BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

This is likely to be my final blog post. The end of an era, the sad and pitiful end to Brainpan Leakage and anything that has passed for humor in it over the last several years. I’m sure my loyal readers are now asking, “Why would you stop blogging, especially after going through all of the trouble of moving B L over here to WordPress and all that jazz?”

Well, it’s simple. Within a 24 hour period following the “deployment” of this particular post, I will probably be dead. Corpsified. X’s on the eyes. Pushin’ up daisies. Stiff as a board. Croaked. No longer among the living… Well, you get the picture. Just insert your preferred euphemism and sally forth… In lieu of flowers, send booze and cigars…

Now, I am sure you are wondering why it is that I figure I will be dead. Again, there’s a simple answer to that one. E K will be killing me. How she’ll do it is anyone’s guess. Gun, knife, running over me with her car, who knows… It’s probably a safe bet that it won’t be poison, since she doesn’t cook, but I suspect the rest of the methods are up for grabs. Of course, if she suddenly offers me a sammich, then I suppose it could be death by arsenic. But, I think that would be some long odds, because it would still involve use of the kitchen and once I’m croaked she won’t have anyone to do the dishes.  Still, take it from me… Knowing her like I do, I am certain my demise will be slow and painful, for me at least. I’m sure she’ll enjoy every minute of it. In any event, if you happen to be starting a pool on this, think outside the box. Remember, she’s evil, and extremely creative. Very convincing too. I’m sure she’ll have a perfectly reasonable explanation for the investigating authorities.

Yep… I can already hear the gears meshing and smell the wood burning as you all try to figure out why E K would want to kill me… Well, I keep telling you she’s evil, but y’all just don’t listen. And besides, you don’t live with me, so obviously you aren’t privy to a good portion of what could serve as her impetus… However, in this case all of that is really a moot point. The simple truth is, she will be committing blatant spousicide, (as I said earlier, probably only after gleefully subjecting me to some extreme and prolonged spousal torture), and it will be all because of the story I am about to tell.

You see, some time back when I was bouncing blog ideas off my dear and lovely, (figuratively, folks… I didn’t actually hit her with stuff… If I’d done that I’d already be dead)… But anyway, during one such conversation E K told me she liked my blogs when they made her look good. Anything where she came out on top and I was revealed as the bumbling klutz, worshiping her from my station at her feet was all right by her. As to the rest of it, her reaction was something along the line of, “Meh.”

Not surprising. Remember, she’s heard most of these stories before, and was even present for many of them…

Of course, I immediately pointed out that any time she appeared in my blogs, she was always portrayed as the beautiful, intelligent, crafty, and yes, overly evil,  heroine. That last part, of course, is merely truth in advertising. Furthermore, I reminded her that I was always painted as the complete doofus.

She cocked her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, frowned, tapped her foot in that evil “let me explain this again you moron” sort of fashion, then said, “Kmart?“

Yeah… In case the rest of you don’t recall this grandiose f*ckup on my part, during the “Mahwage” blog series I outed The Evil One as having purchased her wedding dress from Kmart. I paid for that… Or, I thought I had…  I even have the lash marks to prove it… But, apparently there’s some interest, or hidden principal, that I missed when I made out the check…

So… The long and short of it is this… If the Kmart thing was enough to get me long term punishment, the story I am about to tell is enough to get me tortured and killed. Count on it. Truth is, I may even qualify for the full William Wallace treatment, so don’t be surprised if I am drawn, quartered, and have my individual parts buried in landfills at the four corners of the earth.

So, again I am sure you are wondering why I am going to tell this tale if I already know doing so is equivalent to signing that proverbial death warrant? Man, y’all are just full of easy questions today… Are you taking pity on me or something?

Thanks… I guess…

Well, at any rate, the answer is once again, as I said, simple… Because it’s funny. Well, it’s funny to me. And to the few folks to whom I’ve told it to in secret, (but only after having them sign off on a non-disclosure agreement). Hopefully it will be funny enough for y’all that it will make up for my untimely corpsification. I guess we’ll find out.

On that note, the story you are about to hear is true. The names have not been changed because there is no innocence to be protected. Again, in lieu of flowers, send really good scotch, bourbon, and cigars to wherever E K buries me. I don’t know if they have liquor stores and smoke shops on the other side of the veil, so I want to be prepared…

Now, on with the crime…

Umpty-jillion years back… Okay, seriously, it was more like about a decade ago… E K and I had ourselves a wedding to attend. Not ours, someone else’s. It was for some good friends we had known for quite a while and were a part of our particular circle. Therefore, while we didn’t know everyone at the reception…you never do…our core group was there to help celebrate.

Now, going to a fancy wedding and reception at a fancy hotel pretty much means you shouldn’t show up in shorts and a t-shirt. Especially since this happened in January and there was snow on the ground. But, of course, those of you who know me are well aware that I do the whole shorts and a t-shirt thing year round. But, as usual, that’s not my point. What I’m trying to say is that we got ourselves all prettied up. I did the whole button down shirt, tie, slacks, nice blazer thing. E K, naturally, did the whole eye-popping killer dress thing with heels. And, I need to point out that since this was a fancy party deal and all, she wasn’t wearing everyday go-to-work shoes. She was prancing around on a shiny pair of CFMP’s… (For those of you who may be unfamiliar with that particular acronym, it stands for “Come F*ck Me Pumps“… Yeah… Bedroom shoes.) Now, before you shake your heads and mutter, “tisk-tisk,” I am not bringing this up just because I like seeing my wife in heels. We’ve already established that I do… However, this is actually a very important part of the story… After all, this post is titled “Gimme Mai Shooz…”

So… There we are at this party. I’m looking kinda okay… You know, about as silk purse as a sow’s ear can get once it’s cleaned up… E K is, of course, looking amazing, as always. The party is raging around us. Food is served, booze is flowing, and dancing is happening.

Now, at this point I have to give you a tiny bit of background… At this juncture, E K and I had been trying to start a family. There had been miscarriages involved, along with a whole lot of stress and urgency… I mean, we weren’t getting any younger, and the bell on The Evil One’s biological alarm clock had already been hammering out a deafening cacophony for a couple of years. But, at this point in time, after repeatedly trying and failing, we had finally taken our own advice and decided it was time to simply relax. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. Enough said. Because of this, we didn’t even have to flip a coin that evening with regard to a designated driver. I told E K that since she had been putting herself under all this stress, and had been living in her own private, self-imposed “dry county” for several months, that I would take it easy on the drink and let her do the table dancing and lampshade wearing at this particular shindig.

She was all good with that…

One more important piece of background… In our youth, E K used to drink me under the table. Once I was there she would kick me repeatedly and use me as a footrest, but that’s a different story… But seriously, this tiny little, 100 pound when soaking wet, waifish doll, could pull a Marion Ravenwood and go shot for shot of hard liquor, then still be perfectly coherent and drinking when everyone else was passed out, or laid up in the hospital being detoxified (See: Raiders of the Lost Ark, bar scene in Nepal). It was truly a sight to see. But, as I said, that was in our youth… And, we weren’t exactly youthful anymore… We weren’t as un-youthful as we are now, but you get the point. On top of that, she was out of practice… See where I’m going?

So… Yeah. The Evil One came down with a severe case of the drunks. Now, for those of you who don’t know E K, there is only one way you can tell she has even been drinking, and that is the fact that she starts talking. You see, The Evil One is generally very reserved and quiet. Probably because inside the pretty head of hers she’s hatching evil plans against the world. But seriously, she really is a quiet and reserved type of person, especially in crowds. So, when you see her out on the dance floor, giggling and bouncing off the walls, it’s a good bet she’s had a drink or two… or three… or four.

But, as I have tried to illustrate above, an attack of gregariousness is pretty much it. She doesn’t get sloppy, falling down, toilet bowl hugging drunk. I’ve never seen her go that far… Well, until that night.

However, we aren’t there yet. You see, as the evening wore on and all was good. E K was flitting about, dancing, laughing, bouncing around, and just generally having a great time. It was wonderful to see her de-stressed for a change. But, as usual, all good things must come to an end. As expected, at umpteen-thirty in the morning the party reached its inevitable conclusion and everyone parted ways to head to their respective homes, us included.

I should have known right away that the booze bottles E K had tied to her tail were drained dry the minute we started out across the parking lot. Remember, I mentioned this was during the winter and it was cold outside. My dear and lovely, who freezes to death when the temperature drops below 70, pranced right out through the cold night in her slinky dress, coat over her arm, and completely unfazed. Obviously, her anti-freeze was working just fine.

Fortunately, it was a relatively short drive home, however, this was when things started going south. Anyone who has ever done any drinking to excess knows that there are two scenarios that come into play here. One is, if you’ve been sitting at a table tossing them back, once you stand up, it’s all over but the funeral. The other is, if you’ve been moving about like a crazy person while downing the booze, once you stop moving, it’s all over but yadda yadda.

Well, obviously, E K fell into category two. Now, fortunately there was no hurlage or any such grossness, but by the time we arrived home she was doing a lot of moaning and whenever she spoke it sounded like the language our daughter used to speak when she was around 18 months old, punctuated by an occasional, and perfectly understandable, “Oh sh*t.”

Now, I’m sure you are all wondering what’s so funny about this… Well… Nothing. That’s because this isn’t the funny part. This is just the set-up. You know how it works by now…

So, anyway, we get into the house, and while the walk from driveway to living room wasn’t exactly long, E K was ready to sit down. She plopped onto the couch and moaned some more. Being the good guy I am, I pulled her shoes off and propped her up so that the sofa would only spin at something near half speed. I figured I’d be sitting up with her for a bit so I took off my tie and started to get comfortable when she mumbled, “Ahm gomma gro banoom.”

Naturally, since it sounded like she had just told me she was going to explode, I said, “What?”

“Erm gon manna berf noom,” she replied.

Unfortunately, I had left my drunken E K to English dictionary in the car, so I simply stood there and puzzled over what she was trying to tell me. For a moment I thought maybe she was saying, “I’m gonna barf soon,” but she didn’t look particularly green around the gills, so I chalked that one down as a possibility, and continued to ponder.

With an exasperated sigh that was somewhat dangerous due to the fact that it could have been ignited by even a small spark, my rag doll wife mumbled once again, “Annem gimma froom.”

With that she rocked forward and pushed herself up off the sofa. With a quick twist she started forward and her eyes suddenly expanded to the size of salad plates. Right before my eyes, she collapsed downward as if she had just tripped over a curb. I jumped forward, caught her before she hit the floor, and settled her back on the couch.

Less than a minute later, and this time with no warning, she tried getting up again. She came to her feet, teetered, stepped forward, stepped back, then fell straight down onto the couch.

I laughed. Probably not the best idea, but hey, it was funny… But, things were about to get funnier…

She stood again, teetered back to front, then pitched forward a second time. And, once again I stepped in and caught her before she did a face plant on the hardwood.

“Ammen gimma badda froom..” she insisted, pointing past me and down the hallway. Or, at least that’s where I thought she was pointing.

Putting 2 and 2 together I surmised that she wanted to go to the bathroom, so I asked her, “Do you mean you want to go to the bathroom?”

Yeah, I know, obvious question, but I was tired.

She nodded, then her eyes got big again as she mumbled something a little more decipherable. “Ohm sit!”

I was still holding her up, so I hooked my arm tighter around her waist and tried to guide her around the coffee table. We made it exactly 1 and 1/2 steps before she teetered backwards and toppled onto the couch, nearly taking me with her.

She giggled. Then she giggled harder. Then she mumbled, “Ohm sit…” again.

I said, “Okay, let’s try this again.”

As I started to pull her up she raised her eyebrows and began to babble. “Gamma sous.”

“What?” I asked.

“Ganmanna souses.”

Again, like an idiot, I asked, “What?”

“Ginnama soons,” she replied a bit more adamantly.

I shook my head. “Honey, I don’t understand what you want.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, drew in a deep breath and tried to focus on me. With what was obviously a huge amount of effort  in order to form semi coherent speech, she demanded, “Gimme Mai Shooz!”

Well, having been drunk before I know how it is. You get attached to something, important or not, and you want to make sure you know where it is at all times. Be it a bottle cap, a swizzle stick, or even your shoes.

So, I turned around and plucked the pair of stiletto heeled pumps off the coffee table and handed them to her. She rocked a bit then pitched herself forward and tried desperately to fit the left shoe onto her right foot. In this case, however, it wasn’t so much that she was trying to put a shoe on the wrong foot, she wasn’t even able to match the shoe with real foot. It seems she was seeing several, so her aim was way off.

After watching this for a half minute or so, I knelt down and took the shoes from her hands and slipped them onto her feet. After all, it seemed important to her that her feet no longer be naked.

Once I had done this she mumbled something then gave me a nudge, which I interpreted to mean, “get out of my way you idiot.”

Apparently, my translation skills were getting better. As soon as I had stood and backed away, she pushed herself up and stood perfectly without even teetering. Then, without another word she pranced off to the bathroom in a perfectly straight line, no bob nor weave save for the sexy sway that afflicts a woman in high-heeled footwear.

I suppose it’s kind of like the Sid Caesar sight gag joke about the staggering drunk guy who can suddenly walk a straight line during an earthquake. In this case, however, instead of a natural disaster, apparently some form of female fashion physics is involved. I don’t have the necessary plugin to show the equation, suffice it to say, the answer to the variable seemed to be, if you get drunk while wearing high-heels, don’t take them off until you are  either sober or passed out.

And now, I need to go finish writing my Last Will and Testament…

More to come? (I guess that really depends on how merciful The Evil One decides to be…)

Murv

PS. For readers of the Rowan Gant saga… Did you ever wonder where I got the “drunken Felicity” scene in Never Burn A Witch? Well, now you know…

Please Note: Some of the images contained in this post were found via LOLcats and/or displayed on multiple non-commercial or advertisement sites throughout the web. It is not the intention of M. R. Sellars or Brainpan Leakage to infringe upon copyrights. If valid copyright holders of any image above consider  the use in this blog  entry to be in violation, please contact mrsellars@sbcglobal.net and the photo will be removed immediately. Proof of copyright or trademark authority required.

In theory, I suspect I am supposed to be posting a blog about how Martians are attacking Grover’s Mill, or going on about Orson Welles coming back from the dead because he’s actually from Planet 10… Wait… That would have been John Lithgow, and he’s not dead yet… wait… I’d better go check on that… (insert Jeopardy music here)… Nope, not dead.

But, never mind that anyway. I’m not really all about the April Fools stuff, especially given the incessant foolery I engage in on a daily basis. No, this should actually be my “no fooling” day… April Serious day…

So, let’s get on with the show…

As to the titular objection regarding my personal relevance, I should probably point out that there weren’t really any lawyers or judges involved. No darkly paneled rooms. No halls of justice… Or, justice leagues… Or super friends either…

Nope, it was just me. Well, me and a search engine… (I know, I know, the grammar police are on their way to get “I” right now so they can rearrange my sentence structure, but “me” wanted to write it that way…)

But, let’s dispense with all this April Seriousness and simply start at the beginning…

There I was, minding my own business, as usual… Another Sunday morning had rolled around, and 5 AM had reared its ugly head. Well, actually, I don’t find 5 AM to be all that ugly myself… After all, I’m one of those early risers, so I think it’s kinda cool. It’s quiet, I have the office to myself, and there’s nothing to distract me, except for those pesky chickens. Either way,  at 5 AM, believe it or not, I can actually get some work done…

But anyway… I was parked in the office, as usual, sipping my first “coff o’ cuppee” of the morn, while paging my way through volumes of email. Once I had perused, with great relish mind you, all of the advertisements for Lithuanian brides, generic Viagra, breast enlargement, penis enlargement, singles, doubles, triples, financial advice, free cans of “colon flush”, and all manner of other “hard to pass up” offers, I moved on to approving blog comments and the like. You know the drill. Just another Sunday morning.

Once finished with the comments and the like, I kicked back and surfed around. Being a bit of a “tweaker”… Not a mother tweaker, mind you. Just a tweaker. And, in case you are wondering, what I mean is this: I tinker about with my websites on a fairly regular basis to tweak them…

So, anyway, being a tweaker, once I was done with the comment stuff, I headed over to the listing of plug ins for WordPress. It wasn’t that I really had anything in particular that I was looking for, however, one never knows when there might be some kind of cool little widget, gadget, or flibbertyjibbet that would be fun to stick in the side panel. Or, more importantly, something that will make my life easier as far as maintaining my blog and website… And, let’s look at the facts here… I’m all about anything that makes my life easier. Of course, that begs all manner of questions, but we won’t go there… Not in this particular blog entry, anyway…

So, back to this whole plug in thing… As I scrolled through the listings, I happened to notice a “dashboard widget” for WordPress that was designed to let you know what your “Google Page Rank” happened to be. If you are unfamiliar with the Google Page Rank, it is a numerical value applied to your website by the search engine, Google… Hence the reason it is called a “Google Page Rank” and not, say for instance, a “Yahoo Page Rank”… Make sense? Yeah, I know, it confuses me too, but hey, it’s one of those things.

Anywho, the “ranking” is based on some manner of algorithm that I am not about to get into, what with mathematics not being one of my strong subjects. And, to be honest, much like the product ranking algorithm on Amazon, even Charlie Eppes from Numbers probably couldn’t figure it out, no matter how may chalkboards you give him. Suffice it to say, Google looks at your page, analyzes the meta data, content, links, images, linkbacks, embedded rhesus monkeys, flying purple people eaters, pocket lint, and every other damn thing it can find sitting there. Once it has done this, it assigns a numerical value that rates the “relevance” of your page.

Just for grins, I decided to install this little plug in. Why not? It didn’t take up much space, didn’t use any real intense system overhead, and wasn’t going to require much in the way of user intervention in order to get it to operate. Besides, it would be fun to see where Google had me ranked, right?

So, I did the clicky-clicky thing with the clicky-clicky thing attached to my computer. Lights flashed on the DSL modem, stuff flickered on the router, and somewhere in all that techno-garble, my computer did the download thing. I clicked install, a few scripts ran, and then the dashboard widget appeared.  Yippee! I must have done something right for a change. I had a look at the results and noticed immediately that it said, “mrsellars.com/mrblog has page rank of  zero“…

I paused. Certainly that couldn’t be correct. Just to be sure, I refreshed the screen.

The widget still said, “mrsellars.com/mrblog has page rank of  zero“…

Now, I have to be clear on something… While I’m a tweaker, I am not some kind of page rank whore. I will readily admit to being a marketing whore. I will even fess up to being “E Kay’s Bitch” most of the time.  That’s why it actually says “Property of Evil Kat” on one of my T-shirts. But, page rank whoring just isn’t my thing… Still, one would think that a domain named mrsellars.com, which has meta-tags about M. R. Sellars, a meta description talking about M. R. Sellars, with content about M. R. Sellars,  a blog authored by M. R. Sellars, internal links to stuff about M. R. Sellars, and external links to things that have to do with M. R. Sellars… Is anyone else seeing the pattern here? Good. Anyway, one would think such a pile of data  would probably have some manner of relevancy where M. R. Sellars is concerned. Know what I mean?

However, with a page rank of zero, basically Google was saying that mrsellars.com is in no way relevant to the subject of M. R. Sellars.

Of course, this seemed a bit odd to me. I figured that the plug in must not have been working. But, rather than delete it immediately, I decided to go check. Jumping on the next swell of DSL to come by, I road the crest, shot the tube, shredded the wave and surfed myself right on over to Google and ran a check.

Much to my surprise, according to Google proper, my page rank is zero…

So… I guess it’s official. I mean, what with Google being the benchmark… The yardstick by which all other search engines are measured… Hell, it’s even a piece of our vocabulary and culture… A proper noun that has been morphed by society into an accepted verb, adverb, adjective, and overall linguistic addition, which is now so deeply ingrained into our culture  as to define a generation.

Yeah… Google… (Insert heavenly sounding music here…) The  multi-colored, content caching, logo changing, power that be on the world wide interwebs…

And, so, Google has decided that M. R. Sellars is irrelevant. I feel so… um… so… well… I guess there’s no other way to say it. I feel irrelevant.

You know, in my way of thinking, this whole irrelevancy issue doesn’t seem all that fair. I mean, I’ve always spoken so highly of thos Googlites…

Hmm… I suppose I should start using a different search engine. Maybe they will appreciate me…

More to come…

Murv