The Point of the Story

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Tag: Featured Articles (Page 5 of 8)

Are You SURE You’re Making The World A Better Place?

17 January 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

The White Jesus Savior Complex is a lot like the Rapture.

You never really see it coming…

Ah, the New Year. It’s always the perfect time to take a moment and reflect on ways to be a better person–and then try to come up with strategies to make these ideal life-goals reality. For my part, one change I would like to see this year is that I would be more proactive about being a mindful and considerate friend, family-person, and citizen.

For example, last week I found myself on the far side of town after spending my whole ----- morning getting our car serviced at our formerly-local Toyota dealership. Since it was about lunch time and I was already in the area, I figured I would surprise my family by coming home with four extremely large containers of the Triangle’s tastiest Korean fried chicken from a nearby restaurant.

I was able to call in my KFC order ahead, and I had timed it just right where I could pull up, run in, pay, and dash on back out the door lickety-split. Such efficiency was necessary, as I still had a 40-minute drive home and my window of lunchtime opportunity for my famished fam was closing quickly.

When I pulled up into the parking lot of the strip mall where the restaurant was located, I was delighted to see that almost all the parking spots directly in front of it were wide open for the taking. It seemed as if Karma had seen the kind deed this plant-based hombre was doing for his carnivorous loved ones, and was rewarding the kindness with a sweet front-row parking spot.

As I swung into my luxuriously appointed stall, I realized that on the bench directly in front of me sat a young guy who looked very much down on his luck. He was wearing a surgical mask and had a heavy overcoat draped over him, so it was hard to get a good take on him, but he seemed a bit spaced out.

“Dang it!” I reflexively thought to myself. “I bet he’s going to ask me for something, and I just don’t want to deal with that right now. Arghhh!”

Fortunately, though, I was rocking my prescription too-cool-for-school sunglasses, and was able to largely avoid eye-contact as I scurried from the car straight into the restaurant.

However, while paying for the food, I remembered that I was wanting to put more goodness out into the Universe this year. Then I also remembered that a few days earlier I had intentionally put a couple of $20 bills in my wallet for situations just like this. I was actually a little embarrassed that my initial reaction was to avoid the inconvenience of this guy at all costs, when the reality was that I had never been in a better position to be financially generous in my whole life.

Lightly pleased with myself for having a change of heart just in the nick of time, I decided, “You know what, I’m going to spare this guy the indignity of having to beg for money, and just give him $20 without either of us having to say a word!” So I pulled out a fat Jackson–and promptly doused it in hand sanitizer to ensure that positive vibes were the only positivity I would be passing on to my newfound acquaintance.

Food in one hand and the money in the other I headed out the door, and as I went out of my way so I could pass directly by him, I handed him the unsolicited financial assistance.

“Hey man, here you go,” I said all casually before heading to my car.

Three steps later I heard the guy call out to me, “Hey, wait a second!”

“Yeah?” I turned around, no clue what to expect.

“Uh…you don’t happen to smoke do you?”

“Sorry man, I don’t.”

He paused for a moment, staring confusedly at the money in his hand, before looking back up at me.

“Why did you give me this $20?”

Well, that was a question I wasn’t expecting.

I started to second guess myself. Had I accidentally succumbed to a White Jesus savior complex? Was I actually being a condescending rich prick without realizing it?

“Oh man, I hope I didn’t insult you. I thought you might be able to use it, but if you don’t really need it, just pay it forward to someone who does.”

“Oh, no. I really appreciate it…”

Thinking that the conversation was wrapping up, I started to turn to go on my way.

“…I’ve just been having a really bad day.”

Out of empathy I stopped and turned back towards him.

“Sorry to hear that, man.”

“Yeah, I just…I just got hit by a car, and can barely walk now.”

Well, this conversation really took a turn into uncharted territory.

“Oh, wow, that’s…that’s just terrible.”

This was followed by a long awkward pause because apparently neither of us really knew what to say at that point. Eventually, auto-pilot took over for me–not that it did me any favors, though.

“Welp! I’ve gotta roll…so…hope your day gets better?”

And just like that, off I rode into the sunset, feeling much more unsettled, conflicted, and awkward as my reward for all my humanitarian efforts…

Honestly, I would rather not talk about it. That encounter made me feel all sorts of weird, and I even considered never telling a soul about what transpired.

For some reason my thoughts kept coming back to How To with John Wilson, a show I had just watched the night before. In the first episode, he tackles the topic of making “small talk.” At one point, he makes the keen observation that it is crucial that small talk never veers off into deep topics. It’s a violation of some unspoken social contract or something like that–I don’t remember the exact way he put it, but the upshot is that most people haven’t signed up to bear the weight of all your issues, yada yada ya.

And now…

And now I can’t stop wondering…maybe this was Karma’s way of telling me–over-sharer extraordinaire–that this whole time I’ve been the one walking into one polite conversation after another, casually announcing “Well, I got hit by a car today…”

…

Well, isn’t this just my luck? Most people have emotional baggage. But me? I am emotional baggage.

*awkward pause*

Welp! I’ve gotta roll, so…

Content created on: 14/15 January 2021 (Thurs/Fri)

The Gift Of The Magic Fire Water

27 December 2020 / / 1 Comment
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…

24 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
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:[+]

All I Want For Festivus Is My Rightful Tech Fortune

6 December 2020 / / 2 Comments
5 Min Read

In the timeless words of Frank Costanza, “I’ve got a lot of problems with you people, and you’re going to hear all about it!”

So, Harvey, if you’re listening, this grievance is for you…

While it’s debatable whether or not I really invented Cake Pops, one actual claim to fame I have is that I was part of the 3-man team that built the very first U.S.D. 217/Rolla High School website. I know it’s hard to imagine, but before Mr. Taylor’s ’97-’98 Computer 3 dream team came along, www.usd217.org was nothing but a 404 Error in one’s browser, a Digital Void in the Nothingness of the Interwebs.

At first, me and my two partners in crime–my beloved brother 1SkinnyJ, and David, the captain of our Scholar’s Bowl squad–were pretty pumped. Here we were, three of the most creative minds in the school, and we were given a blank canvas on which to create the outside world’s portal to our school and community.

This was also the same year that our school had acquired it’s very first digital camera, and it’s hard to overstate the sense of limitless potential this gave the students and staff. It didn’t take but a day or two before I had convinced everyone of this potential by Photoshopping 1SkinnyJ’s head onto the body of one of the cheerleaders.

Well, maybe “convinced” isn’t quite the right term here. Turns out that the only one bemused when that picture was found mysteriously plastered all over the school was 1SkinnyJ himself. That particular cheerleader? She was pissed af. Which I didn’t get, because you couldn’t even tell it was her! And, honestly, how did the teachers not see the humor in all of this?!? But I digress…

Perturbed by the lack of appreciation for my artistic work, I decided to channel my creative energies into the school’s website instead. While boring ol’ Rolla is literally a one-stoplight town (see Figure 1), it wasn’t long before I realized that this was actually a huge opportunity to do something cool.

Figure 1. Rolla, KS, circa 2020–which is pretty much the same as “circa 1997.”

Digital camera + basic website navigation + small town = ???

It was the perfect idea: Why not create a virtual tour of our little hamlet?

If we wanted to show off our community to the outside world, why not literally do just that? As you can see, Rolla is roughly just a 13×8 grid. It would only take us one or two beautiful Fall afternoons to go down each street, taking 4 pictures at each intersection, and then another 4 pictures in each direction in between intersections. By my calculations, that would have been around 1000 pictures–okay maybe it would have taken 3-4 afternoons, but tractable nonetheless.

Slapping together a web page with Left/Right/Forward buttons that would navigate between the various views from the streets of Rolla was well within our technical abilities as well. This was going to be the coolest ----- thing since the invention of the internet, and it was all well within reach.

But, alas. Just like my bro’s head on a cheerleader’s bod, my genius was ahead of its time. And for someone so ahead of his time, it turns out that I’m a bit stuck on the past.

And thusly, Mr. Harvey Taylor, I hereby bestow upon you the honor once only reserved for one Mr. Howard Raff: you is about to be only the second Rolla High School teacher to be the recipient of a grievance that’s more than a couple of decades overdue.1For the record, I only air grievance against those teachers I actually was pretty fond of. Consider it an honor, if you will.

I gotta say, Mr. Taylor, you blew your chance at being a part of something revolutionary, but noooooooo. You just had to shoot down my proposal. I guess it turned out to be perfectly on brand for your vision of the website, though: the world must know that at one point you actually demanded that we make it as boring as possible because “you gotta think about who might be looking for information on the website: old people. Old people will only be confused if you make it too fancy.”

Yeah. Whatever. Well, it was bad enough to have all our great ideas–and collectively we had a lot of them–preemptively shot down in the name of being practical to a stupid degree.

Well, then, one can imagine how I felt then, when, 10 WHOLE YEARS LATER, Google launched Street View. Yeah, that’s why my idea sounded so familiar to you: it was exactly Street View–over a decade earlier, and at least a year before Google itself was even founded.

Perhaps you (Dear Reader) can’t imagine how I feel about being robbed of the glory and other trappings that would have come my way, if only that dastardly Mr. Taylor would have let this little light of mine shine. So let me try communicating in my second-favorite language I like to speak in these parts: semi-obscure pop-culture references…

In the 2003 hit movie, The Italian Job2https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0317740–the one with Marky Mark Wahlberg, not the 1969 one with Alfred from Batman–the lovable and zany Seth Green plays Lyle, the hacker/computer expert of the gold-heisting team. Yes, the very same Seth Green that appeared at the end of my recent chestnut of a pop-culture reference as the son of Dr. Evil.

In what may be one of my all-time favorite completely unnecessary plotline, Lyle claims to be “the Real Napster”–the true inventor of the free music-sharing internet platform that was ubiquitous back from 1999-2001, but (likely story) his college roommate had stolen the code for it from him while he napped and received all the glory instead.

Surprisingly, I couldn’t find a great clip or two from the movie that fully expressed how big of a chip on his shoulder this was, but the first 30 seconds of this scene (which happens to be the best Seth Greene scene in movie history for entirely other reasons), will give you a taste:

[Editor’s note: the original clip that was shared here is no longer available on YouTube. If you’re curious what happens after the first 30 seconds in that clip, you can see that here. As a poor substitute, here is a clip from later in the movie which vaguely references the now-missing clip–in that clip our character had aired a grievance about how his college roommate had stolen the idea for Napster from him…while he was napping. Hope everything else after this still kinda makes sense. If not, just go watch The Italian Job (2003 version) in its entirety.]

Yeah, I feel ya buddy. So now if you’re wondering how I felt about the whole “Rolla virtual tour” thing, you can just imagine me blurting out with an air of utmost grievance to random strangers on the street: “Me! ME! I’m the real Google Mapster!”3This a direct parody of one of the scenes in the movie, I just couldn’t find a clip of it.

Anyways, the point of the story is that maybe–just maybe–you shouldn’t take yourself too seriously.

Sure, you just may rightfully be the Google Mapster, but isn’t it about time you moved on?

For more information about the wonderful holiday known as Festivus, you can start by visiting https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festivus and/or donating to the Human Fund: “Money For People.”

Content created on: 11 November & 5 December 2020 (Weds/Sat)

Update on 21 February 2022 (Monday) to replace broken YouTube link, and to sheeplishly try to convey the humor and relevance of the original clip.

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Remarkably Beautiful Symmetry Of Dying Buck-Naked

22 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Well, it was either “ignoble death” or “registered sex offender for life.”

I quickly came to terms that I was probably going to die right there in the water…

I’ve long maintained that I’m pretty sure that I have an utterly stupid and/or ridiculous death awaiting me. If you think I’m joking about this, then you may want to think again. I’m dead serious.

You may have already read about my urine-related brush with death, but I can understand if one piece of anecdotal evidence isn’t enough to convince you of this immutable life-truth of mine. So I thought maybe I would toss another example your way…

Every summer, The Boss Lady and I make an annual trek to hit up one of the many beautiful local beaches, much like many a folk who live within striking distance of one of an oceanic coast. Of course, these days this is now in the form of a luxurious multi-generational beach vacation, but this belies the much, much more humble beginnings of this yearly tradition.

One fine Saturday morning during the first summer of being married, we decided on a Lark1This is a play on words that absolutely nobody is going to get: we lived on Lanark Road at the time, and we had people mistaking our address for “Lark Road” ALL. THE. TIME. to take a day trip to the beach. I had never been to a Carolina beach before, and she thought it would be fun to check out where she grew up vacationing. As a bonus we could hit up the NC Aquarium and nosh on some genuine seafood while we were at it.

Oh, and of course we would frolic in the water and sand a little bit too. I mean, what would be a beach trip without a little sand in the shorts, amiright?

We actually ended up doing the whole beach thing twice in the few hours we were there. The last time, right before we headed home, was a spur-of-the-moment last-hurrah type of affair where we were like, “Hey what say we pull over at this random beach that we’re completely unfamiliar with and get one last bit of salt water in our system?”

It was all fun and games at first, but soon it was time to go, and I found that I indeed had more than just a “little sand in the shorts.” Now the beach we had gone to earlier was the one she had gone to growing up, and a key feature of that familiar beach was that there were showers for rinsing off conveniently located just across the street. No such amenities were to be found at this beach, though.

But that’s not an obstacle that couldn’t be overcome, right? There was an easy enough solution: just go out far enough in the water, take me trunks2Pirate joke or typo? I’ll never tell! off, rinse them out in the ocean, and put them back on. Duh. It’s not rocket science.

I had made it through Step 3 of this Easy 4-Step Plan before running into a slight snag. And I blame it all on the dang geography.

The particular spot in the water that I had chosen in which to do my deed was strategically located between, on one side, a large formidable formation of sharp and jagged rocks. On the other, a large family with many small children playing in the sand.

Still, this doesn’t seem like it should be a near-death experience, right? Well, that’s because we’re overlooking one small detail: the power of the ocean.

Due to some rare combination of the tide and local topography of that particular spot, there was an extreme variation in the depth of the water as each wave would roll in.

I found this out after I found myself naked in the water, unfortunately.

The first time I tried putting my shorts back on, a wave came in, and all of a sudden I found myself unable to touch the bottom. And it turns out that it is incredibly difficult to put pants on without any secure footing and without having enough free hands to dog paddle and keep your head above water.

But as soon as that wave crashed, the water only came up to my ankles, so in an effort not traumatize a flock of youngsters–and to avoid getting arrested for indecent exposure–I sat down immediately in the half-foot of water, as that was the only way to avoid showing off my family jewels to the whole entire world.

It turns out that there was no “in between”–I was either desperately struggling to keep my head above water or trying to hide my Biblical shame in 6 inches of water or less. There was never enough of the “just the right amount of water” for long enough to get my shorts back on successfully.

Very soon I had booked myself a trip on the proverbial Struggle Bus, and struggle I did indeed. The more I fought, the more exhausted I became; the more exhausted I became, the less able I was to stay in the same spot…wait, why am I so close to those rocks? Oh shit ! This got real, real fast!

My life started flashing before my eyes. Was this it? Could it be true? Was this how I was going to die?

Ass-naked and smashed upon some rocks?

Yeah, you know what? This seems pretty on brand for me. And why not? Who wants a boring Bougie death anyways? Not me! I’m pants-down and Heaven-bound, baby!

Plus, there was some strange satisfaction of having it all end just how it all began. After all, naked and flailing I came unto this world, and naked and flailing I shall leave it…right?

You know, I don’t recall how I ultimately got out of that jam, but much to The Boss Lady’s relief–who was watching this all unfold from the shore with a concerned-yet-laughing look on her face–a somehow survived while also managing to not show off too much of my flesh to that very confused family of onlookers.

Anyways, there you have it, folks: yet another ignoble way that I almost died. Maybe there isn’t really a moral of a story to be had here, but that’s okay, I give you permission to go ahead and laugh at my expense.

And if nothing else, I got to sneak a little bit of Maranasati in, which is actually pretty fitting for the Thanksgiving season: though we may eventually die, let us give thanks for still being alive.

As they say, this is what the holidays are all about…

Content created on: 12/20 November 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Make Your Own Dang Christmas Miracle

19 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
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:[+]

The Best Place To Share The Ancient Wisdom Of GongPu?

12 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

During my first year of grad school, I shared an office with an affable Chinese grad student named Gongpu. Given that he was a non-native English speaker, there were many moments in conversation when we would have to pause to explain some American pop-culture reference or another to him. Eventually, this morphed into “Gongpu’s vocab list” on the blackboard in our office, featuring such entries as “Richard Simmons,” “Zach Morris,” and “Festivus,” amongst many other interesting and/or amusing items that escape me at the moment.

However, the real joy of having him as an office mate were the chestnuts of wisdom and/or misunderstanding that he would bring to the conversation.

Without further ado–and at the risk of coming off as slightly racist–here are some of my favorite moments from my time shared with the ‘Pu…

Eating our lunches together in the office:

*Looks at the vinagrette covering my mixed greens in judgment*

“Ah, I prefer Franch dressing on my salads…”

“I honestly don’t know if you meant French or Ranch…”

Helping me plan my road trip, with a possible stop in western North Carolina:

*Pulls up Google Maps, begins typing*

“Asheville…uh…how do you spell that? A-S-S-V-I-…?”

*The rest of us, trying to catch our breathes from laughing so ----- hard*

“Gongpu, you seriously thought that town was called ‘Ass-ville’, didn’t you?”

Walking to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a celebratory lunch in honor of him getting his Ph.D.:

“I like Bandido’s food, but I don’t like their beans at all. They look like semen.”

*Me, unable to believe what I’m hearing.*

“Uh, did you say ‘semen’?”

*Pointing frantical to the ground.*

“Semen! Semen!”

At this point, even though we had a frank and open friendship, I was getting a little embarrassed by his very interesting choice of appetite-ruining analogy.

*Looking nervously around the street, whispering quietly*

“Um…you mean like…’jizz’?!?”

*Gongpu, clearly frustrated with me, is practically slapping the ground by now*

“CEMENT, you know, what they make sidewalks out of!”

*Awkward pause*

“Oh. ‘Cement.’ Yeah, I suppose their refried beans have an unusual gray tint to them…”

Okay, so maybe that one was on me. But, in my defense, may this last story provide a bit of exonerating context…

Randomly scrolling through some far-flung acquaintance’s FaceBook profile together:

*They have an abridged quote from the movie Bull Durham on their profile, which I begin to mindlessly read out loud*

“Well, I believe in the soul… the small of a woman’s back… the hangin’ curveball… high fiber… good scotch. I believe in the sweet spot, soft core pornography…”1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mn5crhTusSA

*Gongpu cuts me off with a sense of urgency, and states judgmentally, yet matter-of-factly*

“Ah, I prefer hardcore pornography.”

…

“Well, that’s not what…oh, nevermind. Good for you, my man, good for you…”

That always tickled my funny bone, the way he had to make it clear that softcore erotica was well beneath him.

So humorous in fact, that I found myself retelling the tale to a captive audience a few years later:

“…and then he looks at me with disdain and says, ‘Ah, I prefer hardcore pornography.’ Can you believe that?!?”

*crickets*

“Nothing? I guess you had to be there…”

I walked away, without getting a single laugh out of them. I couldn’t help but wonder: was it because they were Chinese-American and found my portrayal of Gongpu racist? Or was it because they were married women and were uncomfortable with me talking about such sensual things as ‘the small of a woman’s back’?

Or maybe–just maybe–the Wisdom of Gongpu wasn’t welcome at our church?

I guess we’ll never know the answer to this one…

Content created on: 12 November 2020 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

My Dumb, Crummy Destiny: Accusing Chestnuts Of Being Lazy

1 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Few people realize are even aware of it when they start heading down the path to becoming “Evil.”

I’ll just say this: beware if you find yourself making outrageous claims like “I invented cake pops…”

Tastebud bandit. Olfactory outlaw. Textural terrorist. Mouthfeel mobster. Call me what you want, but it when it comes to food, there’s one thing you should know about me: I don’t give a single solitary ----- about all y’all’s arbitrary ‘rules.’

I even once had a teacher1”…and Ms. Hansen was her name-o!” accuse me of “murdering a baked potato.” Honestly, though, I would argue that smothering a tuber in ketchup and then drowning it in even more catsup is halfway normal. I mean, hello?!? French fries, much?

Biscuit, please!

In college, I would get many a strange look for my habit of eating a banana with a packet of Miracle Whip in class. Growing up, my dad’s signature fruit salad featured apples, bananas, raisins, and Miracle Whip. I was just deconstructing what I already knew to be a palate-pleaser. While haters be busy talking smack, I be busy smacking my lips on a tasty-ass2And, in retrospect, slightly homoerotic. snack.

You get the idea: my jaw chews to the beat of its own drummer, and I’m…weirdly passive-aggressive about it?

Speaking of college, hands-down the best part of my university experience was access to communal desserts in the cafeteria. When everybody else was busy claiming the cake pan was 100% empty like a bunch of fools, I, the eternal optimist,3See also: Fiddy Percent. would be busy piling my plate high with a mound of 100% ----- delicious mixture of frosting and crumbs.

It wasn’t long before I was obsessed with shamelessly collecting cake crumbs like a bona fide addict. At weddings, I was infamous for always requesting that the cake servers scrape their cake knives off on a designated plate that I would later collect and consume with the greatest of gustos.

I mean, have you I ever even had a ball of that super-moist layer of wedding cake that always sticks to the platter? It’s flippin’ mind-blowing–and that’s even before you add that crack-laced wedding cake frosting!

I think I could laud the praises of CrumbBalls (TM) for hours–I mean, not to #HumbleBrag too hard, but they’re a pure palatial revelation. And, yes, I’m pretty dang proud of myself for having the guts to think outside the cake mix box, if you haven’t noticed already.

I must say though, the one downside is that once you’ve experienced cake this way, boring old cake just doesn’t cut it any more.

Fortunately for me though, through the sage life wisdom one can only acquire in their 20s, I eventually realized that I could approximate the effect by thoroughly smashing a well-frosted piece of regular cake with a fork until it was a yummy ball of crumby goodness. I even once opined to the Boss Lady…

Me: “This is genius! If we can find a way to market this we could be so ----- rich!”

BLM: “Um…I think Starbuck’s may have beat you to the punch…”

Me:4https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/all-your-base-are-belong-to-us

Someone has set us up the gut bomb.

BLM: “Yeah, isn’t that pretty much what a cake pop is?”

Me: “Noooooooooooooooo!”

*Does quick internet research*5References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cake_pop , https://www.bakerella.com/page/13/?s=cake+balls”No. No. NO. The first digital record of cake pops are from December 2007–I’ve been CrumbBallin'(TM) it up since 1999!”

*Slams laptop lid down* “You know what this means, right?”

BLM: …

Me: “I invented cake pops! Me–me, me me! And I’m getting none of the credit–oh, the injustice!”

Back in 2012 when we lived in Hawai’i, the Boss Lady and I got into the habit of hitting up the local frozen yogurt chain on a regular basis. We were trying to live the pono (healthy) lifestyle and all, so this seemed like a decent dessert option.

In theory, at least.

In practice, I would end up getting the tiniest of dollops of froyo before proceeding to lightly season it with M&M’s, Snickers, Butterfingers, Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cups, gummi worms, and, when available, Nerds. Oh, and by “lightly season” I mean “smother and drown.” Best of intentions, amiright?

I eventually gave up on pretending to be healthy and instead embraced the debauchery that it was. Being ever the witty fellow, I even dubbed my creation the “All-Hallow’s Day Special,” in honor of the beautiful, gluttonous sugar-orgy that the archetypical American kid experiences every November 1st. I know, I know. Clever, right?

Then I saw this on TV a few weeks ago:

What is this, Amateur Hour? Y’all don’t even have gummi worms. Pfffft!

Son of a biscuit...

The point of the story is don’t be that whiny little biscuit who won’t shut the hell up about all the credit they’re not getting. It’s just tiresome to be around, man. And trust me–I’ve had to listen to one of those asshats my entire life6In case it’s not clear, Mother, I’m referring to myself.…

Oh, by the way, here’s those chestnuts I promised you…just promise me you’ll watch to the end for the real, uh, “chestnut”:

“…it’s breathtaking, really. I suggest you try it.”

You’re welcome!

Content created on: 28/29 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Note To Self: Benzene On The Boys Is Never Bueno

25 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

Actually, I’m rather surprised.

…surprised that my kids didn’t turn out to be freaking mutants, that is…

Back in my Sophomore year at ye ol’ Rolla High School, I had the pleasure of taking Chemistry from the most beloved teacher in all the school, Mr. Raff. Now, Mr. Raff was an affable older gentleman, who was seemingly constantly teetering on the edge of going full Nutty Professor.

In my humble opinion, the best part were his quips, constantly bestowing us with trademark phrases such as “…and then I say to myself, ‘Self, two plus two is four!’ And then I pat myself on the back…”

That was definitely my favorite. And he was definitely my favorite teacher from my long and storied academic career.

But…

But, he did have one little blemish on his record…

It was a lovely autumn afternoon back in ’96, and Mr. Raff had just challenged us Chemistry students to use our scientific skills to determine the chemical composition of a mystery liquid. I clearly remember that one of the specific tasks was to measure the density of said liquid.

Me and my lab partner, David–the only two underclassmen in the group–sat out to measure the volume of it straightaway, employing the services of a trusty graduated cylinder. If you don’t recall, a graduated cylinder is basically a tall glass measuring cup, with a base so it can stay upright on its own, and a c-shaped plastic ring that you can move up and down to get a more accurate measurement of what your liquid level is. For your convenience, here is a stock photo of one almost identical to the one in this story:1Image source: https://labcommerce.com/labequip_productdesc.php?catid=52&prodid=1329

Figure 1. A graduated cylinder featuring the infamous c-shaped ring.

There I was, sitting at the lab bench, waiting for David to jot down our scientific observations, when I had the brilliant idea to pop the ring off of the cylinder. Don’t know what I thought I would achieve by doing this, but apparently in that moment I felt compelled to fool around with the lab equipment. This was easily achieved by merely twisting the ends of the ‘C’ in opposite directions, and–boom! Pops right off!

However, I had made the fatal mistake of not taking a Physics class before I took Chemistry, as I then would have known that “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

As I popped the ring off away from me, the cylinder had to compensate by tipping over towards me.

With a loud “thunk” it landed on its side on the lab bench, draining all 21.4 ml of Mystery Liquid over the side…and directly into my chair and general crotch region.

And to top things off, my lab chair had an ergonomic butt-shaped seat,2I tried finding an image of this online, but I couldn’t, probably on account of the fact that shit like this happened to too many teenage scientists and they had to be discontinued. allowing the Liquid to conveniently pool in my Netherlands, completely soaking the underside of my blue jeans.

You can’t even imagine the sheer horror of a teenage boy realizing that he just spilled an unknown substance all over his untapped genetic reserves. “Oh, The Humanity!” indeed!

Worse yet, much to my consternation, I found myself “scientifically observing” that our Mystery Liquid “caused an unbearable burning sensation of the balls.”

As expected, David was doubled over in laughter at my predicament and was far too thoroughly incapacitated to be of any medical assistance. And by that time, the rest of the class had figured out what was going on as well, but not a ----- one of those bastards seemed very sympathetic to my plight. I was literally fighting for the lives my future children here, and all I was getting was breathless howls of laughter from the ----- peanut gallery.

Of course, the esteemed Mr. Raff would be there for me in my time of need, right? Right…?

I turned only to find him literally slapping his knees and guffawing so hard that he could barely get any words out.

I was beyond frantic at that point, and desperately needed him to get his shit together and help me out, as pre-enacted in this scene:3From the 1980 hit movie, Airplane! Gif source: https://thumbs.gfycat.com/BountifulUnconsciousDuckbillplatypus-size_restricted.gif; Youtube clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0GW0Vnr9Yc.

This is not one bit an exaggeration of what happened: I actually did have him by the shoulders trying to rattle some sense into him, accompanied by the only appropriate thing to say in such a moment:

“STOP LAUGHING AND TELL ME WHAT THE HELL I JUST SPILLED ON MY SCROTUM, Howard, you Heartless Fool! Oh! The BURNING!”

As much as I loved the old fart, I maintain that it was borderline child abuse on his part to continue laughing for another good 2 minutes before advising me “Not to worry, just go to the bathroom and rinse them off as best as you can.”

When I returned 15-20 minutes later–now with only moderate groin discomfort and a stack of paper towels stuffed in my underwear, (my clothing in that area was still soaked, after all)–I still had many unanswered questions.

Well, just the one question actually: “Will I ever be able to have children? You know, ones with exactly 10 fingers and exactly 10 toes?”

If I recall correctly, the Mystery Liquid turned out to be “just benzene,” and good ol’ Mr. Raff assured me that “[my] junk would be fine once the rash goes away in a few weeks and the hair grows back.”

Fortunately, he was only messing with me about the whole “few weeks” part. I, however, was not bemused.

And I must say, I am even less bemused now that I have access to Google and I can fact-check his lying ass:

Figure 2. Oh, NOW you tell me.

I can’t believe I trusted you, Howard. You and your balled-face lies…

Content created on: 21/22 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Now Kids, This Is What A Clingy B*tch Looks Like

11 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

I knew that doggy yoga position, alright. ‘Twas none other than “Canine Arching Back Skyward In Glorious Defecation”…

Probably the best thing to ever come from the wonderful technology that we know and love as ‘GPS’ would have to be Geocaching.1For more info on geocaching, check out www.geocaching.com.

“What is this ‘geocaching’ of which you speak?” you may be asking with unnaturally correct sentence syntax.

Well, as I like to sell it to my daughters: it’s basically “treasure hunting” with a smartphone (or any other GPS device). Someone will hide a ‘cache’–a stash of trinkets, pen, and a paper log–in some fun location, use their phone to note the precise latitude and longitude, and then post them online for others to go out and find.

If you’re looking for a hobby, I highly recommend it. In addition to feeding the urges of your inner pirate, you typically get to see new and interesting places along the way.

Recently I decided it was time to introduce our 2-year-old, aka The Younger, to this family pastime that the 7-year-old (The Elder) and I have partook in at least once or twice a year since she was 3. So on a beautiful-yet-fateful Saturday morning in early October, I loaded up the girls, some lunches, and a backpack full of unwanted toys, and we headed out on a great adventure.

In addition to a paper log found within cache, each one has a digital cache on the geocaching.com website. This is typically used for leaving a short note of with whom you found the cache, thanking the owner of the cache for hiding it in the first place, and any other random comments/hints for those who may follow in your footsteps.

Usually the contents found therein are pretty run-of-the-mill. For example, see Figure 1.

Figure 1: A Typical Geocache Log

Well…after an experience we had with a certain cache, I felt it necessary to leave a slightly wordier log entry. Indeed, I was divinely called upon to leave a cautionary tale for those who might come after us; prithee, that the same fate that befell us may not befall them…

From My Official Geocaching Log (*Lightly edited for your reading pleasure. Also re-gendered the possibly male, possibly female antagonist in order to squeeze more humor out of the situation.*):

[Didn't find it Didn’t find it] Saturday, 03 October 2020 by f***m******* (20 found)2Proof that I actually spent the time to write such a long-ass cautionary tale for future geocachers can be found here.

Well, this was an interesting one.

Cruising around with my 2 daughters, ages 7 & 2, introducing The Younger to “Treasure Hunting.” She had just fallen asleep, and for unrelated reasons, my phone had died at the previous Randolph-Boundary Hunter (the name of the series of geocaches we were hitting up) cache.

I actually didn’t know this one was here; I was just wandering southwardly, looking out for any county line signs.

Well, what do you know, I see this one and I’m thinking, “Hey, this might be another easy find. Let me try to find a place to pull over and check it out…”

Directly across from this cache, however, is a house. As I started to pull off the side of the road (and approximately in front of this house), I look over, and a kid of about 10 years is approaching our car…pointing a [toy] gun directly at us.

Okaaaaaaay…so maybe we won’t be checking this one out.

As I tried to pull back onto the road, I had to slam on my brakes as a big black lab bolted out in front of me–and I was shocked that I didn’t nail her.

So now my adrenaline level is jacked through the roof. I try to calm myself and scoot on down the road (remember, I still didn’t know where I was going–just knew I wanted to get away from 2A Boy).

Welp, that dog was a tenacious pup, she ’twas indeed. Friendly, but tenacious.

About a half mile down the road, she was still jollily jaunting beside us. Dang it.

I didn’t want to be responsible for this dog ending up in the next county over, so I slowly turned around and tried to “guide” the good little b*tch back towards her home. As I got to a fork in the road near where this whole debacle started, she raced a ways out in front of me so I slowed down and tried a stealthy U-turn.

I could see in the rear-view that she had figured out what was up, but I had a good enough lead on her that I figured I could gun the engine and leave her in the dust.

Nope. NOPE.

She was in front of me, in my blind spot, within 5 seconds flat. This canine had a death wish, but I wanted nothing to do with it.

This went on, back and forth–lead her home, roll down the window, tell her to “Go on, git!” sneak a U-turn, gun it, have her back IN FRONT OF ME in 10 seconds, yada yada ya…

There was a moment where I was like “have I somehow died and am now stuck in the weirdest f*cking form of purgatory?!?”

After about the 5th round trip, I was puttering along at about 10 mph with her beside me, when I noticed her pause and…shorten the length of her body?

Oh, wait.

I knew that doggy yoga position, alright. ‘Twas none other than “Canine Arching Back Skyward In Glorious Defecation.”

Could it be? Was this my serendipitous window of opportunity I had been longing for so desperately and deeply in my loins?

Yes. Yes, it was.

I turned to The Elder and imparted all the fatherly wisdom I had to offer: “A dog can’t chase you while she’s pinching off a turd!”

“Go for it, Daddy!” she hollered in encouragement from the back seat.

Reaching back, I grabbed her hand and slammed my foot on the gas pedal as hard as I could.

In beautiful unison, we did our best William Wallace impression, screaming “FREEEEEEDOM!” while tearing ass the ----- out of there.

via GIPHY

A few minutes down the road, she piped up, “You’re going to write about this in your blog, right?”

Yes, my child. Yes indeed, I shall3Original ending from geocache log, instead of those last two lines: “And The Younger slept through it all…”…

Content created on: 3/4 &10 October 2020 (Sat/Sun/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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