Memoir Monday is where I take a look back through the old memory banks and extract a story, then feel it’s important enough to have its own special place on the blog. I used to have a fancy button, and a place where everyone could link up, but all of that is gone now. If you have your own story you wish to link up with mine, let me know!
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There was a time when The Missus and I were young and dumb. A time when we circled our wagons of love around the idea of eternal matrimony, but were too young to do anything about it, and too angry with each other the rest of the time. Little did we know, it was our “heyday.”
During this time, we owned a couple of spectacular cars.
Hers, a dark blue, 140 horsepower, V-6 Chevrolet Corsica, circa 1992.
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| There’s a story that involves the backseat of this car and a wooden bridge in Kentucky, but I digress. |
In my corner — and mentioned in such blogs as the one where I let my baby brother drive my car, and also the second time I got slapped, along with stories such as anytime it snowed I did something dumb — a 1997 Ford Escort with a 2.0 liter, 4 cylinder powerplant that cranked out 110 horses, as well as a paint job I liked to call “Silver Surfer.”
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| There are no backseat stories in this car. A couple of front seat ones though… |
Obviously, we both had dads that cared about our safety, as well as not wanting their insurance premiums to go up because of teenage stupidity.
Obviously, we were going to be stupid anyway.
The first day I got my car I tried to see how fast it would go. I got to 100, got scared and braked, but eventually capped it out at 110.
Enough about the cars though. Lets get back to the night The Missus and I had our first race, and the night I performed a movie-esque getaway.
We were both driving home from something, I can’t remember what, when we both started accelerating pretty fast. It was plain to see what was going to happen next: we were going to push those poor little cars to the absolute limits of their paltry performance.
The Missus gunned it.
To be fair, although she “won,” I think it had more to do with her cars engine being bigger than mine, and nothing at all to do with her driving ability, which pales like a Democrat faced with an assault rifle in comparison with my own driving ability.
I put my foot on the pedal of that poor little Escort, and gave it all she had.
What happened next was just an unfortunate turn of events for all involved.
The speed limit on the road we were on was 45 MPH. The speed we had reached when we got to the surprise was about 85 MPH and climbing. All of the sudden, around the corner ahead, we see it.
The Jacket. The Fuzz. Five-Oh. The Blue Steel. The Coppahs. The Donut Squad. The Heat. The Brass. Johnny Law.
A solitary police car on a routine patrol, definitely not expecting two cars rounding on him at twice the legal speed limit.
I’ve taken the liberty of drawing out the scenario.
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| The blue = The Missus. Silver = Me. Red = The doomed policeman. |
The large green circle is obviously where The Missus decided to challenge me to what would ultimately be my finest driving moment ever. The yellow sun looking thing is exactly what you think it might be: a convenience store named Sun-Up, or as I took to calling it, “The Promised Land.”
I still maintain the only thing that saved our bacon (heh, cops) was the fact that we had cars behind us which prevented the cop from making his turnaround in an efficient manner.
We both saw him though, and we both had different reactions.
The Missus floored it. She laid into that car like it owed her lunch money. I’m almost positive I heard the RPMs turn 9000 as she roared off to the spot on the map marked “Freedom.”
I, on the other hand, turned crafty.
I waited till I got the rest of the way around the curve, braked, and coasted up into the previous mentioned convenience store, where I immediately unbuckled, jumped out, popped my gas cap off and shoved the nozzle of the fuel pump into my car not unlike the first time…well, never mind.
Then I watched as the unsuspecting policeman roared down the road, lights blazing, siren wailing, driving like mad to catch the two crazy teenagers driving like banshees on his watch.
For a moment, my chivalrous upbringing yelled at me in the voice of my now-passed father.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TAKE THE TICKET! NOW SHE’S GOING TO GET A TICKET! YOU KNOW SHE BARELY LIKES YOU KNOW, WHAT IS SHE GOING TO FEEL LIKE IF YOU GET HER A TICKET!”
Thus began my careful and methodical destruction of my chivalrous upbringing, which, now that I think about it, might have actually started when I took her to Arby’s on our first date…and asked her to pay.
All tension was allayed though when the cop made the turn shown on the map, figuring it was the only place two cars who suddenly disappeared into the dark could have gone.
I’ve asked The Missus to contribute this morning in the form of a text message.
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| Seriously, y’all don’t tell her about this. |
And thus was the day we became unbreakable partners in both love…and crime.
Until that next prom.
Yesterday, about 2 miles from my house, two knucklehead teenagers set a fire that burned 20 acres and, more importantly, almost an entire neighborhood. They were arrested and could be charged with a bunch of stuff, including arson and endangering lives. That got me to thinkin, how many times have I endangered lives? So I decided to do…
I’ve been thinking for a while, and the first story that pops into my head is the time that I got my first slingshot. Most of you know what a slingshot is, some of you don’t. Here’s a picture.
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| This is almost the exact model I had. |
I got one of these things when I was a young kid, probably in the 5th grade or so. My dad thought it would be a good idea for me to have one, and I’m absolutely certain my mom was horrified. However, my dad won out, and I got a slingshot, along with some nifty “slingshot BBs.” These things were made out of steel, and about the size of a marble. They were for killing things like squirrels, birds, rabbits, etc. Unfortunately, I never got to shoot it at any of those things.
Y’all remember when I blogged about the only accuracy I’ve ever had has been accidental? Well, that trend started with this story. My dad took me out to the back yard, and then he started setting up a target (a coffee can with a bullseye on it) in the yard while I sat on the porch, impatiently fidgeting with my brand new toy. I thought, “Man, I should load this up. That way as soon as he gets done, I can shoot.” So I loaded it up. Then I thought, “Man, I should sight this bad boy in, that way I know what I’m doing.” So I pulled the band back, sighted in the target, and sat there for a second, my father blissfully unaware that his son was pointing a loaded weapon at him. Then, it happened. I slipped. I didn’t even have time to gasp before that steel ball bearing slammed into the can, knocking it from my fathers hands as he was trying to get it set right. Accuracy? Only on accident. That was the last time I shot a slingshot until I bought my own about 3 years later.
There was another occasion I endangered lives, only this time it was with homemade mustard gas. My brothers and I were playing “Keep the other one out of the bedroom.” It was a game where you had a certain amount of time to set up defenses to keep the sibling out of the room they were trying to get in. Creative, eh? Don’t judge us, we made do with what we had. The way our trailer was set up was with two bedrooms on either end, and a long hallway that led back to ours, with the washing machine, dryer and bathroom all situated in that hallway. It was my turn to set up the defense system, and I had just recently watched Home Alone, and I thought, “Man, I should set this up to where he slips and slides all the way down the hallway, then crashes into the door.” So I got started. First, I bleached the floor. It was probably the cleanest that floor ever got. However, it didn’t get it slick enough to be really slippery. I searched and searched, and finally figured out that if I used Windex, it would create a film on the floor that would rival the slipperiest of slides. So I got to spraying. After about 10 minutes, I ran into the living room coughing and crying and about three quarters dead, and that prompted my dad to go check things out. He wasn’t back there 3 seconds and he started choking to death. My whole family had to evacuate the trailer, and that’s the day I learned how to make mustard gas.
My third and final story also involves gassing people, but this time I did it in a different way. When I worked at the jail, they upgraded from a meager, fear inducing facility to a brand new, state of the art fear inducing facility. Of all the changes that took place, one of them was a giant carport where officers could park and bring the freshly arrested or transferred prisoner in for processing. One night, I parked in the carport for giggles. It was night off, and I was up there talking with officers, joking around, all the stuff that you would expect to go on in a jail after midnight. After a while, I noticed that some of my jokes and stories were killing. You know how you get in a joke telling zone and people are about to piss themselves because they are laughing so hard? That was happening. I felt good. Then, a couple of us started to have a headache. Then all of us started complaining of a headache. About that time, someone asked me if my truck was still running. I got to my feet with some help, went in to the carport, and sure enough, my truck was running. Turns out, I had gassed the whole place up with exhaust fumes. I don’t know how much longer it would have taken until we were dead, but I’m sure it wasn’t too long. And that’s how I almost killed several county officers of the peace at one time.
So yeah, those two “juveniles” are idiots, but who among us hasn’t almost killed a few people on accident? You should leave me a comment telling me about yours. Or you can link up with me and tell everyone on your blog!
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| “Haaaaaaay! This is mah wagon, and I know mah blues don’t match, but that’s just me doin me, you know?” |
So yeah. I’m pretty sure I liked dudes at this point. Also, that camper? LEGIT, son. You wish you had a camper like that. And yes, I’m 99% sure that’s the tailgate of my dad’s truck laying in the grass. Classy as sh*t, yo.
Also, moving along, I saw the following things at church yesterday after The Missus pointed them out to me. I had to get a picture, mostly because it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
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| “No, Herbert. You want to keep on down the hall a bit. Yeah, the sign that says ‘Creepers.’ Yeah, that’s it.” |
The bad thing is, I think I looked just as bad taking pictures by the nursery. I’m pretty sure I’m not welcome back there again.
The year was 1996. I was 14 years old, and less than a year ago we had moved out of a 2 bedroom trailer and into a house. That’s right, we had 6 people in a 2 bedroom trailer. A 2 bedroom ONE BATHROOM trailer. It got crazy on Sunday mornings, y’all.
One of the things the new house featured, aside from that glorious, wonderful, sent from heaven second bathroom, was a glass double door at the “back” of the house. I put quotes around the word back because no one ever came to our “front” door. It’s like the thing had a giant ogre in front of it, yelling “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” over and over again. Or it could have been the fact that a colony of barn swallows spent the entire year making nests out of mud on our house and covering the front porch in poop. My dad spent many an hour outside screaming at them in anger and hacking their nests up with a broom, but they always came back.
Back to the glass double doors. One of my dad’s favorite things to do was to sit at the table and stare out that door for hours, just watching things. He would watch people, cars, animals, and anything else that happened to be outside. As a matter of fact, one of our favorite winter activities over the next few years would consist of the entire family gathered around those doors, laughing at people trying to make it up the huge ice covered hill beside our house.
We lived in an area called Mallard Bay. Directly to our east was a part of the same community, only it was called Robin’s Roost. They were referred to as “The Roost” and “The Bay.” The Roost was not a place you wanted to live. Now, I know a lot of people reading this probably came from over there, but still. You know. You really wanted to live in The Bay. As a matter of fact, I had to have special permission to even ride my bike through The Roost.
So anyway, one day my dad was looking through those glass doors, and I was in the kitchen, making a sandwich or something. All of the sudden my dad jumps out of his chair, runs for the door, and starts running out the driveway towards the gigantic hill. He took the red path in the following illustration.
You see, the field behind our house kind of presented a problem. I’m pretty sure my dad was barefoot when he took off. I don’t know that for a fact though, and that’s how legends get started. Either way, there was a giant ditch he would have had to jump over, and he just figured the road would be faster. Watching my dad run was something else. He was about 6’1″ and weighed about 280, and he had short legs like me. It was kind of like watching an old cartoon where the character’s legs just sort of wound up and then they took off like a bat out of hell. My dad could MOVE. I don’t think he even noticed the hill.
What was he running to? Well, in the house just up from us, there lived a lovable transient gentleman with an IQ that was not up to the then current average. He raised fightin roosters. Picture the dude from “Of Mice and Men.” We’ll call him “The Doose.” Apparently, this gentleman’s brakes had gone out at the point illustrated above. Thinking quickly, he had decided that he could open his door and stop his truck…with his foot. While his vehicle was moving down a hill. He would not have succeeded if it weren’t for a very large tree that his truck hit. The Doose was obviously shaken up, and the first person to reach him was my dad. I swear my father made it up the road before the truck hit the tree, but again, that’s me making a legend. He got The Doose out of the truck and laid down in the grass while his family started to come outside.
I didn’t see the foot, y’all. But I heard terrible things. Horrible things. Ambulances were called, and The Doose was whisked away in a flurry of lights. And my family, sans my dad, spent the entire time watching the event from those glass double doors.
notes about the picture:
1. Yes, we had a trampoline AND a swimming pool. Be jealous. 2. Yes, we had them next to each other so we could do stupid things. 3. That meth fire stuff is NOT exaggerated. 4. That hill was at least a 40% incline. Might have gone 60. 5. Yes, the road literally ended in the water. It’s called a boat ramp.
Other Trips Down Memory Lane This Week: (GO READ THEM.)
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: BOO!(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!)
You guys all remember the first time I got slapped, right?
No? Well then click that first sentence and go read it.
This is a story about the second time I got slapped. The circumstances were a bit different, but it all boiled down to the same result, which is something I absolutely hated. Getting slapped. Seriously y’all, it makes me want to cry, then it makes me want to punch babies.
When I was 16, I had a car, I had a girlfriend, I still had a dad, I was doing well in school, and I was in my physical prime. I was a beast. A sexy beast. I was living the life.
The car? A 1997 Ford Escort, silver, automatic, and 4 door. It dripped sexy.
Seriously, it wasn’t a showy car, but it was way more dependable than your 1972 Camaro that you always had “in the shop.”
I loved my car. Mostly because I’d been driving a 1992 Ford Aerostar for the last 6 months. I dare you to try to look cool in a minivan. And no, Soccer Mom, you DON’T look cool. I don’t care if it is a hybrid that has 6 DVD players so you don’t have to have any interaction with your children while you’re driving with one hand and texting with another as you barrel down the highway at 98 miles an hour trying to get little Timothy to practice early so hopefully coach won’t make him wear the girls uniform again which makes your husband call his sexuality into question.
Yay Spongebob!
I drove my car pretty carefully for the most part. I didn’t have a cell phone then, so for the most part my hands were on the wheel. Not BOTH hands. That’s just not cool. One hand was usually on the radio, the gear shift, or taking part in my most recently discovered favorite past time, HAND HOLDING WITH THE GIRL FRIEND.
Seriously, did it get any better?
I mean, it did. It got WAY better. But for sure, the first time you held hands with someone, wasn’t that the bees knees?
Anyway, I’m driving through a residential neighborhood, one hand on the wheel, one hand in the hand of the lady friend, and we were talking. I briefly took my eyes off the road, and then it happened.
I curbed the car. I immediately did the only useful thing I could think of at the time. I yelled.
“SHIT!”
The car went quiet for about 2 seconds, then…
SMACK!
I’d been slapped. In the face. Hard. WHILE I WAS DRIVING.
I’m not real sure what happened after that, but I think she laughed about it. I did not laugh about it. You know that moment you have in a relationship where you think, “This might not be working out as well as I thought…”
Yeah… I didn’t have it then. BECAUSE SHE WAS LETTING ME HOLD HER HAND, Y’ALL.
We wound up dating for another year or so, and as far as first girlfriends go, it really wasn’t bad.
I just made sure to not cuss around her ever again.
Other Trips Down Memory Lane This Week: (GO READ THEM)
Erin’s Memoir Monday: My Life In France, or, The Summer I Came Of Age.
Barb’s Memoir Monday.
Ed’s Memoir Monday: My EXP Had More Headjobs Than Me.
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: A Slap In Time.
GB’s Memoir Monday: Probably The Suckiest Thing You’ll Read Today.
(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!)
I’ve always had this sort of uncanny accidental accuracy when it comes to throwing things. If you gave me a baseball and set me in a field full of babies and told me to hit one of them with the ball, I will somehow miss all the babies completely, and instead land the ball squarely on the base of the Eiffel Towel, triggering a hairline fracture that will cause it to come crashing to the ground, killing approximately 5,345 people.
Tell me NOT to hit a baby, I would undoubtedly try to set the ball down as gently as possible, the ball would slip from my hands, bounce off of a trampoline and would somehow strike each child in the field not only in the head, but in the soft part of the head, thus giving each of them permanent brain damage, and giving me the opportunity to spend the rest of my life in prison where I will be violently gang raped by “The Sisters.” And no, I won’t be able to come up with a fancy line about how sharp instruments trigger a bite reflex, thus saving my virginity.
Allow me to give you a few examples.
When I was about 10, I was involved in a game of “jarts” (lawn darts) with my younger brother at my grandparents house, only we were playing with a twist. The twist was that in order for you to successfully score a point, you had to make sure the jart cleared my grandfather’s Buick Regal. Oh. And you had to make the throw standing about 4 feet from the car. Oh. And no overhand throws. So I wound up, I let it fly, and that jart flew right at the WINDOW of my grandfather’s beloved car. Instead of crashing through the window, the jart hit the metal trim just above it, denting it rather badly, and fell to the ground.
I pissed myself, y’all. Scary accuracy.
Then there was the time I decided I liked a girl in my second grade class. She was beautiful, and her name was Lacy. I was going to marry Lacy, all I had to do was figure out a way to propose. I thought long and hard about it, and then I decided that the best way to propose would be to hurl rocks at her whilst she was swinging during recess. I got a neat little pile of rocks, David style, and set up camp by the monkey bars. I turned loose the first rock, it sailed high into the air, looked a little long, then caught her square in the temple as she was swinging up into the air. This caused her to turn loose of the chains on the swing, which caused her to complete a series of rather astonishing in-air acrobatics before finally coming to a rest about 10 feet from the swing set.
I can’t really put into words the amount of trouble I got in for that. Also, she declined my proposal.
Then there was the time I decided to have a dirt clod fight with a kid in the 5th grade. We armed ourselves and went into positions, ducking, running slant routes, taking aim. I fired first, and with laser guided missile like accuracy, the clod found the kid’s head. Instead of exploding on impact the way dirt clods are SUPPOSED to do, this kid’s head immediately started gushing blood. Turns out, instead of a dirt clod, I’d armed myself with a really dirty rock.
It took a few stitches, but he’s fine now. Seriously. He only had to repeat 5th grade three times.
Fast forward to present day, which was actually about 3 months ago. I had just started playing tennis seriously, and I was ready to take on my youngest brothers, The Liar and The Youngest, in a doubles game in which Kid Funk would be my partner. The first set was over, Kid Funk and I victorious, and we were setting up for the second set, and The Youngest started talking crap. I took aim carefully, and I hit an incredible forehand…right into the eye of the The Liar, who had just stood up from looking at his phone. The eyeball, y’all. His cornea immediately filled with blood, and he had to be rushed to the ER, and to this day he claims he can’t see good out of that eye.
All I’m saying is, if you want it hit on accident, give me a call. If you gave me two lawn darts and told me NOT to hit anything in the Middle East for fear of starting war, you’d find Bin Laden two day’s later, dead on the ground with a jart sticking out of his femoral artery.
Other Walks Down Memory Lane. (GO READ THEM!)
Ally’s Memoir Monday.
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: Everyone Needs A Monty.
Ed’s Memoir Monday: The Time I Took Weed To School.
Kate’s Memoir Monday: Grown-Up Fail.
(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!)
7 years ago on this date I was driving 100 miles an hour down a little highway to a little church in a little town to participate in a little ceremony wherein The Missus would become my bride. I was 5 hours early, but I was afraid that unless I got there early, she would figure out that she really didn’t want to marry me. There was a situation with cuff links, but I lifted some off of one of my groomsmen.
As the doors to the back of the church opened, I finally realized that this was going to happen. Unbeknown to me, my father in law was telling my future bride that she really didn’t have to do this, and if she wanted to change her mind, he’d go get the car and get her out of here. So started my wonderful relationship with my in-laws.
As my glowing bride walked down the aisle, it became apparent that she was dealing with a few things. This was indicated by her spontaneously bursting into tears at about the midway point. This gravely concerned me, and when she paused briefly I was certain that I was finally waking up from a dream. Thankfully, she continued, and we were married.
It’s been a crazy 7 years, I’ve been just about the biggest idiot I can be, and she still loves me. I love her more than ever for so many reasons.
Like the time she whipped that guy’s ass for me.
Or the fact that this morning she sent me the following picture with the following caption on her way to work.
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“Idiots already.”
Or for the simple fact that she’s sacrificed so much so that I could even be alive. Which brings us to our Memoir for the day.
When we were engaged, I was invited to spend the week in Kentucky with some of her family. I’ve blogged about that, but it was one of those blogs where I found out that racism in Kentucky is not near as funny to y’all as it is to me.
Anyholesinlinens, we were driving home from the great state and we were in Missouri. We had just come out of the Lou, and we were cruising along about 70 mile an hour. We were rolling by an on ramp when we both looked over and noticed a dump truck coming down the ramp way too fast to even consider merging. He didn’t even look, y’all. Just barreled on down that ramp like he had a hot St. Louis annie and a speedball waitin on him down at the local Waffle House.
My fiancée was driving, and I was busy reading the “Diesel Fuel Only” warning on this truck’s gas tank. It was that close. We were boxed in. She was going to be in a wreck, she just had to decide who was going to get hit. She didn’t even think, y’all. She jerked the wheel her direction and slammed her side of the car into the Ryder truck in the next lane over. The great thing about all of this? It took place on a bridge.
The dump truck driver sped off, blissfully unaware of this encounter, his mind focused on Toothless Tami Jade and the meth that she always snorted off of his semi erect penis. We never did find out who was driving. Her car was totaled, but we were both fine, not a scratch on us.
And when I re-enacted the accident a short while later with a water bottle, she laughed about it.
The secret to a happy and fulfilling marriage? It’s not finding a woman who will take it. It’s finding a woman who will take it on her side and laugh about it later.
I love you, Alicia.
2 AM , I lie down deep in slumber,Feelings are falling downward, I want to forget.Waking up I hear the way your voice sounds,My heart starts to pound now, to the rhythm of yours.You’re so angelic, words so symphonic,Touch your lips to my soul, eat this sorrow away.How am I so lucky I found you?Sometimes I feel like I’m still dreaming,Each day you’re always on my mind.This is how we stay, so connected,Over space and time. -Silverstein
Here are some other Memoir Mondays! (GO READ THEM!)
Erin’s Memoir Monday: Mr. JC, Mrs. Lucy, a Lizard Egg and a Seahorse; or, Life is Fragile.
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: Toot, Toot!
Hillybilly’s Memoir Monday: Moon Dancing.
LB’s Memoir Monday: Talladega Nights…and Days. Part 2!
Barb’s Memoir Monday: I LOVE QUEBEC!
…for this week.
The only one I see though is Ally over at Two Normal Moms
Head on over to read her Memoir Monday, and I’ll be back to blogging when I feel like it.
It got to the point where my blog life was more stressful than real life, and that shit isn’t going to fly.
I got 99 problems but a blog ain’t one. That’s real.
I’m out.
Thats right, I’m not doing a Memoir Monday today. Don’t worry though, if you did one, I’ll link it up at the bottom of this post and direct everyone your way.
What I have for you today is something a little different, and not at all what you’re used to seeing here.
You see, there is this little girl, and she has cancer. Neuroblastoma to be exact. Here’s the kicker. She’s 16 months old.
I have some cancer experience. However, I cannot even fathom what these parents are going through, and I don’t want to. I’ll be honest when I say that I haven’t read much of the blog, which you can find here. I just know that the support that they are being shown is incredible, and I figure it’s my time to help in whatever miniscule way I can.
Brandy over at Think Tank Momma and I are going to be doing a weight loss challenge. From now until June 30th, we are going to be dropping some serious weight. All we ask you to do is sponsor us. You can give whatever you want per pound, and I can promise you that I will drop the weight. I weighed yesterday, I’m at 314 pounds. I have 114 more to my goal, but I’ve lost 56 so far.
Now this weight loss has even more of a purpose, but how much more is up to you.
Here is the button that Brandee made up for us.
Here is the button for the blog.
And here is the button to donate through Paypal.
Click on monkey to donate…please help!
(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!)
This is not a “no means no” story, and I didn’t try to start up a conversation with a woman or teenager in a dark alley somewhere.
I volunteered to be pepper sprayed. Yeah. I’m an idiot. And this wasn’t your every day, over the counter mace. This was 5 million Scouleville unit, law enforcement grade pepper spray. It was the real deal.
Let’s start at the beginning.
You’ve all heard me tell tales from the jail, and this is another. When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I worked for a local sheriff’s department. The stories from there would fill a book, like the time a penis touched someone’s nose, but probably a shorter book than most folks would want to read, unless of course you’re illiterate, then you really can’t even understand what I’m saying right now. Fuck you, you illiterate bastard. See? For all you know, I just told you that you have nice hair.
I’ve wandered a bit off track.
So this guy came to the jail one day, very official looking, badge and everything, and said he was there for our pepper spray training class. Said that if we wanted to use it, we had to go through training in order to know exactly what we were doing to people, the effects during and after spraying, and so on and so forth. We all sat down to listen to his lecture, which included a lot of “you should really use this as a last measure…blah blah blah.”
They’re CRIMINALS. If they so much as asked me politely for a roll of TP, I’d yell at them and pull my pepper spray out and ask, “You want some of this? Eh? Then shut the hell up!”
I wasn’t really liked by the general population.
That was fine with me, so long as they stayed on the other side of those bars.
After he finished with his lecture, he told us he would need a few volunteers to help demonstrate the debilitating effects of this wonderful spray. I of course jumped up to head out the door to get some inmates for this testing, because honestly, who else would we use? I mean, it was like having lab rats in cages back there.
The instructor took my getting up to be a sign of me volunteering, and so I was quickly escorted out to the “yard” which was a parking lot/smoking area for the trustees. Once there I was told to put my back against the wall and look up. It was at this point that I knew I was going to have a bad day.
“Here it comes!” and the spray hit me in the face. (PEPPER spray, you sick fuckers) Nothing. I didn’t feel a thing. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t burn, and I didn’t drop to the ground spasming in paroxysms of agonizing torment. I blinked a couple of times and said, “Oh. Is that it?” I WAS A HERO.
The instructor was pretty upset, and he decided to try again. He shook the can a bit, then said, “Here it comes!” and again caught me full in the face. The crowd of onlookers could only stare in astonishment as I wiped my face and said, “Nothing.”
The instructor was worked up real good at this point, and he decided to try a final time. “Here it comes!” Nothing. As in, nothing hit me in the face. I opened my eyes…and it was there. He finally had figured out what I was doing. Apparently, I have eyelids that are comparable to the finest steel traps. Seriously folks, I have bulletproof eyelids. I guess I was closing them each time the spray hit, because, well, I mean, who wouldn’t?
But the third time, he got me. I’m here to tell you guys, it fucking HURT. It was probably one of the most painful experiences of my life. I rubbed my eyes so much, it got in my nose. This produced snot like you wouldn’t believe, which I then moved back into my eyes, my hair, my ears, and my mouth. I stood in the drunk tank shower for 45 minutes trying to wash the pain away, much like that time in the alley with my scoutmaster…wait. No, wait. Pepper spray. That’s the story, right?
I finally got calmed down enough to talk, and one of the people I work with said, “Travis, can I take you anywhere?” I said, “Hell, it’s cooler.” The rest of the afternoon was a blur of pain and sniffling, and finally I was told I could go home. As I was walking out of the door, the officer that sprayed me said, “When you take a shower, make sure you lean forward so that residual spray doesn’t run down your body and get tangled up with your tackle.”
I didn’t listen.
Folks, that second round of pain was almost as bad as the first. Pepper spray on your balls is probably one of the worst feelings EVER.
Did I learn a valuable lesson about pepper spraying inmates? As much as I hate to say it, I sure did. I only sprayed on more the entire time I was there, and I really felt bad about it afterwards.
Moral of the story?
Always lean forward in the shower after you’ve been pepper sprayed because you volunteered on accident because you’re a cocky douche who thought inmates weren’t people.
Other Non-Pepper Sprayed Walks Down The Memory Alley Today: (GO READ THEM!)
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: Like Sands Through The Hour Glass…
Micki’s Memoir Monday: My Dad And The Epic Deodorant Fail.
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: Oh Yes, I SMASHED It.
Juicebox’s Memoir Monday: RAWRRR! Mighty Pipe Power!
Kate’s Memoir Monday: The Time I Left My Bra In A Bar.
Barb’s Memoir Monday: Meeting More Bloggers!
(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!)
Well, if you missed it, you should probably be kicking yourself pretty hard right now.
Go on. I’ll wait.
IT WAS AWESOME! TAR 2010 went off without any major hitches, and Daffy, Coffeypot, Jeff, Ed, Bambi, Barb, Kid Funk, The Missus and I all had a blast!
P.S. You can click on most of those names for links to blogs.
The Missus, Kid Funk and I literally skidded into Missouri via hydroplaning early Friday afternoon, and then we had all kinds of adventures with retarded Missouri semi truck drivers. I swear, if it wasn’t for the fact that my little Japanese built car wouldn’t be crushed beneath them, therefore ending our lives, I would have gone head to head with some of them. We also outran tornadoes and huge storms the whole way up, but we made it to The Lou relatively unscathed. The weather took the “Tornado Alley Roundup” moniker a bit too seriously.
We checked in, met everyone but Daffy and Jeff, who would arrive later, and then the fun began. By fun, I mean free drinks in the hotel lobby. Folks, I’m not kidding when I say this; I am the fattest lightweight you’ll ever meet. I was 3 drinks in and feeling pretty good, and we all ran across the street to go to the Hard Rock, where I had never been.
What followed was proof positive why I should never drink, and I am absolutely sure there will be pictures to go along. I wound up dancing the YMCA in front of the entire restaurant with a lesbian who kept wanting to lead, and we may or may not have had a dance off. Since I have two moves, the Moneymaker and the Bunny-Hop, she won quite soundly. I got a free drink mixer in the shape of a guitar, so I’m calling that a win. Between all of us gentlemen, I’m also fairly sure that there wasn’t a waitress in the place that didn’t get sexually harassed.
When we left, it was raining, and so it was quite the little run back over to the hotel, which sobered us up, so we had to drink more beers in the hotel bar. Daffy showed up, Bambi and Barb left us for good to go to some wedding that we couldn’t crash, and then everyone pretty much went to bed. Kid Funk spent about 30 drunken minutes trying to “set the auto feature” on the coffee machine in the room, which turned out not only to be broken, but also to have never featured an auto option. The Missus and I slept in a single full size bed, and I have to tell you, since the Tyra show, when we last did that, we’re about 70 pounds lighter, and so it was a lot easier, but still wicked lame.
Day two brought us round to the free hotel breakfast, a swim in the pool for myself and The Funk, some hot tubbin, and then we all gathered up to figure out the events for the day, which turned out to be the worst planning job in the history of time. We went out to the Arch, and you have my word, it is still standing. One of the security guards was a Duke fan, so he was cool. This was also where we met up with Jeff, and I even waved to him while he was stuck on a bridge. Speaking of Duke, Ed was a very good sport about having to hold up his end of the bet and wear a Duke hat all weekend.
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After the Arch, pretty much all plans fell apart, and we went to the mall thing they had there at Union Station. That was a blast, mostly because Coffeypot told penis jokes during lunch, and Daffy told lame jokes about vaginas being licked while she colored. We have video of that, but there is also video of me dancing, so I won’t draw till you do, guys.
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From there we decided to go our separate ways for a bit, get refreshed for some bar hopping in the evening. Jeff and I decided to go down to the pool, where we chilled in the hot tub for a bit before meeting the ENTIRE CAST of Jersey Shore. I shit you not, and These folks were dead ringers, and they were every bit as stupid. They were there from Arkansas for a bachelor party, I really don’t think I have to say more, but here is a picture to clear it up.
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Then we got drunk. Jeff, The Missus, Kid Funk and myself all had a little drinking time in our room, and there was Jager, 151, beers, and more Jager. That was NOT including the gin and tonics I had, the margaritas The Missus had, and the beers we all had for the free drinking time in the lobby. Shit got real, folks.
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We got downstairs to meet up with everyone, and it was there that we discovered a drunk Cards fan passed out in a chair in the middle of the lobby. I got called an asshole by the desk clerk, but I managed to get a picture, and then later I got a video as they put him on a luggage cart to take him back to the room. That will follow later.
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I’ll be real honest when I tell you I don’t remember a lot about the evening. I remember that Coffeypot drove us around, I remember winding up seeing a Lamborghini in the parking lot of the Four Seasons hotel and casino I was in briefly, and I remember sitting out in the street having the best damn bruschetta and the worst damn calamari I’ve ever had in my life, watching about 34 brides to be go by enjoying bachelorette parties. From there, I know we left, and I know I got back to the room, and I know I woke up the next morning.Of course, this can only be confirmed because I am typing this up now.
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Kid Funk and Coffeypot
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Me and The Missus
These are just a few of the pictures, but I will post more later this week. I made all of the TAR folks promise to put up a Memoir Monday today, so be sure to check back often for updates today! This was definitely the most fun I’ve had in a LONG time, and I definitely can’t wait for a sequel, which I hope you’ll all join!
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Other Memoir Monday’s This Week. (GO READ THEM!)
Ed’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
Kid Funk’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
Coffeypot’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
Jeff’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
Barb’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
Bambi’s Memoir Monday: TAR 2010
BigSis’ Memoir Monday: I Hold The Lock, But Who Holds The Key?
Lauren’s Memoir Monday: That Time I Was Homeless. (Kind of)
Angel’s Memoir Monday: Double Dipping Again.
Dame’s Memoir Monday: Confessions Of A Former Control Freak.
Taylor’s Memoir Monday: The Evil That Is Mary Kay.
Annie’s Memoir Monday: I Love You, But I Want To Kill You.
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: Wandering With A Wise Woman.(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!)
By now, you’ve probably all heard about my pseudo celebrity status on the Tyra Banks show.
For those of you new to the blog, here is a brief rundown of how I got on the show.
I get an email from Tamara over at Cheapskate Mom about how the Tyra show is looking for cheapskates for their show. My guess is, they googled cheapskate, and saw her blog, then asked her to be on the show, to which she declined, because she’s a giant freaking pansy very modest and non assuming person.
She did however, give them my email addy and said, “Hey, you want cheap and the perfect person, check this guy out.” It was all downhill from there.
When I first found out about it, I thought it was a very elaborate prank. When I realized it was serious, I came to the understanding that this might be my only chance to ever be on TV, and so I ran with it. I called The Missus, explained it all to her, and then I got the call from the associate producer.
I was pretty worked up, and I have to say, I played them pretty well. I embellished when things needed to be touched up, and I was very high energy through the phone calls. Hell, I’m pretty sure I had my “spirit fingers” going with whatever hand wasn’t holding the phone.
The lady told me she was going to call The Missus, so I immediately called her when I hung up the phone so we could corroborate stories. The Missus laid it on them, and from there, we were told they had to check with another producer, but that they loved our story. The producer called back, The Missus gave an Oscar worthy phone performance, tears included, and we were on our way to New York for the “I Have the Cheapest Mate in America” show.
They flew us out there for an evening, then we were to tape the show the next morning,then we were going to leave the next day. Not much time for sight seeing. Flying over NYC was one of the coolest things I have ever done, and I would do it over and over again. Within 10 minutes of landing I had pissed off my first New Yorker, who happened to be our driver, by saying I liked the Yanks instead of the Mets.
On the radio the entire time we were driving into Manhattan, they kept saying that the blizzard of 10 was on the way, and that there were no flights expected to get out the next day. This caused us a brief bit of panic, because we didn’t know if our gracious hosts were willing to set us up with another nights hotel stay and some meal money. After all, we were there because I am so cheap, right? The blizzard did hit the next day, and they did give us more eating money and another night in the hotel, as well as change our flight around, which gave us a chance to see Chicago and New Jersey, which they can keep.
I won’t go into details on the NY sight seeing. All I’ll say is if you haven’t been there, go. Folks, it felt like I was home for the first time in my life. I would live there in a minute if The Missus would move with me. I love it. We soaked as much of it in as we could, took hundreds of pictures, then got some sushi, and went to bed in a twin size bed, because they had booked us a room with two beds.
The next morning, we went to tape the show. Getting into the studio itself was a chore, they made us surrender any cameras, phones, or any kind of recording devices, and they had two rather large bodyguards frisk us before we went it. I’ll tell you this, I am under contract not to slander or defame the show. So I won’t do that, but the number one question I have gotten since our return has been, “Was Tyra nice?” Her crew was amazing. They were hospitable, they were friendly, they were professional. But can you tell me the last time anyone looked at you and said, “Hey, so and so supermodel is so NICE!” Bet you can count that on an amputated hand…
Did we lie about some things to get on TV? Yes we did. Am I really that cheap? No I’m not. Hell, I just bought a PS3 and a new TV. Do we spend 5 hours every week grocery shopping with thousands of coupons that I make my wife steal the internet to get? That coupon book wasn’t ours, the shopping trips last about an hour, and we are now the proud owners of our very own internet signal.
They edited the show down a lot, because at one point, the “financial advisor” said that we should get rid of my truck and carpool together to our separate jobs in SEPARATE FREAKING CITIES. That just wasn’t good advice. They also took out EVERYTHING that had to do with my blog. Everything. That really pissed me off, because I gave some shout outs.
Essentially, they made it sound like I was the worst husband ever. Which is exactly what The Missus and I led them to believe. So I can’t play the blame game. Instead, what I can tell you is this:
After the segment was over, and I mean RIGHT AFTER Tyra said, “We’ll be right back,” she got up, walked across the stage, and said, “I need powder on my forehead.” We were ushered quickly off the stage and into the green room, and nine and a half minutes of my fame was over. Someone owes me five and a half minutes. That was the last time I ever saw Tyra Banks. We never saw her before the show, and we didn’t see her after.
I really don’t know why I expected anything different.
I’ve asked The Missus to give me her thoughts on the experience in general:
“It was a lot of fun, we got to experience a lot of stuff. The show was a disappointment, it was too much business and not enough enjoyment. I’d really like to go back without the snow, and with more money to shop.”
There you have it folks. The juicy details, the behind the scenes look, the dirty truth. If you have any questions, ask them in the comments, I’ll answer them, unless it will put me in jeopardy of being sued, which I might be already. That’s okay though, y’all got my back…right? Start sending attorney fees my way!
Other Non-Televised Walks Down Memory Lane This Week: (GO READ THEM!)
Momma Fargo’s Memoir Monday: With TV Travis!
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: Anzac Day: Lest We Forget.
Juicebox’s Memoir Monday: Prom Style
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: Jose Can You Sing?
That One Mom’s Memoir Monday: Becoming An Only Parent; Part 5.
Erin’s Memoir Monday: My Fear Of Flying (not Erica Jong’s), Or Why Pan Am Went Down. (Literally)
Lauren’s Memoir Monday: The First Time I Changed The Bumper On My Car.
Annie’s Memoir Monday: The Ties That Bind.
Dame Nuisance’s Memoir Monday: Puking Drunk.
Angel’s Memoir Monday.
Ed’s Memoir Monday: It’s Amazing I Can Still Count To Ten.
Kate’s Memoir Monday: A Walk On The (Culinary) Wild Side.
Taylor’s Memoir Monday: He Could Have Been A Mafia Legend.
Okay.
I’ve been a bad bloggy friend, and I know this.
The first step is to admit it, right?
Anydoucher, I’ve decided that the reason that (some of) you people are blatantly ignoring the comment section on my blog is because I’ve stopped replying to them, like a gracious blogger should.
So I’ve decided to change that. From now on, if you comment on my blog, you will get a reply. The only thing is, I don’t know what to do. Should I post the replies in groups as a comment? Or should I hit each person back with an email?
I need your help, peeps. Let me know what you think.
This is NOT a hand out looking for comments, Mandy
Also, just to let everyone know, SIGH, tomorrow is the day for our Tyra show to air. It will be on at 4 PM CST, and our segment is the first 10 minutes of the show. For the record, they make me look like an evil doucher, just so you know.
The Memoir Monday next week will be all about our experiences on the show. Speaking of Memoir Monday, y’all really kicked me in the nuts this week. We had 4 people play along. I guess if attendance doesn’t improve, I’ll cut the meme like a second string field goal kicker. That’s real.
So let me know. Public reply or private?
(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!)
I’m sure all of us have experienced the moment of deciding we have WAY to much hair, wherever it might be placed, and deciding that it is time to shave it all off. Today’s story revolves around the very first time I ever picked up a razor, and just how naive I was.
My dad told me, “Son, you don’t want to start shaving. Once you start, you’ll never be able to quit, and you’ll hate it.” Of course, I was about 13, and I was a man. I had some peach fuzz, nothing that was even visible unless you had a good light source and maybe one of them fancy NASA telescopes for checkin out bumps on the moon.
I had no intention of listening to my fathers advice, and so I bugged him about it until he finally gave me a can of shaving foam, a disposable razor, and the words, “Knock yourself out. Just be careful.” I took all three of these things to the restroom, where I began to lather up. My father had gone over all the steps with me, so I splashed hot water on my face, then put the foam on, then sat there for a while so that it would “loosen up” that peach fuzz that was already softer than than Obama approach to diplomacy.
Then I started shaving. Oh how thrilled I was! I peeled away the foam one stripe at a time, being oh so very careful not to cut myself. I did a hell of a nice job too, because I didn’t once even give myself a nick! I was a pro already, and it was the first time I’d ever shaved! I rinsed the razor every third or fourth pass, but I never once took my eyes off the mirror, because I was enjoying every second of this grown up activity.
Finally, I was done. I put the razor to the side and splashed my face with water much like the men do in the shaving cream commercials. That made a mess I had to clean up, but after I was done with that, I looked in the mirror to examine my newly shorn chin and upper lip. Alas, they were so much smoother! I had missed some spots, but oh how manly I felt!
I reached down for the razor to do some light touch up work, and for the first time since I’d started, I happened to look at the blades. They looked awful white. They looked awful plastic. They looked an awful lot like I had neglected to ever take the cap off the razor the entire time I had spent shaving. And it turns out, that was exactly the case. I had spent the entire time shaving my face with a capped razor.
Of course, my family had a wonderful belly laugh at my expense, and I realized then that it was obviously not time for me to start shaving, if I had in fact knocked a few hairs off with the damn safety cap. If you think that stopped me though, you are dead wrong. I marched right back into that bathroom, uncapped that razor, foamed up again, and proceeded to butcher my pre-pubescent face into a bloody mess that took a couple of days to heal. But don’t think for a second that I didn’t enjoy using a half roll of toilet paper to cover my new “battle wounds.”
And now it is true, I hate shaving. I only have to about once or twice a week, because part of me is still that 13 year old boy that can’t grow facial hair. However, if it were up to me, I’d go back to that peach fuzz anytime. That’s real.
Other Non-Capped Walks Down Memory Lane This Week: (GO READ THEM!)
Illuvia’s Memoir Monday: Trapped In A Walk In Freezer.
Jeff’s Memoir Monday: My CSS Was Done With A Chisel And A Stone Tablet
Kat’s Memoir Monday: & Other Things.
(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!)
The year was a very long time ago, probably about 14 years ago.
I was a young lad, still skinny and tall, and all full of adventure and shit.
The setting was Camp Kiamichi, which is a Southern Baptist church camp set in the Kiamichi mountains of Oklahoma, where the normal summer temperature can range anywhere from 103 in the shade all the way to hot enough where pastors can say things like, “If you think it’s hot HERE, how hot do you think Hell is?”
So this is where a bunch of parents decide to dump their kids for the week, amongst the rock and mountains and various wildlife dangers.
Well, one afternoon, my brother, my father and I were walking along a dusty trail on our way back to the cabin we were staying in.
All of the sudden, Brad and I saw it. A lizard.
There was a big thing that year about catching lizards. I guess it is something all young boys do, but for some reason, it was almost like a rite of passage. I mean, a girl would totally go steady with you if you could catch a lizard. Well, if you could catch a lizard AND you didn’t have head lice, which is another story entirely.
So here was this lizard, and much to my dad’s amusement, Brad and I decide to catch it. So we start to corner it, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t run under a nearby rock, flip smooth over and play dead.
Now I was used to seeing a lizard shed it’s tail to evade capture, but I had never seen one play dead. This was before the Discovery channel, and it was before I knew that this particular lizard DOESN’T play dead. So I ambled up to catch the faking bastard, because you have to get up pretty early in the day to pull the wool over my eyes.
My dad, being the level headed thinker he was, stopped me right before I put my hand under the rock. “Travis, hold on. I don’t think lizards play dead. Hold on.” So I held on. My dad got down on his hands and knees to peer under the rock, and I got down with him. That was when we saw this.
For those of you who don’t know, that is a Copperhead, and it is one of the few species of poisonous snakes we as Oklahomans have the privilege of sharing our state with. Turns out, our friend the lizard wasn’t playing dead after all. He WAS dead. He had run under the wrong rock, which was a rock where I had nearly stuck my hand, and was about to be eaten by our good friend the Copperhead.
However, my father decided he couldn’t allow that snake to stick around a children’s camp. I’d like to say he gently coaxed it into the open, then put it in a container and released it somewhere off the grounds. If you’re a PETA supporter, then you can stop reading now.
He poked at it with a stick until it came out from that rock, then he bashed its head in with another rock. Then Brad and I took turns throwing rocks at it, then a few more kids took turns doing horrible things to it. From there we threw that sumbitch in the woods to be picked apart by birds and wild animals.
And that is another way I almost died, and another reason why I’m still alive today because of my fathers wisdom.
And his vicious snake beating skills.
Other Non-Possum Playing Walks Down Memory Lane: (GO READ THEM!)
Aimee’s Memoir Monday: My Weekend, My Kids, Passion.
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: When We Were Very Young.
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: Let’s Try This Again.
Micki’s Memoir Monday: The Most Random Place I’ve Ever Sat Naked.
LB’s Memoir Monday: 10k Walk-A-Thons and Why Skin Cancer Is Gonna Get Me.
Shany’s Memoir Monday: Yikes!