Sometimes you have to let your inner stupid out. Other times you need a good smack to the forehead, lodging him deep, deep inside. That’s what I’m wrestling with as the little voice in my head keeps imploring me to let my inner stupid free. Do I listen? Do I? Ahhh! It’s all thanks to a colleague. He approached me at a work picnic and asked if I wanted to partake in something life changing. Something liberating. Something I would never forget. I thought he was referring to the hand-made potato chips on the buffet line, but apparently I don’t think “big” enough. “A Tough Mudder!” he said. I gasped. And recoiled. “Keep your voice down!” I snapped at him. “My wife might be around. She hears us talking like this and WE’RE mud.” But the inner stupid in me whispered: “Now … keep talking.” A Tough Mudder. Ever heard of it? It’s an endurance race with military-style obstacles. They’ve become popular in recent years because the average IQ is dropping precipitously. I blame reality TV. The organization that puts these events on around the world bills them like this: a “hardcore 10-12 mile obstacle race — mud run events designed by British Special Forces to challenge the toughest of the tough.” Requirements? Inner stupid. I was intrigued. No idea why. Because I’m not tough, and I don’t like mud. Frankly, it sounds like a horrible idea. It has obstacles called “Fire in the Hole” — where you slide through […]

And now the day in which we give many thanks to moms everywhere. (And try to do something nice, like make a huge Mother’s Day mess in the kitchen that mom will feel obligated to clean up — she knows her family is a bunch of incompetent boobs.) Happy Mother’s Day! You deserve it! You really do, moms. You never get the credit you deserve. For taking on the challenge. Shoot, you would have been better off signing up for a polar exploration or a trip to Mars. It would be easier. Less physically demanding. And at some point the mission would end. There’s no retirement in motherhood! You took the job anyway. Thanks. But one day to celebrate you?!? Pshaw! It should be a week. A celebration of the stages of motherhood: Day 1 – For all you bore, lugging us around in the womb. A parasitic bowling ball. That’s what we were. We know it. But did you complain? Never to our faces. You did it with grace. Didn’t charge us rent. Acted like it was the most wonderful thing in the world. Day 2 – For giving birth to us. The “exit strategy” for bringing a child into the world reads like a horror movie. Doesn’t matter how you spin it. Shoot, I got a giant gumball stuck in my mouth once and just about gave up on life. But you went through with it. You got us out, and many of you still carry the physical […]

At 41, I’ve decided it’s finally time to start listening to my mother. At least on some things. Like Little Joe. Her cat. Little Joe threw his knee out. How he did this, no one knows. In fact, no one even knew cats had knees until this. My mother worried the vet would think she did something to him. Because how else can you explain a cat whose knee started popping out of socket. But take one look at Little Joe and you realize if any cat can do it, he can. He’s pure mischief. His coat is midnight black — like a bandit. You picture him with jewel thieves in exotic cities pulling off million-dollar heists. As they bask in their riches, they would always toast, “Here’s to Little Joe!” He has yellow eyes. He slinks about low to the ground. Like a panther. Or a snake! I think he knows how to do card tricks. I think he’s the one responsible for pickpocketing downtown. For global warming. For that wily computer virus that steals credit card info. Oh, and my mother reports he’s not using the litter pan anymore. He’s peeing on her favorite chair! That Little Joe. Who knows how he got injured. He climbs up on roofs and leaps off like he’s base-jumping. Without a parachute! He’s lucky to have knees at all. So he’s been housebound. Under strict doctor’s orders. Keep that miscreant inside. Make him rest. See if his knee heals up on its […]

This is college. The end of the semester. Down to the final two weeks. Before summer sets in. Re-charge time. But for now — these last couple weeks — it’s mayhem. All hands on deck. Jostling and bumping and frantic paper writing and frantic paper grading. Student. Teacher. It doesn’t matter. It always reminds me of the inside of that tornado in “The Wizard of Oz.” Swirling. Cows flying. Bits of debris and wicked witches on broomsticks. If you look carefully at that scene, there’s a college student racing to turn in a final exam. Look carefully. When you work on a college campus, this time of year always takes you back. It was when you realized that the old cliché, “It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon,” was complete bunk. Because that was true three months ago, when there was an entire semester ahead of you. When you should have listened to old clichés. But with two weeks to go, it WAS a sprint! A 26.2-mile sprint! How often I hear someone say, “I have to write 15 papers, do 17 presentations, take 11 final exams, complete a portfolio that encapsulates my entire college career, find dark matter in the universe … and I have 20 minutes to do it. So … anyone for coffee?” Remember those days? And you always managed. Somehow we got it done. College students have the ability to bend the space-time continuum. To defy physics in an eternal quest for that miraculous Hail Mary. […]

Dear Technology, I am beginning to despise you. And everyone else does, too. Please don’t take it personally. It’s just you’re making us crazy. We really want to be friends — to get along and have picnics together. But you don’t make it easy. You’re always ringing and buzzing in our pockets. Crying out for attention. Take your “email,” for example. Who are you fooling? The “e” doesn’t stand for “electronic.” It stands for “egad.” Because that’s the reaction I have whenever I realize there are 472 new messages in my inbox. It’s only been 12 minutes since I deleted the last 472! Do you know that makes me wet my pants. I panic. I rush to my computer. I know something incredibly valuable awaits me. A message from the lottery about my millions … even though I don’t play the lottery. An invitation to join arctic explorers on a secret mission. A message from the president about an idea to solve world hunger using spare ketchup packets from fast food restaurants. Something good, right? But there’s nothing but junk. Explain that to me? Or this one: My house is “wireless,” right? So why does it have more wires than ever before? I had to have my phone lines upgraded for a new service that everyone in my area is being upgraded to. When the technician arrived he asked why he was there. “Why? Because your company said we had to wait here between 9 and noon so you could […]

My wife the pre-school teacher gets asked all kinds of questions. But I loved this one: “Where do all the superheroes live?” She didn’t know how to respond. I think it struck her as slightly ridiculous. “Little boys and their superheroes. Goodness me!” Yeah, I thought to myself as she told me, where do all the superheroes live? Great question little kid. Don’t you just love the mind of a child that age? That it’s so simple and unburdened by the problems of, say, a second grader: What am I going to wear today? Should I use this color of red Crayon or that color of red Crayon? Or my problems, which usually involve a bill, or a work project, or why I pressure washed the back deck before the oak trees finished dropping 17 tons of yellow mash. (I mean, what was I thinking!?!) Talk about not a care in the world. I so wanted to answer that question: “Well, a couple live out by the interstate, near the outlet mall. One’s on the island, in a cave, powered by … nuclear-powered … bat guano …” (My superhero stories are not very elaborate or good.) But it got me thinking like a grownup kid: Where DO all the superheroes live? Do they meet for coffee on Saturdays to compare stories and bat around ideas? “You know, these new corrective lenses not only help my nearsightedness, but also focus my eye lasers when I’m cutting through steel.” Do they do […]

Is my will to get the kid to bed greater than the kid’s will to stay out of bed? That’s the age-old question, isn’t it? Question? Ha! Wrestling match. I was wrestling with it the other night. My wife was out, and I was on bedtime duty. Failing! “Please go start getting ready for bed so when your mother comes home she doesn’t think I’m an incompetent swallowtail buffoon.” I said this after I told my daughter to turn off the TV. At least twice. Maybe 15 times. “Fine,” she said. Not angry. Just resigned. She clicked it off. I was impressed. I’m a dad with superpowers. Kid just listened to me! I’m a commanding presence. Should have been a general with tanks and troops. Then she followed me upstairs … Huh? “Child, what are you doing!?!” I asked. “Following you upstairs,” was the answer. Ask a stupid question … “No, no. See, WHY are you following me upstairs? I asked you to go get ready for bed … downstairs … where YOUR stuff is.” But I made a tactical error: I asked it as we kept walking … up the stairs. When we reached the top she answered: “I don’t know.” I’m a swallow-tail buffoon! “Go downstairs and get ready before your mother comes home and decides to auction us off on eBay!” “Fine,” she said. Matter-of-fact. She marched off. Down the stairs. I’m not incompetent. It just takes a little time to get my message across. Get this […]