Having to start over at a new school your senior year of high school is not my idea of fun. I am socially awkward. The only reason I had friends at my old school was because most of them had been my friends since kindergarten. Now, how was I going to make new friends in such a short amount of time? I didn't want to be the girl who hid in the bathroom at lunch to avoid the embarrassment that no one would sit with me in the cafeteria. Luckily, because of my participation in sports, I knew some people at my new school, but it was more "I recognize you from Allegan's soccer team. What are you doing here?" kind of way. This worked to my benefit or maybe they just felt sorry for me and introduced me to new people. Whew. I didn't have to eat lunch alone.
One day, I was invited by an acquaintance, Courtney, to take a trip to Kalamazoo with her and some other friends... none of which I knew. Why not? What do I have to lose? I met up with Courtney at her older brother's house around 9pm. I felt like I was sweating buckets awaiting the anticipation of meeting the rest of the montley crue about to embark on the adventure (see: socially awkward). Courtney then introduced me to her brother, Chester, Justin, Dillon, Nathan, and Samantha. I sized each of them up and they all seemed like I could make nice and gain some new friends out of this experience.
It was now time to embark on the adventure. All seven of us loaded into Dillon's black 1988 Cadillac El Dorado. I was sandwiched in the backseat with Justin, Nathan, and Chester. What better way to get to know people than imitating a clown car for a 45 minute ride to Kalamazoo? I thought I was doing surprisingly good with the new people. I was actually making conversation instead of quietly listening to everyone talk and imagining what I would say. Finally, we made it to our destination, Steak n' Shake.
We managed to pile out of the car and take over a booth. Looking at the menu, I could not decide what to get. Everything looked good, but having an intestinal disease, I am not suppose to eat: greasy food, dairy, spicy food, red meat, pork, nuts, seeds, raw vegetables, or foods high in acid. I didn't want my new acquaintances to know about my embarrassing impairment, so, I didn't want to make a big deal out of Nathan ordering me a milkshake to welcome me to the group. My head was saying "no, no, no!", but my sweet tooth and part of me that wanted to fit in responded with "why not? what is the worse that could happen?" By the time we ordered our food, I figured I had a milkshake on the way and I wasn't suppose to eat that, I might as well go big or go home and ordered a BLT with fries. Pork, dairy, and grease. Quite a dangerous tri-fecta. After our meal was done, we talked and laughed and eventually had to make our trek back to the city on the lake.
While I was shoving food (I wasn't suppose to eat), I didn't realize all of the cities from our destination to home closed down, so, it was a desolate drive back. About fifteen minutes into the drive back, I felt a rumble from my guts and then realized I was about to fart. Here I was sandwiched in the back seat again with no where to go and now I had to fart. Great. If I wanted to keep my friends I would have to clench my cheeks and pray to the intestinal gods to let it stay put (or at least not stink). I felt like I had it under control, but then it hit me... "Hey guys, I know this may not be the best time to tell you, but I have IBS and I need you to pull onto a side road so I can use the bathroom. The way I am feeling, I don't have much time." Now, there was no hiding it. I have irritable bowel disease. Last thing I wanted these potential friends to know was that when I ate the wrong foods I get horrible gas and explosive diarrhea I have no control over.
Dillon pulled onto a side road, but there was no tree cover, but I told him the grass was tall enough and it was dark enough I should be fine. I climbed over Justin and scooted as far away from the car as I could. I pulled down my pants and felt relief. Moments after that, I heard Chester yell from the car "I hope you know fireflies are lighting up the whole field!". I couldn't care less. I figure I would rather tell a story about an emergency bathroom break on the side of the road that shitting my pants while crammed into the backseat with 3 other people I barely knew. I got back in the car and we resumed our trip home.
Yup, I made some friends that night.
Alton Brown said it best when he coined the phrase "There are no uni-taskers in my kitchen". Finding secondary uses for items one already owns adds cost-effectiveness and efficiency to today's fast-paced life. This creative way of thinking has led many great men and women to find new uses for existing tools or engineer improvements to them to better humankind. Where would we be without the addition of the eraser to the pencil? The claw to the the hammer? To a lesser extent, how about the spork? Yes, innovative thinking has taken us far into what we know as modern society.
Innovation is ever evolving. Even organic, if you will. Today's technically minded soul can find ways to make even the simplest of items "Classy".
Now, innovation can not support itself in a Classy environment. Common sense will usually step in and protect it from Class. This is where your Class gets a boost from his good ole buddies Irrational Spontaneity & Unsatisfied Curiosity. This is the emotional jetpack that you feel in the pit of your stomach fighting common sense, causing sweating spells, and ending with a trip to the ER. Embrace it. It fuels Class. This is the exact cocktail one needs to walk on the grass, push the red button, or enter the foreboding door. And speaking of cocktails, several of those will help, too.
For example: You decide to go take a shower. You get naked. Feelin a bit tipsy? No worries, a shower always helps. Oops, you tripped on your way to the bathroom. It's okay. You didn't fall. Nothing hurt but your pride a little. What the hell was that that you tripped over? Oh, the central vacuum hose. Probably should have put that away after cleaning the bedroom. Still feeling tipsy? Yep. Too much? Too little? Or just the right amount to be feeling frisky and Classy. Oh, yeah. That's it.
Say, that vacuum is kinda phallic. And it has a hole. And suction. Speaking of magic combinations...
Now that the head of your penis is suctioned to the end of the hose, you realize the hole is way too small and this is probably not going to work. All you have accomplished is recreating the sound of someone desperately slurping through a straw to savor that last drop of "Mountain Dew". It is at this time you also realize that the vacuum hose has a dial to increase the suction. Maybe that will help. Let's give it a little twist.
...to maximum power.
You will now notice that your spleen has decided to escape the confines of your abdomen and is making break for it by way of your urethra. The whistling you hear is air permeating through your anus in the wrong direction. That problem will solve itself as your asshole slams shut upon a butt-cheek getting lodged in it. With your biological pressure relief valve officially on the disabled list, the vacuum is now free to choke down your member like a goose with a pretzel rod. The vibrations you feel are your testicles slapping against your grundle (heh) with blinding fury.
It is at this point you realize that this may be a failed experiment and go for the power button and the suction adjustment dial.
Now released from the apparatus, you are free to run in circles shouting "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!".
Congratulations, you have earned a "purple heart". You will receive it the following morning once all of the damaged blood vessels have finished bleeding out.
Human ingenuity will take us far. We will always have the innovative to survey inventions like the centralized vacuum system and say "Oh, how nice. That is an efficient way to clean my floor. And what a nice selling feature". Whereas his/her Classier counterpart would say "Oh hell yeah! I know can fuck that."
The public educational system has really become an outdated concept. It is not taken seriously by anyone. And, nothing relevant to today's fast paced lifestyle is even taught. The average $12K / year earner can easily pick up all of the necessary life-skills (or skillz) in his/her day-to-day life. This is evident in the following intercepted chat log. Please enjoy while I move my couch to the front porch to drink a 40 and contemplate the fabric of society.
Woman A (narrative):
"Here is the first message I got from her-she is so stupid."
"Calvin gona be mad i did dis but idc at dis point. Let me say i dnt have a
problem wit u im not startin drama im just askin u women 2 women after this ill
neva say nothing else 2 u. I hope i get an honest answer if i get one at all.
All i wana know honestly is wats da deal wit u n him? Cuz from da looks of it
yea. Im tried of our friends questioning me n i dnt got an answer i dnt wana
look n feel like a fool anymore. Sry 2 bother u i just need 2 know."
Woman A (Narrative):
"We went back and forth a few times....And then she told me she wasn’t dumb and I
lost it. I went off on her and called her a dumb bitch. She made up a bunch of
stuff & twisted everything around. She and Calvin got into a fight. He pushed her and grabbed her arm 1 time and
that was to defend himself because she hit him first."
"Ok i made him happy i left becuz he put his hands on me number of times n no i
aint gota explain myself but he had da choice 2 divorce me n he said now n u
cant be dat good cuz he alway was wit me n is now n alway will be if u was wit
him he cheated on u 2 cuz like i said we been sleepin 2gether da whole time n
hangin out n dats y we movin back in 2gether idc wat u think u dnt know da real
calvin i do. N dat y he tell me he love me n miss me everyday thank u so act
like u know shit. N u eva say sumthing like dat 2 me have balls 2 say it 2 my
face n then try n c wat kinda women i am he played u so dnt act like u sweet cuz
u really aint."
Am I tight enough for you?
What do you mean exactly?
When you are in me, is it tight or can you tell I have had two kids?
Plenty tight. When I shove both of my hands inside your vag, I can't clap.
The other day I stopped at the local pharmacy near my house to pick up some vitamins and such. The particular vicinity of the pharmacy is in a rather nice part of the suburban Detroit area. I chose to live in this area because the crime was low, the homes were affordable, and there was a very noticeable lack of
trashy "classy" people resident. I love writing about classy people, but I certainly do not want to live around them. I lived with Classy Lee himself for almost a year, so I already met my lifetime quota of class. Anyway, the area I live in is a nice middle class neighborhood with none of the riffraff of some of the downriver suburban communities. On this cold and blustery winter day in suburbia, I stumbled upon a classy looking fellow as I walked out of the store. This guy was wearing jean pants and a jean jacket, with a black baseball cap and a disheveled demeanor. He was standing still just outside of the entrance way blocking the door for approaching customers smoking a cigarette before entering the store. The classy looking female counterpart was already in the store chatting with the guy standing outside as the automatic door stayed open letting a cold rush of air in to the store.
As surprising as this may sound, some people actually go to the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions and other drugs because they may be sick. During this cold and flu season, a lot of customers go the store to pick up the necessary items to treat their symptoms. It seems considerate for the man in the Canadian tuxedo to leave the door open to let cigarette smoke and cold air rush in to the store for all of the sick customers to enjoy as they buy their Vitamin C and Zinc supplements. This guy is reading pretty high on my "class" meter.
As I walked out the exit, the meter went off the charts. He flicks his still lit cigarette on to the ground and walks in to the store. The cigarette is still giving off smoke as it rolls in front of my feet, less than a meter away from a cigarette ashtray outside of the store. The guy could have put it out in the receptacle designed for post-cigarette-smoking events such as the one described, but he had to class it up and litter my town with his
trashy classy disregard for anyone but himself.
“County Jail - Control Center, how can I help you?” “Yes, they are here.” “No, I can’t tell you their charges until they have been arraigned.” “It is the weekend, ma’am, we don’t do arraignments until Monday at 1:30pm.” “If you want to get him out it will be $500 cash or surety.” “That means you can use a bondsman.” “Okay, have a nice night, ma’am”. 12 hours can be an awfully long time to sit in a small room with one chair surrounded by security one way glass, computer monitors, and video surveillance screens. Just another night working at the jail. The busy hours had long since passed, Free Cell (game #767) was losing its appeal, and the stiff backed twirly chair was no longer of any amusement. “Control available deputy, I need someone to come sit for me.”
Now, I know when you’re trying to eat a healthy, the last place you should be is longingly staring at the mouth-watering contents of a vending machine in the front lobby. My common sense was telling me to walk away from that rickety old machine, but my lack of willpower said otherwise. This was no spur of the moment wander to the vending machine and see what I shouldn’t be eating. This was completely premeditated. I had to make my way to the ladies locker room / bathroom / storage room (note: this is all one tiny multi-purpose room) for my purse. After that I had to make my way to the break room to make change. A $5 bill was the lowest denomination I had, so, I exchanged that for 5 $1 bills from the “Relay for Life” candy sales envelope. With my crinkled bills in my pocket, I just had to make the decision of what tasty treat was going to quiet my sweet tooth. Some may not think choosing an item from a vending machine would be so painstaking, but here I was about to cheat on my diet. How many miles was I going to have to run for this “little cheat”? After much debate and chewing on my lip it was decided, Skittles would be my drug of choice.
It was now or never. My guilty conscience was getting the best of me and if I didn’t put my money in soon, I would be snacking on baby carrots for the rest of the night. I was praying to a higher power (and at this point, I didn’t care which one) that my dollar bill went into that machine without problems. Wish / prayer granted. One step closer to the fruity-chewy goodness. I pressed D5 and the vending machine awoke. I knew I was going to regret Skittles because the sugar and sweetness normally gives me a stomachache. I could hear my co-workers now “I told you so.” Either way, it was going to be worth it. As my Skittles were vastly approaching the ledge and ready to take their leap ... DENIED. The only thing that could escape my lips was a gut-wrenching “Noooooooooooooooo!” and I started shaking the machine furiously.
I heard a muffled yell and walked thirty feet to the main window of Control Center where my Sergeant was covering for me. I asked if he said something. All he could do was try to hold back laughter and then spit out “get your candy?”. Bastard. “Sarge, if I get the candy I paid for out of a vending machine with a hanger, it is illegal?” I may have have the full get up; the shiny badge, nameplate donning my last name, whistle chain, county patches on each sleeve, black pants with too many pockets to count, and nice shiny black boots that mean business, but I don’t have stripes on my sleeves. If I have learned one thing at work it is when in doubt, ask the stripes. This case was no exception.
Since I got the go ahead, I ran to the locker room / bathroom / storage room and found a wire hanger. I knew the clock was ticking because my Sergeant couldn’t sit in Control Center for me all night. I entered the lobby and heard a rumble from the vending area. Apparently, my fiasco had spread to co-workers and I saw Bikershorts with the machine tilted at a 45-degree angle and then dropping it on its legs repeatedly, but still no Skittles. I decided to try to stop making ruckus for a moment and put in another dollar hoping for two bags of Skittles (double gut-ache be damned). The first bag fell, but the other one got stuck in the same spot. Rats.
Time to get my McGuyver on.
Step 1: Figure out the vending machine trap door.
Step 2: Get fingers unstuck from trap door.
Step 3: Find the weak spot and separate the trap door.
Step 4: Hanger through the tiny opening and discover the hanger is too short.
Time to re-evaluate. Bikershorts assists with another round of vending machine tilting while I am completely deconstructing the wire hanger. By the time I am done I have a hanger that looks like a metal curly party straw, but all that mattered was it looked long enough to reach my Skittles. This just might work. After squeezing my metal curly straw through the tiny gap in the trap door, I knew I was only halfway through the battle. I could feel the hanger was flimsy and my grip was reduced to my thumb, bird finger, and pointer finger. This was making for less than satisfactory candy retrieval conditions. I was moving the hanger from right to left, up and down, and it kept getting stuck on E7 (Heath bar) and when I got it unstuck flung to the other side of the machine. Every so often I was making contact with my Skittles bag. My hands were beginning to sweat and I could feel the hanger slip. “Come on. Pull yourself together. You can do this.”
That second bag of Skittles was taunting me. I was losing hope quickly. I guess breaking into the vending machine was harder than I thought. Was my sweet tooth really worth all this work? I decided to flail the hanger wildly and maybe my dumb luck would get me my candy. Again my hanger got stuck and I didn’t think I was going to be able to get it out. One final flick and my hanger was free. There was an incredible momentum shooting towards my bag of Skittles and there it went, knocking free a 100 Grand bar. I couldn’t believe it. My cheerleader, Bikershorts, looked at me in awe. I don’t know what was more shocking, the fact I got something out of the vending machine or it was not the candy I had paid for. I looked at him, shrugged my shoulders, grabbed my hard earned spoils, and went back to work.
Well played, vending machine, well played.
I love Michigan. I have lived here my entire life. There are a lot of great places to visit and the state has a very rich history. I recently visited a hidden gem of the state known as the Manistee National Forest to go backpacking (Grundle was there too), located on the northwest side of the lower peninsula. The forest is absolutely beautiful, but the locals around there are a little off. Perhaps growing up in a suburban environment has skewed my world view, but the people around this area make me feel extremely out of place. After leaving the trail Grundle and I were tired and very hungry from a long day of backpacking. We decided to stop at the one fine dining establishment in town - the McDonald's. I normally never eat fast food, especially McDonalds, but after burning close to 2500 calories from backpacking I would eat anything. We are sitting down enjoying our deliciously sugary Cokes, salty fries, and mediocre burgers as we soak in the local fare. Between the grizzled old men complaining to the cashiers about paying taxes for processed foods, the homely and overweight lady walking around wearing sweatpants too small with a torn t-shirt and hiking boots, and the group of hunters gathered around discussing their hate for minorities (probably), we notice a car parked outside that could rival the Classmaster GT.
A late model Mercury Grand Marquis happened to be stranded in a parking spot from a catastrophic front-driver-side suspension failure. I am no mechanic, but I do understand cars enough to know that these things just do not happen out of nowhere. There are usually warning signs that one's suspension is having issues, e.g. vibrations, rust, strange noises, poor alignment, and a rough ride. The strangest thing about this car was that it appeared to have been parked when the suspension failure occurred. There was no way this car could have been driven to McDonald's like this. The tire in-motion rubbing against the steel fender-well would have surely shredded the rubber, and the lack of steering alone would have made driving impossible. This car must have had a post-park suspension failure while the owner was in mid-chew of his McDouble.
Grundle and I watched through the window as the owner went out to inspect his car. He had a close resemblance to Chris Farley while wearing sweatpants and an over-sized NWO t-shirt (Oh man, remember the NWO? Remember 1997?). He was laying on the ground for a couple couple of minutes until he realized that he needed to find another ride quickly if he is to go home to watch reruns of Hollywood Hogan and the Wolfpac. In sheer confusion regarding what had happened to this 'Merican made luxury sedan, our local Macho Man Randy Savage hitched a ride with his female sweatpants counterpart.
Ladies and gentleman, I dub this car, the Classmaster LTD.
Who doesn't like to have the interior of their home decorated? Let's face it, a few pictures on the wall, some plants or flowers, and a valance will bring needed warmth to your home and give visitors a reflection of the Classy person you are.
However, it is common to get bored with the same ole theme day after day. Classy Lee recommends seasonal decorating. Snowflakes and x-mas trees in Winter. Flowers in Spring and Summer, for example. And Autumn, well Autumn is the time that everything dies. Nothing happy about that. Dead leaves, hay bails, and crunchy brown cornstalks are neither appealing to look at on any level.
"What can I do to remedy this debacle of Fall Feng-Shui" you ask? The answer is simple. Just add a touch of Class.
Perhaps the addition of a chrome pole?
Ah, the holiday season. With Thanksgiving down, we're right in the thick of it. There's a certain feeling in the cold, crisp air as classy people who only leave their homes one day a year to interact awkwardly with other humanoids come crawling out of the woodwork. That feeling of course, is CLASS. Some people choose to go out and weather the storm of happy, cheerful, not-at-all-stressed shoppers in an effort to buy Dad that classy character tie with the LEDs on it, or to get Mom that egg separator they've always wanted or to get junior Australian Dick Wrestling's Greatest Moments 32 on Blu-Ray. Others will shop for Christmas presents the way God intended us to purchase presents to celebrate His son's birthday; via the power of teh Intertubes!
You can find just about anything on the Internet. Classy gifts abound. One struck me as the ultimate in class. What do you get the person who has everything? Poop. Yes, that's right. Poop. http://www.poopgift.com sells chocolate in the shape of a "human-sized" dookie. It comes in multiple flavors - milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and white chocolate. Furthermore, you can order your pseudo-poo with nuts or butterscotch chips. Of course, the truly classy among us would spring for the extra gourmet flavoring. Each order appears to be shipped in a box with the chocolate turd wrapped in toilet paper and with a bottle of water (?!). For that added touch of class, you can personalize a message to be printed on a card. In addition to holidays, birthdays or jokes, the website also claims that the gift of poo is perfect for weddings and apologies. What better way to let your newlywed wife know that she has correctly chosen the classiest of mates than by surprising her with a box of toilet paper and a butterscotch milk chocolate turd?
Remember kiddies; when it comes to giving, it's the thought AND the gift that counts. Nobody wants to be gifted something they don't want, and let's face it; only the non-classiest of people will be ungrateful with edible feces in a box.