Tag Archives: Funny

Hey! Stop “Bob Rodgersing” My Pregnant Wife!

old-guy-with-hand-down-large-womans-pants

A classic Bob Rodgersing. Here, this man is showing you a creative, one-handed variation of the Original.

Author’s Note: Sexual assault isn’t funny. And if Bob Rodgers were to ever “Bob Rodgers” the wrong person, he could conceivably get in sexual assault-ish legal trouble for doing so. I’m not a lawyer. But my friend is. And he just happened to be there the night Bob Rodgers “Bob Rodgersed” my pregnant wife, an event that forever changed our vocabulary, the types of photos we text or email one another, and turned a random guy’s name into a verb and a noun. The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty.

I spent my high school years living on a quaint little street at the bottom of a steep hill with a cul-de-sac on both ends.

It was quiet other than the occasional train roaring by on some nearby tracks. My parents (my mom and stepdad) were conservative and fairly strict. Nothing wild EVER happened at that house.

So, when my wife and I rolled up to my old house where my stepdad lived alone less than a year after my mom left and filed for divorce, and about 10 years after I’d moved out, I almost shit myself.

Hip-hop music was BLARING from the garage via professional DJ equipment.

People were everywhere, laughing and having a good time.

Are we back in college?

This was a bona fide keg party my stepdad (who I met on my 5th birthday) was throwing while trying to reclaim his life after the divorce.

Before long, I was drinking shots with friends and neighbors and relatives standing around the kitchen table where we prayed before every meal and where I’d never before drank alcohol.

I was bumming cigarettes to my uncle’s girlfriend who was trying to hide it from him.

I was laughing it up with friends and family all of who shared my awe of the surreal scene: What planet are we on right now? Can you believe this is happening here?

It was the second-most surreal and awesome thing that would happen that night.

One of the neighbors is a guy named Bob Rodgers. A guy in between my age and my parents’ age.

He was always nice to me.

“Hey Bob! Good to see you, sir! Want to drink a shot with us?”

Damn right, he did.

All night, we were filling up plastic cups from the kegs, and drinking occasional shots from my stepdad’s neglected liquor cabinet. This was a man that drank ONE light beer, once a month with dinner. Maybe.

It was a great party.

My lawyer friend isn’t just my lawyer friend. He’s my childhood best friend who happens to be an attorney also.

He and I were standing in the backyard admiring the sights and sounds of the summer-night party when my pregnant wife walked up to us.

“So, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but who’s that guy over there?” she said.

“That’s Bob Rodgers. He lives right over there. Why?” I said.

“He just totally put his hands down my pants,” she said.

I didn’t love when guys did that, but I was drinking a lot and am harder to upset under such conditions.

“What do you mean? Like the front? Like, he tried to touch you down there?”

“No. In the back. Between my jeans and underwear,” she said while sort of demonstrating how it went down.

My friend and I looked at each other, half-disturbed, half-amused. My top priority was making sure my wife wasn’t upset. She wasn’t, and we all started to lighten up.

“Wait. On top of your underwear? Like, he went for your ass, but checked himself before going full skin?”

“I guess.”

“He used both hands? God, his wife is standing right there! I wonder if she saw that. How far down did he go?” I said.

She showed us again. About down to where your thumb connects to your hand.

Maybe it was all the drinking. But things were getting funnier.

My uncle’s girlfriend came over to bum another covert cigarette.

I excused myself from the Bob Rodgers conversation and went to smoke with her. She leaned in close to my ear. “Do you know that guy over there?”

“Hell yeah, I do. That’s Bob Rodgers. He just stuck his hands down my wife’s pants!”

“No way!” she said. “That’s what I was going to tell you!”

“You saw him do it!? I totally missed it.”

“No, he did it to me too! Just now when I was over there. He pulled me in for a hug and put his hands down the back of my pants!” she said.

“This guy is unbelievable!” I said. “Important question that I’m sorry for asking: Did he put them between your pants and your underwear? I mean, did he stay above your underwear?”

“Yes. Exactly,” she said.

“Holy shit. Bob Rodgers is Bob Rodgersing everybody!”

I drug my uncle’s girlfriend over to where my wife and friends were standing. By now, more of them had been brought up to speed on the Bob Rodgers incident.

“Guys! Lisa got Bob Rodgersed, too!” I said, probably too excitedly.

Lisa and my wife compared notes and it became official: Getting “Bob Rodgersed” was now a Thing, and it had just happened to both of them.

We spent the rest of the night sharing the story with people and inventing new ways to Bob Rodgers someone. My lawyer friend’s wife’s cousin (seriously) lived down the street and she already knew about Bob Rodgers and his inappropriate groping.

This was apparently what he did all the time. He’d get super-wasted at bars or parties, then would Bob Rodgers (the verb) every woman he could. Then he’d pass out and have to be carried home.

The rumor was his wife knew about Bob Rodgers’ nasty habit of Bob Rodgersing everyone.

My stepdad was pissed when he found out my wife and at least one other borderline family member was groped by his drunk neighbor during his party. We assured him all was well, but that it might be wise to keep an eye out for this sort of thing in the future.

(I have a young sister. When she was still in high school, Bob Rodgers would make very Bob Rodgersy comments to her. He’s probably a ticking time bomb.)

How to Bob Rodgers Someone

This is a photo of Kendall Jenner getting Bob Rodgersed by sister Kylie.

This is a photo of Kendall Jenner getting Bob Rodgersed by sister Kylie.

As I do not, and will never, condone uninvited touching of other people, especially in areas covered by underwear, I want to clearly state in no uncertain terms that you should only be Bob Rodgersing people who you are allowed to Bob Rodgers (the verb).

That said, here are some basic Bob Rodgersing techniques you can use at home. (I apologize for the lack of illustrations with directional arrows.)

The Original Bob Rodgers

In a classic front-facing hugging position, stick both hands down the back of his/her pants, inside the pants, but outside the underwear.

The Reverse Bob Rodgers

Basically, this is your classic courtesy reach-around while standing behind him/her, except you must leave your hands atop his/her underwear.

The Double Bob Rodgers

Best accomplished from the side, the Double requires you to put one hand down the front and the other down the back (on top of the underwear!) simultaneously.

The Bent-Over One-Handed Bob Rodgers

This guy's almost got it right.

This guy’s almost got it right.

A common maneuver in Turkish oil wrestling, when he/she is on hands and knees, you put one hand down the back of the pants. Counting to 10 is optional.

The Double Reverse with a Twist Bob Rodgers

This is tricky shit, and is virtually impossible to pull off when belts or tight-fitting pants are involved. In a front-facing position (like the Original), you slide BOTH hands down the front of his or her pants (above the underwear), but then giving a little twisting finger motion at the end to let them know you mean business.

These are your entry-level, super-basic Bob Rodgersing techniques to get you started.

There are no limits, so please let your imagination run wild.

If you have Bob Rodgersing tips, stories, or new entries to the How to Bob Rodgers Someone Library, I hope you’ll share them in the comments.

From the Bob Rodgers Training Facility, over and out.

Another Author’s Note: There are more than likely MANY guys named Bob Rodgers out there. I want to reiterate that Bob Rodgers is a totally made-up name and is NOT the actual name of the guy doing all the Bob Rodgersing in this story. If your name is Bob Rodgers or you know one and like him, I’m really sorry.

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The Accidental Vagina

vagina emoticon

I was falling asleep because it was late and I wake up early.

“Talk soon,” I texted before plugging my phone in for the night.

She replied: “Goodnight!  ({})”

I stared at it for a minute. Did she just send me a vagina emoticon? It was too late and I lacked the brainpower to figure it out.

The Vagina Dialogue

I forgot about it for most of the next day, but a text exchange with her later that night reminded me of the vagina symbol, and I felt compelled to ask about it.

“Before I forget. Did you send me a digital vagina before I fell asleep last night?”

“WHAT?!?!? NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!… Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha what are you talking about?!?!?”

“Was it a Rorschach test? I totally saw a vagina. ({}) <– that is a digital vagina. My face hurts from laughing about this.”

“Hahahahaha! It’s a hug!!! It’s a smiley face with two hands giving a hug!”

I questioned her sanity for the first time, as this was the clinical psychologist who befriended me and convinced me I had adult ADHD and needed to treat it properly to maximize my quality of life.

“That’s a vagina hug!” I said.

“Omg. That’s amazing!!! Hahaha. I don’t see a vagina at all!!!”

“I just showed it to a friend. He is not especially pervy. He’s married with two kids. I asked, what is this? He insta-replied: ‘That’s a vagina,’ and I laughed some more.

“He said, and I quote…”

“I’m dying right now from laughing,” she said.

“…it may be a little wider and looser than I prefer. But that’s definitely a vagina.”

“I really don’t see it!!! What role do the white hands play? So like, ({}) what is the white part and what is the yellow?? All I see is a smiley face with two hands.”

“I don’t see any color here.”

“The round thing is yellow, and the bottom is white. Ok, I’m going to text myself to the iPad and see if I can see it.”

“Allow me,” I said, and proceeded to text her the vagina symbol.

“OH MY GOD!!!!! Hahahahahahaha.”

“I thought you sent me a vagina. I thought you were trying to be sexy, like: ‘Hey, check out this super-hot vagina!’ But I really had to go to sleep.”

“I can’t believe it. I send that A LOT. Oh. My. God.”

“This is one of my favorite moments, ever. I am 100-percent writing about this.”

“Do you see what it’s supposed to look like like??? Hahahaha.”

vagina hug

“Yes. I’m giddy. You’ve been sending vaginas to everybody.”

Despite being a super-smart and easy-to-like human being, she’s like your crotchety parent who doesn’t want to use new and improved technology, and refuses to give up using a Blackberry. So this kind of thing was bound to happen.

My mother literally said to me the other day: “I’m going to buy a new TV—but it’s not going to be a smart TV!”

“Why don’t you want a smart TV, mom?” I asked.

“I don’t want those sonsofbitches spying on me in my living room!” she said.

dr evil right

So when you send hugging emoticons from a Blackberry to people with iPhones (and hopefully Android devices, too!), what they really see is vaginas.

I thought you needed to know.

You’re welcome.

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The Jesus Fly

Robert_Wadlow fly

The Jesus Fly looked a bit like this.

There was a noise at the kitchen window.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

A sound like that could mean only one of two things: Either every woman in the neighborhood was standing outside holding turned-on vibrators against the glass, or an enormous insect was buzzing around the window.

A quick investigation revealed zero sex toys and one very large fly. It wasn’t scary-mutant big like I was having a bad Honey, I Shrunk the Kids acid trip. More like the difference between Robert Wadlow and a regular person.

Normal fly = regular person.

This fly = Robert Wadlow.

“Good God. Check out this fly. It’s the size of my head,” I said.

My friend, the homeowner, walked over to confirm I was exaggerating. Then he disappeared for a second and reappeared with a freaky-looking tennis racket which turned out to be a rad hand-held bug zapper designed to improve the fly-swatting process. It was my first time seeing one.

“Dude. That’s awesome,” I said.

He was about to show me how it worked. Unlike a fly swatter, the rate of impact isn’t a factor. When insects contact the inner coils, they are promptly met with 3,000 volts of I told you not to fly by the potato salad, sucka.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

The giant fly hit the coils. SNAP! There was a loud pop like the sound of a Snap Dragon hitting the ground. And Mothra fell to the floor.

It laid still on its back, apparently dead.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

The fly was still alive! Because the Lord of the Flies laughs at 3,000 volts.

SNAP!

My friend hit him again. Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!

The fly was obviously dead this time, but we were awestruck by its resilience.

It was really quiet otherwise I never would have heard what happened next.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

“You can’t kill me, fuckers!!!” the fly said* before flying away again.**

The fly landed on my friend’s counter. He put the zapper racket on top of the fly. As soon as it tried to fly away… Bam. 3,000 volts.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

SNAP!

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

SNAP!

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

SNAP!

Three times that tough sonofabitch flew into the death racket before finally succumbing to eternal(?) sleep.

“It’s gotta be dead now, right?” my friend said.

“No way. That’s the Jesus Fly and I think he’s got another run left in him,” I said.

My friend’s wife walked in the room and looked at us like we were holding turned-on vibrators against the kitchen window.

“What are you guys? 10?” she said.

Instead of accepting her fair question silently, I tried defending our behavior.

“Hold on. Check out this fly. It’s died, like, 14 times already and it keeps coming back to life. It’s immortal. The Jesus Fly. A miracle. You’re not impressed?”

She wasn’t.

My friend spoke up.

“If it comes back to life again, we have to let it go, right? Since it was such a worthy adversary?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “If he’s dead I think we should have a ceremonial burial for him in the back yard.”

“Yeah, I think he’s gone-zo this time,” he said.

“Impossible!” I joked. “That fly is totally immortal.”

He went to dispose of the fallen beast.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

“Holy shit!!! He’s still alive!!!” we yelled. We were giddy because we’re children.

The giant fly rose like a phoenix. It had taken 3,000 volts on the chin a half-dozen times. The music from the spaceship liftoff at the end of E.T. started playing out of nowhere* as he rose majestically to the ceiling and flew out of reach.** Just before flying above the accent-lit kitchen cabinets, it turned around and flipped us off* but we weren’t even mad because it was the Jesus Fly.**

And it must still be alive somewhere because all evidence points to the irrefutable fact that this fly is unkillable and will never die.

He’s still alive, probably partying with some other cool, but inferior flies. Being the grand champion of every fly that has ever lived.

Never forgotten. Forever revered.

Keep on keepin’ on, Jesus Fly.

The end.

*- I made that up.

**- but not that.

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Matt the Plumber

(Image courtesy of Emergency Plumber Boston.)

(Image courtesy of Emergency Plumber Boston.)

I looked the part. Jeans and a tee shirt. A wrench and a bucket.

But the universe knows I’m not really a handyman, outside of the kitchen or bedroom. I’m more of a helper. Like Al on Tool Time.

It’s not that I can’t fix or install things. On a case-by-case basis, I can. I just generally require at least one more trip to the hardware store than a regular person.

I’ve installed a dishwasher that only leaked once, a garbage disposal that has miraculously never failed me, some lattice on my deck that lasted a solid five years before falling off, a flat-panel television by my basement bar with minimal wall damage, and I once fixed a washing machine. It still totally works. Seriously!

Bucket in hand, I was all ready to go. I would have charged myself $80 an hour, but I didn’t even have my ass crack showing, so I was like: I’m not paying this impostor.

“Hey Matt! What happened to your sink!?!?”

I’m so glad you asked.

You know the little plunger on the backs of faucets that move drain plugs up and down? Yeah, I somehow disconnected mine from that mechanism on the sink in one of my bathrooms and have never figured out how to fix it, so I just never did.

I needed to plug the sink to do some bathroom hygiene stuff which I really, desperately, want to tell you was because I fill up the sink to shave so I can conserve water responsibly while shaving my two-day stubble that took four days to grow.

But that’s not the reason. It’s because I needed to clean a plugged ear. (Hot, right? You eating lunch? Mmm. Don’t worry, this gets slightly grosser.)

So I press down the plug and let the sink fill up with water while I do what needs done.

It’s time to unplug the drain, only the little plunger-majingy on the faucet isn’t working, because duh, bitch, it doesn’t work!

Crap. How am I going to get this drain unplugged?

I ran downstairs and grabbed one of my old steak knives I would never be able to use again and tried jimmying it into the space between the plug and the drain surround.

It was an ineffective strategy, but I kept trying it over and over and swearing a little. The swearing didn’t help.

Hmmm.

A moment of genius.

Got it!

I grabbed the toilet plunger, because I’m totally brilliant and I figured I could create enough vacuum suction to force the drain up that way.

Three things happened really fast.

The first thing that happened was epic failure as my shitty plan didn’t even almost work. The drain didn’t budge.

The second thing that happened was that all of the totally disgusting bacteria and mildew that lives inside not-well-cleaned toilet plungers totally contaminated my predominately clean sink water, save for the remnants of my successful ear-cleaning procedure.

The third thing that happened is despite almost throwing up in my mouth, I tried the shitty plunger idea a few more times to see if it would work, and it never did, but some of the dysentery water splashed up on my vanity and got all over my toothbrush which I promptly threw in the trash and lit on fire.

The sink was winning.

I needed to think. And find a new toothbrush. And a new place to brush.

I knew I was going to have to disconnect the drain pipe and hit it from underneath (giggity), but that seemed like a lot of work and since I hadn’t contracted malaria or toilet-plunger gonorrhea yet, I wanted to give it a little more brainstorming and disease-marinating time.

Finally, it was last night, and my son would be home the following and there’s no way I could let him see this, so it was time to take action.

A ladybug had already found its way into the disgusting water and had fortunately died instead of turning into a giant flying Toxic Crusader insect that tried to hump my mouth while I slept.

Armed with my wrench and bucket, I pulled out everything stored beneath the sink, situated the bucket and went to work on disconnecting the drainpipe.

Turns out, whoever plumbed the sink installed fittings that could relatively easily be unscrewed by hand, so my wrench was totally for show. I disconnected the drain, pushed the plug out with a screwdriver from underneath, and watched my hand get some AIDS water on it but somehow not shrivel up and disappear. All that remained in the sink was a black ring of filth and horribleness.

I went to work with disinfectant and napalm, cleaned up, put everything away and admired a job well done that maybe took 15 minutes altogether. Even with the napalm.

What that means is I “brainstormed” ideas to fix my sink for 48 hours to try to avoid doing it “the hard way.” The hard way which only took 15 minutes.

It was a missed opportunity.

At $80 an hour, I would have been almost $4,000 richer.

And probably rocked some wicked-hot plumber’s crack.

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The Underwear Problem

Pretty much this sort of thing.

Pretty much this sort of thing.

Sometimes I wear embarrassing underwear.

Each time I do, I’m gambling that no women are going to jump out of nowhere and tear my pants off, or that I’m not going to be in one of those multiple-hostage bank robberies where during the heist the bank robbers make everyone take their pants off.

I saw that in a movie once, so now I’m pretty sure all bank robberies involve hostages being forced to remove their pants.

I do not wear women’s underwear. I hope you weren’t thinking that. But I do sometimes neglect my laundry long enough where I get through all of my respectable boxers. And what’s left?

Novelty boxers that my mom enjoys sending me around the holidays for reasons I don’t understand.

M&Ms. The Bumble from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Nintendo Wii. SpongeBob SquarePants. Valentine’s Day-themed boxers with hearts all over them.

I have one pair of M&M boxers that say “Bring on the Chocolate” across the ass.

Those embarrass me the most. I don’t know why.

Sometimes I have a bunch of clean clothes folded in the laundry basket two floors away from me. The choice: Walk down to get some normal boxers? OR. Wear these random silk boxers with hearts all over them?

I always ask myself two questions:

1. Is a woman likely to take my pants off today? Yeah, probably not. Okay. These should work.

2. But wait!!! Am I going to a bank where I’m almost certainly going to be taken hostage along with 15 other people and be forced to take my pants off and just stand there while all the bank robbers, employees and other customers laugh at me??? Probably not! But I better run downstairs and get some regular ones just to be safe. If I don’t? I know I’m gambling. Someone might see!

The girl thing is totally scary.

Just imagine it.

Eyes locked. Fingers and lips touch. Just the right amount of teeth and tongue. This is totally going to happen.

Hearts racing. Bodies pulsing. Both people breathless as they lose themselves.

Buckles unbuckle.

Fasteners unfasten.

Zippers unzip.

A shirt flies off here.

A bra flies off there.

And then—whoosh!—pants off.

<insert vinyl record screech noise here>

And then she sees your SpongeBob SquarePants Christmas boxers.

Then she pulls out her phone and snaps a photo of you trying to hide your underwear and your erection.

Then she runs out of your house laughing hysterically.

Then she posts the photo on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram and tags you in all of them and everyone laughs at you for the rest of your life because you wear SpongeBob SquarePants Christmas boxers EVERY DAY, apparently, and now no one will ever want you.

They’re all gonna laugh at you!

That could totally happen.

Which is why my boxers are a very respectable solid-color blue right now.

Whew. It’s probably gonna be a good day.

I dream up random crap all the time and then worry about it.

It’s really useful for things like protecting my little son from danger and driving safely.

But it’s mostly pretty debilitating like that one time when a few people in the United States contracted Ebola and I worried about a pandemic happening.

I used to think I was the only person that did this, but now I know even without asking that most people probably do it because we’re really not so different once you strip away all the stuff that doesn’t matter.

What Do You Mean You Don’t Have Attack Pants!?!?

My stepsister, who I don’t like calling “stepsister” because she’s family, had just picked up her and her husband’s bedroom.

As they were getting ready for bed, she noticed he’d set out a pair of pants in a spot she had JUST picked up.

“What the hell? I just put those pants away,” she said.

“Yeah, but I need these here,” he said. “Just in case.”

(I’m totally making up this dialogue, by the way, but the spirit of the conversation is absolutely accurate.)

“Just in case… of what?” she asked him.

“Just in case bad guys break into our house and attack us.”

She stood there looking at him.

“You mean, if bad guys break into the house, you want to have pants on hand to put on real quick before you fight them off? These pants—they’re your ‘Attack Pants’?”

And then they both just stood there laughing.

The next day, she asked me if I had Attack Pants. I don’t need specific Attack Pants, because I always have a couple pairs (pants too clean for laundry, but too dirty to be folded and put away) around and ready to throw on in an emergency.

I never thought about them in the sense of needing pants during middle-of-the-night combat. BUT. I have absolutely considered the possibility of fire.

Smokey. Frightening. Smoke detectors going off. Maybe my son would be there. He’s my only real priority. And maybe the fire is hot and raging. And maybe there’s no way to get downstairs and out the door safely. Maybe jumping out the window is the only way.

And maybe there’s no time to put on pants.

Maybe the entire neighborhood will gather outside and watch my house burn down. Maybe newspaper photographers will be there.

And I’d be standing there. Probably during winter so my penis would look smaller.

But no one would really care, because they’d be too distracted by my M&M boxers. Bring on the chocolate!

“Why does his underwear say that?” all my neighbors and the firefighters and the media would be wondering.

And then everyone would post the photos to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram and tag me in them and everyone would laugh at me for the rest of my life because I apparently wear silly M&M boxers with writing on the ass EVERY DAY, and now no one will ever want me.

They’re all gonna laugh at you!

Right?

That could totally happen.

Do any of you guys keep Attack Pants handy? Does anyone else wear bad underwear sometimes and worry about anyone seeing it? Do you also worry about really bizarre, arbitrary things that are highly unlikely to happen to anyone, ever?

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You’re Not Supposed to Laugh at That

This is pretty much exactly what I'm talking about.

This is pretty much exactly what I’m talking about.

I was the only adult in the introductory Cub Scouts meeting without a child present.

“Which one is your son?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not here. He’s at karate with his mom tonight,” I said.

“Oh, I see.” But I could tell he really meant: “Yeah, right! You just want to Jerry Sandusky our kids! Pervert!”

Whatever, virgin.

I wasn’t there to be sold on Cub Scouts. We’d already decided to sign our six-year-old up. I was just there for the paperwork.

But the Cub Scouts leaders were laying it on thick, sharing anecdotes about how great the experience is instead of letting what is a totally worthwhile children’s activity sell itself. In fact, Public Service Announcement, Boy Scouts of America People: If you really want to grow your brand, stop having guys who have never had sex before and have the personality of C-SPAN be your public speakers.

Chlorophyll? More like BOREophyll. Right?

I came to the meeting intent on signing up, and an Eagle Scout damn near convinced me I’d made a mistake. He was like the Bizarro Billy Mays, talking me out of doing something I already wanted to do, one shitty selling point at a time.

Then one of the mom leaders started talking. She has three boys and they’re all in Boy Scouts, and it’s A-MAY-ZING!!!

She shared personal anecdotes. Camping stories. And then something bad happened.

All I heard was: “Blah blah blah blah blah, and then the boys pitch their own tents. Blah blah blah blah, pitching tents, blah blah blah. And blah blah blah Boy Scouts stuff blah, it’s so great seeing the boys pitching a tent.”

And then I made eye contact with the only male Cub Scouts leader in the room who might have had sex before, and I lost it.

I snorted a little.

A few tears streamed down my face.

And I had to just stare at the ground for a few minutes to keep my shit together.

I’ve always known it. But this felt like a defining moment for me. The guy without the kid at the Cub Scouts meeting laughing by himself because an awkward Scout Mom kept using the phrase: “Pitching a tent.” (Which for the uninitiated, is a popular phrase to describe a clothed male erection.)

I’m a 35-year-old child.

And maybe I always will be.

Tell Me, Big Puberty Guy

I was in fifth grade when I met my friend who would eventually be my college roommate for four years and the best man in my wedding.

But before we were rocking college keg parties and standing up for one another at our respective weddings, we were grade-school kids doing whatever grade-school kids did in 1989.

Two of those things were: sex education and puberty.

And despite neither of us being particularly advanced on the maturity side, we took to calling boys slow to develop physically “Big Puberty Guys.”

So, like, a kid with a lot of peach fuzz and super-young-looking features? Big Puberty Guy.

I was sort of a Big Puberty Guy. And still pretty much am because I lack the physical ability to grow a beard. I seriously only shave every two or three days. On day two, I look like 5 O’Clock Shadow Guy, and on day three, I look like Dirty-Hippie Neck Hair Trying But Failing To Grow A Beard Guy. It’s the opposite of hot.

In 1988 a little-known new wave synthpop band (that sounded British but wasn’t) named Information Society had a hit called “What’s On Your Mind (Pure Energy).”

The hook went like this:

I want to know

What you’re thinking

There are some things you can’t hide

I want to know

What you’re feeling

Tell me what’s on your mind

And for reasons I can’t explain, my friend and I changed the second stanza for the Big Puberty Guy theme song:

I want to know

What you’re thinking

There are some things you can’t hide

I want to know

How you’re maturing

Tell me, Big Puberty Guy

To the surprise of music aficionados worldwide, we DID NOT win a Grammy for songwriting that year.

The Mike Holmgren Beej

Two things you need to know:

  1. Mike Holmgren is a 60-something-year-old former NFL coach and executive famous for winning the Super Bowl in Green Bay during the Brett Favre era. I’m a Cleveland Browns fan, and for a short while, he was running my favorite football team. He has a pretty solid mustache.
  2. Beej = blow job.

One of my very best friends—someone I’ve known since first grade and think of as family—is a successful attorney and my son’s godfather.

We’re both football fans, though we root for different teams. And we often talk football whenever we catch up on the phone or visit one another. We sometimes discuss potential or hypothetical trades to gauge the other’s interest in acquiring players or draft picks, or to evaluate whether we think a particular trade is equitable.

Sometimes, when you’re on the fence about whether to make an NFL trade, one team (or in this case, just our hypothetical imaginations) will require a pot sweetener to seal the deal. Traditionally, an extra player or draft pick.

So, my friend (my son’s godfather—the man we selected from the entire pool of humanity—who I love very much in totally non-homosexual ways—as a spiritual guide for our child) invented the Mike Holmgren Beej® to be the ultimate pot sweetener.

Him: “Okay. So, would you be willing to trade the 4th pick in the draft, the 22nd pick in the draft, and a first rounder next year to the St. Louis Rams so you can trade up to draft Robert Griffin III?”

Me: “Three first rounders is pretty steep, man. I don’t know.”

Him: “Okay. What if I toss in a Mike Holmgren Beej®?”

Me: “Hmmm. With or without the mustache?”

Him: “With. Obviously.”

Me: “Sold.”

The Heaven Bones

Just to prove that we DO actually have a spiritual foundation and value our Catholic roots, we (mostly him) also created The Heaven Bones™.

What’s a Heaven Bone, you ask? Good question.

First, you either believe in an afterlife, are open to the possibility, or don’t believe in one at all. Given what I think I understand about energy, combined with my Catholic upbringing, the concept of “Heaven” is one that’s been with me from a very young age.

The premise of Heaven, if you don’t know, is that it’s eternal paradise. A place with only love and good things. No sadness. No anger. No hatred. No evil. And it lasts FOREVER. The concept of eternity (even GOOD eternity) has always scared the piss out of me.

“Who gives a shit, Matt!?!? WTF is a Heaven Bone???”

Right.

So, Heaven Bones.

Essentially, it’s having sex with people you always wanted to have sex with on Earth but didn’t or couldn’t.

So, that girl or guy you dated in high school that you fantasized about, but just weren’t ready at the time?

That friend or co-worker or old flame or friend’s sibling that was always off-limits?

In heaven, you can Heaven Bone™ them! (Theoretically.)

“But, Matt!!! What if you want to Heaven Bone someone, but they don’t want to Heaven Bone you back???”

Another great question! Glad you asked.

We also invented for your heaven-boning pleasure, the Heaven Bone Clones©.

An EXACT heaven-produced Xeroxed replica of the person you want to heaven bone.

You never thought about this before, right? And now you’re nodding, freaking pumped because you totally want to bang <insert person or clone here> for eternity. With NO consequences. Everyone will be cool with it! Because it’s heaven.

It’s going to be rad. Heaven Bones.

And if you didn’t already want to go to heaven, now you’re at least thinking about wanting to be there and will now be a better person moving forward. You’re welcome.

Why Do I Want to Laugh When I’m Not Supposed To?

I don’t know.

I just know that I do.

When I was a kid, I always looked around at all the adults and looked forward to being one, because then I’d finally have it all figured out and I wouldn’t have to worry or be afraid of anything anymore because I’d be mature and smart and wise and brave and ready for anything.

But then I just kept growing up. Aging. Staying alive.

And the longer I stay alive, the less I’m sure of.

The longer I’m around, the more I realize that we’re all, in many ways, that same person we were snickering in the back of our fifth-grade classrooms.

In a lot of ways, I have grown up. In a lot of ways, I am ready to take on the world around me when life calls for it.

But in ways I never expected, I’m still, just, me.

Just a kid causing a little bit of mischief in the back of the room and snorting at dick-and-fart jokes and throwing out a “That’s what she said” whenever it’s appropriate (which is often).

I’m sure some people frown at what they perceive to be childishishness on my part. In a corporate office meeting, I’m the odds-on favorite to crack up during someone’s presentation because of eye contact with one of my fellow childlike counterparts.

I’ll say it again: I’m a 35-year-old child. And maybe I always will be.

“What would it take to get you to grow up, Matt?”

I don’t know. Something major.

“A Mike Holmgren Beej?”

Hmmm. With or without the mustache?

“With. Obviously.”

Sold.

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