Tag: Featured Articles (Page 2 of 8)

Who Wants To Be As Reliable As Old Faithful Anyways?

7 May 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

When traveling, being right on schedule is supposed to be a good thing.

Bodily functions, however, are a strong exception to that rule…

“Um…could you pass me my barf bag. I hate to you leave you alone with the baby, but I better try to see if my body wants to do anything before our next flight.”

Last I left you, I had somehow miraculously survived the first leg of my airline adventure from hell, making it from Wichita to Atlanta on my way back to North Carolina. And if you recall from before that, my body was on a pretty regular schedule expelling disgusting fluids from alternating ends of my body.

Now despite being surprised by which end of my digestive system was busy during the most recent mid-air incident–spoiler alert: I pooed when I should have spewed–I still had every reason to believe that something was going to happen after another 2-hour interval. But this time, I was determined to be proactive.

So, as a result, I found myself sitting in the men’s bathroom of the Atlanta airport, trying for at least a solid 25 minutes to make myself yak into my barf bag.

And wouldn’t you know it, despite feeling like I should be yakking, I simply could not make it happen! The worst part was that I knew that something would happen eventually, but for the time being, I had a flight to catch.

“One last time,” I begrudgingly told myself, as a part of me hoped that I was finally done with all this bullcrap. “Let’s see how far down my throat I can get this finger…”

“BWAAAAAAH! SPEEEEEEEW! SPLATTTTTTT!”

“Oh sweet success!” I thought to myself as I began to fill up the bag with nothing more than Sprite and stomach acid–at this point, that’s all I had ‘left in the tank.’

“SPLASH! SPLASH! SPLAAAASH!” the sound transitioned from liquid hitting waxed paper to liquid hitting liquid. Ohhh, the bag was filling up too fast!

“I’ve always fancied myself to be something of a Boy Scout,” I quipped to myself as I deftly opened my backup barf bag with my spare hand and swapped them out during one of the 4-second rest intervals between heaves.

So. Much. Liquid. Like, how had I not vomited earlier, especially with all my intentional efforts to do so???

Honestly, though I didn’t care. I was just thrilled to be yakkity-yakking there in the bathroom instead of out in the terminal or on the plane.

I wrapped up my business and skedaddled back to where I had left my bride and my baby. Later, MBB told me that she had never seen me so white and colorless than when I came back from that bathroom. The funny part about that is that Baby was oblivious to my situation, and just absolutely lit up in delight when she saw me. Touching, I know.

Whew, now only one more flight to survive…

“Ladies and Gentlemen, uh, welcome to Raleigh-Durham. The local time is 12:45 pm, and its wonderful 79 degrees out,” the pilot might as well have been whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

I had survived the flight to RDU–barely. Boy, what miserable mental fortitude I had to conjure up to endure that. Ugh. It wasn’t fun trying to do nothing more than exist for an hour and a half, but I had made it.

“Maaaake way, for Prince Ali!” I maintained a sense of humor as we sped past the security exit to the general area where Popo–my father-in-law–was eagerly awaiting us, totally oblivious to the hell I had just gone through to get there…a hell that I might not necessarily be quite all the way through just yet, in fact.

“You’ll have to excuse him–he hasn’t had the smoothest of flights,” My Beautiful Bride explained to her father as I (seemingly) rudely hobbled past him and into the nearest restroom.

Surprisingly, this trip to the bathroom was notably less dramatic than the last 5 visits, though I wasn’t feeling completely peachy afterwards.

“Just don’t talk to me until we get home,” I meekly requested to my car mates as we loaded up in Popo’s CRV. It looked like I would have another 45 minutes or so of just trying to hang on to existence ahead of me, and I was pretty sure trying to engage in any type of conversation or social interaction would not end well.

So, I just sat there and stared, the only thought I allowed myself to think was “We’re almost home. This is all almost over. We’re almost home…”

When we finally rolled up in to the driveway, I couldn’t get myself into the house soon enough.

Literally.

I took three steps out of the car before unloading what looked like neon-green anti-freeze all over Popo’s newly-planted azalea bush right next to the side-door into the garage. Ah, you gotta love that stomach acid.

Oh. So close. So very close to making it home–two feet, to be exact. A mere twenty-four more inches and I would have been in the garage, and roughly twenty paces and I would have made it to a proper bathroom. Oh, the irony.

Good news is that that turned out to be my, umm, ‘last hurrah’, with no more incidents after that. I just took a shower, drank a Sprite, and then passed out in bed for the next 18 hours.

Dear Lord, I pray that I–or any other member of the human race–ever have to endure anything like that again…

The point of the story is just become a ----- vegan already. Sure, it took me another 5+ years to get the message, but seriously, do you know how many times I’ve had food-related illness since turning the Big V 3-1/2 years ago? Zero. Nada. Nil.

Now, just go ask my Dear Mother or My Beautiful Bride about the consequences of eating suspect meat or dairy. Uh-huh. That’s right. Go ahead. Be prepared to hear about camping out on bathroom and/or ER floors, or perhaps you’ll be regaled with a tale about the worst way to end a Costa Rican vacation–or how about hearing the story of the $13k Emergency Room bills? Oh, you’re gonna get regaled, all right.

So put down that custom Chipotle burrito and set aside your chorizo and eggs, my friend, and come join me on the Green Side.

*ahem* You know, ‘Green’ as in green plants/plant-based diet, etc. etc. It’s funny. Or at least it’s a humorous statement.

I promise you, we vegans are still funny as meat-eaters, though we might be less ironic.

…

You know…because it’s harder to get the iron your body needs as a vegan…

*sigh*

It’s a humorous statement…

Content created on: 28/29 April & 4 May 2023 (Fri/Sat/Thurs)

What Went Down On The Daring Flight Of Delta 2250

30 April 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

5 Min Read

On that day, there was terror in the air.

And every single passenger on that plane knew that it was coming from back there…

“Would the owner of the unattended black Samsonite suitcase please immediately come to the Delta Airlines check-in?” the nervous voice came over the loud speaker.

I, for one, simply had no time for this non-sense at 6:35 am. Maybe I would have exhibited more patience with those brave souls trying to handle a potential terrorist threat if I was merely trying to catch a routine flight back to North Carolina. I possibly might even been cool with it, had I been also just tasked with making sure My Beautiful Bride and our 1-year-old daughter got back safely as well.

But no, not this not-so-fine day.

“Why is that, Beej?” you may be asking me, feeling familiar and comfortable enough with me to use my nickname’s nickname.

Well back in the narrative form of this story, I’ll feel that detail in:

“Fools!” I muttered to myself as I stood in line to check-in for our connecting flight to Atlanta, “I am the one who tocks!”

I paused for a beat before realizing that no one was within earshot to appreciate my rather witty Breaking Bad reference…you know, “I am the one who knocks” and what-not.

No? Nothing? Ok. Whatevs…I had to take a second-stab at being openly witty back then anyways.

“Simple morons, the lot of you!” I tried again, “My stomach is the ticking time bomb you should be worried about!”

And I, sh*t you not, I spoke the truth: if you didn’t read last week’s installment, pop back and catch up real quick why don’tchya? And once you do, you’ll fully understand the dire situation I was in, whence I had been expelling bodily fluids like clockwork since 12 am the night before this most wonderful glorious day of traveling.

Yup, it was misery indeed: almost down to the minute, every 2 hours I could count on either projectile vomiting (12, 4, &–I’m extrapolating here–8 am & 12 pm), or suffering violent diarrhea (2, 6, &–once again, extrapolating–10 am & 2 pm). I knew shouldn’t have had Chipotle for dinner the night before–or was it the chorizo that my dearest step-mother had gifted me earlier in the week and I didn’t eat until the previous morning? Either way, I was pretty sure it was ethnically seasoned meat to blame.

Anyways, as I waited in line to check-in, I was seriously debating sending my beloveds on without me, and seeing if I could catch a later flight when I was less volatile. On one hand, I wanted to be there for My Beautiful Bride, as I knew that traveling alone with a baby can be a real challenge. On the other hand, I was running a real risk of being a public health hazard–can you imagine the devastating consequences if I were to have an ‘episode’ when I didn’t have a way to contain things in a sanitary manner? A perfect example would be desperately needing a toilet during take-off or landing. Or while taxiing. Or while boarding and/or deplaning. Or anywhere not within sight-line of an airport bathroom or airplane lavatory.

You get the drift. There were plenty of ways things could get ugly real quick.

But, being the Noble and Beloved Father that I am, I wasn’t about to give up on my family just yet. Let’s consider the schedule of my body and see how it would line up with our flight schedules.

As I mentioned above, it appeared that my body wanted to get rid of fluids on the even hour, so I could anticipate an incident occurring at 8 am, 10 am, 12 pm, 2 pm, etc. (Central Daylight Time, that is.)

Now our flight from Wichita to Atlanta was set to take off at 7:02 am and land at 10:15 am. After a brief layover, our flight to RDU was scheduled to take off at 11:26 am and land at 12:49 pm.

Adjusting for crossing into Eastern Daylight Time en route to Atlanta, I should set my watch to count down to 9 am: something–probably vomit–was coming out of my body right in the middle of Flight 1, I could almost guarantee it.

But wait! That would be the best-case scenario, barring any unforeseen turbulence that would keep me strapped into my seat. I surmised that I wouldn’t be in any compromising shituations during take-off or landing, and that was about all I could ask for.

Okay, onto the next timepoint, 11 am. That would be roughly in the middle of our layover. While I would have preferred it to be 15 minutes into the layover, if I needed to handle things 25 minutes before departure, I figured I would take what I could get.

Now, where would I be at 1 pm? Hoping for not a moment’s delay in our departure from ATL and praying for some serious tailwind, that’s where I would be up until that time, that’s for sure! If we landed at 12:49 pm or slightly earlier, I probably wouldn’t be feeling too well, but I would at least have a fighting chance to make it to the airport potty before my “1 o’clock appointment”.

Given that it would be a 45 minutes or so drive back to my in-laws’ house (whom we were living with at the time), I should be in comfortably quarters if I still somehow had any gas left in the tank at 3 pm.

“Just check us in and get me through security.” I politely demanded from the Delta check-in agent. “Oh, and by the way, go ahead and just give me any barf bags you have available here and now. Asking for a friend…”

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you when we land…” I tucked my unused barf bag back into the seat in front of me and scurried to the lavatory located at the rear of Delta Flight 2250.

After clutching said barf bag in anticipation of throwing up for the first 20 minutes of the flight, I realized that a plot twist was afoot: I needed a toilet ASAP!

Now normally I find sitting down in an airline lavatory to be grody and icky experience that I will go to great lengths to avoid. And I would also normally find it extremely embarrassing to spend nearly an entire flight camped out in such a location.

Further, under normal circumstances I would rather die than make really, REALLY loud bodily noises for an hour straight for the entire rear half of the plane to hear, only to emerge with all eyes on me.

I would say that that particular day, I didn’t give a single sh*t, but, *ahem* the truth is that it was literally quite the opposite.

I mean, I didn’t care about any of that–I figuratively didn’t give a crap–but as you don’t need or want to be told, that poor lavatory toilet saw a traumatic amount of butt-action during those next, very intense, 60 minutes. (PS: My sincerest apologies to residents in northern Arkansas, NE Mississippi, and northern Alabama.¹https://www.flightstats.com/v2/flight-tracker/DL/2073?year=2023&month=4&date=29&flightId=1179267412)

Right about the time the pilot made the announcement that we were beginning our descent into Atlanta, my misery subsided and I came out of hiding just in time to get buckled in before landing.

“What in the world was happening in there?!?” My Beautiful Bride asked as I sat back down.

“Whatever do you mean my dear?”

“You were making, um, alot of noises in there. I think even First Class could hear you.”

“That, my dear, was the sound of an airline disaster being averted…”

“Um…could you pass me my barf bag?”

…and that, in the Atlanta airport, is where I leave you hanging until next time. I know you can only handle so much graphic details of my bodily fluids, so I figured I would give you a seven-day break.

And, uh, spoiler alert: as you may have guessed, I wasn’t quite home-free yet. But would I get stuck in Atlanta? Would I embarrass myself in an epic (or minor) way? Would I make it home that day? Would I be branded a terrorist?!?

Tune in next time to find out questions to these answers and more…

Content created on: 28/29 April 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	https://www.flightstats.com/v2/flight-tracker/DL/2073?year=2023&month=4&date=29&flightId=1179267412

How To Be The Whitest Fly Guy In Wichita

23 April 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

It’s the night before you flight, and something just ain’t right.

Look out, ICT, you is about to see all the wrong kinds of white…

“Oh, crap! I just knew eating Chipotle the night before my flight was a bad idea! Maybe once I get it out of my system, all will be well…”

I sat in the bathroom of our hotel room just down the road from ~~the Islamic Center of the Triad~~ ICT–aka Wichita International Airport–trying not to panic. My Beautiful Bride and our Elder daughter, who was barely a year old at the time, slept peacefully in the other room, and no matter what unfolded over the next few minutes, I swore to myself I wouldn’t wake them. No need for them to get all worked up over Daddy having a little upset tummy, right?

“Okay, just breathe,” I told myself, “surely this will pass in no time.”

My little pep-talk seemed to work for about 3 minutes before–

“Dammit, this is happening isn’t it?!?” I thought to myself as I projectile vomited my partially-digested custom-made burrito, et. al, into the grossly undersized bathroom trash can.

Y’all have been there before no doubt: you somehow manage to go through all 5 stages of grief in a matter of milliseconds when you throw up. Long past the bargaining stage, settled into the acceptance stage by the second or third heave, calmly assuring myself that this would be the end of the drama

I threw up at 12 am the night before my 7 am flight–so what? No big deal. Nothing a quick medianoche shower couldn’t take care of. I would be back in the comfy hotel bed and getting well-rested in no time!

“…in no time at all…” I told myself…

“You gotta be ----- kidding me!” I muttered to the Cosmos as I groggily rolled out of bed and shuffled back to the bathroom.

I couldn’t have gotten more than 45 minutes to an hour of sleep before my tummy started rumbling again–a fact easily confirmed by the bright red LCD ‘2:00’ staring at me from the unnaturally bright hotel alarm clock.

“I guess there’s still a little Chipotle in my system…might as well get it out and be done with it sooner than later–I got a flight to catch in just a few hours!”

In a situation like this, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to be an optimist about things. Besides, who has the emotional energy to go through the 5 stage of grief all over again. We all knew what was about to happen, so might as well just skip to acceptance from the get-go.

I dutifully parked myself on the potty and placed the trash can in front of me, patiently waiting for Round 2 to begin…

“What a twist!” I found myself almost exclaiming aloud an excruciatingly long 3-5 minutes later. “I did not see that coming!”

At least I had a sense of humor about the latest plot development: I wasn’t vomiting this time around; ye ol’ Chipotle decided to take the back exit this time around. And it was a gentle ordeal either–there were no orderly single-file lines here…more like a stampede toward the exit after someone yelled ‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater (if you know what I mean).

After briefly debating whether this incident warranted another shower, I quickly shifted my mental focus to the disturbing trend that could possibly be emerging. Would this be a ‘rinse and repeat’ ordeal? But surely I would be feeling all hunky-dory before we had to head out the door. Surely…

“Welp, at least I can time things out now…” I once again tried to look on the bright side of things.

The hotel clock blazed like a thousand suns as it burned ‘4:02’ into my weary retinas. So, 12…2…4…it was looking like I was on a pretty regular 2-hour cycle. Not that this was a theorem I was particular eager to test out, but, if true, gave me a shot at not getting caught with my pants up when I really needed them down. Or nowhere near a trash can if–

“Wait! This just in! We are getting news reports confirming that–“

BLAAAARRRRRF!

“–that Cycle 3 is indeed vomiting. Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that odd cycles are spewing from the oral orifice. Pundits are predicting that even cycles–including the upcoming 6 o’clock session–will be spewing from the anal orifice, as was Cycle 2 at 2 o’clock. Stay tuned, folks, stay tuned…”

“Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!” my cell phone’s alarm clock gently whispered in my ear. “It’s 5:55 am. Time to pee from your butt in approximately 5 minutes…”

I was evolving. I was learning. I was recognizing patterns. And this time, I was pre-empting the literal sh*t-show that was about to go down.

Call me Poop-stradamus if you like, ‘cuz my prediction was dead-on: promptly at 6:00 am, the fireworks began, and promptly at 6:03 they ended. Now if only airlines could be reliably on such a timely and regular scheduled, because we had a 7:30 am flight to Atlanta to catch, and even a 20-minute delay could lead to disaster…

“Hey Babe, aren’t you going to fill up the rental car with gas before we drop it off? They’re going to charge us like $50 if we don’t.”

I just blankly stared at My Beautiful Bride with hollow, soul-less eyes. She paused and noted the colorless shell of a man that was already parking the car without any emotion.

“Oh…right.” She said quietly.

“That’s a price I’m willing to pay.” I said like I were a proverbial ‘man of few words’.

She didn’t say anything further while she collected the baby from the backseat and I quietly collected our luggage from the trunk.

My scheduled 30 minutes of armistice with my digestive system was about up, and we still had check-in and security ahead. If only we could make it past security, then I might be okay…

“Attention all travellers…mumble mumble mumble garble garble garble…”

They were announcing something over the PA system in the airport, but I could care less. It took every ounce of the man that I was to focus on doing nothing but patiently stand in the check-in line. If I didn’t acknowledge my dire situation, then my body couldn’t do anything untoward, right? If I stayed calm and didn’t panic, I would be alright…right?

At first I thought it was just me when it seemed like time stood still. After all, I had a hard choice in front of me: get on the plane with my wife and baby daughter and commit to two 2-hour flights and a 1-hour layover of pure misery and hoping for fortunate timing, or go back to the hotel and ride it out by myself for another day and catch a flight to North Carolina the next day? Neither option seemed particularly enticing, and while I was on the precipice of Option 1, the very high probability of either violently sh*tting my pants in public and/or barfing on the bald head of the middle-aged man unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of me wasn’t getting me very excited about stepping foot on that plane.

I snapped out of it briefly though when My Beautiful Bride started muttering about the line not moving, coupled with a bit of hub-hub at the check-in desk.

That’s when I realized what all those PA announcements had been about.

“Aw, hell naw! Not today, melon-farmers, not today…”

“But wait! What happened? What very dramatic and exciting series of events transpired at the Wichita Airport on that fateful day in April 2014? We are inquiring minds and we want to know!” you are no doubt screaming at your computer screen or mobile device right now.

“Are you alive today because you didn’t get on that plane? How did you finally make it home to NC? Did you spew on the back of the bald head of a middle-aged man? No–let me guess: it was worse: you forcefully pooped your pants in public? That was it, wasn’t it?” you continue to rage in oratory anticipation at the inanimate object in front of you.

Well, Bro, first take a chill pill, and–about that latter accusation–if I did theoretically defecate in an unfortunate social situation, I would just like to point out that it wouldn’t have been my first rodeo.¹Yes, this is shameless plug in hopes of getting you to go back and read one of my classic posts from the first year of this esteemed blog.

The point of the story is have a little patience, my friend! In due time–i.e. next week–you will get to hear all about my not-so-happy poo times. And look, if I had the mental fortitude to stand in that forsake check-in/security line with no bathroom within quenched-sphincter hobbling distance, then you, too, can bear with me a mere 7 days.

All in poo–er, I mean, doo-doo–dangit, I mean ‘due’–all in due time, Amigo, all in due time…

Content created on: 20/21 April 2023 (Thurs/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Yes, this is shameless plug in hopes of getting you to go back and read one of my classic posts from the first year of this esteemed blog.

Ah, Kansas! The Truth About You Finally Comes Out

16 April 2023 / BJ / 1 Comment

4 Min Read

Just when I thought my MotherLand couldn’t bring me any more shame…

It goes and completely redeems itself! (Uh, that’s from Dumb & Dumber…)

Since last week was Easter, I had the grand idea of celebrating it with a few ‘Easter Eggs’ related to my little Easter story–you know, the one read and thoroughly chuckled over last week…the one that can be found right here in case you need to refresh your memory *ahem*. Trust me, it will be worth it to know what that was all about before proceeding.

Anyways, I’ll confess that maybe ‘Easter Eggs’ isn’t the exact term I should be using, so I’ll just call this ‘Bonus Content’ and ‘Behind The Scenes’. Whatever we call it, I feel it’s definitely worth including–and best of all, it’ll only take two more minutes to enjoy the following juicy tidbits…

The next day after we had recovered from our daughter’s semi-traumatic introduction to the Sunflower State, we decided to go play in the park. Maybe fly a kite, y’know, seeing as how it’s windy af around here in the Spring and what-not.

Well, the poor kid, gets out of the car and this is how my homeland greets her? By blasting her in the face?!?

All I have to say is, “Welcome to Kansas, Kid. Welcome to Kansas…”¹Okay, so technically this a recycled joke, seeing as how I posted the same photo and comment on FaceBook a day or 2 after this happened. But it bears repeating.

Okay, so I spent waaaaay too much time on researching that particular episode, ensuring that the story was 95%+ historically and geographically accurate. But when I attempted to plug in my Wichita Airport-to-Dodge City route into Google Maps, and added a stop in between by simply searching for ‘coffee’ (in hopes of recreating the results I got back in 2014), I instead got this:

Needless to say, when I was actually in Kansas, Google Maps had enough sense to not suggest I take a 39 hour detour back to North Carolina just for some warm milk.

*moments earlier*

Oh, and fun fact: Google is usually pretty good at interpreting 3-letter strings as airports codes. For example, the code for the airport in Wichita is ICT. Work your contextual magic Google Maps, work that magic…

…or–and I’m just whiteboarding and brainstorming here, Google Maps–you could totally think I meant ‘Islamic Center of the Triad’ instead…

“Hmmm…when I Google Search ‘Kwik Shop’ to see if it could be the sh*tty gas station on the south side of the highway I clearly remember buying and heating the milk at, I get…this?!?”

(This:)

“Maybe I’m mistaken, and it wasn’t Kwik Shop,” I said as I diligently continued my research, not wanting to accidentally besmirch the good name of a chain of quality convenience stores.

“Perhaps it’s just the one in Pratt…hmmm, I wonder if Yelp has any insight…”

*searches ‘Yelp Pratt Kwik Shop’…*

“Ah, a local review from someone just passin’ thru! Let’s see what we have here…”

*spits out drink*

You gotta be effing kiddin’ me–this is too perfect. As M. Night Shyamalan would say, “What a twist!”

First, yes, this is indubitably the same store I patronized. And second…I’ve been vindicated! It wasn’t my poor milk-microwaving skills that got my Baby sick–it was ----- Kwik Shop! And now I can bring the proverbial receipts!

Me right now:

Oh boy, I can’t wait to show this evidence to My Beautiful Bride. I’m sure she’ll totally stop blaming for the whole fiasco now…

“Wait, what’s this? A second review for Pratt Kwik Shop on Yelp? But this time it’s be a local chap, a true native Kansan. Well, I can’t help wonder if it, too, is about spoiled milk…”

Wow. That was definitely not about spoiled milk. Welp, the only thing I can say is, “Welcome to Kansas…”

Lastly, I’d like to leave you with a little bonus Bonus material: the “Ah…Kansas!” reference in the title. It’s from a commercial from my childhood, circa 1988, that was made by the Kansas Travel & Tourism, encouraging people from the boring parts of Kansas to come and visit other, equally boring parts of Kansas. Seriously, I’m not sure if this was ever ran on a TV station outside of the state. But if it did, I’m totally sure that anybody who saw it dropped what they were doing and immediately flocked to out great state *rolls eyes as hard as possible without engaging in hyperbole*.

And I believe that you, too, will flock to 1980’s Kansas once you click play below and behold for yourself this cinematic masterpiece.

I’m so embarrassed right now…

Content created on: 7/8/13 April 2023 (Fri/Sat/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Okay, so technically this a recycled joke, seeing as how I posted the same photo and comment on FaceBook a day or 2 after this happened. But it bears repeating.

Now THIS Is An Authentic Easter In Kansas, Baby!

9 April 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

You hope to give your baby daughter an Easter surprise, but…

(Spoiler alert) Jesus isn’t the only white thing that’s about to arise…

“Baby needs some warm milk! Can we stop at the nearest Starbuck’s?”

I gave My Beautiful Bride a long sideways glance, shaking my dang head.

“I don’t know if I can I make that happen. You do realize where we are, right? We aren’t in the Atlanta Airport any more, Toto.”

“Just find the nearest StarBuck’s okay?”

Oh, she was so naive, it was almost precious.

Almost.

But you know what was full-blown precious? Our first-born daughter, barely a year old, enjoying her first trip back to Kansas to celebrate Easter with her grandmas. We had flown into Wichita and rented a car to get us to our first destination, my mom’s place in historic Dodge City. So, if you, Dear Reader, want to realize where we were, here’s a Google map of our route. You have joined us about 30-40% of the way to our destination (approximately near Cunningham):

I, being a native son of Kansas, pretty much knew how this was going to play out, but I went through the motions anyways.

“Okay, I’m typing in ‘StarBuck’s into Google Maps…”

“Quickly! She’s getting cranky!”

When the results popped up for ‘StarBuck’s along our route,’ it turns out it was even worse than I had expected.

“Um…yeah, I don’t think we’re doing StarBuck’s today. The nearest one is in Great Bend.”

“Why not???” she inquired a bit forcefully.

“Because this!”

I showed her the map on my phone:

“I’m not taking a ----- detour to Great Bend!”

Okay, time for some fun facts.

Travel time from our current location near Cunningham to Dodge City: 1 hour, 34 minutes.
Travel time with a ‘slight detour’ to the nearest Starbuck’s: 2 hours, 38 minutes.
That ‘Slight detour’? 1 hour, 4 minutes.
Travel time completely backtracking to the nearest Starbuck’s in Wichita, then on to Dodge: 3 hours, 28 minutes–the most ridiculous option, yet only 50 minutes longer than our ‘best’ option.
Time just to get to any StarBuck’s (in Great Bend): 1 hour, 11 minutes.
Ergo:

“So, as you can see, my dear wife, we could be arriving at our destination at approximately the same time we would be rolling up to StarBuck’s, all for only the low, low price of 23 minutes. We ain’t going to StarBuck’s. It’s not like I can magically conjure one up here in the middle of nowhere, so don’t be hatin’.”

“FINE THEN. Just find the nearest coffee shop–doesn’t have to be a Starbuck’s. Most of ’em will gladly sell you steamed milk.”

“Again, I repeat: you do realize where we are, no?”

“JUST MAKE IT HAPPEN. BABY IS HUNGRY.”

“Sheesh! Alrighty then. Since we’re by now rolling through the Kansas metropolis of Pratt, I’ll search Google Maps for ‘Coffee in Pratt, KS’…”

“Hurry, hurry…”

“Ok, let’s see…Scooter’s Coffee? Uh, they’re not exactly open right now.”

“You mean they’re not open at 6:30 pm on a Friday evening?”

“No, I mean that they’re not going to be open for almost another 7 years!”¹This story takes place in April 2014. Scooter’s Coffee didn’t open in Pratt until 2021. Source: https://www.scooterscoffee.com/blog/post/scooters-coffee-opens-first-location-in-pratt-kansas

“So what about the next coffee shop on the list?”

“Well, there’s N’Cahoots Coffee and Shoppe…”

“And…?”

“…and they closed 4 hours ago at 2:30 pm.”

“Dangit. Next?”

“Well besides McDonalds–and you know darn well they ain’t got milk-steaming capabilities–there’s Donut Palace…and looks like they closed even earlier, at 1 pm.”

“BABY NEEDS WARM MILK NOW!”

“Okay, if you insist. But you’re not going to like your only realistic option–“

“I don’t care! Baby’s hungry!”

“–gas station milk!” I said as I whipped a left turn across Highway 54 into the Kwik Shop parking lot–not my first choice, but it was the last gas station for then next 30 minutes.

“Wait, what?”

“They got milk. They most likely got a microwave. That’s all you really need to make warm milk!” I laid out my air-tight logic as I Tokyo-drifted into an open parking spot.

“I’m not so sure about th–“

“Welcome to Kansas, Babe!” I yelled over my shoulder as sprinted into the store…

“You’ve gotta be crappin’ me! How old is this thing?”

I stood there in front of the Kwik Shop microwave, holding my freshly purchased pint-in-a-plastic-bottle of whole milk. And I could not believe what I was looking at, then, in 2014 in the Year Of Some Of Our’s Lord.

It was the same type of gas station microwave I remember from when I was a toddler…in 1984. Raise your hand if you remember using one of these guys:

Well, not exactly this guy. I’m talkin’ about the ones that only had the letters. If you recall, these microwaves were apparently only supposed to be used with the various pre-made sandwiches, wraps, and sub-par burgers that the gas station sold, which came with a letter on the packaging indicating ‘how long’ to microwave it. I really really wanted to show an actual picture of one of these, but they’re so old that apparently Google Images/the collective hive-mind of the Interwebs doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

Anyways, you get the idea. It was an old-ass microwave, with a totally useless timing mechanism when it came to heating milk.

But what did this Noble and Beloved Father do? He did his dang best and heated that milk for…ummm…’F’ seconds? Yeah, I think F seconds was about right…warm, but not scalding.

I mused to myself: “Baby’s going to love this F-in’ milk…”

“Hey, Babe, is there a place you could pull over? Baby seems fussier than usual.”

About 40 minutes down the road near Mullinville and 1 mostly empty bottle of F-in’ Gas Station Milk later, and My Beautiful Bride was already requesting a potentially unnecessary pit stop.

“Are you sure, we need to pull over? There’s nothing but empty fields around here as far as the eye can see. Plus we’ve only got about half an hour before we get to Grandma’s. Who’s excited to see Grandma?” I baby-spoke to the baby in the back seat via the rear-view mirror.

“You are! Yes you are! You’re excited to see Grand–“

“Bwwwwaaaarf!”

I about ran off the road as I watched in horror in the mirror a massive load of curdled white projectile vomit launch out of my daughter’s mouth upward with approximately an 85-degree trajectory, thanks to her reclined position in her car seat…

…only to watch, in even slower motion, that mass of vomit succumb to the laws of physics, in which it reached its apex about 3 inches above her reclined face, achieved a velocity of 0 cm/s (as any projectile with a strictly vertical trajectory is wont to do), and then promptly reverse course and splatter all over her face with the same muzzle velocity it experienced upon it’s initial exit from her mouth.

“Ahhhhhh! Pull over! Pull over!” My Beautiful Bride rightfully requested.

“I’m on this!” I said as I took a hard right off the highway onto the next random dirt road.

“I totally got this!” I continued with the positive self-affirmations as I Tokyo-drifted over the railroad tracks and on to the other side until I came to a stop facing the opposite direction.²Okay, so I’m embellishing. I gently pulled over as much as the dirt road would allow me, without changing direction.

I hopped out and helped My Beautiful Bride clean the milk spatter off of her (on account of her being in the back seat with Baby at the time), and of course helped clean up Baby. But lemme tell you, she was inconsolable.

I mean, she was asking if we could get a hotel in the nearest town and then finish the drive in the morning–oh, what’s that?

The Baby? Oh, she was perfectly fine, now that the F-in’ Gas Station Milk was out of her system.

The Wife, though? Did you hear her request? Yeah, the one for a hotel room. Well, I did my best to politely explain the reality of the situation to her.

“That makes no F-in’ Gas-Station-Milk sense! The ‘next town with a hotel’? That is Dodge City! Our destination! I’m not going to book a hotel 2 blocks from our destination, and then drive those 2 blocks the next morning. Sheesh.”

“But…but…”

“But Baby is fine (enough) for now. First StarBuck’s and now hotels, thinking they’re magically sprinkled over this diety-forsaken desolate state of mine. No Dear, that’s not how Kansas works…”

The point of the story is that, frankly, there’s no better way to spend your Easter Sunday than reading about the resurrection…of a child’s poorly prepared bottle of milk. ‘It hath risen!’ Amiright?

Of course there’s other morals of the story, too. For example, maybe it’s not the best idea to resurrect memories of that one time I lightly condescended to my East Coast wife. J.K. Kidding–it’s highly unlikely she’s going to read this.

But the most truest of true lessons to be learned here is: don’t trust the F-in’ Gas Station Milk. Give your kid apple juice or ice cream or something–anything but the FGSM…

Content created on: 7/8 April 2023 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	This story takes place in April 2014. Scooter’s Coffee didn’t open in Pratt until 2021. Source: https://www.scooterscoffee.com/blog/post/scooters-coffee-opens-first-location-in-pratt-kansas
↵2	Okay, so I’m embellishing. I gently pulled over as much as the dirt road would allow me, without changing direction.

The Bulldog Wanted Baloney. You’ll Never Guess What Happened Next…

12 March 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

Look, don’t judge me for honoring a homeless guy’s request.

Oh, but you’ll never guess which of his weird-ass requests I’m talking about…

“But don’t worry–I never cook my baloney sandwiches in the tent, I only run my little camping stove outside the tent. And I make sure it’s completely off and cooled before I bring it back in. I’m all about ‘safety first’–don’t want no fumes messing up my brain cells, ya know?”

“Yup, yup, safety first. Good thinking…”

I stood there, still pumping gas, wondering if it was the gasoline fumes was messing with my head. One moment, I’m thinking about how I’m actually going to be home at the exact time I promised My Beautiful Bride I would be, after a sedatively long afternoon of shopping for the finest vinyl flooring with ‘Gladys’, and the next? The next moment, I’m having a semi-surreal–and frankly, quite sad–conversation with some random guy about the proper way to cook processed meats in the wild.

Well, let me back up the story a hair, and maybe things will make slightly more sense.

You see, it all started when I decided I would save a buck or two on a full tank of gas…

“Hey there! How’s it going? You live around here?”

On my way back from my aforementioned flooring expedition, I had a choice between two routes to get home. Noting that the slightly longer journey happened to take me through downtown of the hamlet in which I reside, I thought to myself, ‘A-ha! Ima be going by that one mini-mart with oddly low gasoline prices, I might just stop in and fill ‘er up!”

And right about the time I had done gone and filled ‘er up, seemingly out of nowhere, this older Black gentleman appeared and made a beeline right towards me.

Seeing as how I was the only person at the gas station, I was pretty much a sitting duck.

“Oh, jeez, here we go…” I thought to myself, as it became pretty clear pretty quick where this conversation was headed as soon as the guy started conversing with me while he was still halfway across the parking lot.

“Hey there, I was just passing through on my way to the grocery store, hoping to get a jumbo pack of baloney and a loaf of bread, you know…just trying to maybe put together some meals for the next few days…”

I had started carrying a handful of twenties in my wallet for just such occasions, and I knew it would feel good to help hook a brother up with his baloney.

“Sure! I’d love to hel–“

But before I could get my hand halfway in my pocket, my dude just kept on with his stream-of-consciousness ramblings.

“…yup, I got myself a nice little tent up the road behind Lowe’s–“

“You mean Lowe’s the hardware store?” It was my turn to interject.

“Nah, nah, Lowe’s the grocery store,¹In my neck of the woods, this is indeed a problem, in which “I’m headed to Lowe’s” is an ambiguous statement because there are two completely different typed of stores with the same ----- name. but as I was saying, I don’t want you thinking I’m doing anything dangerous with all that baloney…”

My mind wandered a bit as he dove headfirst into his schpiel from earlier about fume safety and not cooking in his tent and what-not…what had me slightly puzzled was the fact that it would have made more sense if he had been talking about the hardware store instead of the grocery store. I mean, this guy was clearly on foot, and the hardware store was only about 2 miles up the road, while the grocery store was eleven miles up the road.²It just occurred to me that perhaps he was talking about the Lowe’s grocery store that they are just now building, which is only 1/4 down the road from the Lowe’s hardware store… Why the heck would he be wandering so far from home?!?³Okay, maybe ‘home’ was a poor choice of words, given his circumstances.

Next thing I remember, I was mumbling in agreement about the whole ‘safety first’ thing.

“Dangit!” I thought to myself, “For once I was actually going to be home on time, but noooo, I just had to get accosted by homeless James Joyce here.”

Before he could get much further along in his run-on sentence (but after somehow triangulating where I lived within a quarter-mile radius, on account of my proximity to Lowe’s the hardware store), I finally found enough social willpower to get him to stop chattering for two frickin’ seconds.

“Well, I think I can help you out with all your baloney needs, my man,” I said I as whipped out my stack of Jacksons, but was immediately embarrassed by the fact that I had just rifled through 5 of them (while hiding the $100 bill still in my wallet)⁴#HumbleBrag? only to pull out 1 measly $20 bill for him.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I really need to get home to my–“

“God bless you, son! G0d bless you, indeed! Say, what’s your name?”

Welp, it looked like that throwing money at the situation had failed to get me out of the conversation, seeing as how my conversational partner was still bravely soldiering on in our dialogue. But hey, the least we could do would be to give each other the dignity of being called by their name, right?

“Who me? Sure. My name is B.J…”

…and it was at this point that the conversation took a turn for the…er, not even sure how to describe it, but it took a turn, that’s for sure.

“Guess what my name is!”

Gotta admit, I didn’t see that response coming. Was there something about him that would give me a clue as to his name?

“Umm…let’s go with ‘Terrance’!” I mean, the dude did just ask me to guess his name. And that just happened to be the first name that telepathically appeared to my mind’s eye.

“What? Huh? No, man, it’s A.P.!”

Get a load of this ----- guy. He just asked me to guess his name, and then he acts all shocked when I get it completely wrong? Seriously?

And on top of that, his name was A.P.?!? Not in a trillion alternate universes would have I–or anyone else, for that matter–even come remotely close to guessing ‘A.P.’

But he didn’t let any of that deter him from the conversation at hand.

“Yeah, it’s A.P., but people call me ‘Bulldog’. I’m always around here downtown, and all the people know me and when they see me on the street, they give me a fist-pump and say ‘What’s up, Bulldog?!?’ “

“Oh, yeah. That’s a cool nickname…”

“…and since you live around here, next time you see me on the street, just pump your fist and say ‘What’s up, Bulldog?!?’ And I’ll say, ‘What’s up, A.J.?!?’ “

This ----- guy…

“Uh, it’s ‘B.J.’, actually…”

“Huh? Oh, right, then I would say, ‘What’s up, B.J.?!?’ “

“Cool, cool. Welp, see you later! Enjoy your baloney…”

“Wait?!? You mean you actually guessed his name? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Hey, don’t you judge me! I bet you would do the same if some rando blindsided you with the same question after you had just freely shared your name.”

I had unexpectedly found myself defending my actions and words when attempting to regale My Beautiful Bride with the Tale of Why I Was Ten Minutes Late.

“And the best part is that you went full racist with your guess–‘Terrance’?!? Oh, lord, I’m crying! He was Black, wasn’t he?”

*sigh*

“Yes, Dear, he was Black. But I vehemently disagree that ‘Terrance’ was a racist response. Did I go with something like Ty’Queaf? No. No, I did not. Ergo, I’m not (as) racist.”

“Aaahh! I can’t breathe!”⁵Okay, this wasn’t meant to be a reference to Eric Garner…but here we are, retrospectively acknowledging how ----- up of joke that would be.

And yes, she was literally crying and out of breath from laughing so hard. Apparently she found it exponentially funnier than I had. Sure, I was bemused and perplexed by Terrance’s antics, but tears and shortness of breath? Maybe I was just too close to the situation?

“*Ahem* Anyways…I can’t help but wonder if that’s why the gas is so suspiciously cheap there–it’s a ----- honeypot!⁶Maybe this word doesn’t mean what I think it means… I wonder how often a hapless sap like me pulls up for some low-priced petrol, and then BOOM–they’re caught up in the seriously sad story of a dangerously under-balonied Terrance, and then next thing they know, they’re handing over large denominations of U.S. currency just to get out of the conversation…I bet the gas station gets a healthy kick-back from all his collections.”

“Interesting theorem. A tad racist, but interesting nonetheless…”

“Damn. Now that I think about it, that was the most expensive tank of gas I’ve probably ever purchased in my life…”

The point of the story is…well, this is kinda evil, but I just can’t help but recommend you try out Terrance’s–er, dammit, I mean A.P./Bulldog’s–socially screwed-up strategy. Give it a whirl–next time you meet someone new, and when the moment arrives in which you would normally exchange names, go ahead and ask them their name. And when they politely oblige, quickly demand that they “Guess what [your] name is!”

And whatever you do, do not relent until they actually try guessing it. Because you were dead serious, right? If you have to, look them square in their [potentially racist] eyes and let them know “That wasn’t a rhetorical question…”

Oh, and after you’re done waterboarding them into guessing a culturally-insensitive name for you, don’t forget the chef’s kiss: you calling them by the wrong name…

Content created on 10 March 2023 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	In my neck of the woods, this is indeed a problem, in which “I’m headed to Lowe’s” is an ambiguous statement because there are two completely different typed of stores with the same ----- name.
↵2	It just occurred to me that perhaps he was talking about the Lowe’s grocery store that they are just now building, which is only 1/4 down the road from the Lowe’s hardware store…
↵3	Okay, maybe ‘home’ was a poor choice of words, given his circumstances.
↵4	#HumbleBrag?
↵5	Okay, this wasn’t meant to be a reference to Eric Garner…but here we are, retrospectively acknowledging how ----- up of joke that would be.
↵6	Maybe this word doesn’t mean what I think it means…

That Tempting Siren’s Call? It’s No Match For My Willpower!

26 February 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

What’s that? You can’t resist picking up the phone every time it rings?

Of course I’d be happy to show you how to not do it. Of course…

“B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!”

Okay, so even old-timey cell phones didn’t quite sound like that, but since what you’re hearing is a cell phone ringing back in 2001–and the yungens out there don’t know any better–we’ll pretend like that’s the sound they used to make. You know, “before ringtone scientists invented ringtones,” LOL.

So where was I? “B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!” you say?

No, I know that’s where I was in the story, but I meant literally, “Where was I?”

Well, I’ll tell you where I literally was: as a freshly-dreadlocked Junior at K-State, I was beginning the school year by training for my part-time job as a physics teaching assistant. This was where some of the physics professors corralled the 20 or so of us aspiring physics maestro extraordinaires into a lab, and attempted to impress upon us how to properly impart physics facts unto apathetic undergrads.

In other words, I was busy, in a semi-public setting, getting paid to pay diligent attention to someone else.

So, of course I discreetly silenced my phone–never mind the facts that I had had it only for a mere week, and that I was too cheap to pay $4.99 + taxes and fees per month for Voice Mail–before it could it disrupt the classroom proceedings.

Of course…

“Kamsahamnida!¹Translation: ‘Thank you’ in Korean.–Oh, sorry, I meant : ‘감 사 합 니 다!’ “

Many years before I knew I would marry into a Korean family, I found myself trying kimchi at the apartment of a couple of Korean K-State grad students. Later in his college career, my wise buddy Gfeller took on a side job as a resident assistant for the international student housing on campus, so he was friends with many a fella from a wide spectrum of nations. And ’twas he who had brought me as his guest to this intimate multi-cultural feast.

Let me tell you, I took my role as a curious colonizer seriously, learning about and partaking in such Korean customs as not wearing your shoes in the house, picking every last bit of meat off the kalbi bones, and of course, you gotta try the kimchi.

And in the middle of such convivial exchange of customs…

“B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!” trumpeted the beast in the depths of my back pocket.

“Hark! Who is that calling my cellular telephonic device?” I thought to myself in a completely unnecessary Victorian-era accent.

In case it was urgent–another 9/11, perhaps?–I decided it was best to take a peek at the Caller ID. Ah, yes, Caller ID–a feature that I had finally caved in and dropped the outrageous amount of $2.99 + taxes and fees per month to have added to my plan a mere two months earlier.

Turns out it, it was my other wise and faithful–and coincidentally, half-Korean– buddy, ol’ Beechnuts, with whom I hadn’t chatted in a while.

But, of course, though new to Korean culture, I acknowledged and respected their deep-seated norm of never being so rude as to answer one’s phone while in the midst of socializing.

Of course…

“Yeah, so even though I know I was the one responsible for them, I gotta say I, um, kinda prefer your dreadlock-free look…”

A couple of years after that particularly dreadful affair, I found myself hanging out with that particular female friend who had waxed up my locks real good–and yes, I had semi-romantic intentions on my mind.

As I walked her across the cold campus to her dorm, I couldn’t help but thinking that she was hinting at something more. Was she calling me…handsome?

I batted my eyelashes at her coyly.

“Oh, do you really think–“

But before I could finish my thought, a blaring “B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!” interrupted the moment.

Glancing at the Caller ID, I noted that it was my noble and beloved mother calling upon me.

Of course, though I loved my momma very much and enjoyed conversing with her, I silenced my phone and refocused my attention on the woman who would indubitably be my future wife…

Of course…

“Well, it looks like you have everything in order to refinance your new property. Any questions for me, your trusted local banker?”

Many, many moons later (and not so many moons ago), I was at the financial institution just down the road, assisting an older unnamed family member with some very important adult stuff, and we had almost wrapped everything up when…

“B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!”

And of course you already know that that phone call was immediately silenced, and most definitely no one in that bank had to hear “Hello, Mother, what are you doing?” belch forth from anyone’s speaker phone and echo embarrassingly throughout the building.

Of course…

The point of the story is that I come from a long lineage of folk who know when not to answer their cell phones. And of course I wouldn’t be telling you these relatively boring-ass stories if they weren’t 100% completely true.

Of course…

And of course I gotta leave you with a quite-apt-but-semi-obscure cultural reference that speaks for us all when we hear that “B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING! B-R-R-RIIING-BRIIING!”:

And, of course you already knew that was Electric Six‘s hit, “(Who The Hell Just) Call My Phone,” and you most certainly didn’t have to go listen to it over on YouTube.

Of course…

Content created on: 23/24/25 February 2023 (Thurs/Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Translation: ‘Thank you’ in Korean.

Watch How Colorful Plumage Attracts The Female Of The Species…

5 February 2023 / BJ / 3 Comments

7 Min Read

Yeah, sure, David Attenborough nature documentaries can be fascinating and informative.

But as a source of relationship advice? Not so much…

“Oh, you got a full-ride scholarship? Wow, you’re not only handsome and funny, but smart too–that’s a lady-killer combination you got going on there. Tee-hee!”

As my new-found hair stylist busied herself dying my hair half electric-blue and half neon-pink, we had started chatting to pass the time as one does. And it wasn’t long before she landed such a devastating blow to my ego, catching me completely off guard.

Wait, let me clarify: I don’t mean ‘blow’ as in the ‘it hurt so bad and now I have zero self-esteem and want to shuffle off this mortal coil’ type of blow. No, I mean ‘blow’ as in the ‘one hit of that white powdery goodness and now I’m high as a kite’ kind.

Cocaine. Blow is slang for cocaine, if I have to spell it out for you. It’s a frickin’ controlled substance joke.

Anyways…What I mean to say is, even though she was a much older woman at 31 years of age–it’s hilarious what a college freshman considers ‘old’, lol–as I sat there basking in the afterglow of such an ego-stroking comment, I couldn’t help to wonder if I had accidentally engaged in some type of secret college town mating ritual. Was it possible that she, upon seeing my beautiful plumage, couldn’t help but to call out with a series of irresistible vocal chirps and squeaks in an attempt to lure such a lucrative life-mate into her little love nest?

The thought bemused me, particularly because not only was I a poor college student, but a cheap one at that–and the whole reason I was sitting in her chair was because her hair-transmogrifying prices were the cheapest in all of Manhattan.¹Manhattan, Kansas–home of Kansas State University So if she was looking for a bread-winner to provide financial security for our future children together, then the joke was on her.

When our time together finally came to a close, and I had to pay my bill, she had me feeling so good about life that I did something very much out of character: I left an embarrassingly large tip–somewhere around 50%! Yup, that’s right: thanks to her little compliment, I ended up blowing all the money I was supposedly saving on her tip.

And it wasn’t until days or weeks later that it occurred to me that was the whole point: she didn’t see me as a potential suitor and/or genetic donor–no! She saw me as a paying customer who–on account of his requested hair colorings–apparently was crying out for validation and/or attention, and he might just pay a little extra were she to lavish either or both of those upon him.

Alas, she was right. But again, if there’s a life lesson that I wish I would have learned long before then, it’s that a little flattery never hurts no one. Heck, if you’re good enough at making people feel good about themselves, they might even pay you handsomely.

Hmm…

The more I describe the situation…well, the more it starts to sound more akin to a trip to the local brothel. You know…a whorehouse, or whatever y’all Boomers used to call it back in your day. Hooker hotel, maybe? Does that ring a bell? Or is that too Cival War Era-y for you? Not that old, eh…

Ah! I got it! ‘Prostitute’–there’s a term I think that everyone will understand. In retrospect, it was kinda like going to a Prostitute Place–dangit! That doesn’t sound right either, does it?–anyways, you get the analogy here, ya? You go somewhere and you pay some rando to make you feel real good. Like, what am I actually paying for here, anyways?

On the other hand…wouldn’t that line of thinking call into question the moral fidelity of any one who frequents a masseuse?

Wait…NO. I’m not taking all y’all’s suffering souls down this philosophical rabbit hole. I came here to talk about how I had really cool hair when I was in college, and somehow here we are talking about crack cocaine and escort services. Needless to say, “I digress…”

So…um, yeah. Fun fact: a mildly interesting side effect of my choice of hair colors was that they looked suspiciously close to the colors of our sworn enemy and intrastate rivals, Kansas University (blue and red), rather than that of the hometown team, Kansas State (my favorite color, purple). Ultimately, I tried to navigate that situation with some snappy-yet-incredibly-stupid comeback like “red and blue make purple, you ass–I’m surprised a cross-eyed inbred idiot like yourself didn’t see that already!”

Yes. Witty. I know.

I really had to bust this out when KU rolled into town to play us in football. It got pretty old pretty quick, being mistaken by my own comrades in the student section for a heinous traitor. Can you believe it? They thought that I identified with the goofiest-ass of all the birds in the imaginary animal kingdom: the JayHawk. Oh, the indignity…

“Man, I appreciate where your heart is, taking a seasonal approach to your choice of hair color, but…”

A few months later, it was time to move on with my life and say goodbye to my now-fading red and blue ‘do. And one of the first people to see my new look was my good friend, Gfeller, who, like any true friend should do, was excellent at shooting straight with me. So…kinda the complete opposite of ol’ Compliments-For-Cash Candi, or whatever my hairstylist’s name was. Yup, he was definitely never one to feed my ego.

And as his voice trailed off, I knew exactly where he was going with his silence: I had made a gross error in judgment.

“…but maybe celebrating Thanksgiving by going half-brown, half-orange wasn’t the best idea?” I finished his sentence.

“Yeah, let’s just say you’re not going to be picking up any chicks anytime before Christmas.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Gfeller paused a moment before speaking some hard truth into my life.

“Dude, you look like a ----- turkey…”

“Welp, at least it’s better than last year’s orange-and-brown fiasco…”

Gfeller. Again. This time around he was seeing me for the first time since the beginning of our sophomore year. After a relatively vanilla (i.e. naturally blonde) spring and summer, my first order of business upon returning to campus was to revert to my old ways and chemically assaulting my follicles.

“Yeah, I’ve never really tried going with complimentary colors before, so…y’know…ta-da?” It seemed like any time I was in Gfeller’s presence, I would eventually end up questioning my life choices.

“Mmm-hmmm. I see. You know, if you really wanted to go that route, you probably would have been better off waiting until Christmas.”

“Pfft! Red and green is too bougie for me! Why would I want to be just another lemming running off a cliff with the rest of the crowd?”

Gfeller lost himself for a moment amidst yet another bout of wise and sage-like reflection.

“Nonetheless, orange and blue is a pretty, erm, ‘bold’ move, even for a bold guy like you. I can’t help wonder if there’s more to your color selection…”

“What exactly are you getting at, my dude?” I felt slightly attacked.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain female in our friend-group that you’ve been writing letters to all summer, would it?”

“Hey man, the fact that orange and blue happen to be her alma mater’s school colors is a complete and utter coincidence! Not that I would know what the colors of the Olathe East–I mean, ‘whatever high school she happened to attend’–would be. C’mon, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

“If you say so…” G-man clearly wasn’t convinced by my protestations.

It wasn’t but a day or two later when Gfeller and I ran into this particular female–whom shall remain un-nicknamed–and I swear the first words out of her mouth were: “Hey, orange and blue! Just like my high school! Go Ha–“

“Go Hawks!” I replied just a few microseconds before I should have.

Gfeller gave me a long sideways glance laced with a smirk.

“My, aren’t you rather knowledgeable when it comes Kansas high school mascots?” he said in a not very brothers-before-those-who-might-become-mothers²In college I ran with the Christian crowd. This was our adaptation of the incredibly misogynistic phrase “bros-before-hoes”. In retrospect, we weren’t doing any better of a job on the not-being-a-sexist-shitheads front than the heathens. tone.

“Or…um…whatever random animal your mascot might be…’Hawks’ you say? I guess I’m just good at guessing…so yeah, ‘Go Hawks!’…or whatever…does it feel hot in here to you two? He he….um…so, yeah…”

“Uh…you sure you want an Ichthus on your head? Umm, whatever you want, dude. It’s your hair, your dye…your funeral…”

It wasn’t but a month or so before it became clear that orange/blue wasn’t moving me any closer to marriage with…um…nobody in particular–I was just getting bored with that ugly color combination, okay? So, just like in the world of tattoos, the best way to fix a semi-permanant mistake is to cover it up with an even bigger, more permanent, mistake.

And for this task, I had eschewed the insincere services of ‘Candi’ and instead enlisted my #1 frenemy, ol’ Spanky Spankowich–who, curiously enough, was later revealed to have been interested in the same nobody-in-particular at the same time as me. I didn’t know about his pursuits, but he sure knew about mine because we took a road trip to KC at one point, and guess what happens if you get stuck alone with me for more than 3 hours? I don’t stop talking until you know every last detail about what is currently consuming my thoughts at that particular point in time.

Now that I think about…perhaps the fact that we were unspoken romantic rivals explains why he was more than happy to let me self-sabotage myself into oblivion…

Oh, Spank, you rascal! I entrusted you with my hair, and you return the favor by obliging my request for a green Jesus-fish running from front-to-back of my scalp…

…filled in with purple in the middle…

…with red on the outside on the left…

…and with blue on the outside on the right…

…and so thoughtful!–You even remembered the eyebrows…

…blue on the left, red on the right!

Jesus-fishin’ cries for help,³If you didn’t follow that stretch of humor logic, it was an attempt to be a play on “Jesus effin’ Christ”, with a dash of attention-whore self-judgment thrown in for a nice little circular reference. dude, true friends don’t let friends self-destruct like that! What were you thinking, letting me lean into my own poor af fashion judgment like that? Spank, you dirty bastard, you!

Yeesh.

One look at me, and you would have to ask yourself: “Is this guy trying to attract college girls or pea hens, amiright? You know…cuz he looks like a mother- ----- peacock…”

The point of the story is that if you want to randomly #HumbleBrag to whoever will listen about all the edgy sh*t you did with your hair when you were but a youth, may I suggest weaving them together with a common theme like, say, ‘birds’? Never mind the emergent theme of how your hairstyle choices played pretty directly into your repeated failed mating rituals. Don’t pay that no mind at all, My Little Pretty…

Oh! But speaking of ‘weaves’–we haven’t even got to the dreadlocks yet. That’s a whole ‘nother tale or two of poor-yet-humorous life decisions that’ll have to wait until next time…

Content created on: 3 February 2023 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Manhattan, Kansas–home of Kansas State University
↵2	In college I ran with the Christian crowd. This was our adaptation of the incredibly misogynistic phrase “bros-before-hoes”. In retrospect, we weren’t doing any better of a job on the not-being-a-sexist-shitheads front than the heathens.
↵3	If you didn’t follow that stretch of humor logic, it was an attempt to be a play on “Jesus effin’ Christ”, with a dash of attention-whore self-judgment thrown in for a nice little circular reference.

But Dad! I’ll Never Get Sick And Tired Of Being Unique!

29 January 2023 / BJ / 1 Comment

7 Min Read

You ever wonder why you fought with your dad so much when you were a teen?

Oh, if only we could ever get to the root of it…

“Dammit, son, not again…again! You’re an embarrassment to all the farmers of Morton County…dear lord, why me?!? Why am I stuck with the kid who can’t appreciate his G0d-given beautiful blonde hair?”

Honestly, I’m not sure how I was expecting Dad to react when I unveiled my latest hairstyle featuring half-red/half-black on top, with natural sun-bleached blonde on the bottom.

I mean, I was doing it for the proverbial sh*ts and giggles during an uncharacteristically boring stretch of my final summer on the farm before college. Yes, yes, you remember that summer right? The Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99? Yeah, that one. This was the product of the sole week that defied one of our mantras of that summer, “Never a dull moment!”

Ol’ Papa Bob, on the other hand, didn’t seem to appreciate neither the “sh*ts” nor the “giggles” aspects of the situation. In retrospect, I would venture to say he seemed a little tired of my version of teenage angst playing out as me running around the country side looking like a techni-color jackass.

“Tired?” you ask? Oh, yes, this wasn’t the first time him and I danced this little dance…

“Whoa! Who’s the new guy?!? Seems kinda odd, ya know? Like, who transfers high schools in the middle of November?”

“I can hear you–I’m standing right here!” I reminded my classmates as they murmured about me from a few lockers down.

“Wait…what?!? I mean, Who?!?” was the inevitable reply each time, as their eyes told them one thing, yet their ears told them something completely different.

“‘Tis I, the Noble and Beloved Junior Class President Runner-Up!” I would reply every time.

“The heck is going on here…wait…can it be? BJ, is that you? What in the tarnation did you do to yourself?!?”

Honestly, when I dyed my hair black on a lark, I didn’t anticipate the most enjoyable benefit of doing so: confusing the living ----- out of everyone I know, and getting to watch it play out in real time as they look me directly in the face and slowly but surely put the pieces together.

“Uh, yeah, so I thought I would try something new and dyed my hair black. What do you think?”

“I think you look like a totally different person…and also, damn, son, I never realized you had such thick, bushy caterpillars for eyebrows. But, hey, props to you for really committing to the part and dying them as well…”

“Yeah…I didn’t realize my eyebrows wear so bushy either, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have pulled this stunt…”

Speaking of ‘stunts’, you probably already guess that my Diddy was none too plussed to come home from a hard day out in the fields to find that his son had conned his stepmother into letting him make use of her leftover black hair dye.

“Oopsies! Well, I guess were stuck waiting for it to grow out now!” was logic that didn’t do me any favors, nor managed to make him any less irate.

Quick side note here: ‘Daisy’–the one who supplied me with the dye and applied it–wasn’t really upset with me, in part because she had as much a hand in it as I did. Well, she wasn’t upset until she had one of her rolls of film developed and found that I had taken the liberty of taking a black-headed selfie with her camera.

How did I discover this factoid? I totally bet you’re wondering that right now, right? Well, I’ll tell you how: once when I borrowed her sweet, sweet Eagle Vision, I discovered torn up bits of something in that part of the door you pull on to shut it. I soon realized it was that one selfie I had totally forgot I had taken. Not to let my effort to be in vain, I collected all 30-40 tiny pieces, and successfully reconstructed the picture, holding them all together with masking tape on the back. In fact, I probably still have that ~~trophy~~ picture to this very day…

But I digress…

Later that spring…

“Oh happy day! Our spring school portraits are in!” all of us students exclaimed, though we were all still unsure of why we had school pictures taken again despite knowing full well that the ones they took in the fall would be the ones used in the yearbook.

“Oooh, that’s unfortunate, buddy,” one of my random classmates commented as the looked at my pictures over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I suppose I didn’t put much forethought into what I would look like several months after dying my hair black…”

“Don’t worry,” they half-assedly tried to reassure me, “I’m sure you’re dad will still proudly distribute these regal pictures of you to all your family members. Even if you look like a ----- skunk…”

“Stone Temple Pilots are playing in Amarillo?!? Tonight?!? Phillip K. Ballz, you best not be yanking my chain, ya hear?”

“Nah, man, I swear I’m shootin’ straight and true–do you think your dad would take us?” Ol’ PKB wistfully inquired with his trademark half-assed Texas accent.

“I doubt it, but it’s worth a shot…I’ll get right on it!” I said with measured optimism.

Seeing as how it was the last day of my Sophomore year of high school, and was about to head off to live in sunny Southern California with my mom for the summer, I felt there was a tiny glimmer of hope that Dad would at least be open to taking us two dumbasses 2-1/2 hours due south to see a band he had never heard of play…right?

Okay, actually I wasn’t that optimistic at all, so you can bet your buns that I was quite surprised when he said he would take us–“If we can score some tickets, that is,” he said.

“Holy sh*t! He said ‘yes–contingent upon the logistics working out!’ Can you believe it?!?” Yup…I’m pretty sure that’s how I shared the good news with PKB.

“Well, hot dang! I better pack my bag–the concert starts in like, 4 hours, right?”

“Oh, right, yeah, I guess we better start heading that way whether we have tickets or not…”

Now, friends, I need to remind you that this tale is taking place in 1997, a good few years before Ticketmaster started ruining the experience of live music for concert-goers all across this fine nation. So if one wanted tickets to a concert, then most likely you would have to call up the box office and see if they had any available.

Also, cell phones weren’t ubiquitous back then, and even if you were lucky enough to have one of those bag-phones in your car, one surely couldn’t afford to waste their precious 45-minute monthly allotment on hold with the Amarillo Civic Center.¹I did my homework, and the internets verified my memory of this whole ordeal: https://www.setlist.fm/stats/concert-map/stone-temple-pilots-bd6b9ee.html?year=1997.

Somehow, these factors, combined with the fact that the only ride me and PKB had was Peppermint Paddy–my less-than-reliable red-and-white pickup whom you might remember from this story and it’s sequel–ended up with us following this convoluted plan as follows:

Step One: My adult sister, Denise, who lived in Amarillo, would try calling the venue to see if she could get us tickets. I’m not sure if somebody thought that her being physically closer might give us a better chance, or what the logic was here. I suppose it would be cheaper for her to be on hold, since it would be a local call…and I guess she would be stationary after all, unlike the rest of us, thus allowing her to make the call in the first place.

Step Two: Dad would get cleaned up after a half-day farming in the dusty-ass fields of Kansas, and would then hop in Daisy’s much more reliable–and very, very, sweet–Eagle Vision, and then proceed to our rendezvous locale: the metropolis of Goodwell, Oklahoma, about 45 minutes into the route to Amarillo.

Step Two: Meanwhile, PKB and I would pack up in Peppermint Paddy and putt down the road to Goodwell as well…and for the life of me, I don’t remember why we all didn’t all just drive together. But we didn’t.

Step Three: Once at Goodwell, Dad would call Denise from the payphone of the lone convenience store in town, to see if we had tickets or not.

Step Four: The three of us would then proceed to Amarillo in the Eagle Vision, arriving just in time to rock out to the sweet grungy vocals of a fuschia-headed Scott Weiland & Co…

Um…Step Four of course was the contingency, depending on Step Three to come through with tickets for us.

Well, as you probably have guessed by now, this is not the story of “that one time I saw STP live.” Nope, nope, nope. The one time the Universe shines kindly on me, in whence Dad actually agrees to one of our dubious schemes, it has to turn right around and deny us with a sold out show.

Or, as Hercules would say:

“Welp, what do we do now, Dad?” I inquired, kicking stray rocks in that Goodwellian parking lot.

“Well, boys, I need to go take care of some more farmy-type stuff while I have the daylight, I ‘spose…you got your truck, so go do whatever you want for the rest of the afternoon, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Whatever I want, you say? Hmmm…interesting…”

“Ok, see you later, Farmer Bob!” unlike me, PKB wasn’t one to mince words.

Well, I’ll spare you the details (I mean, haven’t you suffered enough already?), but let’s just say, yadda yadda ya, and that’s how I ended up in a McDonald’s bathroom in Guymon, Oklahoma, getting my hair dyed a not-as-bright-fuschia-as-a-grungy-sixteen-year-old-would-like by his best friend.

Later that evening…

“What in the funk?!? Dammit, son, why is your hair pink?” my old man demanded to know.

“It’s fuschia, Dad. Or at least it was supposed to be…”

“Oh, your ass is going to be fuschia once I get done bustin’ it! Dammit, boy, what’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I’ll be leaving for California in a few days, so you won’t have to worry about the corn or the wheat or some random cows seeing you with a pink-headed boy in your pickup, heaven forbid…”

Later that summer…

“Welp, here I am at the Amarillo airport to pick up my youngest child…I hope he has literally outgrown that pink hair of his…” Dad no doubt thought to himself as he waited at my gate–remember when you could still do that?–ever so patiently.

“‘Tis I, the Noble and Beloved Son!” I proclaimed when I finally stepped off the plane.

Dad just stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of my hair, which by now had grown out about an inch and a half of blonde roots. Oh, yeah, and that half inch of pink hair I had at the beginning of summer? That was now a half inch of orange tips, thanks to the SoCal sunshine.

Dad just buried his face in his hand.

“Cheeses H. Crikes,²Actually, he would have said something more like “Jesus H. Christ” but I’m trying to keep this story Mom-friendly somehow you look even dumber now, son…”

The point of the story is that another fantastic perk of being blonde–male or female–is that you have a blank canvas right there! Sitting on top of your ol’ noggin’! Just waiting for Teenage You to paint a picture for all the world to see! One that is an expression of your True Self, your Inner Soul!

Or, as in my case, you can vandalize it with a spray-painted message to your loving father that simply says “Suck it, Dad…”

Content created on: 27/28/29 January 2023 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	I did my homework, and the internets verified my memory of this whole ordeal: https://www.setlist.fm/stats/concert-map/stone-temple-pilots-bd6b9ee.html?year=1997.
↵2	Actually, he would have said something more like “Jesus H. Christ” but I’m trying to keep this story Mom-friendly

Hey Man, Don’t Hate Me Just Because I’m Beautiful

22 January 2023 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

Boy, you got yourself some pretty hair there.

But with great beauty comes great responsibility, son, so you better beware…

“Honey! It happened again!” I hollered in the general direction of My Beautiful Bride as a stumbled in the door after a morning jog.

“Who was it this time? A car full of unruly teenagers? An entitled rich white guy driving a sports car?” she asked, doing her best to play the part of the concerned wife.

“Well, you see, there I was, just pounding the pavement, minding my own business, when I hear a truck come speeding up behind me and–“

“Oooh, a truck you say? That’s a new one…” she interrupted, clearly more bemused than concerned.

“Yeah, you know that distinct sound a pickup truck makes? Anyways, right before it got to me, it suspiciously slowed down. I didn’t think too much about until I heard someone start to whistle. And just as soon as I turned to see who be whistling at me–and also to make sure I wasn’t about to be man-napped–the whistler abruptly stopped and the truck sped off.”

“Did you see who it was? Did you know them? Should we call the cops???” she was doing her best to stifle a guffaw at this point.

“According to the side of the truck, it was ‘Garcia’s Landscaping’, and, no, I don’t know them, and –hey! Are you making fun of me? Look, you simply couldn’t understand the blow to the ego when you only get half-cat-called?”

“Oh, my Love, I imagine it must be horrible! Unfathomably unbearable! Oh the humani–“

“Of course you couldn’t! You always get the full cat-call! ‘Oh, look at me! Look at me! I’m a woman from behind and from the front!’ Ugh. You make me sick.”

“Yeah, poor you. You’ll never get the full experience of wondering if that car slowing down or that cat-call is a harbinger for your impending sexual assault and possibly even death. You live such a deprived life.”

*long pause*

“Ok, so you make a good point. I’ll stop whining about it for now.”

“Thank the good lord! Oh, and if you refuse to get a haircut, then maybe I should get you one of those bright yellow jogging safety vests…”

“Umm…I mean, that might stop me from getting hit by cars, but it’s not gonna do much to keep me from getting inadvertently hit on.“

“Aht! Aht! Ah! I wasn’t finished! And on that back of the vest, I’ll have them custom print ‘Keep movin’–I’m a DUDE.’–in both English and Spanish. Oh, I just can’t stand to think of the heartache my husband might be causing with that luscious blonde ponytail of his…”

“Wait, wait! Don’t look just yet! Wait until they’re right next to us, then on the count of three we both glance at them. Got it? Okay!” I instructed My Beautiful Bride under my breath.

Years later, one evening when the two of us had got all gussied up for a date night and headed out to the local theatre, we unfortunately embroiled in a little “incident” en route.

Recognizing that signature abrupt-yet-casual slowing down of the vehicle behind us in the left lane, I had enough foresight to make the moment really count.

“One…Two…Three…GLANCE!”

We both look over just as the car pulled even with us, and, boy, let me tell you, their face was a stage and the three-act play that unfolded was more dramatic–and more entertaining–than anything else we would experience that evening.

Act 1: The eyes of the two guys in the car land on my wife first. She is very pleasing to look at it, and this is reflected in the young men’s expressions. Oh, the passion! The pleasure!

Act 2: In eager anticipation to see what beauty may be awaiting them in the passenger seat, their eyes flit past Eye Candy #1, only to be met by handsome-but-very-much-not-female lightly bearded visage. I bat my eyes at them seductively. The plot thickens. How can we tell? By the confusion and delay on their faces as they try to process the cognitive dissonance they just experienced. Also, they almost drive off the road.

Act 3: A split micro-second later, reality hits them like a ton of bricks. For a fleeting moment, the anger of being made out to be a ----- fool skitters across their faces, before settling into a look of dejection–as if they phrase “aww, nuts!” was a facial expression.

We gave them a little wave–the wife wearing a light smirk, and me with a pretty big sh*t-eating grin–before they quickly looked away in embarrassment and sped off.

“Oh, toodle-loo, boys! Enjoy your evening!” I couldn’t resist mouthing.

“What? That’s it?!?” you, Dear Reader, are no doubt asking of your tablet or mobile device, “When you said ‘incident’ we were expecting, I dunno…something more…violent, maybe? Like an accident. Or at least some road rage!”

Well, sorry to…um…let you down. My luscious blonde ponytail is a pacifist and eschews all forms of violence. No, no road rage here…only a little dose of drive-by disappointment…

“¡Muchas Gracias!” I yelled in appreciation to the Costa Rican roofers busy at work on a roof on the route between our honeymoon accommodations and the Pacific Ocean.

My Beautiful Bride of only 4 days gave me a sideways glance.

“I think that cat-call was meant for me, my dear,” she gently suggested.

“Yeah right. Like how could anyone possibly even know that?¹That, my friend, is a Napolean Dynamite reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IiIHzfXEiA And besides, no one would actually cat-call a woman right in front of their husband!”

“Um…we’re in Central Amer–“

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that was directed at me,” I asserted.

She paused for a moment or two before turning to me.

“So…is this going to be a whole ‘thing’ for the rest of our marriage?”

“Indubitably…”

The point of the story is beware the unintended consequences and pitfalls before donning a ponytail, young man! You coif your majestic mane in such a manner, and you might find yourself apologetically uttering “Sorry to disappoint!” more often than you might like.

On the other hand…if you’re the kind of chap that takes a sort of perverse pleasure in disappointing overly-lusty lads, then if you ask this doctor²Yes, I am a real (non-medical) doctor, #HumbleBrag. if a ponytail is right for you, that joker might just reply, “Ancient Astronaut Theorists say ‘yes’…”³Watch any episode of History Channels Ancient Aliens for 3 minutes and you’ll get that joke.

Content created on: 18/20 January 2023 (Weds/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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↵1	That, my friend, is a Napolean Dynamite reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IiIHzfXEiA
↵2	Yes, I am a real (non-medical) doctor, #HumbleBrag.
↵3	Watch any episode of History Channels Ancient Aliens for 3 minutes and you’ll get that joke.

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Previously, on “The Point of the Story”…

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Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)