she passes Individuals 3 & 6]: “…and a little ----- -sucker he shall be…”

[Individuals 3 & 6 stare at each other in stunned silence…]


The point of the story is I guess we now all know what I would do if I ever built myself a time machine… ----- stopping Hitler–that’s too bougie anyways.

Given the chance, I would go back and stop the degenerates in my family from screwing me over for degenerations to come…so suck on that, Grandma Individual 5.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, Y’all!

Footnotes & References:[+]

A Very Merry Bar Shitzvah

9 Min Read

In some cultures, a boy’s twelfth birthday is a very important rite of passage in his life. In Judaism this is marked with a Bar Mitzvah, in which, in the eyes of his society, he has officially become a man.

Although I wasn’t brought up in the Hebrew tradition, I was still pretty excited for my big one-two.

For reasons well beyond the scope of this story, Autumn 1992 was the very first time in my life that I didn’t have my slightly older brother J around. Up until that point in time I had been overly-dependent on him to guide me through pretty much all social settings. Thus, being rather shy by nature, transitioning to not living with him was scary AF for me.

Amazingly, only months in, and I was finding that I was actually capable of holding my own when flying solo. Yup, I was ----- proud of myself for adjusting–I wasn’t the helpless little kid I feared I would become. And turning 12 was going to help me mark this important milestone in my life.

Now all of this was in the midst of the 5 years that my mom and us boys spent living in Springfield MO while she attended Baptist Bible College.

About a month before my birthday, she had gone on a blind date with an older guy about her age who was also a student at BBC, whom we’ll simply refer to as Chaz.1Kind of his real name. I don’t know why I should even bother with protecting this fucker’s identity in the least, though. Little did we know he had his sights set on marrying her ASAP.

Even littler did we know what a complete ----- psychopath he would turn out to be…but that’s a story for another time. The key point here is that when I use the term psychopath, I’m not bandying it about lightly. This asshole was cunning and deceptive.

A critical component of his matrimonial plan was wooing the kiddo–which he was already doing a surprisingly good job of2She had dated another gentlemen a few years earlier. In summary, I did not take it well.–and he decided to swing for the fences by really treating me for my birthday.

He actually had put together a nice little itinerary for the three of us, and I was pretty pumped about it.

We would kick off the night with a professional magic show. I had never been to one, so for this wannabe David Copperfield, this was going to be a real treat. Spoiler alert–apart from the requisite anxiousness that the magician was going to ----- up–it was a real treat.

After that we would do some fine dining at my favorite restaurant, Ryan’s Buffet, and then cap the night off with a Living Christmas Tree Cantata at a rival church, High Street Baptist.

For those of you not familiar with Ryan’s let me expound a bit.

We never had much petty cash during those times, so one of the few times we would get to eat out was when our grandma would visit from Kansas. Almost every time she came out we would indulge in a trip to Ryan’s.

Ryan’s truly was a chubby kid’s paradise.

First, it was “all-you-can-eat.” However, one thing the execs running Ryan’s didn’t account for in their business model was under-privileged gluttonous underage geniuses3I.e. yours truly. hacking the system. You see, I never let the “can” part of all-you-can-eat stop me. I had a pretty solid strategy in which, once having eaten to my nominal capacity, I would take a “half-time break” trip to the restroom and make room for Round Two. I only had one shot at this a year, so I was going to get the money’s worth of whoever was paying, dammit.

Second, back then, it was one of the rare massive buffets that have become more ubiquitous in this day and age. It had all the bars a ravenous kid could want: Salad bar. Soup bar. Meats & Pastas bar. Bread bar.

And most importantly, a stacked-to-the-rafters Dessert bar.

GOD, I was obsessed with the Dessert bar. NOM NOM NOM! I salivate just thinking about my old friend.

So there I was, it’s my twelfth birthday, and I was there to party. I had my plate loaded up with all sorts of sweets and goodies. The only thing lacking was the pièce de résistance disguised as an accoutrement: the whipped cream.

Now the whipped cream posed an interesting dilemma for me. My gut instinct was to pass on it that day. And I literally mean my “gut” here: while I had a limited number of data points, I had noticed a clear trend in which consumption of Ryan’s whipped cream would almost inevitably lead to gastric discomfort later on, and on occasion, a moderate4…to severe case of the squirts.

On the other hand…it was my ----- birthday.

Unfortunately, the latter of the two won out.

I clearly and distinctly remember thinking, “Fuck it5Sorry, Mom, I don’t know why my censorship plug-in doesn’t catch this.–it’s my birthday!” and scooping approximately a snow-shovel’s worth onto my plate.

The point of this story is live life without regrets; indulge in the little things in life that bring you joy and happiness, especially if it’s a special occasion, such as your Bar Mitzvah, or the Gentile equivalent thereof…

J.K. Kidding. Oh, how I wish that were the point of the story.

But where would the fun be in that, right? No, the birthday celebration must go on…

So, after indulging in a healthy dollop of whipped cream with the rest of my desserts, we wrapped it up at Ryan’s and headed off to ol’ High Street for some light holiday revelry.

When we got there, we found comfy seats in the middle of the left third section, about halfway back. In front of us sat a mixed race couple and their three kids–a darker Asian6Perhaps Indian or Filipino? I’m not really much of racist that sees people in terms of color, so I’m not/was not very good at making such distinctions. man and a gorgeous blonde trophy wife.

Now admittedly, this last detail has exactly jack-shit to do with today’s story, but 1) it’s just another example of how, uh, “memorable” that evening was, and 2) I recall observing that family and formulating the following theorem: classy interracial relationship = exotic dark-skinned male + beautiful blonde female. The importance/irony of this is that 15 years and 2 weeks later I would prove the inverse of this theorem to be true when I became the gorgeous blonde trophy husband in an interracial marriage…

ANYWAYS,7I feel unnecessarily compelled to tell you at this point that I’m trying a new strategy at writing my blog posts more efficiently by concurrently imbibing fine licorice-flavored French liquor. In theory alcohol would make me more focused, but in this case it seems that it just helps me access deeper parts of an already overly-vivid memory. about what seemed like halfway through the performance, my tummy started to feel a little rumbly. I didn’t think much of it, other than, yeah, of course, because I had eaten Ryan’s whipped cream.

After about ten minutes of my stomach gurgling, I realized that a quick trip to the restroom was in order.

The reason I described in way-too-much-detail the location of our seats was because it determined my path to the nearest restroom. I needed to move to the left-central aisle and head to the back doors. After that I had to circle back around to where the restrooms that were, relatively speaking, nearest the front-left of the…nave?8This is what happens when drinking while blogging: (see Figure XXX).

As I scurried along that path, I gradually started to realize the seriousness of the situation. In response, I clenched my anal sphincter muscle as tightly as possible and power-walked even faster.

I was halfway down the corridor that had an almost direct path to the nearest men’s restroom, when I passed a fella I knew from High Street via Awanas.9Awanas has been previously referenced in: Kandy Karma, Part 1. I highly recommend reading that one if you haven’t already. As I passed him, he nodded a greeting, and I feigned my best “How do you do, good Sir that I know to the most modest of degrees? But please FOR THE LOVE OF ----- do not stop and chat me up. I beg of thee.”

I didn’t mean to be impertinent, but I had much more pressing matters.

And those matters? Approximately 3 seconds later they pressed a little too hard on my 144-month-old sphincter muscle.

Whoosh!

My previously trustworthy sphincter gave up the ghost and a fount of fecal matter flowed down my right pant leg.

It was official: my Bar Shitzvah was in full swing.

Mind you, I wasn’t even to the restroom at this point. I still had a good 15-30 seconds to get to the relative safety of a stall, all the while thinking, “Mother ----- It’s my 12th birthday and I’m straight-up shitting my pants? ----- my life. ----- it in the ass. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Once I made it to the restroom, I holed myself up in the singular stall in the men’s bathroom, hoping to mitigate the situation.

I sat there for a good 10 minutes in shock from what had just transpired, unsure of how the hell I was going to get out of this one.

At this point you may be saying “Give it to me straight Doc. How bad was it?”

Well, I will give it to you straight, Bub. It was bad…real bad.

The good news first, though: my left pant leg was largely unscathed and still quite dry.

Now the bad news: my right pant leg was completely soaked through all the way down to the ankle.

Ever the optimist, I thought maybe, with enough toilet paper, I could dab the juices until it was dry enough to go back out in public without it being completely obvious that I had just shat my britches.

I went through about 2/3 of the toilet paper supply before giving up on that strategy and moving to Plan B: let it air dry.

Not that it was a great idea in the first place, but at that point what else was I going to do? But then, a fly appeared in the ointment.

After about 5 minutes of sitting in the stall, alone with some very emasculating thoughts and still dripping wet pants, somebody wandered into the bathroom.

It appeared that they needed to use the stall, as they just started loitering and not doing much else.

In my head I was like “Welp, buddy, sorry but I ain’t going anywhere for awhile. I highly recommend not trying to out-wait me, because that’s a losing proposition for ya.”

It’s not like there was anyway in hell I could actually explain the situation to him, so I just sat there quietly, hoping he would get tired of waiting and go find another, more available–and non-desecrated–restroom.

But, oh my god, this guy. Five minutes of awkward silence–still there. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes–that fuck-face was still there. I mean, couldn’t he smell that things weren’t quite right with me?

Admittedly, time was kinda at a standstill for me, so I don’t know how long the World’s Most Awkward Standoff lasted, but it was at least 30 minutes before he left.

You know, it’s bad enough being on the verge of your teenage years and defecating yourself in public, but can you imagine being trapped in a stall, with someone standing for over half an hour on the other side of the door, the whole time knowing that they have to know that you’ve done crapped your pants?

If there ever was a moment in my life in which I wished I could die, this would have definitely been it.

And where was this guy’s sense of humanity? His actions definitely went against the very spirit of Christmas.

Anyways, even with that poop-sniffing fool finally gone, I still didn’t have an exit strategy.

Eventually, the best I could come up with was mummifying my right leg with as much toilet paper as I could in hopes of at least not having my skin in constant contact with my liquified excrement between then and whenever I finally got home.

So I wrapped up my leg as best as I could with what remained of the t.p., pulled up my pants, tried not to throw up, and strolled out of the stall. I tossed my D.O.A. underwear in the trash and proceeded to wash my hands 5-10 times.

Now, I would have hung out in the warmth of the bathroom longer, but by my best estimate, the Cantata would be ending any minute, and I wanted to be ready to skedaddle the ----- out of there as soon as possible.

However, this was complicated by the fact that I absolutely did not want to interact with any other humans in my current state, so staying inside the church seemed too risky.

…so that left me with no real alternative but to wander out into the freezing cold parking lot without my coat10Like Kirk Cameron, obviously it had been Left Behind in the nave, since this Nostradamus didn’t exactly foresee where the night was going to head. and park my moist butt next to Chaz’s Blazer. And wait.

Again, alone with my thoughts.

God, I was miserable. Cold. Wet. Stinking to high heaven. Depressed.

And on top of that, it turned out my estimation of how much time remained was slightly inaccurate.

Although my mind and soul seemed to freeze while I waited, I was cognizant enough to note the passage of time. It was at least another 45 minutes to an hour of my personal hell before people started to trickle out of the church and into the parking lot.

Of course the nightmare wasn’t quite over, as I feared I would have to explain my little adventure to Mom and Chaz. I knew Mom would be gracious and understanding, so no problem there.

On the other hand, this was like the 2nd or 3rd impression that Chaz would have of me, and even if he was kind about it, BJ the Pants-Pooper would be ingrained in his mind FOREVER.

Fortunately, Mom covered for me, and just told him I had an upset stomach, so we loaded up and headed straight back to our apartment.

I almost cared whether or not I might be leaving watery shit-stains on his seats, but, nah, I was so done with life at that point. It ’twas what it ’twas.

Finally home and after a nice long hot shower, I had more than enough of my fill of the day, so I just went straight to bed and hoped I didn’t further degrade myself by crying myself to sleep.

I had woke up that morning a young man, and now here I was, going to bed a little boy. At last, my Bar Shitzvah was complete.

Happy birthday, me?


The point of the story is, you can say “fuck it–it’s my birthday!” all you want. But make no mistake, boy, you still gonna have to live with the shitty consequences of your poor life decisions.


Appendix A

Figure Triple-X: When you drink and blog, you can’t remember a key component of your childhood, the main area of a church, so you have to Google it.

Content created on: 11/13/14 December 2019 (Wed/Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

No, Olive You, Man

9 Min Read

Everybody needs at least one constant truth in their life to keep them sane.

For me, that one truth was that I could always count on olives to be intolerably nasty.

I knew from an early age that olives and I weren’t going to get along.

For example, when I was 9 I had gone out to eat at our local Pizza Hut with my Little League baseball team after a game. Though I thought I had taken adequate precautions and picked all the chunks of olive off of my piece of Supreme pizza, apparently my youthful gluttony kicked in a second too soon as I recklessly jammed it into my eagerly awaiting proverbial pie-hole.

As soon as it touched the tip of my tongue, however, alarm bells were going off in my mouth. Like putting one’s hand on a hot stove, in an effort to protect itself, my body swiftly rejected the bite back into my hand and onto my plate. Sure as shit, there was the tiniest speck of olive hidden deep in the cheese. I vaguely remember muttering some comment to myself about the “damn nasty olive.”

I probably would have never remembered that last detail, except that the next day, my dad ripped me a proverbial new one, going off on me about how rude I had been. I guess somehow word about the non-event had gotten back to him, and for reasons that will forever be beyond me, he thought the appropriate reaction was to chew my ass out over it.

I was not pleased with him at all–I was like “Hey, I’m the victim here! Would it hurt to show a little sympathy for your wounded offspring?”

That may sound a little dramatic, but you have to understand, I had been thoroughly traumatized just from having that sharp, unpleasant sensation in my mouth for a mere 300 milliseconds. And then, to add insult to injury, I was being made out to be the village asshole over the whole ordeal. The olive had managed to screw me over twice in one shot.

So yeah, as far as I was concerned, olives could go pit themselves where the sun don’t shine.

For many a decade this animosity held true.

My dispassion for slimy mushrooms, once thought also to be a constant, gave way to a modest respect for their savory meatiness. Presidents came and went. The length and color(s) of my hair ebbed and flowed.

I even finally figured out how to convince a beautiful, competent, and kind female to hitch her star to my wagon.

Yet amidst this inevitable sea of change, like a solid rock I could plant my feet on, was the fact that olives were an agricultural atrocity–nay, a culinary catastrophe, I dare say.


It was shortly after I got married at the age of 27 that the first crack appeared in this rock.

I got to attend a physics conference in New Orleans, and since it coincided with the Boss Lady’s Spring Break,1No, I wasn’t robbing the cradle–she was getting her second degree in nursing when we met and got married. I got to bring her along for what was approximately a mini second honeymoon. I mean, I did have to give a short talk at the conference, so that was hanging over my head pretty much the whole week that we were there. But hey–we were in New Orleans, there was much to see and–more importantly–much to eat.

First day I was there, I went to a mini-conference related to my particular sub-field, and in all of the complimentary box lunches were muffulettas,2If you’re not familiar with these: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muffuletta. the quintessential New Orleans sandwich. The important detail here is that muffulettas must have a thick layer of olive salad, and of course my sandwich was no exception.

I was like, “hell no, mofo!” and promptly scraped all them revolting olives off. I didn’t care if I was being culturally insensitive–this one was on them because I know for a fact that olives are not even close to being universally loved.3Definite proof that I’m not alone in this: https://www.mic.com/articles/107536/if-you-absolutely-despise-olives-there-could-be-a-good-reason-why. What kind of presumptive pricks force feed everyone olives without offering any alternatives?

Anyways, later that same trip, whilst caught up in a romantic/adventurous moment with my lady friend, I…I…I, uh…I tried a muffuletta without taking the olives off.

It must have been the romance of it all, but…I kinda like it. Just a little bit though–just barely beyond “tolerable.”

Figure 1. An approximation of our magical moment with the muffuletta.

Interestingly, once back home, I found myself with an occasional hankering for muffulettas. That casual hankering slowly morphed into a craving, to the point where I even looked into having one shipped in from that particular deli for the Boss Lady’s birthday.

Like a mealtime MacGyver, I found that if I was really desperate I could improvise…with olives. It turns out that *gasp* olives and muffulettas taste awfully alot like each other. Go figure.

I was still in denial for a few more years though. I would reticently admit that, solely in the context of muffulettas, I could enjoy olives as part of the larger experience, but was adamant that I was still a hardcore oleaphobe.

Fittingly, it was on another physics-related business trip when I found myself stuck with two of my much elder professors/collaborators in the Philadelphia airport with an hour to kill before our flight home. Being distinguished and refined fellows, they gravitated towards the airports wine + olive bar, and dragged me along for the ride.

I think deep down, I wasn’t that resistant to the idea, but I had to at least pretend to put up a fight out of principle. You know, “Well, you can make me eat these fancy olives, but I don’t have to like it!”

I liked it.

I casually brought up my history with those “balls from hell”4I just recently picked up that term from here: https://www.mic.com/articles/107536/if-you-absolutely-despise-olives-there-could-be-a-good-reason-why (same as previous reference). with my associates, and I was somewhat surprised when our collaborator, J5Not my brother “J”–it’s actually spelled Jie in this case, but since it’s a Chinese name, we just use “J” since it perfectly conveys the pronunciation. (who I didn’t know as well), was like, “Oh yeah, that pretty accurately describes the trajectory of my relationship with them as well…” He went on to explain in depth about how he, too, once hated the ‘live, but had gradually come to appreciate the intricate nuances that awaited those intrepid enough to explore them.

It was in that moment that I finally found the courage to come to terms with man I had become.

It was official: I genuinely appreciated and enjoyed olives.

And you know what else I genuinely appreciated and enjoyed? The small gesture that J had made to share that sliver of life wisdom with me. While it may seem asinine on the surface, his act of incidental mentorship impacted me far greater than anything we ever did together academically. He opened my eyes to the possibility of a path that leads to discovering refined experiences in something I swore I would hate to my death.

No matter how old you are, it’s never too late to develop a new appreciation for an old nemesis. If I could come to openly love olives, then what else might I find myself enjoying when I revisit other things that I may have written off in the past, or not given a second thought to at all?

Ultimately, what he was showing me was a blueprint for personal growth, with the real gift being a much fuller and richer life ahead of me.

So J, if you ever read this, thank you. To everyone else, I hope that by trying to rub my little mini-spiritual journey off on you, your future life may be just wee bit more of a life fully lived.6I accidentally mistyped this as “foully lived”…and I was really tempted to not correct myself, because admit it, that version is waaaay better.

And the real point of the story is, if I could go back to the moment when I was slightly intoxicated on wine, olive brine, and life itself, I would turn to J and drunkly proclaim in my most obnoxious bro-voice…

“No, olive you, man.”


Now that you know how the story ends, I figure you might be interested in an origin story. They seem to be all the rage these days, no?

Earlier I chose to share an olive-related anecdote from when I was 9, but really my hate-hate relationship with olives goes back much further.

The first Thanksgiving7“Aha! So this is supposed to be a Thanksgiving-themed post, then?” you may be correctly asking yourself. that I can remember clearly, I remember for all the wrong reasons.

Although I was only 3 at the time, my dislike for olives had already been well-established in my mind. Like I said, it was a life-truth, something you just seemingly have known forever.

As with almost every Kansas Thanksgiving in my life, I was at my aunt’s house with pretty much every family member on my mom’s side. Specifically, this included my many siblings and cousins.

Since I was the next to youngest cousin at the time, it goes without saying that I was hanging out with a small gang of ones older than me. Oh, and speaking of constants, a constant at all of these late November family feasts would be a relish tray that would prominently feature black olives.

So, us kids being kids, the other members of my party started putting olives on each of their fingers, and would pretend to be some weird food version of Freddy Kruger. It looked like a blast, so naturally, I joined right in.

I was having fun playing with the food along with everyone else, when gradually they started eating the olives off their fingers. Of course, there was no way in hell that I was going to eat the ones on mine, so I went to go throw them away and be on my merry way.

However, before I could dispose of them, I was intercepted by either my grandma…or maybe it was an aunt? Surprisingly, I can’t remember exactly who to blame for scarring me for life.

Whoever it was, though, they were a real Food Fascist about it, insisting that I eat every single one of them, knowing full well how much I hated them.

I cried, I begged, I pled for mercy.

No dice. They stood firm in their position, and would not let me leave until I ate them all.

This Mediterranean Standoff went on for a good 15-20 minutes, which is, like, forever, in 3-year-old time.

Now, I’m not one given to using potty words, but this seriously ----- with my head.

I mean, they were being pure evil dickheads about it. For god’s sake, I was three.

I didn’t realize that by sticking my finger in their pit-holes, I was effectively committing myself to consummating my relationship with the olives via consumption. I was just having a little fun with my cousins. Why was this adult all up in my shit, yo?

As for my clean-fingered cousins, they all bailed on me, so I was left with no one to defend me, nary a soul to champion my cause. They had lured me into the situation, and then were like, “Well, it sounds like you got a real you problem, now don’t you? See ya!”

In the end all the crying in the world didn’t get me anywhere. I vaguely remember gagging them down one by one, and even though I have a much evolved appreciation for them now, as I recollect this experience in writing this, it still makes me vomit a wee bit in my mouth. And though I describe the memory as “vague” I think that is only because I’ve seriously tried to block out this core traumatic even from my childhood.

If you can’t tell by the way I write about it, this has stuck with me my whole life, and not in a positive way. Let’s just say I’m not a big fan of arbitrary enforcement of arbitrary rules. Fairness is important to me, and this is one of the experiences that helped shape that into a more severe version than what might be considered healthy.

Figure 2: How I felt about olives for the first ~29 years of my life.

Case in point: one of the couple of the Thanksgivings I was in grad school but before I got married, I was spending it at my brother’s house with his family. My nephew, who was 3 or 4 at the time, tried pulling the same shit with the olives on the fingers just as I had at that age.

Now, it is a natural part of the human psyche for the abused to often become the abuser, and I there I found myself, attempting to perpetuate the vicious cycle of olive-eating enforcement. If I had to suffer that dumbass rule, then why should he get out of it, huh? Where’s the fairness in that?

It may surprise you, but when my sister came along, she did not back me up at all on that point–nor did my brother who eventually joined us. We had a good 5-minute argument about it, but in the end, those olives went to waste.

Truth be told, I was actually relieved that I was unsuccessful. I really don’t wish my early olive experience on anyone, and I would hate to have been the one to scar my nephew for NO ----- REASON.

So…this Thanksgiving, give thanks that you’re not a grown man who probably really should see a therapist concerning what, in this doctor’s humble opinion, appears to be…some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome?

To quote a favorite band of mine:

Boy, you just don’t know how lucky you are.

Electric Six, Infected girls

Content created on: 23/24 November 2019 (Sat/Sun).

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