STORY TIME: I Learned Portuguese Out Of Spite

I do not find the Portuguese language to be particularly interesting. 

I have no interest in traveling to Portugal.  I have no interest in traveling to Brazil.  I have no interest in traveling to Angola either.  I cannot stand traveling or meeting new people.  New people are the worst.

Nevertheless, when my uncle told me I couldn't learn Portuguese, I learned it just to spite him.  My uncle is such a jerk.  I spent twenty years mastering the Portuguese language just to teach him a lesson.  That'll show him!  Guess what Uncle Wally?  I learned Portuguese.  

I can't wait to see the look on my Uncle Wally's face when he finds out I learned Portuguese.  All he does is sit around and watch a VHS copy of old episodes of The Best Damn Sports Show Period.  

Uncle Wally can't even speak Portuguese.

Wait...

I guess Uncle Wally would have no way of knowing if I actually learned Portuguese or not.

Is this a prank?

Was Uncle Wally pranking me?

Now I'm even more mad, in two languages no less.  

Ai meu Deus!

Now, to spite Uncle Wally, I will hit myself with a baseball bat in an attempt to unlearn Portuguese.  

That'll show him.

THE END

STORY TIME: I'm Going to War with My Brother

I'm so angry with my brother.  This is the last straw.

I've decided I cannot take it anymore.  I've decided to go to war with my brother.  He's always pushing me around and telling me what to do.  I just can't have that.  I must go to war with him.  

My brother is always trying to trade baseball cards with me.  I like the baseball cards I have.  I have no need for trading.  This constitutes war.

Also, my brother once stuck a pool cue in my throat while I was sleeping.  It was the end with the chalk.  People are always asking which end.  It was the chalk end.  This is a violation of the Geneva convention.  This constitutes war.

My brother declared war on me as well.  It is within my rights to declare war on him now. 

Also, my brother told our mom that I hit him.  She believed him and I went to our room without a fair trial.  Again, my brother makes a grave breech of the Geneva Convention.

In summation, my brother violated the Geneva Convention twice, he wants to trade baseball cards with me when I don't want to, and he declared war on me.

Me and my brother are going to war.  I'll be in the backyard if anyone needs me.

THE END

STORY TIME: I Found Acclaimed Novelist Jonathan Franzen's Wallet

"Excuse me sir!"

That's what I said as the G train left the Naussau Ave station on a snowy day in Brooklyn.  I checked the wallet for any identification.  To my surprise the wallet belonged to acclaimed novelist Jonathan Franzen.

I thought about returning it and I probably will someday but right now I just like impressing friends by showing them Jonathan Franzen's wallet.  He has a library card (classic) and a gift card to Target.  He also banks with Bank of America.  I kind of hoped he banked with a credit union and not some corporate evil bank.  The most messed up thing Jonathan Franzen had in his wallet was probably a picture of a horse.

I guess Franzen just carries around a horse picture wherever he goes.

This is the picture he has, kinda weird

It's hard to tell if the picture is of his horse, or a friend's horse or if it's a horse that died and he's mourning the horse.  To be honest, the picture just looks like a stockphoto of a horse.  Nothing more, nothing less.

I keep showing all this stuff to my friends.  They think it's cool.  I'm cooler now and my friends like me more.  

THREE YEARS LATER.

I'm walking out of Target, putting my money back in Jonathan Franzen's wallet.  A young man walks up to me.  "Hey, man.  Nice wallet.  Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, this wallet? I held it up."  I was surprised by the compliment.  "It's a funny story.  This wallet actually belongs to acclaimed novelist Jonathan Franzen."

"Oh, yeah?" The man said.  "Well, Jonathan Franzen is my dad and I'm gonna kick your ass!"

I ran down the street away from this man.  I ran and ran.  I ran some more.  I ran all the way to Nicaragua.  I'd heard it was the least touristy of the Central American countries.  Why not?  Nicaragua was fantastic.  I had a nice time there.  I was really proud of myself for making the most of a reasonably priced vacation.

Then to top it all off, I spent the money I saved going to Nicaragua instead of like Belize or something on postage.  I express delivered the wallet back to Jonathan Franzen.  It really sucks losing your wallet doesn't it?

THE END

STORY TIME: My Pet Rock Wants To Kill Me

I'm afraid to fall asleep tonight.  I hate knowing he's watching, staring with his blank eyes, waiting.

I'm talking about my pet rock of course.

Last weekend I took home a rock from a magical beach.  At the beach were all these signs saying, "Turn back.  Stay away from this magic beach," and "Whatever you do, don't take any of the beach stones from this magic beach."

So, I shrugged and took a stone from the beach.  The stone looked cool so I made it my pet.  I painted eyes and a nose on him.  I glued ears on him so he could hear.  I gave him a menacing smile.  My magic rock had all the trappings of a great pet.  I even gave him a name.  I named him Rocky.

So at first, Rocky and I were the best of friends.  I took him to the local fencing school and we took fencing lessons.  Then I took him to see some local theater.  We saw MacBeth.  I thought the performances were quite good.

As it turned out, these were not good activities for a magic pet rock.  On the ride home, Rocky started getting ideas.

My pet rock practiced swordplay the entire ride.  Every time I asked him to put his sword back in his sheath, he refused.

Then when we got home my pet rock started calling me King Duncan.  I decided to stop this violent streak in my pet rock by showing him the lighthearted comedy film Ace Ventura Pet Detective.

This movie is a comedy film centering on a fictional football team known as the Miami Dolphins.  After we watched the film, I pleaded with my pet rock to spare my life.

Eventually, I have to go to sleep.  Then my pet rock will strike.  Until then I am safe.

THE END

STORY TIME: I'm Twelve Years Old, That's Old Enough To See Major Payne

I'm twelve now.  I have to admit it feels good.  I feel older, cooler and more mature overall.  I even have a pube.

Let me just say this to anyone younger that may be reading: being twelve comes with its perks.  For instance, I'm old enough to watch Major Payne now.

I was over at my friend Issac's house yesterday and he wanted to watch a movie.  I said, "Ok, that's fine but I need to call my mom first so she can approve the movie we watch."

"You have to call your mom?"  Issac laughed.  "What a loser.  I'm gonna call my mom.  Hey, mom!"

Issac's mom replied from the other room, "Yes, sweetie."

"Eddie has to call his mom to ask permission to watch a movie!  Isn't that so lame, mom?"

"Yeah, that is pretty lame."  Issac's mom laughed and laughed.  I pulled out my Motorola and dialed ICE.

"Hey, mom?"

"What is it, Eddie?"

"Can I watch Major Payne?"

"What's it rated?"

"33% on Rotten Tomatoes."

"No, honey what's the MPAA rating?"

"PG-13."

"Hmmm...I don't know.  You're not thirteen yet."

"Mom, come on."

"Eddie, I can't just let you watch every PG-13 movie, ok?"

"Mom, you know what?"

"What Eddie?"

"Screw the MPAA!  I'm twelve and I think I'm old enough to watch Major Payne, ok.  I'm sick of everyone laughing at me.  Issac laughed at me, Mrs. Sanjaya laughed at me, the dang MPAA is probably laughing their butts off right now!"

"Ok, well if you feel that strongly.  I guess you can see it."

"Thanks, mom."  I hung up the phone.  I turned to Issac, "Time for some...Major Payne."

Yeah, I guess you could say being twelve is pretty sweet.  I think I might have another pube coming in as well.

THE END

STORY TIME: I Moved To Cleveland,TN On Accident

Ok.  First off, I'd like to apologize to my children and my wife.  I messed up pretty bad.  I thought we were moving to Cleveland, Ohio.  My wife Kristen is from Cleveland and Kristen's parents live in Lakewood and we wanted to be closer to them.

I messed up.  I accidentally got a job and a house in Cleveland, Tennessee instead.  It was on accident.  What made it worse was that I put Cleveland into Google Maps and it autocorrected to Cleveland, Tennessee.  We drove down here on accident as well.

Everyone is very mad at me and I totally get it.  I would be mad too.  I thought we were moving to Cleveland, Ohio.  I mean, I'm not a huge Browns fan but I think I could warm up to them eventually.

Man!  This is a bad situation.

I guess Cleveland, Tennessee is pretty nice too.  Well, I mean we already have a house here.  I have a good job down here as well.

Maybe I could convince Kristen's parents to move down here.  As for the kids, I could just trick them into thinking this is Cleveland, Ohio.  All of the signs say Cleveland already.

I'm definintely willing to do a Truman Show-type thing on my kids.

Is that bad?  To do a Truman Show thing to my kids to not have to move to Cleveland, Ohio? idk.

THE END

STORY TIME: Hitchhiking Is Terrible When Only Clown Cars Pick You Up

Everyone wants to see clowns come out of a really small car.  People love when that happens.  

The only time when the clown car gag is not 100% hilarious is when you are hitchhiking.  

Hitchhiking in 2017 America is already perilous.  No one wants to give you a ride.  Everyone thinks you are a crackhead, or a murder, or perhaps something more sinister…a vlogger maybe.  

I am not a vlogger nor am I a murderer.  

I am just a regular person who needs to get to Tacoma.  However, the only rides I seem to get are from clown cars.  

Have you ever shared a backseat with thirteen sweaty clowns?  It's awful.  I have never felt more cramped in my life.  Oh yeah, also clown cars don't have AC.  That's the one thing they don't tell you about clown cars.  They strip the interiors of the cars so they can fit in more clowns. 

It absolutely SUCKS.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy about the rides.  I wouldn’t have gotten this far without them.  I just wish SOME of them weren't in clown cars.  

Another thing that is bad about my situation is that it's hard to remember all the names of the clowns.  Six of the clowns are named Bozo.  The rest of the clowns have variations of the name Bozo.  One of them is named Heinrich Böll.  Heinrich is an easy clown name to remember.  

The clowns sleep in the car.  This is another factor I did not anticipate dealing with.  Pillows, Nyquil, CPAP machines.  They all take up a lot of room.  Also, each clown has his or her own toiletry bag.  Even travel-size toiletry bags can add up in a confined space such as a clown car.

I’m also mad about clown-smell.  Clown-smell is the name I have for the smell of thirty-seven clowns speeding down on the highway to Tacoma.  Clown-smell is part makeup, part sweat, and part unmistakable stench of decay that only comes with years of clowning.

I never want to see a clown again in my life.  Heinrich keeps asking me if I want to become a clown.  I’ll think about it once I get to Tacoma.  It’s either that or start vlogging.  I’m desperate.

Alas, you know what they say, "Life is a Highway."  For me, the road is paved with clown cars.

THE END