BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Over the years I have held several titles.

Not the wrestling or boxing sort, mind you. Although there was that one bar fight, but we don’t talk about that. Still, titles and honorifics come with professions and accomplishments, and I’ve collected a few. Senior Field Service Engineer… Systems Administrator… Husband… Father… Best-Selling Author… Award-Winning Writer…

And those are just a few of the meaningful and the not so meaningful titles ascribed to my name.

I’ve never really been all about titles, to be honest. But I will admit that there are a few of which I am somewhat proud, even if only for a moment. Allow me to explain…

You see, I recently picked up a new title. I didn’t even know I was in line for it, but sometimes these things just happen. At any rate, imagine my excitement when I was notified by the Canadian Ministry of Titles that I had been anointed “Douchebag.” (See the official letter informing me of such in the image below, or view the original HERE)

I was ready to throw a party. Seriously. I mean “Douchebag?” That’s one hell of a title to have bestowed upon oneself. Of course, after looking up the criteria for the title I discovered that I didn’t (and still don’t) actually meet any of the requirements, therefore I figured it was just an honorary sort of thing. After all, that would lend even more credence to it being an honorific, right?

But no. According to the Canadian Ministry, it was beyond honorary. I was, in point of fact, being anointed as a full-fledged, officially certified “Douchebag.” On top of that, I was given the supporting degree of “F*cktard.”

I was an official “Douchebag F*cktard.” I realize that this may seem like a Douchebagatelle to most of you, but for me it was like a dream come true.

A party to celebrate this title became a moral imperative. After all, it’s not every day one is bestowed with such honors – especially from our neighbor to the Great White North. (BTW – No Canadians were harmed during the creation of this blog entry. Not even the Minister of Douchebag who conferred the aforementioned title. Oh, and no moose were harmed either, unless you count that case of Moosehead I killed off while writing this. )

I picked up the phone and started calling all of my friends. I really wanted to invite some military folks I know, but unfortunately they were stuck in DoucheBaghdad and couldn’t make it. I was, however, able to reach my friend in DoucheBagshaw. Even though airfare from England to the US wasn’t cheap,  she told me she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she missed a good Douche.

Next I called Anastasia. She was in Dublin, Ireland at that particular moment, on DoucheBaggot Street trying to find a suitable Douchebaggery. It seems she had already heard about my good fortune and wanted to buy a gift for me. Since I travel so much she figured Douchebaggage would be a good choice. I thanked her, and gave her the details of the party, then moved on with my invites.

A few more calls to my Douchebaggiest friends and the guest list was all set.

Of course, that was just the beginning. If I was going to throw a party I needed a few things, so I headed out to do some shopping.

I stopped at the bakery and picked up some Douchebaguettes for the sandwiches. Of course, we would also need some snack foods, so I picked up some vinegar potato chips. Since this would be an all day affair and some folks would be arriving in the morning, I thought some breakfast type foods might be in order, so I also picked up some Douchebagels. And, for those who might want something a little sweeter I grabbed a couple of boxes of F*ckTarts. After all, I wasn’t just being anointed a “Douchebag.” I was a full-fledged “Douchebag F*cktard.”

Since every party needs a little entertainment, when I left the store  I stopped in at a local booking agent and arranged for a group of Douchebagpipers.

Upon arriving home I called a few folks to help me out with getting things all set up. Once they arrived we took all of the snacks and party favors, lined them up, then began to Douchebag them in individual Douchebaggies. It took some time, but once all of the Douchebaggers were done with the Douchebagging and had all of the party favors Douchebagged,  it was time to get ready for guests to arrive.

I ran off to change into something more comfortable. Since it was going to be a long day I decided that something loose and Douchebaggy was in order, because to me Douchebagginess equals comfort. On the way to change I happened to notice that the evergreen outside our window had Douchebagworms, and made a mental note to call someone about that.

Finally, it was time for the fun to begin. Unfortunately, that’s when I received the call.

“Hello,” I said.

“Murv, this is George Takei,” said the voice at the other end.

“Mister Sulu!” I shouted.

He groaned. “Don’t call me that, okay? Just George.”

“Umm, okay,” I replied. “George it is. So… What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been given to understand you are throwing a Douchebag party.”

“Absolutely! Would you like to attend? I’m sure everyone would be all excited to meet Mister Su… I mean, THE George Takei.”

“Actually, no.”

I paused. “Umm… Okay… So what’s this about?”

“You can’t have the party,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I checked the list. You are NOT a Douchebag.”

“Are you sure? I mean, the Canadian Ministry of…”

He cut me off mid-sentence. “Listen, I have the list right here. Haven’t you seen my NO H8 video?”

“Umm. Yes, actually, I have. Great vid and my sentiments exactly.”

“Well then trust me. You are NOT a Douchebag. I have the list right here, and your name isn’t on it.”

“Damn…” I muttered. “Okay, so what about F*cktard? They also told me I had…”

“Nope,” he interrupted me again. “I checked with the director of the Grand Lodge of F*cktards on that one, and if anyone knows F*cktards it’s him.”

“I don’t know what to say…” I mumbled.

“Sorry,” George said. “I know how excited you were about this, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to cancel your party. Or at the very least change the theme.”

“But… But everything is already Douchebagged for the guests convenience…”

“You know, Murv. If you keep doing nice things like that for your friends, fans, and guests, you will never achieve your dream of being a Douchebag.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And so, my elation came crashing down around me. I was no longer a Douchebag. Nor was I a F*cktard, much to my dismay. In fact, I had never been either one, nor did I stand a chance of becoming anything remotely close.

So, that’s the story. I don’t mind telling you that I’m devastated.

Srsly.

I mean, what the hell am I going to do with all of these vinegar potato chips?

More to come…

Murv

I’m under the gun with writing at the moment – no Palin, crosshair, vitriolic references intended – so I’m a bit behind in the blog department. While wondering what I could dash off in a few minutes this morning I was surfing Facebook, as per my usual routine and I noticed one of my friends had posted something about having coffee then giving blood on a particular day. Therefore, in the interest of saving time I thought I’d just re-run this particular leak for everyone. It is part 2 of 2, and can pretty much stand alone. But, as usual, feel free to click the link at the beginning so that you can go back and read part 1.

Is This Thing On?

Continued from: You Want My What?

Let’s see, now where were we?

Oh yeah… When last we left off, I had been drained of the majority of my blood by Hildegard Renfield at the behest of Vampirella, the evil Red Cross shill who had been sent to prowl through a Science Fiction convention looking for an unsuspecting author who had been working so hard that he wouldn’t be able to resist her offer of OJ and cookies. Oh, and I’d also been told to stay out of bright lights, make sure to not get myself wet, and whatever I do, definitely don’t feed myself after midnight, correct? No, wait… those are Mogwai…

Oh, oh, wait, I know… I was told not to drink any booze!

Right?

Good, then we are all on the same page.

So, there I was, booted out the back of the Blood Mobile by Vampirella’s evil henchwoman, with only an Amazing Spiderman band-aid, some stale cookie crumbs, and an eyedropper full of OJ for my trouble. And, on top of that, I was a pint low. I still say it was really more than a pint, because I caught Hildegard chanting, “Two for the boss, one for me… One for the boss, one for me… One for the boss, two for me…”

However, if that wasn’t bad enough, Chunkee – remember Chunkee? – was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t because he was armed with wooden stakes as he prepared to storm the rolling exsanguination station in order to rescue me. Nope, it was because Hildegard had spent so much time bleeding me (apparently she didn’t have an adequate vacuuming system <– gratuitous Firefly reference) that we had no time to spare. He already had the ChunkMobile warmed up and sitting nearby so that we could race downtown to Union Station and have a confab with the show hosts before going on air.

So, that’s what we did. The Chunkster drove like a madman, taking out old ladies with the door, honking his horn, and generally driving on the sidewalk when necessary. And, with a bit of time to spare, we arrived. We apologized profusely for the obvious rush and disorientation we were displaying, and explained the situation. It was no problem. Terry and John were all good and understood perfectly. In fact, they even said, “Hey, we have this sponsor who dropped off a bunch of energy drinks for us. Want one?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

So, one of them ran out and then came back with an armload of these little silver cans with red, blue and yellow logos printed on them.

Now, while this particular “energy drink” had been around in the United States for about 5 years, it hadn’t really been on my radar. To be honest, I’d never even heard of it. But, what the hell. I was game.

I looked at the can and said, “No alcohol, right? This is just an energy drink?”

I mean, after all, Hildegard told me I couldn’t have alcoholic beverages, right? She never said anything about energy drinks.

“Yep, just energy drink,” they told me. “No booze at all.”

“Okay,” I said, then popped open the can and downed it.

A few minutes later they led us into an empty studio they were using as a “green room” so that I could wait until it was my turn to be on the air. Upon depositing us there, they left an armload of the silver cans too, saying, “Here. Have some more.”

So, I did.

Now, I need to point something out to you folks. If you have read my blogs you know I’ve spent plenty of time behind a microphone. Just a couple of blogs back I talked about my days at my High School student run station. I did the college station thing too. In later years I even did guest spots on local stations to answer technical questions for callers. So, I had plenty of experience behind a microphone AND in front of crowds. Hell, this wasn’t even my first rodeo as an author being interviewed. I’d done that plenty of times as well. This was no big deal. It was old hat. I could do it in my sleep…

But, for some odd reason, I simply couldn’t sit still. I was pacing, fidgeting, and doing everything but bouncing off the walls. Actually, that’s not entirely true. There is a good possibility that I did, in fact, bounce off the walls once or twice… At any rate, Chunkee sat watching me in wide-eyed amazement for several minutes before finally asking me what was wrong.

“I dunno,” I told him.

“Are you nervous or something?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I can’t imagine why I would be. It’s just a radio talk show. I’ve done more of these than I can count.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “So what gives?”

“I really don’t know,” I said, giving my head a shake as I paced from wall to wall 14 more times in the span of 5 seconds. “Gimme another one of those drinks.”

And, he did. And, I drank it.

Before long, Terry and John retrieved me and brought me into the studio where the magic was happening. It was reminiscent of some of my old, late-evening talk shows back in high school – the lights were off, everything was laid back and just plain cool. We did our sound checks, came in from a break, they introduced me, and BAZZINGA! It’s off to the races we went.

I was scheduled to be on for 20 minutes that evening, and I came on at the bottom of the first hour of a 3 hour show. When it was time to say farewell, they didn’t. Instead they went to a commercial break, turned to me and said, “Holy crap, you’re the liveliest guest we’ve had in months. Want to stay on for the rest of the show?”

I thought about it for a second, then looked at them and said, “Got any more of those little silver cans?”

“Oh hell yeah,” they said. “The sponsor dropped off a friggin’ truckload. Want some more?”

“Line ’em up,” I said. “We got some dead air to fill.”

And so, the moral of this story is – Don’t listen to Hildegard Renfield. She doesn’t tell you the whole story when it comes to this exsanguination thing. Oh, and yeah, Red Bull is kinda like crack if you drink it right after giving blood…

More to come…

Murv