Page 129: Favorite Prank Memories: Eye Can't Take the Pressure!

"Come on in and sit down," Patsy said, and six of us filed into her office for a meeting. I had known Patsy for years; we worked together in the 1990's in Philadelphia and she had recently moved down to Austin to join us.

I was wincing in pain with my hand up to my right eye. "Is your eye still bothering you?" she asked. I had been walking around with my hand to my eye all morning.

"Yes, it's worse. Hurts like the dickens. It's all swollen -- awful. Never mind me, let's get started," I replied, wincing again, and moving my hand away to peer at her through a Popeye-esque, painful squint.

"Well, I think we should start with these new accounts," Patsy began. "Because they-"

My low moan interrupted her. I rubbed my eye, in increasing agony. "Oh, man. Man, oh, man. It feels like so much pressure -- killin' me!" I groaned.

"I've got some Tylenol, will that help?" Patsy asked, concerned. The other people around the table were staring at me.

"No, no, I'm fine...I think….OH…oh man… can't take this PRESSURE. Seriously, never mind me, let's just get through this," I said.

"Well. Okay. So if we start with this first set of accounts -- hey, can I get you a wet rag?" Patsy asked worriedly. I was clutching my eye intensely, my face contorted.

"I… I… my…eye…feels…like…it's gonna…explode…pressure..." I answered. I stood up, still clutching my hand over my eye. "AWWWWWRRRGGG!" I gurgled, and that was when I smashed the liquid Mr. Coffee Creamer I had been hiding in my fist next to my eye, sending evilish, white gooey liquid exploding all over the conference table.

"OH MY GAWHHHD!!!"Patsy thundered, the table scattering as she lunged backwards against the wall with the most horrified expression I have ever seen. She stood staring,her mouth hanging literally open, at the remains of my what had once been my eyeball, splattered all over her table.

There was a brief moment of absolute silence… and then, unable to stand it any more, I broke down into laughter. Hysterical laughter, the kind that can kill you if you aren't careful. The people at the table, most of whom were in on the joke, were laughing their heads off. I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen, and had to lay down on the floor. After a shocked moment, Patsy stomped out of the room, uttering a series of expletives that might have been targeted in my direction.

Mission Accomplished.


PRANK INGREDIENTS

• One long tenured unsuspecting friend
• One plastic container of "Vanilla" or Regular liquid Coffee Creamer
• Overacting Skills
• Ability to Hold in Laughter during Prank
• Ability to Stay Conscious After Prank
• Ability to outrun your Prey (if needed)

Page 128: Kim's Birthday Goes to Pot (Pie)

My sister Kim and I grew up in the rolling, sun-drenched hills of Brown County, the true center of Texas, home of the famous Underwood's Barbeque and Mama Gomez's Tex-Mex -- both the best in the Lone Star State.

Except Underwood's and Mez's weren't on our menu very often -- when I babysat my sister during the summer while my parents worked, I fried eggs and sausage for breakfast, and whipped up "pickled loaf" sandwiches for lunch. Or sometimes, Banquet Pot Pies. You ever had a Banquet Pot Pie? You shouldn't. No, really, you shouldn't.

They seemed delicious back in the day; Chicken, Beef, or Turkey niblets in a "sauce" and splattered into a pastry shell. I liked them all, but Kim insisted on only Chicken Pot Pie, which made absolutely no sense. It would sort of like Jethro Bodine saying, "Granny, I likes them possum gizzards, but them possum giblets -- shooo-weeey!" Makes no sense a'tall.

It was a summer day in 1975, give or take a year. We were out of pickled loaf and Kraft American slices, so sandwiches for lunch were out. The freezer contained exactly two… Beef… pot pies. She'll never notice, I thought. I cooked both to golden brown perfection, serving them up nonchalantly to the table. Kim took one look and shuddered. "This is BEEF!" she moaned. I was eleven or twelve, in charge, and in no mood for nonsense.

"Eat it -- it's great."

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting there staring at it. "Eat it!" I insisted. "You aren't getting up from the table until you do!" Thirty minutes later she was still sitting there while I watched TV. I heard a rustling noise, and turned to see what it was. The little imp had reached around the corner and snuck the phone out of the living room into the kitchen, attempting to call our mother at work. "Nope, no appeals to the warden today," I said, mashing down the hook buttons.

Another fifteen minutes passed. "Kim, just eat it -- it's no big deal," I pleaded, exasperated. She scooped a pea sized amount onto her spoon, timidly placing the tip of the spoon in her mouth, placing at least 3 molecules of beef pot pie sauce on her tongue. There was a pause that seemed like an eternity, and then her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body contorted, and she made a hideous, gurgling "KAWWWWWWWWYCCCCHHH" sound as she forced "the mother of all gags." She looked up at me as if to say, "well, happy now?" The Beef Pot Pie, minus a tiny pea-sized scoop, ended up in the trash.

Of course, Kim has never forgotten this story and all my kids have heard it. Kim later grew up and became a school teacher, married a great guy, and has a happy life living in the country near Brownwood.

She turned 39 on October the 9th, and she and my parents came down to visit. "Kim, I slaved away on your birthday cake for hours," I groaned. "You better eat it."


"I will! I promise. I'll have some tonight and some in the morning, too."

Mwwwwaaaa haaa haaa. Right into my clutches. "In the morning too? You promise?"

She promised.

A video speaks 10,000 words.

Page 127: Do You Have a 10a BlahBlah Today?

Disclaimer: although krs never discusses his occupation in this venue, he is lucky enough to work in a company where meetings are usually actually effective. But it seems like meetings are springing up in every aspect of life…

I've become convinced that we have met the enemy, and the enemy is meetings.

Some talk because they can. Some talk when they just shouldn’t. Some just talk and talk and talk. And some who probably should talk just sit and listen. They're multiplying like rabbits. "Can you make the 10a meeting?" she asked.

"Well, I would, but my 9a will go into 10a, and I already have two other 10a's to attend," I explained.

"So you're coming?"

"Oh, yes. I'll sit in your meeting, webcam into another, and blabber on my cellphone for the other one."

"Sounds great!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling like lit diamonds. "Another meeeeeting," she thought dreamily.

I actually think people are being paid by the meeting -- and some are convinced they are being paid by the word. And in practically every meeting, those someones are breaking the cash register, giving themselves raises and enormous bonuses as they let themselves go into thousands and thousands of bonus words.

Yes, sometimes meetings are great. But can we be honest? We really should. Often, they are Let's-Talk-Our-Heads-Into-Mushpot-athons.

Father, I know. I should have more patience. I made the motion on Facebook that meetings be renamed "Blah Blahs." It was immediately seconded, thirded, fourthed, and so on. Motion carried. Unanimously.

"Do you have a 10a Blah Blah today?"

Page 126: Wicked!

"Oh, Clarice, your problem is you need to get more fun out of life." -Dr. Lector, The Silence of the Lambs

WARNING: This blog contains attempted humor that some people may find offensive. If you have a delicate constitution, please click over to these pictures of stuffed teddy bears.

Okay, now that we've gotten rid of the sourpusses, we can get on with it. I can't help that I have an extremely wicked sense of humor -- God made me this way. Ironic that God could create such wickedness, isn't it? But I suppose "that's just the way He rolls," proving that there must be a cosmic humor of divine proportions.

Ever since I was a tadpole, inappropriate and over-the-line-humor have left me in stitches. And nothing delights the wicked more, of course, than spreading wickedness. Getting an entire group laughing at something rather wrong has unnatural appeal to me. It's sort of like the endorphin high runners get, but with a lot more maniacal glee and explosive laughter.

I have only laughed to the point of death once in my life, and it happened during my college years at the beautiful mountain filled Baptist encampment of Glorieta, New Mexico. We were the featured band there, and one late night, giddy from all our performances, my pal Mark and I were sitting on the front porch of our bunkhouse at 4a. (That's Mark on the left, along with my old roommate Mike, on board our tour bus.) We were talking into the wee hours about the very serious matters of life, death, philosophy, and theology. Mark is gold, one of the best guys you could ever meet, and also pretty seriously minded -- the perfect guy to sit around with under the stars and talk about the Universe. And then out of the blue, Mark said, "Do you know what they call a herd of masturbating cattle?" I looked at him, perplexed. "Beef Stroganoff!" he asserted. Did Mark just say that? I was instantly in stitches, riotous laughter that turned into a roaring fit that started to hurt some ten minutes later, when I really, really thought I needed an ambulance and ended up literally ROTFLOL, Rolling On The Floor, Laughing Out Loud. In pain. I have never laughed so hard in my life.

Which brings us, Gentle Browsers, to the delicate topic of "funeral humor."

Oh, it's so wrong, but yes, funerals are sort of Prime Time for the humor-twisted. (Hey, if people aren't laughing during my funeral, I've clearly failed at life.) A funeral is the perfect time to get tickled, for all the wrong reasons. Mom Bess and my Ohio sisters were headed into a funeral a few years ago, and since they have my same "Bad Gene" humor, I knew I could get them in a precariously giggly state right before it started. I lobbed my call in as they walked up the church sidewalk. "Mom! Mom, put me on speaker. I want to read you guys something. It's very important! Okay, Mr. Google helped me find this... THE list of the Top Things NOT To Do at a Funeral. Are you listening? Do NOT do these things during the service…"

1. Stand up in the middle of the service and announce that Grandpa wants an air conditioner down there.
2. Walk around telling people that you've seen the will and they're not in it.
3. Strike up a conversation with the older people attending the service, and at one point of the conversation say in a loud, raspy voice "You're NEEEEXXXTTT!"
4. When no one's looking, slip plastic vampire-teeth into the mouth of the deceased.
5. Tie cans behind the hearse and shoe polish "JUST DIED!" on the back window.
6. Walk into service and say, loudly, "what's that SMELL?"
7. Tell the undertaker that your pooch just died and ask if he can sneak him into the coffin.
8. Ask if anyone wants to see the old "saw the casket in half" trick.
9. Wear an “I’m with stupid" t-shirt, especially if you’re a pallbearer.
10. Loudly rebut the claims of the eulogists… "Lucy cared about everyone…" "NO she didn't!"
11. Put super-glue on the lips of the deceased right before the widow's final kiss.
12. Tie a fishing line to a five dollar bill, and see who's really mourning and who just wants to be five bucks richer.

By the time I got to "slip vampire teeth," I could barely talk amidst peals of laughter, and the giggles on the other end of the phone told me my mission was accomplished. I was wickedly pleased. "My work here is done. Please give my respects to Martin's family. Toodles!"

An hour later, my phone rang. It was Jennifer. "I hope you're happy, Mr. Smart Aleck. Mom was shaking during the entire service, tears down her face, and everybody thought she was crying, but she was holding in laughing herself silly. And every time somebody stood up to say something nice about Martin, Tracie would slip me a look and shake her head 'uh uh.' I thought Mom was going to lose it. "

"Then," Tracie interrupted, "Jennifer held up the entire car procession to the cemetery when she had a Pee Emergency 2 minutes before we left the church -- and our car was the first in line. The entire procession had to sit there waiting on her to get back. She had the car keys or we would have left her. Awful!"

"You all are terrible," Mom intoned. "The only good thing I can say about all this is that Martin would have thought all of this was very, very funny. In fact, I think it's safe to say...he probably would have died laughing...!"

Page 125: The Power of "I Can"

I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.
- Jesus of Nazareth

I can see clearly now; the rain is gone.
- Johnny Nash



This story may not make sense to you; it may in fact invite ridicule. I know. But the events related here are 100% true...

Facts are not as powerful as faith. I know people who believe sheer out non-factual absurdities, but believe them strongly to their toes because they are sure they are right. Such confident faith, right or wrong, has power -- amazing, miraculous, out-of-the-ordinary-possibilities type of power.

As a child, I had a serious eyesight problem in my left eye. I was in the 1st grade when I realized almost everything was dim and blurry. I got my first pair of early 70's horn-rims in 1972 -- with bifocals, no less. The vision in my left eye was 20/400.

By the time I was a freshman in High School, I was utterly sick of glasses. I was overweight and my "stylish" metal frames made me look bookish. Through shear force of will, I lost 50 pounds, did a trendy middle part-of-my-hair, and then…

I stopped wearing glasses. I simply put them down. I didn't like them. And I was sure that I didn't need them. The Optometrist in 1978 disagreed -- he prescribed a new pair, yes, still with bifocals. Poppycock, I thought. I don't want them and I'm not going to wear them. I'll force myself to see better.

On my driver's test in 1979 when I turned 16, I passed the eye test with nary a batted eyebrow. When my eyes were tested again in 1981 for college, I tested at 20/25 in both eyes. My mother had given up by then on asking me to wear my glasses, and suddenly I had proof definitive in my hands I didn't need them anymore. How could this be, my mother asked. "My eyes are fine because I forced them to be fine," I replied. When pressed for a better explanation -- one that made sense -- I had none. I should have thought of Matthew 17:20.

That was a long time ago. A year ago, I realized my close-in vision had become dismal. I struggled to read the paper. I tried reading glasses (1.50) and was amazed at the clarity and improvement. Soon, there were 6 pairs of reading glasses in my house -- one everywhere I possibly sit and read -- and a pair in my car, along with a pair at work. Yes, that's 8 total, but "that's just the way I roll."

I was catching up with my old friend Jerry Sheridan in Philadelphia a few weeks ago, and the subject of reading glasses came up. Jerry mentioned that he didn't wear them because, he knew once he started, he would be hooked for life.

Somewhere in the back of my head, there was a distant "ding." And I put my reading glasses down. In the middle of our Philadelphia trip.

I reviewed a contract today that I couldn't get into focus a couple of months ago. I now read the paper, including the small print comics, with nary a problem by 60 watt lamp light. I haven't had a pair of reading glasses on since August 9. You have to understand, my eyes are fine.

Because I very strongly believe my eyes are fine, so much as to will it so. Oh, it wasn't magic. I told my eyes they were going to function, I picked up the paper, and I forced the ink into focus. Force became ease within a couple of days. And such is the power of "I Can" -- it scales mountains, by the power of sheer force.

Move that mountain. You can do it.

Page 124: Flaming Dr. Peppers from Hell

Click here for Page 124

Page 123: A Romper Room with Wings

Southwest Airlines -- known affectionately as "Southwurst" -- is lovable for one big reason, their fares. After that, the list of Things To Love runs amazingly short -- the skies darken, the Dracula theme music swells, and the Unhappy List unfolds a hundred yards long.

I grew up on a ranch, so I'm really fine with the boarding process, which greatly resembles a cattle chute operation -- line up by ear tag, and then stampede for a place in the trailer. HAWWWWWWW cattle! HAWWWW!

We were returning from our Philly/New York vacation, and had a lovely 2 hour delay on the tarmac while The Three Stooges fiddled with a defective stall indicator. "Hey, what's the big idea?" Chief Engineer Moe asked. "Give me that wrench!"

"But I'm busy finishing me Brew!" Second Engineer Curly replied, sipping an sudsy evilish-looking dark ale. "Three more of these babies, and Woo Woo Woo!!!" Of course, he was immediately conked on the head with the wrench, and so it went for a couple of hours. But soon we were duct-taped up and ready to rattle into the sky, shaking like a '73 Plymouth.

Amazingly, repair crew antics weren't the lowlight of the trip; it was the plane full of shrieking 2 year olds. Now, we've all had two year olds on a plane before, but like me, you've always gone out of your way to keep the little dears entertained and quiet as a courtesy to the other passengers…right? Well, those parents didn't get on this flight. Toddler Ted in front of us had a milk and jelly bib from breakfast (his shirt) and hair that hadn't been cut or combed since his christening two years prior. He had the amazing ability to shriek like a banshee for the entire duration of the trip, absolutely delighting his parents. They honestly thought it was the cutest thing since Cabbage Patch Kids, and the idea that it might be a nuisance never crossed their tiny, unevolved mollusk brains. "Look at our little Junior! EVERYBODY can hear him shriek! Isn't that CUTE?"

Not to be outdone, the Gruesome Twosome in the row behind us quickly brought the competition up a notch. "LOOK ATT DAT MAWMMY!" Number one yelled, some fifty three times. Mawmmy apparently didn't have the strength to respond. "MAWWWWMMY! LOOK DATT!!!" Number Two wasn't pleased. "WAAAAAAAAAAH," he squalled. I mean, why should Number One get the entire airwaves to himself?

But the Olympic Champion was the waif in the aisle across and up one. I've flown over a million miles and I've never seen anything like it. This little lamb, with a dirty mop for hair and an unnerving scream for a voicebox, did the most amazing thing. He stood on the tray table for half the trip, jumping up and down on it like it was a trampoline, and then leaping over the seat into the arms of his adoring mother in the next row. The poor lady in the row with Daddy and the Miracle Jumper looked suicidal. She exchanged several glances with me. "It's okay," I whispered to her. "You weren't using your sanity anyway, were you?"

I forgot to mention the opera. To complete this perfect Quadfecta, the gentleman in front of us had two daughters who started singing, in perfect unison, "Old Macdonald Had a Farm" for the entire take-off and ascent. They were able to cover cows, sheep, ducks, geese, horses, pigs, and goats before we even rumbled down the runway. Curiously, they never mentioned the jackass on their farm (ahem -- the father), who was seated right next to them but uttered nary a word during the entire aria.

Within 30 minutes, I had gnawed off all my fingernails into stumps. Keaton and Kellen sat like perfect gentlemen, but took it all in with amazement.

"It's simple, boys," I explained. "What we need here is a royal, first class spanking -- I'm talking a rear end rump whuppin' -- for each and every one of these parents."

Truly, it was a romper room with wings.

When I got home, I put an extra $20 in the Private Jet fund. Baby steps, you know...