So the other day I ran out of gas on the highway. Luckily I was able to steer my now idling car through traffic and over to a little grassy knoll on the side of the road, where I proceeded to sit and swear loudly for a really long time. Then I got out of the car and kicked it a few times for good measures. Then I stared out at all the cars driving along happily that were full of gas and prayed really hard that the people driving them would get severe involuntary diarrhea right there. Then I called my mom like a 6 year old and asked her to come meet me on the grassy knoll and bring some gas with her. Then I had to wait an hour for her, because my sister was using her car and was out someplace getting her toenails polished or something. Then I stood around swearing and punching the air for a while until I found some golf balls in the grass. Then I threw the golf balls out into traffic to see what would happen. Then I angrily shook the fence separating the highway from the frontage road for a while. Then I peed on the grassy knoll and waved my ding dong at the traffic in disgust. Then my mom finally showed up.
Apparently my car does the bare minimum to remind you that you need gas. I learned this the hard way. My old car had lots of bells and whistles that told you you needed fuel, and the car would eventually start actively trying to steer you towards gas stations, and finally a little tweezers would emerge from the driver's seat and start pinching your scrotum every 30 seconds until you filled up. (Side Note: The tweezers was rusty. And filthy!)
My new car took a more laissez-faire approach to it's thirst. 20 seconds before you run out of gas a small light shaped like a gas can lights up, and if you happen to be loudly rapping along with an Eminem song and bouncing around in your seat, it's pretty easy to miss.
So as I was sitting alongside the highway, swearing and contemplating ways to murder random civilians with full gas tanks, I kept thinking to myself, "MMM Old Country Buffet!!!" This made no sense to me. Then I realized that Old Country Buffet played a large role in the last time I ran out of gas, some 16 years earlier.
Let me take you back to April 1994. I had just met some friends and crushed the buffet at the OCB in Minnetonka. I had a 1975 Pontiac Bonneville (The EvilMobile to those in the know), and one of it's fun little quirks was that the gas gauge had stopped working in 1976. The other fun quirks were that you couldn't lock all the doors at the same time so stupid high schoolers would break in and smoke weed in it, the spark plugs would randomly fall out, and it had a bad habit of breaking down when it had a keg in it's trunk and an entire party was waiting for it.
Anyhow, since the gas gauge didn't work, you just kind of had to guess how much gas you had. Apparently I guessed wrong, since it died at a Tom Thumb about 2 miles away from my house. So, being that I wasn't that far from home, and I had like 30 cents in my pocket, I decided I'd just leave the car there and walk back. This proved to be a really bad idea.
I got about 3 blocks away from the car when I realized I had to go to the bathroom. Bad. I started walking a little faster. Walking faster made me have to poop worse. So I slowed down. I came to a bus stop. A man harangued me for money so I gave him the 30 cents. In retrospect I should have just pooped on him. I walked on.
I got to about a mile away from home. This was now a serious crisis. I came to a golf course. I considered pooping behind a tree, but there were a lot of golfers out there and I didn't want them to see my butt. I walked on.
I got about a half a mile away. I was now getting desperate. I came to a bridge going over a creek. Since I was about 50/50 if I was going to poop in my pants by then I decided I'd just poop off the bridge into the creek. Right as I was getting ready an armada of police cars drove by me. I took this as a sign. I didn't want to get arrested for pooping in the creek. I thought that might be a felony. I walked on.
I got a block from my house. I was now sweating profusely from the effort, and I realized that for the last couple of blocks I had been muttering "OH NO" over and over in sync with my footsteps. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it. "OH NO OH NO OH NO". A mean looking dog was giving me the eye and looking like he might start growling. "OH NO OH NO OH NO." My shoelaces had both come untied and a hornet was crawling on my shoulder. "OH NO OH NO OH NO." Two people were out mowing their lawns and I was holding my butt cheeks together with my hand and they would notice. "OH NO OH NO OH NO."
The story ends happily though. I made it home without crapping my pants, and then I had to take a nap because I was so exhausted from the ordeal. Running out of gas really sucks!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
People Suck at Conversations
Do you ever get to talking to some casual acquaintance and you begin to tell a fairly interesting story about something that happened to you, and the stupid person completely blows you off when you take a breath and starts talking about his own story which isn't even remotely as interesting as yours? I hate that. When people do that I really get the urge to clang their testicles together with heavy cymbals.
Me: So last week I went parachuting naked in Greenland.
Person: Oh, I went to International Falls.
Me: Um...
Person: Yeah, I went to the Bronko Nagurski museum, and then we hiked up a hill and ate marshmallows.
Me: Cool, well I was..
Person: Then we drove for a while and saw a farmhouse and there were chickens there.
Me: Yeah, so...
Person: Then I took a big poop at a gas station. It was greenish. The poop, not the gas station. Then we went to an embroidery store. Then I pooped again, but not at the embroidery store.
I figured out a really good trick to help get this person's concentration back to your story where it belongs. Just start slapping him repeatedly. It's a well known fact that a good slapping helps with this.
Me: So last week I went parachuting naked in Greenland.
Person: Oh, I went to International Falls.
Me: Um...
Person: Yeah, I went to the Bronko Nagurski museum, and then we hiked up a hill and ate marshmallows.
Me: Cool, well I was..
Person: Then we drove for a while and saw a farmhouse and there were chickens there.
Me: Yeah, so...
Person: Then I took a big poop at a gas station. It was greenish. The poop, not the gas station. Then we went to an embroidery store. Then I pooped again, but not at the embroidery store.
I figured out a really good trick to help get this person's concentration back to your story where it belongs. Just start slapping him repeatedly. It's a well known fact that a good slapping helps with this.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Brian Sucks at Fishing
So every year I go up to Cold Spring, MN, play in a baseball tournament, get butt raped by the home town umpires, and stop at the Space Alien Cafe on the way home where the children proceed to eat 3 cumulative bites of food, all the while begging for tokens so they can go play games of "skill" and then lose all their tokens rapidly (either because the game takes 15 seconds, or because they accidentally spill them into some token vortex located within the game area) and then come back demanding more tokens, and then throw a giant fit when we finally decide to leave, and then get the small consolation of a ball or a Chinese Finger Trap as a prize from their 30 dollars of game playing.
Anyhow, while I'm up there, lounging in between games, I usually get invited to go fishing with my friend Bob. Sometimes other players come too, and they bring their wives, and the wives lay around on the boat and get tan and take up space, and sometimes not.
Fishing is always a very enjoyable way for me to pass the time. It would be even more enjoyable if not for these few aggravating problems I have.
1.) I can't catch any fish- Oh sure, I get lots of nibbles, but every time I try to hook the nibbles, I wind up with nothing. The only thing I can catch is stupid Milfoil. (Side Note: I was told that what I was catching wasn't Milfoil, just regular old lake plants, but screw you people, it was voracious, deadly, boat-killin' Eurasian Water Milfoil. Prove me wrong!) Anyhow, all I catch is Milfoil, while everybody else catches real live fish. I felt like Charlie Brown when all he got was rocks for Halloween candy.
2.) Tiny fish nibble off the attractive parts of my lure- I don't know how many times Bob had to change my lure for me. It was probably upwards of two. These stupid little minnows or sunfish or something think it's really funny to chew off the flippers off my fake distressed animal, so it just looks like a garlicky smelling tube floating through the water. Even a mentally retarded bass isn't going to bite at a garlicky tube. You little fish are gay!
3.) I suck at casting-Everybody else on the boat is snapping off these 50 yard spirals right into the area they want it to go to. Meanwhile, 1 of 4 things happens when I cast:
a.) I completely forget to release the line causing the rod to snap violently forward, like I'm trying to beat a hooker with it or something. This causes giggles from the stupid peanut gallery who are all up to their testicles in trophy bass.
b.) I release the line way too late so my cast goes at a sideways 90 degree angle, crosses everybody else's line, and nearly lands in the boat on the opposite side. This causes scornful looks from everyone else in the boat including the wife, who has stopped reading Vogue long enough to say, "Jensen, what the fuck are you doing?"
c.) I cast too hard and my lure winds up laying on a dock, or one of those things that covers a dock. Sometimes it sticks to something, and we have to float over and unhook it. This causes angrier scornful looks, and a small part of me fears getting flung off the boat.
d.) I cast what would be a really awesome cast but somewhere along the way my line gets hopelessly tangled up so it abruptly stops mid-air and my lure (probably without flippers by now) plops into a part of the lake that doesn't have any fish in it. Then usually somebody has to help me get my line untangled, because I get angry with things that require patience. This elicits comments like, "Jesus, how did you get it this tangled?" and "Jensen, what the fuck are you doing?"
e.) Occasionally I cast a really brilliant, awesome, Babe Winkelman-type cast. This happens about 1 out of every 300 tries. This causes cheering and looks of disbelief from the others. This makes me cocky. I say things like, "What's up now bitches?" and "I'm gonna rape the fish I catch off this cast!!" Then usually I almost drop my rod into the lake or stumble from somebody else's wake and nearly pitch a header into the Milfoil. I am less cocky afterward.
4.) I won't admit that the plural of bass is "bass"- I'm sure this plays against me somehow, but screw you, it should be "basses." One bass, 2 basses. Makes sense right? Stupid English is for dorks.
So basically, what I'm trying to say is this. I shouldn't have made fun of all the guys on Bassmasters when I was 10 for proclaiming themselves athletes, because fishing for basses on Upper Spunk Lake with a garlicky tube for a lure is HARD!!
Anyhow, while I'm up there, lounging in between games, I usually get invited to go fishing with my friend Bob. Sometimes other players come too, and they bring their wives, and the wives lay around on the boat and get tan and take up space, and sometimes not.
Fishing is always a very enjoyable way for me to pass the time. It would be even more enjoyable if not for these few aggravating problems I have.
1.) I can't catch any fish- Oh sure, I get lots of nibbles, but every time I try to hook the nibbles, I wind up with nothing. The only thing I can catch is stupid Milfoil. (Side Note: I was told that what I was catching wasn't Milfoil, just regular old lake plants, but screw you people, it was voracious, deadly, boat-killin' Eurasian Water Milfoil. Prove me wrong!) Anyhow, all I catch is Milfoil, while everybody else catches real live fish. I felt like Charlie Brown when all he got was rocks for Halloween candy.
2.) Tiny fish nibble off the attractive parts of my lure- I don't know how many times Bob had to change my lure for me. It was probably upwards of two. These stupid little minnows or sunfish or something think it's really funny to chew off the flippers off my fake distressed animal, so it just looks like a garlicky smelling tube floating through the water. Even a mentally retarded bass isn't going to bite at a garlicky tube. You little fish are gay!
3.) I suck at casting-Everybody else on the boat is snapping off these 50 yard spirals right into the area they want it to go to. Meanwhile, 1 of 4 things happens when I cast:
a.) I completely forget to release the line causing the rod to snap violently forward, like I'm trying to beat a hooker with it or something. This causes giggles from the stupid peanut gallery who are all up to their testicles in trophy bass.
b.) I release the line way too late so my cast goes at a sideways 90 degree angle, crosses everybody else's line, and nearly lands in the boat on the opposite side. This causes scornful looks from everyone else in the boat including the wife, who has stopped reading Vogue long enough to say, "Jensen, what the fuck are you doing?"
c.) I cast too hard and my lure winds up laying on a dock, or one of those things that covers a dock. Sometimes it sticks to something, and we have to float over and unhook it. This causes angrier scornful looks, and a small part of me fears getting flung off the boat.
d.) I cast what would be a really awesome cast but somewhere along the way my line gets hopelessly tangled up so it abruptly stops mid-air and my lure (probably without flippers by now) plops into a part of the lake that doesn't have any fish in it. Then usually somebody has to help me get my line untangled, because I get angry with things that require patience. This elicits comments like, "Jesus, how did you get it this tangled?" and "Jensen, what the fuck are you doing?"
e.) Occasionally I cast a really brilliant, awesome, Babe Winkelman-type cast. This happens about 1 out of every 300 tries. This causes cheering and looks of disbelief from the others. This makes me cocky. I say things like, "What's up now bitches?" and "I'm gonna rape the fish I catch off this cast!!" Then usually I almost drop my rod into the lake or stumble from somebody else's wake and nearly pitch a header into the Milfoil. I am less cocky afterward.
4.) I won't admit that the plural of bass is "bass"- I'm sure this plays against me somehow, but screw you, it should be "basses." One bass, 2 basses. Makes sense right? Stupid English is for dorks.
So basically, what I'm trying to say is this. I shouldn't have made fun of all the guys on Bassmasters when I was 10 for proclaiming themselves athletes, because fishing for basses on Upper Spunk Lake with a garlicky tube for a lure is HARD!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
