Cut It Out, Sun

Dear White Shirt That I Wore Outside Without An Undershirt On This Crazy Hot Day: You were a mistake. No offense, but it is over 100 degrees out, and I am sweating right through you. It’s only a matter of time before my nipples will be easily seen as you become translucent from my husky man flop sweat.

I wore you because you are made of a light material and the lightest of colors. I didn’t wear my usual white shirt necessitated undershirt because I figured the less layers the more better. These seemed like good ideas as I forced myself to leave my air conditioned room for the first time today in order to see humans and not be a hermit.

But it is stupid hot.

That reminds me…

Dear Increasingly Too-Tight Blue Jeans I Also Wore Outside On The Hottest Day Ever: Rare is the occasion that I regret my ardent anti-shorts stance. This is such an occasion. This is one of those rarest of times. It is like an oven in my nether regions. It is most unpleasant, and perhaps showing more leg and getting some air up in there would help. Maybe I should’ve worn shorts. (I refuse to even consider my anti-sandals rule, but it’s coming close that.)

Dear Sweat Glands: What the hell? Are you seriously the best cooling system God or Evolution or some superstar team up of the two could come up with? How horrible! Salty water making a mess of my skin and clothes, often resulting in an onion odor is a sound way to prevent overheating? Seriously? Pretty dumb, Nature. Pretty dumb.

Dear Sun: It is Fall, you idiot. Cut it out. You dumb bastard.


Bah! That’s it. Next time the temperature rises above eighty, I’m not going outside, no matter what is happening. No matter how long I’ve been a shut in.

Way to go, heat.

Better Living Through Tuba

There was a time when I thought I had to follow the standard rules of life that most of we first world human types have set for ourselves over the years. Get born, go to school, learn to play the tuba, get a job, get another job, get some other job, get hitched, get fat, spawn some younglings, get another job, get old, retire, get fatter, get some part-time job because no one can really retire anymore, and die.

That’s the way of life as I have always understood it. And that’s fine. No problem. That’s the route I’ve been on since the time what I escaped the womb.

But then I done remembered something. Something that could change the entire course of this silly old life. And that something is this:

I can fucking play the tuba.

You know how rock stars can do what they want and are better than regular people? Well, imagine how badass and special a tuba player in a rock band is. Some bands have done it, but they’re usually kinda kitschy and funny in some way (typed without any real research or knowledge of tuba players in rock bands). I love that, but come on, in order to get out of the doldrums of life, I’m not talking about novelty or even ska-tinged stuff. I’m talkin’ full-blown, Rolling Stones rock. I’m talking super rock stardom that will result in having songs in a Rockband game one day.

What if, instead of a bass guitar, a band had a tuba on bass? Again, it’s probably happened before, but what if that tuba bass player is ME? Hell, for ultimate live band performance rocking, I’ll sling a sousaphone over my shoulder. Jump up and down and do karate kicks with the rest of the band. I’ll blow and blat that bass line better than any regular old bass guitarist can imagine.

Once I re-remember how to play the tuba (because, okay, maybe I haven’t played since high school)… and raise about two thousand bucks to get a solid sousaphone — nah, hell, maybe closer to 7K to get me one of those snazzy, silver deals instead of a fiberglass one (maybe Kickstarter it up or something) — and then… and then I form a band, which will entail getting a Mick Jagger-esque lead singer and some Eddie Van Halen-style guitar action and Keith Moon reincarnated on drums and then, um, write some songs and get a record deal, and, yeah. It’ll work. And once it works I will be a sousaphone bass player jammin’ tuba style, leather pants wearin’ rock god. I will be king shit of fuck mountain.

So, the plan is pretty solid.


Hamboning. Hambonin’. Hambonin’! It’s all I can think about lately. Just the word makes me happy. To be honest, I’ve never heard the word “hambone” in regard to anything other than the bone of a ham before co-worker Doug showed me a clip from REGULAR SHOW. This clip, though, this clip made me want to do two things: 1. Watch REGULAR SHOW. 2. Hambone.

I dunno. That clip just makes me laugh. The character designs are kinda wacky in a way that is wacky, but the voices have an easygoing tone and vibe that is fun. I dig it.

And, yeah, I hambone. Sure. I didn’t know it was called “hamboning” until seeing this delightful cartoon clip, but I’ve slapped little beats and rhythms on my belly before. I’m glad to know there’s a name for it — especially such an awesome one. Hambonin’.

Now I find myself wondering if hambonin’ could be the career I’ve been looking for during the malaise that started with adulthood. That sounds silly, sure. I mean, there ain’t no work in hamboin’… or is there?

Doing My Duty

A few weeks ago I received the dreaded Jury Duty Summons in my mailbox. Now, it shouldn’t be dreaded, I suppose. A jury of one’s peers is a big part of our judicial system, and, as a citizen, one should feel honored to be able to participate. … Right?

The thing is, you know, my job and its lack of jury duty pay. Sure, a juror gets a little bit of food money, I guess, but it doesn’t exactly make up for a day’s wages. There’s also the time. These things can go on for a while, can’t they? The last time I was called, I did have to attend. For several days, days that my job does not cover, I had to wait at the courthouse to be called. When I finally was, it was potentially a long case.

I got worried. What would I do if I became one of the 12 Angry Men (People)? After some legitimate excuses, I was excused, but it was a close call. I felt a little ashamed, to be honest. Not sure why. I feel guilty about everything, basically.

This year, though, after four nights of calling in (lucked out on getting this during the week of labor Day), I didn’t have to show up — and it’s a relief. I feel bad about it, as I should probably want to participate. Maybe in a different time in my life. A less paycheck to paycheck time.

What if I had gotten called, though? And what if I’d ended up on the jury? The possibility of 1/12th of another human’s fate in my hands is a lot of pressure for a silly worrier like me. I don’t want any part of anyone’s fate in my hands!

Of course, there’s always next year… If it happens, criminals beware!

Hypocritical About Hamburgers

So, my parents’ house is right by/kinda on my uncle’s farm. There be cows there sometimes, nearby anyway. One time I was awakened by the weirdest noises I’d ever done heard. The cows were mooing and talking to each other. It was quite interesting.

At some point during that day, I probably had red meat — either a hamburger or hotdog or pizza topping.

When I mentioned this cow alarm clock later, more fascinated than made sense to anyone else, I was told they really get loud when it’s time to take the baby calves away. They just moo and moan and go crazy.

And they cry.

I mean, not like “boo hoo” crying as we humans do (well, the non-male ones, anyway — JK! JK!), but apparently the momma cows moo cow tears when their kids are taken away from them. This should not have taken me aback so, but in my head, where I mostly live, all my food only exists as food. I get a burger, and it’s just some magic created by the delicious food faeries from the days of yore.

There have been many times in my life where I’ve thought about giving up all meat, red meat in particular. Mainly for health reasons. But then I found out the momma cows cry. Health, schmealth — this just felt mean.

So I decided to stop eating red meat right then and there… well, right after I finished my pepperoni and sausage pizza and there.

No more red meat. Chicken? Sure. Them dummies don’t cry. Fish neither. They got no emotions. Pigs… ? Um, I’ve never seen BABE, so I assume they — okay, no pigs either. I know they cry and have feelings because I’ve not only seen the CHARLOTTE’S WEB cartoon and read the book (probably), I also played Templeton the Rat in a college play. (The costume ruled.)

I didn’t do this “no red meat for me thing” in a smug way, judging others. I just felt so darn bad for the momma cows.¬†And for, oh, about two weeks, I was strong. Red meatless (pork just isn’t a white meat, right?) and strong!

Then I went to a cookout, and my friend was making his famous “Awesome Burgers.” Everyone told me they were awesome, hence the name. I asked why they were awesome, and it was just reitertated as fact. I had to try one. The first one was so delicious I then had to eat another.

I’m a bastard. A weak-willed bastard.

But… now… no more red meat! I shall eat no cows because I don’t want the momma cows to cry. Well… I’ll do my best to eat no red meat. Unless it is a key ingredient in an Awesome Burger, which probably will only happen maybe once a year or so.

No! I’ll… no more red meat for me. … Probably.

Wait, what about milk and cheese? Do baby cows have to be taken away from momma cows for milk and cheese related reasons, too?

I’m sorry, momma cows.