The Time I Cheated

Let me tell you about the time I strayed from the path of the straight and narrow.

I was a sophomore in high school. In case you haven't noticed, I have this little thing about language. At the time, I was taking French II. Because I thought it would affect the rest of my life, I actually cared about my grades and such. This meant that I was a good student and I knew ma francais tres bien. Yes, I was an A student. I would have been a straight A student across the board, but I never really studied. I just memorized shit. I had an almost photographic memory. I never really worked to develop it, otherwise I could have ended up as a crime fighter who pretends he's psychic but really just notices everything at the scene of the crime. Plus, I didn't have an awesome sidekick.

I digress. I was like this from grade school on. In junior high, I was the same way: pay attention in class, memorize what the teacher was saying, maybe open the book and read it if I was bored, do my homework, ace the test. Pretend like it ain't no thang.

Despite this overly nerdy demeanor, I managed to make friends. Some of those friends were even of the female persuasion. One of them was Teryn Wehr (pronounced like "Tair-an Weer"). Terryn was awesome. She and I just sort of meshed, like our personalities played off one another well. Hmmm...perhaps I did have an awesome sidekick that I could use to help me solve crimes through the power of observation.

Oh did I mention that there was a little of When Harry Met Sally... going on? Yeah, in this case it was true. It's not so much that I developed amorous feelings for Teryn. No, I shot way past that and immersed myself in a tank of hormone-fueled lust. Much like the Betsy Hagar thing, I just desired her. It wasn't that Teryn was drop-dead gorgeous or that she had a body to die for. I think part of the attraction was that her personality played so well off mine. That, and she had fucking amazing thighs. I admired them often in social studies on the days that she would wear that gray skirt that rode up when she sat with one leg looped over the other and--What? Uh, Fifty-four forty or Fight! Whew. Dodged a bullet.

This will slide off into TMI territory for a moment. Remember that Guilt Journal I kept? The one wherein I would write pages-long confessions about the lustful feelings toward certain girls and the guilt that I felt after fantasizing about them during masturbation? Yes, well, I also kept a little running total in the front of the journal about whom I fantasized the most. Oh, come on now. This surprises you? Anyway, Teryn was far and away the most often discussed within the pages of those various tomes (I think I filled out three of them throughout my junior high and high school years) followed by Betsy Hagar and then it sort of tailed off. She was the greatest center of lust and guilt at that point in my life. Yes, I absolutely had a crush on her. However, since we were friends, I never acted on it. I never asked her out. I never confessed my feelings to her. I just silently lusted for her from the edges, playing out my fantasies by hand at night and afterward scrawling my guilt across the lined white sheets in my spiral bounds.

As far as I know, she never knew about how I felt. That is, of course, until she googles her own name. Hi, Teryn!

So, let's return to my French II class, shall we. Lo and behold, as luck would have it, during this particular nine week period, I was sitting next to Ms. Wehr for class. This afforded me the luxury of further studying her thighs on skirt days and it afforded her the luxury of copying off my papers during quizzes and tests. I believe that's called a symbiotic relationship.

Well, one day, as we were taking a test, my teacher had to do something in the office. So, she left us in the room quietly taking our tests. Except, I was done. As this was high school, I was forced to sit there during class. I think that I might have been reading The Lord of the Rings (again) during the down time after the quiz when I felt a pair of eyes upon me.

I looked over and there was Teryn, trying to see what I had written on my paper. This was when my dick started thinking and left my brain behind. Since the teacher was out of the room, I picked up the test sheet and handed it to Teryn. What? I figured that, if I let her copy from me, maybe she would repay me in a more carnal fashion. Makes perfect sense, right?

Well, apparently, someone saw me hand my paper to Teryn. Someone as in the entire class. I guess it shouldn't come as a big surprise when the teacher asked me to stay after class a couple of days later. And, frankly, I deserved any punishment I got. Instead of reading me the riot act or ripping me a new one, the teacher expressed how sad she was and wondered why I did it.

Being that I didn't feel like explaining to her the whole "We've been friends for a long time and I've wanted to fuck this girl since the seventh grade and I was hoping that this was my way in between those sumptuous thighs of hers", I shrugged and said, "I don't know why. I just did it." I'm pretty sure my teacher knew exactly why I had done what I had done, and my answer pretty much secured her suspicions.

The teacher then asked what she should do, and I responded with, "You should fail me." It kind of sounded like I was trying to work a Jedi mind trick on her. Here's the thing, though: she didn't fail me. In fact, I got 100% on the test. I don't know if she failed Teryn. I do know that we moved seats the very next day and I wasn't allowed to sit anywhere near Teryn ever again.

After that, Teryn and I drifted apart. We worked together briefly our senior year when she was a photographer for the year book and also for the school newspaper, and I was a weekly columnist. We interacted sparsely, though she did show me her belly button piercing, which she got before it became common for everyone to have one. Now, I have no idea where she is.

I never cheated on another test again. And I never got my carnal repayment for allowing Teryn to copy my test. I guess it's true: cheaters never win.

Lowes: Still Useless

So, I've been having some issues with the toilet in the kids' bathroom. It's been wanting to run. A lot. Health kick or something.

The other day I went and bought a different kind of chain--one of those chains made out of bb's, as opposed to the links that were in there before--hoping that it wouldn't get tangled and keep the flapper open just enough for a slow leak of water. It seemed to do the trick. The other night, though, it was running, and I wasn't sure what the problem was. I took the back off the tank and looked in to find the water still running. It was filling, but slowly. I pondered calcium build-ups slowing the flow of water or something.

Then I looked at the bulb/float and how it was connected to the water inlet.

Hmmmm... I pondered, looking at the screw-based mechanism of operation that served as on/off switch. How does this work? I lifted up on the arm that connected the spigot with the bulb.

CRACK!

As I stood there with a bulb-and-arm mechanism in my hand, watching the water flow unchecked into the tank now, my eyes grew to the size of saucers as I silently panicked on the inside. However, ever the cool head, I quickly reached down and shut off the water into the tank. Catastrophe averted; face saved (ish).

The next day, after dinner, I loaded the kids up into the car and we headed to Lowes because, I thought, this will be an easy fix. Bulb, bulb arm, snap a few things together, and we back to flushy paradise.

Not so fast, my friend.

Of course Lowes doesn't do the simple and convenient thing, and supply you with a replacement arm and bulb. Of course you need to replace the entire fucking system. Convenience? That's for pussies. Ease? That's also for pussies. Someone manning the plumbing section of the store, ready to answer your questions with anything other than a blank look? As if.

So, I took the cheap replacement kit, guaranteed to fit my toilet. After wrestling the old mechanism off the toilet (not that it was difficult in and of itself; the problem was just getting the right angle and fitting my fat overly large hands into the small space between the wall, toilet bowl, and vanity cabinet) and successfully not blasting myself in the face with the last bits of tank water, I reinstalled the new mechanism. Everything was good, tight, and, seemingly, ready to go.

Time for the bulb installation and we'd be good to go!

Again, not so fast, my friend.

Seems as though the replacement kit, guaranteed to fit my toilet, features a long, brass rod to connect the bulb with the spigot. So long, in fact, that I can either screw the rod into the spigot mechanism or screw the rod into the bulb, but not both. I muttered a few curses under my breath, wished the people at Lowes to be afflicted by the public lice of a thousand camels, and went to bed, reminding the children to just go ahead and use my toilet for any needs.

The next day, back to Lowes, where I figured they'd have a replacement arm that was shorter. I mean, it is a plumbing supply store, right?

Not so fast--oh fuck it, you get the idea.

In fact, they offered a replacement arm that was the exact same size as the one in the replacement kit I bought. Variety is the spice of life, and these motherfuckers are living it to the blandest.

That meant another trip to Home Depot.

Off we went. Once I finally found the toilet supply aisle (one thing Lowes has over Home Depot is better marked aisles), I found a shorter arm for the set up. It was $1.75 or something like that.

But, here's the kicker: I went through the self-checkout (yet another thing that Home Depot does right and Lowes fails epically at). I paid for my merchandise. I gathered the children and prepared to head off to Target for some groceries. The lady manning the self-checkout lines (you know, the Overseer), called out to me to stop me. She asked if my kids could have some candy, and she produced a little cup filled with Jolly Ranchers and Redvines and such. Are you fucking kidding me? Free candy and exactly what I need for my home repair project! Sold.

But, not only that, but my daughter picked out a piece of candy that had one of the ends ripped off, and the lady stopped her! She was like "Oh, I can't let you have that one, sweetie, it's been opened!" And then...she smiled!

Free candy, the right part, and service with a smile? If Jesus were to go looking for supplies to man the old carpentry shoppe, I'm sure he'd go to Home Depot. And if it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me.

Pop the Champagne! It's Celebration Time!

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Stuff

I have a bit of a dirty secret that I'm now going to share with you. For the past couple of weeks, I've been cheating on you. I know, I know. Where's the trust, eh, blogosphere? It's just that, every so often, I come across your chest a blog that is spectacular enough, I become--for the lack of a better term--infatuated. I read. And then I get bored because the author only updates once a day, yet the author drips with such a profound exceptionality that I want, nay, need more. The only way to get said fix is to dig through the archives.

This has happened recently.

People, I want you to meet Kristine. She's over there, waiting in the van. Now, originally, I caught a glimpse of her in someone's comments and thought "Holy shit! That looks like my attractive friend, Kristine! I better check this shizz out." Well, it turns out that she isn't my attractive friend Kristine. However, she's now my new attractive friend Kristine! She's smart, she's funny, she puts stuff on her kids' heads and takes pictures, she hates her asshole cats, and, like me, she is a MASTER--or will be someday soon. Unlike me, she will be a MASTER in a field where she can get a job in ten years, whereas I'll be living under a bridge, reciting the periodic table and cursing the far east.

While she's as sarcastic and foul-mouthed as they come *dreamy sigh*, apparently her former blog is even more foul-mouthed, even more sarcastic, and even funnier. Alas, it remains hidden, and since I at least pay lip service to people's desires to remain as anonymous as the internet allows, I have gone looking for it. However, I'm sure it was fantastic, like the Lord of the Rings acted out by ninjas and stuff.

Because awesome oozes from every pore on her body, she's recognized the content and character of this blog with a fabulous award. Behold, the James Frey Award!
She's right, you know. 95% of the stuff here is bullshit. The other 5% is dick jokes and Leelee Sobieski pictures.

So, join Kristine in her van. She drives it around, wanted by the government, and serving as a soldier of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find her, maybe you can hire Kristine to put shit on your kids' heads and take pictures.

Now, Gwentabulous over at Everything I Like Causes Cancer, posted a picture of her naughties yesterday. I'd say "unmentionables", but since I provided a link to the story, that pretty much supersedes "unmentioning", doesn't it?

Anyway, her challenge for today was to not tell a story revolving around shit, semen, sex or something else gross that starts with 's' (hooray alliteration!). Jesus, Gwen, you just knocked out 95% of my arsenal. Good thing I was planning on publically felating Kristine. Wait...

Gwen's challenge was to have us post pictures of our favorite sleeping shirts. I received mine rather recently. So recent, in fact, that it still carries the sweet, sweet smell of victory. Behold, the TRIVIA SHIRT!

Oh, oh, that's not the TRIVIA SHIRT you were expecting, is it? No, my friends. See, I won this shirt the other night when I went to Trivia Night at a local bar with the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Boudicca and her friends from work. See, they had a three-round trivia contest (we placed third), but in between the contests were special mini contests. Do you want to know the question I answered correctly and quickly?

"What disease takes it's name from the Latin for 'bad air;?"

The answer, of course, is "malaria". I emboldened a couple of parts. Since you're here every Friday morning learning conjugations and shit, you know I'm all about the Latin. However, you probably didn't know that I'm all about the tropical diseases. It's true. I work on a "neglected disease" program at my company. I don't want to brag too much--especially since none of my compounds have done shit to the parasite--but we've pretty much taken Sleeping Sickness by the balls, swung it around the room a couple of times, kicked it in the grundle, and then, for good measure, while it's lying there on the floor, we've whipped it out and pissed right in its battered and beaten face. AWESOME!!!

Also, the person who introduced me to Yuengling, that sweet, nectarous lager from Eastern Pennsylvania, reads this blog and I wanted to taunt him with my victory. I'm expecting an email shortly that will read something like "Bastard."

Shadows of the Past

One of the unfortunate drawbacks to having picked up so many new readers and followers over the course of the past year is that many of you were unable to bask in the glorious triumph that I celebrated at this time last year. And let me just say, that t-shirt is one of my absolute favorites. I mean, it does taste gloriously of victory and free, which are two of my favorite things in the world (right after boobs and bacon logs), so maybe the t-shirt has an unfair advantage.

Fortunately for me, my knowledge of college basketball is almost as vast as my desire to get free shit. Again this year, the concierge service ran the same contest. Again this year, I won. I am, in fact, just that fucking awesome.

I hope like hell that I won for knowing that the most points you can score on a single play is 3. That's so much better than knowing that you only get five fouls.

Last year, I chose an Indiana shirt (they are my favorite NCAA basketball team, after all). This year, I went for the alma mater, proving that someone from Notre Dame can fucking win something (hear that, football, basketball and hockey teams? I'm rubbing it in your face! Try stop being a bunch of cockfaces and put forth an effort already! And maybe suck a little less while you're at it!).

The other thing that I've proved is that, unlike Notre Dame, winning a free t-shirt is never overrated.

I swear, all I did was type the word "winner" into a Google image search!

I Need Someone, Not Just Anyone

Okay, I need some help from you happy folk. I don't care if you're not happy, I still need some help. This is dire and, without your assistance, I might not be able to have sex this weekend. Somewhere, a towel just shed a single tear.

Anyway, let me give you the story here.

My wife works for a bookstore that has an ampersand in the middle of the name (and no S on the end, dipshit). People leave shit there all the time, like harmonicas and lipstick tubes and half drunk lattes and little cars and children. All of these things get chucked into a box (except the children; they get sold to witches in the Black Forest of Germany) cleverly called "Lost and Found". Once a month, or so, they go through the box and shitcan things that have been in there for a while--usually something like three months. If it's something grand and glorious (like, say, a quarter), the employees lay claim to it and if, after the three-month grace period is up, no one claims it, the employee with first dibs on it gets to keep the grand and glorious loot.

Well, a few months ago, some nimrod left his iPod at the store. His 30-gig iPod. I think you can see where I'm going with this, but the public schools have left us all drooling, simpering idiots, so I better spell it out for you, just in case.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca is all woman, trust me. I've inspected. Several times. Thoroughly. However, when she saw this sweet 30-gig iPod in the box, she popped a boner. Right there, in the middle of her shift, in the store. Very awkward, as you can imagine, but that's a story for another day. My wife put her name on the 30-gig iPod that Nimrod had left behind while jetting off for some general douchebag activity, I'm sure. Right after Christmas, the three-month period was up, and my wife came home, happy as a clam at high tide, sporting her treasure. I haven't seen her so happy since the doctor told me I shouldn't have sex for about two weeks after my gall bladder surgery.

I can tell that Nimrod was a douchebag because of his musical selections. Plus, the 30-gig iPod had video capability and photo storage, and yet not one hint of pornography could be found. Not that I checked. Several times. Or anything. Anyway, the point here is that Nimrod's musical tastes are pretty...fucking lousy. Who the hell puts Alan Jackson and Snoop on the same iPod? This poor electronic device needed to be purged of the shit that had been thrust upon it.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca had bought adapters and cords to be able to begin the purging of said iPod. We downloaded the iTunes bullshit. We couldn't clean the thing off. I went and bought a different program that was "guaranteed" to fix everything on my iPod. It doesn't work, either.

I spent a good hour and a half last night trying to clean the iPod off and load all of her CDs and some of my CDs that she likes onto her iPod as a Valentine's Day gift. You know like, "Look, I took the time to do something sweet and romantic and kind for you. Doesn't that moisten you right up?" Or something to that effect. The problem was, despite having charged the iPod and connecting it via the cords she bought, the computer would not recognize the device. I kept getting an error message saying that no iPod could be found, despite using every single trick I knew in order to get the computer to talk with the little bastard machine.

Pay attention; this is where you come in. I beseech you, good folks (see, it sounds more dire with the big, fancy word): Is there a trick that I'm missing here? Or could it be that Nimrod left this thing in the store on purpose because it was fucked up? Also, I've heard that you can exchange an iPod if it breaks or malfunctions or joins al-Qaeda or something; I've heard that they'll even exchange it if it's been soaked in a base bath. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this malicious rumor for me?

And, finally, does anyone have any other advice for how to work this device? Or am I doomed to listen to "Summertime Blues" and "Who Am I?" for the remainder of my days?

I realize that this pretty much ruins the surprise I had in mind, so any thoughts of autolubrication that I had fantasized about once I presented her with an iPod loaded with Barenaked Ladies, Harry Connick, Jr., and Ben Folds is pretty much out the window. Still, any help would be appreciated.

The well-being of my towels are at stake here, people. Help a brother out.