u/YouWereWarned15

Let’s talk about Jesus. No, not that Jesus. I’m talking about Levon’s kid.

Levon, as you know, is a successful cartoon balloon salesman in a small British town. An unusual business, but a thriving one. Levon, born a pauper to a pawn, asked very little of his family. So precious little. Probably just loyalty from his kids and a little attention from his wife.

Jesus, though. Jesus is a problem. Despite all Levon does for him, despite expectations that don’t rise above blowing up balloons all day, dangling his feet off a porch swing, watching those balloons (Levon’s profit, by the way) lazily fly away? Despite that candy-ass existence Levon allows him to enjoy?

Jesus apparently wants to go to Venus. Well, shit son. That’s just great. Given comforts only known to the children of prominent cartoon balloon salesmen, and he wants to fly off to Venus?

Ungrateful. Precocious. Ill-mannered and spiteful. Jesus, Jesus.

Obviously I’ve given Levon’s plight some thought. As a dad, prone to spoiling children and caving to their every whim, I empathize.

It’s raining here. I’m in the first of many meetings. We are approximately 9 hours from beer 30.

Let’s talk about Jesus. No, not that Jesus. I’m talking about Levon’s kid.

Levon, as you know, is a successful cartoon balloon salesman in a small British town. An unusual business, but a thriving one. Levon, born a pauper to a pawn, asked very little of his family. So precious little. Probably just loyalty from his kids and a little attention from his wife.

Jesus, though. Jesus is a problem. Despite all Levon does for him, despite expectations that don’t rise above blowing up balloons all day, dangling his feet off a porch swing, watching those balloons (Levon’s profit, by the way) lazily fly away? Despite that candy-ass existence Levon allows him to enjoy?

Jesus apparently wants to go to Venus. Well, shit son. That’s just great. Given comforts only known to the children of prominent cartoon balloon salesmen, and he wants to fly off to Venus?

Ungrateful. Precocious. Ill-mannered and spiteful. Jesus, Jesus.

Obviously I’ve given Levon’s plight some thought. As a dad, prone to spoiling children and caving to their every whim, I empathize.

It’s raining here. I’m in the first of many meetings. We are approximately 9 hours from beer 30.

Flying across this incredible country the other night, this nation that gave us the likes of Alexander Graham Bell, the Roosevelts, Steinbeck, Oliver Wendell Holmes and Kathy Ireland on an SI swimsuit cover in a bright yellow bikini, I had some thoughts.

There was a three-year old boy sitting directly in front of me. Both of us in window seats. I don’t remember exactly when it started, but this devious little fella was all about peeking his head around the seat and making faces at me. Me. Quick little smirks, patronizing me. Taunting me. He wouldn’t even give me the chance to make a very practiced and, frankly highly successful, thumb to the nose, four finger wave retort. Does he know how many children I’ve made collapse in laughter with that move? Who was he to deny me? It rattled me. I gave the back of his mom’s head many rude glances. As a family, I think they learned their lesson.

I won that battle and then I got bored. My mind turned to a regular “what-if” scenario. What if the two pilots fell ill. Simultaneous issues, maybe related, maybe not. Regardless, what if they couldn’t fly? And what if there weren’t any dead-heading pilots on board, stealing exit row seats from paying customers. And what if, after frantic pleas on the intercom from the flight attendants, nobody claimed any aviation experience at all and that left all of us facing the worst kind of death…until a slightly chubby man rose from his seat and said, “I’ve got this.”

What, hear me out, what if that was me waddling confidently up the aisle toward the cockpit, turning to a row of men on my way, saying “stay seated, bitches. I’ll take it from here.”

Strapped in, awesome headphones on, manifesting nimble fingers, flicking switches, saying “check” a lot as the air traffic controller gives me instructions, a crowd behind her, silent as she looks back and says, “this guy knows his shit.”

I land the plane and people stream out, stunned. “Thank you for flying Delta,” I tell them. “Don’t forget elite members get priority seating and free luggage tags.”

Hero for the ages, right there. It could happen.

It’s 11:01 and I’m about to plant some things. It’s also beer 30.

Another airport bar with more stories to report.

I just lifted a glass of beer to my greedy mouth, and as I did the workout app on my watch said, “Congrats, you’re almost there.” Damn right I am.

I actually used “fumble fuck” in conversation today and damn it felt good. Not sure how it was received since the tone was less than kind.

Hootie and his Blowfish are playing in this bar. Not in person. It’s an airport. On the speakers. Man, that’s some garbage right there brother.

Boarding in 35 minutes. Beer 30 cubed, commencing.

First of all, Happy Mother’s Day to those who celebrate it and that doesn’t include the lady at Home Depot yesterday who said, “I’ll let you call me mommy” when I complimented her on her floral frock.

Got to the airport at 7 for a 9am flight that was canceled the moment I got to the very precipice of security. Options: spend all day in the airport and fly out at 4, two connections and an arrival time of 1am…or go home, work in the yard, torment my children, and declare beer 30 at 1030 CST.

I chose the latter. Speaking of asinine behavior, Sirius has a classic rock top 1000. Tuesday’s Gone is #784. Seven. Eighty. Four. You’re telling me there are 783 better songs than that? Siriusly? That was funny.

12 minutes to go.

Ok. Real quick. I’m currently watering some horticultural majesty. On beer #7. Filthy. Cargo shorts drooping. Got the ear buds/air pods in and singing Chicago’s “Searching” loudly. What a shit show. Listen to that song and then consider blocking me. I’ll understand. Great song…but I’m singing it loudly. Wow.

Remember when I ate that breakfast burrito in an airport and I used a fork and a lot of you picked on me? I do. I laid myself bare that day and some of you capitalized on my vulnerability for the sake of cheap laughs.

Not today. Nope. I just ate some kick-ass chorizo eggs. Did I discard the utensils as some of you would have preferred? I did not. I just ordered something I wouldn’t wear for two flights.

Speaking of utensils, I’m curious about something. If you eat at a Chinese restaurant and you have the option to use a fork, but you choose chop sticks? I’m judging you. You and I both know that chop sticks are the semi-colons of dining devices. You don’t know how to use them but you want to look all cosmopolitan and shit so there you are…fumble fucking two pieces of wood when there is a fork right there, mocking you. We all make choices.

Oh and then there’s this. If you end up staying at a casino hotel for a work conference and you wake up at 4am because of the time change and you stare at the ceiling wondering what horrors would appear if you had a black light? You probably want some coffee. So you stumble around the room looking for the coffee maker. No luck. You call the front desk and ask where the coffee maker is. They might tell you, as they told me, that I don’t qualify for a coffee maker because I’m not an “elite member” of the casino.

Cool. So where do I get coffee if you vice enabling sons of bitches won’t allow me to make some in my room? Starbucks is open at 6, the lady says. But I want coffee now, I say. Then drag your ass through the casino to the coffee machine in the back, she says.

So off I go. A trek for coffee. In my pj bottoms, flippety floppeties and a Def Leppard t shirt. Through the casino. Guess what? I was the best dressed person there. It was 4:37 am and I was walking amongst the absolute varsity of what our country has to offer. Sad, sullen clowns pulling levers, over and over. Remember the lady with the food in her hair at the DMV? Hundreds of her. Depressing. I got my coffee and it wasn’t half bad.

Now I’m at the airport and it’s 9:06am. Know what time it is at any time of day in an airport?

Beer thirty.

Because I’m 57, I woke up this morning with unexplained pain in my right wrist. Most likely a lingering golf injury that, because I’m a guy, I have not had examined by a—you know—doctor.

So it hurt this morning. Yet, because I’m an adult and not a man-child with a manicured beard coiffed specifically for the spontaneous pictures of myself gazing longingly at the open road from behind the wheel of my Prius—I shaved.

I shaved with my left hand and you’d think I was trying to play a reed instrument with no lessons. The angles, finger placement, mirror-induced confusion…ridiculous. I did it but wow.

Then work was just painful. Here’s the deal with me and if you work for me. I’m going to give you the cheat code. Do exactly what I tell you to do. I promise you, it will work for us both. If you have a better way to do it, I’m listening. I’m all about process improvement. But don’t ignore it and hope I’ll forget. I won’t and it makes me cranky.

I’m gonna check the hostas. That usually perks me up. Plus, it’s beer thirty and I’m a right-handed drinker.

So me in my truck that someone in a previous life said was my mid-life crisis but in all reality, her BMW was, just outran a twister. Eat shit, Mother Nature. You’re not the boss of me.

But that’s not what I came here to talk about. Oh no. Not today. Today this is directed to the flat-brimmed hat wearing fella behind me (before the tornado) who felt the need to honk when I didn’t hurdle off the line when the light turned green.

Here’s the deal, fucko. You honk at me and your life just got a great deal slower. I am a cautious and casual accelerator at a light. And if I’m finding Yacht Rock or imagining hitting a perfect wedge from 95 out? Yeah, I may be a little late out of the blocks.

But don’t honk. It’s rude. Frankly, it’s crude. And all it does, and did today, was make me stay right where I was. Through the green, into the yellow, until the very last second. See what you did? Do you? You did that. Not me.

Whom, whom I ask, is worthy of such honk…

…wait. I just said “whom.” I despise the term. I said it so I could say this. Much like the Oxford comma, we kicked England’s ass, Mel Gibson did for god’s sake, so we wouldn’t be required to say whom. John Adams wrote in his memoirs that those who say “whom” probably say “thusly” and inevitably some shit like “heretofore” will follow and Americans don’t talk like that, son.

Anyway, the tornado was a nuisance.

And it’s beer thirty.

Very few men here or anywhere would have correctly hyphenated the phrase in the title. I’m asking, no I’m demanding, your appreciation of that.

High wind alert! Ok. Wait. I’m not a fan of exclamation points in written communication. Forget I did that. Yes, I believe men shouldn’t use them. But…the winds are picking up (ellipsis/hypocrite alert) and I just scrambled around to get my hanging plants down.

Speaking of high winds, how do you explain to a pre-teen how one of the world’s most famous bands only has 7 arms? And then, immediately after, try and explain why an astronaut’s job in space is only five days a week, and THEN what kind of school serves meat and pudding for a mid-day snack? These are the challenges you face when introducing spawn to classic rock.

As I may have mentioned, we’ve got weather brewing. Speaking of brewing, it’s beer thirty.

Good god. Three posts in one day but seriously people keep pushing my buttons.

On Facebook, somebody said the song “Cool Change” isn’t Yacht Rock. They said it’s not “smooth enough.”

Motherfucker. Keep your hands and your misguided, shallow opinions away from Little River Band.

Oh, and to the person who said I’m misrepresenting myself for posting here without obviously seeking a relationship? Deal with it. I like putting my thoughts here because (a) I like to make people laugh and (2) I like those people to be those I understand. My age and my lot in life. So…suck it, but not really.

Back to Yacht Rock.

It’s rare that I post twice in one day. But you all needed to know this. It’s critical.

I just figured out, as I water plants in my front yard—7 PBRs in—that I sound EXACTLY like Sting as I sing along with AirPods in. That’s why people are walking by and smiling.

They’re like, “shit…he sounds JUST like Sting.”

Hell yes.

Enjoy your afternoons.

Two of my favorite things are on the docket today. I plan to work in my yard and make my offspring feel guilty for not sharing my work ethic. Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be cruel about it. I’ll show my scorn via indirect references, raised eyebrows and passive aggressive statements…things I learned from her mother.

Speaking of lawns, if you’re a man—and I mean an able bodied man, capable of manual labor—what goes through your mind when another man is mowing your lawn? I’ll bet you wear fancy clothes.

On that note, if my favorite baseball team loses again today I fully intend to throw a child-like tantrum. I’m not proud of it. But the stress is building.

Finally, and related to the situations above, I’m starving. I’m thinking an omelette. 2 hours, 15 minutes until it’s beer thirty.

Current situation: cargo shorts, unlaced boots, socks pulled up. Yacht Rock blaring. Cheap American beer close by. Planting things I bought with zero research. No I’ve not “tested the soil” and no I haven’t “looked to see if they’re annuals or perennials”. Oooh, Steely Dan. Nice.