I always wanted to be famous, but I never thought it would hit me quite this hard. As I walked into the hospital, I thought I would have some fun with the receptionist, so I was like, “Um…I kind of…got hit by a car.” I was sort of expecting the usual wide-eyed, dropped-jaw response, but instead what I got was, “Hey, you’re the guy that got hit by that midget car in the parade, aren’t you?” Apparently news travels faster than a guy limping to the hospital.
“What really happened”
I was watching the Butterfest parade, and when the guys driving the little midget cars came by I was like, “ooo, I want one!” Little did I know that one would indeed end up in my lap.
Apparently the steering column broke, pointing the car full speed in my direction. I was left with little more than a bruised foot, but you shoulda seen the divot he left in the ground. The head dude of the organization called me later to make sure that I was okay. He was like, “Those things are bound to happen,” and he didn’t even offer to pay for my x-ray.
In baseball, if somebody gets hit by the ball they get to keep the ball. The way I see it, that car should be mine.
I just heard about the new cordless jump rope. It’s supposed to help clumsy people from tripping on the rope. It definitely sounds like a solution to the problem, but I’m wondering what a “jump rope” should be called without the rope. Just “jump”? But then if you only pretend to jump over the pretend rope, you don’t even need to jump. So if there’s no rope and no jump, what should it be called?
If you buy KFC on Mother’s Day you’d better not be in a hurry. Today being the universal mom’s day off, everybody and their great uncle twice removed is ordering chicken. This time lucky me was nominated as the family food fetcher, and I had no idea how big of a task this would be until I stepped in the door. After figuring out where the end of the squiggly line was, I figured I might as well make myself comfortable. Long story short, I had a lot of fun, I had a lot of time to think, and I made a lot of friends. Not by name, of course; everybody knows each other by order number. “Hi, I’m number 37, what’s your name?”
I came across this website that scans your face and uses facial recognition to compare your face to those of celebrities. So I, being the curious type, decided to try it out. I tried using a couple of my pictures, and it showed me quite a variety of results. It likened my face to a bunch of weird looking people, most of which I’ve never heard of before and look nothing like me. Among them were Brendan Fraser, Michael J. Fox, and one that sort of took me by surprise…
Yes, that’s right. As of today, I officially look like Shirley Temple.
Pay day isn’t usually that exciting for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love to earn money. But unlike some people I know, I’m not usually broke by the time pay day comes around. And besides that my check is direct deposited, so it doesn’t really make that much difference. But on Friday when I took a quick look at my pay stub I noticed an “Important Note” in the corner. It said, “Effective this pay period your name has been changed.” I squinted and stared at if for a second. Then I thought, “Well cool, it’s about time I changed my name. I’ve been stuck with ‘Josh’ my whole life.” But then there was the question burning through my skull… Huh? What did they change it to?
This weekend we tried starting the old church van, but it wouldn’t even make a sound. We tried calling a mechanic who told us to tap on the starter with a hammer while turning the ignition and it should start right up. But it didn’t. We then called my dad who’s had quite a history with old church vans. He told us to put the van into gear, rock it back and forth, and then start it. Sure, what a joke. Well we tried it and, what do ya know, it worked. My guess would have been to rub your tummy, pat your nose, jump up and down, and spin in a circle, but I guess that wasn’t necessary.
O, Woe to me, I cried
Mine heart doth ache inside
Most assuredly mine pride
Hath thus rent open wide
I reveal thus unto thee
For mine pain thou canst not see
O, How I wish that I could flee
From this dreadful tragedy
Behold mine awful blunder
Hath brought forth the sound of thunder
Furthermore, if thou doth wonder
Mine pants hath torn asunder!
It seemed just like a regular Monday morning. I forced myself to get up, ate my cheerios, and drove in to work. I opened up my office, turned on my computer, and sat down. But something wasn’t right. Something was different. Something in the atmosphere was telling me that…that…my keyboard was a quarter inch from its usual spot. My computer speakers were turned in a different direction. My stapler, my tape dispenser, my phone, and my candy cane heart; all slightly out of place. One thing was clear; someone or something had been in my office. I started to move my pen holder about two inches back over to where I had it before, but something caught my eye. No! I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. My desk…….it was clean.
I can bench press almost as much as my little sister. I have blond whiskers that grow slower than a White Cedar tree (holds the record for slowest growing tree). I can dribble a basketball with the skill of a Dodo bird. I have no clue how a car engine works; I took a geek test and it came out positive; I never get in trouble and I can’t stay up at night. I’ve never drank milk right out of the carton, gotten a tattoo, totaled a car, or been in jail. I never played sports in school and I don’t watch them on tv. I drive the speed limit, and my car wouldn’t go very fast if I tried. I don’t start fights and I don’t have any cool scars to show off. I’m shy and I’m scared of heights, blood, and the dark. I have a desk job and I like it. And to top it off, I make fun of myself in my own blog.
So please, don’t nobody keep telling me that I do things to be macho.
Once upon a time…well okay last night…I went out with some friends to get something to eat. We decided to go to Subway, only to find that they were out of bread. Who woulda thought that Subway would be out of bread? Anyway, next on the list was Pizza Hut so we marched over there. Since I can never make up my mind, I took a vote on what kind of food I should get. I first narrowed it down to everything that has a picture—I gotta see a picture of something before I order it. Well the poll came out unanimous for the Chicken P…Pr…..Prim……um, one of those Italian words that I can never remember how to pronounce. The picture looked good, so I took the challenge and found that it tasted every bit as good as it looked. It filled me up pretty well too.
But then the horror was unleashed, and the war started. The waiter brought us the bill and I raced to get it before anyone else was able to pay for it. I struggled unsuccessfully through the vicious crowd with everybody tearing at my shirt to hold me back, while they tossed around the bill to keep it from me. I lunged, twisted, and dived, desperately trying so fulfill the objective, and I hurled myself without any respect for my own body and managed to grasp the object with my fingertips. I seized the target with every ounce of strength that I could muster, and struggled to free myself from my oppressors. When I had managed to work myself free, I sprinted to the checkout register, threw my hand into my back pocket and pulled out………..nothing. After all the pain and effort of capturing the bill into my custody, not a thing could have saddened me more than to find that I had left my wallet at home. In disbelief, I felt around once more in my pocket for the chance that there was something there, but again found nothing. By this time the mob was already upon me, but there was no longer anything that I could do. They overtook me, and snatched the bill from my hand. I watched in unconceivable horror as they happily paid for my food, and I sunk into a sad pile of misery. It almost hurts sometimes to have such nice friends.