humor – Page 3 – Deep Dark Thoughts

Confession of a Grammar Nazi

I have a confession to make. It’s not something I generally share or even like to say out loud, but I believe I’ve kept silent about this part of myself long enough. It’s time to tell the world and expose my shameful dark secret. I may lose a few friends over it, but that is risk I suppose I must take.

I am a grammar Nazi.

Yes, it’s true. I know the difference between “then” and “than,” I know when to say “I” instead of “me,” and I can even use “who” and “whom” in the proper order. When friends, loved ones, and family speak improperly, I just smile and nod my head, but deep down I am judging them. I am judging them hard and without mercy.

When I hear the word “supposebly” instead of supposedly, I flinch. If I hear the phrase “for all intensive purposes” uttered, I have to cry silently in the dark for a while. And when someone tells me, “I could care less,” I think I actually die a little inside.

Some of my family members already know this fact about me. My wife in particular has made it quite clear if I correct her speech one more time, that she will bury my body so deep “they won’t find it until long after the statue of limitations has run out for the murder.”

To which I replied, “It’s supposed to be ‘statute’ of limitations.” But I said it very quietly because I don’t want her to poison my food.

My kids have also been the recipients of my grammatical attentions during their lifetimes. The results have been mixed as one of them has become a grammar Nazi herself, while the other is functionally illiterate. I won’t say which is which, but if you ever meet them you can probably figure it out for yourselves.

So, how does one become a grammar Nazi? I’m not sure. I suppose it’s already one strike against you when you are raised by a mother who is a high school English teacher. I cannot remember a time in my life that my writing and my speech weren’t constantly scrutinized and corrected. It started when I was three and I used a set of wooden alphabet blocks to spell “KAT.” When I went to my mom to show her my accomplishment, she shook her head, picked up the “K” block and threw it in the garbage.

Okay, it wasn’t really that bad, but it was close. I recall writing essays for school that my mother would read before I turned them in. (Mind you, I never gave them to her to proof-read; she just always managed to find them.) She would return them to me marked in red pen, and tell me, “You can do better. Turn off the cartoons and fix it.”

While my writing and my grades did improve, my relationship with my mother did not. My relationships with my friends also suffered noticeably. I figured out very quickly that telling your best friend that “irregardless” is not a real word will not be as appreciated as you might think. And, if you happen to mention to that same friend that “doing a complete 360 degree turn” means you’re actually still facing in the exact same direction, that is a good way to get a thorough beating in the parking lot after school.

I learned to keep my mouth shut (mostly) and my opinions to myself (sometimes), but the urge to correct the slightest verbal slipup has never gone away. It’s like any addiction, and I find myself falling off the wagon constantly. If there were group meetings for this, I would happily attend.

“Hello. My name is Gary, and I am a grammar Nazi. I try to nip it in the butt, but in this doggie-dog world we’re all just biting our time while looking for an escape goat to make ourselves feel like we pass mustard. I can only take it for granite that It’s a mute point.”

I think I got that all out of my system.

My own writing and speech is not perfect by any means. I know that. I am constantly learning about things I say or write incorrectly. It can be embarrassing, but in the long run I think it makes me better. It certainly makes me more humble and understanding of other’s mistakes. In fact, if anyone reading this happens to notice a few errors, feel free to call me out in the comment section below. I will accept my lumps with do diligence.

See what I did there?

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A Bridge Too Far

As I sit at home bemoaning the fact that any travel plans I may have had over the past year have all been canceled, and any new trips I am currently considering may suffer the same fate, I find myself thinking wistfully back to the good old days when I could travel to other countries and the worst that might happen is that I get kidnapped and murdered.

Those were simpler times.

I was recently reminded of a trip I took many years ago when I was but a lad of 17. My school was sponsoring a trip to Europe. Five staff members from the school were assigned to escort 20 high school aged children through eight countries in fourteen days. My parents thought the trip sounded like an amazing opportunity for me to experience foreign cultures and new people, so they immediately signed me up for the journey.

This was only one of the many mistakes my parents made raising children, but it was probably near the top of their list.

In Summer of 1983, I packed my bags and flew to London, England. From there we boarded a hovercraft to get us across the English Channel and charter a bus to tour France, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and two other countries I can’t remember because I am a common product of the American school systems.

Throughout our travels, minor tragedies occurred that constantly interfered with the adults well-planned itinerary: A few students were sneaking alcohol into the hotel rooms at night, two were caught with drugs and shipped back home, and one of our chaperones fell ill and had to fly back to the states. I steered clear of (most of) it.

My turn, however, came while we were visiting Italy. The tour group was staying in a hotel in Venice, enjoying the garbage laden streets, rats, countless alley cats, black market thugs in dark doorways, and endless snide remarks in broken English from Italian citizens that took a less than stellar view of foreigners.

During the day, we had placed all our luggage in our rooms and gone out sightseeing. When we returned, several of the rooms had been broken into and the luggage stolen. Our bags had been thrown out a window and were found in the streets below, broken open and ransacked. Money, cameras, and other small items of value were taken.

That night, after it got dark and most of the other tourists in our group had settled back into their rooms, I went out. To commemorate our ill-fortuned stay in the city, another student and I decided to go out on our own and get drunk.

The other student (let’s call him Joe, since his parents might still be alive and they don’t need to know about any of this) told me that there was no legal drinking age in Italy. As long as you were tall enough to look over the counter at the liquor store clerk, you could buy booze.

I said, “Prove it.”

He did.

We ended up buying something cheap and high octane since our budget was limited. The guy working the register didn’t bat an eye as he sold us the bottle of brown poison we had selected. We raced outside and cracked it open without delay.

An hour or so later, we were both standing at the top of one of the many tiny bridges overlooking the canals of Venice. I like to think that we were comporting ourselves with dignity and silent decorum, but I don’t think that was actually true as we immediately drew the attention of a local police officer.

The Italian polizia waved at us and said something I didn’t understand. I said, “What?”

He nodded as though realizing something he should have already known, and responded, “Ah, American.”

He then pointed at the alcohol bottle in my hand and told us that the legal drinking age in Italy was 18. I looked at Joe, who merely shrugged as if to say, “I was wrong. What are you gonna do?”

The officer then asked if we were 18.

My first thought was to run. The AK-47 assault weapon slung over the officer’s back made that thought dissipate as fast as it had occurred. Next, I glanced down at the canal below me, wondering if I could swim for safety. I spied a large rat, about the size of my head, dogpaddling along the edge of the canal looking for a good place to climb ashore. Plan B also faded from my thoughts.

I went with Plan C, and said, “Yes?”

The officer scowled. He clearly knew I was lying but for some reason he decided to let it slide.

“Do you have a hotel room?”

I nodded, and Joe reached into his pocket to pull out our hotel room key. He flashed the officer the name of the hotel on the plastic tag attached to the key.

The polizia told us, “Go straight there. If I see you again, you sleep in jail tonight. Yes?”

Then he pointed at the bottle still in my hand and indicated a nearby garbage can. I took the hint.

At a full run, we were back at our hotel about thirty seconds later, in our rooms and pretending nothing abnormal had just happened.

This is why I love travel. You never know what’s going to happen, and the stories you get to tell later always sound better when they start somewhere away from home.

Let’s be honest. Which story would you rather hear?

The one that starts out, “I was standing in the bathroom at home and the toilet started to overflow…”

“Me and my buddy were drunk and standing on top of a bridge in the middle of Venice…”

Because, honestly, I could tell either one of those tales, and I think I chose the correct one for today.

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Put It Back Where You Found It

As a kid, the garage in my home was always neat and organized. My dad had toolboxes, drawers, and shelves full of every kind of hand tool, power tool, screw, nail, washer, battery, car fluid, light bulb, wire, and other assorted bric-a-brac you can imagine, and he knew exactly where each little item was located without even looking.

He wasn’t one of those guys that taped little outlines of his tools on the walls so the garage looked like a second-grade jigsaw puzzle, but he believed strongly in the adage “A place for everything, and everything in it’s place.” Myself, I had no compulsion for such rigid structuring. I believed more in the “free range” ideology for inanimate objects.

Because I was a child with no concept of order or discipline, I frequently borrowed items from the garage then replaced them in the general area of where I believed I had originally found it. My memory was not always reliable, so I did the best I could with what little ability I had. This habit of pretty much random distribution of his stuff turned out to be quite irritating for my dad.

He would constantly tell me I was not allowed to touch his things if I couldn’t be reliable enough to put them back where I found them. I told him I did put them back sort of in the same place, but he insisted that placing them one foot away from where they belonged was the same as losing them completely.

I never understood that statement back then. If I took a hammer from the second drawer of his toolbox, why was it such a big deal that I put it back in the fourth drawer? It was still in the box.

Things change. I understand his frustration now.

I have kids of my own.

I have come to realize that if you look for something and it is not exactly where you expect it to be, it doesn’t matter if it is six inches or six miles away. All you know for certain is that it is gone.

For example, I keep the television remotes on the coffee table in plain sight and available for anyone who wants to watch TV. I have never once heard either of my children ask me where the remote is because it is always in the same spot when they want it. Yet, it never fails that when I want to watch TV, I have to search the entire house for a remote control that has seemingly been sucked into a black hole. They are never on the table when I want them. I typically find them buried between couch cushions, on a kitchen counter, under the TV, or on occasion, in the bathroom.

I’m not certain why anyone would need a television remote in the bathroom, but apparently one or both of my children have their reasons.

And it isn’t just the television remotes. Nothing in my house is ever where it’s supposed to be when I need it. Tools end up missing from the garage only to turn up under the bed in one of the kids’ bedrooms. Dishes magically relocate upstairs to sit on couches and tables for weeks on end. I have even noticed food containers disappearing from the pantry.

Recently, a bag of potato chips went MIA. I searched the pantry for it because I was feeling a bit peckish, but it was nowhere to be found. I discovered days later that EM1 had stashed it upstairs so she would have an available snack for herself whenever she went up to watch TV. She explained the reasoning for her actions by saying she didn’t want the chips to be gone the next time she wanted some.

I’m not sure she has a solid grasp of irony, otherwise she would have understood why her comment left me utterly speechless.

The reason things belong in one place is so everybody can find them when they need to. Otherwise, screwdrivers end up in closets, remotes end up under the couch, and the world is nothing but chaos and anarchy.

I can’t help but think back to when I was working for a police department. Can you imagine officers arriving for work in the morning, then spending the first few hours of their shift just searching for where the last person left the patrol car, the keys, the radio, and the shotgun?

(Although, I do recall working with a particular officer that kept the keys to his patrol car in his locker so no one else would drive “his” car. But that story might need to wait for another day.)

I don’t want to give the impression that my kids are thoughtless or inconsiderate. It’s just that… well, they’re thoughtless and inconsiderate.

I have tried explaining myself several times, but it continues to make no impact with them. I’m sure if my dad were alive today, he would find all of this very amusing. Every time I tell my daughters they need to put things back where they found them, I can hear him standing behind me, laughing.

I’m not sure how to fix this problem. I don’t think the girls are going to change their ways anytime soon. I have honestly thought about going around the house with a bag of nails and nailing everything down so it can never be moved from where it exists right at this moment.

There’s only one problem with that plan.

I can’t find the damned hammer.

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I, G. Allen Wilbanks

The following blog post was originally published as an essay in the collection, I, The Writer. This book, published by Sweetycat Press, was an assortment of essays by authors on why they chose to become writers and the impact the decision had on their lives. I thought you might enjoy reading my contribution.

Enjoy!

I, G. Allen Wilbanks

Where do writers come from? Are they born, or are they a product of their environment? I have no idea, and I’m fairly confident the following information will offer absolutely no enlightenment to the question.

My writing career started at a very early age. I was in first grade when the elementary school I attended decided they wanted to compile a book of drawings, poems, and short stories created by the students at the school. At just six years old, I composed a poem and submitted it to the reading committee.

The poem was quite advanced, and the school staff could see right away that I was a prodigy whose work of creative genius absolutely must be included in the school publication. The poem was about a bunny, named Sunny, who was very funny, and other similarly complicated verbal imagery. I was quite proud of it and felt its inclusion in the book was an accomplishment of the highest magnitude.

It wasn’t until a few years later that my mother explained to me that any child in the school who could stop eating paste long enough to drag a crayon across a piece of paper was going to get published. Absolutely nobody who submitted was rejected. That disappointing bit of information came much too late, however. The first stone had already been firmly set to pave the path that I would follow from that day forward.

All through high school, I read books voraciously, and I wrote my own stories during any free time I had between studying and hanging with friends. I wrote fantasy, science fiction, and horror, as those topics interested me the most. When I graduated from high school and was accepted into college, it therefore seemed only natural that I should major in computer science.

You see, my parents thought writing was a hobby, and weren’t about to send their child off to college to study how to improve his skills at wasting time. So, instead, I spent my first two years almost failing out of school because I drank too much and rarely went to classes, a very writerly thing to do.

When I convinced my parents that I had zero interest (or ability) in the field of computer science, I was finally allowed to change my major to something more fitting to my personal interests. I changed my major to … genetics.

At least it was an improvement, as I did find the subject to be interesting and worth attending classes to learn more about. I graduated with a B.S. in genetics a few years later and quickly discovered that there was absolutely no job market in my field for anyone with less than a Master’s degree and five years previous experience. I was stuck.

So, what did I do with a college degree I couldn’t use and a lifelong love of writing? You all know what comes next, so say it with me: I went into law enforcement and got a job as a police officer.

What? You didn’t see that coming? Well, neither did I, really.

I spent the next ten years of my life honing my writing craft by creating little gems of prose that went something like this:

“The RP stated he last saw his vehicle parked in his driveway at 10:45 PM the night before. At 5:15 AM this morning, he discovered his vehicle was missing.”

Or:

“While traveling northbound on Ralston Avenue, V1 failed to stop at the posted stop sign, entering the intersection of Ralston Avenue and Hayne Road. V1 struck the driver’s side, rear quarter-panel of V2 who was traveling westbound on Hayne Road.”

It was riveting reading. All my supervisors told me so.

After many years of focusing solely on my current career, I finally started writing fiction again on my free nights and weekends out of boredom and a desperate desire to stay sane. I am not sure it worked. If you ask my family, they would advise you that my sanity is an ongoing work in progress. I did find some limited professional success however, getting a few of my stories published.

I decided to publish using my middle name while I was still working as a police officer. I made the decision because I didn’t want to use a pen name, but I still wanted to separate my writing from my job. I didn’t want anyone to confuse my fictional life with my work on the streets.

I could imagine being in court and having an attorney question me about a recent arrest.

Attorney: “Officer, you arrested my client because you say you found a gun in the pocket of his coat?”

Me: “That’s correct.”

Attorney (holding up a magazine in his hand): “Officer, did you write the story in this magazine about a police officer that planted a gun in the pocket of an innocent man in order to frame him for a crime he didn’t commit?”

Me: “Uh…”

Fortunately, that particular nightmare never came to life. Mostly because I was publishing very few stories at the time rather than from my clever attempt at altering my name.

In 2016, I finally took the plunge. I retired from real life and decided to live full time in a fantasy world of my own making. I am happy with the change, and I believe I made the right decision. To date, since retiring from law enforcement, I have published two short story collections and two novels, as well as another two hundred short stories in magazines, anthologies, and online venues.

I believe six-year-old me would be proud of what we have accomplished.

Or not.

He might be more concerned with whether or not he got a cookie in his lunch that day. I really have no idea how a six-year-old thinks.

If you enjoyed this essay and are curious about the other authors in this collection and their writing journeys, you can find the book on Amazon at this link.

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‘Twas the Night

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the joint

Not a creature was stirring, there just seemed no point.

With mom in her sweatpants, talking on Zoom,

The kids had all fled to hide in their room.

I sat surrounding by bright red and green,

Decorations put out since before Halloween.

When out in the yard I heard such a crash,

I grabbed my shotgun and threw open the sash.

When what on the dew-covered lawn should appear,

But a battered red sleigh tied to five exhausted reindeer.

The sleigh and the deer lay scattered about

Gasping and panting like ground-landed trout.

From out of the mess, a shadow arose

And a tiny green figure struck a bone-weary pose.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I expected St. Nick.”

The elf gazed at me and said, “He’s been sick.

The guy you expected is home and in bed,

He’s so fat and so old I’m surprised he’s not dead.

Covid, you see, has made it to the North Pole,

Even on reindeer, it’s taken its toll.”

I invited the poor tired elf in the house,

He thanked me for the kindness and said hi to my spouse.

I offered him treats and milk in a glass,

He just shook his head and said he would pass.

“What I really need now is a frosty cold beer.

It’s been a rough night. In fact, fuck this whole year.”

I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer off the shelf,

Then paused before grabbing one for myself.

I figured the elf shouldn’t drink all alone,

Or what kind of a host would I be in my home?

He emptied the bottle in a swallow or two,

So, I got him another. What else could I do?

As he drank, I noticed his nose grew much redder.

He belched and then told me, “I feel so much better.

Now it’s time to leave gifts and get back on my way.”

He glanced around and then swore, “They’re still on the sleigh.”

I told him forget it, the girls would be fine,

Besides, they’d been brats for most of the time.

If gifts were part of their holiday wishes

They should have at least once or twice, washed the dishes.

The elf gave a laugh like I’d tickled his ribs

Said, “You’re a terrible father, you should never have kids.

But I’m running late so I’ll take your warning.

Your girls will get nothing. Good luck in the morning.”

The elf slunk away, unsteady in stride,

Returned to his sled and climbed back inside.

The reindeer stood up, looking tired and lame

As the elf shook the reins and called them by name.

“On Dasher, on Vixen, on Thomas and Hugh.

On Cupid. Nope, not Cupid. Which one are you?”

The sleigh took to the air with a bump and a twist

That left the elf swearing and shaking his fist.

As he flew out of sight, I heard his last shout.

It wasn’t fit for children, so I’ll leave those words out.

THE END

Merry Christmas, and may 2021 be much better for us all.

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What Do You Want for Dinner?

A conversation occurred in my house recently. It was a conversation that unfortunately has happened on more occasions than I would care to remember or admit to. It has happened enough times that I should know better by now not to participate, and yet it still recurs on a much too frequent basis. This conversation has led to strife, arguments, yelling, and hurt feelings, but I still get sucked into it every time.

It never comes as a surprise. I can always see it coming, yet the knowledge of what is about to happen never changes the outcome. This conversations always starts the same way:

Somebody asks, what do you want for dinner?

Usually, we try to plan out the weekly meals during the weekend at the same time that we make our grocery list. We know what we need to buy because we have carefully orchestrated the evening meal for each night of the week. If we cook something new every night, on occasion, we end up with too many leftovers and food goes to waste. Because of this, we will often plan a gap day which is designed to be an opportunity to clean out the fridge.

We call this a “scrounging” night. It usually works out fine, but once in a while, when the stars do not align properly, a day will come along when we run out of both plans for meals and leftovers on the same night.

This is when the trouble begins. This is when the conversation starts that everyone in the house knows is about to lead to ruin. I’m sharing this recurring nightmare because I’m hoping we’re not alone in this. Perhaps our pain will bring some comfort to someone else.

Of course, it’s just as likely that my family is just a bunch of unorganized sociopaths and this experience is unique to us. I guess we’ll see.

Once it has been determined that we are hungry and there is no meal planned, I often get the ball rolling with the aforementioned question:

“What do you want for dinner?”

To which my wife will generally respond, “Anything. Just pick something.”

Seems innocuous enough, and yet with those two comments, the rest of the evening is destined to unfold as follows:

Me: “Are there any leftovers from dinner last night?”

Wife: “No, I took the last (fill in the blank) for my lunch today. Is there anything in the freezer?”

Me: “Nothing that will thaw out in time to eat before tomorrow.”

Wife: “What about that chicken we planned to cook this weekend. We could make it tonight.”

Me: “No. I didn’t really want to do that recipe tonight. There’s too much prep work and we wouldn’t be eating until ten o’clock. I’d rather fix something easy.”

Wife: “What about eggs?”

This is usually where the dialogue spills out into the rest of the family.

EM1: “What are we doing for dinner?”

Wife: “Dad might make some eggs.”

EM1: “I don’t want eggs. I fixed eggs for breakfast and don’t want to eat it twice in one day.”

Me: “Okay, then. What about going out to dinner?”

Wife, EM1, EM2: “I don’t want to go out. I’m tired. I already put on my pajamas. It’s cold and I don’t want to sit outside. Etc. Etc. Etc.”

Me: “How about fast food? Somebody could run out and pick something up and bring it back home.”

EM1: “Like what?”

This particular question is usually followed by a twenty-minute argument about what restaurants each of us doesn’t like as we slowly whittle down to the same two places we always go.

Me: “Okay. EM1, If I pay will you go pick up the food?”

EM1: “I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t feel well and don’t want to drive anywhere.”

Me: “How about you, EM2? Will you pick it up?”

EM2: “It’s dark outside and I’m not comfortable driving in the dark, yet.”

Me: “I don’t want to go either. Don’t we have hotdogs in the refrigerator?”

Wife: “We don’t have any buns.”

Me: “EM1, write down hotdog buns on the grocery list so we have them for next week.”

EM1: “Okay.” Then she doesn’t move off the couch.

Me: “Go write it down now, before you forget.”

EM1: “I’ll remember it.”

Me: “No, you won’t.”

EM1: “No, I won’t what?”

Me: “Remember to write it down.”

EM1: “Write down what?”

I won’t repeat what I normally say next as I march over to the refrigerator and add hotdog buns to our shopping list. Suffice to say I’m usually questioning my wife about the true parentage of my oldest child while my daughter stares at me from the couch, looking like the RCA dog confused by sounds coming out of a record player.

Me: “Great. We can have hotdogs next week. We still need something tonight. What do you guys want?”

Wife: “Anything. Just pick something.”

And thus, round two begins. Usually everything devolves into name calling over the next few minutes as we rehash exactly what we said in the earlier round. Occasionally, we even roll over into a round three which includes some very colorful language as we all realize that nobody is going to eat tonight.

While the argument itself might fluctuate slightly in the tone and words used, the end result is almost always exactly the same: two children eating dry ramen for dinner while mom and dad polish off half of a bottle of gin.

It’s a scene I’m not proud of, and I’m fortunate that both of my children are legal adults so Child Protective Services doesn’t have to get involved. Although, if they did show up, I would happily send them off with both EM1 and EM2 in tow. It might turn out to be a benefit to our whole family.

Maybe CPS could teach one of those useless kids how to cook.

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