Posts Tagged ‘death’


I saw teenagers again yesterday.

As a matter of fact, I have seen more teenagers as of late than I have in quite awhile.

I blogged about teens before; they are reoccurring antagonists in my writing. I am always an innocent protagonist just trying to find his way through the obstacles of life being haunted by the constant prospect of teenagers lurking all around. I am of the sound opinion that one could re-write the entire screenplay for The Walking Dead simply by finding all the references to zombies and subsequently replacing them with wild and crazy teenagers. You really wouldn’t have to change the title of the show either, just the wardrobe of the monsters. Instead of tattered flannels and torn jeans, you would need itsy-bitsy shorts with random words across the butt region, and of course skinny jeans.

In the new version of the show, the skinny jean wearing teenage boys are the weaker of the monsters. They pale in comparison to the strength and abilities of the teenage girl monster. This is not that the teenage boys aren’t a force to be reckoned with–quite the opposite actually. It is just to say that if there is a teenage girl present, the teenage boy becomes resigned to trying to please the teenage girl and momentarily forgets his original mission to ruin the lives of the grown adult.

I so badly want to tell you that there are exceptions to this rule and that there are good teenagers out there–like the Twilight version of vampires, but alas, there are no sparkling teens. If you ever believe yourself to either be the owner of one or an acquaintance thereof, you have been seduced by the worst type…the sirens of the teenage world who lure adults into a false sense of security and trust, and then boom, you and countless screaming adult argonauts are shipwrecked and left for dead.

There are no “good teenagers,” there are only teenagers who, like an alcoholic who has kicked the habit but is in constant danger of falling off the wagon, are sober from committing any variety of teenage inequities, but will most likely falter and resume terrorizing the adult of our species.

Teenage boys, while not the most dangerous of their kind, are troubling because of two things:

1.) They have not grown into their appendages. They are a clumsy breed and have trouble with seemingly easy physical movements like walking or any combination of walking and another physical activity. Their feet are awkward and they do not know what to do with their arms. They lumber around from one place to another tripping and swinging their arms with no rhythm. This is why there is a good case for my Walking Dead contention earlier. The teenage boy is, for all intents and purposes, a zombie–in skinny jeans.

2.) They are unsure about their body hair. I have said this before and I say it again. If a teenage boy can grow facial hair of any kind, they will–regardless of whether it is in their best interest. Thusly, teenage boys tend to look homeless, which again aligns itself with the Walking Dead contention from earlier paragraphs. The hairstyles which teenage boys choose to wear are another problem for me. I do not want them to depart from this habit, however. This habit makes them easily negotiable should physical violence ever become necessary. Their vision is impaired by their bangs (this is a sentence that should never be associated with men). Men should not have bangs.

Teenage girls are the meanest of any human species. I have a list of over one thousand reasons why, so I will choose a couple that you NEED to know to function out there.

1.) Utilizing shorts that they had to sneak and put on without any self-respecting father’s permission, they control the teenage boys. They are actually the brains for the entire teenage population. They are the like the queen bee, or the leader of the bugs in Starship Troopers. They are miniature women. They have not yet honed all their skills, like those of their adult form, so they are even more dangerous–think baby rattle snake who is actually deadlier than their full grown counterpart because they cannot control the release of venom. Teenage girls are scary, because they are learning to be adult women, who are actually the most powerful being ever to exist. However, adult women are allowed to be scary and powerful, because 92.3 percent of time they use their power for good (when they do not, however, countries fail, people are murdered, horrible, horrible things happen: For further examples see any show on the Lifetime Movie Network, or take a second and study the breakup of the Beatles).

2.) Teenage girls are exceptionally bad because most of the teenage girls’ parents do not believe that their teenage girls are part of the group of bad teenage girls. It’s quite simple. Even as those of you with teenagers read this blog, you are saying to yourself, “Not my teenage girl.”

**Newsflash** All of you are saying this, but what I have written is happening out there, so at least one of you are wrong.

To a certain extent this rule applies to teen boys as well, but teen boys are not as adept at looking innocent. I am sorry teen boys, but adult women have passed on to their female children an ability to manipulate that will haunt you until your dying day. As a case in point, you know, there was a time when I had PIN numbers that were original to me…Now, after years of work on my wife’s part, all our PIN numbers are ones which she brought to our relationship. Most startlingly of all, I recently found that the PIN numbers utilized in my home are the same that my Mother-in-Law uses. This absolutely confirms my worst fears: Females have a much better training program then males. Its scope and organization is irrefutably better than even the military. I am certain that if males do have a training program it consists of only one rule, and that is: 1.) If what you are doing seems to please a female, continue doing that….

I write this as a warning of our enemy, people. They are not to be discarded as weak even though skinny jeans could lead one to that assertion. Teenagers are a thinking and adapting enemy. They are trying to take over the world and our only hope is that before this can happen, they begin the turn for adulthood. However, I have started to see may teenage characteristics in young twenty something year olds. Be vigilant. Think Anti-Teen Force Protection. Act like teens are trying to kill you and you should be fine.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in since last night at the movie theater where teenagers were hellbent on ruining the movie….

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Before you cast judgement on me and my opinion on this case, I just want you to read and to understand where I am coming from.

The Trayvon Martin case is absolutely riddled with land mines that can be a pitfall to any person writing about it. Now, add to the fact that a white dude, who usually writes comical stories about his wife’s antics and life that are generally agreeable topics, is chiming in and lets see how this goes…

Lets look at what is good and bad about the whole story and the subsequent ruling, which I believe is not surprising and, wait for it, I believe it was the right ruling. There I said it, but that being said, I also believe that Zimmerman is a stooge, a moron, and the kind of neighbor that nobody wants living in their hood. He is the kind of guy that needs to be incarcerated, because he is guilty; he is just not guilty of what the prosecution tried and failed to prove.

The media, the people being interviewed, and the commentators and legal analysts ruined this case before it even started. The lies and distortions on both sides of the case, even in the moments just following the tragic and untimely death of this young man were so grotesque that it created an alleged clear line down the middle of this case that never existed. Even more unfortunately, all of the aforementioned left the death of a human being as a pawn in a polarizing issue.

In the end, the prosecution fell into the hype. The hype was so loud and it reverberated through the streets and social media. It yelled and shouted and it wore a hoodie and it tugged at the heartstrings of every mother. A voice, millions strong, echoing across a nation exemplifying how things have changed and how small the world has become. The hype caused friends to “unfriend” those who in other circumstances were well functioning friendships. The hype led people to believe that they actually understood the intricacies of this case, when they absolutely did not. The hype led the prosecution to believe that they didn’t have to present a case, because, well, it is obvious, right?

This is where Americans should find some form of solace in the ruling. The murder charge. The murder charge sounded so easy to get and the greatest thing about the case is that it wasn’t. The prosecution failed to get the jury to believe, beyond a reasonable doubt that murder in the 2nd degree occurred that fateful night. This is not a flaw in the system. Conversely, it is a victory for the system; however, it is a flaw in the lawyership of the prosecution. Concentrating solely on the murder charge, the prosecution lost sight of what they needed to be paying attention to…justice. Zimmerman broke the law. Zimmerman committed manslaughter, wrongful manslaughter and should be in prison.

I was a teenager once. I used to walk through neighborhoods. I ate skittles and drank and engaged in riotous partying. I vandalized property. I broke laws. I was for all intents and purposes, a criminal. I won’t pass judgement on Trayvon. I won’t stand here and defend him as a virtuous teen either.

The case sheds light on a law that needs to be readdressed.
The case illustrates that there are racial tensions in America that are so deeply rooted in everything that occurs here that it is almost impossible to move-on. I cannot even write this blog illustrating that I support the ruling, laying down the reasons why I believe it–all separate from the color and creed of the victim, without having some say I am being racist. That is wrong, but it is where America currently resides.

Let there be no doubt about it. Zimmerman is guilty. Zimmerman should be in prison, and life has a funny way of making sure that he will pay. These cases conjure up images of OJ and Casey Anthony walking hand-in-hand down the road together

The good news is that there is no such thing as an open and closed case even if the media wants it, or the masses scream for it. Nobody likes cases that seem so obviously wrong or right ending in a less than desirable verdict until they are the ones being charged.

The sad news is that, because of mis-steps in the prosecution, the dead and the family of the victim will go without receiving justice, and the guilty and his egregious behavior will be misinterpreted as being acceptable.

I just want you to know because I have been holding it in for years….


The left, rear tire on my truck has developed a tumor. It’s been there for days, and it is a constant reminder, along with a couple other things, that I am missing some key elements of manhood that make other men useful. I have written about this before, but I like to really drive things home through example and honest portrayals thereof. Additionally, one of the greatest things about writing a blog is that you are the king of said blog.

The tire bulges forth from its normal tire self making the once circular object into an oblong shaped nightmare. Instead of a round tire, I am driving on a football–lengthwise. I know that the tire is holding on for dear life, trying not to fail on me, but I also know that I am pissing in the faces of the gods every time I drive. Another thing I am absolutely sure of is that, due to my tire’s elliptical shape, my truck drives like an excited puppy whose tail is wagging furiously as it makes its way down the highway. The pine-tree-shaped-fragrance-enhancing-tree-thing hanging from my rear view mirror swings violently from left to right, and every third second, up and down. The movement causes slacking in the twine that connects the mirror to the part of the tree that would hold the star at Christmas. Above the tree, the rear view mirror is having a seizure. The cars entering my rear view mirror’s vision seem to be jitterbugging down the road (I feel sorry for them…poor bastards).

Cars passing by notice. I know they do. I watch them in the driver’s side mirror as they make their way around my pulsating vehicle. These cars are also jumping in unison with my mirror’s motion. They examine my truck. They think they are the first to notice. I hate them for it. As they come directly along side, their windows flush with mine, I can feel them trying to gain my attention. They are jiggling in my peripheral like children trying to bother their siblings through annoying gestures alone. I refuse to look their way; instead, I sit there oscillating up and down, side to side, side to side, and up and down. For a moment the highway comes to a standstill. I meet the traffic and slowly wobble to a halt, and now I can actually feel the three cars surrounding my vehicle all aching to convey their concern over my tire’s health. They look to each other as if forming a spontaneous intervention. I pray a silent prayer for the traffic to regain its momentum so that I could ramble on down the road leaving the judgmental stares of men and women with normal shaped tires behind.

So you think to yourself. Use your spare. Let’s be honest, people. If I use the spare, Murphy will show up and screw me like it’s cool. There is only one thing that can be done here. There is one course of action that can take place that will effectively fix the problem. We are out of options and we must take evasive action. The truck needs to be blown in place like a disabled military vehicle you don’t want to fall into enemy hands…the truck is no good anymore. This truck is dead to me. The only problem with this course is that the man skills required come up with a device that would blow the car in place, but still look like an accident also reside beyond my man capabilities. Trust me I have thought of everything. And so I just jiggle everywhere I go. Calls I make from my car sound like I’m being burped throughout the duration of the conversation. But, I just jiggle.

I know my father will read this in disappointment, and he will question where he failed. He will look down at his old, weathered hands aged through experience and hard work. He will feel the ache of arthritic thumbs (which are not the result of years of over work, but rather from his discovery of first person shooter games at the age of 60), and he will begin weeping. He will cry crocodile tears; the floor will be wet with tears of sadness. I will be the reason for his first good cry.

I am not proud, but I have to tell you, the vibrations of the vehicle have done wonders for my back. As another bonus, I got to write a blog and portray my father as weeping, which is always fun. If my father is crying right now, it is more likely caused by a thirteen year old who beat him in a video game.

Look, I just wanted you to know, because I’ve been holding it in for years.


Stop! Pay attention, because the people I’m going to describe right now are everywhere. Worse still, the type of person I am going to describe may be similar to you, and I just might be saving you from yourself. I’ve said this before, I am here to make the world a better place one blog at a time; unfortunately for you normal, well adjusted individuals, my audience consists of the same 29 loyal readers and three or four random people from Pakistan, Eurasia, and some smaller countries that make up South America. As such, the 29 of you need to work like foot soldiers helping spread the word of progress. But, I digress.

I want to talk to you briefly about a certain type of person that has been surfacing more and more in my day-to-day existence. I call these people the, “I am missing the piece of biological machinery necessary to understand and subsequently stop me from being annoying” people. These people run rampant today. They are everywhere and involve themselves in all kinds of fun. These people show up and make whatever activity you are doing suck worse than it originally sucked, or make otherwise enjoyable activities have moments that suck that shouldn’t. These people do things that most people understand are annoying, but don’t get it themselves. Here are examples to aid you in your fight against the annoying:

1. In group functions or lectures, these are the students or members of the group that talk for the sake of talking, that continually ask questions that you can tell they are making up as they go along, or are meant purely to impress the person they are questioning with their unbelievable knowledge and vocabulary. These people work very hard to be considered astute, but in the very act of doing so become horribly annoying. What is being considered astute if no one ever wants to hear you talk?

It is okay to have questions, to be inquisitive in nature, and to seek knowledge, but it is a flaw in a person’s personality to ruin other people’s lives by dragging out things unnecessarily because you want to string together a sentence with a bunch ten cent words and a question mark so that you can impress your peers.

Screw it, let me just write what I’m feeling, because I can if I want.

I hate when anybody asks questions I didn’t need to know the answer to in order to function. I’m sorry if this is the wrong mentality to have, but it’s the way I feel. If you are that in disagreement with me, you can write a blog to the contrary, but it will be short and most normal people will think it’s annoying…Of course, all of this is assuming I am normal, which could be a stretch.

2. These people go to the lanes at the grocery store that are unmanned and meant to be utilized with speed and agility. You know the lanes, you scan and bag your own merchandise, and it keeps you from having to wait in longer lines with real humans scanning your garbage. Only for annoying people, once they start scanning they become the only people in the world. They take their time, they start other activities in the middle of this larger activity and then forget to continue the larger activity. Somewhere, someone made this person forget to be a good human to others–to be considerate.

Screw it, let me just write what I am thinking, because I can if I want.

I like other humans, I think when everything is working right, we generally do pretty well together. Insert annoying people into the mix, and suddenly getting to be around generally likable humans becomes not worth the annoyance.

3. People missing the annoying switch show up to casual functions overdressed and act like they dress that way all the time…(this may or may not be accurate).

4. They take up a spot at a crowded gas station, fill their car up, and then run inside the store for an hour while the rest of us decent humans run out of gas waiting (this is deadly accurate).

5. Unaware Annoying People interject into your private conversations things called nerd facts. They are convinced that their nerd fact will somehow be so profound that there is no need for your conversation to continue and will then hover around to ensure it doesn’t (this cannot be argued).

6. Annoying people write blogs belittling other annoying people just because they can (I know a guy like this).

These annoying people are developmentally challenged, I am convinced of it. Most normal people know when they are being annoying. Think about it. How many times have you stopped and held yourself back from saying or doing something for any reason? That very stopping mechanism is the thing that makes you normal. It is the very thing preventing you from being annoying. Rejoice! It is a great thing to have! It is the “stupid filter,” and I wish it was fitted on us all.

Whatever.

I just want you to know, because I’ve been holding it in for years…


  1. Surviving an airplane crash, but being forced to swim for an extended amount of time (anything over 10 minutes). It would be an awkward period of celebration coupled with a horrible, sinking feeling of my impending drowning. I can only hope debris would be everywhere and that I wasn’t on fire. Swimming could only be made worse by somehow making me have to swim while covered in burning petroleum oil. In the military we train to be proficient in the survival strokes and also to survive when the water is on fire due to gas and oil slicks burning; I have somehow fooled the military into thinking I am proficient, but let’s be honest, would a proficient swimmer panic when water goes into his or her ears? I can say, with almost one hundred percent certainty, that the answer to that question is, no.
  2. Being on a ship that has been sunk and having to swim for an extended period of time (anything longer than 10 minutes). Sharks would actually simplify the problem for me.
  3. Swimming in front of others or swimming alone.
  4. Getting into a full on brawl, caught off guard, and naked… this is why I actually do not sleep naked, not because I don’t want to, because I do and as often as possible, but because I cannot let myself be that vulnerable to an unexpected onslaught of violence. It is a necessary give and take to protect my best interests.
  5. Leading a group of rebel Scotsmen against a larger force, losing, but kinda winning, subsequently being drawn and quartered, and then subsequently having my body parts being buried in four separate locations throughout the country as a warning to any other groups of rebel Scotsmen.
  6. Being bullied by a group of high school kids who are all varying levels of awesome in the art of karate, subsequently befriending an old Japanese man who teaches me random movements, convinces the bullies’ karate instructor into staving off all fights until the All-Valley tournament, steals a black belt, and then relying on a martial art technique that is completely dependent upon the enemy to attack straight into a jump kick that is seemingly the only thing I could have done from the crane position….
  7. Being invited to a jungle island for a really cool getaway only to find out the person who has invited you has also been spending an inordinate amount of time cloning dinosaurs, and simultaneously, the person who invited you did not invest in back-up generators for the super-critical electric fence, which separates you from said dinosaurs and a storm hits causing the island to lose power and cancel all departures…
  8. Getting impregnated by a man who says he is from the future and subsequently having to rely on your unborn son to eventually get his criminal ass together, send back his best friend to impregnate you with said son, so that he can grow up, become a criminal high school student who steals money from people, and eventually become the key to the success of humankind while maintaining enough wherewithal to send back his best friend to impregnate you, and eventually grow up to become a criminal high school student…..repeat
  9. Being a cop who gets killed in the line of duty, whose remains are used in a secret squirrel program that combines humans and robots to form a “super cop,” who subsequently has weird and incomplete memories of his past life, and worse yet, has no visible means of relieving himself, and moreover, is blamed for the murder of a huge number of civilians he did not have any part in, black listed, and subsequently forced to kill a bunch or rogue corporate and government officials hell bent on killing him and his partner who still sees the humanity left inside his robot exterior….
  10. Going to the past in a sports car that fails miserably to sell in the real world that is powered by 1.21 gigawatts of electricity from a fusion reactor (unshielded), accidentally happening upon your father peeping on your mother from a tree in her front yard, being hit by a car, and eventually having an inappropriate exchange of saliva with your mother while your brothers and sisters systematically disappear from a photograph you are carrying in your pocket.
  11. Becoming a member of a special forces team that can kill any human element sent to destroy them, who is sent to Central America to rescue another team of operators who have been skinned alive by an apparent alien who seems to be longing to do the same to you…Along the way you run into Apollo Creed, who now works for the CIA and seems to want to kill you as well.
  12. Being born a midget in a fantastical world of supernatural powers and wicked evil where you are stuck with a human baby that needs to get back to normal humans, and along the way you run into Val Kilmer who consistently calls you a “peck” and eventually serves to help you on your way, but you are not sure you can ever trust him.
  13. Becoming a bouncer at a bar that is located in a corrupt town run by a rich man who is also a douche and is not happy with anyone not willing to be bought and serve his diabolical goals, subsequently, you finding yourself in the middle of an epic battle between the oppressor and the oppressed where you must rip a man’s trachea from his body, but along the way, you get to make it with the same woman who screwed over the bartender from Cocktail, but she is now a medical doctor with the key to your heart.
  14. Waking up and realize you are a Naval Flight Officer navigator, flying in the back seat of an F-14 Tomcat, with a reckless, and somewhat arrogant pilot, with boyish good looks, but suffers from feelings of inadequacy stemming from not knowing whether his father is a hero or an idiot.
  15. Being told you were born to balance the force and realizing quickly that there are far less people supporting the dark side…
  16. Falling and impaling myself upon a sharp object.
  17. Additionally, being buried alive.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


Things I have written down in my phone notepad that haven’t really got enough legs to make it into a blog as of yet, but are still worth reading.

On Reading in the Military….Or more aptly: My Work Makes Me Read Things I’d Rather Not…..

I have been reading. I read a lot. I read mostly things I am forced to read and little that I’m not. I read a lot of books and such about tanks and bombs and guns; I read a little Shakespeare, but mostly, I read none. I often wonder how reading would be if I could choose the book, but I don’t chase the dream too long, because of where I work.

Things That Are Cooler in Idea than in Practice

This Blog.

Running marathons

Cross Fit

Eating an entire can of frosting

Remaking Karate Kid with Will Smith’s kid and making it based around a twelve year old kid. Subsequently, I went and saw the movie with another gung ho fan of Karate Kid the day it opened and looked like a child molester….Not to mention the awkward romance between two twelve year olds. Ali with an “I” was hot and every man wanted her….and here I am watching some Chinese child and whatever Will Smith’s son’s name is and trying to connect with the characters. When I was twelve, I was scared shitless of girls, and just wanted to play. Whatever.

More than two spoonfuls of fruit cocktail

I bet people who have showers with multiple heads that come at you from all angles and levels mostly use the normal shower setting.

My wife has a car with a camera that displays on the center console when you are going in reverse. It shows you everything, and to a certain extent, even looks around the corner. My truck does not have this feature. My truck has a normal stereo in the center console. I have now backed out of multiple areas while staring at my stereo console and never even looked to see who I was about to kill…..

A Notice of the Things I Want Upon My Death:

When I die I want a band that plays a song like Puff the Magic Dragon or Gloria Estefan’s “Christmas Through Your Eyes” in my honor, and then I hope that song is stuck in all of your heads, perpetually.

Since I will die old, I want all of my children and grandchildren brought into a room and told of a vast inheritance they are due. I want the lawyer to leave the room for fifteen minutes while my kids and grandkids grow giddy with excitement. I then want the lawyer to return and explain that the inheritance is all debt. I am not even sure people can inherit debt, but I would still like this done, because I am dead and I deserve my wishes be granted.

When I die, I hope all those who have angered me or betrayed me get stuck waiting while my vast train of a funeral procession drives by, and I hope those waiting, who deserve their fate, have to pee. (In some states, when a funeral procession goes by all traffic going in either direction must stop out of respect for the dead. I like this the most of all ceremonial traditions, because in this ceremony, the person who died finally gets to do to others what others have done to him or her his entire life—screw them over on his or her way somewhere. It is the one moment where the world stops for the person being transported to their final resting place has complete power—they are like the president for a day. Plus, they get those motorcycle cops, which remind me of CHIPS, and CHIPS was a great television show.)

I actually want Officer Frank “Ponch” Poncherello (Eric Estrada) as an escort for my funeral procession. This may seem impossible due to age differences, but that is not my problem; you people need to make this happen—have some respect. (I do not under any circumstances want his partner involved in any way, shape, or form.)

When I die, I hope that people throw a party, but not because I am gone. I hope the party is like I was still there and we all just partied on.

I want a casket with explicit instructions on 1) who I am, 2) who are my relatives, 3) relevant addresses 4) a list of my enemies. I will use this information to help me determine whose entrails I will eat first, after I turn to a zombie. I will eat my enemy’s entrails first and all others who are not on my “relatives list” second. Of note: I will sell spots on the “relatives list” to people who are not actually my relatives. The money will go to the band that will play at my death party. (No guarantee I will not kill you; there is little research into how much of the brain a zombie utilizes; therefore, I cannot, with any level of certainty, commit to not eating your entrails).

I want a breakaway lid to the casket and I want a shovel with me to help me get to the surface faster after I turn zombie, as well. The shovel should have a short handle, no more than 12 inches as I will not be able to utilize a shovel of regulation size. Picture, in your head, the difficulties involved in negotiating the shovel handle when with only a foot and a half of depth, plus the pressure of six feet of dirt pushing downwards on me and all you have left me is a regulation shovel? I need to preserve my zombie energy.

Additionally, I want a fresh pair of corduroys and Doc Martins in the casket because I want to be a zombie with grunge era fashion sense.

It is important that you all pay attention to my desires, because If I come back as a ghost, I will haunt the living hell out of anyone who denies me what I want.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been writing these little things on my iPhone for weeks, but didn’t know what to do….


I am a travelling man, a worldly vagabond journeying this spherical orb in search of cultural realization, and the one thing I have witnessed by watching people with their phones and social networking is that we appear to have ninety percent of the population trying to escape their current reality and wirelessly travel somewhere else. The remaining ten percent are all trying to convince the aforementioned ninety percent that their reality is absolutely worthless, and that the ninety percenters need to wirelessly leave their real world behind and become obsessed with the 10 percenters’ reality. Even if the ten percent are only two blocks away, what they are doing is much more exciting than 90 percentville and deserves constant attention from the 90 percenters. I made a pie chart that simplifes the poor usage of possessive adjectives and pronouns. However, my computer won’t upload the work. So here are two simple statements of logic to explain said poor application of grammar:

1. 90 percent of the people would rather not be in their current physical reality; instead they would like to live in an internet reality.

2. 10 percent of the people are content with their physical reality, but want to pimp it to the other 90 percent who are unhappy as explained in logic statement 1. (see bottom figure for an image of my graphic).

I do not write this to call out people on their lunatic behavior. On the contrary, I am writing because I have seen some of these tendencies in myself. A common example is the two people I see on a date at a local diner or coffee shop, and while they are sitting in the same booth, breathing the same air, and for all intents and purposes “together,” they could not be more separate. They are drawn into an internet affair with everyone but the person at that table. Even if it is just to “check-in” we are still saying that the most important thing at the current moment is to let the world out there know what’s going down here. I have been in a moment of sheer wonder and excitement and actually said, “I need to post this to Facebook, so the world can see this.” This is addiction, and I am admitting it. Initially, this didn’t bother me, but after separating myself from my own self obsessed world and just watching other humans interact, I was kind of sickened. Even as I write this blog, I am anxiously thinking about posting it to Facebook, when I will subsequently pray that there are people willing to like my post. This is a perfect segue into my next topic.

Can I get a Thumbs-up, Or No?

What drives our self concept in today’s world is such a different beast than it was only five years ago. I actually consider myself a failure if the posts I put on FB are not received with a million thumbs-up from my Facebook friends. I have turned into the guy in the high school movies that so desperately tries to seek the approval of the popular group, but now instead of being invited to go to the next big shindig, the popular group throws you a big thumbs-up…I know that I am not alone in this feeling, and I have to venture that there are people reading this blog that have, at moments of brutal honesty and self criticality, thought that this internet, Smartphone reality is not healthy. We are all human beings seeking acceptance from the people we hold dear, but Facebook has increased the amount of people in your life that you are in constant contact with as opposed to ten years ago, where your friend list at any given time was probably five people that you saw two to three times a week. Now, we collect friends, and we want all of them to validate us all of the time. For those of you who read this and think that I am over generalizing, well, good for you, you haven’t succumb to the addiction that is this “networked social reality.” But in the end, the fact remains: One thumbs-up is a thousand accolades.

Facebook Friend Types: You Can’t Unread Something

I have a list of friends that is probably full of ten times the amount of people who actually value anything I say. There are people that read my posts and cringe at the fact that they just read my status. I do the same to others. The politically charged atmosphere we live in today has offered a unique glimpse into people on Facebook—most of which don’t have any business pretending to be educated on politics, but because Facebook is the passive-aggressive individuals place to rule, you can drop explosive tirades and just walk away… In the end, all you have to write is, “just sayin’” and you are absolved of any statement you made anyway.

I am making big moves. I want off of this crazy train, at least at the current level of use in my life. It is no longer an application on my Smartphone, as a matter of fact; I have removed any application from the phone that is related to social media. I first thought about doing this when I witnessed a “real life” friend using an old flip-top phone. This guy smiles all of the time, which led me to believe I, too, could find happiness by actually committing myself to those around me. He looks happy, and the coolest thing that he never does, is reach into his pocket and pull out a phone during conversation and make sure that there is nothing more exciting than the current reality going on somewhere else in the matrix. I am absolutely guilty of doing this to people. You might as well yawn, start singing, or just walk away while the person talking to you speaks, because you have exhibited the longing to already. Try ignoring the person in your life who matters the most so you can connect with the masses instead and see how this works for you. My wife is not someone to trifle with and this exact habit would note bode well for me, but I still have found myself reaching for my phone when she is talking to me.

Of my friends, there are no doubt the Facebook friends that relish in voyeuristically watching the lives of others and constantly comparing successes and failures. There are the friends who made an account five years ago, but don’t even check the thing—these are amazing people who are the most normal of us all. Right now, I am certain there are friends of mine who want nothing more than to delete me, but are just not pulling the trigger. There are lifelong friends that will be close to you forever. There are friends that don’t like a single thing about you, but like not liking you so much, they remain your friend to keep not liking you with more intensity. I talk to the same forty or fifty people on Facebook, and of no surprise, I love them. I love having a chance to interact with people that would have slipped through the tracks because of life and time and distance. I have Facebook friends that I am closer with now than I ever was when I actually had to live among them. These are the things I love about it. People from the hallways of my high school, former duty stations, and family alike, Facebook brings you together and it’s a good thing, but it can be destructive.

I think the thing I hate the most about all of this is that I am absolutely guilty of all of them. I’m watching you people. I am well aware of who deletes me. I know who decided I am not worth their time. I know when I didn’t make the cut during your yearly Facebook purge. And, most of all, I hate that it matters to me. So, I am going to purge the system from my reality. I am going retro. I am going to use my phone for calls. I am still going to use it to look up facts to prove I win arguments with my wife, but other than that, I am serious this time.

I am keeping the account, but it is gone from my travelling life. I am going to keep up with the thing, but I am eliminating it from dominating everything I do. I feel better already. I went out to a movie last night, and like clockwork, I picked up my phone to check it and ensure that I wasn’t missing anything. That moment when I realized that my move to the phone is the same involuntary type of movement that quitting smokers talk about, I knew I was making the right decision. This has been a long time coming. I am going to go somewhere with Whitney, and actually be there with her.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.

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I have to admit, I understand the allure.  It got me too, years ago.  She is a natural leader and hypnotist; I’ve always told her that she would make a really good mob wife, if she could just get by her insatiable appetite to not break the law.  (I wish her name was Marie, that’s a strong mafia wife name).  I was talking with some friends that I have had since forever, and I pointed out to them that I have thousands of words to write about myself and my fun adventures.  Like, when my dad tried to kill me after shoplifting and other instances where my dad tried to kill me, but nothing is as well received as essays on a rambling pregnant woman.  These are friends that should be loyal to me, but no, they have joined Team Whitney, and in doing so, turned their backs on everything I thought we were…Alas, I resign myself to the fact that I have known, but denied for years—pregnant people steal the show, and you come off as a jerk if you try to get it back from them.  The miracle of carrying life in your innards, I guess.

A natural segue here is to let you know this.  Yesterday, my blog had record readership.  I have narrowed down the reasons to be either

  1. 1.        The subject of a pregnant Whitney is indeed as alluring as I think it should be, or
  2. 2.       I used the word “panties” in the title and there were a lot of pervs initially disappointed, who were conducting internet searches for the word “panties” that happened upon a relatively clean story about a man and his pregnant wife’s crazy life.  Could you imagine the poor guy as he kept reading hoping I was going to get into some kink, only to realize I was describing a woman’s natural transition into the realm of the Granny Panty?   

So, let me continue where we left off then.

I live and die by routines.  Every second of my morning is a routine.  I wake up the same side of the bed, I meander to the bathroom, I put in eye drops, I turn on the shower, I brush my teeth while the water warms up, and I use the restroom.  I do a complete flexing routine—the one that I will do when I take the stage for my first Mr. Olympia: date TBD.  I get in the shower.  In the shower, my washing routine has been the same for years with only small breaks for Boot Camp, Officer Candidates School, and the deserts of Iraq.  If I wash a body part out of turn, I actually feel like my day started off improperly.  The point is simple, my routing is a day-to-day ritual that my wife has become accustomed to seeing unfold.  Every work day is the same as the last, and it is my own monotonous drumbeat that I love—and need for that matter.

This morning I walked out of the bathroom and began my “kiss Whitney on the cheek and tell her she is dead sexy” routine.  She rose up and said in the most serious of tones, “what are doing, and where are you going?”  Confused at her sudden accusatory tone, and more confused with the look on her face, which screamed that she could not comprehend where a grown man would be going on a week day at, say around 0700, I replied with, “To an amusement park, Whitney, and you can’t come because pregnant girls are not allowed; it’s too bad, I bet you would have enjoyed it too.”   

If it doesn’t read as hilarious to you, then you and Whitney have something else in common.  Apparently, my “amusement park” comment was not amusing.   Her next comment was equally bewildering to me.  Whitney, in desperate move to distract me from the fact that her pregnant brain had again rendered her incapacitated, said the following line, “Well, I am glad it’s Friday, at least.”   I just let it go.

I need to give her some credit, though.  The woman has lost more sleep on trips to the bathroom over the past two nights than I have seen her pee our entire marriage.  What can this woman possibly have left in her to pee?  The Whitness has been quick to inform me that she produces double the saliva when compared to an average woman.  I guess that could be at the root of all this.

I just wanted you to know my wife has an excess of saliva, because I have been holding it in for 26 weeks. 

 


Look, I changed my entire blog to be trendier and look like I really want to be more technically proficient with this blog…..deal with it, because change happens…..anyways, for your reading pleasure.

I am a devout Karma-ist.  I found twenty dollars in my yard once and took Whitney to eat with it—I am certain the twenty was my neighbors.  I ate with it anyway, and we both nearly died.  That was when I started worshipping Karma God.  I am a Karma-ist because it is the only part of Buddhism that I pretend to know anything about, and I have no plans to learn anything else about anything in the next few minutes. I will learn some stuff tomorrow, but I am all learned out for today—it is 0800 and I do my best learning between 0715 and 0727.  Plus, karma seems so easy and straight forward.  But, let me lay down my definition of karma for the sake of this thesis anyway.  If you are an ass, you will be screwed in yours, and I hope the screwing is somehow proportional to your level of assness, but I am unsure if there is a governor for karma.…  That’s karma people.  If I am wrong with respect to my interpretation of karma, it really doesn’t matter, because this definition is the one I have been abiding by for three decades.  If I am wrong, and your definition gets me off the hook for any prospective bad karma pay backs, then please, feel free to correct me publicly.  If I am wrong, and you are an expert in karma and all things related, please give me some latitude, I don’t go around correcting you every time you say that the bible actually has the following verse, “God helps those who help themselves.”  Check for yourself, it’s not there.  (I realize I just corrected it, but it was not meant to come across pretentious; additionally, I don’t even know if you actually ever have done this—great now I corrected you and karma is going to screw me).  

I also follow karma categorically.  This means that whatever asshole maneuver I pulled, will come back to me in some weirdly related way.  So, in other words, if you key a car, somebody will vandalize your property.  You won’t key a car and then die sky diving.  Well, you might, but I would be slow to relate this to your keying of a car.  Your death in this scenario either stems from some horrible asshole maneuver entirely separate from the keying incident, or the parachute rigger himself just sowed some horrible karma of his own, and you were just the innocent recipient of an asshole maneuver….it gets complicated.  Either way, I say all that, to say this:  I might be screwed if karma works its way into parenting.

I was the worst kind of kid, the snake in the grass.  I was the kid other parents blindly trusted.  If you wanted to go anywhere, and the little ginger Phillips boy was going, then it would be okay for you to go.  I was this alleged moral compass for a group of otherwise morally bankrupt kids running amuck through adolescence.  The only problem was that I was read all wrong.  I was just as willing to participate in shenanigans as the next guy, if not the impetus for said shenanigans.   Here are some of the transgressions I committed that are certainly going to rear their ugly heads again while I try to be an example for my soon-to-be born daughter. 

  1. 1.        If you know anything about me, you know I got caught shoplifting when I was in 4th grade because I cannot resist the delightful mixture of caramel and chocolate only a Caramello could do right.   So, you know this will come back in some horrible way.  But wait, it gets worse.
  2. 2.       For weeks and weeks during my 2nd Grade year, I went around and meticulously stole the entire neighborhoods mail from their boxes.  Nowadays, stealing mail probably isn’t so bad, because everything important is electronic, but listen-up kids:  Paychecks and bills, and money orders, and mortgage checks, and rent, and everything you can do from your smart phone now, used to have to be done with paper and the postal service.  I, no doubt, ruined the lives of many innocent people.  Can you imagine how Karma God is going to bring this back to me?  What is my daughter going to undertake to set the universe back even?  Why did I do this?  Because free samples of Lucky Charms were being sent around the hood, and my parents only bought a generic version called Magic Jewels or something….I needed the real deal and at any cost.
  3. 3.       I made my sister dial 911 from a bowling alley to see what would happen.  Well let me tell you this:  911 can tell where you called from and they will tell your parents…even if your dad is a very mean man and they may have to respond to a second call after your father rips your face off.  How does Karma God deal with this; I bet Karma God is going to get creative with me. 
  4. 4.       I was hungry once and snuck into the pantry before dinner and stole a big can of Fruit Cocktail.  Who doesn’t love Fruit Cocktail?  Well let me tell you something:  Fruit Cocktail is good for approximately three big spoonfuls and then you still have three quarters of a can left.  What do you do with the rest?  Well it’s simple:  You pour the remainder of the can into the bathroom sink and then do what any self-respecting young boy would do and hope the Fruit Cocktail magically disappears from the drain area.  What really happens is your father, who happens to be a very mean man, decides he needs to use the kids’ bathroom and stumbles upon a tasty collection of fruit cocktail in the bottom of the sink.  What happens next is a perfectly executed example of your siblings abandoning you to face the wrath of Lane Phillips alone.  I died that day.  I am not even sure how Karma God approaches this one, but it is going to suck.  
  5. 5.       When I was a teenager, I threw rocks at cars driving by until I hit one.  What happens next is the car chased me and my friends all over the neighborhood.  We eluded the car, but at what cost?  Karma God already has my punishment ready to go…..I regret this one more than just about anything I have done.  I would steal another Caramello before I did this again. 

These are five things I was willing to tell you.  Imagine what I am holding back; it is not pretty.  The good news is this:  My wife should have a bunch of good Karma coming her way, so I should stick close to my Pregnant Wife and just do my best to do what is right, because God helps those who help themselves, trust me it’s in the Bible….

I feel better already, but I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.     

 


This is now actually part two of three.  If you haven’t read part one click here it will give you some context, plus it will give me more readership on that blog, which in turn, will make me feel better about myself. 

4.       I have been threatened and subsequently nearly killed over one US dollar.  I wanted to keep this on the subject of my father because I can do whatever I want to.  If I wanted to reference Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I can.  Like, for example, do you remember the song, “I got the golden ticket, I got the golden ticket….” 

      Okay, so my father… I think your initial reaction should be to feel sorry for me for my life spent with such a scary tyrant of a dad.  However, I bet that by the time you’re done reading this, you will wish that you could get in line to help him beat my ass. 

      Long story short.  I had pretty much recovered from the candy bar fiasco and was back to some semblance of normalcy.  It was summertime and around our house, we had this really cool Tupperware container for holding Kool-Aid.  As a matter of fact, I first developed my fondness for Tupperware because of my childhood Tupperware collection, which included this container.  This container was used so much by us that it actually had permanent stained Kool-Aid marks on the sides.  It featured a sliding top that let you pour Kool-Aid through a strainer like opening or a full wide mouth opening.  The top fit snugly down inside the bigger, bottom piece.  As a fourth grader, I was curious about things, but didn’t have the background in physics, nor did I possess the common sense required to avoid the seemingly, easily avoidable.  (Whitney has proposed to me recently, that not only did I never have common sense, but I also failed to ever find any…) 

      So in this situation, I thought that the container top fit so snugly inside of the bottom that it could actually withstand the weight of the Kool-Aid and would remain closed if I tipped it upside down.  Unfortunately, what I hypothesized (that the container lid would stay nestled into the bigger bottom portion even when forced to hold the added liquid’s weight) was incorrect.  However, learning did occur.  This science experiment taught me about potential energy and kinetic energy, one of Newton’s Laws, and about how sugar reacts to linoleum flooring.  To be clear here: The Tupperware container’s lid did not support the weight of Rock-o-dile Red Kool-Aid.  The experiment further illuminated that Rock-o-dile Red Kool-Aid spreads across a kitchen like oil does on water.  To be clear here:  One gallon of Rock-o-dile Red Kool-Aid has the ability to cover at 12 square feet of kitchen surface area.  In full on panic mode (see yesterday’s blog on my father as Satan), I grabbed the roll of paper towels and just started unrolling them onto the mess on the floor, counters, crevices of the stove top, under the fridge, everywhere.  I must have used two rolls just to soak up the Kool-Aid.  I felt like I had averted near disaster, and best of all my dad hadn’t happened upon me during the science experiment.  I was going to walk away from this unscathed.  I threw the soaked towels away, and walked away with satisfaction over my new found knowledge of science. 

      Hours later I heard yelling, and like a dog that had forgotten all about their earlier transgressions that walked right up to his owner when he discovered urine on the carpet, I wandered right to the point of the yelling hoping to see my sisters getting skinned alive.  Instead, what I saw next looked like the scene of a crime.  Red paper towels everywhere; did my dad actually just skin my sisters alive?  Not only that, but everywhere he walked his shoes were making this weird sticking sound like he was walking on glue.  I quickly saw that what was going on in the kitchen was somehow coming back on me.  I tried to slink into the background, but he saw it my eyes……fear. 

      I remember being held against a wall; I remember my dad’s voice; I remember that his index finger bounced off of my nose on every syllable as he repeated the following phrase over and over and over, “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH A ROLL OF PAPER TOWELS COSTS, THEY COST A DOLLAR!!!!!”   I woke up seven days later with no recollection of the events that ensued after being pressed against the wall.

5.       I was nearly killed by a falling 32 inch television set.  This was in the 80s, so you know that the set weighed at least 70 Lbs.  To be clear here:  The set was probably built in the 70s, so you know that the TV weighed at least 100 Lbs.  More specifically, the TV didn’t even have a remote, so kids were often used as little remote controls.  But, in our house, my dad, who I have mentioned before as being wary of children, would not allow kids to touch anything.  Kids carried “magic sticky” and everything kids touched was contaminated and broken. 

      My dad cherished the television.  It was his baby.  We kids were there because my mom loved us and convinced my dad that we were worth keeping around; I am sure that she pointed out our potential for slave labor when we were older and stronger.   Out of protection for the TV, my dad placed it high atop a set of shelves to keep kids from ruining everything he worked so hard to get.  The problem with shelves, though, is that they form a ladder.  Being left alone to watch TV, I decided that I wanted to watch The Dukes of Hazard and see what trouble Bo and Luke were up to in Hazard County. 

      I began the climb to the top of the shelf.  The shelving, I shit you not, was like 15 feet high, and I expertly negotiated every shelf.  As I reached up for the TV, I made a couple of bad decisions.  As a child, I was curious about things, but didn’t have the background in physics, nor did I possess the common sense required to avoid the seemingly, easily avoidable.  (Whitney has proposed to me recently, that not only did I never have common sense, but I also failed to ever find any…)  I failed to understand gravity’s effect on human beings and televisions.  And I think more importantly than this, I failed to understand the distribution of weight across an object that extends vertically from the ground, more specifically, that the vertical object cannot have its heaviest point be off center and higher than midpoint, or else, said vertical object will tip over in the direction the heaviest point is pulling it.  (See Figure 1.1) 

  Figure 1.1, this photo is my personal property.  I spent hours drawing it 

      Needless to say, I reach for the TV and this movement sets in motion a horrible sequence of events that tells you my entire childhood in a nutshell.  Everything starts to fall.  I cling to the TV and pull it with me.  Halfway down I am now holding the TV pressed firmly against my head, at this point all of the lessons I needed to learn were learned, but unfortunately, there was no stopping this from happening.  I was falling, and this 80s TV was going to smash my skull in, and I looked death in the eye, and I screamed like a bitch.  When I landed, my head cushioned the blow for the TV, but I swear this is what I heard in the surround: 

Mom:  Oh my god, my son, he’s dead…..he’s dead, I know it.

Dad:  WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE, OH MY GOD, MY TV, WHAT DID HE DO TO MY TV… 

Stay tuned to part three where I will do what I originally said I would do during this blog. I will finish my last two personal tidbits of information and recommend some terrific reading.