Tuesday, May 28, 2013

T-T-Today, Junior!


It’s a God-given gift to be able to tell someone a story and keep them entertained from start to finish.  How people like Adam Sandler get away with telling absolute moronic tales for millions of dollars every other year, well that’s a just a blatant abuse on mankind’s lack of intelligence.   

For full effect, download “The Night Chicago Died” by Paperlace, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I’m a damn good storyteller.  Along with my overinflated ego, this may be one of the many traits I inherited from my nongenetically-linked Father.  I know I can make you laugh, make you cry, and keep you on the edge of your seat while the clock ticks on well after midnight.  Why else would you click on this link anyway?  You read this blog to hear my stories.  It doesn’t matter if they are imagined, exaggerated, or complete loads of bull crap, you want to hear me tell my tales, and hope to high heaven there is a moral message tagged somewhere in the last few sentences. 

Don’t worry, I’m willing to bet a small smile will crawl past your dimples somewhere near the end of this post.   

There are millions, nay BILLIONS of stories that are happening every single day.  And a small scratch of them get recounted to others, whether in person, over the phone, or even on the Web.  Why do you think Blogs were invented in the first place?  To give English majors a dash of hope that all of their single-serving friends will actually care about that one time when they went to Hawaii and ate grilled pineapple at a local luau.  When honestly, you really don’t care one bit about their vacation, do you?  Really, their storytelling skills are as bad as Arabian donkey tuna, and they should be banned from getting their own personal URL in the first place. 

I know a guy like this.  We’ll call him John Doe for sake of offending him.  Listening to this putz try and recount any event in his life makes me want to give birth to triplets without using an epidural.  By the way, analogies like that are another key to getting your point across, especially if it’s detailed and relatable enough to make a woman wince in pain, remembering that moment when she was dilated to a five. 

John Doe: “So I got up at like 7 or so, which is unusually early because my alarm goes off at like 8:15, 8:20, depending on the morning.  But um, after I showered, ate my oatmeal, brushed my teeth, put gel in my hair, I get a knock on my door.  I walk outside, and my landlady was standing there, and she’s like, ‘Hey, your car lights are on.’ So I was like, ‘K, thanks’, and I walk out there and turn them off and then I come back in and start ironing my pants, you know with like those steam irons, that really press the pleats in the pants, and I’m standing there in my underwear, watching reruns of "Days of our Lives", when out of nowhere, my phone goes off.  I walk over to it, and I read a text message that was sent to me this morning, and I’m all, ‘I don’t get texts this early, and so I pick up my phone, you know, the one that has the Ford logo on the back of it, with the little sparkles on the side, and I read the text message, and it says…”

Me: “SPIT IT OUT MAN!!! SERIOUSLY, JUST GET TO THE POINT!!! HONESTLY, YOU’RE KILLING ME!!!”

This is the part where I throw a handful of cinnamon in his face, pinch his nipples with a stapler, and then smack him upside the head a few times with my cricket bat, which won’t be nearly as painful as the agony he just put me through with all of the ridiculous details he added on to a story that has no ending whatsoever.  What am I supposed to care about, his landlady, his text message, plot-lines of daytime TV dramas? ? For the L-word of humanity, WHAT IS THE POINT OF YOUR ENTIRE CHRONICLE?!?!  

Whew! That felt good.  Almost like I just confessed my sins to Father Morgan, and got a whole burden of ranting off my chest.  Is this what AA feels like?

I guess the moral is that if you’re going to tell me a story, get to the Mother Curse-Wording point.  No one cares about you steaming your undies, the flavor of your oatmeal, or when you actually started this story, pulling the eye boogers out while your alarm was going off.  If you want people to care about any story you wind up to tell them, cut the crap, toss an analogy/metaphor here or there, and get to the point. 

Otherwise, you’re as worthless of a storyteller as Adam Sandler is, post-“Big Daddy”. 

What do you think?

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