Voting For Dummies

First of all, I want to apologize to anyone who was offended at the lack of humor in last weeks blog "Cuts Like a Knife." I'm SORRY that I wrote something that wasn't humorous or funny. I'm SORRY if I tried to show a little versatility in my ever blossoming writing style. I'm SORRY that it didn't involve Ben, drinking, farting, puking, enormous genitalia, or any humliation on my behalf From now on, I promise to stick with the insanely idiotic crap that you're used to. Jerks.

Anyway...

Seeing as today is Election Day across this great nation of ours, I thought I would take this time to tell a little tale of my brief foray into the political forum.

Sometime during my sophomore year of high school, I became aware that student council elections were approaching and, despite the fact that I had only a small close-knit group of friends, decided that I should run for Junior Class President. I had no idea why I decided to run, nor did I have any inclination as to why I thought that I might win. And I really don’t know why if I wanted to run for office that I didn’t just go for something like class representative. Why go for the whole enchilada? What I did know is that it sounded like something fun to do at the time so I submitted my name and began the campaign process.

Now, I would never have the audacity to call myself shy, but I have always been what I like to refer to as “reserved” in situations where not everybody around is familiar with me and my sense of humor. Inevitably in any social situation, I will say something that I find funny but usually ends up in blank stares focused in my direction. As a result, I usually keep my mouth shut right away until I’m ready for such a reaction. This was especially true in high school where I always had feelings of not being good enough and sometimes just not fitting in. All of that eventually changed and as I got older (after the horrific acne cleared up) and I became very comfortable in my skin, but at this point in my life I was really unsure of my exact place in the Althoff Catholic High School hierarchy. I was always polite to people as I hadn’t yet fully developed the sarcastic wit that I pride myself on today and, as far as I knew, I didn’t have any enemies currently plotting my demise. But, outside of a few close friends, not a lot of people had really seen the Scott Hopfinger that I was.

That was all about to change.

When I began campaigning, I did it with little more than a few posters and some stickers for people to wear on their shirts, backpacks, or even affix to the bathroom walls. I don’t remember ever really “campaigning” as there were really no issues at stake, but I also don’t remember ever really trying to sway people’s vote in my direction. For the most part, I just remained sweet, polite self and relied on great friends like Chris and Donnie (and many others that know who they are and to whom I am eternally grateful) to shamelessly spread the word about me as a candidate. Eventually, I saw a lot of people wearing my stickers and was taken aback at the amount of support that I was being shown. Despite that, however, I was running against a few people that were far more popular than I was and I knew I needed to step up the efforts. It was time to be goofy.

I don’t know how or when the idea struck me, or even why I thought that it would be a good idea. For some reason, however, I went home one night, got a piece of poster board and a few markers, sat down at our living room coffee table, and began making a sign. I believe I used alternating colors of blue and hot pink for every other word and at the bottom of the poster I taped a picture of my dog. I’m not sure of the exact wording either, but this is either very close or spot on. It read:

“Do you know that saying every dog has its day? Well, the other
day I was talking to my dog (trust me) and he said ‘do you know
what Scott? It would really make my day if you were elected
Junior Class President.’ So please, help make my dog’s day and
vote for me, Scott Hopfinger, for Junior Class President”
{Picture of my dog with
the Label “My Dog”}

It wasn’t the wittiest of posters, nor was it even that outwardly funny. What it was, though, was a declaration of my stupid sense of humor. This is the kind of stuff that goes through my brain on a daily basis and I was finally ready to share it with others. Of course, those of you that regularly read my blog might think of that as the official beginning of the lunacy, but I don’t care. If I kept all of this crazy inside of me I just might end up in a little white room with padded walls. It’s best that I get it out of me in this fashion.

Anyway, I walked into school the next day and hung it on the second floor where the majority of the sophomore students had their lockers. By that afternoon, I had received a TON of positive feedback on it and actually saw people stop to read it and then walk away laughing. I even remember a couple of people walking away smiling while shaking their heads and saying “Hopfinger…” I’m not sure if that got me any additional votes, but I do know that when the polls were closed later that week, I had won the election and was elected Junior Class President.

After that, I was off and running with my idiocy. I now felt free to be more of myself and actually started feeling a lot better about who I was. One outcome of that, however, is that I kind of busted out of my shell and became a lot closer to the guy I am today, but you’ve already read some of those stories and some more are still to come. Some, however, I just can’t share. My mother reads this blog for Christ's sake. Maybe someday I’ll need to make a “Peach Pit After Dark” version of my blog where all of the really nasty stuff comes out. Maybe.

Probably not.

Thanks for reading.

Cuts Like a Knife

She stood at the bathroom sink, razor in hand, unable to look at herself in the dimly lit mirror anymore, unsure how it had ever gotten this bad.

Her looks had always been a point of conversation; first ridicule when she was younger, then amazement as she got older. By the time she got to college she had found ways to temporarily conceal her much talked about physical attributes, but it was nothing that she could hide all of the time. Even when she thought that she had done her best job of hiding any traces of what she considered to be a curse from God himself, everyone else knew what was going on and they waited patiently for her to be not so guarded. They waited for her to just not care one day so that they could all point and stare at what she had to offer.

She remembered the pointing. She remembered the staring. She raised the razor once more, dug the blade into her face, and set it down again.

After a while, she tired of attempting to conceal it and decided to just let herself be natural. After all, no amount of clothing would ever be able to fully hide what she knew to always be the “elephant in the room.” If she was around, people were staring at her and people were talking about her. It was impossible to not stare and after years of constant attempts to mask what she had been blessed/cursed with, she just gave up. Soon, she was being invited to parties and other social gatherings not because of the beautiful person she was, but for everyone’s amazement and amusement at what they saw.

She thought back at how hard it was for her to ever date. Sure, guys would approach her, buy her drinks, and make small talk for awhile, but she always caught their eyes glancing downward and being intimidated by what they saw. She knew that they were interested in one thing and one thing only and there was nothing that she could do about it. She was a victim of her own body and no amount of flirting or intelligent conversation was going to change her fate. She was destined to be alone.

As another tear rolled down a much traveled path on her face, she dug the razor into her skin once more. This time, there was a trickle of blood, but she ignored it as the cold steel felt good. It was doing its job.

After two and a half years at college, she could finally take it no more. She was sick of the looks, sick of the judging, and sick of the laughter. But it wasn’t just the guys that were laughing – the girls would often join in too. Comments such as “how can she live like that?” and “If I were her I would definitely go see a plastic surgeon” never fell on deaf ears. She heard them all and she knew that they were right. What could she do though? Her parents were divorced and neither made enough money to help her out, plus she was a full time student who wouldn’t be able to pay for anything if it weren’t for student loans. But she had to do something to fix herself. She had to do something to feel normal.

Luckily, one day as sat in her dorm room reading a newspaper, she saw an ad looking for very “special” girls. The ad stated that the girls should not be shy and should feel very comfortable being on stage. At first she disregarded it and continued to peruse the rest of the want ads, but none seemed to offer what the original ad had to offer – Big Money Nightly. Gathering up whatever pride she had available, she went to the bathroom and rather than conceal her issue, she did whatever she could to flaunt it. As she walked from her dorm room to her beat up Volkswagen in the parking lot she garnered more stares than ever before. Students were gawking and professors were tripping over themselves at what they saw before them. Choking back the tears of shame, she walked with her head held high knowing that she was on the road to stopping all of this once and for all.

She raised the razor again. It was getting easier now as the pain of her past and her present were slowing being erased with every cut. This would end all of her shame. This would, for the first time in as long as she could remember, make her feel “normal.”

Upon walking in the door, the manager noticed her attributes and hired her immediately. He told her that she was what he’d been looking for his entire life and that together, they were going to make a ton of money. She liked the idea of the money, but hated the idea of objectifying herself on a nightly basis. Still though, it was a means to an end and she desperately needed that end. She wanted to know…no, she NEEDED to know what it felt like to not be different. To not be stared at. If she had to do it this way, then so be it.

Within five minutes of being hired, the manager was on the telephone with a photographer to take some immediate pictures. He wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this slip away. If they were going to make a ton of money, they were going to make it as soon as possible. He got off the phone, gave her an address, and told her to come back tomorrow night for her first night of work.

The photo shoot was horrible. The photographer kept asking her to get into various outfits and poses that made her feel even more uncomfortable and embarrassed than she had ever felt before. When she asked what the photos were for, she was told that she was going to be on flyers that would be posted all over town. And, if it went well enough, they would be posted all over every town that she would travel to where people wanted to pay to see her. “Honey,” he told her “you may even end up on billboards or on a poster in some kid’s room.”

After another stroke of the razor, she was able to look in the mirror and see what she had done to herself. She was startled to see what cold steel can do to human flesh and had to sit down on the edge of the tub to compose herself. The sink and floor were a mess but she didn’t care. Soon, she wouldn’t have a care in the world.

The manager and photographer were right. After posting the flyers up all over town it seemed everybody within the entire county showed up that first night. And, if they couldn’t get in that first night, they came the second. And, if they couldn’t get in the second night, they came on the third. Soon everybody in town had seen her and people who had already seen her on stage were coming back a second and then a third time just to see her again. Every night she would get on stage and do her thing, and every night the crowd hooped and hollered and screamed for more. They couldn’t get enough of her and the nightly receipts were proof of that.

At the end of the first week, the manager came to her after the show to find her quietly crying in her dressing room. When he asked her what was wrong, she simply wiped away the tears and asked when she was going to get paid. The manager reached into his pocket, pulled out two wadded up twenty dollar bills and handed them to her. She looked first at the money and then at him and asked where the rest of her pay was, but he just laughed and said that the money doesn’t come from getting on stage. The real money comes from merchandise and video sales and, if she was willing to take that next step, he would be there to help her with it. Seeing as though it would take forever to get the necessary procedure done making only $40 a week, she reluctantly made the decision to drop out of school and do whatever she had to do to make more money. Her fate was set.

“Just a few more ought to do it” she thought to herself.

Sadly, what was supposed to be just a job ended up turning into a career. Sure, the merchandise and video sales were helping her financial situation, but travelling town to town to make appearances cost a lot of money, and not having the common sense to make her employer pay for it, she was struggling to break even. But, whenever she could she would sock away five or ten dollars in the hopes that the money would multiply and that she would soon have enough; enough money to get out of this lifestyle and enough money to be normal. But that day just never seemed to come.

It had now been eighteen years since she started on this journey. Eighteen years since she got on stage for the first time in an attempt to end her despair. She had long ago forgotten why she even started on this path as what was originally a means to an end became a routine that she found it easier to stick with rather than try to escape from. She was now 38 and her body, through the wear and tear of her lifestyle, had aged far beyond her years. The crowds didn’t come to see her anymore with the exception of few stragglers who just couldn’t help themselves, and the money, even though it never once rolled in as was originally promised, was almost nonexistent. The man who originally hired her had quit and moved away years ago with the help of all of the money that she made for him. New managers had come and gone and it was now to the point where whoever was pointing her in whatever direction was just another face taking money from her.

The newest guy, a young guy in his mid twenties, finally had to sit down with her one day. He told her that it just wasn’t happening anymore and he had to let her go. The money was not coming in and, in fact, he had to shut down the entire operation. He said that with the advent of the internet and all of the available sites, she just wasn’t that big of an attraction anymore. Had she been younger than maybe she could get on with someone else, but at this stage she was probably better off looking for a new career.

She went back to her motel and sat down on her bed. Eventually, the tears began flowing down her cheeks and what started as light whimpers became sobs of excruciating pain. She had no idea how she got here and no idea where to go next. Eventually she stood up, walked over to the mirror and stared at herself. She must have stared in that mirror for an hour absolutely disgusted at what she saw. How did it ever come to this? Her life was not supposed to have turned out this way. It was right then and there that she decided to end it. She couldn’t take it anymore

She quickly went over to her bags and got out her savings. She hadn’t counted it in awhile as she was always depressed with the result, but she now needed to know exactly how much she had. She laid the crumbled bills in separate piles across the stained motel mattress and, when it was all counted, thought that it just may be enough. She then leaned backwards, nearly falling off of the bed in the process and opened up the nightstand drawer that housed a telephone book. She flipped a couple of pages, found the number she was looking for, and made a call – a call that would end her life as she knew it.

She raised the razor for what she hoped would be the last time. The blade was getting dull and the pain was now shooting through her with every stroke. The amount of blood was increasing, but she just didn’t care. After the last cut, she could barely raise her head but forced herself so that she could see the results of her actions prior to leaving. What she saw made the tears start streaming from her eyes even faster. She cupped her hands under the running water to splash on her face and clear away the remains of the damage. Looking back up into the mirror she saw what she hadn’t seen in almost twenty years – a beautiful face. She began to get dizzy and fall backwards, but was caught by the nurse attending to her. The nurse stood her upright, explained that they get that a lot, and carefully guided her into the operating room.

The Bearded Lady was finally going to get electrolysis.

Yep, It's More Randumb Thoughts

I haven’t had a cigarette 3 days. Prior to that it had been 8 days. Prior to that it was four days and prior to that it was six. Eventually the goal is to quit altogether, but I have to take baby steps. I can say that I feel a lot better, and if it weren’t for the two separate illnesses I’ve had in the past two weeks (brought on, I’m sure, by the lack of tar protecting my lungs from disease), I’d probably be feeling great. Of course everyone around me hates me because I’ve been a crabby jackass, but it’s getting better and I will eventually cease being crabby and just return to being a regular jackass.

I’ve realized that my lifelong dream of becoming a professional sumo wrestler is pretty much done. I think I’ve just hit that age where I’m too old to make an appropriate impact in the sport anymore. The crappy part is that I am now stuck with the weight that I was attempting to put on to make my weight class. That is now my official excuse for being a little pudgy around the middle.

I’m still waiting on my apology from Air Supply. I have banned them from my iPod as well. The people at the Department of Immigration are being less than helpful, but I finally got hold of some creepy guy who may adhere to my wishes if I can get Carol to sleep with him. I’m not quite sure he even works there as I may have misdialed the number, but I’ve very dedicated to my cause and, as a result, am seriously considering this.

Can we all agree that Justin F*cking Beiber is the antichrist and about as talented as the piece of lint that I just pulled out of my pocket? Why is it that such talented people like the Big Bopper, Richie Valenz, and Buddy Holly are taken from us at such a young age, yet Justin F*cking Beiber flies the friendly skies with no problem whatsoever? Not that I’m wishing a horrific plane crash for the kid, but I also wouldn’t shed any tears… I’m just saying.

Brett Favre texted a picture of his penis to some girl who used to work for the Jets and people are shocked. The only thing that I’m shocked about was that the picture wasn’t intercepted on the way to its intended receiver. (see what I did there? Comedy Gold, people – and you’re getting it all for free)

If Aliens were to make contact with the planet earth and I was chosen to be our representative, I think my first words to them would be “the redheads taste the best.” You know, just in case.

Is it plagiarizing if I put the same thing in my blog as I used as a Facebook status update last week? If so, consider me a plagiarized plagiarizer.

I just received my Halloween costume from Amazon.com. After all of the special deals and offers, I’m going to end up paying $20 for a $55 costume. Not bad. This way I’ll only look like a moron instead of feeling like one for spending too much.

To answer any questions about that, I’ll give you a hint: In his latest movie, he has a button that enables him to speak Spanish…

I’m not sure if it’s from a lack of new LiLo pictures due to her stint in rehab, but I think I’m slowly getting over her. I’m sure that once she reemerges from her legally imposed rehabilitation into the public eye that I will be smitten once more, but for now I’m very busy focusing on both Allison Brie from “Community” and “Mad Men,” and Lauren Graham from “Parenthood” who could be one of the sexiest women ever. Maybe it was just the cat suit from last week’s Halloween episode, but either way, Scotty likey!!

On the drive into work this morning I saw a woman on our street struggling to set her trash can back up after it had been knocked over by the storm last night. I pulled the car over, hopped out, and helped her lift the can back to its intended upright position. It wasn’t very heavy and I wondered why she wasn’t able to do it herself until she said “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. I could’ve done it myself but I’m scared to death of maggots and there are a ton of them.” At that point, I looked down at the bags remaining on the ground and yep, she was right – there were a ton of maggots. (Maggots, Michael. You’re eating maggots.) What do I do at this point? I’m already helping. Do I stop the help when she needs me most just because there are disgusting maggots crawling all over the untied garbage bags lying at our feet and I don’t want to get my work clothes dirty? Or, do I man up, grab the bags where I am able to, and heave them into the garbage can as quickly as possible while scraping up any remaining trash with a mop that she had thrown away so that there wouldn’t be a mess on my street?

Sure hope she didn’t get any maggots on her hands…

The other day as Ben was in the bathroom making a twosie, he said two things of note: 1) “Daddy, my poopies look like the number 5.” Upon inspection, it did. And 2) “Daddy, when it touch my wiener it gets really big. And it feels really good. Come see.” There was no inspection necessary.

I’ve become addicted to Stumbleupon.com. It’s a website that literally surfs the internet for you. You are first prompted to check a bunch of boxes regarding your interests, and then you are able to hit the “stumble” button which will take you to various sites which you are supposed to pertain to your “likes.” Sure, there are some stinkers, but there are a lot of good sites that it takes you to also. This is NOT what I needed available to me at work as it’s possible to stumble all day long and never get bored. I’m surprised I’m even taking time out from my busy day of stumbling to blog anymore.

And, yes, I helped the lady with the maggots. Give me some freaking credit…

I love political ads. There’s nothing that makes me want to NOT vote even more than a bunch of people pointing out each other’s shortcomings in an effort to make themselves look better. Besides, when the time comes am I really going to care who the County coroner is? For all I care, they can be the biggest moron in the history of the world as long as they get the whole dead vs. not-dead call right 100% of the time.

Speaking of dead vs. not-dead, Keith Richards has an autobiography coming out, so I guess that question is (maybe) answered…

I know that as (arguably) a literary giant I should want to see more artsy-fartsy type films, but truth be told, I can’t wait to see Jackass 3-D.

Apparently, George Lucas will be diving into the pockets of Star Wars fans worldwide – again – as he recently announced that he would be re-releasing the entire original Star Wars trilogy in 3-D. Seriously, how can this man live with himself? Doesn’t he have enough money? How many times can you release the same freaking movies with an additional 3 minutes of footage or brand new enhanced special effects? Does he think we’re made of money? Doesn’t he know we’re in a recession? Does anybody know the release dates and if I can preorder tickets online?

Score one for the dark side.

Speaking of Star Wars, Ben is infatuated with Yoda and Darth Vader. He wants to watch the movies with me so that he can see them both of them, but doesn’t have the patience to sit through the droids and other types of wookies/ewoks/hutts/bounty hunters to get to them. Also, he is convinced that Darth Vader is nice just because Daddy thinks he’s cool. I don’t have the heart to tell him that Darth Vader is evil and responsible for the decimation of an entire race of Jedi Knights including a group of young Padawan children all at the behest of the evil Sith Lord, Emperor Palpatine. I also don’t have the heart to tell him that his father is an insanely huge dork.

I was thinking about taking up deer hunting as it sounds really fun sitting in the woods with a bunch of dudes drinking beer around a campfire for an entire weekend. But then I realized that I would have to get up really early, more than likely while hungover, sit in the cold all morning without making a sound, and then gutting the 18 point buck (which, given my awesomeness I would definitely get) prior to dragging it’s nasty carcass for a mile or so back to camp with me. This thought process lasted about 20 seconds on the way into work. My decision is no.

While doing research (yes, sometimes I check my facts) for my comment above regarding the Padawan, I had to check Google for the correct spelling. In doing so, I came across a website entitled Wookiepedia. This may be more dangerous than Stumbleupon.com.

Speaking of facts, you are now reading the #1 blog in the history of the World Wide Web (that was written while eating a bowl of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee ravioli in cube C8 on the 29th floor of the Bank of America building on the 800 block of Market St in St. Louis, MO.) If you choose, you can ignore everything in parentheses to make that statement sound a lot cooler than it actually is.

One of the downsides to having a small kitchen-type area in your office in which to heat up your microwavable lunch is that you often get stuck talking to a random 60 year old hag with nasty long blonde hair who doesn’t like you at all because you once questioned her on how to do her job and now she talks down to you to remind you that she is in management and you are not. One of the upsides to having a small kitchen-type area in your office is that when this random hag turns her back, you can quickly grab some miscellaneous crumbs off of the countertop and throw them into her bowl of soup.

It’s okay though because my good deed with the maggot lady cancels out my miscellaneous crumbs-into-the-hags-soup throwing.

We’ll call this day even.

Thanks for reading.

Annoyance at it's Best

I used to be able to get away with pretty much anything. I know that many people may find that shocking based on my current angelic behavior, but I used to do whatever I wanted and not really suffer any severe consequences because of one thing and one thing only – I could always make my mother laugh.

Now, I don’t think that I was a bad kid. You could probably poll the parents of the kids I went to grade school with and 98% of them would disagree with that statement, but I really don’t think I was all that bad. As I’ve said in previous posts, I never did anything in a malicious manner, but instead was usually just in the wrong place at the wrong time doing things without fully contemplating the possible consequences. Usually, because of my cunning and extreme intelligence I would not get caught doing these horrible things. The times when I did though, I was usually talked to by my mother.

As I said, I didn’t get caught a lot (oh, the things I used to do…) but there were times when I would slip up and require punishment. Most of the time, however, I would just get in trouble for being a pain in the ass. Much like I do today, I used to get a ton of enjoyment out of pestering people until they hit their breaking point. The object wasn’t to get them mad, but it was more of a game for myself to see how mad I could get them prior to reeling them in with my charm and making them laugh with me. I don’t think I ever knew that I was doing this, but I did it nonetheless and the person that I did it to most was my mother.

Thankfully, both of my parents have a good sense of humor. Dad’s was a little harder to figure out because it was very dry and I didn’t fully appreciate it until I was older and realized that my humor was a lot like his, but mom’s was a little more open. Nobody really told jokes in my house growing up, but I could always tell that I could get away with more stuff with my mother because she laughed more openly. Like I said, I don’t think I was fully aware of what I was doing, but I definitely took advantage of this on more than one occasion.

Case in point.

I can remember an evening when I was probably in the fifth or sixth grade where my sister, mother, and I were all out eating at a Hardees somewhere in Belleville. Now, at this point in my life I had some annoying tics. I’m not talking about the insects that get in your nooks and crannies while walking through the woods, but actual physical tics. I don’t know why I had them or even when they began or stopped, but I had two prominent ones at this time and they drove my sister crazy.

For some reason, even though I wouldn’t get braces for another year or so, one of the tics was that I would suck air in from the corners of my mouth as if I were trying to slurp up some drool. I don’t know why I did it, but I did it a lot and it was pretty annoying. My other tick was to sharply jerk my head to the side as if I was Justin F*cking Beiber moving the hair out of my eyes. The problem with that one was that I was sporting a flat top at the time and had no hair in my eyes at all. Regardless, whether I was walking or sitting or even standing in place, I would routinely jerk my head to either side as if I were Michael J Fox (when he had long hair on Family Ties – not because of the Parkinsons. That would be mean).

On this particular evening, Hardees was fairly empty and we were waiting on our food to be done so they could call our number. Unknowingly, I started in with my tics which began to annoy my sister. I don’t recall if she said anything to me or not, but I do know that I noticed her annoyance and began to force the tics to enhance my personal enjoyment. After a while, my mother saw what was going on and politely asked me to stop.

Being the obedient child that I was, I stopped. Temporarily. After a short time, and whether it was the unconscious nature of the tics or a very conscious effort to continue annoying my sister, I began with the head jerking and drool slurping again. This time I am certain that my sister said something to my mother about me disobeying her and annoying her again. My mother, being the mediator that she is, asked me again to stop.

Now this is where I do my best work.

I had an annoyed sister on one side of the booth and a mother asking me to stop on my side of the booth. I could tell my mother wasn’t fully invested in her request as she was really only trying to quell my sister, so I would wait for my mother to turn her head and then force the jerk and the slurp so that only my sister could see. Melissa, fully aware of my ability to be a pain in the ass, would then say “Mom, he’s doing it again,” followed by a full denial from me. Eventually, mom got sick of this game and told me to flat out stop. No joking. She had on her serious face and I knew she meant business. Now most kids would have broken at this point and slumped back in their seat dejected while watching the sneer of victory on their sister’s face.

Not me.

Although mom had on her serious face, I knew that face all too well and that I could break her and leave this situation without being in trouble at all. It was going to take some effort, but I knew I could do it. I immediately turned my attention to mom and started forcing my tics in front of her. When she looked at me and told me that she thought she had told me to stop, I simply kept doing it more and more and told her I couldn’t help it.

*jerk, jerk, slurp*

Melissa: See mom!

*slurp, slurp, jerk, slurp*

Me: What? What are you talking about?

*jerk, jerk, jerk*

Mom: Scott, that’s enough.

*slurp, slurp, jerk, jerk*

Me: I’m *slurp* sorry *jerk, jerk*. I just can’t *slurp, jerk* help it.

Mom: (getting slightly annoyed) Scott, stop it.

Me: What mom? *jerk, jerk, jerk, slurp* I’m trying *slurp, slurp, jerk* but I just can’t help it.

Mom: (stifling laughter) you stop that right now.

Me: *jerk, slurp, jerk, slurp* I wish I could, *jerk, jerk* but I can’t.

Now at this point, Melissa is getting mad for various reasons. 1) I’m still annoying her with my tics, and 2) I’m not getting in trouble. Sure my mother is telling me to stop it, but by this time I have her laughing because 1) my sister is really annoyed and I don’t care, and 2) she wants to be mad at me but she can’t because I’m downright hilarious.

The conversation went on with my mother, through her laughter, telling me to stop and me continuing to force the jerking and slurping to make her laugh harder for probably about the next five minutes. Eventually, I have her laughing so hard that she was crying and making a scene in the restaurant. It was a good thing that it was only Hardees and that it was empty otherwise people may have called DCFS on the woman hysterically laughing at the physical deficiencies of her possibly retarded son. But since it was empty, we just had a good time laughing at the idiot that I am.

Well, mom and I were laughing. Melissa, as usual, was just mad that I didn’t get in trouble – again.

On that note, I’d like to wish my mother a happy birthday. Thank you for always being a good sport and putting up with my sense of humor. I’m glad that even after all of these years of me torturing and annoying you that I can still make you laugh.

Happy Birthday

I love you.

Shattered Dreams

Let me tell you a little story about a band named Air Supply.

About a week and a half ago I received a text from my mother informing me that as part of radio personality Delilah’s “Paint the Town” project (which my lovely hometown of Bellevegas, IL was home to after beating out numerous other towns nationwide), one of my guilty pleasure bands, Air Supply, would be performing in downtown Belleville on October 17. Even though we were in the emergency room for a nasty case of hives that my son Ben had encountered, I was overjoyed by the news and immediately began making plans to not only attend the show, but also to volunteer my time painting my lovely hometown and sprucing it up a little.

Sure, my motives for volunteering were a little selfish as I was under the impression that only the volunteers would be able to attend the concert, but I made the phone call to my local city hall to volunteer my services nonetheless. Once they answered the phone, however, I was dismayed to find out that they had already accumulated close to 1000 volunteers and were not accepting any more. Disheartened, I quickly asked if I would still be able to see Air Supply.

“Who?” came the young voice from the other side of the telephone.

“Air Supply, the awesome 80’s Australian soft rock band that is playing on Sunday night for all of the volunteers,” was my reply.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sorry,” she said before hanging up.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Regardless of the steps I would have to take to see them, however, I was still convinced that I would be witnessing Air Supply – yes, THE Air Supply – live in concert in Belleville, IL on October 17 and nothing was going to stop me. I soon took to Facebook to brag to all of the out-of-towners that there were only X amount of days left until Air Supply and I was going to see them. The only problem was that I didn’t know where or how. Luckily, my sister was able to access the KEZK website and pass on the information that not only was the concert going to be open to the public, but that it was going to be held right in the town square. Double score!!

As the days passed and the concert slowly approached, I found myself getting more and more and excited. See, Air Supply has been a guilty pleasure of mine for as long as I can remember. I can still remember my mother putting Air Supply’s Greatest Hits(which is now in my possession) on the turntable growing up and listening to Lost in Love, The One That You Love, Every Woman in the World, All Out of Love, and my favorite, Making Love out of Nothing at All. Those songs have followed me through my life and are now on my iPod so that I can listen to them whenever I want. The melodious vocal stylings of Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock were as much a part of my formative years as John Lennon and Paul McCartney and while John and Paul would eventually surpass them by leaps and bounds, Graham and Russell never failed to impress whenever I listened.

Sure, they were never “cool” and having a soft-rock band as one of your all-time favorites surely didn’t do much for my popularity, but I stuck by my guns and never hid my love for Air Supply. And now that they were coming not only to the St. Louis area, but to my hometown specifically, I was convinced that I had done something right and that this was a gift from God himself just for me. This was MY concert. Air Supply was coming to Belleville to play for ME. They were going to bring the band and play all of the songs that I wanted them to play and they were going to sound as great as they do on my home stereo and I was going to be right there singing at the top of my lungs the entire time.

This was going to be my night. This was going to be awesome.

And then Air Supply screwed it all up.

It actually started out quite harmlessly. Wanting to ensure that I got a good seat, I arrived downtown at about 5:15 for a 6:30 concert. The city of Belleville had been thoughtful enough to set up a bunch of picnic tables so I grabbed an empty one as close to the center as I could find. I would have just brought a lawn chair and sat really close to the front (mostly so that Graham and Russell could see me singing, pull me on stage, and ask me to help them finish out the show), but Dan and Chris were going to meet me up there and I figured that they would not think to bring lawn chairs. The table was to the right of the stage and had an excellent site line towards the Australian men that I worshipped. After plopping down, however, I realized that I had forgotten to stop and pick up some beer for the show. Bad start. A concert without beer is like church without God. It just doesn’t work.

After sitting by myself for about two minutes, I began to get itchy and started texting Dan and Chris to see when they would be arriving. Dan soon texted back and said that he wouldn’t be able to make it due to work. At this point I started to get a little bummed because not only was Dan not going to be able to make it, but Chris wasn’t responding and given the fact that he had been at the Ram’s game that afternoon I assumed he was probably either still drinking in St Louis or passed out on his couch at home. For all intents and purposes, it looked like I was going to be watching this concert by myself. Plus, nobody was going to be able to bring me any beer.

My spirits were quickly lifted though as Russell and Graham took the stage an hour before the show started to do a quick sound check. Now, I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before, but watching them up there I saw that it was just them. There was no drum kit and there were no big monitors all over the place. In fact, there was nothing much at all; just two guys, two microphones, and a guitar. Ummm, not good. How was I supposed to sing at the top of my lungs if the only thing drowning me out was an acoustic guitar and two soft-voiced Aussies? Things were beginning to look down, but I still had hope.

They quickly did a version of Lost in Love to sound check and it wasn’t bad. I was a little concerned that since they used the song to sound check that they wouldn’t play it in their set, but it was at least nice to hear it once. After that, they left the stage and I had an hour with nothing to do.

Nothing. At. All.

At this point, people started filing in a little more regularly and a lot of them were looking for places to sit. Realizing that my friends wouldn’t be joining me and thatI didn’t need an entire bench to myself and, I saw a nice-looking family walking around and asked them if they’d like to share my table with me. Pleased with the opportunity, they sat down which gave me the opportunity to a) leave the bench to go and get some beer, and b) occupy my mind. After returning with two beers (I had to go to a bar a few blocks away and order two Stags to go. They didn’t flinch.) I sat down and began texting Carol with an ongoing tale of me getting drunk and asking the nice family how much they wanted for their daughter (she was easily 23 or so). The story then morphed into the son not being the son at all, but instead he was the jealous boyfriend with a bad temper who was chasing me around the town square until I found a hiding place under the stage where I desperately feared for my life. Carol quickly grew bored with this (I don’t blame her) so I stopped texting. Dejected, I sat and drank my beer.

About 10 minutes before the show started, Chris texted me asking what time the show started. I told him that it started in 10 minutes and that he should bring beer. I was glad that he planned on coming, but I also know Chris very well and if he was texting me now, there was no way in hell that he was going to make it within the next 40 minutes much less the next 10. My suspicions were only confirmed when he said that he had just put some steaks on the grill, but he would try and make it before the end of the show. Knowing this was only an hour long show and there was no chance that it was going to happen, I told him not to worry about it as I was going to focus my time on receiving sexual favors from either Delilah or Air Supply anyway. He seemed satisfied with this.

Finally, at 6:35 after a cheesy presentation from the mayor to Delilah (where she mistakenly called Belleville “Bellevue”), Air Supply took to the stage and I prepared myself to be supplied.

If I had to take notes on the concert to pass on to Russell and Graham, this is how they would read. I would also read them in my angry voice.

1) You sound check for a reason and you’ve been doing it for 30 years. You should be better at it by now.

2) 20 minutes of a one hour show should not be spent constantly tuning guitars, telling stories/jokes, or wasting time in other ways.

3) If you have one song that requires your guitar to be tuned completely differently, BRING TWO FREAKING GUITARS!! I’m sure you can afford it.

4) Don’t come to my desk during my lunch hour while still chewing your stinky food and then proceed to bend down to give me unneeded instructions on a job that I’ve been doing for close to 10 years with your nasty ass breath (that was more of a note for someone here in my office)

5) If you’re going to tell a sad tale about the origins of a sad song that you recently wrote, at least make it believable. I didn’t buy it for one second. Not. One. Second.

6) Please get with Delilah and practice the name of the town you’re in before speaking into the microphone. BelleVILLE. BelleVILLE, Not Bellevue. BelleVILLE!

7) I realize that you were in New York last night and are leaving for Argentina tomorrow, but you’re playing in BelleVILLE today. Bring the whole band. That’s what they get paid to do.

8) For God’s sake, if you come to MY hometown to play a concert for MY city, then you damn well better play MY favorite song. I understand that without the entire band (reference note #7 again) it may lack a little something, but when you’re not really known for more than five or six songs you’d better play every damn one of those five or six songs. Leaving the stage without playing Making Love out of Nothing at all was a bigger kick in the nuts than mispronouncing the name of the city you’re in.

It is because of this list that I am now at war with Air Supply. IF they thought that they could stroll their happy little Aussie asses into my town and half-ass the entire thing than they are sorely mistaken. I deserved more. Belleville deserved more. The entire freaking United States of America deserved more. I have penned a letter to the department of immigration and mailed in off this morning requesting that they temporarily suspend the work visas of both Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock until they comply with a certain list of stipulations. The list is not difficult, but full compliance must be met or they will never perform in this great country of ours again. The list is as follows:

1) Air Supply must make a public apology to the city of Belleville for both mispronouncing the name and for half-assing the show. The apology must be made while dressed as kangaroos.

2) Air Supply must return to our great city with THE ENTIRE BAND and play a show featuring all of their greatest hits and nothing, NOTHING, from the new album that no one outside of Australia gives a shit about anyway.

3) The show must end with the playing of Making Love out of Nothing at All. I will personally be asked on stage for this song where I will be given a microphone linked directly to my earpiece. In this way, I will get the satisfaction of singing along with the entire band to one of my favorite songs of all time while not ruining it for the multitude of fans that have gathered to watch this return visit. If it is not done to my satisfaction, the song will be replayed until I am happy.

4) Air Supply must also perform the concert dressed as either dingoes, wallabies, or as Paul Hogan from Crocodile Dundee.

5) They must promise to autograph the album that I had brought along to the show. They should avoid signing the album jacket on the spots that appear to be the site of dried up tears of disappointment, but really aren’t. Really, they’re not.

Assuming Air Supply agrees to and follows through with these demands, I will submit another letter to the department of immigration and arrange for their work visas to be permanently reinstated. I will also call off my personal war with them as being at war with me is no fun at all. I’ll give them Joel McHale’s home address, daily schedule, and most frequently called phone numbers as a warning. The ball’s in your court Air Supply. I’ll be waiting.

I guess until then, I’m all out of love.

Thanks for reading.

33 Men

We don’t watch the news at our house. I made it a practice long ago to avoid newscasts because I just don’t like bad news. It’s not that every story should be touchy-feely and end in a happy way, but one can only take so much doom and gloom before they begin to wonder if there is anything good at all left in this cynical world of ours. Another reason I avoid the news is because I despise politics in every way shape and form. I find very few things more unsettling than a nation of the people, by the people, and for the people consistently focusing on who’s side is right on a particular issue rather than focusing on how to really dig down and fix the problem. I believe Buffalo Springfield said it best when they sang, “nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.” If I had better solutions I would offer them, but because I don’t I keep my nose out of the political arena.

But I digress.

Rather than turn on one of the major news networks on my television, I turn to online sites for my news. That way, I can peruse the headlines and read only the stories that interest or pertain to me. Am I going to read about the rising or falling value of the yen? Probably not. Am I going to read about President Obama’s falling approval rating? Again, probably not. Am I going to read about the guy in New Jersey who raped his five daughters and impregnated some of them in order to bring about a pure bloodline for the deity that he believed himself to be? You bet. In the previous two stories the headline told me all I needed to know. The pervert in New Jersey, however, needed much more in depth evaluation (on so many levels). I know that that contradicts my claim above about too much doom and gloom in the news, but I am also a huge fan of human behavior and any story like this intrigues me to no end. For most other stories, I just read the headline and move on.

So, it was surprising to me that one day a few months ago when I came across a story about 33 Chilean miners who and been trapped in a mine and were feared dead I actually took the time to click on the link and read the article. Normally I would have read Chile (yawn), trapped (yawn), feared dead (yeah, probably), and not given it two thoughts, but for some reason I was drawn to this story. It wasn’t until much later that I was able to put my finger on why, but we won’t get to that just yet.

As I read on and on about these 33 men, I became intrigued with their situation. What was it like where they were at? Were they even still alive? If so, what kind of condition would they or could they be in? Were they together or separated? Did they get along before this ordeal so that even if they did survive and made it to the emergency area as they were trained to do, would there be a struggle over how to cope with their current situation? The questions were endless as I know that if you even just put a Democrat and Republican in a room with a key in the doorknob, they would argue for hours on whether to turn the key to the right or to the left to unlock it with neither one even realizing that the door was partially open . There were 33 (presumably) men down in this mine and I’m sure that there were more than likely 33 ideas on which way to turn that key. But that’s only if they were alive.

Due to my sparked interest, I checked back to this web page frequently for updates. For about a week, there was nothing more than speculation about their health and probable demise. Once the mine had been collapsed for about two weeks, the story slipped further and further down the “current headlines” column due to the assumption that these 33 miners would never be heard from again. Then, one afternoon I happened to check back and lo and behold, the Chilean officials had made contact with the miners and not only were they all alive, but they were all in good health and (especially now) good spirits. For 17 days those 33 men had never given up hope. For 17 days they had prayed and sung songs to keep their hearts light. For 17 days they had faith that their god, their country, and their strength would lead them through this seemingly hopeless ordeal. 17 days when many other men would have given up hope, these men persevered.

Then, of course, came the tricky part. Yes, the miners had been contacted and yes, they were all alive, but how soon could they be extracted? It seemed simple enough that if the rescue crew was able to bore a hole down to them to make contact in as little as 17 days then surely they could be brought above ground in about the same timeframe, right? Unfortunately, it was not that easy.

Early reports estimated that it would be November or possibly later before any of the 33 miners would be able to see the light of day. That would be over four months trapped in a darkened hellhole without being able to see the sunlight. Over four months trapped in a potentially rocky grave without direct access to basic things such as a shower or a delicious meal. Over four months without being able to physically touch and hold the family and friends that meant so much to them and were praying for their continued health and safety every day. That was when it hit me.

See, I’ve been down in one of those mines. It wasn’t in Chile and it wasn’t a copper mine, but I’ve descended over 1000 feet into the earth to get a tour of a mine in Kansas City, MO. My former fiancés father, Tom, was a foreman on a mine out there and one weekend while Amie and I took a trip out to visit him, he took me down into the mine and showed me around. Tom was always great to me and I considered him to be both a friend and a second father. When Amie and I went our separate ways one of the things I regretted most was that I was essentially losing a family and a friend. I’d seen Tom at his most fun and I’d also seen Tom at one of his lows. He got a call late one Saturday night that a young man on one of his job sites in Kentucky had tripped and fallen hundreds of feet down a mineshaft to his death. Tom was devastated and asked Amie and I to literally say a prayer on the spot for this man’s wife and young child. While we prayed, he fought back tears.

I soon realized that at a job where men put their lives in each other’s hands, you become a sort of family. There is a type of love and trust that has to exist for everyone to be able to do their job correctly. Not only are you responsible for taking care of your co-worker, you’re also responsible for taking care of his family. Tom understood that. These Chilean miners understood that as well. I can only speculate on it because I work in the comforts of a nice temperature controlled cubicle where my biggest obstacle is making sure I don’t get caught writing my blog when I’m supposed to be working, but these men knew each and every day that without the help and support of each other at all times, they may not make it back home to see their family. And with the possibility of four months stuck in a hole with each other, that help and support needed to be at a premium. These men were husbands, sons, brothers – and fathers.

As the days moved on and on and the three different drills set out their course to bore a hole down to the miners, I kept a close eye on which was moving the fastest. None could move fast enough but any progress was good progress and when I read that the second drill had reached the miners and the rescue team was preparing the evacuation procedure, I was overjoyed. Finally, these men would be able to see the sun. These men would be able to breathe fresh air. These men would be able to see and hold their families.

Finally, late Tuesday night, October 12 (US time), the first Chilean miner was brought to the surface. I was actually watching an old episode of “How I Met Your Mother” on WB when a news crawl came across the screen announcing the extraction of the first miner. I immediately turned to one of the news networks (after searching frantically for the channel number because, as I said, we don’t watch the news) and saw the miner hugging his family. For some reason, I got a little misty. As each successive miner was brought to the surface, I had the exact same reaction the moment they were able to embrace their wife, mother, brother, sister, and daughter, but I actually cried when they would be able to hug their son.

When the last miner was brought up this evening, I had Ben in my lap (against his will as I had interrupted an episode of Spongebob Squarepants) and tried to explain to him what this actually meant. I tried to explain that these men had been stuck in a basement that was really, really far underground and there were no stairs to climb up. I tried to explain that these 33 brave men were just doing their job one day when something went wrong. I also tried to explain that some of these men were daddies and they’d had to wait 69 very long days to be able to hug and kiss their little boys. He didn’t care, but I wouldn’t let him go. I couldn’t let him go. Had I been stuck in that mine, the thought of being able to hold him again would enable me to survive any amount of time. Any of you fathers, husbands, sons, or brothers out there know what I’m talking about.

Are these miners heroes? Possibly. Are they a symbol of hope, determination, and faith? You bet they are. I think the true heroes, however, may be the rescue workers who worked endlessly in various attempts to both reach and then remove the miners from their captivity. I think the true heroes are the mothers and wives who held their families together for 69 very harrowing days while their husbands and sons were trapped beneath the earth’s surface. And, I think the true heroes are the people of Chile who banded together in a time of crisis and let these men know that they are being prayed for and that their families were being taken care of. Times of crisis are when real heroes emerge and, for tonight and the past 69 days, the country of Chile has got them in spades. Tonight, I will go to sleep feeling a little better about this crazy, messed up world of ours.

Thanks for reading.

A Midautumn Nights Dream

Okay, I normally try to keep my blog entries as close to reality as possible, but I had a very strange and vivid dream last night that I just have to share. This story will make no sense and really has point, but it’s what I dreamt about last night so bear with me. Also, please excuse any instances of nonsensical behavior as it is a dream and I have no control over what’s going on. Sure, I would have handled a lot of things differently in real life, but that’s the fun of dreams. Here we go.

The dream started out with me receiving a letter in the mail from Playboy. Normally I receive mail from Playboy either asking me to renew my subscription (which I have let run out) or to pay my bill from my very frequent four to five minute visits to Playboy’s Cyber Club (I gave them a bogus credit card number), so seeing the bunny on an envelope was no surprise to me. As I held the letter in my hand though, it turned to velvet and magically opened on its own producing a beaming light from within. Intrigued, I had to open it and read the letter.

It said:

Dear Mr. Hopfinger:

Due to the resounding popularity of your blog “The Scott Chronicles”, I would like to sit down with you regarding the possibility of you submitting a monthly column for my magazine, Playboy. I read your blog religiously and am constantly entertained by your humorous and witty anecdotes. Please read the enclosed invitation to our annual Midsummer Night’s Dream party and RSVP at your earliest convenience. Hopefully, we can discuss our possible business venture that evening. Once again, I look very forward to meeting with you.

Hugh Hefner
Playboy, Inc


Needless to say, I tore through the envelope to find the invitation, but it was not there. I looked at the floor all around me but could not see any additional paperwork that was enclosed in the envelope. I became despondent and figured that this was just some sort of practical joke as a) very few people read my blog, and b) very few people read my blog. All of a sudden, the letter signed (in ink) by Hugh Hefner morphed into a glorious phoenix and began circling the room. At first I was scared that it was going to attack me, but then it began coughing and hacking and from its mouth emerged a golden ticket which fluttered down directly into my hands. As I turned the ticket over, my hands were trembling because I knew what it would say.

“You are cordially invited to be a personal guest of Mr. Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion for the annual Midsummer Night’s Dream party. Please be advised that proper dress (sleepwear) is required. You are allowed to bring either one guest or one pet. Please clean up after your pets and remember to have them spayed or neutered. “

Now, in real life I would have shared this wonderfully exciting news with Carol, but instead the next thing I know I am at the gates of the Playboy Mansion with my dog Tina (who now was an English bulldog) ringing the doorbell. In one hand I had Tina’s leash and the handle of a rolling suitcase, and in the other I was holding a typewriter and a case of Stag (I guess somehow I figured that a party at the Playboy Mansion would be BYOB). After numerous rings of the doorbell, the door was finally opened by (much to my surprise) Pauly Shore.

“You rang” he said in his most Lurch-like tone.

At first I couldn’t believe my eyes so I had to ask him if he was really Pauly Shore.

“Yes.” He said, continuing his Lurch impersonation. “Since I’m not famous in the least anymore, Mr. Hefner gave me a job as a doorman so that I could keep coming back to the Mansion for parties and whatnot.”

“That’s cool,” I responded “but what is with the Lurch impression?”

He responded “Mr. Hefner gave me a choice of either being ‘The Weasel’ or acting like Lurch for eternity. This is much less annoying.”

As I walked past Pauly “Lurch” Shore, I stepped into the foyer area of the great Playboy Mansion. I looked at the walls around me and noticed that they were all covered with pictures of playboy covers from the past. But, as I looked closer, all of the playmate pictures were of my wife, Carol. There must have been thousands of playboy covers on the wall and they were all pictures of my wife in various states of undress, but never fully nude. I didn’t remember Carol ever posing for Playboy (especially that many times), but I can be pretty oblivious at times and anything is possible.

Anyway, as I looked around at these pictures I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a party coming from the other room. My typewriter, dog, suitcase, and beer were suddenly gone from my hands and it was just me and the party of a lifetime ahead of me. I started to walk towards the noise when I heard a voice behind me shout “hey fucker! You can’t go in there!”

I turned my head to see who was yelling at me and all of a sudden I was back outside the front door of the Playboy Mansion which had suddenly turned into a VFW hall. I looked around to see who was yelling at me but all I could see was my car which was parked in the lot outside. As I looked closer at my car though, I could see two people inside. I decided to walk closer to see who was screaming at me when out of the driver side window pops Johnny Knoxville. Unshocked (because everything seems normal in a dream) I asked him what he was doing in my car and if he had picked up the dry cleaning like I had asked.

At that point, he revved the engine, squealed the tires, and began doing donuts in what was no longer my car, but the General Lee. After he was finished and the smoke cleared, I went to the window to see if he had, in fact, picked up the dry cleaning but he was no longer in there. Instead of Johnny Knoxville I was now face to face with John Schneider and Tom Wopat – the original Dukes of Hazard. My question to them was obvious:

“Have you guys seen my typewriter and my suitcase” (Tina, now her normal self, was in the back seat of the General Lee – I guess I didn’t care about the Stag anymore).

“Uncle Jessie may have it” said Tom Wopat. “But he’s in jail because he was stalking Emma Stone so you won’t be able to get it for awhile.”

“But my suitcase has my pajamas for the Midsummer Night’s Dream party. I won’t be able to get in without it.”

All of a sudden, Tina (the dog) pipes in “I sleep naked. Just go naked. It’s the fucking Playboy Mansion. Nobody’s going to give a shit.”

Since that made total sense to me, I stripped down naked and walked back inside the VFW hall/Playboy Mansion towards the party. Pauly Shore was no longer at the door so I just walked straight in and back towards the room in which I heard the noise coming. As I got closer I noticed that the playboy covers with the pictures of my wife had changed into Mad Magazine covers with pictures of me on the cover instead of Alfred E Neuman, which is strange because I haven’t seen a Mad Magazine in years.

As I walk completely naked into the room, I see the party of a lifetime happening directly in front of me. The room was decorated in shades of purple, gold, and green with huge pieces of fabric hanging from the ceiling and the walls. There was a big fountain in the middle of the room of a penguin shooting water out of every possible orifice and a DJ booth that was magically floating in midair. Pauly Shore was serving drinks while riding a child’s tricycle while Bo and Luke Duke were now bartending in the corner. Oh, and in case I forget to mention, there were playmates all over the place wearing as close to nothing as they possibly could. It was so awesome that I almost forgot I was naked.

As if I had been there a million times before, I maneuvered my way around the mansion through hallways and staircases that all seemed to lead to the same place. Once I got to my destination, I saw Hugh Hefner directly in front of me surrounded by Holly, Bridgette, and Kendra who were all dressed from head to toe in black funeral attire.

“What happened? Who died?” was my appropriate introduction.

“My apologies, Scotty, “ he said as if having known me his entire life “but we’re in mourning.”

“Is there anything that I can do to help?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You can. You can put some underwear on because we can see your balls.”
The next thing I know, David Letterman is standing next to me holding a purple satin pillow with a pair of shiny golden boxer shorts that I assumed were meant for me to put on. As I put them on I noticed that my normally pale, slightly chunky body was now absolutely ripped. I love dreams!! Anyway, I put the boxers on my newly toned and tan body and immediately Hef’s girls stripped out of their funeral attire and were wearing very revealing lingerie. Good party.

Then, David Letterman said to me “whether Hef had told me you were funny ahead of time or not, the second you walked in I could clearly see your nuts.”

Totally ignoring that joke, I decided to begin discussing my future job writing for Playboy. Just as I was about to open my mouth, however, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Because I was so focused now on talking to Hef, I ignored the tapping, took a drink of my Stag (which had miraculously reappeared) and leaned across the table. Before I could get a word out, though, I felt an arm wrap around my waist and a gentle kiss on my neck (If this was Pauly Shore again I was going to kill him).

When I turned around, I saw Emma Stone (Superbad, Zombieland, Easy A) standing there with a huge smile on her face.

“Excuse me” she said as she picked up the pool cue because it was her turn to shoot (don’t ask, I have no idea). “But are you Scott Hopfinger?”

“I sure am” was my response.

“I am such a huge fan of your books,” she said. You are so funny and the pictures that you draw have such detail. Also, I loved your recipe for lamp chops. I make it at least three times a month.”

Apparently accepting of the facts that I write books, draw pictures, and include recipes, I went on to thank her for her kind words and encouraged her to please keep reading and to spread the word.

That’s when this all gets weird.

“I knew you were smart and funny,” she said. “But I had no idea that your were also so hot. Those shiny golden boxers are really turning me on. Do you want to go out to the grotto and get to know each other a little better? I just love a man in uniform.”

Again, in reality my response would have been “Wow, if I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that I’d be a very rich man. But I’m actually very happily married (even though I brought my dog instead of my wife to the party) and would not even think about ever dishonoring the sacred vow that I took on my wedding day.”

But since this was a dream, I said “Sure.”

We walked about two steps forward, took a right through a doorway, and we were suddenly in the grotto where my typewriter (I don’t even own a typewriter, by the way) was set up on a table.

“Before we do anything,” she said “I want you to write me a story. Hef said that if you’re going to write for Mad Magazine that I have to judge how funny you are.”

Confused, I asked “Mad Magazine? I was told that I was coming here to write for Playboy. Why would Hef ask me to come to the Playboy Mansion if I wasn’t going to write for Playboy?”

“Hef?” she replied with a sinister laugh. “Who’s Hef?”

I quickly turned to stare at Emma and ask her what the hell she was talking about. When I made eye contact with her, however, she was no longer Emma Stone but instead was a zombiefied version of Emma Stone. She had creepy crawly skin, blood dripping from her mouth, and was not near as attractive as the girl who I was planning on doing horribly awful things to in the Playboy Mansion grotto.

Worse than that, she wanted to eat me.

She lunged at me in an attempt to bite me and infect me with the zombie virus, but thanks to my catlike reflexes, I was able to get away. I began running, but the tuxedo that I was now wearing was making it very difficult to run in – especially because I was wearing Ben’s new Buzz Lightyear slippers that were too small even for him. Despite these drawbacks I tried to get away but ended up tripping over a rock and falling flat on my face. I thought I was a goner for sure, but at the very last moment, Tina (who had suddenly made a reappearance) morphed into Woody Harreslon and picked up my typewriter and shot Zombie Emma in the back of the head with it.

After I moved her lifeless zombie corpse off of me, I looked around to see that we (Tina/Woody and I) were now in a diner of some sort. I stood up and immediately sat right back down across the table from Woody. He reached into his shirt pocke, handed me a joint, and told me that I deserved it. But as I tried to light it, however, the lighter just made the sound of a radio station. Every time I tried to light the lighter, the music kept getting louder and louder.

It was my alarm.

Maybe I shouldn’t watch Zombieland before going to bed.

Thanks for reading.

Bittersweet Symphony

I tried to think of a delicate way to put this, but since that is really not my style to begin with, I’ll just throw it out there:


My son can blow ass like a man.

Being an eternal 13 year old boy, I have to say that this makes me very proud. I don’t really know what I was expecting in the gas passing department from my son (or if I expected anything at all). I can’t say that when we found out we were having a boy that I jumped for joy because I’d get to have farting contests with him. At the same time, I also can’t say that I ever had any expectations or plans for his flatulent future. What I can say is that through his 3+ years of existence he has acquired the fine art of dropping bombs with the best of them -and the results are staggering. He has bass, he has length, and the best part is – he finds them funny.

Case in point

The other night, I was awakened to the sound of Ben coughing in the other room. Any time the weather changes drastically he ends up with an allergy related cold which more often than not includes a hacking cough which requires breathing treatments through a nebulizer. As a result, his coughing can be quite disconcerting and we pay close attention to it day or night. On this night imparticular he was hacking away around 1 or 2 am and we were scared that he may throw up (you know that cough where all that junk is breaking up in your throat and it’s trying to make its way out but it’s not quite ready and, as a result, just hangs around in your throat making you cough and gag and gag and cough some more making it sound like you’re choking but you’re really not? It was that kind of cough).

We went into his room to check on him only to find him totally asleep through all of it. He was still coughing, but didn’t seem aware of the discomfort it was causing both himself and his concerned parents. Not being able to just let him cough all night, I went and got him a glass of water to hopefully wash down whatever mucussy (I am well aware that is not a word) mess was in his throat. When I returned, Carol was still in there with him trying to wake him up so that he could take a drink.

He woke up enough to realize that we were both in there and that we had water for him, but that was about it. Carol sat him up, held the glass to his lips, and he drank enough to calm the phlegm party down for awhile. He finished drinking, pushed the glass back, and with eyes still closed began to lay back down on his bed.

On the short trip back to his pillow, however, he unleashed a fart.

A huge fart.

I find it funny in our house that we deemed “butt” to be an inappropriate word but we talk about poop and farts like it’s no big deal. Just add that to the list of first time parenting miscues, I guess. Anyway, this fart was long and loud and caused Carol and I to break into a fit of laughter. Ben, barely awake at this point, got a huge smile on his face the second it was released. I’m not sure if he felt relieved or if he knew that what just came out of his bottom (see? – no butt) was as funny as mommy and daddy thought it was. Either way, the smile continued and once he heard us laughing (we couldn’t control ourselves) he decided to enhance the fart by (eyes still closed and half asleep) mimicking the fart noise with his mouth right before laying his head down and going back to sleep.

That’s my boy.

Carol and I laughed during the entire walk out of his bedroom. We shut the door and continued to laugh even harder. I had to use the bathroom before going back to sleep and as I was in there I could still hear Carol giggling from the bedroom all the way across the house. I’m pretty sure that she could hear me also as I was laughing too (making it very difficult to complete my task – by the way). When I got back to bed we giggled about it a little more and then drifted off to sleep. We don’t encourage him to break wind, but when he does we do get a kick out of it.


To add to this short little story, I will share with you a song that Ben was singing this morning after he performed another sphincter symphony while getting ready for school.

My bottom goes toot-toot
My bottom goes toot-toot
Hi-ho the dairy-o
My bottom goes toot-toot

I have no idea what they’re teaching him at school, but I sure am glad that I’m getting my money’s worth.

Thanks for reading

Randumb Thoughts: The October 1 Edition

I really just had to post this picture again.




Carol and I just forked out $40 for our Belleville Vehicle Registration stickers. Yay. They reinstated the tax back in spring after a 16 year hiatus when the City Council voted in favor of it. Let’s look at this a little more in depth though. Belleville is broke and needs money to pay its workers. The City Council members are city workers. So in a nutshell, they probably could’ve proposed a $2000 per vehicle tax and the City Council would’ve voted for it because if it got shot down, they wouldn’t get paid. They were essentially voting to get paid. If the option of getting paid or not getting paid were put to me, you bet your ass I’d vote to get paid, but it’s still crap for the residents to be forced to pay this. As a result, the city has now imposed a $20 per vehicle tax for a stupid sticker to put in your window.

Let’s look at this from another angle. How in the hell do they plan on enforcing this? Are they planning on stopping all vehicles that pass by the town square that aren’t sporting a sticker? How are they going to determine which cars are from Belleville and which aren’t? Are they going to go door to door within Belleville’s city limits and ticket people based on some spreadsheet that shows who has paid and who has not? No. The only way that they can enforce it is by ticketing people during traffic stops for other offenses. So, basically, if I’m a good driver and don’t get pulled over the city is never going to be able to tell that I didn’t buy a sticker and I can save my $20. Right? I haven’t been pulled over anywhere other than Millstadt and East St Louis in the past 5 years so I think I would be safe. Also, if I get busted for speeding or (god forbid) a DUI, are they really going to stick the fine on me? More than likely, it will be the same thing with car insurance – if you don’t have it at the time of your ticket, you simply get it before the court date and all is good and the charge gets dropped. It makes so much sense to me to say “screw it” and just not get the damn sticker until after I get pulled over, but alas, my guilt overrode my anarchistic ways and Carol finally went to the courthouse to get the stickers today.

The deadline was yesterday though, so buying them a day late still makes me a badass, right? RIGHT?

In other news…

Since the weather has cooled off a little, I find myself wanting to wear jeans a little more often. I say “wanting” to wear jeans because all of the jeans I have are from two years ago. Two years ago, they were a little big around the waist. Last year, they fit just right (I attributed that to natural wear and tear and being placed in the dryer instead of being air dried). Well, they must have been worn and torn and put in the dryer all summer long because for some reason, I’m having a difficult time breathing in the pair that I’m wearing today. Getting older is a bitch.

My LiLo has entered the Betty Ford clinic. I guess she didn’t read the blog regarding my suggestions for Dr. DJ Awesomesausce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Facility. I could be helping her as we speak.

Regarding that blog, apparently someone must have searched “rehabilitation” or something and ended up coming across my blog. The poor woman must have read the entire post looking for some sort of redeeming quality but was stuck with my gross perversions (and obvious concern for my patient’s wellbeing – of course) instead. She commented on my blog and I didn’t recognize her name so I found myself checking out her blog as well. http://heal-the-healer.com/. After listening to that drivel, I’m beginning to think that my rehabilitation method might not be the worst idea in the world.

Speaking of past blogs, I have a stat counter on my blog that counts the number of visitors that I get each day and which blogs are getting read the most (for those curious, it’s this one: http://scottchronicles.blogspot.com/2010/09/nothing-left-to-say.html. Within that tool, I can also access a map to see where people are accessing my page from. I saw 4 or 5 in LA and was curious who they were because I only know two people out there and think only one of them reads my blog (thanks MAP). To my shock, I saw that the IP address was listed as E Entertainment and it showed that the blog they accessed was my Open Letter to Joel McHale. So, either Joel McHale is finally manning up and taking responsibility for his actions or he has some of his henchmen stalking me to see what I’m planning next. Either way Joel, I just wanted to let you know that I know that you now know that I know what you’re up to. The ball’s in your court buddy. Let’s play.

I’ve been reading “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell” by Tucker Max and I am appalled. For those of you not aware, Tucker Max is a drunken womanizing douchebag who lives his life with no little to no consequences and then writes about his experiences. And I’ve gotta say – it‘s pretty awesome. I can’t imagine ever doing what he does to people but I sure have a good time laughing at it. The thing that appalls me about it is that if I had a little less decency towards people (including myself) and the ability to forget that eventually my mother would read it, I could have written some similar stories myself. I will, however, always try to keep my blogs as clean as possible and not include any stories about the adventures of my genitals.

You’re welcome

Carol and I are currently attempting to stop smoking. I went to the ballgame on Wednesday and got a little tipsy, so of course I failed miserably. Carol, on the other hand, is holding up like a champ and is, in turn, making it easier for me. While she is making it easier on me though, my actions (which are barely tolerable to most people while they are not going through nicotine withdrawal) are becoming increasingly annoying to her and I think she is about ready to punch me in the face. Part of me just wants us to start smoking again so that I don’t have to be fearful every time I turn a corner and see her standing there with her “Oh, you’re still breathing?” look.

I love you Carol. You’re doing great. We’ll get there together (unless you decide to terminate my existence in the meantime).

I don’t think the 3 or 4 chicken enchiladas that I just ate for lunch are helping me with my jeans situation at all.

Tonight is the Chili Cook Off in Belleville. I don’t think I’m going, but I felt left out because every single person in the Belleville area has mentioned this as their Facebook status for the day.

Our patio is finally complete. Well, it will be complete this spring when I buy flowers to go in the flower beds, but the bricks are laid, the arbor is built, the retaining wall is up, and I unloaded a truck full of dirt and another full of mulch to get it where it’s at. I think it looks awesome. If anything, it sure beats the mud pit that was there for the past year. I do want to thank everyone who helped though, so thanks cousin Ryan, Carol, and me. We’re awesome!

Does anyone else listen to the Arch? (I gave up on 103.3 after they placed a restraining order on me due to my frequent calls to see if I they had just called my name to be the $500 winner. In fact, just mentioning them may be in violation of that order, but I’m not too sure. Between Brittney, LiLo, Pam Anderson, Cloris Leachman, 103.3, etc, I get confused as to which restraining order rules apply to which.) Anyway, is anyone else creeped out by the Mormon commercials? I’m aware that they’re “just like other people,” but I wasn’t aware that enough people thought that they weren’t that it would require an advertising campaign to claim that they are, in fact, “just like us.” In truth, all it makes me think of is “We’re Mormon, and we’re among you” in the creepiest possible way that it can sound.

BTW, I’m still waiting for the Reds to come back down to earth because there’s no way that they’ll beat out the Cardinals for this division. The TLR Cardinals are just too good! (If I read this in the future and don’t get my joke here, it’s that the Cardinals were supposed to run away with the division but Cincinnati played really well and had a much better team all year but the Cardinal fans couldn’t cope with the fact that any team could be better than one with Pujols, Carpenter, Wainwright, Holliday, Molina, Rasmus, TLR as the manager and the great Dave Duncan as the almighty pitching God. There are now 3 days left in the season and the Cardinals choked their way out of it in mid August. Not poking fun here, it’s just for my own reference).

This is my 79th blog entry and I anticipate that I’ll hit 100 right around Christmas. I’m still trying to think of something big to do for the 100th blog, but can’t think of anything special. Maybe a Q and A session? Maybe an update on every blog story that I’ve written? Maybe a top 100 reasons why I am awesome list? I’m not sure, but am definitely up for suggestion. It doesn’t matter to me that I only have an average of about 35 readers per blog. What matters is that 35 people take time out of their day to read the ridiculous crap that I put on here. If I haven’t said it enough in the past, thank you all for your support. It’s nice to hear people talk about this little blog (good or bad) when I see them out. I’ll keep writing this thing as long as I have stories to tell or as long as there are still idiots in this world to make fun of (myself being the main one).

Or maybe I’ll use my 100th blog for the top 100 moments in the adventures of my genitals…

100? I’m not sure I could even do a top 10.

Or even 5.

Maybe 5.

So sad.

Thanks for reading.

The Problem With Momentum...

When you were a kid, did you ever place a stick into the spokes of a moving bicycle wheel to see what happens? I’m not sure that I did, but I did do something similar that resulted in a never ending source of guilt for me to lay on my father.

During the final days of summer leading up to my freshman year of high school I had gone over to my friend Wendy’s house on my bike. Wendy and I had began “dating” early that summer only to have her break up with me a few weeks before school started because she had a crush on one of her brother’s friends. Even after the horrible, crushing breakup we still hung out as if nothing had ever happened. I’m guessing that’s because of the fact that NOTHING had ever happened. Nothing. I’m not bitter Wendy, but a guy has needs! Geez!!

Anyway, before I left for her house we had been on the phone and discussed playing tennis on a non-existent tennis court at a school playground down the street from her house. I really didn’t know how we were going to accomplish this, but I still gathered up two tennis rackets that I had along with a few balls and headed out to the shed to get on my bike.

My bike.

My bike was a ten speed that my dad had obtained from someone and fixed up for me. It was a really pretty shade of blue and fairly normal looking except for this obnoxiously padded white seat that forced me to sit straight up and take away any shred of coolness that I may have had at that point in my life. I’m not kidding when I say that I was probably riding two feet higher than anyone else I was with. It was not an ugly bike and I was grateful that I had a bike at all, but it was definitely not something that you’d brag to your friends about.

Either way, this bike was my only mode of transportation so I somehow got myself, both rackets, and the balls on this thing and I headed out to hang out with Wendy for the afternoon. When I got there, I don’t think we played tennis at all. We went to the playground and met up with some other friends, but the tennis rackets went virtually unused. After an afternoon of goofing around, it was closing in on dinnertime and I had to get home. I loaded up the rackets and myself (I think we had actually used the rackets briefly, but it only ended up in the tennis balls being forever lost on the roof of the school) and headed home.

Now, during the ride to Wendy’s, I had some trouble balancing the rackets while I was riding. I couldn’t put the straps on the carrying cases over my shoulders due to the fact that I’m built like an arrow, and placing them on the handgrips was difficult because they would swing around every time I hit a bump. My ass wouldn’t feel the bump because of my seat cushioned by NASA, but the rackets definitely would shake around. Nevertheless, I made it to Wendy’s with no problem.

The way home, however, was a little more difficult. I tried placing them on my shoulders again, but as I mentioned, they would just fall down and cause me to almost fall off of my bike. As a result, I simply placed the straps on the handlebars again and made sure that I didn’t hit any bumps to make them swing around and cause me to lose my focus on the ride. After a while of fighting the inevitable swinging, however, I decided that maybe if I put one racket on each handle, then maybe I could hold them more tightly in place as I rode. I was almost home after all and whatever knowledge I gained from this experiment would pay off next time that I had to ride on my bike while carrying two tennis rackets.

Boy did it pay off.

I was pretty close to my house and, if there would have been no trees in way, I could probably have seen it from my elevated spot on 29th street. I had just crossed the railroad tracks being very mindful of every bump as each one would send the rackets flying. Being at the home stretch, I decided to put on a good head of steam because the hill that led down to Route 13 was coming up and it was a really fun hill to go super fast on. As I stood up to start pedaling a little faster, apparently I shifted the weight on the bike and both tennis rackets flew out to the side. I quickly saw in my mind exactly what was going to happen and there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

As the tennis rackets came back from their upward swing, one of them came back handle first right towards the wheel. Now, if you’ve ever tried the stick in the spokes thing that I mentioned before, you know that the stick will likely break into a couple of pieces. Unfortunately for me, this “stick” was made out of aluminum and was much thicker than the average twig that you find on the ground. Instead of breaking into a ton of pieces, the handle simply forced its way into the spokes of my bike and followed the path that the spokes were travelling until it reached a point that it couldn’t travel any farther.

Once the handle hit the fork that supports the wheel, my bicycle came to a dead stop in the road. The bad thing is, I still had momentum in my favor and I continued to travel at the speed the bike was going for about another seven or eight feet – through the air. As I landed ever so hard while wishing the entire time that the cushiony bicycle seat that I hated so much was underneath me to soften the blow, I continued to slide a few more feet with the help of the loose gravel that was on the ground.

I laid there for a few seconds.

I knew I wasn’t severely hurt, but I also didn’t feel very good. My knees and elbows were stinging and I was pretty sure that there was a rock that had started out in a cut on the palm on my hand and was now embedded in the tip of my middle finger. I finally got my wits about me and stood up only to see a car stopped a little ways away. A man got out and started running over to me to see if I was okay, but being the smart boy that I was, I knew that he was a stranger. He got within about 20 feet and asked if I was okay, and even with the blood dripping out of my elbows, knees, and hand, I told him I was fine and picked up my bike to continue the journey home.

That’s when I felt it.

Actually, I felt two things. The first thing I felt was the pang on disappointment as when I looked at the bike, the rim on the front tire was totally bent. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to ride this bike the rest of the way home. On top of that, Dad was going to be mad that I messed up the bike that he had fixed up for me. The second thing I felt, however, was a slight pain in my wrist. It wasn’t a really bad pain, but it hurt nonetheless every time I put pressure on it. Needless to say, pushing my bike the quarter of a mile that remained to my house was not going to be easy, but I did it anyway despite the pain.

During dinner that night, I told my dad what had happened and said that my wrist hurt a little bit. I’m not exactly certain of this, but I think he made me bend it this way and that way to see if I had a full range of motion. I did, but it hurt to do so. Either way, since I had a full range of motion, I must be fine. Wrist = not broken.

Despite my claims that it still hurt, my father made me do the dishes after dinner. I don’t know if he was mad that I messed up the bike or if it was simply my turn to do the dishes, but either way, I did those dishes. Every time I moved my wrist around or put pressure on it, I could feel a twinge of pain. But, since I had full range of motion and had never had a broken bone before to compare the pain to, I had to also assume that it was not broken.

Let me clear something up here. My father is not a monster. He would never ignore the cries of an injured child nor would he have had me do what I did next if I had put up a cry of protest. My dad is just a very strong man who does not see the need for doctors unless there’s bone showing. I can’t begin to count the amount of cuts he’s had that probably required stitches that he simply “glued” shut, or waited it out until it stopped bleeding. My dad is a veteran of the US Army and served in Vietnam. He’s seen and experienced a lot more pain and suffering in his life than I could ever imagine. Had he known the extent of my injury, however, he would have taken me to the ER and gotten me fixed up immediately. But, because of the reasons listed above my wrist was not a big deal, which is why he had me do what I did next.

After I was done washing the dishes, dad called me outside to help him with something. I didn’t know what it was, but I was hoping that it didn’t involve anything with my wrist. It didn’t hurt all of the time, but with the right amount of pressure it hurt pretty badly. Much to my chagrin, I saw my ten speed propped upside down on that goddamned puffy white seat and dad sitting there next to it with some tools. I asked him what he wanted me to do and he told me to hold onto the tire while he tried to bend the rim back to its normal position. Part of me wanted to whine, but instead I shut up and began holding that rim in place while he bent it and jerked it and basically moved it any way it would go while me and my injured wrist were dying in pain. When there was pressure against it, it hurt. When there wasn’t, it was fine. But when it did hurt it hurt badly. We must’ve been in the driveway for 30 minutes or so working on that rim, but we got it fixed. The big-seated monster would ride again.

Needless to say, my wrist was broken. I think both dad and I were in denial because the physicals for freshman football were literally the next day and we were both really excited about it. I went to the physical and got measured, weighed, felt up by a stranger as I turned my head and coughed, and was all set to go until the head football coach asked me how I was feeling. Me, being the wuss that I am, said “well, I fell off my bike yesterday and now my wrist hurts a little.”

On that note, my football career at Althoff was done forever. They told me that I needed to get it checked out before I could begin any practices (which must have killed them after seeing what a physical specimen that I was). My sister Melissa then took me to the doctor’s office that afternoon where they confirmed that I had broken the absolute smallest and hardest to get to bone in my wrist.

After Dad realized that my wrist was, in fact, broken, he felt bad about making me hold that tire. I still give him crap about it today, but it’s all in good fun. There are no long term effects of the abuse that he put me through until I went to the doctor that day. To be honest, the day that I went to the physical, the pain in my wrist had decreased significantly and had the coach not asked me that question, I probably would never have had it checked out. Still though, it gives me good ammo against Dad and we can all laugh about it.

Now, the thing with my splitting headaches and my mother never taking me to the doctor… that’s a different story altogether.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I Love you


Thanks for reading