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Category Archives: Humor
Humor 76
I’ll find out Monday! 🙂
Dear Fayetteville, Part II
I love Fayetteville, so please take this unusual post as-is: both humor and opinion woven together like a weird rug you might find at the red flea market.
Most of you don’t experience Fayetteville like I do. It’s a markedly different place in the early morning hours before thousands of people wake up and flood the streets. The beautiful houses along Garland, the surprising pop-up new architecture that violates the normalcy of the surrounding houses. This beauty also serves to drive the cost of living higher, pushing out the people who’ve called it home. The university, downtown, and many other places resonate with simplicity and beauty. If Fayetteville had its own statue of Jesus, he’d likely be slapping himself on the forehead and peeking through fingers at the town below him, wincing at the traffic near Wedington and begging us to use our blinkers.
We will always grip the steering wheel here. The traffic is a consequence of geography and people’s desire to live here. We are not in traffic. We are traffic. We’ll always shake our heads at the scooters somehow finding a home in the branches of trees. There’ll be beer cans scattered along the sculpted buildings. But there will be food, drinks, and great times at games, the theater, and a hundred other places that make Fayetteville worthwhile. I don’t understand the mentality of people dreading the influx of students. The university is the literal backbone of everything we are. Even if it irritates the heck out of us at times.
Another university year begins. And another pointless tug of war about people being allegedly underage and wanting to drink or smoke. I can hit a baseball and within the range of that ball, there are a dozen people who will sell me anything I want. When I say anything, I mean literally anything. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, fake IDs, a flamethrower – and if you’re really desperate, some Texas Longhorn fan memorabilia. We’ll complain while attempting to find a parking spot anywhere on gameday or the ability to safely pull into the Chik-fil-A lot without a demolition derby incident.
There are three or four popular drinking places near where I live. I observe drinking under the influence and the other behavior that accompanies this with such frequency that it fades into the background. Many of them give me subtle hints regarding their worthiness to drive by doing unintentional donuts, driving on the sidewalk, or being on the wrong side of the road. And I’m only talking about the traffic police. My apologies to the Fayetteville Police. I’ve yet to have a questionable interaction with any of y’all. I’ll never forget the early morning when one of you pulled over while I was walking to ask me if I needed anything. We laughed and talked about the nonsense that the night inevitably brought along with it.
Nestled serenely in the epicenter of these drinking establishments is the cultural landmark Bottoms Up. Its military-grade bunker appearance is so astoundingly beautiful that its website contains no picture of the building. Each time I pass it, I pause long enough to put Visine in both eyes. Just in case.
You shouldn’t get a speeding ticket on some sections of Leverett no matter how fast you’re driving; excessive speed at some points on that street is an act of self-preservation. I didn’t mention MLK or any nearby streets because it’s an open secret that speeding is not only desirable but necessary. If you want to drive slowly, please head over to Wedington, where the traffic snarls resemble a hoarder’s attic. I also don’t want to exclude College Avenue, which seems to have more traffic lights than Grandma’s Christmas decorations.
Prohibiting sales of alcohol here on Sunday is an effective means to force people to visit Springdale on purpose when they otherwise wouldn’t. Once they visit and purchase their spirits, they can at least absolve their horrors by imbibing the very thing that caused the visit in the first place. (PS I love Springdale.)
Living in Fayetteville brings front and center the issue of age restrictions constantly and more so once the students are back. Before the inevitable comments ensue: yes, I realize that restrictions do not originate in Fayetteville. If you can vote, I still think it’s intrusive to tell these people they can’t do what they choose. If they want to drink four Bear Claws and accidentally drive a scooter into the ravine, just keep the gurneys on standby. I don’t know many older people who didn’t start as young people. Those same people creasing their brows at the indiscretions of the younger generation mostly pulled the same shenanigans themselves before civility and sanity taught them to pretend to be well-adjusted, law-abiding folk. You can’t have a university town without the secret war of youthful indiscretion. Looking at the Washington County detention roster convinces me that it’s not the students doing most of the crazy stuff.
My opinion may not be popular with the older crowd. It’s extremely easy to tell other people what to do when the restrictions don’t affect you. Hell, it’s half the reason we have so many social arguments. If you’re going to restrict it, apply the restrictions to everyone. And good luck trying to effectively spend tax dollars thwarting people’s tendencies toward vice. You’ll never see a Mafia family attempting to horn in on the lucrative knitting trade.
Our focus should not be on the consumption of such things. It should be on enrichment, education, and treatment. Anyone who thinks this is an intelligence issue hasn’t had to stick their hands in the thorns of alcoholism. Or convince someone with the munchies that they don’t NEED Taco Bell.
The underground network that informs and connects underage users comes alive again each fall. Where to go to get whatever you need. Which establishments wink and nod while they give it to you and accept your money. Which food trucks will leave you dashing madly for a secluded spot.
Of course, I’m oversimplifying. I have nuanced arguments about specific substances and laws. Doesn’t everybody? No one likes nuanced arguments. It’s why we don’t like bowties or words with needless syllables.
Let the yearly games begin.
PS I still find more beauty in the lesser-known spaces and places around town. These are difficult for visitors to find because our focus tends toward Kodak events and places. Fayetteville is a great place due to its disparate (or desperate?) mix of people and places. When the students arrive, the town is a markedly different place.
And a much more vivid place to call home because of it, in my opinion.
X
I posted this on the FB “What’s Wrong, Fayetteville” page. 99% overwhelming appreciation and the inevitable fringe of bitter people.
Friday Humor
Friday words of questionable humor…
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1th In Quality
I was asked me to come up with a new slogan for our quality initiative. They said it needed to perfectly encapsulate our approach. Tell me I wasn’t 100% successful!
So, You Know P¡nk?
So, You Know P¡nk?
NSFW Implications! The post is interesting, but the content might be too far for some people, even though I’ll use faux language to tell it.
Pink’s birthname was Alecia Moore. It became Pink for two reasons. It later became intertwined with Steve Buscemi’s character “Mr. Pink” in Reservoir Dogs. Pink met Steve Buscemi on the streets of New York when her huge 2000 album came out. He didn’t know who she was and she over-excitedly attempted to explain her name and his involvement. Steve ran away, probably in fear of her exuberance. She said he was “scared s***less.”
The original explanation is, well, NSFW. A friend of hers had never seen a white woman’s . Upon seeing it, he commented on the color quite loudly. Her friends started referring to her as “Mr. Pink.” A joke morphed into an outrageously successful alter ego.
Though it pales in comparison to her name as a bit of trivia, Pink is Jewish, which surprises people.
Truth is stranger than fiction!
X
PSA Prank Temptation
Public Service Announcement!
It is unwise to leave a stack of traffic cones near the sidewalk. Especially when a creative prankster has to talk himself out of doing something ridiculous with them. I had to literally run away because the urge to be hilarious with these overwhelmed me.
X’s Great Idea Series: Comedy
Listen… People keep begging me to share more of my great ideas. And to use a LOT more words doing so. They complain that I keep things too short. And I think this is a really good one!
For comedy clubs, after the MC comes out and tells stale jokes laden with false enthusiasm, they should bring two people from the audience to the stage. The first one should be a volunteer. He or she has the opportunity to tell any joke they want. I think we would find some good comedians accidentally this way. I’ve known several people who would be phenomenal as comedians. They look at me like a three-headed armadillo when I point it out to them. The second person would be chosen randomly. They would be asked to tell a joke or do an ad-lib.
Both of these scenarios would drive audience participation and keep things interesting. It would also give all their friends and family an opportunity to witness most of them experience most people’s most fundamental fear: public speaking. Oh, and a really good photo-op.
Thank you for participating in my great ideas series.
I apologize in advance for my failure to write at least 11,256 words.
X
Humor?
“Welcome to the Married People Phone Sex Line. Do you identify as a husband or a wife?”
“Wife.”
“Thanks. Let me connect you.”
Dead silence…
“Hey, is anyone there? I’ve been waiting 6 minutes.”
“Oh, we’re here. We’re just not listening.”
A Little Friendly Violence & Homework
This is a personal story. Some humor, some violence – but most of all, it contains a thread of nostalgia for people no longer walking the earth with us.
My brother Mike is no longer here to add the details to the story. He was older and larger than me. He reminded me of this easily observable fact quite often. For some reason, he was at the bar with Dad. I’m 92% sure it was the Red Door. During a relatively short stretch of time, Mike often accompanied Dad to the bar during one of our several residencies in Tontitown. Mike was trying to do his homework. Mike used to like to tell the story of how the barfly would hit on him. His account of her appearance was hilarious. Whenever he brought up the story I would ask him, “Yeah, but if she had been good-looking, you would have acted differently.” Sometimes he would punch me in the arm and sometimes he’d say, “Duh. I’m dumb but not stupid. But there’s no way I’d engage with someone who might have been with Dad.” Mike often told a repertoire of versions of this story, full of detail and exaggeration. The bones of the story are true, though.
Dad was drinking too much, which is like saying don’t wash your dishes in the washing machine. I don’t know Tiny’s real name. His nickname derived from the allegedly hilarious observation that he was the exact opposite of diminutive. He probably weighed 350 lb and was about 6 ft tall. Tiny was at the bar, which was a rarity. He preferred to drink an entire case of beer at home. Mike surmised that he and Dad undoubtedly had been working on a truck at some point in the day. And ran out of liquor. In Dad’s world, that was as serious as skipping seven consecutive dialysis visits.
A couple of rednecks came into the bar. They weren’t regulars. Their faces were anything but regular too. Mike liked to quip that both of them could have been a carnival attraction based solely on their faces. Dad was playing pool and acting like a fool to amuse himself. The rednecks wanted the pool table. Back then, we didn’t have Appleby’s, where you could drink too much and pick on an urbanite for amusement. Dad called them his favorite word: “++++suckers.” One of the rednecks came up behind him and knocked him down with a pool cue. When my brother Mike turned around to take another look, he saw Tiny pissed off and getting up from the bar. Tiny was probably more pissed off that he had to leave his beer unattended than he was about my dad BobbyDean getting clobbered. The redneck swung the pool cue at Tiny. Tiny raised an arm and took the blow across his forearm. In a move regarded as one of the most foolish in human history, the rednecks did not take the opportunity to run out of the bar. Tiny walked towards them both. They both started swinging at him. Tiny pushed one of them so hard that it looked like an invisible tether yanked him backward. He grabbed the other redneck by the arm and swirled him around. Despite Tiny’s size, he grabbed the raucous redneck by the belt and picked him up, and threw him in the general direction of the other redneck. He bent down and helped my Dad get back to his feet. Mike did add that Tiny was breathing really hard but otherwise hadn’t changed expression during the entire altercation.
The rednecks took their time getting up. Nobody had anything broken. Dad was bleeding a bit but since it wasn’t gushing, the old rule of “If you can stand up, it ain’t that bad” applied. It’s a version of “Walk it off” that parents told people of our generation – even if an arrow protruded from our thigh.
When the two interlopers had regained the ability to understand English, Dad told them if they would stop acting like Mississippi refugees, he’d buy them both a shot. It’s anybody’s guess whether they accepted the offer for fear of another round with Tiny, or they understood that that was the way these things were supposed to be handled.
My brother Mike ended up sitting at the bar, surrounded by two redneck strangers, Tiny, and Dad. They acted like old friends who just finished trying to kill each other. Mike noted that the barfly was still making geriatric eyes at him. I’m sure that on some nights, Mike probably had a drink, whether he’d easily admit it or not. Knowing Dad, he probably insisted on it. It was a violation of his code of conduct for anyone claiming to be a man to decline a drink in the presence of other men. Later in life, Mike adopted the same outlook, for better or worse. Dad often required me or Mike to drive us all home if he was particularly drunk. We never understood what gauge determined this, as Dad drove even when his breath was flammable.
I’m sure Mike learned more from observance that night than he ever could by staring at his textbook. Mike was brilliant but also brutal in his approach to certain situations. If you doubted him, he’d bend your thumb backward or hit you precisely in the neck in such a way that you were immobilized long enough to regret it.
PS The picture is a composite of their approximate appearance at the time.
Love, X
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P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 