Friday, October 22, 2010

Open Letters: Anonymous Stalker Edition.

Dear hater,

You've been begging for a reaction, so here it is, pal. I hope it makes you as happy as you've made me. It's not everyday I get to roast someone on a public forum, a pastime which I do so enjoy.

Spending your entire day flooding my blog with nonstop, rude, arrogant comments is juvenile and, more or less, proof that you lack the basic social skills required in maintaining a life of your own. Besides that, it shows me that you're hopelessly addicted to my blog.

Your diction, while impressive, is rather awkward and makes you sound like a middle school child who repeatedly consults your Thesaurus for "biggerer" words. (Although, I'm still not convinced you aren't just that.) Despite your obvious lack of education, your words are rather abrasive. I'll admit, you've got some pretty big balls...but only while you're hiding behind that anonymous nametag. Outside of that facade, that sword of a tongue you have would be rather dull, would it not?

I realize you only attack me and my friends because you're jealous of how overwhelmingly hilarious and interesting I am when compared to you. The "golden image" that you continually refer to in your comments is, in essence, just my amazing life. Just be aware that, regardless of how much you pester me, you can't be me.

I know, I's alright. You can cry. I would too.

Anyways, I've enabled comment moderation (which you've undoubtedly noticed by now), so I can save my friends and family the trouble of reading through your trash. I've also submitted your IP adress to the blog mods up at Google (the people who own this joint), and any subsequent posts from you will be considered harassment.

Basically, I've got my hata blockas up. Thanks for playing!

Much love from the epitome of your hopes and dreams,


Editors Note:
Dedicated to my aunt, who is the queen of writing hilarious open letters...and who helped me figure out how to change my settings to deal with creepy blog stalkers.

Yard Sale.

My grandparents, who also live here in Tennessee, are planning to move in the coming months. In order to make the process as hassle-free as possible, they're having a yard sale this weekend, and obviously, they needed some help. So, we offered our services for the majority of the evening, and to finish up, drove around with my Momaw to put up a few signs.

Now, my dad isn't the slowest driver in the world. He's actually a bit agressive. In the midst of our excursion, he sort of...spooked my Momaw. It went something like this:

*Dad turns truck into parking lot*

Momaw: "Oh, mercy! I thought you were turning the other way!"

Dad: (laughing) "Nope, sorry."

Momaw: "That's fine, I'm just glad I have good butt muscles or you woulda thrown me clean over yonder!"

Dad: "Good butt muscles? Well, that's something to brag about."

I just love my family.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Popo shut us down.

Every now and then, a story comes along that even I cannot embellish on, regardless of how hard I try. one of those stories.

After church on Sunday, a few of my friends and I went to a charity event to support this sweet little girl who has Crohn's Disease. The point of the event was to raise money and awareness about the illness, and in general, it was an opportunity for people to come out and have a good time.

Leaving the fundraiser, the five of us felt content and happy with the results. Lots of money was raised, everyone had an awesome time, all was right with the world...until...

On the way home, we got a little carried away with the music and the laughter, and my friend (the driver) sped up a bit too much. About 20 mph too much. Needless to say, the celebration quickly faded as those dreaded red and blue lights danced across the interior of our vehicle.

Each of us immediately went into a mixture of panic and nervous laughter. This continued until the officer slowly emerged from his cruiser and headed our way, at which point we all went silent.

Leaning his head in, he informed my friend she was doing 74 in a 55 (Our motto: Go big or go home.), and following the usual "license and registration" bit, the officer said something that none of us were expecting. I still can't believe it.

"Is that marijuana I smell?"

Whaaa? First of all, I'm fairly certain that none of us in the car have ever touched the stuff, let alone used it. Second, we just came from a freaking charity event, preceeded by a church service. Way to choose good suspects, buddy. Still to this day, none of us can figure out what he was smelling. It could've been the mixture of Capri-Sun, Doritos, body spray, perfume, and various other smells in the car, but he was absolutely convinced it was pot. He assured us, "I've been an officer for 20 years. I know what marijuana smells like."

Oh, I'm sure you do, officer. But, given the grand display of intelligence you've shown us so far, I believe the source of that smell is your upper lip, not the car.

At this point, I was laughing as was my other friend in the passenger seat, and honestly, who wouldn't? You just accused the most innocent kids on the highway of using illegal substances. We may have been in a rough part of town, but seriously? Cheech and Chong, Al Capone, and OJ Simpson all passed us like we were sitting still, and they all had smoke and gunshots pouring from their windows, but he pulls over the church kids.

Anyways, Officer Oblivious responded to our laughter rather angrily:

(shining his light back at me) "You think that's funny, sir? You all think this is funny? I'm gonna ask that you step out of the car. Everyone out of the car, now."

Everyone did as we were told, and as my one friend unbuckled, he happened to move a cotton candy bag out of his way. The cop, who had stepped away from the car (because we were all probably packing heat), lunges his head back through the window and grabs the bag.

"A confession?!? You're gonna give it up easy, huh?"

"," my friend replied, "that's...a cotton candy bag."

This bag was the size of a small Wal-Mart bag. If we actually filled that with marijuana and smoked it, we would all be dead. That's not a dime bag, that's like a two-hundred dollars and change bag. There would be no need to search the car because we couldn't have hidden it. It was like a sixth passenger in the car.

Standing beside the busy road, the officer had us all back up against the guard rail while he called in drug dogs. No one really listened to him for the next several minutes as we were all calling our parents and friends, telling them all about this pillar of intelligence working to keep our streets clean of upstanding citizens, like ourselves.

Several minutes later, the canine arrived with another cop. After trying to scare us with the dog, the tail wagging, happy looking dog who clearly wanted us to pet it and take it away from his special needs owners, the second officer walked the animal around our vehicle several times until finally it jumped on one of the doors (leaving several long scrapes down the side, I might add).

Immediately, we all exchanged quick, puzzled looks. I'm still skeptical as to whether the dog jumped on his own will or his owner's. My friend who was driving was exhibiting a more accusatory face. A face that said, "If one of you were smoking that crap, you don't need to worry about what the cops will do to you. They won't get to you before I will."

The policemen first searched my friend and I, the only two males (and the only two who laughed in their faces). Then, they moved on to the car, and of course, didn't find anything. One final glimmer of hope struck the first officer, and he searched all the girls' bags. But SUPRISE! There was nothing there either. Sniffling and heartbroken, he sombered back to his cruiser to write up the report.

About this time, my laughing friend and I began to get somewhat cocky. While he snapped pictures of himself smiling in front the cruiser, I offered the officer stool and urine samples since he was so thouroughly convinced it was in my system. "If you'd like me too, I can crap on something and you can take it back to the lab for testing." He didn't respond.

He quickly signed off on the remainder of the paperwork, and after a few heated exchanges, released us with this warning, "You pulled a fast one on us this time, but we'll catch you next time." My eyes, very evidently, narrowed, and I was within inches of losing my testimony. Instead, we all silently got into the car, and without even so much as a glance back, we left.

The moral of the story? Don't speed because this officer could very well be the guy who pulls you over. The other, more important moral of the story? Don't mess with church kids.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

My Antagonist.

I've been thinking lately. Shocking, I know.

But, I've been thinking about life, and the world, and other important crap. In the midst of this, it occurred to me that I really don't have many enemies, at least, that I'm aware of. No one I've ever come into contact with has formed such a deep hatred for me that they feel the overwhelming need to curse the very ground I walk on.

This is a blessing, in a way. At the same time, I tend to wonder sometimes what it would be like to have a "nemesis" of some sort. Not like a Batman/Joker relationship where I'm always narrowly dodging death and they're always narrowly escaping, but someone that literally fuels my every action.

What spurred these thoughts isn't purely interest alone, I'm not a masochist or anything weird like that. The other day, I was reading (Also shocking, I know.) a true story about two feuding ex-friends. Each one's purpose was basically the other's demise, not a physical demise, but a general social and emotional smack down everytime they got together.

While this type of relationship is typically frowned on, I saw something in those two that almost built them up. It created a purpose, a drive that led them to do and say things that would typically be beyond them. They were able to construct elaborate plans and verbal assaults on each other that were practically Shakespearean. Like the saying goes, "Passion fuels a fight." Even negative passion.

It's random and odd, but I sorta kinda maybe want my own antagonist. Someone that, while constantly tearing into me, makes me, more or less, better for it. I'm not sure how to obtain said enemy without purposely going out and finding someone to tick off, but it would definitely be an experience.

Friday, October 1, 2010


I am, in fact, still writing. However, rather than all my writing being concentrated in one place (this blog), it's been skewed across several locations.

One of those places is my new job that I was talking about earlier. I absolutely love it. Not just for the fact that I get praise and recognition to do what I love, but also...actually, that pretty much sums it up. Since it's Fall Break, my editors are giving me this week off, and thus, my focus returns here. Temporarily.

The second and possibly the most prominent place is my composition class. Now, I enjoy writing and English in general, but when you're professor is somewhat of an emotionally unstable advocate for racial equality, the work becomes very VERY monotonous. Everyday, she brings up the age-old Black vs. White debate, and everyday, we "discuss" it. By "discuss" it, I'm referring to screaming our unwavering viewpoints back and forth for a full 50 minutes. It's very tiring, but I've yet to lose an argument. My temper, on the other hand...hopelessly lost.

Well, that's a general recap of the past two weeks. Taking turns with my classmates, forcing our opinions down each others' throats. Gotta love college.