During my childhood, my family was very Catholic. We prayed before meals, attended Catholic school, ate fish on Fridays, constantly feared eternal damnation, and I served mass. The majority of the other bucks from my class did as well.
At that point in my life, I had never worked so hard for something I didn't want. Don't get me wrong, I did not like school or tests , but I at least wanted to pass my tests. I wanted out of my school as quickly as possible. So, for me, this was different. I didn't want to be an Alter Boy.
But my parents did want me to serve mass, so I did.
Several times a week, we met with Father Bulger. Written and oral tests ( ha ha...don't even) We memorized every prayer, creed, and beatitude.
After a few months, we had a very stoic ceremony to celebrate our achievement.. Father Bulger went old school and spoke some Latin. My mom cried because she was so proud. This confused me. She said I had become a soldier for God that day. That really confused me. This all kicked over a lantern of skepticism that had been flickering inside me.
Lent was the worst time of the year. I served three times a week and also attended class mass, all school mass, and Sunday with the family. At first, I tuned out everything during church. Just day dreamed about hitting home runs, or kicking Mike Billing's ass for stealing my lunch. That not only got monotonous, but it led to me screwing up on the alter. I would ring the bells at inappropriate times, sit when I should of stood..a comedy of errors. I didn't like embarrassing myself on stage, so I started to listen to everything the priest said.
I was pretty shocked and more than a little disappointed. There was just so much ridiculous bull shit. There was violence and revenge. I couldn't believe how the heroes of parables could get away with doing things outlawed, judged immoral in Kansas. I was a little pissed. Here I was, damn near wearing a dress on a stage, losing countless hours of Nintendo...and for what? So I could be a prop for story telling so unrealistic I would get an F in my creative writing class if I told them?
One evening, myself and the other alter boys were putting on our gear in the Sacristy. ( That's like a Green Room/Locker Room for the Priest and the alter boys just before mass ) I had begun to share some of my feelings about the outfits we had to wear, and how ridiculous some of the stories from the Old Testament were. I was slowly winning over some of the guys. I was retelling the story of Jobe circa 1984. In my version, Jobe was my Dad. God took his job away and made my sister a prostitute. God put my brother in a wheel chair. God made Walter Mondale president. God made George Brett gay.
I was on a role and loving the attention. Also in the Sacristy was the incense. The incense was connected to a chain that our priest would swing back and forth. I was spinning it as fast as I could on the side of my right hip. "Smell me now Jesus! Smell me now!" Hard but nervous laughs from all of the guys followed. Also in the Sacristy, the body and blood of one Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I jammed a fist full of hosts into my pie hole. "Jesus, why do ya taste like cawdboard?! This isth nooo tasty savior!" . More laughs, but getting quieter. I grabbed the wine bottle and started to gulp away. As I wiped my mouth off with my frilly white sleeve, I said, "Oh Jesus, your blood is so much better than your body! Why does your blood taste so....."
There he was. Father Bulger's blacks eyes glared into my soul and melted it. I really thought I was going to die. I started crying before I could get down from the chair I had just performed on.
"The rest of you leave", he growled to the other alter boys. I remember trembling and thinking my Dad was going to show up any second. I turned and only gave him my back and ass, then he began absolutely whipping them. He even used the knotted end of a rope. ( it was some ornate red tassel detail, but it really hurt so when I tell this story it's the end of knotted rope)
The beatdown was probably only a minute or two, but it was pretty bad. It left several marks, and in his furry, he hit my neck and head. I could tell he was scared after he stopped hitting me. This made me less scared. He looked worried and guilty, and poked his head out in the hall. I remember trying to be as quiet as possible and did a pretty good job.... making myself cough so I could calm down and stop bawling. He looked sad. He hit a knee and looked right at me. He told me what I had done was very sinful and wrong. He told me it was so bad that it could ruin me at school. He told me how hurt my parents would be. He told me if I never did anything like that again, and didn't tell anyone about any of what had happened, I could then confess at Reconciliation and that would be the end of it.
We shook on it. We actually shook hands on it. In a strange way, he and I both felt exactly the same fear at exactly the same time. It's an empathy I never saw from him before, or after that afternoon.
I still don't know who got the better end of the deal, but it definitely left a mark.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Idle Hands and Baseball Cards
Idle Hands and Baseball Cards.
I will always cherish the summers of 1984 through 1988. These summers were the sweet spot of my youth. My brother, Bobby, was old enough to socialize with, yet utterly controllable. I was one of the better players on my baseball team. I didn't care about girls yet. My sister had her driver's license. My only real job was mowing the lawn, and even that seemed cool because I considered our family's side yard my baseball park. ( In order to carve out base paths, I set the Toro's blade's very low. I took a pretty good beating once, but saw that as a risk anyone with balls took) And Bobby and I also adopted our neighbor, Wes, as a sibling.
When we couldn't get a game of pick up baseball together, I would ride my bike to the Circle K convenient store. I would always get a pop and a little candy, but was careful to save as much money as possible for baseball cards.
We loved baseball cards. Cards became our neighborhood's currency. They really worked like money. It didn't matter how big of a twat Andy Mangum was, if he had a Ken Griffey Rated Rookie on him, he was the big swinging dick that day. We loved ripping each other off. We studied price guides and worked hard to know each other's weaknesses. Example: Wes seems to have an emotional connection to Tom Gordon that clearly makes him over values his card's true value....I will use this knowledge in order to steal that Mattingly rookie from him one day. ( I did too)
Many of the kids on our block had money to burn, but their parents wouldn't let them ride their bikes more than a mile away. We lived in a developing suburb, surrounded by stucco castles and tiny trees. Ah, but not a single convenient store within in a rich white kid's walking distance....old school man.
Wes had, what I will call, "disposable fake-allowance income". He also had a cool mom willing to drive him to baseball card distributors. Card distributors, to his credit, he found himself. (Pretty savvy for a 9 year old kid pre internet)
That's when Wes started buying in bulk. He changed the game. Bobby and I quickly got our mom on board by having Wes's Mom tell her it was ok. We found a couple more baseball card "dealers" ( stoners selling cards from their single mother's garages) and stocked up.
We bought sets and boxes of cards and started selling them to the other kids in the neighborhood. We openly explained that there was a 25 cent mark up per pack, and everyone seemed cool with the arrangement.
Everyone but Wes and I. We weren't making enough money for our time. Not only did we coordinate the logistics and shipping, but our creative fun machine was feeding all of this energy to the entire neighborhood and for a measly 25 cent per pack profit!? On top of that, it seemed like every pack of cards we kept and opened for ourselves was full of no name players. It seemed like Bobby, Wes and I never had a solid rookie card or bona fide stud in our packs, but the Mangum brothers seemed to snake a Sandy Allomar Jr card every god damn time. It didn't seem fair that the tards held the cards and the providers just broke even. ( our Dads were Republicans) You see, one good card in a pack could be the value of 4-5 total packs of cards. If we kept losing out due to chance on good cards, it would hurt business. It would hurt the neighborhood. If we couldn't afford to keep buying all of these cards, then there there was no longer a local supplier...and then what the hell are you left with? I'll tell you...throwing tennis balls at construction workers and beating up the rather large headed Jessie French...nothing sustainable...nothing real.
We were bitching about this scenario one afternoon in our basement, getting all pissed off. We opened a carton of cards and decide which packs we would hypothetically sell, and which ones we would keep for ourselves. Low and behold, the cards we were going to sell were filled with winners worth at least a buck each, and the packs we were to keep were for shit. Right at that moment, Wes and I decided to to find a way to re-seal opened packs of cards. And at that same moment, Bobby decided to keep working over his pudding pop and agree with our plan.
It was so easy. Six tiny dots of Elmer's Glue had the exact same pull and consistency as an originally sealed pack. We decided it was fair as long as long as we collected enough well priced cards to cover our costs. Then we would just sell the remaining packs, unmolested.
It worked real well for about 2 weeks, but then we got greedy. Nobody had bitched, so we started resealing all of the cards. We began to re-seal every day. We also got cocky. Not only would we sell our cards, but we had continued to trade with the other kids. We were like rich mobsters with huge stacks of chips at the table and it quickly wore thin.
One afternoon, nobody bought a single pack. We threw a few freebies out, but there was little impact
Back in the basement, we discussed our plight. Bobby took a break from his microwave chicken sandwich. Certainly echoing his own soul's cries he chimed, " If they don't get to win some of the time..they wont want to keep playing". I had to admit, the little homo was on to something this time.
We started marking small green dots on the corners of packs that contained "hot" cards. That way we could reach for one if they were on a bad steak, keep them hooked, give them hope. It really, really worked.
We flew through packs of cards. My mom was worried about the large quantities we bought from the card dealers and asked me why I didn't just ride my bike to the store anymore. Then my Dad started asking questions. I then knew the heat was too high and I best lay low to avoid any hard time. Wes? He was on fire. His Mom didn't give a shit. She was just happy he wasn't being a prick around the house and no longer glued to his computer.
Wes didn't handle his new found purchasing power well. He went rouge. He got sloppy. Wes began re-sealing on his own.
At my house, we had a lookout stationed, a small assembly line, and a mom so unsuspicious, that we may have been able to get her to help without raising any red flags. His house held none of these built in safe guards. Reckless I tell you.
Of course he got caught. Thank God his mom was so nice. She didn't want to sadden my mom or enrage my Dad, so she didn't call our house. But it was made very clear that all of our card operations were to be terminated immediately.
Four days later, I am pretty sure my brother beat the shit out of Jessie French.
I will always cherish the summers of 1984 through 1988. These summers were the sweet spot of my youth. My brother, Bobby, was old enough to socialize with, yet utterly controllable. I was one of the better players on my baseball team. I didn't care about girls yet. My sister had her driver's license. My only real job was mowing the lawn, and even that seemed cool because I considered our family's side yard my baseball park. ( In order to carve out base paths, I set the Toro's blade's very low. I took a pretty good beating once, but saw that as a risk anyone with balls took) And Bobby and I also adopted our neighbor, Wes, as a sibling.
When we couldn't get a game of pick up baseball together, I would ride my bike to the Circle K convenient store. I would always get a pop and a little candy, but was careful to save as much money as possible for baseball cards.
We loved baseball cards. Cards became our neighborhood's currency. They really worked like money. It didn't matter how big of a twat Andy Mangum was, if he had a Ken Griffey Rated Rookie on him, he was the big swinging dick that day. We loved ripping each other off. We studied price guides and worked hard to know each other's weaknesses. Example: Wes seems to have an emotional connection to Tom Gordon that clearly makes him over values his card's true value....I will use this knowledge in order to steal that Mattingly rookie from him one day. ( I did too)
Many of the kids on our block had money to burn, but their parents wouldn't let them ride their bikes more than a mile away. We lived in a developing suburb, surrounded by stucco castles and tiny trees. Ah, but not a single convenient store within in a rich white kid's walking distance....old school man.
Wes had, what I will call, "disposable fake-allowance income". He also had a cool mom willing to drive him to baseball card distributors. Card distributors, to his credit, he found himself. (Pretty savvy for a 9 year old kid pre internet)
That's when Wes started buying in bulk. He changed the game. Bobby and I quickly got our mom on board by having Wes's Mom tell her it was ok. We found a couple more baseball card "dealers" ( stoners selling cards from their single mother's garages) and stocked up.
We bought sets and boxes of cards and started selling them to the other kids in the neighborhood. We openly explained that there was a 25 cent mark up per pack, and everyone seemed cool with the arrangement.
Everyone but Wes and I. We weren't making enough money for our time. Not only did we coordinate the logistics and shipping, but our creative fun machine was feeding all of this energy to the entire neighborhood and for a measly 25 cent per pack profit!? On top of that, it seemed like every pack of cards we kept and opened for ourselves was full of no name players. It seemed like Bobby, Wes and I never had a solid rookie card or bona fide stud in our packs, but the Mangum brothers seemed to snake a Sandy Allomar Jr card every god damn time. It didn't seem fair that the tards held the cards and the providers just broke even. ( our Dads were Republicans) You see, one good card in a pack could be the value of 4-5 total packs of cards. If we kept losing out due to chance on good cards, it would hurt business. It would hurt the neighborhood. If we couldn't afford to keep buying all of these cards, then there there was no longer a local supplier...and then what the hell are you left with? I'll tell you...throwing tennis balls at construction workers and beating up the rather large headed Jessie French...nothing sustainable...nothing real.
We were bitching about this scenario one afternoon in our basement, getting all pissed off. We opened a carton of cards and decide which packs we would hypothetically sell, and which ones we would keep for ourselves. Low and behold, the cards we were going to sell were filled with winners worth at least a buck each, and the packs we were to keep were for shit. Right at that moment, Wes and I decided to to find a way to re-seal opened packs of cards. And at that same moment, Bobby decided to keep working over his pudding pop and agree with our plan.
It was so easy. Six tiny dots of Elmer's Glue had the exact same pull and consistency as an originally sealed pack. We decided it was fair as long as long as we collected enough well priced cards to cover our costs. Then we would just sell the remaining packs, unmolested.
It worked real well for about 2 weeks, but then we got greedy. Nobody had bitched, so we started resealing all of the cards. We began to re-seal every day. We also got cocky. Not only would we sell our cards, but we had continued to trade with the other kids. We were like rich mobsters with huge stacks of chips at the table and it quickly wore thin.
One afternoon, nobody bought a single pack. We threw a few freebies out, but there was little impact
Back in the basement, we discussed our plight. Bobby took a break from his microwave chicken sandwich. Certainly echoing his own soul's cries he chimed, " If they don't get to win some of the time..they wont want to keep playing". I had to admit, the little homo was on to something this time.
We started marking small green dots on the corners of packs that contained "hot" cards. That way we could reach for one if they were on a bad steak, keep them hooked, give them hope. It really, really worked.
We flew through packs of cards. My mom was worried about the large quantities we bought from the card dealers and asked me why I didn't just ride my bike to the store anymore. Then my Dad started asking questions. I then knew the heat was too high and I best lay low to avoid any hard time. Wes? He was on fire. His Mom didn't give a shit. She was just happy he wasn't being a prick around the house and no longer glued to his computer.
Wes didn't handle his new found purchasing power well. He went rouge. He got sloppy. Wes began re-sealing on his own.
At my house, we had a lookout stationed, a small assembly line, and a mom so unsuspicious, that we may have been able to get her to help without raising any red flags. His house held none of these built in safe guards. Reckless I tell you.
Of course he got caught. Thank God his mom was so nice. She didn't want to sadden my mom or enrage my Dad, so she didn't call our house. But it was made very clear that all of our card operations were to be terminated immediately.
Four days later, I am pretty sure my brother beat the shit out of Jessie French.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Blood Sport, Blood Money
The NFL's plan to extend the regular season from 16 to 18 games borders on the barbaric. Quarterbacks excluded , there are no limits to the physical toll they collect from their players. The NFL greedily and cruelly extracts from the bodies and minds of all of their other players without pause. They do this even though they have more information than ever about what happens to their players after their playing careers are done. It's ugly.
According to the St. Petersburg Times, the average NFL player lives for only 55 years ( 52 if you are a lineman). The average American male lives 72-73. Think about that. Would you sign up for that? You forfeit 18-20 years on earth, but you increase your salary 10 fold for a period of 2-10 years, enjoy thrills, excitement, power, and celebrity. Would you make that deal with the devil?
Before you answer, consider that you will likely deal with endless pain the remainder of your shortened life. Your body will hurt every single day. You will likely pop prescription strength pain killers like they are advill. If the traumatic blows to the head have not already left permanent damage to your brain ( not likely) your mind will likely never be clear and clean because of all of the medicine you require to function. You will be more likely than the average joe to develop a dependence on alcohol.
The connections and brief fame you collected by playing football are significant. These acquisitions most certainly could benefit you post football, if you have the desire and skill sets to put them to work in business. But what if you don't have those skills? Maybe the only book you have read sense you were forced to go to classes for a couple years in college is your play book. What if you don't have a degree and possess limited computer skills, no business vocabulary, and have no mentor to lead you?
I know that nobody forces these guys to play football. Most of these guys wouldn't be small business owners, lawyers or doctors if it wasn't for the NFL. Many would never have seen college and most would never find a financial opportunity even close to the on offered by the league. Also, even though I doubt most players spend much time thinking about these post career hard truths, they are aware of the reality. It's brutal, but they choose to participate.
But does the NFL really have to make it worse? Shouldn't they be making it better? Again, they have never had more information about what happens to their players. Concussions are as bad as ever, players are stronger and faster now than at any other time. How about some new equipment to protect their heads? How about an improved pension plan for retired players that includes more money, a lifetime of free physical therapy, as well as emotional and career counseling? How about shortening the ridiculous pre season? Maybe until more progress is made regarding player's health and well being, they should, gasp, SHORTEN the regular season. The league makes billions of dollars and these sacrifices and expenses wouldn't compromise the league for it's fans, so it's the right and moral path right?
Nah, they don't want to wait on all of that stuff. They want to expose their players to 13% more violence and risk.
Where is the outrage? I have seen a few editions of HBO's Real Sports that did a great job articulating the struggles these players go through, but that's pretty much about it. That is fucked up. ESPN, the world wide leader of sports, is, once again, a huge and horrible villain. There job is to cover sports. Football is our most popular sport. Football's players are passing away much younger than the rest of us. This is a story, a huge story, but an unprofitable story. Being they have a virtual monopoly, they get to dictate what's important to America regarding sports.
More games to cover means more advertising dollars and it is as simple as that. Nothing else matters.
I knew football was an amazing money maker, but it really hit home after this summer's conference realignment drama played itself out. Conferences in the NCAA almost ceased to exist, based solely on football dollars. When this eventually happens, it will not only have a large, negative impact on student athletes of other sports, but on all students of non private schools that don't rake in football dollars. Having conferences that share money in a way that doesn't allow football to drive so much of the educational power and over all opportunity is a good thing. Call me a lefty pinko.
The horrible post career lives of football players is not unlike the the laborers who suffered by exposure to asbestos. Our public universities should not be so strongly controlled by their ability to construct a strong football program. If Congress had the time to investigate and humiliate baseball players who did steroids, they most certainly should make some time for this.
According to the St. Petersburg Times, the average NFL player lives for only 55 years ( 52 if you are a lineman). The average American male lives 72-73. Think about that. Would you sign up for that? You forfeit 18-20 years on earth, but you increase your salary 10 fold for a period of 2-10 years, enjoy thrills, excitement, power, and celebrity. Would you make that deal with the devil?
Before you answer, consider that you will likely deal with endless pain the remainder of your shortened life. Your body will hurt every single day. You will likely pop prescription strength pain killers like they are advill. If the traumatic blows to the head have not already left permanent damage to your brain ( not likely) your mind will likely never be clear and clean because of all of the medicine you require to function. You will be more likely than the average joe to develop a dependence on alcohol.
The connections and brief fame you collected by playing football are significant. These acquisitions most certainly could benefit you post football, if you have the desire and skill sets to put them to work in business. But what if you don't have those skills? Maybe the only book you have read sense you were forced to go to classes for a couple years in college is your play book. What if you don't have a degree and possess limited computer skills, no business vocabulary, and have no mentor to lead you?
I know that nobody forces these guys to play football. Most of these guys wouldn't be small business owners, lawyers or doctors if it wasn't for the NFL. Many would never have seen college and most would never find a financial opportunity even close to the on offered by the league. Also, even though I doubt most players spend much time thinking about these post career hard truths, they are aware of the reality. It's brutal, but they choose to participate.
But does the NFL really have to make it worse? Shouldn't they be making it better? Again, they have never had more information about what happens to their players. Concussions are as bad as ever, players are stronger and faster now than at any other time. How about some new equipment to protect their heads? How about an improved pension plan for retired players that includes more money, a lifetime of free physical therapy, as well as emotional and career counseling? How about shortening the ridiculous pre season? Maybe until more progress is made regarding player's health and well being, they should, gasp, SHORTEN the regular season. The league makes billions of dollars and these sacrifices and expenses wouldn't compromise the league for it's fans, so it's the right and moral path right?
Nah, they don't want to wait on all of that stuff. They want to expose their players to 13% more violence and risk.
Where is the outrage? I have seen a few editions of HBO's Real Sports that did a great job articulating the struggles these players go through, but that's pretty much about it. That is fucked up. ESPN, the world wide leader of sports, is, once again, a huge and horrible villain. There job is to cover sports. Football is our most popular sport. Football's players are passing away much younger than the rest of us. This is a story, a huge story, but an unprofitable story. Being they have a virtual monopoly, they get to dictate what's important to America regarding sports.
More games to cover means more advertising dollars and it is as simple as that. Nothing else matters.
I knew football was an amazing money maker, but it really hit home after this summer's conference realignment drama played itself out. Conferences in the NCAA almost ceased to exist, based solely on football dollars. When this eventually happens, it will not only have a large, negative impact on student athletes of other sports, but on all students of non private schools that don't rake in football dollars. Having conferences that share money in a way that doesn't allow football to drive so much of the educational power and over all opportunity is a good thing. Call me a lefty pinko.
The horrible post career lives of football players is not unlike the the laborers who suffered by exposure to asbestos. Our public universities should not be so strongly controlled by their ability to construct a strong football program. If Congress had the time to investigate and humiliate baseball players who did steroids, they most certainly should make some time for this.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Getting married real soon....it's nice
People are very, very nice to you when they hear you are engaged. It feels like everyone is rooting for you. It's nice.
Katelin and I are getting married in exactly one week. At this point, I'm pretty much slipping it into every conversation I have. Even my last two work emails referenced it. One of these emails was to a very grizzled distributor of ours and his response was down right flowery. This ball buster wrote a nice story to me about his wife and even used exclamation points. (!!!!!)
I didn't anticipate this behavior from myself. There was a good 6 week period that I felt like being engaged was just a real long Valentine's Day. Not for the guy, filled with expectations and emotional bear traps, and expensive. The best you could do was not disappoint. That IS Valentines Day for all straight men. If you are a "straight guy" reading this and disagree, I have news for you. You bought those roller blades for a reason. You are gay.
But now, it's like I want to let everyone in on this real cool secret. It's nice.
I know there are likely a couple of things behind this emotional community fan section.
I know some of this is innate. We are animals and are hard wired to pro create. Our collective instincts encourage us to encourage others to mate and make. But it's not just that.
Here's a truth. Most people are very good people. Most people wish their fellow man the things they also strive for in life. Health and Happiness. The bitter minority excluded, people root for others to find a loved one, enjoy themselves, and make happy families. Ask any pregnant woman how many people look into her eyes and smile when she is showing. Living in an aggressive, busy city, I forget these facts all too often. I'm gratefull for the reminders. It's nice.
I have always known and truly believed these facts about people...about life, but have struggled to live and breath them. A little over a year ago, all of that changed, because of Katelin. When you find someone that allows you to see the beautiful truth inside of everyone, including yourself, my advice is to marry that person as quickly as they will allow. I am marrying Katelin in one week. It's so, so, so nice.
Katelin and I are getting married in exactly one week. At this point, I'm pretty much slipping it into every conversation I have. Even my last two work emails referenced it. One of these emails was to a very grizzled distributor of ours and his response was down right flowery. This ball buster wrote a nice story to me about his wife and even used exclamation points. (!!!!!)
I didn't anticipate this behavior from myself. There was a good 6 week period that I felt like being engaged was just a real long Valentine's Day. Not for the guy, filled with expectations and emotional bear traps, and expensive. The best you could do was not disappoint. That IS Valentines Day for all straight men. If you are a "straight guy" reading this and disagree, I have news for you. You bought those roller blades for a reason. You are gay.
But now, it's like I want to let everyone in on this real cool secret. It's nice.
I know there are likely a couple of things behind this emotional community fan section.
I know some of this is innate. We are animals and are hard wired to pro create. Our collective instincts encourage us to encourage others to mate and make. But it's not just that.
Here's a truth. Most people are very good people. Most people wish their fellow man the things they also strive for in life. Health and Happiness. The bitter minority excluded, people root for others to find a loved one, enjoy themselves, and make happy families. Ask any pregnant woman how many people look into her eyes and smile when she is showing. Living in an aggressive, busy city, I forget these facts all too often. I'm gratefull for the reminders. It's nice.
I have always known and truly believed these facts about people...about life, but have struggled to live and breath them. A little over a year ago, all of that changed, because of Katelin. When you find someone that allows you to see the beautiful truth inside of everyone, including yourself, my advice is to marry that person as quickly as they will allow. I am marrying Katelin in one week. It's so, so, so nice.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Glorious 4th
So, Kate and I drove to Turk Lake the Friday afternoon of the 4th of July weekend. It's a great little spot and that's where her family's Cottage is located. Unfortunately, one of our friend decided that Saturday July 3rd was a great day to get married.
I guess while we were at the wedding, likely listening to the amazingly horrible DJ spin Mustang Sally, someone at my future in laws place clogged up the one and only toilet. It was repaired and order was restored, at least for the time being.
We get back Sunday and had a perfect lake afternoon. Many beers and unhealthy snacks were thrown down and a quality bags tournament was held.
Then, I had to go...so i did. It wouldn't flush. I plunged my 3 huge screamers w/ all I had but only managed to liquify a bunch of trouble. The toilet spilled onto the floor.... the blackest tea you ever saw w/ various people's floaters and fanny shrapnel. I had to ladle out all of it into a bucket sans gloves w/ an empty cool whip container. The bathroom was like 105 degrees and it is small. Adam, my future brother in law, and I then carried the sloshing hooper out to the yard so we could snake out the poo poo or dislodge a weekend's worth of hell spackle.
I am just proud I never threw up. I feel like I can do anything now. Diapers will have nothing on this.
I guess while we were at the wedding, likely listening to the amazingly horrible DJ spin Mustang Sally, someone at my future in laws place clogged up the one and only toilet. It was repaired and order was restored, at least for the time being.
We get back Sunday and had a perfect lake afternoon. Many beers and unhealthy snacks were thrown down and a quality bags tournament was held.
Then, I had to go...so i did. It wouldn't flush. I plunged my 3 huge screamers w/ all I had but only managed to liquify a bunch of trouble. The toilet spilled onto the floor.... the blackest tea you ever saw w/ various people's floaters and fanny shrapnel. I had to ladle out all of it into a bucket sans gloves w/ an empty cool whip container. The bathroom was like 105 degrees and it is small. Adam, my future brother in law, and I then carried the sloshing hooper out to the yard so we could snake out the poo poo or dislodge a weekend's worth of hell spackle.
I am just proud I never threw up. I feel like I can do anything now. Diapers will have nothing on this.
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