Hilarity Floods the Brain

The problem with dating someone generally more attractive than you isn’t so much the obvious equality gap that could lead to a life of complete and utter servitude (although that is one factor to consider) – it’s the constant negative attention.

Having spent a significant amount of my life as the denominator in that unfortunate equation, I’ve had ample time to study the situation, but as I’m a participant – I’ve always struggled a bit to see the outsider’s perspective.

What is it that makes you people constantly point out that I’m big and hairy and I only own two pairs of jeans? Why must you comment that my hair has looked the same since 1989, and that if George Burns and Shrek bumped, my feet would fall out? It must be some kind of intense emotional reaction that occurs deep inside the most basic part of the brain; bypassing whatever remnants of "filter" you have left.

Its mind-boggling. After years of observation, the nearest thing I can liken it to is the rush of hilarity that floods my brain when I see a big, hairy, male transvestite.

It just kind of funny. I don’t know why, but it is.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with wearing women’s clothing – millions of women out there wear them every day; I’m just saying a big hairy, chubby, beer-laden, bearded man wearing them makes me burst into loud, inappropriate laughter.

I can only assume that’s the way you guys feel when you see me slip into my Friday night khakis and trudge out on the town behind Tyler.

George Barnes, notable miscreant, may have summed it up best when, just two short weeks ago, he looked up from his seat by the fire at the deer camp, shot one brief glance in Tyler’s direction, then blurted across the room, loudly, and to no one in particular: “HEY!!! BOY HAS HE OUTPUNTED HIS COVERAGE OR WHAT!?!!.”

Thanks a lot, George. I’ve got enough hair on my chest to weave an Indian blanket.

JGE

Misery Loves Company

"So, what’s bothering you?" I said as she furiously punished the sizzling green beans with a wooden spoon.

“You seem a bit offended by the greens. I won’t lie - its making me nervous.”

“Sorry. I’m a little tense.” She responded, furrowed brow and wrinkled nose peering out at me through a cloud of 1,000 degree green bean vapor.

"Eh, why, pray tell?"

“I’m scared of my house.”

……Aaaaaaaaaaaanddddddd we’ve identified another key difference between most men and most women.

Scare-ed-ness.

I rarely dream, but when I do – I’m normally winning something, getting an award, running for the presidency, saving a village, killing a bad guy, solving a mystery, or winning the lottery. My dreams are GREAT. I can’t wait to go to sleep to find out what great, awesome, world-shattering thing I do next.

I’m a WAYYYY better person in my sleep.

I’m not sure what that means about me - probably nothing good; but what do I care? I can go home and slip right off to sleep! Somehow your harsh judgment doesn’t sting me quite as much when I know between the hours of 12AM and 6AM you’re likely to show up sweeping the floors in my gigantic mansion.

I’ve actually been fanned by palm branches in a dream before. In a world of air conditioners and electric fans it may look overrated, but let me tell you: it’s great.

So, when my leggy consort admitted to a certain sense of trepidation over being home alone, I was immediately out of my depth.

"Well, why don’t you just go to sleep?" I said, brightly.

“I had a bad dream too.” She said, furrowed brow deepening markedly.

“A bad dream?” I said. "What kind of a bad dream?”

“A really bad dream” she mouthed, continuing to assault the green beans.

“Well, you know nothing in your dreams can hurt you! And look – you’re behind a locked gate, behind a locked door, behind another locked door, and surrounded by an alarm system that only you control, with MACE on your nightstand and all-wood floors!! An overweight roach couldn’t slip into this townhouse unnoticed!”

“Well, it’s not me I’m worried about so much” She said. “It’s you”

“Oh??! Well, don’t worry about me! I don’t mind being alone at night! When I get scared I just cover my head up with a sheet! And I generally only have to do that if I watch a horror movie right before bed. PLUS, I sleep really soundly AND I snore!!”

“Well. If I were you - I wouldn’t sleep so deeply." She whispered through the rapidly-expanding cloud of steam……"NOT, IF I KNEW I WAS ABOUT TO GET EATEN BY CANNIBALS!!!!"

.....AAAAANNDDDD now I can’t sleep either.

These Hands Don't Clean

The morning after the James G Ewing & Tripp Maddux Memorial Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament dawned bright and clear. I awoke to the sound of many snorers and the fresh, delightful scent of stale beer, jelled bourbon, and brewing coffee.

Lots of coffee.

I hopped out of my bunk and toured the Deer Camp for a brief survey of the general carnage and fallout which was, as you may have guessed, significant. Thomas was asleep on his back, snoring gently with one arm across his face, Marlin Dozier disappered in the general direction of the honeymoon cottage around 4AM, and hadn't been heard from since. Fred Hand (IV) was asleep on the floor under a blanket - even though there were three empty beds. When queried on his floor choice he responded, in an injured tone, with "I LIKE the floor, JIMMY".

I think the 4AM poker game played a significant part in the general malaise that seemed to hold sway over the slow-to-arise World Championship attendees but, at least on the part of Hank Farmer, I suspect sleeping outside in the back of his truck all night may have been a contributor.

Marlin Dozier, Subcommittee Bourbon Marshall (and normally a trooper), was unable to even form a full sentence until well after noon. A sign, I think, of a successful event.

Looking back on it, the Third Annual World Championship was a huge success, thanks mostly to cheerful participants, plenty of ammunition, and a healthy supply of raw oysters and malt beverages; but the cleanup is always the tough part.

Fortunately, I had a plan. I went right to work as soon as I got up, so by the time Tyler had arrived I already had the place looking fairly decent. I finished tidying up the bunk room, and walked into the den where Tyler was animatedly going over the details of the evening’s festivities with Kelly Logan. Broom in one hand, vacuum in the other I looked at Tyler and said “hey do you mind…..” whereupon she rudely cut me off, rolled both eyes high into her prodigious forehead and, hands-aloft, skinny fingers-wiggling - loudly announced “THESE HANDS DON’T CLEAN”.

I was dumbfounded.

I don’t think the irony of that comment, falling so close on the heels of our unfortunate domestic schism of the week before, even occurred to her. In fact, I know it didn’t.

But, oh buddy – I sure brought that smelly buzzard home to roost when, two nights later, I pushed back my chair from the dinner table, slid my plate across in her direction and said “THESE HANDS DON’T CLEAN”.

It was the first time I’ve ever seen her speechless, and I haven’t cleaned a plate since.

Thanks for NOTHING, Dad.

Chalk one up for Jimbob.