Strange interactions.

I am not a male model. If you’ve ever seen me, you’ll render this claim as undeniable as if I were to say, I am not Santa Claus, or I am not a mongoose. I am neither of those things and I am also not a male model. Which is Ok. I’ve come to terms with it. Although, nothing makes me feel less like Santa Claus or a Mongoose and more like a male model than the way I look in the dressing rooms at Kohl’s. 

They must have highly trained engineers come in and design these rooms with just the precise lighting fixtures, calculating the exact wattage needed, which combined with the sheen off the mirror, transforms the reflection of an Average Joe into a Hunky pile of man meat. When I see myself in those mirrors I like what I see. I mean, I look good. Almost too good. So good I fear for my safety and well-being. My knowledge of the law is rudimentary at best but I figure it’s gotta be illegal to be this sexy. And not only do I have to worry about the cops but also of the flocks of females likely waiting for me in the parking lot. I’ll have to sprint to my car to avoid all the wild, sex-crazed, maniacal women lunging at my genitals and showering me with their panties. 

But I won’t allow my head to balloon up with an inflated sense of desirability. Not again. I’ve fallen victim to these mirrors before. It’s the same song and dance every time. By the time you make it home and try on the shirt for a second time, it’s as massive a disappointment as the finished product on a microwaveable dinner. Your mouth waters while examining the picture of a scrumptious looking Chicken Parmesan on the Lean Cuisine box, but once you pull the steaming hot tray out of the microwave, the succulent, juicy chicken breast you thought you’d be eating appears, dry, flavorless, cold and somehow also overcooked. 

I know now that while standing before this mirror in this dressing room, I may appear to be a legit snack, while in reality I most likely better resemble last week’s leftovers. I know this now. 

But at the time, I was a young, vain, impressionable 18 year old kid, whose top priorities were being cool, keeping it real and looking real cool. I was fresh out of high school working as a pizza delivery driver and like most 18 year olds, I had a lot of free time. Free time I spent socializing and partying as much as possible. Mingling, meeting new people, getting fucked-up, and, graciously accepting compliments on my crispy new T-shirts. 

Of course, the same T-shirt size discrepancy always presents itself. As far as T-shirt sizes go, medium and large, which represent 70% of consumers, often jump too much between the two sizes. This is especially apparent at Kohl’s as the folks at the Urban Pipeline clothing company seem to lump all men into two categories. You’re either a David Spade or a Chris Farley body type. There is no in between. Which puts me in quite the quandary. Do I go with the medium which fits a little more snugly than I’d prefer on the off chance that it won’t shrink a bit, or do I opt for the much larger shirt, the one that makes me look like a toddler, on the off chance that it will shrink abundantly, and may actually fit? Of course, the third, and most regrettable option, is to forgo the purchase altogether which only gives me seven minutes to search for a replacement. 

I allow myself fifteen minutes in clothing stores to locate whatever fetching piece of garment happens to attract my attention. Fifteen minutes, and it’s already been eight. To make matters worse, I have $20 of Kohl’s cash that expires tomorrow. I have seven minutes remaining to find a new addition to my wardrobe.  Once my time has elapsed, I leave, as it simply wasn’t to be. My process is methodical. I enter the store, head straight towards the men’s department and continue moving, never stopping to browse or mingle, always on the go, traversing through the clothing racks with the tenacity of a Great White shark stalking a school of otters. Starting in the middle, I move outward in concentric circles, swiveling my head from side-to-side until something reaches out and tickles my fancy. If by the end of the fifteen minutes, nothing has tickled my fancy, I leave, and my fancy remains untickled. Numb and dull, feeling no sensations whatsoever. I head toward the parking lot. My fancy yearning for a tickling. 
I exited the dressing room, taking note of the time with one shirt in my left hand reserved as a “Maybe” and the two different sized shirts in my right hand, hoping I’d make a decision on which one to choose by the time I made it back to the rack to return one when I was startled by the presence of an unexpected visitor. 

An army man. A marine, to be more specific.  Semper Fi. But I didn’t know that yet. I was 18. I didn’t know who was what in terms of serviceman. All I saw was an army man in an army uniform. An intimidating figure. And he was looking right at me like he was waiting for me. He was short, but also big. Not stout, but compact. If I had to guess, I’d say he was 5’6” 190 pounds. A pint size, cube of muscles and aftershave with jet black hair, cut razor thin, a rugged jaw line, piercing blue eyes and a neck as thick as a Redwood. He stood before me with rigid posture, his hands folded into each other at his waistline, with a uniform so crisp and clean, you couldn’t detect a speck of lint with a telescope. “Young man,” he shouted more loudly than was necessary. “Have you given any thought into serving your country and joining the marines?” 

Now, I’ve been caught off guard plenty of times in my life. I once encountered a woman at Costco with a service kangaroo. A cab driver once asked me if I knew how to get any heroin while flying down the interstate at an alarmingly fast speed. I once ran into Daryl Strawberry right by the strawberries in the produce section of a grocery store. But I can’t think of a more random occurrence than the one you’re currently reading. 

Had I given any thought into joining the marines? No, I can honestly say that I hadn’t.  Enlisting in the Marines was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t even sure if I could pull off a V-neck shirt yet. How was I expected to make a massive, life-changing commitment like joining the military. I had seen, “Full Metal Jacket” and that was enough to alienate me from that lifestyle forever. The notion of all my insecurities being exploited and eviserated by an irate drill seargant in an attempt to mold me into a cold-blooded, merciless killing machine, seemed like it would be both horrible and ineffective. Not only would I hate every second of it,  but I’d probably also become increasingly unfocused, distraught, and self-conscious. How am I supposed to drive a tank over a bunch of Palestinian children with the constant distraction of whether or not my camouflage was unflattering or if my crew cut made me look gay. 

At this point, I realized hadn’t said anything at all for about thirty seconds. I was speechless. A typical reaction to being caught off guard. After encountering the service kangaroo, I didn’t speak for eleven days. I had seen army recruiters before. They used to stand behind a table with pamphlets on it in the high school cafeteria. There was a recruiting office next door to the Subway I’d go to on occasion. And I had one call my house before. Thank god for Caller ID. At least in that scenario, I could pretend not to be home. However, there was no escaping this conversation, as much as I desperately wanted to. Not wanting Army man to mistake my silence for contemplation, I forced myself to mumble these three words,

 “No thanks, man.” 

Those three words, must have been the detonation code for the chamber of fury and outrage that lay dormant in Army man’s soul. An unlit furnace waiting for its opportunity to explode onto the earth, decimating anything in its path.

“I guess you just want to sit in your mom and dad’s basement all day long playing video games and eating Funjuns!” Army man snarled with a sharp and intense vigor. Quiet enough not to raise suspicion from Kohl’s security but fierce enough to scare the ever living shit out of me. His face tense, nostrils flaring, eyebrows etched into a permanent slant, eyes fixed on me with a gaze so menacing it would have made Medusa blush. “At some point you’re going to have to grow up! Can’t play video games in Mom’s basement the rest of your life. Time to get a job! Be a man!” 

For the second time, he’s mentioned video games. I don’t even play video games. Nor do I eat Funjuns. It’s almost like his whole speech was intended for somebody else. Plus, I had a job. A good one. I made lots of tip money delivering pizza. Although in hindsight, telling that to Army man was a error in judgment. As it only threw more fuel on the inferno of rage boiling inside of him. 

“What a fucking loser you are!” He snapped. “Waste of oxygen! That’s what you are!” He added with his fists clenched and chest puffed out like he was ready to absorb a cannonball blast. 

Now, I’m not an expert in reading body language, but it seemed pretty obvious at that point that Army man wanted to something terrible to me like fashion an open bear trap around my neck on a timer that would clamp my face off unless I found the key, or stick me in a maze lined with barbed wire and watch me rip myself apart trying to escape. I had just seen the movie, “Saw” a few days earlier and still hadn’t processed my emotions. 

The more plausible action for him would be to fold me up like an accordion and slam me on the ground, leaving me half the size of my current self, which would help me with my T-shirt dilemma but wouldn’t bode well for my low threshold for pain. I knew I needed to do something fast, so I side stepped once to the left then spun back to the right in a slippery maneuver that left Army man frozen in the mud. Although, looking back, I’m fairly sure he didn’t try to stop me, but I like to think I would have gotten around him even if he had. 

With one minute remaining, I reached the checkout counter with one V-neck shirt in my hands. This was it. I was finally doing it. Upon being handed my receipt, I politely thanked the cashier and cautiously walked into the parking lot, knowing that he still might be out there, lurking in the bushes, waiting for his chance to pounce. What was with him anyway? Why was he such a dick? So I declined his offer, so what. Surely, that can’t be the first time that’s happened. What kind of emotionally unstable operation was this guy running. Joining the military is a huge commitment. Huge. And after hearing the word, “No” once, he immediately went on the offensive. No second attempt was ever even made to entice me to reconsider. It took several minutes of convincing for me to sign up for The Kohl’s credit card. Yet, this guy thought I jump at the opportunity for four years of combat, a lifetime of PTSD and possible death. Just so we’re clear, I’m not against the military. I’m simply against me being in the military. 

Twenty years later, I can still say with confidence that I made the right decision.  It never would’ve worked. 
As I pulled out of my parking spot and turned down the row to the main road I saw him standing along the sidewalk on the far edge of the building smoking a cigarette. Even from a distance, I could tell that he was still brooding from my rejection of his offer, and as I passed him by, he glared into the car with the same look of contempt, that terrified me minutes earlier outside of that dressing room. 
On the drive home, I pondered over that interaction wondering if perhaps I did anything to provoke him. I replayed the whole ordeal over and over again in my head and couldn’t find any cause for his overreaction. Unless of course, it wasn’t an overreaction at all, but rather the same sales pitch he gives to everybody. An unconventional approach that I highly doubt is effective. Like, Good cop, bad cop, without the good cop. Army man’s strategy seemed to be to berate recruits into signing contracts under duress. I wondered how often that worked and became skeptical that it ever did. Then for a brief moment, I felt bad for Army man. Here was a guy who was just trying to do his job. Maybe he had a mean boss. Maybe he was under performance probation, and was in desperate need of a recruit to meet his quota. Maybe that day was the last straw and he knew he’d be fired upon returning to the office that day, yet again, empty-handed. This wouldn’t excuse his behavior. But it could potentially explain it. 

Years later, at a Super Bowl party, the doorbell rang, and the host of the party asked if I could answer it for him while he ran off to get his wallet. Not wanting to miss any commercials, I briefly considered passing that responsibility on to somebody else, but ultimately decided to do what was asked of me. And I’m glad I did, because when I opened that door,  guess who I saw standing there, muscles bulging, rugged jaw line,  jet black hair peeking out the top of a visor, holding a Pizza Hut bag? 

Just kidding. That part never happened. Would’ve been funny it did though. Can you imagine! 

My retirement from recreational basketball.

One-armed men have been the demise of many figures throughout history— Dr. Richard Kimble, anyone who faced Angels Pitcher, Jim Abbott in the 90’s, and unfortunately, yours truly. 

This story takes place about 7 years ago inside a Gold’s Gym. I was planning on working out my arms, but decided to stop inside the basketball court first to shoot around. Nothing too intense, just a little warm-up to get the blood flowing. 

Upon entering the gym, I noticed one other baller on the court— an overweight Cuban fella, who looked sort of like Fat Joe. I never caught his name and he wasn’t quite as big as Fat Joe, so we’ll just refer to him as Stocky Joe. Stocky Joe was hoisting up 3’s on the far basket. I took the near basket and began working on my mid-range game. 

A few minutes later, the door flung open and in walked the man who would soon end my recreational basketball career, and convert me into a guy who uses ellipticals. He was a tall skinny guy with a medium build, bald head, one arm, and handlebar mustache. His name was Daryl. What Daryl lacked in appendages, he made up for in swag. This guy must have been sponsored by Under Armour. He had all the gear. I’m talking, shoes, tank top, headband, leg sleeves, wristbands, etc. He even wore a wristband on his chicken wing arm, which I thought was strange. But I just figured they came in two packs, and he didn’t want to waste one. 

Daryl dropped his Under Armour duffel bag on the ground, and shouted in a loud booming voice, “Ya’ll wanna play bucket?”

Bucket, AKA, 21 is a classic playground basketball game. It’s perfect for when you have an odd number of players, as it’s essentially, one on one on one, etc. The objective of the game is to be the first to score 21 points. It’s also known as “Tips” to some people. Although in “Tips” you can tip in a missed shot and subsequently take the shooter’s points back to zero, while gaining two points yourself. But all that does is encourage cherry-picking. Also, only scrubs play Tips.

We all agreed to play a man’s game. First to 21 wins, no tips, and you’ve got to take the ball back on every possession. 

“I’ll break” shouted Daryl, before stepping back and effortlessly sinking a thirty-foot 3-pointer. 

By the way, this was the very first shot he took. He didn’t warm up at all. He literally entered the gym and immediately challenged every person on the court. Stocky Joe and I exchanged nervous glances. Neither one of us seemed prepared for this level of competition. Who was this guy? Why’s he so confident? What happened to his other arm? 

That last question may seem inappropriate, but don’t act like you’ve never wondered the same thing when interacting with a person with a physical deformity  Were they born that way? Did they get attacked by a shark? Was it some kind of a freak vending machine accident, and he stuck his arm up there because it wouldn’t dispense his Twix? All those questions would soon take a backseat to the more important question? Who taught this man how to play? 

Daryl started the game from the top of the key, and checked me the ball. I checked it back and got in the defensive stance. He then jab-stepped to the left and dribbled once to the right, and then just disappeared. I literally heard the ball swish through the net while still facing the opposite direction. “What the fuck!” I muttered under my breath. “Is this guy The Flash? How’s he so fast?” 

On his second possession. He did the same thing. I stayed with him for about half a second before watching him blow by me for an uncontested shot, which he decided would be a completely unnecessary 360 reverse layup. 

After that, he hit me with a stutter step which almost caused me to fall down. He then streaked across the paint and hit a floater 

Next, almost out of boredom, he heaved up a thirty-foot fade-away which bounced off the back of the rim. I snagged the rebound and took it to the top of the key. I could tell Daryl was toying with us. He thought we were both bums, and while I couldn’t speak for Stocky Joe, I was determined to prove him wrong. Now’s my time to shine, I thought to myself, eager to display my athleticism. 

For my first possession, I dribbled down to the right block, stopped on a dime, and pivoted hard to the left. Then I quickly pivoted back to the right and faked a hook shot. 

Now, this usually gets the defender to go airborne. Not always, but usually. 

Once this happens, I tuck the ball back towards my body, wait for the defender to soar past me, and shoot the easy, uncontested layup. This was a move I had been using since junior high. I have perfected it over the years and it worked like a charm almost every time. It wasn’t something I could do every play, but once or twice a game, I could usually pull it off with a high success rate. Once again, I say usually. Unfortunately for me, this wasn’t one of those times. Daryl must have had the scouting report on me because he didn’t jump on the pump fake. He didn’t even flinch.

My move was similar to Hakeem Olajuwon's Dream Shake, with the only exception being his move worked and mine was terrible.

This put me in a precarious position. I now had my back turned to the basket and had already picked up my dribble. In a game situation, I’d simply pass the ball back out to the wing, but this was different. I had to try to hoist up a shot somehow. I had no other option. So, that’s what I did. I jumped backwards while simultaneously turning to shoot. Much to my dismay, once I turned I was making direct eye contact with Daryl’s crotch. He had also jumped, and he jumped much higher than me. 

Now I’ve had my shot blocked before but this was different. This wasn’t so much a block as it was a spike. Daryl slammed the ball into the floor so ferociously, I thought the hardwood was going to open up and create a black hole. My thought process was them temporarily delayed while I crashed to the ground. I’m pretty sure my head slammed on the floor, but the only pain I could feel was to my pride. It had been broken. What I experienced that day was likely the most embarrassing scenario in all of sports. This was like getting tackled by the punter, or giving up a home run to the opposing teams batboy. 

I contemplated faking an injury so I could get the hell out of there, but Daryl was quick to lend me a hand and help me up. Of course he exhibits good sportsmanship, I thought to myself. Is this guy determined to be better than me at everything!  

As I sprung back up to my feet, my eyes caught Stocky Joe smirking at me with condescension. It was as if he was trying to say “Really, Bruh” with his eyes. 

I shrugged and shook it off. It was tough though. Because fuck that guy! It wasn’t like he provided me with any help defense earlier. 

The rest of the game went as you’ve likely already predicted. With Daryl dominating every step of the way. He scored on me at will. The final score was 21 to 3 to 0. I put up the goose egg. Again, I scored no points at all. Zero. Even that lazy asshole, Stocky Joe managed to sink a lucky shot at one point. 

“Ya’ll wanna run again!” Daryl shouted out. 

Stocky Joe passed on the opportunity to continue standing there, not playing defense, and I politely declined. I decided at that moment that I was done with basketball, not only for the day, but for the rest of my life. Unless I wind up with Alzheimer’s later on and forget about that humiliating beat down I had just endured. 

On the drive home that day, I considered several new hobbies to replace basketball. Hobbies that don’t require athleticism, as it was clear my best days were behind me. Bowling, darts, scrap-booking... maybe I could get into bird-watching, I thought to myself. 

Sometimes, when I look back on the events that transpired that day, I kick myself for not accepting Daryl’s offer for a rematch. Did I give up too easily? Was there a chance I could’ve redeemed myself? Why didn’t I try to force him to his weak side? He had no left hand. 

Ultimately, I feel like I made the correct call. I was clearly outmatched, and leaving when I did certainly spared me additional embarrassment. Maybe one day in the future, I’ll get my confidence back and enter a pickup game, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I just saw a Ruby-Throated Hummingbird out my window, and I need to log it in my journal. 

13 Books to read before you watch another shitty reality show.

Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

I, admittedly don’t read many fantasy novels, but I also don’t have a reason to, as I can’t imagine any of them being as good as Neverwhere. The author once referred to this work as, Alice and the Wonderland for adults and I can’t think of a more apt description. In the book, the protagonist, Richard, stops to help a mysterious wounded girl on the streets of London and subsequently gets swept underground into the London below —  A ghastly, ominous setting filled with immortal assassins, talking rats, and demons. It’s an enthralling read that’s funny and shockingly wholesome. 

Anxious People - Fredrik Bachman. 

The first 10-15 pages of this book might turn you off as it tries way too hard to be funny. Fortunately, the forced humor quickly dissipates and the book takes on a more natural flow about a botched bank robbery which clumsily transforms into a hostage situation at an apartment viewing. This book has no antagonist. And it’s not even clear who the main character is supposed to be. It does, however, have an entertaining ensemble of all walks of life who despite their differences, come together when it’s truly needed. Because no matter how strong-willed a person might act, no matter how resilient they may seem, no matter how bold and  unafraid, everyone needs someone else to lean on. This is a beautifully written book. It will make you laugh, make you cry, make you reach out to a loved one, and make you want to read it again. 

The Hit List - Richard Belzer 

Fifty-six years before Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself, Lee Harvey-Oswald didn’t act as the lone conspirator in the Kennedy assassination. I feel like that’s a fairly uncontroversial opinion. Most people would agree there was foul play amiss, the magnitude of which has yet to be determined and likely never will. That’s because anyone who witnessed or knew of anything unusual about that day died under mysterious circumstances. In the Hit List, Richard Belzer ( Yes, the same Richard Belzer) analyzes the tragic demise of 50 separate people who either knew too much, said too much, or simply saw something they weren’t supposed to see. And he does so, with that familiar, unbridled Detective John Munch, snark. 

Recursion/Dark Matter - Blake Crouch

Some books are slow to get out of the gate. Blake Crouch’s books are not. They blast out of the starting block like Usain Bolt on rocket skates. I couldn’t decide between Dark matter or Recursion so I decided to include them both. And while they deal with different subject matters they share the same intricate storylines, mesmerizing plot twists and frenetic pace. If you like Sci-fi thrillers, these books are for you. And if you don’t, read them anyway because I told you to. 

The murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie

On December 3rd 1926, renowned author, Agatha Christie, vanished off the face of the earth. What soon followed, was at the time, the largest search in human history. A nationwide manhunt. This was headline news. Hundreds of people scoured the forests for days.  Aeroplanes were used in the search for the first time ever. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle even hired a psychic in an attempt to discover her whereabouts. Their search came up empty. She was eventually discovered 11 days later at a hotel a couple hundred miles away. Claiming amnesia, Agatha could provide no details as to how she got there, or what she had been doing all that time. Upon returning home, she never spoke of the disappearance again. How fitting for such a mysterious event to occur to such a revered mystery writer. All we know for sure is that right before this she wrote, ‘The murder of Roger Ackroyd’ otherwise known as the greatest mystery novel ever written. A compelling premise with a slew of suspicious characters in a riveting novel that keeps you guessing until the very end. 

Choke - Chuck Palahniuk 

The same author that brought you Fight Club brings you another deranged tale about a depraved medical school dropout named, Victor Mancini. This book is lewd and obscene, and quite possibly the funniest book ever written. 

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel 


Station Eleven is a multiple perspective account of an apocalyptic future after a deadly virus wipes out a majority of the population. Reading this at the start of the Covid shutdown was a little surreal. Not that the author could’ve predicted the utter shit-show that would encapsulate the world a full year after her book was published. Still, Station Eleven is a brilliantly written tale that makes you think about     how you would react to the end of times. 

A walk in the woods - Bill Bryson 


Bill Bryson is an amazing writer. Read anything he’s written and you won’t be disappointed. My favorite so far is, ‘A walk in the woods’ A hilarious autobiographical account of his attempt at hiking the Appalachian trail. 

Foe - Iain Reid 



In the not-so-distant future, a young couple living in isolation on a farm in the country receive  a visit from a stranger who gives them unsettling news. The same author who brought you, ‘I’m thinking of ending things’ brings you another menacing psychological thriller that will bend your mind in ways you didn’t think possible. 

Stoner - John Williams 


This is not a book about marijuana. Sorry to disappoint. Instead, it’s a book about a guy named William Stoner who enters the University of Missouri in 1910 at the age of 19. He later becomes a teacher. He marries the wrong woman. His life is quiet and after his death his colleagues remember him rarely. On the surface it seems like it would be incredibly boring. The type of story you’d need marijuana for in order to make it interesting. But it’s an exceptionally well-told, flawlessly written novel that you’re sure to enjoy whether your stoned or not. I highly recommend it. 

Based on a true story, not a memoir - Norm Macdonald 


I usually stray away from celebrity memoirs as they tend to hit a wall after 100 pages or so. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever finished one. This book, however, is a departure from the Norm. 
By page 1, it becomes immediately clear that not only is this not based on a true story, but rather, nothing in the book is even remotely close to being true at all. In typical fashion, he hilariously rambles on from one implausible occurrence to another in a manner that only Norm Macdonald can achieve. Side note: For all Audiobook fans, you can actually buy this book in Norm Macdonald’s voice, which is just the bee’s knees. 

What to regret when you’re expecting? - Ryan Shaw 


The same author who brought you, ‘The customer is always right?’ Brings you another mildly humorous book. Evidently, not only is this guy an expert on consumer relations, he is also adept in parenting and shameless self promotion. Don’t miss your chance to read the book that’s received three (Yeah, that’s right) three, 5 star reviews on Amazon. 

Breakfast food sucks. Lunch is much better

I don’t know how people can eat entire meals first thing in the morning. I have to be awake for at least 60 minutes before I’m even hungry. I’ve always been that way. Then when I am hungry, I’m hungry for lunch, not breakfast. Breakfast sucks. 

I don’t like sausage and I don’t care for eggs. Biscuits are good, but only as a sidekick for country fried steak, or fried chicken. Eating biscuits and gravy only, seems really strange to me. Same with bagels. If I’m having a bagel, there better be pizza toppings on it, ya feel me. 

Sure, pancakes and waffles are good, but only because I find the other breakfast options so undesirable. Put it this way— if I went to a continental breakfast and my options were waffles or street tacos. I’m going with street tacos every time. I don’t care that it’s 9am, and I don’t care that the street tacos at the Holiday Inn Express are probably subpar. If I’m hungry, I want my hunger satisfied by the best foods available. 

Which brings me to the problem. The best food,

in my opinion, isn’t readily available. I work the early shift. I start at 3:30am, and my lunch break is around 8am. Is it too much to ask for some chicken nuggets at that hour? Honestly? 

Everyone lauded McDonald’s for their decision to offer their breakfast menu all day. But what about lunch? Can lunch get a little respect? If they can make an Egg McMuffin at 8pm, they should be able to make a Big Mac at 8am. What’s the difference? Worst case scenario is that would take longer than usual. Which would be fine with me. I can pull around and wait a few extra minutes. I’m not going to complain for the fresh food. 

They say it’s the most important meal of the day, but isn’t that because it’s the first thing you eat? And doesn’t burning those calories throughout the day give you the energy to give it 35% at work? 

Eating is my second favorite thing to do. Sleeping is first. And I don’t know about you, but when my appetite starts pumping, I don’t get a hankering for scrambled eggs. I get a craving for a spicy chicken sandwich with a side of pepperoni pizza. 

P.S. I forgot about bacon. Obviously, bacon is amazing.

Turd Sandwich Association (TSA)

I only flew once prior to 9/11. I was nine years old and have no recollection of that flight whatsoever. But from what I’ve read and seen in old movies, airports used to be way more relaxed than they are now. Nowadays, you can’t run wildly through the terminal like the McCallister ( minus Kevin of course) family. Those shenanigans would get you detained in a heartbeat. 

It’s crazy to think that there was once a time when you could walk right onto an airplane without removing your shoes, belt, watch, and dignity. When security did their jobs quickly and efficiently, and the process wasn’t unnecessarily stressful. A time when calling things the “bomb” didn’t freak people out and getting to the airport two hours early was only something you did if you worked on the plane. 

Last summer we flew to Orlando. It was our first plane ride as a family of four— Disneyworld! A trip that was sure to be draining, both mentally, and financially. 

I began loosening my belt as we approached the security line. I knew the drill. I’ve done this before. I had not, however, done this before, with children. We managed to make it through the turnstile and as we began corralling through the roped off barriers, I noticed TSA agents stationed every ten feet along the way, loudly shouting at us to, move along!  As if that wasn’t the obvious intended route.

 ‘Oh, you mean follow the crowd through the clearly defined path? How would we ever have figured that out on our own?’

And they say it with this smug authoritativeness completely void of human decency, which only serves to highlight their uselessness to society. Why do these people exist? We already have stanchions with retractable belts to guide us through the maze. I could do without these dipshits every ten feet stating the obvious. It seems to me like each airport could operate just fine with half the amount of agents at security. I say this confidently because at least half of them do absolutely nothing.

As we got closer to the screening Simon began throwing a tantrum. While Becca consoled him, Sophie decided that the burden of carrying her backpack was too much for her shoulders to bear. So, now, I was responsible for both carry-on suitcases, a backpack, a carry-on bag, and a stroller. I walked up to the conveyor belt fumbling our bags while simultaneously trying to empty my pockets and take off my shoes. 

“There’s no way this ends well,” I muttered to myself as I dropped my cell phone and my boarding pass while trying to load one of the suitcases on the conveyor belt. I was in over my head. Like Michael J Fox trying to juggle machetes, I was destined to fail and I’m surprised I didn’t injure myself in the process. 

I managed to get both suitcases on the belt, and was in the process of loading our electronics in a separate bin when I noticed another TSA agent staring at me as if I was wasting his time. I was clearly having issues and could’ve used some assistance, but instead of helping me load up any of the bags, you wanna know what this dumb asshole did? He looked at me with his fat, stupid face and said, “Sir, please place all your bags on the belt and push them through.”

I’m working on it fuckface!

My brain almost exploded. What was this guy’s problem. I wonder what he would do if he was a lifeguard and someone in the pool was drowning. Would he jump in and save them? Would he throw them a buoy? Or would he remain seated and curtly remind them to swim. “Sir, I’m going to need you to stop splashing around and swim already!” 

All I had to do at this point was fold up the stroller and place it on the belt. Folding a stroller is an easy thing to do, unless you need to do it in a hurry, then suddenly it’s as difficult as solving a Rubik’s cube while riding a roller-coaster. “Sir, please go through the scanner,” the TSA said in a rather dickish tone. 

I took two steps to the left to get in line for the body-scan machine, when the same TSA agent yelled at me again, “Sir, you need to push your bags all the way through the belt!” 

Look dude. Either wait for me to push all by bags through and then I’ll get in line. Or push my bags through for me. I can’t do both things at once.  Meanwhile, I can’t help but notice that you’re doing zero things. And aren’t you’re on the clock? I mean, shouldn’t you be doing something? Anything? 

Now I have no idea what this guy’s official job title was, but I can’t imagine what he tells people he does. He probably brags about saving people’s lives and thwarting terrorist attacks by seizing tubes of nail polish and small bottles of water. The people at road construction sites that hold the STOP/SLOW sign work harder than these jack-wagons. Where do they get their confidence from? How can these people who do, literally nothing, behave so pompously, as if they’re vital, important members of society. “Move along!” They arrogantly shout, oblivious of their insignificance. Delusions of grandeur. These morons make Brendan Dassey look like Neal Degrasse Tyson, but in their minds, they’re Captain fucking Planet. 

In haste, I entered the body-scan machine before completely emptying my pockets. “What’s that in your right pocket?” A different TSA inquired. 

At that point I realized what I had done. In my pocket was a tube of Zipfizz. If you’re not familiar with Zipfizz, it’s an energy supplement that you mix with water. It’s a powder. I brought a powdery substance with me. I brought a powdery substance with me through airport security. I was fucked. 

My heart sank through my stomach. This was a mistake that would’ve been easily explainable to a rational human being. But that’s rarely the case in airports. I was momentarily detained while the agent ran a red wand over my hands and tested the tube of powder for combustible/flammable components. I mentally prepared myself for a prolonged detention filled with vigorous full-cavity examinations. The cost of the airfare already had me feeling taken advantage of, but this was going to be the rectal equivalent of spending $300 for zero leg room. “Sir, you’re good to go,” The Agent said in a condescending tone. 

I let out a huge sigh of relief. I had survived the TSA.

It was over. I was free. Sure, I lost a few thousand brain cells in the process, but you always have to expect casualties when dealing with the Turd Sandwich Association (TSA). The only thing that they can do to you after you pass security, is subject you to a completely unnecessary, “random bag check”

A random bag check essentially means, that they’ll catch you in line right before you enter the plane, open up one of your bags and fuck up all your neatly folded clothes for no reason. Which they did, by the way. But hey, if wrinkling up all my shirts, somehow equates to a safer flight, then I’m glad to make the sacrifice. Thanks for keeping me safe, TSA. 

An angry rant for no reason

Grocery store baggers

I went to the grocery store today and purchased 36 items. Then, somehow left with 38 plastic grocery bags. Why these people can’t figure out how to fill these bags up to more than a quarter of their capacity, is beyond me. One of them contained a single can of beans. That was it. A single can of beans, and this genius decided, “Well, that’s enough for you, plastic bag. Now, off you go, on your journey into the ocean until you eventually wind up in a blue whale’s stomach. 

Now not only are the bags harder to carry inside at once because there’s so many of them, but I also have to figure out what to do with 38 plastic bags. And god forbid I show up with a reusable bag. I did this once and the chick at the register nearly had a brain aneurysm trying to figure out how to squeeze all 15 of my items in my giant 27 gallon size bag. She placed two bags of chips in my bag, and then asked if she could put some of it in plastic. “What, no.” I said. “Just stuff them all in that bag, they’ll fit.” 

She then stared at me with with the same confused look Marty Mcfly had when his Nike’s laced up themselves. It became apparent at that point, that I needed to intervene. “Ok, let’s start with the bulkier stuff,” I said. “Grab that box of bagel bites, and those mini tacos, and those taquitos, and those pepperoni hot pockets...” 

Yeah I know, but this isn’t about my poor diet. This is about mocking a woman who thought a loaf of bread made a better foundation than an economy size box of Hostess Cupcakes. I mean, honestly, has this bitch never played Tetris before? Just take a second to scan the conveyor belt before haphazardly tossing random items in the bag. It will be easier that way, and it will take about as much brain power as it takes to remember your zip-code. Trust me. If I can go through self checkout and stuff 15 things in one plastic bag, you can fit more than a single can of beans. 

Self-Checkout machines

While we’re on the topic of grocery stores, allow me to explain in great detail my disgust for self-checkout machines: They are as ubiquitous in retail as Karens and the combination of corporate greed and the low IQ of the general public make them just as infuriating. I try my hardest to avoid these brain-cell killing devices but most retailers, make it their goal to offer you no other option. If you go to Wal-Mart anytime between Monday and Sunday, they’ll have 26 out of their 27 lanes closed, and the one cashier that is working is a hungover, blind woman in a wheelchair with Parkinson's disease and a bone to pick with management. 

So you figure, fuck it. You Might as well do the job yourself since no one else is there to do it. Somehow the five people you walked by in the produce section stocking the same apple, were unavailable to help check that day. Serves you right for shopping at Wal-mart in the first place. 

Even if I only have one can of beans, I’ll still try to avoid self-checkout. Why would I want to scan my own beans? I’m not on the clock. Unless, the cashier is the same guy from yesterday, and he sees me approaching. Then I’d probably stick with the self-check. I just don’t want to deal with it. Like, even though I can’t see the guy’s facial expression through his mask, I can bet that the second I walk away, he’s going to remark to the bagger, “Hey, remember that creep I was telling you about? The one who is always buying beans? That’s the guy!” 

It’s such a hassle. Especially if you have an age-restricted item, like alcohol, and you have to wait for the clerk to bypass the prompt on the screen. Only problem is, she’s busy showing a 75-year old lady how to ring up an avocado without a bar-code. Getting stuck behind a senior citizen at a self-checkout is the equivalent of being stuck behind a school bus on a lengthy subdivision road. You’re not going anywhere for a while. 

Unnecessarily loud car speakers

This isn’t nearly as common as it used to be. In fact,

I thought this particular strand of douchebag was extinct until the other day when my windows rattled as a result of one of these dipshits strolling through my neighborhood with subwoofers that cost more than his car. If you’re not familiar with this phenomenon, it was rampant in the late 1990’s/early 2000’s. 

It was a trend where guys with abnormally large penis’s would spend thousands of dollars, sacrificing all their trunk space and in-tact eardrums, to transform their perfectly fine stereo system into something that sounds like the nuclear reactor from Chernobyl. I rode in several cars during that timeframe that were equipped with these systems and they all sounded terrible. It was nothing but bass. No drums, no keyboards, no vocals. In other words, no music. Just unnecessarily loud, booming vibrations that invoked migraines and ruined the song you were trying to listen to. 

Fortunately for us, that trend has since lost traction. All of the participants either, died, matured, or now suffer from permanent hearing loss. But every now and then you’ll hear one in the wild. You’ll be outside on your porch with a cold glass of lemonade on a calm peaceful day, when suddenly you’ll feel your nose hairs vibrating. A minute later a guy in a 95’ Camaro speeds down your street bumping the ambience from the movie, Deep Impact which wakes up every infant child within an eight block radius, and causes you to spill your lemonade. 

You’ll go inside to refill your glass, and tell yourself two things. 

1. I’m sure glad that doesn’t happen more often. 

2. The death penalty is a good thing. 

Getting pulled over

If you get pulled over on a decently busy road, please be considerate of other motorists, and pull off into a parking lot or side street. Why anyone would stop on the main road, and block an entire lane of traffic, is beyond me. Especially, when you could easily drive an extra 10 feet and turn into a parking lot. I’m sure the cop won’t mind you reducing their chances of being struck by a vehicle either. People who do this deserve two tickets. One for speeding and a second for being a total turd-brained, dipshit.

Receipts 

Can anyone tell me why we’re still bothering with receipts? I thought we, as a nation, were going green. Straws are getting banned across the country. Plastic bottles are generally frowned upon.  Eco-friendly products are selling better than ever... Yet, when I go to Wal-greens to buy a small bottle of ibuprofen, I’m handed a 14 inch long receipt, and three coupons that I’m just going to immediately throw away. All this does is intensify the headache I was hoping to cure. Receipts are printed on thermal paper, which contains BPA, which means it’s non-recyclable. So we’re basically tossing forty million metric tons of receipt paper in landfills (according to the statistic I made up just now in my head.) There’s no reason for all that paper to exist. Even if there were an issue that required me to make a return, they could easily look the purchase up using the card I used to buy it with. Even if I had paid with cash, they could look the purchase up via my Wal-greens rewards account. Go to a gas station or convenience mart for a pack of gum and they’ll straight up ask you, “Would you like a receipt?” 

And of course the answer is always no. They may as well be saying, “Here, you can throw this away, or I can throw it away for you.” 

No one seems to be bothered by this incredibly wasteful practice other than myself, and that’s a shame. One of these days, people will take notice. Problem is, it will likely take a tragedy. It will take something like, a photographer for Animal Planet snapping a picture of a dead baby penguin with a three-foot long CVS receipt wrapped around it’s neck hanging from a glacier, for people to finally say, Oh, shit! He was right. Receipts are fucking stupid. 

Shoe sizes 

How are they not universal yet? In Nikes, I’m a size 11, but the same exact size in Adidas are too big. What gives? Why can’t these different brands crank out the same sizes. Shirts are even worse. The only article of clothing that you can buy every time without issues are pants. You know what you’re getting with pants, every time. 34 waist, 32 long will always be 34 inches around and 32 inches down from the inseam. Then there’s the modifiers, skinny, regular, relaxed, loose, boot-cut, etc.... Whichever fit works best for you.

Then you have shirts. How shirt-makers fucked this up so much, I have no idea. But they should definitely take notice of their rivals, the pants makers, and develop a more sophisticated universal sizing chart. 

Often, I’ll try on a medium shirt and it’s way too tight. So, I’ll go up one size and suddenly I’m swimming in it.  How is it that I go from practically wearing spandex to looking like a kid wearing his fathers T-shirt in one size? Other times, I’ll try on a large and it will be long enough but still a little snug in the chest and arms. So, I opt for an XL, which is just as snug in the chest and arms, but like 5 inches longer than the large. This is infuriating. The length wasn’t the problem to begin with. 

You can buy 3 large shirts from three separate stores, and wind up with three shirts that correspond with three completely different body-types. C’mon, shirt-makers, what the fuck? 

There’s needs to be a complete overhaul in shirt sizes. Scrap the old system and start fresh. No more, small, medium or large. Let’s do what the pants-makers are doing and make more accurate sizes. It can be chest size by arm size by length. Or neck size by stomach size by length. Or maybe we keep small, medium and large, and branch out into extensions of those sizes. Medium-thin, medium-wide, large-medium, large-large, etc.... 

Anything but what we have now— a broken system which makes it impossible to buy shirts online. I don’t think this is too much to ask for in 2020. If they can customize a tuxedo that will fit a miniature schnauzer, we should have shirt sizes that fit correctly 

Have a perfect day!

The two men walked briskly side by side through the busy grocery store, while one gave instructions to the other.

“So, you see Declan, here at O’Malley’s, we value customer satisfaction over anything else. That’s why our motto is, ‘Have a perfect day!’

We may not have the lowest prices in town or the widest selection of name-brands; we may have what food critics call a subpar bakery, and our deli department may have received a D from the health department, because we may have a slight roach infestation, but what we lack in those areas, we make up for with dynamic customer relations.”

Declan listened intently to the manager, Brent’s, detailed analysis of the store's history and core values.

“Always remember to C.H.E.E.S.E,” Brent explained. “C.H.E.E.S.E stands for Calmness, Honor, Empathy, Encouragement, and Smile Entirely.”

Declan was noticeably confused.

“Listen,” Brent continued. “We may not have the most creative marketing team, and we may center our business around nonsensical acronyms; we may be hemorrhaging money internally and we may be moments away from bankruptcy, but what we lack in all those areas, we make up for with dynamic customer relations.” 

Declan nodded his head in agreement.

“What’s our motto?” Brent asked quizzically.

“Have a perfect day!” Declan proudly answered.

“That’s correct,” Brent said. “And that’s not only our motto, but it’s also store policy.”

The two stopped near the cash registers. “Here’s your post,” Brent said.

Declan was eager to get started. He was in desperate need of a job and was grateful for any opportunity thrown his way. “Watch how it’s done,” Brent said with the confidence of Evil Knievel jumping a single semi-truck.

A middle-aged lady approached the register with a cart full of groceries. Brent greeted her with an enthusiastic, “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” the lady answered.

Declan watched in awe as Brett scanned all 37 times with the charisma of a Broadway actor and the pizzazz of a flair bartender. He was fast but considerate. Efficient yet attentive. “Someone’s ready to party!” He said while holding up a bottle of wine. 

The lady laughed. “Oh, you know it!”

 “How do you like them apples?” He joked while pointing to a package of Granny Smiths.

The lady laughed flirtatiously. “You sure are good at this,” She said with a smile.

Brent picked up a block of Brie, “Oh, this. It’s a bries!” He said.

She laughed again, even louder this time.

“Nuttin to it,” he said while holding up a can of Planters peanuts this time. “I’ll have you out of here in a Jiff, he added while scanning peanut butter.

‘Man, he’s killing it,’ Declan thought to himself hoping he could be just as witty when it was his turn.

Brent finished up ringing out the lady, handed her the receipt, and said, “Have a perfect day!”

“Oh, I am!” The lady responded while giving him bedroom eyes.

A voice boomed over the intercom, Brent, we need you in the bakery. There’s another raccoon in the pan washer!

Brent turned to Declan, “I’ve gotta go take care of something,” he said. “Do you think you can handle the register?”

Declan wasn’t sure that the 90 seconds of training he had just received was an adequate amount of experience, but he didn’t want his apprehensiveness to be viewed as weakness. “Sure thing,” he said with equal parts false confidence and trepidation.

“It’s easy,” Brent reassured him before walking to the back of the store.“Just make sure anyone who comes through this line is having a perfect day.”

Declan manned the register and was approached within seconds by a man with a few things in a grocery basket. “Hi, how are you!” Declan asked.

 “Eh,” the man somberly answered. “I’ve been better.”

“Oh, it looks like someone’s ready to party!” Declan declared while drawing attention to a handle of Jack Daniels.

“Party?” The man asked with a puzzled look on his face. “Not quite. I just got laid off from my job.”

Declan was not prepared for that answer and had no idea how to proceed, but he decided that emulating Brent was the only solution. After all, things worked out fine for Brent.

“How do you like them apples?” Declan asked.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The man sternly replied. “How do I like losing my job? Is that really what you’re asking me?”

Declan appeared confused. Even more noticeably than before. He picked up a block of cheese. “Well, that’s not Gouda.”

“Are you really making cheese puns right now?”

Declan began to sweat. This isn’t working out at all, he thought to himself. In a panic, he picked up the next item, held it up high, turned it towards him, and read the label, “Its all about the— Preparation—H.”

“Could you put that down,” the man said, embarrassed. “What is wrong with you?”

Declan wasn’t the most self-aware, but even he could tell that this customer wasn’t having a perfect day. All he knew was that it was up to him to fix it. He wasn’t about to lose another job. After getting fired from Chic-Fil-A for forgetting to say, ‘My pleasure!’ Declan learned that policies were a big deal. He looked the customer directly in the eye and said as sincerely as possible, “Have a perfect day!”

The customer was aghast. “A perfect day! A perfect day! Are you kidding me right now!” He yelled.

“I’m very sorry, sir. But, it’s store policy.”

“What is store policy?”

“For you to have a perfect day. It’s our policy.”

“You can’t be serious?” 

“I’m as Sirius as satellite radio,” Declan replied, proud of himself for making a pun. “I need you to have a perfect day. It’s our policy.” 

“Are you Fucking kidding me!” The customer screamed.

A group of teenagers nearby whipped out their phones and began recording. “World Star!” One of them obnoxiously shouted.

“What seems to be the problem here, Declan?” Brent asked after reappearing from the bakery with what appeared to be animal scratches all over his neck and face.

“This man won’t have a perfect day,” Declan nervously answered, sure that he’d likely be fired over this confrontation.

“This is so unprofessional,” the customer told Brent. “What kind of shit show are you running..”

Brent interrupted, “I’m sorry, sir, but is this true? Are you not having a perfect day?”

“What do you even care!”

“It’s our policy.”

The customer balled his fists up and began punching the air. Brent whispered into his walkie-talkie, “We need security at register 5.”

“Sir,” Brent implored. “This is your last chance. You need to have a perfect day!”

The customer erupted into laughter. Not cute or funny or infectious laughter, but sinister laughter. The type of laughter Jafar had after he turned Apu into an elephant just to fuck with Aladdin. “Let me tell you something, bud,” The customer started out. “Yesterday, my girlfriend dumped me, today I lost my job, and to top it all off I have a hemorrhoid on my ass the size of a golf ball. So, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not gonna have a perfect day. In fact, I’m having one of the worst days of my...“

“What’s the matter, Karen? You’re too good to have a perfect day?” An onlooker taunted. All the bystanders laughed.

The customer took a step back and realized there was now a crowd of about fifty people witnessing his meltdown. “Do any of you see what’s happening here?” He pleaded. “I just want to buy my groceries and get the hell out of here. Can’t a man just have a bad day?”

“Hey man, your bad day is your bad day. Don’t take it out on anyone else,” one onlooker shouted.

“Not cool, man, another one added.

“How about you quit being such a dick and have a perfect day already,” one of the meaner ones suggested.

 The customer broke down in tears.

Brent gave Declan a concerned look. “What should we do now?” He asked.

“How should I know,” Declan answered. “I’ve only worked here for twelve minutes.”

Security arrived and ordered the customer to have a perfect day.

“No!” The customer shouted. “No, absolutely, not!” 

Voices in the viewing pit became louder and more annoyed. Declan froze in fear. Brent did the same. As confident as he seemed 15 minutes ago, he sure seemed unsure of himself now.

“I’ve had enough of this shit!” The customer proclaimed while smashing the bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter and flipping over the candy bar and gum display rack. “Fuck this shit!” He continued while slinging packs of mints at people's throats like they were ninja stars. Finally, in a blaze of glory, he ripped the cash register off the counter and slammed it into the ground. Cash flew everywhere. The crowd went into a frenzy and police ransacked the place at that very moment. The customer was arrested and placed in police custody. 

You probably already read about that. You’ve probably watched the video too. It only happened a few hours ago, but since then, the video has been viewed a million times. People are saying he should serve life in prison. Some are even calling for the death penalty. Others say that’s too harsh of a sentence. One thing everyone agrees on is, that man was NOT having a perfect day.