Out of Step

Posted on August 28, 2013 by Professor Taboo

Ever had those mornings or days when you say to yourself “I should really just go back to bed so I don’t hurt myself”? For awhile it has felt like things have been strangely out of alignment to me. It seems Murphy (of the firm Murphy’s Law, EDC, not LLC) is tagging around causing mischief and maniacally giggling with each train wreck. Or lately, no matter how hard I try my words and meaning come out of my mouth and head having disaster woven in everywhere. People look at me like I’m from outer space. Oh, and EDC stands for Excessive Disaster Creation.

That is what my last several days have felt like. So I have decided to just let Murphy have the stage and blog about it – get it over and give everyone else a few laughs at my expense and “his” warped gain.

Have you had any of these moments happen to you? I already know the answer; don’t answer that. I have had many laughs at others’ misfortune or embarrassments so I guess it’s my turn. I am a BIG fan of raw and open, and so to be candid, most all of them have happened to me too. Sometimes they come in bunches, other times they come in tidal waves. Always I am reminded just how ~~infrequently~~ often I need to be humbled relative to my rather ~~enormous~~ healthy ego. Images are not necessarily connected to protect the innocent and reflect the theme.

Accolades of Sir Murphy

Why paper coffee-filter companies’ pack all their filters to sub-atomic compactness so that one needs a microscopic-robotic surgeon’s tweezers to separate just one – when 5 a.m. dexterity doesn’t begin operating until at least 9 or 10 a.m. without coffee – is certainly one of Murphy’s doings!

A party memo lost…or lost in translation: The birthday person and guest-of-honor walks-in for their surprise party and everyone simply yell surprise but you begin singing happy birthday…out of pitch; everyone stares awkwardly at you. Yep, Murphy’s doing.

Your new romantic partner introduces you to their parents, including grandparents, and you greet the mother as the grandmother while she then gives you the death-stare and a very limp hesitant handshake like you have leprosy. Murphy.

This is a popular Murphy trick: rushing out to your car with coffee mug in one hand, office work, lunch or briefcase/purse in the other hand, put something down on the roof to open the door, get in, drive, and at the nearest or next to the nearest red-light you break to a stop; objects on your car roof come tumbling down the windshield, hood, and front-bumper and startled, you scream/jump, probably dropping your cell phone on the floor. Several cars are behind you and the light turns green. Definitely Murphy!

You and some coworkers are out to lunch. Sharing jokes with everyone, one particular joke goes over your head. Extremely relieved that another one says they don’t get it, you still don’t get the explanations. Everyone begins talking about the joke, and then one of your coworkers asks why you’ve become so quite. Damn it Murphy!

Do I need to go into the reliability of vending machines? Enough said.

When my son was four and five years old, he used to love running at me for a hug and to be picked up. After the first three sprints to Dad, I ~~painfully~~ quickly learned to bend my knees and bend over to salvage what was left of my impacted testicles. Murphy…in a very warped way. Don’t ask me how some of our father-son baseball batting lessons have gone — my son has a very quick swing!

You are on a first or second date with the one you perceive a long happy future with while taking a stroll in a public park. You’ve spent the entire day/evening trying to impress them. Now you must find a toilet rather soon, in order to sit…for awhile. With Cupid’s incessant harp and barrage of arrows, you have failed to check the stall or bathroom for any type of soft paper-products to finish your private business. Nothing, nowhere; anywhere! Just outside the door he/she asks if you are alright. What will your answer be? What action will you take? Where the hell is Murphy!? Do women always carry inside their huge purses toilet papers or wipes?

When you are certain the world is not right.

Many think that hidden keys are for those expected visitors or family to enter through a door. Absolutely not! They are for me and that unwelcomed jerk Murphy. I have spare keys everywhere; on, in and under my car or the RV, two or three around the house/apartment, and one or two for work. I got tired of locking myself out at gas stations, RV parks, home, or work…especially after hours…waiting on building security or worse, your boss. I keep out myself more than I’ve EVER kept out robbers, salesmen, or nosy family members. And some damn windows, always the lowest ones, are indeed impenetrable!

And then there are those weeks when Murphy is having a fricking July 4^th gag-party with me with fireworks and Tchaikovsky playing. During those times with my glum face of defeat, I’ve played this song at least 30-times…

Do you have a Murphy’s war story to share? Rather than laughing at myself I would love to laugh at someone else for a change…please!

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P.S. Once I’ve passed through this temporary off-kilter wacky phase I’m in, I will quickly return to my other pleasures and perspectives of social-lifestyles, history, humor, science, religious intolerances, etc. Thank you all for your patience. I am more than ready to be rid of Murphy and his menacing jokers, believe me!

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This work by Professor Taboo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://professortaboo.wordpress.com.

Fecal Pushers

Posted on July 4, 2013 by Professor Taboo

After many years of practice, there are certain types who have mastered the art of shit-pushing and some who have not. A quick menagerie of the art…

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One of my favorite caught-in-the-act corrections: “I wasn’t kissing your wife Sir. I was whispering in her mouth!” Then find the nearest exit.

Two industries that most everyone would agree shovel out “pretty” bullshit on a regular basis have to be financial investment companies and sales personnel. Hello Ma’am, you will be amazed by this latest iPhone…a must have! Just $299 or $39 for 48 months for FAST 4G speeds and a ba-jillion apps you’ll probably never use! Or Sir, you are going to be blown away by our new-fangled Hedge-that-Risk-Away fund with a simple monthly direct-debit from your checking account, plus initiation fees, handling, commission, and risk-management fees!

Sound familiar?

I could never be an aggressive sales rep and survive unless I was selling donated organs to terminally ill patients and their families. But there are some who can make the stinkiest bullshit smell like a rose garden. And then there are those whose art is necessary, beneficial yet tragic.

The Clean-up Crew

Imagine living in a community that has no trash pickup and disposal, running indoor water/plumbing, no dishwashers, and no washing machines. Would you cleanup after yourself, in every manner? Would you cleanup after others, in every way?

Next time you are served a meal you cringe over, think twice about it because there are insects that would have a feast on your waste. Actually, they do feast…and not just after humans. Wherever there is fecal waste, there are most likely dung beetles. They are life’s natural cleanup crew and they are remarkably resourceful. They are tumblers, they are spelunkers, and they are dwellers. They make the most of human or animal waste.

Dung beetles are a critical part of nature’s biocycle. By eating and burying feces, dung beetles recycle vital nutrients into the soil and bury waste that otherwise attracts disease-carrying pests such as flies. They also help new trees grow. For example, in the rain forest, monkeys eat fruit where seeds are sometimes undigested. When the dung beetle arrives at the aftermath, it packs up the feces into a ball, seeds and all, rolls it away and buries it. Soon after up sprouts a new tree! On a given night, one dung beetle can roll and bury up to 250 times its own weight in shit! Imagine that workout.

But these hardworking necessary beetles don’t have it easy.

Shit-pushing Is No Walk in the Park

Every morning as part of my workout, I briskly walk 2-miles; one mile down, one mile up. The hilltop I live on has about a 23-degree steep grade up or down for about 70-80 yards. As I’m heading down the hill one morning, I notice in the middle of the drive a dung beetle perilously rolling his dung-ball across the cement. Every so often he struggled to keep his dung-ball from turning down the steep hill. Watching this beetle toil for his hard-earned shit, I couldn’t help but sympathize with his adversity. I watched in amazement and suspense. What would come of this beetle’s precarious effort? Would he succeed and beat the odds? Or would I be witness to horrific shit and beetle carnage? The cliff-hanger moment was building with every revolution of his dung-ball.

The hill of dung carnage; blood & beetle parts edited out to protect the weak-stomachs.

He crossed the midway point of the drive still pumping those hind-legs over his neatly packed shit. Five more feet to go. Can he do it? Four feet. I find myself cheering him on. Three and a half. Then he and his shit-ball hit a bump. Should I intervene like the hand-of-God, showing mercy and compassion for the shit this beetle has put up with? NO FRICKING WAY! And then as my questions of shit-miracle-ing lingered, everything went south….literally. I began laughing my ass off. Everything was out of control. The “wheels came off” but the rolling kept going, and going, and going! If Herbert Morrison of the Hindenburg disaster had been there he would have screamed “Oh the Bee-manity!“

Sorry. I should be more compassionate. I should pay homage to this epic dung-beetle’s demise. Let us bow our heads.

He was a brave shit artist. The bravest I had ever seen. He hung on to his shit-ball for five, maybe six revolutions down that hill-of-no-return! Finally, the cruel speed and momentum….perhaps a killer dizzying headache too separated this warrior from his meal. He tumbled two or three times behind that ball before coming to a most abrupt end. In his never-say-die attitude, he scrambled to gain his senses, and immediately went searching for his runaway shit-ball. But it was too late. I watched that ball roll down the hill…way down the hill about 50 yards – two state lines in beetle distance – before bouncing off the drive into the ditch and disappearing in the grass. It was gone. Done. This dung-expert had lost his shit.

* * * * * * * * * *

As utterly hilarious as I found this dung-beetle carnage to be, I had to find the teaching moment: what is the moral of this story?

No matter how good or pretty smelling it is…don’t push your shit up hill. You might lose it and it will come rolling back on you.

What moral of the story can you apply? Let me hear them all.

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Footnote – on a cool etymology note, it has been recently discovered that these dung-beetles navigate their dung-balls by the stars in the Milky Way galaxy; their GPS if you will. Click here.

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Stand Up for Sitting!

Posted on June 9, 2013 by Professor Taboo

A meeting of brilliant minds – Lil Rascals

Being raised by a former U.S. Marine has its advantages and disadvantages. My father was an incredibly disciplined man. It always seemed my daily and weekly chores enslaved my time; time away from friends, the phone, my drum set, or the TV. I was quite certain he ruthlessly schemed to make my life miserable. And if it were not enough that I did almost all the yard work outside slaving away in the fire-pit of Texas summers, I had one more chore indoor! For many years lying in bed at night exhausted, I could not understand why my sister or Mom couldn’t do this horrible indoor chore. Damn, didn’t I already have enough to do outside! It wasn’t fair, I’d scream in my head. But voicing my opinion of Dad’s commands or his demand for unparalleled quality of work would have been like asking Gunnery Sgt. Hartman (R. Lee Ermey) for ice cream in the movie Full Metal Jacket. No, I’m kidding; but as a the-world-is-against-me adolescent, it sure felt like USMC boot camp!

My #1 chore inside the house was cleaning all three bathrooms to USMC standards. No one item in those three full-baths demanded any less meticulous attention than any other item or bathroom. And having two girls in the house, this was never truer than with our toilets. In the first several years of this duty I think I heard my Dad or Mom yell my name and say “get in here and do it again” about a million times. I’m sure my sister used a magnifying glass to find any shoddy cleaning just to raise it another million.

Out of all my many house chores, cleaning the toilets I hated the most.

The Oh Moment of Humility

Being the brilliant thinker I was by age thirteen, my bitterness for weekly dirty toilets had reached its pinnacle. For perhaps 60 long months and over 3,120 toilet cleanings (times 3 toilets = 9,360 minimum!), I was ready to go lavatory-postal! “Why can’t everybody” I screamed, “use the toilet more cleanly!?” What was everyone’s malfunction?

Happier times at home

After my plea for mercy to whatever porcelain gods were listening, they struck me with an odd realization. Mom and Dad used their own master bathroom. Theirs was hardly ever as filthy as the one my sister and I shared or the one downstairs next to the game room. Why was this? Introspection led to more introspection then another realization: my Mom and sister ALWAYS sat down. Hence, all the “messy splattering” was coming from a totally unrealized culprit! My incredible moment of deduction had landed me in front of the mirror. There he was…. the only one with the plumbing to do the dirty deeds. I glared at myself, “You penile-dummy.” Couldn’t this moment of truth have arrived many years earlier and save me the years of embittered cussing scrubbing!? Couldn’t have just one of my guy friends have said something? Why did I make my most hated chore so much harder for so long!?

The Ah-ha Moment of Brilliance

The strangeness of my predicament could not have been measured and help came from the most unlikely place: my sister. Noticing my weird expression in the mirror and overhearing my groans and why, “Don’t you wish” she explained, “you had a vagina like me?” I wanted to fire back with my deluded pride in having an above-average you-know-what along with an equally potent stream, but she had a point. And then I carried her remark a step-further. No, not that; I was (and still am) happy with my current sex. Holy Russian race horses, why didn’t I ever think of that! What is so damn hard about sitting down!?

I began realizing all the benefits of sitting: A) a hell of a lot less cleaning for me; easy! B) Sitting down for #2 is already one of the simplest pleasures in a man’s life, duh! Why not double the pleasure? C) Sitting down there is no way the lid can fall, slamming-down or clamping down like Jaws, permanently traumatizing a boys vital junk! And D) I really don’t give a fart what high-T alpha-males think about pee-sitting when I have to clean all the damn toilets! They can kiss my sitting-down ass! I am going to be MY OWN Reliever how-EVA I wanna be! United We Sit!

Disclaimer – if there are wall urinals, I will stand because otherwise that’s too damn awkward.

Come one, come all urinaters; big, small, tall, Moms, or Dads…tell me what you prefer and why. Am I a “weenie” for being un-masculine or am I just smarter?

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This work by Professor Taboo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://professortaboo.wordpress.com.

She Was A Knockout!

Posted on May 18, 2013 by Professor Taboo

I had retired from my semi-pro and professional soccer career and was in a transition trying to decide what I wanted to do next. It was 1996 and for the time being I was helping a friend manage one of north Dallas’ well-known nothing-but-soccer retail stores. Many times coaches, team captains, and booster-clubs would come in for assistance in ordering team uniforms for the upcoming school or amateur league seasons. This time of year also included the local women’s teams and co-ed teams. But before I go any further, let me explain the well-known fact risk a “retired” male professional (and lifetime single-gender) soccer player takes when joining an amateur co-ed team and league.

The Play-At-Your-Own-Peril Rule

I began playing soccer at the age of ten. By middle school I was playing competitive soccer – what today is called select soccer – and wanted not only to play professionally, but try to at least make the U.S. Men’s National Team roster. What was often whispered among such serious players with such lofty dreams was try your best not to play with or against the clueless recreational teams and players, but more critically never play with or against girls. Now ladies, before you go into your rant, please bear with me and let me explain what it’s about and why it was a whispered rule.

First of all, not playing against recreational teams is a policy most major sports franchises enforce and hence protect their high-valued stars. Second of all, and a lesson I learned several times in my career, from a tactical and confidence standpoint the stronger professional players gain very little or nothing at all by playing the weaker/amateur team other than a practice, or an opportunity to let 2^nd and 3^rd stringers get playing time. In those rare cases the pro team takes a slim chance in damaging their status or image if they play poorly or worse, lose.

The reason male pro players almost never play competitively against women – and I am genuinely not trying to insult female athletes – is for the simple reason that both teams and genders risk unnecessary injury. In sports, on the whole, women’s bodies move differently than men’s. Momentum, for whatever reason, is initiated and managed differently between the genders. If you don’t believe me, simply watch the two sexes in slow-motion action and how they ‘collide’.

It is a well-established unspoken rule that in competitive contact sports a man plays at his own risk against women. I had known this law for eighteen years.

The Never-ending Beer and Female Introductions Carrot

Returning now to 1996, three attractive female soccer players have been visiting our soccer store often in preparation for the upcoming co-ed season opener. Their player roster is also not complete; they desperately need a goalkeeper! For reasons unknown to me, no one presently on the team wanted to play goalkeeper. And before these very charming women asked, I knew exactly what was about to come out of their seductive mouths…. “We have heard about how good a goalkeeper you are and that you’ve even played professionally!” Huh!? I wasn’t expecting that approach! Hmm, I’ll give ‘em that…. stroking my ego is a good tactical move. But you ladies, I was thinking, are going to have to come up with a lot more before I even entertain the remote possibility of risking my safety! I shook my head two or three times, No, sorry ladies.

And then came the coup d’état.

“We will buy” they countered with smirks “all of your beer after every game and promise to introduce you to a minimum of three HOT women players each weekend!” To say I was aroused would be gross understatement. “When does the season start?” I replied.

In my hyper-excited mind, I imagined consecutive weekends of hot dates galore and massive amounts of sleep-overs. The score line of our games or whether we had a winning season or not was of absolutely no concern for me. I happily signed my lop-sided contract!

Game 1 of 12

The referee’s opening whistle blew. The comical usual cheering and smack-talk began from both teams and their fans/family members on the sidelines. It truly made me laugh; I had already heard the most abusive and slandering and loudest rhetoric in my career having played around the world. I was more entertained by my thoughts of the post-game festivities. Damn, we were only about ten minutes into our game. Ah, here comes a cross into my penalty box from my left, between the penalty spot and the eighteen-yard line….easy, easy pickings. I quickly come out to snatch it.

I scream the usual scream to my defense “Keeper’s!” I launch into my usual very high-vertical leap, snag the ball with extended arms ABOVE my head, and as per my umpteen years of training and experience proceed to pull the ball down into my chest….. but then SLAM and everything goes black and silent.

The next moment I remember are the EMT’s putting the smelling sauce under my nose. HOLY SHIT my entire jaw and face are in excruciating pain! The EMT’s keep asking me several questions, load me onto their gurney, and I am transported to the nearest ER. There the attending physician informs me that I need 10 stitches on my right under side edge of my chin, and my jaw is broken in two places on the left side near the front of my ear. I will also have to have my jaw and mouth wired shut for six to eight weeks. Two of those three women who talked me in to playing are there consoling me “…they didn’t score.” With my best scolding look I murmured what I hoped sounded like “This is NOT how I wanted to frickin meet women!” I mean shit, I never even saw her! How many beers could have been bought with the upcoming ambulance, emergency room, and doctors bill!?

My co-ed season was over before it began.

Manchester United's Jones is carried off the pitch on a stretcher during their English Premier League soccer match against Arsenal in London

Image courtesy of rakball.net

Further details of the collision shared by them made my predicament even more depressing – and over time, made theirs a favorite pub story. A long story short, the girl THOUGHT by unimaginable lotto odds, she’d have a chance to head that ball…. with her eyes closed for God’s sake! The top of her head hit my chin if that gives you ANY idea of how wrong she was! And by the way, that ball she thought she could head was firmly in my hands three-feet above my chin! In my profession, on my futebol pitch, with other professional male athletes, it was a NO BRAINER that no one could have had any chance of getting their head on that ball. They would not have even jumped! I hope as you are reading you are picking up on my enraged astonishment.

May 2013

I am fortunate to have great dental genetics from both parents. As I was taught by my parents, I take above average care of those teeth. As a result, I have learned that my mouth is fine with irregular orthodontic checkups; like on the every 3 to 5 year frequency or more. In fact, I did not get my first cavity until I was 24-years old and it was barely a cavity. Often orthodontists would admire my teeth, entire mouth and all my wisdom teeth.

This time I was returning to the dentist after twelve years. However, this visit I knew I was well past the “praise” of the hygienist and her doctor: I had what was likely a developing abscess. I was expecting the dreaded line “Yes, it will have to come out.” But then my new orthodontist asked a question that was totally from left field.

“Have you ever had a traumatic facial injury?”

The Good News, the Bad News, and the Recurring News

My orthodontist confessed that he really didn’t have to ask that question; he knew I had had a traumatic facial injury. He was viewing all the evidence on the x-rays up in the light. In his many years of practice he had seen it a thousand times. And once again, I had to retell the above story to him. As I was about to begin, I thought to myself, that damn invisible woman is STILL haunting me! And that proverbial line: I didn’t even get her name. The dentist begins his verdict…

The good news is that for not being in for a checkup and cleaning for ages, your condition is good and normal. The bad news is that not only does that abscessed tooth need to come out, but you have two more that need extraction, probably a fourth, and maybe a fifth. “And you know what’s strange about your condition,” he asked, “you don’t have cavities in any of those 3-5 teeth!” The erupting roots in all those teeth are a result of that facial injury.

Now over the next 3-weeks, I will be getting surgical extractions, fitted for a 3 or 5 toothed denture, and paying $2,500 – $5,000 to stop any further problems; from a problem that began with: When does the season start?

The 1970’s Carpenters song Close to You goes on and on in my head:

That is why all the girls in town
(Girls in town)
Follow you
(Follow you)
All around
[But I saw nothing!]…
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you

* * * * * * * * * *

An All-Points-Bulletin for athletic men who have weakened will-power around all things seductively female:

Sooner or later, one way or another, you WILL pay for a woman’s company, that introduction, and anything else you desire of her!

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Live Well — Love Much — Laugh Often — Learn Always

This work by Professor Taboo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.professortaboo.com/contact-me/.

Working Waggle Dancers

Posted on May 1, 2013 by Professor Taboo

The pond and piles of leaves. Click for larger image.

Raking and picking up the fall live-oak leaves has been overdue. Not only that but living on top of a hill with never-ending breezes blowing the tiny leaves into the waterfall and pond, add to and make the job more tedious and longer! Then it soon reaches the filter which protects the pump, which quickly needs cleaning too! Last week and this week I have been Yard Man, Pond-n-Pump Man, and like the honey bees we have around, doing it all under the influence and motivation of my loud vocal trance music and the smell of jasmine: the Dancing Yard Pond-n-Pump Man. I must admit, there might be a better way of completing these spring chores, but for me there’s no other enjoyable way of doing them.

As I was cleaning out the pond, treating the water with algae killer, and rebuilding the goldfishes’ rock covered hideaway, I could not help noticing the number of honey bees buzzing me. They didn’t seem to be as interested in me as they were the water and Lilly-flowers; no need for alarm. They are worker bees obeying their Queen to go out, seek and find the stuff of food and honey for the hive. Such is the system of life in springtime. But curiously when I was at my laptop adjusting the volume from loud to louder, four to six of those buzzers were buzzing my speakers, sometimes the laptop. I thought “Now that is curious!” Why were they so interested in my speakers? Or were they interested in what was coming out of my speakers? Then I thought “Hah! They must be Vocal Trance and dance lovers just like me!” And that’s when it hit me…. bees communicate with each other by specific dances and by the flapping (or buzzing) of their wings: vibrations/sound waves.

I, like the bees, was working harder by my music and its vibrations.

While I continued to clean the pond and sit next to my music on the laptop to take breathers, I had no reason to be bothered by the honey bees. In a sense, we were both doing the same work, for our home/hive. We were dancing busy bees. We would come over to the music, feel it, and be re-energized. Then it was back to dancing…. back to work.

Being the inquisitor that I am, I decided to lookup how honey bees communicate with each other. Scientists have learned that bees talk to each other in remarkably similar ways humans do. Of their five senses, honey bees communicate through pheromones and choreography. Think about it, other than talking, how do we like to communicate when we are out in public? Certain perfumes and cologne mix well with our body’s skin oils, or pheromones. Other than talking, how else do we communicate? By how we move. Honey bees tell each other where a food source is by doing a waggle dance. All the worker bees (or in this case, dancing bees) pick up on it. For people our motions and manners convey who we are and what we are doing. Honey bees are not much different.

Our jasmine vine and blossoms

Speaking of attractive smells, there was a spot in the yard I particularly liked to work and work slowly. It was downwind of the jasmine vines. If you have not smelled fresh jasmine blooms, then you are missing out on one of nature’s sweetest addicting aromas you’ll ever have the pleasure of inhaling. Whoa! I asked myself, is there a way to bottle this or roll it and smoke it? Or put it in a low-burning oil fragrance bowl? Holy cow, is there a support group Jasmine-Anonymous for jasmine addicts? Because I’ll become a lifer! And no surprise, guess who else enjoyed the blossoms? My waggling work buddies the honey bees.

As a young boy growing up who had to rake and pick up all the leaves in our huge yard, and inevitably come down with allergies and sinus drainage and swelling, I never looked forward to or enjoyed early spring. However, this time was very different. This time I could blast my inspiring music, work and dance with the bees, and the entire time take big whiffs of jasmine like I was inhaling that cigarette after incredible sex. Though I don’t smoke, I know smokers know what I’m talking about.

In a weird way I want the work to go slowly. I’m enjoying it. I guess you would have to be here to understand.

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