Get 2 Choppin

You ever just have one of those days? You know, one of those days that nothing goes your way, or everything just gets under your skin like a mechanical bug in a science fiction flick (a.k.a. Keanu Reeves in The Matrix when Trinity sucked that spy bug out of his belly button)? Today was one of those days.

It started out great with a nice little breakfast of a three-cheese, bell pepper omelet while watching the Today Show. I followed this up with some quiet reading time and an energy drink. About half way through my allotted hour of reading I heard the mailman pull up. I put down my book and went out to have a friendly chat with the civil servant. I asked him a simple starter question, “So how ‘bout this warm spell we’re having?”(I was being ironic, because it is not really warm) and I got a single “grummph!” I thought maybe the guy didn’t hear me, with his U.S. Mail issued fur hat with the optional earflaps down. I changed direction and cracked a joke, “Why was the mailman mad at his daughter for eloping? (wait, wait, wait) because he didn’t put his stamp of approval on it”. Let’s just say I got a bit of a cold stare after that joke. I didn’t take too kindly to his glare so I dropped my weekly circular and as he went to pick it up for me I cocked back my hand and did my own delivering, POW! Right in the Kisser!

After that little encounter, I had worked up an appetite and headed off to Qdoba for some delicious chicken nachos. I waited patiently in line as the lunch hour rush worked their way through the burrito blender. Finally I got to place my order, “Chicken nachos with black beans and extra queso, don’t worry I’ll pay the extra peso”.  This got the guy laughing but unfortunately this affected his job performance because the next words out of my mouth were, “come on buddy! Even though it’s no secret that focus is important let’s try not to spill the beans on that nachos there”. He did not take too kindly to this cuisine critique and started to skimp on the ingredients. In a flash I had reverted back to fat kid mode and reached across the sneeze guard and had the guy by his salsa-stained apron as I growled deep from the pit of my empty stomach, “I know you don’t serve it here but you are about to get a fist full of squash” I then reached back and let loose, POW! Right in the Kisser!

 All the excitement had gotten me riled up so I decided to end the day with a nightcap at the local watering hole to ease my nerves a bit. I sat their sipping on my whiskey and water, when I felt something burning a hole in the back of my head. I spun around on the bar stool to see this pretty brunette giving me a look that could’ve melted a glacier. I stood up and sauntered on over to her table and shadowed over her as I stared into her hazel eyes. She tried to speak but I put my right index finger on her lips and said, “Ssshhh, don’t say a word. You’ve said enough with your eyes” and as I leaned closer, POW! Right in the kisser! Let’s just say she was weak in the knees and hearing the birds and the bees if you know what I mean! 

It occured to me yesterday that it may be time for me to shed the lightweight carefree cloth of youth for the more responsible laden stiff suit of maturity.  I was forced across the train tracks of life from the riotous neighborhood of youthful folly to the leisure golden pasture of adulthood when I had to teach myself how to tie a tie.  Somehow I have gotten through my 28 years of life without having acquired this precious skill. Clip on ties, ties previously tied by friends that hang in my closet for years without ever coming unknotted, or just the overall avoidance of social gatherings that require a tie ( i.e. weddings, bar mitzvahs, pizza hut buffets, clandestine meetings of tie guys) are all a thing of the past.

I am officially an adult and am ready to have some offspring that I can pass on this manly secret to. The boy(s) of the bravo breed will be  studly, yet sharped dress youngsters that will learn the art of tying a tie before they are in kindergarten. They will be windsor’d up on the first day of school and the last day of school when they grab their diplomas from the Dean of Education of Harvard University.

The boys of Bravo will rock the bow tie better than Orville Redenbacher himself. They will have more style than a gay hair dresser but cut as much female hair if you know what I mean. It is all about the bangs as they would quip! Just kidding, ladies don’t get your granny panties in a bunch. They will be scalding hot in the skinny tie during any 80’s party they might be invited to. The fish tie and holiday tie will not die with these fine fellows. From piano keys to banana trees these boys will knot be tied down to one particular style (pardon the pun but I’m all about the fun).

Any how I am proud of this new found skill and as I wave good bye to my youth with one hand and with a firm handshake (no more fist bumps or high fives allowed) I say hello to adulthood. It’s good to be here finally!

Well I feel that people are finally catching on to why I have removed myself from familiar surroundings to head to the rough wilderness of the Pacific Northwest. The truth is I have come out here to train at a special Z-ball academy to hone my skills so that I can enter the Z-ball arena and face one of the toughest competitors on the other side of the Mississippi (remember I am in the Pacific Northwest people) when I return from my sojourn. Yes on my return I will be facing the formidable opponent Wham “Hands of Stick em” Dickham in a battle to end all battles or as we like to call a nice Thursday afternoon.

For those that don’t know Z-ball is like handball on steroids and meth. It’s crazy wicked. That is why I needed to bolster my arsenal of awesomeness. I called upon the Zen Master of Z-ball, Zanzibar Zeppelin, who runs the prestigious Z-ball academy called, ”Z-ball is in your court or is it?”. The training was hard and intense. It started with long trail rides on the bike to get my cardio up to par. The tricky part here is when Zanzibar would unleash the Z-ball into traffic and I had to quickly retrieve it without getting hit by traffic or letting it bounce into the water. Test #1 taken and passed. (only caused a minor traffic snarl, but I think it was due to my devilish good looks)

The second part of the training involved chasing after some of the indigenous Wild Roosters that roam the off beaten paths of civilization that are tucked away amongst the burgeoning city life. The problem was not only did I have to catch them but I also had to milk them. Test #2 taken and passed. (Apparently Wild Rooster sperm is 1000x stickier than any adhesive known to man, I guess we all know now why the chicken crossed the road, because she was stuck to the Rooster)

The third and final challenge was a simple climb of the floating mountain (as seen below). This is where the Z-ball Gods live. My goal was to scale the mountain and enter into the Palace of Perfection and steal the Zany Z-ball for my game against Wham Dickham. Test taken and passed. All I have left to say is, “Watch out Wham, you’re about to be my sacrificial lamb.”

I was just having myself a lovely old day when a thought occured to me, do you ever consider how dirty somethings may actually be? I mean as a bachelor I realize that the base of the toilet (not the seat mind you I do have manners) is a magnet for urine. I mean, yeah, I could turn the lights on at night to increase my accuracy or even just pee in the shower/tub. I mean I can’t miss that bad but I really don’t care anyway and there is something a bit romantic about urinating by the soft light of the moon. Don’t get all molly maid on me, I’ll get to cleaning it eventually (like the hour before a guest stops in for a visit).

You know another thing that baffles me is dust. I swear that I could dust something and three weeks later there is another thick film of dead skin particles blocking my view of The View. What is up with dust? and where the fuck does this shit come from? I feel like the theory that suggests a huge meteor crashed and created this huge dust storm that supposedly killed all the dinosaurs is the reason behind my apartment being so damn dusty but the conspiracy is that those fucking lazy dinosaurs hated dusting so much that they chose rather to go extinct than clean. Those large lazy fucking lounging lizards.

Which gets me back to the George Costanza. Yes I Costanza in the shower (it prevents athletes foot thank you very much) but as Wham who was unfortunately struck with a poop pain at the gym and had to fill up the dookie jar and was thus forced to shower afterwards to insure a pleasant workout experience minus the stinky, sweaty, shitty shorts that could have arisen from not showering, a thought popped into my head. What else do people do in the shower? I mean can you just imagine the layers of jerk off juice, spank sauce, love lava, etc. that missed the slow floater ride down the drain train because they decide to stick around for the next poor sweaty sap to shower away the grime from his exercise time.

This could be the most brilliant idea ever and for the sake of mankind and sperm free feet at the gym I am giving it away in hopes that somebody will step up to the plate. I think someone should invent cellphones that come equipped with a black light so you can do a quick forensic sweep before hopping in the shower (they could also be used at hotels, rental car agencies, and amusement parks – don’t kid yourself people there are a bunch of freaks out there). Well anyway enjoy your workout and post workout shower.

This is my confession. So listen closely, or in this case get out the magnifying glass and read closely. I, John E. Bravo, have two severe birth defects that have handicapped me my entire life. I was born without the ability to learn a lesson and I was also born without the filter that stops what I think from being something I instantly spout out. It has caused irreparable damage both physically and emotionally.

This past weekend was one of those instances but luckily due to divine intervention I am here to tell you my story and hopefully it will act as a beacon of hope for those of you that also suffer with Lack-A-Lesson-itis and those born with out an oral filter. It all started with an innocent viewing of the movie Green Street Hooligans.

Let me preface this story by saying that I highly recommend this movie, it is a must see for any guy with a set of brass doorknockers. The first lesson that should’ve been learned was: Don’t watch Green Street Hooligans and then expect have a peaceful night out on the town. After watching this movie, I guarantee no matter what goes down you will always stand your ground and you will be looking to kick seven shades of shit out of any cheeky slag that gets up the gumption to fuck with you. Any simpleton can struggle and grunt for cunt but the real man stays in the arena until the battle is done.

The second lesson that evaded my grasp like a extra-lubed up sex toy: When you see an errant shopping cart in the middle of the sidewalk on your walk to the bar don’t blurt out the first thing that comes to your head like, “Dibs on inside for the walk home”. These steel cages are death traps for people with adult onset dumbness, like myself. Luckily K.C. the Sunshine Man stepped up and took the wild ride that started as a mad dash and ended as a wicked crash.

The third lesson has a bit of the big guy in the sky twist to it: This is where the miracle pillowcase comes into play but first let me harken back to my youth. I was a wee little chap about two years old when I climbed up on a bunk bed and fell off and landed on a little toy tractor thus splitting my head like a fucking egg. You’d think the inherent dangers of elevated beds would have been engrained upon my skull like the scars that I wear for life, but oh know they weren’t. That lesson was never learned.

I have a couple plausible theories as to how I fell out of a six-foot loft bed and survived relatively unscathed. The first theory is that this sleepy-headed samurai was attacked by a couple of bunk bed bandits and was pulled from my second story siesta spot as revenge for prior transgressions but that doesn’t explain the lack of head trauma. The second theory and most likely is that the miracle pillow that I clung to in my sleep acted as a cushion as I attempted to defy gravity and saved my noggin. Unfortunately I was not sleeping with a pillow taped to my ass but that is a whole other lesson to be learned if you know what I mean.