Hey Folks

Remember when I used to write on this thing? 

Shut up, computer.

My other blogging friends can attest to this: it’s always bizarre blogging again after you’ve been away for awhile. And by “away” I mean “forgetting.” On one hand, I don’t want to apologize because it’s my damn blog and I can write whenever I want. But on the other hand, I’m not the total douche-mobile as the previous sentence suggests. 

“I’ve been SUPER busy,” I feel I should say. But really I’ve just been doing grown-up things that are just strange to me. So I guess what I really mean is, “I’ve been SUPER unfunny.” 

My time has been filled up with things like working lots of hours and paying bills and moving away from thieves (also known as roommates) and spraying mice with Fabreze and being locked out of houses with golden retrievers and going grocery shopping and pretty much having a quarter-life crisis each week which resulted in the acquirement of a record player, a hammock stand, two legal pads, and the way things are going, probably a banjo, a unicycle, and a ferret or something. 

Okay, maybe some of those things aren’t necessarily unfunny. 

But the deal is, blogging has once again gone to the wayside. 

So while I’m avoiding apologies and explanations, I will say this: consider this my knock at the door, saying “Can I come crash on your couch again? I have some funny stories and lots of popcorn.” 

Doings of Our Generation: The Tired-Off

I’ve covered some important phrases of our generation on this blog: The Origin of Epic Fail, and a quite thorough investigation into The Like-Legit-Like Sandwich. Both posts are scientifically accurate. They're like, legit, like... 

In that spirit, I would like to explore my generation’s doings. 

For the first installment of Doings of Our Generation, I’d like to explore one of the most common: 

The Tired-Off

Here’s some information we should all know before we go any further: We humans get tired sometimes. This is why sleep exists. However, sometimes our busy schedules cause us to stay up late or wake up early. Occasionally both happen in the same 24 hours. This usually results in a feeling of fatigue. 

Can we all agree on that? Good.

We then go to work or school or church or wherever and at some point in the conversation, we yawn and let slip these fateful words. “I’m tired. I only got like five hours of sleep last night.” 

But as we’re saying these things, we can see in the eyes of the people around us that we have just awoken something beastly. Something unstoppable once it’s been started. A pandora's box of no-nos. We try to stop ourselves before we say how many hours of sleep we’ve gotten, but we can’t. The toothpaste is out of the tube. We utter the dreaded phrase “like five hours of sleep last night,” and we can see the people around us instinctually readying their mouths to say that which comes so strangely natural to all people...

“That’s nothing. I got only three hours of sleep last night.” 

The Tired-Off has begun. 

It works the same as any other Something-Off: a Sing-Off, a Pie-Off, a Dance-Off...they’re all escalating competitions where each competitor has to bring something bigger and better than the one before. And thus begins an onslaught of miserable statement after miserabler statement, all revolving around sleep deprivation...

“Whatever. I didn’t even sleep last night. Too busy.”

“I got like five hours of sleep...THIS WEEK.” 

Other people join in the conversation. People we don’t even know. 

“I’ve been averaging about four hours of sleep a month.” 

“Last winter I took one nap and that was it.” 

“From November to March I didn’t even blink.” 

“Last time I slept, I was eleven years old. And I only got five hours.” 

We wish we had never said anything. Not because we feel like a wimp for complaining about our five whole glorious hours of sleep, but because we’re sure that this will never end.

“I slept once when I was a toddler.” 

“I was born without eyelids, and my doctor wanted to fix it but my parents decided not to because they knew how much work I’d have to do later in life.” 

“My last name is Nuncaduermo, which means ‘I Never Sleep’ in Spanish. My great great great great great grandfather was known for being too busy to sleep, so he acquired that last name. No one in my entire family has slept a wink since.” 

“That’s interesting. My last name is Schlafenie, which means the same in German. Same story. Six generations, no sleep. How many hours did you get last night, again, Brian?”

There's only one loser in the Tired-Off, and what's surprising is that he's the one who got the most sleep. 

I’m not even a star athlete in my DREAMS.

I dreamt a few nights ago that I, 23 year-old Brian, was on a middle school football team. And it was played on a basketball court. With basketball jerseys.  Perhaps it was basketball. There were definitely football elements to the game, though. 

Anyway. I was the worst out of all of them. I knew this (1) because of knowledge of my real-life history with sports, (2) because of my lack of interest in all sports, and (3) because when my team referred to the skill level of our opponents, they said, “Don’t worry, it’s like we’re playing a team of Brians.” 

Nonetheless, I was on the team. And given that our opponents had the same skill level and drive as yours truly, my team didn’t take the game very seriously. They did fun between-the-legs dribble moves, and little behind-the-back passes all night long. Well, until the end of the game, when they realized that our opponents had somehow slipped an extra point in there and taken the lead. 

So we huddled. The team captain started the conversation:

CAPTAIN: What the heck, dudes? How did they get in the lead?

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah! What the heck?

ANOTHER GUY: The heck is going on here!

ANOTHER GUY: The heck!

ME: This is how I always dreamt it was inside an Athletic Elite huddle.

CAPTAIN: Kid! Not now. 

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah kid!

ANOTHER GUY: Kid, knock it off.

ANOTHER GUY: Kid!

ME: This is fantastic. 

CAPTAIN: Shut up. Okay, we need a plan to get another point in a few seconds. The problem is, they’re all going to be trying really hard to block all of our good players. This is why I think we should give the ball to Brian. Like a diversion!

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah, a diversion!

ANOTHER GUY: Diversions are sweet.

ANOTHER GUY: Diversion!

ME: Bullocks. 

I was really unhappy that this was the decision, mostly because that meant I had to pay attention. Up until now I had just been pretending to play and reading Christmas cards. 

CAPTAIN: Brian, this is our only chance to win this thing. You have to give 110%.

ANOTHER GUY: “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us” -Hebrews 12.1! 

ANOTHER GUY: PAIN IS JUST WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY! 

ANOTHER GUY: Out run, out hit, out play, out hustle, out WIN!

ME: Seriously, the stuff that inspires you guys does nothing for me.

So we got back on the field (OH SH** I MEAN COURT) and lined up the play. And that was the first time I saw who was guarding me. 

[I must have really been into those Christmas cards.]

Sliding past my dainty opponent, I took the basketball and made the shot. While hooting and hollering, I took a victory lap around the court, but then stopped because none of my teammates were joining me. 

ME: Guys, come on! WE WON! 

CAPTAIN: Big whoop, Brian. You made one shot.

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah.

ANOTHER GUY: Kid.

I think I’ll lump this dream in with the rest of the bullying I went received when I was actually in sports.

The day I learned how to ride a dirt bike.

Let me preface this by saying that I have a giddy, longing interest in small, self-propelled machines, whether they be motor scooters, four-wheelers, snowmobiles, broomsticks or experimental flying machines. 

The only real experience I’ve had on any of these, however, is a snowmobile. And you may remember that I threw out my back after rolling it into a ditch and trying to flip it back over last Christmas. 

[Foreshadowing.]

Also, every time I go to my girlfriend Christie’s house, I embarrass myself in some way. (Perhaps this little post about me and a faulty pocket door will refresh your memory.) These instances are always avoidable with the help of something that I like to call “thinking ahead” which is not necessarily something that I’m good at. 

[Also foreshadowing.]

It was a beautiful late-August day.  Everything was going smoothly at Christie’s Bon Voyage party, and Christie and I were mingling with her friends and extended family amongst folding tables in their open garage. I was drinking a Pepsi and happily munching on some pasta salad. Her brother was taking the kids on dirt bike rides around their yard. The first time he took off with a kid, the bike jerked forward and a few people around me gasped, but he righted it and drove off. My heart continued to beat heavily. 

[Foreshadowing. Seriously, I should 

have figured this sh** out.]

CHRISTIE: You should try that when he’s done! 

ME: What? No. Not while everyone’s watching.

CHRISTIE: No, it’ll be fine! My brother can teach you! Come on, Brian; it’s a small, self-propelled machine...your favorite...

ME: Don’t try to tempt me. I’m not going to learn to ride it. Besides, your dad’s watching; he already thinks I’m a wimp.

CHRISTIE: No he doesn’t! Well, not anymore at least, ever since you finally gave him a firm handshake...

ME: MY NORMAL HANDSHAKE IS PLENTY FIRM. He just wanted to have a Hand Squeeze-Off, which I wasn’t prepared for! 

CHRISTIE: And, see? Now everything’s okay! 

ME: Still. 

CHRISTIE: Just get on the bike. It’ll be fine, okay? Nothing can go wrong. 

ME: My eye’s twitching involuntarily.  

CHRISTIE: Oh, come on. Let’s go. 

So Christie and I walked over to her brother, who gave me hasty instructions. I have to admit, I began to get pretty excited. 

HER BROTHER: So just squeeze this blah blah blah when you blah blah blah and let out the blah blah blah but not too much blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. Sound good? 

ME: Sounds great! No helmet or pads, of course.

HER BROTHER: You’re not a wuss.

ME: Damn straight! And I certainly don’t need to know what to do if something goes wrong, especially since I’ve never driven any sort of manual transmission.

HER BROTHER: Of course not. 

ME: Sweet! Here I go, Christie’s onlooking family and friends! I’m about to drive a dirt bike for the first time without a helmet on an inclined blacktop driveway! 

EVERYONE: GODSPEED, BRIAN! 

[Every middle school English teacher on the planet just got a strange tingling sensation in their nose. This story has more foreshadowing than To Kill A Mockingbird.]

So I started up the dirt bike death machine, and gave it a go. I squeezed the blah blah blah and let out some blah blah blah and...oh crap...I didn’t listen to anything Christies brother was saying...and the bike immediately jerked forward a few times, and took off like an unknotted balloon. This is what I believe was my trajectory: 

And all I could think about while I flew through the air to my imminent death was:

After my short liftoff, I landed on my side, and slid down the driveway. It seemed as though everything was fine until I realized that the driveway wasn’t, in fact, made out of piles of marshmallows and sweaters but asphalt, to which I had generously donated a few layers of skin on my elbow, thumb, palm, knee, shoulder, and hip. 

And then this conversation happened:

EVERYONE: *GASP!* 

ME: Oh sweet Jesus.

CHRISTIE’S MOM: Oh no! Are you alright?

ME: Yeah, I’m fine.

CHRISTIE: Oh gosh, let’s get you inside.

ME: Ow. I really should have seen that coming. I feel like there were a lot of red flags.

CHRISTIE’S FRIEND: Wow, how embarrassed you must be!

HER DAD: Let out the clutch too fast. 

CHRISTIE: Ooh, those cuts look bad.

HER BROTHER: I CAN SEE BONE! 

ME: No you can’t. I’m going to get some bandages.

HER BROTHER: That’s bone I see! That’s what your elbow bone looks like! 

ME: Nope. It’s not my bone.

HER FRIEND: It’s going to suck to show up at your second interview at church covered in all those bandages...

ME: What? Oh that’s right. Thanks for reminding me.

HER BROTHER: Can I touch your elbow bone?

ME: If you can excuse me, everyone, I’m going to go disappear for a bit. 

And so I went inside and used all the bandages I could find to cover my mutilated body.  When I was bandaged up, my body started to actually understand the fact that I had just been thrown onto a driveway like a bony ragdoll and I began to shake. I grabbed some water and sat down inside for a bit. Then Christie, her siblings, and her dad came in. 

HER BROTHER: Looks like you should have let the clutch out slower.

ME: Yup.

CHRISTIE: No, it’s not the clutch. He should have blah blah blah, then blah blah blah blah. 

ME: Guess so. 

HER DAD: Actually, what I think happened was, he took the blah blah blah and didn’t blah blah blah first, and...

ME: It’s really nice to know that there are so many things I did wrong. Let’s keep talking about it.

HER DAD: Well, you know what they say: Time to get back on!

ME: I don’t think so. 

HER BROTHER: Yeah! Like riding a bike!

CHRISTIE: Ooh, bad analogy. Brian fell off his bike too. TWICE.

ME: I’m so glad you brought that up. 

HER DAD: Let’s go! Back outside to try again.

ME: Thanks, but I’d rather die. Maybe I’ll get back on the bike after some therapy.

CHRISTIE: You can do it, Brian! You just have to take out the blah blah blah and blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. 

ME: Okay. I’ll get back on if I can ride the bike inside a bouncy castle. 

CHRISTIE: Huh?

ME: What part of ‘bouncy castle’ don’t you understand?

CHRISTIE: How about trying it on the grass? 

ME: Bouncy castle.

CHRISTIE: We don’t have a bouncy castle. 

ME: No bouncy castle, no ride. 

CHRISTIE: Fine. 

And that’s the day I learned how to ride a dirt bike. And by “ride” I mean “immediately and violently crash.” 

I still have a scar on my elbow from last August. If only Mederma could reduce the appearance of emotional scarring as well. 

If I was exactly what those ad scammers were looking for...

While I was watching Doctor Who on a semi-illegal video website because I can’t afford Netflix, this ad popped up on the sidebar...

Which obviously made me say, “OH MY GOSH! This sexy woman with a ferociously enormous butt wants to be my friend on Facebook so badly that she put her friend request in a personal ad so it can find me wherever I am! 

And her name is Tionne. How exotic! I'm not even 100% sure how to pronounce that!

We already have two friends in common; I must have showed up on her newsfeed twice and she was all, ‘Wow! That guy’s really hot! I see in him what everyone else misses! I need to be his friend! I will do whatever it takes!‘ 

She even left a personal message: 'Want to meet me?' ...So personal and inciting!  

I should probably click this sidebar Facebook notification and head over to Facebook STAT – I have three notifications that I should check anyway. 

*clickclickclickclick* 

HEY! This isn’t Facebook! ‘Find hot locals in your area’? Hmmm...Well, obviously Tionne is local because we have mutual friends, and she’s hot, so maybe this is some sort of Facebook shortcut to find her faster. Here’s my name, email, and street address. 

$26 a month? I will do whatever it takes to find her. IT’S US AGAINST THE WORLD, TIONNE. 

Maybe I’ll take out my own ad."