BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

On any given day my life could be a sitcom. Or a soap opera. I guess it just depends on the day. Personally, I prefer the sitcom days because I don’t do drama. I laugh at drama. I shoot spitwads at the llama. But I don’t do drama. I even send friends packing when they bring their drama to my home.

Rule number 1437.5 – If you bring drama to my house, leave it in the car with your llama.

But, sometimes drama sneaks in the back door when someone leaves it open, and you have to chase it out with a broom. Been there, done that. But let’s run around a different block. As I said, I prefer the sitcom days, and I have way more of them than I have accidental soap opera days.

Now, if you follow me on Facebook (there we go with The Zuckman’s social network again… talk about drama…whewww…) Anywho, if you follow me over there you hear me mention E S. No, not E K… E S. No, E S is not Evil Stephanie, EKay’s heretofore unknown half-sister just announced on national TV. (How’s that for a gratuitous Oprah reference?)… But back to the story – E S stands for Ethical Society.

Yes Virginia (Fred, Joe, Sandy, Arlene, Bob, Carol, Ted, Alice, etc…) I am a Secular Humanist. Thought I was Pagan didn’t you? Not for quite a long, long time now… I have my reasons, but that’s another blog. Suffice it to say, I’m not anti-pagan, just like I’m NOT anti-Christian, anti-Semitic, anti-Muslim, etc. I’m good with all of ’em, but I’m not any of them either.

But, like I said, different blog.

So, anyway, the O-spring has friends at E S, as do Her Supreme Evilness and I. And we hang out at E S on Sunday’s, and even at other times. Like recently. Right after that foot of snow dropped on us. We even had some more falling from the sky to top it off a bit. Get where I’m heading? Good, because I don’t either.

Wait… Maybe I do. You see, after E S this past Sunday, the O-spring went home with one of her friends so they could hang out and do tween o-spring stuff. What with all the snow they did sledding and all that general wintry fun crap we used to do when we were young enough to be able to get back up off the ground after slamming into a snowbank at the bottom of the hill. Anyhow, as will happen they ended up snow covered, and as the snow melts the coat, etc ends up wet.

Fast forward to that evening. This is actually where the sitcom moment comes in. The Redhead and I hop into the Evil Mobile and head over to retrieve our kid. We arrive, business as usual, our friend – we’ll call her Alison because I promised I wouldn’t use her real name –  invites us in and calls the girls down from upstairs. While we wait for the kids to actually make it to the main floor, what with them being tweens and all, we stood around in the sitting room – yeah, I know – chit chatting.

Alison eventually says, “I’d better get o-spring’s boots. They were wet so I’ve been drying them out over here.”

The Hottest Thing In Kids Shoes

She takes a step over to the fireplace and when she turns back around she is holding a suede girls boot. Nothing terribly odd about this, except that smoke is rolling out of and off of it. Literally. In fact, it looks just like one of those smoking shoes that is left behind after Larry, Moe, Curly, or Shemp is blown out of his socks…

We all looked at it. No drama. No excitement. No nothing.

After a moment of us all staring at the smoking boot, in a calm, even voice Alison said, “I think I burned it.”

I replied, just as calmly, “Burned? Actually I think it’s still burning.”

It was. Smoke was still rolling off of it. Out of it. Around it. There even appeared to be some glowing embers spreading along the side around what used to be a buckle. And the rubberized sole was looking just a bit drippy.

The smell of a tire fire was beginning to permeate the room.

We all looked at it again. Calmly. No exclamations. No hurry. Just standing there staring at the hottest thing in fashion footwear for kids, so to speak.

“Yep,” E K finally said with a nod. “It’s definitely on fire.”

Alison said, “I think I’d better put it out.”

“Well, at least the kid’s feet will be warm on the way home,” I offered.

“Well, the other one didn’t burn,” Alison said as she headed out of the room with the smoking shoe with no more urgency than if she were just going to  grab a drink. Over her should she added, “Just this one.”

I shrugged. “I guess we need to move it closer to the fire then.”

I guess that makes me a bad parent.

Moral of the story? There isn’t one really. The kid ended up with a new pair of boots, and I ended up with a story. Of course, I guess I need to remember to ask Alison the next time I see her if the house still smells like someone tossed a steel belted radial into the fireplace.

More to come…

Murv

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