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!

Mister Smart Runs out of Gas

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!

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.

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!!

A Weird Morning for Brian

So this morning a bunch of weird things happened. I'm not sure if this is a good or bad omen for the day, but I think it means something. And to that stupid dream interpreter, it doesn't mean I should be questioning my sexuality. (Side Note: I saw a dream interpreter once. I described a dream, that was basically a combination of Harry Potter and Conspiracy Theory. It had to do with people who were secretly wizards riding around on those old time bicycles with gigantic front wheels, and I wondered how they got up there, and the government arrested me for asking, and it turned out they floated up there. The dream interpreter said "Hmm, very interesting... Have you ever questioned your sexuality? So I had sex with her, and then left in a huff. What a slut!)

Anyhow, first I went around to various parts of the neighborhood putting up garage sale signs because we're having a garage sale. While I was in the midst of shoving a sign into the dirt, a car full of hot Swedish bikini team members drove by and honked and squealed at me. (Maybe they were just regular girls, I guess I don't know.) Anyhow, this struck me as odd because it was like 7:30 AM, and I was dressed in the clothes I slept in, and I hadn't showered or shaved or brushed my teeth or taken my morning dookie, or anything. Basically I looked like a sleepy bum, and I was carrying a garage sale sign and a half-eaten Slim Jim. Really attractive.

So then after I got done shoving signs into the dirt (by the way, I'm sure the chaos that comes with a garage sale will inspire a later post) I walked over to a port-a-potty to pee and tripped on a tiny stick and fell down and got all dusty. I got really mad at the stick so I picked it up and whipped it at a tree really hard, but it hit a branch and ricocheted back at my face so I had to hop out of the way. I was starting to feel a little like Donald Duck.

Fianlly, I walked into the potty and peed, and all the while the potty was making a humming sound. I was confused. I walked out, and then curiosity got the best of me, so I opened the door back up to try to comprehend the source of the humming. When I opened the door I saw like 40 hornets flying out of the toilet hole. I freaked out and ran away and almost tripped on the little stick again. There were hornets in the toilet hole! I hate hornets! One could have flown right up my urethra, and then where would I have been? Probably dead. I'm guessing if a hornet stings you on your inside-weiner, you die.

It might just be one of those days. I'll probably get struck by lightning or eaten by a bear this afternoon. Oh well, so be it.

Dude, Where's My Car

Recently I bought a new car. I had a big SUV, and the lease was up, and quite frankly I was spending a buttload on car payments and gas, and it had started to not work all that well, and high class prostitutes weren't nakedly flocking to it like I had imagined, and it never fit in the garage so I had to leave it in the driveway and sometimes the stupid hooligan kids in the neighborhood would shoot paintballs at it or smash the back window and not even have the common decency to steal my drug cache or my autographed Phil Hellmuth playing card hidden in the trunk.

With those things in mind, I bought an affordable, slightly used car that gets great gas mileage, will fit in the garage (as soon as we fix the garage door), and gets me from Point A to Point B in an economical and expeditious fashion. This makes me happy because in the long run I'm going to save a bundle of money, and as many people know, one of my favorite things in the world to do is check my account balance, and then imagine myself having a giant vault of money and diving in it and swimming around like Scrooge McDuck. I guess I'm weird.

The problem I had though, is that now I no longer have a giant, officious looking truck. I just have a regular old gray car that looks like 50% of the rest of the cars out there. So I go into the gym the other day and do my workout (25% working out, 70% staring at girls' butts', and 5% trying not to fart loudly and scare the other patrons) and then I finish.

One of my many weaknesses is that once I go into a large building and walk around in it for a while, I get completely discombobulated regarding where things are. I would have scored a lot better on my ACT had I not completely bombed the "Spacial Relationships" portion. Sometimes, when I'm in a large grocery store that I'm not familiar with, I attempt to leave and wind up in the way back of the store, by the employee toilets, which always disturbs the pooping cashiers.

This weakness affects me outside as well. Unless I'm paying complete attention to where I am when I get out of my car, I will have no idea where I've parked when I come back. I've walked many a weary mile at airports and parking garages, quietly seething while trying to figure out where I was at.

Anyhow, I come out of the gym and I instantly realize I have no idea where my car is. Shit. Usually my saving grace in this situation is that I have an automatic door locker that honks the car and flashes the brake lights when I push the "lock" button, so I wander around aimlessly pushing the "lock" button until I see the car honking and flashing at me.

Car: I'm here dummy (Honk Flash). Over here dummy (Honk Flash). You can't drive me if you can't find me dummy (Honk Flash).

Me: Gee, I don't remember parking you here.

Car: Yes, I'm Kit from Knight Rider. I was off fighting bad guys while you were eating bone-in filets. Either that or you are retarded. I'll let you figure it out.

I look down at my key chain, and find that I have no "honkflash saving grace" button. Shit! I say to myself, "OK self, you aren't a huge moron, just think where you parked the car."

I think about it. Absolutely nothing comes to mind. I think some more. I start thinking about burritos. This doesn't help me find the car. I give up.

I say to myself, "OK, so you can't remember where you parked. No biggie, just look for your car. There aren't that many rows."

I start to look for my car, but then I realize I have no idea what it looks like. I'm pretty sure it's a car, and I think it may be gray. It's a Chevrolet, but I can't remember the model name. Something like Oreo, but somehow, I don't believe there's a car called a Chevy Oreo. SHIT!!

I decide that I'm looking for a gray Chevy. There are about 15 in the parking lot. This is embarrassing. I swear at no one in particular, and begin arduously checking each gray car to see if it's mine. I'm sure I look like a really tentative burglar. This sucks.

Car 1: Definitely not. It has one of those things brides wear on their thighs and then throw over their heads and whoever catches it gets married next hanging from the rear view mirror. (Side note: What the hell is that stupid thing called?)

Car 2: Nope. There's a cat carrier in the back seat.

Car 3: Maybe. It looks pretty clean. It's a Chevy. I eyeball it for a while. Then someone gets in it and drives off, while shooting me a peculiar look. I assume it was not mine.

Car 4: Too dirty and pockmarked with hail dents.

Car 5: Too messy on the inside. Looks like a homeless person might live in the back seat, and maybe even urinate back there.

Car 6: Nope. Small dog is in it. I contemplate for a moment that maybe I left my window open a little and a small stray dog hopped in looking for food or warmth or something. I decide this is unlikely.

Car 7: Eureka!! This is definitely it. I confidently stride up to the driver door, and stick my key in. I am perplexed when the door won't open. Why can't I get into my own car? I step back to reassess. I notice that the license plate says "ALL4U2." This is not my car. I kick the air, and then quickly pretend to be stretching my leg as some people walk by.

Car 8: Hell no! There's a plastic bucket filled with buttons on the passenger seat, and a Yanni CD case on the driver's seat. I decide that whoever owns this car sucks a lot.

On the 11th try I found my car. It's called a Chevy Aveo, not an Oreo, and it was parked right by the entrance to the gym and I had just missed it. I had spent about 15 minutes stumbling around the parking lot because I have no brain. This is why I get frustrated with myself sometimes. I've decided that I'll have to put a big red flag on my car, or a nutsack on the tailgate or something so this doesn't happen again. Sometimes it's rough being me...