Soo…. The dentist has transformed for me.
I used to love the dentist. Toys. Friendly hygienists. Cookie dough flavored fluoride….
Then you become an adult and your visits become a series of guilt trips. Yes, you know you should floss. No, you haven’t flossed as much as you should have. You’re incredibly sorry to have to cause them to lecture you so much. On and on and on. It isn’t enough that your brain is silently screaming “OH LORD JESUS THAT HURTS” as they floss your teeth. You must ALSO feel incredible guilt and remorse as well.
I realize it is not the dentist’s job to make you feel good about yourself. That’s totally fine. But that doesn’t mean you have to go completely the opposite direction here, either.
Time to use my brand new water pik….
I struggle with this concept. Writing online is supposed to be an inherently transparent practice. Each post is supposed to give you a little more insight into the poster’s life.
The problem though is that many of the biggest issues we face in life, we’d rather keep to ourselves.
For example, I almost made a post that looked something like this:
“Today, I found out that something I’d been striving for didn’t turn out the way I’d planned. It was very disappointing to find out that the thing I’d been trying to accomplish hadn’t gone my way.”
Oh yes. Very grippy reading.
I think my biggest problem might just be being a private person. I have a hard time opening up about some things to family members, let alone the Internet.
On Saturday, April 8 2012, I and my wife and brother saw Sporting Kansas City dominate the Los Angeles Galaxy. It was our first time seeing Sporting KC in its new stadium, and hearing the more than 20,000 fans supporting the team showed us just why KC has arguably the strongest team in MLS.
The last time we went to a game was back in the team’s “Wizards” days at Arrowhead Stadium. While the experience was pretty neat, there were still some definite drawbacks: Your eyes were always drawn to the thousands of unfilled seats in the gigantic stadium, making the team and the league look weaker than it was. The noise level was also pretty low; the open design of the stadium, coupled with its huge size, made it feel like you could hear a pin drop during corner kicks.
My younger brother, Michael, also saw the Wizards at Arrowhead. He avidly follows the English Premier League and loves soccer more than almost any other sport. While he loves soccer, he just couldn’t take that game seriously. He began to groan about the time the cheerleaders started to pretend this was just like a football game. (The cheerleaders are now gone).
One thing I remembered about that original trip, though, was seeing just how young all the fans were. You go to a baseball game and probably 60 percent of the fans there are over 40. However, at soccer games it feels like it is the other way around. I would like to think that the average age of the fan base translates into greater longevity for the league.
MLS is doing fine now, and even during the horrid Arrowhead days, there were signs of potential.
Found this in an old file on my computer. I wrote this for an English assignment in high school.
Whitey’s Christmas Zombie Adventure
One hundred years ago, on the shores of Lake Kathead, a pirate ship shot Santa’s sleigh out of the sky. Expecting to find a wonderful bounty in his sack, the pirates were dismayed only to find 50 cats, all meant as gifts for small children in need of some love. The pirates promptly tied the bag shut and threw it into the middle of the lake.
The cats vowed revenge on humans should any of them trespass upon the lake on Santa’s birthday…Christmas.
(One hundred years later)
As the Ford Ranger rambled down the highway, Whitey couldn’t help but think about how much his life sucked.
Not only did he have the most annoying girlfriend in the world, but his house burned down two days before Christmas. Even worse, his neighbors wouldn’t even buy him another house. They just “gave what they could.” What a load of crap. Like the $20 from Widow Owens would get him anything.
His boss was probably the worst. You see, Whitey spent his summers as a counselor for troubled youth at Camp Kathead, and so his shriveled jerk of a boss had approached him and offered to let Whitey stay a few nights at the camp free of charge. Whitey had a hard time smiling back at him and saying “Yes,” all the while thinking about how this was probably the worst offer of charity since he’d bought that burn victim a box of cigars.
And of course his stupid girlfriend, Ima Cliché, had to invite herself along to check out the campgrounds. She had never visited Whitey’s camp before. No matter how hard he tried, Whitey just couldn’t get some time to himself. “It’s just as well,” thought Whitey. “Maybe I can make her cook for me.”
“Oh, Whitey! This is so romantic! Just think, the two of us having a nice, cozy Christmas! It’s just going to be so wonderful! What do you think?”
“Hmm?” said Whitey, whose mind had drifted to thoughts of bacon.
“I said, don’t you think this is romantic?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s good.”
Whitey’s knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter, his brain measuring just how much he hated Ima. She was always yammering on about something or other. Usually charities since she was a social worker. Why was she so selfish? Couldn’t she see that he simply did not care about charities? Why couldn’t she consider his needs for once?
As he pulled into the campground, Whitey couldn’t help but think how terrible this idea was. The very trees looked like they were ready to pelt him in the face with apples. Whitey pulled up to Cabin 7 and turned off the ignition. He was going to have to spend the night here. Great. Just great.
“Oh, Whitey, isn’t this great! We can have a campfire, watch movies, and spend time in the hot tub? Why don’t you unload the car while I grab some firewood.”
“That sounds lovely!” replied Whitey. “You wench,” he muttered.
As Whitey began to unload the 20 cases of alcohol, his mind began to wander. He thought about all the opportunities he had lost, about all the crazy things that had happened to him that would cause a 42-year-old man to have to keep a lousy job as a counselor for troubled youth. There was nothing rewarding about his job. He just listened to a bunch of whiners talk about their “troubles.” He wanted to say to them, “Kid, you want trouble? You don’t even KNOW the kind of trouble I have to face every minute of every day.”
“Okay, honey, I have the fire going! Would you like me to give you a back rub or make you a drink?”
Whitey was startled out of his thoughts. “Um, no thanks, I’m kind of tired. I think I’m just going to go to sleep.”
“Okay, sweetie! Have a great night’s sleep! I love you!”
Whitey had a hard time sleeping. He kept waking up, thinking he had heard something pawing at the door. Three times he had woken up. Three times he had checked the door to see if there was a bear that needed a bullet through its skull. Three times he had gone to the bathroom to empty his bladder (he had “kidney issues,” which were in no way connected with his drinking issues).
The fourth time he woke up, Whitey decided to take a walk. He prowled the empty campgrounds that he knew like the back of his hand. He checked the empty mess hall, the empty swimming pool, and the empty bear traps.
Finding nobody, he decided to sit and have an introverted moment of solitude on the lakeside. He wanted to set his weary mind at ease through the sublime beauty which transcended his petty earthly existence. As he gazed out at the pearly luminescence of the tranquil water, Whitey couldn’t help but think that it looked like….a lake…of some sort.
“Kind of hurts my eyes,” muttered Whitey, as he became enveloped in the transcendent beauty of nature. He decided to close up his eye holes and presently he drifted off into peaceful slumberland.
Whitey dreamed he was at Spring Break Cancun during the Summer of Love ’09, checking out all the foxy ladies. He was so happy, he felt like he could fly, and he did. He glided over the beautiful Mexican landscape, which was overflowing with milk and honey. He looked up and saw a pirate ship flying high above him. Wanting to check it out, Whitey flew after it, but the ship began to fly faster. Then, Whitey wasn’t in the sky, but in the water, swimming after a ship that was too fast. “Hey, slow down! I’m trying to swim here!” Whitey tried to yell, but his mouth filled with water and he coughed and sputtered.
Whitey woke up to find that he was sprawld in gross lake water. He couldn’t help but think how much the water smelled like urine, and Whitey began to wonder if he had just made his fourth trip to the bathroom that evening.
Feeling embarrassed, the kind of embarrassed a 42-year-old man feels when he wets his pants (which he had) Whitey stood up and began to stomp back to Cabin 7.
Whitey turned around. He could have sworn he’d heard something, but there was nothing. He must have just imagined the noise. Whitey turned around and began to head back again.
Another noise, and this time Whitey was certain he’d not imagined it.
As he looked back at the yellow water, bile stuck in the back of his throat. Slowly emerging from the water were a bunch of hairy cats.
Whitey’s brain began to whir. This was a moment of action, and he didn’t have any time to delay. He knew he must make several choices in quick succession if he was to survive the onslaught of the approaching zombie cats. One by one, decisions must be made with such rapidity that Hercules himself would be jealous of the speed at which they follow each other. Like a coiled spring, a torrent of energy must be unleashed in order to combat the deadly situation facing Whitey right now. If action follows stimulus, it must be understood that-
Suddenly, Whitey was overcome by 50 zombie cats.
Deciding to stand his ground and fight, Whitey began to throw punches, kicks, and slaps at the horde. He had a reputation at this camp. He was “The Bearslayer.” He was certain his reputation for murdering cuddly forest creatures would translate into a reputation for killing zombie cats.
To Whitey’s consternation, these cats did not react to Whitey’s efforts. They were already dead, and did not fear mortal pain. They even clawed at his eyes.
“CRAP!” Whitey screamed.
Wounded, Whitey went down, and 200 paws began to pull him lovingly toward the lake. Whitey struggled, but it was no use. He was going to die and go to a little old place called Heaven.
As he began to accept his fate, Whitey’s thoughts turned to the only person who had ever loved him in this life, the only one he himself had ever loved: Ima. Ima was the most caring, compassionate, loving, considerate person Whitey had ever known, who was only standing five feet from Whitey’s head.
Ima! She’s arrived!
“Ima!” Whitey screamed. “You’ve arrived!”
“Whitey, what’s going on?”
“Oh, I just thought I’d come out here and play with these cute little kittens, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK IS GOING ON!?!”
“What can I do!?”
“How can I help you without them killing both of us?”
“Why won’t you help me?”
“I don’t know how to help you!”
“IT’S BECAUSE I’M DANISH, ISN’T IT?!”
Whitey was so ticked. This big, stupid woman was just going to let him drown in a lake that was filled with his own urine. Well unfortunately for Ima, Whitey had read a little something by Martin Luther King called the Emancipation Proclamation. And he wasn’t about to let this racism stand.
With a furious roar, Whitey lunged for Ima’s legs and brought her down. The cats began to swarm like a hive of bees searching for some nice flesh to sting. Twenty-five cats attacked Ima and twenty-five kept attacking Whitey. Whitey could handle twenty-five cats on his own, but not Ima. She went down just like all racist women go down: with zombie cats clawing at their legs.
Whitey pealed off the remaining cats and threw them at Ima to bring her down faster. As she disappeared beneath the lake surface, Whitey reflected that it wasn’t such a bad Christmas after all. It was just as well. Ima only cared about herself, anyway.