When people hear that I’ve been a middle school teacher for 26 years, they tend to have opinions.

Crazy. Insane. Glutton for punishment. Saint. Patient. Idiot.

Those are just a few adjectives I’ve been called in countless introductions and conversations. I’m not saying any of those are wrong per se. Though there is ample evidence I’m no saint.

People’s disbelief is dialed up even further if they discover I also taught Driver’s Education on the side for 11 years. People have asked me to regale them with stories of flying through the air like the Dukes of Hazzard (or Fast and Furious for the younger generations).

Sadly, that never happened. But some interesting shit did go down.

So off we go with some info for those who are curious.

Why in God’s name would I teach Driver’s Ed and teach middle school?

It’s a fair question I’ve been asked for years.

After our second daughter was born, my wife and I decided it would benefit our family for her to work part-time rather than continue as a full-time elementary school teacher.

As luck would have it, another teacher in my wife’s school also wanted to cut back on hours. They became partner teachers, each working two days a week and alternating Fridays.

During those six years, my wife was able to spend more time at home with our girls. That time was priceless. But it also wasn’t cheap.

We had the challenge of making up for losing half my wife’s salary. Teachers’ salaries have never been what they should be. Losing half of one of our salaries would be too big a financial blow to absorb without making some adjustments.

I was already teaching middle school and coaching middle school boys’ and girls’ basketball from November to March. We still needed more income. The PE teacher at my wife’s school ran his father’s driving school on the side.

As my wife and I discussed ways for me to earn more money, we kept coming back to me teaching driver’s ed. I was not thrilled with the idea. But there were few other options available, especially with the limited hours during the standard work week. It was worse during the months that I was coaching.

We reached a decision: Either I teach Driver’s Ed or create a Dad Bods OnlyFans. Since this would have been before OnlyFans was founded, it’s probably for the best. OnlyDadBods doesn’t have the same ring to it — or profitability, which was a tough pill to swallow.

The emotional scars still run deep.

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Extensive training was necessary, though the job was explained in one sentence

Not surprisingly, someone can’t decide to teach teenagers how to drive on a whim and jump into the passenger’s seat. There is a lengthy and extensive training regimen to go through.

I think the reasons for this are twofold.

1. Adults know how to drive. Mostly. That doesn’t mean you can teach teens how to do so. Relearning the rules of the road and technical information long since forgotten is valuable, as is learning proper techniques to effectively teach in the car and in the classroom.

2. It gives ample time for an applicant to come to their senses and question if this is really a job they want to do. I spent hours in the classroom observing, and even more hours in the backseat watching as well. There was no lack of moments where someone could think, This job is fucking insane; maybe a different job would be easier — like being a prison guard. I was never that wise; besides, I was still teaching and coaching middle school. The biggest difference between those age groups was that there was more showering and less Axe Body Spray with the high school kids. Both were vast improvements.

My boss was the owner of the school. He summed things up perfectly on my first day of training: Steve, this job is hours of boredom mixed with moments of terror.

He wasn’t wrong.

Most teens have no confidence behind the wheel — initially

Teenagers are an interesting and often misunderstood breed.

Adults often visualize them as being rebellious, moody, disrespectful assholes. While that may be true intermittently, most of my students didn’t show that behavior. Usually.

Teenagers have areas of life where they are overconfident, while in other realms, they are scared shitless. Basically, they’re the same as adults, but with more acne and shorter attention spans.

One of the biggest surprises I encountered was how terrified so many teens are when they first get behind the wheel. My first solo experience in the car with a student was a clear example of this.

The vast majority of my students were 15 and had just received their learner’s permit. My first student was no exception. This became clear immediately on my debut solo drive with a student.

After leaving the driving school parking lot, we drove three blocks, approached a stop sign, and proceeded to cruise right through the intersection without even slowing down.

I had her immediately pull to the side of the road.

“Why didn’t you stop at the stop sign?”

“You didn’t tell me to.”

“It’s a stop sign. I didn’t think I needed — never mind — from now on, stop at every stop sign. Same goes for red lights. Let’s try this again. Pull us out into traffic.”

I learned quickly that no matter how much teenagers hated being told what to do at home or school, they craved it (desperately so) in the car.

I also learned that an important aspect of teaching Driver’s Education was not letting your face show what you were thinking. (This is true of teaching and parenting in general.)

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Quick thinking is essential

The only difference between our driver’s education cars and standard vehicles on the road was having a brake on the passenger’s side.

Someone could make a fortune renting cars like that to parents teaching their kids to drive. Not only would the extra brake come in handy, but parents (dads especially) would be less freaked out every time their kid drove past a parked Lexus or Range Rover if they weren’t in their own vehicle. (More on parents in a minute.)

Each car also had a standard emergency handbrake between the front seats. We mostly used it for practicing hill parks. One student found out the true purpose of the handbrake; it can be the final chance to avoid an accident.

We were coasting down the busiest street in our town. I was a bit nervous because he was braking for each stoplight later and later, despite traffic being heavy. When I brought it up to my student, he said that he was braking at the same time, but the car wasn’t responding.

The next light showed he was correct. He pushed his brake. We didn’t stop or slow down enough. I pushed my brake. Ditto. Just before rolling into the car in front of us, I yanked up on the handbrake, jerking us to a stop just in time.

I called my boss before the light turned green. He instructed us to find a parking lot ASAP, and he’d send out the mechanic. The second half of the student’s lesson was spent watching an emergency brake job in a Walmart parking lot. On the flip side, we counted 27 people entering or leaving Wally World in PJ pants. (I had bet there would be more than 20. The little shit never did pay me the candy bar we bet.)

Parents need education, too

In addition to being a driving instructor, I was also a classroom instructor. Each course consisted of 17 two-hour classes and five hour-long drives for each student. (Kids spent a second hour in the back seat observing a classmate drive for their hour.)

One of my favorite classes to teach was the second day of the course, where I spent most of the period talking to the parents. Students were sent down the hall to work on an assignment with another employee, while I spoke with their parents.

Their fear was just as palpable as their kids’, except it was two-pronged. They were scared for their child’s health, as well as their auto insurance if they sideswiped a Lexus or Range Rover.

I considered that class to be among the most important of the entire course. Few things could fuck up a teen’s driving learning process more than their parents. Here are some tips I gave that seemed to make the biggest difference.

• Both you and your child are in seats that are new to them. You both need to realize that and understand what that means for the other person.

• Your teen is now in the driver’s seat for the first time, and every car coming from the opposite direction looks like it’s coming right at them, so they hug the right shoulder.

• You’re now in the passenger seat, and you see your car passing way too close to every (luxury) parked car. And it’s freaking you out.

• No matter how much you love your kid, you are expecting them to screw up. This means every swerve, rev of the engine, or push of the brake pedal causes a parent’s brain to think they’re both about to die in a fiery crash.

• Remember, you are an arm’s length away from the wheel. Instead of flinching every time you pass a parked car, or yelling at your kid, just reach over and calmly tilt the wheel to the left.

• Yelling causes your teenager to freak out and lose concentration because you’re adding to their fear and stress, or they get pissed, yell back at you, and lose concentration. Both are dangerous, so don’t yell.

• Your kid will drive you crazy because they will not know where anything in your town is located. You let them drive home from the store they’ve gone to a thousand times. Suddenly, they have no idea how to get home. They’ve never paid attention to how to get home (or anywhere else they’ve been to hundreds of times). It will mystify and infuriate you.

• Driving is like learning any other skill. The more you do it, the better you get at it. You don’t have to take them for an hour-long drive if your schedule (or blood pressure) can’t swing that. Let them drive you to get some ice cream or something. Let them drive to school; then you continue to work. Quick, consistent drives add up, which means they will improve faster, which in turn decreases your anxiety and stress drinking.

• Do not, do not, do NOT let your kid’s first time behind the wheel be with me. They need to have some idea what gas and brake pedals feel like before I’m in the car with them. They need to know how much or how little to turn the steering wheel when turning or changing lanes. And as much as you annoy your teenager, they want their first time behind the wheel to be with you, not me. Just the idea of me freaks them out.

• The biggest danger for a teenage driver is not when they’re learning how. It’s when they get too confident. Having some fear is essential. Having no fear is frightening for the rest of us. I even told this to my daughters when they reached this point: If you don’t cut the shit, it’s not if you’ll get in an accident. It’s when and how bad it’ll be.

That’s a lot of information for parents to digest. Tough shit. Your kids are getting more but with no experience behind the wheel.

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It wasn’t as bad as people think

Overall, teaching Driver’s Ed wasn’t the nightmare you see in the movies (or probably your imagination). Yeah, there were many, many close calls. I used the passenger-side brake and handbrake countless times.

That’s why those things are there.

In my 11 years of teaching Driver’s Ed, there were no accidents with other people, cars, or animals. A few curbs may want to have a word with me, but that’s why we have them. Curbs have a rough existence. I don’t envy them.

Teaching Driver’s Education was similar to a circus. There were moments of boredom, terror, laughter, wonder, and disturbing odors.

Teaching teenagers means you’ll laugh, shake your head with a mix of wonder and apprehension, deal with attitude, verbal barbs, and, if you’re lucky, be included at least a little bit in their world.

It’s a full-meal deal.

I taught over one thousand kids to drive, parallel park, drive on the freeway, handle heavy traffic, and to keep their head on a swivel for cars and pedestrians.

Most importantly, I taught them how to handle their biggest leap yet of freedom. I remembered how driving was my first taste of real escape and how important it was to me.

I still love to drive.

But as Peter Parker learned, with great power comes great responsibility. And once we get over our initial fears of how to drive, being pulled over by the po-po, and parking, we realize that driving is pretty easy.

Too damn easy.

Trying to teach teenagers to look at the end game instead of what’s right in front of them was no easy task. But it was worth the try.

It was also worth the boredom and moments of terror of teaching teens to drive for my wife to spend that extra time at home with our girls.

As a bonus, it gave people a chance to use more synonyms for crazy to describe me.

Seems like a win-win to me.

Thanks for reading.

It’s been said — including by yours truly — that English is among the hardest languages to learn. This is not hyperbole; it’s fact.

The older a person is, the harder it is to learn English. Honestly, it’s not much better if you’re younger either. It doesn’t matter the age or ethnicity of someone learning English. At point — or many — discussions like this occur:

“Why is it like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why do we have to learn it?”

“I don’t know.”

There are multiple reasons for this line of questioning. To avoid this being an endless list, I’m cutting it at four, because I have other shit to write about.

1. English is not based on one language or culture; it’s based on several, including Germanic tribes, Latin, Greek, French, and so on. (One would think that Americans would all be open and accepting of many cultures since, you know, our own fucking language comes from so many. Sadly, it’s not. Just don’t say that to republicans or various Christians; they get so testy over such ideas.)

2. There is a wide range of “rules” in the English language, though few of them are actually helpful or constant. For example, i before e except after c. Except when it’s not. Why is there an option? Either you are, or you’re not, i. Pick a lane, asshole. If it’s not constant, who came up with this shitty rule in the first place?

3. Silent letters are just fucking mean. Why is it knife instead of nife? Why is there no f in phone? If ph makes the f-sound, why not just use f all the time? Or ph? Make a choice and stick with it for fuck’s sake. Why is there a b at the end of lamb? And on and on and on with this kind of shit.

4. Even our vowels are indecisive. A, E, I, O, U, and sometimes Y. Shit or get off the pot, Y. Are you in or are you out?

Perhaps the worst part of learning English is the self-inflicted problems with our language. As confusing and irritating as the English language can be, each generation seems hell-bent on making it worse by adding its own definitions to well-established words or creating its own vocabulary from thin air.

Here are some examples.

Popular words with opposite meanings

1. Phat/Fat

At least this one had the decency to use a different spelling. But when the word is spoken, it takes a beat to decide if the person is being rude or complimentary.

The term phat stands for pretty hot and tempting. This term flashed in the 90s, mainly in rap music and a few movies. It made its way into pop culture here and there, but never seemed to take hold.

I’ve always maintained the first dudes who tried this with women in real life were either extremely brave or very savvy and quick-thinking to avoid getting their ass beat by the ladies they were trying to impress.

2. Sick

This one is beyond popular and has been for a while. My girls, students, players, and my new son-in-law use this constantly.

For the vast majority of this word’s history, it had a standard accepted definition of someone who is physically ill. Later, it morphed into being sick mentally, followed closely by being a synonym for something disgusting.

Now sick has followed multiple predecessors to mean something opposite of its original intent. This spring, when I showed my oldest daughter and her boyfriend my new tattoos, they both exclaimed, “Oh! Those are sick!”

Somewhere along the line, it was decided that something being sick meant it’s amazingly cool and awesome. I don’t know how the leap was made from deciding something that no one enjoys being to something that is a heartfelt compliment. The jump was made regardless, and it’s been wildly popular.

The divide seems to be between people and inanimate objects. When a person is sick, they’re ill. When a car, or a movie, or a tattoo, or anything is sick, it’s amazing.

Either way, it’s giving me a headache.

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3. Fire/Lit

This one makes some sense to me.

Ever since the first caveman figured out fire and its benefits to improving food, lighting, and warmth, it has remained a vital invention for all humankind.

How did the caveman start fire? It was lit, obviously.

The definitions of both fire and lit remain the same as always. There’s also the newer interpretation that falls in line with sick. If something is fire or lit, it’s amazing, great, or, dare I say, cool. (Gotta love irony.)

I can follow this line of thinking clearly enough. Fire has long been essential to our survival. It’s hard to have fire without lighting it first. I get it. They pass the logic test.

Still, one would think we would eventually run out of ways of saying something is great.

As usual, that is not the case. Not even close…

4. “The” shit

This one mystifies me far more than sick.

I love to swear; I do it daily, vocally and in writing. I’ve used the word shit countless times. That won’t be changing any time soon, if ever. I have no doubt that I’ll be swearing in the afterlife one way or another.

Shit is one of my standard swears. It’s up there with fuck. Shit has proven to be easily the most adapted swear word we have.

Chicken shit. Horse shit. Dog shit. Bullshit. Batshit.

I can’t help but wonder if Noah started the chain of animal shit terms. That ark of his must have been ripe.

Some influential person decided to bypass using their power to solve an actual problem and tried to make shit a positive thing. In my mind, that would be a Herculean task.

Apparently not.

Dude put the word the before shit and voila! We have the opposite meaning unfurled like a flag. If someone says, “That is shit,” it’s bad because it’s shit. Yet, if someone says, “That is the shit,” it’s good because it’s the shit.

Curiously, it doesn’t work for any of shit’s diverse animal family tree. No one says, “That is the chicken shit.”

Pity.

I bet PETA is pissed and is discussing strategy with its lawyers.

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5. Slay

This is a curious one.

Slay is not the most commonly used word. It hasn’t been for a minute (more on that shortly). Someone decided to bring it back. Of course, they had to tweak its original meaning.

For most of history, slay would typically mean someone was killed, typically in battle. Not anymore. Now you can slay something without committing a felony and ending up in a headline.

“Girl! You are slaying that outfit!”

“You slayed that presentation!”

“Slay!”

Those are all positive things. I’m always wondering how this played out the first time someone tried this without advanced warning.

“Dude! You slayed!”

“Uh, no, I didn’t slay anyone. Everyone is fine.”

“No — uh. Sorry. I was trying something new. Uh, you did a very good job. I won’t say slay again.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Slaying something without having to wear an orange jumpsuit would be the shit.”

“Why would it be shit? You just said you liked it.”

“No! Not shit. The shit. Sorry. I was trying something new…”

6. Minute

Technically, a minute is sixty seconds. But as we all know, time is relative. We learned that shit growing up.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

It didn’t matter who said that fateful sentence. It could be a parent, child, teacher, grandparent, ourselves, anyone. When someone says that, they are not coming in a minute. And it’s probably not really close to one either. One could say it’s timeless.

Someone decided to use the ambiguous definition of a minute and extend it into years status.

“Wow. It’s been a minute since I’ve been back here.”

We now know that minute is also relative. It could mean months or years, depending on the person saying it. In short, it’s been a minute means it’s been a long-ass time.

Relatively speaking.

Nonsensical terms that are NOT the shit

I have to add a short follow-up section.

I can deal with people wanting to take various terms with negative definitions and make them positive. With the world being as fucked as it is, we could use some positive energy. Besides, it keeps old fuckers like me on our toes.

But there is a limit to the amount of dancing I’m willing to do.

I love creativity. Typically, I’m all for it. Creating nonsensical terms for no clear reason aside from testing their popularity is annoying as hell. The main reason for my irritation is how a variety of this invented bullshit permeates my school and classroom like a virus.

Teaching middle school is challenging enough as it is. Adding maddeningly popular trends doesn’t make my job any easier. In fact, it does the opposite. With a vengeance.

Here are two of the most recent examples.

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Skibidi

This word aggravated me from the beginning. It just sounds stupid. Putting the word toilet after it doesn’t help.

Seventh-graders, mainly boys (natch), thought saying skibidi toilet was the funniest fucking thing ever, because anything put together with toilet is hilarious to them. Which goes to show that older generations’ concerns over today’s youth are valid.

Like many trends, skibidi’s origin is from social media, specifically YouTube. Skibidi Toilet was a series that had human heads in toilets singing a dumbass song and arguing with other humans over stupid shit. (Thankfully, that series was animated and not realistic. Though maybe it would have been less entertaining and popular.)

If you’re wondering if skibidi means something positive or negative, the answer is, “Yes.” Apparently, coming up with the word itself was overly exhausting, so it can be either a compliment or an insult depending on the person saying it.

After enduring hearing skibidi at work more than the word bruh, I’ve yet to encounter anything positive from that annoying as fuck word. The only positive thing about that stupid term was that it eventually faded and is now nearly non-existent.

Not nearly soon enough.

Six-Seven

This bullshit lasted the majority of the 2025–26 school year. I’m still bitter about it.

The six-seven trend reminded me of a forest fire. It was hard to tell how it started, why it spread so fast, and why so many people insisted on making it worse.

Even to this day, there is no definition — or fucking point — to saying six-seven aside from making kids laugh and adults rage. (Granted, that has long been the goal of every new generation. But this was beyond the pale.) To make things worse, an accompanying hand motion was added.

As a teacher, even one teaching Language Arts, I occasionally had to say either six or seven. I also talk with my hands a lot. Saying either of those numbers or moving my hands in any kind of up-and-down motion would send my students into fits of laughter while yelling, “Six-seven,” and making the ridiculous accompanying hand motion.

The strength that it took me not to begin a classroom game of Dodgeball with staplers, pen jars, and anything else on my desk was Biblical. I tore stomach muscles (I don’t have) restraining myself from becoming an Internet headline:

Middle school teacher driven crazy by Six-Seven trend attacks class with desk supplies.

Teachers can prepare for many things inside their classroom. We’re trained, experienced, and we can use Pinterest and Canva like ninjas. Hear me well: There is no preparing anyone for shit like skibidi toilet and six-seven.

There’s nothing positive about that shit.

Thanks for reading.

Music is complex and fascinating.

It can have minimal impact on someone’s life, while bringing meaning and revelation to someone else. Music can be nothing more than something to dance to and sing along with to one person, and be another’s life force.

No matter how much (or how little) we value music, we all have songs that resonate with us. There is music we consider anthems from various moments or times in our lives.

And there are moments when a song we’ve long since forgotten plays through the speakers in a department store, a mall, a salon, or any one of a myriad of locations. It can take us back in time or stir up emotions like a sucker punch.

That happened to me this summer.

I was doomscrolling and came upon an audition video for America’s Got Talent. I don’t typically watch that show or anything similar. But sometimes catching a reel is worth my time.

Boy was it.

A (seemingly) shy teenage girl from Thailand named Nene Royal, on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, apprehensively walked on the AGT stage, beneath a searing spotlight and into Internet lore (where it landed on my radar).

After introducing herself and giving a shoutout to her supportive dad, she proceeded to stun the judges, crowd, and millions online by absolutely shredding on the guitar while raising goosebumps on countless arms by crushing her version of “Zombie” by The Cranberries. She can even rock a primal scream like Joan Jett.

But there is more to this (at least for me) than being introduced to a teenage badass who seems bound for greatness. Her song choice took me back to a band I loved, but hadn’t thought of in way too long.

The Cranberries rocked my world in the 90s.

Being Irish-American, I’ve always loved Irish music, their accents, laughter, and story-telling. The Cranberries had all of that and gave us music that stood out in the time of grunge and post 80s hangover.

They hit us with melodic music and haunting vocals from lead singer Dolores O’Riordan with hit songs like “Dreams” and “Linger.”

And then came “Zombie,” the antithesis of their other songs, because the meaning and emotion behind it was different.

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I won’t get deep into a history lesson here, aside from saying there were decades of violence mainly in Northern Ireland called “The Troubles” over British rule in Northern Ireland. There was death and sorrow on all sides caused by violence initiated by each side.

In 1993, the Irish Republican Army (IRA) planted two bombs in trash bins outside a McDonald’s in Warrington, England. Two boys aged 3 and 12 were killed, while over 50 more were injured.

The Cranberries were on tour in the area. O’Riordan was viscerally impacted by the attack. To the Irish O’Riordan, it didn’t matter that the boys who were killed were English. They were children brought into violence — and killed by it — because adults chose to do so. The children had no choice and were killed anyway.

She wrote “Zombie” as a reaction to that bombing.

The music of “Zombie” is not subtle or sweet or melodic. It has distorted guitars that sound emotional, even siren-like. Drums are pounded with anger and passion, as if being attacked.

The lyrics are profound, hard-hitting, and soul-wrenching.

Another mother’s breakin’
Heart is takin’ over
When the violence causes silence
We must be mistaken

In the Warrington bombing, two mothers lost their sons. Violence, loud and traumatic, often brings the silence of death.

In your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie
What’s in your head, in your head?
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie-ie

Zombies are brainless, thoughtless, and have no respect for life. I can picture O’Riordan yelling and keening those lyrics asking, What is wrong with you that you think violence is okay? Are you uncaring like a fucking zombie?

“The Troubles” in Ireland are long over. There no more bombings in Warrington or Northern Ireland. Why, then, am I so impacted by this song in 2026 while living in the United States?

Because the message of “Zombie” is still relevant.

We still have leaders acting like zombies when it comes to their decision making. They still make decisions that put other people’s children in danger due to violence.

On the opening day of the war between the U.S. and Iran (February 28, 2026), an Iranian school was bombed, killing over 120 children. American and Iranian soldiers have been killed in the months since. Too many mothers and fathers lost their kids because of violence ordered by leaders making choices with other people’s lives. Other people’s children.

We still have leaders causing silence after violence “with their tanks and their bombs and their bombs and their guns.”

The anger that created “Zombie” is still alive. It should be. It needs to be.

Violence does cause silence — it also feeds off it. Silence from us can lead to more violence. Leaders respond to public pressure and anger; they also respond to the lack of it.

In today’s world, many of us live to protest. Some of it may seem trivial. Or maybe some of us think we’re too weak to stop those in power, so why bother trying?

Which brings me back to music and the power behind it. I don’t play an instrument. I can’t sing to save my life. But I can sure as hell sing along. I can talk about a song like “Zombie” and why I think it’s great and so damn important.

I can share my anger when I feel our leaders are putting us and others in danger. I can pound my outrage on my keyboard and post it for others to read and hopefully talk about in their circles.

I would much rather step up loudly and give it my best shot than stay silent. Maybe we’ll be ignored. Maybe we won’t. Either way, it’s worth it to find out.

Because the last thing I want to be is a fucking zombie.

Thanks for reading.

The official video of “Zombie” has 1.8 billion views on YouTube. It will likely climb even higher. And it should.

Technology is an amazing thing. Pretty much. Sometimes it’s nice.

I mean, I like television and planes and cars and the Internet (mostly-ish). Microwaves were quite the invention. I like cell phones (pretty much).

But then there are tech gut punches that make us question why we just didn’t stop at the CD player.

Everywhere we look, walk, drive, fly, or even sit, technology is there. And growing. In fact, it’s growing so rapidly that a large number of movies formerly considered sci-fi may become a scary as fuck reality if we don’t get our shit together.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not holding my breath for the powers that be to do anything for the right reason or to do it before it’s too fucking late.

Before I get questions and barbs in the comments, yes, I am Generation X. And, yes, I am good with technology. I’m a tech OG, fuckers, so keep your snarky bullshit holstered.

So, before Skynet sends Arnold Schwarzenegger after my ass, I better get this piece moving.

1. AI with (seemingly) no oversight or accountability

It seems appropriate to start with the biggest, most recent technological jump: AI. Despite what our sharp-as-a-pillow Secretary of Education, Linda McMahon, may think, I am not referring to A1 Steak Sauce. I’m talking about Artificial Intelligence.

Back in the day, we considered AI would eventually be robots or highly intelligent computers with velvet-smooth, yet creepily polite voices.

Instead, we have videos that seem real as hell but are actually completely fake. In my small Washington town, a high school teacher was nearly fired over a student-created AI video. This fucking kid took a photo of a teacher he didn’t like, and a separate photo of a student he didn’t like. He used AI to make it look like the teacher and student were passionately kissing.

Despite the teacher and student both denying the video was real, the teacher was immediately suspended. She was nearly fired by the school board until a watermark was noticed in the corner of the video that proved it was AI-generated.

AI is also being used to create nude photos of anyone from children to teenagers to famous adults. The number of lives this has ruined is hard to fathom because so many of us believe every goddamn thing we see online. (Of course, it’s easier to do so when it’s not our lives being fucked over.)

The vast majority of my students use AI to cheat on every digital assignment. It’s to the point that I am cutting students using technology in my classroom to the bone. This is despite my district providing every student with a Chromebook since before Covid.

All of these uses (and more) of AI have come at lightning speed. That is not surprising. Once anything in tech is shown to be successful, the use is multiplied among every other company instantly.

The biggest problem with such quick advancement is the slowness at which any kind of accountability follows. The student who nearly got his teacher fired, almost caused her divorce, and ruined another student’s social life was given a one-day suspension.

The lives of girls in middle school, high school, and college have been ruined by trolls creating and spreading nudes they created in their basements. The number of those assholes being arrested and held accountable is a minute fraction of those still doing it.

If one of my students tries this shit, I hope I go down with people thinking I made out with Scarlet Johansson. Sadly, I doubt even AI could make that believable.

I could probably handle a distraught Colin Jost in a fight, though.

2. Streaming services with ads

There are a few reasons why streaming services like Netflix, Hulu, Prime, Apple TV, etc are so damn popular. But they are not without deception.

1. Bingeing: Being able to watch episode after episode for an entire season (and more) is epic. Those who complain about “cliffhangers” can not relate to the pain we in Generation X suffered through. We dealt with “Who shot JR?” and so many other brutal questions for months. And then we waited for one episode a week. Fuck off, Millennials. You have no idea.

2. Epic vaults: Thousands of movies and television shows to choose from in each streaming service’s “vaults” at any time for our “viewing pleasure.” It’s not the streaming services’ fault that we can’t make a decision on what to watch. But the choices are still mind-numbing.

3. No ads: And here we arrive at the bullshit. When streaming started, and no one knew (yet) how successful the idea would be, there were few, if any, commercials. It was heavenly. Then the ads started once everyone realized more people watched streaming services than real TV. Now, every fucking service has a version with ads and a version without ads. Except, there always seems to be ads on the ad-free version. And every time the rates are raised, the version with ads gets raised more than the ad-free version. Which is just corporate greed bullshit 101. They are already making bank from the advertisers and the customers paying for their service. Then they jack up the cost even more.

All of that (and more) means that as great as streaming is, it’s still flawed as hell for the same reasons most American-dominated things are flawed: Billionaires and the corporations they run are being greedy as fuck.

Yeah, I’ll still stream shit. But I’ll do it bitterly. At least until they increase the prices one time too many.

Or take Jimmy Kimmel off the air again.

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3. Bagging your own groceries (while paying more)

This one pisses me off every time I shop in any store.

Bagging our own groceries has become the norm, with each store seemingly having more self-service checkouts than those with actual cashiers.

The main reason for this change is the same as any widespread change in any industry; the powers that be thought they would make more money. It makes sense if you don’t think or care about your employees or customers.

With self-service checkouts, companies can get away with only paying one employee to monitor eight machines instead of one per checkout. Do these billionaires give a shit that customers get so frustrated with those fucking machines they Google “Is killing a self-checkout machine count as homicide?” along with “Is there such a thing as justifiable vandalism?”

No, they don’t care.

Acting out those Google requests in real life is probably frowned upon socially, which I feel is ironic considering the AI shit I wrote about above.

If AI can fuck up our lives for real, then we should be able to do the same to its machines.

To top things off with the cherry pit on the shit sandwich that is present-day shopping, prices have skyrocketed to the point that the billionaire rocketships are jealous.

We are playing a massive increase on groceries across the board and we’re bagging our own groceries using technology that is the bane of our existence.

We know this is a fucked up situation, yet we keep doing it. There are not enough hours in the day for me to make this make sense.

4. Tipping for every-fucking-thing (except my job)

As a writer and a teacher, it pains me to say this, but I am beyond sick of hearing, “You’re going to be asked a question.” For most of my life, I was fine with most questions.

Don’t get me wrong, as a teacher, a parent, and someone who has interacted with MAGA, I have heard more than my share of stupid questions. But that is part of life and dealing with different kinds of people.

But I am done with being asked that same damn question every time I buy something. We all know what that question means; it’s the most polite way someone can ask, please, tip me.

Tipping has its place, especially in the States, because so many people don’t earn a living wage. But, my God, there has to be a limit and logic to who is asking for a tip.

I have a daughter who has worked over two years at Dairy Queen. If anyone deserves tips, it’s her. Fast food workers don’t earn tips, which mystifies me. I get it. Fast food isn’t known for its complex tastes and flavors. Hence the name. But those employees work hard and deal with members of the public who get incensed over their orders of Blizzards and burgers.

Yet any employee at a donut shop, deli, ice cream shop, restaurant, bar, and so on does.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a generous tipper. My tip will be forthcoming because it’s bad juju to anger someone who is handling my food and drinks.

With tipping as widespread as it is in the U.S., I’ve often considered asking the parents of my students that same question after our parent/teacher conference.

Depending on the outcome, that could change my entire opinion on tipping.

5. Parking lot apps

Here is another prime example of technology slowing me the fuck down.

I have often wondered if there is some sinister government agency (not named ICE) that monitors Americans’ day-to-day life looking for things that are quick and convenient. And then just fucking it up to make it longer and more frustrating. It’s probably called something like the Federal Convenience Killer Unit (FCKU).

Paying for parking is just such an example of FCKU living up to its name.

Public parking has never been a good time. But it was a relatively simple process. I circle my target area, praying to any deity willing to deem me worthy of a parking spot. I put money in the meter. I keep track of the time I have left to stay in said parking spot, and I go about my tasks until I return and depart.

Simple. It was often frustrating, but we understood the process.

Until FCKU and our over-reliance on apps had to step in to add another layer to our annoyance enchilada. Every damn parking spot in any city has a contract with a company to monitor and accept payment for parking.

Each of those asshole companies has its own app that must be downloaded. Then we put in our credit card info. Since each company has multiple lots in multiple cities, we then put in the fucking code to find the correct lot and parking spot, and then add details of our vehicle.

All of this shit can happen only if we have access to WiFi and if we haven’t thrown our cell phone onto the pavement or into the back of a passing Waste Management truck first while launching a tirade of four-letter words that would make Richard Pryor blush.

FCKU indeed.

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6. No paper restaurant menus

Restaurants have crossed the line into the QR Code Kingdom. Because of course they have.

Most restaurants have either greatly reduced their use of physical menus or eschewed them entirely unless you’ve decided to enter their hallowed booths and agreed to eat their food.

I get that menus can be costly to order (irony at its finest). This is especially true for places like The Cheesecake Factory where the length of its menu rivals The Odyssey.

Using a QR Code makes changing the prices easier, too. Again, WiFi issues can delay vital information, which is aggravating as hell.

All I need to know is how expensive the chicken strips are, what sandwiches are available, and how much are the alcoholic drinks?

Have that shit on a hard copy menu outside your doors. You know, like it’s been for fucking ever.

My phone battery is always drained anyway. I don’t need to make it worse seeing how much a BLT and a Jameson with Coke costs.

7. McDonald’s counterproductive kiosks

Fast food (as we know it) has long been one of the last bastions of American ingenuity still standing. I am bypassing the depressing truth of that statement to make my point as quickly as possible.

No one eats at McDonald’s for a fine dining experience. People eat at McD’s for three reasons: convenience because they are fucking everywhere, mostly edible food, and your order is cooked and served to you quickly.

Hence the moniker fast food.

One might think the wizards behind the curtain at McDonald’s Corporation would either make sure those three reasons ran as smoothly as possible or perhaps improve at least one of them.

Instead, McD’s chose to fuck up one of the three reasons people frequent their restaurants. Apparently an executive had a thought, “What if we drop the ‘fast’ from fast food?” I might be behind such an idea if the purpose of slowing things down was to improve their menu or quality of food.

No such luck.

Apparently, it was way too fucking simple to say, “I’d like a number two, with a Diet Coke, please.” Mickey D’s decided to install computerized kiosks for us to order from instead. If you’re wondering how ordering from a kiosk where you have to scroll on a screen the size of a Buick at least three times is faster than just speaking your order to a human, stop.

It isn’t. It’s slow, cumbersome, and irritating as fuck.

Even worse, they still have the original hardware at the counter that we all walked up to thousands of times before. But there’s never anyone standing there to take our order. They’re cooking the food and probably updating their resumes.

It’s bad enough to fall victim to the evil influence of FCKU. But to leave the original - and much faster - equipment sitting there to mock us is uncalled for. Well, I’m not having it.

I’m going to Burger King where I can get a Whopper Jr my way and do so while ordering old-face-to-acne-scarred-face. And I get a badass crown to adorn my royal noggin while I consume my burger and onion rings at BK.

Kiosk this, Ronald McDonald.

8. Nonsensical password recommendations

Anytime I need to create a password for something, Google always gives me a “secure recommendation.” It may be secure, but it’s also nonsensical and lazy.

Google is supposed to know us so damn well. Big Brother Google is spying on us worse than republicans. If Google is going to sell all my boring online secrets (trust me, they are so boring — nothing to see at all — for sure), why not use its knowledge of me to come up with a password that makes sense with my personality? After all, we’ve been seeing each other for some time now. Doesn’t Google know me at all?

How about WizerThanHeSeems4Sure? Or SmartAss4hire? Maybe CantWait2Ret!re would work?

Instead, Google gives me something like 4lrti@98J4KT2219$6xxT, which I find insulting. First, I prefer any of my catalogue of passwords not to be named after elon musk’s next kid. (I totally have like so many different passwords. I do not use the same one repeatedly. At all.)

I’m lucky if I remember why I walked into the kitchen. How am I supposed to remember my new securely recommended password? Yes, Google promises to remember my passwords. But Google seems to have more memory lapses than a republican member of Congress.

Come on, Google, get creative. We’re already creeped out by you, and we both know we’re stuck with each other. It’s like living with our parents again.

Or Herpes.

On that fun note, I’m tapping out. For now.

What other modern changes that are ass would you add?

Let’s find a pay phone, get some extra quarters, call the FCKU hotline (1–888-UFCKOFF), and we can bitch and moan at them together.

Let’s at least feel like we’re making a difference.

Thanks for reading.

I’ve been married a long time. As of August 4, 2026, we’re at 25 years of marriage and 29 years of being a couple.

Whenever I stop and think about how long we’ve been together, it never fails to stun me. Without fail, I come to the same conclusion: My wife is either the bravest person alive or the most patient.

Probably both.

I’ll be the first to admit (maybe second if my wife is overly frustrated with me) that I’m no walk in the park. I am the least handy man on the planet. My wife could pick any random dude in any crowd (including a coma ward) and find someone more handy than me. And that is only one of my flaws.

When you’ve chosen to marry someone — and they’ve chosen you — both of you committed to spending the rest of your lives together. That’s a heady thing. It’s day and night togetherness for multiple decades (ideally). That is a DefCon 1 level of commitment. I piss myself off daily. Imagine how shitty that is for my wife, who chose this and me.

No one ever said love was smart. And for good reason, because if love was smart or even somewhat logical, we would all be fucked, and not in the fun way.

Twenty-five years of marriage and twenty-nine years together are two big numbers. I daresay they are impressive. Clips of stand-up comedians on social media have drilled that point home relentlessly. It’s a favorite question comedians ask during crowd work. Anytime an impressive number is yelled from the audience, without fail, the comedian wants to know their secret to staying together.

I am by no means an expert on anything. But here’s my view on what works for us. There has to be at least something to these because I have life insurance and I’m still vertical. Or my wife is biding her time. I did say she was patient.

Either way, here are my secrets to a long, happy (most of the time) marriage.

1. Don’t be a dick

Typically, I don’t rank my lists in order. It takes more energy and time than I have, and it leads to more self-doubt and arguing with myself, which I do too much as it is.

Exceptions are a part of life, however. Since this is my number one rule in life as well as marriage, it’s getting top billing. (The rest of the list is in random order. Ranking one feels like the right energy.)

We are all human, so we’re flawed as fuck on a good day. At least I am. But there is a major difference between being flawed and being a dick. If you’re unsure what the difference is between those two, it’s simple.

Being flawed is being imperfect at something. Being a dick is based on your motivation; it’s intentionally pissing someone else off or trying to make someone feel inferior by acting like — say it together — a dick.

Everyone gets exhausted, frustrated, angry, scared, jealous, insecure, impatient, and so on. It’s human nature to repeatedly travel through the entire emotional rainbow as we wander through life. It’s also part of any long relationship, marriage or not.

It’s how we handle our reactions to emotions that can dictate how well — or if — a relationship survives. Taking your negative emotions or failures out on your partner is never a good idea. On the flip side, acting like an arrogant asshole when you’re feeling positive vibes is bad juju, as well.

In short, no matter what emotions you’re feeling, do your best not to act like a dick towards your spouse.

Forgiveness may happen. But memories are like scars; they fade, but they can still last for years.

I’m going to take a very quick — but vital — detour. It’s one of those things that shouldn’t need to be said, but sadly does. There is nothing dickish about being abusive.

There is no darker mark on a relationship (marriage or otherwise) than abuse of any kind.

Don’t call your partner names in anger. Don’t insult them. Don’t demean them. Don’t bully them. Don’t threaten them. And don’t, ever fucking ever, try to control them. This also means not doing any of these things to their face or behind their back to others.

None of those — and other similar actions — are acceptable. None of them are love.

They. Are. Abuse.

Abuse should be a non-starter. Or a relationship ender. None of that behavior is based on love, no matter what your partner may say. Love is meant to be positive and make you feel like you’re floating. It’s not supposed to be negative or drag you down.

Don’t get me wrong. Love is not smooth. It’s bumpy, rough, and can come at terrifying speeds, with blind corners. Love is the ultimate roller coaster.

But it’s not supposed to be sharp.

There’s the age-old joke of referring to a wife as “the old ball and chain.” Fuck that. If love acts in any way like a ball and chain for either partner, that shit ain’t love.

Before some of you rip my dick off, I know some partners swear at each other in jest, in teasing, etc. As I said earlier, there are exceptions in life. Let’s not kid ourselves; we know when someone’s language is funny and part of your dynamic as a couple or if it’s like punches and jabs in a boxing match that wears you down.

There’s no comparison.

Okay, let’s get back on the Listicle Highway. Here are a few more reasons I feel my wife and I are still happily together.

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2. Don’t try to change yourself; improve yourself instead

Some believe that people can’t change. Others think it is possible. I don’t give a shit either way. You do you — if you can.

But tread softly and self-analyze thyself.

Why are you trying to change? Is it something you want or something your partner wants? If it’s the latter one, that is problematic. Trying to change for the wrong reason leads to resentment, at best.

Anyway, let’s get refocused.

In a healthy relationship, your spouse shouldn’t want you to change. They may want you to improve yourself so things run smoother between you. Otherwise, your partner is more stressed, disappointed, and pissed, which makes you feel the same.

They get resentful that you’re not pulling your weight. Or they’ve had to remind you countless times to do something that you either never do or just don’t notice as a problem. It doesn’t matter if it’s something you don’t typically notice or care about.

Your spouse does.

So start paying attention to those things. Start thinking of them. It takes intentional practice at first, just like when you start anything new. Look for the shit they’ve been talking about. Then complete the task without being asked.

Do not, do not, do not, bring it to their attention like you’re showing your mom a finger painting you did in kindergarten. Don’t expect a gold star. It will get noticed. It will be appreciated.

Don’t do it once and then not do it again. Make it a habit. Then try it again for something else.

Your partner will notice this and will return the favor. It’s how marriages work. You think of the other person and try to make things just a bit easier for them. They do the same for you.

It shows you value each other. It’s not changing your personality. It’s making both of you more thoughtful and considerate.

It’s improving yourselves. And your marriage.

3. Give what you want

Most people don’t like their lives to be controlled by someone else, even someone they’re in love with. (No, I am not talking about Fifty Shades of Grey shit. Keep it clean(ish), people.) Again, you do you — and each other — in whatever way floats your boats.

My point is this: The Golden Rule is golden for a reason. It’s simple and works for everyone if they’re willing to live on both sides of the coin. Otherwise, you’re just a selfish, hypocritical asshole who deserves to be alone and stay that way.

For the rest of us, we’re not that different.

We want to be loved, respected, listened to, cared for when we’re sick or hurt, thought of and missed when we’re apart, our opinions to be valued, to be helped when we need it, and all those things that keep our motors running.

Guess what? So does your spouse. If you want those things — and you do — so does your partner.

Does she want exactly what you want exactly the same way you want it? Uh, no. That would be too damn easy, and relationships — especially long ones — don’t work that way. Things become familiar and comfortable. But not easy. In the time you spend together, you figure that shit out and vice versa. The next step is acting on it.

Lather, rinse, repeat. A lot.

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4. Own your mistakes and fucking apologize for them

Despite loving your partner, treating them respectfully, and being as good of a person as you can, you are going to fuck up. Your partner is going to fuck up, too. It’s the whole human being thing again.

Messing up is not the problem. Being imperfect won’t end your relationship. How you respond to those mistakes could.

When you make a mistake, own it. Don’t blame your partner. It was your error, not theirs. Don’t shift the blame elsewhere, or downplay its importance, like you work for Fox News. Don’t excuse your mistake or your behavior after it.

Admit your mistake and then apologize for it.

Newsflash 1: None of that makes you look weaker, dumber, or less attractive. In fact, it does the opposite. Shifting blame for your mistake elsewhere makes you look weak and grows resentment and disdain in your partner like mold.

Newsflash 2: Your partner knows damn good and well that you’re not perfect. They know your shortcomings. More than likely, something about your imperfect ass is why they love you. They are still with you despite your lack of perfection. Just like you are with them.

Newsflash 3: Some mistakes are too big for a relationship to survive, whether you apologize or not. Mistakes have rankings like hurricanes. For example, cheating is Level 5. My wife and I were clear from early in our dating days; cheating would end our relationship. Full stop. Be sure both of you share what your Level 5, unforgivable mistakes are. And then avoid them like the plague.

Newsflash 4: People who consider themselves to be smarter, stronger, or better than everyone else have partners whose lives are full of stress and fear. They feel they are expected to be perfect, too. They’re scared to death of making a mistake because obviously, those piss you off. People who consider themselves better than everyone else often end up alone because no one can live under that amount of pressure for long.

Even Atlas got tired. And your partner isn’t Atlas. Neither are you. So don’t fucking act like it.

For both of your sakes.

5. Lots of little things are more important than a few big ones

Grand gestures proclaiming your love can be fun. After all, they are in nearly every single romantic comedy ever created. Netflix and Hallmark make bank off that very concept. People cry, and swoon, and ask themselves, “Why can’t that shit happen to me?”

After seeing the couple kiss, and the credits roll, how many of us ask, “Okay. They’re together. Sweet. Now what?”

Maybe you did something grandiose for your proposal. Or you went to Hawaii for your honeymoon. Or you’re one of those assholes in the Lexus commercials who buys your spouse an expensive car with a red bow the size of a recliner on it.

More power to you.

But what about the rest of the time? Grand gestures are fun and romantic and sporadic at best. They have to be. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be grand.

It’s the little things that add up to far more.

As much as I hate math, I’m using a classic math problem to make my point. We were all asked at some point in school if we would rather have a job that paid $1 million up front or a penny that doubled every day.

Most of us were fascinated to learn that doubling the penny each day earns you over $5.3 million after 30 days.

Small, loving, thoughtful things in a relationship add up the same way. You may be thinking, “I can’t do that shit every damn day. I’m busy, goddammit.”

Yeah, you can.

You text people every day. You scroll on your phone every day. We all do. We have time for that shit, so we have time to do quick things for our partner because they matter more.

Text your partner something sweet or thoughtful or flirty or sexy and not just ask what’s for dinner or send a shopping list. Send a funny video you know will make them laugh. Buy flowers on the way home from work because you know she had a shit day. Grab his favorite snack at the store because you were thinking of him.

Compliment your partner each day, and fucking mean it. (Your partner knows when you’re full of shit and when you’re being sincere and vice versa.)

Do something unexpected to make them smile or feel relieved that they don’t have to wash the dishes or do the laundry or cook the dinner or get the car washed when they thought they would.

My wife and I say, “I love you,” every day. Multiple times a day. We kiss and hug every day, multiple times a day. This should be the norm for all relationships, in my opinion. I’d be scared shitless if it wasn’t.

We annoy each other multiple times every day, as well.

The little thoughtful, loving things counter the annoyances. I’m not saying to ignore big gestures and epic trips. They are important and they do have their place. (I’m in Kauai as I type this. Being married 25 years is a massive accomplishment, and we deserve moments like this. Everyone does.)

It’s the thoughtful, little, loving things that you do all the time that ensures you’re still together for the grand things.

Marriage is a balancing act. It’s the long game. Like any game, strategy and dedication is needed for success. And you can’t win this game alone.

It takes two to tango. It takes two to win. But it only takes one to lose a relationship.

What works for my wife and me may not work for someone else. So be it. I’m willing to bet that we’re not that unique. Which means nothing I’ve written here is Earth-shattering or brand new information.

It also means that if an idiot like me can figure this out, so can anyone else.

Best wishes to all.

Thanks for reading.

For generations, women have often been considered to be more complex than men. Words such as mysterious, fascinating, and confusing have been used to describe women.

They have a point. Partially.

One of the biggest reasons men find women so complex is that too many of us are simplistic morons when it comes to women.

We just are.

“Men are not subtle; we are obvious. Women know what men want; men know what men want, what do we want? We want women! That’s it! …How do we get them? Oh, we don’t know about that…This is why you see men honking car horns, yelling from construction sites. These are the best ideas we’ve had so far.” Jerry Seinfeld

The above quote is funny. As is often the case with comedy, it’s humorous because it’s true.

It’s also pretty fucking pathetic for one main reason: Men often put our focus on ourselves instead of women. That wouldn’t be a problem if we weren’t so focused on women and weren’t trying to get their attention.

And therein lies the rub. (Literally, if you’re unsuccessful with women.)

If more men actually talked with women (and listened to them), they would find out that yelling, honking, and in-your-face sexism don’t work in the real world before actually doing any of it.

Instead, men talk to and at women (and mansplain), which follows the same thought process as honking and yelling. And just as successful.

Sadly, with the rise of the cellphone and social media (and asshole, misogynistic influencers) since Seinfeld’s joke was originally performed, men have come up with far worse ideas when trying to “impress” women.

Two of the worst “ideas” are dudes sending unsolicited dick pics and asking random women for nude photos. It should go without saying why these actions are vile and pathetic.

Obviously, if that were the case, these things wouldn’t be happening. But they do, so here we are.

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Clueless + desperate + egotistical + lazy = unsolicited dick pic sender

While women may fascinate men with being mysterious, men can be just as confounding to women. Granted, much of their fascination with us revolves around our thought process and decision-making:

Why the hell did he think I would want to see that?

Is he serious with this shit?

Is that supposed to impress me, scare me, or disgust me?

Those are valid questions with no sensible answer, which leads to the kind of dude who sends dick pics. Math and I have never been close friends. But even I can crack the formula at the top of this section.

Men are often clueless when it comes to impressing women. Back in my bachelor days, I was too. I had no fucking clue how to get a woman’s positive attention outside of making them laugh. After that, I was stumped.

Many eligible men are desperate. I fell into that category, as well. Not having a girlfriend for the majority of my dating years will do that to you.

Women often say they are attracted to men who are confident, which makes sense. Men are often attracted to the same thing. The problem comes when men consider confident and egotistical to be synonyms.

They are not. People say it’s a fine line. I disagree. It seems pretty damn wide to me.

Confident people believe in themselves. They can be quiet because their self-belief doesn’t need input or approval of others. Egotistical people crave attention and validation, which is the opposite of confidence. Confident people want attention for the work they’ve done and their abilities. Egotistical people want attention on them no matter what.

I was never egotistical. To be truthful, I wasn’t brimming with confidence either. But egomaniacs are annoying as fuck. Making yourself the center of attention to get more attention has always mystified and aggravated me.

The last part of the formula is laziness. Everyone is lazy from time to time. We all get tired and take days off. A lazy person will always look for the easy and quick way out. I have my flaws, but I am not lazy.

For a guy who is clueless, desperate, egotistical, and lazy, the dick pic seems like a fucking gold mine.

I have no idea why any woman would have a problem with this (besides, I am so damn horny my dick is going to explode if I don’t get laid soon), and that would be a tragedy, because look at this thing! I’ve seen two-by-fours with less wood. Amirite, ladies?!

Strike a pose, Woody, because we’re about to make some lucky lady’s night, and she has no fucking idea! Let’s go break some hearts and bed frames.

Clueless + desperate + egotistical + lazy + dick pic = Lonely Loser

The boob shot request involves the same formula

Men asking/demanding women they don’t know to send them nudes are the same assholes who send dick pics. The same thought process (or lack thereof) permeates both situations.

Some people don’t think dick pics are real, or feel that most men have, uh, outgrown such immature behavior. While that should be the case, it’s not even close. Ask any woman, and she will tell you it’s happened to her, someone she knows, or both.

From what I’ve read and heard, a good percentage of the traffic on most dating apps is dick pics, asking for nudes, and seeing who is willing to hook up on the first date.

When we consider who is in the White House, along with the morality of the average politician (especially the party in power), this level of vile sexism isn’t surprising.

Some men aren’t even asking for nudes; they’re creating their own. There has been a rash of asshole men and boys taking innocent photos of girls and women in clothing and using digital technology and AI to turn them into deepfake nudes.

The last thing these men are is mature. And there is nothing innocent or acceptable about that kind of behavior and actions towards women.

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Vile men don’t stop at dick pics and nudes

If it was just dick pics and asking for nudes, that would be annoying and offensive on their own.

But it’s far more than that. Because the men who do those actions often don’t take rejection well or take no for an answer. They also don’t pull back the reins on being offensive or damaging.

Dick pics alone don’t verbally harass women. Requests for nudes don’t spike women’s drinks. Photos don’t grope, insult, or attack women and girls.

Men do that. Boys do that, who are raised by men who do that.

When women are sent dick pics, that is never the end of it. When women turn down such direct propositioning, block the user, or simply insult them, these men unleash venom that was already percolating beneath the surface.

Dick size is a sensitive subject for many dudes. It has the nickname manhood for a reason. Men and women alike know this. But when you open the door to a sensitive subject, you never know who will walk through it, or what they’ll say about it. And that’s on the dude sending an unsolicited dick pic. If you’re sensitive to that kind of insult, then don’t open yourself up like that.

Nevertheless, women who respond negatively are called offensive names like slut, whore, bitch, and so on. Men will then disparage their face, breast size, weight, hair color, skin, voice, and anything else they feel will leave an emotional scar. Rumors are spread about women online. Women are threatened with violence and rape.

These pathetic losers are called trolls for a reason. They earn it.

And make no mistake, this behavior and hatred of women didn’t start with a dick pic or a request for nudes. This anger and rage have been simmering and reaching a boil for a while.

None of this is harmless, including staying silent

As I said earlier, during my bachelor years, I was a good half of the math formula that equals a dick pic sending piece of shit. That is not a rare thing. It’s long been a common ground for losers like me.

Loser or not, sending a dick pic never entered my consciousness.

Of course, during my dating/dateless years, it wasn’t that challenging a task to avoid. Social media wasn’t a thing. Phones didn’t have the capabilities of today’s. If someone from my generation wanted to send a dick pic, they needed a Polaroid, a stamp, and a valid address. All of that contradicted the lazy part of the dick pic formula.

Truth be told, the trench coat spreading, look at my dick pervert was the precursor of today’s dick pic sender. Those twats are probably pissed at how easy it is to be a perverted asshole in today’s Internet-dominated world.

“You youngins have no idea how easy you have it. Try wearing a trench coat in the summer, you entitled pricks. Have you ever tried running away in a trench coat with a boner? Those are some brutal thigh bruises, motherfucker.”

All kidding aside, none of this is harmless fun.

Bombarding women with dick pics, asking for nudes, and then launching verbal assaults when they don’t respond with open legs is no joking matter. Behavior like that escalates to more abusive and violent actions.

Sexism is real. It’s vile, and it’s degrading to women. I realize that’s the point. But sexism and misogyny shouldn’t be brushed off and allowed without as much vitriol and anger thrown at the offenders as possible.

From men. Women are already doing that, and they should. So should we.

The philosophy of would we want some asshole sending nudes to the women in our lives is tired, obvious, and beyond the point. It’s disgusting behavior that deserves to be called out by all of us for no other reason than it is disgusting.

Men and our egos/dicks are enough of a punchline as it is. Sending dick pics, asking for nudes, and misogynistic behavior makes it that much worse for all of us.

If we take a moment to consider these things, women aren’t that mysterious. They don’t want to be treated like pieces of meat controlled by men. And if that is confusing, then women aren’t the problem.

Men are.

Thanks for reading.

Well, here we are for Part 2 of my summer saga, giving my thoughts and semi-reviews on various sports movies. As a lifelong sports fan, I have seen my fair share of sports-related flicks.

In Part 1, I started with movies about baseball and golf. Part Deux of this list gets physical with boxing and wrestling. Before we step into the ring, a few words of caution.

1. I’ve never much enjoyed either sport. My grandpa loved both when I was growing up, though he preferred wrestling because he thought it was funny as hell. Obviously, I’ve seen a few movies about both sports, but not many.

2. The movies I’m listing below are just a fraction of the movies available for either sport. If you want to shame me in the comments over omitting movies, go for it. (I already fucked up in Part 1 by leaving out Caddyshack from the golf section. None of you can come close to the scorching the Dalai Lama gave me. I’m not achieving “total consciousness” on my deathbed. Apparently, I’m fucked in this life and the next one. Tough break.)

Spoiler Alerts: I’ll be giving a quick synopsis of each movie. I may give out some info about a movie’s plot, characters, and/or ending. If you haven’t seen any of these and don’t want to know the ending, well, tough shit. I’m doing it anyway. You can keep reading or not. Your call.

Alright, that’s enough warming up. Let’s get ready to RUMBLE!

3. Boxing

Boxing was never a sport that interested me much. Two fighters step into a ring and beat each other senseless. Jerry Seinfeld thought fighters need to be pissed at each other for something before they start the fight. I agree.

Seinfeld mentions in his bit that they should drive around in little cars until they get in an accident. While that is cute and all, I think they should up the ante. What about a series of Your Mama jokes? Or they spend the week before the fight trolling each other with rude comments on social media?

Since boxing remains largely the same, my experience with movies in that realm is limited.

Diggstown (1992) — It’s a damn shame that James Woods has lost his mental faculties and has become a right-wing nutjob, because in his prime, the dude could act.

I’ve always enjoyed Diggstown. It’s a fun, smarmy movie about a con job tied to an improbable bet on a boxing match. Actually, ten bouts. In 24 hours.

Woods plays Gabriel Caine, a conman who, after being released from prison, immediately begins another con job with the help of his partner Fitz (Oliver Platt) and former fighter “Honey” Roy Palmer (Louis Gossett Jr.).

Bruce Dern shines as antagonist John Gillon, who was the manager of a boxer named Charles Macom Diggs. Secretly, Gillon doped Diggs so he would lose a title match. Gillon used the long odds to make it rich, while at the same time screwing over everyone in town who bet on their hero winning, meaning Gillon ends up owning nearly all of Diggstown.

Fitz sets up a contest where Palmer will fight — and defeat — ten local men in 24 hours. The entire movie is filled with cons on both sides, along with racism, death, greed, friendship, and betrayal.

The movie is tense, funny, and touching throughout.

Movies about conmen are always tense, funny, and educational (for those wanting a new career and then deciding we’re just not that smart).

Rocky movies (1976, 1979, 1982, 1985, 1990) — If I’m hitting up boxing movies, I have to throw a jab at least some of the Rocky flicks. Rocky started a firestorm of popularity that led to five movies in under 15 years. After a 16-year hiatus, the saga continued with Rocky Balboa (2006) and the three Creed (2015, 2018, 2023) movies, all of which I haven’t seen.

Rocky is a masterful movie showing how an underdog can rise to the top, fail, and still come out with support, love, and respect. This can still happen with the word Yo being a major part of your vocabulary. And a brutal left hook.

It’s inspirational, sweet, and exciting as hell.

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A Rocky training montage, with a young Stallone, catchy as hell theme music, beating up slabs of meat (it’s Gorditas are made), and rocking the grey sweats like an OG? Fuck and yes. (He does lose points for tucking his sweatshirt into his sweatpants. Who does that shit?)

Rocky II showed as good as an original could be; we can’t have the good guy lose in consecutive movies. It also showed it pays to listen to your cornerman, even when he tells you not to fight someone. (Looking at you, Apollo.) Of course, the movie would have been significantly shorter if he had.

It also has one of the best, end-of-fight, slow motion finales ever. It is edge of your seat, goosebumps on your arms, awesomeness.

Whenever someone in a movie tells a character to “Let it go,” he/she never does. No matter how wise the advice, it’s ignored. It’s one of the few realistic traits of Hollywood.

Rocky III showed the danger of getting too full of yourself and thinking some success means the next challenge will be easier. It also showed not to fuck with Mister T in his prime. Someone with that haircut and that amount of jewelry, wearing that scowl, and goes by the name Clubber Lang, is not someone you want to fuck with.

And then Rocky’s gravelly-voiced teddy bear trainer Mickey dies during the damn fight where Rocky gets his ass beat (or clubbed). So damn brutal.

Apollo comes to the rescue as Rocky’s new trainer. Not only does he totally change Rocky’s fighting style, we’re blessed with Survivor’s ear worm, “Eye of the Tiger.”

It also entertains with a great marriage confrontation between Adrian and Rocky, and an awkward as fuck celebration between Rocky and Apollo after a race on the beach.

Of course, the rematch between Rocky and Clubber Lang is pretty damn good, too.

Adrian puts Rocky in his place. After this discussion, I hope she talked to him about those socks.

Rocky IV showed just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you should coach it. Otherwise, your friend Apollo could be killed in the ring by a massive fucker with the sympathy of a republican.

On the positive side, we learned that carrying a heavy ass log through thigh-high snow looks fucking amazing in a montage, and can eventually lead to a fourth-grade level speech that brings two nations together.

Do we need another montage clip? Goddamn right, we do. Maybe the best one evah!

Rocky V showed that if four previous movies make enough money, a fifth will be made. It probably showed more than that, but I grew tired of the Italian Stallion and didn’t see it.

Gladiator (1992) — No, not the Russell Crowe “Are you not entertained?” Maximus glistening abs gore fest.

This underrated movie stars James Marshall as Tommy Riley, a tough high school kid with a dead mom and an absent father. Tommy arrives at a new school and quickly has to deal with bullies, gangs, and paying off his dad’s gambling debts in an underground boxing network.

Cuba Gooding Jr, stars as Lincoln Haines, a friend/opponent of Tommy. Brian Dennehy plays the antagonist, Jimmy Horn, leader of the boxing syndicate, along with his ruthless assistant Pappy Jack (Robert Loggia).

Tommy hooks up with a pretty waitress, sees his best friend get pummeled in the ring to the point of being brain dead, is forced to box Lincoln despite knowing a blow to the head could kill him, and fights Horn, who outweighs him by triple digits, barehanded, that either frees his father from debt and himself from boxing or he is Horn’s forever.

And to top shit off, the movie gave us a kickass track by Cheap Trick.

You can’t go wrong with a fighting and training montage with some young love thrown in, and of course, Cheap Trick.

Before we move on to wrestling, I’m aware I ignored Raging Bull and Million Dollar Baby. I haven’t seen either one. They are classics with nearly everyone saying they are amazing films; they probably are.

I’ve heard enough about both that I don’t want to see them, especially Million Dollar Baby. I have no desire to see Hillary Swank go down like that.

As I said at the beginning, I’m not going to include all the movies for each sport, especially with sports I care less about. Do with me what you will.

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4. Wrestling

I’ve never been a big fan of wrestling either. The writer in me does respect the drama and characterization that wrestling is known for. In the heyday of the 80s-90s, everyone knew wrestling was “fake,” even those who defended it to the core. Millions still tuned in to see what over-the-top shit would happen next.

The powers that be of wrestling must have had some fascinating behind-the-scenes meetings. Every week, there were protagonists and antagonists, each with their allied wrestlers and their fans. There were plot lines during and after every match with betrayals, revenge, and comebacks galore.

Wrestling was soap operas for dudes.

When I visited my grandpa, we would watch wrestling and laugh like hell. Hulk Hogan always cracked me the fuck up. The dude was dripped and ripped to the core. Yet, someone thought it was impressive for him to tear off a tank top that was already ripped and thin as one-ply toilet paper.

To his credit, no one could bulge his eyes while spitting/yelling into a microphone like Hulk Hogan. I wonder how many microphones were rusted out because of his spitting when he yelled and shook with fury.

Vision Quest (1985) — It’s been decades since I’ve seen this movie. Typically, when that happens, any memories I might have are blurry and incomplete. Vision Quest is a bit different for a few reasons.

I’ve always been a fan of Matthew Modine. He never overacted or seemed out of place in anything I saw him in. He seemed like an all-around good guy. I have no idea if that is true or not, but he gave me that vibe.

I’ve long thought Linda Fiorentino was underrated. She broke into Hollywood with this flick and Gotcha! (a favorite of mine growing up) in 1985. I always thought she should have been a bigger star than she was.

Modine plays Louden Swain, a high school senior and wrestler. He has a “vision quest” that he should drop two weight classes and take on the three-time state champion from a rival high school.

As most 18-year-olds with a fanciful idea, Louden refuses to listen to anyone telling him that losing that much weight is a terrible and dangerous decision for him and could hurt his team.

Fiorentino plays Carla, a traveller who ends up staying at Louden’s home. (Which interrupts Louden’s original vision quest for another one, if you catch my drift.)

This movie is fun, cliché in spots, and shows how a vision and hard work can lead to success (especially in a movie script). It was also filmed and set in Spokane, Washington, a town I know well.

Besides, when a movie’s music is credited to Tangerine Dream, you know it’s high quality as fuck.

I hope the actor playing the wrestling coach got a bonus for wearing that outfit. Jesus. (I love Louden yelling, “I love you, Carla,” to an empty house. Realistic high school love to the core.)

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Nacho Libre (2006) — There was a time when Jack Black could do no wrong. For dudes with dad bods, he was an inspiration. If that motherfucker could be successful, so could we.

Then he went and made Shallow Hal. I was pissed off enough at the commercials and previews to avoid it. I had higher hopes for Nacho Libre. While it does have its moments, it’s not a great movie by any stretch of the imagination.

Black plays Ignacio, a friar and cook for a Mexican monastery and orphanage. He struggles to provide decent meals for the children because of poor funding. Ignacio also dreams of being a wrestler which is forbidden by the monastery as a sin of vanity.

Ignacio finally has enough feeding poor quality meals to the orphans, and moonlights as a wrestler, hiding behind a mask. Ignacio drafts a street thief as his wrestling partner. They continually get their asses beat, but still earn a cut of the night’s profits, thus providing better food.

There is a sweetness to this movie, it has some laughs, and some awkwardness (natch). Overall, it’s fine(ish).

This pretty much sums up Nacho Libre.

Fighting With My Family (2019) — This is a fun ride full of laughs, action, and telling a true story to boot, with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson along for the ride as producer and a cameo.

Florence Pugh plays Saraya who is the daughter in an English family completely dedicated to wrestling. Both her parents (Lena Headey, Nick Frost) were wrestlers, as is her brother Zak (Jack Lowden).

The siblings try out for World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), where Saraya is chosen while her brother is not. Saraya takes the stage name of Paige.

She struggles without the support of her brother, as well as not fitting in with the other former models and cheerleaders, as well as being berated by the coach Hutch Morgan (Vince Vaughan being less of a dick than he normally is).

Paige quits, returns home, is scolded by her brother hard enough that she returns to the WWE for continued training. Paige improves, bonds with the other women, and earns a shot at the title belt in a climatic match. She also gets The Rock to call her disbelieving family.

Pugh is an excellent actor and makes Paige someone to root for. The fact that Paige was real and this is her story (modified for Hollywood, no doubt) is even cooler.

You think they only do montages for dudes in boxing movies? HA! Fuck that.

Warrior (2011) — This movie is mixed martial arts (MMA) instead of boxing or wrestling. I don’t give a shit because I love this movie.

Tom Hardy plays Tommy Riordan Conlon, a Marine with a personality conflict with just about anyone who isn’t a fellow Marine. He visits Paddy, his alcoholic father (Nick Nolte) back home in Pittsburgh.

Even though Paddy tries to tell Tommy that he’s sober and religious now, Tommy doesn’t care. After knocking out a famous boxer in a sparring match, and the recording going viral, Tommy has Paddy train him for an upcoming MMA tournament called Sparta, with a $5 million purse. He plans to give the money to the widow of a fellow Marine who was killed in the Middle East.

Tommy’s brother, Brendan (Joel Edgerton), is a high school teacher with a wife and two daughters. Brendan has major financial problems after his youngest daughter’s heart surgery. To make extra money, he fights at nights and weekends. When the school finds out, he’s suspended.

Brendan has been training with his friend, Frank. When the fighter Frank was going to send to Sparta is injured, Brendan convinces Frank to send him.

At Sparta, Tommy shocks everyone with fast, devastating victories. His refusal to be interviewed leads to more fascination, until it’s revealed he deserted his unit after his friend’s death. As Tommy left, he rescued another soldier who was drowning in a tank that was taking on water.

Brendan is outmuscled in every match, yet continues to win by getting his opponents into debilitating holds and vices leading to submissions.

Side note: That the ref at the start of every match, in an event called Sparta, claps his hands and says, “Let’s go to war!” is beyond awesome. I’ve long had the urge to say that when I have to give a standardized test to my students.

Brendan and Tommy meet in the final. Since they both used different last names, (Tommy uses their deceased mom’s maiden name) no one realizes they are brothers until their final match is about to begin.

Their match is brutal, touching, and engrossing as fuck.

Do not — repeat, do NOT — piss off Tommy Riordan. “Let’s go to war,” indeed.

This feels like a good place to end Part 2. While you’re waiting for Part 3 (this isn’t Netflix, people, you don’t get to binge this shit), get some sun, moisturize before you peel, and maybe take in The Odyssey. My wife and girls saw it recently and loved it.

See you next time.

Thanks for reading.

I’ve spent the last 23 years of my life being a girl dad. I’ve been a husband for nearly 25 years. I consider both to be the most important jobs I could ever have.

As the father of four daughters, I’ve long been praised. While such positive attention from others is appreciated, it’s also somewhat misguided. Most of the praise from strangers was based on sympathy and the uniqueness of our family.

Having four kids is unusual in this day and age. Having four girls, even more so. But having four girls doesn’t mean I’m a good father. Just because I’m “outnumbered” doesn’t mean I’m upset about it or should earn sympathy. To be clear, I do consider myself a good girl dad. My wife is an amazing girl mom.

Girl mom doesn’t seem to be a thing, though, does it?

I haven’t seen that hashtag, or any other parent hashtag, for that matter. Granted, that could be due at least partially to my algorithm.

Being a feminist, I see mostly feminist-themed posts and videos online. Which is fine; the algorithm is doing its job in that respect. But I am under no illusion that what I read, watch, and witness in my narrow window of the Internet is all there is worth noticing.

As a girl dad, there is video after inspirational video of the impact good parents could/should have on their daughters. It’s validating and powerful and so goddamn important.

As nice as that is, it’s an incomplete puzzle.

My biggest fear for my daughters is other men

Just like any other parent of daughters — and women in general — the most prevalent fear I have for my girls’ safety is men.

This fear is nothing new. My wife loves to recall the first sentence I uttered when I held our firstborn in my arms in the delivery room, “Now, we have to keep her alive.”

Part of that statement was due to being petrified first-time parents with a brand new, helpless infant to take care of. Another part of that fear was knowing that sooner or later, a man could come along to cause pain that I couldn’t protect her from.

I felt the same concern and fear after each of our girls was born. That concern, that pit in your stomach, that raised hair on the back of your neck never truly leaves a parent, no matter how old their children get.

Our girls’ ages currently range from 16 to 23. That is prime territory for being harmed by men one way or another. They’ll be in that range for the foreseeable future, which is scary as hell for all of us.

All four have endured unwanted attention, harassment, and mistreatment from men. All four have friends who have dealt with the same intentional behavior or worse.

One daughter spent months babysitting two young sons of a cousin of mine. When their arrangement came to an end, my cousin’s wife gave our daughter a gift that was both amazing and terrifying.

It was a pink bedazzled keychain complete with taser, flashlight, siren, and pepper spray attached. The terrifying part is that such a gift is needed.

Our third daughter will be attending college six hours away starting in September. You can bet your ass we’re getting her the same keychain. In a different color, obviously. A girl’s individuality is vital.

So is her safety.

That includes physical, mental, and emotional safety. Yes, my girls can be hurt by more than just men. Life is like that. Any one of us can get sucker punched at any time by anyone or anything.

All of that being said, nothing scares me more for my girls’ overall safety than men. And nothing angers me more than having to type that last fucking sentence and know that it’s true.

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Why are girl dads praised? Because we’re needed

As I said earlier, I’ve been praised for the last 23 years for being a girl dad. While I appreciate the warm fuzzies, my wife deserves the same, if not more, praise than I do.

My wife is just as dedicated as a parent as I am. She loves them as I do. She would lie in traffic right next to me to save any one of them.

My wife also had the pressure of being the mom of girls because if someone has a negative reaction to a girl’s wardrobe, behavior, or attitude, the mom usually bears the brunt of any negative blowback. (This negative feedback is often from other women, by the way. But that is a topic for another day.)

Since my wife is an amazing parent, why am I (and other girl dads) hashtagged all over social media, while girl moms are not? The answer is simple and aggravating: We’re needed to show our girls how men are supposed to treat women, meaning our wives as well as our daughters.

That is the power behind #GirlDad. We’re showing our daughters — by example — how they should be treated by men.

Why is it only us, though? What about other men?

What about boy dads?

Where is #BoyDad?

One of the biggest feminist battle cries is how women are always blamed, shamed, ignored, pressured, et al, when men cross the line.

• Women are questioned and shamed after being assaulted by men for what they were wearing. In fact, that is the only crime where victims are questioned about their wardrobe.

• Women are blamed for drinking alcohol, even though men are the ones drugging their drinks. This is done despite men being known for horrendous behavior, violence, and decision-making after consuming alcohol.

• Women are shamed for what they wear at the gym, at work, at school, on dates, for distracting men as if we can’t be expected to control ourselves otherwise.

• Women are instructed not to jog or run alone, or at night, or with music in both ears, etc because men could attack them and women must be ready to defend themselves from men.

And so on.

More pressure is on women to protect themselves from men than there is for men to respect women. As an extension, girl dads are hashtagged/pressured into teaching our daughters how men should treat them.

For the record, I would do that whether #GirlDad was a thing or not. I would do the same thing if I had sons. Which brings up a vital question.

Why is there no similar pressure/praise/hashtags for boy dads to do the same with their sons?

Feminists have been yelling this to the heavens for years. Instead of blaming and shaming women, sons should be raised to respect women.

Racism, sexism, hatred, and cruelty are behaviors learned from their parents. The same applies to love, acceptance, sympathy, empathy, and respect.

So if girl dads are praised for raising their daughters to know how men should treat women, why aren’t boy dads praised for doing the same thing?

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Boy dads have to earn the hashtag

There is more to being a boy dad than just a father having a son. Just being a father of a daughter doesn’t earn the hashtag either. It works the same for any parent.

Hashtags have to be earned.

Being a mother or a father is different than just being a parent. Being a mother or a father means getting your hands dirty. It means preparing your son or daughter for the future, even when that future is scary as hell.

Children learn what they are taught at home. They practice and parrot what is preached to them until they find out for themselves if they agree or disagree.

#GirlDads show their girls what not to accept from men as well as what to accept. #BoyDads need to do the same with their sons. So do moms of girls and boys.

Women do not owe men a goddamn thing.

Just being a man doesn’t mean you’re better, stronger, smarter, talented, or deserve anything more than women. Being a man means you were born with a dick and girls are born with a vagina.

The more parents who teach that to their children, the greater the impact will be. But none of that is easy or quick. Not yet.

Male stereotypes keep fucking us over

When I was a kid, there was protocol to playing games with other kids. If a game was already in play, it was bad form to ask to join. Teams were set, points had been scored, the groove was in motion. You had to wait until the game was over to get your chance to play.

That is the biggest detriment to #BoyDad being a thing.

Too many other games are still in play, with too many dominant players on the wrong side.

• There’s the Boys Will Be Boys team. I’ve written about my disdain for that bullshit before, so I won’t rehash it here.

• We also have the despicable Bro Club. Same hatred, another article.

• Then there is the veteran team packed with parents and grandparents of multiple generations. The stereotypical way so many men were raised to show dominance, strength, power, while never crying or any other kind of perceived weakness, while praising or excusing anger and rage.

Those are just three of the formidable opponents we’re up against. That doesn’t even include the patriarchy, where the percentage of men (especially white men) who are in positions of leadership and power compared to women.

It seems like the very idea of being respectful to women is paramount to men showing weakness.

Fighting a tough battle is better than not fighting at all

Fighting back against that kind of ingrained philosophy and belief is no easy task. Neither is being a parent. Neither is being a woman. Neither is being a feminist man. Neither is being alive.

None of that means that we shouldn’t try.

Not trying = wondering what if 100 percent of the time.

Not trying = uncertainty 100 percent of the time.

Not trying = not winning 100 percent of the time.

Not trying isn’t in my DNA. It’s not in my daughters’ DNA. I would venture it’s not in most people’s family tree.

In the end, it comes down to priorities. It comes down to effort. It comes down to the volume at which we yell and act and how often we do both. In our social media-dominated world, anything can become a hashtag movement.

I spent much of the last year marveling at the massive popularity of six-seven. Every year, we’re bombarded with a myriad of TikTok trends. If those movements can catch fire, imagine what could happen if #BoyDad became a thing.

Granted, it’s easier for trends with the moral weight of lemon meringue to catch fire because, in the end, the success or failure of them doesn’t make an impact on our lives overall.

On the flip side, look at how people united in and with Minnesota this winter, the constant protesting against ICE, and rising to bring attention and demands for justice to various murder and assault cases.

Women are half the population. We’re here because women birthed us. Despite their importance, the system and too much of our society are slanted against them.

It will take more than girl dads to turn this tide. We need boy dads to step up in the same way. We need girl and boy moms to get their due.

We need more. From all of us.

It stands to reason that if the treatment of women by men is important enough to shout out girl dads, we should also focus attention on boy dads for the same reason.

Maybe we could get to the point that no hashtags will be needed for any of us.

That would mean we didn’t create a hashtag trend; we made a systemic change.

Thanks for reading.

Being a parent — at least a dedicated one — is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for someone without stamina. In fact, parenthood is the ultimate example of needing to read the fine print very carefully before signing on the dotted line. Here are just a few examples of why that is important advice.

• Every other job has hours you work and hours you don’t

• Every other job has days off and management to complain to when you feel you’ve been disrespected or mistreated

• Every other job has expectations and guidelines to follow, along with a list of Don’t Fucking Do This

• Every other job pays you

• Every other job is a thing you can eventually retire from

As crazy as that (incomplete) list is, most people who agree to the whole parenting gig don’t stick to doing it just once. They sign up for the same obstacle course again, and possibly more.

A big problem with the whole parent thing is when you’re, uh, applying for the position, you’re not exactly thinking clearly or with the correct head. Despite the job’s drawbacks listed above, there isn’t a more enjoyable interview process.

Interviewees’ results may vary. Male applicants can finish the interview rather quickly, leave the interviewer quite disappointed, and still get the job. Some candidates apply fervently, and it doesn’t happen. Some are all about the interview and prefer to ghost the interviewer later, out of fear of getting the job (or anything else for that matter). Others can even apply by accident and still be hired.

What can I say? It’s a flawed system.

There are other red flags. Once you’ve been hired and you’re officially a parent, you are hired for the long ass haul — unless you’re a poser coward who quits the job. (Abandoning your children is a topic for another day.) The point is, once this job begins, you never clock out, and you’re always on call.

Frank Buckman — played by Jason Robards — in the classic movie Parenthood (1989) says it well. (In fact, the scene is epic for a few reasons. It’s funny, sweet, and dead-on-balls accurate. Parenting never stops. It shrinks, expands, and adapts. But it doesn’t end.)

“It’s not like that all ends when you’re 18 or 21 or 41 or 61. It never, never ends. It’s like your Aunt Edna’s ass. It goes on forever, and it’s just as frightening. There is no end zone. You never cross the goal line, spike the ball, and do your touchdown dance. Never. I’m 64. Larry’s 27. And he’s STILL my son.”

It can be easy to forget that Frank Buckman was a shitty father and an asshole husband, and even he still nails the concept of being a parent. The thing is, understanding that parenting never ends doesn’t really mean jack shit if you’re not willing to step up and follow through.

So off we go with the long game.

There Is No Finish Line

Parents of newborns, toddlers, and school-age kids try to imagine their kids as teenagers, as young adults going off to college, and as functional grownups getting jobs, moving out, getting married, and having children of their own.

That line of thinking is inevitable, but in my experience, it also tends to be fleeting. It’s like thinking of the finish line five miles into a marathon. You have a longer way to go than you can comprehend, and there is some serious distance before you get there.

Which, again, you never quite do.

Being a parent is not like running a marathon. It’s not even an ultra-marathon or any other race you can think of. Until you’re dead and gone, no finish line exists for parents. And even then, haunting our kids from the great beyond should be a viable option.

To some parents whose kids have yet to reach adulthood, it can be upsetting to think there’s no clear-cut end to our labors.

Wait. What? They will move out eventually, right? They’ll have their own lives, won’t they? I’ll be off duty then, right?

Yes. Yes. And, no.

We become the savvy veteran of a sports team who never seems to retire, is always around, gives advice here and there, and every once in a while steps in to save the day. Still on call; just not the first option like we were.

Security blankets from childhood fade, become frayed and thin — and hopefully so do we. But we’re still there in a pinch.

That’s it. That’s our role. And I can think of worse things to be.

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18-Year-Olds Are The Worst Adults Ever

There are people out there who will disagree and say that parenting does have a finish line. They think that a parent’s job is to get their kid to adulthood alive and well. From that point on, you’re on your own, kid.

The first perceived finish line is when a kid hits eighteen. After all, legally, children are adults at that point.

To that, I say, “HA! That’s three years from legally drinking alcohol.”

Adult, my ass. I’ve met 18-year-olds I wouldn’t trust to water a plant, let alone make an adult decision. At that age, they have a rotation of priorities that include sex, food, money, sleep, friends, and sex. Just like us at that age.

What really changes at eighteen besides being able to work longer hours because child labor laws are no longer binding? You can vote at eighteen and serve on a jury. You can go to actual jail instead of juvie.

At 18, you can feel like an adult.

Until shit hits the fan one way or another, and you have no fucking idea what to do about it.

Except call your parents.

I’ve never understood parents who kick their kids out of the house because they’re 18 and a legal adult. So are the parents. They know damn good and well their kid doesn’t know what they don’t know. And that lack of knowledge can be a throat punch on a good day. Even if the kid doesn’t understand that fact, parents should.

There are always counterpunches.

• “What if my kid wants to leave at 18?” Wanting to do something and having the means to do so are very different things. They may want to leave. But I’m guessing learning the phrases ‘first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit,’ ‘reference checks,’ and ‘credit score’ may dampen their independence streak just a bit.

• “But I can’t afford for my kid to live with me.” Uh huh. If the parent can’t afford it, how can their kid afford to live on their own? Instead of staking out into the world, maybe your “adult” can help with groceries, gas money, insurance, or whatever else. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

• “My kid is annoying as fuck right now.” ‘Course they are. 18-year-olds are assholes. Assholery is largely the point of being eighteen. It’s also a frustrating time for them. They feel like an adult; they’re young, spry, and energetic as fuck. But they’re still stuck at home. That’s aggravating. For everyone.

We were the same way back then.

In any case, when your kid does move out — at eighteen or later — it doesn’t much matter. They will still text you and probably even call you.

Count on it.

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Your Kids Will Always Need You

Our four daughters are 23, 20, 18, and 16. Those are four different stages of needing (and wanting) parental support. It’s never easy, cheap, or boring — ever.

Our sixteen-year-old just got her driver’s license. She works at our Taekwondo school, helping teach classes. She’s living at home. She is sweet, sympathetic, friendly, and needs us for just about everything. Natch. At this point, she hasn’t been infected with the independence bug yet.

Our eighteen-year-old just graduated and will be a freshman in college in September. She wants to major in Criminal Justice and eventually become an FBI profiler. She is smart, passionate, fiery, and loves to talk to the point I’ve long believed she has three lungs.

The latter daughter has worked at Dairy Queen for more than two years and is earning solid money. Despite that independence, she still needs us. She pays for her own gas and occasional personal items and treats. We pay for everything else, including her upcoming college education.

Our twenty-year-old will be a junior in college as an art major. She gets to spend next January across the Pond, in Oxford, with a small group of art students and a professor. She is quiet, creative as hell, has the best laugh in the world, and works intermittently at a nearby casino. She is a massive introvert with a brutal RBF that could make Lucifer apologize. Ironically, she has less money than her younger sister. She is also a wicked tightwad and relies on us a ton, although she hates to admit it.

Our oldest is a college graduate and is eloping in late July. She lives five hours away in (barely) controlled chaos with her fiancé, two other adult roommates, a five-year-old boy, and two dogs. She just started her dream job as the director of social media for a minor league hockey team. She is smart, driven, responsible, and swears like a sailor. (Appropriately, she’s marrying one.)

Despite being “on her own” for over a year, even our eldest daughter still needs us. I cosigned on the house they’re renting. She FaceTimes us consistently for anything from just checking in, soliciting feedback on wedding ideas, needing advice for something, to wanting to vent about some dumbass thing her man did or said (while ignoring her own dumbassery). We’ll help pay for her wedding next summer.

Now and in the future, we’re happy to provide support for all four of them. No, we are not rich. We’re teachers, for fuck’s sake.

Yes, our girls drive us crazy and do shit that makes us shake our heads to the point we could end up with concussions. But helping them to the best of our ability is right there in the parental fine print.

Not being done is better than the alternative

I just finished my 26th year of teaching middle school. I’m 54 years old. I’ve been asked countless times when I’ll retire. I would love to have an actual answer with a target age, but I don’t.

For the next four years, we will have two daughters going to college. From the elopement this July to the larger wedding next July, there’s plenty of financial need to be had. And who knows what will happen in that regard with our other three girls? Maybe they will marry or become partnered; maybe they won’t. Maybe it’ll be a split.

Either way, we are under no illusion that we’re “done.” We don’t want to be. I’ve seen what complete parental disengagement looks like. Being an active guardian is not for the weak, but neither is being an inactive one. It seems to me that would be worse. We’ve all seen older parents complain that they never hear from their children or grandchildren.

I am far from perfect at anything, fatherhood included. I have fucked up countless times and will likely continue to do so. For the most part, I own my fuck ups. (I’m usually to blame anyway.)

We remind our daughters not to be afraid of mistakes, own them when they happen, and learn from them. Otherwise, you’ll end up an asshole that nobody likes except for other assholes.

Parenting is one of those things that everyone says that they know it will change their lives. But no one knows a damn thing until you become one. You can’t. No one’s imagination is that deep or accurate. It can’t be.

It may have been impossible to foresee the depths, lengths, fears, joys, and perils of parenting, but now we get it. We’re still getting it. Hopefully, we’ll see our kids become parents and watch them power through like we have.

And if we’re really lucky, they will call to ask us things like, “I was never this bad, was I?” and “I am so sorry! How the fuck did you make it through that with us?”

That would be worth a touchdown dance for sure.

Thanks for reading.

I’ve loved sports for as long as I can remember. I played various sports my entire childhood and throughout high school. While I was decent at nearly every sport I tried, I was never great, special, or talented at any of them.

I was always coachable, loved going to practice, and would give all I had every practice and game. It’s just how I’m wired.

All of that being said, I love to watch sports, too. It drives my family crazy at times. They are mystified by how I can enjoy watching tennis. It’s a fair point. I feel the same way about people who watch golf and auto racing.

What can I say? We like what we like. I can say the same thing about sports movies. There are so, so many of them. Like everything in life, some are good, some are not.

With that in mind, I’ve compiled a list. Actually, a few lists. Since there are so many sports movies, I’m splitting this up into different parts, grouped by individual sports.

Spoiler Alerts: I’ll be giving a quick synopsis of each movie. I may give out some info about a movie’s plot, characters, and/or ending. If you haven’t seen any of these and don’t want to know the ending, well, tough shit. I’m doing it anyway. You can keep reading or not. Your call.

Let’s get the game started with baseball and golf for no other reason than those are summer sports. And while there are a shit ton of baseball movies, there are fewer about golf. (Shocking, I know.)

There is also the bonus that we can plow through all of Kevin Costner’s sports movies in Part 1.

Alright, let’s get going with the top of the first inning…

1. Baseball

Growing up, I kept hearing how baseball was America’s pastime. I never agreed with that, largely because it’s always been the sport I was the worst at. (If I don’t count golf, and I don’t.) And even though I am a dude, there is just way too much spitting and crotch grabbing going on in baseball.

Still, baseball does have its moments and movies. Speaking of which, let’s play ball!

Bull Durham (1988) — This classic about minor league baseball is considered by many to be the best and most realistic(ish) baseball movie ever. It’s not without reason. It’s hilarious, raw, sweet, with a stellar cast.

Kevin Costner is perfect as Crash, a savvy veteran catcher forced to take a spoiled, yet talented “boy,” Nuke (Tim Robbins), under his wing and get him to the Big Leagues, knowing it will be at his expense. He does this while crushing on Annie (Susan Sarandon), who is also tutoring Nuke, though with an entirely different, uh, curriculum.

It’s a nearly perfect sports movie, as the scene below shows.

Epic mound scene from Bull Durham. “We’re dealing with a lot of shit” is one of the most perfect lines ever.

Field of Dreams (1989) — Another classic Kevin Costner baseball movie, though not nearly as realistic (or horny) as Bull Durham. Instead, it’s known for its fantasy content with legendary baseball ghosts like “Shoeless” Joe Jackson coming back to play in Iowa, after Costner’s plows under a large swatch of his valuable farmland to build a baseball field without understanding why.

Field of Dreams is fun, light, sad, and sweet. Its famous line “If you build it, they will come” has lasted far longer than most thought possible and made Iowa look like an interesting place to visit.

The final scene of Costner playing catch with ghost dad gets me every fucking time. Combine that with James Earl Jones as a famous writer with a don’t fuck with me attitude, and you get an epic feel-good sports movie.

“Hey, Dad, you wanna have a catch?” Goddammit, that gets me every time.

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A League of Their Own (1992) — Not surprisingly, this is an Uppendahl family favorite. My daughters love this film; so do I. Without Penny Marshall’s film, it’s safe to say very few of us would know that there was a professional girls’ baseball league during WWII.

This is another movie with a stunningly good cast, led by Geena Davis, Tom Hanks, Lori Petty (who always annoys me), Rosie O’Donnell, Madonna, and a hilariously inappropriate Jon Lovitz.

I have no idea how historically accurate this movie is, but it’s fun, enjoyable, and shows how women should be valued far more than they are in the sports world and beyond.

It also shows the impact of women’s sports being ignored by audiences, then when they become popular, rich white men wanting to shut them down, and while dealing with perils of real life.

Dottie is a badass. (And no one plays a sarcastic asshole better than Jon Lovitz.)

The Sandlot (1993) — I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t like, if not love, this movie.

An awkward kid with a mom and a new stepdad moves to a new neighborhood and finds himself being the ninth player on a neighborhood baseball team.

Unfortunately, the dude knows jack shit about the sport and has even less talent. Through some hazing and guidance from the team’s best player, he improves his life in just about every way.

As a bonus, the movie gives us one of the best lines ever: “You’re killing me, Smalls.” Have I used that line countless times with my students and my daughters?

Fuck and yes.

This kid’s parents needed to be turned in to CPS. Who doesn’t know what a S’more is? Poor fucker.

The Natural (1984) — There have been plenty of books written about baseball, including this one. Everyone knows that when a movie is made from a book, decisions have to be made regarding casting and how true to the story to remain.

The powers that be behind this movie made some gutsy calls for sure.

Robert Redford plays Roy Hobbs, which was fine. What wasn’t the best choice was having Redford play Hobbs at various ages in the movie. The dude was nearly fifty when the movie was filmed. They made the same dubious decision with his love interest, played by Glenn Close. Seeing Close and Redford as supposed 19-year-olds and then meeting again two decades later was unintentional comedy at its best.

In the book, Hobbs is a greedy, selfish asshole who accepts a bribe to throw the big game to lose the pennant. During the game, he decides to fuck over the owner (who bribed him), only to strike out to lose the game. He ends up in tears, with a ruined life. (A heartbroken boy yells when hearing he may have thrown the game, “Say it ain’t so, Roy.”)

In the movie, Hollywood said fuck that depressing shit and went polar opposite. Hobbs is soft-spoken, nice to all, and does not accept the bribe. He ends the game with a massive home run that shatters the lights outside the stadium.

The movie closes with him playing catch in a cornfield with the son he never knew he had from his long-lost love.

A young and ever-so-dashing Roy Hobbs strikes out the Whammer. (In case you’re wondering, no CGI was used to make Redford look 19.)

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Major League (1989) — Let’s get to some comedy. Major League has that with the classic nobodies/down and out players come together to defeat the greedy, heartless owner.

The antagonist is the wife of the recently deceased team owner who wants to move the team to Miami. But to do so, her team must suck even more than they normally do, so she can exploit a loophole to make the move happen.

Tom Berenger, Charlie Sheen, Weslie Snipes, and Corbin Bernsen are all players on the Indians team who were brought together to be terrible. Rene Russo taps in as Berenger’s long-lost love interest who is engaged to another (natch).

Of course, the team finds out about the plan and decides the only way to avoid losing their jobs is to “win the whole fucking thing.”

Guess what happens.

How do you know a team owner is evil? They hate Wild Thing. The audacity.

Moneyball (2011) — I love this movie. Part of my positive vibes for this flick is that the Oakland A’s were my favorite team growing up. I was a fervent fan for decades. I cheered for them during the tightwad years, which Moneyball is based on (also from a book).

Brad Pitt stars as actual General Manager Billy Beane and his efforts to change how baseball was viewed to field a competitive team while being massively overspent by opposing teams.

There are inaccuracies in this film compared to the book (and real life). It’s still a fun ride and somehow makes the front office business of baseball interesting.

Changing the game with a new philosophy. “Guys, check your reports, or I’m going to point at Pete.” Front office baseball at its finest.

For Love of the Game (1999) — I’m wrapping up the baseball section of this list with Kevin Costner’s third (and worst) baseball movie.

This isn’t a terrible film, but it’s not a great one either, especially because as an English teacher, I find the name of the movie annoying. It feels awkward as fuck, like a sentence fragment I would bitch to my students about. It should be For THE Love of the Game, goddammit.

Moving on, Costner plays 19-year veteran Detroit Tigers pitcher Billy Chapel. Just before his final game of the season against the hated Yankees, he’s told by the owner of the Tigers that he has sold the team. The new owners will be trading Chapel after the season. Or he can retire.

Throughout the game, as Chapel is pitching, prior events of his life are told via flashbacks. Basically, Chapel is a standard, talented, egotistical professional athlete who sleeps with a gorgeous blonde (Kelly Preston), who becomes his on-again, off-again girlfriend.

As the game progresses, with the help of his loyal catcher (John C. Reilly) and stellar defense from his last-place team, Chapel pitches a perfect game. In Yankee Stadium.

He then signs a ball for the departing Tigers owner/father figure, saying he is retiring, “For love of the game.” Sigh. That night in the hotel room, when he should be on top of the world, Chapel breaks down, realizing that for the first time, the Game isn’t enough.

He goes to the airport to catch up with his now ex-girlfriend, who was headed overseas for a new job. He finds her at the airport after she stayed an extra night to watch his game. He laments his treatment of her and not giving her the same energy he gave to baseball. In a stunning move, they reconcile.

If John C. Reilly doesn’t get you jazzed up, no one can. “We’re going to be awesome for you right now.”

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2. Golf

Let’s end today’s Part 1 with the one sport I am the absolute worst at.

I’ve had the misfortune of playing golf a few times here and there. It’s always amusing to me and anyone who isn’t ducking or cares deeply about innocent nearby wildlife. (I nearly killed a rabbit when I launched a screaming ground ball into some bushes, years ago. That little fucker — and his 72 siblings — was pissed.)

That golf is such a popular sport on television is a mystery. It’s like the sports version of tryctophan. Even the fucking announcers have to whisper. And there’s the infamous golf clap because normal clapping is just so distracting.

Whatever, let’s dice up the final two films for today.

Tin Cup (1996) — Let’s keep the Kevin Costner sports movies flowing. It’s safe to say that this movie is far different than his other movies. Costner plays Roy “Tin Cup” McAvoy, who is a much different character than he played in the other sports flicks.

Roy is a stud on the golf course, but a moron in many ways in his everyday life (as well as occasionally on the golf course). He lives in a trailer just off the run-down golf course he runs in Texas.

The fun cast is rounded out with the underrated Cheech Marin as Roy’s caddy and long-suffering BFF, Romeo. Rene Russo plays Molly Griswold, a psychologist who wants Roy to teach her golf to impress her golfing pro boyfriend, David Simms (played with slimy perfection by Don Johnson).

Of course, Simms and Roy have a history on the golf course. Simms is a successful pro by playing safe and steady, something Roy can never do. After trading turns humiliating the other, Roy decides to go for the U.S. Open Golf Tournament to show Simms up once and for all.

After an awful score on Day 1, Molly helps him show up Simms in the bar, which leads to Molly and Roy hooking up in a motor home while Romeo waits outside in a rainstorm. On Day 2, Roy shoots a historic score, which leads to an epic showdown (natch) for the final round.

Roy goes for the high-risk, high-reward shot, even though playing it safe could mean a win. And juuuusssstttt misses. He proceeds to lose his shit, giving the golf announcers and the entire crowd angina while he repeatedly goes for the shot and keeps missing. Until his final ball dictates that he gets disqualified with another miss, or he’s successful.

He makes a stunning shot, loses his chance at the title, but gains a shot that will live in infamy. And he gets to leave with Rene Russo. Seems like a win to me.

There’s no golf claps in this scene, bitches.

Happy Gilmore (1996) — Let’s wrap things up with an awesome movie about how I wish golf were really played.

Happy Gilmore is my golf spirit animal. He refuses to wear typical golf clothing, loves to swear, throw clubs, and loses a fight to Bob Barker on live television.

Happy joins the golf tour after realizing he can hit the ball like a motherfucker. He sole goal is to earn enough money to buy back his grandma’s home before it’s sold at auction to pay for back taxes. (Damn republicans.)

Christopher McDonald plays antagonist asshole, Shooter McGavin, to perfection. Shooter hates that Happy doesn’t play golf the traditional way and is insanely popular. (To be fair, it would be challenging to putt with a pair fat bikers having sex in plain sight. That is not the kind of hole in one Shooter was going for, though it might help is anger issue if he did.)

Julie Bowen plays Happy’s love interest. Carl Weathers plays Chubbs, a former professional golfer who lost his hand to a rogue alligator, takes Happy under his wing.

Of course, Happy is about to lose it all before he storms back to beat Shooter, win his grandma’s house, and sees the ghost of Chubbs (and, of course, Abraham Lincoln) smiling down.

In other words, a total cliche ending.

This has got to be the wet dream of every game show host ever.

And, that’s a wrap for Part 1 of my sports movie wrap up, or whatever the hell this is. Until next time, fuckers, enjoy your summer. And be sure to wait with baited breath for Part 2 (and beyond) coming soon.

Thanks for reading.

Being a writer and an ELA teacher means I love words. They have the power to heal, to lift, to empower, to support, and inspire. They can also do the opposite.

There is a belief that because a phrase is used often or has been around a while, it’s true or wise or we should use it often.

It’s not surprising, really.

We do the same thing with clothing, movies, television, and it seems to be a major motive behind social media.

I’m used to that shit, though. Fads are fads for a reason. Everyone wants to be accepted and thought to be cool. Everyone wants to be in the know. Or at least feel that we are. It’s even better if others agree.

One of our bad habits is succumbing to wanting to be accepted by saying or doing shit we don’t agree with. Or maybe we’re too lazy and repeat what others say and do because it’s in our short-term memory box.

I don’t give a shit either way.

Due to my love of words, I take exception to various phrases becoming accepted as truth just because they’re used commonly.

Here are 10 of them that drive me crazy.

1. Fake news

Let’s get the one political phrase on this list out of the way.

Yes, there is fake news out there. In the world of social media and with actual media companies being owned by billionaires who decide what is and is not aired, too much news is misleading, biased, or, yes, fake.

I have two problems with the term Fake News.

1. It was coined by the most vile fucker on the planet, who couldn’t tell the truth if his orange peel dick depended on it. Anything that dude says or does is poison. Since I try to avoid poison, I do the same with that phrase.

2. The term was used not to describe news that was actually false, but news a certain mango fuck didn’t like. News flash, dude, there is such a thing as bad news. Sometimes, it’s even bad news about you. That doesn’t mean it’s fake, especially when it’s about someone who does crooked shit.

Anytime I hear that damn phrase, it causes me to grimace and makes my bile rise.

Let’s move on while I still can.

2. Don’t hate the player, hate the game

This is a phrase that infuriates me on a few different levels.

I don’t like being told what to do by people I consider to be assholes. I have yet to hear a non-asshole say this phrase. Typically, it’s a white, entitled dude who is desperate to rationalize anything he says and does.

Being a feminist, I find this phrase to be incredibly sexist. It’s usually used by some prick who is fucking over women and trying to escape accountability.

I also find this phrase insulting to my work ethic and extremely limiting to my abilities to deal with misogynistic pricks.

Allow me to give some free advice: Telling anyone from Generation X who they can and cannot hate is bad juju. You better be wearing track shoes, have downed some Gatorade, and be limber as fuck, because we will track your ass down and fuck you up.

As a teacher and parent of four children, I can multitask like a motherfucker. Hating a player and their game are two things. In other words, it is the bare minimum of multitasking. Trust me, I can do both tasks efficiently.

One reason I hate the player is because they’re choosing to play a game I despise. And, by the way, fucking over someone’s confidence, safety, and life is not a fucking game.

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3. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade

This may be somewhat surprising to some, but I tend to be a positive person. (And if you don’t believe me, you can fuck off.)

Whether I’m positive or not, I don’t like nonsensical bullshit. The saying, if life gives you lemons, make lemonade is a perfect example.

When (not if) life gives me lemons, I have a select few choices in which I can respond to said citrus fruit.

Yes, lemonade is an option. While I don’t mind lemonade, it’s not exactly going to raise my spirits the way the saying implies.

I’d rather slice one up and put the slices into bottles of Corona because that will lift my spirits significantly.

Ideally, I would just throw the lemons back at the fucker who gave them to me in the first place. Sadly, that is rarely an option.

Until it is, I’ll keep living “miles away from ordinary” with my Corona and lemon.

4. Red-blooded American

Here is an another example of nonsensical bullshit that annoys the hell out of me. The term red-blooded American is meant to show extreme patriotism.

Uh huh. Whatever.

Listen to me closely, people, all Americans are red-blooded. (So are all Belgians, Australians, Irish, Asians, Arabs, Hispanics, Africans, Canadians, and so on.) It’s basic science. I realize science and common sense are not high on the priority list of people who actually use this phrase, but it is on mine.

If you’re not red-blooded, being patriotic is the least of your problems. You may be an alien life form. That would answer a few questions I have about some who proudly claim to be red-blooded Americans.

On the flip side, that would contradict the belief that extraterrestrials are more intelligent than we are.

It’s more likely that this nonsensical phrase is more bullshit from people who try to come up with ways to make themselves feel superior to others, while showing everyone else they’re the opposite.

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5. We’re in God’s country

I really don’t like this phrase because I’ve seen it used two different ways, and they both seem insulting.

People have used the term God’s country to mean that the land in question is special because it was made by the Big Man himself. Uh, if you believe in that (and more power to you, if you do), didn’t He create this entire planet? Isn’t that more “proof” of His greatness? It’s also insinuating that other land is not as good because God didn’t make it. Which, again, feels contradictory to me.

I’ve also seen it used as an insult. Someone is out camping or something and is pissed at the lack of technology, restaurants, or Cannabis shops. “Yeah, I’ll be out in God’s country all weekend. I am not happy about it.”

To me, that seems like someone is saying that God’s country is basically being out in nature. Uh, my dude, everything was like that until humans started building shit everywhere. If you don’t want to go there, then don’t. But insulting nature by calling it God’s country feels a bit risky and immature to me.

Angering God never seems to work out well for anyone.

6. No offense, but…

This one irritates me immediately. No one wants to hear this because whatever that person is about to say next is not something that is going to be easy on the ears.

No one says, “No offense, but you are the smartest and sexiest person I’ve ever met.”

Instead, they will drop something that the person speaking expects to be offensive to you. The person is trying to diffuse the situation by adding three words, “No offense, but…”

Newsflash: That doesn’t fucking work.

When someone says that, I’m preparing to be insulted. Maybe I wouldn’t have been without the disclaimer. But since those three words were said, I’m thinking, “Well, fuck. This isn’t going to be good.” When you’re already keyed up to be offended, it’s easier to be so.

Also, when people are expecting to be offended, they are often locking and loading a response to equally offend the original speaker.

Just fucking say what you’re going to say. If it does offend the person, apologize after you’ve said it or just blame someone else.

Like Joe Biden.

7. It is what it is

Of all the phrases in this list, I’ve used this one the most. I think we all have. Which is one reason I hate it.

Of course, whatever you said is what it is. Everything is what it is.

Sadly, we only say that line when things are shitty. It’s never used for anything positive.

It would be a fun campaign to try and make that phrase more positive. It’s probably a lost cause at this point, though. Besides, it would take some bravery to be that first person to try to turn that tide.

Imagine asking your partner after sex how it was, and they respond, “It is what it is.”

Fucking brutal. I guess we’ll keep it on the negative train.

It is what it is.

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8. Sorry, not sorry

Here we go with more deception. If you’re not sorry, then you’re not sorry. Don’t try to sell otherwise. It’s even worse when you say sorry first and not sorry immediately after.

That’s just rude anyway you slice it.

Just say you’re not fucking sorry and own it. Maybe not being sorry is warranted. Maybe you’re being an asshole.

It’s not the end of the world, either way. Claim it and move on.

9. I’m just saying…

This is another obvious one that doubles as a lame excuse. This statement is always made after you piss someone off.

You say something that upsets someone else. Responding with, “I’m just saying,” is a weak way of saying, “The truth hurts, bitch. Don’t blame me for stating the obvious.”

Of course, saying that could lead to you being throat punched, which brings me back to my point of just not using that phrase at all.

It’s safer for all involved.

10. Assume positive intent

As a teacher, I hear this one all the time. Truthfully, it’s sage advice. In my experience, most people do try to treat others respectfully and politely.

I’m still not a fan.

I do assume positive intent most of the time. Until I hear that statement.

If someone says that to me it’s usually because someone has pissed me off with their words or actions.

At that point, I’m done assuming positive intent. If they wanted to say or do something positive, I would have felt that instead of feeling the opposite.

They can positively assume that I’m angry.

Bonus: Boys will be boys

I’ve already written an article about my hatred of this fucking phrase. But I couldn’t write this article without mentioning this vile, sexist, demeaning saying.

It’s never used in a positive way. Instead, it’s used to excuse males being anything from rude to hateful to deadly to women.

For the whole skinny of my viewpoint on that awful phrase, read the article posted below.

Whew. I think that’s enough, uh, positivity, for now.

Keep on keeping on.

Thanks for reading.

Another Fourth of July has come and gone. On paper, this one was a bigger deal than others. After all, 250 years is a pretty important number.

Then again, it’s a bit like us turning 25. It’s an important age. (After all, who doesn’t celebrate being able to drive a rental car?) But, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t impact your day-to-day life much, if at all. It has even less impact on the lives of those you celebrate with, especially if your birthday party follows the same routine as others you’ve had before.

This is what fireworks have become for me. I am done being impressed, or even really enjoying those damn things. Enough is enough.

Before I get too many ‘Mericans upset with me and start pelting me with empty cans of Bud Light and Michelob Ultra, let’s get a few things straight.

• I have no problem (mostly) with anyone who still loves and enjoys fireworks. If that floats your boat, more power to you. With a few exceptions (more on that in a minute), I have no beef with you.

• Back in the day, I used to think fireworks were pretty damn awesome. In fact, the one time I was read my rights by the PoPo was directly related to using fireworks at a baseball game. Teachable moment: Saturn Battery Missile Packs and port-a-potties do not mix.

• Fireworks are a classic way to celebrate July 4th, as well as New Year’s Eve, and a few other events here and there. So be it.

But the days of my being impressed by fireworks, spending money on them, lighting them off, or watching a large display are largely done.

Here’s why…

1. The targeted buyer is blatantly obvious, cost be damned

Nothing about fireworks is subtle. They’re loud, aggressive, bright, bold, and hard to miss. Do you know someone like that? We all do.

Like everything else in this country, fireworks are also expensive as hell. Whether at Costco, or a fireworks stand in a parking lot somewhere, or from an Indian reservation, the cost is high.

That is nothing new. For the most part, they have never been cheap. Not if you wanted to go big. And if you’re not going big with fireworks, what’s the point?

I don’t believe that last line at all, which is a problem, because way too many men do. Fireworks have long been yet another dick-measuring contest.

Biggest bang = smallest wang.

It’s not lost on me how a large percentage of fireworks are phallic in shape or are literally balls. They come in long boxes that are bright yellow, orange, and red, or black and camo green. They’re always called things like Terminator! or Annihilator! or Desert Storm! and other such manly terminology that means big, loud, destructive, and just so damn patriotic.

Whatever. Let’s move on.

Everything about fireworks is in your face, and that can be so damn hard to resist.

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2. Fireworks attract stupidity like flies to shit

Ask any medical professional who has ever been on duty for a Fourth of July night shift, and they will agree with this one. The number of serious, yet stupidly avoidable injuries and deaths tied to fireworks is beyond ridiculous.

This isn’t a secret. There are news stories, articles, and social media posts by the hundred about this. And it doesn’t fucking matter.

There are certain truths regarding Americans. This probably holds with other nationalities, too. But I don’t have personal confirmation one way or another. Regardless, here we go:

• Stupid people do stupid shit consistently and at various levels of WTAF

• Normal(ish) people do stupid shit when alcohol is involved

• Normal(ish) people do even more stupid shit when alcohol is involved, and they’re in a group of similarly minded normal(ish) drunk friends or family

• When the group of drunk normal(ish) people is mainly men, there is a finite math formula involved: Number of males with one-syllable names (or double first names) x number of them driving large trucks + the number of ex-wives + the amount of alimony and child support required to pay but don’t divided by the average age of the men involved = the amount of stupid shit done by said group of men.

When fireworks are involved with any of those bulleted point groups, the level of stupidity and the level of danger are multiplied by ten, which is just bad juju for all involved, along with property and nearby pets.

I found this out myself a few times when I was a teenager and even dumber than I am now. I discovered that Roman candle fights are dumb and hurt like hell. And, once again, do not light off extensive fireworks inside a port-a-potty.

Gotta love the statute of limitations.

3. Fireworks are predictive and anti-climactic as fuck

Yes, fireworks are pretty and colorful and make people say, “Oooh” and “Ahhh.” Been there, done that, every single time I’ve seen them.

I’ve never seen a fireworks display, and left thinking, “Well, that was different.”

Sometimes, that’s okay.

There are worse things than being predictable, especially if it’s linked to a positive experience. At the same time, it’s not like it’s that exciting.

I’m at the point where I wonder if it’s worth the hassle of attending a show or even putting one on myself. The answer to both questions is no; it’s not.

If we attend a show, we’re dealing with traffic, asshole drivers, limited parking, and hundreds (if not thousands) of insufferables and their kids.

And for what? Same shit, different Fourth.

Thankfully, my girls are of the age where they don’t care much for fireworks either. Once in a while, we’ll take in a show after a baseball game or see our town’s display from down our street. That’s enough for all of us.

When the thrill is gone, it’s gone.

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4. I don’t want to be like so many assholes

Every year, the same shit happens the week before and the week after the Fourth.

Idiot neighbors light off massively loud explosions at all hours of the day and night. And for what reason?

I have no fucking clue.

Except to either be an asshole or they truly think there is something impressive about lighting a fuse to a device someone else made and making it go boom-boom.

Here is a perfect example of a fireworks asshole in Washington state and his epic fuck up in late June.

An asshole’s house caught fire, allegedly because of a lit cigarette. Shortly after the fire department arrived, an explosion tore out the front side of the house, injuring two firefighters while causing catastrophic damage to two neighboring homes.

How do I know this homeowner is an asshole?

1. The explosion was caused when the fire reached approximately 700 pounds of fireworks he had in his house. What person needs that many fireworks? (Except maybe his ex-wife when the divorce was official.) Who is dumb enough to smoke in the same area as that many flammable materials? Dude, guess what warning is on every single firework?

2. The asshole returned the next day to visit the ashen remains of his home while smoking another cigarette. Members of the fire department had to stop his neighbors from beating his ass raw. If that isn’t the definition of going against your morals while working, I don’t know what is.

My neighbors are not that disruptive. At least not yet.

We have had flaming debris fall on our roof and yard many times from neighbors’ rockets. If any asshole does destroy my house because of stupid firework shit, I will amend my objections to them long enough to create my own version of a piss rocket with someone else’s pisser.

Any subsequent jail time would be well worth it.

5. I can’t get over the irony

Fireworks are supposedly so American.

Yet, they were invented in China. The places to get the best (often illegal elsewhere) bang for your buck fireworks are on Indian reservations. Most of which are called Boomtown.

America love fireworks so damn much. They are all over this country in our driveways, rivers, ball games, city shows, and so on.

Celebrating the most American of holidays by spending thousands of dollars on a Chinese invention bought from Natives whose land we stole after slaughtering as many of them as we could, while conveniently forgetting or ignoring those facts is beyond ironic. It’s also arrogant and hypocritical as fuck.

I guess fireworks are pretty damn American after all.

Thanks for reading.

I was 18 when I had my rights read to me by a policeman.

I was scared shitless (no pun intended) for several reasons, the biggest being I was technically an adult, which meant no juvie for me. It would be jail instead.

Not that juvie would be a fun time. But, I imagined it would be better to be the oldest on the (cell) block than the youngest.

Either way, I was petrified of what a “stay” in any state-funded inmate facility would do to my future. I was about to enter college for fuck’s sake.

I also would be entering jail with my Irish mom’s boot up my ass.

It all happened because my brother, our cousin, and I were bored and decided to blow up a porta-potty at a friend’s baseball game.

Setting the scene

My brother, Mitch, is three years younger than me. Our closest cousin, Garrett, is right between us in age.

My family lived in a suburb of Salem, Oregon. Garrett lived about 30 minutes north of Seattle.

It was the summer of 1990 and I had just graduated high school. Garrett took the train to visit with us for a week or two.

Garrett told us when he got off the train he had brought a “shit load” of illegal fireworks with him.

This was exciting news.

Oregon had no easy way of buying illegal fireworks. There was no Internet. There were no firework stands on Native American reservations either. You either ordered them from Florida (of course) by mail or needed connections that my brother and I didn’t have.

Washington was far more lax in its laws regarding fireworks. Thus, making it much easier for Garrett to purchase the illegal booty he smuggled across state lines via Amtrak.

We threw his stuff in the trunk of my Honda hatchback. One of his bags was wide open. Garrett was right. He had brought a shit load of fireworks.

This was around July 22 or so. The date would be important soon enough.

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Perfume samples + missile packs + duct tape + bored teenage boys = bad juju

Summer in Oregon is hot.

Our house had a single third-floor room that was long and narrow. Mitch and I loved that room because our parents rarely made the trek up the extra set of stairs.

That rec room gave us privacy. For any group of teens, privacy is priceless. No matter if the room’s temperature and humidity rivaled that of a sauna.

We had important shit to discuss. Three cases of swamp crotch be damned!

Back in the 90s, perfume and cologne companies put small, free samples inside a wide variety of magazines. My family subscribed to several magazines that we never seemed to throw out or recycle.

Being lazy teen boys, we had a pile of them in our rec room.

Garrett had been with us for three days or so. Due to my summer job, days off for me were rare. Because of that, we had lit off exactly zero of his fireworks.

This was unacceptable.

I finally had a day off, and we were making preparations to make one helluva show.

Our favorite fireworks were Saturn Battery Missile Packs. They were perfect squares with 40 missiles ready to launch haphazardly into the night sky with their tell-tale screaming whistle.

Awesome shit for sure. But, it wasn’t good enough for us.

We had to get creative.

Sweating profusely, we spent the hottest part of the day wrapping several missile packs together with duct tape. We decided to improve our masterpiece by taping a variety of accessories to the outer sides.

We taped several M-80s, and for some unfathomable reason, a sizable number of perfume samples from the magazines.

Garrett had woven string into a narrow braid that was a good six feet in length and tied it to the fuse of our IED.

Now, we just needed a target to deploy our payload of glory.

Target acquired and multiple poor decisions

We had promised a friend of ours that we would stop by his baseball game later that afternoon. Ironically, our friend went by the nickname of Boomer.

Target acquired.

We considered, then quickly (and wisely) eschewed the idea of placing the device under the bleachers. We wanted to create a show, not commit Manslaughter. Still, we brought our beast with us.

That was the first in a series of poor decisions.

When we arrived, I pulled into the wrong driveway. It turns out, the ballpark was directly next to the local fire department. That was an omen.

An omen we ignored. Poor decision number two.

We left the game after about five innings. On our way to my car, Garrett spotted a lone Porta-Potty along the edge of the parking lot. It was at the far side of the lot, directly next to the highway, ideal for a quick getaway.

New target acquired.

I ran to my car. I was idling with both passenger side doors open, about 30 yards from the green and gold plastic outhouse. A few seconds later, Garrett and Mitch sprinted out of the porta-potty towards the getaway car.

They jumped in and…nothing…deafening silence.

We swore and Garrett trudged back. It turns out his homemade fuse had burned nearly all the way, but had burned out just shy of the device.

Garrett couldn’t resist and lit it anyway.

Poor decision number three.

He barely closed the door and was in a dead sprint when all hell broke loose.

Saturn missiles whistle loudly when they’re lit in an open area. Setting them off within the confines of a small plastic tomb, causing the missiles to ricochet off the walls endlessly, amplified the chaos even more. The M-80s detonating only added to the mayhem.

Not surprisingly, none of our three brains, including my supposedly adult one, had considered what would happen once we set off the device.

Doing so in broad daylight, in a crowded parking lot close to a well-attended baseball game, while next door to a fire department meant it could be, uh, noticed.

I tore ass out of the gravel parking lot. Since the fuse was so short, we didn’t get the clean getaway we had envisioned.

I took an immediate right turn onto the highway and we were gone like Donkey Kong.

Except we weren’t.

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More crucial errors and one salient moment

We were only a mile or so down the road when Garrett rocked my world.

“We have to go back.”

“What? Why?”

“We have to make sure there’s no fire.”

“Why would there be a fire? The thing is plastic.”

“There was a lot of extra toilet paper and paper towels in there. They could’ve caught fire.”

Are you shitting me?

Why this fear of fire didn’t take hold before he lit the damn thing is still a bone of contention between my brother, myself, and our dear cousin.

As we approached the driveway to the ballpark, a yellow Fire Chief car was coming from the opposite direction. He saw us, completed a quick U-Turn, and was soon on our tail.

The three of us let loose a torrent of Oh shit and We’re so fucked statements that can still probably be heard somewhere deep in space.

I let loose on my cousin and brother like never before or since.

I’m 18 years old! I’m a goddam adult! I’m supposed to be going to college next month not a fucking jail cell!

Strangely, that seemed to jar all three of us out of our panic mode.

The fire official was still following us but was taking no other action. We used the time to our advantage. We had to come up with what we were going to say. We all had to agree and have it down.

Or we were truly fucked.

In the time it took for us to come up with our story and have it nailed down as well as we could, two police cars had joined the “pursuit.”

They just continued to follow us. We were supposed to be home by dark for dinner and it was getting late.

We were antsy. What were the cops waiting for? The anticipation was brutal.

The wait ended swiftly. A third police car joined our happy club and all three flashed their lights. I had to pull into the crowded parking lot of our mall.

This was sacred territory.

Not cool, officers. Not. Cool.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

We exited my car and were quickly separated. Each of us had an officer question us alone.

My cop was polite and respectful. So was I. And scared to death.

I powered through and told the story we had come up with.

We all agreed that I had the most to lose since I was 18 and a legal adult. We said that I had no idea what was happening. Garrett and Mitch asked to use the bathroom. Once they told me what had really happened, we drove back to make sure no real damage was done.

The cop was nodding and writing notes the whole time. I glanced and saw what seemed like similar discussions happening with my accomplices.

I felt a glimmer of hope flicker in my chest.

This might actually work.

“Okay, Steve. In a minute, we’re all going to head back to the site. Your brother and cousin will be in a squad car and you’ll follow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Steve, I know you had nothing to do with this mess. But, I want you to listen to me carefully.”

I nodded and expected a quick piece of advice about not being gullible and being ignorant is no excuse. And next time, they would throw the book at me.

Negative Ghost Rider.

“Steve, you have the right to remain silent…”

I felt my eyes bulge. I looked over at Mitch in testicle-shrinking panic. He saw my face and was instantly puzzled and concerned. Then Mitch’s eyes widened when his cop began to recite his rights to him.

This was not good.

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A pissed-off arson official and cleaning the shitter

The moment I pulled into the parking lot of the ballpark, I broke out in a cold sweat.

There were two fire engines, a water truck, the yellow fire department car, and now three more police cars. There seemed to be firemen and cops everywhere.

A crowd of people was forming, no doubt wondering what the hell was going on. Fortunately, the game hadn’t ended yet, so there was hope our friend, Boomer, and any parents we might know wouldn’t spot us.

As soon as we approached the “crime scene”, two firemen sauntered over. One was young and clearly amused. The other was older and pissed.

The older one was holding the charred remnants of the missile pack in two hands.

“So, why’d yew tape it up? Wanted a bigger bang?”

“Uh, no, sir. We just thought it would look cool.”

He narrowed his eyes, muttered something about “stupid punks” and walked away shaking his head.

The younger fireman came up.

“Here’s the deal. Normally, we’d just chalk this up to a minor offense and move on. But, you see that semi-trailer over there?”

He pointed to the neighboring fire department. Sure enough, there was a long white trailer on the edge of the property.

“That trailer is full of illegal fireworks and our chief has had it with that shit, especially with the Fourth being weeks ago. So, he’s told us we have to wait for the arson official to show up and see what he says.”

Arson official? What the fuck? This was a firework in a bathroom, not arson!

The three of us tried very hard not to lose our shit. Fortunately, the arson official didn’t take long to arrive.

He seemed agitated and not happy to be called in on a Friday night, especially for a trio of stupid teenagers. He looked into the porta-potty, shook his head, and began to yell in disbelief at a fire official wearing a crisp white button-up shirt.

The arson official hung his head, looked up, and waved us over.

“You do this?”

We looked in and finally saw the damage.

It was vivid.

Dozens of black streaks were on all four walls, floor, and ceiling. The combination of the acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with multiple kinds of sample perfume permeated the area like a mutant fog.

“Seems like you three need to clean the shitter, what do you say?”

Three, “Yes, sirs!” rose in unison.

“Good. Then, get on it.”

Before we did that, I had to ask an imperative question.

“Sir, will you be notifying our parents?”

He pursed his lips together and seemed to be holding in a burst of laughter.

“Tell you what, you get this shitter cleaned — and I mean cleaned — in 20 minutes and we’ll leave notifying your parents up to you.”

It was hard not to yell for joy and hug the man on the spot.

The younger fireman drove over with me to the fire department to get some buckets of soapy water and cleaning supplies.

As we were loading up my car, he said, “Steve, I know this was more the other two than you. But, you need to keep something in mind in case anything like this happens again. Since you’re a legal adult, you could have been fined $10,000 and be sentenced to a year in jail.”

I had no idea if it was true or not. I still don’t.

But, I got the message. No more fireworks and porta-potties for me.

Cleaning like the wind and coming home to our mom waiting outside

We busted ass like never before to clean that bathroom. We scrubbed and scrubbed like Cinderella on speed.

We barely spoke for two reasons. We didn’t have time to waste and the smell was so bad we could taste it. Opening your mouth to talk was a disastrous decision.

After getting a muted approval for our work, we sped home.

It was nearly dark as we approached our house. We could see the familiar shadow of our mom in the driveway, a fist on her hip.

Shit! That asshole arson prick lied!

As we got closer, we saw this was not the case.

Mom was in the driveway, holding the hose at her hip, fighting her nightly battle against the fluffy white tufts of Cottonwood that piled up along our front porch and garage all summer.

She asked why we were late. We had to tell her the truth.

“Ahh, Mom, it was crazy. Some idiots let off some illegal fireworks at the game. It caused a big commotion because someone called the fire department.”

“That’s disgraceful! Why don’t kids use their heads?”

“I know, right!”

Thanks for reading.

Human life revolves around cycles.

Everything that we once did returns one way or another, for better or worse, whether we want it to or not. Everything from remakes of movies to fashion to unfortunate hairstyles.

It’s never exactly the same, of course.

With technology changing so rapidly and dramatically, and social media being its own beast, past fads can’t help but be altered when they circle back around.

One such ever-orbiting fad is various sayings and terms that show up out of nowhere and then spread like a virus. In the age of social media, new ones make their debut, flash like a forest fire in high wind, and then burn out when the next one overtakes them.

One such example was the heinous rise and fall of six-seven that permeated much of my school year to the point I nearly needed therapy before it died out.

My current target of literary angst is the term low key. For most of its lifespan, I haven’t had an issue with it. In fact, I’ve liked it.

Until recently.

It’s now akin to an itch in the middle of your back that you can’t reach, and no one is around to help alleviate the annoyance.

I realize that in the grand scheme of things, my aggravation with this phrase doesn’t mean much. We have a rogue, barely human president, with hateful, gutless government officials fucking up my country (and planet) daily, while getting rich as fuck off our backs at the same time.

That being said, it means small things — including good things and ones that aggravate the fuck out of us — mean even more one way or the other.

As the wise badass Tallahassee says in Zombieland, “You gotta enjoy the little things.”

Unless a little thing becomes a bigger thing because people can’t fucking moderate their usage of a popular term, and it gets to the point that I write a rant on it.

In case you can’t tell, I’m high key pissed about the usage of the term low key.

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Getting low key burned out

It’s common for a popular word or phrase to be overused, especially by TikTok drones desperate to fit in.

There is the belief —whether it be fed by desperation or strategic forethought — that being heard using the current “it” word or phrase means you are part of the cool machine and therefore worthy of acceptance.

The problem being, there isn’t a finite number of witnesses needed to make one appear cool. In today’s all-or-nothing world, people will err on the side of saying something all the fucking time to ensure as many people are witnesses to each other’s awesomeness.

It was like that when I was an impressionable teen back in the dark ages of the pre-Internet era. Though I am proud to say I never once used the phrase gag me with a spoon. (I’m not a fan of being gagged by anything, to tell the truth. Not my thing.) Besides, I thought that was the dumbest phrase ever, until six-seven took the title.

On the flip side, so many things were rad, awesome, and gnarly. I can understand that today things are lit, fire, and sick. (Sooner or later, I will do a deep dive into how today’s popular terms tend to be verbs turned into nouns and the polar opposite of their original meanings.)

But I knew when to say something was gnarly, and I knew when to shut the fuck up. I didn’t always follow through with that knowledge, mind you. But baby steps. Besides, in the immortal words of G.I Joe, “Knowing is half the battle.”

Of course, half the battle doesn’t mean jack shit for either side in the grand scheme of things.

When I hear those in my world — mainly my students and daughters — use low key to the degree they do, it curdles my blood.

Everything can’t be low key.

Otherwise, it would just be key. Saying low key the amount I’ve heard it over the last several months would mean that none of them are high key about anything.

To that, I say, bull-fucking-shit.

Because every goddamn thing is a Big Fucking Deal to them. (In fact, I have written about that phenomenon as well.) So which is it, children? Low key or Big Fucking Deal?

Pick a lane and drive in it for a while.

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Low key is like a puzzle piece — it doesn’t fit everywhere

Again, I understand the need to be seen as important. Everyone wants to be funny, liked, and respected. I get it.

For the love of Christ, low key just does not work in all situations and with all adjectives.

You can be low key tired, annoyed, jealous, hungry, and a myriad of other emotions. If you’re unsure if low key will work, substitute the word “little” instead. We’ve all been a little hungry, annoyed, jealous, and so on. If little works, so does low key.

There are scenarios where little (and by extension, low key) does not work. For example, you can not be low key furious or irate. That doesn’t mesh. If you’re furious, you are borderline out of control with anger.

I actually heard someone say late in the school year, “I was low key suicidal last weekend.”

What does that mean? Is that a new term for depressed or sad? Is there going to be a new hotline for that?

If you’re low key suicidal, don’t be low key ashamed to ask for help. We’re here to high key help you get back on your feet. Call us at 1–888-LowkeyU.

The student’s angst was tied directly to the drama of streaming television. She was quite upset when Graham and Hannah broke up in Off Campus. That made total sense. I mean, who wasn’t devastated? Graham and Wellsy are totally MFEO.

Sadly, the low key fervor is not just tied to on-screen romantic dramas. It also permeated into the world of (almost) true crime.

As it turns out, felonies aren’t immune to the low key popularity, either. I heard the following sentence from a seventh-grade student back in May.

“I low-key wanted to murder that asshole.”

Teachable moment incoming: Homicide ain’t low key, kids.

On the flip side, I would love to see that conversation on Netflix. A group of teens tries to hire a hitman to take down a rival peer.

“So, we want you to, like, low key kill Makayla.”

“Low key kill? What does that mean?”

“You know. Not kill kill, but low key kill. So she’s not dead, but low key isn’t alive.”

“I’m done. You need to leave before I high kill all of you right now just for giving me a migraine.”

“Oh! I feel you, dude. Migraines are low key the worst.”

The teens then scramble as he pulls out a gun and looks high key pissed.

And scene!

Spoiler alert: The contract killer is acquitted when five members of his jury are Generation X. They also get his contact information for a possible need at a later time.

I’m telling you, it would be ratings gold. I can high key feel it. Can you? Either way, if it helps cure the low key fever, it would be well worth it.

Even better, it would be high key gnarly.

Thanks for reading.

Previously, I wrote an article called “Seven Foods That I Hate That Everyone Else Seems To Love.”

As expected, I received numerous comments trashing my non-preferences in food and more than a few questioning my sanity.

Which I thought was rude.

I’m a parent of four girls and teach middle school. Of course, I’m not fully sane. Duh.

Being that I’m now on summer break from my teaching gig, I realized I miss (ever-so-slightly) being questioned and insulted by people outside my family.

And I was pissed that I forgot some of the foods I hate the most. Speaking of which, it’s to get this whine festival started.

1. Tofu — what devilry is this?

I’ve found tofu to be a vile substance since the first time I tried it. My anger towards tofu has raged ever since and is two-pronged.

First, I’m not big on deception, and tofu did me dirty the first time I tried it. My then-girlfriend (now wife) was cooking one evening early in our relationship. She was frying up some veggies and what looked like chunks of chicken. I don’t remember if she told me it was tofu before or after I took a bite.

It doesn’t really matter. It looked like chicken. We had that meal before with actual chicken. I would have tried it regardless, for no other reason than to try it. I had never had tofu before.

My mom, being 100 percent Irish American, would never cook such a thing in her kitchen. While she has her flaws in other areas, feeding tofu to her kids was not one of them.

In short, tofu is not what it appears to be. While it plays at being edible, even tasty, it is, in fact, far from it. Tofu is a liar, a participant in a costume contest, an imposter.

It’s basically the dietary equivalent of the republican party. I will not abide partisan foods. We’re far too divided as it is.

I’ve met chicken. And, tofu, you are no chicken.

Second, I consider tofu to be an enemy of my taste buds. Many foods do not look appetizing, and yet they are delicious. For example, I have serious questions about how people first decided to eat oysters. (No, those are not on my list. I actually like those slimy fuckers.)

Regretfully, let’s get back to tofu.

Nothing about that “food” is appetizing to me. In its natural form, it looks like a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Its taste and texture are worse. It’s like eating damp, stale, spongy yeast.

Apparently, tofu is a source of protein. Well, yippee ki-yay. There are many ways to get protein without resorting to eating a quadrilateral of soy with the composition of a wet sponge.

2. Brussels Sprouts — bad taste, bad texture, disturbing shape

I’m keeping this one short because it’s disturbing, and I’d prefer not to dwell on it any longer than necessary.

Brussels sprouts have a fucked up name. Yeah, they’re named after the city because it’s their birthplace. For obvious reasons, most people pronounce them as Brussel sprouts because adding that extra ‘s’ is fucking annoying.

They also have an acrid taste that I don’t like. Mix that with a concerning crunch, the veiny, small, testicular shape, and they’re bad juju for me.

Even Google throws in some stealthy double entendre, saying Brussels sprouts are rich in vitamins C and K, fiber, and antioxidants, and are best when cooked to bring out their nutty sweetness, as overcooking can intensify bitterness.

True enough. Overcooking my (nutty) balls would increase my bitterness for damn sure.

Brussels sprouts are a mix of bad taste, an annoying name, and a similar shape and crunch to eating a green man’s testicles. Are there green men with matching testicles? Probably not.

It’s still a disturbing thought, either way, that causes me to wince the few times I’ve eaten them. And those were a few times too many.

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3. Lettuce — a pointless, tasteless food

Many people love lettuce. I’ve never understood why.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve eaten many salads in my day, and they’re usually quite good. Granted, the enjoyable taste of a salad is usually based on everything else that’s in there and not so much the main ingredient.

Which brings me to a vital point.

If lettuce is so damn good, why do we drench it with dressing, croutons, and anything else that floats our boat? The answer is simple — there’s nothing about lettuce itself that is enjoyable on its own.

That fact alone is the reason every server at any Olive Garden could double as a relief pitcher (or a professional arm wrestler). They ask if you want cheese on your salad, which is the ultimate rhetorical question. After that is a solid ninety seconds of cranking that bad boy until there’s a mountain range of goodness upon the bed of lettuce.

And after that, what is left in that empty salad bowl? Pieces of lettuce or bits of cheese? We both know the answer to that question.

I have a problem when restaurants think adding a mound of lettuce to a taco, burger, or sandwich means it’s something special. It’s like having a conversation with someone who takes 27 words instead of nine to make his point. (Yeah, I’m not looking in that mirror. Fuck off.)

Moderation is key, which is often the downfall of lettuce. This is especially true when restaurants feel adding two inches of lettuce makes the dish beneath it more impressive. Why add more of a substance when it doesn’t add taste?

Besides, it’s not the size that counts; it’s how you use it. Everyone knows this is true!

Every. One. Knows. This.

Moving on.

4. Oranges/Orange Juice — labor-intensive and aggressive

Oranges seem to be everywhere at all times. No matter the season or location, oranges and orange juice can be obtained. While I appreciate the availability for those who enjoy oranges and their nectar, I am not one of those people.

Multiple people commented on my last food piece that I seem to have a problem with foods that are bitter and acidic. True enough. Though I like lemons and lemonade, so riddle me that.

Whatever the reason, the acid and flavors tied to oranges are no joy for me. I don’t really care about the reasoning or science behind it. Oranges aggravate me either way.

Oranges are veiny, pulpy, and can blind you with a squirt of juice, similarly to their asshole cousin, the grapefruit. Peeling an orange is time-consuming and not worth the trouble. Add the sticky fingers and spraying juice everywhere like Bishop in Aliens, and they’re a non-starter for me.

I will make an occasional exception during the Christmas season. My wife and daughters love Satsumas, those small, easy-to-peel delights that we partake in every year. I’ll submit and have one or two during that season of giving.

Besides, it’s what Jesus would do.

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5. Sweet potatoes — gross texture, weird taste

Sweet potatoes seem way too popular for some reason. There are sweet potato fries, potato chips, pies, and God knows what else.

I don’t know what it is about the texture of sweet potatoes that grates on me, but they do regardless. I love mashed potatoes. Aside from their orange color, sweet potatoes look the same. But the texture is not. There is a greasiness to them that annoys me.

I’m not a fan of their taste either, which is confounding because I typically like sweet foods. There is something off with sweet potatoes. I don’t know what it is. I don’t really care to find out either.

I’m not Bill Nye the Science Guy or even Guy Fieri. I’d rather just pass on the sweet potatoes and let someone else (somehow) enjoy them.

6. Raisins — tiny, annoying, and ruin good food

This final entry is a bit of a cheat. A lot of people hate raisins. They should. Those little fuckers ruin more food than they (supposedly) improve.

Think of the cookie platter at Costco. There are typically 4–5 flavors of cookies. Which flavor is always left and the last to be eaten, and usually with accompanying swearing and anger? Fucking oatmeal raisin. Every damn time.

I like oatmeal. I will gladly eat oatmeal cookies à la carte. My wife makes a badass oatmeal butterscotch cookie that is to die for. Wisely, she omits the raisins.

Raisins are small, veiny, and look like dehydrated rabbit shit. And yet, raisins are still prevalent.

How is Raisin Bran cereal still a thing? Either one of those words by itself is a turn-off. Combining them is the food equivalent of a cock block.

I’ve seen raisins in pudding, salads, and other edible foods that were just fine without them. Why do people add raisins to food that they share with others? Are you trying to show people you don’t like them? Just act like an asshole like the rest of us and don’t fuck with our food.

If you want to partake in your own episode of Fear Factor, go ahead. But leave me out of it.

And there you go, good people. Six more foods that I hate that others enjoy. I’m sure I’ll be eviscerated again in the comments. So be it. I shall overcome and will not waver from my distaste for these foods.

Besides, I can use some Aloe Vera to soothe the burn.

What foods do you hate that others like? Share in the comments.

Happy summer, y’all.

Thanks for reading.

Over the past year or so, I’ve seen interviews and read articles stating that there are no actual hitmen. I find that idea ludicrous. And boring as hell.

Of course, there are hired killers.

A thousand mob movies, true crime shows, and episodes of Law and Order can’t be wrong. Besides, what are people named Guido and Momo supposed to do for work?

Granted, it is a flawed system.

The vast majority of hired killers appear to be average(ish) people hired by some greedy, selfish-as-fuck spouse wanting to ice their partner or ex for insurance money. They end up using a friend of a friend of their side piece, and the whole “plan” falls apart, and they end up with an inmate number and a vow never to bend over for the soap.

The problem with that entire system is that it’s all or nothing.

As annoyed as I get with various people, I’m not going to ice any of them. Fuggetaboutit. I am not an idiot, but I have zero doubt I would fuck up a murder plot like a republican at a Town Hall.

That doesn’t mean that I’m not petty enough to want some accountability coming down on people who piss me off. After all, there’s a massive grey area between felony prison time and what the fuck just happened?

I’ve come up with a far more passive-aggressive way to deliver some comeuppance to someone who’s been an asshole.

In short, we need a service that provides a bitch slap to an intended target using an app.

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The technology and habits are there — we need to add some pettiness to the cocktail

Nearly anything we want can be ordered on our phones and delivered to us at home, work, or our cars in mere hours. We can also order things for other people.

We can order flowers, gift baskets, and anything else (aside from souls, morals, or empathy) from Amazon to deliver anywhere. That’s all well and good when you like the person you’re ordering for.

There needs to be a pettier option for people who have done you dirty.

We need to get up close and personal to enforce a penalty for such behavior, but without actually doing so ourselves. Plausible deniability needs to be used by more than pete hegseth’s personal trainer.

It’s time to merge technology with pettiness and our need for others to feel accountability for being a dick.

I want an app that delivers bitch slaps to whoever we feel has, thus, fucked around and, heretofore, must find out.

The hit/slap list would be endless

This would need to be well thought out because it would be popular as fuck. We don’t want the app crashing as before it even gets rolling, because let’s face it, in this day and age, it’s harder to find people who don’t need a bitch slap than those who do.

We all have people we know who could use a good slap, whether it’s a daily thing until they get the message for their consistently shitty behavior, or someone fucked up, has done you wrong, and needs to pay the piper.

Here are some examples:

• The friend who treats those who work in customer service, restaurants, etc., like shit.

• You date someone, and they ghost you.

• The coworker who keeps hitting on you.

• Your spouse forgot your birthday.

• The wannabe anonymous troll who left insulting comments on your Insta reel.

• Your babysitter canceled two hours before date night.

• That bully from high school who never apologized.

As I said, endless…

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The Terms and Conditions for Uber Slaps would be intense

I’m sure Uber would balk at me using their name for this app. I’m just using it for context. And because it sounds kinda cool.

I will eventually put some serious thought into the app’s name because this is sensitive territory. It’s not easy to use the word “slap” and not have it sound like an app for masturbation.

Try it, and you’ll see what I mean. (Or pretend you have the maturity level of a middle school teacher, and then try it.) Using the word “bitch” isn’t any easier, though not for the same reason.

Currently, the app’s name is not high on my priority list.

Doing this right is the greater concern, because specific protocols would be needed to make this service work as intended.

There would need to be a description of what was said and/or done to earn a public, sneak-attack bitch slap. Someone has to earn this kind of retribution.

You can’t place an order with Uber Slaps because you’re a racist asshole, or you’re anti-Semitic, or you’re homophobic, or any other bias that powers your hate. Save that shit for the republican party.

A hired bitch-slapper would only be sent to complete their act because the target’s actions and words earned it.

Lying about someone’s behavior would earn a tag-team bitch slap event that would be recorded as a meme and be sent virally, as well as being banned from our app.

With great power comes great responsibility. In short, don’t fuck with Uber Slaps.

A diverse menu of options

Uber Slaps would have a variety of bitch slap options to choose from, which would largely revolve around the difficulty in getting up close and personal to the target to deliver the order.

The easier it is to locate and deliver the bitch slap, the lower the price. But that is just the beginning of the options customers would have to choose from.

Here is a rough idea of various plan choices.

• Gen Pop: These are the standard, everyday schmucks like you and me. They can be found easily, thus making the bitch slap a relatively easy procedure to complete without much research and planning needed. This would be the largest, most common group because this is who we deal with on a daily basis. And it’s significantly cheaper.

• Confidential Informant: This is when the person ordering the bitch slap wishes to be kept anonymous. This one will be spiked in price. Let’s be honest, getting someone bitch slapped without having the moxie to say who ordered it defeats the purpose.

• Entourage This: Here is our first foray into famous folk, (and a much higher price) whether they be athletes, singers, actors, high-level execs, basically anyone with their own entourage. Finding a way to infiltrate and deliver the bitch slap would take some serious recon and having connections. (And contacting enemies of those targets who would be willing to help set this up. Remember, Punk’d? This shit would work because stars are just as petty as the rest of us, if not more so.)

• Prestige Worldwide: This is where we get into higher-priced, Uber Black area codes. The more protected a target is, the higher the cost. Some would be quite outlandish and hard — if not impossible — to implement. Our current Mango President would be just such an example. The line of people wanting to bitch slap that motherfucker would be seen from space. (I would imagine this could be the most successful GoFundMe drive in history. Just saying.)

All bitch slaps would be recorded with GoPros and hidden cameras. Also, the target would be given a typed synopsis of what they said and did to earn the slap. Receiving a bitch slap doesn’t mean much if the reason for it isn’t known by the recipient.

Besides, the moment when they realize the slap is payback for something they did is the entire point. And it’s entertaining as hell.

It’s a teachable moment that a teacher could never deliver themselves.

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Wanted: Bitch slappers

As one would imagine, we would be very selective with who we hired to be our slappers. We would also need to have specific types of people to fit various target groups.

The Entourage This and Prestige Worldwide slappers would need a very specific set of skills that would line up with each target’s weaknesses. Targets could also be lured into perfectly planned scenarios where they inadvertently set themselves up to get slapped.

• A woman with more plastic than a Mattel warehouse could get close enough to jeff bezos to slap that bald fuck.

• A brunette with seemingly no morals and ovulating like Michelle Duggar could probably get close to elon musk.

• Gavine Newsom could be nailed by someone asking for advice on hair gel and teeth whitening products.

• jd vance would show up to buy a couch that is resistant to showing DNA under a black light.

• Justin Bieber could be lured by a (seemingly) submissive 20-year-old girl asking about arm tattoos and writing angsty, self-absorbed lyrics.

• ICE agents could be lured to a taco truck called Juan Cartel’s Worst of the Worst.

You get the picture.

The same kind of reconnaissance wouldn’t be needed for those of us in Gen Pop. We could get zapped walking out of Walmart, leaving work, or going out to eat. We’re surrounded by people constantly. Theoretically, we could get bitch slapped at any time.

Once Slappers have been hired, they will undergo extensive training. There is an art to bitch slapping that must be taught and practiced repeatedly.

You get one shot — one — so it must be done correctly. Think Will Smith taking down Chris Rock as an example. A bit less emotion, perhaps, but the same audacity and finality.

Those tactics will be added to another arsenal that includes knowing how to approach a target without giving away your intention or giving off creeper vibes.

It’s a skill. Think of a claims server with better follow-through.

I still think hit men are real, one way or another. They may not be as prevalent as they appear to be in Hollywood. Of course, few things are.

It doesn’t matter.

Unless my lifestyle and location change drastically, it won’t be something I’ll experience. I prefer it that way. I think most of us do.

But Uber Slaps should be something we all experience because let’s face it, we’re surrounded by assholes who do asshole things. Imagine seeing some of those people getting bitch slapped because of their rude behavior.

Goosebumps, am I right? As fun as that would be to witness, there would be a truer purpose behind it.

Change.

Maybe after enough of us get bitch slapped walking out of Starbucks, more people would change how they treat others. Some who witness a brutal bitch slap on the corner of First and Amistad could think, Uh, damn. I don’t want that shit happening to me. I should probably apologize to Taylor.

Maybe one day we’d be out of business because fewer people treating others like shit would equal fewer bitch slaps being needed.

That would be the greatest success of all.

Thanks for reading.

Thanks for coming back for Part 2 of my depressing dive into movie deaths that wrecked me.

In case you missed part 1, here it is. I’m cutting this intro short because there’s no use in delaying what we know is coming.

Duh — Spoiler Alert incoming — Yes, I am spoiling the movies below. None of these are new flicks. If you haven’t seen them yet, so be it. But don’t be pissed at me for “spoiling” what happens.

Here we go again with the second installment. Again, these are in random order.

1. Gabriel and Anne, The Patriot (2000)

War movies are full of people dying. That’s usually part of the point — if the horrors of war can be learned in a movie, it’s far better than it happening in real life.

The Patriot is like any other war movie, period piece notwithstanding. Soldiers on both sides fight, die, survive, and repeat.

Two deaths in this movie hit me hard. And I was pissed about both of them.

Mel Gibson plays Benjamin Martin, a widower with enough kids to have his own battalion. His son, Gabriel (Heath Ledger), joins the Colonials against his father’s wishes.

Since this is a fucking war movie, and something needs to make Mel Gibson flash those baby blues ever-so-menacingly, yet brim with tears, people close to him must die.

Gabriel marries Anne (Lisa Brenner). Shortly after that, the antagonist, a vile British Colonel, locks up an entire town (including Anne) in a church and burns it to the ground.

The same British fucker kills Gabriel in combat shortly after. So this fucker killed two young newlyweds (and another of Ben’s sons earlier) because he’s that big of an asshole.

Does Mel get emotionally broken, leave, and then return to fight in honor of his sons? Of course. Personally, I’d rather Mel bite the dust, and the young married folk stay alive.

They could have even named a kid after Mel’s character. Hell, those were friskier times with no protection and a higher mortality rate.

They could have named two.

2. Primrose Everdeen, The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 2 (2015)

The Hunger Games movies are outstanding. Katniss Everdeen is an iconic badass. Throughout the four movies (and three books), many characters perish.

Quick side note: The next film series based on books that doesn’t split the final book into two movies should get an automatic Academy Award. I am so sick of that money-grabbing, audience-be-damned bullshit.

I was gutted when Rue and Finnick died. Boggs was a stud, and I hated seeing him go down. But nothing was worse than watching Prim (Willow Shields) get blown to pieces.

I never liked Gale. I thought the dude was a brooding, whiny dick. But knowing that it was his cruel strategy of a second explosion to maximize the casualties that killed Prim was infuriating.

May the odds be never in your favor, Gale.

3. Stormy Llewellyn, Odd Thomas (2013)

One of my favorite fictional characters is Odd Thomas. Dean Koontz wrote seven Odd Thomas novels in all.

Odd (Anton Yelchin), a 20-year-old short-order cook, can see the dead, along with a few other mystical talents. For example, he sees creatures called bodachs that are a warning for a cataclysmic event coming in the very near future.

He uses his abilities to help solve crimes and keep people safe. He also has a soul mate named Stormy Llewellyn (Addison Timlin).

In the first novel (and movie), Odd knows something big and deadly is going to happen in his small, desert town. In the climactic scene, Odd helps thwart a mass shooting at the town mall and stops a bomb from killing even more, despite being shot himself.

After leaving the hospital, he spends several days alone with Stormy. But all is not what it seems. We find out that Stormy was killed in the mall shooting. Her ghost stayed behind to comfort Odd, who refused to accept reality without her.

In the end, Odd does and lets Stormy go. I’m not sure I’d be able to do the same.

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4. Shelby, Steel Magnolias (1989)

Yes, Steel Magnolias is a classic “chick flick.” So be it. I have a wife and four daughters. My life is a chick flick, and I fucking love it.

This is an outstanding movie with an amazingly talented cast. It’s also hilarious, except for one major fly in the ointment.

Shelby (Julia Roberts) has a baby after she’s been warned that doing so could kill her because of her various maladies. Shelby’s husband comes home to find his son screaming in his highchair and Shelby unconscious on the kitchen floor.

After being told that Shelby will not recover, she is removed from life support.

Shelby’s mother (Sally Field) gives a sobbing, helpless, furious rant at her daughter’s grave site that hits home with every parent ever. At that moment, we are her, and it is almost too much to take.

Few things can make you hug your kids more than that scene.

5. Trevor, Pay It Forward (2000)

This movie is mean as fuck.

Anyone who knows or uses the phrase Pay It Forward, probably does so because of this movie.

Kevin Spacey plays an emotionally and physically damaged teacher. He gives the audacious assignment to his seventh-grade Social Studies class to come up with and implement a plan to make the world a better place.

As a seventh-grade teacher myself, I can’t help but think, what the fuck, dude? How do you even grade that? You’re asking 30 kids to save the world. What are you doing? Are you their agent or something? What if their plan doesn’t work? Do they get elected as republicans?

All that aside, one of his students, Trevor (Haley Joel Osment), takes the assignment seriously and comes up with the idea of Pay It Forward. He will help three people in a way they can’t help themselves. In turn, he will ask each of them to do the same for three others, and so on, knocking down as many life-is-hard dominoes as he can.

Not only does Trevor’s plan make ripples like the Butterfly Effect, he also gets his mom and his teacher to hook up. If getting your scarred teacher laid, on top of making the world a better place, doesn’t get you extra credit, nothing will.

Trevor doesn’t live long enough to find out. He sees a classmate being bullied, so he tries to Pay It Forward by stepping in and gets stabbed in the process, and dies in the hospital.

The echoes of Trevor’s plan continue after his death. I can’t imagine losing one of my students because of an assignment I gave him, while dating his mom. That shit would put any district’s HR department on Defcon 1 alert.

This one cut me deep.

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6. Bubba and Jenny, Forrest Gump (1994)

You had to know this one was coming.

Forrest Gump is a good dude inside and out. He knows he’s not the same as everyone else, but powers through regardless. At the same time, anyone who gives him a chance ends up the better for it. (Right, Lieutenant Dan?)

There are basically two people (besides his mom) who give Forrest the time of day from the beginning, and they both fucking die. Granted, one of them leads him through an emotional minefield so brutal it gives American Ninja vibes.

Jenny (Robin Wright) is Forrest’s one friend throughout school and becomes his unrequited love for decades. Bubba (Mykelkti Williamson) enters Forrest’s universe in the Vietnam War. Bubba dying in Forrest’s arms was predictable. But also mean as fuck.

Forrest is not one to break a promise, especially to his buddy who dies in his arms. So Forrest dives into the shrimping industry solo and comes out rich as hell on the other side, even after making sure Bubba’s mama is rich, too. (That’s called spreading the wealth, elon. Take a lesson.)

Many people have negative views of Jenny. It’s understandable to a degree. Jenny does Forrest dirty more than once. But the girl went through horrid abuse, assault, and trauma herself from childhood onward. People react differently to that, and can be especially harsh to those closest to them.

In the end, Forrest and Jenny get married, start raising their son, only for her to die (seemingly of AIDs). Forrest’s graveyard monologue to Jenny is gut-wrenching. (I’m not crying, you are. Okay. Fine. I’m fucking crying.)

7. Maggie, City of Angels (1998)

This movie shows that changing your life (or afterlife) for love can be a real dick punch.

Nicolas Cage plays Seth, an angel who falls in love with a mortal surgeon, named Maggie (Meg Ryan). He learns from a former angel (Dennis Franz) that he can choose to be mortal and live among us idiots.

Side note: Dennis Franz must have had one hell of an agent in the ’90s. Franz was not a svelte, hot dude. Yet, he showed his bare ass on television and in the movies more than Mel Gibson.)

Of course, Maggie is drawn to the (former) heavenly, hound dog-eyed, Seth. They hook up once. Then she goes on a bike ride and gets drilled by a logging truck. She dies in Seth’s arms.

Seriously? That’s all they get?

Angel man gives up being immortal, being dashing (and apparently not overly warm), wearing a black trench coat 24/7 in Los Angeles, gets laid one fucking time, and the girl dies?

Shouldn’t Seth at least warrant a three-day weekend after falling from a skyscraper to get some action? And Maggie meets the man/angel of her dreams, and ends up dying immediately after?

I mean, come on, this is what free will gets them? Jesus, you’ve got some explaining to do when Seth makes it back home.

City of Angels, my ass.

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8. William Costigan, Jr, The Departed (2006)

We’re ending with perhaps the biggest what the fuck death of them all.

Watching The Departed is not for the faint of heart. This is a violent, stress-filled, worry-fest of epic proportions.

Leonardo DiCaprio plays William Costigan, a state policeman in Massachusetts, recruited to serve a jail sentence and be a mole in the network of crime boss Frank Costello (a very over-the-top Jack Nicholson).

Costello, ever the trickster, has planted his own mole inside the State Police himself. Matt Damon is Colin Sullivan and is rapidly rising to higher positions within the police, while looking out for his real boss, Costello.

As both sides continue to get closer to each other, Sullivan and Costigan are charged with finding the opposite mole while trying to stay alive (Costigan) and out of jail (Sullivan).

Eventually, Costello and Costigan’s boss are both killed. Shortly after, Costigan cuffs Sullivan and brings him down in an elevator. The movie is nearly over. Costigan is about to get his name back, his life back, while putting away a dirty cop. He was even (unknowingly) sleeping with Sullivan’s girlfriend on the side.

Things were finally looking up for the young man.

Until the elevator door opens and Costigan gets a headshot at point-blank range by another Costello mole in the police. My tongue dried out because my mouth was open for so long.

I spent two and a half fucking hours of my life stressing over this dude, watching Nicholson overact like a demented Jim Carrey, and this is how Costigan goes down? With a blind headshot by some dude who is barely in the movie before he gets the same damn treatment from Sullivan?

Three cops got headshots in that one fucked up elevator scene. At least Sullivan gets the same treatment at the end.

The Departed is beyond disturbing and disappointing. This movie could not have done good things for the recruiting numbers of police departments.

And that’s a wrap, folks.

Are there more movie deaths that upset me? Absolutely. But this is a good place to stop, for all of our sakes.

I’d love to know what deaths ruined you. Feel free to write your own piece or let me know in the comments.

Thanks for reading.

It happens in movie after movie after movie. Characters die.

Our reactions to those deaths vary greatly depending on our level of emotional involvement with the character, as well as the impact on the other characters in the film. And how much it fucks with our heads even after the movie is over.

Sometimes we want the fucker to die, and we are relieved, or even thrilled, when it happens. Other times, we can’t help but be worried about it. Nothing better happen to this character. I swear to Christ if she dies, I will lose my shit.

And then there are the stunners we never see coming. We’re blindsided and sit there in open-mouthed shock to the point that we can hear ourselves blink.

When I had the idea for this piece, I was thinking it would be 10 singular deaths. But when I started digging through my memory banks and looking up movies, I discovered that 10 was too low.

I also realized I could ruin my entire weekend if I went too much higher. I was not down with that bullshit. Besides, it’s summer, goddammit. I have things to procrastinate while enjoying warmer weather.

In the end, I compromised and talked myself into 15 movies that had deaths that fucking devastated me. Here they are in random order.

I’m doing this in two parts because this is some heavy shit. And this piece would be too damn long. I’m not that big of a sadist. Yet.

Duh — Spoiler Alert incoming — Yes, I am spoiling the movies below. None of these are new flicks. If you haven’t seen them yet, so be it. But don’t be pissed at me for “spoiling” what happens.

1. Elias, Platoon (1986)

I was a freshman in high school when this movie came out. It was an unwritten rule that a dude in the ’80s had to like war movies. Or at least be really good at faking it.

The number of war movies released in the ’80s was insane. From Rambo to Stripes, there were comedies, dramas, and action flicks. Even Michael J. Fox took on a serious role in the underrated Casualties of War. (Seriously, check out the cast. That movie is depressing, infuriating, and solid.)

Platoon was the class act out of the myriad of war movies from that decade. I watched it expecting it to be the same as other war movies. Nope. This movie is so damn good.

Willem Dafoe plays Sergeant Elias, the savvy vet who takes rookies under his wing to keep them alive, while not being an asshole. Seeing him get shot by his nemesis, Sergeant Barnes (Tom Berenger), was brutal. Seeing Elias stagger-run from an enemy squadron across a field, while getting repeatedly shot before finally succumbing, was a gut punch that brought stunned silence to the entire movie theater.

Elias’s death moment, arms spread in the sky, remains iconic. And fucking heart-wrenching.

2. Neil Perry, Dead Poets Society (1989)

Dead Poets Society was the only movie I saw in the theater with just my dad. I don’t remember why it was only the two of us. I didn’t care what the movie was. I knew it was an exceedingly rare moment and was grateful for it.

Then the movie seized me.

I always loved Robin Williams, and he is stellar in this. So is Ethan Hawke. But Neil Perry (Robert Sean Leonard) broke my damn heart. Neil was the glue for his friend group. Strong leader. Sympathetic. Smart. Talented.

And scared to death of his father. Literally.

Neil couldn’t handle his father denying his love of acting or having the next 10 years dictated to and for him. He shoots himself with his father’s gun.

The entire scene plays out slowly, tragically, and with anyone who is watching saying, “No, no, no, no, no!”

Neil’s death does lead to one of the most stirring final scenes in movie history. (Oh, Captain, my captain!) Anyone who watches that scene, after seeing that movie, can not do so with dry eyes. It’s not possible.

Goddammit, inspiring scene or not, Neil needed to live.

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3. Tracy Mills, Se7en (1995)

This movie is a dark, twisted ride set in a grimy, rainy, crime-filled city that makes Gotham City feel like Palm Springs.

Soon-to-be-retired Detective Somerset (Morgan Freeman) breaks in his replacement, Detective Mills (Brad Pitt), trying to catch a stunningly brilliant and twisted serial killer (Kevin Spacey) who murders his victims via the seven deadly sins.

Mills’s wife, Tracy (Gwyneth Paltrow), is sweet, beautiful, overwhelmed in a new city, and pregnant (unknown to her husband).

The final scene of Se7en is one of the most heinous, gut-wrenching scenes ever. The unnamed killer leads Mills and Somerset to the desert for the final act of his master-level class, How To Fuck With Your Mind 401.

He killed Tracy and had her head brought to them by a delivery service, admitting he committed the sin of Envy (of Mills’s domestic life). Doing this goads Mills into the final sin of Wrath (“What’s in the box?”), where he completes the seventh killing in accordance with the seventh sin by emptying his gun on the actual killer.

I have yet to watch the entire movie a second time. I haven’t fully recovered from the first viewing. That feels like the eighth sin, and I’m not doing it.

Fuck off, Kevin Spacey.

4. Thelma & Louise, Thelma and Louise (1991)

This one felt like a lost cause from the beginning. This world is too damn dark and skewed for Thelma (Geena Davis) and Louise (Susan Sarandon) to get away scot free.

Thelma is a frustrated housewife with a cliche misogynistic asshole husband who treats her like a doormat. Louise is a hard-working waitress scarred from deep trauma from years before.

The two BFFs head out for a girls’ weekend of camping and drinking. Things get off to a rocky start when they stop at a bar. Thelma has too much to drink, dances with a handsy prick who later tries to rape her in the parking lot. Instead, he earns a bullet to the chest from Louise.

The ladies become fugitives on their way to Mexico from Arkansas. Of course, this world isn’t made to allow women to just get away with justifiable homicide. Eventually, law enforcement catches up to them with dozens of officers, guns, and a helicopter. Rather than deal with a cage, they “keep going” by driving into the Grand Canyon.

I was pissed when I watched that. I still am. Those ladies deserved better.

So did we.

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5. Han Solo, Star Wars: The Force Awakens (2015)

This one cuts fucking deep. Almost as deep as the Grand Canyon itself.

Han Solo, the epitome of the cocky, gruff, loyal, asshole hero of the universe, gets gutted by his own son.

I can’t even look at Adam Driver without feeling my temperature spike. Yeah, I know he’s an actor playing a role. Kylo Ren/Ben Solo doesn’t really exist. Technically, neither did Han Solo.

But he kinda did. Han Solo was the man for decades.

And then, when Han tries to reach out to the son who had turned from the Force and his parents, he gets a lightsaber through the chest cavity.

Fuck you, Adam Driver. How dare you! (Seriously, who turns their back on Han Solo and Princess Leia?) Whatever you did in the following movies wasn’t enough, you disloyal, ungrateful shit.

I hope Yoda takes you out at the knees.

6. Dally and Johnny, The Outsiders (1983)

I’ve long had a love for The Outsiders.

I read it when I was in middle school. My brother played Ponyboy in a high school play. I’ve taught the book to eight graders several times. And, of course, I’ve seen the movie multiple times, as well. (Holy shit, that before-they-were-stars cast is something else.)

I love that the author, S.E. Hinton, was 16 when she finished writing it. As an ELA teacher, it’s one of the only novels I’ve taught where every student, boy or girl, loves it with a consuming passion.

Johnny — everyone’s kid brother — spent his life being abused and ignored by his parents, only to die a torturous death after helping save children from a fire is devious. Dally, the seemingly cold-blooded bad boy of the gang, can’t handle Johnny’s death, and commits suicide by cop.

Two teenagers, diamonds in the rough (Dally being a far rougher cut), dying so young is hard to handle. My students were angry for days after reading this.

So is everyone else who reads it.

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7. Uncas, Alice, Colonel Munro, The Last of the Mohicans (1992)

This is another movie I’ve only seen in its entirety once. I won’t see it again. And it’s a goddamn shame.

This movie is beautifully shot; I mean, it is stunning. But it’s like falling off a mountain and enjoying the view on the way down.

This film is emotionally raw like an exposed nerve from start to finish. The amount of death, love, and loss in this movie is hard to fathom.

Hawkeye (Daniel Day-Lewis) is a white man raised by his adoptive father, a member of the Mohican tribe. Hawkeye’s brother is Uncas. Through deception and violence, Hawkeye, Uncas, and their father are tasked with escorting two sisters to their British colonel father.

Their father, Colonel Munro, dies in perhaps the most agonizing way possible. After being trapped beneath his fallen horse, he is told by an angry, violent man that he is going to kill both of Munro’s daughters. He then proceeds to cut out his heart as he lies helpless.

Who the fuck does that?

Throughout their travels, Uncas and Alice (the younger Munro sister) had been feeling the feels. Alice sees Uncas killed by the same man who killed her father. The killer then beckons her to stay with him. Instead, the teenager throws herself off the same cliff her man was just tossed over.

As a father of four girls, I am not watching any of that shit again. No fucking way. I saw that damn movie in the theater. I am still haunted by those deaths.

Heavy, quivering sigh.

Okay. That is enough trauma for now. Part 2 is coming tomorrow.

Take a deep breath and watch reruns of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood or something. Y’all be good to each other.

Thanks for reading.

It’s been said countless times that childbirth is a miracle.

After witnessing the births of my four daughters (and losing another child in utero), I can confirm the truth of that statement.

Childbirth is a miracle for multiple reasons.

Babies are born in cars, in bathtubs, in subways, on airplanes tens of thousands of feet in the air, in movie theaters, and so on. In short, wherever people can have sex, a kid could also be born there, one way or another.

Thus goes the circle of life, accidental or otherwise.

Most babies are born in hospitals under the direction and care of trained doctors and nurses. We do that because we trust those medical professionals to know what they’re doing to ensure the birth goes well, while monitoring and caring for the health of the baby and mother.

And we’d prefer not to clean up the aftermath ourselves.

Despite nurses and doctors being talented, smart, and dedicated, mistakes can be made. In my limited experience, medical mistakes tend to fall into two main categories, tragic and comical. Thankfully, the story I’m about to share is the latter.

But just barely.

Babies have their own timeline, and they’re assholes about it

Every pregnant woman gets a due date. Everyone knows it’s an estimate. Babies arrive when they want to.

Case in point, my cousin-in-law had twin girls arrive four months early. After a county-record time in the NICU, they are thriving five years later. My brother arrived three weeks late. Granted, doctors in 1974 were not privy to as accurate technology as their present-day counterparts which could have skewed his due date. Or that doctor failed math.

The point being, no matter what a mom-to-be’s due date may be, it’s ultimately up to the baby when they decide it’s time to make their appearance.

For the birth of our third daughter, we took control out of her hands by scheduling an induction. She was not having that shit and showed her displeasure at being kept out of the loop with extreme prejudice.

Originally, my wife was not in favor of labor being induced. But our doctor explained she was worried about my wife going into labor when I was at work 40 miles away. Having two other daughters under five at home, and it being a pre-diabetic pregnancy, were also valid concerns.

The good doctor felt that inducing labor at the hospital, with me there, under optimal conditions, made the most medical sense. We agreed.

Best laid plans shot to hell by not listening…Part 1

We arrived at our hospital on September 10, 2007, for the induction. Our doctor gave my wife Pitocin to induce labor.

After the Pitocin failed to make much of an impact, she broke my wife’s water. She told us she would return shortly to check in, and left to do other doctorly things.

Our doctor told the nurse not to page her because she had lost her pager attending a University of Washington football game the day before. She told the nurse to call her office, which was conveniently across the street.

I heard the doctor say this. My wife heard the doctor say it. Our mothers heard it as well. Apparently, the nurse somehow did not or she failed to remember it when shit began to hit the fan.

Our daughter had things to do apparently

We’ve all heard stories (often from our own mothers) about how they went through hours (or days) of excruciating labor. My wife endured over 13 hours of brutal labor when our first girl was born and suffered a fourth-degree tear.

Number three seemingly had shit to do, or wanted to emulate Vin Diesel, because once she decided to bless us with her presence, she did it Fast and Furious.

The labor began to intensify…big time. Contractions were coming hard and fast, one on top of the other. During this chaos, an anesthesiologist I’ll call Dick arrived to give my wife an epidural to help with the pain of labor.

While I am sure Dick was qualified to do the procedure, he was not adept at reading a room or listening and reacting to a pregnant woman’s words. Or mine.

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Best laid plans shot to hell by not listening…Part 2

This being my wife’s third labor, she knew things were different with this one. She tried to tell Dick that she felt it was too late for the epidural. He ignored her.

Dick then repeatedly asked her to stay still so he could complete the procedure, failing to realize (or care) that she was in agony from contractions.

I told Dick that he should listen to my wife since she knew what she was feeling, and this was not our first rodeo; it was, in fact, our third. He ignored me as well.

At this point, my wife was nearly delirious with pain. She remarked she had to use the bathroom. The nurse told her to use the toilet in the room. Alarm bells went off in my head.

Telling a woman in advanced labor to use a toilet is a terrible idea. My wife knew this as well. But she was in terrible pain from the contractions, and neither Dick nor the nurse was listening to her. My wife couldn’t vocalize what she was feeling.

She left the bathroom without trying to use it. She started to say that she felt the baby was coming. Dick again ignored her and tried to get to sit back down so he could put in the epidural.

I stared at him wide-eyed.

“THE BABY IS COMING!”

At this point, my wife’s level of pain, frustration, and anger had reached its zenith. As the nurse tried to lead her to the anesthesiologist, my wife detoured to the near side of the bed.

She stood on the side railing of the bed, with a wide stance, and with balled fists yelled, “THE BABY IS COMING!”

With images of our daughter zooming out of my wife like a tube at a water park, and getting a concussion seconds after being born, I dashed over to her. I guided her onto her back on the bed with my left hand, and put my right hand between her legs and felt…our daughter’s head…

While this was happening, the nurse frantically went over to my shocked mother-in-law, leaned over, and yelled, “Push the button, push the button!”

My mother-in-law didn’t know what the hell the nurse meant. Each nurse and doctor had a lanyard around their neck, from which a communication device hung. Pushing the button turned on an open microphone. Why the nurse didn’t push the button herself is still a mystery. At this point, her hands being sterilized was the least of our concerns.

At this moment, two things happened simultaneously.

1. I shifted to face my wife, realizing quickly I may have to deliver my own daughter inside our fucking hospital, thinking maybe we could bill the hospital for this delivery instead of the other way around.

2. Our doctor burst into the room like she was on E.R. Our doctor was a small, petite woman. But she glared at that nurse to the point that she must have contemplated leaving medicine, and may now be a barista at Starbucks.

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The aftermath was surreal

Once the doctor broke my wife’s water, it must have angered our daughter like the Kraken. Maybe she was just pissed that we didn’t consult her properly about the induction date. Whatever the reason, our girl was born less than an hour later.

Our doctor arrived at the absolute last second she could and still deliver our baby. She came out pissed, red-faced, and with a full head of thick, black hair. I even made a mohawk that first night just because I thought it was funny as hell.

It turns out, the nurse kept paging the doctor, forgetting she was supposed to call her office. Our doctor became concerned that she hadn’t heard any updates and came over to investigate. She heard the commotion down the hall and sprinted into our room at the perfect time.

My wife and our daughter were perfectly healthy, while still pissed. I tried to get a discount from the hospital since I technically touched my daughter first and was basically our doctor’s stunt double.

No joy.

Our doctor apologized profusely while swearing like Eddie Murphy over the nurse and anesthesiologist doing shit jobs.

At least our story has helped others…probably

Three years later, we were back at the same hospital for the birth of daughter number four. (Hey, small town means fewer options when it comes to hospitals. Besides, the odds were ever in our favor.)

During my wife’s easiest — and most normal — labor, we spoke and joked with a different nurse about what had happened the last time we were there.

Her eyes widened as we started to tell the story.

“That was you? We use your story in training scenarios.”

As two teachers, knowing our crazy story is a teachable moment years later is pretty damn sweet. And the damn hospital still won’t pony up.

Tightwad fucks.

Thanks for reading.

One of my complaints in today’s world is how so many things are the same. If one company does something and has some success, every similar company must do the same damn thing.

I get it.

Companies need to make money. When one strikes gold, its competitors want the same and will follow suit, and vice versa.

I don’t have a problem with that. It’s a copycat world.

But that shouldn’t mean things should stay stagnant. Where is the ingenuity? Where is the creativity? Where are the improvements that will positively impact my life?

That’s right. I want some swag, some attention, some motivation. Woo me, goddammit.

I hate to brag, but I’m spending some serious coin all the fucking time on groceries, gasoline, and anything else with a price tag. I’m slinging bills like pete hegseth at Oktoberfest.

Do you think everyone is spending money like this?

To that I say, “HA!” Not everyone is making bank as a middle school teacher like yours truly.

In other words, I’m kind of a big fucking deal.

If these store chains want to earn/keep my valuable business, they need to up their game. Every major store chain has its own app. Of course, they do, because we are nipples deep in the world of technology.

Each app has the same shit — account info, ordering products online, weekly deals, blah, blah, blah. Been there, done that.

Let’s be honest, in the current state of crisis in the United States, sales and deals are few and far between and are pretty damn far from what I consider to be a bargain.

Despite that, we still shop because most of us prefer to stay vertical and above the ground. We’re funny like that.

Below are suggestions I recommend for stores to improve their apps. And listen up, billionaire owners of store chains, because I’m only going to say this once.

I’ve got shit to do, so fucking focus…

1. A crowd meter on your app would be epic

Recently, my wife and I went to Costco. We knew doing so on a Sunday increased the odds of it being more crowded than we prefer. But sometimes life dictates doing things at inopportune times.

We’re also aware that different levels of crowding relate directly to our emotional and mental state. (As well as the likelihood of buying Costco-sized bottles of Irish whiskey and/or spiced rum.)

It occurred to me while we were slaloming through the bowels of the warehouse like an Olympic skier in a Cybertruck that this shit could have been avoided if we knew how crowded Costco was before we left our home.

More so, we should have known.

Costco Powers That Be, it can’t be this hard to make this happen. If Disney can figure its shit out with its app to tell users how crowded their park is, then so can you, along with all the other stores and companies out there.

If we knew that Costco was brimming with customers, we would have tried later that afternoon.

Let’s be honest, Disney doesn’t do a damn thing unless they feel it will make them money. Follow the leader, competitors.

It’s what you do.

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2. Being original and creative is important

I’m going to assume that store chains have listened to reason and decided to add a crowd meter to their apps. (Hey, I’m choosing to believe in positive intent — besides, this piece would be way too short otherwise.)

That being said, the job is not over; it’s time to get a bit more creative.

There’s more to a solid crowd meter than just showing the number of people in a store at any given time. Each company should consider its clientele and target audience to creatively show and label the various levels of crowding.

After all, no one loves labels more than rich, greedy, slimy billionaires (and sarcastic middle school teachers).

Here are some examples:

• Cabela’s could show an ammo clip from being nearly empty to fully loaded. They could label it from Vegan to Locked, Stocked, and Ready to Rock.

• Walmart could show pairs of pajama pants and pairs of Crocs from 1 (Payday Eve) to 5 (Game Day).

• Whole Foods could do the same thing, but use bald bezos heads or perhaps plastic asses of his wife instead. (Shoppers could earn 10 percent off if they can tell the difference.)

• Target could use the number of makeup mirrors from 1–5 and label them from Bed Head to Rodeo Clown (or kristi noem).

• Taco Bell could use bottles of Pepto Bismol with different levels of pink liquid from near empty (Calm Waters)to full (Colon Blow).

• Great Wolf Lodge could show the color of their water going from blue (Ocean) to more and more yellow (rfk jr’s bloodstream). (I know, ewwww. But it’s damn funny. When you’re not going there anytime soon. After all, who can abstain from paying $27 for five lukewarm chicken nuggets and six wilted fries?)

You get the point. Each company could show its understanding of its customers and show its sense of humor.

Let’s be honest — we’re in some dark times. Laughter combined with convenience and thoughtfulness is just the thing we need right now.

3. Let’s dig deeper…by generation

Knowing how crowded a store would be before leaving home would be great.

But why stop there? Since we’re already in the asshole pool, why not swim out to the deep end and get a little petty?

Knowing what kind of people are in the crowd would be ever so helpful. Before y’all get to calling me racist or ICE starts trying to recruit me, I’m not talking about race, gender, or religion.

I’m talking about various generations. Most of us are loyal to our generation and understandably so. At the same time, other generations often piss us off. It’s the circle of life.

Of course, this would need to be done via facial recognition software. Most stores have security cameras anyway. We’re on camera every time we shop. We might as well get some useful data out of it.

Places like Costco that use cards for entrance have age as part of the customer data already.

I will gladly shop in a store full of my fellow Gen Xers instead of a less crowded store with Gen Z or Baby Boomers. Despite their vast age differences, I find both of those generations aggravating as hell.

I know this sounds very discriminatory. And it is. To a point.

I’m fine with them going to whatever store they want to shop in. To each their own. I just don’t want to shop in the same store at the same time because they annoy the hell out of me.

Boomers drive their shopping carts like they drive their vehicles. Slow as fuck, stopping at inopportune times, and with the parking skills of Ray Charles.

With the Gen Z crew in the store, you could end up in six different TikToks and Instagram Reels without even realizing it. Which is just rude. At least they could be sure to get my best side for fuck’s sake. (In case you’re wondering, it’s probably my ass.)

By the time I’ve left the store, I’ve heard about who is breaking up with who, who is crushing on who, and why everyone’s problems are just the worst fucking thing ever.

I get enough of that shit teaching middle school. I don’t need it or want it when I’m trying to find where Costco moved the shit I’m looking for since I was in 10 days earlier.

Generation X is full of annoying people, too. But they are my people, my brethren. We share the same quirks, flaws, and don’t fucking mess with me right now vibes.

Any store that could show me which generations are currently populating their stores, would earn my business in a heartbeat.

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4. Let’s dig deeper…by vehicle

This one is also petty as hell. I’m okay with that. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

As someone who loves to drive, certain vehicles grind my gears on sight. Yes, I am about to be stereotypical, again. Tough shit.

The vast majority of drivers of certain cars are my nemesis on the road. These same drivers tend to walk and shop with the same mannerisms as they do on the road.

And I am not down with that.

If I could see the parking lot of the store I intend to shop in, it would be a blessing. A parking lot with too many of certain vehicles would warn me of what to expect or cause me to come at a later time.

The more Priuses, Cybertrucks, Honda CRVs, Subaru Crosstreks, and massive-I’m-compensating-for-my-small-dick trucks that are parked at my store of choice, the lower I can keep my pulse rate and rage meter by coming at a later time.

5. Costco is its own thing, and they need to use that shit

I’m going to pick on Costco just a bit because I was there when this idea came to me in the first place. Also, because it is the king of box stores.

What other store chain uses people with used-car-salesman smiles, standing on two-inch padded mats, armed with highlighters as its last line of defense against shoplifters? (Granted, they are slightly more intimidating than WWII vets in blue vests at Walmart.)

Besides, who shoplifts at Costco? Is it even possible? Truthfully, if someone can successfully shoplift any Costco-sized product, they should just get to keep it, along with a shoutout on their website.

Besides, no one steals from Costco because we take advantage of its insane trusting return policy. I’ve seen people return fake Christmas trees that cost a grand because Christmas is over, and they want their money back and don’t want to store the tree all year.

Costco is also unique as hell. (Where else on this planet can we get a hot dog the size of a porn star’s member and a Coke for $1.50?)

Add to that chaos the two dozen free samples they have scattered throughout the store like booby traps in a Rambo movie while we traverse through with carts the size of a Smart Car, and you get the patented Costco experience.

Costco’s app would need at least three different crowd meters. One for the population level of the overall store. One for the number of sample stations across its labyrinth (along with an accurate map locating each one). And a third showing the number of lurkers waiting to snatch the new batch as soon as it’s set down.

Costco is unique, and its app should show that while easing the stress of its customers. I’m already loyal to Costco. If these changes were implemented, my loyalty would only increase. Ditto to any other company willing to do the same thing.

As I said, it’s a copycat world. How nice would it be for billionaires to copy something that benefited us for a change?

After all, we’re pretty fucking important.

Thanks for reading.