People on the Highway

I followed an oil tanker from Oklahoma today.  The little slogan underneath the state name said “OK!”

This is most midwest thing I have ever seen, and I regularly consume fried pickles.  Such a positive experience to have on the road.  Nothing bad, nothing exceptional just “ok!”

The driver had to pick this plate too.  There are at least 83 specialty plate options in the state. That’s quite a few to choose from and this driver opted for “ok!”

I feel like I know the driver. I feel like I am the driver.

Today’s Driver: Sure, yeah.

Allard Wilcox from Tulsa, Oklahoma is a big fan of Dick Wolf shows, smothered burritos and cat memes on Facebook.  Allard does not like people who chew with their mouths open, duck hunting season, and adult coloring books.  He’s a middle of the road sort of guy.  Unless, of course, he’s driving in which case being a middle of the road kind of guy is being a really-bad-at-their-job kind of guy.  Allard loves to make that joke at the company picnic every year.

Allard has a shipment of decorative vases in the freight car attached to his truck bed.  He saw one, didn’t care for it.  He won’t let anyone know of this opinion, because as he puts it, “who cares what I think?”  He likes life to be okay.  If he says life is amazing, people ask questions.  If he describes his life as pretty boring, people suggests ways to spice things up.  When he says life is “okay”, people shrug and say things like, “can’t ask for much more, eh?”

Allard is not non-committal or without conviction, far from it.  He’s been with his company for fifteen years and will defend his favorite baseball team to his death if need be, but he balances those strong opinions with absolutely not caring about the E! television network, most CBS shows and the words of Teddy Roosevelt.

He always responds to long-haul assignments with a “Sure, yeah, okay,” grabs his paperwork, hops in his truck and goes.  He’s an “okay” guy through and through.

Allard Wilcox of Tulsa, Oklahoma is sort of my hero right now.

 

 

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Dear Future Past Me

Dear, Future Past Me,

Good news! Your time travel device first thought up during that table tennis game in middle school works! You’ll be 37 years old and nursing a hang over because a college buddy named Tankard showed up and suggested doing shots the night before you create the machine, but your idea is valid.  Be proud of yourself/me/us(?)!

Bad news! Time travel is weird.  First up, you’ll get covered in a strange goop as if the Nickelodeon slime of our youth is actually what holds space-time together.  I can’t explain it. Perhaps Mark Summers simply wanted to grant children power over time. Perhaps cosmic forces like pranks.  Know this though; you will be gooey when you arrive any where.

Also, it is nothing like Sliders. Nothing at all.  Sure, yeah, they were moving through dimensions.  I thought time travel would do the same stuff, as you probably know because you are me and I am you, but that’s not the point.  Turns out, you step on a butterfly in the past and another butterfly just takes its place.  There are literally millions of butterflies.  Time travel is super depressing by making you realize that nothing is special or unique.  It’s just gooey.

Next up. You’re gooey and stepping on butterflies all the time. That’s a given at this point.  Turns out, the past is incredibly boring.  I’m writing this note while sitting in Cleopatra’s court.  Marc Antony is due to arrive in a few months and I know how things are going to play out, but they don’t.  Dramatic irony is super fun in a prime time drama, but when it plays out in real time and you don’t have popcorn at the ready, life is just one big Dilbert cartoon. Kinda’ boring and feels like there should be a joke, but it never comes up.  You know how we feel about Dilbert though.

More bad news, home-me (ha! just thought of that one. Homie, but we’re the same person), we’re not going to get out of Cleopatra’s court.  The time machine is busted up, war is coming, and things are looking bleak.  I’m hoping some archaeologist recovers this scroll written in 2010s English and resists the urge to throw it away.  Don’t throw this out, bruh! I have my doubts though.  I’m pretty sure this piece of strange fabric won’t survive any of the stuff it is going to see over a couple millennia.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if “Don’t throw this out, bruh!” is the only surviving piece? Good golly that would be amazing.

Obviously my warning goes unheeded since I still end up here.  Maybe I can prevent one little problem though; never travel with a fully grown pig.

No, no, you know what, Me? Do.  It was pretty funny the first time.

 

Safe time travels, me!

Signed,

Me. You.

 

 

 

 

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The Ancient Tome

“So you’ve cracked the case, eh?” Doctor Lily Plant asked her research assistant.

“It took some work, but I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Susan “Sue” Lawyer replied.

The two moved their attention to an ancient text found in the tomb of a forgotten king of a forgotten kingdom.  The researchers tried n0t to focus on how an entire dynasty could be lost to time, and instead gaze upon the gorgeous calligraphy and art wrapped in hand tanned leather.

“What is it?” Dr. Plant asked.

“It appears to be knock knock jokes,” Lawyer explained.

“Nice,” Dr. Plant was very proud.

Captain Redding and the Journey of Eagle Seven

“Captain, there’s something approaching.”

Those words hit Captain Redding in like a sack of potatoes to the back.  A situation she had encountered previously and does not recommend at all.  Decades in space, flying toward a distant rock that would one day be home, and nothing had ever happened.  Redding was sure she once saw an asteroid shaped like a Bugles corn chip, but could not prove it.

Now, “something” was approaching.  Not a rock, not a comet, not a weird clump of hydrogen.  Something meant there was no immediate explanation.

“Let’s see it,” the Captain ordered.  She took her seat on the bridge and drones deployed from the ship to get a closer look at the incoming object.   As the camera feeds flickered to life, the command crew gasped in unison.

“Is that…?” started the radar operator, too confused to finish his sentence.

“Audio. Get me audio,” The Captain ordered.  All the sci-fi writers, all the astrophysicists, any one who ever looked up from Earth and wondered if we were alone in the universe was about to proved right; life was present beyond our big blue wet sphere.

“Greetings,” the Captain said, pulse racing as her voice became the first encounter between human and alien, “I am Captain Redding of the human vessel Eagle Seven.  We are peaceful. We are curious. We are excited to meet you.”  She hoped her words would be looked upon kindly by history.

A brief moment of silence followed.  On the screen they saw a creature, humanoid in appearance, but possessing far more arms and much less hair, move around a small spaceship and tap a button on what could only be described as a tablet computer.  The crew of Eagle Seven waited and watched, wondering what the creature was doing.

“Okay, okay.  Y’all hear me?” The creature replied.

“Yes,” Redding answered, fighting back tears, “we hear you and understand you!”

“Good, good. Sure thing. I dig it. Yo, any one on that ship order a pizza? I have a delivery to make and the address makes no sense.  That’ll teach corporate to expand the delivery area to unknown markets, eh? Ha! Listen, you guys have been great, but you want these pizzas or not?” The alien spoke rapidly.

Redding looked around to her crew, unsure of the proper response.

“We thank you, friend, for your hospitality and offering and would welcome trade with you and your civilization,” Redding answered.

The alien responded with an amused chuckle. “Oh, you folks are a-okay.  I’ve gotta go though.  You ever need some pizza though, be sure to come over to Uncle Toi’Diwo Grrrr’s Place.”

The alien ship zipped away and the Eagle Seven team suddenly felt the pain of not blinking for four minutes straight.

“First contact went a little weird,” one crew member said.

“I thought for sure aliens would just be super smart computers,” another muttered.

“How awesome is it that there’s pizza in space?” Another pointed out.

Captain Redding took her seat and ordered the Eagle Seven to continue its voyage to a new home, hoping history would write the story of first contact a little differently.

 

 

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Common Conversations with My Toddler

Toddler, 2:00 am, suddenly appearing beside my bed: Dad.

Me: Ah!

Toddler, trying to fall asleep on my the side of my bed: Daddy. I’m awake.

Me: No. No you are not. Let’s get you back to bed.

Toddler, face in the bed: Incoherent mumbling

Me, putting the toddler back in his bed: Sure thing, sleepy guy.  Good night.

Toddler, asleep: Good night.

Me, heading back to bed: I have to find a way to not scream every time he just shows up in the room.  That cannot be a healthy interaction.

Toddler: snoring

 

 

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The Party (A Spooky Repost)

“I love that picture frame,” Wendy complimented the party’s host, Clifford.

“Do you want it?” Clifford said a little too quickly.  Wendy shook her head no.

“You sure? It’s really old and quite an accent,” Clifford was stopped by a wailing sound from the picture.

“A hehehe, you folks have any sarsaparilla?” A ghostly voice called out from what seemed to be the frame.

“What was that? And what’s sarsaparilla?” Wendy asked.

“No body knows, this will pass in just a moment,” Clifford rubbed thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose.

“What about some beans? Can’t have a hootenanny without beans!” The voice said.

“Is the frame haunted?” Wendy asked.

“By the ghost of a gold miner who was more interested in food and fun than minerals it seems.  He shows up and demands a drink no one can replicate and beans.  Always beans.  You don’t hold corporeal form, Jedidiah! You can’t eat or drink!” Clifford shouted at the picture frame.  This was a conversation quite common, Wendy noted.

Clifford stared at the frame waiting for the ghost to reply.

Wendy watched and waited.  The other party guests did not seem to notice, or perhaps they had encountered the scene before.  As she watched the oddity unfold, something nagged at her.  Her eyebrows titled downward, annoyance growing exponentially.

“Did you try to pawn off a haunted picture frame on me? And one haunted by an obnoxious ghost?” Wendy asked.  “That’s rude.”  She stepped away and hoped the buffet was not cursed.

 

Thanks for reading!

Some entertainment options you may enjoy:

Lunch Hour Characters (bad art, humorously captioned)

Free books

$1 Books

Mugs and Stickers and other tangible things

Facebook for videos, links and shenanigans

Answers from the Adviceroy

Dear Adviceroy,

I ran into a bit of a social quandary today and I know your winged knowledge can assist.  I am pretty sure my roommate used my toothbrush.  What’s the best way to bring up the subject and go about my gingivitis battling business?

Signed,
Brusher in Buffalo

Dear Brusher,

The easiest way to solve this issue is to collect five other toothbrushes, train them in five different martial arts fighting styles and decide upon a code word that will trigger them to form one giant, mightier (because teamwork) toothbrush that can battle away your roommate if push, neigh, if brush comes to shove.  Your mighty, transforming toothbrush team will work the problem out and you get to avoid a kind weird chat about how you found out the toothbrush was used erroneously.

Happy training!

Singed,
The Adviceroy

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