Road Retorts Re-Revisited

What I’m about to share with you has, without a doubt, completely revolutionized the way I see traffic and roads and life forever and ever and ever. 

It’s like that day when I first discovered that mittens are better than gloves for the same reason sleeping bags are better than individual padded bags for each one of your limbs. 

Or it’s like when Christopher Columbus went on a holiday to go see India but instead found a humongous uninhabited island that may or may not have already been inhabited and that meant REAL ESTATE, BABY. 

Or it’s like that time when you first purchased an iPod and you knew it would totally revolutionize the way you exercise, except this time you won’t end up being disappointed in a few months when you realize you never used it and you haven’t worked out at all, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to because your earbuds are lost and the cover is scratched and the battery won’t charge all the way anymore.  

[It’s like that.]

This is crazy cool, so buckle your seat belts. 

This phenomenon is called The Zipper Merge. 

How many times have you been in traffic and you see that the lane you’re in is ending, so you immediately go into the next lane, and then some douchecopter goes speeding past you in the ending lane, and gets a much better spot a half mile ahead? Don’t you just want to punch that guy? 

Well, you’re going to feel pretty foolish for wanting to punch such a genius, because that douchecopter was DOING THE RIGHT THING. 

That’s right. When you change lanes early, it makes traffic back up much more quickly. The correct way to merge in this situation is to use the extra lane until it ends and then take turns merging at the front. Like a ZIPPER.  Did I just blow your mind?

Don’t believe me? Watch the official MN DOT video.

[I know that some of you aren’t from Minnesota or even the United States, but I believe that The Zipper Merge could transmogrify this planet’s hectic roadways into peaceful zippy oases.]

And so I have adopted this new method of merging and let me tell you: It’s liberating. I wish I could zipper merge all the time. I want to shout it from the rooftops. Just think of all the time I’m saving while legally cruising along that empty, ending lane. 

But sometimes the world does not accept revolutionaries such as myself, which brings me to my most recent Road Retort:

The Broken Zipper

This is the guy that doesn’t allow you to merge because he thinks your Zipper Merging is really just a glorified budge. This is the conversation that usually goes on between my eyes and his...

HIM: Oh no you don’t! 

ME: But sir, please–

HIM: No! You have to suffer like the rest of us!

ME: But it’s totally legal–

HIM: This is AMERICA. Don’t think you can get special treatment.

ME: That’s not what I’m trying to do!

HIM: Kids these days are so entitled.

ME: No, I’m doing this correc–

HIM: When I was young we didn’t even have merge lanes. Lanes just ended with brick walls. It was move it or lose it 

back then. Literally

ME: Well now it’s different, sir. We even have signs warning us three-fourths of a mile beforehand.

HIM: You kids and your technology...

ME: Technology, like a road gradually getting thinner?

HIM: ...and your iPods and cellular phones and Tamagachis. It’s all too much for me.

ME: Yes, but zippers. You understand zippers, right?

HIM: Nope. All my clothes are tied together with hair and spit. 

ME: Okay, just go ahead. The next person will let me in. 

HIM: GOD BLESS AMERICA.

And The Broken Zipper drives off convinced that justice was served.

Even though you’re hurt temporarily, my dear Zipper Merger, let not your heart be troubled for long. For you know that the Zipper Merge is the correct way, the true way, and if everyone subscribed to this way of life, we would live in peace and harmony. 

I’ve created some signs that could help spread the word. I expect to see these on t-shirts and billboards for years to come. 

An Uncelebrated Popcorn Day

Guys, I did it again. National Popcorn Day was yesterday. 

[You remember our cast of characters from last year, don't you? They're just as disappointed.]

Yes, January 19th, the day that should have been spent popping popcorn and blissfully throwing it at unsuspecting passerby, the day that should have been filled with a little extra pizazz and a lot of extra salt, NATIONAL POPCORN DAY was once again completely ignored by me, its biggest fan. I spent the day doing stupid non-celebratory things like grocery shopping and working and making Tater Tot Hotdish.

I apologize to all my readers, I apologize to this country, but most of all, I apologize to myself because I’m a narcissist. 

I want to go into my cupboards and apologize to the four mini-bags of popcorn in there, but I CAN’T EVEN LOOK THEM IN THE EYE RIGHT NOW.

I feel the need to apologize to people on the street for not attacking them with popcorn yesterday, BUT THEY WON’T UNDERSTAND. 

I’ve already created three alarms on my computer for January 19th 2013, BUT MOST LIKELY THE WORLD WILL END BY THEN AND I’LL NEVER GET TO CELEBRATE MY BLOG’S NAMESAKE. 

This must not happen again. Next year, on January 19th, which is a Saturday so you should all be available (even you Canadian ones), we will have a party big enough to cover all the sins and transgressions of Popcorn Days Past. I will dress up as a giant popcorn kernel and tackle people in downtown Minneapolis. My hipster artist friends and I will create a whimsical stop-motion video of the life of a man who loves popcorn and rides a giraffe-sized bicycle around searching for it. I will record the official Popcorn Day song, which will be sold on iTunes for all my Faithful Follower(s) and their friend(s) to purchase and wake up to in the morning. And all will be right with the world. Next year, baby. 

In the meantime, go back to the very first post this blog ever had and have a mini-celebration of the new holiday I just created for people like me:

See you next year at the party. 

The day I learned the truth about Santa Claus

Inside my memory, for some reason, is a 60 Minutes episode I watched as a third grader, about a boy around my age at the time who was going to college. He was a genius, and Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes couldn’t get enough of him. They ran clips of the boy walking amongst people around my current age, discussing blah blah blah with them from their blah blah blah class. Obviously a vivid memory.

The one thing I remember distinctly from the documentary, though, is Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes asking the boy, “Do you believe in Santa Claus?” 

The boy genius, who was in college at the time, said, “Well, I know the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, and I know the Easter Bunny isn’t real, and although my parents have not told me yet, I have deduced that of course Santa Claus is not real.” And I was all...

I was not swayed. I had a firm and steadfast acceptance of Santa Claus AND St. Nicholas,  thank you very much, according to my second grade journal.

A year later, however, on Christmas Eve, it suddenly struck me. It was like a beacon of light from heaven, except it was a bitter, cold, lifeless light that illuminated exactly what I didn’t ever want to see, that which my parents and The Flight of the Reindeer  and The Santa Clause and The Polar Express worked so fervently to keep me from realizing.

This is the day I learned the truth about Santa Claus.

And as I said in the post about my second grade journal:

When my parents told me that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, I cried. 

I was sad when I found out that the Easter Bunny isn’t real. 

When I figured out that Santa isn’t real, I was PISSED.

Suddenly every lie from this wretched holiday was exposed. I felt like Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense, when **SPOILER ALERT FOR THE TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T SEEN THE SIXTH SENSE YET** he finds out he’s dead and suddenly everything starts to make terrifying sense.  

I saw right through everyone.

My family, The Conspirators.

My older sister, The Traitor. 

The worst was when we went to church and, as per tradition, a man dressed as Santa went to Holy Communion. I was always inspired by the thought that Santa, in his busy night, came all the way to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Holmen, Wisconsin to partake in the body and blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. However, with my new understanding how this cruel world works, I was disgusted. 

We got home and lo! there were presents on the ground (which explained why my dad “had to go to the bathroom for a long time while we were waiting in the car to go to church”), two piles for me and my sister, who I now realized was playing along just for my sake. As she opened presents, I noticed her saying “Thank you, Santa!” and winking at my parents. 

So pissed.

I opened my presents with disdain, knowing it was all an elaborate joke, and that I was the only one in my family not in on it. I remember seriously considering throwing all of my new toys on the ground, stomping on them, pointing an accusatory finger at my parents, and saying, “Santa Claus isn’t real and all these toys are TAINTED WITH YOUR BETRAYAL. I'M LEAVING." Then I'd storm out and move to a place where people aren't manipulative and mean. 

But I didn’t. I just played along like a little bitch. 

The next day, my parents sat me down. 

THEM: Brian, why were you so sad last night?

ME: Because Santa isn’t real. 

THEM: [pause, glancing at each other] Yes he is, Brian.

ME: Don’t try to make me think otherwise. Santa isn’t real and I’ve been your patsy for the past 10 years. 

THEM: Do you even know what patsy means?

ME: I KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT PATSY MEANS. 

THEM: Okay, calm down. You’re right. He’s not real. 

ME: Whatever. I’m over it. First the Tooth Fairy, then the Easter Bunny, and now Santa? Who else isn’t real? Grandpa? You might as well break it to me now.

THEM: Grandpa’s real, Brian. You’ve seen him. 

ME: Yeah right. And that red light I saw flashing in the sky wasn’t actually a radio tower,  as would be the obvious assumption, but the shining nose of Rudolph, which you insisted it was. And all those years, you told me “Wow, Brian, the Santa whose lap you sat on this year must have been the real one.” You seem to say the same things about Grandpa. “Wow, he must be your real Grandpa, the way he looks like your dad and all...”

THEM: Okay, so we spent a lot of time trying to encourage your belief in Santa. We just wanted to keep the spirit alive. Your Grandpa, on the other hand, is totally real. We promise. 

ME: And why should I believe you, with your planting sleigh tracks in the front yard snow with 2x4’s and throwing half-eaten carrots on the roof as if they had been eaten by reindeer? Such great measures you took to keep me docile and ignorant!  Grandpa’s house is just a cardboard set, isn’t it? He’s just some dude you hired to act all grandpa-like, isn’t he? 

THEM: Do you seriously think your Grandpa isn't real? How long have you thought this?

ME: CAN WE STAY ON TOPIC, PLEASE?

This went on for a while, but soon I realized one can’t put spilled toothpaste of Truth back in the tube. Everything was exposed. My innocence dashed. No more fictional characters to believe in. This is probably why I doubt the existence of so many other things now. 

It's been over a decade now, and I’ve moved on. And contrary to what The Polar Express says, I can still hear bells even though I don’t believe in Santa.

Happy Holidays, faithful follower(s)! 

The day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

It was really my parents’ fault. 

THEM: We just want you to be well rounded.

ME: I weigh 110 pounds and I’m six feet all. There’s nothing round about me.

THEM: You know what we mean. You can do the music thing all you want, but just try some sports. Just try. You’re in sixth grade; you still have a bunch of potential to unlock. 

ME: Why should I continue sports, though? I tried football already, and that didn’t work... 

THEM: You quit when they started hitting.

ME: THAT WAS MERELY A COINCIDENCE. 

THEM: Listen, you know how everyone always says that you’ll be good at basketball because you’re so tall?

ME: Yes.

THEM: Think of this as a way to prove them wrong. 

ME: This is a really strange way to talk me into playing. 

After much more arguing, I begrudgingly signed up for the basketball team. While the prospect of staying around an hour and a half after school was infuriating enough, I was in no way prepared for how much I would despise the entire experience.  

Changing in front of my classmates before gym class was something I had only recently gotten used to. However, changing in front of The Athletic Elite of my grade–I’m talking twelve year-olds with six packs, sideburns, broad shoulders and hair on their legs–was a whole new level of daunting. I hid in the shadow of my locker door as to hide any lack of definition in my puny body, whipped off my school shirt and whipped on my gym shirt as quickly as possible and then high-tailed it out of there before anyone saw that I looked like an actual hairless twelve year-old.

Practice was my tenth circle of hell. The Athletic Elite would be sweaty and intense, making baskets and yelling commands, and then I would be the guy who would miss the ball when it was passed to him, and then try to make a joke, like, “Haha, whoops, so you wanted me to catch that, huh?–” but The Elite were too lost in sport to stop and laugh.

I remember when one of The Elite would be practicing so hard that he would get hurt, like sprain his ankle or something, and have to sit out for the season. That person would still come to practice and watch as we formulated plays, and I remember wanting so badly just to be that guy. I wished that I could just get injured and stand on the sidelines; I would even act like I really wanted to play: “C’mon, coach! Let me in! I’ll be fine! I’m willing to sacrifice my body!” and he would be all, “No Brian, we need you to get well,” and I’d be all, “But this team is like a FAMILY to me!” 

Unfortunately I never played hard enough to get injured. 

When it was time for our first game, the coach brought out a bag of jerseys. Of course The Athletic Elite elbowed their way to the front to grab the perfectly fitting maroon shorts and shirts. And when I got to the pile there was one pair left. To this day I swear that they were women’s shorts that happened to get mixed in with the guys’. I put them on and walked over to the coach.

[I looked like an embarrassed Pepper Ann.] 

By the next game I had bought my own maroon shorts and was ready to play. We were passing the ball around before the game started, a few students and parents had gathered in the stands along with some cute girls who came to make lovey eyes at The Elite, and then coach said the most terrifying words I’ve ever heard: 

I knew how this would turn out. It always happened the same way: Coach would choose who would be shirts and skins and that damn finger of his would always land on me accompanied by the disgusting utterance of the word SKINS, and I would have to take off my shirt and the whole gym–including those cute girls–would see that my elbows were wider than my biceps. 

For those of you who don’t know what it’s like to be a skinny, unconfident teen with his shirt off in the middle of a middle school gym, let me paint a picture for you: it’s awfully breezy. Any sweat that comes out of your armpits is instantly chilled and every once and a while your funnybones brush up against your sides, leaving you with an image of them being humongous bony protrusions–like elbows on your elbows. You nipples feel both really close together and really far apart and your butt starts sweating because it’s all warm and embarrassed for your upper half. Your eyes dry out from sheer anxiety and you occasionally try to flex or something but it's no use and you miss so many passes that your ears start ringing. 

That’s what it’s like.

After an excruciating five minutes, I got to put my shirt back on and we played the game. I remember trying to get into it like the rest of the players (maybe then I could get injured), but no. It was no fun at all. 

My shining moment came at the very end of the game. Ten seconds were left on the clock and the ball was passed to me near our opponent’s hoop. The crowd began to chant:


10...


9...


I knew it was my time to shine. Taking the ball in my right hand over my shoulder, I wound up, took three gigantic steps forward and hurled the ball across the court towards our hoop. 


As it clanged off the backboard, there was a pause, and then I heard the crowd continue, “8...7...” 


Bullocks.


My shining moment was premature. Then the whistle blew. 

How did I cover up this mistake, you ask? Well, it wasn’t with a joke this time. My reaction was remarkably similar to Michael Scott’s in this clip: 


Go watch it. I have it all cued up for you. It'll take all of five seconds.


That’s right, the old “I’m usually much better than this” charade. Not sure anyone bought it. 

And that was the day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

And this is why.

I must never watch nature documentaries on National Geographic Channel again. It’s quite rare that wander over to that section of channels because the only thing I usually find on there is The Dog Whisperer. And after twelve too many hours of six too many Sunday marathons of that show I just avoid the channel altogether. 

Every now and then, however, I stumble upon one of their nature documentaries and end up watching obsessively for their entire two-hour run. The first time this happened was a few years ago when I watched one special about an evaporating water hole in the desert. The water hole started as a bustling ecosystem with alligators, deer, monkeys, and birds happily coexisting and splashing together, but soon enough the pond began to shrink and that’s when things got effed up. 

Monkeys started fighting with the alligators over the limited water supply, and everyone was screaming and the alligators were chomping off everyone’s heads and one of the monkeys broke his arm while playing a game of tug-of-war with an alligator using his baby as a rope, and then there was a shot of a mother monkey trying to prod awake the lifeless body of one of her babies and. I. CRIED. 

Soon the monkeys either died or went searching for other water supplies (which meant they were probably just going to die), and the birds flew away, leaving a lone alligator in the disappearing water hole. The pond soon turned to mud, in which the alligator got stuck after awhile. At the end of the documentary the once lush watering hole was just a dry, flat area, and the camera zoomed in on a tiny crack in the dirt, where you could see the stubborn alligator, barely alive, forever trapped in his former home. 

I turned off the television depressed and a little claustrophobic.

So you’d think that last night, when the new NatGeo documentary The Last Lions came on, I would have watched something else. But apparently my love for animals and beautiful film making makes me forget that I’m probably going to cry at some point during the next two hours. 

The documentary was like all those movies about a single mom who has to overcome adversity to take care of her children, except with lions. It starts off with the Mommy Lion happily hanging out with the Daddy Lion and her three cubs. BUT THEN THEY’RE ATTACKED BY SOME ANGRY LIONS FROM THE NORTH WHO WERE FORCED FROM THEIR HOMES BY THE RELENTLESS ENCROACHMENT OF MAN. They were all yelling and swiping and biting at each other and became covered in blood, and I was all...

But the fight is done. Mommy Lion has a cut on her shoulder, and she's scratched out the eye of another lioness. Daddy lion is all banged up, missing an eye, bleeding like crazy, and limping. When the sun rises the next morning he limps away to a quiet place, lies down, and does that heartbreaking thing that lions do in these documentaries: he just chooses to die right then and there. 

[Notice this is still the only way I know how to draw a lion.]

Mommy Lion then takes her three cubs and begins to travel south so they can avoid the evil pride who invaded their home. She can’t find any food, and the cubs begin to go hungry. Each time she tries to hunt, hyenas come and try to kill the cubs, forcing Mommy Lion to come and scare them away. And each time the cubs are threatened, it feels like I have a bowling ball in my stomach. I become all sweaty and tense, white-knuckling the armrests of my chair. 

They find a herd of water buffalo and the Mommy Lion tries to take some down, but she’s not successful. While she’s off trying something else, the evil buffalo go and trample the spot where the cubs are hiding.

When Mommy Lion comes back, she finds that all her cubs have disappeared. She goes searching and finds only one of them, the girl, who’s fine but scared. Then a some more freaking buffalo come and attack them, and Mommy Lion tries to save the baby, but when she finally gets her out of there, the cub’s back is broken, leaving her back legs limp behind her. Mommy Lion carries her away, tests out her lifeless legs, and begins walking. The cub walks alongside her mother on her front legs, but soon Mommy Lion begins to go ahead of her, and then they’re ten feet away, then thirty. The baby stops, and cries for Mommy Lion, and Mommy Lion looks back, but then turns her head away, and her face contorts as if she’s about to cry. 

At this point I’m bawling.

I don’t even want to go on. Right now I’m in the same place I was when I stumbled upon Marley & Me on TBS and I was ruined for an entire week. I get choked up just thinking about it. 

Here’s the last half hour: Mommy Lion gets angry and charges into the middle of the buffalo herd without any strategy at all, fails, and because of this the mean lion pride from before see her as a leader and they all reconcile, and THEN MOMMY LION FINDS ONE OF HER OTHER CUBS, healthy as can be, and everyone lives happily ever after.

I’m relieved, albeit shaken. 

No more nature documentaries for me. Give me a gory human-slashing flick any day, but it’ll take a while for me to recover from the paraplegic lion cub.