Can Someone Take My Order???

So I was meeting a friend for lunch this past Sunday, and I was waiting for her in the back of a parking lot so she could find me. This parking lot happened to be located behind a Chick-fil-a. Now, we all know Chick-fil-a is not open on Sundays....well I thought we all knew this.

So the Chick-fil-a parking lot is empty. The Chick-fil-a van is parked in the drive thru line, just past the menu/speaker. Well, I looked over at one point, and there are 2 cars behind the van in the drive thru, the first one lined up with the speaker. I thought this was odd, but I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt - maybe they were trying to do an inconspicuous drug deal and that seemed like a good place to them.

No one got out of the cars, though, and the cars didn't move. So if they were doing a little 'sharing of goods', they did a really good job of being secretive.

So the cars, sat there for a few minutes, and then I looked over and the 2nd car backed out and left. There was now only 1 car...still sitting there. It sat there for at least 10 minutes after the alleged drug deal, which makes me think there was no drug deal.

So, ok, maybe everyone on the planet doesn't know Chick-fil-a is closed on Sunday. (I looked at the license plate of car #2, though, and it was a SC plate, so they really should know. If they were from up north or something, I probably could have understood.) But, if you were in a drive thru line, how long would you wait for someone to say 'Welcome to ______, can I take your order?' More than 20 minutes? Because they did.

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit...I mean Theft of Printer Cartridges

Happy 4th of July week.

I thought I'd start off that way since my story involves some very American themes: Shoplifting (or getting something you haven't worked for), Walmart, and of course stupid people.

So I went to Walmart to get my Rx today. (Sidenote: I'm not really a fan of Walmart, but I'm not as adamantly against it as my sister. I just don't really like the place. I usually leave mad. This time, though, I left laughing.)

As I was walking in there was a guy trying to shoplift several - like 10 - printer cartridges. 2 Employees were trying to block his way. A third came running to stop him, and together they formed a human chain in front of the door - like in Red Rover. The thief wasn't running, but was denying stealing, even though you could see the stuff bulging out the back of his shirt. It was actually all kind of in slow motion - not much action at all. I guess they thought he was dangerous because they weren't grabbing at the stuff he had obviously shoved down the back of his shirt.

I went on in the store (b/c I didn't know how violent it was going to get), but the pharmacy was closed (awesome). So I walked back out to find like 5 cartridges on the ground and 3 employees walking back from the parking lot with several more. 2 of the crime stoppers were really pissed off women in headsets. I wouldn't cross them. I'm not sure what happened to our thief, but I'm confident they got all of their merchandise back.

Olympic Hopeful

So I was at the pool today and there was this lady there (probably about 35ish yrs old, not what I would call 'athletic') leisurely swimming laps. Now, that is funny in and of itself since one end of the pool has stairs all the way across. However, that was not the funniest thing that this woman did/said.

She was talking to her mom about wanting to learn how to do a flip turn. She said something like, "I've got the concept of the flip turn. I just can't seem to do it." Her mom of course encouragingly gave her the name of a friend or family member who could help. (I love how supportive her mom was of this venture.) Then she proceeded to practice her flip turns. I can attest, she indeed could not do it.

Now, I'm not against people learning new things. I'm all for it. I love learning. However, I kind of think there is an age after which learning to do a flip turn isn't going to do that much for you...like maybe 12 (and that's generous).

But, hey, if someone wants to shave 0.5 sec off her lap time, who am I to judge? I mean, I guess this is a pretty good time to start training. She has 3 years until London. (In the words of the 'knuckle puck' kid's brother on D2: The Mighty Ducks) Go USA!

It's Already Been Broughten!

Alright, April, I hate to admit that your public chastisement was actually a decent motivator, but whatever.  I did want to ask, though, how your other websites were going.  Gone for any good runs lately?  Procrastinate much?

 

Ok, onto the real post…

Several months ago I got an offer to work as an athletic trainer at a cheerleading competition.  I know, I know, my immediate response should have been, “Yeah, thanks, but no.”  I mean, I have nothing against cheerleaders.  I would never say they weren’t athletes, or call them ‘dancers gone retarded’ or anything.  I’m just not really into cheerleading.  Besides that, cheerleaders probably have more injuries than football and soccer combined.

But, times they are tough, and I needed the money, so I took the job.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  Wow.

So I naively thought that this competition would be fairly low-key – kind of like a wrestling tournament (which I also dislike covering), with a few different mats, teams competing on each.  I thought I would sit in a corner somewhere and hand out band-aids and ice, and then deal with major injuries on the mats. 

Um, no.  First of all, this competition was considered a ‘National Championship’ even though there were only teams from a few states.  And there were several different mats, but they were in the warm-up area.  The competition area was in fact a stage…like a 4 ft. tall stage.  It was like Bring It On.  The lights were out the entire time (except for the strobe lights, which were definitely on), and the music (a strenuous number of horrible remixes) was blaring so loud I could barely hear myself think.

I had blindly stumbled into big time competition cheerleading.  I wore a headset radio to communicate with the other staff members.  There was more make-up and hairspray in one building than you would find at a drag queen competition. It was all downhill from there.

How old were these kids?  The youngest were probably 5, and the oldest were college age.  Don’t worry, though, the hip gyrations were all top notch.  And, remember, the smaller they are, they higher you can throw them.

I doubt my heart rate dropped below 90 the entire time.  I dealt with at least 25 injuries over the 2 day period - multiple suspected concussions, suspected fractures, knocked out teeth, among other things.  The worst injury, by far, though involved 2 words I never thought I would hear, and never, ever wanted to hear:  Parent Team.

What?!?!

Seriously, you can’t just live vicariously through your children?  I mean, aren’t you doing that anyway?  Do you really need to get up on the stage and try to re-live the glory days, or, for some of you, invent the glory days?

And the thing is, if this was just a joke, or even just for fun, that would be one thing.  But these people were actually, seriously competing.  Like the judges judged them and gave them scores.  It was a for real competition.

Well one mother (who will remain nameless – because I don’t remember her name) got a little bit too into the routine and lost track of her boundaries…and jumped off the back of the stage.  Yeah, go ahead and re-read that sentence.  Better yet, I’ll type it again.  SHE JUMPED OFF THE BACK OF THE STAGE.  Are you kidding me?

Oh and in case you were wondering, there were no railings on the back of the stage because they weren’t aesthetically pleasing enough for the competition.  Yeah.

So she just jumped back and landed on both of her knees.  I won’t go into detail about what happened next, except to say that there was a large amount of moaning and screaming (while her team was finishing their routine).  It was similar to the sounds this lady made.

She ended up being ok.  No broken bones, amazingly.  I didn’t hear the about her follow up, but I’m guessing there was some ligament damage.

The moral of the story?  Avoid cheerleading competitions.  And if you can’t, ask for more money.

Is it Just Me, or is That Kid's Meal Toy Trying to Make a Statement?

First off, I would like to congratulate Cristin for officially accepting her authorship invitation to this blog. Get to writing!

Now that the niceties are over, let me get into this post. Sometime ago, I was rummaging through the Goodwill Clearance store. It's hard to believe that Goodwill actually has a "clearance" store...eh, a whole other post of it's on, I guess, so let's not think on that for too long...anyway...For some reason, I've always enjoyed digging through other people's crap. At the clearance store, it is especially fun since everything is in these big blue bins and it's just one giant free for all. They charge you by the pound for items that you buy. Once you get past the odd odor of the place, it is pure bliss. That particular day I walked out of there with a few random t-shirts from places I've never visited, a safari looking shirt made for a plus-sized woman, a cookbook and this peculiar little toy.

The toy was a little action figure from the Rocket Man movie. I examined it closely and saw that it was part of a Burger King Kid's Meal.


While I do like toys, this was not the main reason why I decided to bring it home with me. This Rocket Man, like most rocket men, I would assume, shot "fire" out of his feet to propel him off of the ground. The thing about this toy is, I've never seen fire like that before. (See image below).


Now, I'm no scientist, but I do consider myself a pyromaniac in my spare time, and I have never seen fire that looked so...flesh colored. Nor have I ever seen fire that looked kinda...circumcised?


I was shocked, yet amused to see that this had been approved to be distributed to children. I mean, there has to be someone who approves the toys for kid's meals, right? While I'm sure it isn't easy to make realistic looking plastic fire that shoots out of an action figure's feet, they could have at least given it more of a reddish orange tint...and maybe jagged up the edges a bit. I don't know, is it just my imagination, or did some toymaker get one in over the censors like the animators of the Little Mermaid did when that movie originally came out on video?

Heart Smart You Say?

Since I pretty much offended all my co-writers for this blog (the ones who take the time to actually check in and read it, ha!) with my last post, I figure I better crack the whip on myself and get more posts out here since I may well be the only one writing from now on.

I've been meaning to post something about this one for sometime. My church has Wednesday night meals, and on Sunday's bulletin, there is the menu for the upcoming meals. They have a regular meal and then a "heart smart" meal. Usually the heart smart meal does seem to be what it claims to be. However, there are some weeks where it really baffles me. Take a look:


I reckon you can eat the fruit salad if you're that concerned about your heart. Perhaps this is a test by the church to weed out who is really trying to be healthy and who's just being a poser. There you have it folks, the Southern Baptist Heart Smart Menu.

"How you coming on that novel you working on? Hmm? Got a big, uh, big stack of papers there?"

It is no secret that we would like to get a book deal and become best-selling authors. If we look deep into our hearts and see the "why" we want to achieve the coveted status, the reason is simply because we are lazy and we want to be thought of as "clever" for our laziness. When you look at the big picture, it seems stupid to spend hours of your time in front of your computer or notebook, churning out words that might (if you're good enough) equal a comprehensive story or commentary, without getting paid a penny in return for your time "invested." Yes, indeed, this is stupid. Especially when you think of all the things one could be doing with one's time: volunteering in the community, feeding the hungry, building a chair, learning a foreign language, enjoying the great outdoors, actually doing something to make money, etc., etc. Writing becomes not so stupid though when the book deal does come and one gets PAID to write. Then writing is the best idea ever! It beats doing just about any other line of work out there. It's funny how money changes the perspective of EVERYTHING.

Being on a reality show, for instance, is another one. Who in their right mind would want to endure the crap that 99.9% of reality shows make participants endure? People being paid to endure it, that's who....and attention whores. You can't forget those either. How about being an actor? Really, if you look at the "profession," it is the stupidest thing ever. People get paid (or don't, which is worse) to pretend to be other people or things. Remember the drama geeks in high school? No one thought they were cool. I mean, how can you be cool when you're sitting on the floor pretending to be a pear or some other piece of fruit? Those people are real dorks until they start getting offered millions of dollars to make movies that the rest of us shell out tons of money to see. Money makes those people not so ridiculous. Who's stupid now, the dork pretending to be a pear or the jerk making fun of the fruit dork? The list could go on, but this post has already morphed into something I did not intend to write when I started.

Sooo, to get back to my original point - we are lazy. It is obvious because this blog is supposed to have a team of 5 writers. Ben and I are the only ones who have posted something and we (and by "we" I mean "me"...or I?) haven't done a lot. I don't think Cristin has even accepted the blog authorship invitation yet (not surprising though; her personal blog, Continuing Along the Path hasn't been updated for over a month). This laziness is a condition from which we are all suffering. Fortunately, I found out the reason why. It is because we are all white. That's right, I just pulled the race card to make excuses for my flaws. I've found a source to back me up though. Stuff White People Like is a blog (that has also turned into a book, hey hey!) that makes fun of all the stuff that white people like. I would love to say that I'm not represented in this "stereotypical" (pun intended!) blog, but I unfortunately am. Probably half or more of the list describes me. #21 on the list, Writer's Workshops made me laugh out loud (lol for the textually active) all the while convicting me of my whiteness. While I cannot say that I have ever been to a writer's workshop (unless you count the semester long fiction writing class I took in college), I've always wanted to go to one, so I reckon that's bad enough.

There you have it, folks, the reason why we keep on with this blog though posts are often few and far between. Someday, we are going to "make it." If not, we're going to keep telling ourselves that we are. We will at least try half-ass our whole lives to write that novel, to get that book deal. We can't help it. It is in our blood. :-)

I know I had it Coming

It was my goal never to consecutive blogs, but seeing that SOME people (*cough*) have yet to get with the program here, I'll toss out another one.

I don't spend much time in bars, but the occasional jaunt to a local watering hole for karaoke with friends is usually a good time--never mind the fact that singing in public to an intoxicated audience once held the spot just below "self immolation" on my list of top ways to ruin a perfectly good evening. Still, it's fun to go just to see what songs your friends will pick. The best ones are those that they clearly regret selecting only four bars in, at which point it's obviously too late. Once you start a song, you have to see it through to the bitter end. That's karaoke law.

My usual strategy is to pick a song that no one in their right mind would boo no matter how badly I slaughter it. The last time I went, I only performed one song: Folsom Prison Blues. Number one, it's Cash. Nobody dares disrespect Cash. Number two, no offense to the Man in Black, but you can be pretty tone-deaf and still make the prisoner's grumbled mourning sound real. And on top of that it's just a cool song that you really don't hear that often.

As most people know, the song is fictional. Though it's consistent with his image, Cash never served any time in prison--or committed murder, as far as anyone knows. And yet what's the line that invariably evokes the most hoops and hollers in the karaoke joint? No question: "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."

And I'm thinking, "What's wrong with these people? Cheering on a cold-blooded killing for no reason? Wait...I'M the one that picked the song..." Amazing what you'll sing about that you'd never consider doing.

According to Wikipedia, Cash recounted how he came up with the "Reno" line thusly: "I sat with my pen in my hand, trying to think up the worst reason a person could have for killing another person, and that's what came to mind."

Cash wasn't a bad guy. He just seemed to want people to think he was. Not unlike with the unfortunate incident that brought my night to an early end.

Out of respect for the privacy of those involved, I'll forgo the details. Let's just say that I feel strongly that, while fun has its place, paid performers at nightclubs owe a degree of respect to the patrons they entertain. ...And if defending a young lady's honor compels me to take a bar stool to some Billy Joel wannabe's baby grand, so be it. It's not the first dueling piano bar that's issued me a lifetime ban, and I highly doubt it'll be the last.

"But those people keep a'moving, and that's what tortures me."

Thou mewling sheep-biting drunkard!

Though I’m sure everyone marked their calendars weeks ago and need no reminding, today is William Shakespeare’s birthday—as best anyone can figure. Accordingly, it has been dubbed “Talk like Shakespeare Day” by…ah…by whoever it is that dubs these things.

[pause for fact checking]

Okay, apparently this observance was created by Richard M. Daley, the mayor of Chicago. Your guess is as good as mine what this guy’s motive was.

But whatever the reason, let’s just run with it. For the remainder of the day, speak only in Shakespearean prose. It’s only early modern English, after all. The link to the news stories above gives some pointers on how to stay in character and still get your point across. There’s even a few links to sites that will assist you in translating most common phrases.

My favorite is the random Shakespearean insult generator. In addition to the blog title, Here’s a few it spat our for me this morning:

Thou obscene ill-nurtured eunuch!
Thou arrogant toad-spotted malt-worm!
Thou reeky deformed bugbear!
Thou loggerheaded fly-bitten hedge-pig!
Thou lascivious boil-brained withered-hag!
Thou currish pox-marked strumpet!
Thou bawdy rump-fed bag of guts!

It reminds me of one of my favorite SportsCenter commercials (and goodness knows there’s a lot of good ones) starring Scott Van Pelt.

Come to think of it, he’s been in several of my favorites.

And in case you never saw Kenny Mayne’s short-lived episodes:

Yeah, this isn't one of my more cohesive posts, but I felt like I needed to throw another log on the fire. Don't want the interested masses to get bored and stop reading.

Night at the Burger Joint a.k.a. Proof Jesus Loves Me and Likes to Hear Me Laugh

Cristin's friend and teammate from Asia was in town recently, so the three of us along with friends Renae and Ka...errr, Baby* went out to eat. Cristin wanted to go somewhere good, yet inexpensive, so I suggested a local burger/fried food joint. (Hey, she said good, not healthy.) I didn't know until right before we got to the restaurant that Baby was coming. I made the comment as we got out of the car that I couldn't see Baby dining at this place and that dinner should be interesting. Oh little did I know!

To give you a little background on this burger joint, it is located in my little Southern town and is run by, how shall I say, small Southern town "country" people. Not people Baby typically kicks it with on a Friday night...or any other night for that matter. We ordered our food up front and then went to the back to find a table. One of the rooms in the joint was closed off for a Tupperware party. I felt a little excluded, but tucked my insecurities away and tried not to be bitter about the fact that the "partiers" were allowed to sit in the room with the murals of Greece on the walls. Yes, that's right, Greece. This place is what would happen if South Carolina and Greece made a baby, albeit smaller and not as loud.

Our food was brought out and we continued our lively discussion about Cristin's weekend as athletic trainer at a cheerleading competition. As we ate, the conversation progressed to the topic of men and how we wished they understood us better. We started talking about writing some books to help our male counterparts and the title "How to be Normal" came up. It turns out that one of the goofy young male workers was listening in on our conversation, apparently enjoying it, and decided to contribute. He said something along the lines of, "If you have to read a book on how to be normal, there's a problem." Cristin, hoping to scare him away, replied, "Well, we're talking about guys, so tell your friends what you just said." Burger Boy, showing either great courage or stupidity, I'm not quite sure, actually shot back at Cristin something about guys having just as many problems as "y'all girls." I chimed in with a low, but still apparently loud enough (I've never learned to whisper) voice, "I don't have problems." My table chuckled and Burger Boy smiled and went on to try to make himself look busy.

We continued on with our conversation and a few minutes later Burger Boy was back for more. Sure, it was getting irritating, but I could tell Baby was the most annoyed by our unwelcome "friend." As she was finishing a sentence, she tacked on the end, "...and just go away" towards the direction of our "friend." While I thought this was all pretty funny, part of me wanted to crawl under the table out of embarrassment for the guy and because I was afraid a confrontation was about to take place. If Baby decided to stab Burger Boy with a spork, I wasn't prepared to deal with the police afterward. (The police here are a whole other story). However, a confrontation did not take place and we figured he heard Baby's scathing command and would certainly not be back. WRONG.

We continued our conversation, moving off the topic of men. Renae was speaking while Burger Boy decided to come back and interrupt. He leaned over on the back of the bench between Renae and Baby. Baby, startled, lurched forward to avoid being touched by him. She gave him a look that could kill and I feared that she might try to rip his arm off once the surprise factor wore off. This is basically how the conversation went:

Burger Boy: So, my friend is working the register and he was talking about y'all. (to Baby) He was looking at you and thought you were cute, and I told him he didn't have a chance...I think I hurt his feelin's.
Cristin and April: (Just laughing hysterically)
Baby: (Definitely not laughing hysterically) Right.
Burger Boy: I'm gonna bring him back over here and do you think you could just flirt with him some and make him feel good?
Baby: No
Cristin: I think that's our cue to leave.

I composed myself from laughing and filed out with the rest of the group. It was a shame because we were having some good conversation. Darn, you, stupid people for ruining a good thing! At least you compensate for giving me a good laugh and story to tell.

*Name changed to protect the writers

Post written by Cristin and April

Whatchoo mean, "Irreconcilable differences?"

As part of my inauguration to this blog, I was requested to tell a story about the old World of Warcraft funeral incident that I blogged about a few years ago. While that story does fit the theme of this blog, it doesn’t have anything to do with me, and it’s been written about elsewhere, including here. So, instead, I’ll rehash an old but true story that my uncle told me about one of his many off-kilter acquaintances.

It’ll be more personal, and yet I don’t have to exert much effort. Everybody wins.

My uncle’s friend, Joe*, needs to haul animals around from time to time. Handyman that he is, Joe builds himself a new trailer to handle the job. A nice one. The day he finally finishes it, his wife comes out to the drive to see the finished product. He shows her how he put it together and proudly points at the finish inside that ought to handle the abuse that its cargo might inflict upon it. She steps into the trailer to see, and Joe, ever the prankster, closes the door behind her and latches it. She yells at him to open the door, and he pretends he can't understand what she's saying. Joe says he likely would've let her out after a minute, but she starts yelling out the little openings in the side and cussing and swearing that "If you dont open this _______ _______ door this instant you____________, I'll _____________________!!!..." etc, etc.

So rather than let her out, Joe decides to take full advantage of the opportunity and backs his truck up to the trailer, hitches it up, and goes out for a test drive around town. "I'm sure that made things all better," my uncle tells him. Joe admits it might not have been so bad until he pulled up in front of a house where some friends of theirs lived, honked the horn until they came out on the porch, and then pointed to the back to say, "look what I got!" All while she shrieked and cussed at him the whole way.

My uncle told him he'd have been scared to let her out of there. Joe said he was, too. So he didn't. He drove home, unhitched the trailer from the truck, and went into town to let her cool off. Then he called the neighbor's house and asked if they'd do him a favor and go next door and let his wife out of the trailer.

My uncle's only response to the end of the story: "I can't understand why she left you, Joe."

Indeed.

*Nah. Not his real name.

Stolen Car

A couple years ago, I was in a meeting and my phone rang. It was my mother, so I silenced the ringer and called her back later. I mention this because this wasn't a typical phone call from my mom.

"What's your license plate number?" she asked upon answering the phone.
"I don't know; I'll have to look. Why?"
"Your brother's car has been stolen and I want to make sure we gave the police his license plate number and not yours. We wouldn't want them coming to arrest you."
"Wait, what? Michael's car was stolen?! Where? How?"
"Well, they left his keys in the ignition at the shop after they fixed his car and the shop owner's mother was left up front to look after things. She saw a man drive off with the car, but thought he was one of the mechanics. They didn't realize until later that the car was stolen."

Ok, so this ended up not being the stupidest part of the situation. The car was reported and we figured it was gone for good. However, days later the police called and said they found the car. It wasn't abandoned on the side of the road. Pieces weren't miraculously discovered in a chop shop somewhere. It was rendered not drivable and irreparable though. It was hit by a train. That's right, a train. You see, the guy who stole the car found some fake temporary tags and sold the car to some unsuspecting guy. The buyer of the car had a special purpose for the 1996 Buick Regal-to die in it.

The suicidal car buyer packed his pills and drove himself down to the train tracks in his "new" car. He parked it on the tracks, swallowed his death candy and waited for the train to come. The train came, but unfortunately from the opposite way from where the poor man thought it would come. The train hit the backside of the car and knocked it down a sixty foot embankment. The dead guy wannabe was a little bloody, yet breathing, and still with the mortal world. The Buick was a goner.

My brother and a few other family members went to the junk yard to pay their final respects. Billy the tow truck driver (who is a post all on his own; I have other stories about him) said the Buick was a doozy to get out of that ditch. He even "messed up his [blankety blank] shoe trying to tow that car out." It took him several hours. (That's just karma, Billy). Visiting the car was a somber moment for my brother. He had been upset the whole time because he left his tennis rackets in the trunk of the car. From the way the train hit, they definitely wouldn't have made it. However, when he looked in the backseat of the car, lo and behold, his tennis rackets were sitting there! Suicidal Man was courteous enough to move them and they didn't even carry a scratch.

So, all's well that end's well, I suppose. A man got a second chance at life (whether he wanted it or not), my brother got his tennis rackets back and Billy messed up his shoe.

Here are some pictures of the wreckage: