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The Fisher of Stories


Heroism is not only in the man, but in the occasion. – Calvin CoolidgeI’m pretty much a normal guy.

I like my coffee black, I have a penchant for Mexican food, I’m obese, I love Nic Cage, and I love Jesus.

I never asked to be a hero. Some men have heroism thrust upon them in the heat of the moment, like Nic Cage in Con Air, and some choose heroism at great risk to their lives, also like Nic Cage in Con Air.


I was swimming by myself in our pool the other day, when I noticed something struggling to free itself from the waters. I grabbed my net, ready to absolutely murder a wasp or bumblebee, and swam (floated) over to check it out.

Lo and behold, a lightning bug was on the surface, paddling rapidly with its tiny stick legs and making no progress whatsoever. The struggle was real. My heart twisted with sympathy for the little guy, and I knew I had to act. My time for heroism had come.

Image Credit

I lifted him gently out of the torpid waters and placed him gingerly on the rail of the pool. I’m going to be completely honest with you, it didn’t look good. He appeared to be quite waterlogged, and had difficulty standing.

Obviously CPR was out of the question…but was it?

Determined to save my little lightning bug friend, and realizing that even the lightest of chest compressions would produce a messy end, I did the only part of CPR I could manage. I blew on it.

Between you and me, I didn’t really regulate that first breath, and I dang near blew the little bugger smooth off the edge of the pool. But he held strong, and his little wings spread out as though to dry them off, and I thought, “This is it, this is my moment,” and “One Shining Moment” started playing in my head, and I blew on that little lightning bug (gently) until…

The lightning bug took off! Into the breeze he flew, and I could swear he did a little dip as he did, thanking me for my service. I was intensely moved by the experience, and may have even shed a tear at the thought of being so intimately involved with nature.

The story should end there, but it doesn’t.

Two days after resuscitating the lightning bug, I was once again swimming (floating) in the pool when I saw something else struggling in the currents.

Looking closely, I saw it was a butterfly, and it was in real bad shape. Its wings were soggier than the unfinished Raisin Bran that sits in my kids’ bowls when they realize they don’t like Raisin Bran. Its feeble attempts to free itself from the water induced panic in my nature-loving heart and I immediately lifted it out of the water and sat it on the edge of the pool.

Image Credit

I looked towards the heavens.

“WHY GOD?” I screamed.

And I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I blew on it.

Again, I didn’t really regulate the force of that first blow, and this time it was almost a deadly mistake. The butterfly caught the full gale, and flipped off the edge of the pool, but somehow managed to grip the side of the rail and hang on. Mentally chastising myself, I pulled the butterfly back up on the railing and very gently continued my life-giving efforts.

Eventually, the butterfly was dry. He flapped his wings, testing them, and then soared into the heavens (about five feet above the pool) and looked as though he would take off.

But he paused, right above my head, hovering there. What happened next took me completely by surprise.

The butterfly landed on my nose, tickling it, but I didn’t sneeze. I knew this was a moment, and I didn’t want to sneeze the thing right back into the pool. That just seemed counterintuitive.

I looked into its tiny little butterfly eyes, and I swear it winked at me. Then, gently, it reached out a tiny butterfly leg and brushed my cheek in a gesture I can only assume was a thank you for services rendered.

A single tear rolled down my face. At that moment, I felt more complete than I ever had before. And then the butterfly took flight, free at last, swooping into the wind and into the Great Beyond.

Alright that last part is a lie, but I saved a lightning bug and a butterfly from drowning last week and not a single one of them thanked me, so I’m allowed a little creative license.

imageI have a lot of faith in humanity.

I’m pretty sure I’ve told you all this before, but I’d like to reiterate that I believe in the basic good in every person. I also believe that if you put your faith in that basic good into action, then you will be rewarded more than you will be disappointed.

As a believer in that basic good, I try to contribute to it whenever I can. I like to say nice things about people when I can (notwithstanding a few errant diatribes, i.e. some of these blogs), I hold doors for people, and I just generally try to be what I expect people to be to me.

This past week, I’ve had a couple of experiences with people being exceptionally polite or nice to me. I am certain that no one will ever recognize them for it, so I’m choosing to do it now, as well as tell a story linked to a Facebook status I posted earlier this week.

I went to a grocery store in Warner, Oklahoma a couple of nights ago, and as I was leaving with my items, a mom and her little boy walked in the door I was preparing to exit. My hands were full, and the mom looked at me and walked by, not taking a second glance. The little boy was about ten, and he quickly followed his mother, then looked up and saw me. He immediately turned around, went back to the door, and opened it for me. I was blown away. I looked at him, bent down a little bit to get on his level, and said, “Thank you very much sir, that was very kind.”

I have hope for future generations because of that kid.

Yesterday, I took The Missus out for our weekly lunch date. I’m either at school or working pretty much the whole week through now, so we don’t see each other very often. We went to Miss Addie’s Pub in Muskogee, sat down, and had a very nice meal. We talked and laughed, and I made a huge effort to ignore my phone for the hour we had together. I also had a gin and tonic. Don’t judge me.

I paid the bill, then we left. I dropped her off at work, and then went to get my truck washed. As I pulled up to the machine that takes the money, I looked at my wallet and realized I’d left my debit card at the Pub. I called them, and they told me that yes, I’d left it, and yes they had it sitting in the cash register, ready for me to pick up any time I wanted to. To some people, that might seem like a normal expectation, and maybe it should be. But I feel like they should be recognized for it, simply because it was an act of honesty and integrity that would otherwise pass unnoticed, and therefore unappreciated, by all.

My thanks to you, employees of Miss Addie’s.

And now, the greatest thing to happen to me this week.

I walked into a convenience store on Monday morning to get some refreshments before class. I grabbed a bottle of water and got in line to check out. As I was waiting, I got a little rumbly in the ol’ tumbly. You know what I’m talking about. Not the “sweet Moses I have to find a bathroom now or it’s gonna get real” kind of rumble, but the “Hey, you know what sounds good? Chips and beef jerky,” kind of rumble. Being somewhat on a diet (read: taking a prescription diet pill) I decided against chips and beef jerky and stepped out of line to grab a Special K bar.

Assuming I had given up my place in line, I went to get behind the young lady who was standing behind me just moments before. As I did, she looked at me and motioned me back in front of her, saying, “Go ahead.” I said, “You sure?” and she nodded yes. I thanked her, and turned to complete my transaction. Before I did, I looked at the items she held in her hand and did a quick tabulation of about how much they cost. Since I am terrible at math, I calculated what I think was a can of pop and candy bar to come out to around five dollars. Don’t judge me.

As I got my change back, I got an idea. I handed the cashier a five dollar bill and said, “Go ahead and use that to pay for her stuff.” The cashier just looked at me and started blinking repeatedly, like maybe she needed to blink in order to process information correctly. Eventually she arrived at understanding, then smiled. I walked towards the door, and as I opened it, the young lady behind me said, “Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”

I’d like to set aside this paragraph for explaining that sometimes I can get a bit full of myself. I don’t mean to, but if I do something nice, I like to think I’m the greatest philanthropist of all time, and I know that’s wrong. Don’t judge me.

Full of my philanthropic benevolence, I turned smartly on my heel and pointed at her to deliver my final line, sort of a “say it and ride into the night and never look back” kind of line, one that was full of meaning, and designed to instantly let this young lady and the cashier know that I was not only a good person, but well-spoken as well. I wanted it to look as though my words were divinely inspired on High by the Lord Himself, and carried from lips by flaming angels.

“No ma’am, thank YOU. It’s nice to know there aren’t douchebags in the world.”

Me, delivering the line, anointed with the fire of the Lord, and the cashier behind the counter.
The benefactor of my generosity was not pictured because the expression of gratitude on her face cannot be captured in any medium.

Full of pride and impressed at my rich vocabulary and use of syntax, I executed a perfect about face and promptly fell over a pyramid shaped cigarette ashtray.

I call this “Fallen Messenger.”

As I struggled valiantly to pick up both the ashtray and my pride, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I would never have to see either of them again. I left the store, and continued on my way to biology, full of life lessons and with a funny Facebook status to share with you all.

But what I didn’t tell you…

…is that she walked into Biology class right behind me.

(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!)image
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.
imageRing 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.
imageFlaming 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.

Ed’s Memoir Monday: We 3 Little Kings.

Barb’s Memoir Monday.

Angel’s Memoir Monday: About My Daddy.

Madmother’s Memoir Monday: Madmother: Stuntwoman Extraordinare!

Erin’s Memoir Monday: Even Stay At Home Moms do Karaoke.


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.
She laughed.
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.
It’s $358.24.
I’ll let you know if I ever see it again.
Well folks, it’s going to be a busy week.


Some of you already know.

Some of you don’t, so here it is.

The Missus and I…


And for sure, it’s all thanks to Tamara over at Cheapskate Mom.

I won’t be around too much this week, because I’ll be packing and shit. Tomorrow is a guest post from Ed, and there will be guest posts for like the next 8 weeks on Wednesday.

I love you guys, and I love you even more TAMARA!!!

*This is not a joke. It is for realsies. Thanks to June over at 3! A Charm for sending me her Flip video camera  so that I can record my whole experience from packing to coming back, and everything in between!

(Hey guys and gals. It’s Memoir Monday time! This is where you write down a story about yourself, steal my button down there, drink a beer, and call it all a win. The only rule is that it has to be true, other than that, there are no rules. I need you to join this week! Once you post, let me know, and I will link you up down there for all my kick ass bloggy followers to go and read! Y’all are the greatest, and I love you. If you want to see all the Memoir Monday posts, just click on the book!)


Before we get started, I just want to say that next week we’ll be debuting a NEW BUTTON! I’m so excited! Tamara over at Cheapskate Mom made me one up real nice!
Also, I really want to do a PICTURE MEMOIR MONDAY next week. It can be one picture, or two, or whatever. I just want it to tell a story. Matter of fact, you can tell a story WITH the picture, telling us what it’s about, or you can just post a picture. I have to prove to some people that I was skinny in the 7th grade, and I intend on doing that.
So there you have it. NEXT WEEK IS PICTURE MEMOIR MONDAY! Let’s get 50 people involved in it!
Ladies and gents, I’ll be honest. Every once in a while, I have a great deal of trouble pulling a memory out of this fat head of mine, dusting it off, and picking up the remains to type in some sort of legible form for y’alls enjoyment.
This week, however, proved to be an exception.
Yesterday was the beginning of the week.
I already want it to be over.
You see, my mom got me out of bed at 8 to help her move. She’s moving from a house that is pretty sizable, into a house that, while very nice, is about a third as big as the one she was in.
We received the information, “I’m packed and ready to go.”
I’ve gotten you some pictures:
This is packed picture number 1:


Number 2:


Here is what fell out of the couch as we were carrying through the doorway:


That’s a pencil, a butter knife, 3 cough drops and a plastic wrapper. McGuyver could turn that shit into a moving truck. That’s real.
And, for your viewing pleasure, this is The Youngest.


He is hard at work here, looking sexy for you ladies. Appreciate that.
I guess this would be Part 2.
You see, after I did all that moving business, I had to go to work.
5-10 shift, easy and slow.
Just like your mom.  OH SNAP!
Or so I thought.
You see, my MANAGER was supposed to open the store at noon. I guess he decided that he didn’t want to do that, being the manager and all. He thought that I was supposed to open, and he was wrong. So the store didn’t get open till 3, and even then, he MADE ANOTHER EMPLOYEE OPEN instead of coming up there and doing it himself.
Yeah. He’s a douchefuck.
So he calls me, and wants me to go in earlier than 5, since he has forced someone to go up there that wasn’t supposed to. I say sure.
I showed up at 5.
Fuck my manager. That’s real.
When I get there, there is a line beginning to form at the poor sumbitch he’s got in there’s register. I had to go to the back to count the drawers, so I grab a key and get to it.
When I come back up front, the line is a bit longer, and the guy runnin the register is having some troubles. The customer he was helping was very patient and understanding, but such was not true for the rest of the customers, who were duly upset because the place of business that they usually frequent WASN’T FUCKING OPEN ON TIME. I had to step over and help the guy with the transaction, and shit started getting real.
The friction. It was palpable.
Anytension, finally someone broke. This guy, who from henceforth be known as The Bastard, spoke up and said, “Y’all need to hurry the hell up.”
I said, “Sir, we’re working as fast as we can.”TB: “Yeah? Well, you need to check me the hell out.”Me: “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you not to cuss in front of the customers.”TB: “Whatever. Just hurry the hell up.”Me: “Okay sir, please leave the store.”TB: “Yeah? You fatass. You’re so damn slow, you fatass.”Me: “How clever, sir. You made fun of the first thing you noticed about me.”
It was quiet for a second, and the line ERUPTED into laughter. The Bastard was quite literally LAUGHED out of the store. On his way out, and I shit you not, he THREW his movies at me. THREW. THE. MOVIES.
I ninja dodged that shit, and almost said, “Who’s slow now, bitch?”
I didn’t, because I think that would have crossed the line he did, and that’s not classy.
Was it over?
Here’s Part 3.
At almost closing time, a middle aged Asian man walked up to the counter and asked me my thoughts on the movie Paranormal Activity. I haven’t seen it, because I don’t like scary movies, because I like to sleep at night. However, I told him I’d heard a lot of mixed reviews. He then said this:
“Well, my wife wanted it. I’ll give her shizzle about it if it’s bad.”
I’m going to give you a second to let that sink in…and while you’re waiting, here’s a picture of what the guy looked like.


It is at this point that I would just like to say:
Congratulations, Snoop. You win. You got the Asians. You had some competition with those Hello Kitty backpacks, but you win.
Yo bizzles. Fo rizzles, I’m out fo shizzle. Y’all keep it rizzle.
Other Non-Moving Truck Drives Down Memory Lane: (GO READ THEM!)
Corrie’s Memoir Monday: How To Handle Sibling Fighting. 
Josh’s Memoir Monday: Part 2 – The Rest of the Story
Big Sis’ Memoir Monday: The Tooth Incident
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: An Italian and A Redneck or Helmets May Prevent Jail Time
Greg’s Memoir Monday: Rothenburg
Ed’s Memoir Monday: If Only I Had Owned A Black Leather Jacket.
LMJ’s Memoir Monday: Playing With Special Balloons.
Brandee’s Memoir Monday: Don’t Mess With The Kamden.
Kate’s Memoir Monday: ‘Tis The Season.
Nancy’s Memoir Monday: Tales From Middle School.
Erin’s Memoir Monday: The Aqua Net In My Purse, Or Why Those 80’s Bangs Didn’t Work Out So Well For Me.
Meeko’s Memoir Monday: My First Job.
Kys’ Memoir Monday: Johnny Depp Is The Only Pirate For Me.
LB’s Memoir Monday With A Moral: Don’t Bite The Hand That Feeds You!
Mandy’s Memoir Monday: On A Tuesday.Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She’s a peach of a gal that really does her best to get everyone on the internet to do something embarrassing or nasty on Thursdays, and so far, she’s done a good job. This is my contribution this week. If you want more of this, please for the love of all that is holy and pure, click the picture of those old people having more fun than you did last night. 
TMI Thursday

Well, this week’s TMI will be short and sweet.

The thing is, it’s been sort of a “big” week for me.

You know.

“That” kind of big.

As in, maybe I should think about switching to 2 a day bowel movements.

Here’s why.

Actually, wait. Let’s talk about why they don’t make toilets with bigger holes in them. Why don’t they? I mean, surely they know that there are people like me out there that might on occasion have really big extra helpings of nachos and then have all that compress in their colon to something roughly the size of junior varsity football, don’t they? While we’re at it, why don’t they widen the pipes, too? If I ever build a house, it will have pipes the size of a subway system. When I flush a toilet in that house, I want to have to wonder if I’ve been pink socked. I want to have to hold onto a bar above my head that has to have at least as many steel bolts in it as they’re always braggin that the Ford F150 does. I want the neighbors six houses down to say, “Geez. It must be taco night at the Sloat’s.” Is that too much to ask?

Okay. So now. Here’s why.

I’ve taken a dump in 3 different toilets this week, and I’ve clogged ALL of them.

My house, the school, and my dear, sweet mother’s.

I felt kind of bad about that last one.

I think I’m going to have to start eating less.

Is there a discreet way to use a plunger? How come it always sounds like you’re driving an 18 wheeler through a heavily flooded china shop on the “quiet” side of town?

Well, the week’s not up, so I’m going to try to go 4 for 4 today.

Wish me luck!

Anyone want to invite me over to let me take a shot at immortality?
Ego: Travis.
Me: Yeah?
Ego: Dude, did you see that?
Me: What? Were there boobs? What?
Ego: Dude, we just got 50 comments on that shitty post. Did you say boobs?
Ego: Yeah we did. I’m the shit, did you know that? I mean, you shit yourself, mostly. But me, I’m the nipples.
Me: Yeah, we all know you’re the “nipples.”
Ego: Did you just air quote yourself whilst talking to yourself?
Me: Man. I guess I did. You make me do stupid things, Ego. You’re a doucher.
Ego: You’re a doucher. I make people laugh.
Me: Listen, I really think we should thank all those people that commented.
Ego: Why?
Me: Well, you know, if it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be so big I need a suitcase to carry you around in.
Ego: What? Who you callin big, fatty?
Me: You know damn well who I’m callin big. You. You occupy the Central and Eastern time zones.
Ego: Yeah man, and I’m stuck in both with your ass.
Me: Nice.
Ego: Yeah it was.
Me: Anyway, I’m telling them thank you.
Ego: No dude. And here’s why. The second you tell them that, they’ll realize what they’re doing, and they’ll leave you. Straight up.
Me: What? Did you just admit to having a weakness?
Ego: What?! Naw man. I’m just sayin.
Me: You have some serious issues, you know that?
Ego: Like what?
Me: I am starting to suspect that you’re nothing but a little emo kid, crying out for attention.
Ego: Well then why don’t you get me a razor blade?
Me: Seriously?
Ego: No, not seriously, shithead.
Me: Don’t call me a shithead.
Ego: Then don’t act like one, and try to psycho-analyze me and stuff.
Me: I’m just sayin. I think they need to be thanked, and the behavior encouraged so that they come back and do it again.
Ego: They’ll be back. You wanna know why?
Me: Your magnetic personality and humbly cheerful disposition?
Ego: Shithead. No, because I’m the n…
Me: The nipples? Yeah, you said that.
Ego: Shithead.
Me: You call me that one more time, and I’m going to get a razor.
Pain Tolerance: Hey Ego, shut your damn mouth!
Ego and Me: Pussy…

So yeah… That conversation actually took place. I was so excited yesterday as the comments climbed higher and higher towards 50, and I just want to take this time to say…


That’s real.

Have a happy Friday, and a great weekend! I’ll probably be back tomorrow with a Conversation with Kid Funk.

I’m also kickin around the idea of a “Meet My Brothers” set of posts soon. Is that something you’d like to see? It might actually involve participation, which I know can scare y’all more than white person whose remote gets stuck on UPN on a Tuesday night.

“And we always say, ‘It would be, good to go away, someday.’ But if there’s nothing there to make things change, if it’s the same for you, I’ll just hang.” -Matchbox 20

(Folks, I am gonna try to start something here with this Memoir Monday business. I made a button, and I want you all to start telling your own Memoir Monday stories. I don’t care if your blog is already a story telling blog. Stick this button on your site on your Monday posts, and make me very happy! Qualifications for Memoir Monday is that it must be true. That’s all. If you use the button, make sure that you send me a message so I can link your post to this one! We’re gonna get this going! Thank you! Just copy this HTML code and paste it into the Edit HTML tab of your blog.) 


I have told you some stories about my younger brother, The Groom. I call him The Groom because he just recently got married. One day, I suppose I’ll make a new name for him. As of now, though, he’s The Groom.

He’s also a doucher.

This is why.

One night, I was outside shooting hoops. It was relatively dark, but we had a street light outside that lit up the court enough for me to see. I was around 18 at the time.

My dear sweet mother was outside gathering laundry from the clothesline. It was a normal night, and all was well.

I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. I have always had pretty good vision. I can’t hear, and I’ve essentially burned all the taste buds out of my mouth with various kinds of hot peppers and sauces, so really, vision is all I have left.

Someone was around the side of the house.

Someone dressed in a lot of black clothing.

Someone in a mask.


I was a real trusting person. I had never experienced crime of any kind, and I thought that this was probably just a friend at first. However, when I saw the gun, I went nuts vajay.

I said, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Who are you?! MOM RUN! RUN! RUN!”

And I proceeded to run all the way around the house, pretty much like the biggest pansy you’ve ever seen in your life.

About this time, I hear laughing. I stop, wondering why anyone would be laughing at a time like this, and turn around. Upon turning around, I see The Groom, sans ski mask, standing there with his BB pistol, laughing like he’d just been told the funniest joke ever.

My mom? She never stopped taking clothes down.

I walked inside, and I grabbed the keys to my truck.My mom had made it back to the porch by then, and I stormed out of the house with my keys, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to kill your son.”

I got in my truck, gunned it, and I chased The Groom down the block. I’m gonna give him credit, he’s pretty agile. After realizing that I couldn’t run him down, I gave up for the time being. I was mad for days. However, it once again proved that I am not any kind of hero at all.

I can only hope that having kids changes all that.

Other Great Memoirs Today:

Adrienzgirl’s Once Upon A Time, I Was An Idiot Teenager

Daffy’s BSlapped By New Kids On The Block

Ed’s Dream Of Becoming Scott Hamilton

Secret Agent K’s Memoir Monday

Jeff’s Musical Memoir Monday
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.”


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…


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.