The Texas Rangers

The other day I was at work and this guy that I work with (who wears way too short of shorts and knows (and talks) way too much about Indian folklore, and boy scouts, and the "old ways", etc...) brought his 6 year old kid in to the shop. This is not unusual as the mom usually comes at the same time and they do a hand off.

Well, this day there was a big accident and the mom was stuck in traffic so I had the privilege of spending almost an hour with the little tike (tyke, tyche, teyeche, tiche?). I guess maybe I should start with some background. Every time I have seen the kid he has been carrying a rifle. Now, it does have an orange cap on the end and a yarn strap to sling it over his shoulder (I assume for those long marches between battles) so it is fairly obvious that it is not a real rifle, but it is a rifle none the less.

After working with this kid's dad for a couple of minutes, it was obvious that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Why do I say that? Mainly because anytime there are no customers he takes his file and continues work on the bow (as in bow and arrow) he is whittling out of a tree he "felled" himself and then allowed to cure for a year prior to beginning the carving process.

So I am somehow left alone with the kid for like 30 minutes while his dad skins a deer or something out back. Anyway I'm doing the obligatory kid small talk, "how old are you...what's your favorite color...does your rifle shoot in the rain?" when it hits me. I know this kid from somewhere. I can't figure it out, but the more he talks the more I am convinced I have met this kid before. I kept trying to figure out how I would know a little pale faced, red-headed, kid with a heavy country accent. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. TEXAS RANGER!! This kid is an identical twin to the kid off Talladega nights.

So as soon as I realized who I was dealing with I knew my next task was to get him to say some of the lines. All I wanted was to hear one, "Your house smells like cat urine" or maybe a, "One of you terds is about to get smacked in the mouth if you don't keep it down!" But how could I teach a 6 year old to say, "Chip, I'm gonna scissor kick you in the back of the head!" It just didn't seem right. Partly because I could hear his dad finishing up the authentic tee pee he was building in the back room, but mostly because I was afraid Chris Hansen would come out of behind the sleeping bags and say that they were doing a Dateline special on predators who tried to make young children say things like, "Chip, I'm gonna come at you like a spider monkey!"

I am not one to back away from a challenge, but I don't think that teaching this kid new vocab words would be the best way to bond with my new coworker. Not to mention I'm pretty sure he could make short work of me and make sure no one found my body. So, after all that I never did get him to say anything but, "I love knives" and that was just because he was trying to convince me to open the knife case and let him play with one.

But there is still time and I won't be happy until there is a little redheaded country 6 year-old with, "Let's burn the joint down" in his vocabulary.

Circus Peanuts

Here is a recap of an actual conversation I had today with "something-quita" (No joke, that was really her name. I know that's sometimes used as the generic black person name, but it really was her name, I just missed the first half of it). She was calling on behalf of the Shriner's. Those are the guys with the funny hats that ride the mini-bikes in parades. Apparently they also have a circus as I found out from "misses -quita."

-quita: Hi my name is something-quita and I am calling on behalf of the Shriner's. Our annual circus is in town and we would like to send some underprivileged kids in Durham to go see it.

me: OK, sounds like a worthy cause. (I think I would have started with buying school supplies or after-school programs, but I guess a trip to the circus oughta help them kick the poverty cycle)

-quita: We would like to send you a form to make a donation so we can send these kids to see the circus. We just need your address to send you the form AND your four free tickets to the circus.

me: Wait a sec. You are going to send me four free tickets to the circus?

-quita: Yes sir, we sure are.

me: Is this the same circus you want to send the underprivileged kids to?

-quita: Yes sir.

me: Now this might be a dumb question, but why don't you just give those four tickets that you were going to send me to four of the kids and save yourself the postage?

-quita: Well sir if you wanted to help "doubly as much" (that's a direct quote) you could sign the back of the tickets and send them back to us and that would help more kids go.

me: I guess I don't understand. Couldn't you just keep the tickets and give them directly to the kids?

-quita: Well sir, we print the tickets here and send them out, so it wouldn't be a problem to send them to you.

me: I'm sorry about this, but you print the tickets to the circus there?

-quita: Yes sir.

me: So you can print as many tickets as you need?

-quita: Yes sir.

me: So you could potentially print enough tickets to send all the kids in Durham to the circus?

-quita: Well, no.

me: No?

-quita: They need snacks.

me: Snacks?

-quita: Yes sir. Snacks.

me: So the donation form is really for snacks for underprivileged kids in Durham, not to send them to the circus because you print the tickets to your own circus that the kids would be attending.

-quita: Well, I guess so.

me: Will they be healthy snacks?

-quita: Huh?

me: Nothing, please send me the donation form.

In 5 to 7 days I can look forward to an opportunity to help buy Durham's underprivileged children snacks for their trip to the Shriner's circus. I hope they buy circus peanuts.

Doing Donuts

I left the gym this morning at around 6:27am, which gave me approximately 33 minutes to get to work. It’s a good thing that the trip lasts 4 minutes. As I approached a traffic light there was a truck directly behind me, along with two other unidentifiable vehicles behind it, (unidentifiable due to the foggy rear window (and I wasn’t wearing contacts (because they are too expensive (and “Instantly Improve Vision” isn’t on my “to-do” list)))).

Shortly before stopping, I noticed that the driver in the only vehicle that I could recognize made a swift lane change and was now sitting immediately to my right. I knew that there was a school zone slightly more than ¼ mile away from said light and a “Merge Left” sign within the range of my contactless vision. As I processed all of this information, I couldn’t come to a logical conclusion as to why this driver decided to make the lane change.

The only reason one would take this particular route is because their destination must be within 2 minutes (driving time) away. Nobody would be headed through this intersection otherwise. There are no short-cuts, warp zones, or hot dog vendors.

So why did this gentleman get next to me? Did he have intentions of “lightin’ ‘em up” (as the kids say)? Was he trying to impress those around him with his superior driving skills? Did he have some sort of phobia about being stopped behind a Chevrolet? Did he have a date? Who would schedule a date at 6:30 in the morning in a mostly industrial part of town? Moreover, who would want to date a guy who was hell-bent on being the first off the line at a seemingly unimportant traffic light? Why didn’t he leave his house 5 seconds earlier, thus giving him ample time to get in front of me before the light? Did he opt to toast his Pop-Tart, instead of eating it cold? Did he eat a Toaster Strudel, (which requires more time then a Pop-Tart because it’s frozen and you have to apply the frosting yourself (at which point you need to squeeze all of the frosting from the plastic packet, (then lick it for good measure)))? Did he skip breakfast altogether, knowing that Simone was supposed to bring donuts today and Frank always gets there earlier the he which causes Speedracer to lose his chance at the “Pick of the Dozen”?

I think I just answered my question.

Kudos crazy driver, kudos!

Southern Comfort

A friend just emailed me this, I think the end says just as much about Canadians as the story does about the South.

It's a classic southern moment between father and son:

So I walked into the men's room at the Pilot truck stop off I-75 in Ocala. As I was washing my hands a father and son (both with flowing mullets) walked out of stalls and prepared to leave. The son said (make sure you imagine both voices in extreme southern/red-neck accents) "Dad, wait, I want to wash my hands first" to which the father replied "Son, we don't have time for that." The son persisted and said "But Dad, I want to." His father was quick to shut him down and said "Well son, you're not allowed." and quickly ushered him out the door. I imagine that the father had one of two phrases on his mind at the time. "Real men don't wash their hands." or "May the Mullet protect us." Either way, it was a classic snapshot of life in the south.

Jesson and I just got back from Canada. They put on a fireworks show where the last 15 minutes consisted of only red and white fireworks lit to the song "Canada" in which that single word was the only lyric. Classic. I love Canadians. Talk to you later.

Who forbids their kid from washing his hands?

An open apology

I must take a minute to openly apologize to those in the general vicinity of Section 130, Row B, Seats 15 and 16, at the Durham Bulls minor league baseball game on Saturday night. Especially to the guy in the "Quite-a-bit-too-short-shorts" immediately next to me who switched places with his buddy after you went to get beers (yeah, I noticed), but not the lady immediately behind me who kept screaming in my ear every time your kid blatantly stepped on your hand after you repeatedly told her not to. In my opinion, you need to step up and start disciplining your kids. Kids these days need you to be a parent, not a friend. Frankly, I wouldn't let my friend step on my hand either, but that is neither here nor there.

You guys probably came for a couple hours of America's past time and the free fireworks after the game, but ended up getting way more than you bargained for, or ever deserved. I would like to be able to say that it wasn't my fault, but the truth of it is, my gastro-intestinal issues are well documented. I live my life like a big game of tag. Those places with reasonably sanitary restroom facilities are "base" and I am safe there. Everywhere else I am in danger of getting "tagged."

I wish I could blame it on the chicken wings I ate immediately before the game, but honestly the fireworks were going off well before the hot sauce started flowing. In fact, I was hoping the hot wings would calm the raging beast. That should tell you the condition I was in, both mentally and physically. When has a semi-toxic blend of vinegar and chilies ever calmed anything? Not to mention the blue cheese. For a lactose intolerant, fermenting cheese probably doesn't make it more easily digested. So instead of gently rocking my digestive system into a semi-comatose state of bliss, the wings and blue cheese combined forces with whatever set me off to begin with and created what can only be described as a weapon of mass destruction.

At first it was a relief. If you have never experienced the joy of finding out that all the pressure and impending doom brewing in you is in fact neither a solid nor a liquid, but can be discreetly released into the atmosphere without climbing over everyone down the row and without wondering what microscopic bugs are crawling on the seat you are about to place your bare butt on, then you don't know happiness. Seconds later, however, the tables were turned. With the shock and awe of a conquering military force my (and I can only assume those around me had a similar experience) nasal passages were bombarded with eye watering, eyebrow singeing, gag inducing, funk. I've seen people shed less tears after being pepper-sprayed. And that was just the beginning. Over the next two and a half hours kids in the area were repeatedly checked for dirty diapers or soiled britches. Bottoms of shoes were checked to see what had been stepped in. By the eighth inning spirits were low. The home team was down by double digits and people just couldn't handle much more of the cloud of stench that was hovering over the area like a blimp at the Superbowl. Luckily, by this time my body was starting to shut down for the night and the assault withdrew allowing us watch the Bulls get hammered without nausea. We finished the night with a brilliant display of fireworks, but for those in section 130, the display of bright explosions and burning gasses had been going all night.

And for that, I apologize.