Changeup, Chapter 1

Joe shouldn't have dropped out of school.
He knew it wasn't wise, but he hated school and so he dropped out anyway.
He was working in the oil fields.  It was a career that would eventually kill him, but it paid well enough for now.
It had been a long day.  He was tired and dirty.  He was on his way home, but his fuel gauge was showing empty, so he pulled his old pick-up off the road and into the gas station.
As the pump filled his tank, he leaned back against the truck.  He folded his arms across his chest and sighed.  What a day.  He'd gotten yelled at again by the foreman, Chester.  What kind of a name was Chester, anyway?  The man was a hardcase.  Joe had only been two minutes late, but there was no mercy from Chester.  He'd spent five more minutes berating him.
Well, there was no sense reliving this particular day, Joe thought.  He left the pump to do its job, and headed into the store.  Might as well take home some beer.
He grabbed the cheapest canned beer he could find and headed to the register.
"This and the gas", Joe told the clerk as he plunked the cans on the counter.
The clerk, a blond middle-aged woman who hadn't missed many meals, glanced up from the celebrity magazine she was reading.  She slowly rose from her stool as she tossed the magazine aside.
"Wanna lotto ticket, honey?"
"Nah.  Wouldn't win, anyway."
"You sure?  The jackpot's near $500 million.  Highest ever!"
Joe glanced out the window at his truck.  What a beater!  Sure would be nice to have a new one.
"Huh.  Never played before, so why not?  I'll take one."
"Just one?  Everbuddy's gettin' ten or twenny!"
Joe just stared at the lady until she mumbled "Suit yerself", and slapped a ticket on top of the six pack.  He nodded at the lady, put the ticket in his back pocket, picked up his cans, and headed to the door.

This is part of my first effort at writing a novel. It's not ready. But like Jon Acuff says, 80% produced beats 100% stuck in your head.

Here we go. 

Tell me what you're thinking, unless it's about math.

Pickled Spleen Condition, a Memoir of the Late Alfred P. Bootbonger III, Jr.

  • There is a lady outside my office who's coughing up a spleen. She refuses to go home.
    • I have never seen a spleen. I am not keen to see a spleen, especially if it is green, which means it is not clean and quite obscene.
  • I have reached a new pinnacle (not pickle) of laziness: a friend sent me an email with a list of questions. I didn't feel like typing all those words and sentences out in response, so I left him a voicemail.
    • The message I left was this: "I've been doing pretty good. You? See ya."
      • I am a horrible friend.
        • But I don't charge too much.
  • I think I'd make a pretty good medical researcher. They're the ones who name health conditions when they're first discovered, right? My son got hand, foot and mouth disease last week. I could have named that disease.
    • I could have named headaches, too.
      • Also heart attacks.
        • But not meningitis.
Would you like the extended warranty with your fries?

Covert Op: Mission FUBAR

User: Do you have an email address?

Me: Really? I'm the IT guy...


User: HELP! My email doesn't work!

*I hurry over to the user's desk*

Me: Ok, let me take a look.

User: Hold on, I have to finish sending this email.


User: I received this email and I'd like you to take a look and tell me if you think it's spam.

*Brief glance at poorly-written email ("You won, Click the open attachment fore downloading of you're free iPad!!!")*

Me: Yup, it's spam.

User: How can you tell?

Me: Did you enter a contest to win an iPad?

User: No.

Me: Then I'm guessing you didn't really win.

User: But what if I did?!?

Me: You didn't.


And then there's me. I was so tired the other day I was no longer thinking straight. The Boss had asked me to download a PowerPoint presentation from the client's site. I saved the file on my desktop and started to send it to her. I couldn't find it. I looked and looked, but I just couldn't find that silly Excel spreadsheet anywhere...then it dawned on me...

Rat yourself out - what's something dumb you've done lately?


How To Put Me Down

Most funerals are sad. Nobody thinks, "I can't wait to go to So-and-So's funeral - it'll be a blast!"

That's about to change.

I want to have a rockin' funeral.

I want to ride in on a Zamboni. Everyone can take turns driving my little urn around.

The music will be Five Iron Frenzy...and only Five Iron Frenzy.

The food will be a big pizza potluck. We'll settle the debate of who makes the best pizza in town by having all of them.

The service should be webcast live for my virtual friends...and the people in the audience will have posters and randomly stand up with them to display "pop-up ads".

The eulogy will be written by my buddy Chris. It will be a Mad Libs eulogy. Everyone will get to read theirs. Funniest one gets a prize.

What should the winner's prize be? What do you want at your funeral?

Let's Get Political - Guest Post for Chad Jones

I'm finally back.

Except, not really.

Today I'm over at my friend Chad Jone's''s"" place. Sorry about that last sentence, Mom. This is your last year as an English teacher, so I'm already starting to get a bit lax about my English skillz.

Unless you're a hermit (like me), you know that three things happen on a 4-year schedule:

1. Leap Years - kinda cool, unless you're the one with a birthday on February 29th ("You're only 7? Ha! Betcha never heard that before!").

2. The Olympics - Where the US ends every debate with "Michael Phelps - BAM!"

3. The Elections - This is when you wish you were a hermit and could just turn the world off for a bit.

Since I've already written about the Olympics and don't much to say about Leap Years, I jump into the wonderful world of politics. It's kinda like stepping in gum.

Who would your write-in candidate be?