Friday, January 13, 2017

Five things about me, aka "Friday Night soul-baring"

I am ready to connect with my readership on a much more personal level. I feel exposed, but this is necessary:

1. In third grade math class we had a daily activity where we each offered up an equation that equaled the corresponding chronological number of days since the first day of school (on day 30 of the school year, we made equations for 30). Creativity and added difficulty were appreciated. Day 49 is a day I will never forget. After Billy Joe Dipshit volunteered "48 plus 1", I shot my hand in the air and said "seven squared" (I was not a prodigy or anything, my dad had explained the simplicity of squaring a number the night before). I killed it. The teacher was floored. I may as well have struck a match and burned that classroom to the ground. Since then I have gotten married and become a father to two beautiful children, so I think I can say this is no longer the greatest day of my life, but I will never forget.

2. For years I have fudged my "biggest splash" contest record. If you know me at all, you have probably heard me say I was undefeated in contests where the participants jump into a pool and see who can make the biggest splash. This is not true. I will say that my "nightmare" jump, a modified sleeper wherein I kick my feet throughout the jump, is vastly superior to a normal sleeper or a cannonball. However, I lost splash contests, and I apologize to all of my friends and family whom I have told otherwise. What was I thinking spouting off that I was undefeated? For God's sake, there are not official records or codified rules and the scoring is so damn subjective! I hate myself for this and feel I have made wrongs that I cannot right.

3. Today a woman left her driver's door open while pumping gas and impeded my cutting through to park and go into the store. I slowly drove around the door and missed it by about a foot. In my rearview mirror I could tell she was pissed and she hurried around to the door to close it. We entered the store at the same time and I was preparing myself for this conversation:

Her: You almost hit my door!
Me: Did I? Oh, you're welcome.
Her: What?!?
Me: For the lesson.
Her (irate): What are you talking about?!?
Me: You learned to close your driver's side door while pumping gas, you're welcome.

Then I would have thrown a $100 bill on the counter and left. It would have been very cool. Did not happen. She bought some cigarettes and left without acknowledging my presence.

4. Like many, I enjoy singing to myself. However, I have an added twist. I insert vulgarities in the short breaks between lines. For example, the Garth Brooks classic "Thunder Rolls" would sound something like this:

The thunder rolls
And the lightning strikes
Another love grows cold
On this sleepless night

I know it seems juvenile and obnoxious, but somewhere deep down inside I think it could really work out. I just have not gotten the opportunity in front of an audience.

5. I do not like pranks, at all. Count me out. They are not funny, they are not fun. They are just a pain in the ass. If I could ensure that I am never pranked again and that I will never be guilted into pranking someone else, I would be at peace. Maybe I am just not a "fun person", but the idea of having to clean a bunch of toilet paper out of my fucking tree is not appealing.

The worst parts of The Office (otherwise great show) were the pranks. Oh look, a stapler in jello. Way to go Jim, cheap laughs, how about using your dry wit instead? And didn't Slater take apart Belding's car or something? He should have been suspended. (different show)

Friend: "Hey Proctor! Prank war! (asshole sprays a bunch of easy cheese all over everything)
Me: I am calling the police

Sometimes I feel like I should "play along", but I cannot mask my seething anger. What is one little prank call you ask? Well, it could be blocking the line for someone trying to call to tell me a loved one is in the hospital. Hope you got your laughs! Please do not prank call me. I take the phone seriously.

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