Five Guys In A Minivan

There’s a story behind me feeding Keith a bite of my frozen banana.

But that story doesn’t really mean much to you. 

Nor does the story about grown men reliving their childhood by singing “The Thong Song” word-for-word just outside Baker, California.  Or when a liberal-themed food kitchen fed us a Cobb salad that Michael Moore had probably just finished washing in his own bidet.  Or when we all peed a little bit, laughing about the time we were going to Kansas and all of the creepy truckers left us abandoned at the pit stop on I-15. 

Those stories don’t mean much to you because you weren’t on the 39-hour road trip to Newport Beach and back.  You weren’t in the back seat covered in fiber gas clouds and Sun Chips.  Nor were you ordering Strawberry Daiquiris in nothing but spandex shorts after a long morning workout with wrinkled women trying to catch a peek of your hot body.  None of those stories mean a thing to you. 

And that’s ok.  Because I’m sure you have stories about what happened in the last 39 hours of your own lives.  They may not be as entertaining as what happened to five guys in a minivan, but they’re your stories, and only you and a handful of others get the inside jokes associated with them.

In the meantime however, just sit back, laugh a little bit at the third-grade looking picture of me feeding a grown man a frozen banana, and slightly envy the non-Instagrammed life that I have.

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”. 

WE'VE GOT A BLEEDER!

For some reason the bubble I live in thinks that not having a wife at the age of 28 means you're on the verge of dying.  Either that, or all you Utahns wonder if I'm now batting for the other team, I have no idea.  And if you didn't understand that last sports reference to homosexuality, well shame on you.

For full effect, download "No Scrubs" by TLC and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I L-word my friends. Seriously I do. All of you reading this I would most likely consider to be a part of my circle of trust.  You really are that awesome.  But for some reason every time we have a conversation longer than 15 seconds why must you ask about my relationship status being single?  And why do you then begin frantically rummaging through your stockpiled list of socially awkward projects in hopes of saving my soul from the mortal damnation of being alone? It makes no sense!

Me: "Yeah, things have been goin' great for me. I've got no complaints."

You: "That's wonderful.  Well are you dating anyone these days?"

Me: "Not really, I date quite a bit but nothing really serious or anything."

Cue shocked/confused/WTF look flashing across your face.

You: "MEDIC! WE'VE GOT A BLEEDER HERE! GET THIS MAN A WIFE, STAT!"

That's the closest description I can come up with to explain how freaked out you come off when I tell you I haven't sent out any wedding invites yet. You piss your pants in panic and grab the nearest stick figure with a skirt and offer her to me like some biblical sacrificial lamb.

Crazy You: "Here Brock, take this maiden. Yes she's $40k in debt, has a full goatee, and was on the most recent episode of "Hoarders", but she is clean, and also in need of a mate. Take her, wed her, and go procreate.  She is yours."

Or there is the psychic premonition that some of you loonies get, convinced that a spiritual prophecy or some dream-like revelation has shown you whom I must be with, when in reality you probably just huffed a little too much Potpourri last night while watching “The Notebook”.

Crazy You: "I just want to tell you that I have had a very strong feeling that this girl, this 41-year old woman with nine cats and three kids, who has no college degree and thinks it's OK to go on blind dates in her pajamas, I just have a feeling that the two of you were meant to be together, and really are soulmates."

This is the part of the conversation where I whack your tear-filled eyes with a lamppost and tell you that I had a spiritual prophecy to give you a concussion.  For the record, the above conversations are not fiction, they have actually happened in my life.  Yes, I may be combining a few of them for comedic effect, but these nutcases are the ones you’re trying to pawn off to me using your lack of matchmaking skills.   

These types of conversations are also what make me lie straight to your face about being in a serious, committed relationship with a girl that does not exist whatsoever.  Oh yes, I’ve created those ladies before, and I have them stashed away for whenever I feel your prodding relationship questions are going to lead to yet another below-mediocre blind date.  Either that or I just tell you I’m gay.  One way or another, I avoid at all costs your last-ditch, hail-Mary efforts to save my soul from a life of miserable celibacy, because I’d much rather be happy by myself, than be depressed with some project.

So please, shut your yappers about my dating life the next time we catch up.  And don’t try and force-feed me your boss’s, second cousin’s BFF with ADD who just got divorced, and someone who you think I’d be a perfect fit for, and if we’re not engaged by June 1^st you’ll be on your knees every night pleading with the good Lord to not smite my unwed soul with a bolt of lightning.  Because conversations like those are what make me want to shove a nine-iron down your throat. 

Me: “MEDIC! WE’VE GOT A BLEEDER HERE! GET THIS BUMBLING JERK SOME COMMON COURTESY, STAT!”     

The Best Four Minutes

No, YOU'RE A Mid-Life Crisis!

Today was a world only big kids live in. 

For full effect, download “A Hazy Shade of Winter” by Simon & Garfunkel and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

Days like these can be described as tedious. 

Or repetitive.

Or lackluster. 

Or think of some other synonym for “old and boring” and insert it into the above sentence. 

You know what kinds of days I’m talking about don’t you?  The days when the majority of your attention is focused on filing the correct 1040-D form to recognize your business as an LLC with the IRS and make it so you’re tax exempt, or when you have a staring contest with your computer monitor trying to figure out if the retention data from Fall 2011 to Fall 2012 is comparable with the same retention data pulled from Fall 2012 to Spring 2013. Today was a day when dress slacks and cornflower blue ties replaced cutoff jeans and a Weezer T-shirt. 

That last paragraph was major boring crap, I know.  I’m surprised you’re actually still reading this blog after suffering through that.  If you’re still with me this far, well then I applaud your dedication dear reader, and hopefully these next 500 words won’t bore you out of your stinking mind.  I’ll spice it up and talk about things like Root Beer floats and closet make out sessions. 

Those are things the youngsters inside us all appreciate, right?

Seriously, today was a day where I think a few gray hairs were conceived beneath my own scalp.  It wasn’t a stressful day or a day of pure boring agony, it was just a day where the big kid on campus took a cricket bat to the face of the little kid inside me and told him not to come out to play, and if he did, oh, he knew what was coming to him.  Today was a day where plaid button-ups with wrinkles gave up their Mazda Miata and settled down for the old Chrysler Town & Country. 

50-year old waste of time: “Yeah, so I think I’m gonna go ahead and sell my mid-life crisis, just so I can get something more manageable, more established.  It’s time to really grow up now and accept my adult responsibility.”

Wild Bear: “screw you mid-life crisis! I’m gonna drive a Rogue and stay up Until 1 am drinking Mt. Dew until the day I die! REBELS FOREVER!”

Those “big kids” were only some kind of mythical creature when we were younger, but today was one of those days that proved they exist.  A day where fart noises and “That’s what she said” jokes weren’t appropriate.  Today was an episode of the Congressional Hearings on Offshore Tax Practices live on C-SPAN when you really just wanted to get wasted on Tosh.0 for nine hours.  Yes, today was that kind of a day. 

Where did all of the fun go?  The Friday night sleepovers, the Jell-O eating contests, the whoopee cushion jokes, the fort-making contests in our basements? All of that is showing up less and less the older we all get.  Rather than enjoy the sun on our faces and go set up our homemade sprinkler systems, which would then invoke a water balloon war with our neighbors, we just stare out the window of a government-owned cubicle and calculate the percentage of students that would fall in an underprivileged demographic.

The scary part is that days like these are starting to appear more and more with every passing year.  They’re starting to completely overtake our entire conscious thought process.  With every passing cake day, there will be a fewer percentage of days per year that are spent watching marathons of “Space Jam”, or playing Call of Duty for 13 hours.  Instead, we’ll just find excitement by DVR-ing “60 Minutes” and adding a cover sheet to our TPS reports. 

Are days like these what we are all hoping to attain in life?  Are they our end goal? Our supreme feat? Our final, grown-up, crowning achievement? Because it seems the older we all get, the faster maturity is forced upon us; and sadly, there is nothing we can do about it except stand there like adults and just take our force-fed colonoscopies.  

I think I'm a big kid now.  And that scares the crap out of me.  

Chicks Dig Guys With Kids

“Using a little kid as bait is the easiest way to get chicks.  It’s like taking candy from a baby.”      

-Barney Stinson

You would trust me to watch your kids, wouldn't you?

For full effect, start singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and hum at naptime volume throughout the duration of this post. After which, go download "Adventures in Babysitting" and enjoy one of the best films to be birthed in the 80's.

The above child seated next to the dog cage is Parker, and he is the son of my BFF Niels.  And yes, I did just use the acronym BFF in this blog, so what, I don’t care.  If you don’t like it just go ahead and STFU.  Parker and I buddied up a few days ago when I was asked to be his personal caretaker for a few hours. Yes kids that is correct, I was asked to be a babysitter.  Please don’t call 911 in a panic.  

This is the part where you remember the YouTube video where Antoine Dodson yells out to the reporter, "Hide yo kids, hide yo wife, cause they be rapin’ errbody round here." 

No, I'm not a rapist. Who do you think I am, Tobias Funke? And if you don't get that last joke, go watch Arrested Development. Trust me. Totally worth your time.

Now you may say, Brock, what do you know about watching kids? You can’t even find a girl to L-word let alone look after your own offspring. But the thing is, I'm a good babysitter, a curse word good one to boot. I know how to make bottles, change diapers, wrap them up in a blanky and lull them off to sleep, yeah, I am that amazing. I grew up in a house full of women who taught me the skills on how to raise a child, so when Niels called me to take care of Parker, I jumped all over that kid.

We sure buddied up for the few hours we were together.  We went on an exploration of the laundry room and I let him sit in the washing machine, I took him to the bathroom so he could stand on the counter and stare at his identical twin in the mirror for abut twenty minutes, we even played on the floor and had a growling contest with each other.  I’m telling you it was an entertaining couple of hours, none of which might I add were laced with any stinky diapers. 

The only frustrating part of the day came when the little guy got tuckered out and rolled into naptime.  He kind of messed up my master plan of complete and total domination of single women.

Me: "Parker! Hey Parker! You wanna get in a stroller and go for a walk in the park so Uncle Brockie can monopolize on your cuteness so single women will want to go out with him? Hey! Parker!"

Parker: Rolling his eyes and sucking back on his binky.

Ladies, tell me that's not the best dating tactic you have ever heard of. Your heart melts into warm butter whenever you see a grown man walking a stroller around the park; a stroller that's holding a little guy inside who has a face that makes the mother inside you want to passionately jump on top of the man taking care of him. I'm telling you, an infant is of equal or more value than Ryan Gosling with his shirt off.

It was a great couple of hours I must say, and I will admit I was a little disheartened when Parker’s parents came home and relieved me of my babysitting duties.  Maybe the Dad inside me was a bit anxious to come out to play, who knows?  Whatever it was, I think I did a heck of a job watching over that little stinker.  In fact, I did so well I think I’ll start taking reservations if any of you out there need me to keep an eye on your own little ones.

As long as you’re cool with me using your kid as date bait, I think things will be just fine.