Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

“These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before. ”                                                                           –Introduction from Star Trek

"These are the voyages of the John Deere I like to call Enterprise.  Its mission: to boldly mow where no one has mowed before.”                                              - Jeff Brown

Note to Self:

Here I am out in the field.  Literally. 

Well, technically I’m not in a field, it’s more of a Creeping Charlie and Not-So-Dandy Lion wildlife preserve, but this customer’s yard is so huge it might as well be a field.  Working with Dad in the lawn mowing business sure got an early start this year, and business is blooming.  Hahahaha! 

That’s so funny because instead of “booming,” I used a word more closely associated with plants. 

Note to self: I need to cut my caffeine consumption in the mornings. 

There’s nothing like starting the day with a pot of coffee and a can of Mountain Dew.  Yes, my brain is in overdrive! 

Note to self:  I probably should have gotten a job with a private bathroom. 

Be still, my intestinal tract, there’s nowhere to go out here.  Oh well, at least this outdoorsy career keeps me physically fit, although my feet are killing me.

Note to self: Daddy needs a new pair of mowing shoes.

I sure hope today goes better than yesterday.  It was humiliating when that little girl kept yelling at me from her bedroom window, “Get out of my yard or I’m calling the cops.”

Note to Little Cretin:  No, Virginia, there’s no Santa Clause.

This terrain is bumpy!  I must distract my brain from my expanding bladder. 

The Twin Paradox is a thought experiment in special relativity in which a John Deere lawn tractor makes a journey into space and returns home to find it has fewer hours on its engine than its identical twin that stayed on earth.   Consider this tractor traveling from Earth to the nearest star outside our solar system 4 light years away at a speed 80 percent the speed of light. 

The round trip will take 10 years in Earth time (i.e. everybody on earth (including the twin) will be 10 years older when the tractor returns). The amount of time as measured on the tractor's clock will be reduced by the factor ε=√1-v²/c².  In this case, the traveling tractor’s engine will only have 6 years’ worth of wear and tear on it when it gets back to Earth!

THIS ISN’T WORKING AND MY BLADDER IS GOING TO GO SUPERNOVA.  I wonder if anyone would see me if I went over there by that bush.  What’s the worst that could happen? 

Note to self:  Probably an indecent exposure charge and a write-up in the local newspaper.

I want to be in the paper, but not that way.  Too bad my column writing career isn’t going as well as the mowing business.  I firmly resolve to get up at 4 AM tomorrow and write a new blog.

Note to self:  Hahahaha! 

I suppose I’ll end up mowing yards for the rest of my life.  When I was a kid, there was an old woman in town that mowed yards for a living.  Mean people called her Crazy.  I wonder what the locals will call me in coming years. 

There goes Eccentric Jeff.  He used to be respected in this town until he got caught watering somebody’s grass. 

Maybe that newspaper editor I sent sample columns to last week called me back.  I’ll check my phone right now for missed messages. 

Crap.

Note to self: Buy beer on the way home tonight after you visit the shoe store. 

Little Cretin:  Officer, you won’t believe what that bad man did to my parent’s bushes!

 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"I don’t answer the phone.  I get the feeling whenever I do that there will be someone on the other end.”  –Fred Couples

"I don’t answer the phone.  I get the feeling whenever I do that there will be an androgynous voice on the other end asking for Rodney." - Jeff Brown

This is an Important Message for Rodney

Hello Rodney.  How are you?

This column may be recorded for quality assurance purposes.

You don’t know me and I technically don’t know you.  For instance, I don’t know where you live, what kind of car you drive, who’s your daddy, or even what your last name is.  I am, however, painfully aware of your existence in the universe. 

Believe me, Mr. Rodney Whatever Your Last Name Is; this isn’t because I ever wanted to be.  Oh, contraire, this knowledge of your beingness was forced upon me shortly after I got my cell phone number.  The first not so subtle clue that you exist and are leading a more exciting social life than me came in the middle of the night, and it went like this:

Phone rings.

Jeff: (Fumbles for his glasses.) Where the heck is my stupid phone?   (Races to the living room and finds it stuck between the couch cushions.)  Hello.

Woman’s Voice:  Is Rodney there?

Jeff:  No, you have the wrong number.

Woman’s Voice:  (Giggles.)  Oh, I’m sorry.  (Hangs up.)

Rodney, from the sheer number of late night calls I received and continue to receive since I was issued my phone number several years ago, I gather you have lots of friends.  You must be pretty charismatic to have such following.  Whether its day or night, whether I’m on a ladder, eating dinner, or in the shower, you’re always in demand.  Sometimes it seems everyone in the country wants to reach out and touch you. 

So do I, Rodney, so do I. 

I have to admit you have a bigger social circle than me, and I was getting jealous.  That was until the second wave of calls started coming in that went like this:

Hi Rodney, how are you today?  Before I proceed further, I need to tell you this is an attempt to collect a debt, and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.

I explained to the debt collector that I was not you.  He took this information very well.  In fact, he liked my explanation so much that he called me a week later to hear it again.  He still calls occasionally, and each time I have to patiently explain to him that I’m not you, or as I often refer to you now– Mr. Popularity. 

Apparently this confusion over our identities has extended to the government because I’ve been receiving messages from an androgynous robot voice that works for the Iowa Department of Revenue.

This is an important message for Rodney.  Please call us back at…

I tried to ignore the weird calls at first, but they came every day for two weeks straight.  Finally, I wore down and replied.   

All of our agents are busy.  Please hold.

You’ve got to be kidding.  First they harass me incessantly, then they make ME call THEM, and then they have the nerve to put me on hold.         

How may I help you?

Your androgynous attack dog told me to call.

Is this Rodney?

No, my name is Jeff.  Please remove my phone number from your list. 

Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir.

I’ve had this conversation with the Iowa Department of Revenue four times in the past twelve months.

Anyhow, Mr. Rodney, since I have no other way of contacting you, I have an important message for you here right here in this column:

The library really wants you to return those overdue books. 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"There is a flower within my heart, Daisy, Daisy.” –Harry Dacre

"There is a flower within my heart, Hailey Baby.” - Jeff Brown

A Pretend Picnic Packed for Two

Hailey, Baby, give me your answer, do,

I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.

 

My 17-month old granddaughter, Hailey, shoved a plastic spoon laden with imaginary food (I liked to think it was a scrumptious bite of lasagna, but I suspect it was strained peas) in my mouth.  “Yum, num, num.” I said, smacking my lips loudly.

 

“Hee, hee,” she exclaimed.

 

Then it was my turn to feed her.  I took another plastic spoon, scooped up some imaginary Hamburger Helper, and pretended to feed it to her.  “Over the lips, past the gums, look out tummy, here it comes!”

 

She bit the spoon.  “Mmmmm.”  Then she smacked her lips.  “Apple?”

“Yes,” I said.  It’s certainly not Hamburger Helper; it’s 100% pure organic applesauce.” 

“Mmmmm.”

I was on my knees and we were playing with a toy kitchenette, complete with plastic plates, plastic pots and pans, plastic fruits and vegetables, and yes, a tiny cardboard box of Hamburger Helper.  (Cheeseburger Macaroni, if I remember right.)  She grabbed a plastic French fry and shoved it down a tiny plastic ketchup bottle.  Her eyes got real big.  “Uh oh.”

 “Oh no!” I exclaimed.  “What are we going to do now?”  She handed it to me.  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll try to get it out.”

It won’t be a lunch that tastes fantastic-

Because it’s made of plastic,

The yellow crinkly fry was really stuck in there, and my fingers were way too big to fit down the neck of the pretend bottle, so I turned it upside down and shook it.  The fry popped out just enough for me to grab with my fingertips.  I pulled it out.  “Here you go, Hailey Baby,” I said, as I gave her back the wayward fry and bottle.    

She smiled at me appreciatively, which made me feel like I was king of the world.  Then she shoved the fry back inside.  “Uh oh!”

Soon we were filling a picnic basket.  “Here’s a nice plastic hardboiled egg,” I said.  We had our basket packed with other nutritious plastic items too like plastic hamburgers, plastic hotdogs, and about a dozen or so plastic potato chips. 

Interesting fact: Junk food, even in plastic form, is still more attractive and tasty than the healthier plastic alternatives. 

I noticed some of the fruits and vegetables were cut in half.  Well, they weren’t actually cut; rather they were vacuum formed in halves with Velcro taped to the side them. 

Another interesting fact: Most children won’t eat the Velcro, although that’s where all the vitamins are.

The Velcro gave me an idea.  I found two plastic onion halves and Velcroed them together.  Then I found a plastic butter knife.  “Check this out, Hailey.”  On the floor, I cut it in half with the knife.  The ripping sound the Velcro made was surprisingly realistic and I handed the knife over to her. “Now it’s your turn.”

I put the onion back together and held it steady.  With her diaper sticking out of the top of her blue jeans, Hailey hunched over the plastic vegetable.  She pushed and pushed with both hands and the Velcro went rip, rip, until she cut it all the way through. 

“Yay, Hailey,” I exclaimed, “You did it!”

She raised her arms in victory.  “Yay!” 

Then I gave her a hug.

FYI:  I don’t normally teach babies how to use knives, but in this particular instance, it seemed perfectly appropriate. 

Besides, I was really craving some freshly sliced plastic onion for my plastic hamburger.

But you’d look sweet, right next to me

On a pretend picnic packed for two!

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"I’m here to rescue you.”  - Luke Skywalker

"I’m here to scoop your sidewalk.” - Jeff Brown

Snow Wars Episode IV: A New Shovel

Chief Meteorologist:  Get ready for the first major snow event of the season.

Ugh, I thought, as I watched the evening news.  My career as a Professional Snow Removal Technician (motto: we put the “labor” in “manual labor”) was set to begin in the morning, and I needed to get ready.  I fumbled through my coat closet.

Parka?  Check.  Coveralls?  Check.  Ski mask? 

My wife bought me a ski mask a few weeks earlier and I hadn’t tried it on yet.  I pulled it over my head and it snagged my glasses.  Good grief.  I yanked it off and my poor glasses hit the floor.  I picked them up and tried again, only this time I put the ski mask on first.  Then I slid my glasses on carefully through the ski mask’s face hole. 

Needless to say, I was uncomfortable.

I headed for the nearest mirror to see what I looked like.  Staring back at me was some sort of lanky ninja/Jedi wannabe.  My glasses fogged up when I breathed and I whined, “With my ski mask on, I can’t even see.  How am I supposed to scoop snow?”

Obi-Wan: Use the Force, Jeff.

Then I felt myself being drawn to the dark side. 

Yoda:  It is a good idea to scare your wife not.

But I couldn’t help myself.  I could almost hear the evil Star Wars theme (you know, the music that played whenever Darth Vader was around) as I walked, no, strode down the hallway towards my unsuspecting wife. 

Da da da da da da!

She was standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror.  When she turned around and saw me, I didn’t get the response I was expecting.

Princess Vickie:  Darth Jeff.  Only you could be so bold.  The Imperial Senate will not sit still for this.  When they hear you attacked me in the bathroom–

Darth Jeff:  Don’t act so surprised, Your Highness.  I want to know what happened to the plans they sent you.

Princess Vickie: I don’t know what you’re talking about… and you look freaky. 

Darth Jeff:  Man, you didn’t even jump.

Then our wookie, Arlo, saw me and nearly had a stroke.

Arlo:  Bark! *cough cough*

He hacked so much he nearly puked.  I always thought it would be neat to choke people with mind powers like Darth Vader, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.

I took the mask off and went back down the hallway.  Dreading the impending snow storm, I remembered a happier, simpler time– a time of unseasonably warm temperatures.

Obi-Wan:  I have something here for you.  Your father wanted you to have this when you were old enough, but your uncle wouldn’t allow it.  He feared you might follow old Obi-Wan on some damn fool idealistic crusade like your father did.

Jeff Skywalker:  What is it?

Obi-Wan:  Your father’s snow shovel.  This is the tool of a Professional Snow Removal Technician.  Not as clumsy or random as a gas-powered snow blower; an elegant tool for a more civilized age.  For over a thousand generations, the Shovel Wielding Professional Snow Removal Technicians were the guardians of sidewalks and driveways in the Old Republic.  Before the dark times…before the first major snow event of the season.

Chewbacca:  Raaaaaaalph!

R2-D2:  Beep, beep.

Dad:  None of this ever happened.  What’s the matter with you, Jeff? 

Yeah, I have to admit I’m not terribly excited about being a Professional Snow Removal Technician, but until I win the lottery, this line of work will have to do.  I try to think of snow removal as character building.  Perhaps, someday, it’ll even help be grow stronger in the ways of the Force.

Chief Meteorologist:  Get out your shovel because *cough* it’s going to start snowing tonight.   *cough cough* (He tugs at his collar and keels over.)

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"After hearing the evidence, I will record a verdict of natural causes."- John Owen

"After smelling the evidence, I will record a verdict of natural causes."- Jeff Brown

My Dog Didn’t Do It

As I took Arlo for a walk this morning, I was deeply disturbed by the amount of (how shall I put this?) evidence of other dogs that live in my neighborhood.  YUCK.  It seemed every other sidewalk square was flanked by a pile of the stuff, and, in one case, it was actually on the sidewalk.  The whole situation left a bad taste in Arlo’s mouth too.  (Literally.)

This seems like a good time for me to declare to my neighbors (at least the ones who don’t have dogs) that I didn’t do it.

Upon re-reading the preceding sentence, this seems like a good time for me to re-phrase it for clarity.  Here’s a more accurate version:  My dog didn’t do it.

That’s not to say he hasn’t done it.  Perhaps even in your yard if you live nearby.  But, what I’m trying to say here is my wife and I are responsible pet owners.  WE CLEAN UP AFTER OUR DOG.  Vickie and I never leave the house with Arlo without an empty plastic Wal-Mart bag– just in case we need to get rid of some, err, evidence that we recently darkened your doorstep (or made it kind of brownish green).

My wife is especially serious about cleaning up after him.  In fact, whenever she walks the dog, she proudly displays the bag for the entire world to see.  Her body language practically screams to the surrounding property owners, “Relax, I’ve got this situation firmly under control– bagged and tagged.”   (Well, maybe not “tagged.”)

I’m sneakier because I prefer to carry the bag in my pocket.  Yep, I like to keep the neighbors guessing. 

Neighbor #1:  “Does he have a bag or doesn’t he?”

Neighbor #2:  “That Jeff sure is a sneaky one.”

Because I’m such a conscientious person, I sometimes feel bad when Arlo raises his leg and claims the neighbor’s mailbox post as his own.  (I hope it isn’t a federal crime.)  This situation is especially awkward when the neighbor is standing right there, opening his new NRA welcome package. 

Interesting fact: Membership comes with a free decal.

But, what am I supposed to do?  It’s not like I’m going to carry a roll of paper towels with me every time I walk the dog.

Neighbor #1:  I hope he didn’t forget the Lysol.

Neighbor #2:  Does Jeff do windows?

I suppose I should spend less time worrying about the messes my dog makes and more time worrying about getting incarcerated.  That’s right– I think Arlo is trying to get me arrested.

There are quite a few houses in my neighborhood that are near the sidewalk.  There are also quite a few people in my neighborhood who don’t shut their blinds after dark.  Guess where Arlo likes to do his business?

So there I am, standing in front of somebody’s window, while my dog is watering the garden gnome collection.  I try my best not to look inside.  Let me tell you this:  It’s bad enough that I have to suffer through my wife’s favorite show Say Yes to the Dress at home, but when I’m out walking the dog? 

It’s not fair. 

Neighbor #1:  Who’s peeping in my window?

Neighbor #2:  I’m calling the authorities.

Jeff:  Would it kill you guys to change the channel every once in a while?

But I’m not too worried.  I’ll be long gone before the cops show up, and besides, I’m a mastermind neat-freak criminal.  There won’t be any evidence I was ever there. 

Unless, of course, somebody has a picture of me holding the bag.

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one."- Leo J. Burke

"People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one, or a dog, or itchy dry skin.”      - Jeff Brown

Let me Sleep!

My wife and I crawled into bed and I turned out the lamp.

Whump!

A sharp jab to my groin followed by heavy breathing in my ear told me someone wanted to play.  It wasn’t my wife.

“Arlo,” I moaned, “I’m not in the mood.”

Our 23 pound mutt dropped a furry toy on my face.  It was damp.  (When I say the toy was damp, I mean every fiber down to the molecular level was super saturated with dog spit atoms.)  I grabbed it with my fingertips and tossed it towards my feet.  This was rewarded by another sharp jab to my groin as he gleefully lunged after it.

I rolled into the fetal position. 

Interesting fact:  I do nearly all my sleeping these days in the fetal position, with Vickie behind me and Arlo wedged tightly between us.

As I tried to get comfortable, I could feel him slowly working his way back up to the head of the bed.  Then he tugged at the covers. 

“Do you want to get under the blankets, boy?” asked Vickie.  She lifted them, giving him even more access to my sensitive body regions.

I could feel his furry body brush against my legs as he slowly worked his way down deep undercover.    

Scratch, scratch, scratch. 

I turned toward Vickie.  “What the heck is he doing now?”

 “He’s trying to get comfortable.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Arlo can be a very fidgety and annoying creature, especially when I’m trying to go to sleep. 

A few minutes later he pushed his paws firmly into my backside (his normal sleep position) and settled down.  I sighed deeply.

I seem to have a harder time going to sleep than my wife does.  I need everything to be perfect.  (When I say perfect, I mean I find it difficult to drift off while Arlo is chewing his bright orange “bow chica bow wow” squeaky toy mere millimeters from my eardrum.) 

Another interesting fact: Arlo’s toy really does have the phrase “bow chica bow wow” emblazoned on the side of it.

My pillow needs to be in the right position so I don’t wake up with a sore neck in the morning.  I scooted it parallel to my body and flipped it to its cool side.  Ah, that felt better, but I was still uncomfortably warm.  I reached down and slipped my socks off.  Then I dropped them on the floor near my slippers. 

Bad idea.

I couldn’t leave my socks and slippers there.  Arlo would find them in the night and chew them into more manageable, bite-sized pieces.  I leaned off the bed and hid them under some old magazines. 

My nose itched, so I scratched it vigorously, but that set off a chain reaction of itches all over my body.   I writhed around for a few moments until I got them all.  It seems like I always get itchy dry skin this time of year.  Maybe I need to start using moisturizer. 

Finally, I was perfectly comfortable.  Yes, time for sweet slumber– except for that pressure growing inside my thimble-sized bladder.  Oh good grief. 

I grabbed my glasses, got out of bed, and headed down the hall.  When I got back, I lifted the covers and carefully worked my way back into bed.  Then I flipped my pillow.  I scratched my nose.

Arlo sighed deeply.

“It’s okay, boy.” said Vickie.  “Jeff is just trying to get comfortable.”

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"I can resist anything except temptation."- Oscar Wilde

"I can resist anything except green bean casserole.”- Jeff Brown

Cauliflower Fields Forever

“Where’s the cauliflower?” I asked my wife, scooting around a corner with our cart.

“It’s in the fruits and vegetables section.”

We were at Hy-Vee the day before Thanksgiving.  Vickie and I were entrusted to prepare the broccoli and cauliflower cheesy dish.  This was all fine with me, but I had mixed feelings about our mission.  In years past, I was in charge of the beloved green bean casserole.  (A.K.A. Food of the Gods.)  This year somebody else was baking it (I hoped) and we were entering uncharted territory with a vegetable I had little experience with.   

“What kind of cauliflower are we looking for, Vick?”  My mind kicked into full smart alec mode and I gestured toward the cauliflower display.  “Let’s see, we have natural cauliflower, low calorie cauliflower, sugar free cauliflower, gluten free cauliflower, classic cauliflower, new improved cauliflower, caramel cauliflower, and my all-time favorite: movie theater butter cauliflower.”

Vickie picked through the heads.  “Here’s organic cauliflower for $2.94 and white cauliflower for $2.18.”  She picked up a green head.  “This one is $2.99.”

Interesting fact: Four out of five people who enjoy cauliflower recommend organic cauliflower to their friends who eat cauliflower.

“We’re getting the white stuff,” she said as she put one of the oddly shaped vegetables in our cart.

“Wait, Vick.”  I said in the most concerned tone I could muster, “Is this free-range cauliflower?  I won’t buy any vegetable, especially a brainy one like cauliflower, unless it’s been treated humanely.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I think it’s important the heads were allowed to roam the farm freely, unencumbered by fences.”

“I don’t know, Jeff.”

Another interesting fact:  Whenever Vickie uses my first name in a sentence, I know I’m getting on her nerves.

I wondered where cauliflower comes from.  Trees?  Cauliflower bushes?  An old familiar tune popped in my head...

Let me take you down, ‘cause I’m going to Cauliflower Fields

Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about.

 

Except they look like cerebrums, I thought, as I maneuvered into the checkout line. 

On Thanksgiving morning, I chopped up the broccoli and threw it in a pot of water.  Then I was ready to perform the lobotomy.  I rinsed the brain off in the sink and set it on a cutting board.  I glanced at Vick who was busy making deviled eggs.  “I’m ready to make my first incision.”

She shook her head.

“I’ll start by completely removing the frontal lobe,” I explained.  Then I chopped.  “Wow that felt really satisfying.  I think I’ll chop some more.”   Chop, chop, chop…

“Hey, Vick.”

“Yes, Jeff.”

“Do you know whose brain this is?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s Abby…someone.  Abby Normal.”

She shook her head.

“Bwa-ha-ha-ha.”

Pretty soon the broccoli and cauliflower were steamed to perfection.  I dumped it all in the crock-pot and Vick added her cheese sauce.  It looked and smelled pretty good.

A couple hours later we were at my sister’s house for Thanksgiving.  As I loaded up my plate, I took some of the broccoli and cauliflower.  Everyone else did too.  Our dish was such a hit I’m thinking about taking on more responsibility next year.  Heck, maybe I’ll even prepare the turkey.

As long as it’s a free-range one.

Master of None

By

Jeff M. Brown

 

“Naked is the best disguise.” – Jeanette Winterson

 

“Even I would have noticed that.” –Jeff Brown

 

Second Row at The Second City

 

“Do you think that guy is a plant?” asked my wife, gesturing toward the man sitting next to her. 

 

I peeked around Vickie and, sure enough, there was a suspicious looking fellow wearing a baseball cap pulled way down.  He was hunched over, texting away furiously on his cell phone.  “What do you mean?”  I asked. “Like the FBI or something?”

 

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Sometimes the actors wear disguises and mingle with the audience before the show.  I think he’s one.”  She grabbed her Playbill and started flipping through the pages.

 

I glanced back.  He was dressed plain– all in gray.  “I don’t see any wires or batteries sticking out from under his coat,” I said, beginning to pay attention, “but he’s here by himself.  I hope he’s not a terrorist.”

 

A waiter came by and asked us if we wanted something to eat.  I shook my head.  “I’m still full of pizza from that restaurant.”

 

“He’s this guy,” whispered my wife, pointing to a picture in the book.  “Don’t you think he looks like Adam Peacock?”

 

I squinted in the dim theater light.  “It could be.”

 

I’m always amazed at my wife’s ability to notice stuff.  As we walked through downtown Chicago to get here, she pointed out all kinds of things I somehow had missed.  “Was that girl crying?” she asked during the walk.

 

“What girl?”

 

A few blocks later she pulled out her camera and pointed to the John Hancock building.  “This will make a terrific picture.” 

 

I agreed.  Wanting to participate, I paused in front of a particularly interesting storefront.  Before I completely noticed what it was, she did. 

 

“That’s an adult bookstore, Jeff”

 

“I could do some early Christmas shopping here.”

 

She laughed.  “That’s nothing.  When I was in New Orleans I saw a Voodoo store.”

 

“Let’s see, that’s like a Build-A-Bear, only with Voodoo dolls, right?”

 

“You’ve got it.”

 

The Second City Comedy Theater was filling up fast.  It was crowded, but we had good seats in the second row.  “I’m going to talk to this guy.”  She said.

 

“Go for it.”

 

She turned and asked, “How much are the improv classes?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I think you do.  I think you’re a plant.”

 

Never fully making eye contact with her, he replied, “Would you be terribly disappointed if I wasn’t?”

 

“No, I wouldn’t be disappointed, but I don’t believe you.”

 

The couple behind us started talking about him too.  “Who is that guy?” 

 

Vickie turned around and whispered, “I think he’s a plant.”

 

The man stood up, looking uncomfortable.  “Do you know where the bathroom is?”

 

“Right over there.”

 

He got up and left.  “Vickie,” I said, “You scared him away!”  A few minutes later a couple was ushered in and seated next to her.

 

The lights went down and the show started.  There were six actors and they all were funny.  Vickie whispered in my ear.  “I was wrong, it wasn’t Adam, it was Shad.”

 

“Okay, dear, whatever you say.”

 

Carl and Chad, my wife’s friends from work, were with us too.  Chad got singled out by one of the actors early on.  “What’s your name, sir?”

 

“Chad,” he paused thoughtfully for a moment and spoke unnaturally slow, “I mean Marcus J. Collard.”  Everyone in the theater laughed.

 

“Vick,” I whispered with my eyes still watering, “that was a great name he just made up.”

 

“He didn’t make it up.  Marcus works in our office!”

 

In a skit near the end of the show, an actor named Shad Kunkle portrayed an overzealous TSA agent.  Soon he was picking on audience members, claiming to know everything about them by just looking.  He didn’t get anything right with his first choice, but by the second guy he was remarkably accurate and detailed.  He seemed to know a lot about the couple sitting in front of us too.  Then he pointed at Vickie. 

 

“I hope you enjoyed your pizza tonight,” he said.  “And by the way, that improv class costs $300.00.”

 

Special Note:  After the show, Vickie, being the persistent woman that she is, managed to get Shad’s autograph.  Then he thanked her for not completely blowing his cover. 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.” - David Ogden Stiers

"Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten, but someone might have to make do on the couch." - Jeff Brown

Jeff Who?

I slept on the couch last night.  Now, before you go jumping to any conclusions, the wife and I are getting along just fine, thank you.  So don’t start any rumors.  

The skirmish which led to my rather uncomfortable trip to dreamland was between our dog and one of the cats.  Although I was only semi-conscious at the time, (2:00 AM, to be exact) I’ve carefully reconstructed the argument for you here in this transcript:

Lacy: (Jumps on the headboard.)

Arlo: (Jumps on Jeff’s face.)  Bark, bark, bark.

Lacy: Hissssss.

Jeff’s Face: Knock it off you guys!

If you’re wondering how a spat between the dog and cat would lead to innocent little ol’ me having to sleep on the lumpy sofa cushions, so was I.  So I asked my wife this morning as I rubbed my achy lower back, “How come disagreements between the dog and cat always end up with innocent little ol’ me having to sleep on the lumpy sofa cushions?”

“Because Lacy will follow you,” she replied matter-of-factly.  “If I move to the couch, Lacy and the dog will follow me.  They’ll continue antagonizing each other and I won’t get any sleep.”

It’s true.  If I’m the one who takes the bullet, falls on his sword, commits the selfless act of mercy, and sleeps on the couch, Lacy, my sweet loyal Lacy, will actually follow me.  She’ll then spend the rest of the night in exile by my side or on my stomach (whichever she prefers). 

Arlo, however, won’t follow me.  He’ll stay in bed with my wife.  This arrangement, according to her, allows all four of us (if you count me, the one on the lumpy couch) to get some sleep.  If Vickie were to move to the couch, the only one to get any sleep would be me, all alone in the bedroom, with the whole bed to myself. 

And we certainly couldn’t have that.

I consider Arlo to be a fair-weather friend.  You know the type.  He reminds me of one of those friends from high school that would only talk to me until someone better-looking, smarter, or, let’s face it, cooler than me came around.    

Cool Kid:  Gag me with a spoon.  I can’t believe you actually talk to that Jeff guy.

Arlo:  Well, (stammers nervously) he sits in front of me in biology class and sometimes he lets me copy his homework.

Cool Kid:  (Stares incredulously.)

Arlo:  And Bacon.  Sometimes he gives me bacon.

Yes, it appears I’m perfectly fine to hang out with, perfectly fine until my wife gets home, then it’s, “Jeff who?”

Of course, this makes me feel bad.  I mean, what am I?  Chopped liver?  (Okay, I realize that I’m talking about a dog here and he would love chopped liver as much as he loves bacon, but I’m too lazy to come up with a better cliché.  Besides, I don’t really think there’s a better one because he’ll eat anything.  Well, except his dry dog food.  Okay, that’ll work.) 

What am I?  Dry dog food?

Lacy, however, reminds me of the cool popular girl in high school that would talk to everyone, even the nerdy folks like me.  Ahh, I have a crush on my sweet Lacy.

What does all this mean?  I’ll tell you what it means:  I’d better get used to sleeping on the couch when the animals are misbehaving. 

I suppose I’ll eventually get used to this arrangement, but it’s not fair because in the event that my wife and I do have an argument (we’re getting along just fine, thank you) we all know who’s going to be in the dog house sleeping on the couch. 

Innocent little ol’ me. 

 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain."- Bob Marley

"Obviously, Bob never went for a long drive with my wife and me."- Jeff Brown

80’s Explosion Road Trip

Disclaimer: The lyrics in the following column were, in fact, harmed by mine and my wife’s less than stellar singing voices.  In a few extreme cases, the songs were rendered unrecognizable.  (For the record, I don’t think I’m as guilty as Vick.  My voice is way better than hers.)

We’re goin’ ridin’ on the freeway of love

Wind’s against our backs

 

I was at the wheel and Vickie was riding shotgun.  She popped in her 80’s Explosion CD.  Pretty soon we were jammin’

 

Celebrate good times, come on!

It’s a celebration

Celebrate good times, come on!

Let’s celebrate

 

I shot Vick a wily smile and asked, “Are Kool & The Gang still around?  Their music was so melancholy; I hope they didn’t commit mass suicide.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re still alive,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “I think they play at county fairs this time of year.”

“Really?”

“I have no idea.”

Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride

Nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh-no

I got to keep on movin’

Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride

I’m running and I won’t touch ground

Oh-no, I got to keep on movin’

 

“This one reminds me of when you’re shopping, Vick.  I can’t keep up because you’re so intense about finding bargains.”

She fired back.  “What happened to that sweet man I married not so long ago?  You know, the one who was…

Too shy shy

Hush hush, eye to eye

Too shy shy

Hush hush, eye to eye

Too shy shy

Hush hush, eye to eye

Too shy shy

Hush hush"

 

“Now he’s,” she continued, “some kind of…

 

Super Freak, super freak

That guy’s a super freak

Ohhhhh"

 

“Touché.  Whatever happened to the guy that sang that?”

 

“You mean Rick James?”

 

“Yeah, I think that’s him.”

 

“He’s dead.”

 

I clicked on the turn signal.  “Too bad, but maybe they’ll bring him back in Ghostbusters III.”

 

If there’s something strange

In your neighborhood

Who ya gonna call?

 

Vickie crinkled her forehead.  “Are they really going to make another Ghostbusters movie?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I liked the Saturday morning Ghostbusters cartoon.”

 

“I watched that one too!  Slimer had a more prominent role in the cartoon than he did in the movies.”

 

“Slimer was cool.”

 

Sister Christian

Oh the time has come

And you know that you’re the only one

To say O.K.

 

“Okay, Jeff, what the heck does that mean?”

 

“I don’t know, but there’s an Old Navy TV commercial using the song right now.  I think it goes…

 

You’re wearing

A shirt that fits so right

College or pro, hey who’s that guy?

He’s got pizza, that’s alright"

 

 “How did you remember that?”

 

“Well, it makes more sense than “you’re motoring.”  Maybe that’s why it stuck with me.”

 

Josie’s on a vacation far away

Come around and talk it over

So many things that I wanna say

You know I like my girls a little bit older

 

I just wanna use your love tonight

I don’t wanna lose your love tonight

 

“When did The Outfield come out with this one?”  I asked.  Whenever I hear it, I flash back to junior high.”

 

“It must have been around ’85.”

 

“That can’t be right because I was in high school then.”

 

“I don’t know what to tell ya.”

 

Oh, baby now let’s get down tonight

 

Ooh baby, I’m hot just like an oven

I need some lovin’

And baby, I can’t hold it much longer

It’s getting stronger and stronger

 

And when I get that feeling

I want sexual healing

Sexual healing, oh baby

Makes me feel so fine

 

Vickie rubbed my shoulder seductively.  “How you doin?”

 

“I’m doin’ soo fine.”

 

But! – it’s poetry in motion

And when she turned her eyes to me

As deep as any ocean

As sweet as any harmony

Mmm – but she blinded me with science

 

Then, in the weirdest voice I could muster, I blurted out, “She blinded me with– with science!”

 

We both laughed.

 

As we did, it occurred to me how lucky I am to have her to be so goofy with.  Vickie popped out her CD and turned on the radio.  An old familiar Gerry Rafferty song was playing, so I turned up the volume.

 

I just wanna say this is my way

Of tellin’ you everything

I could never say before

Yeah this is my way of tellin’ you

That every day I’m lovin’ you so much more

‘Cause you believed in me through my darkest night

Put somethin’ better inside of me

You brought me into the light

Threw away all those crazy dreams

I put them all behind

And it was you woman

Right down the line

 

And as we cruised on down the highway, I put my arm around her.

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"I speak to everyone in the same way, whether he is the garbage man or the president of the university."- Albert Einstein

"I speak to everyone in the same way, but I tend to give Chupacabra a little more personal space." - Jeff Brown

How to get your Cat out of a Culvert

Preface: The information that follows is the result of literally dozens of minutes spent by me lying in a ditch, trying to get my wife’s cat out of the neighbor’s culvert.

cul·vert: a drain or channel crossing under a road or sidewalk.  If culverts could talk, they would say, “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Step 1: Don’t let your cat out of the house in the first place.  (In my case, it’s my wife Vickie who habitually ignores this step.)  It’s common knowledge among intelligent feline owners (like me) that cats will almost always hear the call of the wild (kitty, kitty, kitty) and be drawn to the nearest oasis providing shade, amphibians, spider webs, music, comedy acts, and dancing.

Step 2:  Verify that, indeed, your cat is inside the culvert.  This can be accomplished by getting down on your hands and knees and peering inside.  If you see a set of creepy glowing eyes staring back at you, it’s probably your cat, unless it’s an escaped capybara from the local zoo. 

Cap·y·ba·ra: a South American tailless rodent that lives along the banks of rivers and lakes, having partly webbed feet.  If a capybara could talk, it would say, “Where does a handsome rodent like me go for a little fun around here?”  (Not to be confused with “chupacabra.”)

Chup·a·ca·bra: a purported creature resembling a gargoyle.  If a chupacabra could talk, it would say, “For a fun night out, I recommend The Culvert.  I just got a job there.” 

Step 3: Once you know for sure your cat is inside the culvert, you need yell, I mean coax him out with persuasive, yet reassuring language.  I lie down in the ditch and use the following three sentences in order:

“Hey cat, get out of the culvert.”

“Hey stupid cat, get out of the stupid culvert.”

“Rowahhh!”

Interesting fact: I realize “Rowahhh!” isn’t a complete sentence.  I only use it in desperation when the first two sentences don’t work.

Step 4: You need to get past the intimidating doorman guarding the entrance.    

(Loud dance music thumping in the background.)

Jeff: (Tries to enter unnoticed.)

Chupacabra: Excuse me, Sir.  (Puts his claw on Jeff’s shoulder.)  Where do you think you’re going?

Jeff:  Who, me? 

Chupacabra: No humans are allowed in the club.

Jeff: I’m not a human.  I’m, um… (Sees Capybara approaching from the street.)  I’m with this guy.  (Slips a twenty in Capybara’s webbed paw and whispers in his ear.)  Please, follow my lead.

Capybara: Dude.  (Shakes his huge rodent head.)  I’ve never seen this guy before in my life!

Chupacabra: (Opens the door for Capybara.)  Have a good time.  (He shuts the door, turns around, and glares at Jeff.)  You, Sir, need to leave.

Jeff: I need to get inside. 

Chupacabra: Do you have the cover charge?

Jeff: What’s the cover charge?

Chupacabra: A dead bird.

Jeff: You’re kidding, right?  That’s disgusting.

Chupacabra: I’ll take that as a no.

Jeff: Why on earth would you want a dead bird?

Chupacabra: The Culvert is an exclusive cat’s club.

Jeff: (Puts his hands on his hips.)  Then why did you let Capybara in?

Chupacabra: He’s the world’s largest rodent.  The cats will love him. 

Jeff: No way!  (Takes a step back.)  Are they going to eat him?

Chupacabra:  For heaven’s sake, no, but he’s the best karaoke singer my grotesque gargoyle-like ears have ever heard.  His rendition of Mandy makes me cry every time.

Jeff: Look, my wife’s cat is inside.  I need to get him and then I’ll go.

Chupacabra: Is he on the guest list?

Jeff: I don’t know, but I saw him come this way a few minutes ago.  His name is Shadow.

Chupacabra: (Flips through several papers on his clipboard.)  Here’s a Mr. Shadow Cat.  Forgive me, I’m new around here, but is he kind of chubby and gray?

Jeff: That’s him.

Chupacabra: He’s a good guy, a little skittish around vacuum cleaners, but a good guy.

Jeff: Can you go inside and get him for me?

Chupacabra: No.

Jeff: Why not?

Chupacabra: It looks like he slipped out the back entrance.  (He points his claw toward a clump of bushes.)  Shadow is over there.

Vickie: (Standing on the front steps.)  Kitty, kitty, kitty.

Shadow: (Runs into the house.)

Epilogue: And there you have it.  That’s how you get your cat out of a culvert.

Shadow: Man, I hate Barry Manilow songs.

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"It’s all about quality of life and finding a happy balance between work and friends and family." - Philip Green

"It’s all about quality of life and finding a happy balance between the size of your toilet paper rolls, fiber intake, and keeping the toothbrush holder as far away from the toilet as possible." - Jeff Brown

Mega Rolls with lots of Fiber

If you watch the news, read a paper, or listen to talk radio, you know there are a lot of important questions facing the country today, not the least of which is the whole debt ceiling debacle.  Should we raise the debt ceiling?  If we do (while we’re at it) should we install a high-efficiency ceiling fan?  Then, if we go to all that trouble, we might as well give the walls a fresh coat of paint and put new counter-tops in the kitchen.  And the bathroom? 

Don’t get me started on the bathroom.

Speaking of the bathroom, I have an important question I’d like to ask the politicians in Washington.  Now, I don’t want to get too political here in a humor column, but what exactly are the Democrat and Republican stances on super-sized mega rolls of toilet paper?  After a lot of experience trying to use the super-sized mega rolls, I’ve reached a startling conclusion: I don’t like them very much.

This flies in the face of common sense.  Normally, I’m a huge toilet paper enthusiast.  The more the better, I always say, because I can’t get enough of the stuff.  Just ask my wife.

Wife:  We’re out of toilet paper again?  Jeff, what the heck are you doing with all of it?

Here’s my beef with the over-sized rolls– they don’t fit well on my toilet paper dispenser.  They’re too darned big!

If I do cram one of these monstrosities in the dispenser, it gets all squished and the toilet paper roll won’t, well…roll.  I end up tearing little bits of paper off, or, if I’m lucky, I might get one square at a time.  Now, I don’t know about you, but one square of toilet paper isn’t nearly enough to get the job done.    

Not for me anyway.

What I end up doing is wasting a bunch of paper on the first, oh, I don’t know, 100 or so wraps.  The only logical solution is to set the roll on the sink until the first 100 wraps are used, then install the more manageable, not-so-mega roll in my modest, reasonably sized toilet paper dispenser.

The only problem is this:  I don’t want to set the roll on my sink because it upsets the whole circle of life on my sink top.  If I put the roll on the sink, I’ll have to move the hair gel.  If I move the hair gel, I’ll have to move the sun lotion.  If I move the sun lotion, I’ll most definitely have to slide my rinse cup over.  If this happens, I’ll be forced to move my toothbrush holder closer to the toilet.  I don’t want to move my toothbrush holder closer to the toilet, because, well…I just don’t want to.

This brings me back to cramming the mega roll in my dispenser and struggling to get the toilet paper off, which is the last thing I want to deal with right now because I’m experimenting with different fiber supplements.

Interesting fact:  You know you’re getting older when you have to experiment with different fiber supplements.

Of course, before you perform any experiment, you need a hypothesis. 

Hypothesis:  Fiber supplements will help make me less grouchy in the morning. 

If you’ve ever experimented with fiber supplements, (just to be clear, this is perfectly legal) you know exactly what I’m talking about.  You try different quantities of different brands at different times of the day to see what gives you the desired results.  (A less grumpy Jeff.) 

In case you’re interested, (you must be if you’re still reading this column) I’m using Benefiber.   I like it because, according to the label…

These great tasting tablets provide as much fiber per serving as the leading bulk fiber powder.  Because there’s no need for water or mixing, you can take them virtually anywhere, anytime.

This versatility really appeals to me because I’m an active guy who is always on the go.  I can take my fiber with me to work.  I can take it with me on bike trails.  Heck, I can take it to the movies if I want to, but I have to be careful not to get caught.

Mean guy with a flashlight:  Sir, you’re not allowed to bring outside food into the theater.

Jeff:  (Slips his Benefiber container back into his wife’s purse and squirms nervously in his seat.)  How do you know I didn’t buy it here?

Mean guy with a flashlight:  We only sell Metamucil in the lobby.  It’s near the fountain drinks.

Of course, taking extra fiber might mean me having to visit the bathroom more frequently.  I just hope the bathroom in the theater stocks the more manageable, not-so-mega rolls of toilet paper.

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn’t itch."- Gilda Radner

"I base most of my fashion sense on what keeps me from passing out and getting bits of crabgrass in my shoes."- Jeff Brown

Safari Jeff

It happens to me all the time when I’m mowing yards.  People pull over to the side of the road, roll down their window, and say, “You look great in that hat!  Where’d you get it?”

To which I reply, “I don’t know.  My wife bought it for me.”

My khaki hat (which I always wear on sunny days to ward off sunstroke) is such a hit I’m thinking about creating an action figure in my likeness.  Forever an entrepreneur, I figure Safari Jeff should be a hit with the crowd that enjoys Transformers, GI Joe, and Accountant Ken (he comes with a green visor).

Okay, everything I wrote in the first few paragraphs of this column is a big fat lie, except for the Safari Jeff part.  My dad, daughter, and I do mow about 30 yards a week to help pay the bills, (believe it or not, writing columns for free on the internet isn’t as lucrative as it sounds) but nobody ever pulls over to the side of the road and compliments my wardrobe.

And this really ticks me off.

Here I am, working my tail off, trying to set a new standard of fashion in the lawn mowing community, and nobody even cares or notices.  I mean, come on, I went to all the trouble of getting my wife to buy a hat for me!

Attention fellow Lawn Care Professionals Specializing in Grass Height:  I’m sorry to say a lot of you guys are pretty rough looking.  Would it kill you to put on a decent shirt and a pair of jeans without a gaping hole in the crotch?  (I know it’s hot out there, but really?) 

This whole situation has got me so riled up, I’m thinking about having a meeting about re-naming our business.  (Okay, it’s technically my dad’s business, but hey, I’m a valuable associate.  My opinion should count for something around here, or I’m going to my room and slamming the door real hard.)

Here’s my business proposal:  rename the business Prestige Cutters and cater only to uppity folks who worry about their image so much that they want their lawn care experts to look like, well, the really important people that we are.  (It shouldn’t be any problem at all to find customers in a rural Iowa town in a recession, should it?)

Customer:  How come my bill is $170.00?  You only mowed my tiny yard one time.

Jeff:  I have lots of overhead costs.

Customer:  You have a push mower and that stupid hat.  What overhead?

Jeff:  Well, there’s maintenance on the mower, there’s the sky-high cost of gas these days, and last, but not least, this tux costs me $130.00 a day!

In addition to my hat, (I think I look a little like Indiana Jones in it) I have another great Lawn Care Professional Specializing in Grass Height wardrobe idea:  Weed Eater Chaps.

One of my pet peeves (one of many) is getting my shoes full of grass when I’m running a weed eater.  This is especially a problem when I’m wearing a pair of shorts.  I see a need in the clothing market for some type of strap-on chaps that would guard my delicate bare hairy legs from injury and keep crap from getting in my shoes.

Interesting fact: My wife says if I can find an actual pair of Weed Eater Chaps, she wouldn’t mind if I wore them around the house on weekends. 

I suspect my dad and daughter think I spend way too much time fretting about irrelevant stuff, and not nearly enough time working.  My wife says that if I there’s ever an action figure based on me, it should be called High Maintenance Jeff.  If you pull its cord, it would say…

“Man, it’s hot.”

“Man, its cold.”

“It’s too windy out here.”

“A breeze would be nice.”

“Ouch!  There’s something in my eye!”

“YUCK, I swallowed a bug!”

“I forgot my earplugs.”

“Dad, did you bring any sunscreen?”   

“Can I have today off?  I have a stomachache.”

“Does poison ivy have three or four leaves?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Sorry, but I really have to go to the bathroom again.”

Yeah, I think High Maintenance Jeff is a stupid idea, but I still have faith in Safari Jeff.  I’d better hurry, though, because I just heard Accountant Ken is trading in his visor for a khaki hat and a pair of Weed Eater Chaps.  This really gets on my nerves because I bet people will pull over to the side of the road, roll down their window, and say, “You look great in that hat and chaps!  Where’d you get them?”

To which he’ll reply, “I don’t know, Barbie bought them for me.”

 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"There has to be a mathematical explanation for how bad that tie is."                      - Russell Crowe

"There is, and it’s on page 103.”                        - Jeff Brown

Fit to be Tied

I gawked at myself in the mirror and frowned.  This isn’t right, I thought.  The narrow end is longer than the wider end.  How the heck did that happen?  I followed the directions perfectly. 

Yeah, I don’t wear a tie very often.  Maybe once or twice a year– not nearly enough times to commit the procedure to memory.  I don’t bother to remember anything I can write down or download from the internet.  (If my hard drive gets too full, I get sluggish and start to drool.) 

My idea of dressing up involves wearing a nice t-shirt with a tasteful slogan (I’m Next to Stupid) and a pair of jeans that doesn’t have a hole in the crotch.   

Interesting fact:  In my latest book, Holes and the Places You Don’t Want Them: A Guide to Etiquette, I explain in great detail a hole smaller than a SpaghettiO noodle is perfectly acceptable in most circumstances, except maybe if you’re going to church.  The only person that might notice would be your mom, and she should lighten up a little, right? 

(Okay, I admit my book isn’t published yet.  I’m still looking for an agent that shares my literary vision and good fashion sense.)

In the interest of shameless self-promotion, I’ve decided to include an excerpt from my book here in this column.  On page 673, section two, subheading C, paragraph four, there’s a handy dandy step-by-step guide to tying a Windsor knot, which, I believe, is a professional wrestling move too.  (This is incredible folks!  In an amazing turn of events, the challenger brought the champ down with a Heimlich maneuver followed up with a Half-Windsor knot.  Man that had to hurt!)

Step 1:  Make sure you really have to wear a tie.  The last thing you want is to wear one if you can get out of it.  If you’re going to a wedding or a funeral, you’re probably out of luck.  If it’s a grey area such as a graduation or a birthday, and you’re not really sure, ask your wife.

Step 2:  Put on a shirt.  (Don’t forget this step or you’re eventually going to have to start all over.)

Step 3:  Button it all the way up to the top with the collar sticking straight up.  Your comfort meter should read a solid seven.

Another interesting fact:  In my chapter entitled Let Your Comfort Meter Guide You, I introduce readers to a scale of comfortability with zero being totally comfortable (laying on the couch in your boxers with a beer) and a ten being so uncomfortable that you’d rather be anyplace else on the planet (wearing a tuxedo with pinchy shoes while simultaneously being forced by your wife or girlfriend to watch an episode of The Bachelorette). 

Here’s the basic gist:  the more uncomfortable you are, the sharper you look.

Step 4:  Start with the wide end of the tie (“W”) extending about 12 inches below the narrow end (“N”) on the left.  Cross the wide end over the narrow end and bring the wide end up through the loop between the collar and your tie.  Then bring the wide end back down and pull it underneath the narrow end and to the right, back through the loop and to the right again so that the wide end is inside out.  Bring the wide end across the front from right to left and then pull the wide end up through the loop so you can bring it back down through the knot in the front. 

Finally, using both your hands (and a crowbar if necessary) tighten the knot carefully and draw it up to the collar until your face turns bright purple.  (Your comfort meter should read at least a nine, or you did the whole thing wrong.)

Step 5:  Repeat steps 1-4 until you get it right. 

Congratulations, you did it!  You see, tying a tie isn’t quantum physics after all.  Simply keep practicing until you can tie a Windsor knot in less than two episodes of What Not To Wear.

If you find yourself lying on the bathroom floor because you passed out, and you still don’t have your tie tied, there is one last step that should be used only when absolutely necessary. 

Emergency Step 6:  Call your dad and have him come over and tie it for you.    

As I say in the epilogue of my book, “This procedure works for me every time.”  

 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"The task of the leader is to get his people from where they are to where they have not been."                                                                                                                            - Henry Kissinger

"The task of the leader is to keep his cats inside and to get his dog to pee outside."                                                                                                                                               - Jeff Brown

You're Not My Alpha

Animals outnumber humans in my house three to two.  There’s the geriatric dog, Traveler.  He’s an all white 16-year-old American Eskimo.  There’s Shadow, the hefty charcoal gray diabetic cat.  Then last, but not least, the sprite brown and white Lacy; a kitty we adopted last fall.

The ringleader of this ragtag group of misfits is my wife, Vickie.  She’s the so called “alpha male” of the pack.  (I’m not the least bit threatened by that title.  I don’t want it.)  Vickie is the one that usually feeds them, bathes them, treats their disgusting skin conditions, baby talks to them, and genuinely loves them like they’re her kids. 

Last week, however, this delicate balance of nature was completely thrown off kilter.  Vickie left town to visit her family for a few days and left me behind.  This promoted me to the dreaded alpha position.

Jeff:  (Arrives home and opens the front door.)

Lacy:  Can I go outside?  I want to go outside.  (She rockets for the door.)

Jeff:  (Blocks the cat with his foot and shuts the door behind him.)  No, Lacy.  (He notices Shadow in the kitchen eating out of the dog’s bowl.)  For the umpteenth time, Shadow, stop eating dog food.

Shadow:  (Looks embarrassed and backs away from the bowl.)  Who, me?  I’m a cat.  I don’t eat dog food. 

Jeff:  (Turns and sees Traveler standing in the hallway.)

Traveler:  Oh, it’s just you.  (He spins around and goes in the opposite direction.)

Jeff:  Hold on for a second, dog.  You need to go out.  (He catches the dog and takes him to the door.)

Lacy:  Can I go outside?  I want to go outside.

Traveler:  I don’t want to go outside.

Jeff:  (With the dog under one arm, he re-opens the door)

Lacy:  (Shoots between Jeff’s legs.)  I’m free!  I’m free!  (Heads for the neighbor’s yard and starts to climb a tree.)

Jeff:  Lacy, come back here!  (Sets Traveler in the grass and runs after her.)

Traveler:  I don’t want to go outside.

Lacy:  There’s a bird.  I like birds.   

Jeff:  No you don’t.  (Plucks her off the tree like big furry apple.)  You’re coming home with me.

Lacy:  There’s another bird.  (Squirms in Jeff’s arms as he trudges back.)  I like birds.

Jeff:  (Walks past the dog.)  I’ll let you back in the house in a few minutes, Traveler.

Traveler:  I don’t want to go outside. 

Jeff:  (Opens the door and sets Lacy on the floor.) 

Shadow:  Is it time to eat?  (Peeks from the kitchen chewing something.)  I’m famished.

Jeff:  It’s time for dinner.  (Heads for the kitchen with both cats on his heels.) 

Shadow:  Just a dog-gone minute– why are you feeding us today?  You aren’t my alpha.  Did I miss a vote or something?  (He slinks out of the kitchen.)  I must remain loyal to Vickie. 

Jeff:  (Opens a can of cat food.)

Shadow:  My leader!  (Runs back to Jeff and rubs against his leg.)   

Lacy:  (Jumps on the kitchen table.)  Is it time to eat?  I like to eat.

Jeff:  (Trips over Shadow and drops the can on the floor.) 

Shadow:  Chow time!

Jeff:  Wait Shadow!  I don’t have your insulin shot ready.  (He rushes to the pantry to get a syringe.)  Vickie says I have to stick you with this while you’re distracted with food.

Shadow:  (Licking the floor.)  This tastes way better than dog food.

Lacy:  Don’t eat it all, Shadow.  (Leaps off the table and lands square on Shadow’s back.)

Shadow:  Meow!

Lacy:  I want some food too! 

Jeff:  Will you guys cool it?

Traveler:  (Scratches at the front door.)  I don’t want to go outside!

Jeff:  Where the heck is the insulin?  (Opens the fridge.)

Shadow:  (Looks up and notices Jeff filling the syringe.)  I’m out of here!

Jeff:  Come back cat!

(A loud thud comes from the front door.)

Jeff:  Oh, the dog.  (Sets needle on countertop and heads for the door.)

Lacy:  Are you going outside?  I like to go outside.

(Jeff grabs Lacy and holds her under his left arm.  He opens the door with his right.  Then Traveler races into the living room and pees on the carpet.) 

Jeff:  Why did you do that, dog?  YOU WERE JUST OUTSIDE!

Traveler:  I said I didn’t want to go outside.

Shadow:  (Sneaks back into the kitchen and eats out of the dog’s bowl.) 

Jeff:  (Grabs a towel and mumbles under his breath.)  I think I need to go outside.

Lacy:  Did somebody say they’re going outside?