December Hateful: Day 2

Okay people.  It's day 2 on the December Hateful list.  I was driving in to the office this morning, enjoying a cop of coffee and trying to think of something that I hate enough to actually write about.  I had nothing.  I don't know what the deal was.  Maybe a lack of caffeine.  Anyways, I continued the rest of my voyage without any thought.

As usual, I stop in at one of the local convenience stores for the days provisions.  As I enter the building, I notice this odd looking couple just standing in the middle of the store and they were wearing their pajamas.  When did this become an acceptable thing?  I gave them a good looking over to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me and sure enough... his and hers flannel pajamas, right out there in public for everyone to see.

Now, these people were positioned in such a fashion that it wasn't going to be easy to maneuver around them and get to the products I was going to need.  As soon as I realized this, I made a sharp right and headed to the restroom in order to recycle the coffee I drank on the way in. 

I position myself in front of the throne and begin to take care of business.  I finish up, zip up, buckle the belt and head to the sink to wash my hands.  I wave my hand under the automatic soap dispenser, get an appropriate amount of soap and wash my hands, just like momma taught me.  I grab a paper towel, dry my hands, again proving to momma that I am a big boy and reach out to grab the door handle.

That's when it happens.  There is something on the door handle.  I don't know what it is and that scares the shit out of me.  I remember the idiot dude in his pajamas out in the front of the store and I picture him having some kind of perverted, convenience store bathroom sex ritual with the door handle.  I'm convinced that this is what happened but am hoping he is one of those special sickos that just likes to walk around and lick door knobs, as if that might be better. 

Back into the bathroom I go, gagging.  Now I break out in a hot sweat.  Are these 2 pajama wearing degenerates Al Qaeda and have they just successfully liquid anthraxed my ass?  I am so grossed out by the viscous fluid on my hands that I cannot rub them together, so I just keep waving my hand under the soap dispenser until I have about a half of a quart of this foamy soapy shit all over the place. 

I have the water cranked on full blast, as hot as it can get.  I keep cussing, crying and gagging, hoping this shit will get off my hands but its not happening.  I grab a wad of toilet paper and paper towels and try to remove the stuff this way.  Guess what?  That ain't working either.  This stuff is like a semi transparent baby shit.  Towels and toilet paper isn't picking it up but rather just moving it around.  Now I am really grossed out and manage to puke in the urinal.

Had I not just puked on the urinal mint, I would have picked it out of the pisser and scrubbed down with that fucking thing, but no way was I going to add coffee puke and urinal mint juice to this blatant act of terrorism.

Back to the sink!  I've got my coat and shirt off, and it looks like I am getting ready to take a bath in the sink.  I broke the air freshener dispenser off the wall and discharged the entire can all over my hands and arms.  In my fury, I accidentally sprayed  some of this shit into my left eye and now I find myself half naked, half blind, staggering around a convenience store cussing to myself.  I managed to trip over my coat and I land on the floor.  Now I am wallowing around in all of this sick shit and I begin to think of all of the fine diseases I am about to pick up.  Typhoid, the plague and ass herpes all cross my mind.  And at this point, I am sure that I will be dead by noon.

I somehow manage to get my shit together and get dried off and semi cleaned up.  I get my shirt back on, put my coat back on and leave the restroom, and guess who is standing in front of me?  Pajama boy!  I nudged him out of the way, grabbed my provisions and made my way to the counter.  The clerk asked, "Is everything okay?" 

And that is what got me!!!  I replied, "Man, you know god damned well that everything is not okay! You heard me cussing, gagging, puking, and falling down and breaking things in the shitter.  I come out of the son of a bitch looking like a used up hooker who took first place in the bukake catching contest and you are going to ask me "Is everything okay"?  Yeah, pal... everything is wonderful.  Give me the usual and I am out of here."

Before I exit the store, the pajama people do.  Apparently the just came in, did some sick shit to the door handle, hung out and awaited their victim and then left.  Out of all of that, I hate the stupid question.... "Is everything okay."

Here it is, hours later and I still don't feel okay.  I suppose I will make it.  Perhaps a go fund me account will help and I can install a 400 lbs vat of that hand sanitizer shit on the Stunt Truck for any other unfortunate encounter I may have in my future.  Maybe I will just go have a glass of whiskey and a good cry.  "Is everything okay?"  The only answer to that question from here on out is, "Fuck you."

December hateful.....

December Hatefuls: Day 1

Christmas music.  I hate it.  In my opinion, there is only 1 good Christmas song and it is Chuck Berry's "Run, Run Rudolph".  In my head and perhaps only in my head, that is a fact and the whole hearted, fully thought out truth. 

But its not so much that I hate Christmas music that has me pissed off this morning.  Nope.  I read an article in the newspaper this morning about a radio station that has decided to drop playing at least one song because it might offend someone in the #metoo movement.  That's what I am most hateful for today.  This radio station doesn't want to offend the 7 idiots wearing vagina hats that doesn't like that song.

I remember a day when, if a song came on the radio that you didn't like, you turned the dial.  That's it.  Nobody was offended.  Nobody felt the need to write a 1000 word essay into their local newspaper's op/ed page revealing their true feelings about how a song could be so hurtful. 

I did research on this.  I asked 100 people, "If a song comes on the radio that you do not like, what do you do?"  Not one person said, "I find time to be offended."  Not fucking one! 

We've gotten to the point in this country where we are looking for things to be offended by then think  everyone else on the globe has to understand and offer up some empathy statements.  If shit like a horrible Christmas song offends you, you aren't paying attention.  If shit like a horrible Christmas song offends you, do something useful and go fuck yourself.  Nobody wants to hear you talk for 30 minutes about how you find the song "Baby its Cold Outside" offensive.  Nobody.

Better than that, how do you find the time to to be offended by a fucking song?  Why do you feel it necessary to take time out of your day, to form an opinion, stew on it, let it get you so worked up that you deem it necessary to demand that people hear you out?  Nobody cares... its you... its a dumb fucking song.... turn the station or shut the radio off.  Quit complaining or I am going to send one of Santa's elves on steroids over to your house to kick the ever loving shit out of you with an ax handle.  When that happens, you can be offended.  Until then, shut your god damned yule hole and be thankful.

My name is Brice Dudley, and I approve this message.  If this offends you, nobody cares. 

Sneezing and peeing at the same time.

I didn't think you could sneeze and pee at the same time.  I have no idea why I thought that.  I guess I never tried or the opportunity never presented itself, until this morning.  As it turns out, you can sneeze and pee at the same time and I don't recommend it.  It's more than the body can handle first thing in the morning.  Here's what happened.

The morning alarm goes off.  As per usual, I hit the snooze button.  As soon as I hit the snooze button, I realize I have to pee.  I'm not ready for that yet as I am still lying in bed trying for another solid 5 minutes of sleep.  (Like that will make a difference.)  Well, guess what?  You can't get 5 solid minutes of sleep when you have to pee, so I get my grumpy ass up and walk into the bathroom.

I step up and assume the position.  Now standing in front of the throne, my mind can't make the plumbing work.  It's preoccupied with trying to figure out why the toilet paper thingy is located as close to the toilet as it is.  I stand there and tell my mind and penis, "Everything is going to be okay.  We are awake.  We are out of bed now and we can safely take a whiz."  Still nothing.

I scratch my head with my other hand, cuss about the dumb position I find myself in and then all of a sudden it happens!  Happy days are here again!  In the matter of a few seconds, we (my penis, my mind and me) are producing a good steady stream.  My bladder relaxes and now all systems are go. 

Since things appear to be going in the right direction, I begin to contemplate the days events.  As I am putting the day into its proper perspective, I feel as if I may sneeze.  This is the precise moment that I figured it would be impossible to pee and sneeze at the same time.  I figured a good sneeze would momentarily shut down the plumbing and then it would get back to operation right after the sneeze. 
Well, that isn't what happens.

As the sneeze builds up pressure, the bladder does try to adjust its pressure in an attempt to work as a counter balance.  The most primal part of the brain says "Yeah, keep going.  This is your most brilliant idea yet."  The newest part of your brain says, "You might die...  You don't know... Nobody has ever tried this shit before and if things go awry, don't worry.  I'll take care of you."  It's calming and nerve wracking at the same time.

You're body convulses and you bend slightly at the waist.  Then it happens.  You hear what sounds like the muzzle blast of a 12 gauge and you immediately pass out from the pain.  As you start to come too, you wonder why your chin hurts and you wonder what it is that is dripping on your foot.  Your hearing comes back next, which is most unfortunate because now you hear yourself moaning while lying on the cold bathroom floor.  Your vision begins to come back and confirms that you are indeed lying in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, hand still on what's left of your penis.  You sense of feel starts to come back but you can't tell if its your penis you have a hold of or a stump, but you hope for the best.

You then realize that the stuff that is dripping on your feet is urine soaked toilet paper.  You want to call for help, but you don't want anyone to find you in this most compromised position, so you have a good cry for a few minutes.

You remove your hand from your genital area and muster the strength to take a look at it, hoping to high hell there is no blood.  There isn't and for a moment, you're relieved.  Then you fully realize that you are still in excruciating pain.  It feels as if someone jammed a red hot, straightened out metal coat hanger up your pee hole.  You don't want to believe that.  Nobody wants to believe that but then you start to think that you have have prolapsed your urethra.  I don't know if that is even possible, but at this point it sure as shit feels that way.  Now a sense of embarrassment sets in.  You think, "I am going to have to go to the emergency room with my wang in one and and my prolapsed urethra in the other and have to explain this horrible shit to the entire emergency room staff while they laugh at me. 

Now you roll over on your back.  It seems as if the smoke has cleared and that the dust is settling and you start to relive the incident in an attempt to figure out why your chin hurts.  You finally take a look at your penis and realize that its okay.  Well, its not okay... its still a stupid looking penis, but everything appears to be intact and where you remember it being.  You notice that your urethra is not on the floor like an uncoiled ball of yarn and you give big thanks to that.  (I'm not a religious man, but I gave thanks to the powers above for not making me have to carry the insides of my urinary tract in a grocery bag, into the emergency room.

You think about your chin again.  It really hurts.  You allow yourself a few more minutes sitting naked on the bathroom floor trying to put the whole thing together.  You know, for future reference.  You gain your footing and again assume the position and relive the entire event, step for step, dumb emotion by dumb emotion.  You determine that a profound amount of torque was produced from the pressure build up when the plumbing trying to shut down, the sneeze released the torque in a flash which caused your knees to buckle, which in turn caused your chin to hit the toilet rim. 

In the explosion, you've managed to piss on the toilet tank, the wall behind it, the wall next to it which held the toilet paper roll that ended up dripping on your foot.  You also realized that you somehow managed to piss on the ceiling and the mirror behind you.

You stagger out of the bathroom.  You make your way to the kitchen and start some coffee.  your always faithful pooch comes up along side you, looks you dead in the eye and does his best to offer you an apology for the rough start to your day.  You reach down to pet him and find out that he is mysteriously wet too, and that grosses you out, so you puke in the sink because you think of the word "moist".  You send the dog outside because you can't even look at him now, and make your way back to the scene of the crime for another good cry.

You begin to clean the crime scene.  You're glad that nobody in the world will ever know about this, unless you write about it in your blog.  Then you think about your loved ones on the other side.  What would they have been doing.  Both of your grandpas are laughing so hard, they are crying.  Both of your grandmas are crying.  You dad calls you a fucking idiot.  Your mom....  She is trying to figure out exactly what in the hell happened that allowed you to piss on the mirror that was directly behind you. 

You crawl into the shower, one hand rubbing your chin, the other holding your genitals and then it hits you.  You never thought of peeing and sneezing at the same time because that shit is not ever supposed to happen! 

Like every other dumb ass thing you've ever done to yourself, you remain thankful that you survived.  You finish your shower, get dressed and head to work grateful that the first stop is not the emergency room.

On the ride in, you do all you can to convince yourself that it could have been worse.  You could have had to poop first thing.  (Note to self:  It is not a good idea to see what will happen if you sneeze and poop at the same time.  EVER!)

My Very First Product Review:

Hi everybody.  I've got to tell ya!  I'm pretty excited, folks.  Someone wrote into the main office and asked me to do a product review!  I've never done this before so I am thrilled to be able to give you the straight dope on this product.

Before I actually get to the review, I'd like to take a second and say thanks to all of the people who write in and ask me questions about products that might seem to be out of my realm of expertise.  I am honored that you value my body of work, my world travel and my honest opinion about things.  it really makes an old boy feel good.  Thank you again for writing in and keep these requests coming!

Now, on to the product review.  Give me a second.  It seems as if I misplaced the all of the guys information.  It's on an index card and I just had it.  I set it down right here.  Oh, wait.  Here it is.  This is a question from Skjot Amundson from Bemidji, Minnesota.  Skjot says, "I'll be moving into a college dorm next year and I'd like to know what you think of the George Foreman Grille?"

Well Skjot, I'll be happy to get to that question in just a minute.  Before I do, I'd like to review another product and maybe it will help you, your family and friends out a bit as well.  The product I am speaking about is the fucking alphabet!  People are taking way too much liberty with the thing and it appears as if your parents are no exception.  I am assuming that your name is pronounced "Scott".  Am I right?  If I am, then why didn't your parents spell it that way?

I went as far as to use the Googler and look this ridiculous shit up.  You know what the Googler said?  It said that "Skjot" was a rare Norwegian spelling of the more traditional "Scott" and was given to royalty and Viking Warriors.  That leads me to this, Skjot....I feel dirty even saying your name right now....  Are you a Viking Warrior, Skjot?  If you are, you'd better be about 6'5'' tall, weight about 300 lbs, have long hair and a beard so unkempt that it looks like a pack of animals lives in the son of a bitch.  You'd better be walking around with a sword, a shield and a fucking club made from the heart wood of an ancient oak tree or some shit, and you'd better know how to pillage!

If you don't look like this and look more like a hipster wearing skinny jeans with the legs rolled up and wearing a flannel shirt, I hope some redneck comes up and takes his style back and drags your ass to the DMV to change your name on your drivers license.  Instead of Skjot or the more traditional "Scott", you need to change your name to Biff or Tad or Chaz or something else ridiculous.  Frankly, this shit is nothing short of fraud... you're not a Viking!

I'm so God damned mad now that I can't remember the stupid question you asked.  Where is that index card with the question on it?  Oh, I threw it in the trash, SKJOT!  Skjot?  Are you shitting me?  Skjot.  Okay, it says here that you are going to college and that you want to know if the George Foreman Grille is a good product.

Well, here we go.  Yeah, its probably a great product for cooking a burger, chicken breast or something like that.  Maybe even a grilled cheese, you know.  But a fucking Viking cooked shit with fire or ate the shit raw!  These were semi primitive battle whores that were talking about, not some dip shit millennial who could fuck up a bowl of Shredded Wheat!

Leave that product alone, you dumb ass.  I'm afraid you'll go to a frigging frat party, get loaded on cheap beer and come back to the dorm and try to do your hair with the fucking thing.  Look!  It's got moving parts and gets real hot.  It's above your pay scale.  Get yourself some crayons and a safe space, you dip shit!  Leave cooking and anything else food related, to anyone else other than yourself.

Well folks, that's it for now from the "product review" portion of this head ache.  I need to find a good glass of whiskey and a camp fire after answering that question.  Keep 'em coming in though.  I want all of you to be fully informed, even if you spell your name incorrectly.

Until next time....

"Can we have a real discussion about gun control?"

Can we have a real conversation about gun control?  Maybe, maybe not.  I am hopeful that we can sit down and have this necessary conversation, but I have my concerns about the word "real".  It is impossible to sit down and have a real conversation if we won't stay on topic or stick to facts.  The facts are all that matters when it comes to a conversation.  There are a lot of studies out there by people who mean well.  Some of them are incomplete and do not take all variables into account.  Others are an apples to oranges comparison and comparisons like that are an injustice to the very situation we face today.  It isn't fair to compare us to other countries.

This is an American problem. Undeniably, it is happening more here than other countries. Other countries are dealing with their own problems and that is another topic. There are potentially dozens of reasons for these massacres happening here.  It's a complex issue.  This has to be a work in progress and we have to be willing to set political affiliation aside and stick to the facts.  This is a highly emotional subject.  Nobody I know ever wants to hear of another one of these massacres but truthfully, we all know there is another one in our near future.  "Is this what life is like in America now?"  Yes.  Yes it is and its time for us to understand that.

It's time for us to understand that the world is a rough place.  It's time to realize that America can be a rough place.  Never in a million years did I ever believe there could be a 9/11.  Not once did I ever think there could be a Timothy McVeigh and a giant ass truck bomb.  I had no idea that there were people out there like this recent asshole that shot up the Florida classroom, like the asshole who shot up the gay night club, the the asshole who shot up the concert venue in Las Vegas.  Never.  It never crossed my mind that there are people out there among us that were that ill, that broken, so capable of doing such a thing.  This is our reality and we need to own it.

"So just throw in the gloves, eh?"  No.  That's not what I am saying.  It's time to accept this in order to address this.  There is no sure fire method to identify who is likely to go on the next rampage, and we have to accept that too.  And maybe that is part of the problem.  Acceptance, being able to accept the fact that we will have another massacre on our hands is critical.  Preparing for this event is even more critical, and in doing so, we need to pay attention to all of the data that has been collected regarding each of these events.

I don't buy into this as being a gun problem.  Above I mentioned 'apples to oranges' comparisons.  Here, every once in a while, some maniac goes on a shooting spree.  It's absolutely the worse thing I can think of at this time.  Other countries have their own problems.  For instance, Syria.  I recently heard a story about a particular town in Syria that the Taliban or ISIS had total control over.  As they were being run out of town after imprisoning, torturing and killing the majority of the towns people, they set land mines everywhere.  They booby trapped homes.  They booby trapped churches, mosques and other gathering places.  They set land mines in the fields, in the walk ways, in the roads and sidewalks and every week they are losing 36 people on average.  Other countries in the region are experiencing the same things.

This is their horror.  This is what they have to deal with every day.  I am not comparing them to us.  I don't have the chance to choose one life or the other.  Neither do they.  This is their reality and they live it every day.  It's horrible and I can't imagine what their lives are like.

If these folks were to have an advantage over us is, it might be in the fact that they have identified  their adversary.  What we have in common with them is, our adversaries look just like us.  They reside next door or across the street.  We talk to them.  We work with them.  How do we deal with that?

So much of what is being said these days regarding these massacres is emotionally based.  How couldn't it be?  What I think we need to start paying attention to is what we can agree on.  None of us wants another one of these things to happen.  None of us.  If we focused on that, perhaps we could make some ground with this discussion.  I saw a recent poll that said 67% of legal gun owners are willing to make some concessions in the name of safety.  I think its important to remember that these concessions have not been clearly defined as well as it is unknown what or if these concessions would have any impact.

I was having a discussion with a friend of mine who is pro 2nd Amendment said, "I would give away all my guns if it would stop these massacres."  I disagreed only on the fact that me and my guns are not the problem here.  Me giving up my guns and my 2nd Amendment protections will not stop these shooting sprees.  The won't... and more than anything, I think my friend said this as a feel good statement.  It just doesn't make sense to me.  Taking away, my guns or your guns will not stop this.  The problem is far more complex than that and we need to quit looking at the quick fix for such a delicate matter.

We're better than that.  We're smarter than that.  If we could set all emotions aside, put the facts on the table, stick to the topic, we might be able to make some ground here.  The problem with facts is, they don't always work in your favor.  It's hard, almost impossible to accept the facts.  It's also hard to know that we will face another one of these massacres on day.

I have heard a lot of reasonable requests from concerned people regarding the safety of our children.  "Metal Detectors" "Armed Guards" are two of the most reasonable that I have heard.  If our children are our future and our most precious commodity, we are we not protecting them as such?  Our airports, sporting arenas, banks and other places are filled with metal detectors and armed security.  Do you mean to tell me that we care more about that shit than we do our kids?  No excuses...  Lets address this.  Don't tell me there's no money for it.  Were spending money all over the place!  We can find the money for this.  I think most of us civilians would gladly donate to the cause. We can do this!

With that out of the way, I'd like to tell anyone reading this a little about me and where I am coming from.  I am going to keep the next couple of paragraphs all about me.... a brief autobiography, if you will.  My name is Brice Dudley.  I was born into a house of guns.  In fact, my first birthday present was a Winchester Model 12 12 gauge.  My dad was a gunsmith and a competitive shooter.  At any given time, there was a project or two on the bench and my reality was, there are guns everywhere.  I was taught to respect firearms.  I was taught at an early age that guns are not a mystery and if I ever wanted to handle a gun or know anything about a gun, all I had to do was ask a question.  I was taught that guns are not toys.  I was taught that we don't point anything that is not a finger at anyone, at any time.

I grew up learning how to properly handle guns.  I learned how guns operated and I learned what guns where capable of by going shooting.  I learned that once you pull the trigger, you can never get that bullet back.  Whatever happens after you pull the trigger for, you are responsible.  I learned that you never point a gun at anything you don't intend on destroying.

As I began to hunt, I learned the value of life.  My family hunted for food.  The first time I shot a quail, I was lost somewhere between feeling sorry and being proud.  Sorry for the taking of a life, but proud to know that I could be capable of providing a food source for my family.  My dad looked at me and asked, "Are you okay?"  I remember nodding yes but being a little too choked up to talk about it.  Dad said, "Hunting is a hell of a thing, and its not for everybody.  There are a few things for you to know about this particular circumstance.  You followed every safety rule in the book.  You knew what you were shooting at and what was beyond it.  We are going to take this quail home and we are going to cook it up for dinner and the next few days.  There is value in being able to do this and this is a skill that will forever be with you.  I'm proud of you.  Not because you killed a quail. I am proud of you for properly handling the gun, having paid attention to everything I ever told you about guns, and mostly for giving hunting a try."

I just kind of stood there holding my 410 in one hand and the quail in the other.  My dad said, "We are going to honor this bird in a couple of ways.  First of all, we are going to eat this bird and any others we happen to get today.  Secondly, we are only going to take what we can eat.  We will also do what we can to protect the habitat this bird lives in.  We are out walking around in these draws in order to not destroy the habitat.  We will always follow these rules.  These are the rules my dad learned from his dad, I learned from him and now you learned from me.  If you want, one day you will have the opportunity to teach this to your kids."

Later in life, I had the opportunity to introduce my boys into the sport.  Neither was too interested in the killing aspect of hunting, but neither ended up having a problem cycling ammunition through any of the guns I owned while out shooting targets.   Recently, my step mother gave me a few of my dad's old shotguns.  As I looked at them and handled each one of them, they took me back to that day.  I learned more about life that day than I have any other time in my life.  I learned about honor, respect and being responsible.  I wasn't taught that stuff in a classroom.  It happened with my dad, out in the Arizona desert around Chloride.  Nobody but us, the jack rabbits, the rattle snakes and the quail.

From that 1 day, my love for the sports of hunting and shooting became part of who I am.  Since then, my love for the sports have grown into a field of work that I had no clue would ever exist.  I am a part time shooting coach/shooting instructor, and being able to introduce people like the little kid I once was to the sport is so rewarding.  If I had one love besides my family and friends, I would be somewhere between being in the outdoors and teaching someone who has never handled a gun, how to shoot responsibly.

I urge everyone in this country to give the shooting sports an opportunity.  Hire a professional and train with them often.  Learn first hand about guns, gun safety and the responsibility that goes along with that.  It's money well spent and an education that will last you a life time.

Thanks for reading folks.  I really do appreciate it.

The "Ling Ling" Incident:

Technology all but killed one of my favorite past times.  Crank calls were a big part of my childhood and I even made crank calls as an adult.  Everyone was a potential victim, including my mom who I kept getting with the same stupid "kidnapped kid' scenario that I made up.  Now, caller ID and everything else we have on our phones pretty much identifies who is on the other end putting a stop to my reign of terror.

So I told you that in order to tell you this.  I had a stalker for a little while.  Things got pretty weird and I had to change all of my contact information and everything.  The stalker was persistent enough that I somehow figured they took control of my damned phone, so I traded my phone in and got a new number.

I transferred over all of my contact information and apps and then went about calling my friends in order to give them my new contact information.  As I rolled through my contact list, I finally came upon my good friend who owns a parking lot striping and parking lost sweeping business.  So, I gave him a call.

He didn't pick up the call.  That wasn't a mystery.  Tim is a busy guy and has about 100 things going at once.  But for some reason, as soon as my call went to voice mail, I knew I could probably get away with a crank call.  After all, he'd never seen or heard of this phone number.

Ring.... Ring.... Ring... click... "We are unavailable to take your call at this time.  Please leave your name and a message and we will call you back", the message said.  I chime in.  "Herro, this is Ling Ling from Ocean City Chinese Bistro.  I need parking rot painted.  I need handicapped parking and stlipes.  Don't call me back.  I am too busy.  Come by Friday or Saturday and give me estimate."  And then I hung up.  I figured the sound of my voice and my stupid ass, stereotypical white dude trying to act like a Chinese person would give it away.

A couple of days goes by.  I forgot all about the crank call.  I was just sitting there and my phone rang.  It was my buddy Tim.  I picked up the phone and tried to say hello, but before I could get a word out, he said "You're an asshole!"  I laughed but didn't know what he was talking about.  He said, "Yeah, I get this call from a Chinese guy named Ling Ling and he wanted me to come to the Ocean City Bistro and give him an estimate to paint their fucking parking lot.  I show up with one of my daughters to help me measure the place and this Chinese guy comes out and starts yelling at me.  I got him calmed down enough to listen to what I was telling him.  I told him, Ling Ling called and wanted an estimate from me to paint stripes in the parking lot.  I am here to give the estimate.  The guy looked me dead in the eye and said, "Ling Ling?  Who in the fuck is Ling Ling?  There is no god damned Ling Ling here."  Now I started laughing....

Tim continued, "Go ahead.  Laugh it up.  I'm standing there scrolling through my voice mail and I play him the message!  Now the guy is really pissed and told me to get the fuck off of his property."  Now I am laughing out of control.  Tim says, "I listened to the voicemail one more time in the truck trying to figure out who in the fuck this could have been and then Jessica said, "That's Brice".  So, was this you?"  I admitted it as soon as I could catch my breath.  Never in a million years did I think he would buy that piece of shit fake accent.

I think Tim and I are still friends.  He's still not allowed at Ocean City Bistro and I bet you $100 bucks he never, ever takes another call from Ling Ling seriously.

Grammar

So, I had the day off but had to come to town to drop something off at work.  I proceeded to do so and decided that I wanted a fresh cup of coffee for the ride home.  I left work and headed directly towards my usual morning coffee stop.  As I went through a school zone, I noticed I had someone tailgating me.  I didn't think too much of it and just went about my business.

As I pulled into my coffee stop, the young kid who was tailgating me decided it was wise to approach me about the situation.

Kid:  How come you were going so slow back there?

Me:  Because it was a 20 mile per hour school zone.

Kid:  That don't matter.

Me.  Doesn't... That doesn't matter.

Kid:  Huh?

Me:  You said, "That don't matter." That makes no sense.  You should have said, "That doesn't matter?"

Kid:  What fucking difference does that make?

Me:  It makes a big difference if you want to be taken seriously.

Kid:  Yeah, well, why don't you speed up?

Me:  Because that is a school zone.  The speed limit is posted at 20 mph so I will go 20 miles per hour.

Kid:  Are you fucking serious right now?

Me:  I'm pretty serious all of the time.  Do you want me to take you seriously?

Kid:  You'd better take me seriously!  I'll kick your old ass!

Me:  I would take you seriously if you used proper grammar, pulled your fucking pants up, wore a belt to keep them up and had the nuts to look me in the eye while I am talking to you.  You can't do any of that shit including kick my ass.  If I want any more shit out of you, I'll squeeze your head and finish the abortion the doctor gave up on the day you were born.

Maybe the kid was anti-abortion or he perceived this as a "Come to Jesus" meeting.  I don't know, but something convinced him that things were not going to go the way he thought they were.  At this point, he decided to disengage.

We both walked into the store.  The young man ended up in line in front of me.  As he stepped up to the clerk, the clerk asked, "How are you today?".  The kid answered, "I am late for school."

 It was at that very moment that I realized I had just stumbled upon my life's calling.  "Brice Dudley-Life Coach"  Open for business, any time.