Psychic Kids Trailer

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The On-Call Cup

*Names and Locations changed for confidentiality*

Working for The Department of Social Services is a pretty terrifying thing at times. The most terrifying part of the terrifying job is being on-call. Everyone at "The Department" takes turns handling the calls and clients that come in after hours and on the weekend. It's a delight.

I was on-call on June 28^th. It was a Saturday, which meant that I was on-call from 8:30 am Saturday until 8:30 am Sunday.

My pager went off at 8:38 am.

I had been awake for 15 seconds.

I was already depressed due to the fact that I'd spend a Saturday on edge, waiting for the inevitable page. And when I say that I almost pissed myself when my pager went off so early, I mean it (hadn't gotten up to unleash my morning lightning yet).

With a new record amount of self loathing, I pathetically called the on-call dispatch.

She told me that there was a 13 year old girl that was rushed to the hospital last night that didn't have a ride home.

"And…..," I said.

"She's 40 weeks pregnant," she answered.

Oh for fuck's sake.

Then I did the math.

"That kid was due a month ago?" I asked.

"What?" she answered. "No, she's not due until July 1^st."

"But don't…."

The on-call dispatcher spent the next 7 minutes describing how pregnancy works (including the timeline). It took all my power not to ask her if you could get a girl preggors if you do it in the butt. I figured if I could get Mr. Kringen to throw an eraser at me in 6^th grade, maybe she'd just hang up. I didn't. She didn't.

I called the hospital and they informed me that mom was coming to pick the child up at 11 am. They called DSS because mom was out partying the night before and left the girl and her 10 year old brother with a sixteen year old babysitter that "might be mentally challenged."

The girl called 911 at 2:41 am and was rushed to the hospital by ambulance with the brother and babysitter riding in the front. They called mom and she was at a friend's house. In another town. And she was shitfaced.

I immediately imagined this piece of shit: 30 years old, eyes closed, stumbling around, knocking over trinkets and home (mobile) décor and yelling into her Zach Morris sized cordless phone, "I'm comin'! Tell my baby I'm comin'!"

When I showed up at Piedmont Hospitalat 11 am, mom was not there. I mean honestly, why would she be?

I knocked and entered the hospital room.

"Are you Sandy?" I asked.

A head lifted off the pillow. Thankfully, it was a human.

"Yeah," she answered.

I heard a toilet flush. A sixteen year old came out of the bathroom. He didn't wash his hands but had no problem extending one of them anyways.

"Steve," he said.

Judging solely on looks and his pronunciation of "Steve," I'd say mentally challenged was an understatement. I swear to Christ, I was literally surprised to find that his shoes weren't velcro.

I had no choice but to stare at Sandy and pretend I didn't see Steve's offering.

"How you doin', Sandy?" I asked.

Apparently there are stupid questions.

"How do you think she's doin'?" Steve answered.

"Hey, Steve, can I talk with Sandy alone please?"

"I'll go check on Daniel," Steve said as he walked out. "He's sleeping in the waiting room."

Sandy sat up. What a disaster. Sandy is one of those skanky, dirty kids. She looked like shit. I mean, taking into account that she is 40 weeks pregnant and thought she was giving birth the night before, she looked like shit.

Her teddy bear even looked like shit.

I'd be willing to bet that she let Steve bleach her hair (what he didn't drink of it anyways). I'm sure she runs around the trailer park smokin' "cigs" and drinking Smirnoff and telling everyone how she's gonna be the coolest mom in the whole wide world.

"Sandy, my name is Chris Jones and I'm with DSS. Do you know what that is?"

"Yeah. We got cases," she answered.

Fucking figures. "Steve can't read" would have been more surprising (barely) to hear.

"Can you walk me through last night? What happened?"

"Well," she began, "I was asleep in my bed and I thought my water broke so Steve called 911."

Thanks, Sandy. Well done. Christ, there were more details in The Outsiders Cliff's Notes (I got a 42 on that test).

Steve entered the room.

"Your brother is passed out. He got into the Oreos."

"Again?" Sandy asked.

I had to ask. "Steve, are you the father of Sandy's baby?"

Sandy answered, "No, the daddy moved to California when he found out I was pregnant."

"How old is he?" I asked.

"15 or 16."

You mean his parents thought it would be wise to move across the country to avoid dealing with you, your family and an unwanted cabbage patch baby? Sounds about right.

Steve handed me the phone. It was Sandy's mom, Ann.

"I don't have a ride!! Please can you just bring them home?! If you read my DSS file you'd know I have transportation problems. I don't have a car and my neighbor doesn't have the gas….!!"

At least, that's pretty much what I gathered.

Since DSS has a policy of not transporting children that aren't in DSS custody without the parents, my supervisor told me that I had to go pick up mom and bring her to the hospital and then take all of them back home.

I told Steve and Sandy that I was going to get mom. Steve asked if he could go. I may or may not have said, "fuck no." I can't remember.

I called Ann and she gave me her address. It was in Clover. Clover is 30 minutes from Rock Hill, where Piedmont Hospital is. I drove from the hospital to the DSS office and picked up the van. Then I drove to Clover.

The trailer was pretty much how you think it is. No need for detail. I will say there was a Dora the Explorer beach towel being used as a curtain.

As I put the van in park, Ann came out. She signaled for me to roll down the passenger side window.

"Can I bring my drink?" she asked.

Fearing beer, I asked, "What is it?"

"Seltzer water," she answered.

I'm not even 100 percent sure what that is but I remember thinking, 'It smells like vomit.'

Ann was a 30 year old version of her daughter. And of course, with a hideous belly tattoo, comes the idea that you must show it to everyone. I didn't know Walmart sold Hells Angels belly shirts.

And I don't know who Jake is, but she's got his name on her neck. Quite possibly a homemade tattoo. Jake's lucky.

Ann talked the entire way there. Ahhh, the power of prayer.

"My friends that I hadn't saw in like forever were in Gastonia. So me and my friend went to Gastonia and she left me. So I borrowed a car from a friend but I ran out of gas. I walked home. I didn't get home until 4:30 am and a cab is 70 bucks. I don't have it. I been…."

She continued to yap it up for 30 minutes. I didn't pay much attention. I was too focused on not throwing up from the smell of seltzer water.

When we arrived at the hospital, she was about as motherly as I expected.

"C'mon, let's go" was all I heard her say.

Daniel woke up out of his sugar coma. His lips and teeth black from Oreos. Apparently the kid at an entire bag. Instead of milk, he dunked them in cold coffee.

Daniel looked at me. I could tell he was confused. He looked like I had just asked him if he knew that drinking bath water is wrong.

"I'm taking you guys home."

We loaded up in the van and I took them home. Everyone was quiet. I'm sure they hadn't felt this awkward since Daniel's first round exit in the first grade spelling bee.

"Lamp. L. A. M…. B… Lamp."

Halfway through the trip, the silence was broken.

"What's that smell?" Sandy asked.

I looked in the rear view mirror.

Ann, instead of simply telling Sandy what it is, decided to shove her seltzer water cup into Sandy's face.

Sandy took half a whiff….

"She's gonna puke!" Daniel screamed.

"Puke into the cup!" Ann yelled.

We have another 15 minutes to their trailer.

"Want me to pull over?" I asked.

"Nah, keep driving, she's fine," Ann answers.

I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the face of death. Sandy looked like Courtney Love in the sauna. She was drooling vomit and her eyes were rolling around.

I asked if she wanted the air on or if she wanted the windows down.

Sandy gave me a thumbs up. What the everliving fuck did that mean?

"Air?" I asked.

With cheeks bulged, she nodded yes and went for round two into the cup.

"Must be all the pain medication they gave you," Ann said as she confidently assessed the situation.

I looked over at Steve, who's riding shotgun. Completely unphased. "Can I change the radio station?"

Sandy puked 4 times by the time I pulled into their driveway. One by one, they got out of the van. Last was Sandy.

"Good luck with everything, Sandy," I said as she climbed out. "What are you gonna name the baby?" I asked.

"Matthew," she answered as she stepped out. She reached to shut the door.

"Oh, Sandy, one last thing."

"Yeah?" she asked.

I looked into her eyes. She was so young. So impressionable and such a victim of circumstance. I felt bad. I wanted to give her some kind of long lasting advice. Some kind of message of hope. Something that would comfort her and assure her that everything would be ok.

However, all I could come up with at that exact moment was, "Did someone grab the puke cup?"

"Momma," she said.

10:54 AM - 46 Comments - 54 Kudos - Add Comment

birds

"Jonesy! Jonesy!" my roommate, Shaun, called.

"What, man?" I asked.

"Get your ass out here," he replied.

I got off the couch (was watching Full House) and went to the back porch. Shaun was holding up the cushion from one of our patio chairs.

"Look what you did," he said.

"I didn't do that," I answered.

"You're the only one that sits here, man."

He was right. I had done it.

I killed six birds. I sat on 'em. I had unknowing plopped my cellulite ridden ass on a birds nest whilst stealing the internet from my neighbors.

It was a sad sight. The momma bird was right on the edge of the chair. She must have been desperately searching for air and a way out. I bet I crushed her skull with the edge of my right butt cheek.

Then I noticed the eggs. There were 5. I immediately called the momma bird a coward.

"Look at her. Trying to escape. Just leaving the babies to fend for themselves. This bird deserved to die!"

I wasn't proud of myself.

And judging by the look on Shaun's face (open mouth, squinted eyes), he was completely repulsed by my pathetic attempt to justify the homicide.

It was the loneliest I had ever felt.

"You didn't feel them, man?"

"Hell no I didn't feel them," I responded. "And even if I had, so what. They never had a chance."

"You're sick, Chris," Shaun said.

Then my other roommate, Amanda, came out. Completely horrified, all she could do was look at me and quiet mumble, "Jesus Christ" before immediately going back inside (probably to have a good cry).

Shaun and I stood there. It was at least 40 seconds before I finally broke the silence.

"You think the babies could still be alive?"

"Are you fucking serious?!" he asked. "The momma bird has to sit on them to keep them warm."

"I'll just use the internet more often," I replied.

Without appreciating my wit, Shaun came back, "Then what… when they hatch, are you gonna chew up worms and feed them and shit?"

"Well what do you want to do?" I asked. "You wanna bury them?"

"That's too much work, man. Just put them in the garbage," he answered.

I went inside and grabbed a Walmart bag. I used a stick to push and prod the nest and birds into the bag. I was delicate and gentle with them. I didn't drop any of the eggs.

I was real gentle with the momma bird too. Well, I mean, gentle considering the fact that her guts were clearly visible through her feathers and there isn't much more you can do to something at that point.

I tied up the bag and went into the kitchen. I jammed the bag into the already full garbage bag.

"Gross! Is that the bird?!"

Amanda's presence meant that my "disposal" was not yet complete.

"Oh yeah," I said. "I'm gonna take the whole thing to the dump right now. I wouldn't leave a dead bird in our kitchen trash can."

I tied up the bag and put it in my trunk. It was off to illegally dump 6 birds and the rest of my trash in the dumpster behind Old Pointe Elementary.

It took three attempts to get the bag into the dumpster. I was trying to sling it in the side opening from about 30 feet.

The drive home was a surreal experience. I couldn't help but think of God, spirituality and the circle of life.

Even though it wasn't intentional, I killed something. It wasn't a gnat or a roach, it was a fucking sparrow. A beautiful, non-threatening, loving sparrow.

I felt like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men."

Then I thought, "I know we're all God's creatures, but I bet birds are his fave."

Right as I finished that thought, a new one emerged.

"Oooh, dead squirrel on the road, 10 points if I can hit it."

Then I ran over an already dead squirrel.

6:41 PM - 34 Comments - 49 Kudos - Add Comment

Social Dis Services/About Me 2

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Campers and Hoops

I think I liked the Sperbeck brothers a lot more than they liked me.

No, I know I liked the Sperbeck brothers a lot more than they liked me.

Jeremy and Chris Sperbeck were my next door neighbors from 1995 to 1997. Jeremy was the same age as me and Chris was one year older than Brian, my younger brother.

When the Sperbecks moved in, they had an awesome camper. It was only awesome on account of the fact that you could sleep outside without being in a tent. In fact, now that I think about (and I'm 26 now), that camper kinda sucked.

1995: "You mean this kitchen table turns into a bed?! Awesome!"

2008: "You mean I gotta eat breakfast on the same fucking table that I farted on all night?! I hate you!"

Most nights in the summers of 1995 and 1996 were spent in the Sperbeck's camper. The four of us (Jeremy S., Chris S., Brian and me) played cards, Super Nintendo and board games all night. We watched television, drank grape soda and ate starburst (tropical) until we passed out.

It was like a clubhouse. A true getaway.

The camper had one rule: NO DIRTY MAGAZINES.

I had gotten my hands on some dirty mags at one point via my best friend, Mike. He had them passed on to him from his older brother, Jimbo, who I would venture to guess, had progressed to the adult video realm and no longer had use for the pictorials.

When Mrs. Sperbeck caught the four of us looking at them, naturally I blamed Mike.

Mrs. Sperbeck and Mike had a rough history. He was unofficially banned from the Sperbeck's house after an incident at the Ellsworth Air Force Base Youth Center.

Mrs. Sperbeck, an employee of the Youth Center, asked Mike to leave the snack bar after he nearly killed a kid with a basketball (threw it at his head). When Mrs. Sperbeck approached Mike to talk about it, she caught him drawing a graphic picture of her.

If memory serves correctly, a dog was eating her (more specifically, the mole she had on her chin).

"These are Mike's. I'll go throw them away (of course I didn't)," I told Mrs. Sperbeck when she entered the camper.

She rolled her eyes and instantly established the camper's lone rule.

In the summer of 1996, the Sperbecks took it up a notch. Mr. Sperbeck bought a basketball goal for the driveway.

This thing was immaculate. It had a clear backboard with a movable base. If you wanted it at the front of the driveway, simply tilt it on its wheels and move it. If you wanted to put it in back, you could do that too.

The goal was also adjustable. It could go as low and 6'6" and as high as 10'. If you wanted to work on your shot, you could. If you wanted to work on your "dunks" or have a "dunk contest," you could.

Well, in theory.

Mr. Sperbeck put a "dunking ban" on his goal (close to or immediately after witnessing a portly, 14 year old Jonesy, dangling carelessly).

"I didn't spend $200 on a basketball goal to have kids hanging on it!" he would say.

Towards the end of the summer, the Sperbecks took a vacation. They were gone for one week. When I asked if I could still use their goal and camper, Mr. Sperbeck said, "Not while we're gone. I'd hate for something to happen."

I remember those words vividly because, not only was he the first person I ever called gay, but I thought to myself, "What's gonna happen?"

Just to prove Mr. Sperbeck wrong, I played on the basketball goal and slept in the camper all week. And nothing happened.

That is, until the day they were scheduled to return.

My best friend, Mike, taking full advantage of the Sperbecks absence, joined me daily in playing basketball on the Sperbeck's goal. We could no longer avoid temptation. We lowered the goal to 6'6" and decided to get our dunk on.

It felt great. Dunking and hanging on the rim like Charles Barkley and Chris Webber, we cherished this rare opportunity to slam!

The final dunk of the day was one, that I'm quite certain, still enrages the Sperbecks, especially Mr. Sperbeck, to this day.

Mike's dunk (and consequent hanging) generated so much power, that upon his release, the rim popped up and out of place. The springs popped off and the normal "L" shape of a backboard and rim was now a "V."

Naturally, we both ran to my house. Mike called his mom to pick him up and I went about my day as if nothing ever happened.

"We got any cookies, mom?"

I went to bed that night, knowing that the Sperbecks, who had gotten home a few hours earlier, had seen their basketball goal and were intentionally torturing me by not coming by to ask about it.

I remember thinking, "If they think I'm coming over there and admitting to it, they're fucking crazy!"

I was enjoying some cocoa pebbles the next day when the doorbell rang.

"Hold on one second," I heard my mom say. "Chris! Door!"

It was Mrs. Sperbeck. I almost threw up.

"Hey, Chris, do you know what happened to our hoop?" she asked.

I leaned out my door and looked towards the disfigured goal like I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Oh, man! What happened to it?!" I asked.

"I don't know," she replied calmly. "I was hoping you could shed some light on it."

"Nah," I went on to explain, "I haven't been over there all week. Mr. Sperbeck said not to go over threw while you guys were gone, so I didn't."

"Ok," Mrs. Sperbeck said as she turned and began to walk away.

I got away with it. She bought it. Holy shit.

Then she stopped, turned back towards me and stuck out her arm. She had 4 dirty magazines.

"Oh, you left these in our camper."

She was halfway through my yard before my hung head shamefully mumbled, "These are Mike's. I'll go throw them away (of course I didn't)…"

8:55 AM - 126 Comments - 135 Kudos - Add Comment

First Day at DSS

*Actual names changed for confidentiality purposes*

"Ok, Rose, why don't you tell us what happened exactly..."

Before Rose could even say anything, I began to smirk.

Rose was a mess. Apparently, our 11:30 am arrival had her flustered. With her home (and hair) in complete disarray, she pleaded for us to excuse her appearance and pajama bottoms (which I'm convinced contained more coffee than the "world's best mom" coffee cup she handled). 

We had a seat on her couch as she pretended to clean.

"Oh....this house....normally not this dirty...."

Joe, the worker that I was assigned to shadow, clicked his pen and prepared to write.

"Well, me an my boyfrien was watchin' tv. My ex called and I toll him to come over and fix the dryer, which he's da one dat broke it," she said.

Joe, continuing to write, asked, "Ok, then what happened?"

"So, my ex came over and brought a bunch of liquor. So we all three of us starting drankin' and watchin' tv. Then my boyfriend told my ex to 'fix the fucking dryer' and they started fightin'."

"Were the kids in the home?" Joe asked."

"Yeah, but they's sleep," Rose answered. She continued, "After they stopped fightin', my boyfriend left."

"Your ex?" I interrupted.

"No, he stayed," she answered. "He started fixing the dryer and stuff."

"So, who called the cops? Your boyfriend?" Joe asked.

"No," Rose responded. "My kids called the cops the next morning."

Rose went on to explain, "Billy (Rose's ex) fell asleep between the washer and dryer and I guess I passed out on the living room floor, cause the first thing I member is being woke by the cops..."

"Your kids didn't try to wake you when they woke up?" Joe questioned.

"Yeah day did, but day couldn'. So day called the cops. The cops couldn' wake me neither. They had to pour water on me."

Joe looked up from his notepad. I looked into the kitchen fearing that eye contact with either party would send comedic shockwaves through my body inciting a laugh riot the likes of which could have been life threatening (on account of the inability to breathe).

Joe went on to explain how he was going to have to place Rose's children with grandma and ordered Rose to attend rehab. Before we left, Joe asked Rose, "Do you have any questions for me?"

Rose examined the DSS pamphlets Joe had given her, looked up and asked, "Either one of you guys wanna buy a dryer?"

8:39 AM - 57 Comments - 47 Kudos - Add Comment

Thanksgiving 2007

When I sat up in my bed Thursday morning, I hoped for the best. Thanksgivings have always been a little strange for me.

I guess it started in 1992 when my Aunt Ann accused me of eating an entire cherry pie. I didn't. I only ate about two thirds of it. Bitch.

Of course, 1993 was a little worse. Right in the middle of the meal, I yelled, "Fuck Emmitt Smith!" from the kiddie table. As a result of Super Bowls past (I always pulled for the Bills), ES had basically become my arch nemesis.  He and Troy Gaykman.

But now it's 2007. I'm 26 years old and doing shit like that is way behind me.

When I woke up, I could smell Thanksgiving dinner already. My mother had been diligently plugging away in the kitchen. The rolls smelled warm and fresh, the turkey was in the oven and the broccoli casserole, although not my personal fave, provided me with an amazing sense of accomplishment (I bought the broccoli).

The day went on like a normal Thanksgiving. My mother worked up a sweat in the kitchen while her children and spouse argued over what to watch on TV. Naturally, "Walker, Texas Ranger" was the only show we could all agree upon.

Every so often, my mom would interrupt the awesome sounds of Chuck Norris kicking ass by yelling, "Ginger! Get out of here!" and slamming the kitchen door.

My dad, angry at the thought of the family dog near his turkey, would exaggeratingly stomp towards her, shaking his fists, "Go on! Git! I will beat your ass if you…. "

At 3 pm, we loaded up the car and headed over to my Uncle Steve's house.

"Are we taking the turkey?" I asked.

"No, leave that here for us," my mom answered. "We'll have that later and leave some of the other stuff too for leftovers."

We loaded up the car and were about to leave when my dad asked, "Anyone get the gravy?"

When no one answered, he made me go get it. "Chris" was all it took.

I went inside, went into the kitchen, grabbed the gravy and got back in the car.

"You shut the kitchen door?" my dad asked.

"Yeah," I answered.

"Both of them?"

"Yeah, I closed the swinging one and locked the regular one," I answered.

The day at Uncle Steve's was great. No one mentioned what they were grateful for. We drank beer and wine, played pool, watched football and enjoyed a delicious smorgasbord.

I had the best three games of pool ever. I made everything. Shots I couldn't have dreamed of making before we started were falling all over the table. It was Poolhall Junkies up in that mother fucker.

Later in the evening, my Aunt Lori broke out Cranium. I had never played Cranium before, but I knew right away that I'd dominate. I just knew.

I was paired with my sister (age 15), and together, we destroyed the competition. I was like Charlie Chaplin when performing charades. Like Bob Ross when drawing (with or without my eyes closed). Like Axl Rose when whistling and humming (in the song Patience). And the multiple choice, T/F questions, forget it…. I got 840 on my SATs, nuff said.

And when I noticed that all the pecan pie was gone, I yelled, "Who ate all the Pecan pie?" (all the while knowing that I ate at least two thirds of it). Aunt Lori's dad, who was eating a piece at that exact moment, got the blame.

We decided to leave around 8 pm. I was in a great mood. The alcoholic buzz combined with a victorious streak for the ages had me feeling spectacular. I had a successful Thanksgiving. I passed blame for pie and I didn't yell "Fuck you!" to anyone.

Things began to change halfway through the ride home however. It became painfully evident that I needed to take a dump.

As soon as dad put the car in Park, I was out the door. I ran up to the front door and went in.

I noticed it right away. I could smell it. I could feel it.

Ginger had eaten our entire turkey. She went Bumpus Hounds on it. Bones were scattered throughout the living room and she was in the fetal position near the fireplace, whimpering like a bitch.

I knew I hadn't locked the kitchen door like I said, but it was now apparent that I hadn't even shut it. Jesus Christ. I peered out the front door and the rest of my family was making their way to the house. I panicked.

I ran to the kitchen door, locked and shut it. Then I ran to the other kitchen door, the swinging one, and opened it. Then I ran into the bathroom.

"Ginger!" my mom yelled, surprised and disappointed.

I could hear everything from the bathroom (while on the can).

"The other door is locked, she must have powered her way through the swinging door," my dad said.

I will admit, as I sat on the toilet, pants around my ankles, listening to my dad beat our dog, all I could think about was how awesome I was at Cranium.

When I came out of the bathroom, I noticed my mom on her hands and knees, cleaning turkey fat and grease from our fancy, new carpet.

"What happened?" I asked.

8:56 AM - 77 Comments - 70 Kudos - Add Comment

Camping

I hate camping. So it was no surprise to me when I agreed to go with a group of friends.

A few years ago, my friends (Shaun, Tommy, Amanda, Bethany and Alex) and I went camping in South Carolina.

After loading up the cars and coolers and all that shit, we were off.

When we arrived at the campground around 2 pm, we were greeted by a security guard named Jeff. He was in a little booth, "securing" the entrance and exit.

"Hey, folks," he said.

I was in the back seat of car 1 in a 2 car convoy. I rolled down my window.

"Hey, Jeff (looking at the name tag)," I said.

"Hey," he replied. "The check in building is on the right…"

"What's the skinny dipping policy in the lake?" I asked.

That warranted a slew of "shut the fuck up"s and "you're retarded"s from the crew.

Jeff, 30s, however, seemed to appreciate it, "Fine by me. I'm the only authority here for the next 17 hours…."

"17 hours?!" I yelled. "How long are your shifts?"

"My shift is from noon today until 7 am tomorrow," he replied.

Completely appalled and upset for my new friend Jeff, I couldn't help but enquire.

"A nineteen hour day at a campground? That's ridiculous!" I screamed.

"Well," he explained, "I go to sleep when we close the gates at 11 pm. But someone has to be here in case of an emergency…."

"You sleep in this little hut?" I asked.

"Yeah, I have a cot (he pointed)," he answered.

"Man," I continued, "I'd just lock up and go home if I was you. Then come back at like, 6 or 6:30. I mean seriously, has there even been an emergency? Seriously."

He paused (apparently pondering my statement), raised the gate and said, "All right, you guys, have a good time!"

Oh well, I wasn't gonna let Jeff get in the way of me having a good time. There were plenty of other things to do that.

Our camp site was sandwiched between two families that, I'm convinced, became increasingly competitive in annoying the shit out of me.

"A little help, please!" a boy yelled every time his soccer ball rolled to me (about 9 times).

"Ok, guys! Family sing-a-long time!!"

Soon the bugs came. Those were nice.

I also noticed that I was the only one drinking. A group of six and I'm the only one getting absolutely hammered in the middle of a family campground. Nice judgment.

I noticed the ridiculousness of the situation when throwing a Frisbee became increasingly difficult.

"Throw it to ME, Jonesy! Jesus!"

My attempt at fishing ended with one catch and release (a baby turtle) and a wet tennis shoe.

My hot dogs (roasted over an open fire) tasted more like smoke and ash than left over pig parts and I got more chocolate and marshmallow on my shirt than in my mouth when S'mores time had arrived.

The best part of the camping experience was the lakeside walk. I threw my arm out trying to skip rocks. And during the walk, the blade from the Swiss Army Knife I brought (in an attempt to be manly) had somehow gotten lose and poked me in the scrotum. Luckily, my scrotum wasn't punctured and the blood soiling my underpants had been from the knife puncturing my thigh instead.

The Swiss Army Knife wouldn't have done anything for my manliness anyways ( as hours earlier, the girls had to put up the tent after my temper tantrum and tears had revealed to everyone my sensitivity and ineptitude).

By the time everyone was ready for bed (I brought it up), I was completely exhausted.

Everyone piled into the tent around midnight. P < cried. almost I awake. still one only the was that so, or hour an after evident, painfully became It asleep. falling began everyone Slowly,>

The last time on my watch before I fell asleep was 1:12 am.

The first time on my watch after I woke up was 1:34 am.

I tossed and turned for the next two hours. Completely miserable, I couldn't relax enough to sleep. To the best of my knowledge, everyone else was sound asleep. No one made a sound.

Finally, at 3:06 am, I snapped.

"Fuck this fucking shit!" I yelled. "I fucking hate my life!"

"Jonesy?" a whispering voice asked.

"Shaun?"

"Yeah, man. I can't sleep," he said.

"Me either," another voice added.

"Amanda?" I asked. Then I sat up. "Where's Bethany?" I asked.

"She's sleeping in my car," Tommy said.

It was then I realized that everyone was awake. I then made my case, "Let's get the fuck outta here!"

Everyone agreed. In a reversal of fortune, I was man enough to take down the tent (in record time).

We loaded up the car and started on our way. As we approached, we noticed that the gated entrance/exit to the campground was locked shut.

"What the fuck?" Shaun asked.

The car stopped, I got out and went up to Jeff's booth. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again, a little bit louder. Again, nothing.

I peered in to see if Jeff was in there. He wasn't. A couple hours later, a car pulled up.

A man got out of his car, unlocked the campgrounds entrance/exit and walked in.

"What are you guys doing?" he asked.

"We're waiting for a security guard to open up the gates so we can leave," I answered.

The man walked up to the security booth, unlocked it and noticed that no one was in it.

"Where's the guard?" he asked.

"You mean Jeff?" I asked.

"Yeah," he answered.

"I think I convinced him to go home and sleep in his own bed and come back at 6:30," is probably what I should have said.

Instead, after briefly considering the possible consequences, I opted for, "Who knows..?.."

6:56 AM - 91 Comments - 60 Kudos - Add Comment

Love Off

"I really think she loves me more than she loves you."

That was how my brother, Brian, greeted me Saturday morning.

And it was enough for me to stop buttering my toast.

"What?" I asked.

"You see how she acts when I walk in? She fucking loves me," he replied.

Brian, of course, was talking about the family dog, Ginger.

"Get the fuck outta here, man. Ginger loves me way more than she loves you," I said.

I got out the grape jelly and casually began applying it to my toast without so much as giving Ginger's devotion another thought.

"I'm serious," Brian continued. "I think I'm her favorite."

On this morning, Brian and I were at our parents' house in preparation for our family's annual church directory pictures. We stood there, in the kitchen, in our mid twenties, nicely dressed, and somehow on the verge of a physical altercation.

"She smells your dog, man!" I yelled defensively. "That's why she's all over you. She's all over me cause she loves me!"

"Oh please."