Drunk Babies

I once heard from somebody that babies are really kind of just drunk middle-aged men when you think about it. I find this to be extremely accurate. They waddle around with their bellies hanging out, milk (beer) bottles in hand, yelling incomprehensible words at people and chasing the nearest thing with boobs. They have an extremely hard time keeping their balance and will just point at things and mumble, expecting you to understand. They will whip it out and pee without hesitation, and shat in their pants if needed. If they drink too much milk (beer), they throw it up. However, they are experts of the “puke and rally” technique, and soon will be back at their shenanigans as if nothing happened. They will laugh, cry, dance, and fall asleep— all in a thirty minute span. If that doesn’t describe someone who is completely hammered, I don’t know what does.

 

I guess you start your life acting that way and you end it in the same manner.

 

I am no exception to this apparently, as my parents have told me that when I was a baby, I loved to stumble around in my diaper, holding my bottle and dancing around with my milk (beer) belly. They also said that I absolutely loved the movie Toy Story, and I would rarely be seen without my Buzz Lightyear and Woody dolls. (For those of you that don’t know what Toy Story is, let me know in the comment section what planet you’re from.)

At that point in my life, my language skills obviously weren’t fully developed, yet I still loved showing people my Buzz Lightyear and Woody dolls. According to my parents, when I would meet someone, I would say the most drunken old man thing possible.

“Hello, this is my Bud Light, wanna see my Woody?”

Al-Cat-raz

Sometimes, I forget that the house pets we have casually strolling around our houses, are still primal creatures at heart. No matter how much we want to spoil them and dress them up in goofy clothes and feed them delicious treats, they will always have those primal instincts. And those primal instincts can make for some hilarious encounters.

 

In my household, I like to compare my two cats to two prison inmates. My older cat, let’s call her the Black Panther, is the old, wise, hardened inmate who is serving life without parole. My other cat, let’s call her Fat Cat, is akin to the chubby twenty-five year old who still lives in his mom’s basement, got busted for distributing porn, and is now serving time in federal prison.

 

Black Panther is your typical badass hunter cat. She spends most of her time outside killing rodents, snakes, and lizards. She was ambushed by two dogs once, and let’s just say it ended with both dogs whimpering off and bleeding from their noses.

 

Fat Cat spends most of her time begging for food. The time that she isn’t begging for food, she is sprawled out on the couch like a blob, or hiding under a bed because she heard the wind blowing too hard outside. I’m sure if she ever came into contact with a rat, she would get the butt mud brutally beaten out of her.

 

Black Panther is the alpha and Fat Cat is the beta. It’s been this way since day one. When Fat Cat first trembled her way into our house from PetsMart, she was swiftly smacked into a wall by Black Panther. (If you’re thinking ohhhh, poor Fat Cat, don’t. Because this cat is a spoiled dingleberry.)

 

Black Panther is a very honorable animal and if you show her respect, she shows you respect. I’m sure all she wants is for Fat Cat to stand up for herself, and she would accept her. But over the years, Fat Cat has just taken the beatings, silently plotting behind the scenes. She knows she can’t stand toe to toe with Black Panther, so she has begun to resort to other means.

 

The change in behavior started a year or so ago. Black Panther was sleeping gracefully on the couch while my family and I were watching TV. Fat Cat had just finished her fourth or fifth meal and was meandering (or waddling) over to us. Although, she stops in her tracks once she sees Black Panther. Figuring she would just slink off to beg for more food or hide under a bed, we thought nothing of it. But suddenly, she jumps up, right next to Black Panther, and stares at her intently. Black Panther senses the movement, opens her eyes, and sees Fat Cat. She hisses, and like always, Fat Cat moves away to the other side of the couch. But Fat Cat keeps her eyes on Black Panther. She waits until Black Panther is asleep again, and creeps expertly over to her. We have the TV paused now and are watching to see where this goes.

 

Fat Cat walks right up to Black Panther until she is standing directly over her. Then, extending her fat little paw over Black Panther’s head, she swipes down and smacks Black Panther as hard as her grotesquely overweight body can manage. It was a textbook prison attack, with Fat Cat’s claws serving as the makeshift shank. Black Panther screams in anger and jumps into attack position as fast as she can manage. Although, she is a step slow from being engaged in such a deep sleep just seconds earlier, and Fat Cat is nowhere to be seen.

 

That little bastard had darted out of the room faster than I had ever seen her move. I couldn’t believe what I had just watched. A premeditated cheap shot from a cat. This creature had the thought process to become angry from being beaten on by Black Panther, realize she can’t beat her in a fair fight, and decide to wait until she’s asleep to attack her! And then ran away to avoid the repercussions! Just that realization of how intricately planned the attack was, and by such a simple little overweight cat, is enough to still get a laugh out of me to this day.

 

Now that I think about it, I should probably stop calling her Fat Cat. And I should probably sleep with my door closed…

Pit Slammed

A while back, I was at the gym. (This place provides a lot of comedy, so if you don’t feel like actually working out, at least go to people watch.) One of the Personal Trainers was working out on the bench press, and judging by the way he was screaming with every repetition, you’d think he was bench pressing a house. If you guys read my Trainer Trickery  post, then you already know how I feel about Personal Trainers.

So, I’m just ignoring the douchebag and continuing my own workout. I’m about to move to another machine, when I see him look around before getting up to walk in my direction. He takes his earphones out as he gets closer.

Please don’t ask me for a spot, please don’t ask me for a spot.

“Hey, you wanna give me a spot?”

My heart sinks when I hear this. I want to say, “No, I do not want to give you a spot. There are actually a million other things I want to do,” but I’m a nice guy, so I oblige. (For those of you who don’t know what a spot is, he basically wants me to stand over him and help get the weight up if he can’t press it himself.)

We walk over to the bench and this guy’s chest is puffed out so far he looks like a backwards “C”. He’s walking like he’s carrying two briefcases, with his elbows at nearly a 90 degree angle. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I refrain.

As we get to the bench press, I see this guy has a ridiculous amount of weight on the bar. Now, the dude isn’t small, but he’s not big either. I’m willing to bet the house he ain’t lifting this amount of weight. Knowing he will undoubtedly fail, I instantly become glad he asked me for a spot.

He sits down and I have to wait for him to flex a few times, slap his chest, and scream before laying back and gripping the weight. He tells me he will shout out to me if he needs any help, but that it probably won’t be needed. I’m trying to hold back laughter now. With one last yell, he lifts the weight off and begins to lower it. His face looks like it’s about to explode as the barbell touches his chest. I’m waiting for him start pushing it up, when I realize he can’t even get it an inch off his body. If anything, the weight is slowly crushing him, similar to what would happen if you held a stick horizontally and pushed it through a turd. The turd’s eyes are about to pop out of his head and I’m waiting for him to shout for help, but what comes out of his mouth makes me actually snort out loud.

“I got it, I got it, don’t help!”

So, I just shrug, sit back, and enjoy the excrement smashing. The weight still hasn’t moved an inch off his chest after about 10 full seconds, (and what a glorious 10 seconds it was) so I figure it’s time to pull the barbell off of him before he’s actually split in half.

We get the weight back up and he exhales loudly.

I’m just starting to say, “maybe next time, pal,” but he immediately goes,

“Why’d you help me? You came in way too early, bro. You can’t be touching the bar when I’m pit slammed like that.”

I’m astonished now. This dude was actually serious. And did he say pit slammed? What the shit? This guy was wacked. He was a turd that had been sitting in the sun too long. What does pit slammed even mean? I would imagine it as something similar to what had just happened, but instead of helping him lift the weight up, I take my shirt off and rub my armpit all over his face. In hindsight, that’s probably what I should’ve done.

Instead of arguing with this walking dookie, I just put my earphones back in and say,

“You’re just lucky I was wearing deodorant.”

He was pretty confused.

 

Dental Conversations

On Friday, I have to go to the dentist. Friday is going to suck, because the dentist sucks. The thing is, I actually don’t mind getting my teeth cleaned. What I do mind, is that while my mouth is wide open and being cranked on by the hygienist, I have to engage in small talk. For whatever reason, every hygienist I’ve ever had, has thought it was a good idea to ask about my life story while they have their fingers shoved into my mouth.

Every time I go, it’s the same situation. My mouth is gaped open and filling up with saliva. My eyes are nearly watering from jaw soreness. My teeth are being scraped on and my mind is elsewhere, trying to focus on anything but the excavation site that is my mouth. If there was ever a time when talking was not really an option, it’s now.

Yet, as always,

“So, what school do you go to?”

The hygienist says this without ceasing her assault on my mouth.

Me: Aaaaagghghhg.

Her: Oh okay, my niece goes there! What classes are you taking?

Me: Aghghh, ghhh, hhnnnggg, uhhh, euuhhahhh, ahhh hnnggahh.

Her: What was that?

Me: Aghghh, ghhh, hhnnnggg, uhhh, euuhhahhh, ahhh hnnggahh.

Her as she finally takes her hands out of my mouth: You know, that’s really great. You’re going to learn so much! What are you planning on doing after college?

Me: Well, I have—

She then shoves her hands back into my mouth, listening intently.

Me again: Ahhhggg ghhhdggh hnnnggg.

Her: That’s awesome! Sounds like you are following your dreams! What sports are you interested in?

This silly exchange continues throughout the appointment until she is done with my teeth and I am finally put out of my misery. As she cleans up and we schedule my next appointment, I always want to ask her: So, how does your niece like Aaaaagghghhg University? Or: Do you know any hnnggahh tutors?

But, I hold my tongue. One of these days, I will get the courage to mess with her. Maybe I will do it once I graduate and become a practicing Ghhhdggh hnnnggg.

Free Samples

Now, I know most children are innocent, pure, and uncorrupted, unlike the rest of us, but let’s just be honest here for a second.

Some of those little bastards are as rotten as the milk I accidentally drank the other day. (It was chunky.)

I mean, some of them might as well have chest hair, a beer in their hand, and a cigarette in their mouth. The amount of hostility and calculation they can display at such a young age is extremely alarming. For example, the concept of blackmail is not something I would expect a small child to understand, let alone execute with optimum effectiveness. Yet, there I was the other day at the store, watching it unfold before my eyes.

Two little kids, who I assumed were brothers, were on the same aisle I was on. It was a food aisle, and their mom was near the end of it on the phone with somebody. The kids were near me towards the front. They couldn’t have been much older than kindergartners.

One of the brothers looks to make sure his mom isn’t going to interfere with his master plan before turning to his brother and telling him to open one of the chip bags. The other brother refuses. The first brother, let’s just call him Turdsniff McGee, goes on to explain how the store allows free samples of the food so you can see if you want to buy it or not.

I forget about the Pringles I’m examining and start paying closer attention to Turdsniff, curious as to where he’s going with this. (Yeah, I could’ve told them not to do it but what would be the fun in that?)

So, the other brother is apparently persuaded pretty easily, which is pretty in line with normal kid behavior, unlike his brother, and tears open a Lay’s bag and starts munching.

Turdsniff McGee immediately points and goes, “Oooooooooh, you’re stealinggggg!”

A look of fear comes across the other brother’s face as he realizes he has been deceived. Meanwhile, the mom is still way down at the other end of the aisle, talking on the phone, and hasn’t even looked to see if her kids are still around. It’s starting to make sense now why Turdsniff is such a P.O.S.

I’m not even holding the Pringles anymore, I’m just watching intently, thinking in my head: Oooooooh, you’re in troubleeee.

Turdsniff cracks a smile, knowing he’s got the checkmate. He doesn’t even care that I’m watching, knowing if I caused any trouble, he’d just call his goons on me. The other brother is nearing tears as he stuffs the bag back onto the shelf.

“Please don’t tell mom!” he pleads.

Turdsniff smiles even brighter now.

“I won’t tell mom if you give me all the money in your piggy bank.”

The other brother is crushed, you can see it in his little miniature body language. He’s been defeated.

“Fine,” he pouts.

Damn, I think. This little Turdsniff is one smooth operator.

Then, like some kind of untouchable mob boss who’s got the whole city on his payroll, he looks at me and says,

“You know they let you try samples here?”

The Prius Strikes Back

The Disrespect

In the unforgiving food chain of the road, it is no secret that the Prius dwells at, or near, the bottom. Possibly only the timid Smart car remains subordinate to the despised Prius.

Personally, I have no problems with the Prius. It stands as a very fuel efficient and eco-friendly vehicle option. I don’t own one, but I don’t hold any hostility towards it. I will admit though, I have been guilty of treating the passive Prius as a doormat for my road relevance. When needing to merge into another lane quickly, will I slide in front of the sleek sports car or lifted pick-up? Or will I speed up a bit and cut in front of the meandering Prius?

The Prius, the Prius every time. I will stroll right up to the Prius and take its lunch money, avoiding confrontation with the bigger kids. In the general population that is the road, I will walk right past the big, bald, tattooed guy with the goatee doing pull-ups and proceed to have no problem punking the guy doing time for missing the court date for his noise complaint fine.

This isn’t personal, it is simply the primal acknowledgment of vehicular natural selection. The Prius gets eaten, along with the minivan, the Smart car, etc. They are the seals of the ocean, the deer of the forest.

My friend used to tell me about his experience driving his dad’s Prius, which his dad had smartly purchased for the simple fact that it is extremely fuel efficient.
Although, when my friend would drive it, he would be constantly harassed by “coal rollers”, the large diesel trucks that are modified to spew black smoke onto the cars in their wake.

When he would attempt to merge, cars would refuse to let him in, closing the gap and delivering looks of contempt and disgust as if he had just stole a five year old’s ice cream cone and told him Santa Clause wasn’t real.

He would be cut off incessantly, rarely being afforded the courtesy of a blinker signal from the offender.

Middle fingers directed his way were sprinkled in throughout his experience, ensuring sure his balls were thoroughly kicked and stepped on.

My friend just couldn’t understand the level of disrespect shown to him while driving the Prius. I just shook my head, explaining to him that he had essentially doused himself in chum and taken a swim through shark-invested waters.

This is just how it is always going to be right? The law of the jungle.

Wrong.

The Retaliation

Recently, I have noticed something unexpected happening on the road now.
The Prius is fighting back.

Rising from the depths of shame and irrelevance, its drivers have grown sick of the abuse. The bully has pushed the misfit too far and forced him to adapt.

Instead of rolling over and accepting their inevitable extinction, the Prius has chosen to evolve.

In my recent experience, there is no car with a higher percentage of aggressive drivers. I constantly find myself reliving my friend’s incident of road hazing. Although, the Prius is the one holding my head down and giving me a painful noogie before dunking my head in the toilet. I even saw one the other day sporting black rims and a custom paint job. It’s as if they took a trip to the slammer and came out hardened and covered in prison tattoos.

No more easy lane entries in front of the efficient hybrid, oh, no. If I attempt it, I am promptly denied, my jab being swiftly countered by a stiff straight-right.

Just the other day, when attempting to muscle my way into a lane, I was denied by a familiar foe. Although, the Prius didn’t think it was enough that his counter punch sent me packing, he proceeded to merge into my lane and cut me off. In an attempt to reestablish my dominance, I merged over to speed in front of him, but my truck’s all bark and no bite engine was outmatched by the evolved Prius.
The driver then sent the finger my way as he drove off into the sunset, forcing me to tuck my tail between my legs and slink away off the freeway.

I can’t even remember the last time I got the best of a Prius on the road. Hell, I even saw one last week pulled over on the side of the road getting a speeding ticket! It’s like seeing the nerd in school get busted for giving people wedgies.

It isn’t just their aggressive, take no shit, confrontational driving tactics that amaze me. Despite everything, they are actually expanding their species geographically.

When I was driving back to college from home over winter, there was a significant amount of snow on the roads requiring chains for cars without all-wheel or four-wheel drive. My truck is only two-wheel.

So, as I am chugging along with my chains at 25 miles per hour through the harsh conditions, guess what happens to speed by me, cutting me off? If you guessed Prius, give yourself a pat on the back.

The driver even looked at me confusingly, as if to say, “what are you, some kind of pussy?” as he flew past me.

Those are just a few experiences that stand out to me in terms of this little car’s journey to redemption. I’m sure there are many more to come. Whether we like it or not, the Prius isn’t going anywhere. We cannot bully it into submission or push it into extinction. The Prius has seen hell, and come back to tell the story. It is a lesson to all, watch who you mess with, you never know how they might react.

We picked on the wrong hybrid, and we created a monster.
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Instant Karma

A while back, I’m heading home from class after bombing a test, (it was one of those tests where the professor tells you what will be on the test, so you study that stuff and then you take the test and none of that stuff is on the test) and I’m not in a good mood. Everything is pissing me off.

 

As I drive along the road, clenching my steering wheel angrily, a guy on a motorcycle speeds up right next to me and cuts me off, missing my car by what seems like inches. He then continues to fly down the road before disappearing around a corner, his engine screaming.

 

Really? Nice, jackhole.

 

I turn my stereo up and continue on, just wanting to get home. I am watching my speed, as I had just gotten a parking ticket the day before, and couldn’t afford to get another citation. Suddenly, my mom calls, so I answer and put her on speaker phone. I hold the phone near my face and tell her all about how I aced my test.

 

I near the corner where I last saw the motorcyclist. I make the turn and come to a halt at the stoplight, a smile quickly spreading across my face.

 

There was the motorcyclist, no longer the badass he thought he was, standing on the side of the road with two police officers, looking like he was on the verge of tears. I immediately bust up laughing. My car is stopped just a few feet from him and I look on in delight, pointing and laughing as I explain the situation to my mom. This is just what I had needed.

 

As my laughter and joy dies down, I make eye contact with one of the police officers. He looks back at me with what I can only explain as disbelief, as if I had just pulled an open beer from my cup holder and offered it to him.

 

I’m confused now, and become even more confused as he begins walking towards my car.

 

You’ve got to be kidding me.

 

He comes up to my window and knocks on it. Still on the phone with my mom and still holding the device near my face, I roll it down.

 

“What are you doing, sir?” he asks.

 

I look back at him like an idiot and say, “Uhh, talking to my mom?”

 

My mom is now blabbering through the phone frantically asking what’s going on.

 

“Hang your phone up, sir,” the officer says, his voice now stern.

 

I hang up and say even more stupidly, “But it was on speaker…” my voice trailing off as I start realizing my mistake.

 

“When you are talking on the phone while driving, it has to be hands free, sir. I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”

 

I let out a sigh and hang my head. For whatever reason, maybe it’s the universe evening itself out, maybe it’s God rubbing my face in my own arrogance, all I can do in my moment of defeat is helplessly turn my head to the motorcyclist.

 

He is sitting on his freshly started bike, pointing at me and dying of laughter.

 

Touché, karma. Touché.

 

 

 

 

The Crossroads 

I once had a conversation with a family friend that has stuck with me ever since.

It was a year or so ago, and we were sitting outside sipping on some beer when he began to tell me about his life during college. I myself was just beginning my college experience, so I listened intently. He went on to explain how he was slacking in school, partying and drinking too much, getting in fights, etc. I took another sip of my beer, thinking to myself that this sounded like fun.

Although, he grew very serious as he explained that during this time, he met his current wife. Putting his beer down now, he stared at me and I could hear in his voice just how hard this was for him to talk about.
 
“Once I started dating her, I realized I was at a crossroads where I needed to make a choice between a life of joy, fulfillment, and passion… or prison.”

He seemed on the verge of tears at this point as he nodded his head in the direction of his wife, who was sitting nearby.

“And I chose prison.” 


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Fake I.D.

Over the weekend, I went out to the bars with some of my friends. We did not want to pay the price of an Uber, (knowing our wallets would already be taking a beating at the bars) and were in desperate need of a designated driver.  My sister decided to be the one to make Christmas come early. She wanted to bring her friend so they could use their fake I.D.s. They were supplying the ride, so I had no complaints.

 

We make it downtown and head to the bar we planned on staying at for the night. After waiting in line for a few minutes and people-watching all the drunkies, (always fun to do, until I become one of them, that is) we make it to the front of the line. My sister’s friend’s fake I.D. works like a charm, and my sister is up next. She hands the bouncer the card, and he’s already looking at her skeptically. My sister is 19 years old, but is fairly small, so this was expected. The bouncer scans the I.D. and looks at it for a while, then stares back at my sister. My sister is starting to look nervous. Being the douche that I am, I watch on excitedly, thinking, this oughta be good.

 

He asks her, “When were you born?”

 

My sister answers correctly according to the fake I.D.’s info.

 

The bouncer looks unimpressed. He then asks, “So you’re from Illinois?” (We aren’t from Illinois.)

 

“Yes,” she responds nervously.

 

“What’s the capital of Illinois?”

 

I chuckle in my head, as I know he has gotten her. She looks back at me with defeat spread across her face. I watch on, curious to see how this goes down.

 

“Uh, Chicago?” she responds, her voice void of all confidence.

 

Ouch…I think in my head. I turn to the bouncer, a grin on my face as I wait for him to laugh at her and possibly confiscate her I.D. But, he pauses for a few seconds. As I look at him, I realize something.

 

This dude has no clue what the capital of Illinois is either!

 

He gives her a look of approval, nods his head, and hands back her I.D.! I can barely hold in my laughter as he checks mine.

 

“You probably catch kids all the time with the capital question, huh?” I say.

 

He nods his head and smiles at me.

 

“I swear, these underage kids man! They always think they’re sneaky, but I get ’em every time!”

 

I can only wonder what would’ve happened if my sister had said “Springfield”.

 

 

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See You in Hell

When I am driving along the road, minding my own business, and a car pulls out into traffic in front of me from a perpendicular street (or a parking lot, whatever the case may be) and proceeds to drive twenty miles an hour slower than every other car on the road, my faith in humanity gets just a little weaker than it already is.

 

What on earth can possibly be going through someone’s mind to pull into moving traffic, and go half as slow as the traffic? What kind of logic told you this was the move to make? I’m going to assume that if you’re driving, you have eyes, so not seeing the fast approaching cars is not an excuse. What is the malfunction?

 

A car is quickly nearing your position at 40 plus mph, and your decision is to pull out in front of that car and mosey along at your own snail-like pace. Never mind the fact that this car now has to either slam on their brakes if they have time to do so, or make the quick decision to swerve around you, possibly colliding with other cars and creating a large traffic accident. None of that matters, as long as you didn’t have to wait an extra few seconds for traffic to clear up, right? Or you didn’t have to be bothered to press down another few inches with your foot to accelerate to the speed of traffic. As long as you aren’t inconvenienced, it’s all good, right?

 

Fair enough, but I have a few questions for people who do this.

 

Can you go to the bathroom by yourself? Do you stick your head in the microwave in your free time? When something gets caught in the disposal, do you turn it off before you stick your hand into it? You probably think you can serve chicken medium rare, don’t you?

 

If you pull out in front of swiftly moving traffic and drive along at 15 mph, I hope a burning pile of dog crap is waiting for you on your doorstep every night when you get home. I hope you stub your toe on the corner of your bed every day when you wake up. I hope when you make toast, it burns. When birds fly over you, I want them to sense your ineptitude and dump right on your head. I hope the next time you’re at the movies, someone kicks the back of your seat the entire duration of the film.

 

People who commit this act just flat out suck, and I’m fully convinced there is a VIP suite in Hell reserved just for them. God have mercy on their souls.

 

That is all.