Tag: Featured Articles (Page 6 of 8)

“Son, you really gotta stop rubbing-your-dub.”

Welp. This was going to be awkward…

Is it wrong to feel a sense of satisfaction to see yet another beloved children’s nursery rhyme fall from grace?

Okay, maybe “fall from grace” isn’t the right term. Perhaps “really is not child-appropriate at all” or “was about a bunch of perverts” would be more accurate.

Take, for example, the 1798 hit rhyme, “Rub-A-Dub-Dub,” whose original lyrics went something like this:¹https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5038237

Hey! rub-a-dub, ho! rub-a-dub, three maids in a tub,
And who do you think were there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,
And all of them gone to the fair.

According to that same source,²https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5038237 this is essentially the modern-day equivalent of a tabloid publishing photos of Tom Hanks, Dr. James Dobson,³Of Focus On The Family fame/infamy. & Barack Obama at a strip club. No matter who you are, you would probably be shocked by the moral failings of at least one of those three fellows, amiright?

But, to clear up a misconception⁴If you work hard enough, you can see how this “spilling your seed on the ground” type of pun. that is most assuredly forming in your mind right now, “rub-a-dub” is not a euphemism for any type of rubbing you might suspect at such a venue of ill-repute, but rather a form of disapproval like “tsk-tsk, you naughty boy”⁵https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rub-a-dub-dub…

When I was a Sophomore in high school, I was living with my dad and my stepmom “Daisy” out on our farm in rural SW Kansas. I didn’t have my own vehicle, so I often found myself stuck all alone on the farm with nothing to do.

Now, some people are completely content being bored all the time, but I’m not one of them. I’m one of those so-called “creative types.”

The problem with being a creative type who is constantly on the verge of mind-numbing boredom is that so-called “creative juices” tend to get pent up, and thus I was always looking for ways to find some so-called “creative release.”

Given the pre-existing condition of being stuck in the middle of nowhere, combined with a general lack of monetary resources, said release wasn’t always easy to come by. Fittingly, this is where being creative came in handy.

One dreary winter evening I got the notion in my head that nothing would be cooler than making a wax copy of my face. Yeah, I know, pretty awesome, right?

And it was simple enough: all I needed to do was take a couple layers of aluminum foil and press my face into them to make a mold, then burn my scented candle down while pouring the melted wax into that mold, and voila!

It was simple “in theory” at least. I sat there on my bed for a good hour or two trying to create my masterpiece, without seeing a single ounce of success. I don’t recall whether it was the aluminum mold or the recycled wax that was the fatal flaw; I just remember being rather disappointed that it was an utter failure.

Oh well. At least I had given it the ol’ high-school try⁶This is clearly a play on the phrase “the ol’ college try,” though I’m not sure what the hell that means either… …

A month or so later, my dad and I were having a random conversation when the topic of laundry somehow came up. It puzzled me, then, why all of a sudden he got an embarrassed look on his face.

“I didn’t want to say anything, but…Daisy was in your room last week and decided to do you a favor and wash your sheets and bedspread.”

“Aw, that was thoughtful of her…”

“But, um…she said, um…she said she discovered, er…crusty ‘stains’ all over your comforter…”

“Wait, what?”

“Now son, I’m not one to judge…”

“WAX! IT WAS WAX, DAMMIT!”

“…but it’s kinda rude to the woman who does your laundry when you–“

*Buries face in hands*

“Let me stop you there, Dad. I was making candles, okay? I was making candles on my bed and spilled some red wax. How could she have even mistook that for–“

“It’s okay, you don’t have to lie about what every boy your age does…”

*Under my breath* “Shit. They think that I like to rub-a-dub-dub with reckless abandon all over my room. I’ve forever soiled my reputation, haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you were just ‘making candles,’ wink wink. I suppose I should at least give you points for creativity…”

Content created on: 3 September 2020 (Thursday)

Say, do you remember those barnyard sounds toys from our childhood? The kind that had a giant plastic arrow that would spin around when you pulled the lever, and then for whatever it would land on, it would kindly inform you what sound that animal made. For example, “The cow says: ‘Mooo’!”

Well, I have a fun fact for you: did you know that the some concept works with certain inanimate objects?

Please, allow me to expound…

On this approximate day in history 9 years ago, the Boss Lady and I found ourselves embarking on the biggest adventure of our lives yet. I had just finished up grad school, and as a newly minted “doctor” I had leveraged my new credentials to land a sweet, sweet gig at a hospital in Hawai’i’.

Up until that point in time, both of us drove vehicles with a tax value of $3,000 or less. You know us, humble as ever, and all. Now when you consider that it would cost around $1,500 to ship a car from Los Angeles to Honolulu, and that we lived in North Carolina, it quickly became clear that our two beloved vehicles were not destined to make the journey with us.

My ’95 Toyota Camry had already had its share of misadventures, so we decided to sell it to some unsuspecting young girl who bought it to celebrate finally getting her GED.

Side note: you go, girl–don’t ever let the haters stand between you and your dreams!

As for the Boss Lady’s ’98 Honda Civic, it was in good enough shape that we felt comfortable gifting it to one of my family members back in Kansas, as they were in need of a more reliable ride.

Thus formed the basis for our big transition from NC to HI: once our lease ran out at the end of July and the bulk of our belongings already en route to the Islands, we would hang out with the in-laws a few days to catch our breath before leisurely road-tripping to Kansas. After delivering the vehicle and spending some time with my family out there, we would have the new owner of our car drive us up to Denver, where we would catch a flight to our final destination in the Tropics.

I had it planned such that when we arrived in Kansas after 3 days of cross-country travel (see FIgure 1), the very first thing we would do would be to spend a whole day at the Morton County Fair. Yes, I am indeed speaking of none other than the infamous site of the social PTSD I detailed in the hit blog post The Prize Pig Story, and a prominent staple of my childhood memories.

After 3 full days of (surprisingly) uneventful traveling under the sweltering heat, we made it to our last stop in Guymon, OK. We were pretty much home free at that point: our destination in the morning was Elkhart, KS–a mere 45 minutes and one state line away (see Figure 2).

I honestly couldn’t believe it. Everything was actually going according to plan…starting with rolling up to our hotel earlier than expected that evening. ‘Twas even early enough for a last minute respite of a little dinner-and-a-movie date before the impending ‘fun times’ with my family began. Oh happy day!

And speaking of ‘rolling up to the hotel,’ when we got out of the car upon our arrival there, the Boss Lady pointed out some water dripping underneath the car and wondered if we should be concerned. I told her, look, the car survived 1,509 miles of steamy midsummer day¹Technically, this should be ‘mid-day summer’, but doesn’t sound as poetic. driving, so clearly it was going to be perfectly fine to make the 45-mile early morning trip the next day.

Several rejuvenating hours and 44 miles later, we found ourselves at the finish line, cruising into Kansas around 9 in the morning.

Well…sorta-kinda. Or maybe not at all.

You ever heard of the proverbial “last mile”?²https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_mile_(transportation) To be honest, the difficulty of making it the last mile isn’t supposed to apply in this context. But yet there we were, the Universe seemingly wanting to make an example of us.

We had one last turn before officially arriving in Kansas, and only one more and we would be at the fair (see Figure 3). I was so close I could even almost taste the wafting scent of piggy poo.

I pulled up to the stop sign, looked both ways before turning, and…HOLY SH*T why is it so hard to turn the steering wheel?!?

It took me a second to realize that the car had died, and glancing down I just then noticed that oh, yeah, I suppose it was running a bit hot. With no other real option, I pulled over to the side of the road in hopes that the billows of steam would subside and we could be on our way after things cooled down.

As I got out of the car, I happened to glance across the highway and couldn’t help but exclaim under my breath: “You have got to be f*cking kidding me.”

There across the highway, literally a stone’s throw away, sat one very smug “Welcome to Elkhart!” sign, relentlessly taunting me.

But wait! There’s more! However, I regret to inform you that the conclusion to (and the moral of ) this saga will have to wait until next week. Before I take off and leave you hanging, I do want to provide you with at least a little bit of resolution…

And now, the moment you have all been waiting for: “What does the car say?”

Well, let’s pull that classic yellow lever on the side of our spinny-toy and find out, shall we?

[Pulls lever, arrow spins around, just happens to land on a 1998 Honda Civic.]

The car says: “F*** your plans, ninjas, I ain’t ever going to Kansas!”

Yes, that is most definitely what the car says.

To be continued…

Content created on: 6 & 7 August 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Did you know…that there’s such a thing called Childhood Amnesia? Most people can’t recall memories earlier than four years old, while the commonly accepted limit is around two and half years old.¹https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Childhood_amnesia#False_memories

Yeah, in fact, it happens to pretty much everybody.

I had no clue such a phenomenon existed until I was 30 or so, when one day I was regaling my Hawaiian coworkers²They were actually mainly German & Indian–we just worked together in Hawai’i. about some extremely early memory of mine from when I was around a year old.

Very much to my surprise, those asshats absolutely refused to believe me, saying it was impossible to remember events before 3ish. Again, this was the first I had ever heard of childhood amnesia, so it never occurred to me that having such early memories would make me a particularly rare specimen.

…rare enough that your supposed esteemed colleagues would flat-out call you a liar to your face, nonetheless!

Okay, so enough #HumbleBragging about my memory. The point is, childhood amnesia exists, it is the norm, and for some reason I was passed over.

During my first year of graduate school, most of us had to earn our keep by teaching undergraduate physics labs. Now, at some point in time, I will get around to sharing with you the tale of how I know, with an embarrassing degree of confidence, that teaching is not my calling in life. Long story short: I absolutely hated having to teach.

The one saving grace that made this bearable was that for about the first 15-25 minutes of each lab I had a captive audience that had no choice but listen to me talk.

I was supposed to use that time to refresh the students about the physics concepts that day’s lab would be featuring. And sometimes I did that.

Other times, when I was feeling particularly loquacious, it would look more like a half-assed stand-up comedy routine than a scientific lecture.

By the way here’s a tip: turns out, they hate it when you do that. Apparently most of them only care about getting their lab work out of the way so they can get back to partying or whatever it is youths these days do in their spare time. After all, my childhood stories probably aren’t going to be on the test.

One day, for reasons that I ironically cannot recall, I felt compelled to share with them a particularly porcine-themed story from the days of my youth.

I grew up in rural southwest Kansas, and like most of rural America one of the most anticipated events of the year would be the county fair. And, as a yung’en, one of the most exciting events at the Morton County Fair was…the Pig Catch.

Well, at least that’s what we called it. It may often go by other names such as pig wrestling, greased-pig chase, and pig scramble, to name but a few.³https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pig_wrestling That reminds me–help me remember to tell you about the time in college that someone made the mistake of putting me in charge of a spring social event–just mention “Hawaiian County Fair” and you’re guaranteed to jog my memory.

Diversion aside, I’m trying to provide an explanation of what a pig chase entails, for those uninitiated souls out there. In the kiddie version that I’m acquainted with, you would have somewhere between 25-50 kids line up on one end of a dirt arena or otherwise enclosed field. Then, the adults would release a predetermined number of unlubricated piglets. According to my calculations, I figure that they would be shooting for a Kid-to-Piglet Ratio (KPR) of ~5.

After that, the local celebrity rodeo announcer would yell “Breakfast is served, now go get you some bacon!” and the kids would make a mad dash trying to pin one of the little porkers down for at least 10 seconds.

Do that, and the prize of a sweet, sweet $1 bill would be yours, along with the unmitigated respect of your peers.

Now, the pig catch is strongly tied to the earliest of my many memories of the county fair. Indubitably, the most likely reason for this was because my brother a couple years my senior, One Skinny J, aka 1SJ, was a ----- pig-catching champion.

I think you had to be at 2-3 years old to participate, and by the time I could throw my hat in the ring, 1SJ already had 3 years and 3 pig-catching titles under his belt. Naturally, I wholeheartedly expected to follow in my big bro’s foot steps and be a regular champion myself.

Okay, class, if you’ve been paying attention, the current setting of the story is the Morton County Fairgrounds, August 1984. And it’s my time to claim the glorious pig-pouncing destiny that awaits me.

My 3-year-old self took his spot amongst the 30 other kids, and nervously awaited the signal to go get ’em. After what seemed like an eternity, finally we got the green light to go tackle some livestock.

Turns out, it’s harder than it looks.⁴That’s what she said! ALOT harder.

As I was bearing down on my first prey, another, slightly more athletic kid came out of nowhere and straight-up knocked the pig off its feet and 5 feet to the side of me.

Nuts. On to the next one then!

One after another, though, some other kid would get there first.

I was running out of piglets fast.

But then I noticed something odd. As soon as a piglet was caught, several other kids would rush in to help keep the rascal pinned until a judge could come over and verify the take-down.

Before my eyes, all the kids were clustering into groups of 4 or 5. Usually the kid who actually caught it would be holding it by its neck, while their associates would be entwined with one of the various limbs.

Quickly realizing that I probably wasn’t going to be catching a pig myself that day, I decided, like every other literal hanger-on, that I could at least get credit for an assist.

Soon enough, all the piglets had been downed, so I found myself trying to find a group that appeared to need some help.

Instead, I ended up repeatedly pre-creating one of the more heart-wrenching scenes from the 1994 Robert Zemeckis classic, Forrest Gump:

I shit you not, I was the only kid not touching some part of a bacon-making machine. I, alone, was the sole non-pig-catching fool that day.

Or so it seemed.

At the last second, I spotted a lone hind leg that didn’t already have a child hanging off of it.

I rushed over to the group, and towering over 4 very much unwelcoming faces, I mumbled, “Umm, you guys need some help?”

Then with a grunt, I tried to pin the leg down with my foot. However, in my attempt, I ended up kicking at it instead, missing the pig altogether, losing my balance, and kind of lightly stomping on its foot as I came down.⁵Don’t worry, it wasn’t hurt.

Needless to say, I earned neither a sweet, sweet $1 bill nor the unmitigated respect of my peers that day.

And, class, what lesson have we learned today?

It was in that moment that I realized that I had whole life full of socially awkward moments ahead of me…

In retelling this story, I have to somewhat appreciate the meta nature of sharing that with my physics lab group. You know, since I decided the best way to explain to them why they were being forced to needlessly suffer through my own private therapy session…was by providing the origin story of my awkwardness in a very inappropriate classroom setting.

Anyways, the point of the story is be thankful if you were blessed with childhood amnesia like a normal person. Heck, I would give up bacon if it meant having my prize pig story zapped from my over-active memory.

Damn. Didn’t work.⁶This makes more sense if you have read Death By Hangnail…I’ll wait here.

Oh, and if you’re wondering about how 1SJ “fared” that year, yes, of course that beast⁷bastard would sound so much better here… won his 4th consecutive $1 bill moments later when the older kids got there turn.

Don’t believe me?

Here’s a picture that should be more than enough proof:

Content created on: 10/11 June 2020 (Wed/Thurs)

“Today’s a good day to dress like a tourist–I would even argue that it’s the perfect day to dress like one!”

One year ago this very day, the beautiful French morning was slipping away, and I couldn’t believe I was wasting time defending my choice of vacation attire.

The Boss Lady and I had decided to go to Paris to belatedly celebrate 10 years of marital bliss, and we were kicking it off with a trip to the famed Palace of Versailles. And frankly, I didn’t give a ----- that I looked like a tourist.

After all, everyone else there was going to be dressed like a tourist, so why bother pretending to be a local?

Further, I didn’t fly across the ----- Atlantic Ocean so I could try to impress strangers with my fashion choices.

I came to enjoy myself, and by golly, I wanted to be comfortable.

It wasn’t long before the Boss Lady conceded to my airtight logic, acknowledging that our luxurious kid-free sleep-in fest that morning had put us behind schedule for the day. We were both pretty eager to get a jump on a long day of sightseeing ahead of us and were relieved to be at least getting out the hotel door before lunchtime.

The night before I had done some cursory research into how to get to Versailles–since it was outside of Paris a few kilometers, it wasn’t part of the standard Metro (Train/Subway) service area. However, it didn’t seem too complicated: just let the person working the ticket booth know where you were headed and they would select the right ticket for you. Then, after only one station change (according to Google Maps), and BOOM! Easy-sailing to our destination.

Sure enough, it was easy as advertised getting the tickets we needed from the local ticket agent–and cheaper than expected too! The total price tag came in around 7 € each. Not too shabby…

Moments later, we found ourselves trying to figure out which Metro Line in which direction we were supposed to take, when a kind gentleman our age noticed our confusion and came to our rescue.

After showing him our tickets and letting him know that we were headed to Versailles, he started slowly shaking his head before breaking the bad news to us: we had been sold the wrong tickets.

Boy was I pissed! But I was at least thankful he had caught it before it got us into trouble. I was getting ready to head back to the ticket booth and give them an earful, when he told us “No, no, they will probably just sell you the wrong ticket again. When you get to the Versailles station, tell them you accidentally bought the wrong tickets, and they will refund your money. Now, what you really want to do is go down that way and around the corner, and you will find the right machine that sells the ticket you need.”

He was pointing kind of vaguely in the direction that I thought we needed to go, so I figured it would be no problem finding the ticket machine of which he spoke.

We thanked him and scurried off in that direction, commenting to each other “French people are so warm & kind!”

…and then we promptly got lost. Whatever machine he was directing us to was most definitely not “just around the corner.”

Right when we were getting ready to turn around and try to backtrack our way through the maze of underground tunnels in which we found ourselves, we saw none other than our Friendly Helper jogging to catch up with us. He had noticed us heading in the wrong direction and was trying to catch us before we got lost beyond all hope.

I mean, talk about going the extra kilometer! Forget what you may have heard–Parisians are the best!

With us in tow, he guided us to a secret, out-of-the-way ticket machine that had what we needed. Knowing that we were probably running behind, he quickly swiped through the screens, briefly pausing to show us that we needed tickets that would let us travel to Zone 7–the outermost Zone, of course. Before I knew it, it was time for payment, and the screen was showing a total of 51,50 €. Ugh.

Sure it was a bit more than I had wanted to pay, but it didn’t seem too unreasonable that it would be ~12,50 € per person each way. Eager to get on the road, I decided to bite the bullet and started to pull out my credit card.

Once, again, our Kind Helper intervened just in time to save me the embarrassment of having my American card being rejected.

“This machine only takes French cards. Here, let me swipe my Metro Employee ID card so you can be sure to get that discounted price! You can just pay me back, no problem!”

Fortunately, I had a 50€-bill and a 2€-coin on me. But by this point, I had become slightly wary of the situation, and before handing over the money and taking the tickets from him, I asked, “Wait a second, how do we even know you work for the Metro?”

With a charming grin he said “Sure, check out my ID!” as he flashed us the card that had been hanging around his neck. We exchanged goods, and while I was relieved to finally have this mess straightened out, I thought it was a bit curt of him not to offer me my 50 Euro-cents in due change.

“Okay! Well, thanks so much for helping us out today! I don’t know what we would have done without you!” I told him with 75% confidence as we finally headed off to our train.

As we settled in for the ride–it was going to be close to an hour before we got there–I decided to make sure that things were indeed in order. As I studied the map on the wall next to my seat, I started to have my doubts about the directions our friend had given us.

Sure, we could stay on that train and get to Versailles…eventually. But the ----- thing had to circumnavigate almost the whole of Paris before getting there. Fortunately, when given enough alone time with a map, I become something of an expert navigator. I realized that we could switch trains at the next station and we would get there twice as fast by taking the one that was actually headed towards Versailles instead of the when headed away from it. Go figure.

But honestly, the seeds of doubt were already well-established in my head before our Friend’s direction-giving skills came into question. So there I was, with a bit of internal dilemma on my hands: do I attempt to live in ignorant bliss and enjoy the rest of our day…or do I dare ask the question that is no doubt on the tip of your tongue right now:

How much does a Metro ticket to Versailles really cost?

After about 15 minutes debating with myself, I finally concluded that knowledge was power, and it was better to face the truth.

I busted out my phone to look up the answer…only to find that I couldn’t get a decent enough signal for my internet to work worth squat.

As I waited in agony for one inconclusive webpage after another to pull up, I tried to distract myself with the various posters, ads, and PSAs plastered about the train car. I found this one¹Well, similar to this one–I couldn’t find the exact one I remembered reading. particularly amusing:

Less exciting, but equally informative, was one similar to this one:

Now, in full disclosure, I didn’t know but a lick of French, but I could deduce well enough it would easily be a fine of a good 50 € each for trying to sneak around with the wrong ticket. Hmmph. Interesting…

I kinda chuckled to myself, thinking “But do they ever actually check these things? Yeah, right…”

Meanwhile, I had finally got a decent signal on my phone again, and eventually found enough information to satiate my curiousity.

The Boss Lady noticed the pensive look on my face and asked what was up. I let out a sigh worthy of any agitated French man, and broke the bad news to her.

“I’m pretty sure we got scammed.”

“What? No way! He was so nice!”

“Yeah, of course. Most conmen are. Let’s talk to the ticket people when we get there and find out what tickets we really have. We need to get a refund of our unused tickets anyway.”

When we rolled up to our destination station, first thing we did was just that. And if for some reason at this point your were under the impression that French people were incredibly helpful by nature, let me tell you that the French woman working the ticket office was here to promptly dispel that notion right out of your pretty little head.

When it was finally our turn, we went up to the window and I did my best to explain the situation.

With judging eyes, she silently motioned for me to show her the tickets we had been sold. Saying nothing more than letting out an almost satirical contemptuous grunt, she punched numbers into her handheld calculator and held it up for us to see.

“Theeez are childrenz ticketz. They are only worth thees amount.” she said with a French accent so thick I feel almost racist for trying to put into written form.

I forced myself to look at the calculator. It’s blue-green LED eyes stared back at me: 1,59. Fuuuuuuuck.

That bastard had got us real good. Those didn’t even cost that ----- $2–and if we had been caught trying to use a kid’s ticket, it would have been our ass on the hook for the ~100 € fine we surely would have faced.

But it wasn’t enough for her to confirm my fears. Oh, no, the humiliation did not end there.

Apparently, since we had been using childrens’ tickets, she felt she needed to explain it to us like we were 5-year-olds.

Wagging her finger at us, she informed us that “Thees man, he is a bad bad man. Don’t give money to him. He is a peeek-pocket–a bad man!”

I didn’t have much of a reply for her. Not out loud, at least.

I was sure carrying on the conversation in my head, though: “Well, no shit, lady. A lot of ----- good your advice is going to do us now–at this point you’re just rubbing it in!”

Muttering to myself, I took our 7 € refund and promptly threw the kiddie-tickets in the trash before they got us into further trouble–not that anyone was checking the tickets, though. We were so done with this shit.

Well, not really. It never feels too fuzzy to not only get mugged, but being duped into willingly handing over your cash all the while thanking your thief.

I’m not gonna lie: my ego was lightly bruised, and it was yet to be seen if this incident would single-handedly ruin one full day of our vacay.

While we ate our picnic lunch in the wind outside the palace gates, we unpacked the events of the day thus far.

“First order of business: we’re Americans, and Americans don’t let the terrorists win!”

We resolved then and there to not let some slippery French asshole rob us of the joy that this perfect mid-Spring day had to offer us.

In fact, he hadn’t robbed us of anything.

No, we had chosen to invest 50 € into learning that helpful strangers should be told to ----- off—potentially saving us from losing much more in cash and credit cards that a literal pickpocket might make off with. Maybe even avoiding being assaulted, sexual or otherwise.

One might consider some Paris “street smarts” to be priceless…but it turns out it has a very specific price: 51,50 € (well, actually 52 € if your “instructor” doesn’t give change).

Yeah…come to think of it (we tell ourselves), that was probably the best spent money the whole trip!

So we won the most important battle: we had willed our shenanigans into being a laughable and memorable start to what we were determined to make a day worthy of the highlight reel of our marriage! How’s that for mental fortitude, eh?

However, that left me still with a few concerns. Namely, I was a little pissed at myself because I was right there to the point of calling this guy’s bullshit and walking away. All the red warning lights were going off in my head…and I ignored them. So my judgment had proven true, I just didn’t have the guts to listen to it.

I should note that throughout all our post-hoodwink-realization discussions, the Boss Lady couldn’t stop gushing about the skill with which this dude had pulled the wool over our eyes.

“You gotta admit, he was real good! Like, really good. The only thing I could think the whole time is that he was being so helpful!”

“Don’t. ----- Remind. Me. And whose side are you on anyway? Don’t you talk about that ass-hat pick-pocket with admiration!”

…which leads me to the next point of consternation: it’s bad enough that I had warning bells go off in my head and didn’t heed them. But maybe I should be more worried that this whole thing went down without a single one going off in the Boss Lady’s head?

Taking the time to reframe things in our minds turned out to be a fantastic investment: we ended up having almost a picture perfect palace day–replete with renting a rowboat on the beautiful water channels in the Gardens, followed by ice cream and waffles. It was perhaps the most Frenchiest of days a non-Frenchman or -woman could have ever hoped for…

Satisfied with all the sights and sensations we had taken in that day, around 6:30 we decided it was high-time we get on a train and head back to our hotel in the city. It had been a long day, and we were plum tuckered out, even napping along the way. We had more than earned it: we had had enough adventure for one day…

We had to change lines a couple of times, along with the prequisite labyrinth-like adventure of tunnels, stairs and escalators.

We were in the home stretch of our journey when we noticed some hub-bub as we came up some stairs. My system went into high alert, ready to spring into action to defend us against anyone who would do these two innocent tourists harm.

To our surprise, we came upon a scene that roughly looked like this:

Well, ----- me sideways and call me Sally–it looks like they check them tickets after all. And they bring the guns and dogs when they do!

Yes, that’s right. We would have been fuuuuunked if I had not faced up to the fact that I may well have been made out to be a ----- fool by a trickster. Luckily, I wasn’t too proud; by pulling my head out of my proverbial ass, I was able to rect-ify²Yes, ----- straight I just made a butt-pun. the situation quickly and had unknowingly saved the day.

Though I was pretty sure I was handing them the legit tickets, I about passed out from subconsciously holding my breath until they officially gave us the all clear to pass. And then I came thiiiis close to throwing up with relief afterwards.

It had been one long-ass French day.

The next day we had tickets booked for the Eiffel Tower later in the morning, so had a bit of time to kill while we waited for our appointed time to arrive. We decided to wander around the nearby area and hopefully find some cute little French cafe so we could enjoy an idyllic Parisian breakfast.

As we meandered through the park that surrounds the Tower, a complete stranger tried to engage the Boss Lady in conversation:

“Excuse me, Ma’am–“

She didn’t even let him finish, simply, yet effectively stating:

FUCK OFF.

oh ho! Looks like Somebody learned their lesson…

In the 11 and half years of our marriage, I don’t think I had ever been prouder of her than in that moment.

The point of the story is: marry someone who is willing to drop the f-bomb on a stranger in order to protect you from getting duped (again). Now that’s true romance…

On a side note, true love is being willing to be seen in public with this hunky piece of pickpocket bait:

Content created on: 15/16 May 2020 (Fri/Sat)

With graduation season nigh upon us, I thought what would be better than to take a moment to celebrate such achievements and milestones in our lives?

Not to #HumbleBrag, but my Ph.D. graduation ceremony only lands at #2 on my list of diplomas that I’m ----- proud of earning.

No, the #1 spot came many many moons earlier. Maybe it’s easier if I just start at the beginning…

With Friends Like These…

My academic career didn’t exactly get off to the most stellar of starts. Sure, the version of me standing before you now may have earned a reputation for being an exemplar student and/or teacher’s pet, but things weren’t always this way.

In fact, I’m lucky I made it past my first year in the the fine public education system of Rolla U.S.D. 217.

In kindergarten it seems that I developed a rather nasty habit of never finishing most of the in-class worksheets we were assigned. Apparently I was too-cool-for-school, and instead would often only get 1/3 of the way through before declaring the 6-year-old equivalent of ” ----- this shit ! I’m out!”

Back then, our desks were the kind where we would store all our supplies and papers in the compartment underneath, which was accessed by an uncovered opening in the front. For lack of the proper term, I guess you could describe them as “cave style” desks.

And in the back of the cave was a veritable boneyard of all the homework that I had given up on. Actually, it would be more apt to say that it was a straight-up rat’s nest. I would just jam one worksheet after another back there, eventually creating a packed wad of compact crinkled paper products that accounted for ~40% of the available volume.

To be honest, I have know idea what my end game was here. There’s a chance that I had the intention of circling back round and finishing things up, but you know how things are. Once you fall behind a certain amount, it just stops making sense to try to catch up.

I would shove that shit back there and pretend it never existed, with the mentality “Out of sight, out of mind…no way this will ever come back and haunt me!”

In my defense, though: where the hell was Ms. Stanley, our beloved kindergarten teacher? Or Miss Archuleta, her assistant?

I had originally assumed that after one or two missed assignments they would be all over my ass. It was about two weeks into this routine before I stopped being surprised by their indifference, and just assumed that they were only pretending to care about our intellectual development.

But I was happy enough falling through the cracks of our esteemed educational system–I wasn’t about to say anything and spoil my sweet arrangement.

Now mind you, this wasn’t just a blip on the radar. This was how the majority of my kindergarten year went. It was a chronic condition.

Again, though, I wasn’t complaining–I was on cruise control, destination: graduation.

You know how sometimes you can just smell a bad omen in the air? Like, you have no reason to believe the present moment is anything worth remembering, but somehow you can just sense that it’s about to become part of your long-term memory for all the wrong reasons?

Well, you’ll be interested to hear that scientists recently confirmed what you’re picking up on is actually the ultra-sonic sound of the other shoe dropping.

Here’s another example: it’s that feeling one gets right before turning that last corner when coming home, only to find all sorts of emergency vehicles in front of your house.

And so it was for me, when I came into class one mid-spring morning to find some hub-bub around my desk. As I was trying to make sense of what was going on, the two teachers and two of my friends–whose names and genders will remain anonymous for reasons which will be apparent before this is all over with–stepped aside from the desk, revealing a large stack of wrinkled papers.

What. The. Fuck.

These two asshats–who, may I remind you, I had previously considered to be friends–had for no dogdamn¹Intentional dyslexia out of consideration of my mother’s sensibilities. reason decided to come in early one morning for the sole purpose of cleaning out my desk.

My desk.

My ----- desk. Like, how is that even any of their concern?!? Mind your own ----- business, you ----- busy-bodies. Also, how did they even know about my secret rat’s nest? That there’s a question that will haunt my to the grave.

You know what? Something just occurred to me over 33 years later. I bet you anything that the exact date was March 15th, 1987.

Why? Because, it sure the hell felt like the Ides of March. Now I know how Julius Cesar felt when he eeked out “et tu, Brute?” just before giving up the ghost.

Talk about getting stabbed in the gut by a confidant…

Anyways I was never given a reason why they conspired so against me. But guess what? I had to make up all that work. ALL OF IT.

As you can imagine, I was furious. T’was indeed a right load of bullshit. But there was nothing I could do. I had been ----- in the ass fair n’ square, I suppose.

I think I blacked out after that, as I know that I completed all 53²Just an approximation. It could have been as low as 20 and as high as 100. previously half-assed worksheets, but I have no clear memory of going through such hell. The next thing I seem to remember clearly was the last day of kindergarten…

Screwed By The Bell

After proving that there was no mountain of schoolwork too high for me to overcome, you would think that it would be smooth sailing all the way to having that sweet, sweet hard-earned diploma in my hand.

Wrong. WRONG.

Finally, the last day of kindergarten had arrived. I was both excited and nervous–I guess I had turned the ship around enough on the school year that the teachers gave me the honor of what was the kindergarten equivalent of a valedictorian speech: I had the role of giving the welcoming speech at the beginning of the ceremony.

If I remember correctly, I was the only student who had a solo speaking role. Every other little dumb skit or speech they had us do was in groups of two or more. So this was a big ----- deal.

Maybe I was preoccupied with that on my mind, or maybe it was the G.I. Joe parting gift that one of the teachers had given me that was distracting me. Either way, at the end of the day I was sentimentally cleaning out my cubby, and I somehow missed the final bell of the day.

Noticing that all of a sudden I was alone in the classroom, I decided that I better scurry off and catch the bus home. After all, I still needed to eat dinner and change into some graduation-worthy clothes before rolling back into town at 6 for the Big Event.

Now the kindergarten classroom was all the way across the building from where us kids would load up on the buses, but thanks to a full wall of windows, you could see the buses all the way down the hallway.

I threw all my stuff haphazardly into my backpack and sprinted down the hall. My G.I. Joe fell out of my bag about halfway, and after bending over to pick him up, I looked back up only to see Bus 7 pull on out without me. I furtively sprinted the rest of the way, but it was all to no avail.

It was official: I was screwed.

And, man that feeling sucked–like being punched in the gut yet again. I imagined that I was going to have to camp out in a dark locked school building for the next 3 hours.

Fortunately, the school had advanced C.B. radio technology back then, and the principal was able to call our bus driver and tell him that he had royally copulated the canine in leaving me behind. He was instructed to pull over and wait until the principal could burn rubber in the trusty school station wagon and deliver me at the rendezvous point a few miles outside of town.

So…short story long, disaster was averted. However…you know how sometimes you can just smell a bad omen in the air?

Is Thing Even On?

I should have never bothered returning one last time for the stupid graduation ceremony. I would have been much better off just ----- off all that make-up work and flunking out a couple months earlier.

It was only like 4 sentences, but that welcoming speech would seem like the Gettysburg address to any 6-year-old, and I was nervous af about getting it over with.

Finally, my moment in the spotlight rolls around. I walk up to the microphone, and I ----- crush it.

Except…

Except…it didn’t count.

Some dumb ----- hadn’t done a mic check, and so there I was, trying to deliver my soliloquy while simultaneously trying to figure out why everyone was giving me blank stares.

“Uh, is this thing on?” **taps microphone**

The crowd erupted in laughter, as I embarrassingly tried to figure out how to turn the microphone on like I was George Costanza trying to open a condom wrapper.

I eventually got it on and sped through my welcome speech again. Though you could say that I didn’t quite have the same warm, friendly tone that I had the first time around…

What should have been a mic-drop moment for young B.J. turned out to be a moment where I wanted to rush into the audience and beat every one of those assholes over the head with the microphone instead.

Nooooo…I wasn’t traumatized by that experience. Not at all…

Epilogue: Where Are They Now?

Now, I’m not one to hold a grudge, but some ill-doings just stick with you. I’m sure if I knew who the lazy motherfucker in charge of the sound at graduation was, I would have lovingly nourished a grudge against him/her, but alas, I never had the luxury of knowing their identity. But I digress…

Fast-forward to my freshmen year of high school. I had moved away to Missouri in third grade, and I had just moved back to Rolla to live out my high school years with my dad. My two desk-cleaning “friends” were still around, and I was enjoying reconnecting with them. It was almost like a fresh start, with no history, no drama.

One evening late in the school year, I found myself hanging out alone with one of these two. Now, what I hadn’t known was that he/she had a bit o’ the feelings for me. And well, I was about to find out.

Before I knew what was happening, I realized an amorous advance was headed my way. Tragically, their affections were unrequited on my end. Valuing their friendship and not wanting to hurt their feelings by playing along, my mind was reeling for a way out of the situation.

Thinking on my feet, I decided now would be a grand old time to bring up the decade-old bone I had to pick with them. It was a sure-fire way to diffuse the situation…

“Heh heh. Hey, do you remember that time in kindergarten when you and ----- ³”God” is not their real name, I just used that to guarantee it would be censored. Fun fact: I thought “motherfucker” would surely have done the trick, but nope. came in early and cleaned out months’ worth of incomplete work out of my desk? You know I had to make up all that work before I could graduate, right? I’m still pissed at you two for screwing me like that!”

Instead of pulling away, he/she only moved in closer.

“Sorry for screwing you like that…”

Then in a way too sultry voice:

“Speaking of screwing, how about you let me make it up to you now?” *wink wink*

Me:

The point of the story is friends shouldn’t screw each other.⁴For the record, despite my strategic misstep, I was able to stand my ground, and no screwing occurred. So…Happy Mother’s Day to my future wife? Also, Happy Mother’s Day to my mama, raising me right not fornicate. Proverbially or literarily.

Wait, is that right? “Literarily”? I wouldn’t know–I barely made it out of kindergarten…

Content created on: 9/10 May 2020 (Sat/Sun)

As I write this very topical post, we are at the front end of these uncertain times brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic.

No doubt, some out there probably can’t help but wonder if we’re living out the Book of Revelations in real time. I can’t say that thought hasn’t crossed my mind once or twice.

As it happens, I had the pleasure and honor of spending much of my childhood going to a real fundamental Baptist Bible church. You know, like the infamous Baptist Temple¹As you may know from such tales as Kandy Karma, Part 1, and Kandy Karma, Parts 2 and 3. from my years living in Springfield, Missouri.

One of my favorite sermon-topics that our beloved Reverend Dr. Bill Dowell, Jr. would periodically preach upon was–you guessed it–the wonderfully optimistic Book of Revelations. I would even mark such events on my calendar so I could be sure to force my mother not to skip out on that service, in case she was tempted to.

I mean, what kid would ever want to miss the chance to have the living ----- scared out of them by the inevitably unstoppable future Jesus pinky-promises is awaiting them?

You know–one guaranteed to feature:

• mass unexplained disappearances of you and/or your loved ones
• nuclear war
• plagues of locust
• being stuck with Kirk Cameron for extended periods of time
• being hunted down and beheaded by the New World Order just because you once said a prayer when you were young and naive
• …and more!

Yes, of course, I’m ----- kidding about enjoying those good ol’ End Times sermons.

Those were perhaps one of the most traumatic and scarring events from my childhood.

But you know what true gift my time at Baptist Temple gave me?

Welp, you’re about to find out…

One of the bright spots of our current situation is, in my humble opinion, the chance to have a deeper appreciation for the skill and sacrifice displayed by fearless sign language interpreters the world over.

So here’s a fun fact for you: thanks to the small deaf population at Baptist Temple, there was enough people interested in learning ASL²American Sign Language that Rose, the woman who would usually sign out the sermons, would offer classes on Sunday evenings before the regular service.

Naturally, the 9-year-old version of me sure surely not to be counted amongst those interested. But guess who was? Yup. My momma.

It doesn’t take a real leap of imagination to realize that I was indubitably going to be along for the ride, whether I wanted to or not.

So though I technically had the opportunity to learn a new and valuable skill, I wasn’t exactly there voluntarily, which made me make for a piss-poor student.

Though I found it hard for me to pay attention, one thing I did pick up on was that Rose would always end the class by signing out a full phrase that included words we had just learned. If none of us students correctly answered what she had just signed, she, as any great teacher, would graciously tell us what the magic phrase was in spoken word.

I also noticed that we would begin the subsequent³The Doctor, if you’re reading, this one is designed especially for you, so you can mispronounce the ----- out of it in your head. You’re welcome. class the same way, giving us a chance to show off the fact that we had done our homework that week.

In a moment of beautiful epiphany, I concocted a truly genius plan: at the end of the next class, I was going to pay close attention to what the phrase was, and then secretly write it down.

Then, at the beginning of the next class, I would impress the ----- out of Rose by nailing her stump-the-student challenge, word-for-word!*

*With the help of a strategically hidden a piece of paper, of course.

After completing Phase 1 of my little plan, I patiently spent the week trying not to think about how glorious my turn as an ASL rockstar was going to be.

Finally, after 7 long days of both agony and anticipation, my moment arrived. Rose signed out her long-ass compound sentence, while I pretended to be…uh, intently listening? Looking? Reading? Not sure what the right wordage is here, so I’m just going to say I feigned “optical concentration.”

I raised my hand with a level of confidence that could only truly be described as “hubris.”

Rose: “Oh, what a delight! It’s a joy to see you take an active role in your learning, young’n. So, what did I just sign?”

Me *casually glancing down at my paper*: “When I go to the store, I like to be sure to buy plenty of apples and oranges!”

No doubt the whole class could tell I was beaming with pride.

Rose:⁴Okay, so maybe this next line didn’t really happen…we can never really be sure. Also, image source: https://imgur.com/gallery/Ge72e0J

Me: “Huh?”

Rose: “What? Oh. Yeah. Well…I suppose you were close. It was actually ‘I put apples and oranges in the fruit salad I made for the church picnic.’ But at least you picked up on ‘apples’ and ‘oranges.’ Great job.”

Me *under my breath*: “Shit. She went and changed the sentence on me…”

The point of the story is, yes, I cheated. At sign language. In a House of Worship. And failed!

What kind of “genius” thought this was a good plan in the first place, huh?

I honestly and sincerely believe that I should be awarded the award for “Most Deserving of Bill Engvall’s Mockery.”

Come on Bill. Just say it and put me out of my misery:

So, the real point of the story is that I think all y’all should just take a moment of silence⁵Fuck yes, that pun was intended. for our translators out there. They put their dignity on the line every day to make sure all us our here, hearing or not, get. The. ----- Point.

Here are some of those very heroes that inspired me to share my very own ASL tale:

Greetings from Georgia:

And Salutations from the Netherlands:

…and thank Virginia from Kentucky for speaking for all of us, upon hearing that “Coronavirus party” is a very real, very dumb-ass thing:⁶Source: https://media.giphy.com/media/IzpjG2rDhmGQ97ntjK/giphy.gif

Oh, and one last thing…bring on the fire and brimstone:

Content created on: 3 & 4 April 2020 (Friday/Saturday)