Clean underwear?

If any of you were raised like I was, it was mandatory to wear a clean pair of underwear if you were going somewhere.  As a kid growing up, and a boy kid at that, underwear was optional equipment and clean was foreign.  I mean, if the ass of a pair of underwear wasn't completely blown out, they were good for another few weeks.

My mom used to ask, "Now did you put on a clean pair of underwear?".  I always said "yeah" because I was a busy man.  I had bikes to ride, forts to build and ants to burn with a magnifying glass.  "Clean underwear?''  I thought she was really joking until she gave me a lecture regarding all of the bad things that "could happen".  And in most of those cases, clean underwear wasn't going to remain clean anyhow, because she was scaring the shit out of me!  And when it comes right down to it, let's say one of these scenarios does happen and you consequently do shit your knickers.....  You're going to screw up your britches too!  Who shits their pants in a public setting, ditches their underwear, and puts back on shitty pants expecting to get away with it?  Your damned britches better smell like the Busch Botanical Gardens, otherwise you're a dead ringer for "Mr. Poopy Pants".  Clean underwear just isn't going to hide that.

In regards to this potential dilemma, I did what I could to make momma happy.  My grandfather once told me, "If momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."  I figured he'd been around long enough to test a few theories, so I held that one close to the chest. 

Years later as an adult, I grew into the habit of putting on clean underwear.  I just appreciate them. And its not only clean underwear that I appreciate these days.  Quality underwear is something to truly behold!  Quality underwear can be any brand, but it has to offer a few things.  It's got to be comfortable and it has to offer the right support.  If it's lacking either of those two critical components, you will probably save them anyhow if you're a normal man.  You'll probably wear all of the good underwear before you get around to doing laundry, so you either "go commando" or you wear a pair of drawers that is of lesser quality.

I didn't appreciate the "support" aspect of quality underwear until recently.  As I started to grow older, it became obvious that perhaps my skin didn't have the same elasticity, or just maybe gravity had a better pull than it used too.  Nonetheless it is essential to keep the "team" in the same dugout.  You can't have the bat and balls in different ball parks is all I'm saying.  If you don't, well, you aren't going to be playing ball.

I fully realized this not so long ago.  I had to run some errands, so I hopped in the shower.  After a nice shower, I went to find some quality underwear in my underwear drawer.  (Quality underwear should have a special spot, and it should be nowhere near lesser quality drawers.)  I threw the drawer open and nothing.... No quality underwear, so I went with "option B".  There they were, sitting in the corner like a 3rd grader being punished for smarting off in class.  They've got no pride.  There is no happiness sitting the corner were all of the quality ones can sit and make fun of them.  I figured at this point I had no choice.  I grabbed them and honestly I don't think either of us felt good about the decision, but it had to happen.

Once on, I had to question their ability to keep the "team" together but like I said, it had to be done.  I put on a quality shirt, quality socks, quality jeans, and quality boots and out the door I went.  I make it all the way in to town and put the tough decision behind me.  I was running around town, in and out of the Jeep constantly, taking care of business.  I finished all of my errands and decided to reward myself with a nice hot cup of coffee, so I proceeded into the coffee joint and picked up a cup.  As I headed out to the Jeep, I didn't realize that I somehow let one of the balls outside of the dugout.  As I plopped myself down in the drivers seat, it became abundantly clear to me that I somehow put a guillotine in my front pocket and attempted to cut a guy from the team unannounced.  Bad managerial decision....

I didn't think I was capable of a noise like that.  I also didn't know I could move that quick or experience pain like that without dying, really.  I flopped around for a quick hot second, threw my coffee all over the interior of my Jeep and somehow came to my senses outside, doubled over checking my chances of being able to put the team back together.  I knew I had to talk to that new free agent.

Fortunately, the stray ball didn't leave the field entirely and I would be able to carry on although rather gingerly.  I maneuvered myself back into the drivers seat using extreme caution not wanting a repeat performance.  One of those is good for a life time. 

This was one of those experiences that if you survive intact, you have to tell someone.  For some reason I felt compelled to tell you.  There is a moral to the story.  If you want to keep the bat and balls all together, its worthy to purchase a quality bag.  Buy quality underwear, y'all.  One bad decision can ruin a good team.  Play ball!

Fashion.  There is a subject that I know absolutely nothing about.  I don't know as if I ever had a clear definition of the term "fashion sense".  As a kid in high school, it was 501's, t-shirt, and Nikes.  Later my style evolved into jeans, boots and a t-shirt while sporting a mullet.  Later than that, my style morphed into another realm all together.  In my mid 30's, I decided if I were wearing cargo shorts, t-shirt and work boots, I was probably over dressed for most situations I prefer to find myself in.    I'm never going to wear shorts, sandals and black socks and that is a promise.

Along with ones "fashion sense" comes the necessity to be able to kind of get a hair style that matches you.  My grandfather was a barber.  That doesn't give me the qualifications to be a hair style consultant, but at this point in my life, I've had maybe 1,000 hair cuts.  Some reflected the barbers impeccable skills but were an ill thought decision when it came to style.  Others, very well thought and planned but the barber (myself or a drunk buddy) jacked my hair up which led to me shaving my head.  Shit happens... and it happens to me often especially when I choose to cut my own hair.

There are 2 particular hair cuts that drive me crazy.  Neither of them is the mullet, however.  I do cringe when I see one, but I consider the source and then move along.  The 2 hair styles I am thinking of are the "Utah Claw" and the "May I speak to your manager" which is also known as the "Wasatch Front."  (You can take that last name, "Wasatch Front" to the bank because a professional barber told me about it.  Thanks Mike Randall w/ Teton Barber Shop!)

Scientifically known as "Utahsian-6kidsandaminivanicus" or its more traditional name, "The Claw" is in a critical stage of its existence.  Nearly extinct today, "The Claw" does make rare appearances at NASCAR events and the World Championship Snowmobile Hill Climb.  This particular coif was noted in the hundreds in the late 80's and Early 90's at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson, Wyoming. It's numbers now have dwindled to mere dozens.  Assumed to be a mating ritual, "The Claw" would appear on any holiday or any excuse our friends from Utah would use to come to Wyoming and get wasted because they were afraid to do it in Utah.

"The Claw" consisted of spiking out ones long bangs straight up from the forehead in order to resemble an inverted eagle's talon. As much as 5 cans of Aqua-Net and 3 solid hours of time is necessary to achieve the desired presentation.  As mentioned above, "The Claw" is assumed to be a mating ritual because it was often seen amongst mullets.  If there were an equal amount of "Claws" and mullets, this grouping is known as "Jack Mormons" and you can fully expect different levels of drunken stupidity including fights over "Who is the best driver, Junior or Tony Stewart?" or "Ford v.s. Dodge". 

Women sporting "The Claw" are often heard saying things like "Make me something real strong, like a Fuzzy Navel or something" to any bartender, bar back, cocktail waitress or random guy pumping gas near them.  As well, they will often ask for directions to the bathroom and then head in the wrong direction.  Not known for their tolerance to alcohol, "The Claw" is often found in the women's room, hugging the toilet or taking a nap on the disgusting but cool tile floors of bathrooms.  After such an occurrence, you'll hear someone wearing "The Claw" say "Did I pee my pants or is this from crying?" because her boyfriend looked at another breeder wearing "The Claw".  Often there will be a clump of toilet paper sticking to the spike of one of her high heels and this person will normally be accompanied by another girl crying because "Tiffany is having a hard time tonight."  This other girl should be coveted however because she is normally the only way to get rid of the dumpster fire known as "The Claw".

The hair style known as "May I speak to your manager" a.k.a "The Wasatch Front" evolved in the mid 90's and peaked in popularity in the year 2012.  According to numerous scientific studies, this particular hair style has numerous things in common with "The Claw" and it has been noted that former "Claws" are now known as "May I speak to your manager".  It is assumed that a maturation process takes place in ones 30's that spurs this particular adaptation. 

Scientifically known as "gonnabebitchycuz", their general attitude is considered more shitty than that of "The Claw".  It is assumed that this is because of the maturation process and the fact that this person has nothing else in the world to be upset about than in order to feel any relevance, it must seem bitchy.  While in bars, "May I speak to your manager" will often complain about the most irrelevant shit that nobody has any control over.  Most common amongst their complaints are, "Your ice is too cold", "I don't like what time it is" and "How come they look like they are having a lot more fun than I am?''. These are always followed by the words, "May I speak to your manager?".... hence the name.

Trying to reason with this person and these questions will always prove to be a fruitless endeavor.  Even the most skilled bar manager will approach with caution.  "Good evening.  My name is ______, I am the manager, so how can I be of help?"  Gonnabebitchycuz normally ends up with a "just got screwed by the neighbors bit bull'' look and then quickly shakes that off to reply with one of the above queries.  The skillful manager will then politely answer, "Miss, our ice is that cold because if it weren't, it would be water" and under his/her breath you can often hear the answer followed by "you stupid twat". 

When hit with the complaint, "How come they look like they are having a lot more fun than I am?", the most savvy of managers will say, "They are having more fun because they aren't bitchy!"  This is where one will normally encounter "gonnabebitchycuz's" favorite complaint.  "I'm leaving, and I'm never coming back!"  Although she looks as if she really means it this time, that is a guarantee that you will see her again in less than 30 minutes after she makes a scene and walks out of the establishment, but not without trying to get her friends and family to follow... and that never happens.

Upon her return from having a good cry out by the dumpster, she returns with her mascara running down both cheeks.  She will complain again that she has "never been treated that way" which is a lie because the last time she was in, ended the same way.  She will ask for a refund on her cover charge, her drinks, and an apology from the guy in the hotel lobby who looked at her boobs, because they are basically hanging out of her shirt.  When she receives no compliance, she will always begin to sob again, complete with little snot bubbles inflating and quickly deflating (like an infant) and then she will being to offer apologies.... for everything and anything not relevant to the current situation.

An encounter with either species is truly something not so special and not to be cherished.  They are sure to happen again and again.

It's been a while....

Quite some time ago, I decided to make a conscious decision to try to make the best of my life.  And really, why not?  We're only here once, so we might as well live as well as we can.  By making this decision, I understood that I would need to take an honest self inventory of whom I was and who and where I wanted to be.  After all, my life had become rather cumbersome.  I was dwelling on the past too much.  I had a friend who was the most negative person on earth who had the ability to drag me down to his level in an instant.  I realized that I had this level of anxiety that I had never noticed before.  It was almost paralyzing!  I was letting things happen rather than making this happen!

It was during this 'self inventory' that I made the most important discovery of my life.  "I was holding myself back...."  It wasn't my friend with the ability to drag me down.  It wasn't the negativity that seemed to surround me.  I was standing in my own way! 

At this very moment, I had truly my first Zen experience.  I finally knew that I could only control "me".  I was in charge of everything "me" and nobody else had that power.  Me and me only could control how I acted or reacted to every circumstance around me.  As well, I realized that I could happily take accountability for my actions as well as my reactions.  It dawned on me I could choose to keep hanging around my negative friend and I could let him control how I felt, or I could distance myself from him and let the positive energy flow.  I noticed that I could choose to find the positive in everything rather than looking for the negative! Zen!

Right then I decided to drop all of the negative things in my life and accept everything and everybody as they are and all of the pressure and anxiety left my body in an instant!  Cathartic....

I've been doing my best to stay on track, and I told you all of the above to get to this:

So, a pizza delivery guy comes through the gate at work and stops as required.  I politely ask the gentleman if he knew where he was headed and he showed me that he did indeed have the physical address and a GPS.  He said "Yeah" like I was wasting his time and added "my GPS will take me right to their front door" as he was pulling away.  He stopped at the stop sign and promptly took a turn in the wrong direction.

I couldn't help but smile.  Here I am wasting this busy mans valuable time all the while he had the latest in gadgetry that would ensure his safe and timely arrival at the desired location.  He made a turn into a short cul-de-sac so I knew he would be turning around.  I decided that I would meet him in the intersection and get him headed in the right direction.  After all, this guy is a busy man and he can't be fooling around, and I am concerned with doing the right thing. 

As he approached, he looked at me while talking on his phone and looking at the GPS in his other hand.  His pride must have been overwhelming him at the moment because instead of stopping and asking me for directions, he just drove by... again.... in the wrong direction.  What's special about this new heading the busy pizza delivery guy was taking is, it too is a cul-de-sac but its end is much further down the road.

Now, I was in a pickle.  Do I do the right thing and track him down and have him follow me in the right direction or do I wait for him to do the "drive of shame" right back to me and then ask for directions?  I zipped my coat up because it was chilly.  No way am I leaving the intersection now.  About 5 minutes goes by and I figured he either committed suicide because of the embarrassment or he was stuck in a snow drift. 

  Here comes old Magellan, limping along with his ass dragging between his knees.  I positioned myself so there was no way he could get around me.  I did this for my benefit as much as his.  Not only could I assist this guy in his journey as all of his gadgetry had failed him miserably, but I could get a real good look at this guys face.  (It's important to know stupid when you see it.)

Here's the beautiful part.  This guy rolls the window down and says, (like he's never, ever seen me before) "Good afternoon sir.  I am looking for this residence."  I'm smiling only to keep from laughing.  I said, "let me see" as he handed me the label off of the pizza box.  I scratched my chin and pretended to be real puzzled.  "If you go left, you'll leave the property so that isn't helpful.  You've been to both the north and south of the subdivision, so I guess you'd better head to the west." 

5 minutes later he had to drive by me at the gate.  I wanted to be out there waiting.  He had this look on his face that looked somewhere between the question "Who farted?" and the look you'd have if you got hit in the face with a tin foil cake plate.

When it was all said and done, I realized that I could view this chance encounter as 15 minutes that I'd never get back or I could take it as the true gem it was.  Being rather Zem like, I chose the gem.  I bet he isn't writing this shit on his blog.

Mosquito's.....

Here it is, the 8th of October and I haven't seen a mosquito in probably 2 weeks. Out of nowhere comes this giant ass, Boone and Crockett, world class mosquito that all other mosquitoes aspire to be!  Saying this thing was big is an understatement.  I swear I think I saw a combat team from the 82nd Airborne jump out of this thing!  The thing had a banner flying from its ass end that read, "29 years is a long damned time, Kansas City Royals.  God bless you and George Brett.".  When the damned thing landed, 5 minivans filled with soccer moms and toddlers pulled over because they thought it was a Chuck E. Cheese.  Fucking thing was big, okay?

Normally I'm  not afraid of mosquitoes.  In fact, I kind of enjoy the itch after getting bit by one.  I mean, beats the hell out of the itch you get from the crabs... not that I would know.  But, this mosquito said it was going to open up a feeding spot on the back of my shoulder with a drilling rig because a pick axe wasn't big enough!  This mosquito was so big, it probably needed an oil change every 3000 miles.  I mean, damn!  I got mad that it had invaded my air space, so when it landed I hit it with a rolled up news paper.  When it got up, it hit me back.

It was unreal.  A co-worker saw this thing and informed me that he saw it on the Discovery Channel.  Yeah, the crew from Northwestern (from the show Deadliest Catch) was floating on its back while fishing for Opilio crab.  You get me?  It was a damned big mosquito.

When the thing finally got done having its way with South Jackson, it took off like a CH-47 Chinook in a talcum powder plant.  Dirt and shit was everywhere.  Old women's hair was mussed.  Kids where crying.  The only thing I could think of was, I bet Pinedale Wyoming wishes it would have had this bastard when the Rainbow Family Gathering showed up in 2008.

The Maverik Station....

I don't know what it is about the Maverik Station, but I keep going back time and time again.  Maybe its the service?  Could be the coffee.  It might be all of the weird shit that happens to me there. 

Take today for instance.  Traditionally, Sunday's are weird for me.  Because of my work schedule, I don't get a lot of sleep on Saturday night so it's pretty important that I get properly caffeinated on my way back in to the office. 

Anyhow, I walk through the door this morning and I walk pass 2 women having a conversation near the hot chocolate machine.  I hear one woman ask, "So where about are you from in Colorado?"  The other woman says, "I'm from a little town named Meeker but my husband and I currently live in Pagosa Springs."  The first woman chimes in, "Oh, its so beautiful there.  One day I plan on touring all of Zion National Park." 

I kind of cocked my head like a dog does when he hears a high pitched noise, and I reeled around to get a look at these women.  Much to my delight, the woman from Colorado had the same look on her face.  Her brow was slightly furrowed, eyes squinting, and her head was tilted just enough that sip of coffee she just had partially ran out of one corner of her mouth.

It didn't stop there.  Before the Colorado woman could correct the other lady, the other lady said "I hear that Bryce Canyon is beautiful as well."  I turned and faced both women.  I had to listen to the rest of this conversation, but I couldn't do it where I was standing.  I'm sure I had a look on my face that screamed, "I lick car windows."  I stepped to the side and moved around the two ladies.  The Colorado woman says, "I think you are naming landmarks in Utah.  I am from Colorado."  Now the first woman has "the look".  Her brow, slightly furrowed.  Her eyes are squinting like she is staring at the sun, and the left corner of her mouth is drawn slightly up towards her nose. 

"What?" she asked.  At this point, I shot a sip of hot java through my nose and quickly reached for a couple of napkins.  Now both of these women are staring at each other.  It was perfect.  Neither knew what the fuck the other was talking about. 

When the Colorado woman broke the stare down by saying, "Anyhow....", I cracked up.  The store clerk asked me "Are you all right?''  I nodded and said that I would be in just a minute.  The first ladies husband walks past me near the front door and says, "what are you doing?".  She explained that she "just met this nice woman from Colorado" and  "they were having a nice conversation about Zion National Park".  He said, "Zion?  Zion is in Utah" and the woman got that face again.  I lost it....

Maybe it wasn't that funny, but I had never in my life been more lost in a store than I was in the Maverik station that I go to every day.

Paint ball guns....

Paint ball guns.  I never really got into them.  I don't know why, but it just wasn't my cup of tea.  But years ago, a buddy of mine spent a boat load of money on some of the gear and was trying to get me interested.  His initial investment was a lower dollar, previously owned unit that frankly couldn't send a round down range much further than 50 feet with any accuracy.

I don't know if any of you grew up with a Red Rider B.B. Gun, but they weren't that accurate either, but what you could do is learn the arc and or the wind-age and make corrections that would allow you to consistently hit a half dollar at about 20 paces.  Not this hunk of crap paint ball gun my buddy bought.  Each time you pulled the trigger, you were in for something new.  To me, it wasn't worth the aggravation.  For him it was a new hobby.

I walked out about 40 feet and had him fire a few at me.  He shot 4 times and one of the shots almost grazed my pant leg.  There was no proof, mind you.  I just gave him the benefit of the doubt.  He allowed me the same privilege, to send a few rounds his way and the gun gummed up because paint balls were falling apart in the barrel and again I assumed this thing was more of an aggravation.  Naturally, he came over and informed me that I was "doing it all wrong" and began to discuss the finer intricacies of this particular equipment.  Basically what I came away with was knowing what I already knew.  This thing was a hunk of shit.

Fast forward about 2 months.  This guy had gone out and actually purchased some good equipment.  I kind of laughed not taking him seriously.  He fired off a couple of rounds and those things were smoking out of the barrel and down range!  Me being the mental midget I am walked down range about 50 feet and let him squeeze off a few rounds at me.  I was smart enough to turn around and expose my back side to him, thankfully.  Blap! Blap! Blap!  He let 3 rounds loose and all of them found their mark.  Right ass cheek took two rounds in a spot the size of a silver dollar.  The third round was special.  It was the kind of special that is not so special... catch my drift?  It hit my right under the right ass cheek and more towards the inner thigh.  Its a part of the body that never even sees sunlight, so it felt like the thing ripped right through me.

Naturally he laughed his ass off, because he just blew my ass off!  I asked if I could fire a few at him and was promptly put off.  "Hell no, dude!  That shit hurts!".  He wasn't lying.

So, I told you that in order to tell you this.  As some of you may know, I'm a bit of a "hard learner".  I think another buddy of mine knew that when he employed me and a couple other guys to be "bad guys" for the SWAT team to practice on.

The scenario we were to be playing out was a hostage situation, so they had the negotiators there, snipers were set up and the SWAT Team had all of their goodies.  The good news was, we were armed with .40 caliber hand guns loaded with simunition rounds.  The bad news was, SWAT was armed with the same thing plus semi-auto .223's with simunition rounds.  At the time, that didn't bother me.  For a split second I remembered that I had to fill out a release form that said I was there of "my own free will" and that I "would not sue, in the event of an accident".  I reverted back to the thought that these guys were professionals I knew and I had good relationships with most of these guys.  Besides that, I had protective gear on... what could possibly go wrong?

I'll tell you would could go wrong.  Most of the protective gear didn't fit.  I looked like 10 pounds of shit stuffed into a 5 pound bag.  The chest protector left my chest on either side past the nipples exposed.  There was not a good way to actually wear the cup to protect the family jewels.  I asked for advice and was told to wear it and the jock strap on the outside of my clothes.  Bad idea.... the leg straps broke and the cup just kind of flopped around leaving little protection for said family jewels.  The gloves fit like the gloves from the O.J. Simpson trial.  They were so tight that I'd never be able to get them on, let alone be able to defend myself with the gun they gave me.  The shin guards, the helmet, eye and ear protection did fit so I felt slightly better assuming that I would be leaving that days "exercises" with at least my sight and hearing.

So there we are... the bad guys, holed up in the basement of a condemned dentist office.  It was hot as hell and we are wearing all of this protective gear, cracking jokes and awaiting further instruction.  My buddy comes down and tells us that they are getting things in place and that we would be in action before too long.  He also described the first drill as some kind of special entry and told us that he was going to send down the guy who was helping train these guys.  This particular guy was one of the leaders of the L.A. SWAT team, so he knew his shit and it was kind of a big deal to have him and his knowledge available for our little town's police force to be able to take full advantage of.  This guys name was Cervantes and he looked like a frigging SWAT team dude.

Cervantes goes on to say that when the event begins, "they may or may not employ "flash bangs" so if you hear something that sounds like a hair spray can hit the floor, don't look at it".  We all nodded, like we understood.  He then asked, "where will you all be" because he had to know, not so he could tell the SWAT team, but so he could monitor the entry and make sure they were clearing the building properly.  So one guy was going to be in a big closet, another was going to be behind a half wall in the corner of that particular room and I was going to be in the hallway.  Cervantes said, "the event will kick off in a couple of minutes, so hang tight."

We kept holding and holding.  As I mentioned, it was hot as hell and we were sweating like dogs.  There was no air circulation, so we all had out helmets tilted back trying to get some air and for some dumb reason making fun of old Cervantes....  We wait, and wait and all of a sudden I hear something that sounded like a hair spray can hit the floor.  What do I do?  Look at it and about the time I was going to say, "what in the fuck is that", the thing exploded!  I tried to run but ran face first into the wall that was right behind me.  Next thing I know, I have a cop standing above me with his foot on my throat, his rifle pointed at my face, screaming "don't move mother fucker".  I wanted to laugh because I think I was looking at the dude through the ear hole of my helmet.  I hear some shooting, some guys yelling as they clear the room, and all of a sudden I am rolled over, cuffed and being escorted out of the room.

We got outside and I was placed face first against a wall.  I asked if I could remove my helmet because it was so hot, and the guy told me "no talking" while holding his rifle on me.  I asked again and again I got the "no talking" thing, so I began to shake my helmet around in order to find some relief.  At this point, I realize that I was placed on an ant hill, and the little bastards are starting to bite.  Now, this particular cop was a guy who used to work for me in the bar business (I guess that explains his pleasant demeanor towards me).  I tried to make him aware of the ants and he kind of pushed me against the wall with his foot.  I tried again and was told to "shut up" as he was monitoring radio traffic and the likes.  He finally realized and asked if he could move me.  Permission was granted and I got to wipe about 5000 ants from my legs and groin region.  I was again placed in more ants which was an uncalled for treat and once he realized that, allowed me to stand up and go lean against the wall.  The cops finish sweeping the room, killed the other bad guys and were now being critiqued on their performance.

Cervantes was asking, "who was the lead guy" and other cop shit.  Other cops were saying what they witnessed and then they asked me, "what were you doing already on the floor?"  When I told them I had gone against direct orders to ignore the flash bang and looked directly at it, it scared the shit out of me and I tried to bolt and consequently ran smack into the wall.  The cop who had me confirmed and everyone got a good laugh.

We got to take a break between scenarios and grab a soda and a slice of pizza.  Everyone was yucking it up and having a good time and reviewing their critique.

As we set up the next scenario, we were actually going to have a real hostage!  Well, she was a cop but we got to rough her up a bit, like a bad guy might do.  (In retrospect, roughing up a female hostage might have been a dumb ass thing to do... you might pick that up in just a few minutes."  Anyhow,  Cervantes comes in and says that this scenario is going to involve the negotiators and we were to be as difficult as we could be.  For clarification, we bad guys asked if we could cuss and say whatever we wanted to the cops and Cervantes confirmed with "Fuck yes... you're bad guys so do what you think bad guys would do.".

This shit was going to be perfect!  We were going to get to run our mouths and say whatever stupid shit we could think of, demand all kinds of shit and we were told that if we saw anything like a sniper, to bust his balls....  The shit was getting better by the minute!  So us dumb ass bad guys are in this old ass building, giving each other "high fives" in preparation of the voyage we are about to embark on.

We were told to suit up with our protective gear and the shit didn't fit any better.  I still looked like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag, but to make matters worse, they send in our hostage.  We looked like the lesser known Star Wars figures, the short bus storm troopers....  Our hostage, who happened to be pretty good looking is laughing at us, which made it easier to want to rough her ass up but then it dawned on us that she could probably whip our asses.  The laughing quit when we were told, "ACTION!"  We were being coached from my friend who led the team, so we were making appearances at the different windows and doors, shouting demands.  "Get these fucking pigs out of here" my buddy Shinkle yelled!  "Go get some fucking donuts, you stupid ass pigs!" I hollered.  Of course we were giggling and goading each other.  My cop buddy was laughing at us, primarily because I think he knew that can of ass whoop that was about to be served up.

The cops negotiated us allowing them to bring us a phone, so we didn't have to yell and were told to pick it up when it rang.  So, the phone rings and the negotiator asks my buddy Shinkle if everyone's all right.  "Fuck no were not all right!" Shinkle yells into the phone.  "Were hungry, so we need some fucking pizza, we need a fast fucking car and we need you sons a bitches to clear out!".  The negotiator asks to "see the hostage" and inquires about her health.  So, I drag her to the door, shake her around and yell, "does she look all right to you, you stupid fucking pigs!".  Again, we start to giggle.  This shit was fun.  I think our hostage called us dorks, but it didn't matter.  We were handling this shit.

"Get that fucking sniper out of that fucking drift boat" Shinkle said when we caught the guy moving around in the boat.  The negotiator informed us that the guy would be gone and he wanted to be sure that we weren't going to harm the hostage.  We hung up on him, and giggled... as usual.  He called back!  Persistent little shit!  "Wheres our fucking car and our pizza, you donut eating piece of shit!" I yelled.  (More giggling and Shinkle and I are accusing the other of being the responsible party for the up coming ass kicking we were about to recieve.)  Anyhow, after about 30 minutes of pissing the cops off, our cop buddy told us to "take 5" and they were going to prepare for the take down.

Neither one of us knew what that really meant.  That was the down side.  When it was time for action, I was told to go out and release the hostage, because it had been negotiated.  I step out and see quite a few cops, quite a few guns and release the hostage with a bit of a shove.  As soon as she was clear, all hell broke loose and all I can tell you is, I got shot about 20 times in every fucking area the protective gear did not cover.  I found that you really wanted these simunition rounds to hit you square, rather than graze you.  Both of my fat handles got shredded by .223 rounds.  It was similar to razor burn.  I tried to return fire, but it was fruitless.  I may have hit one or two of them, but in reality I would have been finished.

When the smoke cleared, my ass was done.  I would have been dead or dying, but was cuffed.  I don't know what happened to Shinkle or Campbell but assumed they faced a similar fate.  I think each one of them got shot in a soft spot.... good!  But when the smoke cleared, we were all all right and the cops got some practice.  It made me realize a couple of things.  Compliance with directives isn't a bad thing... if you have a hostage, don't be a dick to cops because they will shoot you a lot more.

We went on to be "bad guys" a few more times for the SWAT team.  The safety equipment never really did fit right.  When all of this fun came to an end, my cop buddy talked me into taking a class in which I would be sprayed with pepper spray and shot with a tazer.  How could I ever resist?

Whoopsie Daisy!

When is the last time you heard a story about someone sneezing and accidentally shitting their pants?  Well, do you have a minute?

Many years ago, a buddy of mine and I embarked on what would officially be considered as my first "road trip".  We had a 4 day weekend coming up and we thought we would head to the California coast.  We both had a pretty good chunk of change and nothing for a plan, so we just headed out and decided the road would take us where we needed to be.

When we got to where we "needed to be", we realized it probably wasn't the best neighborhood for a couple of dumb white boys, but we tried to rent a room at this roach motel about 3 blocks from some beach.  We had to knock on the office door (which was behind a real sturdy iron gate/bars which reinforced an already stout gate that was made out of iron and expanded metal) in order to rent the room.  We really should have known that this place sucked because when the guy answered the door, it smelled like he was cooking old gym shorts and feral cats.  "39 dollars" he said followed by "1 bed or 2?'' in a dialect that I was not completely familiar with.  I wrinkled up my face trying to figure out what the guy had said and then he yelled, "$39 dollars, you need 1 bed or 2?"  I shook my head and said "2" and handed him $40.  "1 dollar change" he said as he slammed the door and walked away.

My buddy started laughing and said, "what did we just get into?".  The door reopens and the guy hands me a key, a dollar and a receipt that stated 'NO REFUNDS". He pointed towards the end of the driveway and said, "Park there, room is on the right."  Now were both laughing because we just rented a room from this guy and he is yelling at us like we just stole something from him.  We park where instructed, grabbed our bags and walked to the room.

How refreshing it was to notice what appeared to be fresh cat shit on the carpet.  The beds were unmade, the room smelled of a recent homicide.... we were off on a hell of a trip.  "Hell no!" my friend said and walked towards the office after dropping his bag.  I threw both bags in the back of the truck and drove to the office.  This guy was yelling at the top of his lungs... "NO REFUND! NO MATTER! GO FUCK YOURSELF!" and then slammed the door.  We went next door to the convenience store where we were about as welcome as two turds in a punch bowl, and asked the fine establishments representative if he could call the cops for us.  We explained the nature of our situation and he told us to go stand next door.

About 10 minutes later a couple of nice officers showed up.  The female officer informed us that we were "probably in an area of town that we didn't need to be in", which by now was abundantly obvious.  We explained the situation, showed them the receipt, gave them the motel room key and the male cop began to investigate.  He came back and confirmed that it was indeed fresh cat shit on the carpet but made us feel slightly better by letting us know that there was not a recent homicide in that particular room.  He approached the gate and knocked.  He was greeted in same manner we were, with the same tone of voice and everything.  He tried to bargain for us, but to no avail.  What he did do in return was turn us on to a killer chain motel in a far better neighborhood, next to a far nicer beach!  His brother in law was the night manager and he gave us a hell of a deal... again, $40 bucks for the room but we had a balcony that over looked the freeway to the right and the beach 2 blocks to the west.

The room was a suite and we settled in quickly but realized we were short about a case of beer short for the start of the trip.  Couple of problems... first off, neither of us were 21.  Secondly, not a fake I.D between us, so we had to "go fishing" for beer.  So, we went to the front desk and asked our new friend "where can we find a case of beer?".  The guy directed us around the corner so I just walked in and acted like I knew what I was doing.  I plopped a suitcase of extra cheap ass beer on the counter and reached for my wallet.  I pulled my I.D. out like I was going to hand it to the guy and he just rang us up!  SCORE!!!!  We went back to the room, drank some beer and laughed about how the night had started.

We wake up the next morning and head to the beach.  Now, home was full of freaks and circus acts but this place had home beat!  We found a diner to get something to eat and then screwed around on the beach for hours until we were sunburned to a crisp.  We'd been drinking beer all day, so the plan was more beer and maybe trying to find something for dinner.

We make it to a Mexican cafe and the food was fantastic!  Better yet, there were a ton of people about our age partying it up and we just kind of blended in.  Next thing you know, we are invited to a party at a condo right on the beach, so naturally we showed up.  All kinds of debauchery was at our disposal.  In fact, this was the first party I had been to complete with half naked girls.  That made the party a winner in my book.  Actually, I believe we discussed never leaving.

As the night progressed we got more drunk by doing beer bongs with margarita shots in them.  It kept going and going until I needed a break.  I walk out onto the beach with a beer and am officially greeted by some of this particular municipalities finest.  Pretty causal for cops really, wearing shorts and all.  They asked me what I was up too, so I confessed my sins.  "I'm fucking drunk...."  I had the where with all to know that they knew I was not old enough to be drinking.  "Where are you staying?" was the next question I knew the answer for.  "Uhm, shit.... I forget..." and I start pulling things out of my pocket.  I find a motel room key and handed it to the cop.  He tells me to do my best and find my way back to the motel as fast and safely as possible, or I'd be crashing with them.

That wasn't an invitation I was interested in, so off I went.  I got halfway there and realized I was a guy short, so I went back towards the party... just in time for it to be getting busted up by none other than my new found friends.  The nice officer I spoke to earlier looked at me like I had brain damage and I remember him saying something like, "Didn't we just meet?".  I explained I was looking for my riding partner and couldn't leave him behind.  Next thing I knew, I was cuffed and sitting on the curb.  I sat there for what seemed like 2 hours, watching everyone leave but saw no sign of my buddy.  Eventually my cop buddies walked me to the motel, explained that I had used up my "get out of jail free card", and that they didn't want to see me until the next morning.

I wake up from a nice sleep, face down in the bath tub when my buddy walks in and pukes his guts up in the sink.  The sound, the smell and the violent retching of course made me puke, being the sympathetic puker I am.  After that episode, I headed to a bed for a proper hang over nap.  I woke up about 2 hours later and we decided to go find some hang over food.  We managed to find a greasy spoon and were doing our best to try to choke something down.  Both of us were experiencing the worst hangovers of our young lives and discussing the fact that we'd both sworn off drinking for the rest of our lives.

As the kind soul that we knew as our waitress dropped off the check, my friend sneezed and promptly shit his pants... it was obvious by the dumb yet terrified look on his face.  The odor added to his nightmare.   He looked at me and said, "Now what do I do?" to which I replied, "Well, unless you can un-shit your pants.....". 

Honestly, I felt bad for the kid but I kept laughing at the thought of him trying to un-shit his pants.  I think he tried it.  He stands up and starts to make his way to the bathroom.  I damn near fell out of the booth, laughing hysterically, because it looked like he sat in someones chili surprise omelet. And the way he shuffled... it was a cross between the "walk of shame" and the "squeeky cheek shuffle"  It was too much to handle! Then the irony of him not being able to control himself and the subsequent loss of my ability to not laugh at this poor bastard was just too much.  He was in the bathroom for 10 minutes, and I used every bit of that 10 minutes to quit laughing and to try to come up with an exit strategy that would allow my buddy the opportunity to get out of there with a shred of dignity. 

As I walked towards the bathroom, I had no idea that I was going to bear witness to some real ingenuity.  I walk in and see him facing one of the two toilets, bear ass naked, washing his shitty swimming trunks in said toilet.  I took a peak into the adjoining stall and it looked like an atomic shit bomb went off.  He wrung his swimming trunks out, took his shit off and soaked it in the sink and then put the whole ensemble back on.  Without saying a word he walked out of that bathroom, straight to our waitress and said, "You have a horrible plumbing problem, one that frankly made me sick...."  She apologized profusely and gave him our money back and he hit the door as proud as he could wearing shitty swimming trunks.

I'll never forget that trip, as long as I live.  I learned so much in just 2 days.  Cheap hotels are cheap for a reason.  Don't do beer bongs with margarita shots in them, and by all means, never sneeze with a hang over after drinking beer bongs with margarita shots in them....

To this day, we don't speak of the events that took place that weekend.  We found ourselves at home with a day and a half to spare.  We only took one more road trip together and it was fishing in Utah where we could find no beer and nobody to drink beer with.  That was probably for the best.