Mid-Life Crisis(es)

I’ve decided to start planning a mid-life crisis. Now, I know they’re supposed to happen spontaneously, but I live in a dark place with no other people, so if I don’t plan it, no one will know I’m having one.

So, as far as I can tell, having a mid-life crisis involves acting much younger than you actually are in a desperate attempt to recapture the glory of youth. My problem with that is that I still watch cartoons, eat Captain Crunch, drink soda, and wear t-shirts and jeans exclusively. If I act any younger, I’ll have to wander around town in a diaper.

To combat this, I plan on buying a pair of sensible slacks and eating boring cereal with lots of fiber. Then, when I’m feeling adult-ish, I’ll try and have a crisis where I act somewhat older than I normally do. So, technically, I’ll try and act my age so that I can not act my age.

Or something.

Anyway, once I reach the point of actually having the mid-life crisis, I will refer to the handy guide that I’ve outlined below:

Step 1: Get a convertible, preferably red. 

I own a pickup truck that is older than many of the people I work with. It has a hole in the roof that I normally shove a plastic bag into to keep the rain out. Since I cannot afford a sports-car, I will assume that this technically makes my truck a convertible. I don’t want to paint my truck red, however it often has flames coming out of it and flames are cool, so I think that’s okay.

Yes, I really should get that looked at, but the trail of smoke make it easy to find in the parking lot.

Step 2: Get a hairpiece.

I already have plenty of hair, so I think I’ve got this one covered as well. Granted, the vast majority of the hair is not on my head, but I consider that a minor inconvenience.

Step 3: Get an earring

I had an earring in college, mainly because my dad wouldn’t let me get one when I was in high school.  I didn’t really pay much attention to it and kind of forgot about it for a couple years. Eventually the back thingie fell off and I tossed it into a drawer. I suppose I could find it and shove it back in, but that would probably hurt. However, having had an earring, I think I can just check it off the list.

Step 4: Date a much younger woman

This is the tricky one, as I have trouble getting dates with women my own age, much less one who is younger. I mean, I have a truck with a hole in it that belches flame, hair in inappropriate places, and an earring in a drawer. These are not three things conducive to romance, so unless there’s a highly specialized online dating site for old hairy guys with old trucks and closed up holes in their ears who want to meet younger women, I may be out of luck.

Step 5: Don’t bother

Yeah, that’s probably the safe solution. I mean, I want a woman to love me because of who I am, not because I (hypothetically) have a nice car, hair, and facial adornments. Granted, who I am is not much of a catch, so yeah, back to the dark place with no other people.

Unless there’s a dating site for that, which would be cool.

Cheers,

-Jason

I Lied

The next part of the Clown War saga is not yet ready, so I lied. Those of you who were waiting for more thrilling adventures of me, the Dame, and a largely un-credited cast of ninjas, mimes, and clowns will, unfortunately, have to wait a bit longer.

In other news, it’s stupidly hot. It was over 90 degrees today and small animals were spontaneously combusting with frightening regularity. I saw a whole tree full of squirrels go up at once and it was not pretty, though I did get a free lunch. Now, in many parts of the country, 90 degrees is not that hot, but in central Oregon where AC is rare, it’s frickin’ miserable. I have five fans set up around the house and all they really do is help maintain the illusion that it’s not as hot as I think it is (which is a lie).

I’m pretty much hot and sticky all day and this is not something the public at large should be exposed to. I mean, I vaguely nauseate me, so I can’t imagine what it’s like for normal people. There is a reason I work in computer games and not as a male exotic dancer/mathematician. Hint: it’s not just because I suck at math.

Actually, a male exotic dancer/mathematician who solved crimes using his perfect pecs and stunning statistics could be a great TV show. I could call it: Trig & Abs or T & A for short. 

Okay, fine. It’s not perfect, but I’ve seen worse.

In other news, there really is no other news. World’s still spinning. The new royal baby already makes more than I do. I need a haircut. Life goes on.

Y’know, I should market T&A to the Sci-Fi Channel. Or is it Si-Fi? Anyway, they put Sharknado on the air, T&A is comparatively rather sane.

Cheers,

-Jason

Time Flies

Tempus fugit, as the Romans would say. Though, in all honesty, I have no idea if they even said that. They might have said something like ‘time crawls twixt the nether regions of Zeus.’ They were Romans. It’s possible.

So, it’s been a little while since I blogged. You see, I lost a quarter at the park and have been looking for it ever since. Night after night you could find me in the park, wearing camouflaged lederhosen and waving a piece of traffic kill I found over my head on a stick. This, as all the experts will attest, is how one finds a quarter. At night. In a roughly 12 square mile park.

Y’know, now that I’ve typed it out, it does seem a little strange. Man, I really do miss that quarter though.

NOTE: I don’t know what it was that I had on the end of my stick. As far as I can tell, it had no less than three legs, though no more than six, when it was alive.

I also talked to an attorney. This may not surprise those of you who’ve read the previous paragraphs. Or any of my other blogs. Or talked to me. Ever. Yet, in actuality, he was a trademark attorney who was advising me on trademarkery for one of my schemes. Said scheme will ideally arrive next year in book form, assuming I can get about a 100 grand and I can find a left-handed Asian Elvis impersonator. No, I can’t tell you why.

In other news, I have a grey hair on my chest. Not terribly surprising, I know, but it was kind of a shock when I saw it. There I was, doing my pre-shower sanding whilst whistling a jaunty sea tune and I happened to notice a rather long gray hair in the exact middle of my chest next to the bullet hole. I immediately yanked it out as a warning to the others, but alas, more have cropped up. I may have to threaten them with a bottle of Nair or something.

Anyway, look to a new blog next week. I’m planning on continuing the Clown War saga, so weirdness will abound.

Cheers,

-Jason

Not Exactly the Stealth Model

This is a true story, unlike many of the other things I’ve posted, this did actually happen. I’m even pretty sure it wasn’t a hallucination. I mean, I know the duck’s a hallucination, but he assures me that this wasn’t and who am I to doubt a hallucinatory duck?

Besides, the duck’s been good to me. Not like that *#%*#(!-ing rabbit.

Last weekend, I decided to take a walk. It was a nice day, sunny with a little breeze, and there’s a park with a walking/running trail just down the street. So I slipped into something more comfortable than the usual mail hauberk I wear at home and headed out. 

It was fairly busy, with lots of runners and walkers on the path and I was nearing the end of my walk when I turned a corner and saw a young couple a couple hundred feet ahead of me. They were walking hand-in-hand in the same direction I was and being generally cute, what with the leaning into each other and chatting and whatnot.

It was a nice scene. A young couple walking hand-in-hand along a trail, green grass around them, the sun high in a cloudless sky.  It was so wholesome Norman Rockwell could have painted it. It made even my black and bitter heart quiver, even though I keep it in a jar back home.

So, I’m walking along, gaining ground on this couple, because I walk really, really fast (seriously, ask anyone). Joggers are passing us, along with the occasional walker approaching from the opposite direction. They all pass the couple, who move a little to let them by. It’s all very, very normal. Nothing weird or amiss going on.

I get to about five yards behind them and step on a leaf or branch or something, causing the young woman to glance over her shoulder. Now, I’m not exactly the stealth model, so it’s not like I was sneaking up on them. I’m just walking along normally. 

Now, as I said, the young lady glances over her shoulder at me, and then moves completely to the left, pressing up against her boyfriend, leaving about ¾ of the trail open. She hasn’t done this with any of the other half-dozen people who’ve gone by.

I pass them after a minute or so. As I go by, dead silence. I get to about a dozen yards ahead of them and idly glance back, to see her move back to where she had been. They start talking again.

I literally said ‘Am I that scary?’ to myself.

It was kind of weird. I mean, I don’t think I’m a scary person. I did yell ‘Farfegnugen!’ at some ducks, but that’s the polite thing to do. I even left my machete in the car. I kind of wanted to slow down and let them catch up so I could say something nonchalant like ‘my, it’s a nice day for not strangling people!’ or something else to demonstrate that I was, in fact, not going to strangle them.

I dunno. Perhaps all these years of fighting ninjas have left their mark. Maybe her uncle was a ninja and he used to tell her stories of a burly, non-stealthy, fast-walking guy that beat him up on a regular basis. Maybe I just smell really, really bad (it’s possible). 

Then again, I was wearing my ‘Thumbs Up for Mindless Violence!’ t-shirt, so maybe that had something to do with it.

Cheers,

-Jason

WASP!

There was a wasp inside my apartment when I got home today. It was rather large and menacing in the way that wasps tend to be and the funny thing is, I have NO clue how it got in. I only noticed it because it was making a ‘tick’ sound when it was flying around.

My first hypothesis, that someone, maybe Vikings, had planted a very small bomb proved incorrect. It was only when I saw it circling my TV that I realized what it actually was.

As I mentioned, this thing was huge. It was a good inch long, not counting the knife and it looked kind of like a little yellow and black Apache helicopter. I, of course, captured it and subjected it to interrogation.

I mainly wanted to know how it got in. There are no wasp-sized holes in my apartment that I didn’t make myself, so that suggests it came in through either a window or a door.  So I focused my questioning in that area, hoping that it wouldn’t tell me that wasps had figured out how to work door handles.

Now, I’m not afraid of wasps in a screaming and pointing way. It’s more of a respect. Respect in that they will not just bite you, but they will go get all of their friends and relatives to come back and help them do it. I was bitten by a wasp once and that was a fairly serious ‘owie,’ as the professionals say, so I have no desire to be bitten by lots of them. Repeatedly. All over my body.

NOTE: I know for a fact that all branches of the Special Forces refer to injuries as ‘owies.’ Seriously. An actual Green Beret told me that. Granted, it might have been a hallucination, considering that he was also a chicken. A six foot chicken. Wearing a beret. . . . . you know, in hindsight, let’s just forget that I mentioned anything about that.

Anyway, the wasp proved a tough customer and refused to talk. I even threatened to turn it over to some bees I knew, but that didn’t seem to phase it. In the end, I decided to let it go.

“Fly away!” I said, in a commanding voice as I let it out of the glass. “Fly and tell your wasp friends that doom will come to their nest should they dare to cross my threshold again!” And then I did my best evil laugh.

I then watched it fly away, past my neighbor, who was staring at me and clutching a small yippy-type dog.

“Wasps are like Klingons,” I explained. “You have to threaten them or they won’t respect you.”

I’m sure she agreed, as she ran inside and slammed the door shut, presumably to tell all her friends about the cool guy she just talked to.

Yeah, I presume a lot.

Cheers,

-Jason