It Burns When I Christmas

It's the holiday letter time of the year, so lets go green and blog that cheer.

Someone shot the dog? Nope.
The "truth" about Santa? Wrong again.
Mom and Sis went into the store and she was told to stay within.

Chloe is sad, but that comes and goes.
Ariel is giant and grows and grows and grows.
Ain't it happy holidays when fits are what they throw.
Here's to many years of agony, shouted forward, from the back row.

Requiem for a Queen

  I started off the day posting an old story I wrote on my blog, I told myself what a good blogger I was and left it at that. Then I read the news this morning, and now I’m reminded to put a little more effort into things. My first boss got fired, but who cares about jobs when it’s life someone no longer works for. A good woman is gone, a beautiful family is torn asunder and a stolen truck is to blame. There is little sense in such moments save the memories that remain.

  The first time I met JoEllen Abbot I was sneaking plastic ninja swords past her and her mother with her younger brother Jason. It might sound stupid until you realize we were sneaking roughly a hundred of them into his room. The reasons for such an expenditure are childlike and capricious, Jason’s mother was neither as she upended him for blowing a good chunk of money at the arcade in such an insane manner. Shortly afterwards JoEllen gave me my first really real job as a fry cook at Sonic.

  In that way JoEllen was my boss, in an entirely different way she served as a mentor/coach/somewhat big sister. JoEllen was a “theater kid” as was her brother which explains the three way link. After graduation she paid it forward by volunteering as the assistant coach of Pablo Evans forensics squad for a few years. She kept us safe on the road and out of trouble in distant lands, she told Pablo to let me do “radio speaking” because she figured it was an easy shot for me to go to state with the other kids my first year, she gave me a stupid little script called “Nicky the Bionic Bunny” that taught me to love playing pretend and she’s the one that told me I’d be good at making silly voices.

  She’s one of the ones that taught me how to really laugh. She’s one of the one’s who showed me there’s a world to take outside the world you’ve been given.

  All the things I listed are the things she did for others, she had a beautiful world of her own but chose to repeatedly step outside it for "us". Stepping outside is probably why she was where she was that day, she died a Teacher for the Saint Joseph School District, doing for yours until her very last day. She lived as an example to others reminding you to do the same.

 Today we have a world that is easier and easier to compartmentalize and segregate, she let a dirty little urchin hang out with her brother and decided to give of herself with no reward and make that little urchin a bit better for it. She gave her adult life to strangers and their children and her passing is momentous because there is now one less person in this world who is willing to give those things. I thank her for giving them to me, but I thank her a few days too late.

  History is written by the victors, JoEllen Abbot is/was/will always be a winner. This is her chapter from The Book of Greatest Women Who Ever Lived.

Cut and Run

Originally written in June of 2008 but check the end of the story for the present tense relevant addendum:

  Every so often I come across the brand of problem that I am unable to resolve within my own mind. Normally this is some trivial issue such as figuring out how to get my Wii to recognize the third and fourth controllers so I don't have to keep going through the reconnect controller garbage every time I want to have Mario Kart proper. But oh so often I hit a hiccup in the system…and I need a Heimlich to get the trouble out. I warn all before they go further this is both an absurd…and somewhat personal dilemma that could well fall into the T.M.I section of File 14…so when you keep reading don't hit me with any of that "I didn't need to know" crap.

  Shortly after the birth of my second child I looked out at the landscape of my rented home and saw the havoc wreaked by multiple kids. I then looked online at my bank account and saw similar devastation consuming my financial kingdom. In the spirit of these factors (and against the fact that I never get any anyway) I decided it best to tear asunder the passageways that have led to the children I so adore…in short I got a vasectomy.

  Now before the male audience cringes, grabs their tenders and says something caveman or redneck along the lines of 'nobody's touchin' my junk' I remind the fathers in the forum of what the mothers go through, and for all who are without I child I steer you towards YouTube where a plethora of birthing videos can be found. In addition I then encourage you to read all about tubal ligation which is what the female has to go through to cease reproduction and realize the brutal and much more dangerous option that it is. In short, be a man and cut dem' nutz, you'll be saving her a world of hurt and unnecessary recover time, as well as making damn sure it isn't yours the next time there's a scare.

  Still on the saddle? Good, I'll get to my issue in a moment but I'm sure everyone is wondering how my own little hop-along with the nutcracker went so we'll hit a recap on the quickness.

  Step one involved me watching an informational video tape, note the format used and realize that this was most likely produced by the crack team behind those 'scare your parents silly' after school specials in the early '80s.  And yes, I asked if I could keep the video or have a copy, they told me it was their only one. The video itself was the sort of classic cinema you just can't get anymore, I mean sure, it's fun to laugh at Reefer Madness and that Fast Johnny knocks a chick up flick but nothing can compare to this masterpiece.

  We open things up with a bunch of guys working on a construction site, lots of hammers and men being men sort of action shots. Take a slow zoom in on two guys working when Worker A notices the informational flyer in Worker B's pocket. This of course cues him to make fun of Worker B for getting an operation that will make him less of a man, he drives this point home by summoning their boss (a clearly union guy) and telling the man in charge that there will soon be one less man on the job because Worker B is getting "a sex change"

  Quick like a ninja Worker B then goes into a canned spiel about the benefits of a vasectomy, the bulk idea of which you can enjoy in my earlier diatribe endorsing the operation.

  Upon getting the operation we are then treated to a series of shots showing aftercare of the region…suffice it to say Worker B wasn't cast for his Shakespearean chops…rather his Ron Jeremy parts…I haven't felt this inadequate while watching a film since Cruel Intentions when I realized I would never be a good kisser…long story…for a different time.

  So this guy with a construction job, giant dick and more body hair than a sasquatch is all healed up and we're treated to scenes from his triumphant return….to the amusement park…yes that right after all this he takes the wife and kids out to an amusement park where he wins a pie eating contest and we fade to black as his wife hugs, kisses and wipes the pie of his face…there's so many levels of subtext there that I'm still processing it all and the viewing session was four months ago.

  A few days later I showed up and an elderly nurse told me to 'go empty my bladder', safe to say the thought of what's to come had already handled that duty. At this point the nice old lady proceeded to slap my junk around like a hooker on collection day, she then put something around The Unit as a whole and left me lying on a cot staring up at the ceiling with Captain Funshine and the Band wilted and worried, exposed for the world to see.

  At this point a small, yet well built man of middle age and Middle Eastern descent entered the room. He immediately remarked in a thick accent that someone had turned the air down really low in the room and that 'he wouldn't have to worry about anything getting in the way of his work' because of it…and they say terrorists aren't funny….

  He was about as gentle as the lady before him and getting a needle rammed into your scrotum is certainly a unique experience that words can do no justice, at this point he noticed I have a KC Royals hat…he then proceeded to talk about the dire nature of my beloved franchise while opening up my sack so he could remove parts of my testicles…in short it was everything being a Royals fan is meant to be…

  In fairness to the experience though the whole thing did slightly resemble that last scene of Braveheart where they're trying to extract a confession from Mel Gibson with torture. I noticed this while gazing at the reflection from a garbage can as he was busily cutting and pulling parts out with an exaggerated motion. Never one to lose out on a moment I did manage to put forth a feeble attempt at roaring "FREEEEEEDOM!!!" He asked me what I was talking about but I couldn't put an explanation together as he removed a largish part at the same time and there wasn't enough pain killer injected into the Robins Nest to live in the moment any longer….but still…I got a chuckle out of it in my heart of hearts and you should to.

  After some more snips and such he got out what resembled a soldering iron and cauterized the severed tubes, another first as I'd never smelt cooked human before...imagine burnt hair with a sweet after scent…Humiliated, cut and burnt I was ready to head home.

  One quick disclaimer about the whole ordeal, they said mild discomfort afterwards….mild discomfort my ass…I finally managed to pass out an hour later while watching Charmed…nuts cut and I'm watching Charmed…at this point I'm starting to wonder if my actual manhood HAD been removed…also don't take a bath for the next two weeks…showers only…trust me, revisiting pain street five days later wasn't any more fun than the first time I went around the block...and the 'mild' throbbing was like an asshole houseguest for close to two weeks after the fact.

  Still, men should get vasectomies and women should avoid the trauma of getting their tubes tied...deal with it...I did....

  And now we've come to the issue, it's been a few months and I've faithfully "drained regularly" as he called it (f-you, it's not like I can go get an assistant to handle the job). Now I've got this little plastic cup that I'm supposed to fill up at home and bring in to make sure I'm no longer carrying the dreaded hand grenades of fertility within my green zone…but I can't do it….

  Not the draining, I can handle that…after years of marriage and an adolescence filled with video games and comic books I'm somewhat of an expert…I can play that instrument like Guitar Hero on crack...and not the filling, I'm a good little fireman…I can hit my mark like Tom Berringer in a method acting class..

  The problem is I can't fill a cup up with semen and then head out for a jolly little jaunt through town. I need some Jedi like advice on how to get over this mental hurdle, and save the "put it in a brown bag' line of ideas…I'm contemplated them all and the simple fact is no matter the container, or the container carrying the container, I can't bring myself to go for a stroll with a load of the good stuff on me instead of in me…it just doesn't seem right...

  First of all I have to call in ahead of time and alert them that I'm bringing in a 'specimen' which they'll all know is a load I just blew into a small plastic receptacle.  At which point I'll stroll in and hand it over to the hot enough nurse who will give me a look like she knows what I just did and then at some point look at the cup and judge me inadequate. Enjoy this one thing ladies…you'll never have inadequacy issues surrounding projectile fluids that your body emits under extreme duress…

  Sure, maybe you worry over breast size but we fret over penis length even more and at least you don't have to worry about what comes out of the boobs until breastfeeding…semen fears can consume a man for the entirety of his days.

  Furthermore it just…it's just wrong…what if I run into someone on the way there and they want to talk…How can I not just run screaming in the other direction because I'm carrying a cup of what under any other circumstances would be a felony to dance about the town with?  Let's say I pass by a group of kids…does that automatically make me a sex offender…no…but I'd feel like one all the same…however this must be done so they can guarantee that I'm in the clear…and on the off chance that I ever get to lance another Panty Hamster with the Incredible Shrinking Man again I'd like to know that my daughters mean the world to me, are the world to me and that my world won't be getting any Columbus era expansion plans.

  So how does one conquer the fear of perversion? I thought I had solved this riddle long ago…however it would seem my cup runneth over…and I'm out of ideas.

Addendum: This was previously written and submitted material (MySpace Era!), but provided my wife keeps up this whole "being late" thing the story you just devoured will be even more hilarious as it portends and encompasses the most pointless endeavor I have apparently ever undertaken....I'm gonna name him Lazarus.