Disaster with Flirting

I had softball practice tonight. I am in an awful lot of pain.
Actually, I was in an awful lot of pain. About an hour ago I took two Tylenol PM.
Actually, I took two things from Equaline for pain relief in the PM. They are so generic that their name isn’t even capitalized on the bottle. They are literally called pain relief PM. And despite a name that does nothing more than describe what they do, they are effective. What you see is what you get with pain relief PM.
So… I decided that I would try to hammer out a blog entry before this medicine forces me to go to sleep.
In this entry I want to talk about women. Actually, I think that the pain relief PM may want me to talk about women…

That’s as far as I got on Monday night. The pain relief PM got me and I ended up staring at an out-of focus computer screen for fifteen minutes. When it’s that much of a struggle to get through a five- hundred word blog entry, it’s time to call it quits.
So now it’s Wednesday and I’m giving this another try- this time without pain relief PM (or AM, for that matter). Where was I? Oh yes… women. I wanted to talk about women. I wanted to talk about them because I can’t talk to them as of late.
I was playing ska trumpet at a local pizza place/live music venue a couple of weeks ago and I kept running into an attractive young lady at the large communal sink outside the restrooms. The second or third time we met there washing our hands at the same time, she said something like, “I think maybe our meeting like this is more than a coincidence.”
I saw an opportunity and seized it. I said, “Yeah, we must be on the same schedule.” The conversation ended there. Same schedule? Even I wondered what I meant by that. We go to the bathroom at the same time? Creepy. I saw a little opportunity to flirt and I beat it to death with my flip-flop. I should have just said, “Yeah… I’ve been watching you from the stage and this is the third time I’ve followed you over here. I like your sweater.”
Then there’s the girl at the gym that smiles and waves at me from the treadmill. She seemed very sweet and friendly, but I didn’t know her name. So, one day about two weeks ago, I decided to make it a point to introduce myself. When she smiled at me that day, I asked if we had actually met. She said no. I told her my name and she told me hers and then shortly afterward, she said, “have a nice workout,” and we parted. She didn’t seem all that interested in moving our interactions beyond a smile and a wave, so I let it drop. Two days later, she approached me at the water fountain with a hearty, “Hey Dave!”
“Hey there… you.”
She told me about the relaxing massage she had just received and I stood there and nodded stupidly. I had initiated our introductions because it was very important to me that I know her name. Two days later, I had no idea what her name was.
After a very one-sided conversation in which she used my name at least two more times, she said, “well, see you later, Dave. Have a nice workout.”
“Alright… you too.”
She continues to wave and smile at me from the treadmill, and she occasionally says, “Hey Dave!” on her way in or out of the gym. I, however, am unable to get to know her any better because… well… I’m an idiot.
You know… I think maybe I will give those pain relief PM another go. Sleep tight, everybody.

A Night at Applebee's; Part 2: UPC

When my fellow intellectuals and I reached Applebee’s we found a table with a clear view of the television so that we could watch the Ultimate Fighting Championship. I took the one chair at the table with its back to the fights. I have a hard time watching UFC fights. I don’t mind the blood and the punching. What I’m afraid of is the (very real) possibility that I might witness a limb being broken or dislocated. The thought of it makes me queasy.

So I sat looking at the various bits of Americana on the walls: a very beat up saxophone, a bicycle with square wheels, a picture of Flip Wilson, etcetera, and I started to think of ways that I would improve UFC. I decided that I would add poetry.

Now, I don’t want to suggest some sort of beatnik poetry slam where the audience snaps their fingers after the poem is read. This would still have two fighters facing off- mano a mano- in the ring. They could still be shirtless and sweaty. I might even keep the toned young women in bikinis that carry the cards denoting the round numbers. Actually, I would definitely keep the toned young women in bikinis that carry the cards denoting the round numbers. The only difference is that the fighters would have to subdue their opponents using only poetry.

There would be no rules. Fighters could use limericks, haiku, epigrams- whatever they choose. The poems wouldn’t even have to rhyme (honestly, I don’t think you’re bringin’ anybody down without a rhyming poem… but, I digress). The poetry would only have to be profound… violently profound.

In honor of my new idea, I thought I would kick things off with this English (Shakspearean) Sonnet:

I’m going to slam your face into the floor.
Then thrust elbow and hit you with the point.
I’ll punch you ‘til even your friends are sore.
And prob’bly pull your arm right out of joint.
I’ll kick your leg; maybe invert your knee
I’ll “accidently” sock you in the groin.
With left eye swollen ‘til you cannot see
You’ll be tenderized like a fine sirloin
And when you’re down, I’ll still each flailing limb
I’ll wrench them backward while you cringe and wince
Just when you think things could not be more grim
I’ll tighten up; I’m bad, I do not mince.
You get in the ring with this rhyming chap
You’ll only get out of it with a tap.


That’s right… I just iambic pentametered your heinie.

A Night at Applebee's; Part 1: Carpe Doodie

On a Saturday night this spring, I found myself driving down Belknap Avenue in Superior, Wisconsin with a couple of fellow intellectuals. We were on our way to Applebee's where we were told that we would find beer and a seat with a clear view of a television on which we would be able to watch two adults beat the living crap out of each other.
After discussing politics, religion and our feelings, we turned to a discussion revolving around a phrase that surfaces from time to time during our extremely interesting dialogue: "Get your/my sh** together."
Perhaps you're not familiar with this colorful chunk of our language. Allow me to give a number of examples in context:

"You're wearing two different colored socks. Geez, man... get your sh** together."
"Yeah, he's got a car and a job. That dude's really got his sh** together."
"Holy sh**! That crazy sh** makes me the sh**ing president of this sh** now. I guess I'd better get my sh** together... sh**."

Having fully discussed that specific topic, I pointed out that my job at an elementary school limits my ability to use "get your/my sh** together" on a daily basis. I told my fellow intellectuals that I like to use the less common but equally effective "get your/my poop in a group." They felt that this phrase was effective but were afraid that I may be hindered by having only one alternative to the more ubiquitous "get your/my sh** together."
So we began brainstorming other alternatives. I feel that these new phrases may help you in your daily lives:

Categorize your/my crap.
Neatly stow your/my stool.
Dewey decimal your/my dookie
Straighten your/my scat
File your/my feces
Herd the turds.
Database your/my droppings.

These were great, but there was definitely a standout winner at the end of the conversation. Take a moment to prepare the way you speak to be changed forever.
Are you ready?
Here it is:

Organize a movement.

Here it is in context:
"Well I'll be darned... those are two different socks. I guess I had better organize a movement."

Viva la revolucion.