About 5 years ago I met a girl named Julie online. By the way, the only thing worse than meeting a girl online is more specifically, meeting a girl on MYSPACE! However, before you let out a "pfff, well what were you doing on myspace you pervert," let's remember that 5 years ago it was FAR more popular for a kid my age to use myspace than facebook. Especially as a means of meeting women. Also, to my credit, I didn't find her randomly, we were "virtually" introduced through a common friend.
Julie and I exchanged a few witty e-mails before I figuretively "grew a pair" and finally asked her for her phone number. Following the acquisition of her digits we indulged in a plethora of "get to know you" phone conversations. I learned that she worked at a dental office, went to school part time, loved to dance, and enjoyed country music. I also enjoy country music, and on top of having similar taste in music we had similar taste in humor. We laughed at each other, with each over, and about each other. In short, I was both willing and excited to drive the 45 minutes across town for our first date.
We kept it simple. We went out to eat, got ice cream, and then hung out at her house where we had mindless conversation. We laughed til our stomach's hurt, and then laughed some more. Our second date was only a couple days later, and we decided to get out of town. We drove North about an hour for some cooler weather and some quality campfire coversation. I was diggin this girl! She was cute, she was funny, and as far as I could tell she thought the same of me. She called me almost every day. At the end of our 3rd date she told me she couldn't wait to go out again. At the end of our fourth date, which was on a Friday, she told me she had a blast and could hardly wait for me to come to her house on Sunday night to play games with her family. She gave me one of those "extra long" hugs and we called it a night.
Fast forward less than 24 hours. It was saturday afternoon and I tried calling her to find out exactly when she wanted me to come over the next day for games. She didn't answer so I left her a voicemail. It was not returned. Sunday morning before church I sent her a text that said something like, "Hey Julie what time are we playing games at your house tonight?" I never got a response. I was perplexed, but I didn't let it bother me. I assumed something had come up or she was really busy. I waited until Tuesday to try and contact her again. Tuesday night I called her again. No answer. I left her a voicemail that said something like, "Hey Julie just wondering how you're doin, gimme a call back when ya got the chance. Hope all is well. Take it easy." I never heard back!
So let's break this down. We'd been on 4 really fun dates, the last ending in her VOLUNTARILY telling me not only how much fun she had that night, but also how excited she was for me to come over just 2 nights later. Over the next 5 days I left her 2 voicemails and sent her one text message, and also left her a simple "what's new" comment on her myspace. I wasn't exhibiting stalker-esque behavior, calling and texting her multiple times a day. I was simply behaving like someone who'd had an absolute blast, on 4 seperate occasions, with a girl that was constantly telling me how much fun she was having.
The rest of the following week I vented about her sudden "disappearence" to a couple of my buddies and some of them suggested calling her one more time and if she didn't pick up, ask her why she's ignoring me in the voicemail. So I called her, but I never got the chance to leave a voicemail. All I heard when I dialed her number was, "The number you have dialed is not accepting calls at this time." I thought that was rather strange so I waited a few hours and tried again. Same thing.
That night while hanging out at the Dawson family's house I was ranting yet again about Julie's shady behavior when the thought dawned on me.... "Wait, what if she blocked my number?" I ran the possibility by a few of the Dawson boys and we decided that we'd try calling her using one of their phone's and see what happened. Brandon got his phone out and dialed her number. It rang. Nobody answered, and it went to voicemail. I'm thinking at this point, "What the gay? How come it doesn't ring when I try calling her?!?!" So I tried again, and sure enough, the same message.
Julie straight up blocked my number! So let's review... one more time... for kicks and giggles... The last physical gesture between us was a great big hug, initiated BY HER! The last words spoken to me, by her, were "Scott I'm so excited for you to come over and play games with my family on Sunday!" After that... NOTHING! No phone calls, no text messages, and worst of all, no explanation as to WHY?????
Moments like these make me wish I had that "special gift!"
On April 28th, 2012 I married the sweetest, most BEAUTIFUL woman I have ever met! She means the world to me! She has 2 of the wittiest, fun-filled kids a step-father could ever have the privelage of knowing! TOGETHER WE ARE HAPPY! TOGETHER WE ARE FAMILY!
May 29, 2011
Just a GREAT time!
My favorite thing to do when it's over 100 degrees? Head up North for a day in the cool pines! My favorite thing(s) to do when I'm there? Take a nap with the wind as "white noise," shoot guns, and eat dutch oven cherry cobbler by the fire! I'll tell ya what... Life is GREAT when your best friend enjoys the same things you do! :)
May 26, 2011
"What happened to my frog?"
Many years ago my little sister Amy decided she wanted a pet frog. So after what I'm sure was a little bit of hesitation, my mom bought her a small tree frog and a one gallon aquarium. The frog feasted on baby crickets, but spent most of it's time motionless sleeping in the corner of it's "cage."
Well, one day I overheard Amy talking about how she was "tired of taking care of the frog," and how she didn't want it anymore. So as far as I was concerned, it was up for sale! The very next day my buddy Steve and I were feeding the frog when the following conversation took place:
Steve: "Man, I wish I had a pet frog!"
Me: "Funny you should say that Steve, I'll sell you this one."
Steve: "But isn't it your sister's?"
Me: "Ya but she doesn't want it anymore."
Steve: "Well how much you selling it for?"
Me: "How much do you have on you?"
(Steve empties his pockets)
Steve: "Uhmmm... Looks like I've got $5 and a can of fart spray"
"Are you kidding me? SOLD!!!!"
$5 and a can of fart spray for a stupid frog that wasn't even mine? I'll take it!
Fast forward a couple hours as our family gathered at the dinner table. The folliwng conversation takes place:
Amy: "Uhmmm What happened to my frog?"
Me: "I sold it to Steve."
(puzzled looks abound)
Amy: "What! Why would you sell my frog?!"
Me: "I over heard you saying you didn't want it anymore so I sold it!"
My dad: "How much did you sell it for?"
Me: "$5 and a can of fart spray."
Almost everyone at the table begins laughing... Except Amy!
Sorry Amy... I still owe you a frog :)
Well, one day I overheard Amy talking about how she was "tired of taking care of the frog," and how she didn't want it anymore. So as far as I was concerned, it was up for sale! The very next day my buddy Steve and I were feeding the frog when the following conversation took place:
Steve: "Man, I wish I had a pet frog!"
Me: "Funny you should say that Steve, I'll sell you this one."
Steve: "But isn't it your sister's?"
Me: "Ya but she doesn't want it anymore."
Steve: "Well how much you selling it for?"
Me: "How much do you have on you?"
(Steve empties his pockets)
Steve: "Uhmmm... Looks like I've got $5 and a can of fart spray"
"Are you kidding me? SOLD!!!!"
$5 and a can of fart spray for a stupid frog that wasn't even mine? I'll take it!
Fast forward a couple hours as our family gathered at the dinner table. The folliwng conversation takes place:
Amy: "Uhmmm What happened to my frog?"
Me: "I sold it to Steve."
(puzzled looks abound)
Amy: "What! Why would you sell my frog?!"
Me: "I over heard you saying you didn't want it anymore so I sold it!"
My dad: "How much did you sell it for?"
Me: "$5 and a can of fart spray."
Almost everyone at the table begins laughing... Except Amy!
Sorry Amy... I still owe you a frog :)
May 25, 2011
I Was Once A Con Artist
**Special Note** As I mentioned on facebook I wrote this just like I want it written in my book, so I'd appreciate your opinion on whether or not you think it's "book worthy." Enjoy...
I've recently become infatuated with the T.V. show "American Greed" on CNBC. The majority of the episodes chronicle famous ponzi schemes in which greedy professionals (lawyers, doctors, financial advisers, etc...) scam "unsuspecting" investors out of millions of dollars. Without fail, every episode leaves me shaking my head and practically screaming out loud, "UNBELIEVABLE! How do people fall for this crap???"
Well, just a few hours ago I experienced a serious flare-up of A.D.D. that might not have necessarily answered that question, but it lead me to the subject of today's post. You see, as my mind drifted all over creation - unable to maintain a particular thought pattern for more than a few seconds - I was reminded of a time in my childhood. A time when I unleashed a devastating assault on my classmates. Not a physical assault. Not a verbal assault. But a financial assault on my classmates' lunch money and quite possibly their entire weekly allowances. It will probably leave most of you wondering, as I still do, "How do people fall for that crap?"
Let's venture back... WAY BACK... to the 1994 school year. The OJ trial begins, Richard Nixon's life ends, and Mariah Carey releases her much anticipated Christmas album. Which she so UNcreatively names, "Merry Christmas." Good one Mariah! Meanwhile, I'm a bull cut-havin, handy-down t-shirt-wearin 3rd grader at Arrowhead Elementary. My teacher is Mrs Shea. She looked a little bit like the old lady in Matilda.
None of that was relevant, just thought I'd share. What IS relevant is that in 3rd grade I, like so many others my age, had so few opportunities for financial gain. I mean even back in 3rd grade I performed weekly chores, including yard work, but for what??? The privilege of having my best friend (who I already spent 12 hours a day with anyways) spend a few extra hours with me on a Friday night eating ice cream and watching 3 ninjas before passing out on the family room floor using our arms as pillows??? LAAAAAME DUDE! Hey current and future moms and dads... I'm willing to bet the entire stack of "free taco" coupons I have kicking around in my truck that the average third grader in today's world would GLADLY replace his sleep over privelages with, oh I don't know... 20 bucks?! Even $10! Just give the kid some money so he doesn't end up like me! I'm not bitter... I'm just saying :)
So as I mentioned before I had no source of income in the 3rd grade. So what did I do? Well, first I got lucky. One day while wandering around in my parents closet looking for some Uno cards I stumbled upon an old Crystal Light can. I pulled it out from behind my dads suit coat, and immediately tipped it towards my open palm. I was calmly expecting a secret stash of pink lemonade packets to fall out into my hand. However, much to my surprise, half dollars, and silver dollars began pouring out on to the floor. You've heard the expression, I was like a kid in a candy store? Well, when i found that Crystal Light can, I was more like a kid HEADED STRAIGHT FOR the candy store!
As far as I can recall my first purchase was a box of 72 airheads from Walgreens. It cost like 8 bucks and I'm sure the cashier was thinking, "Where the crap did this little kid get 8 silver dollars from?" Over the next few weeks, when I'd hear the notorious ice cream man jingle, I would bolt inside and head straight for the coat closet. You see I didn't want to arouse suspicion so I'd only take as many coins as I needed and carefully place the container in it's original position. Side note, there were also foreign coins in this stash which thankfully I didn't try to sell and or use during this period. Anyways, I spent basically the remainder of the stash on the ice cream man, who I vividly remember LOVED trading ninja turtle ice cream bars and 2 foot tall otter pops for some rare coinage.
However, as you could expect, my slurry of oversized silver coins eventually ran low. I remember leaving a few in the can for "safety" as if my dad wouldn't notice the other 40+ missing pieces. So what did I do when I ran out of stolen allowance? I got creative. My friends and I were really into collecting baseball and basketball cards. We would beg our parents to buy us the monthly issues of "Beckett" magazine, so we could thumb through it's pages and figure out how much every one of our cards was worth. We would intricately place them 9 at a time, into specifically designed plastic pages that fit so conveniently into 3 ring binders. These 3 ring binders full of cards meant the world to us!
Well, at some point I learned that autographed cards were worth more than... well... more than cards with no autograph. So naturally, while other 3rd graders spent hours after school doing homework, I spent hours in my room, with the door locked, practicing fake autographs. I specifically remember practicing Ryan Sandberg's autograph for HOURS!! Why? Well, because I had Sandberg's 1990 Donruss MVP card! It looked just like this...
I remember thinking not only is Ryan Sandberg a popular player, but this card looks awesome, and I'll bet I could sell it for tons of money if it was autographed! So after a couple days, and what was probably 30 pieces of computer paper, I felt I had perfected his autograph. I carefully removed Sandberg's card from it's precious sleeve and placed it on the outside of my binder. I only had one shot at this because I only had one of his MVP cards. I took a black permanent marker from my backpack, pulled the lid off, sniffed it a few times - just kidding - and then scribbled Sandberg's autograph on the front of the card.
BAM! PERFECTION! I stared at my "Rembrandt" for several minutes fantasizing about how much I could sell it for. $10... $20... maybe even $30! There was a spoiled kid that lived around the corner from us named Travis King. He wasn't that into collecting baseball cards but he definitely had money. I apologize for not remembering exactly who I conned into buying my first autographed card, but I definitely sold it, and it was definitely NOT the only one. I sold at least 20 other falsely autographed cards, including a Kirby Puckett MVP card that was identical to the Sandberg. When skeptics would inquire (in a much less mature manner than I will put it) about how a kid living in a town with no baseball team would be able to collect such a fantastic set of John Hancocks, I would let the BS rain down! "Oh my dad travels for work and goes to lots of baseball games and gets players' autographs." "Oh my dad buys them from a magazine, and gives them to me." I mean seriously folks, I was in 3rd grade, throwing sales pitches at kids equally as gullible as I was. I could have told them I found them on the bus and gotten at least a few dollars each. It was a great scam! To be honest with you, I don't know why I ever stopped! Oh wait... Yes I do!
I stopped selling fake autographs when Mortal Kombat II was about to be released for the Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis. Some of you might be wondering, was it worth surrendering my "card game" (all pun intended) for a video game scam? OF COURSE IT WAS! When Mortal Kombat II hit the arcades in 1993 the majority of kids had no idea how to learn individual fighter's "finishing moves," or fatalities, as the game called them. The internet was still up and coming, and video game magazines were not only rare, but they would seldom, if ever, enlighten players on finishing moves until the game was released for home use.
So the following year, with only a few days left before the game hit the shelves, I decided I was going to make up complete finishing moves lists for every fighter, print them out, and sell them at school. The list included button by button instructions on how to complete every player's fatality, babality, and friendship move. Looking back this was such a stupid idea! Not only was it far less lucrative than the cards, as I was selling the 3 page pamphlets for only $1 each, but how did I ever expect to get away with it??? Nay do I crap you, the day after the game was released I had like 5 kids come up to me and be like, "Dude, none of your moves even work. Where did you get them from?" I quickly turned the blame on a "friend of mine who goes to a different school," and made sure to give each victim that asked for it, a full refund!
I wish I could say this is where my days as a dishonest business man ended but there is one other scam I remember, just not as vividly. It was also far less complex. I remember stealing golf balls from the driving range a short bike ride from my house, and selling them for a quarter each at school. The only thing more ridiculous? In an effort to cover up the fact that I stole them I told one very interested, and very gullible kid, that I made them using a special machine that my dad bought. I remember explaining to him that I couldn't tell him exactly how it worked or I would get in trouble, but that 2 of the "ingredients" were paper towels and a special "hardening powder," that only adults could buy. HA HA HA HA! Like I was freakin Macgyver in my garage pumping out golf balls!
Oh to be young again...
I've recently become infatuated with the T.V. show "American Greed" on CNBC. The majority of the episodes chronicle famous ponzi schemes in which greedy professionals (lawyers, doctors, financial advisers, etc...) scam "unsuspecting" investors out of millions of dollars. Without fail, every episode leaves me shaking my head and practically screaming out loud, "UNBELIEVABLE! How do people fall for this crap???"
Well, just a few hours ago I experienced a serious flare-up of A.D.D. that might not have necessarily answered that question, but it lead me to the subject of today's post. You see, as my mind drifted all over creation - unable to maintain a particular thought pattern for more than a few seconds - I was reminded of a time in my childhood. A time when I unleashed a devastating assault on my classmates. Not a physical assault. Not a verbal assault. But a financial assault on my classmates' lunch money and quite possibly their entire weekly allowances. It will probably leave most of you wondering, as I still do, "How do people fall for that crap?"
Let's venture back... WAY BACK... to the 1994 school year. The OJ trial begins, Richard Nixon's life ends, and Mariah Carey releases her much anticipated Christmas album. Which she so UNcreatively names, "Merry Christmas." Good one Mariah! Meanwhile, I'm a bull cut-havin, handy-down t-shirt-wearin 3rd grader at Arrowhead Elementary. My teacher is Mrs Shea. She looked a little bit like the old lady in Matilda.
None of that was relevant, just thought I'd share. What IS relevant is that in 3rd grade I, like so many others my age, had so few opportunities for financial gain. I mean even back in 3rd grade I performed weekly chores, including yard work, but for what??? The privilege of having my best friend (who I already spent 12 hours a day with anyways) spend a few extra hours with me on a Friday night eating ice cream and watching 3 ninjas before passing out on the family room floor using our arms as pillows??? LAAAAAME DUDE! Hey current and future moms and dads... I'm willing to bet the entire stack of "free taco" coupons I have kicking around in my truck that the average third grader in today's world would GLADLY replace his sleep over privelages with, oh I don't know... 20 bucks?! Even $10! Just give the kid some money so he doesn't end up like me! I'm not bitter... I'm just saying :)
So as I mentioned before I had no source of income in the 3rd grade. So what did I do? Well, first I got lucky. One day while wandering around in my parents closet looking for some Uno cards I stumbled upon an old Crystal Light can. I pulled it out from behind my dads suit coat, and immediately tipped it towards my open palm. I was calmly expecting a secret stash of pink lemonade packets to fall out into my hand. However, much to my surprise, half dollars, and silver dollars began pouring out on to the floor. You've heard the expression, I was like a kid in a candy store? Well, when i found that Crystal Light can, I was more like a kid HEADED STRAIGHT FOR the candy store!
As far as I can recall my first purchase was a box of 72 airheads from Walgreens. It cost like 8 bucks and I'm sure the cashier was thinking, "Where the crap did this little kid get 8 silver dollars from?" Over the next few weeks, when I'd hear the notorious ice cream man jingle, I would bolt inside and head straight for the coat closet. You see I didn't want to arouse suspicion so I'd only take as many coins as I needed and carefully place the container in it's original position. Side note, there were also foreign coins in this stash which thankfully I didn't try to sell and or use during this period. Anyways, I spent basically the remainder of the stash on the ice cream man, who I vividly remember LOVED trading ninja turtle ice cream bars and 2 foot tall otter pops for some rare coinage.
However, as you could expect, my slurry of oversized silver coins eventually ran low. I remember leaving a few in the can for "safety" as if my dad wouldn't notice the other 40+ missing pieces. So what did I do when I ran out of stolen allowance? I got creative. My friends and I were really into collecting baseball and basketball cards. We would beg our parents to buy us the monthly issues of "Beckett" magazine, so we could thumb through it's pages and figure out how much every one of our cards was worth. We would intricately place them 9 at a time, into specifically designed plastic pages that fit so conveniently into 3 ring binders. These 3 ring binders full of cards meant the world to us!
Well, at some point I learned that autographed cards were worth more than... well... more than cards with no autograph. So naturally, while other 3rd graders spent hours after school doing homework, I spent hours in my room, with the door locked, practicing fake autographs. I specifically remember practicing Ryan Sandberg's autograph for HOURS!! Why? Well, because I had Sandberg's 1990 Donruss MVP card! It looked just like this...
I remember thinking not only is Ryan Sandberg a popular player, but this card looks awesome, and I'll bet I could sell it for tons of money if it was autographed! So after a couple days, and what was probably 30 pieces of computer paper, I felt I had perfected his autograph. I carefully removed Sandberg's card from it's precious sleeve and placed it on the outside of my binder. I only had one shot at this because I only had one of his MVP cards. I took a black permanent marker from my backpack, pulled the lid off, sniffed it a few times - just kidding - and then scribbled Sandberg's autograph on the front of the card.
BAM! PERFECTION! I stared at my "Rembrandt" for several minutes fantasizing about how much I could sell it for. $10... $20... maybe even $30! There was a spoiled kid that lived around the corner from us named Travis King. He wasn't that into collecting baseball cards but he definitely had money. I apologize for not remembering exactly who I conned into buying my first autographed card, but I definitely sold it, and it was definitely NOT the only one. I sold at least 20 other falsely autographed cards, including a Kirby Puckett MVP card that was identical to the Sandberg. When skeptics would inquire (in a much less mature manner than I will put it) about how a kid living in a town with no baseball team would be able to collect such a fantastic set of John Hancocks, I would let the BS rain down! "Oh my dad travels for work and goes to lots of baseball games and gets players' autographs." "Oh my dad buys them from a magazine, and gives them to me." I mean seriously folks, I was in 3rd grade, throwing sales pitches at kids equally as gullible as I was. I could have told them I found them on the bus and gotten at least a few dollars each. It was a great scam! To be honest with you, I don't know why I ever stopped! Oh wait... Yes I do!
I stopped selling fake autographs when Mortal Kombat II was about to be released for the Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis. Some of you might be wondering, was it worth surrendering my "card game" (all pun intended) for a video game scam? OF COURSE IT WAS! When Mortal Kombat II hit the arcades in 1993 the majority of kids had no idea how to learn individual fighter's "finishing moves," or fatalities, as the game called them. The internet was still up and coming, and video game magazines were not only rare, but they would seldom, if ever, enlighten players on finishing moves until the game was released for home use.
So the following year, with only a few days left before the game hit the shelves, I decided I was going to make up complete finishing moves lists for every fighter, print them out, and sell them at school. The list included button by button instructions on how to complete every player's fatality, babality, and friendship move. Looking back this was such a stupid idea! Not only was it far less lucrative than the cards, as I was selling the 3 page pamphlets for only $1 each, but how did I ever expect to get away with it??? Nay do I crap you, the day after the game was released I had like 5 kids come up to me and be like, "Dude, none of your moves even work. Where did you get them from?" I quickly turned the blame on a "friend of mine who goes to a different school," and made sure to give each victim that asked for it, a full refund!
I wish I could say this is where my days as a dishonest business man ended but there is one other scam I remember, just not as vividly. It was also far less complex. I remember stealing golf balls from the driving range a short bike ride from my house, and selling them for a quarter each at school. The only thing more ridiculous? In an effort to cover up the fact that I stole them I told one very interested, and very gullible kid, that I made them using a special machine that my dad bought. I remember explaining to him that I couldn't tell him exactly how it worked or I would get in trouble, but that 2 of the "ingredients" were paper towels and a special "hardening powder," that only adults could buy. HA HA HA HA! Like I was freakin Macgyver in my garage pumping out golf balls!
Oh to be young again...
May 23, 2011
"Dude, Gimme Back My Scooter!"
After yesterday's post my cousin Nick requested that I write more stories about him and my brother Russ ticking me off when we were younger. It got me thinking. Was it always them pushing my buttons or were the rolls ever reversed??? Yes, yes, they were.
Allow me to prelude this story by sharing a few experiences that will hopefully demonstrate that I posessed 2 distinct types of anger growing up. Justifiable, and not so justifiable.
In elementary school I punched a kid in the face repeatedly for making fun of a handicapped kid. I would call that justifiable.
On a seperate occasion, I exemplified "not so justifiable" anger. In 7th grade A small crowd had gathered in my driveway anticipating a fight. The fight was supposed to be between me and Mike Guard. Mike Guard had to be the fattest kid in the city of Phoenix. He could have crushed me! He had 1 year and about 180 pounds on me, and I have absolutely zero recollection of why he even wanted to fight me. However, I do remember calling "time out" just before the fight started and running inside. My heart was racing and I was shaking like crazy. My purpose in retreating in doors was to try and convince my older brother Clint to help me out. Our conversation went something like this:
"Clint you gotta help me dude, I'm about to fight Mike Guard and he's gonna kill me."
"Why are you fighting Mike Guard, that kid is huge?"
"I don't know, but he's ready to fight me and I was thinking because you're huge you should fight him for me."
"Bucky just tell him you don't wanna fight him, I don't understand."
"Dude he's in our driveway right now and there's a bunch of other people waiting to watch the fight."
"Well...Bucky....go be a man and fight him, I'm not gonna help you."
Some brother he was huh? I nervously made my way back to the driveway, thinking the entire time, "I could probably punch this kid in the face 20 times and he'd just laugh at me, pick me up by the neck, and throw me around like a rag doll." So what did I do? Well, I did what I would encourage anyone to do when fighting someone 3 times their size. I walked casually towards him, trying to appear as non-violent as possible, and then, in the blink of an eye, I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls.
The only thing I remember after that is running as fast as I could into my house, closing the garage door, locking the front door, and sitting on the couch scared to death that Mike Guard was gonna kick down my front door and sit on my face!
Sooooo... Now for the story involving me, Nick, and Paul. That's right, NOT me Nick and Russ... Me Nick and PAUL. The one and only PAUL! Nick's dad, Paul. Now according to Nick this entire ordeal began because I'd borrowed his scooter and he wanted it back. I basically thought that because he didn't ask for it back for a couple weeks than he was obviously not interested in EVER getting it back.
I thought wrong.
Nick came over one day thinking that he'd simply ask for what was rightfully his and it would be given to him.
Nick also thought wrong.
For one reason or another, I absolutely refused to give him his scooter back. I probably said something like "Dude, why do you want it back all of the sudden, I've had it for like 3 weeks. You never said a word until now! Just freekin let me have it Nick, you probably have like 5 more scooters in your garage anyways!"
Whatever I said, but more importantly, whatever HE said in return, made me SNAP! I started screaming at him and after I'm sure threatening to beat him up, he retreated quickly to my bedroom, locking the door behind him.
I began beating mercilessly on my bedroom door beginning a conversation that sounded something like this:
"Open my freakin door Nick or I'll beat you up!"
"Suck it fag! Gimme back my scooter!"
"Nick, freekin open my door!"
"No dude, not until you gimme my scooter!"
"Nick! Seriously! You're freakin askin for it dude! That's my room, now open the freekin door!"
"Suck it dude, I want my scooter!"
"Nick you got three seconds to open this door or I'm gonna break it down and freekin punch you in the face! 3... 2..." I heard the lock turn and I burst open the door.
Nicks face looked like he was about to wet his pants. Another heated exchange of words took place during which Nick, to his credit, did NOT back down. He insisted I was overreacting and that he just wanted to get his scooter and go home.
I don't know what the final thing he said to me was but I'd obviously had enough of his lip! I pushed him as hard as could causing him to lose his balance and fall directly into an empty laundry basket behind him. I believe he sustained "mild" injuries from the fall after which he held back the tears long enough to run out of my house and go home.
BUT... The fun didn't stop there. Oh no. Nobody messed with little Nicky without hearing from Big Paul. Precursor... Growing up Nicks dad Paul scared the ever living day lights out of me. The man could make you pee your pants without ever saying a word. I swear his half asian eyes could pierce my soul and tie my throat in knots, leaving me speechless. I wasn't even his child and I was convinced he had complete mind control over me.
Sooooo, after nick went home crying I knew I was in trouble. At any moment I expected his dad to just waltz into my house, without knocking, kick down my bedroom door, give me "the look," and then who knows what. Probably throw me into the same laundry basket I threw Nick into and say something like, "Try pickin on someone your own size."
Well, this isn't exactly how it all unfolded. That night there happened to be a social activity at the Church. It was a potluck dinner and from the time I walked into the building I had my eyes peeled for Paul. I wasn't even gonna try and stick around if he was there. A short time passed, and still no sign of Paul. I decided it was safe to get in line, get some grub, go back to my table, eat and relax. When I was about halfway through the potluck line I remember casually looking to my right and almost dropping my food plate.
THERE HE WAS! THERE WAS PAUL! IN LINE! WHERE THE CRAP DID HE COME FROM?!?! Not just in line though. The man had cut in line, as if to strategically place himself within "talking" distance of me. To make matters worse he had that cheesy grin on his face. You know, that grin that says, "Oh ya... I know EXACTLY what you did, and I'm about to tell you EXACTLY what I think about it."
I continued slowly through the line thinking, Ok I'll just stay in line, grab my drink at the end of the table, and exit the building as fast as I can. I never got that chance. Only moments after first making eye contact, Paul maanaged to skip another few places in line and put his hand on my shoulder. I may have pooped in my pants a little at this point. All I can remember him saying to me is this... "You can say whatever you want to Nick, but DON'T YOU EVER lay your hands on him! You understand me?!" Now at this point you'd think I woulda just shook my head yes and been done with it, but the little bit of arrogance I had left in me shined through as I said, "Dude, Nick sta-" but before I could finish my sentence he interupted me by saying "I don't wanna hear it Scott! Just don't put your hands on him!"
And that was the end of that. I thankfully managed to make it through the line without any unsuspecting bowell movements, after which I found a quiet spot in the corner of the gym where I could avoid eye contact with Paul the rest of the night. My anger in this story... not so justifiable. Pauls anger? In hindsight, completely justifiable.
Great times I tell ya.... Great times!
Allow me to prelude this story by sharing a few experiences that will hopefully demonstrate that I posessed 2 distinct types of anger growing up. Justifiable, and not so justifiable.
In elementary school I punched a kid in the face repeatedly for making fun of a handicapped kid. I would call that justifiable.
On a seperate occasion, I exemplified "not so justifiable" anger. In 7th grade A small crowd had gathered in my driveway anticipating a fight. The fight was supposed to be between me and Mike Guard. Mike Guard had to be the fattest kid in the city of Phoenix. He could have crushed me! He had 1 year and about 180 pounds on me, and I have absolutely zero recollection of why he even wanted to fight me. However, I do remember calling "time out" just before the fight started and running inside. My heart was racing and I was shaking like crazy. My purpose in retreating in doors was to try and convince my older brother Clint to help me out. Our conversation went something like this:
"Clint you gotta help me dude, I'm about to fight Mike Guard and he's gonna kill me."
"Why are you fighting Mike Guard, that kid is huge?"
"I don't know, but he's ready to fight me and I was thinking because you're huge you should fight him for me."
"Bucky just tell him you don't wanna fight him, I don't understand."
"Dude he's in our driveway right now and there's a bunch of other people waiting to watch the fight."
"Well...Bucky....go be a man and fight him, I'm not gonna help you."
Some brother he was huh? I nervously made my way back to the driveway, thinking the entire time, "I could probably punch this kid in the face 20 times and he'd just laugh at me, pick me up by the neck, and throw me around like a rag doll." So what did I do? Well, I did what I would encourage anyone to do when fighting someone 3 times their size. I walked casually towards him, trying to appear as non-violent as possible, and then, in the blink of an eye, I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls.
The only thing I remember after that is running as fast as I could into my house, closing the garage door, locking the front door, and sitting on the couch scared to death that Mike Guard was gonna kick down my front door and sit on my face!
Sooooo... Now for the story involving me, Nick, and Paul. That's right, NOT me Nick and Russ... Me Nick and PAUL. The one and only PAUL! Nick's dad, Paul. Now according to Nick this entire ordeal began because I'd borrowed his scooter and he wanted it back. I basically thought that because he didn't ask for it back for a couple weeks than he was obviously not interested in EVER getting it back.
I thought wrong.
Nick came over one day thinking that he'd simply ask for what was rightfully his and it would be given to him.
Nick also thought wrong.
For one reason or another, I absolutely refused to give him his scooter back. I probably said something like "Dude, why do you want it back all of the sudden, I've had it for like 3 weeks. You never said a word until now! Just freekin let me have it Nick, you probably have like 5 more scooters in your garage anyways!"
Whatever I said, but more importantly, whatever HE said in return, made me SNAP! I started screaming at him and after I'm sure threatening to beat him up, he retreated quickly to my bedroom, locking the door behind him.
I began beating mercilessly on my bedroom door beginning a conversation that sounded something like this:
"Open my freakin door Nick or I'll beat you up!"
"Suck it fag! Gimme back my scooter!"
"Nick, freekin open my door!"
"No dude, not until you gimme my scooter!"
"Nick! Seriously! You're freakin askin for it dude! That's my room, now open the freekin door!"
"Suck it dude, I want my scooter!"
"Nick you got three seconds to open this door or I'm gonna break it down and freekin punch you in the face! 3... 2..." I heard the lock turn and I burst open the door.
Nicks face looked like he was about to wet his pants. Another heated exchange of words took place during which Nick, to his credit, did NOT back down. He insisted I was overreacting and that he just wanted to get his scooter and go home.
I don't know what the final thing he said to me was but I'd obviously had enough of his lip! I pushed him as hard as could causing him to lose his balance and fall directly into an empty laundry basket behind him. I believe he sustained "mild" injuries from the fall after which he held back the tears long enough to run out of my house and go home.
BUT... The fun didn't stop there. Oh no. Nobody messed with little Nicky without hearing from Big Paul. Precursor... Growing up Nicks dad Paul scared the ever living day lights out of me. The man could make you pee your pants without ever saying a word. I swear his half asian eyes could pierce my soul and tie my throat in knots, leaving me speechless. I wasn't even his child and I was convinced he had complete mind control over me.
Sooooo, after nick went home crying I knew I was in trouble. At any moment I expected his dad to just waltz into my house, without knocking, kick down my bedroom door, give me "the look," and then who knows what. Probably throw me into the same laundry basket I threw Nick into and say something like, "Try pickin on someone your own size."
Well, this isn't exactly how it all unfolded. That night there happened to be a social activity at the Church. It was a potluck dinner and from the time I walked into the building I had my eyes peeled for Paul. I wasn't even gonna try and stick around if he was there. A short time passed, and still no sign of Paul. I decided it was safe to get in line, get some grub, go back to my table, eat and relax. When I was about halfway through the potluck line I remember casually looking to my right and almost dropping my food plate.
THERE HE WAS! THERE WAS PAUL! IN LINE! WHERE THE CRAP DID HE COME FROM?!?! Not just in line though. The man had cut in line, as if to strategically place himself within "talking" distance of me. To make matters worse he had that cheesy grin on his face. You know, that grin that says, "Oh ya... I know EXACTLY what you did, and I'm about to tell you EXACTLY what I think about it."
I continued slowly through the line thinking, Ok I'll just stay in line, grab my drink at the end of the table, and exit the building as fast as I can. I never got that chance. Only moments after first making eye contact, Paul maanaged to skip another few places in line and put his hand on my shoulder. I may have pooped in my pants a little at this point. All I can remember him saying to me is this... "You can say whatever you want to Nick, but DON'T YOU EVER lay your hands on him! You understand me?!" Now at this point you'd think I woulda just shook my head yes and been done with it, but the little bit of arrogance I had left in me shined through as I said, "Dude, Nick sta-" but before I could finish my sentence he interupted me by saying "I don't wanna hear it Scott! Just don't put your hands on him!"
And that was the end of that. I thankfully managed to make it through the line without any unsuspecting bowell movements, after which I found a quiet spot in the corner of the gym where I could avoid eye contact with Paul the rest of the night. My anger in this story... not so justifiable. Pauls anger? In hindsight, completely justifiable.
Great times I tell ya.... Great times!
May 21, 2011
Livin in Dixie...
My blog's been lacking some serious visuals lately, so sticking wth the theme of my mission to Georgia, let me tickle your eyes with a few people, places, and things that I do and DO NOT miss about "Livin in Dixie."
I suppose it's only appropriate we get the negative stuff out of the way first. Here's a few things I do NOT miss...
Seeing people doing this...
Road kill...
Road kill...
And more road kill...
And finally.... Spending time with missionaries that lacked common sense...
Moving on to the people, places, and things I DO miss, allow me to start this off right with the sisters... HAHAHAHA...
The Beach's...
The Meredith's...
"Mama Johnson..."
The hammonds... R.I.P. "Papa Hammond" - Hopefully you found someone to play you a little Johnny Cash up in Heaven!
The Honeycutt's... Hands down, far and away, the craziest family I've ever been around...
The group of true blue rednecks that would constantly invite us to hang out, eat, and watch college football with them in this "parking lot palace." This picture speaks volumes even with nobody in it. Notice the fishing poles, the exercise bike, and the 10 inch black and white television that ran on stolenpower from the lines above their tent. HAHAHAHA! I really do miss those guys!
Accidentally putting dish SOAP instead of dish DETERGENT into the dishwaser. For reals though... I'll miss stupid thing like this...
Taking a nap every morning during scripture study... HAHA!
Unusual house pets...
Seeing cops that can't make a successful U-turn...
Seeing things like this...
Catching banana spiders in a tupperware container...
And then lighting a pack of fire crackers inside that same container...
Using tree swings. Both UNsuccessfully...
And successfully...
Meeting "Black Santa"
Being able to get my hair cut AND order a pork chop sandwich AT THE SAME TIME...
And saving the best for last... I REALLY miss service days at the nursing homes. Like, I REALLY do. From calling bingo to gospel sing-a-longs, it was ALWAYS a good time!!!! That was my homey Curtis on the right! The lady on the left refused to tell me her name. HA!
Well, this makes 28 days straight. 16 more and I'll have done the impossible. 44 posts in 44 days...
I suppose it's only appropriate we get the negative stuff out of the way first. Here's a few things I do NOT miss...
Seeing people doing this...
"Taco" tires...
Road kill...
Road kill...
And more road kill...
And finally.... Spending time with missionaries that lacked common sense...
Moving on to the people, places, and things I DO miss, allow me to start this off right with the sisters... HAHAHAHA...
The Beach's...
The Meredith's...
"Mama Johnson..."
The hammonds... R.I.P. "Papa Hammond" - Hopefully you found someone to play you a little Johnny Cash up in Heaven!
The Honeycutt's... Hands down, far and away, the craziest family I've ever been around...
The group of true blue rednecks that would constantly invite us to hang out, eat, and watch college football with them in this "parking lot palace." This picture speaks volumes even with nobody in it. Notice the fishing poles, the exercise bike, and the 10 inch black and white television that ran on stolenpower from the lines above their tent. HAHAHAHA! I really do miss those guys!
Accidentally putting dish SOAP instead of dish DETERGENT into the dishwaser. For reals though... I'll miss stupid thing like this...
Taking a nap every morning during scripture study... HAHA!
Unusual house pets...
Seeing cops that can't make a successful U-turn...
Seeing things like this...
Catching banana spiders in a tupperware container...
And then lighting a pack of fire crackers inside that same container...
Using tree swings. Both UNsuccessfully...
And successfully...
Meeting "Black Santa"
Being able to get my hair cut AND order a pork chop sandwich AT THE SAME TIME...
And saving the best for last... I REALLY miss service days at the nursing homes. Like, I REALLY do. From calling bingo to gospel sing-a-longs, it was ALWAYS a good time!!!! That was my homey Curtis on the right! The lady on the left refused to tell me her name. HA!
Well, this makes 28 days straight. 16 more and I'll have done the impossible. 44 posts in 44 days...
May 17, 2011
If at first you don't succeed...
Fuddruckers. Home to "The World's Greatest Hamburgers," (their self-proclaimed slogan) and home to the 2nd job I ever held. My first was at Safeway, where I raked in a staggering $5.15 an hour bagging groceries, pushing carts, and nearly losing my voice saying "hi, how are you, can I help you find anything?" to everyone I saw - per Safeway's strictly enforced "In your face but friendly" policy. Run on sentence? Possibly.
I seriously hated working at Safeway. I loathed my boss(es), which was pretty much any employee not pushing carts, and to top it all off it was company policy to wear a shirt and tie. Extremely inconvienant for pushing carts around in triple digit weather. I made it a month before being called into the managers office and confronted about dust mopping an aisle without saying hi to any of the customers. I explained honestly that I had greeted every one of them on the trip down the aisle and didn't feel the need to greet them again, only seconds later, on my trip back up. Apparently the trip up was when they were "watching me" on there little spy cameras. I have a serious pet peeve about being accused of wrong doing when I was blatantly NOT in the wrong. So I took my 25 cent name tag off and my "career" at Safeway came to a close. Ha ha.
SOOOOOO... that brings us to Fuddruckers. I had 3 bosses at fuddruckers. I loved 2 of them and would avoid the 3rd at all cost. His name was Jeff. He was your stereotypical "jerk" boss. You know... the type of boss that can't walk past you without telling you that you're doing something wrong.
Well one particular friday night, rather than avoid my boss, I found myself doing quite the opposite. You see halfway through my shift I realized I'd forgotten all about a party I wanted to go to. I needed desperately to go home early. Had either of my 2 other bosses been managing that night I would have simply walked up to them, told them I wanted to go home early, and there would've been no argument. But Jeff was no pushover. I knew I'd have to get creative.
I came to the conclusion that my only real chance at an early exit was convincing Jeff I was sick. My first few attempts were pathetically juvenile. I'd stand within "hearing" distance of him and make your stereotypical coughing noises. Or tell other employees how "I feel like crap" in hopes that they might mention it to Jeff. All of these failed.
While continuing to brainstorm, I was carrying some dirty dishes into the back when I spotted Jeff heading into the men's room. As I stood there chucking the dishes in the sink a light bulb went on in my head. If Jeff wouldn't "take my word for it" that I was feeling cruddy, I'd have to prove it. I made the decision that I would frantically run into the bathroom, head straight into the stall, shove my finger down my throat, and ralph into the toilet. He'd have no choice but to send me home right? Riiiiight!
Long story short, I executed my plan to perfection. As I entered the mens room I saw Jeff standing at the urinal. I headed straight for an open stall, slid my finger down my throat and completed the unthinkable on the first try. Within seconds of sharing my lunch with the toilet I heard Jeff say, "Scott, is that you?" I put on my best "sick voice" and mumbled "Ya man, I feel like crap, " to which he responded, "Well, you better head home, I can't afford to have you throwing up on the job."
BAM! Before Jeff had the chance to rethink his decision I hopped on my bike and headed to the party. Dang straight I road my mountain bike to parties in high school! hahaha. So the moral of the story is "if at first you don't succeed.... try sticking your finger down your throat." Or don't, I won't judge.
I seriously hated working at Safeway. I loathed my boss(es), which was pretty much any employee not pushing carts, and to top it all off it was company policy to wear a shirt and tie. Extremely inconvienant for pushing carts around in triple digit weather. I made it a month before being called into the managers office and confronted about dust mopping an aisle without saying hi to any of the customers. I explained honestly that I had greeted every one of them on the trip down the aisle and didn't feel the need to greet them again, only seconds later, on my trip back up. Apparently the trip up was when they were "watching me" on there little spy cameras. I have a serious pet peeve about being accused of wrong doing when I was blatantly NOT in the wrong. So I took my 25 cent name tag off and my "career" at Safeway came to a close. Ha ha.
SOOOOOO... that brings us to Fuddruckers. I had 3 bosses at fuddruckers. I loved 2 of them and would avoid the 3rd at all cost. His name was Jeff. He was your stereotypical "jerk" boss. You know... the type of boss that can't walk past you without telling you that you're doing something wrong.
Well one particular friday night, rather than avoid my boss, I found myself doing quite the opposite. You see halfway through my shift I realized I'd forgotten all about a party I wanted to go to. I needed desperately to go home early. Had either of my 2 other bosses been managing that night I would have simply walked up to them, told them I wanted to go home early, and there would've been no argument. But Jeff was no pushover. I knew I'd have to get creative.
I came to the conclusion that my only real chance at an early exit was convincing Jeff I was sick. My first few attempts were pathetically juvenile. I'd stand within "hearing" distance of him and make your stereotypical coughing noises. Or tell other employees how "I feel like crap" in hopes that they might mention it to Jeff. All of these failed.
While continuing to brainstorm, I was carrying some dirty dishes into the back when I spotted Jeff heading into the men's room. As I stood there chucking the dishes in the sink a light bulb went on in my head. If Jeff wouldn't "take my word for it" that I was feeling cruddy, I'd have to prove it. I made the decision that I would frantically run into the bathroom, head straight into the stall, shove my finger down my throat, and ralph into the toilet. He'd have no choice but to send me home right? Riiiiight!
Long story short, I executed my plan to perfection. As I entered the mens room I saw Jeff standing at the urinal. I headed straight for an open stall, slid my finger down my throat and completed the unthinkable on the first try. Within seconds of sharing my lunch with the toilet I heard Jeff say, "Scott, is that you?" I put on my best "sick voice" and mumbled "Ya man, I feel like crap, " to which he responded, "Well, you better head home, I can't afford to have you throwing up on the job."
BAM! Before Jeff had the chance to rethink his decision I hopped on my bike and headed to the party. Dang straight I road my mountain bike to parties in high school! hahaha. So the moral of the story is "if at first you don't succeed.... try sticking your finger down your throat." Or don't, I won't judge.
May 13, 2011
The Missing Sleeping Bag
When I was 13 I was hanging out with 4 or 5 other guys at my buddy Devin's house. His parents and the rest of his family were out of town for the weekend so naturally, we all lied to our parents and told them Devin's parents said it was ok if we slept over. What great childhood story doesn't start with lying to your parents? haha
The fact that none of us were old enough to drive hardly deterred us from raising the “fun factor.” I remember walking with my buddies to Walgreens just before sun down, with a pocket full of change and a serious craving for candy and orange soda! But not just any orange soda. I was in search of the stupidly-large, mecca of dry ice bomb containers, 3-liter! It was hot and I was THIRSTY!
After returning to Devin's house and emptying the ridiculously adolescent contents of our pockets, we put Tommy Boy in the VCR. By the end of the movie I'd polished off the entire 3-liter, a pack of airheads, and a few handfuls of cheese-its! All of us were sick to our stomachs but managed to stumble upstairs, steak claim to a sleeping bag, and hit the hay.
A few hours into some seriously deep sleep I woke up with the weirdest feeling. I thought I was dreaming. I had PEED ALL OVER MYSELF! All 3-liters and then some. I laid there patting the outside of my sleeping bag still partially thinking I was dreaming. Who pees the bed at 13??? I was freaking out but couldn't exactly scream out loud for fear of revealing my “accident” to everyone else.
I spent the next 5 minutes carefully maneuvering myself out of my sleeping bag, gathering the soaking wet sleeping bag in my arms, and hurling it over the railing behind me. I chose to chuck it overboard so that if I happen to trip and fall while stepping over any of my buddies during my escape, I wouldn't smother their face with urine.
Just before attempting my escape I remember touching the carpet where I'd just been laying. It was dry. Somehow, someway, it was dry. It gave me an awkward sense of relief as I thought to myself, “Ok, I might actually pull this off without anyone knowing.” I crept like a ninja out of the loft, maneuvering my size 12 feet carefully through the maze of bodies. Upon reaching the stairs I breathed a sigh of relief as I made my way quietly to the bottom where I was forced to once again embrace the wet sleeping bag.
I devised a plan. I would quietly sneak out the front door, walk the half mile to my house, sneak into my house using the garage code, shower, go to bed, wake up, and if any of my buddies asked what happened I'd just tell em I got sick and went home. BAM! Full proof! Or was it? What about the sleeping bag? I decided I had no choice but to take it with me.
So there I was, 13 years old, 3 in the morning, and I'm walking down a residential street carrying a sleeping bag drenched in 3-plus liters of my own piss. What a pathetic sight! Wanna know something even more pathetic. As I began my walk home I immediately started thinking of where to stash the sleeping bag. Like I was getting rid of evidence in a homicide or something. A block away from Devin's I passed a pond and thought, “Heck ya, I'll chuck it in the pond. Wait, crap! It won't sink! It'll float, and someone will find it!” I continued walking and approached the stoplight at the intersection of 67th Ave and Utopia still yielding the pee bag. I remember sprinting across the intersection after seeing headlights coming at me in the distance.
A couple minutes later as I rounded the corner onto Oraibi Dr. I made up my mind. I would sneak into my house via the garage. Once inside the garage I would dispose of the sleeping bag in the trash can. I punched in the code, pressed enter, watched the garage open a couple feet, then pressed enter twice as fast as I could to get the garage to hold it's position. I nervously crawled under the partially opened door, dragging the bag behind me. Then I weaved my way through the dark, organized chaos my dad called his workshop, and found the light switch. I was so scared. At this point what do I say if my mom or dad comes out in the garage? “Uuuuuuh.....Uuuuuuh......” I had nothing!
I snatched up the sleeping bag, lifted the lid to the trash can, and was greeted with some bad news. It was full. #*($&!!!! I started freaking out! I decided my only remaining option was to carefully, and quietly, remove the contents of the trash can and hide the sleeping bag in the very bottom! So that's what I did, the entire time thinking of possible excuses for my actions if my parents happened to catch me in the act. Thankfully they didn't, and I successfully stashed the sleeping bag in the bottom of the trash can!
The only thing left to do was shower and go to bed. I showered successfully, but when walking across the hall from the bathroom to my bedroom my mom whispers down the hallway, “Scott what are you doing?” It's a miracle I didn't pee myself again! I made up some bull crap excuse about feeling sick, and she didn't ask any more questions.
SOOOOO...THE BEST PART....A few weeks later I was sitting at the kitchen table in Devin's house playing a card game with some of his family. His older brother Greg was pacing angrily through the house as if he was looking for something. “Does anyone know where my freaking sleeping bag is?” he shouted repeatedly. Let's just say it took everything I had not to bust up laughing! Three years ago I told this story at a New Year's Eve party at Devin's house that happened to be attended by that same brother Greg. I didn't get halfway through the story before Greg abruptly screamed, “DUDE THAT WAS YOU?!?! YOU BASTARD!”
Sorry Greg.... HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
The fact that none of us were old enough to drive hardly deterred us from raising the “fun factor.” I remember walking with my buddies to Walgreens just before sun down, with a pocket full of change and a serious craving for candy and orange soda! But not just any orange soda. I was in search of the stupidly-large, mecca of dry ice bomb containers, 3-liter! It was hot and I was THIRSTY!
After returning to Devin's house and emptying the ridiculously adolescent contents of our pockets, we put Tommy Boy in the VCR. By the end of the movie I'd polished off the entire 3-liter, a pack of airheads, and a few handfuls of cheese-its! All of us were sick to our stomachs but managed to stumble upstairs, steak claim to a sleeping bag, and hit the hay.
A few hours into some seriously deep sleep I woke up with the weirdest feeling. I thought I was dreaming. I had PEED ALL OVER MYSELF! All 3-liters and then some. I laid there patting the outside of my sleeping bag still partially thinking I was dreaming. Who pees the bed at 13??? I was freaking out but couldn't exactly scream out loud for fear of revealing my “accident” to everyone else.
I spent the next 5 minutes carefully maneuvering myself out of my sleeping bag, gathering the soaking wet sleeping bag in my arms, and hurling it over the railing behind me. I chose to chuck it overboard so that if I happen to trip and fall while stepping over any of my buddies during my escape, I wouldn't smother their face with urine.
Just before attempting my escape I remember touching the carpet where I'd just been laying. It was dry. Somehow, someway, it was dry. It gave me an awkward sense of relief as I thought to myself, “Ok, I might actually pull this off without anyone knowing.” I crept like a ninja out of the loft, maneuvering my size 12 feet carefully through the maze of bodies. Upon reaching the stairs I breathed a sigh of relief as I made my way quietly to the bottom where I was forced to once again embrace the wet sleeping bag.
I devised a plan. I would quietly sneak out the front door, walk the half mile to my house, sneak into my house using the garage code, shower, go to bed, wake up, and if any of my buddies asked what happened I'd just tell em I got sick and went home. BAM! Full proof! Or was it? What about the sleeping bag? I decided I had no choice but to take it with me.
So there I was, 13 years old, 3 in the morning, and I'm walking down a residential street carrying a sleeping bag drenched in 3-plus liters of my own piss. What a pathetic sight! Wanna know something even more pathetic. As I began my walk home I immediately started thinking of where to stash the sleeping bag. Like I was getting rid of evidence in a homicide or something. A block away from Devin's I passed a pond and thought, “Heck ya, I'll chuck it in the pond. Wait, crap! It won't sink! It'll float, and someone will find it!” I continued walking and approached the stoplight at the intersection of 67th Ave and Utopia still yielding the pee bag. I remember sprinting across the intersection after seeing headlights coming at me in the distance.
A couple minutes later as I rounded the corner onto Oraibi Dr. I made up my mind. I would sneak into my house via the garage. Once inside the garage I would dispose of the sleeping bag in the trash can. I punched in the code, pressed enter, watched the garage open a couple feet, then pressed enter twice as fast as I could to get the garage to hold it's position. I nervously crawled under the partially opened door, dragging the bag behind me. Then I weaved my way through the dark, organized chaos my dad called his workshop, and found the light switch. I was so scared. At this point what do I say if my mom or dad comes out in the garage? “Uuuuuuh.....Uuuuuuh......” I had nothing!
I snatched up the sleeping bag, lifted the lid to the trash can, and was greeted with some bad news. It was full. #*($&!!!! I started freaking out! I decided my only remaining option was to carefully, and quietly, remove the contents of the trash can and hide the sleeping bag in the very bottom! So that's what I did, the entire time thinking of possible excuses for my actions if my parents happened to catch me in the act. Thankfully they didn't, and I successfully stashed the sleeping bag in the bottom of the trash can!
The only thing left to do was shower and go to bed. I showered successfully, but when walking across the hall from the bathroom to my bedroom my mom whispers down the hallway, “Scott what are you doing?” It's a miracle I didn't pee myself again! I made up some bull crap excuse about feeling sick, and she didn't ask any more questions.
SOOOOO...THE BEST PART....A few weeks later I was sitting at the kitchen table in Devin's house playing a card game with some of his family. His older brother Greg was pacing angrily through the house as if he was looking for something. “Does anyone know where my freaking sleeping bag is?” he shouted repeatedly. Let's just say it took everything I had not to bust up laughing! Three years ago I told this story at a New Year's Eve party at Devin's house that happened to be attended by that same brother Greg. I didn't get halfway through the story before Greg abruptly screamed, “DUDE THAT WAS YOU?!?! YOU BASTARD!”
Sorry Greg.... HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
May 9, 2011
A Giant Waste of Helium...
When I write a book on my life it's going to be call "Three Half Shovels and a Story." Don't worry about why, I'll explain it in the book. One of the chapters will be called "Middle School: A Huge Embarrassing Failure"
Here's a sneak preview of that chapter...
In 7th grade I had a monumental crush on a blonde-haired beauty named Candace. We had a class together, rode the same "piece of cheese" to school, and we were both long jumpers on the on the track team. She was tall, blonde, and -- well, at 13 that was pretty much all that mattered to me. That and whether or not she lived within bike riding distance.
I hesitated to flirt with Candace for fear of making a fool of myself. I'm pretty sure every guy between 13 and 15 has this fear about women at some point. However, I was determined that come Valentines day it was game on. Somehow, someway, I was gonna tell her, and show her, how I felt.
So I did what any love-struck adolecent would have done... I went to my mother for advice. I tried to downplay it, but I'm sure she saw right through my slurry of falsehoods: "Mom I only like her as a friend," "Mom, seriously, she's just a good friend," and "Mom, I'm on the track team with her and she doesn't have a lot of friends so I'm just trying to be nice." haha.
My mom took me to Walgreens, the mecca for last minute gifts of love, and we came home with a white and pink coffee mug, some hershey kisses, and a handful of heart-shaped helium balloons. The next day I had my mom drop me and my balloons off at school so I could avoid all contact with Candace until after school. Upon arrival I immediately took my gift to the front office and found out that I was far from the only guy trying to hide his romantic side until the final bell rang.
When the final bell did ring I nervously made my way to the office, grabbed my cup full of kisses with attached balloons, and even more nervously made my way to the bus. I stood just outside the the doors to the big cheese and took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment I'd played out in my head at least 30 times during math class that day. I stepped onto the bus and spotted her looking down at something. As I began walking towards her seat comments flew in from all directions: "Scott, who gave you those gay balloons," "Oh man, why are you carrying pink balloons," and a few others that aren't exactly family friendly. Despite their uneducated efforts to make me feel stupid, I remained focused on my goal, and continued my nervous stroll towards Candace.
When I reached the row she was seated on I stood there shaking like a hairless hamster in an icepond. Then it happened... we made eye contact. My mind went blank, and the only words that made their way out of my mouth were, "Candace, this is for you." I held the mug in my outstretched hands for what seemed like minutes. But after only a few seconds she slowly pushed the mug back towards me and said in a rather stearn voice, "Scott, I don't want it!"
Put yourself in my shoes. What would you do in this situation? Would you find the nearest open seat, sit quitely, and deal with what was bound to be an epic session of ridicule?
I wasn't about to float that boat so I turned around as fast as I could and headed straight for the exit, still holding her gift. I could hear people laughing but I paid them little attention. It was roughly 2 and a half miles from the school to my house. I carried that mug, those hershey kisses, and those "gay balloons" all the way home.
Now this story has a great ending, and as a partial continuation of mother's day, It's time for another shout-out to my mom. My amazing mother was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived home yielding the same gift she'd dropped me off with that morning. She didn't even ask me what happened. She just gave me a big hug, asked if I was ok, and only minutes later as I sat there eating "Candace's" hershey kisses, worrowing in my own self-pity, she took off to the store to by me a gallon of my favorite chocolate milk! What a mom!
And this, my friends, is only a taste of why middle school was a huge embarrassing failure. Stay tuned for more when "Three Half Shovels and a Story" hits the shelves in 2012. hahaha! PEACE!
Here's a sneak preview of that chapter...
In 7th grade I had a monumental crush on a blonde-haired beauty named Candace. We had a class together, rode the same "piece of cheese" to school, and we were both long jumpers on the on the track team. She was tall, blonde, and -- well, at 13 that was pretty much all that mattered to me. That and whether or not she lived within bike riding distance.
I hesitated to flirt with Candace for fear of making a fool of myself. I'm pretty sure every guy between 13 and 15 has this fear about women at some point. However, I was determined that come Valentines day it was game on. Somehow, someway, I was gonna tell her, and show her, how I felt.
So I did what any love-struck adolecent would have done... I went to my mother for advice. I tried to downplay it, but I'm sure she saw right through my slurry of falsehoods: "Mom I only like her as a friend," "Mom, seriously, she's just a good friend," and "Mom, I'm on the track team with her and she doesn't have a lot of friends so I'm just trying to be nice." haha.
My mom took me to Walgreens, the mecca for last minute gifts of love, and we came home with a white and pink coffee mug, some hershey kisses, and a handful of heart-shaped helium balloons. The next day I had my mom drop me and my balloons off at school so I could avoid all contact with Candace until after school. Upon arrival I immediately took my gift to the front office and found out that I was far from the only guy trying to hide his romantic side until the final bell rang.
When the final bell did ring I nervously made my way to the office, grabbed my cup full of kisses with attached balloons, and even more nervously made my way to the bus. I stood just outside the the doors to the big cheese and took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment I'd played out in my head at least 30 times during math class that day. I stepped onto the bus and spotted her looking down at something. As I began walking towards her seat comments flew in from all directions: "Scott, who gave you those gay balloons," "Oh man, why are you carrying pink balloons," and a few others that aren't exactly family friendly. Despite their uneducated efforts to make me feel stupid, I remained focused on my goal, and continued my nervous stroll towards Candace.
When I reached the row she was seated on I stood there shaking like a hairless hamster in an icepond. Then it happened... we made eye contact. My mind went blank, and the only words that made their way out of my mouth were, "Candace, this is for you." I held the mug in my outstretched hands for what seemed like minutes. But after only a few seconds she slowly pushed the mug back towards me and said in a rather stearn voice, "Scott, I don't want it!"
Put yourself in my shoes. What would you do in this situation? Would you find the nearest open seat, sit quitely, and deal with what was bound to be an epic session of ridicule?
I wasn't about to float that boat so I turned around as fast as I could and headed straight for the exit, still holding her gift. I could hear people laughing but I paid them little attention. It was roughly 2 and a half miles from the school to my house. I carried that mug, those hershey kisses, and those "gay balloons" all the way home.
Now this story has a great ending, and as a partial continuation of mother's day, It's time for another shout-out to my mom. My amazing mother was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived home yielding the same gift she'd dropped me off with that morning. She didn't even ask me what happened. She just gave me a big hug, asked if I was ok, and only minutes later as I sat there eating "Candace's" hershey kisses, worrowing in my own self-pity, she took off to the store to by me a gallon of my favorite chocolate milk! What a mom!
And this, my friends, is only a taste of why middle school was a huge embarrassing failure. Stay tuned for more when "Three Half Shovels and a Story" hits the shelves in 2012. hahaha! PEACE!
May 8, 2011
Why I love my mother... Part 2
I could really say so much more about why I love my mother, but I'll save it for her card.
But to continue where I left off, I love my mother because...
1) When girls totally hosed me back in the day she used to sit on the edge of my bed, tell me how great I was, and tell me how it was "their loss."
2) When girls totally hosed me back in the day she would by me my favorite ice cream, and a gallon of chocolate milk
3) She wrote me every week on my mission, without exception.
4) She will not let me leave her house without an "I love you" and a big hug.
5) She has supported me in every righteous endeavor I've ever endulged in.
But to continue where I left off, I love my mother because...
1) When girls totally hosed me back in the day she used to sit on the edge of my bed, tell me how great I was, and tell me how it was "their loss."
2) When girls totally hosed me back in the day she would by me my favorite ice cream, and a gallon of chocolate milk
3) She wrote me every week on my mission, without exception.
4) She will not let me leave her house without an "I love you" and a big hug.
5) She has supported me in every righteous endeavor I've ever endulged in.
Why I LOVE my mother... Part 1
I thought about titling this "Why my mom is better than your mom" but I didn't wanna get carried away. haha. So without further delay... I love my mother because...
1) She can read me/understand me better than any woman on Earth!
2) She gave birth to the best 2 sisters and 3 brothers around!
3) She kept nearly ever school project I ever did!
4) She drove me to and from baseball, basketball, football, and track practices, meets, and games, for over a decade!
5) She is constantly asking me if I've been going to the Temple!
More tomorrow...
1) She can read me/understand me better than any woman on Earth!
2) She gave birth to the best 2 sisters and 3 brothers around!
3) She kept nearly ever school project I ever did!
4) She drove me to and from baseball, basketball, football, and track practices, meets, and games, for over a decade!
5) She is constantly asking me if I've been going to the Temple!
More tomorrow...
May 2, 2011
"You can't sleep here!"
This is the story of the epic adventure (or epic failure for you glass half empty pessimists) that I took with 6 buddies to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, my freshman year of college. We ALMOST made it.
It started off similar to nearly every road trip I ever took in college. And by that I mean there was a bunch of dudes sitting around, date-less and dejected, on a Friday night, when someone finally said something along the lines of, "Forget chicks, dude! They're all shady! It's freekin dude's night out! Let's take a road trip!" Those 15 words and one article (BAM - Aced the grammar test) spawned what would become, in hindsight, one of the funniest nights of my entire life!
After the 7 of us gathered a few essentials - candy, soda, blankets, a gun (kidding) - we quickly realized only one of us owned a vehicle that would comfortably fit 5, much less 7. Seeing as how our checking accounts might have combined to produce $300 on a good day (Mine had like $8.25) the option to take 2 cars was quickly thrown out. So the 7 of us piled in my buddy Brian's 1980 something Jeep Wagoneer. It looked something like this...
It sat 5. We squeezed in 7, and luggage. Now I can recall repeated road trips growing up where my little brother and I had to sit on a sleeping bag draped across all the luggage in the back of our family van. So while my buddies bickered and argued over "who killed who" (Monty Python) and who'd sit where, I gladly called dibs on the "way-way back."
Fast forward a couple hours. We're driving up the notorious Jackson pass, doing a whopping 20 mph when the whole car begins to shake. The shaking was quickly followed up by smoke leaking out from under the hood. Brian, who was driving, started to panic. Pause. Panic is not the right word. You would've thought the man was pregnant and just went into labor! He pulled over and after a seriously heated, and heavily divided debate, we decided to keep going til we reached the top. The shaking, and the smoke continued as we crawled even slower up the remainder of the pass.
We finally pulled over in what appeared to be a dark, unoccupied gas station on the edge of town. Tempers flared again as we piled out of the car and and continued our argument under the moonlight. Eventually we began to think logically about possible places to lay our head for the night. After a few minutes we came to the conclusion that we could either sleep right there at the dark gas station, possibly playing paper rock scissors for who got to sleep in the car, or try and find a motel. As we wandered across the street looking for a motel our eyes started to adjust and we noticed that we were at the base of a rather large, rather steep hill. I think they're called mountains. (I'm so smart!) So as we stood their next to a chain link fence, shivering, and continuing to discuss or options, we kept looking up the mountain. Finally someone said, dude let's just jump this fence and run up the hill a little bit and sleep on the ground.
So fast forward 3 and half minutes as the 7 of us, now seriously freezing, begin running across the road and throwing our stuff over the fence like a bunch of border hoppers. I vividly remember a van driving by, coming to a complete stop, rolling down its window, and staring at us while we scampered up the hill. After catching our breath we sprawled out our blankets and sleeping bags and finally laid down. I could hardly wait to get some well needed shut eye!
Just as peace rained down on our self-made mountain side motel someone mumbled something about Brian being a pansy and worrying too much about his car. In a matter of seconds, peace turned to war, and Brian unleashed a tirade of curse words directed at anything and everyone within the sounds of his voice. Some of us cursed back at him but more than likely none of us knew what we were even saying.
Suddenly, the verbal chaos was interrupted by a strange noise. I wish I could say it sounded like your average "cow noise." But it was different. Like a cow on steroids. We went silent in anticipation of hearing it again. We did. It was definitely a cow. But not just one. Many. Many cows. The noises seemed to get louder, as if they were getting closer. Someone located a flashlight and began shining it up and down the mountain. We immediately noticed a "trail" running smack through the middle of our small town of sleeping bags. Whoops!
Sleeping on the mountain was no longer safe as the 7 of us exchanged "worst case scenarios" that ranged from an angry farmer kicking us off his property, to a herd of cows trampling our man parts in the middle of the night. Thus, forever altering our future sex lives. Naturally, we agreed that if either of those were even remote possibilities, then indeed we needed to find a safer place to slumber.
So as fast as we had made our way up the hill, we gathered up our crap and made our way back down. We threw our stuff back over the fence, and made our way back across the street to the pitch black gas station. By this point it's almost 1 in the morning, it's easily around 35 degrees, and every one of us is dang near delusional! With no motels in "seeing distance," me and 2 other kids decided the ice cold concrete was the next best thing, and allowed the others the "privilege" of sleeping in the car.
So FINALLY I slid into my sleeping bag, pulled the zipper completely shut, crawled the rest of the way inside my bag, and then folded the top under itself as if to completely seal my temporary casket. I have to admit that at that point I could have cared less about the lack of air flow and the lack of overall comfort that made up my sleeping arrangement. I passed out for a solid 2 and a half hours.
Around 3:30am I was woken up by the unmistakeable chirp of a police siren. I poked my head out from inside my sleeping bag, half conscious, and if not for the noise I'd just heard I woulda thought I was about to receive an amazing vision. Standing just outside his vehicle the cop pointed his spotlight directly into my eyes. Despite my continuous efforts to move 6 inches to the right or left of it, he was right there with me, making minor adjustments to the light beam, as if he was toying with me. I held my hand over my eyes and began looking around the now red, white, and blue "strobe-lit" parking lot. I immediately noticed my 2 buddies, also on the concrete, but who had opted to "play dead" and remained curled up inside their sleeping bags. I stood up out of my sleeping bag and walked towards the light. I came to a stop a few feet from the cop. Our conversation went something like this:
Cop: What the hell are you doing here?
Me: Uhhh. It's kind of a long story but we broke down and couldn't find a motel, so we decided to go ahead and sleep here.
Cop: You can't sleep here.
Me: Really?
Cop: Yup
Me: Dang it. What are we supposed to do then.
Cop: Why don't you sleep in your car?
Me: (Already getting a little bit irritated) Because there's like 5 dudes already sleeping in there.
The cop moved his spotlight across the empty lot til it pointed directly on our car. Then, almost like a cartoon, everyone in the car attempted to duck behind the seats. He left his blinding spotlight on the car and the conversation continued as such:
Cop: Well like I said, you can't sleep here, so you got 3 options. You can hike all your stuff up to the nearest motel, you can cram inside your car, or you can go sleep at the hospital for $8.
Me: The hospital? (I thought he was totally messing with me)
Cop: Ya they'll give you a bed for $8 a night.
Nay do I crap you I had to shake my head violently to make sure I wasn't dreaming before continuing:
Me: Well I only got like 8 bucks in my checking account so the hospitals not really an option for me.
Cop: (Obviously frustrated by what he thought was a sarcastic comment) Well, figure it out son, because I'm comin back here in a half hour and I don't wanna see you sleepin on the ground.
Me: (So frustrated at this point) Wow!
Cop: And tell your friends that are still sleepin they gotta move too.
Me: (Completely and intentionally sarcastic) OK sir, I will.
So fast forward about 2 minutes. The 7 of us are standing in the parking lot. I'm of course going off on my buddies for throwing me under the bus, and hiding out like a bunch of sissies. Well, apparently me screaming set off a chain reaction. All of us began screaming at each other. You'd swear we'd just caught each other sleeping with each others' girlfriends. (As if any of us had one anyways.)
Well out of nowhere one of my buddies grabbed everything he brought and took off up the road. Our screaming slowly faded as his silhouette disappeared into the darkness.
All of us almost simultaneously: "Dude, where you going?"
Friend that'd had enough: "I don't know man! I'm tired! I'm hungry! I'm pist! I'm gonna go find a place to eat or sleep before I freekin go insane!"
We hastily unloaded the car, gathered up our gear, and followed him up the road. After only a few blocks we rounded a slight curve in the road that had previously hid from our view what would become our final resting place... for the night. It was the golden arches! Mc-E-Deez! Mc-FREEKIN-Donalds! WOOOOOOOOO! I'd never been so excited to see a McDonalds in my life! However, as we made our way towards the entrance our celebration was short-lived. The vinyl lettering on the door read "Hours of operation: Sat: 5am - 10pm"
NOOOOOOOOO! How could this be!?!? Forget sleep, (I'd already convinced myself I'd just stay up the rest of the night) at this point I would've donated a kidney for anything on their breakfast menu! Even if it led to the immediate failure of the other one. We were ALL angry! We were ALL hungry! And we were ALL on our last leg physically, and emotionally! We were sleep-deprived drama queens throwing our hands in the air as if to say "could this day get any worse?"
Well, apparently someone had a prayer in their heart because only moments later a small Mexican man appeared in a cloud above us and proceeded to deliver greasy breakfast burritos to each of us. HA HA! I wish! But seriously, a small Mexican man did appear. Only not from a cloud above us. Instead he arrived via the entrance to McDonalds. I'm assuming he was one of the cooks who'd gotten there early and had noticed us standing outside with all of our crap.
So the guy comes outside and proceeds to ask us, in broken English, what we were doing? I'm pretty sure all 7 of began speaking at the same time. This probably scared the crap out of him. But whatever we did, and whatever we said is NOT important. What IS important is that he let us in the door, despite the fact that they didn't open for another hour.
So there we were, the 7 of us, inside a Mc-Frickin-Donalds, at 4am. So what did we do? We did what any sober, insomnia stricken college student would have done in that situation. We spread our sleeping bags out in the booths and went to sleep.
PEOPLE... I'm not making this up! I seriously fell asleep in the booth of a McDonalds in Wyoming an hour before it opened. But it gets better! Wanna know the first thing I saw when I woke up? Well before I tell you, let me just say this. If any of you decide to make this true story into a movie one day you'd better get this kid to play the role I'm about to speak of...
Folks I woke up to a kid that looked something like that picture above, sitting at a table a few feet from my booth. I vividly remember that he had a piece of what I can only assume was an egg mcmuffin, half in - half out of his mouth, and the blankest stare you've ever seen draped across his face.
So THEN what did I do? I looked at my watch (easy there - this was pre-cell phone days) and saw it was only 6:30. So I went back to sleep. HAHAHAHA! I cannot stop laughing just replaying this night in my head. Once again, I'm not making this up!
So to complete this epic adventure in a rather short manner, the rest of the morning unfolded as follows... We all met up back at the car around 8 or so, and drove to a local repair shop. Turns out Brian was low on transmission fluid, which led to the irregular shifts, the shaking, and the smoking. I remember standing around outside the repair shop, kicking rocks around the parking lot, and re-hashing the entire night with my buddies, while they worked on Brian's car.
An hour or so later we piled in the trusty Jeep Wagoneer and drove back to Rexburg, Idaho. This concludes as I said in the beginning, of the funniest nights of my life. Thank you for your time. haha!
It started off similar to nearly every road trip I ever took in college. And by that I mean there was a bunch of dudes sitting around, date-less and dejected, on a Friday night, when someone finally said something along the lines of, "Forget chicks, dude! They're all shady! It's freekin dude's night out! Let's take a road trip!" Those 15 words and one article (BAM - Aced the grammar test) spawned what would become, in hindsight, one of the funniest nights of my entire life!
After the 7 of us gathered a few essentials - candy, soda, blankets, a gun (kidding) - we quickly realized only one of us owned a vehicle that would comfortably fit 5, much less 7. Seeing as how our checking accounts might have combined to produce $300 on a good day (Mine had like $8.25) the option to take 2 cars was quickly thrown out. So the 7 of us piled in my buddy Brian's 1980 something Jeep Wagoneer. It looked something like this...
It sat 5. We squeezed in 7, and luggage. Now I can recall repeated road trips growing up where my little brother and I had to sit on a sleeping bag draped across all the luggage in the back of our family van. So while my buddies bickered and argued over "who killed who" (Monty Python) and who'd sit where, I gladly called dibs on the "way-way back."Fast forward a couple hours. We're driving up the notorious Jackson pass, doing a whopping 20 mph when the whole car begins to shake. The shaking was quickly followed up by smoke leaking out from under the hood. Brian, who was driving, started to panic. Pause. Panic is not the right word. You would've thought the man was pregnant and just went into labor! He pulled over and after a seriously heated, and heavily divided debate, we decided to keep going til we reached the top. The shaking, and the smoke continued as we crawled even slower up the remainder of the pass.
We finally pulled over in what appeared to be a dark, unoccupied gas station on the edge of town. Tempers flared again as we piled out of the car and and continued our argument under the moonlight. Eventually we began to think logically about possible places to lay our head for the night. After a few minutes we came to the conclusion that we could either sleep right there at the dark gas station, possibly playing paper rock scissors for who got to sleep in the car, or try and find a motel. As we wandered across the street looking for a motel our eyes started to adjust and we noticed that we were at the base of a rather large, rather steep hill. I think they're called mountains. (I'm so smart!) So as we stood their next to a chain link fence, shivering, and continuing to discuss or options, we kept looking up the mountain. Finally someone said, dude let's just jump this fence and run up the hill a little bit and sleep on the ground.
So fast forward 3 and half minutes as the 7 of us, now seriously freezing, begin running across the road and throwing our stuff over the fence like a bunch of border hoppers. I vividly remember a van driving by, coming to a complete stop, rolling down its window, and staring at us while we scampered up the hill. After catching our breath we sprawled out our blankets and sleeping bags and finally laid down. I could hardly wait to get some well needed shut eye!
Just as peace rained down on our self-made mountain side motel someone mumbled something about Brian being a pansy and worrying too much about his car. In a matter of seconds, peace turned to war, and Brian unleashed a tirade of curse words directed at anything and everyone within the sounds of his voice. Some of us cursed back at him but more than likely none of us knew what we were even saying.
Suddenly, the verbal chaos was interrupted by a strange noise. I wish I could say it sounded like your average "cow noise." But it was different. Like a cow on steroids. We went silent in anticipation of hearing it again. We did. It was definitely a cow. But not just one. Many. Many cows. The noises seemed to get louder, as if they were getting closer. Someone located a flashlight and began shining it up and down the mountain. We immediately noticed a "trail" running smack through the middle of our small town of sleeping bags. Whoops!
Sleeping on the mountain was no longer safe as the 7 of us exchanged "worst case scenarios" that ranged from an angry farmer kicking us off his property, to a herd of cows trampling our man parts in the middle of the night. Thus, forever altering our future sex lives. Naturally, we agreed that if either of those were even remote possibilities, then indeed we needed to find a safer place to slumber.
So as fast as we had made our way up the hill, we gathered up our crap and made our way back down. We threw our stuff back over the fence, and made our way back across the street to the pitch black gas station. By this point it's almost 1 in the morning, it's easily around 35 degrees, and every one of us is dang near delusional! With no motels in "seeing distance," me and 2 other kids decided the ice cold concrete was the next best thing, and allowed the others the "privilege" of sleeping in the car.
So FINALLY I slid into my sleeping bag, pulled the zipper completely shut, crawled the rest of the way inside my bag, and then folded the top under itself as if to completely seal my temporary casket. I have to admit that at that point I could have cared less about the lack of air flow and the lack of overall comfort that made up my sleeping arrangement. I passed out for a solid 2 and a half hours.
Around 3:30am I was woken up by the unmistakeable chirp of a police siren. I poked my head out from inside my sleeping bag, half conscious, and if not for the noise I'd just heard I woulda thought I was about to receive an amazing vision. Standing just outside his vehicle the cop pointed his spotlight directly into my eyes. Despite my continuous efforts to move 6 inches to the right or left of it, he was right there with me, making minor adjustments to the light beam, as if he was toying with me. I held my hand over my eyes and began looking around the now red, white, and blue "strobe-lit" parking lot. I immediately noticed my 2 buddies, also on the concrete, but who had opted to "play dead" and remained curled up inside their sleeping bags. I stood up out of my sleeping bag and walked towards the light. I came to a stop a few feet from the cop. Our conversation went something like this:
Cop: What the hell are you doing here?
Me: Uhhh. It's kind of a long story but we broke down and couldn't find a motel, so we decided to go ahead and sleep here.
Cop: You can't sleep here.
Me: Really?
Cop: Yup
Me: Dang it. What are we supposed to do then.
Cop: Why don't you sleep in your car?
Me: (Already getting a little bit irritated) Because there's like 5 dudes already sleeping in there.
The cop moved his spotlight across the empty lot til it pointed directly on our car. Then, almost like a cartoon, everyone in the car attempted to duck behind the seats. He left his blinding spotlight on the car and the conversation continued as such:
Cop: Well like I said, you can't sleep here, so you got 3 options. You can hike all your stuff up to the nearest motel, you can cram inside your car, or you can go sleep at the hospital for $8.
Me: The hospital? (I thought he was totally messing with me)
Cop: Ya they'll give you a bed for $8 a night.
Nay do I crap you I had to shake my head violently to make sure I wasn't dreaming before continuing:
Me: Well I only got like 8 bucks in my checking account so the hospitals not really an option for me.
Cop: (Obviously frustrated by what he thought was a sarcastic comment) Well, figure it out son, because I'm comin back here in a half hour and I don't wanna see you sleepin on the ground.
Me: (So frustrated at this point) Wow!
Cop: And tell your friends that are still sleepin they gotta move too.
Me: (Completely and intentionally sarcastic) OK sir, I will.
So fast forward about 2 minutes. The 7 of us are standing in the parking lot. I'm of course going off on my buddies for throwing me under the bus, and hiding out like a bunch of sissies. Well, apparently me screaming set off a chain reaction. All of us began screaming at each other. You'd swear we'd just caught each other sleeping with each others' girlfriends. (As if any of us had one anyways.)
Well out of nowhere one of my buddies grabbed everything he brought and took off up the road. Our screaming slowly faded as his silhouette disappeared into the darkness.
All of us almost simultaneously: "Dude, where you going?"
Friend that'd had enough: "I don't know man! I'm tired! I'm hungry! I'm pist! I'm gonna go find a place to eat or sleep before I freekin go insane!"
We hastily unloaded the car, gathered up our gear, and followed him up the road. After only a few blocks we rounded a slight curve in the road that had previously hid from our view what would become our final resting place... for the night. It was the golden arches! Mc-E-Deez! Mc-FREEKIN-Donalds! WOOOOOOOOO! I'd never been so excited to see a McDonalds in my life! However, as we made our way towards the entrance our celebration was short-lived. The vinyl lettering on the door read "Hours of operation: Sat: 5am - 10pm"
NOOOOOOOOO! How could this be!?!? Forget sleep, (I'd already convinced myself I'd just stay up the rest of the night) at this point I would've donated a kidney for anything on their breakfast menu! Even if it led to the immediate failure of the other one. We were ALL angry! We were ALL hungry! And we were ALL on our last leg physically, and emotionally! We were sleep-deprived drama queens throwing our hands in the air as if to say "could this day get any worse?"
Well, apparently someone had a prayer in their heart because only moments later a small Mexican man appeared in a cloud above us and proceeded to deliver greasy breakfast burritos to each of us. HA HA! I wish! But seriously, a small Mexican man did appear. Only not from a cloud above us. Instead he arrived via the entrance to McDonalds. I'm assuming he was one of the cooks who'd gotten there early and had noticed us standing outside with all of our crap.
So the guy comes outside and proceeds to ask us, in broken English, what we were doing? I'm pretty sure all 7 of began speaking at the same time. This probably scared the crap out of him. But whatever we did, and whatever we said is NOT important. What IS important is that he let us in the door, despite the fact that they didn't open for another hour.
So there we were, the 7 of us, inside a Mc-Frickin-Donalds, at 4am. So what did we do? We did what any sober, insomnia stricken college student would have done in that situation. We spread our sleeping bags out in the booths and went to sleep.
PEOPLE... I'm not making this up! I seriously fell asleep in the booth of a McDonalds in Wyoming an hour before it opened. But it gets better! Wanna know the first thing I saw when I woke up? Well before I tell you, let me just say this. If any of you decide to make this true story into a movie one day you'd better get this kid to play the role I'm about to speak of...
Folks I woke up to a kid that looked something like that picture above, sitting at a table a few feet from my booth. I vividly remember that he had a piece of what I can only assume was an egg mcmuffin, half in - half out of his mouth, and the blankest stare you've ever seen draped across his face.So THEN what did I do? I looked at my watch (easy there - this was pre-cell phone days) and saw it was only 6:30. So I went back to sleep. HAHAHAHA! I cannot stop laughing just replaying this night in my head. Once again, I'm not making this up!
So to complete this epic adventure in a rather short manner, the rest of the morning unfolded as follows... We all met up back at the car around 8 or so, and drove to a local repair shop. Turns out Brian was low on transmission fluid, which led to the irregular shifts, the shaking, and the smoking. I remember standing around outside the repair shop, kicking rocks around the parking lot, and re-hashing the entire night with my buddies, while they worked on Brian's car.
An hour or so later we piled in the trusty Jeep Wagoneer and drove back to Rexburg, Idaho. This concludes as I said in the beginning, of the funniest nights of my life. Thank you for your time. haha!
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