Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day.
Teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime.
Get a man hammered on tequila at the company Halloween party and you can talk him into eating fish from the reception room aquarium.
Crime is so bad in my neighborhood I've torn out my alarm system and de-registered from the Neighborhood Watch.
I've got two Pakistani flags raised in my front garden, one at each corner and the black flag of ISIS in the front.
The local police, state police, FBI, NSA and Homeland Security are all watching my house 24/7.
I've never felt safer.
Why taking a dump in a Kohl’s dressing room is never a good idea
I went to Kohl’s today to pick up a couple new pairs of pants and just happened to stumble bass akwards into the second funniest thing to ever happen to me in a public dressing room.
The funniest thing, by the way, involved me, a rogue zipper, and two well-placed and well-needed stitches. I’ll just leave it at that.
So I walk into the Kohl’s dressing room and start trying on my regularly-priced-$79.99-now-on-sale-for-$23.99 pants and hear that someone is entering the dressing room adjacent to mine. I think nothing of it and continue to try to squeeze my 38-inch waist into a pair of 36-inch Dockers.
But a mere few seconds later I can hear this individual — clearly a large man by the grunting and groaning — taking off his belt. The noise a belt makes is quite distinct and it sounded like this guy had a belt buckle the size of a trash can lid. It sounded like he was taking off a parachute with all the clasps, buckles, and snaps he was undoing.
I chuckle to myself and take a deep breath to buckle my own pants when I hear this guy — I’m going to start calling him Dirty Randy from now on — make a couple additional grunting noises.
I’m paying homage to Dirty Randy from “The League.” Great show.
It sounds like this guy — I think to myself — is trying to take a shit instead of trying to take a shirt.
This incredibly crazy idea is only made more plausible by the next thing that happens: Dirty Randy absolutely uncoils a five-star, MVP-caliber fart. It was one of those epic sonofabitches that gets a second wind halfway through and grows louder. It sounded like he was trying to start an old tractor.
At the time I had one leg into my own pants and the commotion in the next dressing room sent me tumbling against the wall laughing hysterically. Here I was busting a gut while this guy was busting ass.
“Son of a bitch,” Dirty Randy mumbles matter-of-factly. And I don’t know exactly what it was about the way he said it, but it sounded like he was saying “Son of a bitch” not as a result of what happened but as a precursor of what was yet to come.
To keep prices low, please don’t shit in the dressing room
And sure enough Dirty Randy lets loose a second fart, this one somehow even more repulsive than the first. The noise was a cross between an old creaky door opening and a Beluga whale.
Seriously, did this guy think he was walking into the men’s room instead of the dressing room? Is he squatting over a pile of discarded clothes that didn’t fit the last guy who was in there? The image playing out in my head was hysterical.
But the hysterics turned into hysteria when a visitor entered my dressing room. In the interest of full disclosure, I did lock the door before I went in there. But what came into that dressing room cannot be turned back by a $5 door bolt from Home Depot. It came in through, under, and over the door. It seeped through the cracks in the walls and tumbled down from the ceiling.
I’m here to tell you ladies and gentlemen, it was an actual mist. Like in that Stephen King movie. I half expected a monster to come out of it and eat me.
But that would have been the painless way out. Instead, what came out of that mist was a stench so horrific that eight hours later it’s still burned into my nostrils.
“My bad, buddy,” Dirty Randy says from the room next door, real casual-like as if he accidentally walked between me and a TV I was watching instead of purposely filling my dressing room full of Agent Orange. I gasped for air, trying to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. But all that did was give me a big ole’ taste of whatever it was he ate that caused such a travesty in his lower intestine. It was as if he consumed a whole bucket of sea water and bad Thai food.
I texted my wife and told her I loved her. This is probably the end.
And then as I began to pass out I hear a voice from afar.
“How’s it going in there, Dirty Randy?” It’s his wife, she’s outside the dressing room now. And she didn’t really call him Dirty Randy but it sort of ruins the story if I tell you his real name.
“It’s too big.”
Too big, I think. Is he talking about whatever he’s trying on or whatever he’s trying to get out?
I laugh at the thought of my own joke. It’s starting to pull me from my own haze.
“Randy, pass it under the door and let me take a look at it.”
Now I’m actually laughing out loud. Is this really happening to me? The guy who writes funny blogs just has this fall into his lap.
Or, more appropriately, fall out of the lap of the guy next to me.
“Jesus, Randy, did you just shit yourself?”
Mrs. Dirty Randy echoes my thoughts exactly. Not only do I think he shit himself, but he shit herself and myself and every other self in the Kohl’s men’s section.
“No,” he replies timidly, “I think it was the guy in the room next to me.”
My mouth drops. But then I can taste a wicked combination of burnt lasagna, sulfur, and Skoal. For some reason, in this moment Dirty Randy and I connect. It’s as if I can tell this guy’s wife is going to spend the rest of the day busting his balls for busting his ass. In the spirit of true brotherhood, I decide to take one for the team.
“My bad,” I say.
“Gross,” Mrs. Dirty Randy says and then I hear her leave. What follows next could not have been predicted. Dirty Randy doesn’t thank me, he doesn’t say sorry, but instead he lets loose the third and final blow, a low rumbling noise that sounded like he sat on a fog horn.
“Thank God she left,” he says, “I was trying to choke that one off.”
Needless to say, I didn’t end up buying the pants.
I’ve always wondered. If workers are on strike, is it okay to cross the picket line if you only plan on shoplifting?
Issue of the Times;
From a Homeschool Victim Who Obviously Survived
Six years have passed since I graduated from what I have been trained to call formal education. I was taught that education was about more than the books and grades, so we called our curriculum, our scheduled learning, “formal education”. It is all documented in those records we kept, just in case anyone accused us of not doing real school.
It took me most of the last six years to really understand what was done to me during those years of “home schooling“. Firstly, and most importantly, I was never allowed to stop learning. How cruel is that? I was never allowed to shut the book, drop the pencil, pack it up and go home because I’d served my time for the day. We, my siblings and I, were “encouraged” to be always learning, to find the “why” for everything. Even now as an adult, my mind seeks out reason for everything.
That said, when it was decent weather, we were forced outside. We had to go find leaves or bugs for a unit study, (what’s up with “home schooling” and unit studies? As if everything is connected… gah.) Oh, and if the old lady who lived up the street needed help carrying in her groceries, we were forced to stop doing math and go help her. Math! We stopped math class to help people.
One of the very worst things about “home schooling” was the socialization. Surprisingly enough. Most people assume because “home schoolers” school at home there isn’t any opportunity to interact with other people. I wish that were true.
You see, I’m an introvert. I HATE talking to new people, I HATE HATE HATE speaking in front of a crowd. I loath the thought of small talk. But when you homeschool you have to interact with everybody, your family, the other families in your co-op, the people at soccer practice, your voice teacher, your piano teacher, the people at the gym and Wal-Mart; you are almost always surrounded by people of varying ages and ethnicities.
My Mom was a special kind of cruel, you see, she MADE me take public speaking, knowing I hated it! She signed me up for speech classes and public speaking competitions. Do you know what that did to me as an adult? It removed every excuse my introverted-self had for shying away from leadership responsibilities in business, in charity work, even in sports. Now when the need arises for a speaker, for a leader, my training, my conditioning kicks in and because I’m able, it’s expected that I contribute.
Homeschooling forced me to become a well rounded and thoughtful adult. It stole from me the typical teen experiences. I was never bullied, which from what I’ve gathered is a character building experience. I never had the opportunity to spend hours (weeks, months, years) crushing on a guy I’d never really end up with. I never had the chance to get caught up in high school drama or participate in trivial gossip like a normal girl. Instead my time was spent taking care of people, of learning practical boring things like cooking and quilting. So now as an adult I can feed you and keep you warm, but I’m a little awkward around shallow people. I have my mother to thank for every twang of guilt when I don’t do a job completely, I mean, who does everything completely anyway?
I have no idea how I survived the mental trauma of being raised by two people who honestly thought it best for me to pursue a few deep relationships versus having a ton of friends. Like, totally not cool.
We had “free time” in the afternoons. I remember being kinda lost during that time. We could go do whatever we wanted. How does anyone think that is healthy? Shouldn’t kids be micro managed? I mean, do you have any idea the mischief we got into? We built ti-pis in the woods (where we could have gotten bit by a tick and contracted Lyme disease!) and rode our bikes without helmets.
We were forced to work. Physically. This is a dark part of my sordid tale. We were forced to help with family business. When the family catered an event, we kids were right there, cutting vegetables and washing dishes. When my father needed an extra hand on a home improvement job we were there to hand him tools, load and unload the truck, sweep floors, etc… see physical work I tell ya!
Sure, I learned a lot and by the time I applied for my first job. I was hired the next day because my resume (which learning how to write a resume was a mandatory part of high school) looked fantastic. But what my resume doesn’t tell you is that my parents saw through every detail of my work. They started me on chores when I was tall enough to reach the sink, with the help of a stool. As a 6 year old I had to do extra chores for any sort of extra cash. Allowance? Oh no, we were told that, “you work, you eat”. I don’t know where they found such capitalistic propaganda. I don’t care that that is how the real world operates, I was just a kid. I would rather have thought that everything would come to me because I was special and unique. I think I could have coped with the harsh realities of life if I had been sheltered from them till I was an adult.
Oh, and I never go to eat cafeteria food. Ever. I had to eat things like salads and homemade bread with strawberry preserves. To this day I’m a food snob and it’s “home schooling” to blame.
So what does a “home school” survivor look like? In my case it looks like a 23 year old with a plan to build a cooking school for kids who age out of foster care. It looks like a girl who loves her parents, who finds her worth in Christ, not fashion or fads and whose best friend is her sister. It looks like a girl who shows up early and stays late for both of her jobs. It looks like a young adult who doesn’t disdain authority. It looks like a happy, healthy, hard working, humorous, semi-normal woman. Which, I guess isn’t so terrible.
Quote of the Times;
Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one. – Aurelius
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