I put an ad on Craig’s List for my car, and got this very simple email reply:

“What’s your bottom dollar cash price?”

That’s it? That’s your inquiry? No greeting, no name, no nothing. Well, I just had to write back.

Hi,

Thank you for that insightful, pointed inquiry. You deserve a sufficiently thorough answer in return.

Indeed, I have a price in mind that is the lowest I’m willing to offer. As tempting as it is to give you that price and completely wreck my negotiating power, I’m gonna hold off.

Also, I’m sure to your chagrin, I am not in dire straits. I do not need the money to pay my overdue light bill or satisfy my opiate addiction. I don’t even know what opiates are, if that gives you any further insight into the straight-laced mama’s boy I in fact am. So I’m not enticed by the fact you have cash. I have cash too and could go buy a round of ice creams right the hell now. But I’m not going to because you deserve more of a reply.

Also, hello. That’s how I meant to start this reply, because generally that’s how people communicate. We wave and offer a very brief greeting. You did not greet me in your email. You just asked me a question, with no greeting or salutation, as though I’m some automaton destined to reply back: “MY BOTTOM LINE CASH OFFER IS THREE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED SEVENTY EIGHT DOLLARS AND TWENTY SEVEN CENTS. REPLY YES TO BUY.”

And there’s another thing normal people like to do. They ask to drive the car before they consider purchasing it. I’m sure you were absolutely enthralled by the immaculate photos taken from my iPhone 5s. But I’m just telling you, this baby might be a complete lemon. For all you know I use the engine to store moonshine.

So basically, what I’m saying is, I want to look at the car with you. And want to drive around and say things like: “Yes, that thing works!”and “yeah, just jiggle it a little,” and “my mechanic said he had never heard that noise come from a car before so there’s no need for concern.”

But just because you’re the kind of guy looking for a good deal, I’ll give you one.

My bottom line cash offer is I will give you two dollars if you find a coconut and attempt to smash it over your head.

I am willing to entertain a reasonable counteroffer.

Thanks,

Dude Selling Car Online

You know how to have a great fall weekend? Don’t spend time watching your crappy football team.

This past weekend, my two football teams, the Wolfpack and the Panthers, lost heartbreakers. But I really don’t feel bad for them. They deserved to lose, with the Pack choking in typical State fashion and the Panthers once again displaying a defense that Pee Wee Herman could skip through.

What’s great is I only watched about twenty minutes combined of those games. I anticipated the misery, determined I wouldn’t make myself suffer for three hours, and was rewarded with actually getting stuff done.

The truth is, I used to poke at people who left in the middle of games or didn’t show up when their team was losing. I should’ve commended them. They knew what I now know.

It makes no sense to spend all of your time getting bent out of shape over a game that doesn’t matter. 

State missed a chip shot field goal that would’ve won them the game over #3 ranked Clemson. It stung for the moment, but no one is going to remember that game a year from now. Even this week the State players themselves are back to focusing on other matters, like passing their mid-term Bees and Beekeeping exams and where to take their girl for a dinner better than Gumby’s. Why am I freaking out over a ball that sailed right?

The Panthers have been a wreck this year, and look like the team they had the year before they drafted Cam Newton. Last year was a blast because the team was crushing it. How could I miss a game? This year I’m starting to wonder why I shouldn’t miss the game. I could spend the afternoon saying bad words and telling my kids I’ll be there “in just an hour,” or I could be productive, enjoy life, and take two minutes to read the postgame summary of why we suck so bad. And that’s exactly what I did.

So here’s the thing: I don’t have to watch the Panthers the rest of this year. They’re out of contention. I have my Sundays back. What will I do with my time? I can read, write, watch a movie or nap. Granted, I won’t do any of those things because I have kids, but the idea is really fantastic.

See, there is such freedom in only paying attention when your team is good. Sports can become an enjoyable part of your life instead of a regret.

And if your teams are never good, then find a hobby. Browns, Bills, Raiders and Lions fans: Think of the hours you’ve spent over your life watching horrible teams. 16 Sundays over 30 years is more than 1,500 hours wasted. And you could’ve been mastering the sitar in that time.

So sports (quasi)fans, free yourselves of the tyranny of watching your horrible team. Join the bandwagon of fairweather fandom and tune in when your team has earned it!

Dear Parent,

I am writing to inform you that I don’t remember your kids’ names. Do you have multiple kids? I don’t remember that either. All I know is you have a kid and I’m darn sure they have a name, but my name bank is completely full. I’m sorry.

I do feel bad about it. I will try to at least act like I know your kid’s name. I’ll say things like, “So tell me how’s family life?” and “Man, he is big. How old is he now?” And you’ll say things like “Good! The kids are good. Jamie just started pre-school.” And then I’ll say something like “Oh that Jamie, getting his pre-school on” which is really my way of saying “See! Look! I know your son, I know he’s Jamie!” And the next time we see each other, in a month, when I don’t say his name, you’ll think “Ahh, he knows Jamie. He’s said his name before.” Quite honestly this is the scenario I’m hoping will transpire in your mind.

If I can’t win at the name game, I’ll give it my best try with the gender. So I’ll say things like “Now you have…” and trail off while it appears I’m counting your kids on my fingers but I’m really just flipping myself off—because I should know this. But I know you’ll be real nice and say something like, “Yeah, two boys and a girl. 11,  7, and 4.” But at this point I’ll tell you that for me, the names are out. You have had too many children and I will not entertain it. So I will call them “your oldest boy” and the “middle one” and “your little girl.” And if you have a baby girl or baby boy, I will simply call it “the baby.” Sadly, I don’t remember if you had a boy or girl. I really don’t even remember if you had a baby, but I’m pretty sure you did. If I ask about the baby, and you say they are now like, 6, then I will grab the nearest shovel and bury my dumb head. I’m so sorry.

I hope you know I appreciate your friendship. Even if I don’t quite remember your name either. If you hadn’t noticed, I addressed this letter to “Parent.” I am so ashamed. What is your name? Is it Laura? That’s a wonderful name, but I know about 20 of you Lauras. And another 17 Laurens. And approximately five Loris…..Hmm……How about Lorax? Can I just call you that? I would not forget that. The Lorax. 

Thank you for understanding. I’m looking forward to spending more time with you, your spouse, your old boy, your little girl, the baby and that crazy old dog of yours. Truly, the <ENTER LAST NAME HERE WHEN YOU FIND OUT> family is one of my favorites.

Sincerely,

The Blogger Who Shall Remain Nameless

Dinner with little kids is frustrating and hilarious. I laugh at the lengths we take as parents to get our kids to actually eat food, and if at all possible, food that’s healthy. Getting kids to eat healthily is kind of like playing poker…

Good evening everyone from the World Series of Family Dinners. He’s Norman Chad and I’m Lon McEachern. Tonight we’re looking in on the Speight family dinner. Danielle and Carson are attempting to get their kids, Hudson and Ella Jane, to eat healthy food. 

Chad: Should be a great one, Lon. I remember getting me to eat vegetables was like stuffing an elephant into a goose. Not easy.

Lon: Haha, I bet not. OK, it looks like Danielle has prepared a delicious, healthy meal and she’s bringing it to the table.

Ella Jane: I don’t want dat!

Lon: Ooh, Ella Jane came for a fight tonight. She wastes no time in playing her first hand aggressively.

Hudson: What’s dat? Are doze vegetables in dere? I don’t want vegetables. 

Lon: Looks like Hudson is in no mood to get pushed around, either.

Chad: I can’t blame the kid. The vegetables aren’t completely hidden. I’d suggest Danielle buries those things like a culinary undertaker.

Lon: Well it’s called around to Carson, what will his move be?

Carson: Oh my gosh honey, this casserole is delicious! You guys have to try this. So good.

Chad: Not a bad bluff, but did he just say the “C” word? You just can’t mention casserole next to a food item. Immediately ruins the chance of them trying that food.

Danielle: Oh, it’s not casserole Daddy. But it is so good. This is all the stuff you like, guys. Beans, cheese, and rice. 

Chad: Wow! Dani is subtly goading them to go after what’s in the pot. But as my ex-wife always said when I would try to feed my pet snakes, “You cant make ’em bite!”

Lon: And what’s this? Ella Jane is making a move toward the casserole. Looks like she’s betting on lots of cheesy rice being under that mysterious layer of goo.

Chad: Watch out Ella Jane! You might regret that risk. Just like I regret not signing a pre-nup for my first two marriages.

Hudson: Mommy, what’s dis?

Lon: Oh no! Hudson has opened the casserole and exposed Danielle’s hand. Good golly those green beans are everywhere!

Chad: Now that is getting beat on the turn.

Hudson and Ella Jane: We don’t want green beans. We want a treat. 

Chad: Danielle’s stack has dwindled and I really don’t know what she can do right now to regain control of the table.

Danielle: Ok, well if you don’t eat your food there will be no treat.

Lon: Wow, just like that Danielle has gone all in with a pair of cookies!

Chad: And the children are gobbling down their food. They look like Uncle Bubba at the buffet of my third wedding!

Lon: Well folks, that’s it. We’ve witnessed a fascinating final table where in the end a couple of rookies were no match for a seasoned pro. We’ll see you next time on the World Series of Family Dinners.

If you’ve read me long enough, you know I’m highly amused by signs. They leave little space to communicate important messages, so often you have to live without a decent explanation of what the thing means.

You might’ve seen those little signs by the road that someone has just staked in the ground, perhaps at the corner of an intersection. They’re often business signs, with a simple statement of what the business or person does, along with their phone number. They’ll say “WE BUY HOUSES” or “WE BUY OLD CARS.” Pretty typical, right?

Well I was recently driving along and saw a sign reading “WE BUY DIABETIC TEST STRIPS.” I bet there’s someone out there who gets really excited about unloading their cache of diabetic test strips. They probably see that sign and exclaim “Finally!”, then weep with joy and get out of the car to hug sidewalk folk.

It is such a niche sign. I get the other ones that appeal to everyone. Like “We buy shoes.” OK, do any of you drivers got any of those? Of course you do. Obviously the maker of the sign doesn’t lack sales sense (though he may lack a pair of shoes, which would call into question his business savvy and ability to make a decent living).

But “WE BUY DIABETIC TEST STRIPS”? I have zero clue what those are. I’m almost 35 and if you showed me one I’d ask you what the hell it was. The target market for this advertisement is so narrow, I would think any phone call the advertiser receives would incite a wild party with the boss saying things like, “I told you that sign was genius” and “Drinks are on me. These diabetic test strips will take us right to the top.”

It did make me wonder what other highly niche signs could be placed roadside to grab the attention of the masses (and the response of an embarrassingly scant few).

So here are nine more Ridiculously Niche Roadside Sales Signs:

1. We buy surplus hot pink bathroom tile grout.
2. We buy used assault rifles from Swiss warfare.
3. We buy disintered remains of mustachioed vampires.
4. We buy boats. From the game Battleship.
5. We buy Gary Busey VHS tapes.
6. We buy most kinds of rubble.
7. We buy boiled shrimp shells and leftover cocktail sauce.
8. We buy size 51-48 jorts.
9. We buy difficult-to-catch birds.

Do you have a ridiculously niche roadside sales sign? Leave one in the comments!

Today I’m pondering time. Don’t worry, this won’t get real deep. Like, I’m not pondering the theory of relativity and electromagnetism and the implications of a real world warp speed that could get us to Taco Bell and back in .4 seconds.

No, today I’m simply pondering the necessity of timepieces. Really, there has never been a time in our world where it’s been easier to keep time. Yet, we still obsess over the types of watches we buy or the clocks we put in our house.

But why? Keeping time is no longer a chore. We don’t have to hop on our mule and schlep down to the village center to observe the sundial. The time is shown everywhere. It’s in my car, on my coffee maker, even my refrigerator. Well, not my refrigerator, but I’ve seen it on those fancy new ones owned by well-to-do folk.

Seriously, 90% of the world carries a phone on their person. And if you don’t, then just ask someone for the time and there’s a nine in ten chance they’ll be able to help you, o poor soul still using mules and sundials.

I mean, time tellers are so ubiquitous now that it’s almost embarrassing to ask for the time. Oh, you want me to tell you the time? You couldn’t like, I dunno, walk 10 feet in any direction and find it?

We own multiple watches. I say we as in people of the world and not myself, who hasn’t owned a watch in 15 years. We have a watch for going out, a watch for work, and a watch for weedwhacking…spell check didn’t have a problem with weedwhacking, that was a little shocking…oh, but yeah, a watch for everything. I got a watch for everything too. It’s called an iPhone. And it’s accurate to like the astronomical millisecond. And I have no wrist bulge. #winning

Some people are still acquiring grandfather clocks. People are carefully hauling 200-pound timepieces on trucks and dropping them into their living rooms. They’re winding them up so they can be awaken from naps by bellowing chimes. Good golly why? You can get a two pound Echo and ask it to tell you the time, weather, or the prime minister of Bangladesh without twitching a damn muscle.

Now we have sophisticated, smart watches from brands like Apple, who figured that if people are going to strap something to their wrist, it better do more than just tell the time. And guess what. It doesn’t even show you the time when you look at it. You have to wake it with a button push. Apple rejects telling time as a primary function of their own watch.

That’s telling. Not time. Just telling.

It’s 6:50 on a hot summer night on Court 15. My friend and I have been pounding the pavement, exchanging ground strokes with fervor, and sweating our fannies off for the last 80 minutes. The game ends, prompting the changeover.

We go to our seats to refresh ourselves with water, and notice we are not alone. Some anxious-looking folks decked out in Yonex gear are hovering over our seats, bouncing to and fro, stretching their bodies.

We look at the time, and see it is now eight minutes ’til. We have the court booked until 7, but you wouldn’t know it. It seems that our $6 deposit for our court reservation is no longer good here, and we’ve assuredly worn out our welcome.

This is the rude state of affairs running rampant at the Millbrook Exchange Tennis Club. 

The last three times I’ve played there, my friend or I have paid the court reservation fee that entitles us to have the court for an hour and a half (5:30 to 7:00). And each time, we’ve been passive-aggressively shooed off by adults displaying the patience of caffeinated hyenas. It generally starts with the hovering at 10 ’til, and 5 ’til brings the blatant disregard for personal space. One time I was having some water and a woman got so close I nearly offered her a swig.

Now, because we’re courteous, we typically leave about two minutes ’til. Yet as soon as I lift my bag from the bench the other person places down theirs. Like they couldn’t wait another second to set down their stuff. Has it been that grueling to carry your tennis bag? Do you have C-4 in there that’s going to detonate if it’s not on a bench by 7 pm?

The rudest display came the last time we were finishing up, and my friend made a little joke to the hovering women about them not needing to break out the sunscreen spray just yet. It was an innocuous suggestion of social politeness for them to not spray until we left. Then I watched in wonder as my friend packed up while one of the ladies got out her bottle and began to spray. I watched my friend walk right through the cancerous cloud. Truly flummoxed, I could only conclude that if my friend had kindly asked the women not to take out their glocks and start firing, he would’ve gotten his face blown off.

Really though, I can do whatever I want with that court until 7:00, and perhaps I should to prove a point. Maybe I’ll politely ask for the time and then go into the middle of the court and snap selfies for five minutes. Or tell the bystanders I’ll be trying out Pokemon Go on Court 15 until my time is up, and ask if they’d like to join me. Perhaps my best idea is to give them the option of buying my remaining court time, since they’re so antsy to get going. If my calculations are correct, a 90-minute reservation for $6 equates to roughly six and a half cents a minute. So if someone is hovering at seven ’til, I could say something like, “Hey, you want the court now? Just give me 46 and a half cents and I’ll be out of your way.”

 

 

As consumers, we can’t possibly know everything there is to know about what we buy.

If I’m in the market for a cologne, I will know next to nothing about that cologne by the time I purchase. I won’t know about the laboratory processes of making it, combining oils from tropical wild flowers and whatnot with synthetic chemicals and, who knows, the musk of a fruit bat?

I won’t know who packaged it or where. I won’t know if it kills skin cells. I won’t know if someone peed in it before putting the cap on. All I will know is that when I dab it on my neck I’ll stink good.

It’s like this with lots of things. If we had to know everything about things we’d buy, we’d never buy anything at all.

So certain professions take advantage. They’re aware we hardly know anything about what they do, so we’ll just blindly take them at their word.

Auto mechanics are infamous for this. It’s like George Costanza said, “Well of course they’re trying to screw you, that’s what they do, they can make up anything. Nobody knows. ‘By the way, you’re gonna need a new Johnson rod in here.'”

Thankfully, I have a great mechanic. And it’s rather cliche to pick on them anyway. Instead, I’ve identified two other professions that deserve a watchful eye. In fact, they might be the “new mechanics,” with their exploitation of our ignorance soon to make them as cliched as mechanics. 

Dentists

The fact that my mouth isn’t perfect requires no professional revelation. With 30-some teeth and a freely moving mandible crunching day and night, something is bound to go wrong. I just don’t think I require the NASA-designed head gear being prescribed.

Yes, my bite is a little off. Yes, I grind my teeth too much when I hear country song lyrics. But that shouldn’t warrant a tailor-made oral contraption I have to finance. Seriously, I recently was given the choice of having an out-of-pocket-custom-molded night guard, or a $5 mouthpiece from Walmart, accomplishing the very same effect. So I head to bed like a damn linebacker but I got a stack of Jacksons to buy all the incisor-yanking turkey jerky I can stuff my face with.

Veterinarians

I don’t understand my dog’s anatomy. I know she has a heart and I think she has a brain. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine as to whatever is going on with her body. Vets know this and it won’t be long before they wax on your pooch’s need for a new Johnson rod. Oh. And they know you love them. Which means you are willing to pay whatever you have to to alleviate the Johnson rod issue.

A few years ago, the vet recommended a teeth cleaning. There was a pernicious plaque build up destined to destroy my dog’s beautiful smile, so I obliged to the tune of 300 bones (not the kind for doggies). After the procedure, it came back that she actually had mild plaque build up. So I non-mildly expectorated some choice curses, balled up the receipt and vowed to never let a vet look at my beagle’s teeth again.

Of course, some maintenance on your pet is required. It’s the law to give your dog a rabies shot. But vets tend to make recommendations like they’re imperatives. Once a conversation went like this:

Vet: Your dog is due for her Lepto shot.

Me: What’s that for?

Vet: For your dog if they drink water outside.

Me: You mean any outside water?

Vet: Like water from a stream or lake.

Me: So if my dog drinks from a lake, she can get Lepto?

Vet: Yes, if the lake water has the Lepto virus in it.

Me: So if my dog happens to be outside, unsupervised, at a lake, where that water happens to have Lepto, and she happens to drink the water, she can get Lepto?

Vet: Yes.

Me: Call me a deadbeat dog owner but I’m gonna take my chances. Save the Lepto shot for the guy who brings in his dingo.

So just like everything, among the many good dentists and vets there are some bad ones. If you’ve received a costly estimate on something you’re not sure about, you can ask them this very important question:

Is this absolutely necessary, and if so, what’s the least amount of money I can pay and not ruin my life?

It’s a fair question and can help you from getting ripped off in the long run.

Have you been taken by one of these professions? Am I missing a profession that could vie for the “new mechanic” role?

It was a dreary morning and I sensed I was on my way to some fantastic failure.

You see, that morning I had agreed to go fly fishing with some buddies. It’s not that I don’t know how to fish, just that I don’t know how to fly fish. And I began to sense that they were two very different things.

Initially, what tipped me off was the gear and the discussion of the gear. I’m used to worms, jigs and bobbers. So while the guys were rigging me up, I was first asked if I had a leader. I wanted to say “yes, you’re it” but then realized he was talking about something on my reel, if that is in fact what you call this long, goofy-looking fishing stick I’m holding in my hand. Next was, “Let’s give Carson a red squirmy.” That sounded like an uncomfortable initiation activity I wanted no part of, until someone pulled out a squiggly, near infinitesimal lure. I wondered how a fish would even see the stupid thing while traveling down a rushing stream, but oh well. Lastly, I was given an “indicator.” I think I would’ve been excited about that, but no one told me what it would indicate. I suspected it would have something to do with indicating there were in fact no fish hooking up with my squirmy.

As we made our way down to the river, I must say that I did look the part. Namely, I sported my Dad’s high-quality waders, which would keep me dry as a bone, assuming I didn’t fall in. I had a backpack with a sandwich and a fly rod ready for fly fishing, whatever on earth that is.

I really didn’t know what fly fishing was, because nobody told me. My friends were so juiced about getting on that river and catching their own damn fish that I quickly realized I would need to figure it out myself. So the outing’s first lesson was that I wasn’t going to get one.

So there I stood, on the shores of the Cullasaja, wondering how to fly fish. I watched my buddy Ryan and it looked just as strange as it always did on the outdoorsman shows. A series of back and forth arm motions that strung a line out over the water and seemingly never letting it settle for a fish to get interested. The line was being held, but not retrieved. There was a reel, but no reeling. I could see every bit of the clear river, but no fish. How would this work?

There are times in life where you realize you’re going to make a fool of yourself but you just can’t help it. I came here to fly fish and darn if I wasn’t going to give it my best, measly effort.

So I attempted to emulate my friend, jerking my arm back and forth with the type of flailing that must’ve resembled a disturbed turkey. At the end of it all I had no squirmy in the water and a big ball of monofilament staring back at me.

Instead of spending half a day trying to work that out, I decided to keep up with my buddies now wading up the river and not be left behind for a bear to eat. I soon realized that fly fishing is not the kind of sedentary fishing of scratching your ass and drinking beer that I was accustomed to. This was work. Wading upstream over slippery rocks with nothing but a pole to keep your balance is tough. I soon realized the achievement of my day would not be catching a fish, but avoiding a plunge into the river. A new goal, and I was determined.

Once I reached a more placid stretch (without falling—win) I decided I could screw around with my mess of a fishing line. So I cut the line, lost the teeny-tiny weight (not purposefully), abandoned the indicator (because who am I kidding) and set my line up with just a squirmy. I doubted this was a recipe for success but at least I could make out like I was trying to fish.

After an hour or so, my prescience of not getting a lick of action was confirmed. But I was feeling pretty good about accomplishing my goal of not stumbling and submerging myself in the river. Which led me to my second fly fishing lesson: Don’t ever think you won’t stumble and submerge yourself in the river. 

Now, before the big one, I had stumbled a few times and caught myself in a shallow area, which only soaked the end of my sleeve. I was still wonderfully dry. But then, after two hours of relative uprightness, I lost my balance and three-fourths of me went under. I quickly rose, only to feel the stream of cold river water rushing down my torso, through my loins, and into my warm, fluffy socks. I was soaked, which is rather discouraging while wearing waders, because now I’m thinking “what’s the point now in even having these damn things on?”

With my socks squishing in my boots, I trudged over the bank and had a seat, wondering what to do next. It ended up being a good time to take off my pants and have a sandwich. So I did, and that was nice. My crazy fishing buddies had yet to consider a pause for sustenance, so I proudly felt ahead of them in this aspect of the outing.

I took off the rest of my clothes and pointlessly hung some of them to dry on a long stick housing a large spider. I changed into my dry clothes and watched the fellas fish while finishing my lunch. I got back into my semi-dry waders and re-entered the fray.

The weather, to that point, had been overcast but bucking the forecast, not raining. I remember thanking God for the nice day. I think He smiled at me (he was probably lovingly laughing at me most of the time before that anyway) and then promptly the sky opened and a deluge transpired the remainder of the afternoon. There ain’t much worse than not catching fish when fishing, except for not catching fish while fishing in the rain. This break from our fortune even convinced the most avid in our party to quit. We walked up the bank and back to our truck.

Perhaps this has all sounded like an elaborate complaint from an insufferable pessimist about his miserable, frustrating, and embarrassing fly fishing experience. Yet, I can tell you it was a truly worthwhile and wonderful adventure. I enjoyed the beauty of God’s creation, and watching my buddies engaged in an activity that made them come alive. I enjoyed the time to be quiet and reflect on a number of things I generally don’t have time for. And I appreciated enduring the struggle of doing something I hadn’t before, of laughing at myself and learning good, wet lessons, and resting in the awesome grace of God’s favor on miserable-little-fly-fishing me.

….

The next day I went to a small lake with my friend Ray. We stood on the shore to cast a few lines and pass the time. And in 10 minutes, with no squirmies, waders, slipperly rocks or rushing rivers, I pulled in a beautiful rainbow trout. How about that?