(I had this post all typed up today, then hit the publish button only to realize that I had disconnected from the Internets to type it up. It goes without saying…the post was lost. Also, I was pissed. So here is take 2, which will undoubtedly be less funny than the first. That’s how the sugar free cookie crumbles.)
It has come to my attention that I have too much free time.
This discovery happened last night at around 7:30 when I turned to The Missus and said, “It looks like I’m gonna be in bed by 8 again.”
No answer. Because she was already asleep on the couch.
I’m not sure what the word is to describe us, but I think “pathetic” does it nicely.
Folks, I am 26 years old, with no kids, my job is not stressful, I don’t get up at 4 in the morning to go to said job, and I don’t have insomnia. Every once in a while I’ll cut a mean fart in bed that will keep me up for 10 minutes or so, you know, to appreciate it, but that’s about it.
Last night made 2 out of the last 3 nights that I’ve gone to bed at 8. It’s getting ridiculous.
It’s not like we have the money to just go out on the town, and even if we did, Wagoner, OK is not known for it’s swanky night life. The Taco Bell stays open till 11, but if you go anytime after 9, they’ll say they’re out of beans, meat, cheese and tortillas.
So here is what I need. A second job. Nothing that keeps me out late, but something that keeps me up until a reasonable fracken bed time. Instead of actually looking for a job though, I am going to make a list of things I’m good at, as well as things I’m bad at, and you all are going to process it, then call any relatives you might have down here, and tell them to hire me. A bonus to this is, if I have a second job, I will probably have funny things happen to me, which will in turn bring a lot of joy to you, the reader.
Here goes.
Things I’m good at:
Fishing
Eating
Pooping
Giving my opinion
Borrowing money
Pizza buffets
Having diabetes
Using chopsticks
Making you laugh
The lovin
Being fat
Watching T.V.
Sitting for long periods
Kicking kittens and old people
Biting things
Yelling
Cooking
Sunburning
Spelling
Things I’m bad at:
Being skinny
Having low blood sugar
Running
Eating cauliflower
Multiplication with a number over 11
Division with any number bigger than 0
Subtraction
Algebra
Geometry
Calculus
Credit checks
Drinking
Physical labor
Mental labor
Keeping my mouth shut
Not laughing
There ya have it. That’s my lists. Chew on those things, then call your uncle/aunt/grandmother/grandfather/mom/dad/sister/brother/friend/best friend/guy from high school/girl from high school/girl you banged once but kind of like because she had a cute body, but she also had a kid which made you wonder whether or not she was just wanting a daddy for her baby/guy you banged once but you kind of like because he was…ahem…blessed, but he also had that funny bump not really ON anything, but kind of close so you don’t know whether or not it’s really safe and you’re STILL waiting on those test results, and tell them you have the man for the job.
Unless that job is eating cauliflower. You get me that job, I will come and bite you.
That’s real.
(You have less than 7 hours to get your questions in for Meet the Missus! Go HERE to ask them, or just send me an email! I NEED MORE QUESTIONS!!!)
A while back, I posted blog on the sort of general white trashiness of my hometown. I put a couple of pictures up, and made a few comments. Some of you may remember, others may need to click those orange words up there.
Apparently, someone has been reading my blog.
I really can’t think of any other reason for this:
Yep. I’ll give you the Sloats Abridged Encyclopedia Entry for what you see here.
Bra Tree: Any tree that produces fruit of the genus Boobus Holdus from the family Supportings Garmentus. The Bra tree can be found in areas of the Southern Central states, and is usually found in areas with a large mullet wearing population. It blooms in early summer and in late summer, usually when large amounts of alcohol are consumed in the area. The most common fruit it bears is the leapordi skinnus, which is usually small in cup size, although larger ones can be found if the classiness of the area has been called into question. The tree doesn’t do well in cold climates or in large towns and cities. The fruit can be harvested, but it takes a certain type of person to do that, usually someone with no moral compass and/or teenage boys.
So here’s the thing. I really don’t know if this was done in response to me blogging about it, or if it was done because, well, people get bored and drunk on Saturday nights. It honestly could go either way, and I’m not sure I want to find. out. If anyone wants to leave a comment about it that knows what’s happening, feel free to stay anonymous. Also, if you want to add to or rectify my encyclopedia entry, just consider this Wiki. Enjoy.
(Also, there is just one more day for the Meet The Missus questions! So far I have about 7 or 8 questions, and I need more!!! Get on it, people! Go HERE to leave a question, or email them to me! I will stop taking questions at midnight on Wednesday. GO!)
I have 50 followers now.
I’m not particularly proud of how I got my 50th, because it may or may not have involved me telling Lily over at Tapdancing In The Dark that I would pee in her bee hole. Mostly may. Oh, the measures I will go to to get a little more attention. Sigh.
Anyway, I basically have something to get off my chest.
When I started this blog, I didn’t have any idea what a “Follower” was. I just knew that I had some things to say, and that I thought other people might find them hilarious. When I first started getting followers, especially ones who didn’t know me, I was thrilled. Then I got a few more. Then a few more. Next thing you know, I’m promising Sweet Baby Jesus that if I can get 20, I’ll never ask for anything else ever again. Then I won a caption contest, and for sure, I hit 20 and then some.
Since I’ve promised to always keep it real here, I’ll tell ya. I got obsessed. It became my mission to get as many people to join me in my little laugh factory as I possibly could. I may or may not have physically assaulted a few of you to make you join. I offered Jeff over at This Is Why Your Hold Time Is So Long candy bars. I threatened Ed over at Ed’s Funny Pages by stealing one of his kids. The point is, I just got too wrapped up in it all. I have bitched to Ed about one certain person that REFUSES to follow me, even though I’ve followed them for 568 years. I’ve sold out, in a sense, because I’ve even followed people that I didn’t think were funny because I thought they’d follow me.
No more. I’ve hit 50, and I’m done worrying about it. 50 people think I’m funny enough to put up with my bullshit everyday, and I think that’s pretty kick ass. I should be thanking those of you who deal with my insipid rantings, and that’s what I’m going to do.
Thank YOU! (see, that’s in big letters, so you know I mean it.)
So here is my pledge to The 50.
I, Travis Sloat, do hereby pledge and promise to empty all of my spare minutes and seconds of free time (unless involved in any of my many other hobbies such as golfing, fishing, playing sports badly, yelling at Tony Romo, cheering on the Duke Blue Devils, eating, singing recreationally, making sweet sweet love, cooking for The Missus, and being lazy) into this blog, making it the funniest thing you have ever read, which will in turn make you laugh until you cry, which will make you want to send me large sums of money.
There ya go.
This brings me to part two of my little spiel.
Some of you may be saying, “That little bastard is talking about people not following him, but he’s not following me, and I’m funnier than he is, plus I have bigger testicles/boobs.” I can understand how this would make you feel. So. Here’s what I’m asking you to do. If I am not currently following your blog, please send me a message, or put it in a comment, that you want me to check you out. I will do so, and upon discovery of your funniness, or the picture you send of your testicles/boobs, I will follow you straight into the fires of hell with a water pistol and some Gatorade. (it’ll have to be sugar free Gatorade, because of the diabetes.)
I just want to say that I love you all, and if any of you ever need an organ or legal counsel, I will provide both personally. That is to say, I will represent you myself in court, or we will drug someone, take their organ, put em in an ice bath, and find a cheap hospital that may or may not sterilize ALL their instruments, but by god they don’t ask questions about the fake HMO card that we’ve made out of a copy of your drivers license and the back of cereal box.
And that, my faithful few, is Real.
That’s right, it’s another Memoir Monday, in which I take you for a ride along the not so straight and narrow road that is my past.
This story takes place when I was around 12 years old. It’s the time in a young mans life where the hormones are going crazy. The most talked about hormones are usually the sexual ones. The ones we’re dealing with today are the killing ones. Don’t tell me you didn’t have these. I know I’m not the only one. I’d been primed by at least a year or two of playing Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat behind my mothers back, and I had them. So did you.
I had a couple of really good friends when I was younger, and we did everything together. The one we’re gonna talk about today was named Postage. I actually gave him that nickname in high school, because it went with his last name. He hated it, and gave me the nickname, “Slut.” (slut sounds like Sloat…kind of) I guess he thought that was an insult, but I gotta tell ya, it gave me kind of a good rep. I enjoyed it.
Anyway, Postage had a BB gun. I did not. Nor was I allowed one, because, lets face it, I would have shot my eye out. Also, I had 3 little brothers at that point that might have gotten a hold on it, and shot their eye out. My parents were very careful with that sort of thing. So I loved going to his house because he had this BB gun.
This gun was OLD. Like, maybe it was from the 70’s or something. Old. It was the old school style, where you pulled the lever, it jacked a BB in, and you pulled the trigger. No safety. Safeties are for pansies. The barrel on the gun was shaped kind of like a C. Not as rounded, but you could definitely see the C tendencies. It was not the most accurate gun in the world. In fact, you never hit anything you were aiming at unless you had the barrel touching it. Even then, it was spotty.
It was a bright sunny day, and I had the BB Gun. I honestly don’t know where Postage was, but I don’t remember him being there. He had animals to take care of, and some chores occasionally, so it’s likely he was doing that. I was walking around a field when a tweeting sound caught my ear. My primal senses were instantly activated, and I started stalking my prey. Turns out, I didn’t have to stalk far, because it was right above me on a power line.
It was a blue bird. Tiny little thing, but boy it had a set of lungs. Tweeting it’s little heart out, just happy to be alive. Just living life. Not knowing that it had been destined to have one HELL of a bad day.
I very carefully shouldered my gun, so as not to scare it. I took aim through the sights, and tried to make some sort of rudimentary calculation to adjust for the curvature of the barrel. I had a BB chambered, so I took a deep breath, and shaking like a leaf from nervousness, I fired.
I had at this point in my life never killed anything. Nothing. I mean, the occasional spider, or maybe a fly or two. Nothing larger. I was not prepared for what happened.
The blue birds sweet sweet song was replaced by tweets of anger, pain, and what I’m sure was the equivalent of bird cursing. It fell off the power line, and landed on the ground, hopping and fluttering around and giving me the business. You see, somehow, I had hit this bird. Somehow. I still don’t know how I did it, but I did. Now, I was using a BB Gun. It’s not really known for it’s stopping and/or killing power. The reason the bird was not dead, and instead was hopping around rather pissed off on the ground was because I had put a hole in its wing.
I didn’t know what to do. So it was here that I made my first quality of life decision. I thought, well, the bird won’t really be able to do anything with a holey wing, and what kind of life is that for a bird? So I decided to kill it. (I won’t lie, I still really wanted to kill something) So I corralled it up, put the gun barrel to it, and pulled the trigger again. POP! TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEEEEEET! Woo. It didn’t die. One more time. POP! TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET! POP! TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET! Finally, I put the gun to its little birdy head and pulled the trigger. Executioner style. POP!
TWEET TWEEET TWEET TWEET!
This bird would NOT die. At this point, I was crying so hard I could barely see the damn thing, much less shoot at it. I was so sorry I had shot it, and to be honest I was contemplating running away from this demon blue bird. I gave it one more go though, because I knew I needed to finish what I started.
POP!
Silence. Stillness. Death.
The only noise in the clearing was my pathetic little killer self, just sobbing away. I wound up finding a stick or something, and digging a hole in the field, and burying the little bugger. I swore on that little birds grave that I would never again kill another animal. This oath lasted about 10 minutes, because I distinctly remember on the walk back shooting at a vulture circling in the sky. To this day, I still have no idea how on earth I hit that bird, I only know that it was the worst 15 minutes of my life in which I’ve held a gun.
On a related note, I’m going to go deer hunting this year. By the time I get done, one HAS to wonder, will there be any usable meat left on the poor thing that is unlucky enough to have me shooting at it?
(Don’t forget, you still have until Wednesday to submit questions for Meet The Missus! Go HERE to leave a question. So far, I’ve had 3 people submit questions, and we need more than that! Go!)
Alright, alright! Everyone put their questions in this comment section if that will make you feel better! We better get 10 questions though! Once again, you may ask whatever you want, as long as it’s not real sexual in nature.
Go!
I was layin around in my underwear the other night, and I had an idea. My idea was this: I have some followers now, real close to 50. In other words, my shit has kinda blown up. This tickles me in a way that is best left for you not to hear…ever. So I thought that I could let y’all meet the lady that I call The Missus. I thought, “I could take questions, then I could let her answer them.” A lot like Tamara’s thing she has going on that brought a large portion of you to my little slice of Internet. So I asked her about it.
“Do I have to type a blog?”
“No, just answer some questions.”
“Whatever.”
You see how thrilled she is?!?!?
So here’s the deal, folks. Next Friday, y’all get to Meet The Missus! From now until Wednesday, I’m going to be fielding any questions that you might have for the woman that was lucky enough to snag this hunk of…well…yeah, I don’t know.
I’d like to set up a few guidelines, if you will.
1. Please refrain from asking her why she doesn’t just divorce me for another man. I really don’t need her thinking about this.
2. Try not to ask any…ahem…sexual questions. I’ll just tell you here that I am a beast in the bedroom. That is all.*
3. Other than those, there are no rules. I will be choosing the 10 best questions and also asking her to pick her favorite couple of blogs. I’ll have it all ready to go next Friday, and you can all Meet The Missus!
One more thing, please don’t beg and plead her to get a blog. She isn’t going to do that. She’s a very busy lady, and she simply doesn’t have the time right now. She’s got about 11 weeks of school interning left, and she gets to be a teacher!!! I’m so proud of her!!!
Please send all of your questions to tstyles77 at gmail dot com. See what you do there? You just replace the at with @, and the dot with . and you’ll be all set up to go. Feel free to submit more than one question, and if you do, please tell me the question you’d like to have first considered for asking. Also, please tell me the name that you’d like to have yourself identified with as well as a link to your site/blog, so that I can link you to the question. PLEASE DON’T LEAVE QUESTIONS IN THE COMMENT SECTION!!!
*The phrase “That is all,” is actually what is said by me quite frequently in the sack. Sigh. I’m so embarrassed.
I’m not sure if you remember your first time or not.
You’re standing there, depending on where you’re from, you may or may not have a lot of clothes on, you’re so excited, but you’re scared, because you don’t know what it’s supposed to do. It may be making noises, depending on how old it is, and it was probably over with WAY too fast. And afterwards, you wanted to do it again and again.
I’m talking about the first time through an automatic sliding door. What are YOU thinking?
I don’t remember my first time through one, but I know that somehow I’ve been lucky enough to never lose my fascination with them. This may or may not be final proof that my mind is as simple as they come, but I don’t think that’s the case. I guess maybe I just find joy in some of the little things in life. I will say this, it’s pretty much the ONLY thing I look forward to in a trip to that awful hell hole Wal-Mart. Well, that and NACHO CHEESE Doritos. (Ed)
I noticed something the other day that was very interesting though. It’s the way I’ve started to go through these doors. I’ve developed a kind of habit to have fun with them. See, I’ve somehow gotten it in my head that these doors won’t open unless I give them a secret signal. Something so top secret that only I know it. Something so ultra hip and cool that it will never go out of style. Something that screams “I’m in charge now, and it’s all going to be alright. So let me have that puppy and those kittens, put your grandmother in this wheelchair, give me a potato gun and cup of Earl Gray, and stand aside while I push through this Borg infested asteroid belt.”
What I’m talking about my friends, is this:
The Jean-Luc Picard “Engage” Finger Flicka.
That’s right. When I walk through a sliding door, this is what I do. Almost EVERY time. No matter who is with me, no matter who might be looking. And ya know what? It WORKS! Almost EVERY TIME! Sometimes the timing is off, and for sure, if the door is not working, it can make you look like an idiot. But I have found that if I time it just right, and they slide open and I walk through purposefully like it was made to accommodate me personally, that there is no greater feeling in the world.
This is how Picard must have felt every time he gave The Flicka and the Enterprise went screaming through the galaxy at warp 9 to answer a distress call because the Cardassians had some poor bastard racked up in some sort of torture device because he violated Section 5 Article 8 of the Neutral Zone by backing his shuttlecraft six inches into it while executing a three point turn on a scouting mission. I’m just sayin.
Give it a try next time. I’m fully authorizing you to steal my move. Hell, I stole it from Star Trek.
[As an aside, another thing I’ve picked up from that show is that every time I see a bunch of bright lights, I always look into them and say… THERE… ARE…. FOUR… LIGHTS! Yeah… Here’s a video on it. Greatest Star Trek moment of all time.]
Dear Person Who Was On My Blog At The University of North Carolina,
I HATE YOUR UNIVERSITY, AND I HATE YOU.
Unless of course, you are not a student at said university. In that case, I highly suggest you find another computer to browse the Internets on. I’m sure that UNC puts some kind of mind control stuff on their computers. Thank you for reading.
GO BLUE DEVILS!
That’s real. Guys and gals, it’s time for TMI Thursdays. Lilu over at LivitLuvit got this whole thing started, and if you want, you can click that little icon down there to be drawn into a world of nastiness and inappropriateness that is TMI Thursdays.
I want to start this one out by saying that if you are related to me in ANY way, please just stop reading. Seriously. Go. Leave, please. Go here. Seriously. Click that little orange here. Or that one. Just go away. Thank you.
When I was in the 6th grade, things started to fall into place. THOSE kinds of things. You know, special times in a young mans life, awkward moments in class, THE dream, those sorts of things. One of the things that got me were newspaper ads. Y’all know the ones. Glossy Sunday circulars that contained beautiful pictures of toys! I used to love getting those ads and looking at all the toys I wanted. I would make plans to swindle my parents into buying them for me, and if that didn’t work, I could always just try to get my friends to swindle their parents into buying them, and then I could play with them that way.
Well, in the 6th grade, when that switch happened, I noticed another section in these ads. Guys, you’re probably with me. The underwear ads. One day, looking for toys, I happened to catch a glance of a young lady by the name of…Kathy Ireland. I can safely say that this lady single handedly (no pun intended, heh) brought me into puberty. I can’t help but wonder how many other young men she blasted into that humiliating, voice squeaking, acne pocked stage of life.
Folks, I was in love. By in love, I mean that I was thoroughly hormone obsessed with getting my hands on EVERY single picture of her I could; in her underwear. Now, it wasn’t just her, but she was my obsession. I couldn’t really have a “good time,” if it wasn’t her in the picture. She was the fuel for my testosterone induced bathroom breaks.
So I set up an operation. You would not believe how my crafty little mind worked. I would lay and wait for the Sunday paper to be thrown away, then I would sneak through the little trash can, and try to find a picture. When we would visit family, I knew where they kept their paper, and I knew the best way to get a hold on those ads, and the best way to dismiss myself to another room so I could get the pages out of them. If a family member or friend was moving, I was the FIRST one to volunteer to wrap breakables in paper, because that, my friends, was the Powerball jackpot of ads. I left a trail of missing pages all over Northeastern Oklahoma.
To this day, I don’t know how I didn’t get caught, and to be truthful, I may have. Nothing would have ever been said about it at my house. If I did get caught, I’m sure my poor parents were so sad that they had to go through this 3 more times. We were a very sheltered and protected conservative Christian family. I don’t think my mother could have EVER worked up enough moxy to approach me about an ad stealing problem. Looking back, I should have just kept the whole ads, and if asked, just said, “Oh, I was just looking at the toys.”
I never had a “pants malfunction” looking at toys though. That’d be a dead giveaway.
(Kathy, if by some chance you’re reading this, I just want to apologize. Seriously though, what did you THINK would happen? Also, just wanted to say that never posing nude was classy. But I hated you for it. That’s real.)
Folks, this will be quick, and you may not know I was even here. (TWHS)
I just had to tell you about the conversation I had with a second grade girl today.
I had my sleeveless shirt on to go lift weights after school, and I was just hanging out in the gym, waiting for my lifting buddies. I had a couple of kids starving for my attention, I guess because I have bosoms that appear matronly.
Anyway.
2nd Grade Girl: Can I see your tattoo?”
Me: “Sure!” (lifting what’s left of my sleeve out of the way)
2GG: “Wooooow… Who’s that?”
Me: “That’s kind of me.”
2GG: “What does that say?”
Me: “It says, ‘The beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair.'”
2GG: “What does that mean?”
Me: “That’s kind of hard to explain to someone so young.”
2GG “Is that Jesus?”
Me: “Yes.”
2GG: “Is that the sun behind His head?”
Me: “No, that’s His halo.”
2GG: “Jesus has the biggest halo, huh?”
Me: “Yes, He does.”
“2GG: “What do you have in your hand?”
Me: “It’s a hammer and nails.”
2GG: “Oh! From where they nailed Him to the cross?”
Me: “Yes ma’am.”
2GG: “Why are you holding them?”
Me: “Well….”
2GG: “Is it because you put Him there?”
Wow.
Score:
God 1, Travis 0.
Folks, this is how I know God has a sense of humor. Trying to tell a 2nd girl that you put Jesus on the cross is something. I’ve said time and time again that I won’t get preachy on this blog, and so I’m not going to. I will say this though, I will be saying my prayers when I go to bed this evening.
I hope you’ve had a great day, and I’ll be back tomorrow with what I’m sure will be a humiliating TMI post!
Yeah, yeah. I know it’s Tuesday. But I have a memoir, and I’m gonna write it.
This is a story about how well The Missus and Kid Funk get along…
One day, The Missus and I decided to go fishing. I invited Kid Funk, and he invited another gentleman, we’ll call him “Big Guy.” I’m calling him that, because he was, in fact, a big guy. Also hairy. Also maybe not the…ahem… most knowledgeable person in the world. I’m not calling him dumb. To give you an example, I’ll tell you about the first time I met Big Guy. I was sitting with The Groom at his girlfriends brothers house, and Big Guy walks in, looks at me, and says, “WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU DOING HERE!?!?!?” And he walks right up to me like he’s gonna whoop my ass. We’ve been over the kind of pansy I am before. This guy was HUGE. Scared me to death. I almost pissed myself. He gets right up to me, cocks his fist, looks at me one more time, and says, “Oh, dude I thought you were someone else. Someone from Ft. Gibson.” I didn’t bother letting him know that at the time, I did kind of live in Ft. Gibson. It seemed maybe he wasn’t exactly fond of the person he thought I was. I let it go. I also changed my pants.
Anyway, that’s the back story of Big Guy. We got to be friends, he developed sort of a crush on The Missus, ( which I also let go) and he totally took me in a game of pitchin quarters one time.
BG and KF were roomies at the time, so they both decided to roll. We went to a spot called Billy Creek, and yes, I’ve taken the liberty:
We liked to pull right up to that road, get out, and toss our lines into the honey hole. Now, this was easy to do, provided no one actually went out on the pipe. Then it made it hard to cast, and you couldn’t really catch fish. Oh, and by the way, there really was something dead wrapped up in a sheet. We never did check. I know this seems like a bad place to fish, but you could really tear up the crappie…sometimes. Mostly, it was a good spot to fish and drink, which there was none of on this particular trip. (there’s another story that involves Big Guy, about 20 beers, and a 12 gauge…)
So we get out there, get our poles out, and start not catching fish. This makes us antsy. KF and The Missus both are not capable of really just sitting still if the fish aren’t biting. They get restless. Well, The Missus decides to restless herself right out on the pipe. Now, we’d all agreed beforehand that we weren’t going to do this. But she did. This makes KF really mad. He asks why she’s out there, and to my knowledge, the conversation went something like this.
KF: “Why the hell did you go out there?”
TM: “Shut up, they aren’t biting.”
KF: “Don’t tell me to shut up, we said we weren’t gonna do that!”
TM: “They aren’t even biting, you dickhole!”
KF: “Did you just call me a urethra?”
Big Guy: “Naw man, she called ya what ya piss out of!”
This resulted in two things. One was laughter. By everyone but Big Guy…..and The Missus. I couldn’t stop laughing. It was the funniest conversation I had ever heard, hands down. Nothing had even come close.
The other thing that happened was The Missus picking up KF’s keys, and throwing them in the water, then immediately turning around, getting in our vehicle, and driving off. OFF. O-F-F.
My ride had gone, and KF’s keys were somewhere in the water. This pretty much turned laughter into not laughter. The situation had ceased to be funny, if you can imagine. I really thought we were going to have to walk home.
After some digging, we found the keys, and we just kept fishing. I wasn’t about to deal with the situation, and I knew I was in trouble. About 30 minutes later, The Missus pulls back up, and I very sadly reeled in and went on my way. She was still wicked pissed, but mostly I just blamed KF for everything.
Thanks for taking one for the team, buddy.
This is also not the only time something like this has happened when I’ve been fishing with them. Those are other stories for other days. On the plus side, I’m feeling better, and I have a doozy of a TMI story this week.
Anyways, I’m out. Gonna go watch a volleyball game, and maybe see more of that sportsmanship
So I’m sick. It’s so lame. Allergies and what not.
I also know that I told you I wasn’t going to post again till I got 25 comments on the last post, so I’m just gonna hope that y’all take care of that.
Anyway, when I’m sick, I like to eat. When I’m well I like to eat. Usually, I just like to eat. Just thought you should know that.
I decided that I was going to have some chili dogs. I heart chili dogs. I have a thing about the chili I like on my hot dogs though. I don’t like the “good” stuff. I love the 49 cents a can Hot Dog Chili Sauce. Disgusting, right? I don’t think so.
While my chili dogs were cooking, I got to reading the can. I really try not to let my eyes wonder down to the ingredient list, because really, no one wants to know what “chili sauce” is made of. As some of you may know, Wal-Mart recently changed the labels on all their cheap food. Great Value and what not. You walk in there now, it’s like a sea of blue and white labels just hit you in the face. Toss that in with a few mullets, a few sleeveless t-shirts, and a naked crying baby, and you’ll get the picture of what it’s like in my hometown Wally World.
So I’m reading the label and I come across this:
“Rich. Tasty. Guaranteed. Return the unused portion with receipt for a replacement or your money back.”
I’m gonna do my best to break this conversation down for you. I’ve worked at WM before, and I have some knowledge of how this would go.
“Hi, I’d like to return this open can of chili.”
“Ma’am, we can’t take this back, because it’s open.”
“Well, it says on the label that you’ll take it back.”
“Can I ask what’s wrong with it?”
“It don’t taste right.”
“Ma’am, it’s a 49 cent can of God knows what tossed in a can.”
“Now don’t start gettin smart with me!”
“Do you have your receipt?”
“No, I ain’t got my damn receipt. I tossed it with them bags.”
“Ma’am, it plainly says on the label that you need your receipt.”
“Well I don’t have it! I just want my money back!”
“Ma’am, excuse me, but I can’t do that. I need a receipt.”
“I WANNA TALK TO A MANAGER!”
“Okay ma’am, hang on.”
[manager enters]
“Ma’am, what’s the problem?”
“This chili don’t taste right. I want my money back.”
“Do you have your receipt?”
“No! I done told this girl I don’t haves it.”
“Ma’am, it’s open. I can’t return an open can of chili.”
“It says on the label you do!”
“Okay, ma’am, I’m not supposed to do this without a receipt, but I’m gonna make an exception in your case. Just remember your receipt next time, okay?”
“Whatever.”
[manager leaves]
Cashier: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you cash back. Would you like this on a gift card?”
Yeah… That’s pretty much how that would go. So Wal-Mart, lets just not put that on any more labels, mmmkay? I mean, seriously. I’m never going to want my money back on a 49 cent can of God knows what. I promise you this.
While we’re at it, can we just burn down the store in Muskogee? Geez. I will never go back in there again. I don’t think you needed to remodel, and your pharmacy is a box with holes cut for windows. I’ve seen better built tree houses. Give us a break.
So, I know you all hope I’ll get better soon, and I know you’ll all be wanting to send me flowers. I’d ask that in lieu of that, just send me a bunch of cans of chili sauce, hmmm?
So here’s the thing. I gripe a lot about my old high school (where I work) and I make fun of it a lot. However, a few of them get a big Classy from Travis tonight.
A few days ago, a young lady was killed in an airplane crash in Tulsa. You probably heard about it on the news, or read about it in the paper. One of my followers, Ed over at Ed’s Funny Pages, actually turned to his wife and said, “Geez, I hope it wasn’t Travis.” Thanks for that, Ed.
Anyway, the young lady that died played volleyball for the Metro Christian volleyball team in or around Tulsa. This team, still grieving the loss of their friend and teammate, showed up to play the game they had scheduled with us. That in itself gets applause from me, because that took a lot of strength to do.
One of our volleyball girls named Taryn decided that the young lady that died deserved some last respects, if you will. Our girls painted her jersey number on both of their arms, and they gave the other team a card and flowers.
I will repeat that. THE OPPOSING TEAM GAVE THE TEAM THAT LOST A TEAMMATE FLOWERS. That’s right, I typed it in caps, because they deserve it. I have never heard of this happening before in my life.
Folks, in this age of ZERO sportsmanship, parents yelling at referees, fights in the stands, and insults hurled from player to player, our girls stand tall. I cannot fully convey how proud I am of them, and they make me proud to have graduated from and to work at that school.
Here’s what I propose. I have a few readers, and a few followers. Not many, but a few. If you’ve read this post, and you think what they did was classy, I want you to post a comment. I want you to let them know how classy this was. I want to run out of room on my page for this post alone. Encourage them. Encourage THIS behavior. If you are reading this and go to school there, proudly proclaim it. Let’s do this folks. Let’s let our Lady Mustang volleyball team know how proud of them we are.
And that, my friends, is real.
(here is a link to the newspaper article that was written about them)
Editors Note: I don’t blog again until they get 25 comments at least. I really feel they should be shown this support. It HAS to be encouraged. Come on folks, let em have it.
I had one of those days at work. You know, one of those days. The kind in which you’d like to strangle most of the people that come across your path. A Limp Bizkit “Break Stuff” kind of day.
It started by my helper, met5200 not being there due to some sort of conference. So she says. I wound up giving her directions to Ted’s before the day was over, and I don’t think that was part of it. Just sayin.
Anywhat, I’m doing my thing, making some copies, (Makin COPies.) and just generally trying to get over the fact that a good portion of the kids where I work are not mentally capable of handling a copy machine. Which, by the way, is a KYOCERA. Yeah. The crappiest of any electronic device. I know, I know. You’ve had your Kyocera phone for 10 years and it’s treated you well. That’s because you’ve used it TWICE.
Enter Lady Potty Mouth. “Is the principal in?”
Me: “Yes, he is, but he’s with someone. I’m not sure how long it will be.”
LPM: “I don’t care. I’ve got all damn day.”
Me: “Ma’am, can you please not cuss in here? There are kids in this room.”
LPM: “Yeah, and they say lots worse, too.”
Me: “Ma’am, that’s not the point. They don’t need to hear it.”
LPM: “I don’t care, I’ll say what I want.”
Me: “Okay, then you can leave.”
So yeah… I kicked her smooth out….into the hallway. Where she waited. Cursing. The principal finally came out of the meeting he was in, after I’d called the superintendent, the elementary principal, the office ladies, and the elementary office. NO ONE answered their phone. No one. Apparently, I was the only person on potty mouth clean up patrol. No, I didn’t get that memo.
After she left, I talked with the principal and he basically told me that I did the right thing. That’s a good thing, right?
A couple hours later, I was subbing for a class. The kids had finished a test, and they were doing some controlled talking. Controlled talking is where they talk, and if they get too loud, I control them by yelling at them. It can be fun. We were also having a problem with staying seated. “We” is a teacher word that I’ve picked up on. It doesn’t actually mean “we,” it means “them.” So anyway, they weren’t staying seated.
To tell you the rest of this story, I need to tell you another story. I don’t always know the kids names, so often times I just give them nicknames based on what they are wearing and/or what they are doing to annoy me at the time. Example: Today I said to a young lady, “HEY! Turquoise! Shut it!” So yeah. There was a young lady in my class that would not stay seated because of something to do with her pants. She’d get up, fix her pants, and then sit back down. So of course, I nicknamed her, “Pants.”
Some of you may know where this is going. You were probably in the class.
So a kid stands up, and I’ve kind of had it, so I yell at him. It was a joking yell, everyone was laughing, and I didn’t actually MIND that he was standing up, but kids are like cattle. If you let them get away with one thing, the next thing you know, you have another school district calling and complaining that yours have gotten onto their land. I yelled, “Nathan! Down!” I also slapped the table in between words. Then, Pants stood up.
“PANTS! DOWN!”
Oh no.
Yup. I did it. I just told a teenage girl to take her pants off in a class full of witnesses. I can’t make this stuff up, folks. But here’s the great bit. This is the bees knees. This is the wasps nipples. (Like the Douglas reference?) The kid that I yelled that to?
It was the daughter of the lady I had kicked out of the office that morning.
Yup. FML. Big time.
The whole class erupted in laughter, even the girl I yelled it to. No offense was taken at all. None. It was hilarious. I even climbed under my desk for a minute to get a few more laughs. I told the principal and superintendent what I did, and they both laughed it off. Everyone knows I would never intentionally do something like that, and I am relieved. Greatly.
However, I’m almost positive I’m gonna get a visit from momma tomorrow.
You guys got my back?
Update: Yes, she did come back first thing the next morning. She was like a kitten. Didn’t even speak to me. I, on the other hand, had a very firm grip on my chair, and it had nothing to do with my hands. I was also very aware of all the exits in the room, and what could legally be used as a weapon on the desk.
**Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link so your readers cn re ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***
The Missus and I were at a friend of ours grandparents house one day, and we decided we were going to do some fishing. We went down to the dock, and the fish happened to be going crazy, and we wound up catching quite a few, so we were gone a while.
During this time, I guess our friends grandmother thought we’d be getting hungry, so she decides to make us some pizza. We saunter back into the house, on kind of a fishers high, if you will, and we wait for her to pull the pizza out of the oven.
I’m pretty sure that it was frozen pizza, but I don’t remember the specific kind. This was because she’d taken the liberty of “customizing” it for us. She’d taken whatever she could find lying around and sprinkled some of it on the pizza. My favorite though, and soon to be my enemy, was the chicken chunks.
Frozen pizza cooks at about 425 degrees for about 15 to 25 minutes, depending on the type of pizza. Frozen CHICKEN, on the other hand, usually requires deep frying, which is my personal favorite, or it needs about an hour in the oven. However, when I saw the chicken on the pizza, none of that crossed my mind.
I have a thing about textures in my mouth. (TWSS) I can’t stand fat off of a steak, or gristle off of chicken. It’s just disgusting. My gag reflex kicks in, and I can’t swallow. I just sit until I can spit it out, or if I sit there long enough, I will throw up. I also take WAY to big of bites of my food. All this wound up turning into a disaster.
She lays this pizza out, and I grab a slice. I ain’t bashful, and I ain’t chivalrous with food. I take this biggest bite I can get, but still try to be polite about it. I bite down and…….gristle. That’s what I thought at first. It was rubbery, and my teeth, activated by my gag reflex, stopped not even a quarter of the way through the bite. I got a feeling similar to what MTV gets when they realize Kayne West has shown up at one of their functions.
Here’s the dilemma. I am at a GUESTS table. An old guest. An old guest who would probably take offense at the fact that I’m going to leave the table mid bite, or spit out the contents of my overloaded mouth into a table napkin. So I sat there. Contemplating. All the while, the half chewed lump of gristle is just sitting there, kind of digesting in my saliva….just sitting there. Being gristly.
I made up my mind. I’m going to do this. It’s just gristle. I very forcefully close my jaw down all the way….
Oh my god. It’s not cooked.
I will tell you this, I manned up. It took me 10 minutes to eat that bite of pizza. Have you ever eaten a raw piece of chicken that has been sitting in your mouth for 10 minutes? Yeah… I chewed and chewed, chewed and chewed, until I thought I was going to die. I ATE that raw piece of chicken. Cold, rubbery, and chewy. I can’t tell you how hard it was. (TWSS) I wanted to cry. But I got through it, and I ate more pizza. I avoided the chicken pizza though. So did The Missus. She noticed my little problem, and I guess she decided she didn’t need that.
Our friend though? He never noticed. He at about 5 pieces of that pizza, and never blinked. Now folks, I know that wasn’t healthy. I also know it HAD to have registered in his mind that he was eating raw chicken. The only thing I can think of is that he was so USED to eating raw chicken, that it didn’t even register.
That, my TMI brethren, is how I ate a raw piece of chicken. I hope you are thoroughly disgusted. Enjoy your lunch!
I’ve had it. I’m sick of it, I’m tired of it, this is gonna keep me up nights. Would you like me to tell you what it is?
This is what it is:
Yup. I’m tired of it. It’s ridiculous, it’s racist, it’s stereotypical, and it’s wrong! What if I just had a glandular problem? What if I have really big bones? What if I got stung by a wasp a long time ago and the swelling hasn’t gone down?!?!? Should I have to pay extra for my shirts just because I may or may not have a fat ass?
Fellow fatties, today is the day we take charge. Let us rise as (a really heavy) one and combat these flat bellied shirt makers that think it takes an extra 2 bucks to make our shirts bigger! You and I both know that money is not going to that poor little 6 month old Vietnamese girl who is stitching them up for 35 hours a day! You’re still giving that little girl 2 cents an hour! With no dental! This is wrong, fellow fatties, and it has to be dealt with.
Here is what I propose. All of us fat people need to start wearing larges. Or mediums. Here is what I think will happen. Those pompous flat bellies will see our bulging out wobbly bits, and they will be so disgusted, they will eventually concede that our shirts should cost the same as theirs! This next part is not for the weak of heart or stomach. You’ve been warned.
I’ve taken the liberty of giving you an example, and I’m sorry.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go order a pizza.
(Note to reader: I really am sorry that you had to see this, but I needed to make a drastic point. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but I am proud of what the result can be. And yes, The Missus had to help me take this off.)
Y’all just thought you were gonna get outta here without a “real” blog today, eh? Not true.
I’m gonna go a ways back again tonight, back when I was about 8 or 9 years old. We went to a basketball game of my brother The Groom. He would have been 5 or 6 at the time. We were real competitive kids, as anyone at that age is. As we were leaving the gymnasium, we had to take some trash out of our minivan, and put it in the trash cans across the playground. We got to the cans, deposited our refuse, and headed back.
“Let’s race,” I said.
“Okay,” said The Groom.
Off we went! It was maybe a 200 yard dash back to the van, and I was the faster of the two for sure. (At this point in my life, I was like 6’10” and weighed 8 pounds. No lie, I’ve shrunk in height.) There was only one tiny little problem. It was getting dark. The street lights were on, and they were giving everything a funny look. I kind of slowed down to compensate, but The Groom trucked on.
In order to facilitate this victory, I was going to have to find a shortcut. Alas! The monkeybars! I know y’all remember monkey bars. Well, I saw them, saw a gap in the bars, and decided to shoot through that bad boy on my way to a win and gloating rights the entire ride home.
I have an exceptionally hard head. If I had to reference it, think maybe Wolverine (only because I just saw the movie) but not quite as hard. Some people in my life will tell you it can be much harder, but I think maybe they’re speaking figuratively. I hope.
That being said, this was the only time in my life I’ve ever seen stars.
I was back to running full speed when I hit that bar. I saw ACTUAL stars, and then promptly went out like classiness when Kayne West enters a room.
Upon being revived by my father, my hair was discovered on said monkey bar. I had hit so hard, my effin HAIR came out. I had a goose egg the size of that retarded mask thing Lady Gaga had on at the VMA’s. It was ridiculous, and to this day, I have no idea how I didn’t have a concussion. Heck, I didn’t even go to the hospital.
That folks, concludes my story of how shortcuts, no matter how attractive in the moonlight, or streetlight, are not always a good idea.
Wow. I’m deep. That totally applies to chicks, too.
I am a featured friend! Tamara over at Mad Boastings of a Cheapskate Mom has me featured today because I won a caption contest. You can check out the post here. I am so thankful to her, and she did such a great job! Run over there and see how good I look! While you’re there, stick around, you may learn a thing or two about saving money and stuff.
Also, the world lost a great actor last night, and I’ve chosen to honor him by what I believe is his finest work. Here ya go, Swayze, you will be missed. (Sorry the quality is so poor… I couldn’t find a better one.)
This is a short story about what I do for ladies.
When I was younger, I was a basketball stud. I’ve mentioned it a couple of times, and yes, I’m still proud. I enjoy playing even now, but I’m trying not to until I lose 50 pounds. For the knees.
Anyway, being good at basketball got me elected homecoming king. I’m gonna say it was being good at basketball, because lets face it, my looks really weren’t a factor. As Andy Bernard says, “Any real success I’ve had with the ladies or anything has come from my ability to slowly and painfully wear someone down.” So I was elected. My queen was named, well, The Queen. We’ll just say that. The Queen was in one of those WAY too serious high school relationships. You know, been dating since the 3rd grade, and just somehow made it through high school. Those never last, but in her case, it has. Last I read, she’s married to the guy and they have kids.
On to the homecoming. I was told before hand that I couldn’t kiss her. Apparently, boyfriend was having none of that. Boyfriend wasn’t really bigger than me, but I still didn’t wanna cause trouble. Why start something if you aren’t sure if you can win the fight, right? So I made up my mind. When I presented her with her flowers and stuff, I was going to kneel down as grandiosely as possible, take her hand in mine, and give it a big sloppy wet kiss. Maybe even with tongue. Just to embarrass her, right? Right.
So the music starts, the other people walk out, and it’s now our turn. I walk slowly across the gym to fetch her, and when I get there? SHE’S CRYING. That’s right, crying. She looks at me and sobbed, “Travis, oh god, please don’t do anything to embarrass me.”
WHAT?!?!
Who gave this chick a copy of my plans?!
So I get her arm, walk her down the aisle, and give her her flowers, and then………..I shook hands with her. That’s right. I’m the only homecoming king in the history of said kings to shake hands with his queen. I totally vajayed out. It was worthless. There was a big picture in the paper of me just shaking her hand. Worthless.
As it turns out, it’s one of my regrets. I should have kissed her. Right on the lips. I didn’t do it though, well, because I’m basically a nice guy, and a woman crying can have her way with me pretty much any day.
Oh yeah. Boyfriend? He never showed up…
Douche…
Okay… In case you haven’t figured it out from the title, I’m talking about the VMA’s. I just watched them, and all I have to say is… Not Classy. Not in any way, shape or form.
I want to get started by ripping Kayne West. Kayne, this is an honor, and obviously, since you DIDN’T WIN ANYTHING, your only honor. Why can’t you just shut the hell up? Can I ask you that personally? The next time you win something, I hope some retard can get through security and basically tell you that you didn’t deserve it. That poor girl (Taylor Swift) is like 7 years old. She’s standin up there in here dress that she didn’t get until 2 DAYS AGO, (I know because I follow her on Twitter, shut up.) and she’s thrilled to have won something, and you get up there and make a jackass out of yourself. I am sick of hearing you talk, and I hope you choke on your pride. Preferably before I have to hear you or see you again. You’re a douche, sir. Not classy.
Second is Michael Jackson. Now. He made good music. I know that. I like his music, I have some on my IPod. However. If I touched a bunch of boys, and then I died, what do you think people would say about me? Yeah… That’s right. You’re thinkin it, aren’t you? It’s probably not very nice, either. I’m just sayin. The man wrote some good music, but he was still a PERVERT. Not cool. (Iunderstand that some of you think he was innocent on them charges. That is your opinion, just like this is mine, and I respect that.)
Russell Brand? Geez, man. You clung to MJ’s name like it was a life preserver. Any time the crowd got a little riled up, you started saying Michael Jackson like it was the opening line to a Hail Mary. You’re not really that funny of a guy without writers, are you Mr. Brand? I liked you in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but that’s about it. Stop talking about Katie Perry, and stop referencing your genitalia every time you get on stage. You’re a douche, sir. Not classy.
Lady Gaga? I’ve got to admit, before tonight, I found you attractive. I also loved your music, to an extent. Can I ask you something though? Why did you have a white Christmas wreath on your face? Why did you have a mask on? Why did you have a red thing on it? Did you misread your invitation? Did someone tell you it was a costume party? Also, why did you bleed and hang yourself on stage? You brought my expectations of performing to a new low, Lady Gaga. Here’s the thing. My wife thinks you are a man. So do a lot of other people. I happen to think that when you aren’t wearing the entire nativity set on your face, you are pretty hot. So, I have to know. Do you have a wiener, Lady Gaga? Are you gonna make me question whether or not I’m gay? Also, dedicating your award to “God and the gays,” may not have been the coolest move. Not classy.
Jack Black? You’re a tool. You prayed to SATAN. I know that lots of you fancy schmancy Hollywood types don’t think he’s real. Just wait. Not classy.
Green Day. You guys rock. Keep it up.
Jay Z, you are quite possibly the coolest person on the face of this planet. I’m going to spend the next 2 weeks practicing your little “hat toss” move. That was so cool. Also, I’d like to get a camera crew to follow me around. You are a classy man, Jay Z…
…Which brings me to my next and final rant. It’s really not even a rant. Beyonce, you are by and far the classiest lady I have ever seen. Not bad lookin, to boot. I happen to like Swift’s music a little more, but that’s a personal preference. However, having her come out to say her thank yous while it was your turn for winning freakin ALBUM OF THE YEAR? Classy. Classy through and through. I wish more people could be like that, and you deserved your win. I hope your musical career continues to grow and have amazing success. If you and Jay Z have a child, it will be the coolest child on the planet, no doubt. Once again, classy.
Eminem: Classy, but in a weird, “I might kill someone if I win” way. Chill out.
Guy who wore glitter: Not classy. Kind of gay.
Kristen Stewart: Why the hell did you cut your hair?!?!? Not classy. Or cute.
Robert Pattinson: The only reason I tolerate you is because of Twilight.
Madonna: I just can’t call you classy. Ever. Not since those cone things.
2 little kids that gave Taylor Swift props: Classy. But aren’t you too young to be there?
Pink: Kinda cool, but not classy.
Brittany Spears: Is that seriously how you dance when it’s not choreographed? Not classy.
Megan Fox: I don’t know what you were wearing…but damn. You’re a cool drink of water.
Alicia Keys: One earring the size of a basketball hoop. Not classy.
MTV: Next year, can we just have 2 and a half hours of Beyonce and Jay Z? That’d be wicked cool. And classy.
That’s really all I have, folks. Just my opinions, really. I am still so pissed at that Kayne bastard. I feel like making one of those gay videos that were popular a while back where the ol dude was screamin about leaving Brittany Spears alone. I might do that. “LEAVE TAYLOR SWIFT ALONE!” Naw, I really won’t. But still.
Not classy.
I went out with The Missus last night for some sushi and a general all around good time. My tummy was rumblin for some raw fish, and I figured if I took her out, I might get loved up later. I know, I’m a catch.
Turns out, I had one of the best nights out with her I’ve ever had. We have our moods, where we just kind of play off each other, and make each other laugh all night. Last night was one of them. Of course we had some help…
I decided that I wanted to try a sushi place called In The Raw. When you click that, music plays. I didn’t know that till just now, and it scared the shiz out of me. You’ve been warned.
As you can kind of tell, it’s a classier establishment. I have my classy moments, but if you’ve read anything else on here, you know I’m not the classy type. I had on a black shirt though, so I (almost) fit in.
We get there, walk in, and for sure, you can’t even really see where you are going. It’s that dark. Looking around, I soon realized that there were basically 2 sections. Unlighted, cool people places, and lit up, uncool people places. It’s like they put the uncool people under lights to display them. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a little bit what it looked like.
Yup. We got sat right in the uncool, walled off, lighted brighter than the Democratic reasoning for socialized healthcare side of the room.
We try.
The waitress was a bubbly, retarded sort, who talked me into an appetizer that “wasn’t on the menu, but OMG it is SO good.” Yeah… It cost me $10 and wasn’t even that great. However, the best was yet to come.
We ordered our rolls, and waited about 30 minutes for them to come out. The Missus doesn’t care much for sushi, but I heart it. She went out on a limb this time though, and ordered some! I was so proud of her! During our wait, we laughed and joked about some people in the restaurant that we thought we were cooler than, and then IT happened.
The guy sitting at the table directly caddy wampus (spellcheck is LIVID that I used that word) to us shifted in his seat, and his ass fell out of his pants.
Yup. That’s right, I was staring at an ass, right in my sushi picking up line of sight. I’ve taken the liberty.
You see how this can be a problem?
I didn’t know what to do. Do I approach the guy? “Umm… Excuse me. I wore a belt tonight so people wouldn’t have to stare at my pathetic flat excuse for an ass. Could you do the same?”
Do I ask the waitress? “Umm… Excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice that the gentleman across the way is having a “pants malfunction.” Could you scurry across the way, forfeit any tip you might receive from them, and tell him about it?” I was actually about a second away from doing this, if for no other reason than to give you something funny to read, but I was threatened with divorce from The Missus if I did. Sorry readers, I’m too fat to start dating again. Plus…you know….the whole love thing.
Kid Funk says I should have thrown ice at it. Somehow, I don’t think that would have helped, but I considered it. I was at a loss. So I did what any normal blogger would do in this situation. I took a picture:
That’s right, if I had to stare at it eating sushi, you have to stare at it in my blog. Sorry folks. I’m also sorry the picture came out so lame. The Missus helped me photoshop it to get it looking as good as it did. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did whilst trying to cram $50 dollars worth of sushi down my gullet so I could just please for the love of Moses LOOK UP!
I’m gonna include a bonus conversation with Kid Funk about it.
Me: Apparently, they put uncool people under lights here.
KF: Is there a big light right above your wife..?
Me: I don’t think that’s gonna win you any brownie points with my wife.
KF: Because she doesn’t have a sense of humor…
Me: She laughed.
KF: Tell management. “Listen, just ass crack. Right in my sushi picking up line of sight.”
Me: Damn good sushi, too. I need to see if he’s gonna pay my ticket for violatin my wifes eyes.
KF: Nah man, don’t get legal. That guy would have to register as a sex offender.
Hey folks, I’ve started a new blog called “Conversations.” It will be view by invite only, and also very much not edited or censored. If you want to be able to read it, please give me your email address. This blog is a spin off of my current blog, as it will give me a place to post unedited conversations I have with my friends and family. Thanks for your time!I’ve been playing basketball with high school boys.
Don’t judge me, I’m trying to lose some weight. They only play half court, and that is a perfect amount of space for my style of game. Lazy. So I laced up the ankle brace over my business socks, (you know it’s time forbidnesscause they’re business sockseeeeeeeewwwww…) laced up the Jordans, and went out to push some kids around today.
I get out there, and there are 5 black kids, and 7 of us honks. We start to get captains going, and sure enough, one of the black kids says, “Hey! Lets just play blacks versus whites!”
Hang on a sec.
What did you just say?!? I could not believe my poor ears, and what’s more, I couldn’t believe what happened next. THE COACH ALLOWED IT. That’s right, he allowed it. I said, “I don’t know if I can take part in this.” Everyone laughed, because I am, after all, the funny guy. So I say, “Alright, I’m in, but if I get called a honky, I’m gonna sue.” A couple minutes later the game started, and all I could think was, didn’t this get struck down in a court of law already?
Wanna take a guess at who won? Or do you even need to? I kid you not though, one of the black kids said, “Why are the whites gettin all the calls, coach?” Wow. That’s like having a grenade covered in Velcro come through the window while you’re wearing your Velcro shirt. All you can do is cover your vitals, make your peace with God, and hope you make it. The coach handled it well I think, until he said, “Alright! Blacks ball!” I almost winced.
Around that time, we integrated the teams. We put a white guy on the black team. Yup. They immediately lost. All told, nothing bad happened, and actually the kids had a lot of fun. Not one word was said about race, aside from the fact that we get more fouls, and I was proud of them for it. I think it just really goes to show that racism, hopefully, is dying out. I know some would disagree, but maybe I want to be a little optimistic here. Also, I think the ability to joke about it says a lot about a person. Since I’ve jested TWICE about race on here, I think I must be the coolest person in the world.
Not to toot my own horn or anything.Don’t judge me. She was cute, and I was desperate. Are you sure you wanna read the rest of this blog?LiLu says it’s time for……***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
Okay, so I didn’t take her as a date. At all. Let me start this thing out the right way.The Missus and I were officially split up for this particular prom, but she’d already bought the dress and neither one of us had anything to do, so we went together. We had dinner, went to prom, and then I dropped her off at her house so I could go party.Yeah, I know, I’m a keeper.Anyway, Kid Funk, myself, a friend of mine who we’ll call Squints, and my cousin who was going with Squints all packed into our vehicles to head out to Four Mile Road. We get to the spot, and there really wasn’t much to do. Turns out, my cousin liked Kid Funk better than she like Squints. As it also turned out, that feeling was accelerated by alcohol consumption. As it ALSO turns out, she was the best damned drinker I’ve ever seen in my life. She walked right up to a guy, took his bottle of Hot Damn, and chugged about half of it in a single gulp. She then proceeded to drink everything Kid Funk sat in front of her, which included Peach Schnopps and Coronas.I was not much into the drinking, and I wanted to leave the party earlier. (I was a tee totaler until I turned 21. Never touched alcohol until then.) Since I was her ride, my cousin had to come with me. My drunk cousin. Since my drunk cousin was all hunched up on Kid Funk, he wanted to follow us home. (He wasn’t drinking either.) Since Kid Funk was gettin hunched on instead of him, and since Kid Funk was his ride, Squints went with The Funk.Any road named Four Mile is gonna be a winding country road. John Denver style. I get into my car, my drunk cousin gets in my car, and the first thing I say is, “Don’t throw up in my car.” She says, “I never throw up when I drink.” I think maybe all the times she’d drank, she’d stayed kind of still. I was about to take her down 2 miles of John Denver hell.We get maybe a half mile down the road, and she gives me The Look. You know the one. The one you get when you realize that maybe Hot Damn and Peach Schnopps aren’t the best combo in the world. Or maybe the look you get when a democrat is elected president… (Seriously, I’m kidding.) Either way, she gave me The Look. I rolled down my window faster than a man who’s just farted in the car on his first date. She looks out the window, looks back at me, and throws up all over my floorboard.I won’t repeat the names I called her.We got back to Squints house with no further incident, and I told her to say goodbye to her date and her hunchee. I start driving her home to her house 30 miles away, and in my rear view mirror I see lights flashing. Here I am, with a drunk COUSIN in my car, in a dress, with throw up on the floor. I’m going to jail. Turns out, it’s just Kid Funk, and he’s saying that everyone at Squint’s house thinks I should bring her back. Giving him a prompt “hell no,” I went on my way.When we arrived at her house, she was not even in a conscious state. I had to push her a few times and maybe slap her gently a couple times. I wanted to do much, much more. She woke up, opened the door, gathered her dress around herself, and passed out on her front lawn.Folks, I DROVE OFF. I left my cousin laying passed out in her prom dress on the front lawn. Call me what you want, but a man can only take so much. That’s real. I immediately went to hose out my car, and try to find a place open 24 hours to buy air fresheners.I’ve never spoken to that cousin again, or any of her immediate family. I don’t suppose I ever will. I think they should thank me though. I could have left her in that house with Squints and Kid Funk. I’m pretty sure The Funk has more class than taking advantage of a passed out prom princess, but Squints for sure woulda loved her up. I was just pertexting her honor.So yeah, I’ve taken my cousin home after prom. Wanna fight about it?“As my memory rests, but never forgets what I lost. Wake me up, when September ends.” -Green Day
September has traditionally been a bad month for me. That started 9 years ago to the day. Let me take you back a while, and in all seriousness, there probably will not be anything funny in this blog. Feel free to skip it, but if you stick around, you might learn a thing or two about me.
It’s January 2000. I’ve just turned 17, and life is good. I have either just ended, or about to end my most serious relationship to date, and that is the biggest weight on my mind. My family life is fine, aside from the annoyances of parents on my case about school and having 3 younger brothers that are always hanging around.
My dad developed a cough the previous December, and he went to go have it checked out. The family doctor, (who I’d literally gone to for 17 years) invited us into her office. “Brian, we think you might have cancer. We’d like to run some tests.” Looking back, I think she knew. I was the only child in the room, and I think she was shielding me from the future. I thank her for that to this day.
We left the doctors office and went to my church. The pastor invited us into his office, and we sat down. Neither one of my parents could say anything, they were both crying. “He might have cancer,” I said, “they want to run some tests.” I didn’t think it was that bad. My dad was the strongest person I knew. He’d beat it. Heck, I honestly believed that he might just cough it up, he was so tough. The pastor prayed with us, and we left. Such began the fastest downhill slide of my life.
Of course, he had cancer. Not just any kind of cancer, but lung cancer. Not just lung cancer, but small cell carcinoma. They caught it real early, and that helped things a lot. Once again, I believe us boys were shielded as to the extent of things. I was never invited back into another doctors office. He started chemotherapy, and what happened next, I’ll never forget. We had a tradition at our house on Wednesday nights that was called “family night.” It was not something that you could get out of. Oh, and how we wanted out of it. It was just us sitting down as a family, playing a game or reading a scripture or just talking. I would honestly give my life, if only I could have one more “family night.”
We were sitting at a family night one night, and kind of a skirmish erupted. Tempers were volatile anyway, and something was said and things got angry. My dad rubbed his head, and when his hand came down, it was full of hair. As I’ve previously said, my father was a tough man. He had been through a lot in his life, and it had hardened him. Looking at a handful of his own hair, he broke. He started crying, and couldn’t stop. I think I knew then, but I wouldn’t admit it.
I took a church youth trip to Mexico that summer, and that caused a big commotion. He didn’t want me to go, he wanted me to spend time with him. Again, I’d give my life to have that decision to make over again. The day before I left was the biggest fight I’d ever gotten in with him. I yelled at him for the first time in my life. Please don’t misunderstand, I loved my dad. I just wanted to be selfish, and honestly, if I’d have stayed, I’d have known then that he was going to die. I didn’t want to admit that.
Around the first of August he got real bad. Went into the hospital for a few weeks. I can remember driving my brothers to Tulsa every day after school, and remember thinking what a hassle that was. I was so selfish, but then again, I was a teenager. One day, they released him to come home, and I thought that meant he was going to get better.
I was wrong.
September 8th, 2000 is a day that will forever be burned into my memory banks. We woke up, and he was bad. The hospice lady was coming over that morning for pain medication, but was delayed for some reason. I can remember walking into their bedroom, my mother at his side. My once strong father had been reduced to someone who, while I was watching, tried to pick up a cup of water and couldn’t do it. I watched, crying, as my mother held it to his lips. He kept saying, “Hurry.” At the time, I thought he was wanting the pain medication to get there. Call me crazy, call me whatever you want, but I know now he was talking to God.
My father looked me in the eyes for about 3 minutes. Held my stare. Looking. Telling me without words that I was in charge now, that I needed to help my mother, look after my brothers, and carry on the legacy of the name, Sloat. I’ll never forget that amount of time. For the rest of my life, I’ll see his brown eyes pleading me to live that legacy.
I left the room, and went outside to talk to my grandfather, who was not dealing well with all of this. As I was outside, my mother and my 3 brothers went to my father and told him that he had been a great dad, they loved him, and that it was okay to go.
He took a last breath, looked at them all, and died.
I can’t describe the breakdown that occurred. My brothers came out of the house crying, and so did my mom. “He’s gone.” Folks, for those of you that have experienced it, you know what I was going through. If you haven’t, I pray that you NEVER have to.
September 8, 2000 I lost the man I want to be when I grow up.
Dad, I know you’ll never read this, and if you do, please don’t read the rest of my blog. I’ve done some stupid things, but I’ve done some good things too. Overall, I think you’d be proud of me. I married a great woman, and finally after 6 years of marriage, I think I might be getting her to like me a little bit. I know the church thing hasn’t worked out like you probably hoped, but I still love God and Jesus, and that whole bit. I’ve tried to help my mom out the best I can, and I do still keep an eye out for my brothers. I miss you like crazy, and the hurt has never really gone away. I don’t think it ever will. Little things constantly remind me about you, and every time I look in the mirror, I see you. I used to think that was a bad thing, but now I don’t mind so much. I wish you could be here. I know you’re much happier where you are. I love you.
“Every person carves his spot,and fills the hole with light.And I pray that someday I might, light as bright as he.
Woke up early, one bright fall day, to spread the tragic news.After all my travel, I settled down,within a mile or two.
I make my living, with words and rhyme, and all this tragedy.Should go into my head, and out instead, as bits of poetry.
But I say, “Daddy, I’m so afraid. How will I go on,with you gone this way? How can I come up,with a song to say I Love You?”That’s my job, that’s what I do. Everything I do is because of you.To keep you safe with me. That’s my job, you see.-Conway Twitty
Yeah… He does! Look on down my sidebar there and go follow him. It’s more a college football and beer type thing, but for sure, he’s still one funny dude. Need proof? Go read some of my conversations with him!
Things I’ve done this weekend:
Got told I couldn’t have a new TV.
Bought a new stereo and speakers for my truck.
Played golf. Shot a 102. Don’t judge me.
At 92 shrimp in one sitting at Red Lobster.
Hung out with some very interesting family members of my wife.
Watched The Matrix Reloaded. Twice.
Been generally lazy.
The best part is? I get an extra day! Yay Labor Day weekend! I may go throw rocks at the jet skiers tomorrow. That will be fun.
Excuse me, I’m gonna go poop 92 shrimp…
Today is just going to be a day of me posting a couple of different things to let you know what it’s like in my home town. I know I’ve tried to tell you, and I’ve even posted a sign that’s been up before. This is the newest sign…
Nope. You’re not imagining that. It’s for real. I could go into trying to make fun of this, but I can’t. It just speaks for itself. I asked the lady who owned the restaurant why it was up there like that, and she said, “Because they can put it up there.” Classic. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
The next thing I have to show you…
That was hanging in a tree down by my mothers house the other day. I just want to meet the kind of classy lady that would do this. “Jim, this bra is no good. I’m tossin it.” Once again, words pretty much fail me.
And finally, this little number was laying on the floor of one of the classes I subbed for today. The paper had a name on it, but I won’t be giving that out. Now I’m going to say this. Please don’t read this too hard. You will give yourself an aneurysm. That’s no good for anyone. Just kind of lightly skim over it, and then if you can handle it, read it again slower, but still pretty quick, and don’t get hung up on anything for too long.
Moviethe mexican Just attacked the Americans. young men Had to behave or something till Sarha ann to put out the son evory night for momma berrys. a boat steam down Mexico, Mexico has started the war. apparenty they was pertexting that house by the end of may somthing happen the war was over quicky the Mexican prove them wrong S troopes Soffered a second the pacific ocean stoped them many would be force to get another Identy and live under a forgin country. May is something happened.
I feel like it’s very important that you know I didn’t make that up. At all. I am honestly scared to run spell check on this. I might shut down Blogger for a while. This was a junior high student. As far as I know, none of them were “special” in any way. So…….. Yeah…… There ya go. Another brief look into my home town, and the wonderful people here.
At least she spelled Americans right. She also capitalized it. That’s a W.
“Pertexting” is now the word of the year. The rest of the year, you have to squeeze that in as many places as you can. (That’s what she said.)Look folks, I’m finally doing a TMI Thursday!
Lilu over at LivitLuvit invented this little number, and if you want to read more stories of a nasty and disturbing nature, go check out her site on Thursdays.
I was working at the jail one night, and I was in the tower, which means you are kind of forgotten about. The other employees don’t want to get stuck up there while you take a 30 minute bathroom break, so they tend to ignore your needs.
I had to pee pretty bad, because I had just drank a 40 oz vanilla coke. I LOVED vanilla coke when it came out. It was the bees knees.
Kid Funk worked at the jail as well, and he came up to relieve me for his shift in the tower. He came bearing a gift, in the form of a half liter of milk. I love milk. I was so thankful for this, that I immediately downed the entire half liter, not thinking about the soon to be disastrous consequences.
As I started the less than mile drive home, I felt the rumble. The poo siren was singing her song, and as Peter Griffen says, I knew it was gonna be a “photo finish.” I get home, unlock the door, throw my keys somewhere, and start strippin off clothes.
We had a German Shepherd at the time, who’s name was Kronos. I loved that dog, and it was a shame we had to get rid of him. Anyway, Kronos knew some basic commands, but his favorite was shake. As I blasted into the bathroom, where we kept the dog in case he had an accident, he watched with curiosity as I sat down on the toilet.
I believe the expression currently used is Assplosion.
I don’t know how many of you are capable of taking a poo and NOT peeing at the same time, and Kid Funk and I are of the opinion that no one can. Except ladies. Ladies don’t poo. Anyhow, when I sat down on the toilet, I didn’t make sure that…ahem…everything attached to my body went…ahem…in.
So there I am dropping the kids off at the pool, and I turn loose the fountain. ALL OVER THE DOG. That poor dog did not know what happened. He yelped, and ran around in circles for a minute, appropriately upset. I pinched it off after getting some on the shower curtain, and got everything tucked away.
Kronos, still looking rather confused and wet, walked right back in front of me and sat down. I was thoroughly exhausted. I couldn’t move, it had drained the life right out of me. I looked at Kronos and I said, “Help me, Kronos.” He looked right into my eyes and lifted his big ol paw in a shake gesture.
Man I miss that dog.
Hope you enjoyed this rather humiliating and nasty story, and if you are a close relative and reading this, please just avoid eye contact with me from here on out. I’m totally kidding, but lets not discuss this one around the dinner table, eh? Thanks.