Personal story, or stories

[swiftdog2.0]

Some random snapshots from my SwiftPup past.......

The first concert I went to with my friends unsupervised was an AC/DC show when I was a freshman in High School. I was 14. It was for their Blow Up Your Video tour. The show was in Worcester, MA at the Centrum. Worcester is about an hours drive from where I lived.

The group that went consisted of me, my cousin "D", my cousin "C", my cousin "D's" friend "G", my friend "T" and "T's" friend "PD". My friends were all a few years older than me so they were legal to drive. And assumed responsible (that was a laugh). PD was even a few years older than that. Think Wooderson from Dazed and Confused. Anyway, PD was of legal age so he bought us beer. Which we proceeded to consume on the way to the show.

I have never been much of a drinker so I only had two beers before the show. Everyone else was pretty much blotto when we got there Plus there was beer left for the ride home. Bad sign.

We arrive and head into the venue. Almost didn't get in because T was so s-faced security almost tossed him. Finally made it to our seats. AC/DC was great though \w/

We head home and everyone but me starts drinking again. UGH! Now D, C, and G are all supposed to be crashing at my house. Which is good because none of them were in any shape to drive. We get back to my house around 1am or so. I'm stone cold sober at this point. Everyone else is a mess. Naturally my parents are still up waiting for us to get home. Extra super happy bonus, my Dad (the cop) had the night off and is in the living room. I'm sensing disaster

I tell everyone to head down into the family room right away. I'd deal with the 'rents. We get inside and my Dad starts giving me the third degree right off the bat. "How was the show?", "Did T get home OK?", blah, blah, blah. I knew he was just grilling me to see if I was drunk or high. Luckily, I was neither. While we are conversing there is a loud THUD! My friend G had apparently just fallen down the stairs to the family room

"What was that?" my Dad asks. Surprisingly quick on my feet I came up with "G just tripped over the cat. He's OK." Which was entirely plausible as our two cats liked to sleep on the first step heading down to the basement. I'm waiting for a cross examination but Dad just said "Tell him to be more careful. And shut the door to the basement tight so the cat doesn't get down there again." WHEW- I was off the hook!

I started praying then that no one would get sick during the night and all over the basement. Luckily no one did. I kicked everyone out early the next morning so I wouldn't have to explain the hangovers. Dad did give me the riot act a few days later when my Mom wasn't around for my friends coming to the house drunk

Similar story a few years later.......

I worked at a local retail chain when I was in High School. I had the 6pm - 10pm shift. This incident occurred in 1991, my senior year.

I was working one Saturday night in the spring of 1991. I finish up my shift and drive home. Waiting for me at my house are my cousin "C" and my friend "T". Both of whom are sh*t-a** drunk

They had apparently been playing pool that evening and when they went to leave the pool hall T's car wouldn't start. This was pre-cell phone days so they only had the pay phone to use and they couldn't get in touch with anyone that could pick them up. So their genius plan was to walk from the pool hall to my parent's house to wait for me to come home to give them a ride back to see if we could get T's car running. Now the pool hall was a good 5 miles away! They stopped at a liquor store and bought some beers to drink while they walked back to my parents house. They got there about an hour before I got home. Blotto and chatty. What fun

Now I could see my Mom was less than pleased. She had been dealing with the drunkards since they got to the house. I hustled my two chuckleheaded buddies into my car and drive them back to the pool hall. I had to jump T's car and wait for him to sober up enough for him to be able to drive. He heads home. C and I head back to my house. The next day after C leaves I got screamed at by my Mother for those two showing up to the house drunk. How this is my fault was beyond me. I was at work while they were getting blitzed. I had no involvement in their shenanigans. Then I got reamed again when C's Mom called my Mom and got into a fight with her when C came home hungover. The things you do for your friends.......

Some random fun facts......

If you ever see the harbor patrol cruising back and forth about an 1/8 of a mile off the beach you shouldn't swim out there and ask them what they are doing. The answer may turn out to be "shark patrol"!! Yes, I speak from experience. I almost pooped my pants swimming back in. What did I know, I was only 14 at the time?!

Did you know it's possible to shoot gobstoppers out of a paintball gun? Found that out when "T" acquired a co2 powered paintball gun. You can break neighbor's shed windows with them

You really shouldn't try to shoot someones house with a paintball gun while driving. It results in hitting telephone poles (I wasn't driving or firing said paintball gun. That was "T" doing both)

My cousin "D" almost killed the both of us when he took an S curve doing 45mph in his 78 Firebird up in the Blue Hills Reservation. We were about 4 inches from going off the road and down the embankment

A 1976 Mercury Grand Marquis is an excellent vehicle for urban surfing. I should know. I was the pilot of the USS Grand Marquis. No injuries or lost surfers. Kowabunga!!

Taking a turn in front of a police car on two wheels in a GEO Tracker is a sure way to get a traffic ticket (For the record, I wasn't driving. That was "D" again)

Never jump off a jetty onto the sand. Usually results in a sprained ankle

Stories are done, got to run. It's off to bed to rest my SwiftDog head...................

 

[SutterKane]

More of a story about an old friend, but here it goes

Back in 2006, I was living with my ex in a 3 bedroom, 2 bath, 2 floor Condo. Being just the 2 of us, I chose to rent out the rooms on the first floor to a pair of good friends of mine, Paul and Gilberto. Both were kids my age who I'd met at the bar I was working at, were essentially my "Drug Buddies" as we would always get high together after work and party until the sun came up. Moving them into my apartment turned out be a terrible mistake, equal parts sad and hilarious.

Paul was a skinny kid who had grown up in the nicest part of town, "New Tampa". His mom was some sort of Doctor, I believe a pediatrician, and his father had been a cop. They had cut ties with him a few years before because they felt his drug use and such was a bad influence on their younger children. Gil came from West Tampa, more of a lower class latino side of town, and had done 3 years in jail for an arson incident, having set a house on fire when he was a kid, and was a little short tempered. I guess I fell somewhere in the middle. Regardless, the three of us became thick as thieves for a few years and I allowed them to move in with me when both wound up displaced from their previous residences due to breaking up with girlfriends and what not.

Gil turned out to be a decent roommate, always held down a job and paid his rent on time. Never any problems other then the occasional shouting match between him and whichever girl he was dating at that given time. Paul, on the other hand, became problematic within weeks. He got fired from his job almost instantly, and made no effort to look for another. All the while, he had actually begun selling drugs, though not for the purpose of paying any rent, simply so he could have enough money to do drugs himself and break even with the dealer by moving his product.

Friendship and my generally passive nature were what he was counting on to keep him in house. My ex, Debra, and Gil on the other hand were nowhere near as cordial and there were occasional arguments when he would do things like eat all the food he wasn't paying for, or invite his customers to the house to pick up their drugs (That being the one time I did blow up on him). We had been discussing ways to go about evicting him when Halloween 2006 happened.

Paul had went to his supplier a few days beforehand and asked him to front an ounce of Coke with the understanding that he was going to take it to a party over Halloween at a night club in Ybor City and sell it all there. The dealer, foolishly, agreed to this and gave him the drugs. He spent the next three days without sleeping and using all this guys drugs by himself aside from some random friends who had come over to share his free drugs. Anybody who has ever stayed awake for that long knows that you lose your sense of reality, start seeing things that aren't really there, get insane ideas in your head, etc etc........ by Halloween, he had forgotten all about the club, or the fact that he still owed his dealer somewhere around $700, and was in the grips of insanity.

Halloween night, he finally, after days without eating, decides he's hungry and walks to a McDonald's close to our house. He winds up, or so the police report said, walking into McDonald's and insisting they give him free food because he is Jesus. He then goes into a long Diatribe about how he died for the counter guys sins and deserves free food. Somebody in the back calls the police, who arrive rather quickly. They come to the scene and try to talk rationally to him, suggesting he should put his hands above his head, sit down, etc etc etc. He replies that he can't put his hands above his head, because he is Jesus and must "Carry My Cross". He begins walking towards the cops with his hands outstretched screaming about religion, until the cops pull out their tasers and stun him to the ground.

The rest of us were gone that night, and weren't in the habit of watching the news, so when he wound up not coming home for the next few days, we assumed he had either wandered off in a drug haze and/or was hiding from his dealer, who was now pissed off and had even come to me looking for him. Later in the week, around 10 AM, I woke to the sounds of Gil laughing, loudly and hysterically. I came down the stairs, to see him doubled over at the kitchen table, still cracking up. When I asked what was funny, he simply pointed at his cell phone. I picked it up, and Paul was on the other end, calling from "Bay Life", a mental health institution. When he explained the situation, I started laughing, and laughed even harder when he asked me to come sign him out. His parents had hung up on him and the only way Bay Life would release him was into the custody of another adult. I told him I wasn't gonna sign him out, and he hung up on me.

I dropped his belongings off at his parents house, and turned Paul's room into a storage space. I never saw him again, though I am grateful to have known him. Watching him do things so ridiculous became a reminder of what can happen to you when you go over the edge on drugs. I got sober not long after that.

 

[swiftdog2.0]

More of a story about an old friend, but here it goes

Back in 2006, I was living with my ex in a 3 bedroom, 2 bath, 2 floor Condo. Being just the 2 of us, I chose to rent out the rooms on the first floor to a pair of good friends of mine, Paul and Gilberto. Both were kids my age who I'd met at the bar I was working at, were essentially my "Drug Buddies" as we would always get high together after work and party until the sun came up. Moving them into my apartment turned out be a terrible mistake, equal parts sad and hilarious.

Paul was a skinny kid who had grown up in the nicest part of town, "New Tampa". His mom was some sort of Doctor, I believe a pediatrician, and his father had been a cop. They had cut ties with him a few years before because they felt his drug use and such was a bad influence on their younger children. Gil came from West Tampa, more of a lower class latino side of town, and had done 3 years in jail for an arson incident, having set a house on fire when he was a kid, and was a little short tempered. I guess I fell somewhere in the middle. Regardless, the three of us became thick as thieves for a few years and I allowed them to move in with me when both wound up displaced from their previous residences due to breaking up with girlfriends and what not.

Gil turned out to be a decent roommate, always held down a job and paid his rent on time. Never any problems other then the occasional shouting match between him and whichever girl he was dating at that given time. Paul, on the other hand, became problematic within weeks. He got fired from his job almost instantly, and made no effort to look for another. All the while, he had actually begun selling drugs, though not for the purpose of paying any rent, simply so he could have enough money to do drugs himself and break even with the dealer by moving his product.

Friendship and my generally passive nature were what he was counting on to keep him in house. My ex, Debra, and Gil on the other hand were nowhere near as cordial and there were occasional arguments when he would do things like eat all the food he wasn't paying for, or invite his customers to the house to pick up their drugs (That being the one time I did blow up on him). We had been discussing ways to go about evicting him when Halloween 2006 happened.

Paul had went to his supplier a few days beforehand and asked him to front an ounce of Coke with the understanding that he was going to take it to a party over Halloween at a night club in Ybor City and sell it all there. The dealer, foolishly, agreed to this and gave him the drugs. He spent the next three days without sleeping and using all this guys drugs by himself aside from some random friends who had come over to share his free drugs. Anybody who has ever stayed awake for that long knows that you lose your sense of reality, start seeing things that aren't really there, get insane ideas in your head, etc etc........ by Halloween, he had forgotten all about the club, or the fact that he still owed his dealer somewhere around $700, and was in the grips of insanity.

Halloween night, he finally, after days without eating, decides he's hungry and walks to a McDonald's close to our house. He winds up, or so the police report said, walking into McDonald's and insisting they give him free food because he is Jesus. He then goes into a long Diatribe about how he died for the counter guys sins and deserves free food. Somebody in the back calls the police, who arrive rather quickly. They come to the scene and try to talk rationally to him, suggesting he should put his hands above his head, sit down, etc etc etc. He replies that he can't put his hands above his head, because he is Jesus and must "Carry My Cross". He begins walking towards the cops with his hands outstretched screaming about religion, until the cops pull out their tasers and stun him to the ground.

The rest of us were gone that night, and weren't in the habit of watching the news, so when he wound up not coming home for the next few days, we assumed he had either wandered off in a drug haze and/or was hiding from his dealer, who was now pissed off and had even come to me looking for him. Later in the week, around 10 AM, I woke to the sounds of Gil laughing, loudly and hysterically. I came down the stairs, to see him doubled over at the kitchen table, still cracking up. When I asked what was funny, he simply pointed at his cell phone. I picked it up, and Paul was on the other end, calling from "Bay Life", a mental health institution. When he explained the situation, I started laughing, and laughed even harder when he asked me to come sign him out. His parents had hung up on him and the only way Bay Life would release him was into the custody of another adult. I told him I wasn't gonna sign him out, and he hung up on me.

I dropped his belongings off at his parents house, and turned Paul's room into a storage space. I never saw him again, though I am grateful to have known him. Watching him do things so ridiculous became a reminder of what can happen to you when you go over the edge on drugs. I got sober not long after that.

I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry reading this. It does make me think of Beavis proclaiming to be Cornholio, though. So I'm guessing I'm leaning towers laughing. Sounds like you got some tangible life lessons from that experience.

 

[Grandpa]

Thanks very much for the story, SutterKane.

One of life's real tragedies is a person invested, knowingly or not, in self-destruction. We've all seen them, and it all hurts. But the hurt is lessened when they try to spread the pain to us. Then it's a lot easier to cut that line.

 

[Grandpa]

I'm at the house, getting ready to drive deep into Wyoming for business. You never know what construction you might run into, so I was giving myself 45 minutes more than the Google Maps allotted time (which I usually beat anyway).

I'm getting ready, but nothing's going right. Things keep happening. My generous lead time keeps getting shaved down.

Okay, the kinks are finally out, I'm ready, and I'm down to 15 minutes excess time. Not what I wanted, but it'll work. I sling the computer bag, which carries everything I need for the meeting, over my shoulder and walk out to the car in the darkened garage. I put keys, cup, and food bars on top of the car, swing the bag around to chuck it into the back seat...

... and my butt gets pulled right around, following the bag. What in the world? The bag must be snagged somehow.

I pick it up again and reach around to unsnag it so I can get this little show on the road, but no good. Can't figure out how to unsnag it. Try again. And again.

Now I'm aggravated, unable to get into the car, and I've got this 20-pound anchor attached somewhere to the back of my pants. Every time I move, it moves, and every time it moves, my butt follows it, and so I'm struggling mightily, trying to find this moving target by touch in the dark, reaching behind me, and every time I twist, the bag moves, the butt follows it, and I'm pirouetting around like a dog compulsively chasing its own tail, and HOW BAD CAN THIS SNAG BE?

Don't ask.

I finally decide dignity has become the least of my worries, and I drop the trousers so I can pull the waistband around and see what's going on. Well, theoretically, anyway, because it's dark in the garage, and my vision is as old, and functions as poorly, as the rest of me. I can't really see the problem.

So now, like sands through an hourglass, so were going the minutes of my day. I decide to just rip it out from where it's caught and worry about the damages later. I start pulling hard, and hear a bit of a rip, but I'm not sure it's in the right place, and while dignity isn't important in the garage, it might be at the Wyoming meeting, and a huge rip in the back of my pants won't do much for that, so I back off.

Okay, this is ridiculous. I should just take off the pants, but that means taking off the shoes, and my garage floor is going to muck up my socks, and it's still too dark to see in the garage anyway. So I leave the car behind and hop back to the house, pants around my knees, holding the pants and computer bag up in less than a perfect picture of graceful movement. Hop up a couple stairs into the mudroom. Go in the mudroom, flip the light switch.

Nothing. Light's burnt out. Of course it's burnt out. The mudroom is even darker than the garage.

Hop out of the mudroom, through the house, up a couple stairs, and to the kitchen. Take off the shoes, step out of the pants, and hoist the pants and computer bag up on the counter.

This is hard to explain, but in the zipper mechanism, there's a little hook where the tab goes that you pull to open and shut the zipper. And that little hook in the mechanism had eaten my belt loop. I have no idea how that could've happened, just swinging the computer bag around. I mean, if I'd wanted to push my belt loop into there for some unfathomable reason, I'm not sure I could've done it on purpose.

But at least now I can see the problem. I grab pliers and finally make short work of the snag. Pants and shoes back on and I hustle back out to the car, and yes, contrary to my form and your likely expectations at this point, I do remember to take the computer with me and get my stuff off the top of the car.

I made it to the meeting on time, which was a relief, because I try to be an honest guy, and I don't think I could've explained the reason for any tardiness in a credible way.

 

[Moderator]

 

[Spideyman]

Some zippers just have a mind of their own.

 

[do1you9love?]

Wow! I am glad this thread surfaced to the top again. I was absent from the boards for a while and missed it before today. I have laughed and cried and been angry and truly enjoyed reading all the stories.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to post these!

 

[swiftdog2.0]

OK, here's a story of a more recent vintage. Like from yesterday.

I am currently employed as a software development project manager for a financial company. I don't actually do the coding, I just manage the resources and the schedule to produce whatever it is the client is looking for. We use an Agile methodology, which in a nutshell, is centered around rapid delivery of software components. One of the things you do in Agile is sprint planning, which is a fancy term for planning out the crap you have to do for a given time period.

The developers on my team are basically kids. They are mostly in their early to mid-twenties. I'm sort of an elder statesman being in my early 40's (man I feel old sometimes ) In yesterday's planning session one of them was answering a question in a very smart-alecky, condescending way towards our business analyst, who happens to be the only woman there. We are pretty informal in our internal meetings and I have a good working relationship with my team so we can joke around a bit. However, condescension is something I won't tolerate. So I said to this person, "Do you have to be such a smarta**?"

When this came out of my mouth the first thought I had was "Oh my God, I sounded just like my father!". Which I shared with the team. Which cracked everybody up

It was one of those "wow" moments when you realize, despite best efforts, you are going to end up acting or thinking like one of your parents in some way shape or form.

I seem to be having more and more of those moments recently and I am not liking it.

 

[Grandpa]

Sorry, but I'm ready for another, and if this sounds like bragging a little bit, well, it is.

I was going to a small convention in a town deep in the Colorado Rockies. I'd like to say "small town," but deep in the Rockies, that's a given.

I meet and greet some, having a good time, and then two young ladies show up. They've on the student side of things, attending this convention on the student plan and trying to network and gain our Ancient Wisdom. But in their search for all of that, they say there's a problem with their car, and can someone please help them. I say sure, and leave the party and head out with them.

Well, it's not engine problems. It's not "where's my gas cap" problem. What happened was, as demonstrated by the empty vodka bottle(s) in the back of their car, they had tried to park in a somewhat elevated parking lot that unfortunately didn't have parking blocks to bump into to let them know when to stop. No, they have driven the front wheels of their little Honda (Civic? Accord? Probably Civic, as you'll see) off the edge of the elevated surface. We're on the lower parking lot, about three feet down, looking at this car, with its wheels hanging over the edge, unhappy and immobile.

"Can you help?" Hell, I don't know. Girls, you've driven the car off the edge of the pavement. But let's take a look.

I vault up to the higher level where the car is. I know that the car will ultimately have to roll back. I make sure the parking brake is disengaged and the transmission is in neutral. I get out and jump back down.

"Here's the deal. We're going to have to lift the car and roll it back onto this upper level, where we can lock up and park it. Okay?"

They look at each other and nod, sure, what the hell, whatever.

I get under the front end of the car, the exposed underside. Serendipitously, with my back against the undercarriage, it's just about the right height for me to have maximum leg thrust against it.

And now, a side note. I have weirdly strong legs. It's like my superpower. I have chicken wrists, and I can't hurl a bowling ball like my stocky (fat) looks would indicate, and I have plenty of physical insufficiencies - but I have weirdly strong legs. At the club, I'll put the max weight on the leg press, 300-plus pounds, and rip away 20 reps, no worries. Never done me any good up to this point, but it's just weird, okay?

Back to the car. I direct each girl to a front fender. "I'm going to count to three. When I say "three," lift with all your might, and I think we can get this baby back onto the pavement."

They seemed willing. I got under the car, tested it again, was ready, and said, "One... two... three!"

Heaved all my might. The car rose some, hesitated, and I could not lose this effort, and adrenalin hit, and I pushed up again, legs straining a little bit harder than I actually imagined they could, and the car rolled up, safe now, onto the upper level of the pavement.

I looked up, satisfied. "See there? Told you we could do it!"

One girl looked at the other. "I wasn't pushing. I didn't think we could do it." The other girl said, guiltily, "Not me. I didn't think so, either."

We secured the car, and we had a nice chat after all that. Then years later, I'm in kind of decompression mode with the same professional folks, and one of the girls is there, now ensconced in the profession. I was getting an award that year, and a couple people were lavishing praise on me, which unfortunately went to my head, and I turned to that girl and said, basically, "Remember when?"

Here's an example of why I don't trust accounts, divine, mundane, news reports, whatever. Yes, she did remember. Yes, the incident was fresh in her mind. She said, "OMG, he was our Superman! We were tanked up, wailing, desperate, and he swooped in and told us he could take care of it, grabbed the car, and flung it back up to the lot! He was incredible!"

It was only exaggeration by a factor of a hundred or so. To my shame, I didn't correct her. I just wallowed in the adulation. Another reason I don't trust accounts.

So still sometimes, I get a query, "You lifted a CAR?" I reply, "Only one end, and it was only a Honda." It seems so modest that way.

(Look, I told you I was bragging, okay?)

 

[Grandpa]

Hello! Delivery!! (reminded by Sigs' Stupid Behavior thread)

Grandma was, as they say, heavy with child, our first one. Back then, it was unusual for husbands to be in delivery rooms, but we both wanted me to be there, and we were assured by the Navy hospital (I was in the Marines then) that if we got our Lamaze certificate, I'd be allowed in.

So we got through the classes, held at nighttime at a local high school just a couple blocks from where we were living. The instructor, a lady whose name I still remember, was very cool, stayed late about our fourth class to answer a couple questions we had, and walked out with us. It was a nice night, cool breeze blowing through, and she stopped us in the middle of the walk and said, "I just wanted to tell you. It's just so obvious that the two of you are very much in love with each other. You just sparkle together. It's unusual and very charming and a happy thing to see." Grandma kinda laughed it off, but we were both immensely pleased.

A few weeks later, we were down at Torrey Pines with a Marine buddy of mine, watching hang gliders take off from the cliff and come back and land, and Grandma started complaining of not feeling well. Our buddy had driven us down there. He immediately freaks out and practically throws Grandma into the back of the car. I get back there with her to comfort her. He's hitting the road, saying frantically, "She's in labor!" and kept looking back at her, terrified. She's moving uncomfortably and complaining and telling him, no, she's not in labor. She just doesn't feel good. We blast back to our home at about 90 miles an hour (conservative estimate).

Back home, and she's saying, no, she's okay, she's okay, but finally after about an hour or two of trying to get comfortable she says, "I better go to the hospital." We were already packed and ready, so I unhurriedly put her bag in the '74 Civic, helped her in, and we took off. No hurry. She wasn't really in labor.

We get through the gate at Camp Pendleton. The roads are quiet, but she's not. She's moaning more and finally says, "Honey, get me to the hospital now."

I'm an obedient husband, especially to a wife who apparently really is in labor now with my first child. I step on it, and we're rocketing through the roads of the base on our way to the NRMC (Naval Regional Medical Center). Then a siren and flashing lights. An MP apparently didn't like my driving. I pull over and get out of the car and run back to him. He's already out, asking me for my license, and I say, "Can you write the ticket fast? My wife's in labor."

He runs up to the driver's window, looks in. Grandma was wearing a light blue maternity top, and so to the untrained eye, there was a light blue blonde hippopotamus in the passenger seat, thrashing around in distress.

He turns back to me. "Follow me! Just... just... just follow me!"

He races back to his truck and screeches out, spinning flashing lights coming on, siren starting its wail. I get back in my car and desperately try to keep up. He didn't like my driving? He's a lunatic.

We screech to a stop in the hospital parking lot, and I'm ready to help Grandma out of the car and walk her to the door, but apparently the MP has used something fancy in his truck called a "radio," because four orderlies sprint out, pushing a gurney between them, yank open the Honda's door, throw the blonde hippo onto the gurney, and disappear back into the hospital.

I get out a little more leisurely, and now the MP's approaching me. Now, you have to understand the Marine Corps environment. Rules are rules, and you can run, but you can't hide. So I'm bracing myself to get the ticket, but instead he grins, sticks out his hand, and says, "Congratulations! Get in there!" I shake his hand, thanking him profusely, and leave him behind before he changes his mind.

So that was the exciting part. Well... there are always gory details of a birth, of course, and the delivery rooms were full and they told her that her husband wouldn't be allowed in the OR where the delivery would take place, and she complained and complained, and they finally surrendered to her verbal assaults and said, "If you can hold off, we'll get your husband," and she held off on the delivery while they hunted me down where I was angrily pacing the halls, with them gowning and capping and booting me as we ran back, and I got to coach her and watch our son get born.

From the time she complained at Torrey Pines to the time of the boy getting out, pastel purple, unbelievably big considering what he had to go through to emerge, and crying lustily, was six hours. Turned out we didn't have a lot of time to spare. Glad my buddy was more worried (and perceptive) than we were.

 

[mjs9153]

Great story grandpa, but if you let grandma know you referred to her not once,but twice,as the blonde hippo,I fear for your ability to keep your scalp..

 

[swiftdog2.0]

I have a story reminiscent of The Revenge of Lard-A** Hogan.....

A while back one of my uncles had a Christmas party at his house about a week or so before the holiday. This was one of my Mom's brothers. My Mom comes from a large family (9 kids) all but one of whom have kids of their own so I have a lot of cousins. As you can imagine, this was a large gathering.

We are all having a good time. Eating, drinking and enjoying each other's company. Now my brother-in law seems to be sustaining himself with broccoli from the vegetable platter and red wine. A very odd combination if you ask me

Anyway, the party continues into the night and it finally comes time to leave. My brother in-law has now consumed a copious amount of broccoli and wine.

I end up having to drive my parents home because SwiftDad had a bit too much of a good time and my Mom won't drive on the highway (God may know why, I sure don't). Anyway my sister and her husband are leaving at the same time. My sis is driving their car because my brother in-law was in a worse state than SwiftDad. She pulls out and I'm right behind her as we are going in the same direction, at least until the highway on-ramp a few miles away.

We are going along for a bit when all of a sudden my sister swerves over to the side of the road. As I pull in behind her to see what the problem is I see the passenger door fly open, followed by an awful wrenching sound and a burst of broccoli and red wine come flying out. Green chunks in a burgundy mist. Let's not even talk about the SMELL!! It was horrible.

What had happened was my brother in-law got sick form what he ate and drank and the motion of the car made him all over the place. Luckily, he managed to expel it all outside of the car. Which was good for him because I could hear my sister yelling at him a good twenty feet away. If he kersplahed the interior of the car she probably would have made him walk home

 

[mjs9153]

Mmm..broccolowiney..

 

[swiftdog2.0]

Mmm..broccolowiney..

Needs more red! And stink lines! Oh, so very potent stink-lines!!

 

[Grandpa]

Here's a little something.

Back in the '80s, I was working a job for the government, keyboarding. I don't mean they hired me and said, "You must keyboard." But keyboarding was 95% of my job description.

One day, on the right middle finger, I noticed a little inflammation around a hair follicle. Hm. Not to be gross, but I worried it a little bit, like humans normally do, then tried to ignore it.

But it didn't go away. A couple days later, there was a little pocket of purulence at the follicle. Pus. A zit. Whatever. Okay, I'm going to get rid of this. I pulled the hair out, and the little bit of ugly infection came with it. All taken care of. Except it wasn't. Within another two days, my finger was swelling, getting harder to move, was turning an angry color, and red tendrils were starting to snake down the finger, into the hand. The finger was starting to swell to half again (or more) of its normal size.

This isn't some Stephen King story about The Infection That Ate An Arm, although I guess it could've been if I'd left it alone. But I went to the doc's office. They said it looked bad, and with me looking on, they gave me a local at the site, then sliced it open, packed it with gauze, wrapped it up, put a splint around my finger, and gave me antibiotics.

The government office administration, in apparent good humor, brought in some temps to take over my spot, even though I showed up every day, willing to work, but not being able to do anything, because it seems that our right middle finger is indispensable for keyboarding. I did what work I could and amused everyone, or maybe just mostly myself, by demonstrating how I could really give someone The Finger, with the digit swollen and splinted and oversized and obvious.

I finally went back to the doc's office, where they took the splint off, sliced my finger again, and started pulling linear miles of gross-looking gauze out of the wound, and my "gross-looking," I mean that George Romero wouldn't have filmed the scene because it would be too disgusting.

I looked on, academically interested, but apparently, the portions of my brain that took this seriously had their own take on it, because I started talking to the docs and attendants as they finished up. I mean, nonstop, even through my realization that they were tired of it and wanted me to just, please, for the love of God, just shut up. And even though deep inside, and I am not kidding, I was saying to myself, "You're talking too much. This is a shock reaction," I just kept blathering away. Not my proudest moment.

I returned to work. I got back full function of the damaged The Finger, with eventually just a little scar and some permanent but slight darkening of the digit to remind me. But it taught me a couple lessons.

One, we are so dang fragile. One infected follicle? And my job is jeopardized? It's reminiscent of Poor Richard's Almanac: "For want of a nail, the shoe is lost. For want of a shoe, the horse is lost. For want of a horse the driver is lost." One of just a myriad of weak links in a chain. Fragile.

Second, things work on us like we can't realize. If someone says, "I don't know why I did that," I go back to my Shock Reaction Garrulousness, and think, "Yeah. I might understand why."

 

[mjs9153]

something about that story bothers me but I just can't quite put my finger on it..

 

[Grandpa]

From the early '80s, we go to the events of last night.

But first, way back in my childhood, there was a program (that's "programme" for you Brit-speakers) called The Dick Van Dyke Show. It was charming and funny and a bit repressed, like all shows were then.

Anyway, Dick is in trouble. Something happened, can't remember what, the night before, and he's now suspected of something or another, and his alibi to his family, friends, and police is that he went to the drive-in (I think he and wife Laura, whom all of America had a crush on, by the way, had an argument), was watching a movie, and fell asleep. Everyone keeps asking him the question, "What was the movie?" "The Guns of Navarone." To which comes the universal and incredulous retort, "You slept through The Guns of Navarone?!?!?"

For Grandma and me, it's become the cliché for someone saying something improbable, particularly involving sleep. "I was so tired yesterday afternoon, I just passed out on the couch. No, I didn't hear that helicopter landing next door," to which will come, with laughs, "You slept through The Guns of Navarone?!?!?"

In actuality, neither of us had ever seen it. We're just envisioning a movie full of big cannons going off, with rifles and machine guns and earth-shaking explosions happening as the titular guns are under assault.

It was David Niven Night on TCM last night. Grandma looked and said, "Hey, they're playing The Guns of Navarone. We can finally see it." I got out some fine cheese, poured each of us an adult beverage, and nestled in to partake of this classic.

About 20 minutes into it, I gave up, put my head down on the well-cushioned couch arm and, yes, slept through The Guns of Navarone.

I'm not gonna hear the end of it, I'm sure. Me and Dick.

 

[cat in a bag]

From the early '80s, we go to the events of last night.

But first, way back in my childhood, there was a program (that's "programme" for you Brit-speakers) called The Dick Van Dyke Show. It was charming and funny and a bit repressed, like all shows were then.

Anyway, Dick is in trouble. Something happened, can't remember what, the night before, and he's now suspected of something or another, and his alibi to his family, friends, and police is that he went to the drive-in (I think he and wife Laura, whom all of America had a crush on, by the way, had an argument), was watching a movie, and fell asleep. Everyone keeps asking him the question, "What was the movie?" "The Guns of Navarone." To which comes the universal and incredulous retort, "You slept through The Guns of Navarone?!?!?"

For Grandma and me, it's become the cliché for someone saying something improbable, particularly involving sleep. "I was so tired yesterday afternoon, I just passed out on the couch. No, I didn't hear that helicopter landing next door," to which will come, with laughs, "You slept through The Guns of Navarone?!?!?"

In actuality, neither of us had ever seen it. We're just envisioning a movie full of big cannons going off, with rifles and machine guns and earth-shaking explosions happening as the titular guns are under assault.

It was David Niven Night on TCM last night. Grandma looked and said, "Hey, they're playing The Guns of Navarone. We can finally see it." I got out some fine cheese, poured each of us an adult beverage, and nestled in to partake of this classic.

About 20 minutes into it, I gave up, put my head down on the well-cushioned couch arm and, yes, slept through The Guns of Navarone.

I'm not gonna hear the end of it, I'm sure. Me and Dick.

I sure wish I could tell a tale like you, Grandpa. Perfect. And no, I don't think you'll probably ever hear the end of it.

 

[swiftdog2.0]

From the early '80s, we go to the events of last night.

But first, way back in my childhood, there was a program (that's "programme" for you Brit-speakers) called The Dick Van Dyke Show. It was charming and funny and a bit repressed, like all shows were then.

Anyway, Dick is in trouble. Something happened, can't remember what, the night before, and he's now suspected of something or another, and his alibi to his family, friends, and police is that he went to the drive-in (I think he and wife Laura, whom all of America had a crush on, by the way, had an argument), was watching a movie, and fell asleep. Everyone keeps asking him the question, "What was the movie?" "The Guns of Navarone." To which comes the universal and incredulous retort, "You slept through The Guns of Navarone?!?!?"

For Grandma and me, it's become the cliché for someone saying something improbable, particularly involving sleep. "I was so tired yesterday afternoon, I just passed out on the couch. No, I didn't hear that helicopter landing next door," to which will come, with laughs, "You slept through The Guns of Navarone?!?!?"

In actuality, neither of us had ever seen it. We're just envisioning a movie full of big cannons going off, with rifles and machine guns and earth-shaking explosions happening as the titular guns are under assault.

It was David Niven Night on TCM last night. Grandma looked and said, "Hey, they're playing The Guns of Navarone. We can finally see it." I got out some fine cheese, poured each of us an adult beverage, and nestled in to partake of this classic.

About 20 minutes into it, I gave up, put my head down on the well-cushioned couch arm and, yes, slept through The Guns of Navarone.

I'm not gonna hear the end of it, I'm sure. Me and Dick.

I had a buddy of mine sleep through a Rush concert. He got so stoned on the way to the show that he passed out in his seat two songs in.