Tag: Featured Articles (Page 8 of 10)

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)

Ahh, Early March: perhaps most widely remembered as a nation-wide period of mourning, year in and year out.

Feeling depressed around this time of the year, every year, without fail? Yeah. #MeToo.

Most people go throughout life never knowing the reason behind this annual mood swing. If you count yourself amongst that legion, then count your lucky stars, for today I shall enlighten you.

You see, early March is the official end to the 2-month jubilee commonly known as “Girl Scout cookie season.”

After ~60 days of binging on the finest sugary baked goods $4 can buy, should one really expect anything less than to come completely crashing down in a state of withdrawal? I think not.

Anyways, consider that your fun fact, “The-More-You-Know,” nugget of knowledge for the day. On with the real story.

This year I had the opportunity to see this whole experience from a slightly different perspective. Our eldest daughter, “The Elder,” joined the Girl Scouts this year, so we had the joy of helping her push them cookies onto any and every poor addict we could find.

I quickly started to notice a disturbing trend in our new lifestyle:

• Boxes stacked on end in the garage, full of highly coveted goods with a street value of over $3.99/box…
• Constantly asking friends, co-workers, and strangers alike, “Pssst! Hey buddy, I got some of the real good shit if you’re looking to score some…”
• Finding yourself making cash transactions that at least feel shady-as-hell, on multiple occasions…

It didn’t take me too long for the thought to cross my mind: “Oh, crap, am I a dealer?”

I told myself that as long as I let the Elder do at least 40% of the legwork, then a minor’s significant involvement and instigation in the project would absolve me of all immorality in the eyes of society. At least that’s how I got to sleep at night.

And despite being quite the youngster, she actually pulled her weight in our new business enterprise. Being too smart to go door-to-door like your average chump, she had the grand idea to have a “drive-thru cookie stand” out by the entrance of our neighborhood.

Without going into too many details, this was a ----- good idea, in part due to the strategic location she had selected that included high car and foot traffic. Additionally, the spot featured a long row of rarely-used parallel parking spots, forming the convenient drive-through lane where “clients” could easily pull out of traffic and make the deal without even getting out of their cars. Brilliant!

Now, the key to any successful young business–legitimate or otherwise–is advertising. Conveniently, our neighborhood has an email listserv (remember, those?) to which probably 2/3 of the local population subscribes. The Boss Lady decided to actually put this to good use for once, instead of its intended purpose of bickering over whether or not one of the residents was racist for complaining to the listserv about the volume of the Latino music lightly emanating from the construction site of our new neighborhood apartments. It sure did make for some good entertainment though…but I digress.

The day before our first Drive Thru Cookie Stand, the Boss Lady blasted the neighbors with an email advertising our goods. We ended up unloading 40-50 boxes from our inventory in under 2 hours–definitely better than trying to move that much product door-to-door. In fact, that was so successful that we decided to do it again 2 weeks later.

Only this time it was my turn to help her run the stand.¹Famous last words…

Well, actually, the real reason why I pushed the idea of doing it again was because we had inadvertently bought a $15 set of fancy-ass markers to make the signs for the stand, and I was pretty adamant about getting our money’s worth out of all that capital we had sunk into the business overhead. But, again, I digress.

Anyways, the Boss Lady had pretty strongly lobbied for us running the stand from 12-2 p.m. because she wanted, and I quote:

…to catch the after-church crowd–you know–those mini-vans full of kids going nuts after being cooped up in Sunday School and church for the last 2 hours against their free will.

The parents will be desperate for any way to get them to shut the ----- up. Then BOOM! Our cookie stand magically appears and saves the day!

A woman with some solid business acumen

Well, The Elder and I were running behind this tight schedule that the Boss Lady had kindly set for us, so come 11:50 that morning, we were shoveling pasta down our throats while haphazardly throwing our supplies in the SUV before speeding off to “our corner.”²As in, the corner where one would regularly sell drugs, turn tricks, etc.

We got set up in time, and the business started to trickle in. Now, previously, we had waaaaay too many Peanut Butter Patties (aka PBPs, aka Tagalongs) because it was the favorite of one of us two parents–not saying which one, though–and that affinity had instinctively been extrapolated to the general population. In other words, I ordered too many boxes of the wrong ----- cookie.

So I was pretty eager to push those on our customers.

About 30 minutes in, The Elder asked me if I had remembered to pack a snack for her. Of course, in the rush to get out the door, I had completely overlooked such a key parenting detail.

But, being the problem solver that you know and love, I realized that if I considered the 4 extra dollars in my wallet to be a “problem,” I could kill three birds with one stone and feed my hungry child , lighten my wallet, and remove a potentially unsold box of PBPs from the inventory, all in one fell swoop.

Careful to maintain all fiduciary integrity, I put my $4 in the money envelope, and we proceeded to split one of the three rows of cookies between the two of us. Problems, solved!

Another 45 minutes or so of solid business passes, and to my delight, the PBPs are actually selling pretty well. Around that time, the Elder asked if she could have some more cookies. I told her I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to take another quick hit from our paid-for box.

She started rummaging through the box of non-cookie supplies underneath our table where we had stashed our box. It kinda surprised me when she was underneath there for over a minute, given that there was almost nothing else in that box.

I ducked under the table and began to help her look for it. Panic slowly started to wash over me as I started to realize that, even when I searched through the cardboard box full of our spare PBP inventory, I couldn’t find one that was already opened.

Ah, poop. We had just sold a partially pillaged box of PBPs to a paying customer.

It may sound silly, but my lizard brain was totally awash with the chemicals of embarrassment…and maybe just a little bit of fear. For some of these people, this would be the only chance all year that they would get to enjoy their favorite Girl Scout treat. And here we where, effectively robbing them of 33.3% of their annual happiness.

Just imagine if you were a “Christmas crackhead.” You know, people who somehow have enough executive function to limit their enjoyment of crack-cocaine to once a year as a yuletide treat.³TOTALLY ----- KIDDING. These people don’t exist. Addiction is not a matter of being “strong-willed.” That is possible one of the stupidest and most dangerous ideas out there. Folks, that is simply not how brain biochemistry works. Educate yourself before you end up losing someone you know and love because of this ill-informed dumbassery. You wouldn’t be too happy if you opened up your Christ-blessed dimebag⁴I think that dimebags are the unit of marijuana distribution, not crack, but I have to at least pretend I don’t know too much about the drug trade. of crack, only to find it’s actually just a 6.66-cent-bag, would you? Didn’t think so. You would probably grab your gun and go hunt down who ever screwed you over.

Now, since these were primarily semi-anonymous cash transactions, we had no way of tracking down the aggrieved party and rectifying the situation with a pristine box of PBPs.

The best I could hope for was that whoever they were, wherever they were, they were getting and reading the neighborhood emails. So I furiously tapped out a neighborhood-wide apology from my phone, begging for any information into the identity of the recipient of our bone-headed ----- up so we could set things right. I pride myself in being a provider of award-winning customer service⁵So much so that it actually appears on my resume. and wasn’t about to let 5 cookies be the death of my hard-earned reputation.

Alas, days passed, and not a single brave soul responded to my email.

So that was just wonderful. Not only had we screwed over a customer, but now my extremely high level of competency was on display for more or less the whole neighborhood for no good reason. Doh! I wanted to die from embarassment.

Eventually I got over it, thanks in part to some pseudo-therapeutic conversations with the Boss Lady. Her opinion on the matter was that either the afflicted customer wasn’t too bothered by it, or most likely, there were multiple members in their household, and they all just assumed it was somebody else in the family that had busted into the package.

True, I could see that being the case…but instead of it being an assume-the-best-in-your-family-members scenario, my ever-optimistic imagination envisioned it being the proverbial “pebble in the shoe” in an otherwise happy marriage.

Five years down the road, I just know that I’m going to find myself subpoenaed as a key witness for some divorce proceedings. The poor couple never will have stood a chance after they independently realize that they couldn’t trust their partner. After all, what kind of person lies about eating a few Girl Scout cookies, and, when caught, isn’t adult enough to own up to their actions.

Instead, they got to blame it on an innocent 6-year-old Girl Scout, for g-o-d’s sake.

And then I’ll get caught in the middle of that because one of them will discover my email somehow persisting for years in their Spam folder.

Yes, they will have uncovered the email that would have absolved both parties of any wrong-doing…had the irreparable damage to their mutual trust not already been done.

It’s a sad tale really. Though I can’t be 100% certain until I actually get that subpoena, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say “True story.”

Anyways, as any experienced distributor of a controlled substance will tell you, the point of the story is never, ever, ever-ever-ever ever forget Rule #1 of the industry:

Thou shalt not get high on thy own supply.

The First Commandment of Dealing

It will only end with a soiled sales reputation and the blood of a whole family torn apart on your hands.

Content created on: 11 & 14 March 2020 (Wednesday/Saturday)

I’m not quite Over The Hill yet, but you know how I can tell it’s clearly coming up over the horizon? Wait–that’s a poor invocation of that metaphor. To be more accurate: you now how I can tell I’m pretty much firmly atop the Hill, mere months away from tumbling down the other side?

Two words: Leg. Acy. Or, if you’re a normal person, one word: Legacy.

I’m about at the age where I’ve really started to think about my legacy and how the world will have been changed because of me. I mean, just looking at some of my fairly recent posts, such as Epitaph…, My Time To Go, and Dear Doctor Future President, and it’s pretty clear that’s been on my mind lately.

Speaking of which…

I have big legs. Like, those-aren’t-legs-those-are-tree-trunks legs. And don’t even get me started on my those-are-not-cow-calves-those-are-whale-calves calves. Seriously, though. I need you to stay focused on my thighs.

I have had big thighs as long as I can remember, and the historical record will attest that this has been the case at least since my sophomore year of high school.

One of the plethora of problems that teens face at that age is their ever-changing bodies. One way this is manifested is that one does not always have clothes that fit as well as they should. And for me, this played out in the form of having too-big thighs and not-big-enough pants.

But we haven’t reached the end of this path of logic yet; we need to go one step further.

How this really played out for me was that my wondrous-thunderous thighs would incessantly rub together and wear a hole right where the two pant legs met. So almost every pair of pants that I owned would sooner or later fall victim to the friction, making an eventual wardrobe malfunction¹Mind you, this was circa 1996, almost a decade before Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake made that phrase infamous. statistically inevitable.

One day in Sophomore English, after the main lesson was through, the gang and I were just sitting around and chillaxing in the back of the classroom. Feeling particularly chillaxed that day, I casually had one leg up, with my foot resting on the seat of an adjacent desk.

At some point in time, one of my female classmates, whom we’ll call “Ms. May” for privacy purposes, got real quiet before eventually piping up, “I hope you’re wearing underwear, because you kind of have a hole in your pants and I can see your leg.”

*Record scratches*

As if I would reply with anything different, all I could really say was, in classic form, “Well, actually…”

Time out. I need to back up the story to earlier that morning.

A key detail that I had previously omitted was that, by some sick twist of fate, the weekly laundry cycle at home had gotten out of whack, resulting in a dearth of clean underwear in my drawer.

But who wants to wear dirty underwear, especially when you’re a greasy, smelly, sweaty teenage boy? I did what all y’all would have done in the same situation. I went commando.²AKA free-ballin’, in case you’re more familiar with that term.

The stars had mis-aligned, and as a result, I was sitting there caught with one leg up, the first-ever victim of a double wardrobe malfunction.

Time in.

So, sadly I found myself dashing Ms. May’s hopes, responding with a long pause that said that all that needed to be said.

To which someone else logically pointed out, “Then that’s not his leg you’re looking at…”

This being high school, of course everyone had a heyday with my predicament. One might even say they went a little nuts.

Later that day, I came back to my locker to find a note on it asking the question on everyone’s mind: “How’s it hanging, Breezy?” ³It was either that or “How’s it blowing, Breezy?” Same idea.

I wasn’t surprised to find out later that none other than Ms. May herself had been the primary instigator behind the sign, though at that point it could have been anybody since pretty much the entire school was privy to the story of my exposed privates by then.

Being the negative-attention whore that I am, I actually didn’t really mind all the ribbing, and secretly basked in the glory of the moment. A little bit of infamy is better than a lotta bit of obscurity, right?

On a brief side note, my best friend and owner of a blog-alias ironically appropriate for this story, Phillip K. Ballz, has claimed that there was a certain young lady in the crowd that had noticed my fleshy patch long before anyone had said anything, and that she chose to enjoy the view rather than ruin her moment of bliss. But, unless this happened on more than one occasion–and I can’t be 100% certain it didn’t–I’m not so sure about the veracity of his account, as he was one year younger and it doesn’t make sense that a freshman would be hanging out in sophomore English. But I digress…

It wasn’t until several months later, at the beginning of our Junior year, when the real payoff came. During back-to-school orientation, we were tasked with the chore of reviewing the boring ol’ student handbook. In the front we happened to find an insert highlighting the changes that had been made since the previous school year.

To my surprise–and to my delight–I found this little nugget, lightly paraphrased due to memory constraints:

“No jeans or shorts with holes in or near the crotch region shall be worn to school at any time…”

The “breezy” Amendment, Rolla High School Student Handbook (1997-98)

The point of the story is that’s not my leg you’re looking at.

That’s my “Legacy.” *wink*

Content created on: 19 February 2020 (Wednesday)

This is Part 2 of my Pee-No-Evil adventure. It will probably make much more sense to first read Part 1, Touched By An Angel, if you haven’t already.

That’s okay. I’ll just wait here…

When I last left you, I had just experienced for the very first time not only an ultrasound, but also the wondrous joys of a catheter as well.

As such, this seems like the appropriate time to reflect and philosophize on the nature of catheters in general, before moving along with this enrapturing narrative.

You see, it was in that exact moment of sweet relief when I realized that catheters were much like root canals.¹Although I wasn’t about to experience my first one until a month and half later, but that’s a story for another time. The common perception is that these are horrible things, when in fact the public view is completely wrong.

What is horrible is if you need a root canal or a catheter. And in turn, if you receive a root canal or a catheter in that moment of desperate need, you will realize that they are the best ----- inventions of the last 5 centuries.

So think twice before you go talking smack on either of these wonderful, wonderful pieces of medical technology. *Dismounts soapbox.*

Getting back to the story: the medical staff actually ended up having to ultrasound and cath me again about 30 minutes later after the initial “life-altering event.”

As it turned out, I was unbelievably full of piss.

Naturally, I wanted some answers as to what had happened to me. But as to what was causing my unusual medical condition, the doctor’s best guess was that I had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Most likely it had interfered with the nerves that control the bladder,²Maybe this reference holds some clues? https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1502389/ he said.

So now every time a dentist or other medical professional asks me the age-old question “Do you have any allergies?” I get to give one of my classic responses that start out, “Well….it’s a funny story, doc…” Unsurprisingly, I have yet to figure out how to get it down to under 2 sentences…

However, my favorite part of the whole episode was when it came time to discharge me in the early afternoon, and the doctor had to discuss the options at hand with me and my mother.

“So, originally we were planning on discharging you around noon. But of course that was before your…complications.”

“Now, we don’t know if you’re in the clear, or if you still may be susceptible to complications later today. This is a pretty serious issue, so we recommend that you stay overnight. But, if you really want to, we will go ahead and let you go home now…”

His voice trailed off as he appeared to be searching for the right phrase.

“Well, if you go home now, we’ll need to send a catheter with you. And if anything happens, we will need your mother to cath you. Are you okay wi–“

Without skipping a beat, Mom pipes up: “Oh, he’ll be staying the night here…”

It’s good to know that we were on the same page at least, and I wouldn’t run the risk of hurting her feelings by saying that no way in hell was I, a grown-ass 24-year-old man, going to let my poor dear mother stick a catheter in…well, where catheters get stuck.

Ironically, I had thought that getting cathed by that cute nurse was awkward and embarrassing…and that’s when the Almighty Cosmic Force said, “Here, thou shalt hold my beer.”

Anyways, it turned out to be the right call. Even though I didn’t have any issues nearly as serious as I had had in the morning, my bladder’s self-functionality that evening was still enough of an issue that Mom and I would had to have had a serious debate whether she should cath me, or–and hear me out–I should just let my bladder explode and save myself the humiliation.

E-“pee”-logue

While this actually is a fan-favorite bedtime story of The Elder’s, and having told it to her at least 10-15 times, there are still several things that never really occurred to me until recently.

A few days ago, when peeing happened to come up in conversation with a colleague, I regaled them with the aforetold tale. Apparently, I was anticipating writing this blog post and so it was a completely natural connection in my mind.

When I mentioned that the ultrasound had revealed over a liter of pee in my bladder, they asked perhaps what I should have asked the doctor many years earlier: “How much does a bladder typically hold?”

I realized I had no idea, so we googled it together, and I about shit myself when I found that an adult human bladder typically only holds 400-600 ml. I had no idea how far past the limits of all that was reasonable my bladder had been stretched.

Shortly after they had left, my newest colleague–fresh from France–came by to get my help on some stuff.

I told him that he had just missed an enthralling pee-pee conversation, and of course had to regale him as well with this tale of epic bladder proportions.

He had a good laugh about it, and then proceeded to tell me about what I suspect might actually be a French urban legend.

Apparently, the French are renowned for their love of trash-talking each other, even more so back in the days shortly after the French Revolution. In that era, there were a rather large number of town and civic meetings, and they were notorious for running ungodly lengths of time–often 6-8 hours, even.

And because every Frenchman was by default a prolific shit-talker, any time that someone left the meeting to go use the bathroom everyone else in the room would just spend the entire length of their absence talking smack on the poor shit-taker.³See what I did there? The fun with words never ends around here.

Eventually one bright fellow realized that if he never used the restroom during the meeting, then no one would get the chance to openly trash his reputation. This young man turned out to be rather dedicated to his own cause, and had successfully endured 5 hours of a meeting despite desperately needing to “take the piss.”

Unfortunately, his bladder wasn’t as much of a steel trap as his mind was, and right about 5 1/2 hours in, it ended up rupturing. And killing him in the process.

True story. Allegedly, at least.

It took me a moment to internalize the story I had just heard.

And when combined with the conversation I had only moments earlier, I came to a very sobering realization. While it seems like a humorous predicament, what had happened to me was actually a veritable close-call with death.⁴I wanted to say “near-death experience,” but I don’t think that means what I think it means.

Anyways, the point of the story is, first and foremost, for god’s sake use the restroom before you go into surgery.

And secondly, think twice before letting a doctor med-splain to you that your urge to pee is all in your head. Truth is, sometimes the health system will fail you and you’ll find that you’re your only advocate.

So here’s what you do: you grab them by the stethoscope and you tell him or her to “shut the ----- up and get me a ----- catheter right now. I’m having a life-threatening allergic reaction to the anesthesia, and if you don’t believe that this is a real medical condition, I know a guy how wrote not one but two whole blog posts about it!”

After all, unlike that dead French guy, I am verifiably not an urban legend.

Though I was just a wee bit too close to going down in history as a urine legend…

I mean, we all gotta go somehow, though, am I right?

Content created on: 27/28 January & 17 February 2020 (Monday/Tuesday/Monday)

Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got
Till it’s gone.
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot.

Joni mitchell, “Big Yellow Taxi” (1968)

In the year and a half that I took off between undergrad and grad school, I worked my first real job at a cellphone company. The great thing about a real job is that, if it is indeed a real job, you get health insurance.

About two months before I was set to head off to North Carolina to become a graduate student for the next 5-6 years of my life, it dawned on me that being a graduate student wasn’t going to be a “real job.” In other words, I was about to lose any semblance of meaningful health insurance.

Realizing what I was about to lose, I went off on a manic medical appointment making spree, tearing through my bucket list of check-ups and procedures that had been on my mind.

By some miracle I pulled off a trifecta, and after less than 15 minutes on the phone, I had somehow scheduled 3 doctor’s appointments for three consecutive days the following week. I was–and am still–way too proud of having achieved that feat in my lifetime.

Two of these were really run-of-the-mill: an eye check-up and a trip to the dentist’s office. The third one was a little more interesting: a consultation with an ENT (ear/nose/throat) specialist.

Well, it shouldn’t have been that interesting, and it didn’t really seem to be at the time. The pretense of the appointment was related to my lifelong bad habit of picking tonsil stones out of my tonsils in my spare [alone] time.

It wasn’t anything crazy like the tonsil stone videos you might find on YouTube–they were just little fellas. Quick tip, though: if you haven’t seen a video of someone harvesting¹That can’t be the right term, yet somehow feels the most right… their tonsil stones…you might want to pass on that offer. It’s about as bad as the cockroach-nest-in-the-kid’s-ear videos…

Anyways, I decided to be proactive and seize the opportunity to do something about my tonsils while I had the coverage, so my trip to the ENT was to see if I could get a tonsillectomy scheduled before the end of the summer. While the doctor said my condition was only a low-grade infection that I had probably had for quite some time, he agreed that I could get them taken out if that’s what my heart so desired.

Fast-forward a few weeks to the night before my first-thing-in-the-morning surgery. I was trying to be a good patient, so I had dutifully followed the no-food-or-drink bit, and didn’t consume anything after 10 pm. Of course I didn’t want to get dehydrated between then and after my surgery, so, thinking ahead, I drank a bit more water than I normally would have otherwise.

My mom was the one that would be accompanying me to the surgery and taking me home afterwards, and right on schedule, she picked me up and whisked me off to my date with destiny.

The surgery itself was pretty much run-of-the-mill: they knocked my ass out, and when I came to, I was slightly less of a man than I used to be. I was little ticked to learn that they had immediately disposed of the trophies with the rest of the medical waste, as I was hoping to keep them (or at least see them) like I got to with my wisdom teeth.

After I came out of surgery, they let me have a quick bathroom break before wheeling me off to the recovery room for a planned hour or two of rest and recuperation.

Well, it was supposed to be a quick bathroom break. I ended up setting up camp for a good 10 minutes, as I was pretty sure I had to pee, but instead just sat there having not a single drop of luck.

I thought that was odd, especially since it occurred to me that while I had drank plenty of water the night before, I had forgotten to use the restroom before going into surgery. So surely it couldn’t be that I didn’t actually have to pee, could it?

I tried sitting in there as long as I could, but the orderly kept nagging me and said I had had more than enough time to do my business and that I needed to get to the recovery room. They basically had to drag me out of that bathroom. A boy knows when he hasn’t peed enough. I can’t explain how, he just knows.

After about 10 minutes in the recovery room, the need to pee hadn’t subsided at all, so I made them take me back to the bathroom. But, it was just pretty much déjà vu all over again, with the exact same script as before playing out.

They told me I just needed to chillax, and I tried to explain to them that it was kind of hard to do that when I seriously needed to take a leak.

But, again, I found myself trying to relax in the recovery room against my will. The doctor had ordered me to just lay there and try to maybe nap some, and then in 40 minutes I could try again–if I really thought I needed to do my biz and take a whiz, that is.

They kept telling me that it probably just felt like I needed to pee, so I should be able to safely ignore the urge. I thought, hey, what do I know? and tried to take them at their word.

So I just laid there in the dimly lit room, so ----- miserable, trying to convince myself that my body was lying to me and that I should just get a little shut eye. I had the mental fortitude–I could do this. Only 40 minutes until I had another shot at sweet relief, right?

After about 30 minutes had passed, I started to be confident I could make it the full 40. Of course I needed some objective verification of the situation:

Me: “Hey Mom, how long has it been?”

Mom: “Since when?”

Me: “Since, you know…”

Mom: “Since you last asked how long it had been?”

Me: “Yeah, I guess. I thought it was patently obvious what I was asking.”

Mom: “Oh, about 5 or 6 minutes.”

Me: …

Me: “Fuck this shit. Call the doctor in here NOW.“

It was at this point when I realized that I had entered into the bowels–no, bladder–of hell.

After much pleading with the doctor, he finally ordered an ultrasound for me. I gotta say, given that I was a virgin,²You expected this footnote to completely contradict that statement or have some Mormom-type qualifier saying that butt-sex is excluded, didn’t you? Well, guess what? It’s actually as true of a statement as it seems. I hadn’t even gotten to second base at this point in my life, save for one time in 5th grade that was completely by accident. I hadn’t envisioned myself getting an ultrasound any time soon.

Or ever. Because, you know…I’M A ----- DUDE.³Okay, so we know that I don’t mean this literally. I just established that this was one dude who actually had never ----- , so ” ----- ” in the usage as “one who ----- ” is not what is intended here. In case that wasn’t clear. Which it’s probably not, thanks to every other word getting censored.

Well, anyways, it took waaaaay too long (~20 minutes) for the ultrasound tech to show up. The tech did her thing, and, as she came to terms with what she was seeing, she actually let out a soft audible gasp . “Oh my” was all she said at first.

That is not the response you ever want to hear from a medical professional.

She went and grabbed the doctor and he came back to double check her calculations.

The doctor:⁴Not to be confused with my friend The Doctor… “So…I guess you were right when you said you needed to pee. According to the ultrasound, you have over a liter of liquid in your bladder. That’s well over the capacity of a normal human bladder.”

Me: “No shit, Sherlock–or should I say, ‘no piss, Paddington’?⁵I’m indulging here. I didn’t say either of those. Though it would have been completely appropriate in that moment. What’s our move here? I’m dying, Doc!”

Doctor: “Well…we’re going to need to insert a catheter up your urethra. Are you okay with–“

Me: “Yes, I know how caths work. Shut the ----- up and stick it in my ----- for God’s sake!”

Anyways, as you can imagine, it’s not within the doctor’s pay grade to be shoving catheters in every Tom, Dick, and Harry that comes along…or should I say…nevermind. You know where that joke was going. Implied humor should suffice here.

About 5 minutes later, a nurse walks in with the godsend/catheter in hand. A young nurse. About my age. And kinda cute.

Sooo…yeah, that was an awkward moment for me. About to get my tally-whacker touched for the first time by a comely lass, and I can’t think of a more romantic setting.

The truth is, though, I did not give a flying ----- in that moment. You know, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and all that. Not having an exploding bladder kind of trumps everything else except for breathing, I would argue.

She gracefully and deftly got the tube where it needed to go, and then…oh, the sweetest relief a man could ever taste in this lifetime.

I CANNOT overstate the flood of emotions–and urine–in that moment. On the surface, this all may sound trivial and laughable even, but I’m here to say that not being able to pee is an incredibly ----- up situation that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemas.⁶Yes, that’s a pun. Ha ha.

On top of everything else, the collection bag couldn’t handle all that I had to offer, and they had to pinch off the flow while they changed the bags out. I can’t be certain, but I want to say that the bags were 750 ml, and I filled up 500 ml of the second one, so about 1.2 liters in total (!!!).

About 20 seconds after the nurse completed her duties, I was struck by a sharp pang…of regret.

Throughout this, I was in something of a loopy state, a combination of exhaustion and coming down off the anesthesia. Add to that the weird high I was getting from the overwhelming relief the catheter offered, and my sense of humor was as mirthful as ever.

What I regretted was missing the opportunity for a couple of zingers I had come up with in the middle of the cathing process, but didn’t have the wherewithal or presence of mind to say aloud to the nurse.

I really, really wish I could go back in time and at least say to her “I could kiss you right now.” And the truth about that comment is that I could have. Not in a romantic or sexual way, mind you, but in the sense that you would want to kiss the angel who is delivering you from the pits of Hades.

But if I really had been with it, here’s how I should have answered the age-old question first posed by early-90s heartthrob Jamie Walters,⁷https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_Do_You_Talk_to_an_Angel “How Do You Talk To An Angel?”:

Geez…Let me at least buy you dinner first.

A young man being touched by an Angel for the very first time

To be continued…

Content created on: 27/28 January & 15 February 2020 (Monday/Tuesday/Saturday)

Here’s a fun fact: not all Valentine’s Day stories are hot steamy messes of eroticism and romantic escapades. Now that I think about it…do any of them ever really turn out that way?

Well, reality check aside, you can bet your sweet heart-shaped ass that I’ve got a Valentine’s Day tale for you. Even better, I promise it will be safe for all ages to enjoy.

Back in the spring of 2004 I had just mostly graduated¹At some point I will tell the tale of how I accidentally graduated without realizing it. from Kansas State University, and was in search of any way possible to not use my physics degree while simultaneously eeking out an existence.

So I found myself in the hunt for some gainful employment, but didn’t have too much clear direction as to what type of jobs to seek out and apply for. One day as I was perusing the online want ads of the local newspaper, I saw a posting by a florist looking for delivery drivers for the three days leading up to and including Valentine’s Day, which happened to fall on a Saturday that year.

Seeing as how I hadn’t landed anything permanent yet, I thought it would be the perfect way to inject a little much-needed cash into my pocket–heck, I hadn’t made a proper grocery store run since mid-December!²I’m not sure if this is a story in it’s own right, but that streak actually lasted until mid May–a solid 5 months of a grown-ass man not buying groceries. It’s one of my more boastable accomplishments, and a strong contender for making it onto my headstone.

It’s not like I had anything else of note to do that V-day. Most of my guy friends were single at that time as well, so the only plans I had were to meet up later the evening of Valentine’s at a random Jamaican-cuisine-serving bar out in the boonies. We were calling it Bro-entine’s Day or Bachelor’s Day or something else obnoxious that I can’t remember off the top of my head.

Also, being the ever-over-thinking life philosopher that y’all know and love, I realized that this would be an interesting opportunity of sorts.

Let me reference the ultimate asinine life philosopher and personal idol of mine, Jerry Seinfeld. Those of you familiar with his eponymous TV show may recall the episode The Big Salad,³For a plot summary, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Salad. in which George buys a big salad for Elaine. His flavor-of-the-month girlfriend, Julie, is accompanying him, and when they show up to Jerry’s to deliver it, she is the one who is carrying it and ends up being the one who hands it to Elaine.

Elaine then proceeds to thank Julie–not George, who actually paid for it. Of course, petty hilarity ensues.

The wisdom to be gleaned here is that people often subconsciously attribute credit to the person who delivers something–not the person actually responsible for it. This principle in theory should apply whether it be a big salad, good news, bad news…or, say, flowers and balloons.

So imagine all the warm, positive, and often “romantic” feelings a woman⁴Or a man, I suppose. might experience upon receiving a lovely bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Now imagine all those great feelings being subconsciously–and undereservedly–associated with my modestly handsome and youthful face, and perhaps even the sound of my voice.

In the short term, well…you know how they say “don’t shoot the messenger”? I liked to joke that in this case maybe I should be proclaiming to the recipient “Don’t kiss the messenger! J.K. Kidding…you can kiss me if you insist.”

But even better than maybe getting a kiss on the spot, was the Long Game that I was playing.

I need to invoke yet another episode of Seinfeld here, The Junk Mail,⁵For a plot summary, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Junk_Mail. in which Elaine inexplicably falls for a very ordinary looking guy, only to eventually find out that she’s so voraciously drawn to him because she recognizes him from a series of T.V. commercials where he plays “The Wiz,” a mascot for an electronics store of the same name.

The idea is that later down the road, if I happened to run into one of the ladies I had previously delivered flowers to while running around town, that they would be overcome by attraction and desire for me.

Now multiply that by the some-odd 50 delivers I would eventually make…yeah, that’s the closest to straight-up Evil Genius that I’ve came in my life. In theory, I could potentially have the legitimate need to “beat them off with a stick.” Too bad–spoiler alert–that investment never paid off…

Okay, philosophical digression aside, I responded to the ad, and as you all already know, after 5 rounds of interviews and 3 background checks, I scored the gig. Well, maybe it was more like half a round of interviews and zero background checks, but that doesn’t have the same zing to it, does it?

The first morning of the gig was a Thursday, and I showed up bright and early at 6:30. In fact, I was the first one there, even beating the shop owner.

He sheepishly greeted me, and explained that the demand for flower delivery before the regular work day started tended to be on the low side, so I might just be hanging out for an hour or so before things would start to pick up.

To my surprise, within about 30 minutes he told me to warm up the Camry, cuz I had my first delivery of the day! I was so pumped and ready to harvest all the undue adoration that I was sure was coming my way.

Except…well, I had better hope that the principles I laid out above wouldn’t hold for that first delivery. Because the last thing I needed was for a random group of friends and family to forever associate me with grief and loss and embalmed loved ones.

Yes, that’s right, my first Valentine’s Day delivery was to a mother ----- funeral home. And they weren’t even open yet, so I had wait around for 10 minutes, and then I had the joy and honor of being in a dimly light funeral parlor at 7:30 in the morning, where the dead definitely outnumbered the living. This was off to a swell start, indeed.

After that, though, the fun business picked up and, honestly, the next 3 days were kind of a blur, with me rushing about, making deliveries all over a 15-mile radius. The only one I really remember is the one I delivered to a girl that I had taken Public Speaking with 4 years earlier. The main reason I remembered her was because she was on K-State’s waterskiing team, and I recall being shocked to learn that we–Kansas State–had a waterskiing team. Anyways, at least we recognized each other enough that it wasn’t too awkward of an encounter.

The funny part about all of this is that I unwisely hadn’t clarified the terms of compensation beforehand, and it wasn’t until I was getting ready to head out for my final delivery run that I learned how much I would be getting paid. The deal was that I would get $5 for every successful delivery–which was actually a bit more than I had expected. I must have made ~45 runs because I calculated that I would pull in about $225 for my three days’ worth of work. It was definitely a pleasant surprise!

Though I was running a little late, I just needed to make 5 or 6 more deliveries, and then I would be able to go celebrate Celibacy Day with a cold beer, some jerked chicken, and the company of my homies.

I had gotten to the next to last delivery, which was actually a double delivery. Some thoughtful husband and father had ordered flowers for both his wife and his wrong daughter. I found it to be a very sweet gesture.

Now there are three important details here. First, I had parked across the street from their house. Second, since I had to deliver two vases, I had decided to carry them in the now almost-empty cardboard box that I had been using to safely and securely shuttle around my deliveries. Lastly, it had snowed a few days earlier, and so there was some hard-packed snow (now ice) against the curb, though the street itself was clear.

After making the delivery, I was walking back to my car with the empty box in my hands, and I needed to gingerly step over the strip of snow that was against the curb.

It was just wide enough that I couldn’t step over it, so I daintily hopped over it…

The next thing I remember is the box going flying in the air and my body shifting into a horizontal position about 3 feet in the air before gravity took back over and violently pulled me back to Earth face-down.

Apparently when I had hopped into the street I came down on some black ice, causing my legs to slip out from underneath me in very extreme fashion.

It really was a blur, but the main thing I recall is my right hand landing first, basically karate-chopping the street. It was lightly sore, but then again, so was the rest of my body.

Not being seriously injured, I picked myself up in embarrassment–though I’m pretty sure no one saw me–and picked up my box and hopped in my car. The final delivery was thankfully more uneventful, and I headed back for one last check-in with the florist to give them my total delivery tally.

I met up with my buddies and enjoyed a good meal with them, and I related to them how my little flower delivery adventure had gone, including the surprise twist at the end there.

That night when I got ready to hop in the shower, I discovered that, in addition to scraping my cheek and landing on my hand, I somehow had a long scratch down my chest. Nothing major…just odd. My theory was that I had slid forward as I landed, and that there must have been a little jagged bit of ice sticking up, slicing me gently as I slid across it.

As they say, fun times were had by all…

Of course it would have been wonderful if this here story ended with me incurring the most minimal of injuries and walking away from the experience with a cool wad of $225 in my pocket. That would have been great.

However, after a week, I noticed my hand was still a little achey, so since I was still enrolled in a photography class at the college, I took advantage of my access to the student health clinic.

The key point here is that “access” does NOT equal “coverage” or “insurance” or anything like that. Having my hand x-rayed on the first visit was reasonable, but had I known that I would be paying out of my empty-ass pockets for every ----- thing, I would have told the doc he could shove the follow-up x-ray somewhere only his licensed and trained proctologist could find it.

It turns that I had actually fractured the pinky-bone in my hand, and was prescribed a custom-formed plastic half-cast for a few weeks. So it was probably overall better for my health that I did have my injury checked out.

But after all was said and done, I got a bill in the mail for…$205.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

After taking into account the gas I burned making those deliveries, I was exactly $0 the richer for the whole episode.

In the end I had broken both my hand and dead even.

Unfortunately, I was too ----- hungry to appreciate the irony–and the beautiful symmetry–of the situation.

But really, the point of the story is you couldn’t fault me if I were militantly pro-“Medicare For All.” Of course the version I would be promoting would be retroactive at least 16 years…

I really, really want my hard-earned $225 back–adjusted for inflation, and with interest, of course.

Hmmph. That’s interesting…maybe–just maybe–I am but a bougie capitalist after all…

Happy Valentine’s Day, all you money-lovers!

Content created on: 7 February 2020 (Friday)