Weird People and the Batmobile

People are weird, I tell ya. Some people are ridiculously fat. Some people are anorexically skinny. Some people look like their spouses. Some look like their pets. Some look like other people's pets. Some people look like combinations of famous people (i.e. Colin Cowherd looks like a combination of Alice Cooper and a guy who stuck his penis in an electrical socket). Some people look like they're dead and don't know it.

Mostly though, people are weird because they say weird things. I count myself as one of these people in this not particularly prestigious group. But it seems as though everywhere I go, I have a certain knack for accidentally avoiding the normal people, and only dealing with the really weird ones. I'm sort of a magnet like that. Today was no different.

I decide to break down and go get an oil change, even though I enjoy getting an oil change in the same fashion that I enjoy french kissing hornets on their stingers after I inject them with meth and Red Bull.

So I go to the oil change place. There are 3 people working there. All 3 look at me. I look back. Then two of them walk back into the office and one begins motioning me in. The two that walked away were normal. The one left over was a full blown wackaloon. The law of averages never applies to me in situations like this.

I can tell that this fellow is most likely crazy because he looks like my brother-in-law Josh, if Josh's mom and dad were also brother and sister who smoked tainted crack during the pregnancy. To be quite honest, this guy looked like a combination of Josh, and one of those people that turns into a Super Villain/Monstrous Freak after he falls into a vat of toxic sewage. He is also chewing on his bandana, which is still attached to his head somehow.

So either he steers me poorly, or I drive poorly, because he begins to gesticulate wildly with his hands, trying to get my car back to the proper position within the little oil change area. Then he puts both hands out really hard, signaling stop, and also stomps his foot like a 7 year old having a tantrum.

I stop. He comes over.

Him: Dude, what are you trying to do? Drive into fuckin' the hole?

Me (Flustered): Dude, you were waving your arms around like a man on fire. Settle down a little.

Him: Trust me, fuckin' you don't want to drive into the hole. That would suck for everyone.

I notice that he is using the "F" word at odd times in his sentences. Further confirms my suspicions that I am dealing with a crazy person.

So I tell him I need an oil change, and the normal people go down into the little basement under my car and begin changing the oil. Then he comes over to my car.

Him: This will take a bit. You can go wait in the lobby.

I get out and begin walking over there. He gets right in my way and smiles at me.

Him: Or you can just stand over here.

I'm not sure what to do. There's only a tiny path in between the front of my car and the garage door, which is now shut. He is standing in the tiny path, smiling at me. I feel like I may get raped. I stand there.

Him: You fuckin' gotta house?

Me: Uh, yeah.

Him: Does it have a pole barn?

Me: No, it just has a garage.

(Really sure he's crazy by now. As I do whenever I get into situations like this, I begin plotting my escape route. He is talking. I am plotting.)

Him: Hey, pay fuckin' attention. Would you build a pole barn?

Me: What? Where?

Him: Behind your garage of course.

Me: I don't know. I guess so, if I had some wood or something.

(This conversation has devolved and gotten me nervous, and when I'm nervous I start saying stupid things, like that I would build a pole barn behind my garage if I had some wood.)

Him: Yeah, I need to get some land.

Me: You ain't no kind of man if you ain't got land.

(I'm quoting movies without realizing it now)

Him: When I get me some land, I'mma build a house, a garage, detached fuckin' of course, and a pole barn.

Me: That's ambitious.

Him: Huh?

Me: I said "Good Thinking"

Him: Yup. Then I'mma go out in my pole barn and build fuckin' the Batmobile.

(I want to run away)

Him: But not fuckin' that Batmobile from the 90's. That thing was shitty. I checked the specs on it, and it could only go 35. 40 tops.

(How did he check the specs on a car from a movie from 20 years ago?)

Him: Naw, I'mma build that one from Dark Knight, that shit can can go zero to 60 in 5 flat. And it can shoot rockets at shit. All that shit was fuckin' fully functional.

(He's getting really excited talking about this bizarre dream of his)

Me: That'd be awesome. I'd drive that.

Him: Shit yeah. And my girl would come looking for me and I'd be like, "Don't bother me, I'm in the pole barn working on the Batmobile, and she'd bring me beer and shit."

After another 10 minutes or so of listening to him ramble on about Batmobile specs, and pole barns, and land and such, the normal people finished changing the oil, and so I paid and left. As I'm driving out, totally bewildered the last half hour of my life, the dude runs up next to the car and shouts, "FUCKIN' BATMOBILLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEE!!!!" I drive away.

This is my life...

My Troubles with Earwax.

This morning I was on a call with a client, chatting away about annual maximums and other very important things, when all of a sudden I could feel something happening inside my ear. This obviously distracted me from my phone call, and I became even more distracted when a large chunk of earwax fell out of my ear and stuck to my shoulder.

Client: So anyway, how about we move the maximum to $1250, reduce the deductible, and then...

Me: You need to stop talking for a minute. A giant waxball just fell out of my ear!

Client: Um, well...

Me: Now it's on my shoulder. It's pretty gross, I wish you could see it.

Client: Ummm...

So I got the waxball off my shoulder and finished the conversation, but it also made me realize that this was not the first time some earwax fell out of my ear while I was in the midst of something fairly important

One time, when I was about 19, I was on a date with somebody, and we were sitting there at an Applebees or whatever, talking about football, or ballerinas, or the Kama Sutra. Actually, I have no idea what we were talking about...

So we're sitting there talking, and all of a sudden a huge, Andre the Giant sized blob of earwax dislodged itself from my ear canal, fell out our my earhole, bounced off my shoulder, and landed on the table between us. We both stared at the earwax for a while, no one daring to say a word. I was kind of mortified since I was trying to make a good impression, because I figured it was going to be harder to hook up later if she thought I was the type of guy who carelessly flung earwax around at the dinner table. I surmised that it wasn't as bad as having a turd roll out the bottom of my pantleg, but that it ranked somewhere in between having a turd roll out the bottom of my pantleg, and accidentally sneezing a bunch of snot and boogers into my hand on the grossness scale.

So, I did the only thing I could think of. I blamed the ceiling of the restaurant.

Me: Ugh, this restaurant has earwax falling from the ceiling.

Her: Um yeah, the ceiling.

Me: I mean, you'd think they'd clean the ceiling every once in a while, get the earwax off it and stuff.

Her: Mm hmm.

My ruse apparently did not work as the date ended quickly and uneventfully. That sucked. I began carrying Q-Tip's around with me for a while and cleaning my ears so vigorously that I think I went a little deaf, but I gave up on that. Screw it. To quote Popeye, "I yam what I yam," and sometimes what I yam is a dude that has earwax falling out of his head, and that's OK.

At least I'm not constantly bleeding from both eyes...

Brian Needs to Shut Up More

Sometimes I forget as a father, and authority figure, that my children pick up on anything and everything that I say, even stuff I say that I don't realize I'm saying. They're like sponges; loud, screaming, crying, crazy sponges who don't enjoy eating food.

This all came to a head last week when my 6 year old daughter decided it was a good time to question me on every partially offensive remark that came out of my mouth. I should have known something was different that day, as she started out by saying, "I have a hypothesis" about the TV or something, and then mentioning something about a constellation. I was perplexed.

Me: Holy crap! How do you know what a hypothesis is?

Her: I learned it. What does "Holy Crap" mean?

Me: Ummmm.... nothing, eat your granola bar. And how do you know what a constellation is?

Her: I learned it, Brrrrrrrian (That's what she calls me when she's feeling superior). Now answer the question. What does "Holy Crap" mean?

Me: Ummmm, it means gee whiz.

My son: Did you just say "Whiz"? HAHA, Whiz.

Me: Agghhh!! Go back to bed you two!

Her: No way Brrrrrrrrrian...

And so on. I should have taken this obvious sign from the heavens that my children were bound and determined to make me a bad father that day (or as I'm referred to by other kid's mom's, "That Man") and just went to the gym and stared at chick's butts all afternoon. Instead I went on with my day, doing things, and saying things that only my diseased brain could think of, at least according to my wife. My daughter was quick to catch any verbal misstep I had.

Me (After almost getting crushed by a speeding buttlicker on my street): Watch out, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!

Her: Dad, what's a son of a bitch?

Me: Uh, it's a bad person, honey.

(Side Note: One time when I was about 7 and riding the bus home, someone had written "DAM FAGOT" in magic marker on the bus seat in front of me. I was really interested in that term because I figured it must have been really important for someone to risk getting in trouble by the bus driver to write it on a seat. So I went home and politely asked my mom to define the term "DAM FAGOT" for me. Her response? "Uh, it's a bad person, honey." In that vein, I also grew up thinking "Dildo" and "Bimbo" were similar synonyms for a "bad person". Thanks Mom.)

Later that day, I was sitting on a hill at dusk (don't ask) when I saw my son being chased by a girl and really enjoying it. I was kind of grooving on this because up until now my son's only interaction with kids (outside of his sister) was knocking them over during sporting events if they were "the bad guys". So I'm happily sitting on a hill at dusk watching my son play with a girl, when a friend come comes over and gets in their way. Without thinking, I yell:

Me: Hey, quit cockblocking Miles!

Her: Cockblocking?? What does that mean Dad?

Instantly everybody else on the hill is staring daggers at me, and I think a mom threw up in her purse in horror. I tried to think of a harmless word that sounded like cockblocking, but the only thing I could think of was "knobslobbing" and I figured that might actually be worse, so I just stared at my shoes for a long time and hoped people would forget about me.

Then like 5 minutes later, I was rambling on about something with Amy, and she told me I was foolish, and so I remarked that pretty soon I was going to find me a new stripper wife. These things that come out of my mouth are not my fault, I swear to you. They just happen...

Me: Oh yeah, well I'm fixin' to go get me a new stripper wife, and she's gonna be all strippery and hookery and stuff...

Her: A stripper wife? Haha Dad, you're weird. You're already married to Mom.

Me: Bella, stop listening to me!! Go roll down the hill!!

Her: No way Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrian.

I think I should probably just shut up forever. I heard that Pythagoras imposed a vow of silence on all his disciples. I wish Pythagoras was still alive and formulating theorems, as I could have been a disciple and avoided all this nonsense. Damn you Pythagoras!! A^2 + B^2 +C^2 my ass!