What’s cool about working in an office?
Well, the secretary always falls madly in love with a salesman, there is a funny nerdy guy that likes beets, and your boss is a hapless but well meaning idiot that never should have been promoted.
Lets see if
can confirm that for us. You see the big letters? Click on those, and that will take you to her wonderful land of hilarity and something called “Manic Mondays” which really gets in the way of my Memoirs!
Go check her out, and see if you can get her under the desk with you like I did.
Good day fine followers of Travis!
I think this is the first time I have ever been asked to guest blog, which is an honor unto itself, but to be asked by Travis, well, that is beyond words(insert kissass cough here).
Things you should know about me:- I write about working in an office because one of my writing teachers always said to write about what you know- Before I worked in an office I was a butcher. Yes, a butcher. As in someone who cuts up animals. Best. Job. Ever.- I love lists, as is evident by me creating this list- I live outside Chicago which is the best city in the world, hands down. And don’t even mention the Cubs to me. I don’t watch minor league baseball.- I have a degree in Creative Writing which I prefer to call a B.A. in BS.- I play trivia at an Irish pub on Tuesdays and my team won tonight, which means I am in an awesome mood.
And since I write about working in an office, I thought I would share with you some tips for surviving in an office:
1) Never mess with the coffee. If it’s empty, make a fresh pot. That way you can ensure your co-workers won’t shiv you with a letter opener when they are low on caffeine.2) Forget everything you have seen on TV and in the movies about working in an office. About 90% of that stuff would not only get you hauled down to the HR office but would most likely get you fired.3) Bake. It doesn’t matter if it is from scratch or a box, but baked items make co-workers happy.4) Always make a to-do list and cross things off it. It will be a visual reminder to those who see it how awesome you are.5) Get a stressball. You’ll need it. Because nothing relieves stress like throwing things around the office.6) FYI – You can never have too many calendars.7) Keep your computer passwords where co-workers can find them so when you are out of the office they can access your files and leave you alone.8) Take every single sick day possible. I sometimes come down with a disease on balmy spring days that can only be cured by a trip to the zoo.9) Hang out with the people you work with outside of the office. You don’t really know the people you work with until you have tossed back a few or gone on the run Thelma & Louise style.10) Blog about it. But remember, while the 1st amendment protects freedom of speech, it doesn’t protect you from pissed off co-workers who don’t find your comments about their smelly lunches or poor wardrobe choices flattering.
So that’s it people. A little looksee into my world. I’d love for you to stop by Asleep Under My Desk and read more about the exciting lives of office workers. If you promise to keep reading I’ll promise to keep writing.
~ The Office ScribePart I, click here.
Part IIConfusion in Strength
I had no idea it would be like this. The changes that I’m going through are unreal. Today I had my first semi-real meal in 4 days. I just haven’t wanted food much. I’m losing weight, but I feel better. My reflexes keep improving, my muscles are getting stronger, and I am getting faster.
I used to have diabetes. I may still have it. The thing is…I can’t give myself insulin shots anymore. The needle just breaks the second I try to push it into my skin. I’ve been squirting the insulin down the drain so my wife won’t catch on. I don’t feel like my sugar is high, but I can’t test it because the same thing happens when I do a finger prick. I’ve done a lot of things to try to make myself bleed. I’ve used knives, guns, rocks, and anything I think of that would break the skin. I…I put my arm under a train that was moving the other day… After almost derailing it, I decided it was a bad idea.
I crushed my BlackBerry by pushing in on the trackball. I threw it in a creek and told my wife I accidentally dropped it in the water while I was fishing. I’ve had to be a lot more careful with electronics.
Am I done changing?
Some of you may be wondering when my last act of heroism was. It was yesterday, and it wasn’t heroic at all. But it is the only need that I’ve seen. My brother needed help moving, and he had to leave at one point to go get a delivery to the new house. I loaded every thing in the trailer while he was gone, and I did it all within the time it took Caroline Spines’ “Sullivan” to play on my iPod. I carried the washer and dryer out by myself…one in each hand. He has a gun safe full of guns that weighs close to a ton. I picked it up like an empty laundry basket. When he came back, he asked me how I’d done it, and I told him I’d used the dolly.
He knows I’m lying. Maybe it was the light finger impressions on the top of each machine. I tried to be careful, and I had to blame it on the dolly somehow. Lying has become second nature to me. No, I’m not lying, I’m hiding. That’s it, I’m hiding.
His first child was born last week, and she was my first niece as well. When I saw her, my life changed. Something clicked in my brain, but I couldn’t figure it out. A few days later, I held her, and now I know. I am changing so that I can protect her. My job is clear. I don’t know how I am supposed to protect her, but I know that is my job. In the meantime, I am writing her a book. It will be her very own children’s book, and one copy will be published. To date, it is my greatest achievement.
Right now I have to work out a lot to make it look like my weight loss and strength are resulting from that. Every morning I wake up and something is different. Heck, even my sexual nature is changing. I made love to my wife 6 times the other day. That hasn’t happened since our honeymoon. She acted annoyed, but the look on her face told another story. She looks at me differently. Although I try not to show my strength around her, sometimes the reflexes show up. I was getting ice out of the freezer two nights ago, and I dropped a cube on the floor. Only it never made it. I had the cup on the ground in a millisecond, and the ice rattled into the glass. When I looked up, she was watching me… I played it off as luck, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.
I am watching very closely for my next ‘mission.’ I don’t know if I should go looking for them, or if they will come to me. I think I am ready though. If I need to go out and find them I will, but I don’t have a lot of money to spend on gas. These changes haven’t come with a pay raise, and I don’t think I should enter any strength competitions. My blood might not show drugs in my system, but it might show something else I don’t want discovered. I like my normal life.
I’ve done some studying on Superman. Born on Krypton, he was sent here by his parents before their planet was destroyed by an evil super computer. He is a hero. He can fly. His power was affected by the sun and something called kryptonite. He shot lasers out of his eyes. His breath was super cold. He worked for a newspaper and dated someone named Lois Lane.
I can’t fly. My strength is here on cloudy days, and I have never seen a piece of glowing green rock. I don’t have lasers, and my breath may be bad when I wake up, but it isn’t cold. I have a blog, but that is the extent of my writing, and my wife is not a reporter with a penchant for getting into trouble.
I know Superman doesn’t exist.
But I do.
And I will be a hero.
Have you entered my lamp giveaway yet? Click this sentence to do it! You could win…A LAMP!(Hey y’all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I’d be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I’ll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)
Some of you may be shocked to hear this, but I was not really a popular guy in high school. If you had to class me, I’d probably have landed squarely in the middle, as so demonstrated by this senior class picture.
What’s that ladies? A close up? Well hell yeah I can do a close up.
Ring on, arm on the knee, gut sucked in, that’s the pose. Don’t hate. I was way cooler than you, and I dated your wife. She totally made out with me.
However, while I didn’t fit in any one clique, I was pretty much friends with everyone. I could wander from group to group, having something to say to everyone, and making every person laugh.
I was also a basketball player.
Flaming balls. Yeah. I was WAY cooler than you.
I was legit, son. I scored almost a thousand points in two seasons, and I was MVP my junior and senior year. I could take pictures of all my various accolades and achievements, but trust me; the blog doesn’t have room.
“The greatest thing about me is my humility.” -Will Smith. (& Travis Sloat)
All basketball players have to practice. At least the good ones do. If you’re Kentucky, you can play ball on sheer talent without working hard, but you see where that gets you, under 50% from the free throw line and a humiliating bus ride back to NBA draft after West Virginia makes shooting 3 pointers look as easy as dunking on a kid goal.
Anysuck, back to my practicing.
It was a light practice day, and I had decided to try my luck behind the 3 point line before the bell rang. I only made three or four from behind the arc during my illustrious high school career, and those were pretty much all luck.
In walked Kara. Kara was a breathtaking young thing that I had a typing class with. The typing class I took that had nothing but freshman girls in it. The typing class that was the best class I ever took.
So Kara walks into the gym, and on a whim I shout out, “Hey! If I make this, can I get a kiss on the cheek?”
“Oh Travis, you’re so funny… Yeah…”
I shanked it. She walked off, and I tried again the next day. I kept trying until I made it. Then I got my kiss on the cheek, and it was glorious. This of course made me shoot the long ball with wild abandon anytime she was in the gym.
One day I got brave. I asked her for our usual deal, then I insisted that she wait until I made it. I made the shot, and she moved in for the kiss.
As she did, I quickly turned my head so that my lips were facing hers dead on.
As she pressed her lips to mine, time stopped. It was a magical moment. I was kissing Kara, the cutest freshman there was. I’m pretty sure a rainbow sprouted up, and no telling what else sprouted as well. Butterflies flew by. A light breeze came up…
The rainbow went away, and so did any other condition caused by the glorious moment. Turns out the light breeze was stirred up by her hand heading towards my face. My ear was ringing and the whole side of my face was numb. She slapped me so hard I actually think I went blind in one eye for a few minutes. Out of the two times I was slapped in high school, it was definitely the worst.
Was it worth it?
Hell yes it was worth it. That was the single greatest three point shot I ever hit.
P.S. I saw you in Mazzio’s the other day, and it made me think of this story. If you ever read this, I just want to say that I’ll never apologize for it. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me!
Other Non-Slapped 3 Point Shots At Life This Week: (GO READ THEM!)
Joey’s Memoir Monday: My Writing Peaked In The 5th Grade.
Micki’s Memoir Monday: My First Black Eye.
Shany’s Memoir Monday: How To Scare The Living Sh*t Out Of Your Mother.
Angel’s Memoir Monday: About My Daddy.
Do you really love the lamp, or are you just saying it because you saw it?
Hell yes I started a giveaway post with an Anchorman quote.
Anyway, these folks over at www.csnlighting.com stores decided my blog was just right for one of these giveaway things I’m always hearing about and sometimes try to win. They gave me the choice between taking something myself and doing a review, or letting y’all try to win something. Being the unselfish guy I am, I chose to let you win something.
The Missus is PISSED.
You see, she wanted some tables, and now she’s not getting those tables. You are getting a lamp instead. But before I go linking anything, I have to link this first.
How many of you could really use some track lighting fixtures?
Just raise your hands, then put them back down on your mouse and click that link. They’ll get you all fixed up.
So anyway, on to my giveaway.
I’m going to give you this lamp.
Here are the rules.
You are going to get one entry per comment on this post. You can submit multiple comments.
You will get 2 entries for following my blog.
You will also get 1 entry if you follow me on Twitter @tstyles77
If the comments go over 100, the person with the 100th comment will get 5 entries.
If you blog about this post and link it to mine, you’ll receive 5 entries.
Be sure you let me know in the comments that you followed me on Twitter and what your Twat name is. If you blog about the giveaway, then post the link in the comments. I won’t cap the number of entries you can receive! Blow me up, blog bitches!
The winner will be chosen from a random number generator site next Thursday, and I’ll announce the winner next Friday.
That’s like a $50 lamp, y’all. Who knows, maybe it will lead you down the path of well lit-ness? Or it could one day let you read a book by me if I ever get one published. Or you could cover it with a soft pink sheet and seduce your lover for a night of marathon love making. The possibilities are endless.
Actually, I don’t recommend that. I recommend NOT putting pink stuff on lamps. I knew a guy, his nickname was “Crispy.”
Wow. I’ve turned this giveaway post into a post about sex and burn victims. Who knew?
What I do recommend? Gettin busy with the entries.
Go. No. It’s not about Obamacare.
It IS about me being a horrible blog buddy this week.
I haven’t been posting, I haven’t been commenting near as much as I should be, and I haven’t been reading all of you.
That’s my bad, but you won’t get an I’m sorry out of me.
“Why? Why won’t you apologize you fat lazy bastard? You come around here with your funny and droll comments, get all my readers hooked on them, and then just disappear?! I won’t tolerate it! I am going to cut your blogs throat!”
Calm down, killer. You want to know why?
Well, because of this:
That’s right, that’s my niece, Briley Ann. The absolute most cutest baby ever, and yes, that includes your baby. And your damn cat. Your cat doesn’t count. It’s not cute. It’s sad. And you’re sad.
So anyway, I won’t apologize.
However, I will say thank you.
Thank you for your prayers, your good thoughts, your well wishes, all of it. Because of your support and the support of SO many people, Briley came through surgery like a champ, and she’s going to wind up getting to go home earlier than expected. Instead of 4 weeks in the hospital, they think it will just be a week if she will “latch.”
That’s nipple talk.
Yeah. I still threw a little TMI Thursday action at you.
I’ll be back with an official giveaway post tomorrow, and you’re gonna love me for it. Especially if you love light.
Now excuse me, I have to show everyone in the school these pictures. So.
What’s cool about
Well, isn’t it obvious?
1. She spells theater the wrong (right) way.
2. She’s a friend of mine.
3. She’s guest posting on my blog!
So here it is, with no further ado, and oh, by the way, click on her name up there and go check her out. You’ll be glad you did, I think she’s about to give some shit away on her blog!
I’m going to talk to you today about two of my nemeses. One, is the bikini. The other, is The Hill.
The first I’m sure you’re all familiar with. Two small items of clothing that look remarkably similar to women’s underwear (though sometimes they have even LESS fabric…which I’m not sure how that is humanly possible) that ladies wear during the summer to go swimming. Most ladies. Not this kid. As far back as I can remember that little item of clothing has evaded me. Taunting me with cute patterns and bright colors, while I continue to shop in the “big girl” section of modest one pieces and tankinis with boy shorts in dark, drab prints. Now, just to be clear, I am not a huge individual, but I am also not a small one. I am, what I like to call, fluffy. And all that fluff is what is keeping me from my summertime ambitions of frolicking around in next to nothing like the rest of my average-sized friends. I mean, sure, I *could* wear one. But I would like people to keep down their lunch when I was at the lake, you know? Nothing says summertime like the fat roll of a chubby girl poking out of a swimsuit strap!The second point of contention is this one particular hill near the summer theatre I work for. The compound where we live isn’t far at all from the theatre where we meet every morning. Most of the company walks. I drive. Why? Because between me and my destination, lies, The Hill. I’m not talking about a normal hill. I’m talking about a “stairs built in because it’s too steep otherwise and causes mild cardiac arrest” kind of hill. I’ve faced it before. Many times. It’s always defeated me. Walking down is a piece of cake (because hey, gravity!), but the going back up part, well, that’s just torture for me (because again, hey, gravity!). I start out all optimistic and think, “Yeah, this isn’t so bad! Look at me!” and by the time I get to the top I’m a sweaty, gasping for air and thinking, “OMG! No one look at me! I’m gross! On second thought, could you carry me the rest of the way?” I have yet to find a taker.
This year will be my fourth summer facing The Hill, and I plan to defeat it! I’m also 25 and would like to make the summer of my 25th year one in which I can wear a bikini. Maybe even while running up said hill. Hey, dream big right! So in preparation of these milestones I’ve been power walking/jogging 2 miles a day, and I also bought a Wii fit. I just sort of pick all the pre-set routines and go for an hour, and let me tell you, I am sweating like a fat girl on prom night when I’m done. The WII wears me out folks. That’s just plain sad. I’m also trying to do Jillian’s 30 Day Shred, but ya know, some days I just don’t want to feel like my lungs are going to collapse.At any rate, I have two months. We’ll see what happens. I’m absolutely determined to get up that hill with my bikini if it kills me! Which it very well might. But at least I’ll have on cute swimwear.(Hey y’all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I’d be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I’ll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)
For those of you who aren’t graced enough to be following my 140 character assaults on basketball teams I don’t like, lentil tacos, and basketball teams I don’t like that I call my Twitter page, I will update you on some things now.
Last week sometime I decided to go try out for The Biggest Loser. They were holding auditions in Oklahoma City on Saturday, and I thought, “Eh, what the hell. I’m pretty fat, and I have previous TV experience.” So I decided to make the 2+ hour drive over and see what I could do.
Then, on Friday night, THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, the Blizzard of 10 hit Oklahoma. For those of you who aren’t familiar, a blizzard in Oklahoma is anything from light sleet, all the way up to 1 inch of snow. Anymore than that, and we start making plans for Jesus coming back.
Either way, it hit. I had my alarm set for 4:15 AM, and when it went off, I damn near threw the clock against the wall. I hit the snooze, set the alarm for 6:15, and went back to sleep. (The original plan was to be at the casting call by 7 AM so that I could be first in line when they opened the doors at 10.)
What wound up happening was that I set my clock to 6:15, not the alarm. So when I woke up at 10:15 AM (8:15) I was pretty wound up. I soon figured out the correct time, and we picked up Kid Funk and made our way to the city.
The trip up was pretty uneventful, although Kid Funk and The Missus will both tell you I was in a bad mood until I had breakfast. (Blood sugar much?)
When we rolled into the Coca Cola event center, The line didn’t seem very long. I got there about noon, and the casting call was supposed to shut down around 6. We hopped in line, and I filled out my application.
The next 6 hours of my life were filled with 3 things.
1. Making fun of fat people while they listened.2. Watching fat people make the McDonalds next door very profitable.3. Watching college hoops on the big screens.
I’ve taken some pictures, and I’m sorry for the amount, but they are all really pretty funny. The long and short of it was, I waited for 6 hours, finally made it back to the room, got sat down at a table with ten other fatties, they interviewed us in a group, and they told us they would do call backs that night.
I never got a call back. Truth be told, I don’t think I was fat enough, if you can believe that. There were some HUGE people there, folks. And really, all I could think about when I left was, NOT ONE SINGLE FART WAFTED UP MY NOSTRILS. The entire time, thousands of fat people, and not one time did I sniff a fart. I was amazed. We’re a classy demographic.
On the way home, my car hit an icy spot on a bridge, and tried to go into a spin. Kid Funk shit himself, and The Missus almost threw up, but for sure, I pulled out of it like a champ. That was the end of trying to drive the speed limit, and we made great time on the way home, with a 2+ hour drive taking almost 4 hours.
Would I do it again?
You’re damn right I would.
So here are the pictures, along with some captions to make your Monday more enjoyable.
Fact: Fat people WILL tear up the place trying to get AC.
This fucking idiot DRUG a chair around the ENTIRE FIVE HOURS!
Again. I don’t think she knew they actually make you exercise on the show…
This is Deputy Dan. Deputy Dan almost tazed me, and then yelled at us to “STOP MOVING CHAIRS AROUND OR I WILL RUIN YOUR CHANCES TO BE ON THE SHOW!”
More McDonalds… AND CAMO! Does anyone see a pattern here? (You gotta give me that pun.)
You’ll notice I kept getting photo bombed by a guy in a yellow shirt. Turns out, he was a hell of a nice guy, and I’m not just saying that because he asked for my blog address. Big guy, if you’re reading this, I hope you and your lady got on.
Making out with each other in line though?
Save that shit for the reinforced bed in the hotel.
Other Non-Fatty Filled Lines To Memory Lane: GO READ THEM!
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: Damn Yankee
Corrie’s Memoir Monday.
Josh’s Memoir Monday: My Kind Of Music.
Micki’s Memoir Monday: This One Time, In An Airport Bathroom… ***ROOKIE***
“IF YOU DON’T TRANSFER ME TO SOMEONE WHO CAN DEAL WITH THIS PROBLEM AND GET ME MY MONEY TODAY, I WILL DO EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO MAKE SURE THAT YOUR COMPANY REMEMBERS FOREVER THE MONTH THEY SPENT SCREWING TRAVIS SLOAT.”
Not bad, eh?
Those words, spoken towards the immediate end of a rather unfruitful conversation with a DirecTV associate, both shocked and surprised me.
I mean, it sounded like something Will Smith would say right before he shot some lasers at a few aliens and saved the planet.
“Yes sir. Just hold on.”
So then I got to speak to Angie. And no, her name hasn’t been changed.
Angie decided that she was going to take a different approach. She wasn’t giving me my money back today, but she put her job on the line and gave me a cut and dried answer. Then she offered me 3 free months of Starz, because lets face it. Nothing will calm a worked up fat guy down faster than watching 6 year old movies all the time with a new one on Saturday nights.
Well, cheese does it too.
Anyway, the topic of Facebook came up. I think it happened when I apologized for yelling at her, and I told her that I’m a lover not a fighter, and that I’d rather be friends on Facebook and make her laugh.
Then she asked me if I played Farmville, and I said hell no.
Then she admitted that she hated Farmville but played Mafia Wars, and so I expressed my disappointment.
Then the topic turned to my blog about Facebook/Myspace, and I found out that she vlogs on youtube a lot.
I told her I would check her out, she said she would check out my blog, and the call ended before I could even verify a second time that I actually had Starz or that I would get my money.
The value of a new blog follower? Yeah, I found that out.
I’ll let you know if I ever see it again.
That’s right, Briley Ann Sloat was born last night at around 6:30 PM, to my brother Brad and his wife Nicole. She was 7.3 pounds big, and that was being 4 weeks early. She is a ginger kid, and skin so clear you can see her insides like a glowfish, so it was fitting that she was born on St. Patty’s Day.
I don’t have any pictures yet I just got a picture, and you can confirm for yourself that she is the most beautiful baby girl in the entire world.
Now the tough part.
I haven’t said much, because I really don’t like all the fuss that goes into announcing this kind of thing on your blog. But here’s the deal. Briley was born with a tumor. They’ve known about it for a long time. Fortunately, this tumor is benign. It’s also not on her back like they thought it was, so there has been no infusion with the spine. It’s about the size of a softball though, and it’s on her little leg.
However, they have to take this tumor off little Briley today, and it will require a surgery. This means that at one day old, my baby niece is going to go under the knife.
I know some of you believe in prayer. I know some of you don’t. I know some of you believe in well wishing. I know others don’t.
All I ask is that whatever you do to pass along some good to others, do it for my baby niece today. Prayers, thoughts, wishes, right down to a certain way you tie your shoes or a lucky pair of underwear that you put on. Send it all her way. If you want to call up your church folk and put her on a prayer list, that’s fine. If you think that saying her name while looking at a rainbow coming out of horseshoe is the trick, then do it up. I’m not picky, and I respect how you do things.
Also, any comments that are left today will go in a card to the new family, so in a way, my blog family gets to say hi to my real family, if that’s something you want to do.
The surgery starts at 11. That’s where I am today, but I have my phone and I will get your comments and your well wishes, and for that, I thank you.
Thanks again to all those who heaped congrats on me yesterday via Twitter and Facebook! I love you all, and have a great day!
What Would Superman Do?A short story by Travis Sloat
I’ll never forget the day I found out…
It started like a normal day. I didn’t eat anything special, I had iced tea and an orange for breakfast, leftover meatloaf for lunch, and I wasn’t struck by lightning anytime during the day. I didn’t come across any glowing stones, I wasn’t hit by a meteor, and I didn’t have anyone insert anything into my body. I am a normal guy. I work from home. I’m a writer, actually. I’m a bit on the husky side…well, I’m fat. If you want to get just brutally honest, I’m fat. I have a wife, we’ve been married about 7 years, with no kids. I have 3 brothers. My father is dead of cancer, my mother has been re-married and divorced. I live in a small town. I graduated 7th in a class of 38. I am…normal.
And yet I’m not. Not anymore.
It was raining that day. The day I found out. The day my life changed forever. The sheets of rain were pouring out of the sky with the grim determination of flooding the world a second time, and it looked as if it might succeed. The lightning sheared air from air, producing peals of thunder that rivaled bomb blasts in intensity and suddeness. I know you’re all wanting to know what happened, and you’re tired of waiting. I just want everyone to know how normal I was before I tell you how it all went down. I feel like if you know how plain I was, you’ll believe me, even though I don’t believe it myself. I think my ordinariness somehow justifies the end result, so you can see that I didn’t have any idea that it could happen. I drive an old truck. It gets the job done, but it will never win any beauty contests. The one thing about my truck that I love the most is a license plate on the front of it. It is a Superman license plate. My mom bought it for me soon after I got the truck. Strangely enough, the license plate has affected my life more than I care to admit. To me, it’s a badge of honor. Some people wear WWJD bracelets, I have my Superman license plate. I don’t consider it sacriligeous to ask myself, “What Would Superman Do?” That plate is beat up and scratched and faded, but I refuse to take it off, because somehow, its made me a better person. So today, when I saw the car stalled on the highway, I drove by feeling guilty. It’s raining, I just got back from a meeting with a publisher, I’m in nice clothes, and I’m ready to get home. Another quarter mile down the road, and I’m slowing down, putting on the turn signal, turning around, and heading back to scene, because truthfully, that’s what Superman would do. He would help, and so should I. The song on the radio was Gangsta’s Paradise by Coolio. As I pull back up to the car, the lyrics are pounding in my head, and I’m rapping along. The rain hasn’t let up at all, and I am pretty upset that I’m going to receive a thorough soaking. I hop out of my truck, and walk up to the car. It’s a Honda Civic, purple, windows tinted an illegal shade and an older model. As I approach the car, I hold my thumbs up in a harmless gesture, trying to ask if everything is okay, hoping the driver will wave me off so I can turn around and say, “Oh well, I tried,” and go home and eat something. There are two passengers in the car, both young ladies. They look alike, and I later found out they were sisters. The car is on a narrow highway, not much traffic, but no shoulder, so it’s dangerous in the rain. I wave hi, then ask if they need any help. I thought I could help them push the car out of the way, but I quickly see the blowout. Pushing is out of the question. The tire is going to need to be changed, but that’s not something that can be done on the soft shoulder of the road. Realizing they need more help than I could give, I offered them a ride. For being strangers, they accepted very quickly. I think they were tired of sitting in the rain. They were very grateful, and offered to give me gas money, which I refused. Superman wouldn’t take gas money. I started to help the ladies out of the car, and that’s when it happened. Two cars, both driving way to fast for the conditions, came up on us quick. There was no way they could stop in time. The passenger sister screamed a warning and jumped into the ditch on the side of the road, which left me and the driver standing next to the car when it was rammed from behind by the first car. The music in my truck had changed. The song now was “Bright Lights” by Matchbox 20. I don’t know why I remember that. As the first car ran into the back of the Civic, the car behind them was swerving into the lane the driver and I were in, trying to scamper across the road out of the path of destruction. They were going to hit us. It was unavoidable. I grabbed the driver with every intention of throwing her to the side of the road out of danger. I spun around, and I felt the car impact on my spine. It didn’t hurt. That was understandable though. My spine had most likely been snapped, and I probably wouldn’t feel pain if I was paralyzed or even dead. I couldn’t figure out why my eyes were still registering images and why I could almost count the raindrops as they fell down. I was aware that I had the driver in my hands, and I was aware that I was flying through the air, but it was all so slow, so painfully slow. I don’t know when I realized that I was going to land the fall. I was about 25 feet from the car that hit me, and I was about 10 feet in the air, and I had time to get my legs underneath me. I thought that was very strange. Cradling the driver in my arms, I remember seeing how wide her eyes where when I dropped to the pavement, one knee down, in a crouch that resembled something you see in the movies. In the end, the passenger was killed from the car being pushed onto her in the ditch. Her name was Stephanie. The drivers of both cars were killed instantly. I don’t know their names. It was in the papers, but I didn’t read the papers. By the time the ambulance was called, I was back at my truck with the driver, and she still hadn’t said a word. The car that hit me was in a ditch with a badly destroyed front end. I destroyed the front of that car. Go ahead and make your fat jokes, but I’m glad the ditch took the blame. Trying to explain it all would have been too much. I concocted a cover story and told it to the cops, the paper and my wife, but I don’t even remember it now. Luckily for me, the driver, whose name was Tracy, was in some sort of shock and wasn’t talking. She’s currently recuperating in the local hospital, and she’s still not talking. She recognizes me though, and I think she knows what happened. So here’s my problem. For obvious reasons, this can’t be published during my lifetime. The world would not behave like they do in a comic book. They would want to test me, they would hound me constantly, and let’s face it, I don’t look good in a spandex disguise. They would want to know my limits. But how indestructable am I? Was this a one time thing? I don’t have answers, and I don’t want to be killed by someone trying to find out. I don’t want to fight wars for my country. I want my life. I want a child. I want the comfort of a small town. But is that selfish? My vision has improved the last couple days. My hearing has gotten better. My reflexes have gotten faster than I care to admit. I picked up my wife’s car the other day. I’m still fat, though. I did something stupid today to push my limits in the indestructable category. That’s the one area I’ve been scared to press my luck. But I did. You see, I own a Stevens Savage 12 guage shotgun. It was a gift from my dad on my 16th birthday. I used that gun today. I used it…on me. 3 times. The first time was on my big toe. The second time was in the gut, and the third time was with the barrel pointed right at my forehead. And it turns out, bullets don’t hurt me either. I lie here in bed tonight, typing this, listening to “All The Small Things” by Blink 182, with my wife laying beside me. She doesn’t know it, but she’s the most protected person in the whole world. You see, I still haven’t told her. That’s a small problem, and I’ll figure out the best way to tell her eventually. The real problem is…
What would Superman do?
(Hey y’all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I’d be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I’ll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)
Since Easter is right around the corner, and since I can’t see a peanut butter egg without thinking about this story, I’ve decided to finally get it out there for the world to hear.
My brother Brad (The Groom) and I shared (and still share even though I’m a diabetic and can’t have any unless it’s sugar free and that gives you the hot poops) a mutual love for candy. However, there was not an abundance of candy when we were growing up, because my parents didn’t want us to get fat.
Anyway, candy was a rarity. It was precious. It was never wasted. If that meant we had to lick a wrapper to get a couple more tastes of that Butterfinger, well, we did what we had to do.
Halloween was a favorite time of the year, because we were able to go to the church social, play some games, and stock up on enough candy to last us almost a week.
Another favorite time? Easter. This was because we had REALLY cool grandmothers. Still do. But back then, one of our grandmas would give us an…EASTER BASKET! This was always a wonderful thing, and we loved it.
However, one year, it got real.
My grandmother decided to get us just one piece of candy that year, and when she told us, we were incredibly disappointed. Then we saw it.
It was the biggest peanut butter filled chocolate egg we had ever seen.
We almost lost it right then and there. We were so excited. We were on top of the world! This was the coolest Easter EVER!
You know…because of the candy. Oh. And Jesus.
So we ate on those things.
And we ate on them.
And we ate on them.
Are you seeing the pattern here?
Folks, I’m not lying to you when I tell you that we ate on these eggs for at least two weeks. TWO WEEKS. It was almost as if it were a chore. We’d come home from school, clean our room, eat some egg, do our homework, and then we could have free time.
It. Was. Awful.
After the first 3 or 4 days, it didn’t even taste good anymore. However, we couldn’t throw them out. That was even more unthinkable than continuing to eat them. It would have been heresy, plus I honestly think my parents enjoyed seeing us suffer.
To this day, I can’t eat peanut butter that tastes like the stuff in that egg. If I so much as smell it, I get sick to my stomach and I just want to puke. The only peanut butter egg I’ll eat is a Reeses, other than that, I won’t touch them.
I told Brad that I was going to tell this story and I asked him for a quote. Here was kind enough to provide me with one.
“That thing was the size of a freaking basketball, not an egg, and I swear I vomited like 12 times one year after eating that conglomerate of commodity peanut butter and stale chocolate. But we were poor and we would never throw away candy, so we ate it even if it did make us sick every year.”
I told you so. You have your own special code of ethics. We have ours.
Sloat Rule #2: Never throw away candy. Even if it makes you vomit and hate commodity peanut butter.
Other Non-Peanut Butter Filled Bites Of The Memory Egg: (GO READ THEM!)
Lauren’s Memoir Monday.
Ed’s Memoir Monday: Before Alzheimer’s Sets In.
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: In Memory Of Stupid.
Angel’s Memoir Monday: Prom Nightmares.
Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She wants me to do something “wholly unclassy” every Thursday, and I do my best to oblige her. If my contribution doesn’t question your faith in humanity, then click that picture of those two old people having way more fun than you did last night.
Today’s story is about poop, because I know you sick bastards love poop stories the most.
A lot of you don’t know, but I used to work with some special education students. It was not a fun job, but it wasn’t because of the students. It was the teachers I worked with. They were double crossing, back biting little rumor spreaders, and they hid it all under the guise of being exuberant, bible thumpin, pray over the kids everyday and speak in some tongues and try to see who can “outpray” the other others Pentecostals.
The schedule worked on a rotation. Each day, each person would get a rather tough kid to deal with, and a relatively easy kid to deal with. You did things like take them to lunch, get them ready for naps, play games with them, annnnnnnnnnd………..bathroom time.
If I told you to guess my least favorite time, it wouldn’t take very long before one of you raised your hand and said, “Mr. Sloat? I think it’s bathroom time.”
And then I’d put a gold star next to your name, pat you on the back, and send a report card home to your parents telling them that you liked to participate in class.
One day, we all smelled something.
That’s right. THAT something.
We had a shitter. A search was made around the room, and come to find out, the shitter was MINE.
He hadn’t just taken a normal sized dump in his pants, he had something the texture and color of really loose chocolate gravy running all the way down his legs, into his shoes, and into a sort of poop puddle around him.
I told him not to move as I e Coli proofed myself. Gloves, mask, the works.
Luckily the kid kept a spare set of clothes with him at all times. I walked him to the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet, told him to finish up, and I started working on cleanup. A couple minutes later, I was done, I walked back in the bathroom, had him get up, observed that there was NOTHING in the toilet, and started cleaning up the kid.
I got him all cleaned up, and we put his new, clean and fresh pair of whitey tighties on. As I stood there, looking at his clothes trying to figure out how best to get him dressed, I see it.
A little tendril of brown winding it’s way down his leg like a muddy tributary finding it’s way towards a river.
Then another tendril.
Then the assplosion.
Folks, shit went EVERYWHERE. I had no idea this could come from such a little kid. I was dancing around in the bathroom, trying to dodge little shit tributaries, and cursing the name of the person who decided that the bathroom floor should run DOWNFUCKINGHILL.
In the end, his mother was called.
But not before the ladies told me that I had to clean him again, dress him again, and clean and sanitize this bathroom, which looked like a damn crime scene, only brown instead of red. Shit was in every last corner of that room. I was in there, and I don’t know how I didn’t get shit on me.
Cleaning that up was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, and I’ll never forget it. And the whole time I was doing it, each lady would take a turn walking by the bathroom, cluck her tongue, and say, “Oh this ain’t nothin. This one time, I had a kid shit from the CEILING.”
I would call them all kinds of names in this post, but one of them is dead. The sad thing is, out of all three of them, she was the kindest and the least bitchy.
There you go, folks. The story of how I cleaned up the Mississippi river of shit storms. I could introduce this young man for days.
However, no introduction would be as complete as you just going to his blog. He puts up with more idiots in a single day than most of us will ever deal with in a LIFETIME. And he does it all while helping me figure out HTML.
He’s a hero.
JEFF @ BADLY DRAWN MONSTERS!
I’m 28. That means pretty much everyone I know is married or engaged. The folks at Bed, Bath, and Beyond know me by name from the number of times I’ve bought things off registries there. I’ve seen “Wedding Crashers” and it didn’t seem that much fun to me because I’ve gone to about that many weddings in the last year.
Awhile ago, one of my friends got engaged and has since gotten married. Before he asked his fiance to marry him, he asked me, “Jeff, is it true? Does sex really change after you’re married?”
I said, “No, not at all,” because that’s what married guys tell single guys. And before the ladies get all upset with that, I didn’t say it “suffers”, I just said that it “changes.”
See, sex is like going to an video game arcade.
When you’re single, you go to the arcade with a pocket full of quarters and you want to try every game in the place. Well, maybe not every game, because some look like they have herpes. All the machines are flashy and bright, and you keep almost getting whiplash from the really good looking game behind you. You walk around, put your quarter into the machine and give it a try.
If you did really bad and failed miserably, well you just don’t play that game ever again. If you did get lucky and actually win, well you don’t need to play it again because you already beat it.
When you’re married, you still go to the arcade with a pocket full of quarters, but you only play one game. You play it over and over, and eventually you get the high score. Then it’s not enough to just have THE high score; you need ALL the high scores. You want the entire screen to have YOUR initials on it, because you’ll be damed if someone else has the high score on YOUR machine. You don’t want to be looking through that high score screen going, “Alright, JAH, JAH, JAH, JAH…who the hell is DJS?!”
I really am lucky to be married. My wife is amazing, and every day I’m thankful that she married me. We were one of those couples that met online. At first I wasn’t sure if it would work out, since I lived in a different city and she was an emoticon. But there was just something about her semicolon-closed parenthesis that I just found irresistible.
I haven’t been married very long, so I’m not full of sage advice for those trying to make their way through the harrowing journey that is daily coexistence. However, I do feel that I’m learning all the time; the trick is simply to pay attention. For instance, after letting my wife proofread this article, I have learned that it is a bad idea to compare sex with video games.
Who has two thumbs, a drawer full of big ass gold contacts, a WOW account, and hates The Hurt Locker?
Every fucking nerd in the country.
Avatar got passed over at the Oscars a couple of nights ago, and indignant sci-fi film experts everywhere have sounded off on numerous websites claiming that the loss was “political,” and in the case of this brilliant mind named Rachel, even gay.
“The fact that Avatar didn’t win is so stupid. It made use of the CSI technology, it had a groundbreaking message, and the fact that it didn’t win every Cable Ace it was nominated for is despicable. The Hurt Locker was about a football team or something. How gay is that?”
Ahem. Someone get this chick a protractor and some algebra homework before she has a seizure.
My favorite response to this? It came from psycho7772: “Wtf, die in a fire…and know what something is about plz. kthnxbai.” Classic.
Seriously though, folks. Yeah, it was the highest grossing movie of all time. Yeah, it had some cool special effects. Yeah, James Cameron makes good movies. Woo…it’s in 3-D. So was Bolt, and that didn’t take home one single Academy Award. And no, I haven’t seen Avatar.
But guess what? I haven’t seen The Hurt Locker either. But when my wife and I wrote down our picks for Best Picture, wanna take a crack at what we BOTH wrote down? Yep. The Hurt Locker.
The “Official Avatar Community on Typepad” had this to say: “How did you feel when Avatar didn’t win best picture? I felt bad. But it doesn’t make the movie bad. Avatar should have won all 9 Oscars by far. Stupid judges, they hate CG movies.”
The only reply to this heartbreaking post? “May be this stupid judges are unable to see what is Avatar b.cz it’s higher than their minds can see.”
Right. Listen. Next year, someone get these bastards in the Academy. I know it’s going to be hard for them, what with leaving their rooms for the first time in years, but I think we may be able to get them there if we tell them that Jessica Alba is waiting to give them a handjob, and they’ll get +50 exp points for their Paladin.
Others have said that Avatar didn’t win because it “showed the military as cowboys.” Really? Was there a “YEEEEHAAAAA!” at the beginning of every fight scene? Were there six shooters? Did they have a token Indian riding along with a bow and arrow? Oh. They did? Well, that’s my bad then.
This brings to mind another quote I read: “Avatar did win. 20 years ago when it was called Dances With Wolves.”
Let’s line this out. Your opinion doesn’t count for shit because YOU’RE NOT ON THE FUCKING ACADEMY. If they let people like you on there, Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Kahn would still be winning Oscars, and filmmakers without a 847 billion dollar budget wouldn’t even have a shot.
I wanted Inglorious Basterds to win everything. You don’t see me bitching about it. For my money, Brad Pitt played a hell of character, and I was glad to see that ol Kristoff guy win one. I think Meryl Streep and George Clooney are just as overrated as the next pair of actors, but for sure, I’m not on www.ihavenolifeandmasturbatetoavatar.com fillin up the message boards about how the Academy hates CG films and whether or not James Cameron is really an alien and that’s how he makes crazy movies.
Also, didn’t he make Titanic? Didn’t he win a shit ton of Oscars for that pile of manure? I say he owes us one. He needed to sit his happy ass down and let his ex-wife get recognized for filming a bunch of bombs going off with a Flip Video camera and 13 inch Macbook Pro. Probably wasn’t even an HD Flip. I say kudos. Hell, she probably would have gotten his Oscar in some sort of divorce agreement.
And for the record, The Hurt Locker is NOT about a football team. Although, I do think that the girl from Precious and the kid from The Blind Side look a LOT alike.
So calm down, all you Avatards. Things will go back to normal, and next year you can bitch about the latest Harry Potter movie and how the Academy hates British novelists. And before you get all hateful and snooty in the comments, I just want to let you know, I will come to your house AND KICK YOUR ASS.
That’s right. I’m bigger than you. And cooler. And really, that’s just sad for you.
Hell, I want to watch Star Trek II now.