[The scene is where Rose and Leonardo DiCaprio* are floating in the ocean after the ship sunk.]
Leo: Rose, I can’t find the words to tell you how lucky I am to have met you. You probably wouldn’t understand them anyway through my chattering teeth. How’s about sharing a piece of that door?**
Rose: Now Leo, you wouldn’t want me to think you less than a gentleman, would you?
Leo: Certainly not. Hypothermia makes me say silly things. Forgive me.
[Some time elapses]
Leo: Pardon me, Rose, but I’ve been thinking that if we rotate turns on the…
Rose: Chivalry, Leo, chivalry.
[More time elapses]
Leo: I don’t mean to sound like a whiney little girl but my legs are cramping and I think it best I slip onto the door for a bit of a rest.
Rose: My fiancé wouldn’t complain as much as you.
Leo: You mean the guy that took off in the boat without you? You’re right. I’m way out of line for even implying we both live.
[More time elapses. Leo is now so dark blue that any Smurf would think he used a Smurf tanning bed.]
Leo: Chivalry has an expiration date and that was seconds ago. Get lost, tramp. Go find your fiancé or whatever.
Rose: Why I never…
Leo: That’s great. You look like a strong swimmer but try to conserve your energy. The Arctic cold has a way of sapping it quickly. Telegraph me later.
[Cut to a wrinkled old man narrating the story instead of the old lady.]
Interviewer: So you left her there in the water to die?
Leo: No I left her there in the water to swim. I feel like you weren’t listening.
Interviewer: Ummmm…sorry about that. So are you excited to see if we recover the Hope Diamond?
Leo: Is this your first interview? You should consider other employment. Of course I’m excited, junior. I’ll finally get to see the Hope Diamond necklace without Rose’s neck through it. She really wasn’t that attractive you know. Do what you gotta do to get paid, right?
Interviewer: Huh? So let me get this straight. You were only using Rose to get to the Hope Diamond?
Leo: It seems my ability to accurately describe her looks and your interviewing skills are on the same level. Bring in a sketch artist or I’ll throw up on the floor. They would both yield the same product.
Interviewer: Harsh.
Leo: Her looks or my comments? Actually I don’t care how you meant it. I grow weary of you. How’s about you make yourself useful and go fetch me a soda? Rustle yourself up some personality too if you can muster it.
…and blah, blah, blah until the movie ends. I do not remember. I care even less than I remember. Thank you for wasting your time.
*Don’t remember his character’s name and don’t care to expend the few seconds it would take to look it up. Much less time than it would have taken to type this explanation.
**Or whatever item she was selfishly using as a floatation device.
You have yet to learn your lesson. You find yourself here again. Have your recently evaluated your sanity? Don’t do it now because any amount of time spent introspectively reflecting will cause you to click yourself away from this place. Far, far away from this brain rot. That while I jokingly question your good sense for reading this drivel, I really do value the time you and I spend together here. I offer this post/update as way of appreciation. This offering comes with a recommendation. Prozac is highly favored among prescribing doctors as their preferred selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor (SSRI). If you don’t understand the reason for the recommendation, please see below or any previous entries.*
Let us begin.
FYI, I should be studying for my first test tomorrow. However, I have spent so much time pouring over my notes and books that I long for a boxer to come along and beat my eyes shut so I can no longer look upon them. Then right before I walk into the test I can bravely say to someone named Mick, “Cut me.” I hope the decision to update doesn’t result in me hoping to beat my own eyes shut tomorrow because I didn’t study enough. Me thinks not.
What have I been up to? A racemic mixture of nerding out and dorking out. I just can’t get enough of it, I’m insatiable. It suits me. Why not chase skirts like you used to, Eric? I answer your question with a question then I share an explanatory statement based on my experience. Why have a girlfriend when I have dental school? With dental school, I’m the one that ultimately gets to leave. A welcome change I’m looking forward to experiencing in 4 years. Oh you didn’t get your pity party invite? That’s because I didn’t send them out. Let’s move on.
Day 1
Dissected skin from a cadaver’s thorax and arms. RAD!! Couldn’t ask for a better first day of dental school unless you could cleanse the lab’s air of formaldehyde. That stuff stinks something powerful…at least to me. To the ladies I’ve found it’s quite the contrary. Being wrist deep in a formaldehyde soaked corpse for hours on end is the best way to give off inviting olfactory signals to the ladies. Men, have you been looking for a catalyst that will help your lady friend engage in amorous activities with you? Look no further than your nearest cadaver lab. Optimal results occur from a minimum of 10 hours spent soaking in it. Make it a part of you. Make it your essence. The ladies will soon swarm and will be totally unable to control themselves. Be sure to start packing a rape whistle with you at all times.
Anyone possessing the reasoning power of the spaghetti I just ate should be helped to know I’m kidding. My lab clothes smell like Satan’s breath. Can’t wait to discard those retched things. Gas and match much?
Day 2
Missed a golden opportunity. We were reflecting the pectoralis major and pectoralis minor muscles to access features of the axilla and I dropped the ball. Hard core. If any of you enjoy the movie Willow, you may or may not appreciate this. I thought about unleashing this gem on the way to the lab but completely forgot to do so at the golden moment.
[The scene takes place in the cadaver lab. I, with scalpel in hand, am manning the dissection and am alleviating the pectoralis major of its origin.]
In my best Mad Martigan voice and as I pull back the pectoralis major I say, “Out of the way, pec!”
[…aaaaand scene]
I have a gift for making people sad with my jokes. It’s probably better I didn’t share this particular one. My body may have been on the dissecting table next after my group bludgeoned me with a sock full of pennies. Pray for my group members and those that come in regular contact with me. Pray for tolerance.
Day 3
Dissecting is awesome. The human body is remarkable. How little sheets of tissue are capable of generating awesome amounts of power and also precise movement astounds me. No way our bodies came about by chance by mutations/evolution. A topic for another day perhaps.
Having three days in the lab under my belt brought a disturbing realization. Formaldehyde and the other body preservatives used in the cadaver lab make me hungry. Does that make me weird? I should clarify. It makes me hungry for food. It does not make me consider picking up my cadaver’s limbs and start gnawing on them like a savage.
Skip other days until today.
It is real. I am a real dental student today. I was assigned my first set of instruments. It still blows my mind that one day I will be a doctor. In 4 years, the ladies and I won’t have to pretend to play doctor anymore. It’ll be on for realsies. I'm kidding, mom.
-side note- My roommate is playing FIFA on X-Box and is emitting sounds that suggest his bowels are moving. I think his rectum may have just prolapsed. Poor couch. It’s getting tossed tomorrow.
Who loves terms like septomarginal trabecula, external occipital protuberance, costodiaphragmatic recess? Really? I thought I was the only one. Guess what that makes you? A nerd. Reality is never ordered but always served. Put nerdery in your back pocket and be happy about it.
I have lost my mind. With that realization, I take my leave of you.
*Depression caused from reading this blog is wholly the reader’s financial responsibility to cure. I understand my life is like a car wreck that you just can’t look away from but that doesn’t mean you should laugh at me. No, check that. Yes it does. I laugh at my life and invite you to do the same every time I update.
“Hey you! You in the glasses! Come here! I need your four eyes to keep watch.”
Realizing the mobster was speaking to me, I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose to their rightful spot and puffed my chest hoping to add a few years worth of growth to my meager 14 year old frame.
“What’s the action?” I asked eager to begin my life of crime.
“Kids are still saying that these days? Unoriginal B's,” he mumbled.
“Yessir!” I replied misconstruing it as a compliment. Mobsters swear amongst each other by way of showing respect. Being called an illegitimate child was a high form of praise. I couldn’t believe I was already gaining respect within moments of meeting this guy. I wonder if he was a made man. I surely would be in a few short months if I continued to garner respect at this rate.*
“You ever picked a lock, kid?”
“Yes I had to choose a lock for my high school locker last week. The store had a wide variety but I think I made an excellent decision.”
“I thought nerdy looking kids were supposed to be smart.”
“If you saw the lock I selected from amongst the myriad that were displayed, you would call me a genius.”
“Whatever you say, kid. What I meant was have you ever opened a lock without a key? I was going to have you play lookout for me but I can’t seem to jimmy this lock. My fat fingers disallow the dexterity needed. Too much pasta I suppose.”
“Why would you need me to look out if it’s your place? Why don’t you have a key, mister? This would be much easier with a key.”
“I…uhhh…musta lost my keys cause I can’t find them in my pockets. I need you to watch for my friend that’s coming to pick me up. Be a good boy and help me out? There’s a shiny fifty cent piece in it for you."
"Sure thing, mister. Why do you have gloves on?"
"Scars. Hands don't play well with fire. Oh and make sure my friend doesn’t enter my house. He abhors hygiene and I don’t want him touching anything. The neighbors don’t like kids yelling so once I get in whistle if you see him or anyone else coming.”
As one prone to losing things I could commiserate and understand his predicament. This man looked downtrodden so who was I to add to his misery? He seemed like a good dude so I accepted even though a fifty cent piece was essentially worthless. Vending machines and arcade games don’t accept fifty cent pieces. I guess I could always get it converted to 2 quarters at a bank or convenience store. Whatever it took to impress the guy. I also didn’t want to let my fellow gangster down. We gangsters have to stick together.
My nimble fingers quickly familiarized themselves with the tools he provided as well as the inner workings of the lock’s tumblers. Mere seconds later a simple twist of the wrist sprung the lock.
“A natural, huh? That could come in handy. Wait here,” he whispered as he vanished into the darkened interior of the dilapidated building.
I took a seat on the stoop and entertained thoughts of where I would live when I became a made man. Surely not in a dilapidated rat hole like this. The wooden door was sufficiently warped so as to not fully conceal the interior from the elements when it closed. A drafty house was something I’d grown up with but never became accustomed to. As a gangster, these and other manifestations of being poor would be recalled and recounted with humor over lobster and champagne. I didn’t know what champagne tasted like or what it really was but I’d heard that’s what wealthy people drank and so I imagined it was good. Lobsters the size of small children and rivers of champagne filled my thoughts until I heard a commotion upstairs. Clumsy B must have tripped over something in the dark. The thought that I’d just referred to him as a clumsy B made me feel tough. I was starting to think and swear like a gangster. What kind of gun would I carry? A Dirty Harry .45 revolver or an easily concealed Derringer? Both? Why not? The right to bear arms is plural, right?
While I was practicing drawing my imaginary guns, a man rounded the corner and was headed toward me. In my excitement of becoming a gangster, I forgot to tell the man upstairs I didn’t know how to whistle. That didn’t stop me from trying feverishly as the man continued my way like I had a tractor beam on him. The man looked me square in the eyes, chuckled and asked, “You playing an imaginary trumpet or having a seizure?”
“Don't act like you've never set off a loser alert before,” I retorted while relishing my new found gangster parlance.
“Big words for a pipsqueak. Why don’t you get off my steps and run along before I clobber you,” he said as he rustled my hair.
“Sorry Charlie but you don’t live here and I can’t let you in. You’re unclean. The guy upstairs said to keep you out.” Had I my guns, I’d be poking deep dimples in his fat belly with the gun barrels to strengthen my words.
“You can’t let me in? You?” he asked as he grabbed his belly and laughed with all his might. His mirth annoyed me. I have been referred to as many things but never a punch line. This would not do.
“Glad to hear you at least cleaned the dirt out of your ears so you can hear me. Why don’t you run up the street and get us a couple doughnuts. I know you’re hungry. Better yet why don’t you run in place for a minute cause you look like you sweat doughnuts, ya portly B.” I am definitely going to be a made man in a couple months, listen to me. I sound like I’ve been doing it for decades. Guys like me make moves. We ascend quickly. Surely this man was as convinced as I was. I swore appropriately and respectfully. No doubt he would tell the boss to promote me past levels usually reserved for peons. No grunt work for me. No sir.
SLAP!! Riiiiiiiinnnnnnnng. What in the world was that ringing and what made that noise. When did I learn to fly? My brain was incapable of processing or answering the questions for a few seconds.
I looked around from atop a summit of garbage bags. How did I get here? Where were my glasses? I looked up and saw the rotund man standing on the stairs yelling something in my direction. I knew he was yelling from seeing the protruding veins in his neck and the spittle flying out of his mouth but I heard nothing. Nothing but constant ringing. Did I just get pimp slapped off some stairs?
To be continued…but probably not.
*Clearly the extent of my knowledge of gangstering was nominal.
Me: You’re really starting to agitate me. Why don’t you sit down and have a Coke and a smile. Person: I don’t drink Coke. Me: It’s of no consequence. What I was politely inferring was you hushing your mouth so do that now please. Person: You’re impolite. Me: A very astute observation. Do you find the keen sense useful? Person: Quite. Me: Observe this then, my son. [index finger pressed to lips in a shushing gesture] How do you feel about that? Person: Not good. Me: The desired outcome was achieved. Person: Why do you do that? Me: I do it out of love. Person: I don’t get it. Me: Not surprising. Person: What’s happening here? Why are you having a fictional conversation with yourself? Me: With the realization that I’m talking to myself, does responding to my questions make me crazy? Person: You’ve knowingly been doing that this whole time. Me: You are a very smart man. Person: I am you and you are me. So thank you/me and you're/I'm welcome.. Me: Fascinating. I must confess you are a very handsome man. Person: Funny I was just about to say the same thing. Me: Then you most assuredly were going to comment about my manly pecs. Person: I felt it requisite, yes. Me: You, sir, are a specimen. Person: Ditto. Me: Did you just say ditto? Person: Well I typed it but whatever. Semantics. Me: The word ditto I cannot abide. Person: It seems we’ve encountered a crossroad. Me: Indeed. What gambit are you considering? Person: I don’t feel it essential to divulge the details. Me: Withholding now are we? Person: It would seem as much. Me: Stalemate? Person: You concede so quickly and with minimal force applied. You remind me of a Frenchman I once knew. You know it’s really not much fun making fun of you when you are me. Me: Agreed but think of the children. Not like the late Michael Jackson but like the collectors of children Angelina Jolie or Madonna would. Lovingly. Person: Interesting suggestion. Normally at this point I would remind my opponent that he should not forget who is the better and that he ought to graciously bow out before I destroy him. Seeing as though you are my equal, I am on unfamiliar ground. A draw is equivalent to a loss so that can’t happen. What shall I/we do?
…to be continued…or not…we shall see…you don’t care…I don’t care…ellipsis…
“Honey, we should put in a deck,” my beautiful, sweet wife states after she inspected the back of the house and concluded it was lacking.
“Interesting selection of pronouns. Of the 8 or so options, you felt that one best fit the current situation. When I try to get someone to do something, I most commonly ask using the pronoun that would indicate them completing the task. Throwing in words that mean the work would be equally shared among those being implicated by the pronoun seems anomalous. Allow me a moment to elucidate the proper use of the word we. We is a combination of the pronouns you and I or an even larger grouping of people in which the person saying we is included. It does not mean your participation in the whole process is simply saying the task or job and I do everything.”
“Oh my word, I married a moron. Are you really that daft?”
“Yes honey. How this eluded you for so long eludes me. I’ll get to work on that deck right away. Thank you for entertaining the poor peasant you share a bed with."
“Is that hammering or you flapping gums?”
“I love you honey!”
Postscript: I will never talk like that to my wife. I simply tried to make a funny, fictional conversation. Failure is as bitter as it is easily accomplished for me.
Cruelty to animals! Cruelty to animals! Carnivores are cruel to animals!
Guess what silly vegetarians? You are being cruel to animals too. In fact you are being crueler. You affect all animals and not just a small portion that humans eat. Allow me to explain because your nutrient deficient brains may not have the fuel to understand. If you cared about animals, you would not be a vegetarian.
There are two biological processes, photosynthesis and cellular respiration, that work together so perfectly they alone denote there is a God orchestrating things. We won’t delve into that discussion now though.
Photosynthesis is the conversion of water and carbon dioxide into sugars and oxygen. The process is powered by photons that originate from the sun. Sugars are synthesized from smaller compounds, water and carbon dioxide, anabolically. Breaking down the word photosynthesis into its prefix and suffix gives us photo- and -synthesis. Doing so essentially tells you what’s happening if that’s is easier for you to think about it. In summary, the starting materials are water, light and carbon dioxide. The products are sugar and oxygen.
Now let’s look at cellular respiration. I will not delineate the many steps comprising this process, as I didn’t when describing photosynthesis, but will focus on the inputs and outputs instead. Cellular respiration is effectively the opposite of photosynthesis except that our bodies do not emit light as a product. Our bodies take the products of photosynthesis, sugar and oxygen, and convert it into carbon dioxide and water.
Plants and animals live together symbiotically in what is known as mutualism, which means that both parties benefit from the interaction. Doesn’t that blow your mind that animals and plants are reciprocates and provide requisite food/materials for the other to subsist? Mind bottling as Chaz Michael Michaels would say.
So back to my original premise. Vegetarians are crueler to all animals than any meat eater. In a world that has errantly bought into the fallacy of global warming and is so concerned with carbon footprints, why would the would-be saviors of the earth, vegetarians, solely dine upon the living machines responsible for the conversion of carbon dioxide into breathable oxygen? When these supposed “do-gooders” only eat plants, they reduce the oxygen conversion centers responsible for providing oxygen to all animals and in turn make the air less oxygenated. Thanks guys. You eating more plants means lower quality air for everyone. To show my appreciation, I am going to eat a cow that will reduce methane emissions into the atmosphere while I club a baby seal with my free hand. The baby seal clubbing serves no real purpose other than showcasing my ambidexterity.*
Enjoy your beans and soy milk.
P.S. If you eat fish, you are not a vegetarian. Food for thought.
*I am thinking about starting a club for baby seals. I will call it Club Baby Seals. Anyone interested in joining?
If I ever meet Stephen Hawking, I would do the robot while he spoke. When he mechanically asks what I am doing, I will tell him I am interpretively dancing his words.
At the behest of absolutely no one, I Eric Harris, being of sound mind and of my own volition, offer this short story for your mental digestion. May the resultant bulimia be gentle and non-spastic.I have others I can post if anyone requests them.
Transformers Rule! (Written some time ago.)
My adventure began with a yearning desire to become the first owner of the Transformers DVD...
In order to become the first proprietor of this coveted DVD, I had to go to The Big Apple. All stores would be selling the DVD tomorrow morning but because of the time zone differentials, New York businesses would open earlier than the westward areas of this great nation. I would be there.
After careful research and many bribes to those with inside information, I found the name of the store opening first. Many are not privy to the underground world of store opening betting. It’s big business. Most believe that a store opens at the indicated time on the side of building. Most people are morons. There is much more that goes into opening a store than just a guy in a smock unlocking the doors. I have neither the time nor the inclination to go into the pertinent details. Use the Google machine for more info.
I needed to get the time off from work so I placed a call to my boss and feigned endometriosis. I complained of uterus cramps and Fallopian tube pains. I was given a few days to recover. To ensure that I would be the first patron of the store the next morning, camping out would be required. Camping requires provisions like a tent, 7.6 feet of twine, a king size inflatable mattress, an inflatable dresser for my effects, an inflatable mirror and so forth. I picked up the items and finished my other preparations.
Most people travel by plane, car or train. My preferred means of conveyance is a pogo stick. I loaded up my essentials and hopped toward Times Square. Two hours later I arrived on the outskirts and wasn’t even breathing hard. There were only 23 hours left until the store opened its doors for business. Adequate time to guarantee my position. I purchased a hot dog from a chatty street vendor then made my way to the heart of Times Square to secure my spot at the front of the soon to be developing line.
To my utter disappointment, I discovered I was to be second!! Someone had beaten me to the store’s entrance! And the stupid jerk was perched in a fold out chair reading a magazine. Many thoughts inundated my mind, none of which were virtuous. Was he here for another movie? Was he just hanging out? I hopped over, dismounted my pogo stick and tried to calm down. Maybe he was here for some other reason. I had to know.
“You here for the Transformers DVD or just a lazy door greeter with no name tag and sans tunic?” I asked in a jocular tone.
“Why the Transformers DVD of course. I saw the movie 17 times in the theater with my daughter and can’t wait to watch it at home with her. What a little dear. She’s terminally sick and doesn’t have much longer to live. She is in constant pain and is unable to use pain killers because of fatal allergic reactions. The only time my wife and I have seen her smile lately is when she watches Transformers. That’s why we’ve seen it 17 times. It would be more but the medical bills we’ve been incurring haven’t allowed us to go as often as we would like. I have been awaiting the release of the DVD for a long time so that we could play it over and over for her. You should see her, she smiles the entire movie but as soon as it ends her face returns to the contorted face of never ending pain. It’s such a miraculous sight to behold.”
I knew then that I would have to kill him. I had to become the first owner of the DVD. I also made a mental note to avoid any trivial conversation with this guy. No sob story was gonna stop me from achieving my goal.
Due to my experience as a deep cover special agent I am an adept assassin. You may think I'll need to kill you now because you know my secret. No. Unless you get mouthy. Then uh oh! Looks like someone had a nasty, untraceable accident. Oh that [insert your name here] was always so clumsy. Always slipping and falling on their head...blah blah blah. You get the idea. Mums the word or slippy, fally, ouchie.
With many different methods available at my disposal, I had to utilize a technique that would not draw attention. I decided to employ a sniper method. Looking around enabled me to locate the perfect spot atop one of the adjacent buildings. I quickly assembled my frilly, pink tent and inflated all my necessary equipment. It felt like home but with less pink. With exaggerated actions of fatigue, I told my neighbor I was going to take a snooze. He bought the subterfuge.
Within the confines of the tent, I began to silently drill through the concrete like Bugs Bunny does to dirt in cartoons. I tunneled a passage to a deserted alley and scaled the fire escape to the roof of the building I spotted earlier. The undeserving thief that stole my rightful place in line had no idea what I had planned for him. My yearning to be the first owner of the DVD was no longer a desire but a mandatory necessity that wouldn’t acquiesce. I no longer had a choice.
I opted to use a boomerang because it made no noise, would return to me leaving the police clueless as to the weapon used, and because the speed with which I would throw it would remain invisible to any spectating eye. Steadying my aim I expertly handled the boomerang. Just as I was releasing the Australian weapon of death a strong gust of wind arose and altered the angle of my throw. Being true to form, the boomerang arced around and began its journey back to its origin. I had thrown the boomerang with such a velocity that catching it was impossible. I anticipated it would slow down once it sliced through the thief below and would be only visible to my well trained eyes and expectant hands. Now that it hadn’t, I was in trouble. I couldn’t see the rapidly approaching boomerang. The best option I had was to duck for cover and reduce my exposed surface area to avoid contact.
I wasn’t quick enough. I felt the impact as the boomerang crashed into my throat. It would have killed a lesser man. I tried to emit a few select curse words but was unable to draw or expel breath. As I laid there prostrate struggling for air, I decided being first wasn’t worth taking this man’s life and widowing his wife and little girl. All I would need to do is trip him as the horde of people stampeded into the store and I would be home free. I successfully did so and smiled as he disappeared under the throng of people.
I can now say I am the first owner of the Transformers DVD.
To the guy who unwillingly supplied his body as a door mat to the throng of people, sorry about the medical bills. It could be worse. Your wife could be writing out a check for your funeral bill. You understand, right?
I am astounded by the amount of hits the blog has received to date. I can only deduce that upon reading my words you find more value in your life after comparing your existence to mine and realize your situation could be worse. A lot worse. You could be me. And for that I am your ever humble servant. I will continue writing as often as I can. Please send your therapy and anti-depressant bills elsewhere. Writing is therapeutic for me so rest assured that the hits won’t stop once school starts. Posts will surely be less frequent so stagger your anti-depressant intake accordingly.
That while I can't say thank you enough for reading, I feel I must apologize for not giving you fair warning. Encouraging me is like giving a clumsy yet curious kid that has manifested a keen interest in explosions a flame thrower, fireworks, gas, some heavy naval ordnance, gunpowder and expecting him to come back with his limbs attached. No good can become of it. I am now apologizing and hope you can retroactively accept it as though I had done so from the onset.
Now to the task at hand, a reporting of the day's events.
Today’s adventure: Getting a new driver’s license then open a checking account at a local bank because that’s a no-no without a valid DL.
Stepping outside brought a pimp slap to my whole body so resolute I felt like I was on the business end of a battering ram. Not even Muhammad Ali in his prime could have dodged the blow. Humidity you cruel wench! I felt like a rotisserie chicken sweating in the cooker. Sweating like I was Richard Simmons listening to the oldies. Sweating like a whore in church. Sweating like Shaq at the foul line. You get the idea. Mental scales immediately weighed the importance of completing the tasks I hoped to accomplish today. I concluded that no task is so important that it can’t wait until fall when outside is tolerable. The climate here sucks every gram of “can do attitude” and replaces it with “what activity can I do that requires less exertion than sleeping.” It’s amazing anything gets done outdoors here.
Needing to be about the business of becoming a legal driver again I cowboyed up and beat a path to my car by karate chopping my way through the humidity. Sexy happens to me all day long, kiddos. I opened the car door and singed my burly eyebrows on the escaping heat. Worry not ladies they are still thick as sin. I sat down and realized it was a good thing I hadn’t felt compelled to adorn my usual daisy dukes. Otherwise I would have needed a skin graft for the back of my legs. I would have donated every molecule of skin my posterior legs had grown to the solar flare that was my black leather driver’s seat. My dermal layers would have instantly fused with the dermal layer of the cow that gave its flesh to make my car’s interior aesthetically pleasing. Thanks buddy. Oh and thanks for donating your muscles for my consumption too. A medium rare you or family member with minor seasoning always hits the spot. Anyway, the reason I know the leather and I would have become one was because it soon happened when I made the mistake of turning the steering wheel. My palms are now branded with the stitching pattern around the steering wheel. My hands are now contorted and beautiful like the Penguin’s in Batman. An apt mental depiction may be acquired from imagining a deformed flipper a dolphin incurred from a run in with a spinning propeller. Good thing my profession won’t require the use of my hands…oh shiii…[weeping, sobbing].
I gathered myself and popped a piece of gum in my mouth toeclipse the smell of burnt flesh. Arriving at the DMV I quickly learned there is no variance in DMV’s from state to state. They all universally function at speeds a sloth would deem unbearably slow. So very, very slow. With atypical patience, I pleasantly awaited my turn. I was able to determine how much time had elapsed by monitoring how much fluid escaped my armpits and spilled down my sides in 5 minute intervals. I've got the sweating thing down to a science. Five minutes resulted in a trickling stream. Ten minutes yielded a slow moving river. On and on until the output soon surpassed that of Niagara Falls. Moments before dehydration reduced me to a puddle of grease the gal called my name. I explained my predicament and said I was in need of a Kentucky driver’s license please. She politely asked for my previous DL, my SSN card and proof of address. I had two of the three required items. I inquired as to how I could furnish her with proof of address when I had yet to receive a piece of mail at my new address. Perhaps a copy of my freshly signed lease I proffered?
“Yes, that would work,” she replied.
“Excellent. Would you allow my apartment complex to fax over a copy,” I asked.
“No, but if you would make a copy of it and bring it in that would work.”
Failing to understand the difference between a copy of a document and a faxed copy of a document I sought enlightenment from her. Not sure if what she supplied me with can be considered a helpful response.
“There just is.” Even in her terse response I couldn’t help appreciate her saying it with a genuine smile and appreciation for my well being. Gotta love the south.
There just is, huh? I see. I felt I had just climbed a tall mountain seeking the answers to life’s mysteries and had obtained just that. I scratched my head to indicate total understanding. Just for kicks though I thought I would regurgitate what I had just learned. My hope was that upon hearing the words repeated the inoperable reasoning receptors in her head would somehow be stimulated. Then she would see the foolishness of her mandate and in turn actuate a favorable outcome for me.
“So I need to go back to my apartment complex office, get a copy of my lease and come back here rather than have modern electronics do it in infinitely less time?”
“Yes, if you want a valid DL.”
Some reasoning is so incontestably stupid you would be stupid to pursue further argument. Some of you may be wondering why I’m not still there going back and forth with the gal. At some point in my life, I learned it wasn’t worth it. Wish I would have learned the lesson as a know-it-all 17 year old instead of always seeking to verbally joust with my dad. All I gleaned from the many long hours of arguing is that arguing and arguing well only results in being grounded for a very long time. Not that I didn’t have many opportunities to keep the grounding to a minimum mind you. I felt it requisite to point out to my father that the only way he could win an argument with me is by grounding me. Strangely enough this would induce him to show just how badly he had lost by extending the grounding a few more days. How my spinal chord in the cervical area remains intact this day is a testament to my dad’s seemingly infinite patience. I would have obliged my son’s unspoken request for cephalic-body detachment without taking a second to consider the ramifications. No doubt I effected many of his hair follicles to jump ship prematurely. Sorry dad.
Day’s summary: Still no valid DL, no bank account open, some pool time, a fair amount of reading, US soccer team wins, another post for you to question why you’re wasting ocular energy and committing brain cell genocide by reading this filth, and lastly watched a movie with friends.
Things to hang my hat on: Studying begins earlier than anticipated. Tonight I get to learn the rules of driving the way Kentucky sees fit to enforce them.
There will most likely be a dearth of updates once school starts so I figured I’d get some in while I can. Mostly because I enjoy writing and not because I think any of you are really interested in the updates. I’m so selfish. Also because unpacking makes me consider taking a butter knife to my wrists, I figured I would take a break so I don’t disappoint my family.
In my ever continuing quest to combine tasks and maximize time, I have begun a new practice that couples two cleaning related tasks. Allow me to first preface things.
Anyone not born and raised in Utah, Arizona, Nevada and any other desert state knows that humidity does not mesh well with creatures that use moisture release as a means of cooling their bodies. One would think with a knowledge of concentration gradients and with the outside air already containing so much moisture in Louisville that your body would not readily contribute any of its fluids but would rather try to absorb the outside moisture while retaining internal moisture to offset the moisture that leaves with exhalation. (That was a long sentence.) FALSE! The moisture in the air combined with the heat is the precise catalyst that makes my body unleash an ocean every time I step outside. Thankfully my sudoriferous glands don’t release a stinky component with the sweat or I’d be doubly repulsive.
That sure is great and nerdy, Eric, but you said there were two things you were combining. Will you please address the second task and do so in a much more concise manner?
Firstly, hold your horses, fictional personal asking questions, I’m getting there. Secondly, it’s my update, I will write it as I please. (Talking to myself in such a manner will undoubtedly gain me entrance to the loony bin soon. Can’t help it, this is what I do. Just wanted to make you aware of whom you’re dealing with.)
Anyhow…Washing clothes. Who likes doing it? I like the result of the undertaking but look forward to the task with disdain. My solution? Shower with my clothes on.
You see in Louisville your clothes will be completely drenched in a matter of femtoseconds anyway. Why delay the inevitable? Gone are the times you’ll worry about moisture stains. You’re already all wet, silly! No more worrying about embarrassing moisture collecting areas under the pits or under the chest for men with moobs. Gone too are the days of having to change loads of laundry in the washer. The clothes will be laundered the next time you shower in them. It’s so easy. No a caveman couldn’t do it. He has no basic knowledge of washers and dryers, let alone electricity. Man I hate those commercials! If I was the CEO of Geico, I would grab the advertising company representative that presented the caveman idea by the neck and belt loops and toss them in the street. Then I’d encourage my nephew Dre to ride over him repeatedly with his four-wheeler.
Don’t think I started this new practice because I’m an aspiring never-nude or what have you. It just seemed the most logical thing to do given my current climate and soon to be time restraints.
Until next time, folks. May next time provide you with content that doesn’t cause you to projectile vomit.
After loading the Penske like I designed the game Tetris, my dad and I set off to Louisville from Salt Lake City early Wednesday morning. In fact so early I should rightly say it was night and not morning. An abbreviated accounting of daily events follows.
Day 1- Because mornings for me are spent battling the urge to re-succumb to sleep, my dad took the first driving shift. He quickly realized something I learned two days previous. Our truck had an impressive amount of giddy up. We passed our predicted day one progress by lunch time. To celebrate, my dad’s back up and quits on him like…ummm…like something prone to quitting for no reason. A Frenchman? Obviously I have a rare gift for simile. Many interstate travelers wondered what the H that yellow blur was on the road. A massive yellow jacket? Superman in a surprising yellow cape? No it was a Penske truck and accompanying tow dolly with me handling the rains giving it the what fer. Yee-haw!! Didn’t know a moving truck could scoot so fast.* Distance- 730 miles in 12 hours with stops.
Day 2- Dad’s back was still sassing him. I wanted to give him my leather belt so he could bite down on it every time his movements required its cooperation. Poor guy. Can’t thank him enough for making the trek with me. He made it a blast. I love that man. Saw so much corn passing through Nebraska I’m now a qualified expert. We continued making incredible time. Since we traversed a far greater distance than we could have supposed possible over two days, we decided to truncate the driving for the evening and watch game 7 of the NBA Finals. We should have kept on driving. Stupid Lakers. Distance- 600 miles in 10 hours with stops.
Day 3- Seeing as though we didn’t need to make tracks as quickly anymore, my dad and I gave the hotel’s bounteous continental breakfast a thorough working over. Bellies full and happy with our progress we once again boarded the rocket labeled Penske. After prognosticating how long it would take us to get into Louisville, my dad slightly depressed the accelerator. In that same instant our bodies experienced G forces only felt by fighter pilots and astronauts at take off. My internal organs have just barely begun peeling themselves off the back of my rib cage. In just a few short hours, we entered Louisville and were warmly welcomed by some neglected freeways that caused my car and the Penske to do their best impression of a child with ADHD on a hippity hop. Amazingly the suspension didn’t bottom out at all. They weren’t normal expansion cracks or insignificant potholes, they were craters and seemingly bottomless. I thought for sure I would open the rear door of the truck and find only the saw dust remnants of my furniture and items. Never could I have imagined the contents could have withstood such a jostling. Surprisingly nothing was damaged. Not even a scratch. A letter to my congressman about the piss poor quality of the inroads to Louisville seems in order.
In summary, trip was awesome, arrived safely and without incident, Penske trucks rule, my dad’s back sucks, I love Louisville, my dad is cooler than your dad and can beat up your sister, Lakers suck and I have a supernal gift for simile.
T minus 10 days and counting for nerdery to resume. Face!!
*Just to give you an idea of how fast we were moving, a beam of light left the starting gate the same time we did. It caught up with us two days after we reached Louisville. True story. No need to do the calculations.
