May 31, 2011
I flipped a U-turn and headed back up the road keeping my eyes peeled for the girl. I couldn't find her. It's like she'd vanished into thin air. I pulled off the asphalt and began carefully navigating my truck through the desert, fully expecting to find her passed out in a bush, or face down in a cactus. I saw nothing, until I pulled back out onto the ashphalt and found her walking up the side of the road again. I pulled up next to her, rolled down my window, and asked the only question I felt was appropriate. "Do you need help???" She stumbled to my open window, rested her arms on the top of my door, and immediately fumigated my truck with her hard liquor breath. The following conversation took place:
Drunk minor: "I am so lost! Where the hell am I?"
Me: (Waving my hand back and forth in front of my face) "You're on 67th Ave like 3 miles North of Happy Valley. Where are you going?"
Drunk Minor: "Well I'm totally drunk and I left this party because my boyfriend got pist at me and I started walking home and all the sudden I had no idea where I was."
Me: "Well where do you live?"
Drunk Minor: "67th and Deer Valley"
Me: "Holy crap, you're like 5 miles North of where you need to be."
Drunk Minor: (Now playing around with her phone) "Could you like take me home or take me back to the party?"
Me: (Rather disgusted at the whole situation) "Ya I'll run you to your house, just do me a favor and don't throw up in my truck!"
She got in and continued playing with her phone as I made my way South on 67th Ave. There was virtually nothing said between us for a few minutes except for me asking her what she was gonna do if she couldn't find her way home that night. She answered by saying, "I don't even know, like maybe find a park to like sleep in or someting." I just shook my head in sarcastic amazement. As I approached Happy Valley Road her phone started ringing. She said it was her boyfriend, but she was so drunk she couldn't figure out how to answer her phone. I came to a stop at the light, grabbed the phone out of her hand, clicked "talk" and said, "hello." Her boyfriend immediately inquired as to who I was, to which I responded rather angrily, "It doesn't matter who I am, but you're lucky I'm a nice guy! I found your freakin girlfriend, completely lost, about to wander off into the desert and now I'm taking her home!" He quickly shot back at me, "Dude I'm sorry we got in a fight and she stormed out. I'm at a friends house now just bring her over here." I asked him where exactly he was at and found out he was only a few blocks from where I was at that moment.
So I agreed to take her to meet up with her boyfriend. I had no idea what to expect as I rounded the corner to the street he told me he lived on. I mean the girl looked like she was 16, and her boyfriend sounded about that age too. Well I pulled up near the house number I was given and about 8 boys, none of which looked old enough to drive, approached my truck. I rolled down my window as the girl gathered her things. I said, "Whose girlfriend is this?" and a raggedly looking kid holding a Coors beer can sort of nodded and said, "I'm her boyfriend man, thank you so much for bringing her here." I was so ticked off at this point I started yelling at every kid there. I told 'em all how lucky they were that some random guy didn't pick her up on the side of the road and rape her. I told 'em there's no way any of them were anywhere near 21 and they're lucky I even brought her over there. I don't know what else I told 'em but it was probably useless because they were all plastered!
The girl thanked me for the ride, and even gave me a hug during which I held my breath in an effort to avoid a noseful of Vodka fumes! As I pulled out of the neighborhood I happened to see a police officer minding his own business doing paperwork on the side of the road. I thought about what had just happened and decided I had to say something. The whole situation bugged the crap out of me. I really felt like I'd done the girl a favor but, what was gonna stop all those kids from doing the same thing again? I pulled up next to the cop and gave him a 30 second run down of what just happened to which he quickly responded, "And they're all around the corner? I'm on it," and immediately flipped his car around.
So the rather funny ending to this story is when I got home a few minutes later I went upstairs and walked into Nicks room to ask him if he saw the girl on his way home too. I didn't even get the chance to ask him before he's says, "Buddy did you see that chick walking on the side of the road?
Thanks for not stopping Nick. I need these experiences in my life so I have something to write about! hahahaha!
May 30, 2011
So after paying a visit to the office and collecting a short stack of things to do, I returned to my house. Upon arrival, however, I was met with an uncomfortable sight. A red car was parked in my driveway. Devin truck was gone, which I expected, seeing as how he was just about to leave when I did. But the red car was not in my driveway just 20 minutes before. I cautiously walked up to my front door wondering if perhaps one of my parent's friends had come over to drop something off, or possibly one of my friends had come over and I just didn't recognize their car?
As I cracked the front door open I thought about yelling something unoriginal like, "Hello, anyone home," but then I felt like that wouldn't be a good idea. I crept like a ninja through the dining room into the family room and kitchen area, getting more paranoid with every step. I quickly noticed that there were a few pillows thrown around in the family room and the back door that I had locked not even a half hour before, was now unlocked. "Sketchy" alarms started going off in my head and I made a beeline for the front door, carefully shutting it behind me, so as not to alert anyone that might be in my house of my presence.
I immediately dialed 911 on my cell phone.
"911 state your emergency."
"Hi, I left my house for about 20 minutes and I just got back and there is a car parked in my driveway I don't recognize, and my bakc door that was locked, is now unlocked."
"Ok, give me your address"
After giving the dispatcher my address and a few mroe details she promised me that a officer would be their witin a few minutes and advised me to stand a few houses down the street. About 5 minutes later an officer arrived and started asking me a little more about what was going on.
"Did you hear anyone in your house? Did you notice anything missing or out of place?"
I told her about the pillows that were thrown around and how the door was unlocked and I for SURE locked it. Upon hearing this she spoke some mumbo jumbo into her radio, told me to back up behind her, and she removed her gun and took a defensive position in the corner of my driveway. Over the next 3 or 4 minutes AT LEAST 7 or 8 more officers arrived, and a few of them had a brief meeting in my driveway. At this point I'm thinking, holy crap, what was I thinking walking into my house? I'm like those idiot in the movies that insist on "investigating" the strange noises in their basement and end up dead.
After their brief meeting, one of the officers walked back towards his car and with the push of a button on his key ring, his back door popped open and a K-9 leaped out! Now I'm thinking, "Dang they're bringing out the dog?" This was getting crazy! A couple officers approached me and asked me about the layout of the house. I explained it had a basement with 5 window wells, and a few other tid bits. They asked me if I had a dog and I explained that I did but it was in a caged in area of the backyard. At that point a rather comedic discussion took place between me and one of the cops:
cop: "Can the dog jump over the fence?"
me: "Ya but she won't. And even if she did she won't hurt you, she's a bird huntin dog."
cop: "Does it bite?"
cop: "What kind of dog is it?"
me: "A german short hair."
cop: "Uhmmm, German Sheoaprd's bite son!"
me: "No, not a German sheopard, a German SHORT HAIR. She finds and retrieves birds, she's harmless."
cop: "Ya I've heard that before."
me: "Well, if you're that nervous I'll go take her out."
cop: (Getting kind of upset thinking I was being sarcastic) "I'm not nervous son I just know dog's are unpredictable."
me: "Look all she cares about is her stupid ball. If she looks excited it's because she probably thinks you're there to play fetch with her. But I promise she won't jump the fence."
cop: (still sort of upset) "Well you better hope she doesn't!"
At this point I'm thinking, geez buddy, you gonna shoot my dog cuz she wants to play fetch? What the crap is wrong with you?
So anyways, the now 8 or 9 officer strong "army" gathered for one more meeting in my driveway before they broke the huddle and started jumping into the backyards of the houses on either side of mine. 2 officers approached the front door with the K-9, and let me tell you something, this dog was ready for war. The officer holding the dog's leash began screaming as loud as he could something like, "THIS IS THE GLENDALE POLICE! IF THERE IS ANYONE INSIDE SPEAK UP NOW! WE HAVE A DOG! HE WILL BITE! IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO GET BIT SPEAK UP NOW OR OPEN THE FRONT DOOR SLOWLY!" Then came one of the funniest things I'd ever heard. They repeated the entire spiel in spanish! I'm like what the gay? You have to give verbal warnings in both languages before entering a house?
They opened the front door and over the next 20 minutes went through every room, closet and cabinet in my house, before exiting. A few minutes later all the officers congregated again in my driveway and they ran the license plate of the red car. They told me it was registered to a "Sandy Allen from Yuma Arizona." To my best knowledge I had never known a single human being from Yuma, AZ much less one specifically named Sandy Allen. Then one of the officers felt the hood of the car and noticed that it was rather cool. A sign that it had not been driven very far before being parked there. They asked me if I wanted it towed and I said "Absolutely."
All the cops left, and I tried calling my buddy Devin to tell him what had happened and he didn't answer. I ate a ridiculous amount of cold cereal during which time a tow truck came and hauled away the red car. I then left for work but on my out of the neighborhood I thought to myself, I wonder if Nick (my cousin whose house was almost directly behind mine) noticed the cops in his backyard. I hung a right and headed down his street. I knocked on his front door and asked him if he'd heard or seen anything. He hadn't the slightest clue as to what I was talking about, so I had to tell him. But before I had the chance to really even start the story his mom and his Aunt walked up and threw a HUGE TWIST into that morning's plot line!
The firs thing out of his Mom's mouth was, "Oh hi Scott! Did you get the message I left on your phone? Aunt Sandy parked her car in your driveway cuz she's staying here for a couple days and we didn't wanna deal with the HOA getting upset about her parking in front of the house, and since I knew your parents were gone I told her she could just park it over there." My face went completely blank and my first thought was, "What the crap... Aunt Sandy lives in yuma????" I started fumbling over my words. "Well, uh.... uhmmm... I didn't uhmmm.... you see...." -- when all the sudden she interupts me screaming, "YOU DIDN'T HAVE IT TOWED DID YOU?"
I simply shook my head yes. They both started freaking out! I attempted to explain my actions by telling them the story from the beginning. At one point during my explanation I remember Nick's Dad sarcastically laughing and saying, "I told you to make sure he knew you were doing it or he was gonna have it towed!" To which Nick's mom responded, "Well I left him a message."
WHOOPS! MY BAD! HAHAHAHA!
Well, they ended up having to drive to the tow yard and pay something like 85 bucks to get her car back, and I felt pretty bad. I offered to help pay for some of it but they wouldn't let me. A couple hours later as I was working It dawned on me... "Well why was the back door unlocked and the pillows thrown around." I decided to call Devin again and he decided to answer this time. I told him the whole story after which he told me that he threw the pillows around the family room just after I left looking for his shoes. Which shoes, he ended up finding on the back porch, and he had failed to lock the back door after coming inside.
Wow! So the moral of this story??? There's 2 actually! The first is ALWAYS check your voicemail and the seconds is ALWAYS know your Aunt's names and where they live! Even if they're a distant Aunt and you haven't seen them in like a decade! haha! Sorry Aunt Sandy!
May 29, 2011
I'm referring to the ability to understand women! Can you imagine the time, effort, money, and heartache you would save men all around the world? If someone offered me this gift many years ago I would have sold everything I owned to possess it!
But then again, I wouldn't have near the hilarious dating stories that I do now. Also, all you single women rolling your eyes right now saying, "Ya well I wish I could understand men," I'm with you! Let's face it... the inability to read the minds of the opposite gender is just one, in a long line of difficulties that factor into the game labeled "dating." And make no mistake... it IS a game!
As I mentioned before though, there is a bright side to NOT possessing this priceless gift. For me, it's been the opportunity to meet, get to know, and then be completely flabbergasted by the behavior of women! I've previously shared with you a portion of my rugged introduction to the world of relationships here...
But it wasn't just girlfriends that exhibited shady behavior, as I wrote about here...
Sooooo, why not tickle your taste buds with another comedic moment from my dating history.
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!"
May 28, 2011
Well, at some point that night I became UNinterested in watching TV, and VERY interested in finding out just how sharp that pocket knife really was. So I tested it! Not on a piece of wood, not on a strand of rope, and thankfully not on my finger. Oh no, I tested it on something far less "logical" than any of those. I tested it's ability to cut, on my parents perfectly good family room couch!
The first cut occured when I was testing the sharpness of the tip at the end of the blade. I pressed it against the couch cushion sort of wiggling it back and forth until... WHOOPS! There it went. Right through the cushion. I quickly removed it and began looking around the room to see if anyone had perhaps witnessed my misdeed. Thankfully my little brother and sister were still minding their own business at the kitchen table.
Now you'd think at this point that I'd simply put the pocket knife away and hope that nobody noticed the small incision I'd created. But that didn't happen. I actually noticed that the cut was nearly impossible to see unless you knew it was there, and since I'm the only on that knew about it, I thought to myself, "Wow, that was kind of entertaining, I think I'll just keep cutting the couch up until it looks noticeable."
Folks, I honestly can't explain why I didn't stop after the first one, but I didn't. Instead I proceeed to poke at least 2 more holes in the couch before I was startled, mid-cut, by a voice inquiring, "Scott what the heck are you doing???" To which I replied casually, "Dude, you can't even see it!" My little brother and sister come wandering over to the couch... "Uhmmmmm Scott? You can totally see it! We were watcing you do it! What the heck!? Why in the world are you stabbing the couch?"
My response??? The same thing over and over.... "Dude you can't even see it!"
HAHAHAHA! Sorry mom and dad! I blame my adolecent A.D.D.!!
May 26, 2011
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'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 24, 2011
(Pretty much) ANYONE who knows me, knows that...
- I talk... A LOT!!
- I enjoy the outdoors
- I am a huge Phoenix Suns fan.
SOME of you that know me, know that...
- My left arm twitches when I walk
- When I was younger I stole over $50 worth of half dollars and silver dollars from my parents closet and spent them entirely on the ice cream man.
- I can eat cold cereal for every meal
Now for something I thought might be fun. Bare with me as I share 3 things that more than likely, NOBODY knows about me...
1) I WANT TO HAVE A HANDICAPPED CHILD. Perhaps I was born with a soft soft heart, but it melts when I get around mentally and physically handicapped children. I'm aware that most women probably cringed and or let out a "pfff" when they read that but hey... just telling ya how I feel. And if I can add a "1a" to this, it would be that If I had the monetary freedom to adopt a couple handicapped kids, I would do it in a heart beat!
2) I AM OBSESSED WITH 2ND PLACE! I have never won the highest possible championship in anything. Allow me to explain. In high school I placed 2nd in regionals in the long jump my junior AND my senior year. At college I played in league championship games with 3 basketball teams, 2 volleyball teams, 2 soccer teams, 1 dodgeball team, 1 flag football team, and 2 ultimate frisbee teams, and LOST EVERYTIME! Wanna go back farther? I placed second to my little brother Russ not once, but TWICE at the church olympics in the softball chucking contest! I am the ultimate choke artists!
3) I AM DEATHLY AFRAID OF WATER AT NIGHT TIME. It doesn't matter if it's the ocean, Lake Powell, or the pool in my backyard, IT SCARES THE CRAP OUT OF ME! When I'd go to Lake Powell and take dips at night I would never venture more than a few feet from the boat. I would also be shaking nervously the entire time I was in the water. If I put my head under water, which was RARE, I would hold onto the ledge when I did it. In my backyard I occasionally take dips in our pool at night. I make sure and turn the pool light on, I rarely go underwater, and I spend most of the time shaking out of pure fear. It's a phobia that I can't explain.
So there ya go, now you know me a little better!
May 23, 2011
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 22, 2011
A few days ago I posted a story about my Russ and I destroying the Dawson Family's yard. Russ and I did a lot of dumb things growing up. That post had a snippet in it about my dad catching us dressed in all black with tp shoved down our pants trying to sneak out of the house. I was wearing a ski mask. Russ had on black snow boots. We looked RIDICULOUS! I also said it was a true story. It is.
In our effort to sneak out Russ made it all the way up the stairs and around the corner of the coat closet. I was stuck like a deer in the headlights on the last stair when my dad opened his bedroom door just a few feet away.
"What do you think you're doin?"
I'm pretty sure at this point the tp in my pants was soaked in pee. hahaha. I of course stumbled over my speech, "uuuuhhhh...uuuhhhhh..." while also thinking, "Dude Russ better show his face, freekin panzee." We of course both ended up receiving a verbal reprimand from my dad, the whole time pulling roll after roll of toilet paper from our baggy black warm-up pants.
Russell's best friend growing up was our cousin Nick. The two of them used to go out of their way to tick me off! They knew how to push my buttons like no one else could. They knew how to make me go from completely relaxed to "beast mode" in a matter of seconds. On one particular afternoon I was attempting to take a nap and had the door to my room locked. Obviously the two of them took offense to this and felt the need to let me know about it, while simulatneously geting their "fix" of Scott in beast mode. Their great plan (and make no mistake, it was a GREAT plan) involved a toy gun that made about 5 or 6 different ear piercing noises. They found the most obnoxious noise, pulled the trigger, taped the trigger in the "fire" position, and placed the gun outside my door. I awaoke to the most obnoxious sound in the world and it wasn't stopping. I could hear the 2 of them laughing at the end of the hallway saying, "Ooooooh buddyyyyyyy, what are you gonna do fag! HAHAHAHA"
My blood was practically boiling as I jumped out of bed, threw open my bedroom door and chased the 2 of them upstairs and out of the house before I realized that not only was I not going to cath them, but I was giving them exactly what they wanted. Great times.
Finally, for the sake of you hardcore right brainers that refuse to read a post with no pictures, I'm gonna attempt to sketch a couple memories of Russ and me from back in the day.
Until I was about 16 Russ and I shared a bedroom. We had a vintage set of bunk beds, a couple of toy chests with ninja turtles painted on the top, and a dresser that could have turned some heads at the Antique Road Show. Truth is, it was our own little paradise. One of my favorite memories was sliding face first off the top bunk, slamming into the ground, and then climbing up the end of the bed as fast as we could and repeating the process until either our heads collided with each other instead of the floor, or we were simply too tired to climb. More often than not our little game wouldn't start until after we were told to go to bed so the sound of us slamming into the ground head first, or the light remaining on when it was supposed to be off, would often wake up my parents. When we heard my parent's bedroom door open we would quickly kill the light and jump into bed like we'd been sound asleep. 90% of the time it was our mom who came to dish out the discipline, given away by the sound of her slippers on the carpet. But every now and then the hallway floor would creek, which could only mean one thing. Dad was coming. Rather than assuming a normal sleeping position, when dad was coming, we'd each bury ourselves completely under the covers, face the wall, and attempt to lay completely still and hold our breath. I remember one time we both managed to crawl under the bottom bunk because it felt safer there. HAHA! So many great memories!
One of my other favorite memories of Russ was nearly ritualistic. We used to take vacuum cleaner extension poles, put on karate outfits, and pretend we were ninja turtles. Rather than fighting the bad guys though, we'd fight each other. These little battles of ours never lasted as long as we wanted them too because without fail one of us would hit the other one in the head causing a "one-up" game of retalion. Almost immediately the person hit in the head would trade in his vacuum cleaner poles for a pool cue and start screaming in an effort to intimidate the other. This caused the one still holding vacuum cleaner extension poles to reach for something like a pool ball. This is frequently where one of us would retreat upstairs as fast as we could but I can recall at least one time that a metal baseball bat made it into the mix.
These are the memories that I look back at and can't help but laugh out loud.
Well, until tomorrow folks....
May 21, 2011
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...
Moving on to the people, places, and things I DO miss, allow me to start this off right with the sisters... HAHAHAHA...
The hammonds... R.I.P. "Papa Hammond" - Hopefully you found someone to play you a little Johnny Cash up in Heaven!
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...
Seeing cops that can't make a successful U-turn...
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 20, 2011
ANYWAYS... Waycross is located only a few miles from the Okefenokee Swamp and I don't know if I should blame the insanely strange behavior of the man I'm about to tell you about on inhaling too much swamp gas, or take the old fashion route and just say he was probably on crack. But either way it was hilarious!
About my 3rd or 4th sunday in the mission field my companion and I were minding our own business in priesthood meeting when the Relief Society president frantically called us out into the hallway. She had this look on her face like she'd just seen a ghost. We started asking if everything was ok, now equally as frantic. She eventually calmed down enough to stumble over a sentence that went something like this: “There a strange man in the foyer with a machete.”
WHAT??? All I could think was "why is she telling US this... call the cops!" Never the less we decided we better investigate. Folks, it was FAR WORSE than anything I conjured up in my mind during our walk down the hallway. Allow me to paint a picture of the man we found standing in the foyer. He was 6’5”, 260-280 lbs, with a beard that gave Moses a run for his money. His beard was accompanied by long nappy hair that looked like somebody put popcorn butter in his shampoo bottle. He had on white pants, a white long sleeved collared shirt, some white tennis shoes that looked like a couple of chew toys, and sure enough, as advertised, he had a machete in a thin leather case that hung from his belt. He was also sporting a couple of strange looking wrist bands and an even stranger looking head band, both of which had strange characters written on them.
Just as I began wondering if I was about to be held up at "knife-point," and be forced to surrender my scriptures as well as the pathetic contents of my wallet, the man spoke up. He asked if he could attend church with us.
WHAT??? I was expecting something more like, "Nobody move, and nobody gets hurt!" We quickly informed the man that he was more than willing to attend our services, and that he actually arrived just in time for the other ward's sacrament meeting. Sooooo, as me, my companion, and the wanna-be Moses with a machete strolled into 2nd ward's sacrament meeting the first person I see staring back at me from the stage is my Mission President. Seated next to him was his wife. Are you serious??? They were 3 hours from their home. They just happen to be in THAT ward, on THAT Sunday. What are the chances??? To make matters worse, the only open seats were in the front row. So as the congregation sang the opening hymn the three of us walked slowly towards the front, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
Everything was gravy for about 5 minutes, until they began the prayer on the sacrament. A few seconds into the prayer the man started to say out loud (and I mean out LOUD) “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. . .” I opened my eyes, looked at my companion like, "buddy what's he doing?" and he stared back at me like, “I don't know but he's practically screaming!”
Upon the completion of the blessing on the bread, the guy pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, carefully removed the cap, and poured a small amount of its contents into the lid. He then dumped what was in the lid on the top of his head, and it was not until this point that I realized the bottle did not actually contain hydrogen peroxide. It was full of olive oil. He poured another capful and offered to annoint my head with it, to which I politely declined, glancing up at my Mission President who was on the verge of serious laughter.
Following the passing of the sacrament my Mission President's wife got up to speak. The man immediately opened his scriptures to 1st Corinthians and read out loud to me the verses about women keeping silence in Churches. I tried to explain the true meaning of the scripture but it was a little difficult to do in the middle of sacrament meeting. The guy continued to turn the pages of his New Age translation of the bible reading all these random scriptures to me that explained his outfit. He recited a scripture in one of the Gospels about selling all your belongings and putting on the sword of God. He told me the scriptures were to be taken literally, and that he'd recently sold almost everything he owned to a pawn shop and purchased a machete. Makes sense right? Riiiiiight! haha. What a FREAK!!
The guy eventually got up and walked himself out of the chapel, and out of the church. A few hours later my companion and I were eating dinner at a member's home with my Mission President and his wife. Everyone was cracking up about the whole incident. However, everyone seemed to be LESS surprised that it happened in the first place, than I was. Over the next 103 weeks of my mission I learned why. I learned that although it's not every day someone walks into church with a machete, there are a PLETHORA of religious whack jobs roaming south Georgia, and you "almost" get used to things like this.
P.S. Thankfully I recorded this story in my journal, and the entry contained the man's name. Job Driggers. So naturally I googled his name, revealing his myspace and facebook pages, and I gotta say that from what I was able to view and/or read he still appears to be just as insane as before. Although his profile picture (below) does reveal he has lost most of his beard and at some point in the last 7 years, ditched the head band.
Stay tuned tomorrow (Or technically today - It's 2am) for another gem of a story from my days in south Georgia!
May 19, 2011
HOWEVER, I didn't chuck all the pics from that night, so you'll get a taste of the fun at the end.
So.... short story long, (because I've come to grips with the fact that that's just how I roll) one night my little brother and I were up late doing who knows what. I don't have a clue. But if I had to guess... at that age.... probably watching sportscenter on low volume in the basement, (so as not to awake the "all hearing" tattle tale that was my sister - jk Kerri, love ya) and we were probably all hopped up on insane amounts of candy and soda. But whatever we were doing, or whatever we were drinking, neither of which is important, we decided at some point that we wanted to go toilet papering.
Any discussion that started this way would quickly lead to an amazingly important game of 20 questions:
Dude, who's house should we get?
Buddy, How many rolls are in the bathroom upstairs?
Dude, How many rolls are in the bathroom downstairs?
Bro, How many do you think we could take without "the dawnster" (my mom) noticing?
Dude, should we gonna sneak out through the window well or try and go out the front door?
Bro, last time we tried sneaking out the front door dad caught us hiding behind the wall dressed in all black with tp shoved down our pants. I had a ski mask on and you were wearing snow boots. -- Wait sorry, that wasn't a question. True story though. Never felt so retarded! Continuing with the questions...
Dude, what if we sneak out the window well and spike (our half-deaf dog) starts making noises.
Buddy, you go check if "the dawnster" is snoring and I'll get the tp. -- Wait, sorry again... Gotta stick to questions not statements.
Bro, didn't we buy a bunch of toilet paper recently and stash it in the Dawson fmaily's garage?
BAM! We did! It was ours! We paid for it, and we wanted it! We needed it! Let the fun begin.
The 2 of us snuck out through the window well in our room, headed directly across Utopia rd. (real name, not a figure of speech) and headed straight to the Dawson home. This was a familiar trek for me, seeing as how I'd been madly in love with their daughter Nicole for half a decade, and found any excuse to make my way to their house. Upon arrival we made our way through the gate on the side of their home and attempted to open the door.
Dude, the door's locked.
What the gay??? Who locks the door from their backyard to their garage? It's like they care about safety or something. Little did the residents of my "home away from home" know the sort of backlash a locked door would produce. Over the next 3 hours Russ and I wrecked havoc on their backyard. One side of their home was chuck full of random junk. Ranging from Christmas decorations, to large plastic playhouses.
Our A.D.D. was in full effect as we climbed back and forth over the pool fence creating a random scene of chaos. We strung the hose across the pool, hoisted a giant plastic playhouse over the fence, crawled on top of their trash can in order to get on the roof, and who knows what else. The craziest thing is we never woke them up. Somehow, someway, even crawling around on their roof, they remained passed out. The final touch on the night??? I went home and wrote a story about everything we'd just done.
I walked back to their home just as the sun was coming up. I placed the story on their front door, and took some pics. Still can't beleive I'd ever throw any of them away but I sure am glad I saved these ones...
Love you Dawsons!!!!
May 18, 2011
May 17, 2011
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 16, 2011
"So, how was it?"
"Dude, I don't even... I mean the girl like... I don't even know.... she's like... ok so first off..." -- You get the point.
I've been on a few dates that were so appalling I didn't know if I should cry or scream. All of them were blind dates. Allow me to tickle your ears with my personal favorite.
About a decade ago my family packed up and took a road trip to the metropolis of Sahuartia, Arizona. According to Wikipedia the town was founded in 1911, incorporated (whatever the crap that means) in 1994, and courtesy of the 2010 census, is presently populated by a shade over 25,000 people.
The purpose of our visit was my cousin's wedding reception. I don't recall who's idea it was - my mother or father's - to have me wear a tux but I should've never agreed to it. I wasn't involved in any part of the "wedding party," nor was I directly related to the bride or groom. Therefore, I saw no reason for the tux.
But irregardless I wore a tux, and while sitting at a reception table I was approached by my cousin Bobby. He was a senior at the infamous Sahuartia High School, and wouldn't you know it, his Brother's recpetion fell on the same night as prom. Bobby spent the next 5 minutes explaing to me that his girlfriend had a friend that needed a date, it wouldn't cost me a thing, and because I was already in a tux, I was the most conveniant option.
At face value it seemed harmless... AND cheap! A blind date to prom, in a town I knew nothing about, with a girl I knew even less about. What could possibly go wrong??? Let's break it down.
My cousin rented a mustang for the night, (BAAAALLIN) which left my 6 foot 3 inch frame crying for leg space in the back. HOLD-UP! Minor detail missed earlier. The tux I'm wearing is my dad's tux from his mission to London, England nearly 3 decades earlier. It was made for the winter months. It was thick wool. This was May, in Southern Arizona. I'm "sardining" it in the back of a mustang. Very little air flow! I'm instantly miserable!
Sooooo, back to the story. We made our way to my dates house and ladies and gentleman, let the fun begin. I spotted her coming down the driveway in a bright red dress, but she was far from the "lady in red." She dawned an enormous texas style up-do, 3 and a half pounds of eye makeup, and a pair of "D's" that were as stable in her dress as a crackhead entering rehab. I managed to pin her corsage on her without hitting any silicone and we made our way to the car.
By my own admition, at this point in my life I was still a stereotypically naive Mormon boy. Previous to this particular encounter I could count on one hand the amount of drunk girls I'd said more than "hi" to in my lifetime, much less been on a date with. As she crawled awkwardly into the back seat with me I immediately wanted out. This says a lot considering I'm the type of person that can get along with about anyone.
I don't remember much of what was said in the car but I DO remember scheming up ways to get out of the current situation. I could fake being sick and ask Bobby to take me back to where my family was staying. I could tell him I don't feel good, distract the three of them, stick my finger down my throat, blow chunks all over the rental car, and BAM, problem solved. I couldn't come up with anything practical so I sucked it up and decided to make the most of it. Little did I know what the would entail.
As we neared the hotel, whose ballroom was playing host to the prom, my dates speech began to sound even more incoherent. I remember having my head in my hands thinking, "Awesome, not only is she slurring her words, she's now talking with her mouth full." Little did I know what it was full of. I sat up, turned my eyes casually in her direction, and lo and behold, it was rose pedals. Nay do I crap you... THE WOMAN WAS EATING HER CORSAGE!!!! Without skipping a beat, she plucked a petal from what was left, and offered it to me. I thought of a 100 sarcastic things to say, and all I could come up with was, "What the hell?!?!" To which she responded, "Don't knock it til you try it." Classy Women eh? It gets better!
Fast forward about 20 minutes. Visualize this. There's about 20 total couples at this prom. 19 and a half of them are on the dance floor. I've gladly placed my suffocating wool coat on the back of a chair and am making my way around the 7 or 8 party tables looking for goodies to steal. I ganked every stash of dinner mints I could get my hands on. You know, the soft pastel colored ones that dissolve in your mouth? TASTY!
A short time later my mints and I returned to my seat. As I sat there making myself sick, Sisqo's "Thong Song" began blaring from the speakers. I'd never been to a strip club, but in my mind, the dance room became one. Only my date seemed to be drawing the most attention. Perhaps this was due to the fact that she had crawled up the stage and was dry humping the ground. Not a guy, not another girl, not a pole. THE GROUND! I wish I could say she was simply attempting to do "the worm", but even the most pathetic attempts at the worm I'd ever seen (and I'd seen a lot at saturday night dances) looked half as sexual as what she was doing to that poor stage. It looked painful.
By this point I'd officially lost my appetite and was ready to take a walk outside for some fresh air. But before I could get up this kid approached me at the table and said, "Are you hear with so and so." I didn't recognize the name so the only thing I could say in response was "No, my dates the one on the stage." The kid glanced up at the stage and laughed.
The best part??? 10 minutes later my date walked up to me in the lobby of the hotel, struggled to put a sentence toether, and then disappeared into an elevator with some other guy. Bobby politely took me to his parents house, before going somewhere else with his date, and I crashed for the night. I remember going to sleep thinking, I'd love to be able to wake up and never remember this. Looking back, I'm so glad I remember this!
May 15, 2011
I drove home and took a few pics before removing it, and was surprised to find it was a small hawk. Sorry buddy. You chose the wrong time to fly that night!
May 14, 2011
May 13, 2011
First, what makes me smile...
1) Cherry Dilly Bars
2) Graham crackers in milk
4) My nieces and nephews
5) Sleeping in
6) Seeing the Lakers, Spurs, Yankees, or Lebron lose
7) Watching C.O.P.S.
11) This family of superheroes
12) A bowl of Reeses Puffs
13) Mountain Dew
14) An Arizona sunset
15) Lake Powell with friends
17) Playing scattergories
18) Taking a nap in the mountains
20) Last, but quite the opposite of least, my family!!!!
Now for the story of the disappearing 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!