Posts Tagged ‘memories’

Adults used to ask me what my favorite subject in school was. I would say “Recess!” with a big smile on my face. This was cute until I was in college and it was my advisor asking me this question. But really, what was better than recess? You could play football with a soccer ball because they didn’t allow footballs, you could watch a kid get pushed off a slide then see a helicopter lift him off to the hospital, and you could break your own leg imitating the American Gladiators. My favorite thing about recess through all of the horrors was finding something new. The best place to do it, the baseball backstop.



(I don’t think my elementary school playground had nearly this much grass. Must have been salted over during war)


The baseball backstop was located as far away from authority as possible. I don’t remember when I started hanging out there a lot during recess. Sometime around when I realized I was too slow for things like hop scotch or sitting on the swings. Luckily my friends enjoyed hanging out there too. If we knew what drugs were we would have been doing them. But we didn’t know what drugs were. We’d have to make do with talking to the dog that lived on the other side of the fence. Someone named him “Doggy” and it stuck. It was simple enough to remember. Doggy’s probably long dead now. I like to think he still haunts the playground and occasionally eats a kid.


One game we’d play back there was called “Bench Wars.” At least that’s what I call it now. It involved standing on the tiny wooden, splinters poking out like Vietcong bamboo spikes, bench alongside the field. If you sat on the bench it could fit maybe 5 asses. Easily a safety hazard. The most memorable game of Bench Wars took place when I helped my friend Rob (I’m just going to name you from now on so you become some sort of underground legend here) win by hitting him. His opponent, our friend Matt, was twice his size. I knew Rob would lose due to the size difference and his incredible ability to never win a thing in his life. To this day he’s kept it up. I couldn’t be more ashamed. Anyway, my hitting Matt got him disqualified. That meant that Rob won. We paraded around the baseball field chanting “Rob is the Champion” to the tune of “We are the Champions.” This got Matt very angry. He started to whine saying it wasn’t fair. We had cheated. Matt calmed down then showed us how he could take kicks to the nuts without feeling any pain. I bet he’s gotten a few free drinks out of that.



(Matt is a multiple winner on America’s Funniest Home Videos. Golf club to the nads version 781-9783 was him)


One of the strangest things I have ever seen was the inside of a mouse. I was at my babysitter’s and a kid cut a dead mouse open with a stick. Even stranger than that was when I was at the backstop and saw the insides of an animal all sprawled out. Organs were everywhere. One of my nerdy friends said that a cat cut open a rabbit and put them there. I am still shocked how he could have come up with such a logical statement about dead animal parts on the grass while I was standing there thinking it was food. Being curious and hoping to impress girls by being as sadistic as possible, I picked up a large rock and dropped it on what was either the heart or stomach. I was hoping for a huge explosion. Instead it kind of fizzled out the way an air mattress is properly deflated. I would have to live another day to show girls that I could destroy things with rocks.


My favorite find ever at the backstop was a beer can. Like every fifth grader would do, I picked it up. I knew this would make me popular, at least for the day. I decided that I wanted to see something explode. Not having access to dynamite or large rocks above rabbit stomachs, I started to shake the beer can. Stealing the idea from the April Fool’s episode of The Simpsons, I would cause a massive beer can explosion. I shook and shook and wondered what the aides on duty thought I was doing. Finally time came. I opened the beer can slightly then tossed it up into the air. I made a run for it to clear ground zero of the explosion. The beer can hit the ground and shot beer out all over the place. It was epic. If you were a grasshopper, it would have been like it was raining Budweiser. Since were merely boys, it was just kind of cool. My hands smelt like beer and I cleaned them out in a puddle of water. This made them smell really bad, but at least I didn’t smell like beer. A classmate came up to me and said “that was cool.” Finally I was popular for a moment.



(The Holy Grail of backstop finds. I don’t think it was a Pabst either. Teenagers in my town were not quite sophisticated for a beer which has earned the right to call itself Blue Ribbon worthy)


The last time I went to the backstop was around 3 years ago. I was bored one night so Rob and I went there. I had heard that an Indian kid we went to school with went there a few months earlier and peed on the slide. I did no peeing. Instead we joined in on one last lap around the baseball field chanting about how he was the champion. I drove him back to the Retarded Person Daycare he lives at. He thanked me and I told the doctor to kill him afterwards. I know wherever he is (probably reading this) he’s wondering why I killed him off and made him retarded. Needed a closer, that’s why.

Imagine me sitting in a chair, possibly dressed nicely. I have a tie on because ties let you know that a man doesn’t have to treat a woman nicely. He can pay for sex if he wishes. That’s how much of a hot-shot I look. Perhaps I have a Bluetooth on too. I’m not talking into it. I’m too stupid to figure out how to use it. Sometimes I go out and walk around the park pretending I’m talking to someone. My made up friend Rico isn’t on the other end and the joke I’m pretending to laugh it doesn’t exist. I’m a crazy person trying to look cool. My pants are fancy, my shoes actually laced, and I’m wearing false teeth over my real ones to look more presentable. Try getting into an argument with dirty natural teeth. You probably won’t win. You need some milky whites to attain a flawless victory.

Why am I dressed up so fancy? Well because today is a serious day. One year ago today my mom passed away. I’ve been debating for a while whether I should write anything about it. It doesn’t really go with the theme of this blog, you know, shit humor, but if there was anybody who appreciated shit humor it certainly was my mom.

I didn’t know exactly what it was that I wanted to write about here. I figured it was a safe bet to write about some of her favorite things. Mostly what we enjoyed together or that one of us pretended to like more because it gave us some bonding time. Or in some cases we really didn’t just want to say how stupid the other one was for having awful taste.

Professional Wrestling

I don’t know how much my mom really understood about the WWE. At times I think she didn’t realize it was scripted or that The Undertaker was not dead and actually named Mark. She’d yell at the TV that what the bad guys were doing wasn’t fair. She always rooted for the good guys which annoyed me because I’m a smark, someone who roots for the bad guys. I’d almost want to punch her when she’d clap for HHH beating someone else. I hated HHH. His nose is gigantic and he’s a backstage goon who refuses to lose. Her favorite though was The Rock which I can’t argue with. Weird thing is neither of us watched wrestling when The Rock was popular. I think she mostly was into looking at him in tiny underwear more than anything else. One year for her birthday I got her a set of action figures of The Rock. Her last birthday 2 years ago I bought her a collection of “The Best of The Rock” a 3-DVD set. I mostly bought it because I wanted to watch it first then give it to her. I don’t think she ever did watch it, but that was probably a good thing. I never realized how much he lost. Mostly to that big nosed asshole HHH. Fuck you and your initial moniker.

 (Next year Wrestlemania should take place inside his right nostril)


This was another thing my mom paid attention to because I want into. We even got a dog and named him after Mark McGwire we were so into the 1998 season. More on that piece of shit dog later. We’d watch Phillies games together all the time in the late 90’s. During those years the team would lose about 100 games a season. You don’t need to know a thing about sports to know they weren’t very good. Her favorite player was the Jewish catcher, Mike Lieberthal. I’m not saying the team sucked because they had a Jewish catcher and their star pitcher was a Republican whose son had ALS, but I don’t hear it argued enough that they probably should have signed more Puerto Ricans. The last baseball game we watched together was during the 2009 World Series. I so totally could have hooked up with a girl that night who was into me, but I couldn’t let my mom down. We needed to see the Yankees buy their way into another championship. I don’t regret it at all. That hot chick probably would have tried to change the way I dressed. My mom once told me she was proud of me because I always wore clean clothes. It didn’t take much to impress her.

 (Mike Lieberthal rookie card)

The Popcorn Zoo

Last year on Mother’s Day my sisters and girlfriend (my girlfriend, I don’t share her with my sisters you creep) went to the Popcorn Zoo. I’ve mentioned it before, but I will repeat to you that it is a zoo of abused animals where you get to feed them popcorn. I know, holy fucking shit right? This exists! You can throw popcorn at bears and watch them eat it. The best animals there are the deer. They used to have some that had three legs. I have fed three-legged deer movie theater snacks. How many people can say that? Probably like a couple million because the zoo has been around a long time, but still I bet no one in Australia has ever done that. Have you ever seen a map? That’s a big place. I have done more in my life than everyone in Australia. My mom’s favorite animal there was Ferdinand the cow. He sent my mom a postcard one time because she made a donation to get him a bell or whatever it is cows need donations for. Feeding animals and not having to pick up the poop afterwards is one of my favorite things to do. That’s why the Popcorn Zoo will always be a place near and “deer” to my heart. Get it? Because I mentioned deer–

(Me feeding a goat a nutritious snack)


My mom would always rush home from whatever she was doing to catch the reruns of her favorite shows. I don’t think she watched a first run television show since the Ron Perlman shows Beauty and the Beast was on while I was born. Her favorites were King of Queens, Two and a Half Men, and Wings. What a Three Stooges combination of mediocrity. Strangely enough the only one of these that I ever watched a lot of was Wings. I kind of got into it too. It’s about two brothers who work for an airline on Nantucket. I know this sounds like the beginning to a dirty joke, but I swear it was a pretty tame show. Basically it was Taxi but with airplanes. They even had a silly repairman played by the bad guy from Spiderman 3 who was also the bad guy in George of the Jungle. Isn’t Thomas Haden Church also a prick in real life? You’d think with the last name church at worse he’d be a con-artist.

 (This is what cool people looked like in the early 90s. Y2K should have destroyed us)

McGwire the Dog

Lovable, sweet, adorable, and exciting are a few words I would never use to describe McGwire the Dog. When my mom passed the family was left wondering what we should do with McGwire. It was unanimous that we’d put him in the garbage disposal and blame it on a black guy who broke in. Then we realized none of us are fancy enough to own a garbage disposal so he came to live with me. He’s okay I guess. When I came home last I could smell him immediately. Sometimes he smells so bad I want to pour sour milk on him to make things better. And to torture him a bit for waking me up and being an overall fatass. He licks my couch a lot for some reason. It’s not even like there are food remnants there. I think he’s just trying to annoy me for when I sit down and my arm rest is soaking wet. But I guess he’s all right. He snores really loudly which gives me some background noise. It helps me avoid from being able to think. It helps keep away some demons.

(He looks like a fat deer on a giant lesbian shirt)

Those are just a few of the things my mother enjoyed. I could go on forever really. She liked bounty paper towels, Leslie Nielsen movies, and not using the Internet. Really, my mom probably didn’t go online since 2004. She used prepaid phones like a drug dealer and had no clue who the Chocolate Rain Kid was. She lived very simply. The only thing more I could have wanted from her was more time. One more conversation, one more trip to the movies together, one more blabbering voicemail that went on for 6 minutes about a joke on the Nick Swardson show that I didn‘t know existed, and one more of everything else I loved about her. I have a good memory and not much had to be blocked out involving her. She yelled at me twice that I remember and apologized after both. One time was because I was eating chicken instead of helping with the Christmas tree setup and the other was because I couldn’t match up a pair of black sweat pants with the black tuxedo that Alfred the Butler wore on a shirt I had which contained all of the Batman characters. I was only really nervous one time about sharing something with her. It happened when I was suspended from school for 9 days my junior year of high school for making a parody of the school newspaper. To be fair it was a book that she gave me that inspired my troublemaking ways. When she found out that I had been suspended from school there was no yelling. She high-fived me instead. That’s how I knew I had an awesome mom. She had never met the principal and even she knew he was an asshole.

I consider myself an expert when it comes to several things. One thing I am not an expert at is knowledge about yearbooks. That’s kind of a silly thing to be an expert at. Become an awesome fencer or the fastest person at saying the alphabet backwards. Those are real talents that will actually get you somewhere. Not like extensive yearbook knowledge which only leads to drugs.

(Yearbook Expert/Junkie, Bubbles)

To first understand the title of this post, you must know what a yearbook is. A yearbook is defined as “a piece of shit book produced by a biased organization full of censorship.” That’s a little harsh. I prefer to call it a booklet full of good memories, friends, and a couple of boogers. Most schools produce a yearbook for children each year of their existence. It’s nice and they don’t only do it for the money even though it’s only the graduating class that is ever featured.

I own three yearbooks. One from my 5th grade year, one from my 8th grade year, and one from my 12th grade year. I only would get one when I was graduating. I don’t know where my 5th grade one went. It had cardboard covers. It’s the one yearbook I wish I had most. I would like to see what the dead kids I know wish they had grown up to be. If it was dead then I would shit my pants. My 8th grade yearbook isn’t bad. My picture I don’t look too grotesque and I even have 1 or 2 hot girl who signed it. One of them drew a heart. The other didn’t even know my name I guess and wrote my screen name instead. Shit. All that time spent looking down her shirt in home room for nothing. She has the first nipple I’ve ever seen in person. She has no clue either. Don’t feel bad though for me being a pervert. She told someone who she wouldn’t date him because he wasn’t in good enough shape. Now she’s fat. That’s not karma, it’s the effects of alcohol and excessive pudding consumption. My 12th grade yearbook is pretty pointless. I didn’t bother going to get my picture taken. They wanted me to show up at 7:30 in the morning during summer. Yeah, what the fuck? I’ve waited all these months to sleep in and now I need to not only buy a suit, I have to wake up early and look nice for your damn photograph? No thank you. I bet they hired that same photographer who would say “turkey toes” to get us to smile. That’s smile entrapment. How can you not laugh saying turkey toes? It’s alliteration. The funniest formation of words are always alliteration. Big brown baby badger butt. Hilarious!

(Actual turkey toes. Not nearly as much fun to look at as it is to say it)

No matter where you went to school your yearbook is the same. I’ll stick with high school because most of us are too stupid to remember anything before that. I know I am. Every yearbook has colored photos of seniors and the rest of the class gets tiny black and white ones. It’s kind of degrading really. Seniors get to live in a Wizard of Oz world while the rest of the younger students are forced into a Schindler’s List scene. The younger kids also don’t get to vote on who they think is cutest, smartest, or most likely to be assassinated due to their politics. I tried rigging the votes my senior year by stuffing the ballots with the worst possible winners imaginable but those pesky administrators caught on. Or my compulsive lying friend lied to me. I’ll go with that one. I am much more likely to believe that a 17-year-old would lie to me over thinking a vice principal can count past his weekly earnings.

(Image taken from my high school yearbook of our marching band leading a visiting team’s mascot to her death)

I look through my high school yearbook now and don’t have many fond memories. There’s a picture of the “Whacky Races” an event I had no desire to attend. Then there’s the fashion show. Hey, that girl is ugly. She shouldn’t be allowed in the fashion show! There are pictures of people I don’t like walking, there are pictures of people I don’t like sitting, there are pictures of people I didn’t even know went to my school playing a guitar. I must not like him either. I remember everyone I meet. Who the fuck is this guy? I’d scan the picture on the Internet but it’s illegal to do. The yearbook company owns the rights to the pictures. Yeah, ain’t that something to kick a can of shit about. They can take a picture of you without your knowledge, throw it into a book, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. I love you America!

Perhaps, in many years from now, I can look through my yearbook with better memories. Or more likely I’ll throw it away. Or that random freshman I asked to sign it might become famous and then I can sell that page at least. Either way, if you are reading this chubby black girl who had a crush on me back in 8th grade, I did what you told me to do in my yearbook. I stayed cool. I did it for you. I hope you had a great summer like I suggested. Even if you are a lesbian now.

I have never been forced to watch a video about sexual harassment. I know what sexual harassment is. It’s when you tell someone who you like them and they don’t like you back. They say you’re harassing them sexually. I call it courting or taking a chance. You pick which side of the fence you fall on.

Like most adorable people, I have been sexually harassed. I’ve been grabbed, poked, rubbed, shuffled, placed into holes, scratched, groped, and flicked. My sexual harassers have come in many different shapes, sizes, and colors. I was afraid to react when it happened out of shock. But now that I know it wasn’t my fault for being so delicious it’s okay for me to talk about. Here are my stories of being sexually harassed–that I remember.

(Wanna take a trip to Six Flags? Expect these gentleman to leave with your wallet)

Location: Six Flags Great Adventures

Leaving out all of the times when I had buzz cuts and had strange women come up and rub my head (I think of 8 instances of this happening) I still receiving harassment of a sexual nature. The first one I remember happened at Six Flags Great Adventure. My memories of this theme park are lines, dehydration, lines for water, being cut in line, being cut with knives, large college girl breasts, and mysterious shoes hanging at the bottom of roller coasters wondering if the owner had to hop on one foot all the way home. I’ve been to that place quite a few times in my life. It was 25 minutes away from where I grew up. My dad could have just as easily put a hood over my head or knocked me out and said that it was somewhere much further away. I don’t think I ever got on more than 3 rides there at a time and at least half of them were closed for safety reasons.

I was waiting in line to get on the bumper cars. Yes, I’m at a huge theme park and I’m going on bumper cars. A carny ride. At least on that day I managed to convince myself to avoid that slide where you sit on a potato sack. So I’m in line and behind me are some Catholic boys. I’m not saying they’re Catholic because they kept pinching my ass. They were Catholic because they had the uniforms on. These boys had 3-4 years on me and decided to make my experience at an already horrific amusement park that much worse by pinching my butt. I couldn’t do anything about it. I was left there to fend for myself. Sometimes late at night I can still feel their 16-year-old thumb squeezing on my ass cheeks. I get scared again.

(Dorney Park has a hard-on for Snoopy. Scooby Doo too retro?)

Location: Dorney Park

Yet another experience happened to me at a theme park. This time it was Dorney Park, located in Pennsylvania. To be fair, this was probably karma. I had spent the day trying to knock off girl’s tops in the “Wet & Wild Water Kingdom” or whatever it is that they call it with hoses that shoot water. I was already pissed off that day because some black kid had shit in the wave pool so they had to close it down. How did I know it was a black kid? Every kid is black once they shit in a wave pool. Gross, I know. Things were about to get even worse.

I was walking to a roller coaster passed a group of teenagers. I was in middle school at the time, probably 14 years old. These teenagers were bigger and more adult. I knew this because their mommys and daddys let them wear ripped jeans. I walked by and felt a little bite on my butt. It felt like a bee had stung it. Then I heard laughing. I continued on and looked back. They were watching me walk away. Now I can’t be positive, but for some reason I remember a cute blonde being the one to pinch my butt. That’s the problem with butt harassment. We don’t have eyes in the back of our heads so the culprit can usually blame someone else if need be. This is one of those cases where it wasn’t really harassment. It was that sexy 18-year-old (I’m making her 18 for legal reasons) confessing her love for me. I probably should have gone over and talked to her, but like I said, she had ripped jeans. There was no telling what kind of damage she’d do to my shirt if she got her hands on it.

(Yes I work in a sweatshop. The hours are actually pretty good and it never gets too cold)

Location: Work

This one makes me feel like I can relate to the Women’s Liberation Movement. I was sexually harassed in the most fun place on earth, the office. I hadn’t been working long. I didn’t know who I could and could not trust yet. I learned fast that day who I could not count on.

I was filing, a task that they give retarded people with good balance. I was on a step-ladder so my ass was at about face level. One might argue that I was asking to have my ass smacked. I mean, it’s a great ass. You could throw a quarter at it and it would fall straight down. That might not sound so fantastic. Look at it this way, a fat ass would have the quarter get stuck in one of the rolls. That’s why my ass rules. Too much of a shoehorn rhyme there?

I turned around very carefully on my retard ladder to see a creepy black woman with blonde hair. Another natural blonde going after my ass? I must be a lucky boy! This woman had at least 50 years on me. She was and is not the kind of human being I want touching me or breathing on me. She had gross teeth. I hate gross teeth. How can you forget to brush your teeth? They’re right near your brain. That’s not far for the reminder information to travel.

(I’m trying to figure out the nationality of the cross-legged man near the barrel. I guess he’s white, the “cracker” because beside him is the barrel)

Location: Cracker Barrel

I didn’t used to mind Cracker Barrel restaurants. Now every time I enter one I have to be on my best guard. I walk, spinning in circles. I wear multiple layers of clothing. I’ve been scared into this.

I’m standing in the gift shop of the restaurant. If you’ve never been to one, there is a giant gift shop that you must walk through to get to your table. They sell lots of useless items that only a grandmother might want. Then they have Twilight Zone DVDs. I never thought they belonged near inspirational magnets or cherub figurines. I’m minding my own business waiting for a table when I feel two hands come on either side of me. Then the words “Goochy Goochy Goo” playfully being verbalized in synchronicity with the tickling that happened along my sides. I didn’t laugh. This wasn’t a good tickle. I turned around and was face to face with a boy about the same age as me. We were both 13-15 years old. A stare down began and then he said “Oops. I’m sorry.” and left. It was all a big misunderstanding. I had to forgive him, but now looking back at it for all I know he was a creepy midget. I hope not. I like to keep accurate records of every midget sighting I have. This would throw off my numbers.

Those are my sexual harassment stories. Well, the ones that involved actual touching. I’ve been sexually harassed thousands of times verbally. I think we all are. Someone probably felt sexually harassed reading this. For you, nice gams!

Please, feel free to share your stories of naughty fingers.