Um...Thanks...

December is my birthday month. As I have been around these here internets for a few years, I've signed into various forums boards and community sites and created accounts on several retailers' sites. A lot of places, mostly to be nice, will send me birthday greetings and electronic well wishes on my birthday.

Not so, however, with a few places. I wasn't born until the waning days of the month, but that didn't stop Best Buy from sending me birthday greetings on December 1st. To celebrate my birthday, Best Buy invited me to shop at their store, to buy a little something for myself to reward myself for the hard work of living another year. No special offers. No special deals. No coupons. No sales. Just come into our store and spend your money on you. It's your birthday (eventually)! Why wouldn't you?

Now, that's quite a concept. I had never thought of indulging myself in an hedonistic, electronic manner! Why, I can feel the warmth of your birthday greetings glowing all the way through my screen, Best Buy. That's really kind of you to think of me and to invite me to shop at your store where I will give you my hard-earned cash for some shitty gadget that you will naturally want me to buy seven other gadgets for, not to mention the extended warranty on these things. This is how it always goes with Best Buy, and usually gets played out something like this:

I just wanted a box of batteries. Really? For $50, we can insure those batteries. Will they never run out of electricity? No, they'll run out, about an hour after you put them into the device. Will you replace them? No, you'll have to buy all new. You can insure those for another $50, or you could go ahead and insure these AND those for the low price of $125. What say you?

Fuck off, Best Buy.

The other entity that decided to send me birthday greetings, because it's my birthday month, was my alma mater. Not Notre Dame. This was from my undergrad, St. Joseph's. And, well, I could almost feel the warmth and love that the nourishing mother was trying to spread as she enfolded me within her loving arms with this dandy of a birthday card:


*sigh* Really? This is where my donations go? Not to scholarship, not to improving facilities, not to building new dorms, not to raising the professors' pay or to buy books for the library. The money goes to design and draw a shitty cartoon puma with slapped-on clip-art balloons and mixed font text. And what the hell is he leaning on? Invisibul fyrplace mantel? Is his tail made of reinforced steel, and that's propping him up? I guess with the way his right hand is held, his feet could have gotten tangled when he tried to escape after someone caught him masturbating.

Whatever the story, this card and picture are truly awful. Way to step into 1995, St. Joe. This horrific rendering of an anthropomorphic puma truly embodies the ideals of Catholic education proclaimed by the college.

Here, St. Joe, because it's my birthday month, I'll help you out, and for free even. Next year, send something that looks like this:


It's a rather lovely tableau, one of the most recognizable aspects of the college, and it's quite fetching with the snow cover and the frozen fountain. For spring birthdays, send one with the trees in flower. For summer, the trees can be leafed out, the sky blue, the grass green. For the fall birthdays, send a picture with the trees in full autumnal regalia. You can even move the camera around so that you can capture the chapel at different angles. Just don't send anymore of this cartoon puma shit, okay?

If that doesn't strike your fancy, just send us old Calvin and Hobbes cartoons.

Click to embiggen

Hat tip to Sully for the Calvin and Hobbes idea.

Happy Hyacinth of Poland Day!!!

Today is my best friend Joe's birthday. Joe attended Virginia Tech, thus the picture of the leggy blond wearing the Tech sweatshirt. I remember it's Joe's birthday--at least, in the time before Facebook reminding me--because today is also my brother's birthday.

My brother didn't attend college, which is unfortunate because I can't post any nearly nekkid chicks sporting his college's colors. He did, however, once get really drunk at a kegger at my undergrad and tried to bang this girl named Linda...which was apparently a Jenks-boy tradition (the trying part, not the banging...mores the pity).

In lieu of scantily-clad whores, I'll give you a charming story starring me, myself, I and my brother. There will be special guest appearances by our cousins, as well.

This takes place during the Christmas of (I think) 1996. We had all gathered at my cousin Napoleon's house for Christmas Eve. Napoleon's older brother (for continuity's sake, heretofore nicknamed Kip) was also there, along with his (second) wife and their little girls. Also in attendance was my cousin Scott (whose last name is vastly different from mine, so I don't feel the need to hide his identity nearly as much) and his parents.

There was also an eight hundred pound gorilla sitting in the corner that went by the name of "Kip and his (second) wife and my aunt and uncle really aren't getting along and the marriage is about to dissolve any second now--Happy Holidays!!!" attending the holiday festivities that year, too.

After the present exchange and before the meal, the tension was growing between Kip, his wife, my aunt and uncle. Because my mother was in attendance, she was also in a bad mood. My father and my uncles did what they did best--slept in front of the television. My cousins Napoleon and Scott and my brother and I sat around staring at one another feeling really uncomfortable with every snarky, snappy comment made between any of the "adults" who were still conscious.

"We should go bowling," someone stated--I'll credit my brother since it was a brilliant idea and it is his birthday, after all.

The plan was made quickly. Napoleon would drive. The other three of us would ride with him. We would bowl, we would escape the house, and we would...uh...not have to put up with the bullshit anymore.

The one snag, however, was going to be asking my mother for permission to leave. Since someone had pried her off the couch at home, she was miserable, therefore everyone else would also have to be made miserable. I knew asking her for permission would be painful.

So did my brother. Which is why he left the house via Napoleon's window. Opened it, raised the screen, bailed, and was already headed toward the car. In fairness to my brother, Napoleon had already done the same.

Scott had been granted permission, but true-to-form, my mother said absolutely not. Fortunately, my aunts convinced her that "the boys don't get to see each other much anymore, since they've graduated". My mother, pissed that she was outnumbered in this, finally relented. I bolted, not even feeling a pang of guilt.

Of we went, down the road, to the sprawling metropolis of Huntington. Being as how my brother was banned from the bowling alley on the north side of town (I'll admit, I'm only telling you that to flash my family's white-trash street cred), we were forced to go to the one on the south side of the city.

Aside from the owner, we were the only derelicts in the bowling alley that fateful Christmas Eve.

We each bowled three games and had quite a good time doing it. I don't know who won--my paltry 111 average doesn't garner me much in the limelight of bowling alley fame--but that's not the point. We escaped the house, we had a good time, and we didn't have to be around the snarling cur that was Kip's (second) wife.

As good things are wont to do, our time at the bowling alley ended. We turned in our shoes, loaded ourselves back into Napoleon's car, and headed back east for home. Now comes the time for the set-up: it was December in Indiana, which means that we had had some snow, but not a lot. There was a bit of a crust of snow along the edges of the road and some snow hidden in the folds between the high clumps of grass along the edges of the fields.

As we were returning, Napoleon was driving the speed limit--not because we were obsessed with being safe (the main roads were quite clear), but because none of us wanted to return to the simmering tension pot that we called "Christmas Eve" that year.

I voiced that opinion aloud: "Wow, I am in no rush to return to that any time soon."

My brother seconded my opinion: "Yeah, we should take a drive through the country."

Napoleon, hearing this, decided it was an excellent time to turn off onto a country road...without slowing down.

A country road that wasn't paved.

A country road that retained some of the ice from earlier winter storms.

A country road with a very steep drop-off past the shoulder.

A country road with a very steep drop-off past the shoulder without a guard rail that wasn't paved and was still retaining some ice from the earlier winter storms.

Tragedy Comedy was about to ensue.

This is the greatest "Oh Fuck" moment of my life, when the brown sedges and grasses came hurtling up toward the passenger side window, when the car was dangerously close to rolling, when we were--most certainly--hurtling toward death.

I felt kind of like Steve Martin to Napoleon's John Candy:

Needless to say, we survived. Unfortunately, we were at the bottom of a very steep "hill" surrounded by woods. We got out to assess the situation.

"I think we can push him out," I offered. "Napoleon, you just need to gun it."

So, Napoleon gets back into the car. My brother, Cousin Scott and I, get behind the car.

"Put it in neutral first" I hollered. We pushed on the car and found that we could move it quite easily. "Put it in drive and see what happens."


Napoleon put it in drive. He started moving, but the ice and snow that was hidden down in the bottom of this hollow did not make for good footing or traction. He threw a lot of mud, but the car was moving some.

"Alright..." I said, seeing the situation was going to call for us to put our legs and backs into it. "Scott, you take the middle. Brother and I will take the sides behind the wheels."

They stared at me with questioning looks upon their faces.

"Brother and I can go home and change pants; Cousin Scott can't," I explained. It was one of the most brilliant things I had ever thought through. Because, you know, if we came back muddy from having pushed the car out of the ditch, my parents would have killed my brother and I for surviving a wreck on Christmas Eve.

More importantly, we would never be allowed to escape family gatherings ever again.

And so we took our positions. I signaled Napoleon, who gunned it. We pushed. The car heaved forward. He gunned it more. We pushed it more. The car found traction and climbed the least steep part of the hill and found purchase on the gravel of the road once more.

I looked down at my pants. They were coated in a layer of mud at least half an inch thick. Brother's was the same.

That's when we started laughing, because when you go through a harrowing experience and don't die, shit gets a lot funnier. We laughed so hard we doubled over. We finally climbed into Napoleon's car and were off, all four of us laughing until tears streamed down our faces.

Napoleon drove brother and I home, where we quickly changed pants. As Napoleon lived only about three blocks away from our house, we weren't late in returning to the Christmas Eve emotional bloodbath. We finally stopped laughing in Napoleon's driveway, put our game faces on, and re-entered the house in time for the meal.

Awesome.

To this day, I'm still amazed that we somehow were able to pull that shit off without even the barest hint of suspicion out of any of our parents.

So, happy birthday to my little brother. I'm glad we made it through the best--and worst--Christmas Eve ever.

Felix Dies Natalis, Mi Uxor!

Today is my wife's thirtieth birthday.

Happy birthday, my dear wife. I hope you don't...lose your head.


Of course, when I look at this, only one special part of me "turns to stone".

The Wrong Side

A certain social networking site has been hitting me over the head with the fact that today is my friend Amber's birthday. Like me (and most of you), she's a fellow blogger and like me (and most of you), she's also a frustrated author.

And, while Amber is definitely a very attractive young lady and she's also quite talented and funny, these are not the traits that originally attracted me to her blog and such. Well, it didn't hurt; I'll be honest there. However, the thing that made me sit up and take notice? Her love of college basketball, specifically the lowly and woebegone Indiana Hoosiers.

Hold it. This isn't a sports post. Don't go screaming into the darkened alleyways.

Also like me (but not many of you), Amber is a displaced Hoosier. Where she grew up in the "hills and hollers" of southern Indiana (as my mother is wont to describe the southern part of my home state...as if it's an entirely different nation), I was a northern Indiana brat. While we certainly have quite a number of good to decent teams in the north, Hoosier Hysteria was born and sustained in the southern part of the state. The model for Hickory High School from Hoosiers fame? A southern high school.

Anyway, these days, Amber calls Louisville home. I've been to Louisville a few times, but my very first time in the city that no one knows precisely how to pronounce was quite memorable.

When I was a freshman in college, I was on the Mock Trial team. If you are unfamiliar with this notion, a Mock Trial is a competition wherein teams are handed a case and each member of the team then assumes a character, either a defense attorney or a prosecutor, or any number of witnesses that can be called by either the defense or the prosecution during the course of the case. You are then judged by how well you know the case, how well you act out your part, and how well you convince the judges as to the guilt or innocence of the plaintiff/defender.

It's all great fun.

Now, the mock trial team at my undergrad was headed up by a man who was the very definition of a gregarious extrovert. Spend five minutes sitting in the same room with the man and it felt as if you had known him most of your life. He was a sitting judge in the city town village where my college was located as well as a professor of law at the school. He was also a Lieutenant Colonel in the army and had turned a tour of duty in Iraq during the first Gulf War as well as serving in the Philippines when Mt. Pinatubo went up. In all, the man had done some living, and he was willing to tell you pretty much anything you wanted to know. Or not know.

So, our first real competition took place at Bellarmine University, which is in Louisville, KY. It's on quite a scenic plot of land. Our first night there, we were going against a team from Tennessee Tech. We felt pretty good about this, since most of us had never heard of Tennessee Tech, let alone worried about their law school. I don't remember much about them specifically, other than that they had one girl who was a bit of a strawberry blonde and was cute, and there was a tall, lanky guy who, I think, wanted to punch me at some point during the trial.


Anyway, I was called to the stand. I was serving as a professor of physics and an accident reconstructionist. The case was a civil suit, wherein someone had gotten drunk at a party, drove home, and was hit by a train, and she was suing for damages to her car and her injuries (the train clipped the back of her car, spinning her off the tracks and into a field). Well, not only was I able to play a convincing physics honk, but I was also able to pretty clearly prove that she actually tried to speed across the tracks and beat the train. I drew a pretty convincing picture on the board behind me, and when I sat back down, I looked up to where the coach for the team was sitting in the back of the room. He had a big, dopey, happy grin on his face, and when we made eye contact, he started pantomiming like he was masturbating.

I about fucking lost it.

So, we went through the case and all and we scored pretty good marks. It was our only competition for the day, and so we retired to the hotel room. Everyone decided (since the school was paying for it, anyway) to eat downstairs in the hotel restaurant. Which also happened to be a bar. Which didn't really check for IDs.

And, the night quickly spiraled out of control from there.

The coach, he didn't really care, as long as we paid for our own drinks and didn't make too great of a scene. In fact, he was in there, too, drinking with us. Hard stuff, too. Not just beer. And the man sat there at the table, not so much talking to us as he was serving court.

Finally, during one momentary lull in the conversation, I turned to him.

"Say, just what the hell were you doing in the back of the room after I retook the stand?" I asked him.

"Oh, that!" he said, a twinkle burning his eye and a smile trying to sneak onto his face. "You had done such a good job that I was in the back, jacking off for you."

Holy shit, did I love this man.

We proceeded to get shitfaced drunk. At one point, I staggered into the bathroom, only to find the coach at the next urinal over a moment later (there were only two, so no real party foul was committed). As he began tossing his whizz, he leaned his arm against the wall and then his forehead against his forearm.

"Jesus," he groaned, "pissing like this is better than sex and only half as messy."

Holy shit, did I love this man.

So, we made it back out to the hotel bar where some cat had started playing the piano. So, of course we decided it was time to sing along and dance. While doing this, we befriended a older, Southern gentleman. A local. He looked pretty much like he had just stepped off the side of a bucket of chicken. He smoked a pipe and talked with a horse-country drawl that was maddeningly coy yet endearing all at once.

He enjoyed us. He told us stories of Loo-uh-veal. He talked about horses and told us that we needed to come back for the Derby.

Finally, he asked us, "So, where are you all from?"

"Oh, Indiana," I said. I was from Indiana, after all, and my college was in Indiana; many of my friends on the team, however, were from Chicago.

"Oh? What part?" he pressed. He seemed excited that we were from nearby.

"Rensselaer," someone said, "it's up near Chicago."

"Oh," the man said, puffing on his pipe, "you all is from the Darky side of Indiana."

You know that sound effect where the needle is pulled off the record player? I swear that noise went off in the bar when he said that.

"Excuse me," my friend Mark said.

"Oh, you know," the man said, clearly grasping for an out, "the Darky side. The southern part is closer to Kentucky, so it's the Sunny side of the state, and the other is the Darky side."

We all glowered at him, similar to a group of cats staring at a mouse in the middle of the room. A mouse that has just anally raped our favorite catnip toy and pissed in our saucer of milk.

"Uh huh," someone said.

And with that, we no longer were friends with the old man in the bar.

We ended up doing well enough to qualify for the national finals held in Des Moines, IA. But that's a story for another day.

So, there you go, Amber. I hope you have a happy, sunny side birthday. Because, apparently, that's the side of the state you live on.

You Got Three Years, Bub

Do you know what today is? It's the twentieth anniversary of the day Communism fell in Romania. One of my good friends from high school, who is now a professor at Princeton, was in Bucharest when all the proverbial shit hit the fan.

You know what else today is? It's the three year pre-anniversary of the day the Aztecs say the world, she goes kaput. That's their official term for it.

I wouldn't normally mention either one of these grand and monumental events, except that they have something in common. Er, well, aside from one being the end of Nicolae Ceausescu's world and the other being the end of, well, all of our world. Worlds? Whatever.

Oh, and today is Scope's birthday. Which also means that it's my birthday, too. (And Chrissy Moran's. If you don't know who she is, don't look her up while you're at work, otherwise you might offend someone with her "body of work").

More importantly, you've got thirty-six months to get done pretty much everything you've ever wanted to get done.

The first I heard about the great cataclysmic end of all existence was in college while I was taking one of those cultural sensitivity courses foreign culture classes required to graduate. I opted for the Latin American course over the African course because I thought, given the ever-increasing Hispanic population in these United States, it would behoove me to learn a little something about their culture and lifestyle. Granted, now, given my line of work, maybe the African classes would have been better, but hindsight is 20/20, they say.

Plus, I wouldn't have gotten to read 100 Years of Solitude had I taken the African class. Jose Arcadio Buendia was well-equipped for life.

Anyway, I naturally perked up when I heard the date of December 22, 2012 being thrown around for the end of the world because I thought, "Hey, no better way to celebrate my 37th birthday than by burning this joint to the ground..." Naturally, someone looked at the date and thought that it was messy, so it has mysteriously morphed into December 21st, 2012 in the past 12 years or so. In case you can't see it, here's the new numerology: 12-21-12. Neat, huh? And, in case you don't believe me as to how this is all hooey and hoaxy, the end of the world is supposed to arrive at 11:11 am GMT. Convenient, huh?

I mean, it does make perfect sense that the Aztecs would predict the end of the world to fall at a specific hour based on a timeline centered around London, England--a place they had no idea even existed. But, who am I to judge the countless hours charlatans and con artists have poured into this?

The whole idea about the end of the world coming on December 22 21, 2012 is because the Aztec calendar (or is the Mayan calendar...hmmm...wait, those are interchangeable, right?) runs out on that date. The Aztec calendar was based on the 260-day calendar which coincides with human gestation. They also employ a solar calendar, which is 360 days long, consisting of 18 twenty day months, and each year is called a "tun". If you take twenty tuns and you get another day older and deepr in debt. Er, um, you take twenty tuns and you get a katun. Take twenty of these katuns and you have what is called a Baktun, and 13 Baktuns equal a Great Cycle. A Great Cycle translates into 1,872,000 days, or roughly 5125 years.

So, what does all this mean? Well, aside from the fact that the Aztecs missed the actual length of a year by five days--which is pretty goddamned spectacular, since they had no computers, telescopes or the ability to measure the length of the year from multiple latitudes--it doesn't mean much. What it does mean is that, based on some guess work which puts the beginning of the current Great Cycle at August 11, 3114 BC, this particular cycle of the calendar runs out in 2012.

And...what? Well, it depends on whom you believe. The aforementioned charlatans and con artists would have you believe that, when the Aztec calendar runs out, so does time itself. If you ask the Aztecs, it means that on December 22nd or 23rd, the new cycle starts anew.

And what does that mean? Well, it means that in 7137 AD, we get to go through this whole pile of bullshit once more.

So...you've got three years, my friends. And then you can join me on my 37th birthday, and we can party like there's no tomorrow (heh) and we'll celebrate the turning of a new Great Cycle. Hey, I'll drink to that!

TMI Thursday: Sparkle Belly

NOTE: I thought I set this up to post at 9:15 am this morning, but apparently I didn't change the time, so it was set to post at 9:15 PM. Since I typed the whole thing out AND since I still wanted to wish Will a happy birthday, I went ahead and let it post, but it's too late to tie into Lilu's TMI Thursday. As such, I'll be pushing the Latin lesson back a few hours. Enjoy.

I will give you a little bit of a warning here: this isn't my usual brand of TMI Thursday fare. You see, yesterday, while I was beseeching you all for your pity (and entertaining myself with pictures of nurses)...I mean...beseeching you all for your pity for my sick children *shifty-eyed*, I failed to remind everyone that it was Big Willy's 32nd birthday. You might remember Big Willy from such birthday shout outs as this one.

So, I'm going to tell you a story that took place featuring Will. While it has a definite lack of bodily fluids, I does feature me naked and on film.

That caught your attention, didn't it?

While a senior roaming the hallowed halls of Saint Joseph's College, I lived in a single room on the first floor of Gallagher Hall. It was the "healthy living floor", which is hilarious considering I lived there. Some of the other perks of living on Gallagher first were Kody Hooker puking on your window nightly, a lovely view of the coal-fueled power plant, and all the watermelons you could smash. The other perk was that next door lived my good friend, Will.

As my days of being a Puma were winding down, my friend, Young Bob, faced a dilemma. You met Young Bob briefly here. Anyway, Young Bob was a Communications major, and in one of his classes, he was given a song and told to comprise a video to go along with it. Unfortunately, Young Bob is a bit like me: morbid and sarcastic with an eye toward the symbolic. The song was in-your-face-chip-chip-chipper-sugar-rush-sweet-and-happy. This was not going to be an easy task for him. The most footage he had was of a puppy chasing itself around a yard and a Wal-Mart greeter waving to him from the front of the store.

This is where I came in.

Young Bob knocked on my door with camera in hand. "I need help with this. I need you to...do...something...anything. It just has to be...fun."

"Like, bottle of chloroform and a black van fun?" I asked.

"Uh, no. More like something I can use for my video fun."

"Oh, right. Video evidence of the other would be dangerous." I thought for a second. "It is getting kind of late, though."

"I'll buy you Steak 'n' Shake."

"Deal. But, I can't do this alone."

So, I pounded on Will's door. Half-drunk on Russian history, I ripped him from his room, threw him into my car, tucked away thousands of dollars worth of expensive camera equipment, and we were off. Where? We didn't have a fucking clue, but we were off.

Forty-five minutes later, we were in Lafayette, IN. Our first stop was a sprawling Meijer store wherein resided a purple dinosaur kiddy ride that, I knew from a previous late-night trip, would support my frame. Digging through my pockets, I found a handful of pennies that I fed into the machine (it was one $0.01 per ride! Can you believe it?) and began lurching up and down, back and forth upon the back of this prehistoric mechanical bull.

And then I started to sing.

(to the tune of "Help me, Rhonda" by the Beach Boys):

Hump the dino!
Hump, hump the dino!
Yeah! *clap*
Hump the dino!
Hump, hump the dino!

It was at this point that a surly old woman, freshly escaped from some retirement home, shambled up to us and growled "What are you doing?"

"Humpin' the dino. What does it look like?" I responded, the ride still bucking feebly under me, the camera still rolling. "Mind you, I paid good money for this ride, and I intend to enjoy it."

"Not you," she uttered, a fog of smoke and halitosis belching from her maw. She pointed a gnarled finger toward Young Bob and his camera. Her nails had the sheen, texture and color of unpolished granite. "Him. What are you doing?"

"This is for a school project," Young Bob returned.

"You can't film in here," she shot back. A moth flew from her disheveled and misshapen coif.

"Seems like a good waste of perfectly free advertising," I stated. "Not to mention, all the money you're making off this sweet ride."

"Get out," she hacked, spittle flying over her lips. A froth formed at the edges of her mouth, and suddenly I wondered if she had had all her shots prior to escape.

Because Jesus hates a conflict, the dinosaur ground to a feeble halt, and I swear I heard it sigh audibly as I clambered down from the saddle. I patted it on the snout. "That'll do, Pig," I projected just loud enough. "You, too, dinosaur." A look of unbridled fury was shot to me by her sickly yellow eyes; I doubt she picked up on the literary reference.

Undaunted, we pushed forth toward the summit of Caradhras. Because civic planners drip with genius, a Wal-Mart hove into view as we left the doors of Meijer. A few quick moments later, and we were there. A quick tour of the facility showed there were no dinosaurs to hump ride, but there were unattended lawn tractors. Digging around in my trunk, I found a wide-brimmed straw hat that I stole from the costume shop after filming a western-themed TV show earlier in the semester. Plopping it on my head--and Will with his John Deere hat (or maybe it was Caterpillar...I don't recall)--Will and I sat on two lawn tractors and pantomimed driving and riding. We did this for a good fifteen minutes while Young Bob went about getting different angles and such for the shot.

As it was late, not much was open. We soon found ourselves in downtown Lafayette (such as it is), where the Tippecanoe County courthouse stands. Also, there is a cannon on the lawn of the Tippecanoe County courthouse. For some reason, Will and I thought it would be fun to spend ten minutes chasing each other around the cannon, giggling like school boys...all while being filmed. Finally, since Young Bob was not saying "Okay, that's enough!", I ran around to the fuse end of the cannon and straddled it. Sure enough, seconds later, Young Bob told us he had enough footage, and we could continue on.

Back in the car, we drove around for a while, unable to locate anywhere else to wreak havoc. I decided that, since we were in Lafayette anyway, I should do a psycho drive-by of an old girlfriend. Will, in a moment of inspiration, stripped off his shirt, and folded it around his head into an Instant Ninja Mask. I say inspired because my old girlfriend happened to live on the same street as a bunch of the Purdue frats...who were, of course, busy doing frat stuff. So, Will, bedecked in his Instant Ninja Mask, hung out of the car window and screamed "Behold, Infidels, the Gleaming Sword of Islam!" We were greeted with the typical drunken "Woo! Islam!" from the frats. Awesome.

After having soiled some memorial cannon and successfully stalking girlfriends of day gone by, we returned to St. Joe, but Young Bob still had half a tape of film that needed to be recorded. Trying to come up with some inspiration, Will and I both sat on my two-seater couch, arms folded, seeking something that would spark a creative bit of genius in us. What happened then was a good fifteen minutes of me cocking my head one way, and Will doing in the same, so that the two of us looked like our heads were connected by the same string.

Finally, unamused by that span of my life I'll never retrieve, I said, "We could do something with the grill."

This is where things went...weird.

Young Bob said, "Whatever you want." So, for some reason, I took off my clothes. And then I put on the same straw hat that I wore earlier for the lawnmower scenes. Decency got the better of me, and I wrapped a towel around my waist. Not to be undone, Will also stripped and wrapped a towel around his waist. Instead of a dopey straw hat, he put Instant Ninja Mask back on. Having nothing else at our disposal, Will grabbed a Wisconsin hat and we plopped that on the grill.

Some of the alumni of Gallagher Hall had put together some donations and made a really nice patio area for all of us right outside the west entrance to the hall. There was a deck and a nice brick patio which had a gas grill set up on it. This was the scene of our little display as Will and I stood there, acting for all the world like we were grilling the aforementioned hat, both still wearing only towels.

That's when this guy named Eric Schneider showed up. Schneider was a good guy, lived above me somewhere, but was originally from Chicago. And on this particular night, he showed up drunk. After a quick explanation of what was going on, Schneider started giving us directions like he was the director. Only thing was, he acted like he was directing porn.

"Will! Will, I need to see both nipples," he started. "Okay, good. Good good good. Now, I need a look of despair! LOOK OF DESPAIR! That's the money. Now, give me Sparkle Belly! Yes, yes, that's right. Sparkle Belly." And then Schneider started to sing.

"Sparkle Belly. Sparkle Belly.
Sparkle Belly, rub my nipples.
Sparkle Belly, rub my nipples.
Sparkle Belly. Sparkle Belly."
Of course, being the professionals and veterans of the stage that we were, we followed our directions perfectly. This went on for a few minutes. And then, the coup de grace: Schneider yelled, "And now, run off into the night!"

So, Will and I turned (still wearing only towels) and took off running into the night. We went about fifty yards, and then we heard "Now dive, DIVE!" So we did. In only towels. That didn't stay on so well.

Picking ourselves up, laughing until our sides hurt, and reaffixing the towels, we returned and Schneider and Young Bob gave us slow claps. "Excellent job! Well done." Schneider praised us. And then Young Bob: "The perfect thing was that, as you guys took off running and then dove, the tape ran out."

"Then, I guess this means we're done, right?" I asked.

"Yes," Young Bob confirmed.

"Alright. I'm going to go put some underwear on," I said.

"Jesus, dude, I didn't know you were naked under there," Schneider said. "I wouldn't have had you dive like that."

"It's alright. It was my choice," I offered.

"Whatever. I would have had you rip the towels off first and then go tearing off into the night."

So, there you go. There's the tale of my time spent on the camera naked. Like I said, it's not the usual sort of bodily-function-saturated Thursday post that you've come to love, but it did feature nipple rubbing. Young Bob offered to digitize the video and send it to me (he still has a copy, naturally dubbed "Sparkle Belly", which he watches from time to time for nostalgia and comedy's sake), but since I didn't ask Will, and I didn't feel comfortable slapping his nipples on the internet without his permission, you got the verbal story.

Best Buddy and Baby Brother's Birthday Bonanza by my Blog! Beautiful.

Today is my brother's birthday. He's 30. When I was growing up, I felt familial pressure to remember my immediate family's birthdays, so don't think I'm any less manly because I remember this shit. Actually, for most of them, it was pretty easy. My dad is June 28 and my mom is June 30. This worked out rather well when I met my wife, because her birthday is June 29, and then we even more conveniently produced a daughter on the same date, June 29. The boy's birthday is July 8.

My brother's birthday is August 17, and my sister's was August 24. They're a week apart, so that was easy to remember, too. Mine is December 22. From those dates, I pretty much remember any other important birthdays. My friend's birthday, the Brewing Optometrist, is five months and a day after mine, May 23. My cousin, the Saxman (different from my cousins Kip and Napoleon), is January 4th, which I remember because it's close to the same time as mine. My brother-in-law's birthday is sometime around my sons and my wife's sister's birthday is sometime around my brother's. After that, things gets hazy. I think Napoleon's birthday is sometime in October, and Kip is in November...maybe. My father-in-law's birthday is at the end of September. My mother-in-law's is sometime around the beginning of the year. January 2, maybe? I don't know. I'm usually drunk.

Anyway, I tell you all of this because today is also my BFF's birthday. The only reason that I remember it's Joe's birthday is because it's the same day as my brother's. I think this is somewhat fitting, because my brother and Joe have a few things in common: they both like to work outdoors, they both can tinker with and fix cars, and they both are possibly the only other men in the entirety of creation that can "accidentally" touch my hand while in the bathroom.

Along those same lines, they're both the only people who can get drunk and leave comments proclaiming their love to me, and I just shake my head, smile, and assume that they've been hitting the box wine.

What is there that I can tell you about Joe that won't make him come and punch me in the throat later in the morning when he reads this? I met Joe before I actually started working with him. He interviewed at my old place of employment, and fortunately for him, he didn't get hired there. It was nothing personal; he just didn't have big tits nor was he Asian, which seemed to be the only way one could get hired there. Plus, he was competent in his work, which was a knock against him.

When I started working at my current place of employ--and discovered Joe was working here--I was nervous that he would be pissed that he didn't get hired by that old place. In a bit of turnabout-being-fairplay, Joe interviewed me. Apparently, I fooled him enough to think that I was a competent member of society and I got hired on. Plus, I think the spider monkey that interviewed for the same position took a job with the circus.

Joe and I started working together on a project a few years ago, and I spent a lot of time talking with him about titties chemistry-related topics: mechanisms, electronegativities, heat of enthalpy, that kind of stuff. Our friendship was thus forged around stories involving T&A pertinent work topics. It was exciting, too, for a while when he and I sat in the same office together and worked in side-by-side hoods. Now we work in separate labs on the same project, but still make it a point to waste time get together and swap stories about hot women we saw ideas.

A nicer guy you'll not find anywhere, which makes me wonder why he hangs out with me so much. He is one of the few people I work with that I'd willingly hang out with on the weekends, but seeing as how he has himself one of those family deals, I don't so much. This probably makes his wife heave a sigh of relief and keeps her from spiraling down a dark path of alcoholism and denial.

To that end, I present you with this comic that I find eerily reminiscent of my friendship with Joe. It's called Least I Could Do, and if you're not reading it, you really should be. That is, if you like jokes about sex and some of the finer pop culture references birthed by growing up in the 80s, you should be reading this. You can click on the comic to make it bigger and more readable.

The truly funny part of this little nugget is that Joe's wife is also named Kate.

So, a heartfelt Happy Birthday goes out to my Stupid Best Friend Flanders, Joe. Happy...however old you are. 35? 73? 12? I dunno. It would be unmanly to have such information.

Also, I should probably wish a Happy Birthday to my brother, Dan, but he doesn't read my blog, so he can find a rope to go piss up. But, happily, though, because it's his birthday.

Seeing Yellow

If you went anywhere near Nickelodeon this weekend, you probably would have stumbled upon this show called "Spongebob Squarepants". It's this little cartoon about the misadventures of the title character, his pink starfish best friend Patrick Star, his self-adoring and arrogant neighbor Squidward Tentacles and the misplaced underwater squirrel scientist, Sandy Cheeks.

Okay, I'm done insulting your intelligence. Of course you're heard of Spongebob Squarepants. Even if you're not as intimately familiar with Spongebob as I am, you at least know of him. This weekend, he turned ten years old, and I've been watching the wacky shenanigans of Spongebob, Patrick, Squidward and the rest for nine years and ten months. It's about as close to love-at-first-sight one could have hoped to have had with a cartoon.

I remember the first time I watched Spongebob...more or less. I was in my first year of graduate school at Notre Dame and one Friday evening I had nothing better to do, so I was on campus. I went over to hang with my friend, Dr. Assy, whom I had just met a couple of weeks earlier and also with whom I was teaching undergrads every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I went over to his place and we shot the shit for a while until his other room mate--Captain B--came home. We shot the shit some more, all the while a powerful thirst was building within my parched throat. It was the kind of thirst that could only be slaked with alcohol.

So, we went to the liquor store right next to campus and Dr. Assy got a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey, Captain B got a bottle of vodka, and I felt my quota of Captain Morgan was running low, so I picked up a bottle. We returned to Dr. Assy and Captain B's joint and proceeded to drink about three quarters of the bottles, apiece. The height of our drunkenness crested sometime around 3:00 in the morning. At that time of the night, naturally, the first inclination is to go onto campus and start some shit...which is exactly what we did.

There happened to be a restaurant/student center that was open 24 hours, which is where we ended up. I don't remember the walk into Reckers (the name of the place); I just sort of ended up there. And, of course, since we were drunk, we knew we were smooth with the ladies. Captain B made the first move and was chatting up this girl who was from California. Captain B, in all seriousness, then said, "We have so much in common. You're from California, I'm from Connecticut, and they both start with 'C'."

I still have no idea how he didn't score that chick.

I met some girl who was taking the organic class that I was teaching the lab for (red flag alert!), but that didn't dissuade me one bit. Instead, I moved in for the kill. She was cute...at least, I remember her being cute...but she wasn't wearing shoes. Things were going along just swimmingly when she folded her arms and hopped up and down because she was cold. I mean, it was four thirty or five in the morning in September when we were out there, so it was a touch nippy--at least for those who were sober or at least sobering up. I remember her saying, "Jesus, I hope I don't get pneumonia and die." Except, my drunken ears heard "ammonia". So, I held a hand up, all smooth like and waved it back and forth.

"No, no," I said, all suave and debonair, "you're in organic now. You won't get ammonia. You'll get methane."

I still have no idea how I didn't score that chick.

As the morning ground on, one of my students--a dude from Maine named Sean--showed up (red flag alert!). We chatted things up a little bit and then I uttered the magic words: "Fuck, I'm hungry." Since it was a restaurant, they were able to serve me up a cheeseburger and fries, but when I got to the end of the line, I realized that I left my wallet back at Dr. Assy and Captain B's pad. Undaunted, Sean swooped in and saved me, buying my food for me. Awesome. I gave him an A- for the semester. He was a B student, but when grading time came out, I said to myself "Dude bought me a burger and fries. I'll put a minus on there to make it somewhat legitimate." When it comes to academic honestly, I'm dripping with it.

As I was sitting there eating, someone slid onto the bench beside me so much so that their hip was pressed next to mine. I looked up just as she announced, "Hey! You're my orgo TA!" And, it was true (red flag alert!). There, sitting beside me, was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I had to shift around to hide the fact that I was not suffering from whiskey dick. That's how badly I wanted her since the first day of class, but being a TA, I couldn't try and make a move on her. Her name was Andrea Goldyn. She was a stunning brunette with deep, velvety brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a radiant smile that caused her eyes to sparkle like diamonds. She was shapely, curvy and smelled extraordinary, especially at 5:00 am.

"Hey, Andrea!" I said. She sort of hugged me (red flag alert!), and I was able to keep my burger and fries out of her wavy, curly brown tresses. It was the kind of hair that my friend Jim would describe to me some years later as "sex hair", and while I wanted to touch it, I didn't want to sully it with a Reckers burger. And, as carnal as my passions for this woman were, I didn't want her hair in my food.

We talked for a long time. Mostly about class and then the conversation turned to football--duh, it's fucking Notre Dame. Since it was the fall, football had already started, but I missed the first game of the season because I went to Columbus, OH for a bachelor party. See, my old room mate--also named Matt--was getting married. The next two weekends were games at Michigan and then at Purdue, so I had yet to get to a game, and the Purdue game was tantalizingly close down in West Lafayette, a mere three hours away. It so happened to be that Matt was getting married on the day of the Purdue game...so, in other words, he was getting married about nine hours from when I was sitting around drunkenly chatting up one of my students.

And, it turns out, that gorgeous Andrea had a ticket to the Purdue game...and an extra ticket. Which she offered to me (red flag alert!). Enter moral dilemma. Do I go to the game--that I desperately wanted to go do--with a woman--that I desperately want to do--who is also one of my students--that I desperately want to do--or do I go to my friend and room mate's wedding in Chicago?

And here's the thing: I could see--even through the clinging, lingering tendrils of a long night of drinking--how this would play out. I had to drive, so, naturally, why bother coming back to campus? She could just come home to my apartment, and, in a few hours, we could leave from there. We've both been up all night, so we're going to need to shower before we leave for the game. And, if we're already naked, might as well do it. This might not have been her plan, but it sure sounded good to me.

Sadly, I took the moral high ground and declined Andrea's offer to go to the game with her. We talked for another fifteen minutes or so, and then departed. Happily, I didn't use the "ammonia/methane" line on her. I do remember part of my subconscious screaming "idiot" inside my skull while I watched her perfect ass swaying away from me.

The sun was coming up as we dragged our asses back to Dr. Assy and Captain B's pad. I laid around for a little while. It was a little after 6:30 when I finally decided I should go home and try to get some sleep before driving to Chicago for my friend's wedding. So, I drove to my apartment--admittedly, I probably shouldn't have, but I was feeling pretty sober; the greasy Reckers burger kind of helped in that department, and Andrea's offers and my depraved visions took care of the rest.

However, when I finally fell into my apartment, I couldn't sleep. While the greasy Reckers burger helped to clear my head and sober me up a touch, it still was sitting in my gut like a ton of Crisco. So, I sat there in my chair, sick to my stomach, exhausted, beginning to feel the onset of a wicked hangover. I decided I needed to find something to watch on the tele, so I clicked it on and my channel-surfing landed me on Nickelodeon, which was showing Spongebob. I sat there, enraptured, watching every little bit of it, from the hydrodynamic spatula with port and starboard attachments to the sound advice of "when in doubt, pinky out".

After watching Spongebob, I got up from my chair and brought up the Reckers burger and some of the Captain's Booty. I went back to my chair, collapsed and slept until well past noon. I woke up with a monster headache, Hey Arnold (also a fine cartoon) on the television, and my clock telling me there was no fucking way I was making it to Matt's wedding.

"Fuck me," I said, getting up, scratching the back of my head, and stumbling into my bathroom to brush my teeth. I came out and changed the channel on the television to find that the Purdue game was about to kick off. Suddenly, the conversation I had the night before with Andrea came rushing back.

"Oh," I groaned around a mouthful of toothpaste, "FUCK ME!"

There you have it. The story of how I came to be a fan of Spongebob Squarepants.

Anyway, here is a list of my favorite Spongebob episodes, and since it's his tenth birthday, I thought I'd give you ten of them. In some semblance of my favorites, here they are without further ado:

1) Artist Unknown
2) The Camping Episode
3) Band Geeks
4) Tea at the Tree Dome
5) The Fry Cook Games
6) Dying for Pie
7) Sailor Mouth
8) Graveyard Shift
9) Suds
10) Sandy, Spongebob and the Worm

Even doing that, I could list another ten I consider my favorites, but, hey, maybe I'll tell the same tale on Spongebob's 20th birthday, and I'll make the same lame list and tell the same lame story. Hooray for the forgetfulness of old age!!!

Oh, hey, did I ever tell you guys about the first time I watched Spongebob?

TMI Thursday: The Bee that Roared

Lord amighty, is it that time again already? And here, we had just gotten over last week's episode in which I learned to never sit down at the porn shoppe. *shifty-eyed* Anyway, today is my brother-in-law's (Bouddica's brother) birthday. He's 32 or something like that. Whatever. I think I'll tell a story that he'd truly appreciate. Nothing says Happy Birthday BIL like a raunchy TMI story, no?

We'll head back to the fifth grade when I was an erstwhile and callow-faced youth at Salamonie Elementary and Junior High School. There were enough of us that we had two fifth grade rooms. The strange thing, though, is that the fifth grade rooms were separated by a false wall. It was a sort of cardboard-like wall that folded up all accordion-style. I remember it being a deep brown. The thing is...it didn't really separate the two rooms all that well, aside from visibly. We could still hear pretty much everything going on in the other fifth grade classroom, and I assume they could hear us. Wait, check that. I know they could hear us. Here's the sordid tale of how that fact became painfully clear.

Every week, as school children often will, we had a spelling test. We had something like twenty spelling words and usually five "difficult" bonus words. These were optional spelling words you could take on the back of your spelling sheet and then you'd get a 105 or something like that. Anyway, in order to practice for these things, the whole class lined up and we had a spelling bee.

I suck at spelling. Already in this post, I've fucked up "accordion" and "separate" and "difficult" (though that one was because I was typing too fast). So, I only ever won the spelling bee once, and I was so happy I did a sort of happy dance and went to give my friends a high five, and they all stonewalled me. Motherfuckers. The lot of them.

Anyway, I'm getting off track here. One day, we were all lined up at the back of the room, and things were quiet so that everyone could hear their word and try to spell it correctly. So, things were still and quiet with only one voice raised at a time. I think next door they were having a test, as well, because it was awfully quiet over there, too.

That's when I felt a bubbly in my tummy. Being a man of excellent rectal control, I've been known to be able to hold a good fart in and quietly sneak it out, should the situation merit such an action. Being that everything was so quiet and the fact that I was in school, I felt the polite course of action would be to back myself into the corner of the room and try my best to sneak this gaseous eructation out. And so I backed into the corner carefully so as to not draw any attention to myself. I then squeezed by my cheeks and loosened the tensile grip of my sphincter to let a tiny bit of gas go.

A sound reminiscent of a jet engine roared roared from my backside.

For a fleeting second, dead silence filled the room, which was suddenly filled with gales and torrents of mirthful, wonderful laughter. I could feel the color quickly climb into my face, which must look absolutely horrified, I'm sure. However, I couldn't quite contain myself when I looked up and the sweet little old lady teacher--Mrs. Etherington--herself was caught up in the moment and laughing heartily at my gaseous misfortune.

Do you know the episodes of the Simpsons where Marge asks Homer something like "Did you get Lisa a present for her birthday" and Homer looks all skeezy and backs away and says, "Yes, of course I did, I just left in the car. Let me go get it." And then when he's off camera you hear his footsteps pounding and the door slams and suddenly the car peels out of the driveway? Well, I heard something kind of like that, except it was from the other fifth grade room.

There was the pounding of footsteps and the door to the other room suddenly burst open and the footsteps continued down the hall toward our room. Suddenly, the door to our room burst open, and the other fifth grade teacher comes flying into the room.

"Who did that?" she asked. Everyone looked to me, still laughing. Again, horrified, I raised my hand to show it was me.

"We all heard that through the wall!" she proclaimed. And, that was all. She had half a smile on her face as she turned toward the door. And then, she paused, "You might want to check yourself, make sure you didn't leave a mess." And then she was gone.

More laughter and then, finally--mercifully--after about five minutes, everyone quieted down. Finally, through peals of mirthful giggles, I stepped forward and, with as much dignity and grace as I could muster, I softly offered up.

"Pardon me!" This caused the teacher to laugh more, and then we finally bagged the spelling bee and we all went outside for recess a little early. So, I guess, no one won the spelling bee, but we were all winners for having a little bit extra recess. And we owe it all to my ass.


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

D is for Cross-Dressing...Apparently

This is my five hundredth post. I was going to write something pithy and brilliant centered on the number five hundred...but, since today is my son's fifth birthday, you're getting this instead. Nothing says "Happy Birthday, Son of Mine" like being publicly mocked and humiliated on the internet!

Yesterday, my daughter was being a snot. Cookie (as I've designated her on this here corner of the innerwebs) decided she wanted to have a tea party...an all girl tea party. My son, Tank, wanted to go to the tea party, too, but since he's not a girl, Cookie wouldn't let him.

My wife, the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Bouddica, tried to talk Cookie into letting Tank come to her tea party, but she'd have none of that shit. Tired of arguing, my wife went to take a shower.

When she emerged from the shower, there was Cookie standing by the door to our closet, giggling. Tank was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is [name redacted] Tank?" my wife asked.

"He's in the closet," Cookie responded.

"Tank, come out of the closet," my wife said.

"I can't," he giggled. "It's too embarrassing."

This went on for a few minutes until finally the closet door creaked open and, well, this emerged:
The thing on top of his head is a scarf that has been cleverly tied up to resemble a wig. The clothes are Cookie's, but I think the shoes are Bouddica's. It's nice to see the boy can accessorize. Just notice how striking that red belt is with the black ensemble.

*sigh*

The problem is, he didn't want to change out of his clothes. He liked dressing up in girls' clothes. He claimed it was more fun to be a girl. In lieu of a tea party, they decided to have a fashion show. Oh, those plucky children of mine.

My wife is distraught. She wants me to take him and do manly things with him. At a loss, I didn't know what to do. Teach him how to piss in the stream out back? Download some videos of other guys getting kicked in the nuts and laugh at their pain and suffering? Take him to the joint down the street with the signs out front proudly proclaiming they boast an "All Girl Staff"? Blow some shit up? Vegas?

So, I sat down and pondered this situation in the only way I knew how: by asking myself "What Would Homer Simpson Do?" I immediately went home and fell asleep on the couch, ignoring my children. When I took them outside after my nap, Tank was climbing to the top of the swingset and hurtling himself off it. I figured there was no activity that was more "little boy" than a possible shattered pelvis and thusly patted myself on the back for another parenting job well done.

Oh Homer, you never fail me.

A Double Shot of Birthday Wow!

Today is a very special day for the women in my family. In case you don't remember what today is, let me remind you with this bodily-fluid enhanced post from last year, wherein I describe one rather unpleasant day all around.

So, today is my daughter's 8th birthday, which means she can sit in the front seat of the car. Oh, special indeed. It's also a special day in my wife's life, as she turns 29, which is traditionally the last birthday a woman has for the rest of her life. Which is good, because in about three years, I'd have to trade her in for two 16-year olds. What? That's how it works, right?

Anyway, we've got some birthday happiness being slung around the olde Jenksatorium today. There'll be singing and dancing and general debauchery...and then I'll get home and cook some steaks. Yeah, me! Provider of meat.

Oh, wait, I should talk about my wife's birthday present on Thursdays...right, right, right. Sorry about that. Did I mention she likes her steak with Bearnaise? Yeah, she loves a big slab of hot meat to come with a rich, creamy sauce. Mental image time!

That leads me into a little story. You've got time, right? Good.

When we were first married, the wife and I used to like going at it hot and heavy, which is to say that we'd do it like, once a week or something. I know. Animals. That is apparently the image my father-in-law had of us, because whenever he'd call, the conversation would start the exact same every single time. It'd go like this:

Me: Hello.
Father-in-Law: Hi, Matt.
Me: Oh, hey!
F-I-L: Am I interrupting anything?

This went on for months, probably almost a year. It was kind of ridiculous, because who would answer the phone during a Rousting Bout of Hide the Pickle, anyway? Priorities, people!

Anyway, one day I answered the phone while my wife was in the other room, so I decided to have some fun. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: Hello.
F-I-L: Hi, Matt.
Me: Oh, hey!
F-I-L: Am I interrupting anything?
Me: Oh, no. We just finished up. Want to talk to [name redacted] Boudicca? Here.
*I held the phone away from my mouth so that it sounded like I was talking to someone while fully aware that I was speaking into the mouthpiece*
Me: It's your dad. Oh, hey, you missed some. Yeah, it's right there. By your mouth. Wipe that up with a towel, you don't want to get that on the phone. Well, I guess you can lick it up; that works, too!
*back into the mouthpiece*
Me: Okay, here she is.
F-I-L: *horrified silence*

He's never asked again if he was "interrupting anything."

Tune in next week when I tell you how I got the people from Liberty Baptist Church to stop ringing my doorbell to ask me about Jesus.

Oh, and, felix sit natalis dies to My Wife, the Comely and Buxom and Horribly Embarrased by This Story Boudicca. Don't worry, my little mulier pulchra, I remember that you don't like any pink in the middle of your big slab of hot meat.

And, Happy Birthday to wee Cookie. You better damn well enjoy that gaming system that I hunted all over the motherfucking Triangle for yesterday. Oh, and I'm sorry that the people on Craigslist are completely inept. I'll get that bike for you soon, I promise!

Busting Six Words Out All Over Your Face

Today is my best friend's birthday. What better way to celebrate than to write a Six Word Saturday post in his honor. So, here you go, chief:

Happy Birthday to the Brewing Optometrist!

My best friend and I did a lot of stupid shit while we were in high school as teenage guys are prone to doing. Trying to pick just one story would do him a severe injustice, but I'm fucking lazy, so I'll tell you one of my favorites. One of the great things about our friendship was that it was a second generation friendship: his father and my pa had been best friends when they were in high school. Plus, he has red hair and big pecs. Hmmm...maybe I shouldn't have told you that last part.

Fortunately, he was about the only person my mom would let me ride in the car with, so he was typically the driver in our misdeeds. One day, we were in the mighty metropolis of Bluffton, IN, up to the normal chivalrous deeds that two high school lads would be up to on a fine day in early June. Such exemplary deeds as: minding our P's and Q's, rescuing kittens from trees, picking up litter, helping old ladies across the street--okay, fine, I admit it. We were buying comic books. There, are you happy? Christ almighty. You people bitch about everything.

Anyway, after we were finished in the den of dorkdom, we loaded back into the car and were pulling back out onto the main drag of the town (there was really only one drag in Bluffton, but I digress). As we were waiting for traffic to clear so that we could turn right on red, we noticed that there was a car wash in the Hardee's parking lot to our right.

Are you guys familiar with the charity car washes, or is this just a midwestern thing? The model for this is brilliant in its simplicity: you line up a bunch of cute girls to volunteer to work at the car wash. This, in turn, nets you a bunch of slovenly guys who pretend to care about charity so that they can hang out with the cute girls. You then make the slovenly males wash the cars while the girls, who are usually wearing bikini tops or white t-shirts that they've tied up in the front so their bellies are exposed, stand around holding signs to "advertise" for the car wash. Perverts Passersby see the girls and thus they decide their vehicles are in desperate need of a wash, so they pull into the parking lot for a very sick and dirty fantasy car wash, only to discover that some squeaky-voiced guy with a half-formed beard from the First Street United Methodist Church Youth Group is asking them for five bucks. Like I said, it's brilliant.

Anyway, there was a car wash next to us, with all the requisite filthy hot teens holding up their signs. But wait, there's more. There was...a clown. The clown, seeing us in our precarious position at the stop light, decided to approach the car. As we're waiting at the light and discussing all the egregious and perverted things we'd do to the high school chicks if we were given the chance Kafka, the clown sticks his head in the driver's side window (my side) and utters his stupid clown giggle. It sounded kind of like if Goofy were being given a prostate exam.

"Hey boys, you want a car wash?" the clown asks after giggling in our space.

Without missing a beat, my best friend leans over me and flips the clown a double bird right in his face. He bellows, "Fuck you, Clown!" as loudly as he can and, without checking traffic, stomps on the accelerator, rocketing us forward and around the curb. One problem: the clown's head was still in the car.

The force of the acceleration carried the clown's head with us, but--and this is rather tragic--the remainder of the clown, well, remained. As we sped away from the scene at--literally--breakneck speed, my gales of mirthful laughter suddenly turned to the terrified shrieks of the damned as something landed in my lap. Staring back at me, with a look of horror and shock on his face with his hollow, haunted eyes staring deep into my soul, was the clown's head.

To say I've never been quite the same since would be an understatement.

So, here we are, tearing through town with the remains of a freshly decapitated clown on my freaking lap and we have no idea what to do. We can hear sirens, but can't see the pursuit cars yet. We know it would be a bad idea to be pulled over with the clown's head still in our possession. Fortunately, the Wabash River runs through Bluffton, so, as we approached the bridge, I picked up the decollated clown's head and heaved it out the window, over the railing of the bridge and into the murky brown waters below, thus ridding myself of our rather maudlin souvenir from the trip to the comic book shop.

Okay, so, the last few parts might have been a bit embellished. However, everything up to the words "Fuck you, Clown" was true. Oh, and the Brewing Optometrist did floor it to escape the scene because, seriously, clowns are lame and fucking creepy.

And now you know why I chose him to be my daughter's Godfather, which is a fitting way to end this tale because today is also my daughter's First Communion. See what I did there? I took the story full circle. Well, not really, but I kind of distracted you from the decapitated clown story, didn't I?

No? Well, fuck you, I'm not paying for your therapy. Happy Birthday, J!

Have more fun, six words at a time, over at Cate's place!