Posts Tagged With: humor

A Birthday Tribute from Uncle Boy…

“Where is everyone?” The house was unusually quiet on the morning of the 24th. No one had come to my room to make sure that I had pulled myself out of bed which, amazingly, I had done all by myself without someone having to flip on my lights, pound on my headboard, or sing an annoying little song. It was about 6:45am and the house was all quiet, so being a carefree 9th grader I thought nothing of it and just got dressed happy that I didn’t have to fight for the one bathroom in the house.

All dressed, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and was off to catch the bus which, if I didn’t hurry up, would be leaving me behind in a cloud of exhaust. The last room in the house that I passed in the morning belonged to my sisters and upon passing the room I noticed that’s where everyone was. For some reason everyone was congregated there crowded around the bed of the younger of my two older sisters. Because I am my father’s child and developed an uncanny sense of worry I immediately asked, “What’s wrong with her?” Continue reading

Categories: College Years, Family, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Things I Learn From Ric Flair – The Lent Edition

It happens to every writer. That period where you sit down to write, place your fingers on the keyboard and the words just won’t come to you. Try as you might and as long as you sit you are unable to muster even one creative thought to share. When these times come you have to find a muse of some sort to break down the wall, it may be a personal story, it may be message from a sermon you heard at church; what’s my muse? Ric Flair.

That’s right, the Nature Boy. The most charismatic wrestler that the world has ever known serves as  a point of inspiration for my writing. Because of this, I have made an executive decision as the owner of The Mind of the Last Atlanta Native, Inc. to dedicate every Friday blog to things I learned from Ric Flair. So without further ado, I give you the Lent edition of “Things I Learned From Slick Ric.” We’ll see you after this short 2 minute video…

Thank you Ric! Much oblige, sir.

Ric Flair, in his insanity, has taught us a valuable lesson here pertaining to our current sacrificial season of Lent, where many among us fast or abstain from something that proves itself detrimental to our relationship with God or a healthy way of life. I’ve heard many people in recent past that have chosen to take part in fasting this season talk about how hard it has been; and it is. To give up something that you love, that you’ve acquired, that you’ve come to do every day, that you crave, is a very hard thing. However, I think what makes it harder for some folk is that their focus is on the thing that’s missing rather than the thing that is to gain in their sacrifice.

Since I was a little boy Ric Flair has been a self centered, jet flyin’, limousine ridin’, wheelin’ and dealin’ son of a gun (by his own admission). Ric has had cars, Ric has had girls, Ric has had custom made suits, alligator shoes, and Ric has had money, lots of money; and based on how much he always talked about these things he enjoyed all of this an awful lot. However it comes a time in all of our lives when we have to sacrifice the things we like for the greater good, isn’t that right, Ric? You see, there are things that we have to give up in order to gain a better way of life, a better environment, and a higher mindset. Sacrifice, and the internal pains that it causes, are necessary if we ever want to enjoy the life on the next level. Because of this, we have to give up the things that hold us onto this level and in those surrenders is the key to our admission to the next level. We have to be willing to forfeit all that we think we are and stand naked before the world in a show of our readiness to move beyond our current station and take our rightful place in a higher calling, right Ric? So I ask you?

What is that Perry Ellis sweater you are throwing to the ground? An addiction to Facebook?

What is that Italian custom made suit that you are giving up? Is it a habit? A fast food joint?

What is that gold Rolex that you are willfully submitting? Is it the “horizontal dance of love”?

What is your Gucci shoe that you’re firing into the crowd? Limiting your TV time?

What are those slacks that you will discard as if nothing? An unhealthy relationship or eating habit?

Whatever it is, do not focus on that thing that you now miss, rather, focus on the higher calling that awaits you on the other end of your season of sacrifice, whether it be it a better understanding of God and his will for your life, or the 3 month Presidency of a Professional Wrestling organization. And when the devil comes to tempt you with all of the things that you think you’re missing, just call him a “jackass” and drop an elbow on him in the center of the ring.

Ain’t that right, Ric? WOOOOOOOOOO! lol

~thanks for reading! 🙂

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Categories: Humor, Lessons from Ric Flair, So Incredibly Random, Sports | Tags: , , , , | 9 Comments

The Shallow End of the Pool

Hey all! It’s not unlike me to let women in on a few secrets about us men. I figure the more you know about us the better off this Mars vs. Venus relationship thing will work out between the two sexes. Now its not that women have to know any secrets because, fact is, you guys hold just about all the cards and all the power if you know how to wield it. But still, sometimes you guys need a little bit of help along the way so here I am to let you in on a little something that you may or may not know.

Men, at our core, are shallow, crass, and liars for sport that love breasts and booties and don’t mind looking at either of them openly. There I said it. You knew this right? 90% of you did and probably were nodding your heads in agreement with every description I rattled off up there, right? Well here’s something else that you probably don’t know, and if you do know it then you’re not prone to openly admit it…Women are ten times worse at all of that save the love of breasts (dependent on if she plays for both teams – yeah, I said it). The only other difference is the vagina and the woman’s ability to lie more effectively.

When I was in college my sister had this champagne colored convertible BMW 325i. It was awesome; premium sound system, leather seats, power everything and usually during homecoming she would let me borrow it to roll around campus in. We would switch out cars and for a week she would drive my little blue Ford Escort and I’d have the convertible, and more attention than I would have all semester. Two stories in particular…

I was going to the post office one morning, top down-music up, and this gorgeous, I mean GORGEOUS woman pulled up next to me. Guessing she was about 25 or so, long jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail, shades, tank top, nice even brown complexion, she blows her horn twice to get my attention and then gives me the two fingered police wave into the parking lot at the mall and smiles. I’m 19 so I’m already excited, smile back and hit the blinker to make the right turn. She steps out of the car and displays long legs in some short white shorts and walks over to the car. I can’t remember her name now but she introduced herself, removed her shades to reveal stunning light brown eyes (not contacts, I looked for the rim around her iris), said that I was cute and that I had a nice car. Now remember I’m 19 and a sophomore in college home for the weekend and still pretty stupid when it comes to women. I thanked her for the comment and told her that the car wasn’t mine; her face dropped a little, noticing that I tried to fix it by lying, “It’s me and my sister’s car, we share it” which wasn’t a total lie but since I wasn’t paying any of the note it was a lie. She still asked for my number, I gave it to her and she actually called once, my mother answered the phone and when she handed me the phone she said, “Hmmm, some woman on the phone for you” without covering the mouthpiece. I never heard from her again after that conversation.

I brought the car back to campus in Statesboro, GA for Homecoming that next weekend. I played it right; I didn’t even go in any of the parties, just parked it out front – top down, music up – and sat on the hood with a few of my friends. 15 minutes later this pretty girl walks up, smiles and cuts right to the chase, “Ooh, can I sit in your BMW?” I hit the unlock button on the keychain and granted her entry. She settled into the soft leather seat while OutKast blared on the speakers, I sat down in the driver’s seat next to her and we made small talk. We were in a psychology class together I think, she lived in Winburn Hall which might have been problematic because a girl that I was digging on at that time lived in Winburn. But we wouldn’t get that far because…

“You got a girl?”

“Me? A girlfriend, nah. I’m chillin’.

“Really? Whose shoes are those in the back seat?”

Behind the drivers seat was a pair of high heel shoes that belonged to my sister. Dammit, why do women keep shoes in the car!? Time for spin control.

“Those are my sister’s shoes.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah, she was in the car and left them…” – as if that wasn’t bad enough here I go again with this – “we share the car from time to time and I have it now.”

Conveniently one of her girls walked by to go in the club and she had to go. I did get her number but she didn’t answer when I called.

Moral of the story is: Just lie and say the car belongs to you and stick with it!


Those two episodes planted the seeds though. As I got older and bought my own convertible as a graduation present to myself after college I learned that as shallow as I was, women rivaled that and I knew immediately that it was going to take more than  being a gentleman to get a pretty girl’s attention.

I took myself out to dinner the other night and nearby was a table of 4 women who were talking about men of course, in particular, about the fact that they were tired of men showing off what they had to get their attention. They went in with the “I don’t care what he has” and the “I ain’t impressed with his car” and the “show me what kind of man you are, material don’t matter” to which I nearly choked on my grilled chicken and baked potato. Now, these four dear women may very well have been the exceptions to the rule though I highly doubt it, bless their mega Coach bag toting hearts, but what they failed to understand is that men have been conditioned; every man has a “BMW story” that made him believe that what he amassed meant more than what he was composed of. A man can speak properly, open doors for you, be saved/sanctified/filled with the Holy Ghost but if he makes $10/hour and has two roommates he ain’t getting your attention, I don’t care how much you’re frowning and shaking your head “no” right now. And even if dude has a nice place it has to be REALLY nice, why? Because we remember that you like really nice stuff, nice stuff makes you happy, nice stuff turns you on, and if we ain’t got it, the next man does and you’ll go find it.

Because we know this, because we know that you’re just as shallow as we are we try to amass ridiculous stuff like cars and jewelry, etc. We learn to talk fast about what we do have and lie about the rest (which is counterproductive because women lie better and can see through it) and basically become human peacocks strutting around with all the stuff that we think you want to see ONLY to get your attention. We keep playing the mental film of our “BMW story” and put flash ahead of substance in order to simply gain women’s affections. I guess women do this too, or else there wouldn’t be a need for push up bras, huh?

So all that to say this, it’s your fault, ladies. You are all responsible for our obnoxious side, for the quick talker, for the gold teeth, for the chains, for the gentleman that you’ll meet tonight that spent his light bill money on his gear for the club, for the man on Saturday that you’ll see polishing his car for hours on end, for the guy that you’ll meet at the Super Bowl party Sunday that talks incessantly about what he has and how much he paid for it. For, you see, he has been conditioned by some woman that planted the seed that he needed stuff to get stuff and if you don’t have stuff then, frankly, go stuff yourself. So don’t be mad or shake your head at him when you see him strutting by, be mad at yourself…or that shallow woman sitting next to you. And if that woman next to you has jet black hair, an even brown complexion, pretty light brown eyes, about 5’10 and at this point in the calendar about 45 years old tell her Skrap said to go stuff herself.

~thanks for reading 🙂

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Categories: Atlanta, Decatur Stories, Humor, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , | 7 Comments

A Southerner Walks In The Snow – A Journey

Like I said in yesterday’s blog, things in Atlanta during the winter are far different than in most places. As I sit here looking out the window there’s about an inch and a half of ice on the street in front of my house, the buses that are usually roaring up and down the block have been silenced, and the Post Office’s motto talking that “neither rain nor snow nor dark of night” mess is a farce because I haven’t seen the Netflix disc I was expecting Monday afternoon. In most areas it takes a few days to a week to get even a slight case of cabin fever. For those of us adults bordering on severe attention deficit disorder (ME) it takes far fewer hours than that. Typically when my urge to do something strikes it strikes hard and won’t relent until I have satisfied my thirst to do something, anything. So tired of my four walls yesterday about 1:15pm I decided I was going to walk around the block, throw a snowball or two, then come on back home. My inner 8 year old got really excited as I dressed in the appropriate layers, put on my hat and gloves, and got my umbrella and exited the front door ready to tramp around in the snow.I was not greeted with the silent footfalls of freshly fallen snow as I descended my front steps, rather, it was a crunchy, gritty feeling as my boots rested and then crashed through what was about a quarter inch of ice on top on the blanket of snow on my walkway. “Fight on”, the inner 8 year old said, “This is gonna be cool!” so using the umbrella as a walking stick I went on down the walkway, down another set of steps to the sidewalk and off I went as my inner eight year old said “Weeeeeeeeeeee!”

When walking in normal Georgia conditions it takes all of 2 minutes to get up the block, perhaps more if I’m texting along the way, but these conditions are far from normal. I’ve gone from casual steps to carefully trying to place my feet into the shoeprints of those that have traversed the block before me in efforts to make the process easier. It’s a task but it wasn’t enough work make my inner eight year old shut up about how cool the snow made everything look. So I kept walking up the block to the top of the street and made a left. Now it’s starting to be work, I literally have to stomp through the ice now but the eight year old in my head has created a song to go with the rhythm of my toil that’s goes a little something like this (note:  I’m stomping my foot through the ice on the BOLD parts of the song, this is in 4/4ths time for those of you musically inclined. An upbeat hybrid of “London Bridge Is Falling Down and “Nobody Knows” by Paul Robeson)

“Oh, NO-body Knows, The Ice That I’ve Stomped, The Ice That I’ve Stomped, The Ice That I’ve StompedNO-body Knows The Ice That I’ve Stomped, Tramp-ing Thruuuuu The Snow….”

The inner 8 year old is singing that upbeat jolly version but the 30+ year old me is singing it with loads of toil and struggle. But I continued on because I haven’t seen the gym in months and this was proving to be a necessary workout. More people have walked on this particular sidewalk further up the block so I’m using their shoeprints to aid my walk but still each step requires concentration and at this point my legs hurt. My opportunity to rest came at the next intersection with the following couple trying to turn a trash lid into a sled. Not pictured is the bottle of vegetable oil they used to lubricate the lid.

While I’m standing on the corner watching these two the smell of brownies is coming from the house on the corner and the inner 8 year old inside me starts doing back flips. “Brownies!!!” The 30+ year old me tries to make a stand “No! We don’t have brownie mix at the house, we don’t need brownies.” The inner 8 year old retorts, “But the grocery store is less than half a mile away. Pleeeeeease?” Then I started to think, “I really would like some chili today and the store IS just up the way. Why not?” So I pulled my hat down over my ears as my inner kid cheered and I stepped into the intersection, the same intersection covered in a sheet of ice that people were currently sledding on and I….didn’t fall, not yet anyway. But this lady did…

The inner eight year old is singing his tramping through the snow song and the older version of me is starting to feel the effects of snow walking and now understands the perpetual scowl that adorned the faces of the New Yorkers I saw when last I visited the Big Apple in the wintertime. The extra effort it takes to walk is making me regret even considering leaving the house. There are others walking the streets, a couple holding each other up on the sidewalk giggling about something or other. A young man is walking carrying his puppy; the ice apparently a little too much for his paws. Another couple is being dragged through the snow by a large Boxer on the end its leash trying to get after a bird in someone’s yard…apparently a Boxer gets better traction with paws than its owner in Timberlands. Five Guys Burgers and Fries was open, there were two people inside and a sign taped to the door that said they were closing early. The Korean Mani/Pedi joint was open, they had 4-5 clients inside, apparently nice hands and feet for those ladies are worth venturing out in the snow for.

I made it to the grocery store, spent about 30 minutes and $10 on some stuff I didn’t particularly need while the inner 8-year-old cheered. Now I had to walk back home, still less than a mile but seemingly longer than that with all the concentration it takes to stay upright and now I have to do so with a bag a groceries across Atlanta’s frozen landscape. I had $2 in my pocket, I started scanning the parking lot for nice people to ask for a ride as I’m not built for this snow walking mess! I’ve got to get my mind right, I’ve got to gear myself up. While I did so, I watched these folks make great use of a barely used part of the shopping center’s parking deck.

Now I’m ready, I’ve got the groceries hanging on my left arm, umbrella doubling as a walking stick in my right hand, hat pulled down, jacket zipped up, and away I go crunching through the ice and snow. I’m making good time and I’m finding the trip back a little easier even with the added weight of the groceries I didn’t really need. I’m smiling at passers-by and have joined in chorus with the inner 8-year-old with the “Tramping Thru The Snow” song and everything is great until I got back to the iced over intersection. I stood on the corner for a moment and devised a game plan. The intersection was on a hill slanting left so I put the groceries on my right arm and the umbrella/walking stick in my left hand; if I started to slide left down the hill I could plant it in the ice and stop the slide. I took a deep breath and started to go but just as I got my nerve to step off the curb onto the street dressed as an ice rink I see a group of people coming up the street laughing and taking silly pictures; immediately I have to reevaluate this situation. If I step into this street with two bags of groceries on my arm and I fall and slide into the middle of this intersection in front of a group of people armed with camera I’m likely going to be on YouTube when I wake up in the morning. So, armed with a camera of my own I snap a few pictures of the scenery around me and wait for the group to pass. But they don’t, they have chosen the corner across from me as their posing spot. 3-4 minutes have passed, they are still there being silly and snapping pics, laughing as they try to make snow angels but they can’t because they can’t break through the ice on top of the snow. It’s starting to sleet a little at this point and the wind is picking up and I’m getting cold, so I throw caution to the wind and step off the curb.

The first step with my right foot was measured and sure; I made sure that I had good footing before I brought my left foot down onto the ice which I did carefully…then began the shuffle across the street which worked about halfway across then the ice got bad, real bad. As I shuffled I began to slide left, gradually, I tried to plant the umbrella into the ice but that started to slide too, my only means of defense had been thwarted. The only thing I could do was try to shuffle faster; there was a good bit of slush about four feet away near the curb that would have provided necessary footing but I’m starting to slide a little faster than I want to now. The crew on the opposite side of the street see this and they start with that “oooooooOOOOOOOHHHHHH” in anticipation of me spilling into the street. I can feel the digital camera lenses boring into my back as they prepared to capture the incident with dreams of hitting the “Upload Video” button dancing in their heads. The inner 8-year-old is giggling at my failed attempt to stop sliding; the 30+ year old me is thinking about how hard that ice is and if my fall is going to leave a bruise; however with one last bit of determination I willed myself forward and shuffled faster and cried out internally “I WILL NOT BE ON YOUTUBE!” and lunged forward to the slush, gained my footing and safely made it to the other side unscathed, groceries in tact. Light applause and a hoot from those gathered on the opposite corner. I threw my hand up to them acknowledging their cheers and made my way up the block.

Now I can see my house. I’ve never been so happy to see that little yellow house on the corner in my life. I just have to go down the hill to get there. I’m crunching through ice as the inner 8-year-old is singing alone now; the sleet is a little more steady as I’ve got one more cross of the street to get to the first set of steps. Again, a careful step off the curb and then another as I stepped fully into the street and shuffled across the ice to the sidewalk and then my front steps…home, finally, thank God…and still no Netflix disc in my mailbox.

I read someplace that it takes upwards of 300 muscles to keep the human body balanced and upright. Today as I type this all 300 of those muscles hurt but I’ll chase that pain away with a few aspirin and some chili and then have some brownies for dessert. And as for the inner 8-year-old, he’s on punishment until the Spring.

~thanks for reading 🙂

Categories: Atlanta, Humor, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , | 24 Comments

A Horrific Resolution (of Sorts)

I saw Terrell Owens before Terrell Owens was Terrell Owens. And he was an ass just like the Terrell Owens you know now.

It was 1995 or so. I was an undergrad in my usual seat in the oft-rude student section at Paulson Stadium on the campus of Georgia Southern University (go Eagles) and, as we did just about every year, we were kicking the football tails of the UT-Chattanooga Mocs up and down the field. The student section at Georgia Southern is right behind the visiting teams bench which is a horrible idea for several million reasons; I’ll just say that we devised more than a few ways to tell an opposing player that he [inhaled deeply].

I can’t remember exactly what the score was in the game but the good guys in blue were up by about 3 or 4 touchdowns late in the 4th quarter when a loudmouthed brash wide receiver caught a touchdown pass and carried on like his team was about to hoist a trophy. Obviously when he got back to the sidelines the crew in the student section was ready to remind him that he needed to take a look at the scoreboard, and once again tell him that he and his team still [inhaled deeply]. And we did, over and over. But this wide receiver guy didn’t get upset; he looked up at the scoreboard, gave a dismissive wave and flashed what is now a nationally known smile and said, “I don’t care about that or y’all…I’m going pro!” Of course we didn’t believe him, he played football at Chattanooga and the last thing that you expected to come out of that place was a good football player. We shouted at him, called him a bum (and some other things), chanted the score and basically did things that broke down most other visiting players. This guy though just mouthed the words “I’m going pro” towards us then waved and casually had a seat where he waited for the rest of the time to run down on the blowout in progress. Every time I see that guy while I’m watching football on Sundays I can’t help but think back to that Saturday when he played on that god-awful Chattanooga team brimming with a confidence that comes only when you know you’re damned good at what you do and flat-out put us on notice that regardless of what we thought of him, he was going to be the next big thing. And despite what you think of the guy…he’s been a pretty good professional football player.

I really don’t do resolutions when the calendar turns over to a new year; I consider it twice as bad to break a promise to yourself, especially when the 15 pounds you swore you would lose have turned to the 25 you now have to lose after finding creative ways to put the gym off over and over again. But as I thought about life in 2011 I thought to myself, “It wouldn’t be so bad to be like Terrell Owens”. That thought alone should be enough for me to lose my dinner but in the grand scheme of things what’s there to hate about a guy that did something, did it well, got nationwide recognition for it, got well paid to do it, and will be considered one of the very best at it when he has finally burned his last bridge…I mean, caught his last pass.

We’ve all got something inside us to do. We were all downloaded with talents, skills, attributes and abilities that define us and make us what we are. Against all odds and despite the naysayers and “opposing student sections” in our lives we should all focus so heavily on what we are here to accomplish until we can only see the end goal. Doesn’t matter the current score, the current circumstance, or the bad team around you, just know that despite all that you’re still going to finish on top. So all of you, for 2011, strive to be like Terrell Owens, not the crazy T.O. that alienates everyone who ever liked him and submarines just about every relationship he’s ever had on a football field, be like the good T.O. that knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re going to be the very best you that you can be this year.

Now, as an exercise find a mirror, look yourself in the eye and say the following words with enough volume that it reverberates around your domicile:


~thanks for reading 🙂

Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Humor, So Incredibly Random, Sports, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Art of Worry

Most people that know me know that my greatest hero is my Dad. We look alike, we sound about the same, have the same mannerisms, we both love naptime in front of the TV in our favorite chair…heck, we were even born on the same day: 32 years and roughly 90 minutes apart. Dad is the perfect example of what a good dude is, always there for my Mother and my older Sisters, was my first soccer coach and my first real buddy. My dad is everything a role model should and ought be. But there is this one thing…

Earlier this morning I was reading a blog here called The Hubby Diaries, a hilarious blog illustrating the ins and outs of a marriage between a very funny woman and what appears to be a very interesting man who skews a bit towards pessimism. Visit her and read it if you get a chance. Anyway, upon reading her blog it reminded me of the one thing that I don’t wish to inherit from my dear old Dad.

My Dad worries. And when I say that he worries I’m not talking about the average everyday “Oh crap, it looks like rain and I don’t think I have my umbrella” type worry but full on “The world is going to swallow us all whole and there’s nothing that anybody can do about it” type worry. Basically my Dad tends to think that every bad thing in the world that can happen will happen directly to him and if not to him to every person that he has ever loved. Now I know that this is innocent; Dad has always loved us very, very hard and, yes, even to the point of worry but as my father has gotten older his ability to worry has reached gargantuan levels.

And it’s all CNN’s fault.

My father has approximately 297,413 channels (okay, I’m exaggerating, but he has a lot) on his sparkling HDTV that we bought him for Father’s Day a few years back. Channels featuring sports (which he loves, I got my love of sports from my Dad), channels featuring Westerns (Dad loves cowboy movies), channels featuring comedy (Dad has an infectious laugh just like me) but of all the channels he always finds his way back to CNN where Anderson Cooper and the rest of the gang give him ample reason to worry about any and everything. Case in point…

The other day I get home and the landscaper guy is working on my lawn (God bless his heart because my yard is a train wreck). He is the same guy who does my parents yard at their house and a family friend, a bit kooky but decent with lawn equipment and a good guy all the same. We exchange the usual pleasantries and then he starts in with:

Him: Your father told me to cut all these trees and bushes down.
Me: What?
Him: Yeah, he wanted me to cut all of these bushes down completely.
Me: Why?
Him: He didn’t say.
Me: Hold off on that, I’ll call him.
So I call dear old Dad on the mobile phone and he answers on the third or fourth ring, with CNN in the background of course. The usual pleasantries exchanged and then I needed to get to the crux of the issue of why he needed to have bushes and trees in another person’s yard eliminated.

Me: The yard guy said you told him to cut down all the bushes in the yard
Him: Yep.
Me: Care to share why?
Him: Not safe to have them there.
Me: Care to share why?

Turns out there was a report about a Mexican gang in Maryland (I’m in Atlanta by the way) who’s initiation was to shoot and kill a Black woman (I’m a Black man by the way) in order to gain entry to the gang. Furthermore those bushes provided the perfect hiding place for anyone willing to do me harm when I come home from work.

My father is not insane, though my mother might occasionally tell me otherwise. He is in his right mind and thought this all the way through. No vegetation at all in the yard is the only way to keep me safe from evildoers. God bless his frightened little heart. We compromised and I told him if it made him feel better I would cut the bushes down a foot or two, but I wasn’t going to go Sahara in the back yard in fear of roving Mexican gangs in Maryland. He tried to pull rank but I managed to stave him off.

When I look in the mirror in the mornings, I see my Dad, when I talk I can hear his voice, when I play pickup soccer games in the park I can still hear him yelling from the sidelines that I’m not aggressive enough, we’re that connected and as I get older I become more and more like him, I guess it’s that whole born on the same day thing. But the day I start to worry at Dad levels is the day I have to say enough is enough. Just as a precaution though, I’m going call Comcast and see if they can delete CNN from my cable package.

~thanks for reading 🙂

Categories: Family, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , | 13 Comments

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