Youthful mishaps and toy product testing

When it came to my Mom and toy guns “You’ll shoot your eye out” was just the beginning. 

She was sure that if I played with those “devils toys that glorified killing” I would become a mass murderer of epic proportions, using neighborhood children, innocent babies and little fuzzy kittens for target practice. 

While there were certainly some children in my neighborhood that should have been used for target practice, I never really thought of it until she put the idea into my head.

I knew she would never buy me a gun, even if it was just a toy. So when I was about ten or eleven, I devised a plan to finance my very first gun. At the risk of stunted growth and future weak bones, I planned on boycotting milk for lunch. By saving the milk money my Mom gave me for school lunch, I was sure to be able to own my very own gun, eventually. Being impatient, and a cheapskate, I bought the first gun I had enough money for. It was a small, toy derringer gun...part of a key chain, I think.  It had small, soft plastic bullets, that shot out when you fired it with caps. Note the name.

I used to line up my little green plastic army men and shoot away at them. 

The gun was not the least bit accurate, but it’s hard to miss when your firing into a crowd. The gun was tiny and designed to shoot the bullets with caps.  
A cap. 
One per bullet. 

At least that was what was intended. I don't now if they still make them but there used to be caps that we called greenie caps. Yes, they were green but they came on a sheet. 

Not the red ones you took a whole roll of and hit them with a hammer on the sidewalk to make small explosions that sent concrete specks into your eyes. 

The greenie caps peeled off and you could stick them in your gun, or on things, as desired. 

Well, I got the great idea of sticking them on this derringer until I couldn’t fit any more of them in the cap area. 

                                Kids, do not try this at home! 

I really figured the first cap would pop and the rest would fizzle. I carefully aimed, and squeezed the trigger. 

A bomb went off in my hand. The sound inside the room was deafening. I could hear the soft plastic bullet ricochet back and forth across the room about three times, each time barely missing me. 

When the acrid smelling smoke cleared, and there was plenty of it, I looked at the charred mass of metal in my hand. The pistol had split at the seam and all the nice chrome was black. 

I soon heard my Moms worried voice exclaim up the stairs, "What was that?" 

"Nothing Mom!" I called back as I opened the windows and tried to fan the smoke out, dropping the now useless gun in the trash can.

I am proud to say that I am now over 50 years old and have never shot any fuzzy kittens or neighborhood children. Even though I have known some I wished I had.

Verbal Slippages

My Mom was pretty strict when it came to many things, but she really hated to hear curse words coming out of our little boy mouths. 

Even the word ‘Geez” was considered to be a variation of taking the Lords name in vain. “Holy Cow” seemed to be okay for some reason. At least she never said anything about that one. “Fart” was a definite no no. We were supposed to say “passing gas”. 

Actually, we weren’t supposed to even talk about that, but if we did, that was the preferred phrase. I don’t know anyone then or now, who says “Oops, I just passed gas!” 

Lets face it, usually you say “Geez! That damn dog farted again!” 

But we knew if we said the wrong word at the wrong time, we could bet our mouth was going to get cleaned up with soap. Yuckeroo!

One time we were being forced to get ready for Church again. We were going through the usual sharing of the bathroom and trying to find our good Sunday clothes from the back of the closet. I was in a really bad mood and was dragging more than usual. 

As it got closer to time to go, my mood seemed to get worse. Nothing was going right. My shoe laces had knots in them. I had trouble finding a shirt that was spot free and unwrinkled enough, and yet still had a neck big enough not to choke the living crap out of me. 

When my Dad yelled back to me to tell me to hurry up for the fiftieth time, My anger couldn’t contain itself any longer, and I blurted out at the top of my lungs “I can’t find my Damn tie!”

The world stopped for just a moment. 

The only sound I could hear was my brothers jaw dropping open, and it was very quiet. I could feel my heart drop to my stomach and my stomach drop to my knees to make room for it. My knees got wobbly as I waited for the wrath of God, or at least my Dad, to descend upon me. 

No lightning bolts came down to smite me, even though my brother stepped back as far as he could to allow for it. 

Usually when we did something really bad, my Dad would take his belt off, fold it in half, and snap it as he came down the hall. It was a dreadful sound that made your ass smart...

...no matter what dumb thing it just got caught doing.

Apparently he didn’t want to be bothered redressing either. He opened our door and quietly asked “What did you say?”

Now, even though the door was closed, I knew he knew exactly what I said. Heck, I was sure the neighbors down the block knew exactly what I said. I had sure yelled it loud enough. I repeated exactly what I said, but very sheepishly this time. I am sure the fear was quite evident in my voice.

All he said was “I think you really need to go to church. Now.”  I think he was trying to stifle a smirk or a laugh when he closed the door. I quickly found a tie that wasn’t good enough a few minutes ago and clipped it on. I ran to the car to find everybody waiting for me. Very quietly.

I got in and never said a word. I was quite amiable the rest of that day. The sermon must have been on forgiveness, because nothing else was ever said about my damn Sunday outburst.

Have you ever had a "verbal slippage" that you instantly realized you should not have uttered?

My youthful introduction into religion

As a young boy growing up in Florida, my parents used to drag us to church on a regular basis.

We frequently visited our Grandmother on weekends, so we would attend her favorite church, or at least the one that was closest to her house.

The only time I didn’t mind going to church was to attend a Southern style funeral. I know this sounds bad, but everyone in the community would get together and bring a covered dish to share. 

Apparently, they had determined long ago that binge eating was a good way to send someone off to the next world. It certainly was a good plan as far as I was concerned.

I can recall attending one of these funerals to find tables of desserts lined up for a quarter mile down the road. YES! My favorite food!

My 10 year old arms hadn’t grown strong enough to carry all the tasty treats I was sure I could eat. My legs tired half way down the line of tables, so I just stopped there and sat in the warm Florida sand with a plate piled so high I could barely see over it. I figured I would empty this load and continue the trek in a minute. This would be the fist time I would understand the pain behind the phrase; "Your eyes were bigger than your stomach."

While I did a good job of scarfing it all down, I had little desire for more. The main dishes held no interest at all.

But those were my only good memories of Church and those Southern Baptist sermons we were forced to attend. Can you say Hell fire and brimstone?

Geez, I never knew I was such a sinner until I attended one of those southern Baptist sermons. There was this preacher that stood at the front of the church and he used to yell at me all the time, and he didn’t even know me!

"You will go to hell if you don’t repent your evil ways!" He would rant on and on about this, pacing back and forth, waving arms and pointing fingers.  How many sins could a 10 year old possibly have committed? I don't think I was even aware what they all where. He really seemed upset at how bad all of his parishioners were. 

I used to wonder if God sent all of us to him as his punishment.

I do remember there was some kind of pool built into the front of the church. It wasn’t there all the time, but sometimes they would try to drown people, saying something about Baptizing in the name of the Lord. 

There were times when I wanted to go jump in the pool and swim around during the sermon. We were not allowed to do this no matter how hot and humid a closed church in Central Florida got on a hot August day. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that we were wearing our Sunday best clothing; hot suits tied tightly at the neck with nooses called ties. 

The stained glass windows only opened a little bit at the bottom;  Just enough  to let in wasps and bees, but no breeze. Nobody had air conditioning back then. The place was cooled, and I use the term loosely, by old osculating fans mounted to the wall. These were the old fashioned types with a decorative wire grid that wouldn’t keep an entire hand out, much less a kids fingers.

However, they were mounted high enough on the wall that nobody could reach them. They were also high enough so that you couldn’t feel any air movement. However, the bees and wasps would occasionally get caught in one and get mad enough to go look for somebody to sting to even the score. 

The upright wooden pews were like sitting on rocks. To me, Sunday church felt like I was already in Hell. I started wondering if I should sin now to make up for all the time I had already spent in church.

The really funny thing about all this? 

The church was in a small town with the ever so non sinning name of Fellowship!

What was your introduction into religion like?

Fun with Fizzmos

Once upon a time, many, many moons ago, in the long lost galaxy of Myspace, in the land of Fun N Silly Contests, by a world over lorded by "Jean has Gone shopping", I won a contest.

Did I win this contest because of my poignant and sappy poetry writing skills? 

Did I win because of my technically correct and well composed photography?

Did I win because someone found humor in my well thought out and carefully arranged blogs? 

Did I win for my artistic drawings or paintings?

Did I win because of my dashing good looks or charming personality? 

So, you may ask, WHY did I win?

Because of a lucky guess.
 
That’s right! 
Sheer dumb luck and a limited choice of answers. Multiple choice. 

                                                        Yay for me.

 
The contest consisted of guessing which colors she used in her bathroom. When I entered the contest, we had just started reading each other blogs. I had no knowledge of her personal tastes. I took first prize with a lucky guess. I humbly apologize to all of her dear and close friends who may have felt cheated by losing to a total stranger.

So, you may ask, WHAT did I win?

                                     Fizzmos!



I had no idea what a Fizzmos was, but it sounded like something fun to drink or cuddle up with. It did not sound like something I would want to get stuck up my nose, so I decided to avoid that.

After learning of my win over all of her dear and close friends, who obviously know NOTHING about her, (Losers!) I anxiously awaited the arrival of my very own Fizzmos. After several days of sitting by the mailbox, in the rain, and almost getting run over by several trucks, I decided to wait inside until it arrived.

Of course it came the very next day.  The first thing I realized was; it was not a moose. The box was way to small. So my thoughts of starting a zoo where people could see a real live Fizzy Moose were placed on hold.

I anxiously ripped open the box, no thought given to the fact that she might be a terrorist sending bombs to unsuspecting idiots who think they have won a contest, thus single handedly, and one at a time, eliminating the world of infidel American schmucks.

Nothing exploded except my excitement. I won a contest and by God, Jean has Gone shopping, and the US mail, here is the prize to prove it!


I pulled the little ball out of the box and examined it. My first thought was that it looked just like a baseball, in fact, It was exactly the size of a baseball.  I was sure it would work well for playing catch, but I was also sure one whack with a bat and it would disintegrate into a poof of powder.

Putt putt golf seemed another fine use of the product. The ball was a bit bigger than a normal golf ball but my thinking was this physical discrepancy could only add a larger surface to hit. More surface equals better aim. This idea seemed to backfire when the ball got stuck in the first hole.

Closer inspection of the item revealed the words “White Chocolate Moose”. I was sure this would make an excellent hot drink. It did not.

Finally, in typical man fashion, and after trying all other options, I read the fine print instructions:
“For a yummy, creamy skin softening bath time experience, drop a fizzmos into your warm water filled tub. Watch as a million tiny bubbles whip into a white chocolate mousse fragrance delight.”

I decided to give that a try.

So now my creamy ass has been whipped into a white chocolate mousse fragrance delight by a million tiny bubbles!  Yummy!

Thanks Jean!

Miss Daisy driving me dinner crazy

We are usually in the car when the subject comes up.

Her: I’m getting hungry.

Me: Where would you like to eat?
Oh, anywhere is fine.
Well, how about Cracker Barrel? (as we pass one)
Nah, they are usually so crowded.

Olive Garden?
Nah, too heavy. Plus the wait is always so long. It’s just spaghetti. Why should that take so long?
How about the Texas Roadhouse?
That place is so noisy I can’t think straight.
How about the Long Horn or Logans?
No. I don’t think I want steak.

Applebees or Oh Charlies?
I can never find anything I like on their menus.
Fridays? Ruby Tuesdays? Next Thursday?
Don’t be silly. There is no such place as Next Thursday.

How about that Mexican place in the shopping center?
Those waiters are to mean there.
They are real Mexicans. I think they probably just have a hard time understanding English. What about El Toro or La Fiesta?
Nah. I don’t feel very Mexicany.

By now, I’m considering driving to Mexico and leaving her south of the border.

Arbys? McDonalds? Wendys?

I call them off as we pass them by.
No. No fast food.

We have just passed every restaurant in town and are getting ready to head out into the country where the only restaurants are grassy fields for cows (also known as Lawn Mooers, or if they are laying down; Ground Beef)
I pull into a parking lot and turn off the car.

Her: What are you doing?
Me: I thought I would save precious fossil fuels and do my bit to help save the planet until we decide where you want to eat.
You don’t have to get snitty with me.
Well, where do you want to eat?

Oh, anything is fine….

I love to drive. Fixing them? Not so much.

I love to drive.

While I am equally happy driving a go kart, moped, motorcycle, quad runner, truck, forklift, or bob cat, what I really love to drive is cars.

Plop me in the seat of a muscle car and I will rev the engine at lights just to hear the rumble of the exhaust. When that light turns green, I will floor it just to feel the power push me back into he seat. The tach will redline before I shift gears just so I can hear the engine whine.

If I can get my rather large rear into a sports car, I will head for the twisties and toss the car through them with reckless abandon.

Drop the top on a convertible and I will drive it until my ears get so sunburned they will catch on fire.  I won’t put the top up until the rain has dowsed that fire, and I have to open the doors to let the water flow out of the interior.

Whenever I get into a big boat of a luxury car, I drive it as if I am a limo driver with a celebrity on board, or an old man out for a Sunday drive.

I love to drive. Heavy traffic is just an exciting challenge. Rain slows me down a bit, but not much. If there was no one else on the road, I will drive through snow at the posted speed limit, or more.

But what I hate about cars is working on them.
It’s not that I can’t do it, it’s just that I don’t like to. 

I understand the basics of the internal combustion engine; the spark that ignites to drive the piston down, the rod that transfers that force to the crankshaft that through a series of gears in the transmission, turns the drive shaft that powers the wheels. 

But when I open the hood and look at the tangled and compacted mass of metal, hoses and wires, all I see are doohickeys and thingamabobs.

And most of them are really dirty and smell funny. 

Even before I try to fix it, I already know that the whatchamacallit will be so rusted to the gizmo that it will take six overgrown gorillas with sledge hammers to break it free. When it does break, it’s usually the dojigger that breaks off inside the thingamajig.  This will require another trip to the gadget store to try to find a whatsit.  But to do that, I have to have another car!

That’s why I usually take my car to a professional mechanic  for repairs.  Of course, that method is fraught with it’s own problems. My typical trip to the repair center usually goes something like this:

I explain to the mechanic that the car has been making a high pitch screeching noise.
“What kind of screeching?” he asks.

“Like this; Eeeeeeee!” as I mimic the sound of a banshee on it’s second death bed. Of course, to make the sound, my face contorts to resemble said banshee. Although they try to hide them, I can see the amused smirks on the faces of the other mechanics. The other customers look away and pretend to read dog eared ancient magazines as they sip strong coffee from a greasy fingerprinted coffee maker. They have already been through this.

“Hey Joe!” He calls back to one of the other mechanics. “Come here. Can you do that again?” he asks me “ Joe is our screeching sound specialist.”

I do it again for Joe. As I do, I notice that the other mechanics, that a moment ago, I could see through the glass window to the shop, are no longer standing there with their noses and ears pressed to the window. I am sure they are rolling around the floor laughing.

“Well, pull it in and lets take a look.”
I pull the car into the bay. Of course, now that there is a mechanic nearby, the car hums like a professionally maintained Ferrari with a fresh fill of super slick oil. 

“I don’t hear nothing” he is more than happy to inform me. “Pop the hood.”
Pop goes the hood. 

I can barely see his dirty ball cap as he pokes around under there.
“Do you own a cat?” he asks.
“A cat?” I repeat. 

Ahhh, he is the conversationalist type. “No. No cats, I’m more of a dog lover.“
 
“Do your neighbors own a cat?”
“Yes they do. I think his name is Kenny” See? I can be a conversationalist too.

“Well, they don’t own one anymore” he says as he pulls a furry mess out from under the hood.

“Ohmygod!” I exclaim “I killed Kenny!”


Dammit. I guess I should have pulled the doodad to open the whosits and tried to fix this one myself!

My most EmBARE ASSing moment

I remember precisely the moment of inspiration that led up to my most embarrassing moment.

I had just received a bonus for a six month long job that had left me fairly stressed out. I was in the process of practicing my couch potato form when and ad came on the boob tube.

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It showed some guys on surfboards zipping across the ocean. What caught my eye was that they had sails strapped to their boards and they were literally flying across the waves. 

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If I remember correctly it was an ad for Orange Crush.

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I always thought surfing looked like fun...

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Especially if appropriate safety measures were initiated:

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  But I lived in Ohio...

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...and it's not exactly known for its great surf spots.

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But this windsurfing idea seemed like just the kind of fun thing I needed to spend that bonus on. After a little research, I learned that my bonus would only cover used sailboards. I soon found a place that sold used windsurfing equipment. It was in Columbus, an hours drive away, but to what extent will man go in pursuit of fun? 

Well, at least to Columbus.

I won't go into all of the details about how big of a board a 6'-3" heavy weight dude needs, but let's just say it's big:

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So I bought the board and signed up for four hours of lessons. The first one started the next day.

I load my little Kahuna in the back of my Pickup truck, about three feet of it hanging out the back of the bed, and headed back to the shores of Columbus, Ohio for my first wind surfing lesson.

I arrived to find about 15 people of various ages and gender ready to take the same class. We spent the first hour or so on dry land getting the basics of how to steer it and practicing standing on a demonstration unit for balance. 

I just knew I was ready.

After another 20 minutes learning how to assemble my new toy, we hit the water.

Literally. 

The first lesson on windsurfing is that you spend a lot of time getting back on the board after falling in. 

Repeatedly. 

Just balancing on the board in wavy water is difficult, then you have to try to drag a large sail, covered with 40 gallons of water, to an upright position.

After about a hundred climbs back onto the board I suddenly realized my family jewels were no longer in the safe of my shorts and where prominently on display in the open air. 

My bathing suit had ripped clean across the crotch and had become a skirt. Of course this was a cheap swim suit and didn't have the little fish net thingee that normally holds the little oysters in place.

In addition to the skirt look, it had also split the seam halfway up one outside leg. I was wearing Tarzan's breach cloth. 

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Fortunately, I had decided to buy a swim suit that was a little longer than what I normally buy. Between that and the cold water, things were hanging down a bit, but not too low.

I pushed the board back to shore, where another group of men and women were already gathering for the next lesson.

I dismantled the board, standing in waist deep water…which felt quite nice, although some concerns of catching a fish with my worm did cross my mind. 

I very carefully carried the board past the throngs of spectators that had shown up to watch the windsurfers, praying none of them would want to ask me questions, or want to look at my, uh, equipment. This wasn't just one trip, but required one for the board and one for the sail, bending over each time to pick them up off the ground.

I finally got everything loaded up and hanging out the back...of the truck.

The only thing I had to do now was one last beaver shot as I climbed into my truck. I waited until I thought no one was looking and swung my legs in. Only one little old lady fainted that day, but the carnage could have been much worse.

What was your most embarrassing moment?