BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

If you are a regular follower of B L, you most likely read “You Get HBO On That?”  a few weeks ago. In case you didn’t, or just don’t remember it and are too lazy to click on the link to refresh your memory, it was pretty much a transcript of a conversation I had with my newly 18 year old niece who had just had her nose pierced to celebrate her birthday.

For the record, I don’t care if she puts holes in her nose, or wherever else for that matter. Same goes for anyone else. However, I’m an uncle, I’m a writer, and I have a bizarre sense of humor. Therefore, it’s a moral imperative that I give my niece trouble. So, all of you pierced and tattooed whackos with email accounts can STOP sending me messages telling me what a bastard I am. If you honestly believe I am discriminating against you – and her – then your brains really DID leak out of those extra holes you poked into yourself.

Put simply: Slap some Dap ™ Stupid Crack filler on your holes and leave me alone.

But pointing out to the outraged idiots that they are idiots is not why I’m writing this particular blog entry. Nope. Actually I’m doing it to illustrate a “moral of the story.”

“What moral is that?” you ask…

Well, it’s kind of one of those “Fried Green Tomatoes” sort of morals. Remember that now famous line delivered by Kathy Bates?

“Face it, girls, I’m older and I have more insurance.”

…It’s sort of like that. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a lot like the moral I offered in the original blog on this subject. However, Christmas was upon us, and… Well… Allow me to illustrate. Literally.

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That moral?

Don’t do something silly, stupid, or otherwise bizarre if you have ME for an uncle. I have money, a copy of Photoshop, a color laser printer, and one hell of an imagination.

BTW, I didn’t want the other kids to feel left out, so…

Niece #2 got a “Booger ™” Logoed box containing a cork, carpet needle, and antiseptic wipe, along with instructions on how to pierce her own nose.

Nephew received a “Booger ™” Logoed box containing a lump of charcoal and instructions on how to make a diamond nose ring.

Texts and picture messages were flying, let me tell you. Not sure if the rest of the teenagers in Saint Louis think I’m a “Cool Uncle” or a Jackass. Maybe one day they’ll figure out that I’m both…

More to come…

Murv

Commercials… You just never know what kind of havoc they will cause. For instance, you have that whole Filet-O-Fish thing going on. There’s even a ring tone for your cell, just like in the commercial itself.

As a matter of fact, E K was at a bank just the other day, stomping a printer into submission – what with her being Queen of the Printer Technicians and all – when a cell phone nearby began ringing. It was, of course, the Filet-O-Fish ring tone.

That’s when the havoc ensued.

As I understand it, E K went over and stabbed the guy in the head with a screwdriver, then stomped his cell phone until it was quiet. Oddly enough, she wasn’t charged with assault or even destruction of property. Apparently she received a standing ovation from everyone else in the bank. You may have read about it in the papers.

Now, me, I actually like the Filet-O-Fish jingle. But, don’t tell E K. She carries a screwdriver in her purse and I’m not big on being stabbed.

Of course, as usual, I am chasing a chicken of different plumage – by that I mean, I’m actually here to talk about a different commercial. Not the Filet-O-Fish song.

So… Anyway… Yeah… Guess I’d better get on with it then…

You see, the other day the O-spring and I were heading out to run some errands. While I generally listen to the local NPR station whenever I’m in the Merp Mobile, on this particular occasion I was in the mood for some tunes, so we were dialed in to the local classic rock station. Fortunately, the O-spring has very diverse musical tastes. She does get into some J-Pop and other stuff that really drives me insane, but she can also be equally entertained by ZZ Top, Black Sabbath, or Billy Joel (ad infinitum). Way cool, eh?

Yeah, I know, I’m getting off track again…

Back to the story… Since we were listening to a commercial station, obviously there were commercial breaks. Since this was shortly before Valentine’s Day, one of them happened to be for a Boudoir / Lingerie Chain that was advertising “Designer Underwear.”

Again, havoc ensues. The following is a best recollection accounting of the conversation that came in the wake of said commercial…

After a thoughtful pause, the O-spring, with an overabundance of confusion in her voice said, “Designer Underwear?! Who would want that?!”

“Well, honey,” I said. “Some people are all about the labels and things like that.”

“Oh, okay,” she replied.

I could tell by the way she said it that we weren’t finished. The traffic signal ahead of us winked so I made my left hand turn and proceeded down the road. The kid stewed silently for another minute or two. You could almost hear the cogs and gears clattering against one another as she concentrated.

Finally she announced, “I guess you just have to be old enough to want designer underwear.”

I was intrigued, so I asked,  “How old is that?”

“Old enough to have a boyfriend,” she replied with a matter-of-fact air about her.

I “schnerked” and tried to avoid spitting a mouthful of coffee all over the inside of my windshield. Gathering my composure I followed up with, “Well, how old do you think that is?”

Once again, gears and ratchets began grinding, clanking, and whirring. A moment later she replied, “I don’t know.”

Like any father with a daughter, I saw a perfect opportunity before me. “Well,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that you aren’t old enough to have a boyfriend until you’re 40.”

“Okay,” the O-spring said, not even flinching. “Sounds good.”

“So, we’re agreed then. You aren’t going to have a boyfriend until you turn 40, right?”

“Right.”

As good a memory as the kid has, I’m fairly certain that in a few years she won’t remember this conversation at all. I’ll definitely remind her, but I don’t think it will do any good.

All I can say is when “teenhood” rolls around and she decides to break the pact, I know there’s nothing I can do. However, if she asks for money to go buy designer underwear, we’re going to have a problem…

More to come…

Murv