Hookers and Coke

There are certain “man rules” in place when it comes to discussing the events that happen at a bachelor party. There is a little lee way, but the main focus of the rules is that you just don’t discuss the events that happen at a bachelor party. It’s kind of like Fight Club in the way that when you get home you may be bruised, you may be battered, and you may smell like a combination of daylilies and stripper sweat, but the rule is that you don’t talk about what happened. Sure, there are the knowing glances and accompanying smirks from those that were there and had experienced the evening, but unless you’re in the company of people “in the know,” it’s just not talked about.

I’m going to break those rules and talk about mine.

For anyone (and that’s a LOT of you) who I’ve been on bachelor parties with and who are worried that I’m going to throw you under the bus here, don’t worry: I’m going to use fake names. For instance, if I wanted to talk about Chris I would use the name “Jackass” so that no one would know it was him. It’s a foolproof plan that no one will see through. Everyone’s anonymity is secure – I promise.

Seeing as Jackass (See? No one knows I’m talking about Chris here) was my best man, it was his duty to plan the bachelor party. He did a good job too as he had a nice evening lined up of dinner at Harry’s East, a trip down to Soulard for some drinks, a room at the Casino Queen for sleeping it off, and maybe a stop in a gentlemen’s club or two prior to calling it a night. Additionally, we were all being transported around in a nice limo bus stocked with enough alcohol to kill a team of horses. It was going to be a good night.

I won’t bore you with the details of the nice dinner that my father and uncles showed up for along with my friends and partners in crime for the evening. I will tell you, however, that it was the kickoff to one of the most emotional stretches of my life as it’s an indescribable feeling to be surrounded by the ones you love and knowing that they’re all there because they care about you. They care about you so much, in fact, that they know what you like and make it clear to others that you want it no other way.

More on that later.

After dinner, Dad and the uncles bowed out and left the evening of debauchery to us young punks. It’s probably a good thing as I’m not sure Dad would ever be able to erase the mental images that he would have gotten later on that night. Either way, the elders left us as we boarded the bus, broke out more alcohol (it had already started getting ugly in the restaurant), and started our inebriation inducing trek to Soulard. Everything was going great as the beer and shots were flowing, we were all laughing, and we had managed to get the driver a little on edge as our chants of “hookers and coke” rang through the bus. There was only one problem: we had been on the bus for an hour but still hadn’t gotten very far out of Fairview Heights.

Apparently, the Illinois Dept of Transportation had not checked it’s calendar otherwise they would have been aware that it was the weekend of my bachelor party and they, in turn, would have decided against doing roadwork on the highway which essentially put traffic at a standstill. At first we didn’t really notice that we weren’t moving because we were too busy tackling our mountains of cold frosty beverages, but after a while we realized that we weren’t in Soulard yet (Soulard had bathrooms and our bus didn’t) and really needed to get there soon.

After going over our options in our quickly slowing minds, we decided that by the time we got to Soulard we’d only be able to have a drink or two and even that would cut out some of our time at the gentlemen’s clubs. We only had the bus for a set time and everything was based around us getting back to the Casino Queen Hotel at a given time. As a result, we decided to skip Soulard and just go straight to the East Side.

This is where I determined that Chris’s codename should be Jackass.

There used to be a quaint little gentlemen’s club called the Jewel Box that, on the off chance we would go to one, would have to be our club of choice. These days it’s called Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club and they now have all sorts of rules about getting in for free, but back then there were no such regulations. We were lucky enough to know the DJ both from playing softball with him and from the fact that he was the cousin of one of the guys on the bachelor party. As a result, once we arrived at the door we simply asked for Shawn who said that we were with him and we got in for free. Not only did we escape the horrible cover charge, but we were also given the VIP treatment. The VIP package included our own party area, champagne, and our very own personal dancers.

Once it was determined that I was the groom to be and should be the center of their attention, they immediately started taking care of me. At first the attention was nice and I was having a really good time. We were all still drinking, some guys were disappearing into the “private dance” area, and we were surrounded by naked women. The night was going very, very well.

That’s when they first slapped my nipple.

Initially I was a little shocked as it stung but didn’t really hurt. I wasn’t expecting that at all but I figured that since the girls were drinking with us that they were just getting a little loopy and having some fun. They continued to talk to other guys in my party but every time they came by me they’d either slap at my chest or pinch my nipples or something. After a while, it began to hurt. A lot.

After a while longer of putting up with this (which was offset by how nice they were being to me by being topless) I laughingly asked why they kept beating up on me. At this point one of the girls pointed at Jackass and said “he told us you liked it rough.”

“Oh he did, did he?” I asked, glaring in Jackass’ general direction.

She responded with “yep” and proceeded to unbutton my shirt, grab a nipple in each hand and just twist the living hell out of them.

Now, I consider myself to be a fun guy. I have a decent sense of humor and will go along with the party as long as everyone is having fun. It’s at this point that I’d like to add a “but” statement, but unfortunately I can’t. Due to my willingness to go along with the fun I took that double tittie twister, let out a little yelp, and kept going. Of course once the cat was out of the bag regarding me supposedly “liking it rough”, our dancers got ruthless. After awhile my shirt was pretty much entirely off and my entire upper body (but mostly the nipples) were being slapped, smacked, twisted, turned, yanked, and generally assaulted at every turn. From out of nowhere a Sharpie had appeared and not only were they beating me, but they began drawing pictures on me and writing very, VERY, inappropriate things all over me and in places that I couldn’t even see to read. All through it though, I was having a blast (thank God for the numbing effects of beer/tequila/jagermeister). They were beating the hell out of me, but also being very nice in the process. I figured that there wasn’t much more they could legally do to me so, despite the pain I was in, I didn’t hold it against them and continued my good time.

I was wrong

Prior to leaving the house that evening, Carol told me that I should wear boxers that I wouldn’t mind losing. At first I was appalled at what she thought I might be doing that evening. I mean, yes I planned on getting crazy and having a good time, but under normal circumstances with my buddies that rarely involved taking my underwear off. And, despite our chants of “hookers and coke”, I really had no intention of being put in a situation where a woman of the night would be taking my drawers off either. Thinking that those were the only ways in which my underwear would possibly come off, I didn’t think losing them was an option so I put on the most comfortable pair of Nautica boxers that I had.

Big Mistake

At this point in the evening we were all having a great time and had each had beyond our fair share to drink. The dancers/torturers were great and had moved in behind me. I immediately thought that they felt bad for what they had done to me and were just snuggling up to give me a hug. Much to my surprise, that was the last thing they had on their minds. Before I knew it, they had pulled out the remaining part of my shirt that was still tucked in, each grabbed a handful of my underwear, proceeded to yank up as hard as they could in an attempt to be sexy and pull my underwear off without removing my pants. Let’s just say that it didn’t work.

Apparently, Nautica boxer shorts are very well manufactured and even the hardest tug will not tear the material. In fact, all that a good strong tug will do is pull the underwear in whatever direction that the tug is occurring from. In my case, that tug was straight up and out. Now, I had had wedgies before, but never like this. That fabric got yanked so far up my ass that I thought it would need to be surgically removed. I kind of hoped that the dancers would see that the first attempt hadn’t worked, have a good laugh, and move about their business. Unfortunately, they now saw it as a challenge.

As the girls tugged and pulled and as I held back the quickly developing sobs of agony, the elastic slowly but surely began to pull away and my boxers were being ripped. The bad news for me is that they weren’t satisfied with just tearing up my underwear, they wanted them entirely off. As a result the yanking, tugging, pulling, screaming, and general overall pain continued for a few more minutes before they finally got them entirely off. As I wiped the tears from my eyes I thanked them for all of the fun and laughed with them as a way to mask the pain. They responded with another pinch to my increasingly sensitive nipples which made me hate them – and Jackass.

Late that night/early the next morning as I was passing out onto my bed at the Casino Queen hotel, I laughed to myself because I had had such a good time. Most of the people I was with were still partying, but I was done and needed sleep. I normally sleep in my boxers, but since that wasn’t an option anymore I just slept/passed out fully clothed.

As I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone heaving in the hotel toilet, I realized a couple of things. The first thing I realized was that I felt like absolute crap and that the pounding I heard was not someone knocking at the door but instead was the throbbing in my head. The second thing I realized was that I was really thirsty but had no water to drink and wasn’t about to go into the bathroom with Mr. Icantholdmyliquor yakking away in there. The next thing I realized was that my chest was sore. If it was an internal soreness I could understand because I’m sure that I’d polished off an entire pack of cigarettes that night and some coughing and wheezing was to be expected. But this was an external soreness. This was different.

As time has gone on I’ve been clued into what all occurred that night which allows me to relate this story now. On that morning though, my memory was cloudy at best so when I took off my shirt to see why my chest was sore I was astounded at what I saw. Along with more Sharpie drawings and sayings than should ever be allowed by law, I saw something that almost made me join the upchucker currently lying on the bathroom floor.

Have you ever seen a bloody nipple? How about two? Now, have you ever seen two bloody nipples surrounded by bruising and welts and handprints and god-knows-what else? Well, I have - and they were mine. Puker be damned, I ran into the bathroom to get a better look in the mirror at the damage that had been done. The dancers had done a serious number on me and I was in pain. It was a thorough beating and one that I will never forget. It wasn’t the dancers’ fault though. Yes, they beat the shit out of me. Yes, they should have seen me wincing and maybe lightened up. Yes, they should have not chased me down when I ran away from them and cowered in the corner whimpering “no more, please. No more.” But, they didn’t and that’s okay because they were just doing their job. They were doing the job that someone asked them to do. The one I do blame is Jackass.

I blamed him when it was happening. I blamed him when I woke up that next day and I discovered what had happened. I blamed him when I spent the better part of the next day washing Sharpie off of me using rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. I also blamed him when Carol got home from work the next day and I had to ask her to be ever so kind and wash the Sharpie off of the areas that I couldn’t see or reach (she’s so cool). I even blamed him two weeks later when I was on my honeymoon walking down the sandy beaches of Cancun with nipples that were still bruised and sensitive to any contact with anything.

But I will have my payback.

Jackass will one day have a bachelor party of his own. And while we may not still get the same VIP treatment as we did for mine, I know that we will eventually end up at a gentlemen’s club at which time I will have my revenge. I don’t care if I have to sell my car, take out a second mortgage on the house, or sell my soul to the devil himself, I will pay whatever money I have to ensure that Jackass “enjoys” his bachelor party as much as I “enjoyed” mine. I might even look for the same girls and see if they’ll come back for a night.

A piece of advice Chris – wear cheap underwear.

Thanks for reading

Waiting to Exhale

Today’s story consists of much toilet humor. I’m not talking about poopie and pee-pee jokes, but actual toilet humor (at least that’s my intent).So, if you don’t want to read about that or get to know WAY too much about me, please discontinue reading at this point. I promise more good and wholesome Ben stories are on the way, but today is not that day.

For anyone still reading I want to let you know that I pride myself on being able to out wait anybody in a bathroom stall. It is a personal preference of mine that when I have to do that thing in the bathroom that everyone does and most everyone is ashamed of (pooping – not the other thing) I want it to be quiet. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. As a result I often spend a good amount of time in a public bathroom stall just sitting there with my pants around my knees while I wait for everyone else in there to clear out leaving me with my required silence. To pass the time I will usually go through my phone and delete all of my texts and voice messages, play Tetris, and delete the 10 or so pictures that I always seem to take of the inside of my pants pocket. That usually gives me ample time for the bathroom to clear out so that I do my business.

Usually

Now, I’ve been known to spend upwards of 20 minutes in a stall before while waiting for my silence. At my current job I really have no defined break time and, quite honestly, if I was gone from my desk for 3-4 hours at a time, very few people (if anyone) would question my absence. As a result, I am free to take as much time as necessary to ensure my restroom solitude before returning to my daily routine of Facebook updates and taste tests.

At the job prior to this, I was once interrupted in the middle of my fecal act because I had been away from my desk for more than 10 minutes without letting anyone know where I was. Once my location had been determined, I was asked to “hurry up” because I had a customer waiting on the phone. Yes, I’m serious. Obviously, due to my time constraints there it took a little more planning to locate an empty bathroom at a given time. But I was smart enough to know that the guys on the floor all went on break at the same time. If I waited until their break was over, I could go down to the first floor, use their bathroom, and not be bothered for the entire 10 minutes that I was allotted by Big Brother. Or, sometimes I would use the executive bathroom on my floor because the TP was softer and there was mouthwash on the counter. It made me feel fancy.

Here is where it gets interesting.

My first grown-up job was for a payroll company out of West County in St. Louis. I didn’t like it there and did a horrible job as a result. Oddly enough, I was able to stay on for four and a half years (they tried firing me after three but I convinced them otherwise) and actually learned a lot. Now, this company was located in an office complex in which there was one bathroom per sex per floor. As a result, the bathroom belonged to multiple companies and it was impossible to determine who would be in there and when. Since I worked around the front desk of my department, I was able to see what guys were leaving the office and when so I was often able to get their schedule down and plan mine around it. The problem was that there was also another door in which guys could sneak out and really throw off my timing. Additionally, I had the guys from the other offices on our floor to contend with, so it was really a crapshoot every day.

On this particular day I hadn’t seen any men leaving the office for quite some time and, as my stomach decided, it was getting to be time to go. When I got into the bathroom I was lucky enough to find no one else in there so I went into the stall, shut the door, and prepared myself for my appointment. As I sat down though, I heard the door open and someone else come in. No big deal as I said before, I pride myself in being able to out wait anyone in a bathroom stall. At that point in the technological age all my cell phone did was make phone calls, so I was stuck just sitting there with nothing to do. Eventually, the man finished his urinary donation and went to the sink to wash his hands. As he was turning off the water, I prepared myself mentally for a quick release in case someone came in soon after him. Well, I didn’t even need to wait that long because as the first gentleman was drying his hands, the bathroom door opened and not one, but two guys walked in. One of them went to the urinal and the other went into a stall. The guy at the urinal finished up quickly, washed his hands, and left but the gentleman that had gone into the stall was being eerily quiet.

I had another waiter.

At this point I had been waiting in the stall for about 5 minutes. While some may say that it’s ridiculous and that I should just go ahead and go, you must understand that this isn’t something that I choose to do, it is (or was) a necessity. If I’ve ever had OCD about something, it was that. Back in those days I was hesitant to even gamble on a fart in case I lost and it came out loud and strong. As a result, public bathroom trips were sometimes a painstaking process. They became even more painstaking when you had another waiter that you were competing against.

For the next couple of minutes, there was a lot of posturing going on. We both realized that the other was waiting for them to finish and leave so that we could go about our own business, but we also (as all waiters are smart enough to do) realized that the other guy was a waiter and this was going to be a standoff. It was all going to come down to who wanted it more. To taunt one another, we would trade the occasional forced cough for two reasons: 1) to let the other guy know you were still there, and 2) to possibly make him think that you were coughing to cover some other noise. If you were coughing to cover another noise, then maybe you were on the verge of giving in and the other guy would soon be able doubly enjoy his pooh both for the victory and for the release.

This game of fake coughing and silence went on for about another 10 minutes making my total bathroom time 15 minutes or so. I began to think that maybe I’d be missed at my desk after awhile, but then realized that I hated it there and didn’t give a crap no matter what they thought. I wasn’t worried about my health either as it wasn’t as if it was painful to not go. The thing with waiters is that we know roundabout when we’re going to have to go so we pick our moment not because we HAVE to go, but because we could go at any time. Soon, 15 minutes turned to 16, then 17, and then 18 and I realized I was dealing with a pro.

I’ve waited out the best of them. I’ve waited out janitors and I’ve waited out Executives (you can always tell the Executives because of their willingness to fart out loud in the bathroom and their nice shoes). I’ve waited through sounds and smells that you can’t even imagine and I choose not to remember. The trick to waiting is knowing that you’re in for a battle and knowing your limitations. Apparently, the other guy had limitations that he had to adhere to because all of a sudden I heard him cough - but the cough wasn’t alone. Along with the cough came the sound of defeat. It was the sound of being only second best on that given day. It was the sound of that gaseous emission that there is no turning back from.

He was gonna poop

I’ll spare you the details of the rest of his time in the stall, but I will let you know that he sounded both very relieved and very pissed. No waiter likes to lose (I’m guessing – I’ve never lost) and to do so in front of another waiter must be humiliating. As he tore open the stall door and reached the sink, he turned the water on with the same great force and anger as he next pulled the paper towels out to dry his hands. He was angry, but I didn’t care. I had won and my time had now arrived to do my business.

Or so I thought.\

As he opened the bathroom door to leave, I heard him greet two more gentlemen at the door with a “Hi” and the tone of “we’ve got a waiter in there and he’s good – maybe the best I’ve ever seen.” As the two new guys walked in, they luckily both approached the urinals and did their business there. When they were done, however, they didn’t leave the bathroom. They stood at the sink, washed their hands, and then began talking about work. For a long time.

Now, sitting on a toilet for 20 plus minutes isn’t hard to do. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. The problem is that once your body is in a certain position for a certain amount of time, it begins to expect the results that the position usually delivers. As a result, my body now told me that it was time to go.

For the next five minutes or so, while the two guys outside of my stall were bitching about raises and bonuses and PTO and 401k, I was inside of my stall holding my breath and clenching my butt cheeks together in an attempt to not do what so needed to be done. At one point I gambled on a fart or two and thankfully won, but that only made the situation worse. Finally, FINALLY, the two guys left the bathroom (I think they heard my hushed chanting of “leave, f*ckers, leave”) and I was free to do my stuff. At this point I figure that I had probably been in that bathroom stall on that toilet for close to 30 minutes (a new personal record). I had won the battle AND the war and it was now time to get back to work.


This is where it gets funny

If you’ve ever sat on a toilet for 30 minutes or so, you realize that it’s not very comfortable. You also realize that the padding that is available on couches, love seats, recliners, etc. is there for more than one purpose. The first purpose is to provide comfort as you relax in said piece of furniture. The second purpose is to prevent your body from resting on any type of hard surface that may cut off circulation say, oh, from your ass all the way down to your feet.

As I stood up to pull up my pants, the realization of that second purpose became all too clear. The second I stood up my legs realized that they had no blood flow in them and hadn’t for the past 30 minutes, so they decided to rebel against me and just collapse. Luckily, I have cat-like reflexes and was able to grab the toilet paper dispenser on the way down so that I didn’t hit my head on anything. Instead of just resting there until I got feeling back in my legs, however, I decided that I had been gone from my desk long enough and that I really needed to get back (must have been the blood rushing from my brain to fill my legs). Anyway, with the circulation slowly returning, I was able to stand up and walk to the sink, but not very well. The best way I can describe this style of walk is that it looked like a marionette with the wobbly legs bending anytime the puppeteer touches them to the ground. It wasn’t natural and it wasn’t coordinated, but I was walking.

As I realized how ridiculous I looked and the even more ridiculous reason that I did look like that, I began laughing. Not just normal laughing, but hysterical laughing. So, if you can picture walking into a bathroom and seeing some maniac laughing hysterically while “walking” around on legs that look like they’ve been borrowed from someone else for the day, you can pretty much picture what our regional manager, who was in town for a visit, saw when he stepped through the door.

He asked me if I was okay but I couldn’t stop laughing. I got out enough of a “yes” to prevent him from calling the paramedics, but let’s just say that the company rolled out a health plan that focused on drug addiction soon afterwards. Eventually, after standing at the sink long enough to get most of the feeling back in my legs and finally stop laughing, I washed my hands and went back to my desk. It had been 35 minutes since I left my desk and not one person asked me where I had been or if I was okay. The regional manager gave me the kind of smile that you would give a mentally deranged homeless person every time they asked you for some spare change whenever he walked by, but other than that, no one cared.

I wanted to and should have shared my story with them at that time because, honestly, without my reenactment of “the walk”, I can’t do this story justice. Maybe I knew at that time that 10 years later I’d have a blog and could write about it then. Maybe I knew that if there are still waiters out there today, they could pull this story up on their iPhone or Blackberry to kill the time while waiting. Either way, I need to stop writing because nature is calling and there is no telling how long I’m gonna be in there.

Thanks for reading.

More Randumb Thoughts

It’s a randumb thoughts day.

Lilo is on her way to jail where, due to overcrowding, she’ll only end up serving about 23 days of her 90 day sentence. 23 days is still too long for me to be without her.

In a related story, the LAPD, E! Entertainment, and TMZ will be forced to lay off half of their staff due to a major lack of car chases, drug busts, domestic disputes, and general hot drunken girl debauchery. They will be called back to action in around 23 days.

I really need to start proof reading my blogs better.

I was a little nervous about posting yesterday’s blog about not being gay as I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about my feelings towards the gay community. Just to make it perfectly clear I don’t care what you are, who you love, who you go to bed with, who you wake up with, or what you did with the hours in-between. As long as a person doesn’t hurt me, my family, or my friends, then I consider them a friend to me. Except for the gays. I can’t stand them.

That was a joke.

I really enjoy taking my friends money while playing poker. I enjoy it even more when I realize that I drank way too much and should not have been winning at all. And, I enjoy it even more than that when I look in my wallet 4 days later, find another $10, and remember that I had won that and put it away so that I wouldn’t gamble it that night. Unfortunately, I rarely win and this smack talk will be thrown in my face at the next poker night as I leave the table with empty pockets and a mouth full of crow.

I have decided that I am no longer going to post comments to other people’s Facebook posts. I will still publish my own posts which people are free to comment on, but I am out of the commenting on other’s posts business. Frankly, my comments are usually funnier, wittier, and more well thought out than the original poster and it’s getting to be a little embarrassing how I continually upstage the author. If this upsets you, blame yourself for not being funnier.

James Van Der Beek and I are now Facebook friends. I think that after a few months of messaging back and forth (I’m still awaiting his reply to the 17 messages that I’ve sent him) I’m going to suggest that he get together all of the cast from “Varsity Blues” and we recreate the house party where Billy Bob pukes in the washing machine. Or we could recreate the one where Tweeter stole the cop car (was that the same party?). Oh, and then I’ll ask Ali Larter to don the whipped cream bikini for me. It will be a smashing good time.

Hopefully if that works out, we could then get the Dawson’s Creek gang back together too and have a party where we talk about our feelings and discuss things that are way too mature for a high schooler to be thinking about and other boring things that would make me want to drown myself in that creek. Maybe I’ll just grab Katie Holmes, tell her that her husband is a moron, use the same head games he used on her to make her fall in love with me, and head back to the Varsity Blues party. Maybe Miss Davis will stop by and do a little dance for us.

My co-workers suck. Not one of them reads my blog. I feel safe in writing this because not one of them will actually see this to be able to be offended by it. You all suck! I would love for one of them to call me out on it : ) I’ll start the clock….now!

Saw Toy Story 3 again with Ben this weekend. I didn’t cry this time but it was a really close call.

Speaking of going to the movies, I wanted to make you all aware of the AWESOME deal that Wehrenberg Theatres has on Sunday afternoons. Adult tickets are $7.25 while kids get in for only $7.00. Yep, they’re a whole .25 cheaper. Why bother? After tickets and snacks from the concession stand, Ben and I got to spend a nice afternoon together for the low low price of $30.00.

From now on, if it isn’t playing at the Lincoln, we’re waiting for the DVD.

I just got an email from my sister chastising me for my love of Lindsay Lohan. She mentioned that Robert Shapiro, the same morally upstanding guy who defended OJ Simpson, had quit as Lindsay’s attorney. My only defense to that is that he must not have trusted himself around her bewitching good looks and, therefore, had to resign as counsel to protect both his business and his heart. I can’t see any other reasons.

Eh, I’m done. I really think I wrote this entire thing because I wanted to make the joke about not liking gay people. And truthfully, it wasn’t that funny. I guess that’s why no one pays me to write this shit.

Just got a call from Carol informing me that Ben just said “I don’t have a tail, I have a wiener.”

That’s my boy

Thanks for reading

Not Gay

Every time I scan through the pictures on my cell phone I am reminded of one clear cut medically proven fact – I am not gay. I’m not claiming joy or depression at that fact nor am I passing judgment on those who are, those who aren’t, or those who aren’t quite sure. I am just stating the fact that, due to my doctor’s due diligence, it has been medically determined that I am not gay.

Around ten years or so ago I moved with my buddy Chris into his newly bought condo in Bellevegas, IL. In retrospect, I guess that I wasn’t sure the true nature of my intentions regarding moving in with Chris. He was, after all, my best friend and I liked him a lot. In addition, I had not been to the doctor yet to run the appropriate tests to determine that I, in fact, wasn’t gay so who knows what would have happened had I not gone. I’m pretty sure that I just wanted to move out of my parent’s house though.

It was also at this time that I started experiencing sleeplessness and severe night sweats. I had always had problems with waking up multiple times in the middle of the night, but it was getting really bad at this point and, combined with the addition of the night sweats and a loss of appetite, I began to worry a little about my health. Plus, the night sweats really worried me because now that I was living with my buddy in a bachelor pad I might want to have a girl (or guy – hadn’t been to the doctor yet) over to stay the night and, provided we did any sleeping at all, I would not want for her/him to wake up in a puddle of my sweat. After a few weeks of this and a conversation with my parents (Dad thought I was just homesick, but I think he was missing me instead), I decided to go to the doctor and find out what was going on.

After the normal waiting and waiting (and waiting) for the doctor to enter the examination room he finally arrived, sat down, avoided eye-contact at all costs, opened up my file, and asked what was going on. I was used to this approach as he has never been overly friendly and has had what I determine to be a dislike for me ever since I had gone in with a fake back injury in an attempt to get out of some work at my payroll job. After I started going over my symptoms, I noticed that his ears perked up a little and his eyes actually showed a little bit of interest in what I was saying. I’m assuming that he was fearing the worst (gay), because he quickly took out his stethoscope and checked my heart rate and my breathing. He then looked in my ears and down my throat and gave my lymph nodes a little groping before he moved on the next part of his very thorough examination - the questions.

My doctor, being an older man, doesn’t seem to grasp a lot of things in today’s world. I’ve been going to him for a while and he just doesn’t seem to embrace the modern times and the changes in society. I’m not saying that he is fearful of gay people, but I’m also not saying that he would have a welcoming party if he found out that a gay couple was moving into his neighborhood. I know that it’s a rash judgment to make of someone who I only encounter whenever I have the flu or whenever I need to be felt up while I cough, but something in his voice told me that whatever answer I gave him to his next question was going to solidify his opinion of me for the entire time I was under his care.

After clearing his throat but not being able to shake the nervous tremble, he asked “are you gay?”

My first reaction had been to laugh. I had never been gay. I had never thought about being gay. Sure, I had done some things that might be misconstrued as “gay”, but they were never done with homosexual intent. I was fairly sure that I liked women and only women, but on the other hand, I had never really thought much about it. I mean, I had never had the urge to kiss a man, but I could definitely pick an attractive man out of a lineup. Then, I began to think of all of the men that, if I had to, I would label as attractive. Was it too many? Did the doctor know something that I didn’t? Did he hear something in my lungs that made me gay? Was I a homosexual man living the life of a straight man and I didn’t even know it? I began to panic a little. What if the sleeplessness and the night sweats were a result of being gay and I just didn’t know it? If his prognosis was that I was, in fact, gay, would I still be able to date women? I mean, I really, really, really, liked girls (still do) and I would be super bummed if the doctor told me that I had to start dating men. Wait. I liked women. This is insane. It was this line of thinking that led me to my answer of “No.”

Happy with my answer, I thought that we were through the rough part and maybe he’d now draw some blood or something to determine the true cause of my symptoms. Unfortunately for me, he had something else in mind.

He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I have to ask you this one more time: Are you a homosexual?”

What did he know that I didn’t?!!? He had only checked my heart rate, breathing, ears, and throat. Did I breathe gay? Did my heart beat to more of a rhythm than a straight man’s heart? I’m not even going to go into what he thought he might have seen in my throat because that was NOT an option. I liked women and knew that I liked them and whatever this old fart thought about the possibility of me being gay and whatever illnesses that might be a result of that are…

Oh.

Suddenly, my senses came back and I realized why he was asking these questions of me and why he had the trepidation in his voice. It was then, after having to clear my throat but not being able to shake the nervous tremble that I answered “No, I’m not gay.”

Luckily for me, that was enough for my doctor. He quickly scribbled something in my file, said I’d be fine, left the office, and that was it. He didn’t take any blood, he didn’t order me out for x-rays, and he didn’t have me go next door to the hospital for a cat scan. In fact, he did nothing. I’m still not sure what was wrong with me that caused the sleeplessness and the night sweats. I’m still not sure why nothing more was even mentioned or why more questions weren’t asked of me. What I am sure of though, is that I’m not gay. I’m saying that as a negative or positive thing, I’m just stating a fact. I’m also not declaring it based on my line of reasoning from above or my love of women (well, just one woman these days). Instead, I’m basing it on what is forever written in my medical file and boxed in right in the middle of the page. Right in the middle, plain as day and medically proven based on the repetition of one very tough question are the two words that were so prominent that I had to take a picture of with my cell phone:


Not Gay


I was so relieved.

So is my wife.

Thanks for reading

Heavy Hearted

I write this today with a heavy heart. I got some bad news this morning that has devastated me to my very core and although I will eventually be fine, it is going to take some time to recover from this. This morning in the car on the way to daycare – sigh – Ben informed me that I give him too many kisses.

I’ve had my heart broken before but never like this.

I’ve always worked under the idea that with Ben being a boy there would come a day when I’d have to stop giving him hugs and kisses. As a result, I always make sure to hug him extra hard and extra long so that when that time comes he’ll always be able to remember the great hugs that daddy used to give him. But he still likes the hugs and apparently it’s only the kisses that bother him.

It started out with me putting Ben in his car seat this morning and, once I got him buckled in, giving him his morning dose of rapid-fire kisses to his forehead and cheeks until he laughs and calls me silly. As I kissed him over and over I waited for the giggle but it never came. I figured maybe he was just tired and wasn’t into it so I stopped and got ready to close the door. Before I could get it closed though, I heard the words that will haunt me for a long time – if not forever: “Daddy, you give too many kisses.”

Ugh

I closed the door in a shocked silence and went around to the driver’s side with a pain in my heart and a buzzing in my head. Surely he hadn’t just said that. Maybe I misheard him and what he actually said was “Daddy, you are the freakin’ man!” As I sat down I asked him what he had said just in case I had heard it wrong. His reply, again, was “Daddy, you give too many kisses.”

Realizing that he is 3 and maybe there’s a simpler meaning to the heavy statement he had just uttered, I began to probe a little further.

Me: Daddy gives you too many kisses?

Ben: Yeah,

Me: Too many kisses this morning?

Ben: Too many kisses.

Me: Just this morning?

Ben: No, you give too many kisses.

Me: Do you not like kissing me before you go ni-night?

Ben: No

Me: Do you like me kissing you when we play?

Ben: No

Me: Does Mommy give you too many kisses?

Ben: I like Mommy’s kisses

Me: But you don’t like Daddy’s?

Ben: No

Me: Do you ever want Daddy to kiss you?

Ben: No, that’s okay.

Me: It’s okay that I give you kisses?

Ben: No. No kisses.

Me: But Mommy can still give you kisses?

Ben: Yeah!

Me: But no more kisses from Daddy?

Ben: No thank you.

It was at this point that my heart was broken into a million tiny pieces which I’m sure will eventually fall out onto the family room floor and I will step on in the dark in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom. They’ll be laying there right next to Ben’s toys. The toys that he gave me a thank you kiss for after I gave them to him.

On the bright side, he is only 3 and this (hopefully) is just a mood he was in this morning.

I hope.

I can’t even think of anything funny to add to this. It is a sad, sad day in Scottsville.

Living on a Wing and a Praying Mantis

Life never ceases to amaze me. From the actions and reactions of everyday people to the natural evolution of this beautiful planet we live on, there is always something out there that I have never seen or heard before. Being a bit of a curious guy, I always enjoy these new experiences as not only does it add to my bank of useless knowledge but it also makes me look forward to what else, beyond this current experience, is out there. I live in Belleville, IL and, outside of a few vacations or business trips don’t get to see a lot of what’s out in the world. Hell, I haven’t even experienced all that Belleville has to offer yet. Given that, I am constantly dumbfounded by other countries and cultures and how they differ from us. Good or bad, it takes all kinds to move the world and we are but small pegs in the grand scheme of things.

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to meet one of those pegs – and it changed my life forever.

I wasn’t looking to make any new acquaintances, especially none that would touch me so deeply. I was simply walking the 4 blocks from my office building to the parking garage as I do every day at 4:30. With the exception of the sweltering heat, yesterday’s walk was no different than the one the day before and the day before that. I left my building, walked down the street, crossed the street where I always cross it, crossed the next intersection where I always cross it, walked up the two flights of stairs that I always walk up, and sauntered down to my car in the vicinity in which I always park it. It was a standard afternoon.

I didn’t notice him at first, as once I entered my car I was focused on putting the face on my stereo, getting the car started, and cranking the AC. The air coming out of the vents was a little warm at first, but any air movement felt good after the miserable trek I had taken just to make it to my car. As I looked in my rearview mirror to see how much sweat had accumulated on my ever-expanding forehead, I saw him for the first time.

I wouldn’t have noticed him at all were it not for the slight movement he made. It wasn’t even much of a movement, but I caught it out of the corner of my eye and I had to stare back at what I saw fixed on the hood of my car. Alone, outside, and taking refuge in a public parking garage on this blistering hot day, he stared back at me partially in fear and partially in defiance. He was planted on the hood of my Buick (quite a large hood at that) which protected him from both vehicular and foot traffic in the garage. He didn’t belong in that garage and he knew it, but where else could he go?

Searching my soul for what to do next, I came up with a few options: First, I could get out of my car, remove him from the hood, walk him to safety and ensure that he would survive to see another glorious day. Or, I could put my car in reverse, drive home as fast as I could, and see if he could hold on the entire way. While option one would have been good for my soul, option two sounded like a lot more fun.

As I slowly backed out of my parking spot (I didn’t want the game to end too quickly), I saw the surprise and the fear in eyes as he hunkered down against the hood for the wild ride that he now realized he would be facing. He didn’t scream or protest, but instead just sat there holding on for what could be his last possible ride. He was at my mercy and he knew it.

As I exited the parking garage on the downward spiral ramp, I drove a little faster than I normally do just to test his reaction. Half of me expected him to jump off and run away to safety, which I would not have blamed him for in the least. The other half of me, however, really wanted him to try and hang on. I wanted to see what he was made of and I wanted him to want the same for himself. Thankfully, he was up to the challenge. As we spun down the spiral to the ground floor, I could see him clench his arms and legs tighter against the car to offset the forces that were trying to pull him off. He wavered, but never faltered. This was going to be fun.

Once I exited the garage itself, I was stuck in city traffic for a few blocks prior to entering the highway. I got a few funny looks from pedestrians and other drivers as my competitor was not small and actually garnered a lot of attention. He was very noticeable hanging on to my car and fading in the heat. I thought for certain that the heat generated from being there while traversing these city streets would make him give up and escape for some shade, but his perseverance was strong and his will was rock solid. We were going to settle this on the highway.

I approached the highway at about 45 MPH which looked to rattle our hero, but not shake him. Seeing that he was not going down easily, I quickly pushed it to 75. I had but a small stretch of highway to shake him before I had to exit and resume my trek along the roads of East St Louis. The speed limit would be slower there along with many stop signs and stop lights. Any advantage that I was going to get was going to be on this highway and I had to pounce on my opportunity.

I got the car to 75 and was giggling to myself in both amusement and anticipation as the increasing speed made him hunker down even more. Of course, at 75 MPH hunkering down can only get you so far. At one point while driving fast and also changing lanes, I saw both arms and a leg get lifted off of the car so that there was only one leg fixing him to my rapidly moving automobile. Amazingly enough, he quickly gathered himself and resumed his grip with all four appendages. I thought that one more lane change would do the trick, but at that moment I looked up and realized that traffic was really slow in front of me and I had to slam on the brakes in order to avoid an accident. Even through the slamming of brakes and sudden stoppage of the car, my rival held on with all of his might. I was impressed.

I entered East St Louis knowing that he would get a break here for awhile, but after that I had good stretch of Route 15 in which I could get the car up to 80 and really see what he was made of. While I was driving through East Saint he would hold on and when I stopped he would adjust himself accordingly to ensure the best possible positioning for the remainder of our trip. Soon enough, we had passed through town and were descending a hill towards the last stoplight before I really let him have it. Once we reached the stoplight he looked out, saw the situation before him, and looked back at me. For a moment, we connected. We both knew what was in front of us and what was behind us. There was no turning back now as we had come too far in our journey. I was going to give it all I had and so was he. And despite the fact that I was trying to throw his body off of the hood of my car by driving speeds in excess of the speed limit and probably therefore rendering him lifeless, we had developed a mutual respect for each other.

As the light turned green I hit the gas as hard as I could and we tore off of the line. There was no traffic in front of me, so unless there were cops watching or large debris on the road, I had about a mile and half of pure unadulterated speeding and swerving in an attempt to throw him off of my car. Within seconds, I had reached 65 MPH and was swerving from this lane to the next in hopes that the changes in direction would affect his grip and he’d end up tumbling across the hot summer pavement. Nothing. I increased my speed to 75 and kept swerving, but still he wouldn’t budge. I saw far ahead that the stoplight was green thereby ensuring that by the time I got there it would be red and I would have to stop. This was my last chance. I punched it to 85 and was flying down the road. I looked into his beady little eyes and saw that he was scared, but determined. It was at that point that I realized that he wasn’t going anywhere. This poor, misplaced being was not going to let go and at that point I realized that I really didn’t want him to. I began to slow down.

Given the circumstances that presented themselves at that time, I had given him all I had and he had survived. I found that I respected what he did. He didn’t know me and he didn’t know my car, yet he chose to sit on my hood on that fateful day. When I started the car he could’ve gotten down, but he chose to stay there. I think he wanted a challenge and I think he wanted me to present it to him.

As I slowed down so that I wouldn’t rear end the 7 cars in front of me at the stop light, I knew that my speed wouldn’t be increasing for the rest of the trip. Sure, I’d drive the speed limit, but maybe I’d drive just a little bit under to ensure the safety of my new friend. We still had to go through Belleville, but not much of it. Even though he would never say so, I knew he was tired from his struggle and I wanted to make him feel at ease. From that point on, it was my job to take care of him and nurse him back to health. He would live to ride another day.

Once we got to my driveway, I pulled in and exited the car. He was still on my hood, but was starting to move around a little bit in an attempt to get himself oriented. I grabbed my keys to unlock the door to the house, but couldn’t help myself from talking to him. “Dude,” I said “that was one helluva ride. If you need to get back to St. Louis, I’m headed back tomorrow morning. You can tag along if you want.”

He didn’t say anything, but gave me a look as if to say “thank you – for everything.”

This morning as I got into my car, I was reminded of my journey home yesterday. I didn’t see my friend, but maybe it was for the best. Maybe we were meant to spend one special moment together and live with the memories and the lessons. Maybe fate stepped in and said that at that point in time we needed each other, but then we would be separated for life or longer. Or maybe, just maybe, the birds that have a nest in our neighbor’s tree ate him. Personally, I’d like to think it’s a bit of all three.

Thanks for reading.

Don’t-mess-with-me-or-you’ll-feel-the-wrath-of-my-numerous-superpowers Christmas

Hi. My name is Kevin. Every kid has one Christmas that he’ll never forget, and mine happened last year when I was 15 during what I like to call the “Don’t-mess-with-me-or-you’ll-feel-the-wrath-of-my-numerous-superpowers Christmas.” You see, ever since last Christmas when Grandma got me the EZ Bake Oven (my old one had to be retired due to overuse), I have been sitting around making delicious delectable goodies for myself and my imaginary friend Roger carefully contemplating my requests for next year. I knew that the EZ Bake Oven was a fun (and well used) present, but I was getting older now and needed to make some necessary changes in my life. As I licked the icing off of my 7th cupcake of the afternoon, I ran my fingers with the remaining icing on them through my kick-ass Great Clips haircut and that’s when it hit me: I needed to change who I am.

Now, I wasn’t thinking about going on a diet or joining a gym, as that seemed like a lot of work. What I was thinking of was obtaining superpowers. I figured that with random superpowers I would be able to lift heavy things, fly around the world, and use my heat vision to warm up my EZ Bake Oven that much faster. Also, with my new superpowers I would be able to use my light saber or nun chucks to finally make Colby Richards shut his stupid mouth about how many deserts I take in the lunch line. So help me God if I hear “Hey Lunchbox! There’s a 5 piece limit on the pie” one more time, I’m going to tell on him and get him sent to detention. Of course, I watch a lot of TV and I’ve seen the Breakfast Club a bunch of times and don’t want him to be able to have that much fun on a Saturday, so I probably would never tell on him. But, with my new superpowers, I would be able to do some kick-ass ninja like stuff to him that would make him cry like I do every night before I go to bed. Yeah, I needed to get some superpowers.

I wasn’t sure exactly what superpowers I should ask for, so I went into my room. By the way, my room has an awesome “No Girls” sign on the door. My younger brother says that’s because no girl other than Mom has ever been in there, but he’s wrong. When I had my second grade birthday party at the house, the girl in my class that showed up walked in thinking it was the bathroom but she was wrong. She said the smell confused her, but either way there has been a girl in my room, so screw you Owen. You don’t know anything! Anyway, when I got in my room I got out all of my Dungeons and Dragons cards and looked to see what powers would be most beneficial to me and my needs. After a few hours of studying, a few cupcakes, and a nap, I finally figured out exactly what I wanted and made my Christmas list for Santa.

The list looked like this

1) Ability to fly
2) X ray Vision
3) Awesome Ninja skills
4) A friend
5) Another EZ Bake Oven
6) A disguise of some sort (preferably a mask as they are very deceptive)
7) Weapons of war
8) A slow painful death for Colby Richards and everyone else involved with the “eat all of the pie in the lunch line before Kevin gets there” day.
Seeing that it was only June, I had awhile to wait before Christmas (and all of the delicious Christmas cookies) got there. In the meantime, I waited patiently by creating new sugary goodness in my new EZ Bake oven (the one Grandma got me for Christmas had broken again do to overuse – they really need to make those more durable as I use mine at least 4 times a day) and playing D&D with my imaginary friend Roger. As Christmas time approached, I got more and more excited and about my eventual super powered rampage on Colby Richards and all of the other guys who thought it would be funny to get everyone to sit on the opposite side of the school bus from me to “even out the weight.” This was going to be super awesome!

On Christmas morning, I couldn’t wait until I got downstairs to see what Santa had brought me. Mom told me a couple of years ago that Santa wasn’t real, but I’m not too sure about that. I’ve also been told that Star Wars wasn’t real, but people only think that because it happened a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. We have no way to prove that they weren’t real because they’re all dead. The only way to get scientific evidence, I suppose, would be if a piece of the Death Star were to land on earth, but that probably won’t happen. Either that or if Bigfoot ends up being a Wookie. Either way, I guess.

Anyway, when I got downstairs I saw that Santa had come the previous night (see, told you he’s real) and I ran right over to my presents. As I sat down, out of breath due to the 10 foot jog from the stairs to the tree, I began to rip open my presents with squeals of glee. I can’t tell you exactly what I got because that would ruin my disguises, but I can show you the above picture to give you a little preview of the awesomeness that I have become. I tried using this costume to sneak up and kick Colby Richard’s butt, but he said that he knew I was there due to the wheezing and the smell of moldy cheese. After my broken nose heals, I’m gonna try it again.


Editors Note: If you can't see the picture I've attached to this, the story will sound even dumber than it actually is.

The 7 Reasons Why Kathy "Beat"Me

Okay, here it is. Last Friday, Kathy Morgan and I played 9 holes of golf at Elmwood Golf Course in Belleville, IL and according to the final score on the scorecard, she beat me. It wasn’t a dominating effort on either one of our parts, but as the final scorecard proved, Kathy shot a 63 and I shot a 65. After talking so much trash and building up my inevitable victory the way that I did, I figured the gentlemanly thing to do at this point was to tuck my tale between my legs, congratulate Kathy on a hard fought victory, and be extra careful not to let myself talk myself into as humiliating a situation as I now find myself. I want to be the bigger person here.

That is, until I read this: http://adventuresofpippip.wordpress.com/2010/07/09/the-match-of-the-year/

You did well until the end Kathy. If I had won you know I would have taken the high road, but since you had to get that little dig in, I’ve been left with no choice but to tell the real story and let everyone know:

The 7 Reasons Why Kathy “Beat” Me

1) First, as any golfer knows, a tee-time is when the first golfer is taking their first shot. The tee time is not some random time where you can start golfing anywhere around there and still be within the good graces of the golf gods. I tee time is an exact time. Hence, when I set up the tee time for 9:00, I arrived at the golf course at 8:40 in order to get my bag ready, get the cart prepared, settle in, and get my game face on. By 9:00 I was ready to golf but there was still no sign of Kathy. At 9:07 I received a text from Kathy letting me know that she had just gotten there. This change in my tee off time flustered me as I was obviously golfing with someone who had no respect for the game. This threw me off of my game.

2) Being the gentlemen that I am, I drove the cart to Kathy’s car to prevent her from having to lug her golf bag all the way down to where I was seated. As Kathy was leaning into her car, something bright and pink caught my eye and I realized what it was. Kathy was wearing bright pink underwear which was sticking WAY out of the top of her shorts. It was so bright, in fact, that it partially blinded me – something that I would have trouble recuperating from for the next 3 hours. This threw me off of my game.

3) As we got to the first hole (with Kathy’s underwear still blinding me), I went to the tee and took my first shot. Kathy was very accurate in her description of this as the ball went straight up in the air and to the right. At this point (and only because the course was empty and there was no one waiting on us) I decided to take a mulligan. For anyone who is unaware of what a mulligan is, it’s a BS rule for people to pretend that a horrible shot did not happen and then take it over. I love this rule. I didn’t want to take it on my first shot, but I also didn’t want to start off on a bad foot. Kathy immediately questioned my mulligan (after, I might add, declaring that she had no idea how to keep score in golf) which threw me off my game. Still, after the first hole, I was winning.

4) On the third hole, I began feeling a little woozy. I didn’t understand as I had eaten breakfast, was drinking Gatorade, and was in generally good health. I figured it would pass and got out of the cart to take my tee shot. At that point, I stumbled a little bit, fell down, and was greeted with riotous laughter from Kathy. Apparently, she had spiked me Gatorade with LSD in an attempt to throw me off my game. It worked.

5) On the fourth hole, with the LSD beginning to take full effect, I had a conversation with a hippopotamus that was in my way and asked him to leave. He gladly hopped on his unicycle and rode away with a cloud of banana cream pies following closely behind. Once he was removed, I took my tomato, placed it on the fork, and swung my garter snake at. The tomato went about 150 yards down the fairway and I got back into my canoe to paddle down the fairway and take my next shot. I think the LSD was definitely throwing me off my game.

6) Later on the fourth hole, I think I lost my tomato. I swung my snake at it but apparently the snake swallowed it because when I went looking for it in the field of rabbit princesses, it was nowhere to be found. Either it went into the fields or Kathy picked up my nice juicy tomato and ate it as it looked ever so delectable. Either way, I was going to have to take a drop. I reached back into my tomato sack and looked for another one, but could only find radishes. I would much rather play with a tomato than a radish, but radishes were all I had. Playing with a radish would definitely throw me off my game.

7) Luckily prior to teeing off on the fifth hole, I was able to find my LSD anecdote (which every good golfer equips himself with) and I was immediately relieved of those horrible effects. I looked down at the scorecard and Kathy had miraculously come back and made a game out of this. Her 30 yard at a time shots must have found a way to somehow go 100 yards because she was suddenly scoring better than me. Realizing that her LSD trick had worn off, she now took to more desperate measures. As she lined up for her tee shot, she took a very quick backswing which resulted in her losing her grip on her driver. And, wouldn’t you know it, that driver just happened to fly straight back and crack me in the left shin. Now normally, my cat like reflexes would have allowed me catch this driver in mid flight and set it back in her golf bag without any effort whatsoever on my part. However, because I was still a little hazy from the LSD and Kathy’s bright pink underwear were still sticking way out of the top of her shorts and blinding me, I did not fully see the driver until it was too late. I immediately knew that she had chipped a piece of bone off of my leg because I could hear it rattling around in there. I took it like a man though and continued to play, making no mention of my pain to Kathy at all. This infuriated her to no end as: 1) she let the club go on purpose, and 2) she couldn’t pull away from me on the scorecard. I was luckily no longer playing with a radish (Thank God!), but this new injury definitely threw me off my game.

8) As I limped to the 6th tee box (pretty sure it was the 6th – still LSD hazy), I took what was my best shot of the day. The fairway was a type of peninsula that curled to the right but then arced back out to the left in a shape of long backwards “c”. The fairway was fairly narrow and it sloped drastically downhill on either side of it. I took my swing and when I made contact it was if the fairway had a magnet which allowed the ball to remain about twenty yards in the air and follow it perfectly. My drive went about two hundred perfect yards and was laying smack dab in the middle of the fairway. It was easily my best shot of the day and it was where I was going to make my move to pull away. As we drove the cart up to it though, Kathy jumped out and kicked it down one of the hills. Not wanting to be a crybaby about it, I played my ball from the bottom of the hill. That kick threw me off my game.

9) Around the 7th hole, it began getting a little warmer out. To protect herself from the sun, Kathy got out some spray sun block and began putting it on as we were sitting in the cart. “By accident”, as she was spraying it on her left arm she sprayed it directly in my eyes thereby blinding me almost entirely. The good news is I wouldn’t have to look at those bright pink panties which, two hours later, were still waving around like a flag on the fourth of July out of the top of her shorts. The bad news is I was now totally blind and would have to rely on pure instinct to finish my round of golf. Luckily, as anyone who read the story of my soccer game against The Bullets knows, my instincts are sharp and I am used to overcoming huge obstacles in key situations. Blindness was something that I was used to, but it would definitely throw me off my game.

10) This is where it gets ugly (and for Kathy – quite embarrassing). As we approached the 9th hole, I could sense that we had gone downhill and were now under the shaded blanket of many tall trees. Kathy, who due to my blindness was now driving, slowly pulled the cart to a stop and we were just sitting there. It was at that point that I felt a hand on my knee and a soft breath on my neck. “Kathy,” I said, “this is totally inappropriate. I am a very happily married man and would never do anything to threaten the beautiful sanctity of my relationship with who I consider to be the most fantastic woman in all the world. You must stop now.” It was at that point that the lips touched my neck and I heard the most frightening thing that I had ever heard: it was the gruff voice of the old male groundskeeper whispering in my ear “Who’s Kathy?” Not only did this scare the shit out of me and immediately restore my vision, but it most definitely threw me off my game.

11) Still hazy from the LSD, limping from the driver to the shin, blinded from both the panties and then the sunblock, and smitten..I mean DISGUSTED from the acts of the groundskeeper (psst! Call me!) I looked down at the score card and realized that we were tied. Even after all of these distractions and successful attempts to throw me off of my game, the best she could do was tie me going into the last hole. I guarantee that had everything been up and up to this point I would have had a commanding lead and would not need to worry about it at all. The scorecard clearly stated, however, that we were tied at this point and it would come down to the last hole. Kathy went first and put her shot way right, but over the lake. My shot was not perfect and looked like it was headed for a watery grave, but being the skilled athlete that I am, I was able to 5-skip my ball from one end of the lake to the other where it rolled up onto the grass. I was closer to the hole but we were both on dry land. It would come down to the short game. My next shot was a chip shot that ended up on the fringe of the green, but not very close to the pin. I lost track of Kathy, but she was soon standing near me with her ball on the edge of the green fairly far from the pin. Because Kathy had broken into my garage over the course of the week and bent my clubs, I was having a little trouble with my putter on this day and, as a result, three-putted the final hole for a five. Kathy also took her two or three putts on the green and ended up with a three. As a result, Kathy was victorious.


So, there you have it: The 7 reasons why Kathy beat me at golf. I’d like to say that I had a lot of fun that day. I’d also like to say that Kathy was the better person that day and beat me fair and square. I’d also like to take this opportunity to apologize for all of my sexist rants and degrading comments towards Kathy during this whole ordeal. You took it all in stride, properly prepared yourself, and came out the better golfer. Finally I’d like to say that due to your great show of sportsmanship I have become a better person. A more understanding person. A less vengeful person.

I’d like to say those things, but I can’t. The truth is that I hope you and your bright pink panties go to Chicago and never come back! Men Rule! America Rules! I RULE!!!!!!!

To all the men out there, thanks for reading. To all the women out there, go and get your shine box! (Goodfellas)

The Results

I don't wanna talk about it.

God, Family, and America

Well, tomorrow is the day that it finally happens. After months of talking, media coverage, expert analysis, and my opponent cowering in fear, the event ultimately happens. The event I am speaking about, of course, is the 2010 Golf Challenge.

For those unaware of what is going on, my friend and fellow blogger Kathy Morgan (pictured above) had the gall and utter lack of respect to challenge my manhood and claim that just because she moved to the big city and was now all hotsy totsy, that she could come back to Bellevegas and whip me at a round of golf. Now, I am just a humble, humble man but when someone who deemed themselves too good for Belleville decides to come back and spit on both myself and my beloved city, I have to stand up for myself. I have to stand up for Belleville.

See, aside from a few years away at college, I have lived in this beautiful city all of my life. Sure, I had job offers from all over the country and even in some European countries that would pay me a salary commensurate to that of a king, but I chose to stay home in this fair city of Belleville because it’s my home and I love it. Yes, I could have been making more money and living in a larger home, but something about meager surroundings suits me best. I love my small town and never felt the need to move to a big city in order to make a place for myself. And, if our great lord and savior Jesus Christ had plans for me to move to such an urban environment, I certainly would not come back and both verbally and emotionally attack those that I had grown up with just because I considered them “small potatoes.”

So, when Kathy made the challenge, she didn’t just challenge me - she challenged Mike who’s been working at the corner deli for the past 30 years making those delicious poor boy sandwiches that only he can make. She challenged Loretta the postal worker who has been delivering mail along the same route for so long that she’s seen the original homeowner’s kids have kids of their own. She also challenged Mr. Hooper who runs the little grocery store over on the corner of Main and Sesame. But most of all, she challenged you. She challenged you the loyal, hard working, small town, damn proud to be a fine upstanding citizen in nowheresville middle America. She challenged your dignity. She challenged your way of life – and I’m not going to stand for it.

I could have gone Kathy's route and trash-talked her this entire time, but I'm better than that. I would never stoop to the level of insulting someone's intelligence, sexuality, or gender. I am above that. I have but three loves in this life and they are God, family, and America. By listening to their guiding wisdom, I am able to avoid such city-living pitfalls as trash talking and just pure downright humiliation. I will avoid such tactics and instead do my talking on the golf course.

As a result, I’m going to accept this challenge tomorrow and beat her. I’m going to do it to show her that we small town people don’t take too kindly to people coming in and calling us worthless. I’m going to do it to show that we Bellevillian’s are proud of our town no matter how big or small or dumb (as I personally overheard her calling us) that others think we are. Damnit, I’m going to do it for America!

So, for all of you Bellevillians and all of the rest of the good, church-going, apple-pie eating, God fearing people out there, I’m going to wake up tomorrow and drive to Elmwood Golf Course. I’m going to get in a cart with my opponent, look her directly in the eye and let her know that she’s not just facing me today. She’s facing every one of you, and with all of your support I’m going to bring a firestorm of eagles, birdies, and pars all over my opponent’s big city ass!

Thank you for reading and God Bless the United States of America

Results will be posted tomorrow afternoon

Things I'm Not Going to Write About

Since I’m only in the office 3 days this week, I feel obligated to write a blog for each day I’m here (on my lunch hour, of course). The problem is, I’m so focused on my big golf challenge this coming Friday that I can’t think of anything else to write about. So, I decided that instead of just writing nothing, I’m going to make a list of things that I’m not going to write about today. Here we go

1) I’m not going to write about my dear, sweet, innocent Lindsay Lohan being sent to prison for 90 days and then to a 90 day inpatient rehab facility. This is a BS sentence and was only passed down because the judge is jealous of LiLo’s beauty, fantastic body, supreme acting skills, and ability to drink a proud Irishman under the table. Judge, it was only a couple of DUI’s, a little cocaine, and 9 out of 28 missed alcohol ed classes… don’t we all make mistakes?

2) I’m not going to write about the World Cup. Once the US got knocked out, I remembered that I think soccer is boring to watch. Sorry cousin Ryan, but once my patriotism runs out, so does my interest.

3) I’m not going to write about how back in high school Kathy Morgan used to call me at all hours of the night BEGGING me to go on a date with her. Pathetic Kathy. Really pathetic.

4) I’m not going write about that 4 year old girl who was abducted and then found 70 miles away from her home unharmed. I’m also not going to tell her parents and all parents who may read this that even if you are the winners of the “Best Parents in the World” trophy 10 years running, we can all be better parents. Hug and kiss your children every chance you get.

5) I’m not going to write about the Cardinals utter collapse last night where they gave up 9 runs with one out in the 9th inning to lose the game. I’m not writing about it because quite frankly, the Cubs are horrible this year and even though the Cardinals got their asses handed to them late in the game, they’re still in contention for the division.

6) I’m also not going to write about how even though the previous statement is true, it sure is funny to watch the overly-used phrase “cardinal nation” freak out about one game like it’s the end of the world.

7) I’m not going to write about how cool it is when you get a kiddie pool for your child, and then once they go to bed, you and your wife use it to sit in while drinking beer on a hot summer night.

8) I’m also not going to write about how that mere fact alone has more than likely solidified our membership into the Southern Illinois White Trash Association.

9) I’m not going to write about how the Italian beef that I had for lunch was a little pink and I’m really curious about what’s going to happen to my stomach for the rest of the day.

10) I’m not going to write about how I caught Kathy Morgan in my garage the other night trying to bend all of my golf clubs so that my swing would be off this Friday for our golf challenge. Cheaters never prosper, Kathy

11) I’m not going to write about my recent infatuation with Garth Brooks. As a rocker at heart, admitting to liking country music used to be an unforgivable sin. Now, I’ll justify it by saying that some of the greatest rockers ever were inspired by early country artists. I have no evidence whatsoever to back that up, but it sounds legit so I’ll keep it.

12) I’m not going to write about my facial hair – ever again.

13) I’m not going to write about Lebron James. While the sensationalist part of me is interested because it’s the current “big news”, in the long term I’m not going to give a poop where he ends up, who’s going with him, how many titles he wins, and his place amongst basketball’s best players ever. Once they start playing basketball again in that league, maybe I’ll care.

14) I’m not going to write about the fact that I just realized how old I’m getting by complaining that “something now isn’t as good as what it used to be”

15) I’m not going to write about how the Italian beef is beginning to make its presence known

16) I’m not going to write about my recent addiction to chocolate. Whether it be Snickers, Kit Kat,3 Musketeers, Junior Mints, or Peppermint Patties, I must have chocolate at least once a day

17) I’m also not going to write about how maybe the chocolate thing just means that it’s my time of the month

18) I’m not going to write about the MTV series “The Hard Times of RJ Berger” and how hysterically funny it is. I’m also not going to write about how ridiculously hot Amber Lancaster is. It’s okay, she’s 20 – Wikipedia confirmed it.

19) I’m not going to write about how even though any idiot with an account can post “information” to Wikipedia, I still accept most things that I read on there as fact. If there was a page about me that listed me as a 4’5’ woman with a horrible cause of scurvy, I would more than likely believe it.

20) I’m not going to write about my disappointment that they are tearing down the old BAC Quad theatre in Belleville, IL. I’m also not going to list all of the girls that I’ve kissed either in that theatre or behind it.

21) I’m not going to write about the fact that the above statement makes me sound both douchey and cool at the same time, I think the number is really only two. Or maybe three.

22) I’m not going to write about how back in the day I used to be able to tell you exactly how many girls I’d kissed, and in the exact order I’d kissed them. I’d like to say I lost track because of the infinite amount of girls that the list turned into, but in all actuality I lost track because the list was not that impressive – quantity wise, not quality wise. Anyone who was gracious enough to make out with me was definitely high-quality in my book.

23) I’m not going to write about how I just remembered one that was not high-quality. Gross. Oh well, we all have our dry spells.

24) I’m not going to write about the oil spill. I’m done with it. Maybe it would be easier if they just found a way to get the water out of the oil’s way.

25) I’m not going to write about how Kathy Morgan is responsible for the oil spill.

26) I’m not going to write about how I haven’t seen Truckballs on the road in a while nor will I write about my role in the reason for his absence.

27) I’m not going to write about Joel McHale. His day will come.

28) I’m not going to write about my urge this morning as Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” was blasting into my head via my iPod to start dancing around the street and sidewalk and singing at the top of my lungs West Side Story style in order to get the other commuters to join along and brighten everyone’s day.

29) I’m also not going to write about how the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I can neither sing nor dance. The will was there, the ability was not.

30) I’m not going to write about how Kathy Morgan killed Jesus


Thanks for reading

Scott Gets Punched

Over the weekend, I got a few reactions to my previous post about “The Challenge”. Some were good, but most were in favor of Kathy knocking my teeth in. I accepted both with a grin as I knew that 1) Kathy stands no chance of beating me this Friday, and 2) even if she did by some grace of God beat me, I’m still a man so, by definition, I’m automatically better than her. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is. To quench the gullets of all of you bloodthirsty hounds out there, however, I will share with you now a story of the one and only time in my life that I’ve been punched.

The only fight that I ever remember being in was back in the 8th grade. I don’t know if I’d even call it a fight though as it was mostly just two guys swinging each other around by their clothes. It started out as a football game at Union School in Belleville with a bunch of guys that I went to St Mary’s with. Some were in my class, but most were in the class above me. The Kaffer brothers were there and Ryan, who was in my class, was on my team while his older brother Derek was on the other team. Apparently during the course of the game Derek didn’t like how I tackled him so he started screaming at me. Ryan, one of my best friends at the time, took the side of his brother and ran at me with a flying tackle. We got up, began wrestling around with each other, and ended up with handfuls of the other’s shirt and jacket. Having never been in a fight before, I was pretty sure that I was supposed to punch him, so I balled up my fist and swung hard at his face.

I didn’t connect directly, but I made enough contact to stagger him and make him think twice about coming back in for more. We eventually got back to the game and finished it out. I have no idea who won as I was certain that as soon as the game was over, the Kaffer brothers and the other guys that were there (who were all of their friends) were going to get even with me and beat me to a pulp. My mind was so focused on getting out of there as soon as the game ended that once somebody scored the final touchdown, I never quit running the play out until I reached my bike, hopped on, and rode home where they couldn’t get at me. The incident was never mentioned again by any of us. That’s when I first figured out that when guys have a problem they throw a couple of punches and then it’s over. It’s so nice to be a guy.

That was my first and only fight ever.

But that was not when I got punched.

Having been in that little skirmish in the 8th grade plus my 25 year viewership of professional wrestling has always led me to believe (falsely) that if need be I would be able to handle myself in a fight. I’m not saying I would win, but I think I could do enough to prevent myself from getting seriously injured. But, I don’t go looking for trouble and, in fact, tend to shy away from it if at all possible. Whatever trouble my mouth or actions may get me in, I’ve always been able to joke my way out of it. It always seems though that for every tool you have in belt to prevent you from getting into trouble, a bigger tool will come along with something to prove and nothing to lose. That idiot brings me to my story.

It was about 10 years ago and we had been out at Shenanigans having a few drinks that night. I’m not sure of the entire group, but I do know that Brian and Jeff were there simply because they were both in my car that night. As usual, Shenanigans got really crowded, really loud, and really annoying, so the three of us decided that we were going to leave. Back in those days, Jeff didn’t have a car so even though I had driven out there, I had Jeff drive back. Jeff is the self proclaimed “alpha male” of the group so being able to drive gave him that “in control” feeling that he so wanted. Now, I’m not a small guy, but in comparison to Jeff and Brian, I was kind of the runt so I graciously decided to sit in the back seat.

Halfway back to Brian’s house, we decided that we were hungry and since it was on the way, we should stop at Jack in the Box. I remember driving by the JITB on 161 and it was absolutely packed, so we made the decision to go to the one downtown in hopes that the line would be shorter. To our delight, once we arrived there was no line and we zipped right in and out of that drive thru equipped with enough food to feed ten people. Jeff then pulled back out onto 159 and we set course for Brian’s house.

That’s when we met our antagonist

For some reason that has always escaped me, we ended up driving side by side to a car occupied by two younger guys. We were about 23 or 24 at the time and these guys couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20. Now, us driving next to them must have really pissed them off because they started glaring at us. It wasn’t a playful “hey, let’s see who’s crappy car is faster” type look (I owned a Saturn at the time), but more of a “how dare you” type scowl. Because Jeff was focused on the road at the time and Brian was busy lighting a cigarette, I was the first one to notice these guys and jokingly pointed out the angry kids in the car next to us to my friends. At that point, we all three looked into their car which only further sparked their ire. This was going to get interesting.

It was at this point that I was reminded of the fight from the 8th grade that I mentioned earlier and all of the thoughts of preserving myself that came with it. I wasn’t scared of getting into a fight, and more importantly, didn’t even see why we would get into a fight with these kids who were now moving from right alongside us to directly behind us and back right alongside us again. We had done them no wrong and the only thing they had done wrong to us was act like a couple of assholes behind the wheel. If anything, we found their actions amusing and laughed it off amongst ourselves for awhile. When it came down to it, there were two of them and they didn’t look very big at all. In my car, we had three guys, all over 6’2, ranging in weight from 175 (me) to about 250 (Jeff and Brian). Additionally, Jeff and Brian were professed bad-asses who would beat the crap out of anyone if they were so inclined – and they both had the size and demeanor to leave no doubt that they could. They both worked together at Mueller Furniture in downtown Belleville and, according to lore, there was more than one occasion when the two of them would go at it just to prove dominance over the other. They were a little crazy back then, but that’s what I began to count on that night.

As the ride back to Brian’s went on we began to get even more amused by these guys. We were cracking jokes about them and having a good time. Being professional bad-asses though, Jeff and Brian were able to keep their game face on. Me, being a professional moron, was in the back seat smiling and laughing directly at the guys who were quickly turning into huge pests. We had decided that they were just bored and trying to garner some attention and that as soon as we pulled off of 161 into Brian’s neighborhood that the guys would keep going straight and leave us alone.

Wrong

As soon as we turned into Brian’s neighborhood, these little idiots turned right along with us and followed us all the way to Brian’s house. While we pulled into the driveway, they passed the house, turned around, and parked directly in front of Brian’s on the opposite side of the street. Now, had we been smart people, we would have waited in the car to make sure that they weren’t coming out of theirs with bats, pipes, or possibly guns to even up the three to two advantage that we had. Instead, we all immediately opened our doors, grabbed our food and drinks, and got out of the car.

Luckily, the driver stayed in the car, but the passenger opened his door, hopped out, and fast walked over to Jeff looking to start a fight. Jeff had already rounded the back of the car and was heading up Brian’s sidewalk on his way to the house when the guy reached him and got in his face. This kid started in on him: “What’s your problem man? You got a problem? What’s the f’n deal?” Now, from what I’ve heard from Jeff and others, you don’t get in Jeff’s face, so I was bracing myself for the exact moment when Jeff dropped his food and drink, grabbed the guy by the shirt, and knocked him into next week. What I saw, however, was totally different. Jeff’s bad-ass response to this was “Man, I just wanna go inside, eat my food, and relax. I ain’t got no problem.” With this, he turned his back on the little punk and walked to the front door.

Fail

Having not gotten any satisfaction from Jeff, the guy next turned his attention to Brian and me. As he rounded the back of the car towards the driver’s side, he sized up his options, and decided that I would be the safer of the two to go after. “Hey what’s up Smiley? You got a f’n problem Smiley (apparently he liked my smile)? What’s your f’n problem Smiley?” Now, having seen Jeff in action, I figured that we were going to shrug off this little dude and not give him the attention that he was so desperately craving, so I also gave him the “man, I don’t have a problem. We just wanna go inside” speech. I also suggested that he and his friend should just leave as he didn’t want any trouble from us.

At this point, I leaned back into the car to get the rest of my food. While in there, the little troublemaker got in Brian’s face and gave him the same “what’s your problem” act that he had given to Jeff and me. I figured that at this point, Brian (who has a short temper) would have gotten sick of this and just knocked the guy out. I was moving slowly so that I could hear the sound of the guy hitting the driveway on his way down, but instead all I felt was Brian getting pushed into me as he and the punk began a little shoving match. Being a good friend and also wanting to watch, I pulled my head out of the car to see what was transpiring. Unfortunately for me, the only thing that I saw transpiring was a fist closing in my face

Once again, as I mentioned earlier, I have only been in one fight in my life. In that fight I threw one punch which was probably not the hardest punch in the history of the world. Not only that, but I had never been punched. Hell, before that moment I had never even had someone take a swing at me where I’d be able to use my amazing cat-like reflexes and backlog of wrestling maneuvers to dodge the punch, use the guy’s momentum against him, and turn it into a pinning predicament (I do have to pin a guy in a fight, right?). So, I have to say that I was both surprised and disappointed to see this fist coming directly at me. Surprised because I was amazed at how fast it actually happens, and disappointed because there was no audience screaming along to let me know that I should expect this punch allowing me to use my previously referenced skill-set. As a result, the only thing left to happen was the inevitable.

Crack!

As my head rocked back from this cheap shot to my mouth I quickly experienced two things that I’d never experienced before. The first was the realization that I’d been punched. It wasn’t like I expected it to happen, but it had happened nonetheless. I always pictured some elaborate drawn out affair where I was in a fight defending the honor of a fair maiden or fighting for her love. This was definitely a disappointment in that regard. The second thing I experienced was the realization that, amazingly enough, it didn’t hurt.

I’m not sure if it was an adrenaline thing, or if maybe the guy was just a pansy and punched like a girl, but either way I felt the sting but nothing else. I immediately tasted the blood from my lip and my gums but it didn’t bother me. I was pissed.

As I quickly got my senses back, I totally expected to see Brian, who was standing less than a foot from the guy when he punched me, pummeling him with both fists into a bloody pulp right there on his driveway. Nope. What I saw was Brian looking at me with a “did he really just punch you?” look on his face. Feeling the need to take action into my own hands I began fast walking (that’s right, FAST walking) towards the guy as he was running towards his car. He had gotten a head start because as soon as he punched me he took off running so by the time that I had fast walked halfway there, he was already getting in and the driver was speeding away.

I quickly turned back around expecting to see bad-ass Brian and bad-ass Jeff sprinting towards my car so that we could chase them down and beat the living piss out of them, but instead I saw Jeff still standing at the front door taking a drink of his water and Brian still standing there with the same dumb “what just happened?” look on his face. These were my bad-ass friends and we had let the punk get away.

When we walked into the house to enjoy our food, I immediately went to the bathroom to see the damage that this little punk had done to my movie star good looks. Thankfully, he had just busted open my lip and cut my gums a little. There was a lot of blood but not a lot of visible damage. I was kind of proud of myself at that moment as I had taken a punch and survived. In fact, I thought it was pretty bad-ass of myself to take a cheap shot directly to the face and not even go down. I was the man!

I then went into the living room to confront my two “bad-ass” buddies as to where they were and ask them why they didn’t have my back. They started throwing out excuses like “I didn’t even know what was going on,” and “I don’t want to have a fight in front of my house and have these idiots know where I live,” but I wasn’t buying any of it. The truth of the matter was that my two huge bad-ass friends had just stood there when it counted and only I had taken off at a decent half jog to make this punk pay for his actions. He’s lucky he got away.

And this, Kathy, is why you should be scared for this Friday. I am a bad-ass on and off the golf course. Be afraid, Kathy. Be very afraid.

The same goes for you McHale.

Thanks for reading

The Challenge

The challenge has been laid down and I have accepted it.

Apparently, my friend and fellow blogger Kathy http://adventuresofpippip.wordpress.com/ is under the impression that she can beat me at golf. I know that in a past article I wrote at length about what a horrible golfer I am, but I want to make one thing clear. As horrible as I am at golf I can definitely beat a girl. That’s right, I said it. I’ll even say it again.

AS HORRIBLE AS I AM AT GOLF, I CAN DEFINITELY BEAT A GIRL!

Kathy had the idea that we could golf against each other and each write our own versions of the day’s outcome on our separate blogs. On the surface, that sounds like a fun idea. But, what I interpret the underlying meaning to be is that she read my article, figured that I’d be easy pickings, and presented this challenge to me in an attempt to humiliate me on her blog. I’ve got news for you Kathy – it’s not gonna happen. And do you know why?

Because you’re a girl

Unless you’ve had years and years of training (and I don’t recall you being on the golf team in high school), or have even taken a few lessons from Annika Sorenstam, you will not and can not beat me. I am a man and by default, the smarter and more athletic person in this contest. It’s scientific fact. And I don’t want any of you feminazis barking (yeah, I said barking) at me about this either. I don’t make the scientific laws, I just abide by them. It’s a man’s world baby!

I am so confident in my ability to beat you, that I am willing to place a wager on this. Anything that you or any of our readers suggests is up for discussion. Anything. So, if you think you’re so bad that you can take me on, let’s place a friendly bet on it.

Next Friday 7/9 is the date, Kathy. Elmwood is the golf course. I would like to suggest a tee time of 8:00 am, but being a girl, there’s no way in hell than you can get your beauty rest, wake up, pretty up your face, do your required household chores, and still make it to the course by then. So, I’ll give in and set a tee time of 9:00. Does that sound good or are you going to need more time to pick out an outfit?

Let me know.

It shouldn't take much longer than 3 hours to complete this so you should be back home to finish any vacuuming or dusting that you didn't get completed prior to going out. We could have chosen an 18 hole course, but then I'd be forced to kick your butt for about 5-6 hours, and quite frankly, I have more important things to do.

It’s on girlie!!!

King of my Castle

Due to my extreme case of heartburn this morning and my awareness of exactly what caused it, I decided to pen this little ditty.

Sung to the tune of the Gambler


On a warm summers evening, In a car bound for nowhere
I passed a White Castle, but I was just too tired to eat
Then my mouth started droolin’ out the window at the building
The hunger overtook me, I pulled a u turn in the street

The voice in the box said, “Welcome to White Castle”
I said give me ten cheeseburgers, a large coke and some fries
He said “if you don’t mind me saying, I can tell you’ve been out drinking
For a dollar and a penny more, I’ll give you some advice”

Pulled up and gave him my Visa, and he ran it through the reader
Gave me back my receipt, put some napkins in my bag
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression
Said, “if you’re gonna eat White Castle, tomorrow’s gonna be bad

So you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, but if you can’t hold ‘em
Know when to walk away, and know when to run
You never trust your belly, when you’ve eaten at White Castle
They’ll be time enough for gambling, after you’ve had some Tums

Now every drinker knows the secret to surviving,
Is knowing when to call it quits and grab something to eat
And though Denny’s tastes really good, Denny’s is for losers
And the best you can hope for is a 20 minute wait to seat

So when he’d finished speaking, he went back inside the window,
Grabbed my food and my drink, then handed it to me
Then early that next morning, The White Castle it got even
But in my medicine cabinet I found some possible relief.

But you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, but if you can’t hold ‘em
Know when to walk away, and know when to run
You never trust your belly, when you’ve eaten at White Castle
They’ll be time enough for gambling, after you’ve had some Tums


Wierd Al would pay me a fortune for this.

Thanks for reading