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

Eighteen year old girls can be a lot of fun.

Okay… Let me stop you right there you dirty minded monkeys. That is NOT what I am talking about. I am talking about being an uncle to a niece who just turned eighteen and the hilarity that can ensue at a family gathering… Especially when said uncle makes his living with words, and moreover, he’s me. (Hey, nobody else was patting me on the back, so I have to do it myself…)

At any rate, we just had a family gathering to celebrate the “fourth quarter birthdays.” We used to do a separate party for each, but as the family grew – and aged – it became hard to schedule multiple gatherings each month and still have time for things such as, oh, I dunno… Work. Sleep. Grocery shopping… you know. Extracurricular activities of a sort. I know that makes us a bit selfish, but it’s just one of those things…

But, back to the story. Among the fourth quarter birthdays is that of one of my nieces, and as we have already established, she recently hit the “Big One Eight.” Of age to vote, sign legal documents, etc.

How did she celebrate this milestone? I mean, besides the family gathering, of course.

She went out and had a hole poked into the side of her nose.

Now, for the record, I don’t give a flying rat’s arse about that. I see more folks with metal in their faces than you can shake a stick at – and I mean a really big stick. Seriously.

Now, to be honest, I don’t find it attractive at all. In fact, I find it more than just a bit silly and a whole lot stupid. But by the same token, it ain’t my face, so whatever trips your trigger. I’m not about to think any less of you for it, because truth is we all have our moments of stupid.

Let me repeat – if you want to impale yourself with ornamental finials and tie tacks, go right ahead. Whether or not I think it is stupid has no bearing whatsoever on whether or not I like you, will hang out with you, or will perform CPR if you are in distress. What I’m saying here is keep your hate mail to yourself. I am not discriminating against you, nor am I being intolerant of you, nor am I repressing you because I think it is stupid to poke holes in your face. I am simply expressing my feelings on the subject, just as you are doing the same by walking around with a diaper pin through your lip and a key fob sticking out of your eyebrow.

However… If you happen to be my niece and you show up at a family gathering with a hunk of metal sticking out of the side of your face, you should expect repercussions. I cite the following –

Merpizm 11/21/10: “If you say something stupid, I’m going to make fun of you. I expect no less when the roles are reversed.”

~ M. R. Sellars

The above quote also applies to DOING as well as saying…

And so, my dear niece arrived at the party. I had already heard that she experienced much disappointment in the fact that her Grandparents – and even her parents – had eschewed comment on her proboscis bauble. Since she, like all of my other nieces and nephews, is a pretty cool kid, I felt bad for her, in a sarcastic uncle sort of way, of course.

Merp – Hey… Niece… C’mere for a sec.

Niece – What?

Merp – [cocking head to the side for a better view] You set off metal detectors with that thing?

Niece – Yeah… Right… Very funny, uncle Murv.

Merp – So… How’d it happen?

Niece – What do you mean?

Merp – Horrible explosion at the jewelry counter and you didn’t duck soon enough? Or did you just fall on it or something?

Niece – It didn’t “happen.”

Merp – You mean you did it on purpose?

Niece – Yeah. It’s how I celebrated my birthday.

Merp – Really? I ate lasagna and cake to celebrate my eighteenth. I didn’t poke holes in my face.

Niece – I didn’t poke holes in my face.

Merp – Ummm… I hate to tell you this but you have a hole in the side of your nose. That’s part of your face.

Niece – I mean I didn’t do it myself. I had a professional do it.

Merp – A professional… You mean you paid someone to poke a hole in your face?

Niece – Yes.

Merp – Seriously? How much it cost you?

Niece – [pulling back hair to show something akin to Trigger’s horseshoe sticking out of the top of her ear] Well, for the cartilage piercing and the nose  piercing it was fifty bucks.

Merp – Wait… You willingly had TWO holes poked in your head in order to celebrate your birthday?

Niece – Yeah.

Merp – And you paid someone fifty bucks to do it?

Niece – Yeah.

Merp – I wish you’d called me first. I’ve got a hole punch at home and I would’ve done it for free.

Niece – [Laughs]

Merp – Really. In fact, I’ve got a three hole punch. I would’ve done three all at once, no charge. I even would’ve sterilized it first.

Niece – Yeah… right. These holes are smaller.

Merp – [Shrugs] No problem. I’ve got a stapler too. Next time you want to put a hole in your face let me know. I’ll bring it along.

Niece – Funny. Right now I’m thinking about getting a tattoo.

Merp – Really. Now you want someone to draw on you with a motorized needle?

Niece – Maybe.

Niece’s Mom – Where are you wanting to get this tattoo?

Niece – On my foot.

Merp – What’re you gonna get?

Niece – I don’t know yet.

Merp – Well, if you’re gonna get it on your foot, have ’em put Rue Britannia on the bottom of your foot and call it good.

Niece – Why?

Merp – So you can be just like Bullwinkle.

Niece – Bull who?

Merp – Bullwinkle. You know, Rocky. Bullwinkle. Moose and squirrel. Watch me pull a rabbit outta my hat…

Niece – What?

Merp – You don’t know who Rocky and Bullwinkle are?

Niece – I’m only eighteen.

Merp – If you’re old enough to go out and have a hole poked in your face, you’re old enough to know who Rocky and Bullwinkle are.

Niece – [Redirecting] It would hurt to get a tattoo on the bottom of your foot.

Merp – Sugar, I’m here to tell you it’s gonna hurt no matter where you get it…

Niece – [Sigh] You know, it’s just an earring.

Merp – What is?

Niece – [pointing at gas cap on the side of her nose] This.

Merp – Oh… Honey… You must’ve missed a biology class. That’s your nose, not your ear.

Niece – You know what I mean…

Merp – I think maybe your stupid hasn’t worn off yet.

Niece – What stupid?

Merp – The one that overtook your brain when you willingly paid someone  to stab holes in your face.

Niece – They didn’t stab holes in my face. They used a needle.

Merp – Okay. So did you have to shove a cork up your nose for them to push it into?

Niece – They didn’t use a cork.

Merp – Well how in the world did you fit an apple up there?

Niece – [Attempting to remain indignantly eighteen but her  “OMG Uncle Murv” sigh is overcome by her own laughter]

Merp – Did they give you an instruction guide booklet with that thing?

Niece – No.

Merp – No? Well what happens if you get a booger caught up in there? How do you know what to do?

Niece – I sneeze.

Merp – Then I guess if someone is sitting on your right they should duck so you don’t shoot their eye out if that thing flies outta the side of your nose, huh?

Niece – The post is at a right angle.

Merp – Pointing up or down?

Niece – Up.

Merp – Well there you go. That just makes it easier for boogers to get caught on it.

Niece – I have a friend who has one. I’ll just ask her.

Merp – A booger?

Niece – A nose ring.

Merp – I really think you should go back and ask for the instruction guide booklet. I mean, you paid fifty bucks and all…

I could go on, but I’m already over one-thousand on the word count, and I’ve heard that shorter blogs are “in” these days. Suffice it to say, the razzing went on for better than an hour while her younger sister sat and listened. After all that I’m pretty sure we won’t have to worry about her setting off any metal detectors when she hits eighteen. Not at any family gatherings where Uncle Murv is present, anyway…

More to come…

Murv