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The Fisher of Stories



The year was 1994, and I was in the 5th grade. Already standing 5’8″ and weighing in at anorexic 90 pounds, 5th grade Travis was a weakling. I was also just starting to take an interest in the ladies. One in particular had caught my eye, and one day while riding bikes I asked her to be my girlfriend. She said yes, and Travis got his very first main squeeze. Fast forward a couple of weeks and we had broken up. Don’t ask me why, I don’t remember. Enter this douchecanoe named Mike.image
I hated Mike. Mike had failed the 5th grade like 8 times. Mike was overdeveloped, and Mike used cuss words. That was a big advantage back in grade school, because I wasn’t allowed to cuss. As a matter of fact, the very first time a cuss word knowingly slipped from my mouth, it was directed at Mike. For the longest time, I told everyone that if I had one bullet in one gun to kill one person with and not suffer any consequences, it would be Mike. I hated him that much. The reason? Mike went after this girl the SECOND we broke up. Now, I’m thinking, “Well, she’s too broken hearted for Mike. She’s still pining away for me and sweet blond curls.” Also, I had an INCREDIBLE set of calves from riding my ten speed, y’all. That’s right. She wasn’t going to be Mike’s girlfriend.


I was pissed. But then I saw the thing that pushed me over the top. The thing that made my stomach curdle. Mike and this girl…they went ALL THE WAY. Now bear in mind, this is the 5th grade. Going all the way was holding hands. And they totally did it y’all. Right in front of me. My 5th grade heart shattered into tiny pieces and my soul was crushed. My world was ending, and I decided right there and then that I would have this girl back. So I devised a plan.

For the record, I did NOT have an erection the first time I held a girl’s hand…which was in the 10th grade.

I started writing a letter. The letter went something like this:

Dear Girl,

I hate you, and I want to break up. Sorry it didn’t work out, but I like this other girl, she’s cuter than you. I think you should go out with Travis again, he’s cool.



It was genius! It was madness! It had to work! I creeped the halls like a stealthy Dear John ninja until I saw them both disappear into their classrooms. I quietly slipped the note into her locker, thinking about how nice it was going to be to say that I had a girlfriend again. I MIGHT EVEN GO ALL THE WAY. I knew she was a hand slut now, so I figured my chances were better. I waited…and I watched. I never did see her open the letter, but I knew she’d gotten it. So I waited a little more and…

The next day this girl’s best friend walked up to me. “Travis, she knows you wrote that letter, Mike can’t write.” Alright, so maybe I made up the last part of that quote. I’ve GOT to learn to let stuff go. But anyway, the jig was up, I’d been busted. Mike was pissed beyond reason, understandably so, and so I went into a sort of playground ninja mode until the threat level went from “Imminent” to “Seafoam Green.”

I dated this girl once after that, in the sixth grade, after I bought her some chicken nuggets on a field trip. When we got back on the bus, my best friend at the time explained to me in no certain terms that she was being a gold digger, only he used a term that would have been relevant to us at the time. I would say “nugget digger” but that brings a whole new element into the equation. I never did go all the way with this chick, and I didn’t get another chance at that until I was old enough to know what the real “going all the way” was. And I didn’t even get to do THAT until I was 19.

But the moral of the story is this. If you’re going to forge a note, make sure you type it. Handwriting identification is not just something you see on CSI: Miami.

I guess you could say his trickery was “duly noted.”

I want to preface this by saying that if you read this, and you say, “Wow, what a douche, he needs to realize…(insert idiotic thing I probably addressed here).” then you are who this letter is for. If you read this and say, “You know what? He’s right, I have this problem,” then you are also who this letter is for. If you read this and can genuinely say that you’ve never done any of these things, then you’re cool, and I like you. But don’t ruin it by sticking up for these other clowns.

Dear Parents,

My wife and I don’t have any children.

We’ve tried, but to no avail. We’re currently seeing doctors for this, and we hope to be closer to being pregnant before the end of the year.

So when you see us for the first time in a long time, and you say, “Hey! Why don’t y’all have kids yet?!” don’t be upset if we’re a little curt with our reply. We’ve heard this hundreds of times, and we’re a bit sick of it.

Also, to you idiots who tell people, “Just relax and stop thinking about it, you’ll have tons of kids!” I really wish you’d fall off the face of the earth. Seriously? Have you had sex? Could you be any more relaxed afterwards? If you’re not, then you’re doing it wrong, and maybe I should be giving YOU advice. So shut up with your self-help bullcrap mumbo jumbo, okay?

This includes any “tips” that you have for us getting pregnant. No, we don’t want to drink a bunch of Robitussin before sex. We also don’t want to have sex at 10:34 on the second Tuesday of the month when the full moon has risen just past Orion and Venus is slightly visible in the West. 10:34 is past our bed time.

Also, to those who say, “Why don’t you adopt? You’ll have six kids right after, I knew these people…” While this is marginally better than the verbal crap that the first group of people spew, it is still stupid. Is this a medically documented experiment? Is there stone cold proof in books, on the internet, or in a pamphlet somewhere in a fertility clinic? No? I thought so.

For the record, we plan on adopting if this fertility experience doesn’t go well. If we adopt and then get pregnant, I invite all of you who have told us this would happen to come back and rub it in my face. You can change a diaper while you’re here.

And to all you people who are now saying “This guy is a douche. We’re just trying to help.” keep reading. I know you’re trying to help. I know that if you don’t open your mouth and say something that your brain is going to hurt, because all you really want to do is help. So here is a suggestion. Don’t try to help. Just wish us luck or change the subject. Don’t worry about trying to make us feel better.

Also, don’t tell us that we’re so lucky we don’t have kids. That’s probably the dumbest thing you could possibly say. “Oh, you guys are SO lucky. I have two kids, and I love them, but I wish I could go back to not having kids and enjoy being married again.” What? You hate your life? We don’t, and telling us we really don’t want something that we, in fact, really do, just pisses us off more. So please shut up.

The second thing I have to talk about is a little more personal, because it happens to us a lot.

Just because we don’t have kids doesn’t mean we aren’t capable of holding a baby, changing a diaper, feeding, or just all around in general taking care of a baby.

I had a situation like this happen just two days ago, and I’m still upset and offended. Of course, no one cares, because Travis is the big funny guy who gets over stuff quick, so there’s no need to apologize.

We are capable of holding your child. I’m a pretty strong guy with really quick reflexes. We can handle spit up, pee pee, poop, and all those other nasty things that babies do. I have enough common sense to know when to stop bouncing them around on my knee, and I know when to dip their binky in Nyquil to get them to sleep. What? You can’t do that? *gasp* You’re kidding! See? I know you can’t do that. And I never would.

Also, as much as I talk about throat chopping, I’m not going to actually throat chop your baby. I’m saving that as a special experience between me and my child, and I’m not going to waste any good ones on yours. See? Again, I know I can’t throat chop a baby. I’m making fun of you now, just in case you didn’t realize it. I’m not going to hurt your child.

In fact, because I don’t have children of my own, it makes me a lot more careful with your baby. I drive 30 MPH slower when I have my niece in the car, and I for sure get more mad at idiot drivers.

So the next time I offer to hold your child and you look around nervously before handing them over, this letter is for you. If you look at me or my wife and say, “Do you know how to mix feed and change diapers?” This letter is for you. We’re cool. You can trust us. We aren’t going to drop little Junior, and we aren’t going to somehow lose him in a game of high-stakes poker where we’ve just lost our house and car.

If this letter in any way offended you, it was probably aimed at you. I hope maybe you can see through the fact that I used ridiculous metaphors and strong words and see that all I really want you to do is look at it through our side.

Yes, we will be defensive about our child(ren). But we won’t make others feel bad because they don’t have any yet, and we won’t make them feel inadequate when they want to hold or babysit our child(ren). All we’re asking is that you extend that same simple courtesy towards us, and keep your advice and “tips on getting pregnant” to yourselves.


The Sloats

Dear Apple Juice,

As you dripped down my finger and onto my shirt this morning, I couldn’t help but notice some things. You didn’t stain my shirt, you didn’t make me smell bad the rest of the day, and you didn’t make me cuss really loud and swerve all over the road trying to hurriedly blot you with a napkin. Instead, I just kept eating the apple you came from, and I laughed a little at how much things have changed in my life. Thanks for the help in losing 66 pounds, and I have no doubt that you’ll get me to under 300 this week. I love you, and I’ll make sweet, sweet love to your core if that’s what you want, I just need to clear it with The Missus.

Insulinlly Yours,


Dear Greasy and Turribly Fattening Breakfast Foods That Almost Ruined My Life and Ruined Several Shirts That Don’t Fit Now Anyway Cause I’m Gettin Skinny,

Fuck you, and you can kiss my ass. You’ve been replaced by apple juice. Go ruin someone else’s shirt, bitch. I totally did it with your sister, and she LOVED it. And I banged your mom.



(Hey y’all! It’s TMI Thursday! This little bad boy was created by the ever popular blog cool chick LiLu, who happens to have more of these types of stories over at her blog. Just click on the picture of those two old people clearly enjoying what was an accidental Viagra overdose.)TMI Thursday

Well folks, it’s that time of the week. TMI Thursday.

I was kind of struggling for something to write about this week, and sat down to rewrite “Twas The Night Before Christmas,” for my good buddy Ed who’s going to have a vasectomy tomorrow. However, the words wouldn’t come, and I went to bed thinking I’d type it this morning. As it turns out, I didn’t need to.

Apparently, my cash and prizes can type. Now, I’ll admit, when I saw the spelling and grammar mistakes in this, I about went apeshit. However, any punishment delivered to my nether regions will directly affect me as a consequence. So I just gave them a stern talking to, (in the shower, so The Missus wouldn’t catch me talking to them) and told them that they were gonna do a bit more paying attention at school.

They pleaded with me to make sure Ed got this letter, and I don’t think I can deny them that. I tell you what though, this is the last time I’ll sleep with the laptop in bed. You see, in addition to this letter, apparently they typed a little something up for Jessica Alba, and SOMEHOW sent it to her. I don’t know how, but for sure, I got a call from her attorney this morning, and HE. WAS. PISSED.

You ever used the excuse, “My balls did it?”

It doesn’t work. And they didn’t bother to type me up a little something for the legal counsel that I’m going to need.

Anyway, without further ado, I give you: My ball’s letter to Ed.

deere ed,

this is litle travis and his testacals. wer’e reel sorry for whats abowt to hapen. we herd about it from travis. we cant imigane the pain and sufuring yur going thru. we dont think yu shood take it. we r sending yu sum plain tikits and sum mony. he dosnt no wer’e sending yu this EMAIL. THE LETRS GOT BIG AL THE SUDEN. HANG ON. ok. fixd it. neway, plez run away wen yu sea the sclaple salcple scelple big nife. it is going to cut yu and mak yu bleeds. then they wil tye yur juce tubes togother and mak yu not be albe tu hav the baibes. i hav herd of this befour form ohtr testacals. it iz vrey bad. come hoam and tel yur wife taht yu had itz dun. then uze the pul out methid frm hear on out. she wheel nevre no. aim four the boobs. if it cant bee avoyded, pleze no taht wee r tinking abowt yu and wish yu teh vrey best. sory four al teh spleling mizteaks. this is 2 tyme weve dun this. the 1 tyme wuz too mizter bobbit. we r hopping tings do beter four yu.


litle travis and teh simbols

Ed, buddy, I’m very sorry in advance. I hope the words from my bits were comforting to you, but listen.

I really need that money and those tickets back. The sumbitches apparently know how to use a credit card, and Visa isn’t buying the “My balls did it” excuse either.

To everyone else, let’s leave Ed a little sympathy in the comments, eh?

By the way, Brandee over at Think Tank Momma did a lil sumthin sumthin for Ed today too! Go check it out!

This past Saturday I had to help my brother and my sis-in-law with an elementary basketball tournament at our hometown gym.

Fun times.

And really, it would have been. But some things went wrong. First, I was told it would be lasting till about 3. I left at 8. Second, I had about $1000 change through my hands. Some of you are going, “Damn. Must be nice.” Well, I need to tell you that I saw none of that money. What I did see was a Sunday of being sicker than a dog, because people must wipe themselves with their money before using it to buy nachos and a diet Coke at the ballgame.

I also had the opportunity to meet some characters. I’ve taken the liberty of writing some letters to these characters. I’ve done this before, but to people at the mall. You can read that here. Seriously. Go read it, grab a beer, and come back. I’ll wait.

Back? What kind of beer did you grab? Are you drinking on the job? You probably shouldn’t be. Anyway, on with the letters.

Dear Ex Teacher,

I know that no one likes you. I know that we fired you because, in fact, no one really liked you. I know that no one wanted you at the tourney, and I know that probably even your own granddaughter didn’t really want you to be there. I know you probably also have a very small….ego, and I know that you feel the need to compensate for it by acting like a badass, even though you’re 4 feet tall. But did you really have to tell the school board president that you were going to punch him in the face if he said one more word? I don’t think that was necessary. Nor did I enjoy leaving my post in the concession stand to come out and get between two grown ass men who know better than to set that kind of example in front of FREAKING 5th and 6th graders. Congratulations, doucher. You’ve successfully reached asshat status. 

Dear Lady Who Came To The Fight To Get Her Two Cents In,

Yeah, we know you flashed the baseball team a few years back, and that got you fired. In hindsight, you probably realize this was a bad idea. So do you make up for it by jumping in the fight between ex teacher and school board member? One would think no, but you proved otherwise. I have to say, you fully deserved it when ex teacher said, “Why don’t you just go coach the baseball team! HA!” and pointed at you like you’d just given him an assist. Which I guess in a way, you kinda did. Seriously. No one wanted to see those, and no one wants to see you. Nuff said. 

Dear People Who Yell “OVER THE BACK!” Constantly,

We all know that you don’t know what “over the back” means. Matter of fact, most of us know that about 89% of the population doesn’t know what it means. We know that you heard it yelled in a high school game one time, and you thought it sounded cool, so you thought you’d adopt it as your own personal catch phrase and scream it at the ref’s every single time your team has the ball. I don’t think you fully realize how hard it is for an elementary ball player to go over the back on someone. They simply don’t have that kind of athleticism, unless one of them gets on their knees first, and let’s be honest, then they’re just playing leapfrog, and that shit is cute. THEY’RE 5TH AND 6TH GRADERS. Save the yelling at the ref bit for high school, eh stupid parent? 

Dear Coach Of The School That Thinks They’re Better Than Everyone Else,

It honestly would not bother me at all if you just up and got the swine flu. You were up by 35 points in the 4th quarter, and you were yelling at the referees because you thought you were getting an unfairly called game. You should consider yourself very lucky, sir, that I was not wearing the striped shirt of a referee. You would have been ejected faster than Princess Diana. Wow. Too soon? Anyway, all I’m sayin is, stop letting these kids think that anytime something goes wrong, it’s the ref’s fault. You’re doing nothing but raising a generation of kids that will look at the referee every time a ball clangs off the rim, or they miss a wide open layup. I know you were a shitty player in high school, and I know you make up for that now by your “I have a HUGE penis” coaching style. Your penis is small. Probably. I don’t really know. But yeah. Doucher.

Dear Coach Whose Teams Won Both The Girls And Boys Championship,

You sir, are a classy guy. It’s a rarity these days to find someone with a desire to win, and a sense of mercy and compassion for programs that don’t have the skill level that yours does. The way you played the game was fundamentally sound, and the scores reflected it. You deserved those wins, and your players did too. When you had our team down 22 to 0 and you told your girls that not one more point they scored was going to be put on the scoreboard, I didn’t hear a single complaint. They almost seemed to understand why you were doing it. I’m proud of you, and I’m proud of your kids. Congratulations. 

Dear Kids Who Double Dribbled, Shot At The Wrong Goal, Took 8 Steps Before They Shot, And Those Who Just Generally Aren’t Very Good,

Never give up. Never put down the ball. The dream will keep you up nights, the desire will burn in your heart to play the game. I too, was once like you. I was terrible. I shot at the wrong goal. I had bad shoes. I was pigeon toed and awkward. I had very little talent. What I did have, was determination. I eventually got smarter, grew out of my awkwardness, and was able to have better shoes. Don’t quit this game. It will let you down more than you can possibly imagine, and then it will give you an opportunity to play in a game at the state championships when you’re a freshman. For some of you, like me, those will be the greatest 30 seconds you ever spend on a court. Others will know what it means to win that game, and to have played every single minute with a ferocity and dedication that can only be known by someone WHO NEVER QUITS. I know some of you have shitty parents, and I thank God every day that I didn’t have that to deal with. I know they might yell about fouls, cuss, and get in fights at the game, but don’t let it deter you, don’t let it sway you, and don’t let it beat you. You should always play with sportsmanship, honesty, and integrity, and you should always keep you head held high. 

That being said, I’ve got to say this.

This douchebag totally deserved this, and I have never been so happy as when I saw it happen. I’ve watched the replay over and over, and it touches my heart each time.


I hate that bastard.

I will leave you know with a quote from a friend of mine:

When it is played the way it is supposed to be played, basketball happens in the air, flying, floating, elevated above the floor, levitating the way oppressed people of this earth imagine themselves in their dreams. – Ashley Keim


Dear Person Who Was On My Blog At The University of North Carolina,


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.



That’s real. This post is directed to some people I met in the mall today while I was working. I’m gonna comprise this post of short letters to those people.
Dear People who come to the mall at 10, even though it opens at 12,
Please stop. It’s very weird to see you slowly walk circles around the mall until stores open. It’s not like you’re gonna buy anything anyway. Nothing was released today. It’s not Christmas. Please go home and wait till 12.

Dear “Cool Guy” who walks around the mall for 6 hours with no bags,
Why are you here, cool guy? Is it to scope the 16 year old chicks when you are plainly over 20? Are you here to purchase things that are as cool as you? Also, cool guy, long sleeves in summer is STUPID. Not cool. I bet you listen to Birthday Sex and think it’s cool, don’t you? You might be the only person that actually reads the letter intended for them. I know you don’t know the meaning of impry… And guess what? IT’S NOT A REAL WORD!!!

Dear 14 year old that had her shorts cut so short that the pockets were showing at the bottom,
Really? I bet you’re the same kind of girl that grows up and wonders why men treat you like an object. YOU’RE 14! Wear pants. If you can’t wear pants, wear long shorts. 14 year old boys are hormone DRIVEN, and you’re leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Where are your parents? Tell them to call me.

Dear security guard,
I know you don’t get segways in our little mall, and I know that upsets you. I know you dream of one day hitting it big at the Tulsa mall and getting your own segway. But until then, think you could look alive and walk around a bit? Stop talking to that 14 year old girls pockets.

Dear old people mall walking,
I know you’re old. I know you don’t care. But could you please get out of my way when I’m pushing a rack with clothes on it that is very unweildly down the hall? I wouldn’t walk in the way of the surgeon that is giving you a hip replacement, would I?

Dear people that I used to work with at Foot Locker,
I know I only worked there for 2 weeks, but could you please remember my name or not talk to me?

and finally….
Dear Asian guy that walked around the corner just as I made the Jet Li crack,
I’m really sorry. I love Jet Li. Please don’t hurt me, and please don’t look at me like I’m a bad person for mentioning a dominant figure in your race. Do you know him? Can you get me an autograph?
I go back to work tomorrow. Can’t wait to see what kind of winners show up on a Monday.