I’m not even a star athlete in my DREAMS.

I dreamt a few nights ago that I, 23 year-old Brian, was on a middle school football team. And it was played on a basketball court. With basketball jerseys.  Perhaps it was basketball. There were definitely football elements to the game, though. 

Anyway. I was the worst out of all of them. I knew this (1) because of knowledge of my real-life history with sports, (2) because of my lack of interest in all sports, and (3) because when my team referred to the skill level of our opponents, they said, “Don’t worry, it’s like we’re playing a team of Brians.” 

Nonetheless, I was on the team. And given that our opponents had the same skill level and drive as yours truly, my team didn’t take the game very seriously. They did fun between-the-legs dribble moves, and little behind-the-back passes all night long. Well, until the end of the game, when they realized that our opponents had somehow slipped an extra point in there and taken the lead. 

So we huddled. The team captain started the conversation:

CAPTAIN: What the heck, dudes? How did they get in the lead?

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah! What the heck?

ANOTHER GUY: The heck is going on here!

ANOTHER GUY: The heck!

ME: This is how I always dreamt it was inside an Athletic Elite huddle.

CAPTAIN: Kid! Not now. 

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah kid!

ANOTHER GUY: Kid, knock it off.

ANOTHER GUY: Kid!

ME: This is fantastic. 

CAPTAIN: Shut up. Okay, we need a plan to get another point in a few seconds. The problem is, they’re all going to be trying really hard to block all of our good players. This is why I think we should give the ball to Brian. Like a diversion!

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah, a diversion!

ANOTHER GUY: Diversions are sweet.

ANOTHER GUY: Diversion!

ME: Bullocks. 

I was really unhappy that this was the decision, mostly because that meant I had to pay attention. Up until now I had just been pretending to play and reading Christmas cards. 

CAPTAIN: Brian, this is our only chance to win this thing. You have to give 110%.

ANOTHER GUY: “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us” -Hebrews 12.1! 

ANOTHER GUY: PAIN IS JUST WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY! 

ANOTHER GUY: Out run, out hit, out play, out hustle, out WIN!

ME: Seriously, the stuff that inspires you guys does nothing for me.

So we got back on the field (OH SH** I MEAN COURT) and lined up the play. And that was the first time I saw who was guarding me. 

[I must have really been into those Christmas cards.]

Sliding past my dainty opponent, I took the basketball and made the shot. While hooting and hollering, I took a victory lap around the court, but then stopped because none of my teammates were joining me. 

ME: Guys, come on! WE WON! 

CAPTAIN: Big whoop, Brian. You made one shot.

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah.

ANOTHER GUY: Kid.

I think I’ll lump this dream in with the rest of the bullying I went received when I was actually in sports.

The day I learned how to ride a dirt bike.

Let me preface this by saying that I have a giddy, longing interest in small, self-propelled machines, whether they be motor scooters, four-wheelers, snowmobiles, broomsticks or experimental flying machines. 

The only real experience I’ve had on any of these, however, is a snowmobile. And you may remember that I threw out my back after rolling it into a ditch and trying to flip it back over last Christmas. 

[Foreshadowing.]

Also, every time I go to my girlfriend Christie’s house, I embarrass myself in some way. (Perhaps this little post about me and a faulty pocket door will refresh your memory.) These instances are always avoidable with the help of something that I like to call “thinking ahead” which is not necessarily something that I’m good at. 

[Also foreshadowing.]

It was a beautiful late-August day.  Everything was going smoothly at Christie’s Bon Voyage party, and Christie and I were mingling with her friends and extended family amongst folding tables in their open garage. I was drinking a Pepsi and happily munching on some pasta salad. Her brother was taking the kids on dirt bike rides around their yard. The first time he took off with a kid, the bike jerked forward and a few people around me gasped, but he righted it and drove off. My heart continued to beat heavily. 

[Foreshadowing. Seriously, I should 

have figured this sh** out.]

CHRISTIE: You should try that when he’s done! 

ME: What? No. Not while everyone’s watching.

CHRISTIE: No, it’ll be fine! My brother can teach you! Come on, Brian; it’s a small, self-propelled machine...your favorite...

ME: Don’t try to tempt me. I’m not going to learn to ride it. Besides, your dad’s watching; he already thinks I’m a wimp.

CHRISTIE: No he doesn’t! Well, not anymore at least, ever since you finally gave him a firm handshake...

ME: MY NORMAL HANDSHAKE IS PLENTY FIRM. He just wanted to have a Hand Squeeze-Off, which I wasn’t prepared for! 

CHRISTIE: And, see? Now everything’s okay! 

ME: Still. 

CHRISTIE: Just get on the bike. It’ll be fine, okay? Nothing can go wrong. 

ME: My eye’s twitching involuntarily.  

CHRISTIE: Oh, come on. Let’s go. 

So Christie and I walked over to her brother, who gave me hasty instructions. I have to admit, I began to get pretty excited. 

HER BROTHER: So just squeeze this blah blah blah when you blah blah blah and let out the blah blah blah but not too much blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. Sound good? 

ME: Sounds great! No helmet or pads, of course.

HER BROTHER: You’re not a wuss.

ME: Damn straight! And I certainly don’t need to know what to do if something goes wrong, especially since I’ve never driven any sort of manual transmission.

HER BROTHER: Of course not. 

ME: Sweet! Here I go, Christie’s onlooking family and friends! I’m about to drive a dirt bike for the first time without a helmet on an inclined blacktop driveway! 

EVERYONE: GODSPEED, BRIAN! 

[Every middle school English teacher on the planet just got a strange tingling sensation in their nose. This story has more foreshadowing than To Kill A Mockingbird.]

So I started up the dirt bike death machine, and gave it a go. I squeezed the blah blah blah and let out some blah blah blah and...oh crap...I didn’t listen to anything Christies brother was saying...and the bike immediately jerked forward a few times, and took off like an unknotted balloon. This is what I believe was my trajectory: 

And all I could think about while I flew through the air to my imminent death was:

After my short liftoff, I landed on my side, and slid down the driveway. It seemed as though everything was fine until I realized that the driveway wasn’t, in fact, made out of piles of marshmallows and sweaters but asphalt, to which I had generously donated a few layers of skin on my elbow, thumb, palm, knee, shoulder, and hip. 

And then this conversation happened:

EVERYONE: *GASP!* 

ME: Oh sweet Jesus.

CHRISTIE’S MOM: Oh no! Are you alright?

ME: Yeah, I’m fine.

CHRISTIE: Oh gosh, let’s get you inside.

ME: Ow. I really should have seen that coming. I feel like there were a lot of red flags.

CHRISTIE’S FRIEND: Wow, how embarrassed you must be!

HER DAD: Let out the clutch too fast. 

CHRISTIE: Ooh, those cuts look bad.

HER BROTHER: I CAN SEE BONE! 

ME: No you can’t. I’m going to get some bandages.

HER BROTHER: That’s bone I see! That’s what your elbow bone looks like! 

ME: Nope. It’s not my bone.

HER FRIEND: It’s going to suck to show up at your second interview at church covered in all those bandages...

ME: What? Oh that’s right. Thanks for reminding me.

HER BROTHER: Can I touch your elbow bone?

ME: If you can excuse me, everyone, I’m going to go disappear for a bit. 

And so I went inside and used all the bandages I could find to cover my mutilated body.  When I was bandaged up, my body started to actually understand the fact that I had just been thrown onto a driveway like a bony ragdoll and I began to shake. I grabbed some water and sat down inside for a bit. Then Christie, her siblings, and her dad came in. 

HER BROTHER: Looks like you should have let the clutch out slower.

ME: Yup.

CHRISTIE: No, it’s not the clutch. He should have blah blah blah, then blah blah blah blah. 

ME: Guess so. 

HER DAD: Actually, what I think happened was, he took the blah blah blah and didn’t blah blah blah first, and...

ME: It’s really nice to know that there are so many things I did wrong. Let’s keep talking about it.

HER DAD: Well, you know what they say: Time to get back on!

ME: I don’t think so. 

HER BROTHER: Yeah! Like riding a bike!

CHRISTIE: Ooh, bad analogy. Brian fell off his bike too. TWICE.

ME: I’m so glad you brought that up. 

HER DAD: Let’s go! Back outside to try again.

ME: Thanks, but I’d rather die. Maybe I’ll get back on the bike after some therapy.

CHRISTIE: You can do it, Brian! You just have to take out the blah blah blah and blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. 

ME: Okay. I’ll get back on if I can ride the bike inside a bouncy castle. 

CHRISTIE: Huh?

ME: What part of ‘bouncy castle’ don’t you understand?

CHRISTIE: How about trying it on the grass? 

ME: Bouncy castle.

CHRISTIE: We don’t have a bouncy castle. 

ME: No bouncy castle, no ride. 

CHRISTIE: Fine. 

And that’s the day I learned how to ride a dirt bike. And by “ride” I mean “immediately and violently crash.” 

I still have a scar on my elbow from last August. If only Mederma could reduce the appearance of emotional scarring as well. 

If I was exactly what those ad scammers were looking for...

While I was watching Doctor Who on a semi-illegal video website because I can’t afford Netflix, this ad popped up on the sidebar...

Which obviously made me say, “OH MY GOSH! This sexy woman with a ferociously enormous butt wants to be my friend on Facebook so badly that she put her friend request in a personal ad so it can find me wherever I am! 

And her name is Tionne. How exotic! I'm not even 100% sure how to pronounce that!

We already have two friends in common; I must have showed up on her newsfeed twice and she was all, ‘Wow! That guy’s really hot! I see in him what everyone else misses! I need to be his friend! I will do whatever it takes!‘ 

She even left a personal message: 'Want to meet me?' ...So personal and inciting!  

I should probably click this sidebar Facebook notification and head over to Facebook STAT – I have three notifications that I should check anyway. 

*clickclickclickclick* 

HEY! This isn’t Facebook! ‘Find hot locals in your area’? Hmmm...Well, obviously Tionne is local because we have mutual friends, and she’s hot, so maybe this is some sort of Facebook shortcut to find her faster. Here’s my name, email, and street address. 

$26 a month? I will do whatever it takes to find her. IT’S US AGAINST THE WORLD, TIONNE. 

Maybe I’ll take out my own ad."

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.