Matt Bower's Blog, page 15

Dear Dude Who Dry Humped My Work Desk While Yelling “Ah Yeah, I’m Goin’ Make More Babies,

I understand why you’re so thrilled. You have sustained a disability, and now you don’t have to pay child support. That’s what I told you and your child’s mother when you appeared at my desk for a child support conference. Far be it from me to judge, but your reaction to the news—bursting from your chair and dry humping the corner of my desk while touting “Ah yeah, I’m goin’ make more babies,”—was perhaps a bit overkill.

I can’t help but wonder the thought process that led to the decision to dry hump my desk. Surely, you briefly considered a litany of celebratory options before ultimately settling on dry humping government office property. You could have simply said “Thank you,” and exited my cubicle cordially. At the very least, the celebration could have been more subtle. You could have exhibited a nondescript fist pump; you could have sought a high-five from a stranger in the waiting area; you could have asked me politely to indulge you in a chest bump. Instead, the words that appeared in the scrolling marquee in your ecstatic mind read: This. Is. Awesome. I gotta’ dry hump something. That much is clear. But what? Crap! I need to dry hump before my emotions recede. Okay, what is crotch level? I can’t flaunt my junk in front of my baby’s momma. She’ll head butt my balls. Wait, the conference officer’s desk is perfect. Yeah, baby!

And not only that, you jubilantly proclaimed your fervent desire to go ape shit doing real humping, on live people. Great! I’m glad you consider your disability determination to be your golden ticket to hump your way through this town. Most practical people would be saddened that they were too enfeebled to work. Not you. You dry hump desks, and then make an arbitrary public service announcement that you’ll spread your seeds like a dandelion in a windstorm.

I must admit, however, that your athletic dry humping sheds serious doubt on your alleged disability. I’m no drying humping expert, nor am I any sort of crotch doctor, but those pelvic thrusts were both rapid and powerful. My computer monitor was rattling, and my phone receiver nearly dislodged from its cradle. It was, in fact, slightly impressive? I’m not saying you’re the Kobe Bryant of dry humping or anything, but to a lay person, I think you’re at least capable of mopping the floors at a high school.

The one thing that certainly is not debatable is the mettle it takes to dry hump a tax payer financed desk within a court facility. You were only a stone’s throw away from several irritable sheriffs, and high-powered judges, no less. The sheriffs have handguns for god’s sakes. For all I know, they’re ordered to open fire upon even the slightest suspicion of dry humping, before it spirals out of control. Clearly, consequences did not cramp your decision to dry hump. And if they did, you determined it was worth the risk. Furthermore, your proclamation to “make more babies” was equally bold. It’s like your dry humping was a middle finger, and your degree was a hearty “fuck you.”

I can only imagine what you’re up to these days. You’re most likely making good on your promise/threat. Since I contribute to a 401(k) and have a reasonable health care deductible, I’ll likely continue my employment with the court. It doesn’t seem altogether unlikely that one of your sons, or several of your sons, will wind up in the same chair you once graced. But if their judgment is favorable too, their enthusiasm will be squashed when I casually point to the blunt sign now hanging above my desk: NO DRY HUMPING.

If your sons want to “go out and make more babies,” more power to them. That’s job security, and more contributions to the 401(k).

Godspeed,

Matt

A Letter to Ronnie James Dio

What up, dude? I hate to be a buzz kill since I’m sure you’re in a guitar thrasher netherworld tearin’ it up with Dimebag Darrell and shit, but I gotta’ point out something that’s always bothered me. Rainbow in the Dark is a totally badass song, but a rainbow can’t exist in the dark. It’s friggin’ impossible based on established laws of science, bro. Please don’t get me wrong—I rock out to the killer licks whenever I work the Wendy’s late night window by myself—but I want to respect you as an optical phenomena pragmatist as much as a heavy metal Zeus.

Okay, check out these definitions in the Merriam Webster dictionary. Rainbow: a bow or arc of prismatic colors appearing in the heavens opposite the sun and caused by refraction and reflection of LIGHT in drops of rain. Dark: DEVOID OF LIGHT.

I know, science seriously blows, dude. But by singing “like a rainbow in the dark,” you might as well be singing “like magnesium in the Exosphere,” or “like a wildebeest on the lunar surface.” The songs may very well melt my face off, but let’s be friggin’ realistic here.

For a while, I thought that maybe you knew about this paradox and you meant the lyrics to mean something totally deep, or be like some kind of crazy metaphoric shit. But if a rainbow really could exist in the dark, you wouldn’t even know it’s there, man. It might be bursting out your ass and you’d be none the wiser.

My totally awesome tribute band, the Dio Trio, covers the song. I tried changing the lyrics to “like a rainbow in the light,” but that was superfluous as balls. And singing just “like a rainbow” completely slaughters the melody.

That’s it, dude. Sorry to interrupt your unholy jam session.

Abridged Autobiography of a an Ex-Child Board Game Model

Where else to begin besides admitting that I was once the ecstatic 5-year-old boy on the back of the Candy Land board game box. Yep, that was me—the exaggerated fist pump, the lunatic eyes, the pudgy embellished grin, not to mention that goofy bowl haircut and obnoxious striped shirt. Even back then I knew that haircut was fucking dorky.

Dig deep in that pile of rubbish in the mustiest corner of your basement and unearth your old board games—if you haven’t already sold them for a nickel a pop at a garage sale. Don’t be surprised if I’m in the midst of a frantic celebration on the backs of most of those rank boxes. Looks like I’m having a goddamn blast, right? Believe you me, being a child board game model was a lot like a game of Chutes and Ladders—every step forward ended up being a long, long slide down.

I still vividly recall when I was ensnared by the machine. One day, I spotted a crinkled-up dollar bill on the ground at the mall. My jubilant little face erupted while my tiny fists shot into the air. I think I even yelped. As I bent down to grab the bill, a shiny black shoe pinned the dollar to the tiles. I peered up to witness some slick-looking fellow, wearing a gaudy tie, towering above me. “Hey kid. Do what you just did when you first saw the dollar.” I was frozen for a second, but then repeated my exuberance. “Yeah kid, you got the right shit. You’re a natural.” Then he swiped the dollar and handed it to me himself. A few days later, and several signatures later too, that man had become my agent.

My first gig, which yielded the famous Candy Land photo, launched me to stardom about two weeks after I wiped my own ass for the first time. The shoot itself lasted a whole ten minutes—show me "find the dollar" my agent instructed throughout. The picture of me and my festive faux family was pasted to every Candy Land box, which were selling like discount mattresses on President's Day.

“Finding the dollar” soon became too easy; I was finding the dollar—a lot of them—every time I received another royalty check, or I obliged any parent who asked me to replicate my enthusiasm in front of their dumbass Polaroid cameras. “Sign this: To my best buddy Todd,” they’d say. They’d have to spell the friggin’ words out for me; I didn’t even know the alphabet yet. And what’s money when you’re in kindergarten? All I wanted was to play on the teeter-tooter and eat paste.

Word of my drawing power soon spread amongst the board game manufacturing elite. My agent began booking me all over the place. I began spending less and less time in my kindergarten classroom and more time at the studio with small-time board game models that could never grasp my internal begging for normalcy.

One day I signed a Candy Land lunch box for a chubby little blonde girl—a lucky one-and-done Uncle Wiggily model. I wanted nothing more than to cram myself into that lunchbox and let her sneak me out, away from the torturous lights and sneering camera lenses.

“Find the dollar. Find the dollar,” my agent kept barking. My nauseatingly chipper image was springing up on the bottoms of all kinds of board game boxes: Connect Four, Hungry, Hungry Hippo and Sorry just to name a few. Jesus, just seeing those names in print disturbs me.

Every time I counterfeited an outburst of sheer joy upon pretending my token had just reached the finish line first, a part of me of was pouting and weeping as though my token hadn’t even made it a single roll from start. Soon my mind became nearly robotic. I’d hear “find the dollar” and I’d simply react. I was no longer human.

Things changed momentarily, though. While my parents and agent where in our kitchen, negotiating a deal for an upcoming shoot for Mouse Trap, I snuck through the patio doggy door. I bolted as fast as my puny legs would allow, all the way to the playground about seven blocks away. It almost felt like all the innocent, pent-up energy I hadn’t been able to expend doing normal kid things suddenly surged through me. When I tore through the open gate, climbed the sliding board ladder, and then whooshed toward earth for the first time in what seemed like several eternities, I’m sure my face looked like it did on the backs of all those goddamn boxes—only this time it was real. And then, wouldn’t you believe it, that little girl whose lunchbox I’d signed suddenly appears from the other side of the merry-go-round. That day began magical. She pushed me round-and-round; I gave her an underdog on the swing; we played hopscotch, and so on. The only thing that yanked me back to reality was when my agent snatched-up my collar and dragged me back home like I was a sack of soiled linens.

That little spark inside of me—the one that burst into an inferno that day on the playground—remained largely comatose as the years darted by like the pewter car on the Monopoly board. As I got older, the board games which I promoted became more adult; I was eventually posing for Scrabble and Yahtzee, shit like that. But then one day, as a pimply face tween amid a shoot for Trivia Pursuit Junior, something occurred to me—I had outgrown my kid’s clothes, so to speak. While I had been portraying a child—one as jubilant as all hell—my own childhood had completely passed me by.

Upon realizing I was too “mature” for the playground, I had to spend time there at any cost. I’d begun to sneak out at night so I could play while the park was closed. One night a police car pulled up so I darted away from the monkey bars and into the shadows. I was less concerned that he would call my parents, and more concerned that he’d be like “Holy shit, it’s the Candy Land boy. I won’t arrest you if you make the face.” I remained hidden until he disappeared.

Since I became too worried about being caught in my fantasies, I began playing them out alone in my room. I dug out old, unused crayons and coloring books I’d been stashing under my bed, and I’d color the living shit out of those blank cartoon characters. Eventually there were no more pages left, so I stole Play-Doh from the toy aisle in the grocery store and began to roll snakes and mold people. But the stuff eventually hardened, and I didn’t want to get caught stealing more (imagine all the gawkers in the county jail). Finally, I began munching on paste in the wee hours of the morning after begging for a sleep that wouldn’t come. But then, the paste supply ran dry when the craft store filed for Chapter 11.

My last gig was a promo for the game of Life. I stumbled into the set, barely awake and my teeth practically glued together from an all-night binge. I was in no fucking mood to find the dollar, and for the first time in my nightmarish career, I simply was not mentally capable of it. My agent pulled me aside before the first camera even blinked. I wasn’t totally surprised when he told me that the industry had been noticing both the decline in my “ambition” (hah-hah), and sales of the games in which my happy-go-lucky mug had graced.

That was it; he gave me the proverbial axe. Becoming emancipated from my contractual obligations had been long, long overdue.

The few years since that day have been mostly a blur. While struggling not to regress to my kindergarten tendencies, I also didn’t progress in any meaningful way. I was like a rickety coat rack in the corner that no one ever hangs their shit on anymore. No Polaroids, no autographs, and no little girls nearly passing out at the sight of me…just a fucking defunct coat rack. In one moment of particularly dark despair, I recalled the game Hangman. Hangman...maybe my past could liberate me.

I’d already purchased the length of rope and selected the rafter in the attic when a story came on the local news that awakened me something fierce. That chubby little blonde girl, who had exposed me to the enchantment of the playground and helped provide a fleeting escape from “finding the fucking dollar”, had died of some kind of rare sickness. They said that she requested that she be buried with her favorite possession—that stupid Candy Land lunch box that I’d signed years ago.

I’m party ashamed to admit it, but I definitely felt a measure of relief upon hearing her story. I mean, I was upset that the poor girl had passed away, but I think my subconscious detected a metaphor—my tribulations inflicted by my past as a cardboard cutout board game model were being buried with the chubby little girl.

I was strolling through the mall a few days ago and my eyes stumbled upon a one hundred dollar bill. At first, I felt a tiny flicker of excitement. I’m sure my eyelids even began to widen, and my clenching fists began to rise. Thankfully, the wherewithal to swiftly squash my excitement had somehow evolved throughout my years of misery. Until that moment, I was unaware that it had. I casually bend down, plucked the bill off the ground, and then coolly stuffed it inside my chest pocket.

To hell with fanfare.

Don't Piss On The Trough

The secret of male community is the trough. You fellows remember the trough, right? You used to be able to walk into a public restroom and behold what was essentially an elongated bathtub with exposed plumbing that allowed 10-12 men to urinate at one time—a kind of roundtable meeting of the penis. The problem is that the trough has gone the way of the rotary phone and Crystal Pepsi. Why is that a problem? The trough promoted unification among those who used it. When two guys were nestled side-by-side, their dicks waggling a mere foot and a half apart, all barriers normally erected by inborn male brashness immediately crumbled. Hey, we all piss in the same drain.

I am suggesting we install a trough in every restroom that could accommodate a structure of such enormous girth, and vital consequence to male civilization. We should start with the facilities in the Capitol Building. You want to halt the pointless bickering that accompanies partisan politicians? The trough is the answer. Republicans? Democrats? Independents? Whigs? There are no political agendas or corporate affiliations where there is a conga line of flaccid talleywhackers drooping like fleshy windsocks on a windless day.

What’s more, the trough promotes shame, which is not a bad thing. On Capitol Hill, the trough would serve the same function as a pledge paddle in a college fraternity, breaking down the motley contingent of Congressmen so that they may be rebuilt into a stout single-minded troupe capable of progress. When wayward drops of someone else’s urine ricochet and splash unto the hairs on your wrist, everlasting bonds are forged.

Not well endowed? There are no secrets at the trough. What politician is going to pound the podium in defiance of extending the payroll tax cuts when he knows that everyone else knows that he has a tiny dick? With shame comes modesty. Of course, if he pounds the podium anyway, everyone will know that it is BECAUSE he has a tiny dick.

Of course, the benefit of troughs in Washington DC would be just the tip of the pissberg. Do you think that the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s would have endured such a long-waging war if the two families had leaked in the same lake? Would there have been a cold war if Reagan and Gorbachev tinkled in the same tank? What if the ‘87 Lakers and Celtics had whizzed in the same watershed?

We men need to resurrect the trough. We need to allow ourselves a dose of humility when we realize that there is always someone bigger. We need to allow ourselves the therapeutic face-to-face interaction that is disallowed by modern urinals with metal barriers that restrict the splash zones, and human bodily interaction. We need to be reminded every time we unzip—we all piss in the same drain.

One Man Freak Show At Granite Fairgrounds

Granite Co.- Chuck Unger, the typically reserved and grizzled dairy farmer from Tuckersville, Pa., is now officially a freak. Well, at least from August 21-27.

Organizers of the Granite County Fair, an extremely popular annual event, have decided to include a throwback exhibit as a nod to the fairs of yesteryear—a freak show.

“It’s one thing to decide to include such an event, but another thing altogether to figure out what will be on display. That’s when he learned about Mr. Unger and his crazy hand,” said one event planner.

Mr. Unger had been living a relatively quiet existence on his rural farmland when he received the call last week. He says he nearly missed the opportunity, though, as his crippled left hand struggled to grasp the receiver.

“They musta’ heard about my f***ed up hand here. Pretty, ain’t it?” the visibly proud man said as he displayed his mangled claw-like hand, which he affectionately refers to as Pappy’s meat hook. Mr. Unger’s hand became mashed in the gears of a tractor years ago, but it hasn’t been enough to keep him from his work. “Messed ‘er up good. But I still learned to run the farm okay. Milking them cows is a crapshoot sometimes. I drop the chicken feed a lot too.”

Although fair organizers would have liked a more varied freak show, no one is complaining that this simple farmer will be the only exhibit.

“We’ve erected a simple two-person camping tent in which to display Mr. Unger. For only 3 dollars, fairgoers can crawl inside and spend up to 5 minutes alone with the perverse hand.”

Mr. Unger is already relishing the attention. “People normally don’t pay me no mind. Five minutes with them is a lot of time. I got stories. I was a traveling skeet shooter in my younger days. Ever see a Polaroid of what a bunch of rabid coyotes can do to a pig?”

Fairgoers are excited too. “I’m glad they are doing something new this year. I hope his hand is the grossest thing in the whole world,” said one lady who purchased an advanced ticket.

What will Mr. Unger do when his 6 days of fame are up? “Nothing much. Just tend to the livestock and wrestle with my hounds. Despite the attention, it’s the still simple things I love.”

Famous Literary Characters' Combat Finishing Moves

Miss Havisham- The Bene-Factor

Ebenezer Scrooge- The Scrooge Driver

Godot- The Wait’s Over

Alice- The Rabbit Halved

Tom Sawyer- The Last Adventure

Moby Dick- The Moby Dick

Moses- The Commandment Breaker

Garp- The Piledriver According to Garp

Holden Caulfield- The De-Phoni-Fier

Ponyboy Curtis- The Inside Outsider

Frederic Henry- A Farewell To Your Arms

Ralph- The Conch Shelled

Phineas- In Separate Pieces

Randle P. McMurphy- The Frontal Lobotomy

God- The Biggest Bang

Sick Child Defeats Illness. Townspeople Pissed.

Tuckersville, Pa.- Nine-year-old roller coaster enthusiast Elliot Karstens has set off a firestorm among the residents of his rural Pennsylvania town by overcoming steep odds and defeating a rare form of lung cancer.

A little more than a year ago, Elliot was diagnosed with Pleural Mesothelioma and given a 10%-15% chance of survival. At a special town hall meeting, the idea was conceived to build a roller coaster in Elliot’s back yard so the boy could revel in high spirits for the remainder of his days.

“He was a very upbeat child, very happy,” Cindy Jenkins, his third grade teacher, said. “Obviously, the news was devastating to all of us. We really wanted him to get the most out of what little life he had left.”

The largely blue-collar residents of Tuckersville rolled-up their sleeves to earn extra pay where they could, many working overtime and weekends to contribute to the “Elliot Dream Coaster Foundation.” Over a period of several months, enough funds were collected, and an outside contractor was hired to erect the nearly quarter mile of track in Elliot’s back yard.

“We all worked so hard and put in so many extra hours to make sure the coaster was built. You can imagine how proud and excited we were for poor Elliot when the final flag was put on the peak of the incline,” said volunteer fireman Fred Aiken.

The grand opening for Elliot’s Dream Coaster was attended by nearly every resident of Tuckersville. Some were moved to tears when the elated child departed in his single-seat buggy for the first time.

Miraculously, with each holler of excitement from Elliot as he accelerated to 55-mph in under two seconds, the previously relentless lung cancer weakened its grip a bit more. Eventually, Elliot’s cancer had regressed almost fully.

Doctors were baffled, prompting one highly regarded physician to say, “It’d say it’s nearly a miracle. I don’t know if it’s the Chemotherapy or not, but I’m almost inclined to believe his recovery was the result of the special gift from his neighbors, and the overwhelming joy in his heart.”

The good news was relayed to the unsuspecting residents at another hastily called town hall meeting. That’s when the spit hit the fan at roller coaster like speed. The disgruntled murmurings gradually became venomous hollering as the shocking diagnosis became fully realized.

“What the (expletive)? I put in 15 overtime hours every week for five months. I my own son’s whole little league season,” yelled one angry man. “I can’t believe that kid ain’t gonna’ die now. What a sham!”

“I’m sick myself now because of that little jerk. I’m pretty sure it’s due to exhaustion from working too much to buy that (expletive) coaster,” hollered another woman.

"Basically, he got a free roller coaster, and his whole life to enjoy it. I can barely get anyone to throw a nickel at me," growled the town hobo. The man in the tattered suit coat expressed further bitterness because the coaster was slated to be sold for scrap metal once Elliot died, with all proceeds going to various charities to aide the homeless.

Even Elliot's classmates were unsympathetic. "I had Chicken Pox last week. Where's my spaceship?" growled one boy.

The Tuckersville police force, many of whom were attending the meeting as off-duty citizens, had to call for reinforcements from a nearby town to help quell the impromptu mob scene. Elliot was led to safety by one of the officers.

“I only helped him escape through the back because it’s my job. Don’t think I didn’t have a strong urge to introduce him to the business end of my nightstick,” Tuckersville Chief Officer Burt Stevens said.

After a series of negotiations conducted by Major Hertz, a compromise between Elliot and the residents of the embattled town was reached—Elliot would work off the cost of his dream coaster while those who worked so hard to erect the structure would have unrestricted access to it.

“We agreed that he’d be doing general labor type work such as trimming hedges, mowing lawns, fixing loose shingles, stuff like that. He was supposed to dig out the rotting root of my old hemlock tree next week,” the major said.

Sadly, Major Hertz’s root continues to rot in his front yard as it has for years. Elliot Karstens, once diagnosed with a horrible illness that he defeated thanks to the heartfelt contributions of his neighborhoods, succumbed to an unwieldy dump truck that hopped the curb and crumpled him just seconds before he was to prime his first garage.

“It’s a shame. He hadn’t worked off one penny of his debt to us,” said a local shop keeper. “But he’s dead now, so I guess it’s just one big wash.”

The funeral will be held at 1pm on Saturday at Bryant’s Funeral Home. The family has asked that you not bring flowers.