Never Leave Your Blizzard Unguarded

This pickup in front of me is a two-door, but it’s got a back seat. If you’ve been in a pickup’s back seat, you know there’s not much to it. Anyone tall enough to ride a rollercoaster has to turn their feet, maybe even their legs, to one side. There’s a seatbelt back there, but I wouldn’t bet on its usefulness. I’ve felt more security from your average fortune cookie message than from the seatbelt in the back of a truck.

There’s a guy in the back seat. I suspect he’s tall, because he’s turned completely sideways. He’s laughing, a lot. The guys in the front seats are too, but Backseat is really cracking up. I’ve lived a life of making jokes from the back seat, so I recognize immediately that Backseat is the one making everyone laugh. The timing is off, from his laugh to theirs, and his gestures are classic, “And then…” and “Get this…”, big hands all over the place, back and forth.

Backseat’s wearing a red bandanna, like maybe he just came from the groomer, or from robbing a saloon. At a light I normally make a left, I instead slow to a stop behind them, because Backseat has made an interesting move. He’s popped open the little, hinged triangle of window available to the rear passenger, and is holding one finger up inside—this gesture telling me and his buddies, “Oh yeah? Fuckin’ watch me”. The other hand exits the window, holding what by all accounts would be a medium Blizzard from Dairy Queen, and places it on the roof of the truck. Inside, they’re calling his bluff, so he lets go, leaving the Oreo Blizzard (I’m filling in blanks here, but come on) out there by itself, for however many seconds remain before the green light. The guy shotgun is freaking out. It’s his Blizzard. Backseat reaches back out, and forward, and knocks on his buddy’s window, because…duh. The front window rolls down, a new hand emerges, and the Blizzard returns to its home, up front, where, if a Blizzard had legs, it could surely stretch them out.

Backseat, as you can imagine, is laughing so hard he’s doubled over on his tiny bench. For just a second, a foot rises into view. I follow through the light, but then catch the next left. For all I know, the next block was funnier, or contained revenge from the shotgun. This much is true: You better respect your jokers in the back seat, especially if you have ice cream you don’t plan on sharing.

I'm not even sure what the tennis balls do.

I'm just gonna put this out there now, in case I forget before it's too late. Consider it part 1 of my living will. Well, part 2. Part 1 is that when I'm old and you're taking care of me, I don't wanna wear any bullshit birthday party cone hats. Oh, and don't go buying me stupid "Shit that happened in the year you were born" greeting card things. Fuck off with that. Real gifts till I'm dead. Anyway.

Part 3 of Ryan's living will: I'm working on getting pretty fit, so I'm looking to be fit when I'm elderly too. I'm gonna Paul Newman that shit. Might even Sean Connery it. Gonna be fun. But, just in case I sprain an ankle in my Old Dudes Ultimate Frisbee tournament or something and have to use a walker, even temporarily, how about we just skip the whole tennis balls thing, okay? There's no dignity in that. I'm sure I can manage the walker just fine on my own.

Write that down, cause I'm not kidding.

Love you guys,

Ryan B

I made a sandwich.

I’m an okay cook I suppose, but I officially rock at three dishes: turkey burgers, mac-n-cheese, and variations on this sandwich.

Here’s what:

Put some butter or olive oil in a pan and heat it up. I don’t care which you use. I’m barely living my life, you think I’m gonna get all weird about yours, all “No, it’s gotta be a tablespoon of butter”? No. Use what you use, as much as you use. Want a bigger ass? Use more butter. Duh.

In the hot melt, add a slice of bread. Put a slice of cheddar cheese on that. Put a stack of tortilla chips (like…five chips) on a paper towel. Fold it up and bust it a couple times with your fist. Pretend it’s my face, if that helps. Pour your tortilla chip dust onto the cheese, and spread it around some. Then put a few shots of hot sauce on top of that.

Add a couple slices of turkey or ham or whatever. I used turkey. Seriously, make a decision.

Tear three or four pepperoncinis from their stems and put them on top of the turkey. Put another piece of cheddar on top of that, and then another piece of bread, and flip it. If the bottom of your sandwich isn’t brown yet, you made it too fast. Slow down, chief.

By the time you pour a beer or whatever, the other side is done. Cut it in half and serve, with a couple more pepperoncinis on the side. If you don’t like those, I guess you could have a pickle, but if you don’t put something on the side, everybody’s gonna think you’re an asshole.

Enjoy.

Actually, can I just skip all that swimming?

I'm at work, so I'll have to be brief.

You guys, if I ever, say, train for my entire life to be the fastest swimmer alive, and I never smoke a cigarette or stay up past ten and I never get to go to the movies or miss a workout or hang out with my friends, and then I actually make it to the Olympics and win more medals than anyone ever and stand on the thing and get the roses and all the USA USA USA chants and then a few months later and it's winter and the pool's closed and it's a frickin' odd-numbered year, for crying out loud, then you should know, and forgive me, but you should know:I'm doing a fucking bong hit.

Okay, back to work.

I got my spoon back. It was on the couch.

I wish I were more even-tempered. When I was a younger person, I had a "movement" teacher who taught us that each of our fingertips represented a different element, and to "ground" ourselves, we should press our thumb, which would be the "self" finger, to the index finger, which reprented "earth". I usually just ended up making a fist.

By the way, you roll your eyes at what I studied in college, but I'm working retail now, so I guess we know who laughed last.

We watched Transporter 3 the other night. Every time Transporter gets pissed, he gets in a fight pose. And even when he's fighting, he doesn't breathe heavy or stomp around or call anybody names. He has the presence of mind to take off his shirt and choke you with it, rather than just bolting up out of his chair so fast he knocks a spoon off the desk (he had been eating some peanut butter). And then Bandit gets all weird and won't give the spoon back. Tran Sporter has me beat in that fashion.

Which is my way of saying I yelled at a telemarketer today.

And then, maybe, I called him back.

And maybe he answered the phone "Hi there, Ryan".

Maybe, maybe not. Whatever. The point is, relax. Screen your calls. It's a new day, hope and all that, so dial back a little, and quit getting pissed at some dude who's just trying to do his shitty job. Someone will probably yell at me today, and I'll be all victimized and hurt about it, but I've got it coming. Index finger is Earth, middle finger is GO FUCK YOURSELF, ring finger is Water or something, little finger is...Fire? That can't be right. Anyway.

Five Items.

Five items! Go!

1. A few weeks ago I got a voicemail that was just the sound of a can being opened, followed by "There: instant happiness." Yes, it's possible to give someone a Red Bull over the phone.

2. Larry, the Wolfboy who can't say "purple" is my favorite of all the fake people currently living in my head. If I'm walking around laughing to myself, I have Larry to thank.

3. I'm loving all the "He hates white people!" propaganda going around right now. Really? Less than a week to go and that's all you got? It's like you've been pulled over, and the cop is walking to your window, and you're wondering if you can slip a piece of gum in your mouth before he gets there. Shit you guys, WHERE'S YOUR GUM? WHAT'D YOU DO WITH YOUR GUM? IS THERE AN ALTOID IN YOUR COAT POCKET? THINK! THINK! IT'S ALMOST TUESDAY! HE'S ALMOST TO THE WINDOW! Love it.

4. Chocolate milk is so fucking delicious I just don't even know what to do about it. I want to comment on every single drink. Even half way through the bottle, I'm all "Son of a bitch! Chocolate milk is the fucking best!"

5. I saw five concerts in the month of October. November? Seven jugglers.

It is awesome though, especially if you’re the one who didn’t even get a degree.

A little social tip, from me to you:

When someone tells you she just found out her gynecologist has an identical twin, the appropriate response is probably not "No way! That's fuckin' awesome!"

Sometimes I wish I had cue cards.