Doings of Our Generation: The Tired-Off

I’ve covered some important phrases of our generation on this blog: The Origin of Epic Fail, and a quite thorough investigation into The Like-Legit-Like Sandwich. Both posts are scientifically accurate. They're like, legit, like... 

In that spirit, I would like to explore my generation’s doings. 

For the first installment of Doings of Our Generation, I’d like to explore one of the most common: 

The Tired-Off

Here’s some information we should all know before we go any further: We humans get tired sometimes. This is why sleep exists. However, sometimes our busy schedules cause us to stay up late or wake up early. Occasionally both happen in the same 24 hours. This usually results in a feeling of fatigue. 

Can we all agree on that? Good.

We then go to work or school or church or wherever and at some point in the conversation, we yawn and let slip these fateful words. “I’m tired. I only got like five hours of sleep last night.” 

But as we’re saying these things, we can see in the eyes of the people around us that we have just awoken something beastly. Something unstoppable once it’s been started. A pandora's box of no-nos. We try to stop ourselves before we say how many hours of sleep we’ve gotten, but we can’t. The toothpaste is out of the tube. We utter the dreaded phrase “like five hours of sleep last night,” and we can see the people around us instinctually readying their mouths to say that which comes so strangely natural to all people...

“That’s nothing. I got only three hours of sleep last night.” 

The Tired-Off has begun. 

It works the same as any other Something-Off: a Sing-Off, a Pie-Off, a Dance-Off...they’re all escalating competitions where each competitor has to bring something bigger and better than the one before. And thus begins an onslaught of miserable statement after miserabler statement, all revolving around sleep deprivation...

“Whatever. I didn’t even sleep last night. Too busy.”

“I got like five hours of sleep...THIS WEEK.” 

Other people join in the conversation. People we don’t even know. 

“I’ve been averaging about four hours of sleep a month.” 

“Last winter I took one nap and that was it.” 

“From November to March I didn’t even blink.” 

“Last time I slept, I was eleven years old. And I only got five hours.” 

We wish we had never said anything. Not because we feel like a wimp for complaining about our five whole glorious hours of sleep, but because we’re sure that this will never end.

“I slept once when I was a toddler.” 

“I was born without eyelids, and my doctor wanted to fix it but my parents decided not to because they knew how much work I’d have to do later in life.” 

“My last name is Nuncaduermo, which means ‘I Never Sleep’ in Spanish. My great great great great great grandfather was known for being too busy to sleep, so he acquired that last name. No one in my entire family has slept a wink since.” 

“That’s interesting. My last name is Schlafenie, which means the same in German. Same story. Six generations, no sleep. How many hours did you get last night, again, Brian?”

There's only one loser in the Tired-Off, and what's surprising is that he's the one who got the most sleep. 

The day I learned why it's wrong to spit on the ground

I led a conflicted existence in second grade. As you’ve read from my journal from that year, my struggles with being a musical kid in a football-dominated elementary school as well as the fact that my best friend was a forbidden GIRL gave me a lot to worry about. I walked a thin line those days, making sure to remain as masculine as possible as to not lose my present male friends or damage future rendezvous with the lady-folk. There was a standard in second grade, and I was constantly struggling to meet it.

Spitting on the ground, I soon discovered, was really quite a novel idea. My dad did it occasionally, baseball players in movies did it all the time while chewing what appeared to be a big brown sock, and so I began as well. My friends also joined me in this venture, and soon we were a gang of spitting hoodlums, not walking a dozen paces before generating as much saliva as we could in order to leave our slimy, foaming signatures on the playground blacktop.  

 [It was increasingly necessary to stay hydrated in second grade.]

As far as I can remember this was an activity that had no negative consequences, and was something that set us apart from everyone else. We were golden. Little did I know that our actions could cause something so dangerous, so life threatening, that even fifteen years later it would remain a globally destructive and horrible epidemic for which there is still no end in sight.

A fellow student (and by fellow student I mean complete a**hole tattletale who doesn’t even deserve to share the same playground with me) came up to my friend and I and questioned our behavior. Actually, it was less of a question and more of a TAUNT.

JERK: Why do you spit on the ground?

US: Because it’s COOL.

LOSER: It looks kind of messy.

US: IT’S COOLER THAN YOU CAN EVER IMAGINE. YOU SUCK!

BUTTFACE: No I don’t! I’m telling the teacher that you’re spitting on the ground!

US: Oh yeah?!

My friends and I then sent a barrage of spit-tooies to the ground to demonstrate our defiance. 

Then the teacher walked over and sent us to the principle’s office.

My rebellious vigor dwindled slightly.

Okay, I may have cried.

So there I was sitting in Mr. Eaton’s (the school’s principal whose round stature encouraged a slew of puns about his last name) office, and he began interrogating me.

MR. EATON: Why were you sent here, Brian?

BRIAN: I spit on the ground.

MR. EATON: Is that all you did?

BRIAN: More or less.

MR. EATON: Excuse me?

BRIAN: That’s all I did.

MR. EATON: Okay. Did you ever spit ON anyone?

BRIAN: Not unless the peripheral damage of my giant loogie splashed someone in the nearby vicinity.

MR. EATON: So, no one?

BRIAN: To be honest, I was the one who was the most at-risk in that situation.

MR. EATON: Okay. So you were sent here because you spit on the ground?

BRIAN: Yep.

MR. EATON: And I’m guessing that I’m supposed to tell you WHY merely spitting on the ground outside is a bad thing.

BRIAN: It would make this whole situation a lot clearer.

MR. EATON: Something that sounds truthful, then, so that your limited six-year-old understanding will accept it as absolute fact and I can get you out of my f***ing office?

BRIAN: What?

MR. EATON: Nothing. See, the reason that it’s bad to spit on the ground is … that, uh … um … There’s this disease going around called AIDS, and it’s really bad.

BRIAN: Really?

MR. EATON: Really. And spitting on the ground spreads it. So what you’re doing is dangerous.

BRIAN: I’ve never heard of AIDS before.

MR. EATON: You’ll actually learn about it in class next year, and by then you’ll probably have forgotten that I even told you this.

BRIAN: Interesting. So what’s this disease like and how does someone catch it?

MR. EATON: Oh, you don’t want to hear the specifics; it’s really complicated.

BRIAN: Try me.

MR. EATON: Alright, it’s not passed through saliva as though someone could absorb it through the soles of his or her shoes, the only way that that could happen is if you had blood in your saliva and they had an open wound on their foot, which shoes really prevent from happening anyway. Usually, though, it’s actually sexually transmitted.

MR. EATON: See what I mean?

BRIAN: Vaguely.

MR. EATON: Close enough. Go back to recess.

I left his office with a new knowledge about the consequences of my actions, and a creeping feeling that he was feeding me complete bullsh**.

And that’s the day I learned why it’s wrong to spit on the ground.

(Because you could kill someone.)

Another New Texting Phenomenon

You’ve experienced and loved SongBomb©™, and now I have created a new texting phenomenon that is tearing up the charts of telecommunication!

It’s called…

Poem Invasion®©™

The rules are simple:

1.  You must first receive a text. (This adds to the “sneak attack” nature of Poem Invasion®©™, because the sender actually brings it upon themselves.)

2. You must respond to their text with a reply that rhymes with what they wrote. This will result in a stanza of poetry. (Extra points are awarded if you can also make the two texts rhythmically work together.)

3. Even though rhyming is difficult, it is immensely important to try to keep the conversation on topic. This way you can keep it going as long as possible.*

4. If the person you're Poem Invasion®©™ing gets uncomfortable and asks something about your conversation rhyming, quickly make one last line and say goodbye. (It’s kind of like the movie Inception; once the people become aware that you’re messing with their world, they’ll turn on you. In a Poem Invasion®©™, a sure sign of this is other party ending her or his texts with words like orange, month, or purple. Get out as soon as you can; they’re on to you!)

*In the event that the person you’re Poem Invasion®©™ing replies with “What?”, you are allowed to text them back with a simple, “Whaaat!” However, this transforms Poem Invasion®©™ into:

Rap Attack!!®©™

The rules of Rap Attack!!®©™ are almost identical to Poem Invasion®©™, you just have to add the words yo, krunk, and the suffix -izzle as much as you can. 

 

An Example of Rap Attack!!®©™

Friend: Kissing my boyfriend is such a drag. I wish he were taller.

You: Well if he ever needs a boost, just give a little holler!

Friend: What?

You: Whaaat!

Friend: What are you doing?

You: I’m krunk, yo! I’m on a boat, yo! Look at me, you mizzle fizzle, check out what I’m brewing!

(Any reference to I’m on a Boat automatically gives you extra points.)

Friend: You’re being weird.

You: Whoa! An insult from my bro! I guess I should watch out where I’m shavin’ my beard!

Friend: What?

You: Whaaat!

Friend: Orange orange orange  

You: Okay, see you at dinner. Bye.

It is encouraged to publish the work on facebook or submit it to a literary magazine as unintentional poetry. It's highly, highly conceptual.

"I Know, I Know..." and "Christmas is NOT Funny."

This blog is more gaunt and emaciated than I had planned. Dusty echoes of past posts and empty words clutter the page as if from some other, sweeter time. Visiting this page is like visiting the ghost town somewhere in the last half of Stephen King’s The Talisman, the town with broken buildings and dirty streets, where a naked, grimy woman stumbles pointlessly through garbage and filth, crying—or screaming, I can’t remember—as she passes us to continue on her miserable way, leaving us with a sense of gloom and an urge to leave this place as soon as possible. Maybe that’s a little much; it’s not quite that bad. Has anyone really ever read that book? I did like ten years ago. Stephen King is smoking something strong, let me tell you. 

It has been a while, though. And if that crying naked woman somehow embodied Popcorn Day itself, she would have stopped when she saw me and said, “Oh, hi there, B-…Brian, right? You’re name’s still Brian, isn’t it? You haven’t changed it or anything? I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen you for what, two months? Let’s see, you posted on October 7th, and then October 27th came around and you gave us this half-assed post that said, ‘Hey guys, uh, I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long, but I’m going to be gone for even longer because I’m lame and super busy, but I’ll be back by Thanksgiving.’  Remember that? Tell me: when do you celebrate Thanksgiving, Brian? Do you celebrate it at the end of November like the rest of us turkey-roasting, stars-and-stripes-loving Americans do, or do you stack it on top of Christmas like a Canadian or something and that’s what you meant by ‘around Thanksgiving’ because IT SURE AS HELL SEEMS LIKE IT, GIVEN THAT CHRISTMAS WAS YESTERDAY AND IT’S THANKGIVING IS SOOOO OVER!!! YOUR TIDINGS ARE NEITHER COMFORTING NOR JOYFUL!!”

This is where I put my hands up all calm-like and say...

The musical I wrote, Forwards & Backwards, took up all of my free time. And all of my other time too. Mr. GPA was none too pleased. However, the show was more successful than I had ever thought it could be. 390 people showed up, some having to sit on top of tables or stand.

 

It was received so warmly that we’re showing again in January. I see you flaring up, Popcorn Day, but rest assured I will not leave you this time.

After the musical I thought that it would also be a slam-bam idea to release my second Christmas album, Snow. Homework, shmomework, right? 

 [You can even buy this, if you want! Click here! Or down there, if you want to spend less / give me less money.]

Then came finals, which destroyed me and my posture, but ended successfully with grades that would have warranted a parade in my honor if I was in high school. (That means I did well, which I didn’t always do in high school.)

I was totally jipped out of my Christmas spirit. College allows for almost none; any Christmas spirit a college student has is quickly overshadowed by some guilty thought like “I should probably be studying more instead of decorating my dorm room with cut-paper snowflakes and cinnamon-scented pinecones while listening to My Little Drum by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.”

Which I did, by the way, and thought that thought, and went back to studying when the guilt loomed too heavily. Christmas spirit is hardly allowed at college.

Christmas break came, though, ready or not. And thus began my hectic couple of days peppered with a few moments of sublime happiness: a friend’s cabin, a Christmas party with cousins, and much much more. A to-do list is attached. You will see how well I fared.

1. Upon receiving your final grades, discover that you passed all of them, not with flying colors, necessarily, but at least with a few subdued hues hopping merrily along the ground.

Achieved.
 

2. Don’t pull a muscle in your back while trying to un-stuck a snowmobile.

Failed.
 

3. Make horchata for the first time and drink it in December like the song.

Achieved.
 

4. Read for FUN, dammit. The Hobbit, maybe.

Achieved.   
 

5. Don’t aggravate that back muscle you pulled while trying to un-stuck a snowmobile a second time.

Failed. 
 
6. Avoid listening to The Christmas Shoes even once. 

Failed. (And don't click that link if you don't have to.)
 

7. Get your annual massage with Christie.

Achieved.
 

8. Don’t somehow jab yourself in the elbow with your thumb and injure it while boxing on Kinect. 

Failed.
 

9. Avoid listening to The Christmas Shoes even twice.

Failed.
 

10. Don’t throw out your back playing Kinect because it will limit your movement on Christmas.

Failed.
 

11. Go to the chiropractor on Christmas eve.

Achieved.

And I suppose that brings me to where I am today. Feeling nourished, Popcorn Day?  I don’t want to give you too much too soon; you may get diarrhea.

So I shall return to regular posting.

New Cool Texting Idea: SongBomb®™

The rules are simple.

1. Pick a friend who texts.

2. Pick a song you would like to get stuck in her or his head.

3. Find the lyrics for that song.

4. Every couple of hours, text him or her a stanza from those lyrics in the order and frequency they appear on the radio.

5. Do not reply to any questions.

6. Continue until the song is done. (This could take days.)

7. Conclude with, “This has been a SongBomb®™. I love you.”

[Yelling "TA DAAAA!!" is optional, but encouraged.]

The only fallback to this is that you may get the song stuck in your head while SongBombing®™ your friend. We’re looking into solutions to that problem.

My preliminary attempt at this was SongBombing®™ my friend Josh. The entire process took three days. For the first two days, I heard nothing back. I began to doubt myself. The following is the process of my thinking:

1. Okay, Josh works a lot during the summer. He’s probably just too busy to check his phone. That’s fine. How funny will it be when he checks it and has the entire Believe by Cher song on his phone?!

2. What if a family member died and he’s not texting me back because (a) he’s pissed because this is totally inappropriate right now, especially at this time when a member of his family has died, and (b) he knows it would be really awkward for both of us to text me back saying, “Um…Could you please stop texting me lyrics from that Cher song? It’s really not making my grieving process any easier to be singing, ‘Do you believe in life after love, after love, after love, after love? I can feel something inside me saying I really don’t think I’m strong enough now,’ in my head while attending the wake of my dead family member.”

3. What if he broke up with his girlfriend and for the same reasons listed in #2 he doesn’t really want to be receiving texts that say things like, “There’s no turning back. I need time to move on. I need love to feel strong…Do you believe in life after love,” while he’s driving in a snotty, tearful mess? This would not be good.

4. What if Josh died? How embarrassing would it be to be texting your dead friend and the way you learned about it would be from a family member sending a text back saying, “Stop sending these. Your best friend is dead. It would be great if you could at least stop harassing him now, since he’s dead and all.”  I would be devastated.

Nonetheless, despite all of the horribly morbid possibilities of why he’s not texting back, I pressed on. With three stanzas left, I received this:

OH THANK GOD.

But I had to stick to the rules, so I couldn’t explain it to him until it was done, even though all I wanted to say was, “Omigod Josh, I’ve been playing a joke on you with SongBomb®™ but when you didn’t reply for three days I worried that maybe you were heartbroken, grieving, or dead, but being the insensitive prick that I am, I kept texting you over and over these lyrics and I can’t get Cher out of my head or my dreams and I feel trapped and alone HELP SOS OMG, lylas.” Keeping my cool, I finished the song and texted rule #7, and he replied with this:

“Did you like it?” I asked.

SUCCESS!! Then I explained a bit of it. He said:

Rule #8: You may not SongBomb®™ anyone with the lyrics to Headstrong. That's just cruel.