Legal Reason to Murder -or- That’s MY Sandwich, ASSHOLE!

Did know that under the Code of Hammurabi, a thief has his or her hand cut off? Or killed, depending on the translation. There are times I wished we could adopt that principle in our modern world. 

 Now, let me be clear, I’m not an asshole, well, not a complete one. As an only child, I do not feel compelled to share. When I do share what I have with others, I do it out of a sense of community, and kindness. Not out of some hippy commune sense of sharing. When people give, I give. It builds and strengthens relationships. 

 But few things drive me into a murderous rage than those who take what is not theirs. And I’m not talking about normal theft. We have laws which punish thieves. I’m talking about the real assholes in this world who deserve to have their hands chopped off...

...the fucking pricks who steals from the office refrigerator. 

(I imagine the sound of screeching tires, as a bunch of readers just just slammed on the metaphorical breaks on their way to convict and or lynch me for the beginning of this post. Right up until the moment I mentioned the asshole who steals whatever they want from the office fridge. How about it angry mob? You have those flaming torches and pitchforks, wanna head over to that asshole’s house?)

 So I’m a coffee drinker. And to set the record straight, I like cream and little sugar in my coffee. If you want to be one of those tough-nuts “coffee is supposed to be black!” people, please save it. Just go break out your “No Fear” t-shirt’s from the 90’s, go watch MMA and pat yourselves on the back about how much better you are for liking bitter coffee, you super-duper toughy-tough guy or gal. (In case you’re not getting getting it, I’m subtly making fun of you. Bragging about how you only drink black coffee is the gypsum of Mohs hardness.)

But I digress. 

 So, when I come to work, I bring my own K-Cups for the office Kuerig and a bottle of the creamer I like. One day a couple years back, I showed up to my new office. I put my brand new bottle of creamer in one of the four community fridges and went about acclimating to my new office. When I was ready for my 2nd morning coffee (the first having been brought in from home) I went to get my creamer and guess what? 

 It was already opened. And 1/3 gone. 

 W...T...F?!

 I asked the person nearest to the break room if they saw anyone open my creamer, and they replied “no”. Then, the person said to me:

 “Oh, ahh, yeah...did you put your name on it?”

 Me: “No.”

 Them: “Yeah, see, you have to put your name on stuff, otherwise it’s free game.”

 No. No the fuck it is not. 

 Who invented this? What under-or-over breastfed, entitled, thieving, douche-weasel made this a thing?! One does NOT have to label their own food and beverages. Is this elementary school? Do we honestly have to contend with brazen born buttholes who justify taking other people’s property simply because it “wasn’t labeled”? I was unaware a sharpie and/or a Post-it was thief repellent.

 Now, I have to share that this problem, is closer to home than I’d like to admit. 

 My darling wife...mother of my child...my soulmate, the other crippled bird like me, but together we can fly...is a food thief. Not at work, she’s not a villain. But at home, she is a domestic terrorist. A prowling hellcat waiting to pounce on your treats.

 Her justification? “Well, it’s been in there so long and you didn’t eat it.”

 Me: “But...that was my ice cream.”

 Her: “It’s been there in a week, it’s fair game.”

 Me: “It was peanut butter ice cream. My favorite. You don’t even like peanut butter ice cream.”

 Her: “I was out of mine, and you hadn’t finished yours. Besides, I can always get more at the store.”

 Me: “That doesn’t matter. It wasn’t yours.”

 Her: “Whatever.”

 ...Whatever. Whatever? WHATEVER?! “Whatever” isn’t an answer as to why you took what is not yours! You can’t just arbitrarilly assign a length of time to something which isn’t yours to take it! Sigh,...but that is my cross to bear. Her former roommate warned me of this, and I thoguht she was kidding. I married her, my lovely wife, for better or for worse. And now sad panda has no ice cream. 

 It was the good kind too. Peanut butter with chocolate peanut butter cups mixed in. 

 So to you, good people of the world, rip off your labels. Take down your Post-its. You know if you brought in a container of spaghetti. And if you go to get it for lunch and it’s missing, walk around your office, and the first person you smell garlic on, hit them in the skull with their “World’s Greatest”...whatever the fuck mug. As they lay on the floor, bleeding and soaked in their coffee, just say, oops, sorry, I didn’t see a label on that. 

 And, just in case you just struck a random co-worker who happened to have brought in leftover baked ziti, hence the garlic, well...you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. If nothing else, the real thief now knows you mean business and will leave your shit alone. Plus, odds are you just assaulted the same asshole who brings in pictures of their animals and talks about them like their his/her children. 

 So, win-win. 

 Next time, we’ll discuss how to order razor wire and surplus anti-personnel claymore mines from the internet to keep people from parking in YOUR assigned spot. Even if the neighbor’s douchebag friend says it’s only for five minutes, they’re lying. Just off them, trust me, they won’t be missed. 

Skull Punching the Elderly -or- A Beginners Guide to Spotting a Douchebag

On Wednesdays where I work, the cafeteria has chicken wings at the main course serving line. It’s pay by the ounce and a horrible deal, considering you’re really paying for the bones you don’t eat. But, every Wednesday at 1030, the line is ready to go. 

 One day, I decided I to wanted some wings. I walked down a little early and I managed to be second in line, behind a elderly, heavyset lady with a kind smile and a pleasant face. The line behind us was filling up very quickly and with minutes to go, there were more than thirty people in line. The cooks opened the cafeteria line and the wings were served. 

 Wanna take a guess how long it took me to get my wings? 

 Four minutes. 

 That kindly faced woman turned evil in those few moments. Gone was her pleasant smile. Gone was her goodly, outward nature. This new person wielded the only pair of chicken-tongs and used her ample...backside, like a pro NBA player boxing out anyone who tried to go around her. And why did this take so long? Because she was carefully, methodically and without care or regard to anyone else picked up, inspected, put back, and re-selected each individual chicken wing. When people in line began saying things hurry her, she simply began humming to herself. If they got louder, so did her humming.

 It was clear. She wasn’t oblivious to her surroundings. She just didn’t give a flying-F about anyone else. 

 She was a douchebag. 

 Douchebag means different things to different people. So for me, and for the contents of this piece, a douchebag is anyone who by action, or inaction, places their needs above others. Seemingly with contempt, self-absorption and a superiority complex. 

 So, this goes way beyond selfie-sticks, Jersey Shore knock-offs, people who emulate The Real Housewives of (fill in the blank), Joffrey from Game of Thrones or Kanye West. 

 That lady knew there were people waiting on her. But she showed no sense of alacrity as the line grew. She was going to get her exact, perfect wings and anyone who didn’t like it, could kiss her ass. And, for the first time in my life, I wanted to punch an older woman in the base of the skull. Over chicken wings.

 A couple of everyday, and small, examples are:

 The Asshole who has to back into parking spaces despite others wanting to park. Now, everyone has to stop what they are doing because the Douche needs to back in. And if confronted, they’ll claim it’s easier to pull out. 

 The person who refuses to look back and/or hold the door for others. The same goes applies to those who have to jump onto closing doors, be they elevators or mass transit. 

 

People who have to hold their phones out, speaker on, having loud, often profanity laden, conversations. 

There is a near infinite amount of examples out there, like people who park in handicap spaces, movie talkers,  people who set off fireworks when it isn't the 4th of July, and Dallas Cowboy Fans to name a few. But, I think you get the point

So, despite wanting to smash that lady’s head for the chicken wings, I simply turned the other cheek, waited my turn, and ate my overpriced wings. But the tale I share with others as often as possible. Partly to spin an amusing anecdote about the time I wanted to assault an older person over chicken wings. But also to spread the word of simply giving a damn about your fellow human beings. 

 Could you imagine a world where people considering others’ feelings, actions, needs and wants above their own, was common? What would that world be like? 

Well, it would probably be a lot like Utah. So...maybe we can stand a little bit of assholes...No really, Park City Utah was voted the most polite and friendly city in 2015 on CNTraveler.com

 But seriously, take the time to be mindful of others. Be considerate. Learn to drive and park like others share the road. And always, above all, question yourself daily. And ask yourself are you by action, or inaction, being a douchebag?

And of course...remember to HOLD THE GDAMN DOOR for others!

...<sniff> Big ups to Hodor!

Random Thoughts - WW vs WV, Adult Nuggets and Killing Stuff

No fancy post this week. No pop culture criticism, topical thoughts or rants. Just a few random thoughts. 


Whenever I see a WV sticker on a car...I think they are secretly Wonder Woman fans but are ashamed to admit it...

...It's OK. She's pretty cool.


Boneless Buffalo Wings are just chicken nuggets adults feel comfortable eating in public to still feel like adults...


I don't know who I find more baffling...

...Pro abortion people who are against the death penalty, or pro death penalty people who are against abortion

Comedy Shelf Life -or- How to Remake Innerspace.

Advance reviews of the new Ghostbusters movie have, let us say, not been kind. 

 

And, before this gets anyone’s hackles up, reviews claim it has nothing to do with the all female main cast. It has to do with the movie not knowing what it wanted to be, whether a reboot, sequel or homage as it calls back to the original without capturing the magic of the first. I myself will still see it and judge it (attempt to anyway) for what it and try not to compare it to the original. 

 Likewise, Kevin Hart, while cranking out many stand-up specials on Netflix, is saturating the theaters with the same “panicking, hyper, tiny-man” routine. Take his latest film, Central Intelligence, with an IGN score of 4.5 out of 10 and losing money at the box office. Not even Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson could save it. And his movie Get Hard with Will Ferrell was pretty much a rip off of Rob Schneider’s box office bomb, Big Stan (go ahead, look it it up, I’ll wait).  

 All this brings a point to mind about the shelf life of the active comedian. And how, if overdone, causes that star to crash and burn. When they, the comedian, or Hollywood, just milk that cow until it falls over dead.

 Remember when Jim Carrey was funny? Or, Adam Sandler? The first couple of movies came out and we all had a good laugh and quoted them over and over. Then came the next batch of flicks and we got a chuckle, with a waning smile. Then the next batch...and no one was laughing. 

 Could you sit through another Austin Power’s movie, with people saying “Oh behave” and “shag” constantly?

 Like Mike Meyes, Will Ferrel, Anna Farris, Eddie Murphy, Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, Amy Pohler, Tina Fey and several others to name a few have seemingly reached their comedy shelf life. And, it is about to happen again to Kevin Hart and Melissa McCarthy. 

 Poor Melissa. While funny, no doubt, some claim losing the weight lost her the Mike & Molly gig. And people, it seems, want a plus-sized comedian doing physical comedy. They want the Belushi, the Farley, the Candy. Well, maybe those are all bad examples on account of being dead. But the point it, when Jonah Hill lost the pounds, he also stopped working. So, Rebel Wilson, you’re on notice.  

 

So, with the Ghostbusters coming out, and the love/hate it will receive depending on what side of the fence you are on the remake, she too may be looking for work. So, I propose this: With how Hollywood loves to remake movies that no one wanted or asked for, let’s do one no would expect: 

 Innerspace! 

 Yea, I said it. Innerspace!

 This 1987 comedy sci-fi darling gem starring Dennis Quaid, Meg Ryan and Martin Short, was an incredible tale of comedy science where the hero, who was miniaturized in his submersible ship, was accidentally injected inside a go-nowhere loser. Communicating from within, the nerd becomes the unwilling hero and an epic tale of comedy spy/action followed. 

And it is just bloody ripe for a modern remake!

Imagine it: In this possible modern version, Melisa McCarthy can be the brilliant scientist who leads the miniaturization project, who is then accidentally injected inside Kevin Hart. Together they have to bring down an international terrorist...thing, who are trying to steal the miniaturization technology for...reasons? 

...Look, does it even matter? The material writes itself. Kevin get’s to do his “panicking tiny man” thing while finding inner strength and courage while Melisa get’s to curse at him in interesting ways. Paul Fieg (no doubt directing) get’s to chalk up another notch on his belt. Hell, this is even a way to slip a “Bet this is the first time a white woman’s been inside a black man” joke. 

 So come on Hollywood, make this masterpiece happen before both stars implode and try to do “meaningful” thought piece movies which leave people claiming they liked them...but deep down know they are garbage.  

Cathartic Hate -or- Tolerable Intolerance

Happy Fourth of July to everyone. I wanted to take a moment to wish everyone a great Independence Day! I’ve written a lot recently, about tolerance, acceptance and generally being good to one another no matter race, sex, gender identity or religious affiliation. And I honestly believe all people deserve fair and equal treatment #humanist #egalitarian

But damn it...even my saint like tolerance wanes sometimes. As I am sure yours does as well. And sometimes, you just need to let it out. So this week, let’s put a pin in tolerance and address a few personality types, quirks and other little things. If for no other reason than just to have a fun rant. 

Pointy Brown Shoes and the Men Who Wear Them - Maybe it’s my drifting into the world of middle age...but you look ridiculous. Like a Keebler elf who is trying revive the Bee Gees, your shoes scream “please take my lunch money”. Ladies and gentlemen, if your loved one told you you look good in them, or “it’s the style”, they are lying to you. It is obvious from your floppy feet they want them to look bad on purpose. They are bad people. Remember “in style” comes and goes. These were once in style as were these:


 

Jeep People - I get it. You like the lifestyle, freewheeling sense of freedom and lack of side-curtain airbags (your idiotic waving to other Jeep owners was stolen from motorcycle riders http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Jeep%20Wave). 

If you're a good driver who is respectful, hey, drive on Jeep amigo! But, if you drive on the highway like it is an outback safari I hope...nay, pray, you are introduced to a ditch and your lack of doors allow you to achieve flight. For those who swerve through traffic in their Jeep, one leg out of the vehicle, tossing granola bars behind you on your way to your next kayak adventure (in my head they do that), you are a nuisance and deserve to meet a tree. 


 Your Fucking Beard - Sigh. A good beard is a cool expression of masculinity, no doubt. But, there is a limit. Unless you are a civil war enthusiast, an extra on AMC’s Vikings, or a bassist in a metal band, get that shit under control. Other than the weird guy at the gym with still wearing the toboggan hat and grunting, most people sporting the crazy beard look like they’ve never worked a day in their lives. Below are three pictures, can you spot the one who's "earned his beard?  


 Your Workout is Your Business - I know this is low hanging fruit, but I’ll be damned if people won’t stop. So, once again, I’ll say it for the world: No one gives a flying fuck what your latest time, rep, max, yoga pose or crossfit WOD was on social media. Now, you may say “But Gib, people need encouragement. And, it’s not hurting anyone to post their commitment to fitness” And that is true...sort of. There comes a point when said workout person is just humble bragging their way into a superiority complex. You’ll know it's happening when they start giving you diet and exercise tips...whether you asked or not. Which means they are doing it for attention, not for themselves.

Twenty Five years of Influence -or- Moments We Never Forget

Someone asked me if I’d read a few books which are considered classics in the sci-fi & fantasy realm. Some I had. Others I had not. I was asked, how could I excel as a writer if I didn’t read them. 

 I just smiled. 

 Twenty five years ago I came across a fantasy book series which changed my life. It wasn’t the greatest series ever. But it was what I needed. There are moments in our lives which are clear pivot points. I always knew I wanted to be a writer one day. But the type of write I wanted to be...well, that was forever changed when I read this series. 

 

The following is a piece I did a while back about anger and conflict in novels. And it was fitting as it exemplified what the impact that book series had on me. Even 25 years later and hopefully 50 more to come. 

 

Twenty Five years of Anger

 

`"No!" Tennetty drew her beltknife with her free hand. "He's my kill."

*You will stand aside, Tennetty,* Ellegon said.

"Why?"


Twenty-five years ago I read these words in a book I received by accident, a book that would forever change me. They have been with me ever since. 

Younger folks might not know about this, but there used to be a thing called The TV Guide, a weekly mini-magazine that told people what would be on TV. It was littered with advertising. One advertisement that caught my young, nerdy eye was a Sci-Fi/Fantasy book of the month club. You send them a couple of bucks, you get a bunch of free books and two new books a month. If you don’t want the two new books, you mail back a “No Thank You” card. Well, 15-year-old me forgot that part, and I got a book in the mail, an omnibus edition of the late Joel Rosenberg’s Guardian of the Flame series. I cracked it open, and it drew me in deeper than any book ever had, or ever would.

In the series, a group of college students is transported into a parallel universe where they become their fantasy tabletop gaming characters. With real-world minds in fantasy bodies,
and no way to get home, the heroes set out to find their way in this new land. They ultimately decide to take on the all-powerful Slaver’s Guild, because all people deserve to be free. And when you challenge something of that power, despite good intentions,
pain and suffering will follow. But the leader, Karl, knows that they have to keep the Flame of Freedom burning. 

The characters were so real and so developed that they became my friends. I
read and re-read the book so many times it was disintegrating in my hands. I had to hunt in used book stores to get my beloved words back. 

Rosenberg's creation is what inspired me to become a writer. He could take me from cheering joy to tearful sadness. And, when he decided to paint a scene with violence and anger, it wasn’t just the gore-porn that runs rampant in the work of lesser writers. His use
of anger and violence was purposeful and impactful, a masterful stroke from an artist. 

 The "Tennety" from above quotation was a rescued slave woman who had been abused for years. She took up the sword as her way of dealing with her demons and bringing
pain to those who hurt her and enslaved others. It was the only way her psyche would allow her to continue in the world. Ellegon is a dragon--a young one, but he too had been enslaved, chained to a cesspit to forever burn sewage, thereby serving as a city's sanitation device. Both had been saved by the hero Karl.

 In the series' third book, The Silver Crown, Karl is the target of an assassination. Under the cover of night, three killers sneak into the valley, Home, where Karl and his growing community of free-folk live. After Karl and his friends foiled assassination attempt, one assassin was left alive. Using the telepathic abilities inherent to all of that world’s dragons, Ellegon discovers the plan against the residents of Home and the source of the attack.

But what should the heroes do with the remaining assassin? Free him? Kill him? What would--what should--the heroes do? The following scene unfolds after the assassin’s mind is read outside the house where he was discovered, the house where he had killed an entire family, including a little girl.

 "No!" Tennetty drew her beltknife with her free hand. "He's my kill."

 *You will stand aside, Tennetty,* Ellegon said.

"Why?"

Ellegon's mental voice was calm, matter-of-fact. *You will stand aside, Tennetty,  because the little girl's name was Anna. They called her Anna Minor, as Werthan's wife was Anna Major.

*You will stand aside because I had promised to teach her how to swim. And you will stand aside because she always called me Ehgon, because she couldn't manage the l-sound.

*And you will stand aside because this is the one that smiled down at her to quiet her as he opened her throat with his knife. 

*And if you don't understand any of that, you will stand aside, Tennetty, and you will do so now, because if you do not stand aside I will surely burn you down where you stand.*

Tennetty moved away.

Gently, Ellegon picked up the struggling assassin in his mouth and leaped skyward,  his mindvoice diminishing as he gained altitude and flew away. *There are balances in this world, Afbee. And while there is no justice, some of us do our best. I see you have a strong fear of falling...*

"Karl? You want me to finish up here?"

"Can't. I lost my sword somewhere, and then there's--"

"I'll find it. You go home." Tennetty's face was wet. "Go."

Righteous indignation? Justice? Cold-blooded murder? I do not know.

But the writer used his passion to write those words at a level that I strive every day to reach. I only hope I create a scene one day that resonates with someone else the way this scene did with me.

The book then transitions to where the residents of Home are trying to go back to sleep that night. Karl returns to his home and finds his friend Ahira the dwarf, formerly the wheelchair-bound James Michael, sitting in his full battle armor with his axe outside the bedroom of three children. When asked why he is there, Ahira responds simply,


“Behind that door sleep three children. Two of whom I couldn’t love more if they were flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. So, I am going to sit here all night, in my armor, knowing that no one will get past me to hurt them. Want me to find you a chair?”

Karl’s eyes misted over. “I can find my own chair.”

 Ahira was willing to commit tremendous violence to protect his friend’s children. But in that moment, he also conveys his love for his friends and commitment to their brotherhood and bond. Thank you Joel. Thank you. Your words, even when guiding a scene of anger and violence, taught me lessons that lasted two and half decade and will do so for two and a half more. 

Meritocracy Through Make Up? Not in my America!

**Note: This piece is a satirical look at modern progressive movements through the eyes of a fictional  Texas Republican. I hate to spell it out, but you'd be surprised at some of the flack I got from folks. The piece originally ran at

Sammiches & Psych Meds 

http://www.sammichespsychmeds.com/meritocracy-through-makeup-not-in-my-america/

 

 By: Guy G. Walker

 “Who is that weird looking lady, Dad?” my 9 year old son Ronnie asked me. Of course, I had to sigh before I answered. He was watching the damn TV again instead of playing sports outside like I told him. Like a boy is supposed to. The damn cleaning lady had left it on the E! Network and there was by boyhood hero, Bruce Jenner...in drag. 

 “That’s...,” I started, not sure how to answer. Not sure if I wanted to answer. How do I tell my son that before him was the 1976 Olympic Decathlon Gold Medal Winner. The man who dominated Montreal, Canada and won the hearts of millions of American boys. The man who was now sporting a pretty impressive set of tits. Hell, Bruce was the man who overcame his dyslexia and was on the cover of Wheaties boxes (of which I ate so many Wheaties I thought I could be Bruce Jenner...and I nearly shit myself from the incredibly high volume of fiber I was taking in). 

“That’s nobody son,” I said. “No turn off the TV, go outside and play,” I said and my son did as instructed.

 “Quit being so, like, mean to Ronnie,” My daughter said coming down stairs.

 12 years old and she was already busting my chops. Puberty was going to kill me. But, her sass-mouth wasn’t what bothered me. The whole bottle of self-tanner and dashiki she was wearing did. 

“Nancy, what on God’s green Earth are you wearing?! What’s that all over your skin?”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Duh, it’s traditional African dress.”

“But, you’re white...ish,” I said as I looked at the tanner all over her. 

Again, she rolled her eyes. If God and the great state of Texas said I wasn’t allowed to knock some sense in her, I swear...instead, I took a breath like my drill sergeant taught me and tackled the problem with a clear head. 

Why are you wearing all that?”

 “I’m expressing my inner-self. I’ve always felt like I was black. Like that lady in Washington, Rachel Dolezal. Did you know she was the president of the NAACP in Spokane?”

 “ENOUGH!” I yelled, losing it. “Ronnie get in here!” 

 My son came back in from outside, bringing in one of his mother’s bras from the clothesline. “Would this look good on me?”

 Sweet Jesus. Damn you liberal America. 

 “Sit down, both of you!” I commanded and my children, who surprisingly, listened to me. 

 They parked their butts on the couch and I paced in front of them, gathering my thoughts. “You cannot just change what you are on the outside and expect people to accept it. How you’re born is how you’re born. Changing it doesn’t do you any good except to make people uncomfortable. If some guy wanted to be a woman, which bathroom do they use? What kind of job do they apply for?”

 “The woman’s room,” Nancy said.

 “Any job they want?” Ronnie said. 

 “Yes...but...you can’t just decide to be another race,” I countered. 

 “Why not?” Nancy asked. 

 “Why not?! Because...co-opting another races tradition and history is wrong.”

 “We celebrate Cinco de Mayo with uncle Ramon and his family,” Ronnie said.

 “And, like, isn’t Christmas just Yule? The Church co-opting pagan traditions? Like Easter and Halloween?” Nancy snarkily asked. 

 “That’s different,” I said. 

 “How?” My kids asked in unison. 

 “It just is!” I yelled, my temper getting the best of me. “You can’t have a world where anyone can be any race or any sex they choose.”

 “Why?”

 “Damn it! Because what would that mean? Women in the NFL? Men in nursing? The world needs rules and groups. If you were any sex you want then there wouldn’t be a need for any form of gender discrimination. If you could be any race then American statistics and census would mean nothing! All of society would break down. What you would be left with is a world where the only thing that mattered, truly, is the person and how good they were. Jobs would be merit based only. Schools would only accept the best students. The world would be...”

 “A better place?” My daughter said smugly while my son grinned and said,

 "Isn't that what you say you always wanted? Best people for the job regardless?"

 “Just...just go outside for a while. Daddy needs to think,” I said plopping down in my recliner. My son obeyed, thankfully leaving his mother’s bra behind. My daughter went to the fridge first and brought me a Lone Star. She popped the top and handed it to me before kissing the top of my head and then followed her brother outside. 

I sipped my beer and pulled out the remote and turned the TV back on. Caitlin Jenner stared back at me as the TV recapped her winning some award for bravery or some crap like that. 

 Well...she does have nice tits. 

 

 

 

Tribalism In The Wake of Orlando - Peacemakers Wanted

I originally began working on this piece last week as a post pointing out the folly of tribalism, wherein people allow their thing to define them: music genre, political affiliation, sexuality, race, sports team, whatever. The piece went on to describe people who are so committed to their thing, they refuse to see inherent problems within, all the while pointing fingers at the other side of the aisle. 

Then this morning the attack on the gay nightclub in Orlando happened. 

No words can express how sorry I am for those who have been killed, hurt, or terrorized in this wretched act of violence and hatred. 

But I am writing because of what I fear will no doubt happen. The tribes will form. Fingers will point. The Left and the Right will battle. Twitter, Facebook and all the social media sites will be flooded with messages. 

The wrong ones. 

Messages of hope and support will be drowned out by messages of hate as people will make this tragedy about themselves. There will be roars of “BAN ALL GUNS!!” and the natural “GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE”. This will then be countered again as both sides of the spectrum will drag out articles on gun violence vs. gun defense. 

Rational thoughts to an irrational act will be gone, and blind reaction will rule. 

I only beg...BEG, people to hold your loved ones close. Assure them they are OK. And together, make the world a better place. Teach tolerance to your children. Practice acceptance among your circle of friends. Unlearn hate for those different than you. 

To the people on the Progressive Left: Guns are an easy vehicle to kill people. Without a doubt. But the lack of guns did not stop the Oklahoma Bombing in 1995, the Boston Marathon Bombing in 2013, and the terrorists who took over the planes in 9/11 did not have guns. Hatred finds a way, no matter what. 

To the people on the Religious Right: If you still ascribe to the belief that homosexuals need to die, then you are more like the terrorists you claim to hate than you’d like to admit. For Islam and Christianity are only separated by the Sons of Abraham. Please, remember Mathew 5:9. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

We need more middle ground peace makers in this country and world. People who tell those who ascribe to tribalism that they are wrong. That one side never has all the answers. People who tolerate, foster cooperation, trust and love in order to elevate one another vice huddle in their sociopolitical caves of self-righteousness.  

We, as humans, have the capacity for such greatness. But too, the capacity for atrocity. We have to remain vigilant against those who would harm while fostering hope and love. 

So, for those who died, were hurt and were targeted: Once again, I am so very sorry. I never knew any of you, but you did not deserve what happened. 

No one does. 

~MK Gibson

Celebrities Clones -or- What’shisnuts in that Movie

Are you one of 25% of Americans who cannot tell celebrities apart? Do you fail to recall the name of the person who acted in that movie or show, only to say the wrong name to the mockery of of your peers? Well, I am here to tell you: you are not alone. 

Celebrity Confusion Condition, CCC, is real and highly contagious. Known in scientific circles as Hester’s Disease, the brain abnormality as was named for patient zero, let’s call him "Geoff" to protect the innocent, was one day trying to recall the name of the celebrity lead in The Bourne Identity. His response: Matt Damon Wayans. 

Matt damon wayans.png

His friends laughed. Poor Geoff played along, but little did the group know, they too were now infected. Over the years, the brain disease spread outward. Each time a person was unable to think of someone in a famous movie or show, and failed, or confused them with someone else, the disease grew. 

Research shows all you have to do is be within earshot of someone afflicted with CCC to be infected, as the disease actually travels along the sound waves and takes root in the ear canal. Once CCC is in, it is only a matter of time before you can no longer tell celebrities apart. 

Now, skeptics will say that CCC is a hoax. That not being able to tell celebrities apart is a good thing. Or, that as we get older, our ability to recall the banality of who the fuck starred in what is no longer important, left instead for the young and vapid. 

Those skeptics are fortunately all dead now. Or, they are doing “important” things like STEM field research, charity work or other such hokum. Like they don’t have Netflix and listen to modern pop music. 

Listen, there is no shame in not realizing that the same guy who played Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket was the same bug guy in Men In Black and Kingpin in Daredevil.

Below is a test. Can you tell these celebrities apart?

Which one is America Ferrera and which one is Jordan Sparks?

Which one is Javier Bardem and which is Jeffery Dean Morgan?

Which one is Zooey Deschanel and which one is Katey Perry?

Which one is Will Ferrel and which one is Chad...what'shisnuts the drummer  the Chilli Peppers

Which one is Hailey Bennet (the wide from Hardcore Henry) and which one is Jennifer Lawrence?

 

Lastly, which one of these British ladies is Daisy Ridley from Star Wars, Lena Headey from Gme of Thrones and Kiera Knightly?

 

So, how did  you score? Well, here's a hint, if you played, and you're over 33...you failed. Go read a book, stop pretending you're young and make a difference in your life!!!! :)

But Hester's Disease, is real! You know who you are..."Geoff"!

The Killing Pork -or- Praising Domestic Abuse

Pop quiz: What’s the difference between Ms. Piggy and the Joker? 

 Here are a few questions, see if they apply to Joker or Ms. Piggy

  • Humiliate or yell at their partner
  • Act out violently towards their partner
  • Criticize their partner
  • Treat their partner so badly they are embarrassed for their friends or family to see
  • Ignore or put down their partner’s opinions or accomplishments?
  • Blame their partner’s for their own abusive behavior and failure
  • See their partner as property or a sex object, rather than as a person
  • Act excessively jealous and possessive
  • Control where their partner goes or what they do
  • Keep their partner from seeing others
  • Constantly check up on you?

Funny isn’t it...if you think about it, they all seem to apply. 

Hmm,...how about this list of descriptors. Can you tell me which one applies to whom?

  • Charming
  • Spontaneous and intense
  • Don’t feel shame or remorse. 
  • Invent outrageous lies
  • Seek to dominate others
  • Need to win at all costs
  • Highly intelligent
  • Speak poetically 
  • Delusional 

 Again, both fun and beloved characters seem to have all the attributes from the list. Weird right? 

 Well, The first list is a list of are behaviors displayed by the aggressors in domestic abuse relationships. The second list are signs demonstrated by people with the tendencies of a sociopath

Essentially The Joker and Ms. Piggy are both assholes. Abusive, sociopath assholes. 

So why the shit do so many people dress up as Harley Quinn come comic convention time? Not that I dislike cosplay. Far from it. I think it is an awesome expression of fan love for their favorite characters! 

On a side note to my dear Anime and League of Legends cosplayers, if someone asks you what you are dressed as, don’t be a snarky asshole who looks down on the person asking because they are not versed in your quadrant of the nerd-osphere.

But seriously, they do realize that Harley is a victim of domestic abuse, right? The Joker and Harley have a long, MESSED UP history of abuse and reconciliation, be it from the animated series or the comics. I know we like her spunky attitude, and she is a powerful, insane reflection of the Id along with being a sex symbol (who doesn’t love a shapely clown with a giant mallet or bat?!). But Harley does/did display some of the the signs of the abused in a relationship when w/Joker:

Abused -

  • feels afraid of their partner
  • avoid certain topics out of fear of angering their partner
  • believe that they deserve to be hurt or mistreated
  • wonder if they’re the one who is crazy

Her latest comic run has a much more empowered, self reliant Harley, and that’s good. But, I foresee a similar relationship w/Deadshot coming

And, over in Muppet land things aren’t better. Ms. Piggy has been a brassy and full figures, felt covered sex symbol for the last 40 years. But, she also is prone to acts of rage and violent outbursts striking not only Kermit over and over but guests of the show. Don’t believe me? Here is a list of Muppet Show guests she has hit over the years:

 http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Miss_Piggy's_karate_chops

 Kermit has suffered this sociopathic diva for 50 years of television and eight movies. At least he eventually got a new girlfriend in Denise. But all those years he suffered her abuse, physical and psychological abuse. And we laughed. 

 So, outside of song and dance variety shows, made of cloth, haunting The Batman, speaking in a really stupid voice....well that one fits, and outside killing Jason Todd with a crowbar, The Joker and Ms. Piggy characters are in essence the same narcissistic bags of douche. 

Seriously, someone needs to photoshop in Ms. Piggy

Seriously, someone needs to photoshop in Ms. Piggy

 Weep for their victims. 

So, what’s the difference between Ms. Piggy and The Joker...to me, nothing. 

On a serious note:

The topic is while meant to be semi-humorous is also semi-serious. Note: At NO time is domestic abuse condoned. If you are in an abusive relationship:

Please leave...NOW! 

Get help

They will NOT change

You CAN do better. I swear to you.  

 To perpetrators of domestic abuse, male or female: you are cowardly sacks of shit. Too afraid to be vulnerable. Ironically too chicken shit to admit you are afraid. I know violence only begets more violence. I don’t care about hyour background. I don’t care about how you were raised. I only care about the actions you do to others and I hope you are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. 

But I’d like to go on record as saying: if hooking you up to a car battery until you were a crying, pissing, shitting, apologetic mound of flesh, I just need to be reminded whether black or red is positive or negative (I always forget). 

 National Domestic Violence Hotline:
1-800-787-3224
http://www.thehotline.org/

Self Mockery: Sexual Inability & Instability Via 70’s Sleeping Fads-or- How Waterbeds are Not Your Friends

Do you remember your first time?

No, not your first kiss or your first romance. Boring. I’m talking about The No Pants Dance. The Devil’s Lambada. The Happy Humping Here-We-Go.

You know what I’m talking about...Sex. Specifically, your first time. What was it like? Sweet and romantic? Painful and awkward? Was it like the movies? No, not the online instructional videos which dominate 40% of internet traffic. I mean like the sex scenes in 80’s flicks where the couple makes sweet love in a blue filtered room, on white satin sheets while a power ballad plays in the background?

Well, however your first time was, I hope it was special and with someone you wanted to be with. 

Mine sucked. 

Not because of the girl, she was great. 

Because of her fucking waterbed. 

The waterbed fad was all the rage in the 70’s and 80’s and took a sharp decline in the 90’s when my young, sexual self encountered one. I’d slept on one before and hated it. The constant rocking and motion made me slightly nauseous. Nautical I was not. Thus, I never considered my first time a-rocking would come on top of this wood-paneled obstacle course. 

Let me paint the picture: it was 1991 and I’d just turned 16. I’d met this girl through a friend. We had a lot in common, loved the same books and enjoyed talking on the phone all night night. And, as young, horny minds go, sex was something that we talked about...a lot. A lot, a lot. 

She’d already had sex, whereas I had not. So, I told her I had, but only once. We decided when we got together next, we were totally going to do it. 

For you younger folks, all this shit predates cellphones with cameras, Skype, Instagram, Snapchat and all the other made-for-teen-sex social media outlets. God bless you lucky fuckers. So anyway, the day came and I was ready, I knocked out the first few rounds myself before going (when you’re that young, it’s easy and you don’t want to go into our first time as a 3-pump-chump). 

We talked, we hung out, we watched a video and then it was time. Time for The Sex. My mind was getting dumber as all my blood left my brain while my heart beat pounded out the drum solo to In A Gadda Da Vida. We kissed down the hallway to her bedroom, went inside and we sat down...on her waterbed. 

First, I almost fell the fuck over, trying to sit and kiss. When it was time to take each others clothes off, I damn near dislocated my hip and shoulder, trying like all hell to balance myself, maintain my pseudo suavity and an erection while also trying not to fall off this ridiculous thing. 

When the clothes came off, foreplay began. That was good and stable, no problem. But, when my turn to give was over, I tried crawling over the frame to get to my knees to put the condom on. Well, I slipped. My hand almost punched her in the face as my full body weight came down and my leg shot back, cracking hard against the goddamn frame and scraping the shit out of my left leg from my instep to my knee. 

“Are you OK?” She asked. 

“Of course,” I smiled, while inside screaming in pain. But, I was a 16 year old boy. I had the sexual tolerance of a viking. Hell, if she had told me to stick a lit candle in my ass because she thought it was sexy, I probably would have asked her where she kept her matches. 

OK, I honestly looked for a candle in a man's butt for this pic...but not that hard

OK, I honestly looked for a candle in a man's butt for this pic...but not that hard

So, once I had the condom on, it was sex time. So far, so good. Until the actual rhythmic act started. With each thrust, the waterbed would ripple and kind of push back, knocking me off my game (or what passed for “game” when you’re a virgin without the internet). It was like there was a third person in the bed and they were NOT helping. It was bloody well clear this bed was not on my team. I tried to find a pattern which made her happy, but all I heard, over the shitty goth music she was into, was the constant thwap-thwap-thwap of teen skin on vinyl. 

We changed positions, to the style of the dogs, and again, with my piss-poor sea legs, what started nice turned to hell very quickly as I lost my balance and nearly broke my dick off. I attempted several times to find the right balance of sexy and safe, never quite getting there. 

Sigh. 

Eventually this girl, who had the patience of a saint, took over, put me on my back and took care of business. This was far safer, and far better. I had a great view, despite feeling like I was drowning as I sunk down in the bed. 

All in all, as she put it, I did “fine” for my first time (Yes I told her afterwards). Based off my limited knowledge, “Fine” equated to a D+/C- and goddamn it, I’d take a passing grade. 

We never had sex again. We remained friends for several years but eventually lost contact. 

But I’ll never forget my first time. And how much I loathe waterbeds. I refused to go near them for years and was thankful when that fad was over. I felt like the waterbed was my enemy, and mad at me for having sex with that girl. Who would have thought a bed could be such a cock-blocker?

Over the years, I learned my lesson, I upped my game. I trained. I watched the videos...yes the dirty ones. 

And...not to brag...one day I turned that “fine” into a “pretty good”. 

And I knew that no inanimate object of leisure would ever make me its bitch again!

Until the night I tried to have sex in a hammock.

...Fuck that hammock. 

It was a lot like this...

It was a lot like this...

My Wife: Her Addiction - My Suffering

I see her, lying there. Asleep is not the word. She is passed out. Her body pushed past their limits. Her addiction has, once again, ruined her mind, left her body unable to maintain consciousness. 

What am I to do?

Do I keep pretending that this isn’t happening. In front of me?

In front of our son?

We joke about it sometimes. How it started recreationally. How it was just harmless fun. And, it was. Even I’ve dabbled a little. But, it didn’t grip me. Not like it did her.

Fucking Cookie Jam. 

Last night, my once beautiful wife succumbed to exhaustion with that accursed phone in her hand. I came back from the bathroom in our pitch black bedroom to see her once, angelic face, illuminated by the screen of her phone. Her body was simply shut down, as drool slowly made its way free from her contorted lips. 

Now, she sees me, and the world, as she does that game. She aligns items in the house in groups of three, or four. I see her, hoping for a magical animated pastry to appear and reward her for her work. 

It never comes. 

And she dies a little. 

So, with all the bravado of the cowardly lion, I hang my head in resignation. Too weak to do anything. Anything of merit anyway. I just take her phone from her stiff fingers and place it on the nightstand, within arms reach when she wakes. I make sure the phone has a charge, less the withdrawal sets in. 

Chasing the Digital Sugar Dragon is a real affliction 

Chasing the Digital Sugar Dragon is a real affliction 

 Instead of helping, I enable. 

 I am weak. 

 I am afraid. 

Afraid to tell her to stop. To tell her the game eats her phone’s battery life. That there are far better match-3 games on the Google Market. But she never listens. 

 Instead, I retreat to my space and weep. 

And I play Clash Royale. Because it is better. 

Fuck you Cookie Jam. 

And fuck me. 

 -fin-

Self Mockery: Gurgling Guts pt. 2 -or- Brown Butt 2: Electric Boogaloo

“This above all: to thine own self, be true.”

Polonius, Act 1, Scene 3

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

 

One of the ways I chose to lead when I was in the Air Force was NEVER to pretend I was infallible (worst kind of leadership). I chose to expose my weaknesses, to show those who worked for me how I failed in my youth, and what I did to bounce back. And, yes, I would often use myself as the butt of the joke. Because you have to learn to laugh at yourself. 

 So, anyone who suffers from an irritable bowel will appreciate what I am about to say. Those who don’t, well, just laugh along as I tell you about the three best times when I almost shit my pants as an adult. I will break this segment into three mini-essays to be released over time. And now, I give you #2. 

 ~Number 2~

 The Urinalysis Failure in the Gynecological Waiting Room -or- The Gyno-Exam Gaggle of Giggling Girls - February 1996

 

I’d decided to join the Air Force. 

 Well, let’s be honest, I was pretty much out of options. I’d partied too much at college and watched my 3.8 drop to a 1.6 in one semester while away at a state school. After which, I had to get my fast-food job back to pay room and board at my own home. In that time I’d also wrecked my truck. Hell, I was one one divorce and a dead dog away from a country song. 

I'll never forget you Blue!

I'll never forget you Blue!

 So, to the military it was. I went to the Air Force recruiter, signed some papers, took some tests and the process started. My first step to becoming an Airman was MEPS.

 MEPS is the Military Entrance Processing Station. It is the place you got before you do your final signature, where they make you go under a barrage of medical tests, humiliating duck walks while in your underwear and aptitude testing. The night before, you get put up in a hotel and allowed free reign for your 18-24yr old hormones to go crazy. 

 So, after the night in the hotel, you go to the MEPS facility early in the morning following breakfast. Upon arrival, you are herded like cattle from one station to another. Forced to strip, told to pick up a certain amount of weight above your head, checked for flat feet and perform weird acts like bending over to show your asshole to a strange man.  

Man...I hoped that guy actually worked there... 

Promise me you'll call me after!!

Promise me you'll call me after!!

 ... So anyway, they don’t give you much time to do anything but go from one test to another. The stress is kinda high. I’d eaten breakfast, had coffee and I really...REALLY...had to go to the bathroom. After the next idiotic appointment, I stopped one of the ladies who worked there. 

 “Ma’am, I really need to go to the bathroom. Where’s the nearest one?”

 “Which group are you in?”

 “What? I don’t know. Why?”

 “Hmm,” she said, looking at a clipboard. “You haven’t had your urinalysis yet. You’ll be able to go then.”

 “Ma’am...it’s #2.”

 “Oh, well, I’m sorry,” She said. “You’ll have to hold it. You can’t do one without the other.”

 “This is kind of an emergency.”

 “Sorry.”

 So, The Countess Connie Von GoShityourself (as I like to remember her) waddled away leaving me clenching my ass and wiping my brow as the poop-sweats have set in. 

 Deep down, I hated her and her ugly "I Want To Speak to the Manager" haircut.

Luckily, the next stop in the processing station was the urinalysis. So, when it was my turn I stood at the urinal with my pee cup in one hand, my manhood in the other, trying like hell to mentally shut off one valve while opening another. 

 With every ounce of will I could muster, along with a minor touch of flatulence, I managed to squeezed out just enough drops without shitting myself. When the guy administering the urinalysis looked at the bottle he had to judge whether or not I reached the line. 

 Once he confirmed I gave enough, I was free to go. 

 Or at least I thought. 

 “Where are you going?” The urinalysis monitor asked. 

 “I really, really need to go to the bathroom.”

 “Well, not in here you won’t.”

 I looked around, perplexed. “This is the men’s room.”

 “Yes, but we don’t want you messing the place up while the urinalysis testing is going on.”

 “Well, where CAN I go then?” I asked

 “Another bathroom.”

 “Where?”

 “I don’t know.”

So, The PoopNazi (No Poop for you!...that’s a Seinfeld joke for you young people) banished me from the bathroom to search for another bathroom, with no success. I had about 20ish minutes until my next appointment and with what I had brewing, I’d need all of that time. The pain was starting to set in, with sharp jabs in the guts. 

I was at pucker-factor 5. 

I ran into the Countess Connie Von GoShityourself in the hallway. I begged her for directions to the nearest bathroom. With a sigh of contempt for this mere peasant, the royal B-word gave me a very circuitous route to take to a bathroom she “thought” was still in use. 

With one hand pinching my butt cheeks together, I did my best penguin waddle along the maze of interconnected hallways of the MEPS facility. I reached the office door she described, opened the door and walked in...

...to the reception area for the female recruits gynecologic exam. Needless to say, the small rectangular room was FULL of young women waiting. To my right, was the door which read “Restoom”. To my left, was the door which led to the Dr.’s office. 

“Ladies,” I said nodding as I walked past about twenty young women to the bathroom. 

To the TINY...single toilet...no fan...hollow core door with a 1” gap to the floor...bathroom. 

Goddamn it. 

It wasn't this bad...for the sake of the story, this was pretty much it. 

It wasn't this bad...for the sake of the story, this was pretty much it. 

I turned on the water to try and muffle what was about to happen. 

It didn’t work. 

As I expelled, what could only be described as a noxious bio-hazard with accompanying sonic-boom flatulence and miasma-like clouds of brown and green death, I could hear the girls outside the world tiniest bathroom, laughing. 

 I did my best to try and poop with dignity. But, is there such a thing? I was in there for over 15 minutes, as all the backed up pressure released itself in wave after painful, and embarrassing, wave.

 When I was done and cleaned up, I washed my hands and prepared myself for what lay on the other side of the door. Would they laugh? Cheer? Hmm...probably not cheer. Thankfully, this event predated cellphones and portable video capturing devices, otherwise ole Gibby would be a Youtube sensation with over a million views for that power-crap. 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With a heavy heart, I had my hand on the doorknob, trying to recall the exact layout of the reception room so I could sprint and just get the fuck out of there. I opened the door...to nothing. 

They were all gone. 

I checked for dead bodies in case one of them had gotten a whiff of what came out of me. I was at ground zero, so I had a built up tolerance. But no, nothing. No bodies, no gaggle of girls ready to laugh at me like I had an inappropriate boner (thanks freshman year Spanish class! No I DON’T want to come to the board and write out Donde esta el bano),

 At the end of the day, we were filtered back to a waiting area for our recruiter to come pick us up. I’d put my contacts back in, taken off my outer shirt and put my hat on as I just tried to chill in case I was recognized as the crap-bandit. 

 A couple of girls sat down in the lounge’s chairs next to me. They were talking about, guess what, “The guy who shit up the gyno office.”

 Since they didn’t react to me, I decided to tempt fate. 

 “Excuse me, what happened?” I asked one of the girls. 

 “Oh, some dude came into the office during the gynecologic exam. He went into the bathroom and started sitting so loudly we all heard it! It was the funniest thing ever! It was so nasty! What a loser!”

 “I feel bad for the guy,” The other girl said. 

 I decided when I rule the world, she would be spared. I dubbed her Compassionate Kate. That other one though...to the salt-mines with her. “Really? That’s nasty,” I laughed along. “Has anyone seen him since?”

 “No,” The first girl, Salt-Mine Slave Sally said. “He’s about your height, but he’s got glasses and a black and white flannel shirt.”

 “If I see him, I’ll ask him if he’s had a shitty day,” I said smiling, while trying desperately to stuff my black and white flannel shirt into the couch cushions behind the small of my back.

 When the girls went back to their conversation, I hid my face behind a magazine and plotted the demise of Salt-Mine Slave Sally, the Countess Connie Von GoShityourself and The PoopNazi. Meanwhile, Compassionate Kate and I will rule the land! We will be fair, yet firm, with moist, flushable wet wipes in all the bathrooms. This I decree!

Some people in the world need to have a heart. Others a sense of humor. But there is a special place in hell for those who mock another when they are about to shit their pants. 

I still have that black and white flannel shirt and I get a good giggle out of it from time to time when I wear it. If nothing else, it left me with a funny story and left a shitty memory for those girls. 

The actual shirt of Fecal Legends

The actual shirt of Fecal Legends

Wherever you are out there Compassionate Kate, I wish you all the best and lifetime of happiness. 

Salt-Mine Slave Sally...I hope you have herpes. 

 

...Coming Soon:

 ~Number 1: The Great Gastric Geyser -or- How I Dodged the Police With My Pants Around My Ankles

Self Mockery: Gurgling Guts & the Impending Brown Doom -or- My Butt Trouble, pt. 1

“This above all: to thine own self, be true.”

Polonius, Act 1, Scene 3

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

 

One of the ways I chose to lead when I was in the Air Force was never to pretend I was infallible (worst kind of leadership). I chose to expose my weaknesses, to show those who worked for me how I failed in my youth, and what I did to bounce back. And, yes, I would often use myself as the butt of the joke. Because you have to learn to laugh at yourself. 

So, anyone who suffers from an irritable bowel will appreciate what I am about to say. Those who don’t, well, just laugh along as I tell you about the three best times when I almost shit my pants as an adult. I will break this segment into three mini-essays to be released over time. And now, I give you #3. 

~Number 3~

The Bank Forest Ass Blast - January 2014, 0600

On the road at 0515 (that’s military talk for fucking early in the morning). 45 miles from home to work. Between the two interstates to work is a 10-mile stretch of dark, desolate 2-lane country road. For some reason that morning, everyone and their mothers was on that stretch of road trying to save time. The only problem?

The previous night, as a late-night snack, I’d had Quaker Oatmeal Squares. Or, as I call them, Fiber Time Bombs. 

I can’t help myself. They’re delicious. And I am weak. 

Drinking my coffee while stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I lit a cigarette in frustration as we crept along between 0-to-25 mph. That was when my stomach started churning. 

Oh no...the oatmeal squares. The time bomb was active. I looked at my lit cigarette and hot coffee. Oh fuck me. I’d lit the fuse. Rookie mistake. Now? Now it was just a matter of minutes. Ahead of me...nothing but a sea of brake lights and miles to a bathroom.

 Frantically, I started the stalling process. Anyone who suffers from IBS knows what I mean. Roll down the window, crank the AC and start cooling off the body. It helps lower your core temp and buys you a few precious minutes. 

 I felt my body respond, but not well. I had...10-minutes max. But I still had 7 miles to go until I hit the next interstate and then 12 miles to get to work. After that, I would still need to park and then duck walk into the first bathroom I saw. Best case scenario with this traffic: 30 minutes to a toilet with only a 10-minute stall time. 

 

I was going to shit my pants. 

 I looked to the left and the right. I could pull over on the side of the road. It was mostly unpopulated forest with no street lights. I could pull over, park, and run into the woods. Sure, I would suffer the humiliation of people watching and honking. But it was better than soiling myself. 

 Wait! The cars were picking up! We were driving faster! At the end of this 2-lane road was a gas station at the interstate junction! Saved! I put the foot down on the accelerator and hauled ass. 

 NO! NO NO NO! More brake lights! Damn you, vehicular accordion effect! And now the unpopulated wooded stretch of this road was replaced with residential homes. I couldn’t just shit in someone’s front yard. Could I? And it wasn’t quite 6am. Would a stranger let me in before 6am to destroy their bathroom? I was in uniform. Perhaps I could say I was commandeering their toilet?

 No...stupid. 

 OK Gibson...time to summon all the lessons learned from watching old martial arts movies. You summon your chi-power, control your breathing and will your asshole to obey you. 

 Asshole?

Yeah?

 You shall NOT shit!

 Heh...nice Gandalf. But I’m going to spew this fiber sludge all over your clothes and seats in, oh....2 minutes. In the meantime, enjoy the cramps and sweating!

Why asshole? Why? Aren’t we friends?

Eh? You only talk to me when you’re in trouble. 

I don’t deserve this!

You’re the idiot who ate a bowl of oatmeal squares before bed. You know what they do to you. How many times do we have to go through this?

Asshole...you’re an asshole. 

But, during my completely sane metal/rectum conversation, I see it. The lights of the gas station ahead! HA! Fuck you asshole!

I managed to pull into the gas station, only to see the sign on the door: “Closed until further notice.”

I wanted to cry. I was literally seconds away from exploding and there was nothing I could do about it. 

No. I refuse. I will NOT shit myself. Not this day!

I look at the intersection. Three routes. One way was back to the interstate. No time. The other direction was residential with street lights. No go there. But in the last direction, I saw it. A bank. A bank which was closed, but had private parking, lights off, outdoor lights off and several rows of decorative, 15ft-tall pine trees. A great place to hide. 

Time to make a deposit. 

I pulled the car around and hopped out, reaching into the back seat for a small hand towel. Why did I have one? Because I’m the asshole who keeps taking the “free” ones from the gym. The ones you’re supposed to return when you’re done so they can wash them. And because people like me take them, it causes the gym to no longer hand them out. 

 Sorry. 

The cold, winter winds of the frosty January morning hit me in the face as I backed into the row of pine trees, while I looked to my left and right, keeping an eye out for prying eyes. No one. The coast was clear. I dropped my pants as the wind picked up and the frigid air hit my nutsack, causing it to slingshot up into my body while the near 20 degree air was shriveling my junk. I looked like a six-foot 4 year old. 

Squatting, I said a little prayer to whatever deity was looking out for me, while simultaneously muttering a Haitian-Voodoo curse on the bastards at Quaker Oats for making their delicious cereal so inviting, but so rectally deadly. 

 I cleaned up with the hand towel and fled the scene of the crime as fast as possible. The rest of the day went much better. And did I keep it a secret?

 Nope. 

I told all my co-workers (I ruined lunch for several people). I believe in laughing at yourself. It is how you stay humble and it lets people know you’re just as human as they are. 

Coming Soon...

 ~Number 2~ The Urinalysis Failure & the Gynecological Waiting Room