Terrifyingly Normal Fears.

When I was a child I was afraid of many things. I was afraid of the dark, horror movies and pretty girls. I was small and timid and life seemed so scary. I grew up and joined the Marine Corps, and I even went into combat. But for the most part I was just too stupid to feel fear. 

   Now I am a full grown man, and my fears multiply by the day. They run the gamut from the mundane to the bizarre: I fear that something awful will happen to my children. I fear that I will totally screw up my children. I fear that I won't be able to beat this stupid f*cking writers block, (did I ever even do creative stuff?) I fear that I will go crazy, but not the happy eccentric movie crazy, the eat somebody's face off crazy. I fear that one day my poor posture will reach a critical point and first my shoulders and then my spine will begin folding up on themselves, like a travel map, until I simply disappear, having halved myself out of existence. I fear that doesn't make sense. I fear that I will turn into my dead alcoholic father. And the current fear du jour is the fear of moving to California where I don't have a job and I might fail and we will lose all of out stuff and end up on the streets and we won't be able to sell our current house and I have a month and a half to get it on the market and... and... God, what I wouldn't give to be afraid of some plain ordinary C.H.U.D. right at the moment. 

Man, I Can Fight, Club.

I was in JC Penny's trying on Docker's. Some prissy model kept giving me the eye.
What?! 
He just stared at me silently. Disapprovingly. Haughtily.
Dude, if you don't stop staring at me, I am going to pop you right in your vacant, stupid, too good looking, face.
Unfazed, he continued to watch me.
If you're looking for a date, I don't swing that way.
Silent glare.
Am I not good enough to shop in your store, is that it?
Unbroken eye contact. This jerk is looking down on me.
OK. That's it pretty boy. You asked for it. 
I stalk over and square up on him. He continues to mad dog me. I reach back as far as I can, to deliver a haymaker. He's a brave one, I'll give him that, 'cause he doesn't even flinch as I hurl all my weight behind one heavy fist.
I catch him right in on a chiseled cheek bone with a rewarding THONK!
His head snaps to the side looking off in an impossible angle, but he doesn't even whimper.
You brave magnificent bastard.
The store manager shouts at me so I have to run out of the store, but my life's mission is now clear. These stoic denizens of the retail world, demand an underground fight club.

Alright, first rule of the fight club is nobody talks about the fight club. Got it? No talking. Ever.
What was that? Did you say something? No? Good. Let's get to it.
Alright, Nike and Adidas, I'll fight you both at the same time. Nobody else jump in, got it? Stay out of it Polo Golf. Yes, I see you Ms. Lululemon, I'll be fine. Maybe later we can go strike a pose, if you know what I mean.
HEY YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THOSE MANNEQUINS? I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME BACK IN HERE?!
Oh crap, the security guard. Damnit, Active Wear, you were supposed to warn us if you saw him. EVERYBODY RUN! What's wrong with you guys? RUN! 

Trip To Mars.

Congratulations are definitely in order for my latest accomplishment. I just received a letter from NASA informing me that I have been accepted for their upcoming mission to Mars. Apparently I will be on the maiden voyage that will seek to establish human life on another planet. I will travel seven months in a one man spacecraft and then land on Mars, in what I am told, is a revolutionary method that NASA scientists are almost positive will allow me to survive.

   Oddly enough, I don't really have any responsibilities once I get there, which is good because I don't really have any skills. I would've thought you would have to be an engineer or a scientist to be selected, but I guess not. I offered to take soil samples and perform experiments, but they told me not to touch anything. I'm just supposed to hang out. I guess they'll probably send me supplies or something.

   I'm told that I shouldn't expect immediate retrieval, or more accurately, don't count on ever leaving. The really weird thing is, I didn't even apply. When I questioned NASA about how my name got on the list, I was told that my wife, children, parents, boss, pastor, kindergarden teacher, cousins, grocery store clerks, former Marine Corps buddies, and… well basically everyone I've ever met, signed a petition to send me, on what kinda looks like a one way trip to Mars. It must be because I'm so awesome.

The Transformer Least Likely To Get A Movie.

Oh my God. We're being attacked by giant alien robots. What should I do?

Have no fear, human earthling, Señor Toast is here. A heroic Autobot.

WHA?! A robot? In my kitchen? 

Yes. It is me. A robot. And I am in you're kitchen.

What are you doing here?

I have come to fight evil. That's what Autobots do.

Great. But, where did you come from?

I was disguised in plain sight in the garage. That's what Autobots do.

There's only a bunch of boxes in the garage, but OK. Go do something heroic.

I will…

Well?

What do you think I should do?

Go out there and fight them with your lasers and blasters. 

Uhhh. I don't exactly have lasers or blasters. 

What?!

I never passed the lasers and blasters qualification course. 

OK… Well how about you transform into your alternate form.

Oh, that's a great idea. Thank you.

BEEP. SWISHK. SHHHOOP. CLICK. BIFFFFT. SSSIIIIIK.

There.

You're a toaster?! What good is that? What are you going to distract them with a full breakfast?
No.
Are you going to attempt to electrocute them?
No.
Are you some kind of death toaster?
No. 
So you're just a plain old ordinary toaster?
I wish.
But your box says you're a toaster.

The form you see, IS my alternate form. 

YOU'RE A BOX?!
Yes human.
Can I get inside to hide from the evil space robots?
No. There isn't any room.
So... you transform from a lame, useless robot into a plain ordinary cardboard box?
Yes. I must seem a technological wonder to your human brain.
My human brain thinks you suck.

Super Secret Undercover Disguise.

My wife works at an upscale health food/grocery store. Sometimes I go in just to say hi, but she is worried that she is going to get in trouble because I am always hanging out, and her bosses think she should be working instead of talking. She also she claims that her work is getting tired of a plumber roaming around the aisles. I guess I don't fit in with the upscale clientele that they are hoping to attract. But I want to see her, so super secret undercover disguises are my only option.
    I need to go as somebody that has money, because those are the kind of clients her store is looking for. Who has more money than an Oil Sheik?

    Oops. I was too conspicuous. In the absence of a single person of Arabic descent in my entire city, my disguise had the opposite effect and drew attention to me and embarrassed my wife to tears. Also my full beard and rather distinctive face were visible to all. Back to the drawing board. 

Apparently ninjas aren't as invisible as one would think. In the desert. In the middle of the day. And swords are somewhat frowned upon in polite society. My wife is threatening to leave me if I ever wear a disguise into her store again. What to do? I can't bear to lose her, but I can't stand to be apart for eight hours either. I know. When are you ever in less of a disguise than when in your birthday suit? But it is verboten to walk around the city naked. Easily solved; I'll just wear an overcoat until I get inside.

Afternoon Delight.

Sir, may I talk to you?
Absolutely. I always have time for Margie, my best waitress.
Actually, it's Hazel.
Sorry. Hansel.
HAZEL.
Hazel?
That's right. And I'm the manager.
Are you sure? I thought her name was some common eye color, like blue or green. Green. That sounds right.
No sir. It's Hazel. Me. I'm Hazel. I'm your manager. Hazel the Manager. That's me.
OK, if you insist… Well, Ms. Chartreuse, I'm glad we had this talk.
It's HAZEL DAMNIT!
I'm not sure I've ever heard that surname. Is it German?
No, you idiot. It's a curse.
I can imagine it is. If I were you I would change my name, to something less of a burden. Poor thing. Going through life with a name like Damnit, no wonder you're so grumpy.
I'm grumpy, because I work for you, and you are undoubtedly the stupidest person in the ENTIRE world.
Olive. I simply can't put up with this kind of insubordination. I'm going to have to fire you.
ARGH! You can't fire me, you moron.
I certainly can. I own this fine establishment.
You can't fire me, because... I'm your daughter.
Are you sure?
I am. Besides, nobody would claim to be related to you if they weren't.
Ah, good point... I think… Uhmm, Jade, what was your point?
I hate you.
Maybe we should try couples counseling.
We are not a couple. Again, I'm your daughter.
Oh right. Well, I'm glad we got this all cleared up. If there is nothing else, I have some important matters to get to.
We haven't resolved anything. And watching Spanish TV with the sound off doesn't qualify as important matters.
Nag, nag, nag. You sound just like your mother.
You've never been married. I'm adopted. Now don't talk. Just listen. It's about the new dessert, it's causing problems.
…
This is the part where you talk.
You said not to.
Oh for goodness sake, you're such an idiot. Never mind. The dessert. You need to fix it.
What's wrong with the dessert? Coffee ice cream and chocolate cake, covered in mocha syrup. A perfect dessert to pick you up in the middle of the day.
It's delicious, Dad.
That's not what you said a minute ago Gretel. Is the dessert OK or not? 
The dessert is fine. It's the name that's the problem.
The name?
You called it Afternoon Delight.
D'uh. I know what I called it. I was the one that called it that. Dessert after lunch, is an Afternoon Delight.
Great idea. Unfortunately our waitstaff is getting sexually harassed now. Five of them quit today.
Don't look at me. I only fist bump now, no more butt slaps or chest bumps.
No. The customers are harassing the workers.
I don't see how the dessert has anything to do with that.
Afternoon Delight is a euphemism for daytime sex.
Maybe to you space age, internet kids.
It came from from a song written in the 1970's.
Oh. How does it go?
SkYYYyyyy rockets in flight, afternoon delight, AAAaaafternoon delight.
I've heard that song. It's not about sex. It's about the space program.
No. No, it's not. It's definitely about sex.
OK, I'll take your word for it. But I can't change the name of the dessert, we just got 10,000 menus printed.
Then you have to at least change the sign out front. Otherwise we won't have any wait staff left.
I can see the sign from here. It looks fine to me.
You don't see a problem?
No.
No problem at all?
Looks great.
You don't think that a sign that reads ASK YOUR SERVER FOR AFTERNOON DELIGHT, EXPERIENCE A HAPPY ENDING, is going to be misinterpreted?
No. Dessert is the happy ending to any meal. What's wrong with that?

A-Z Wrap-Up Post.

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