Friday, October 29, 2010

Entry 105: Lessons From A Fictional Trans-Gender

Hey there, peeps.

I finished a book by Gary Mathews titled "Little Red Rooster."  Good book, sort of a first-person coming of age story for a young smart-ass in a small town.  In a bizarre twist, the main character (Burris Weems- great name!) befriends a guy at his summer job whose girlfriend has a trans-gender father (mother?)... sort of.

Apparently the girl's father, "Gene," was married for years and occasionally dressed up in his wife's clothes (who doesn't?)  While not gay in the catcher/pitcher sense, Gene decides to pursue his true self by having surgery done to become a woman.  Like, all the surgery.  As in, doctors removed his wang and replaced it with... a vagina-like thing.  (don't even want to think about that.)  His doctors made him wait a year to perform the surgery, as they wanted to make sure he was certain as the surgery was irreversible. 

Gene was smart enough to tell the doctors what they wanted to hear and went through with the surgery.  Then he regretted it in every sense of the word and lived a miserable and depressed life, dependent on his daughter to take care of him and provide minimal emotional support to keep him from killing himself.  Which, in the end, he does anyway (and Burris packs him in the trunk of a car with icebags as part of a crazy scheme to get with the daughter.  Yeah, weird.).

So Gene was smart enough to get his way and what he thought he wanted, but dumb enough that he had no idea of what he really wanted in life.  Think about it: had he been smarter he would have realized that the surgery was a terrible idea and not gone through with it.  Had he been dumber he wouldn't have been able to convince the doctors to perform the surgery.

Putting the sex-change them aside, how many of you feel like you live in a gray zone somewhere between too dumb and too smart?  I think I do.  I've asked some of my friends if they could choose to be dumb but happy would they do it.  They all say no.  Why?  Would you make that trade?  Peace and contentment at the low price of your self-awareness and wits. 

I still feel most of you wouldn't trade your smarts for peace, but what if I threw in another bone: say, a great sense of humor?  Better looks?  What would it take?

I for one think I'm close enough to the boundary to just work on my smarts some and get out of the gray zone.  I know a few people who could stand to be just a bit dumber, too.

Smart or dumb, however, I ain't cuttin' off my wiener. 


PS did you read about the dude that hooked up with Christine O'Donnell?

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Entry 104: Overload

One: the Hiccup Girl, Jennifer [I'm too lazy too google her last name] killed some dude.  Are hiccups a defense for murder?

Two: Charles Manson is up for parole soon and has always said that if he gets out he knows the town he's going to live in.  Guess how far it is from my house?  Less than 15 miles.  Why that town?  He says it's the one town in America where you could for certain get away with murder.

Three: The World Maid-Rite Eating Competition is happening here in town, soon. Do I join?  I don't even like maid-rites? 

Four: I have a lot of thoughts on wind-chimes and wind. Mostly stemming from the fact that my wind-chime is on the ground because it was blown there by- you guessed it- the wind. 

Sadly this cluster of activity is too much for me to process in any sort of coherent way, so I'm just going to walk away. 

Caleb "I hope Charles Manson doesn't kill me" Shreves

Monday, October 25, 2010

Entry 103: Just Do It

The first time you do it you learn about your body's coping mechanisms.  You watch a person fall out of a airplane and a quiet voice in the back of your mind says "hmm.  Seems odd.  Doesn't falling out of an airplane usually mean a terrible accident followed by a spectacular death?"  Yup.  Not this time though- you have a parachute (and some dude) strapped to you and you're about to to follow suit and fall out of a freakin' plane.

Your breath comes in short bursts and your panic switch gets turned on.  But then... then everything goes blank.  You just calmly look out the door, lean forward-back-forward, and fall to the earth.  Oddly enough, the exact moment you hurtle out the plane door is when your previously checked-out mind decides to return in full force.  And guess what?  It's awesome.  Epic.  Monumental.  You're not falling- you're flying!  You are literally flying through the air. 

The roar of the wind rushing by you is deafening.  Any communication- if it exists- is by instinct and hand signals.  By the way, they don't even bother teaching you hand signals on your first jump because you're too sky-tarded (just made that word up) to remember your own name, let alone what a hand shaped into a circle in front of your face means (check your altimeter, fyi). 

So I jumped again Friday.  No fear this time (fine, some) just excitement.  And the ability to fully "be there" and enjoy what's going on.  This time I checked my altimeter several times, did all the procedures correctly, and even remembered to look up at the horizon while spinning around in my 'chute.  Which, by the way, is one of the coolest parts.  Roar, falling, roar, loud, noise; then... poof.  Silence.  You're floating at 5,000 feet in complete peace. 

I'm going to go ahead and recommend that all of you skydive.  Especially YOU- the one who says it's too scary and a crazy idea.  You owe it to yourself.

And guess what?  After your second jump you can enter the AFP program to get licensed, and your third jump is solo.  Yup, solo.  Granted, an instructor jumps with you and holds on the whole time, but still. Solo. 

I think I'm going to try it.  Maybe next spring when it warms up (and I save some money?).


PS I went 39-7 on a Halo: Reach match.  I'm that awesome.  

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Entry 102: The Friendship Campaign

There are two old ladies who work near me.  They are giant Cunts- and I don't use the word often or lightly.  They hate everybody, they gossip, they talk about people loudly enough for them to hear, they're mean, they complain about everything (last week someone's sandals were too loud) and they've finally made it unbearable enough for a lady nearby that she had to move desks.

They don't work for the company that I work for, and their boss is not the same area as them.  Word is they've been chased out other areas throughout their career for their cuntery, but no one wants to reprimand them now since they're old and brittle and retiring soon.  Well, technically, I think they already retired as government workers and now work do nothing as "consultants."  Yes, that's where your tax dollars go.

Anyway, someone approached me this week on how we can exact vengeance on them for being so foul that we had to actually move one of our employees.  We brainstormed for an hour or so and came up with a few good ideas; dead cockroaches on their desk, rearranging their desks, hiding rotten potatoes (or apples) in their workspace, but I think the best idea is my friendship campaign.

Basically, we're going to make those motivational posters you see everywhere with friendship slogans like these:

"If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion."

"The greatest degree of inner tranquility comes from the development of love and compassion. The more we care for the happiness of others, the greater is our own sense of well-being."

Etc.  We're going to frame them with happy pictures and put them up at everyone's desk.  Starting with the now empty desk of their most recent victim.  Then we're going to start a verbal component of our plan, with everyone in our area going to at least one person a day and saying loudly something nice and supportive.  If they all happen to be to the person who sits right next to these old bats?  Pure coincidence.  And if someone asks us why we're doing this?  Well, we had an internal dispute in our company and decided to resolve it proactively rather than with punishments and penalties.  Aren't we chic?

So we're working on the posters now, but if any of you have ideas for how to take out these old ladies- let me know!

Caleb "Can't we all just get along?" Shreves

PS one of the two ladies looks JUST like a bird.  I only know her as Bird Lady.  She even moves her head like a chicken when she walks.  Weird.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Entry 101: Caleb Emails Dr. Laura

I heard a particularly good show from Dr. Laura this morning and thought I'd send her an email.  Since you stalkers seem to want to know every detail of my life, I thought I would paste it here for you to read. 

Hi Dr. Laura,

I have listened to your show off and on for years, mostly for entertainment and the "Yeah! Get 'em!" feeling when callers come to you needing a good straightening-out.  For the most part I agree with the principles and advice you give, with certain notable exceptions. 

One thing that I notice with a lot of women callers is the pathetic, whiny, needy, and weak tone of voice they use.  They'll call in with some story about how their husband is cheating on them or not giving them attention and I'm thinking, "lady, I've heard your voice for less than a minute and I already want to date you JUST so I can go cheat on you."  Ridiculous, I know, but the point is there; the nagging insecurities and lack of confidence in many of these women is not only annoying, but rarely effective in implementing any type of solution to their problems. 

Should these women have faithful husbands?  Ones who are attentive and responsible?  That respect them?  Absolutely- and any man worth his salt is going to hold out for a woman who demands- and is worthy- of his very best.  But when I hear these women call in with their whiny, verge-of-tears voices it just makes me want to insult their mothers, go to a strip club, and emotionally starve them while playing Xbox.  (in an unrelated note I am currently single).

Well this morning I was surprised when I finally heard you tell a woman who had called in about an inattentive husband to "take the whine out of your voice."  I sat up.  What was this?  "Can you please take the whine out of your voice?  Do you know why I'm asking you that?"  Finally!  Yes!  And you did- you told her that any sort of fix for her problem (and you gave her some good ideas on things to say and do) was going to have to come from a confident and fun place.  More whining and "please be the parents I never had instead of my husband" was not going to work.

Thanks for your show, thanks for the laughs, and best of luck with your new endeavors. We'll always have to agree to disagree on some matters, but even so I'm convinced that we would get along splendidly in person. 

Maybe you could even straighten me out a bit. 


Caleb Shreves

If she emails me back I'll let you know.  And if you don't even know who Dr. Laura is.... well, you've got more problems than reading my blog can solve.

And it can solve a lot.


Friday, October 15, 2010

Entry 100: Epic Comedy Fail

Last night I went and saw a comedienne (apparently there is a feminine spelling of that word... who knew?) with some friends.  She was okay.  This story however isn't about her, but about her warm-up guy.

Who SUCKED.  No- no. No.  Sucked.  Serious.  This is the midwest, and politeness kept people from openly booing or throwing things, but this poor guy was so bad it was awkward.  In fact, my friend had his head buried in his hands saying "Oh God... stop the awkward..."  (I, of course, was on the edge of my seat chanting "more awkward! More!")

His jokes were of such epic lameness that the audience wasn't even aware that he had finished a joke.  He would pause, uncomfortably, after each fail and then kind of plow ahead to the next huge embarrassing failure.  Here are a few of his gems:

"Cell phones.... any of you out there texters? [Um... who isn't?  Rtard.] I myself don't do texts.  None at all. It's a phone, right? It has a speakerphone thingy, and a listening thing.  Call me.  Right?"
"I hate it when people in line ahead of you are on their phones.  They're just talking, all like "hey girlfriend... yeah, I'm just shopping" like whoever they're talking to is more important than you.  Right?"

He even started with a potentially funny set-up.  He has a 12 year-old son who decided not to go to the show but wrote him a note saying why.  This could be funny, right?  Nope.  Apparently "comic-failure" is an inherited trait.

Even more sad, towards the end he got a few chuckles with some half-way decent impression he did (don't remember who).  Encouraged by the (minimal) success, he brightens and says "oh, you guys like impressions?  Shout some out! I'll do any!" And he did tried. Here is a list of impressions I remember him going for, and a 1-10 ranking for both the accuracy of the impression and the funny context in which he placed the impression (i.e. putting the "character" he was imitating in a funny scenario)

Macho Man Randy Savage  5/0
Audrey Hepburn                  3/0
Daffy Duck                          4/0
Sly Stallone                          2/0
Bill Clinton                           3/0
Richard Nixon                     6/1
James Stewart                     4/0
Jimmy Carter                       0/0
Michael Jackson                  1/0

What, Caleb, you think you could do better?  Yes.  Absolutely.  With no preparation or experience, I would have been at least 7 times better.  In fact, I briefly considered bum-rushing the stage and taking over as an act of compassion. 

Instead I says to my friend BBB, "can I sneak out and go smoke?"

To which he says, "I want to go out and chain-smoke until I get cancer and die."

That, ladies and gentlemen, sums up the epic fail of this comic.


PS The Johann says he is going to "pee on you.  drip drip drip."

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Entry 99: Caleb Takes The LSAT, Pillages Local Community

Gentle Readers,

Well, I'm done.  I wish I could tell you how it went, but sadly (read: retardedly) you don't get your test results back for 3 weeks.  It felt like it went fine (as in, no self-imploding or anything) but it's hard to tell how that will translate.  Some practice tests I would feel like it went great but I sucked ass, and other times I surprised myself with a good score even though I felt like I took a dump on the test.

When I know, you'll know.  Well, I might not announce my score, but I can at least tell you good, bad, or ugly!

I can, however, tell you of my post-LSAT celebrations.  I left the testing center- fairly manic- and jammed out to Miles Davis' "Right Off" (my theme song) while I drove over to meet my friend, Turtle, at a bar that I sometimes hang out at and infrequently harass the bartenders of.  Wow, there's a sentence.

I started slamming Goose and Bull (doesn't that seem like it should have some sort of animal-y nickname?) but switched to beers when I realized my pace would probably kill a rhino in 3 hours.  That and some new friend I made (who told me gruesome stories of working in the social-worker industry) handed me over a few shots of cheap tequila.  Can you mix good and bad tequila?  I don't know.  But I did anyway.

As the afternoon wore on a few well-wishers dropped by to buy me drinks/shots and congratulate/berate me for taking the test.  A few friends were out of the picture that evening, but quite a few dropped by periodically to help me get hammered. Krust was MIA on a covert-declothing operation, Sandbagger was at a wedding reception, and The Johann was out of town and returning later.  This meant I had to hassle another friend of mine- who wasn't planning on coming out till later- to hustle her butt up and help me drink.  Since she was also bringing her German friend/thinks-she-can-outsass-me-personal-trainer I told her to "Blitzkrieg the shit" out of getting ready and take to the bar like "von Brauchitsch took Poland."  Yeah, I think I kept the WWII jokes going all night. 

By the second bar I was full-on buzzed, though I would seem to not exceed this state all night despite copious amounts of drinks and shots.  I have a dangerously impulsive attitude and an insane alcohol tolerance that sometimes lead me to say "yes" to every drink offered and even snatch shots off the bar away from unsuspecting patrons.  If they're too dumb to notice- fuck 'em!  It's my party, right?  (okay, it's not.)

The good news of the evening for all involved was that The Johann finally broke out a few dance moves.  I've warned of these moves already, and find it difficult to understate their epic awesomeness.  Sadly the band sucked and he didn't really get into his full on "dancing with myself by the wall" groove, but people got a taste- and that was enough to prove me right.  That kid can DANCE!

That party turned into a hometown party, where I drug otherwise peaceful city-folk into the county to experience the small-town shenanigans of my hometown.  My cousins were out and about too, so it was extra fun.  Cue karaoke, douchebag guys lifting up the skirts of some of my friends (luckily cooler heads prevailed there), and lots of shots.  What?  It's closing time? Screw it!  Going to my house!  Which, we did.

Speaking of cousins, I got to see another one of my cousins that night at about 4 AM.  He works as a Sheriff's deputy.  Yup, it had gotten a bit loud so we had to take it inside, but he is a really nice guy and was laughing more than anything.  I think I drunkenly accused him of giving me a speeding ticket before, but I'm an idiot and it was actually a different deputy that did it.  I suppose I should apologize? 

After that it was merely a matter of everyone surviving until the next morning, finding their keys/cars/etc., and sleeping it off.  Well, except for two friends who had some sort of epic fight, wandered around the town at 5AM, fighting, and walked over 15 miles back to town.  Yes, I helped coordinate a rescue effort the next day (even utilizing the surveillance tapes at the gas station!) and yes, we found everybody and everyone was safe.  I myself didn't make it through much of Sunday to enjoy it, but that's the price you pay when you drink like a fiend for over 14 hours straight!

Surprisingly, at the first bar I was at I was being hilarious (read: slightly annoying) to the first bartender (who rocks) and didn't have any problems, but when the new chick took over (who I do actually like too) I threw one ice cube at her (hilarious) and she said "Caleb, I like you, but if you throw one more thing at me I'm throwing you out."

Ouch.  Buzz kill. 

Did I throw anything else?

What do you think?!  

She didn't catch me though!  PS don't tell her

Caleb "I'm finally f8cking done!" Shreves

Friday, October 8, 2010

Entry 98: Nerves


Okay, now that that's out of my system.

Well tomorrow is test day.  I won't lie, for some reason I've been nervous.  I think it's because of the high pressure of the test- to get a top score there is NO room for error or a lapse of concentration.  And if you get a logic game you don't know, or a reading section that's dense and unfamiliar, or if the argument section has a lot of trick questions- you're down with the masses. 

Oh well. I've got my studying in, my sleep caught up, and my pill-cocktail ready to go.

And, since I've been (relatively) well behaved while studying, I'm planning on going on a Caleb-adventure tomorrow after the test.  So if I don't post anything for a while, I'm in jail and they won't give me the webs.

Wish me luck!

PS October's "I'm Telling Your Mom" is up.  Check it out!


Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Entry 97: [Insert Clever Title]

 I know some of you are itching to Caleb-ize your own lives.  Here's a formulaic breakdown of my blog; feel free to mix and match randomly.

[clever salutation]

[offbeat introduction to random topic]

[clever references that show that I am aware of youth and frat culture, yet somehow above it]

[comment that is sexist, misogynistic, or blatantly womanizing.  Written equivalent of a cute smile to soften the blow and not make me seem too dickish to get laid]

[story of crazy friend doing something that makes me seem not so bad]

[anything to keep the attention on me]

[my name with a clever quote-thing for a middle name]

You're welcome!  Now go have fun.

Oh, kind of funny: this morning I saw a giant red billboard with a pack of cigarettes on it that said "killaz."  At first I thought maybe they were those mini-cigars that are getting more popular because they evade the cigarette tax and I thought "Hmm... maybe I'll have to try those!"

Then I read on and saw that it was a JEL (just eliminate lies) anti-smoking billboard, and the "killaz" brand is meant to be ironic and discourage smoking.

Advertising fail.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Entry 96: The F*ck List

Check this out:

F List

This chick banged about a baker's dozen athlete dudes at Douche Duke University. She then put together a PowerPoint presentation putting up pictures and information on each dude, then assigning a point-ranking system from best to worst.

The names and stuff are currently blacked out, but supposedly that was done only after about 300,000 people had already viewed the page.

Facts: she apparently just created this for her friends, but word got out (as it is wont to do) and now it's fairly scandalous.

Yes, I took the time to read through everything.  Lessons learned?  Girls DO appreciate aggressiveness (duh) and size DOES matter, though other factors can mitigate a small-wiener situation (good news for some of my friends).

Here's the fun part- check out each picture (groups of pictures, actually) for each dude and then try and match up how you think he performed in bed.  Then, read each description and see if it matches up to your prediction.  I was way off.  The weiniest looking guy on their turned out to be the most violently alpha-male dude on the roster.  Who knew?  I thought I was better at gauging these things, but apparently my psychic powers only extend to knowing everything about chicks.

Speaking of, years ago had a contest where you were shown over 50 pictures of just breasts- no faces, just breasts.  For each picture, you had seconds to determine whether they were fake or real.  The winner got all sorts of cool stuff (probably booby-related, which is super).  I was 1 point away from winning (high 40's out of 50 if I remember right).  Pretty bad ass, right?

Keep on keepin' on.

Caleb out.