Friday, June 28, 2013

Deen Dong The Witch is Dead

(Aw shucks y'all - I done stepped in some kinda mess I c'aint clean!)

Give me a show of hands, please - how many of you, honestly, were surprised that Paula Deen has uttered racial slurs? Now, those of you with your hands raised - please slap your dumb @$$ in the face because you deserve it!

Let's break it down - Paula Deen is a walking, talking, insulin-deficient, Southern Mee-Maw. She can whip up fried chicken, stir the collard greens and choose a stick from the tree out front to beat your backside with - all in 30 seconds flat!

And, based on a personal series of studies that I have conducted, entitled "Growing up in the South with a Mee-Maw", I have learned that 98% of all Southern Mee-Maws are racist! It's just how they roll. They don't mean any harm and, if they caused any, the devil made 'em do it. The organization, MMAS (Mee-Maw Association of the South), recently issued a statement saying, "We don't hate nobody. We just don't want 'em 'round our granbabies!" in support of Ms. Deen.

(Since her diabetes diagnosis, she has laid off the humble pie.)

Now, I am no fan of the word(s) that Ms. Deen used, but I just got to throw one thing out there. If we want a word abolished from our language, culture and history than everybody has to throw it away. For example, the word, self-respect. Where'd that go? I haven't seen it in years! 

So, before we start throwing daggers at ol' Paula girl, we need to consider how many songs and movies throw out hatred every day but because they are accompanied by a funky beat and star power, somehow it passes by a-ok.

(Y'all just call me "the South", 'cause Im'ma 'bout to rise again!)

But, y'all don't worry - Paula is going to be ok. I never really envisioned her key market being anyone other than current or future Southern Mee-Maws - so, I think she will find her way back on to t.v. without a problem.

So, while Paula takes a few days off to soak her feet, perfect her cornbread recipe and hire a more diverse wait staff for any future relatives' social function, we can all just sit and wait until the next Caucasian gets up and says something stupid, off camera, and then admits to it, on camera.

(I can't wait until this future Mee-Maw gets loose lips and sinks some racially inappropriate ships!)

If you're down with semi-inappropriate and awkward behavior, why not check out my first ever book hereThen, you too, can be!

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Sunday Funday? Pshhhhh!

I have said it before and I will say it again, there is nothing about Sunday that is a friend of mine. I don't know what it is, but from the moment I can remember, I have always hated Sundays. It has a sense of impending anxiety attached to it, and it is the day in which all of my self-loathing, insecurities and doubts get together to throw the biggest bash of the week. Combine that with rainy weather and the wheeze that can only come from underdeveloped, asthmatic lungs and you are set straight for catastrophe.

(Just fast-forward through this day already, will you?!)

On paper, it sounds like a perfectly good day. Most people don't have to work, go to school or check in with their parole officer - so, it's a day to just chill but, not me. I, literally, wake up every Sunday with a sense of angst or frustration because the fleeting weekend has left me behind. I am not particularly worried or stressed about the coming week but I just think of how quickly the excitement of a Friday has faded.

Adding to my ever-present Sad Sunday is the fact that people now, more than ever, seem to be expressing their Sunday joy by posting things online about "Sunday Funday" and "OMG - it's Sunday Funday, everyone!" Every time I see one of those posts, something creeps up inside my inner-being and I want to beat through my computer screen and karate chop those people in their clavicles. I don't want to harm them permanently but just enough so that they attach a negative memory to Sundays and get over themselves.

(F OFF!)

I know that it sounds mean and some of you reading this are going to be angry with me and think, "Wow - he's being really insensitive to people's good time and perhaps he should look into his own issues first!" Well, I have - that's what I use each Sunday to do...wallow in utter misery as I aim to make it through the weekend and onward to another week.

So, while you're out there having a blast on the one day of the week that truly steals my soul and the ounce of joy left within it, I'm just gonna be over here eating the remnants of a 2-day-old cheesecake and catching up on episodes of "Hoarders."

Why not spend your Sunday doing something really fun - like reading my first ever book?! Check it out here!

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

$h!t happens!

A while ago, I was walking through a store and an old man - probably in his late 70's - walked past me and just let it rip. His flatulence went on for so long that I stood there expecting his intestines to just tumble out, but no. He just looked up, sort of grimaced and carried along his way, as if no one around had just heard his blowhole explode.

While this moment could have easily just been chalked up to an extra spicy burrito from the Taco Bell, it made me start to think about age. We start life not caring about what people think about our bodily functions and essentially, we end life in a similar manner. Babies will cry, burp, pee, poop, spit and not blink with worry. Old people seemingly do the same. However, somewhere along the way, in the middle phases of life, we develop a shy nature or a sense of shame about the things that expel from our bodies and I, for one, am 'effin grateful.

(Constipated face is somehow adorable when your age is calculated in months.)

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was on my early morning walk into work and I called home to talk to my mom. When she answered she told me that she was in the bathroom helping my 22-month-old nephew, use the potty. She explained that he was constipated and having a hard time going. In most normal conversations, when someone brings up defecation, one tends to hang up or gag. In this case though, I said, "Aww, put him on the phone!" and the call went like this...

(Please note that as you read this conversation, do so in obnoxious baby talk voice)

Me: "Hi Jayden - are you going potty?"
Jayden: "Uh huh..."
Me: "Does it hurt?"
Jayden: "Yes!"
Me: "Aww, baby - it'll be ok. Just push a little. Come on, you're a big boy!"
Jayden: Grunts.
Me: "Did you get it? Did you do it? That's a good boy! I'm proud of you!"

(When you gotta go, you gotta go!)

My mom got back on the phone, explained that Jayden was all good and we said goodbye. As I hung up the phone, I realized that I was smiling with a sense of accomplishment. And then, I realized that I had just talked someone through a shit. I was like an emergency phone operator for bowel movements and I didn't know how to feel about that. I have always been so prudish when it came to things of that nature and yet there I stood, in the middle of a busy, city street, giving someone pointers on one of life's most basic functions.

(Thank you for calling 911, what's your emergency? Ok, you've gotta # 2? Ok, ma'am - ma'am, I'm gonna need you to calm down! We aren't going to get anywhere if you don't relax yourself into this!)

So, as I continue to ponder the spectrum of life and the ups and downs that come with bodily functions, I've decided that sometimes "poop happens" and I need to just learn to roll with it. If Jayden ever needs another "Constipation Coach", I will be there baby-talking him all the way through it (up until the age of 4 - beyond that, he is on his own!) but, I do hope I never encounter another hot-winded, elderly man!

(Have you read my book yet? If not, check it out here!)

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Humble, thy name is Edmund

This past week, I said "damn you, Southern Hemisphere winter" and I exchanged my over-sized coat and chilly air for flip-flops and some sunshine as I headed to the far north of Australia to the state of Queensland. In January, I was fortunate enough to earn a spot on a work trip in which we were able to spend time working in the local indigenous community, while also taking part in a personal development program for a week.

In the personal development program, we went through a series of exercises, one of which was an assessment of 250 or so questions that would be used to show us our top five character strengths. All of my top traits ranked equally at 4.8 out of 5 and they were: humor, honesty, social intelligence, perspective and the most confusing of all, humility.

(Sorting out a playground for the local community with my project team.)

In the description of "humility" it said, "of all the potential 25 results, humility is the one that is most rarely found as a key strength and should truly be appreciated." However, there is an issue. How can I brag about being humble without therefore negating my ability to be humble? It places me in a weird position. Do I keep my humility to myself and wait for the day in which someone calls me "humble" and then blurt out, "OMG - I know! I took an in-depth personal assessment and it told me that I am and that I am rare and special!" or do I just let it go?

(A koala humbling eating some eucalyptus.)

After spending days pondering my humble nature, the program ended and I decided to stick around the area for a few days and explore the Great Barrier Reef. This was my third time going and, with good reason. The previous two times, I vomited like a high schooler who had had one too many wine coolers underneath the football bleachers and I longed to prove to myself that it wouldn't happen again. Long story, short - I failed. The waves on the way out were insane. As the boat swung and swayed in the water, my face turned a whiter shade of Caucasian and I was sweating more than a hooker in church. I tried to maintain my composure but as the moment finally arrived, I ran to the toilet and re-enacted a scene from "The Exorcist" with sheer perfection.

Once I wiped my mouth clean on my jacket, I decided that I had to get in the water. By this time, the rain had kicked in hardcore but I begrudgingly put on my wetsuit. It was so tight that when I went to zip it up, along came the leftover remnants of blueberry muffin and dignity that still remained in my stomach. The trip was epic(ly horrific). From swollen, teary eyes to breath that could kill a dragon, I was over it. Nonetheless, I digress. I am grateful for the experience (I laughed, I cried, I vomited, I cried, I drooled, I vomited, I vomited again) but I have vowed that I shall never see the Great Barrier Reef again. So, goodbye reef - I humbly bid you adieu.

(A view from the sky of Hastings Reef in the Great Barrier Reef.)

Want to inject a little humor (it is one of my top traits, after all) into your life? Check out my first ever book here!

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