Clubs

I'm not really one to go out to clubs. You could say I don't “frequent the club scene.” I don’t “go clubbin’.” Because I really “can’t dance.”

I don't think I'm extroverted enough to go up to a random girl I don't know and ask her to “cut a rug.” Maybe it’s because no one has said that since 1957, or maybe I'm a little weirded out by what that would actually mean.

I’m more of a stand-around-in-a-group kind of guy, maybe sitting if the mood is right. I wish clubs were more like junior high dances, where the genders are separated to opposite sides. And I’m just staring across trying to think of something clever to say to distract her from me stepping on her toes. (Oh, to be young again.) I am definitely not one to grind it out with the nearest girl to the newest rap song.
“Hey, I know you're a complete stranger, but could we go out on the dance floor and simulate sex?”
And then she says, “Sure, because I'm only basing this on looks alone any way and I would love it if someone I don’t know would hump me to a rhythmic beat.”
Great, that’s settled. Now I'm supposed to do the typical college guy dance, the only one any white guy has ever known... the crotch grind. This is the dance where I just move my hips every once in a while and just kind of… grind? Even my dog has more manners than that. She at least lets you pet her head or tries to lick your face before she goes at it with your leg.
Yeah, that's dancing. Anywhere else, it’s socially unacceptable to gyrate on someone to music. You're at a wedding and a five year old kid wants to dance on your shoes and instead you're a Tickle Me Elmo doll with a libido. But it’s ok at a club, because the techno music is on repeat and everyone else is dry humping around you.

And it’s difficult to start up a conversation based on the very short “relations” you just had out on the dance floor. After I get past the usual small talk (name, major, year), there's that awkward silence that follows.
I’m so uncomfortable I’m starting to become comfortable again, so I just spout something quickly. “So... you come here often?" Either response I get, I'm just going to be clueless as to where to go from there.
Her: "Yes. Yes, I do."
Me: “Oh... um... great. Welcome back.”
Or...
Her: “No. I’ve never been here before.”
Me: “Me either." (silence)
Smooth.

I have the most limited relationship with this girl, so the topics are... music... yeah, that's pretty much it. And oh-so-brilliant considering there’s music playing. But I can't tell her really how I feel because it would come out something like this: “Crap.”
And in a lot of the clubs, there is that DJ holding the headphones up to one ear and shouting out over-excited, over-rehearsed obnoxiousness into the microphone.
“This is dejaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay Slimmy Slam Slim Slammity Slim, bringing you the latest, the greatest, and the stuff that makes you shake it, baby. Spinnin' the discs and pumpin' the beats, I'll be up in here all this week.”
Sometimes I want to go up and request the Bunny Hop. (Let’s see them grind to that.) Yeah, songs with instructions, perfect. It makes it that much easier on me, leader of the uncoordinated.

So if you ever suggest to me, “Hey, let’s go out to a club.” Just remember, I hate you.

Wizard of Oz Characters

I was always a little scared of the characters in the Wizard of Oz. And not the usual scary ones like the witch or the flying monkeys or the midgets.

I was scared of the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. The Scarecrow was just crazy. He was unpredictable and that was frightening in itself.

But I was especially scared of the Tin Man. He had no heart and a big axe. He could have chopped Dorothy into bits and he wouldn't have cared.

They would have been like "What the hell, Tin Man?" And the Tin Man would have been like "Dude, I don't care. I don't have a heart."

And the Scarecrow would have been like "Huh?"

PETA Cracks Down on Party Games

A spokesman for PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) made a statement today concerning the depiction of cruelty to animals at children's parties.
"We at PETA believe that parents are promoting the ill treatment of animals at parties and gatherings with irresponsible games and activities. We feel that this has gone on long enough. We urge that our fanatics everywhere speak out."

PETA is speaking primarily of the tradition of "Pin the tail on the donkey." The kids are blindfolded, spun an indefinite amount of times, and then asked to pin the tail on a picture of a donkey. Just the thought of puncturing the donkey multiple times for sport has PETA up in arms yet again. But they are more concerned with the fact that rarely does the pin actually go on the ass's ass. One mother and member of PETA said, "I went with my daughter to a party once at her little friend's house and they were playing this awful game. A little boy put the pin right through the donkey's eye! And he laughed about it! I was horrified."
The spokesman added, "And don't even get us started on the petting zoos that sometimes pop up at these events."

PETA doesn't seem to stop, just making outrageous statements whenever their extreme liberalism is ignored. They simultaneously launched a Latin American campaign against the sale of pinatas. "Pinatas shaped like animals," according to PETA, "are beaten senselessly by children around the world not thinking of what it really means. And then they scramble and fight for their innards when the animal is destroyed. Disgusting."
I asked a nearby Mexican boy what he had to say about pinatas and he said, "Muy bien."
So there you have it. A time-honored tradition locked in a vicious battle with animal rights crazies.

It seems that with the crack down on using the copyrighted "Birthday Song," the removal of party games, and the recent concerns with the dangers of 'Ring Around the Rosies' that children will be left with only one option on their birthday... hookahs.

Being One-Legged

Man, it is weird sometimes being one-legged. All sorts of crazy stuff happens to you that doesn't really happen to other people.
A normal person messes up their knee, they need surgery. I just drop it off for 24 hours and its all tuned up when I come in the next morning.
A normal person breaks their leg and they need an ambulance and a cast. I break my leg and I need an Allen wrench and some brake grease.
A normal person puts their pants on one leg at a time. I put my pants on earlier in the week and then slide the other leg in whenever its time to go out.

And when I say normal person, I mean a bipod. Us monopods qualify as quasi-handicapped. The kind of handicapped where if I'm wearing long pants you're like "Is he limping? Or just that cool?" The answer is both.

I feel bad sometimes stealing the handicapped space, like I'm maybe not handicapped enough. Like the next guy that comes along is going to be missing both legs. But he shouldn't be driving any way, Crazy No Legs. What a silly guy.

But I can spot a handicapped spot from a mile away. It's like a sixth sense I have. Like when blind people's hearing gets better. "Whoa, we don't have to park out here. There's a handicapped spot on the first row, second from the end. A geriatric has been pulling out of it since we left the house."

Though sometimes when I get out of the car people don't believe I'm handicapped. They want to see some sort of identification or handicapped membership card. Check out the plates. See that wheelchair guy? Yeah, that's me. I'm just walking a little more these days.
I get the "tsk tsk" or the skeptical glance as I walk off from my car. Thank you for protecting the parking spaces, Mr. Disabled Security Officer. What would we do without you? Wait, where's your badge? Oh, you don't have one either.
Sometimes it takes a bold approach to reach the slow ones. A wrinkled, grey hair over 70 is giving me the old "stink eye" and I'm supposed to response in a language that she might possibly understand before next Tuesday. "Here Grandma." Then I rip off my leg and hand it to her. "You hold this while I get some eggs. I'll be right back" and I hop in the other direction. She's left cradling an appendage while I'm hopping around the grocery store like the friggin' Easter bunny.

And at sporting events I can move right up to the front of the parking lot. It's like having a backstage pass at a concert and I know the band. We pull up to the rent-a-cop, who sees the blue hang tag, gives us the wave, and the "move along, sir." Right up to the front. People making fake IDs that say they're 21 AND have a deformity. Growing facial hair and dragging a limb.
I guess this is to make up for security check points at airports and stuff that redefines paranoia. Everyone else is putting their keys and cell phone in the tray. I'm just strolling through because I know when I get to the other side they're going to think I'm Robocop. "Why don't you just save yourself the trouble, because that wand is gonna beep from here down, pal." And full cavity search is an understatement. I feel like I have to get the person's number afterwards. "I'll look you up next time I'm in town. I had fun. You were a real gentleman."

There's always controversy over what people should call 'us.' In this overly politically correct world, everyone wants to make sure I'm getting called the right thing. "What is it like being... Well, what do you like to be called? Disabled? Handicapped? Walking challenged?" Here's an idea. How about Jeff? I don't ask you if you want to be called "fat," "obese," or "gigantic." I start with your name and keep the judgments to myself. And you should too, unless you want rubber, carbon fiber, steel, and titanium up your huge ass. In that order.

Some might say I'm being kind of cynical about the whole thing. But you would be too if everything was referred to as "easy as riding a bike" and you never got off training wheels because pedaling is harder than it looks. Or when your leg falls asleep you're basically screwed for a few minutes.

Most people don't know how to deal with someone missing a leg. They don't know whether to say something or not. Because the only contact they've had with that is either:
A) pirates. Which there aren't a whole lot of. The only major booty around to plunder anymore is in J-Lo's pants. OHHHHHHHHHH SNAP!! I DID NOT JUST GO THERE!
or
B) Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump. So for the twenty-second time for all you uncomfortable people out there, yes I think he was a noble character. And thank you Gary Sinise for bringing the crippled to the masses. We salute you.

So, that information should help you next time you meet a one-legged person. You have a little insight into their barely different world. You don't have to run away in fear. Please don't. We can't keep up.


wow, two big ass jokes in one post. an unexpected bonus.

Quick Thoughts About the Dentist

Yeah, yeah. I know the dentist bit is overdone so I'll keep it brief.

After laying precariously in that chair under the interrogation light for enough time, making small talk like it was going out of style, it was time for the routine teeth cleaning.

This is where the hygenist takes a tiny circular sander to your teeth. This high-speed circular motion is supposed to make up for 6 months worth of crappy brushing.

But the best part is when she asks me what flavor I wanted. As if the flavor is going to change the fact that she is literally grinding a layer off of my enamel.

It was like Baskin Robbins' 31 flavors though! It was ridiculous how many flavors they had for cleaning my friggin teeth. She started out with the basics like mint or cherry. Then there was chocolate, chocolate mint, some orange crush one, cookie dough (no, seriously, there was), and on and on. But then I think she was just making them up after that, naming colors and shapes. It was early, so I may have misheard, but I could have sworn I heard a flavoring called "Fettuccini Alfredo." And when I stayed loyal to my roots (I know, bad pun, but its 9 in the morning) and chose mint, she realized she had to go get some more of them. Apparently no one ever picks mint, but usually pick something a little more fun from their extensive teeth-cleaning menu. People are so spoiled.