Posts Tagged ‘funny’

Quick blog:

I am just returning from a meeting with the Dean of my school.  I had to conduct the meeting standing up.  I apologized for half of my body being soaked with water.

Rewind 40 minutes …

I was in my office, working on a GRE Prep class and a manuscript.  It suddenly hit me that I was very hungry.  I headed over to the university cafeteria.  The place looked abandoned.  Was I too early?  Nope, I see two students casually reading at a nearby booth.  Nobody is at the cashier station to pay for entrance.  What is going on?  Then, I notice five workers frantically mopping up a flood of water.  The water is spreading fast.  I see that the cabinent underneath a sink is open and gushing out water.

I ask, “What happened?”  One person replied, “Pipe busted!”  Everyone is clearly frazzled and scrambling to soak up the water.  In my mind, I think, you can mop all day, it ain’t going to help till you get that water turned off.  So, in my calm and helpful tone, “As anyone tried turning the knob?”  I receive five blank stares.  In my mind, “Crap!”

I push up my proverbial sleeves and walk to the sink.  It’s a freakin’ Dells water ride in there (some of you get the reference).  I can’t reach the knob.  “Crap!”  On my side, in the water, body in the water works, I reach the knob, turn it, water flow stops.  I grab a plate, fill it with food, and head to a seat.  And no, I didn’t even attempt to pay for it.  One of the workers said, “Yeah, he eats free today.”  You got that right.

All of my schooling.  I have a PhD and I marvel on how most people can’t do the basic things of life.  Why don’t people know how to do stuff? (roll credits)

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Several weeks ago, I was asked if my kids could participate in a photo shoot for Krispy Kreme donuts.  I of course said yes, because my kids are cute.  The pay was also good, we received 8 coupons for a free dozen donuts.  That’s a lot of donuts!  As we were preparing for the shoot, the photographer informed me that I needed to be there by a certain time.  She insinuated that “I” needed to be there.  Of course I needed to be there, I can’t just leave my minors alone with photographers.  No, meaning that I was going to be in the pictures as well.  Well, that just seemed crazy to me.  My kids are cute, me, not so much, at least not national photo shoot cute.  It turns out the shoot was meant for Father’s Day, hence the request for my presence.  I just assumed they had fake dads for that, but I digress.  I don’t know if Krispy Kreme will actually use the photos taken, but if they do, I will provide a link.

(I began this blog long ago, but never finished it. Since that time, I have discovered that Krispy Kreme did post a pix from that shoot. It was for Father’s Day. They did not post a pix with my daughter, which is ridiculous, as she is the cutest of us.)

Well, if I am going to have my picture taken, and those photos may end up nationally available, I needed to get my head right.  I needed a hair cut, more importantly, I needed a barber shop (roll credits), specifically, a black barber shop.

Now, you may or not be aware, but black folks have different type of hair compared to other races.  Of course, there are races with similar hair challenges, but if we just stick with the ever popular black/white dichotomy, black folks have different hair from white folks.

One day while driving to the grocery store, I thought I saw a black person leave a barber shop.  I thought, cool, a barber near my house.  So, before the photo shoot I stepped into the shop.  It was a very hot day and the blinds of the barber shop were closed.  I could not see into the place, even though I tried really hard.  The last thing I wanted was to enter into an unknown situation and embarrass myself.  (Can you guess what happens next?)

I took a deep breath, open the door and walked in.  A wave of cold air hits my face, both literally and metaphorically.  The white barber and the white customers stopped what they were doing and stared at me for what seemed like an eternity.  This type of event has happened to me before.  I always envision the old Wild West and band players playing their Wild West tunes.  A stranger walks into the bar, and the music stops and everyone in the tavern looks at the incoming man, as if to say, telepathically, in unison, “You don’t belong here.”  The closest I have ever come to this in real life, was at a pizza parlor in the Sierra Nevada mountains.  A bunch of bikers were eating and drinking and I felt so out of place, I ended up leaving.  A friend who was their and stayed, later told me that the group of bikers ended up ordering sodas and laughing a lot.  Never judge a book …

So, the white barber asks me, “Can I help you?”  Luckily for me, I think very quickly.  “Um, I thought you guys would be black.  My bad.”  This story would probably be funnier if I actually said that, but I was having a clever day.  What I actually said was, “I’m sorry.  I think I am in the wrong place.  A friend of mine said he was going to meet me at the barber shop, but I think I have the wrong one.  Because he’s obviously not here.”  The barber than asked a very appropriate question, “What’s the name of the barber shop?” I replied, “That is a very good question.”  No, not really, I said, “I can’t remember.”  The barber preceded to give me directions to a barber just down the road.  And said maybe I’d find my friend there.

I turned on my heels as quickly as I could and headed to the next barber shop.  I don’t THINK I turn red when I blush, but if I do, I was a strawberry in that place.  Once again, the inside of the next barber shop could not be seen, so I took a deep breath and entered.  The cool black breeze wafted over me like Lando Calrissian (come on! that’s funny).  I had found my barber shop.

Now, here is the real punch line to this blog.  White folks were getting their hair cut there.  What!?!  When did this happen?  I remember going to the barber as a kid.  It was like a secret society.  A place where black folks could let their hair down (insert rimshot).  Music in the background.  Barbers asking after your family.  People being loud.  Someone telling a story that someone else thinks is hilarious.  And always the one barber that had nothing to do, because everyone knew he was going to mess your fade up!

Is the opposite true?  Outside of Super Cuts, or Sport Clips (and no matter what they tell you, they do not know how to cut a black person’s hair) are black people going to white barbers?  I think not!  The stealing of black culture stops here!  White folks, you don’t need to be going to black barbers.  You just don’t need it!  You know what?  I blame Trump for this.  That’s right, I said it.

Maybe this is good, maybe it’s not, but it was one of the last places of segregation that I thought everyone was still amazingly OK with, but I guess I was wrong.  Yeah, I know, this blog has taken a weird turn, but it just surprised me is all.  Maybe next time I need a hair cut, I’ll head to that first white barber.  And once again, he’ll ask, “Can I help you?” And I’ll say, “Yeah you can help me.  I got next! ¡Viva la Revolución!”


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My family and I are on the road to North Carolina to our next adventure.  I am in a hotel in Indiana and about to head to breakfast with the family.

My daughter is watching some sort of cartoon based on Lion King.  Supposedly the cartoon is of the descendants of Simba.  Here is something to think about:  In the movie, Lion King, Simba, the son of Mufasa eventually has a cub with Nala.  Nala is another lion within Mufasa’s pride.  If both Simba and Nala are the cubs of lionesses in Mufasa’s pride it means one thing.  Simba and Nala are half siblings.  Both of them had the same father, Mufasa.  Only one male is the father in lion groups.  This is how it works in lions.

At the end of the Lion King, the presentation of the new prince cub’s parents were brother and sister.  And a side note, but also interesting, even if Simba did take over the pride, his first order of business would be to kill every cub in the pride, so that all future cubs would be his, just as his father, Mufasa would have done.  Puts the movie in a whole new perspective, doesn’t it?

The more you know …

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I’m back from a week long vacation with the family.  It was a great time.  Scratch that, it was great the first two days, good the third day, OK on the fourth day, I’m ready to be done on the fifth, I question if I like these people the sixth day and wow, I hate you guys so much on the seventh day.  All in all, a great week.

I’m an introvert (a blog for another time), which means social interactions drain me.  It doesn’t mean that I hate being social, which is a common misconception about introverts, but as the social interactions continue, my energy levels drop.  I enjoy hanging with the family, I really do, but the need for quiet time and isolation increases as time goes by.  It is even worse when screens are not allowed on our family vacation.

No screens is the brain child of my wife, God bless her.  It is her desire for us as a family to focus on each other for a week.  As far as I can tell, she loves this concept and enjoyed the tech-free week.  And I will admit, it was good for the family and it was good for me.  I recommend it to all the families out there to spend time together unmolested by internet, Facebook, Instagram, snap chat, etc.  But for me, it’s as appealing as exercise or an enema (roll credits).  There is no doubt that exercise is good for you, but most people don’t look forward to exercising, especially if you aren’t used to it.  And don’t get me started on enemas.

But just like exercise, dieting, etc., you get to a point where it feels good.  You start to wonder why you haven’t done this sooner.  The same is true for eliminating screens from your life.  Taking a break from email, Facebook and the internet is a wonderfully cleansing activity.  But then you get home, and the TV is back, Wi-Fi is back, and it’s like at the end of a good run is a Dunkin’ Donuts and you decide, “One donut won’t hurt.”  Next thing you know, you haven’t run for years, because donuts and watching TV are way easier than exercise.  I’m not ready to give up my devices, but I love the fact that I have kids and a wife that don’t mind (or at least they fake it well, which is all I really ask) focusing on our relationships together as a family.

I was at Walmart today buying a gift for my daughter’s birthday.  Some glitter from the gift got on my face.  The cashier pointed it out to me and highly recommended that I clean it off before returning home.  I looked at her and knew exactly why she was telling me that I had glitter on my face.  I had to laugh.  Walmart, saving marriages from gross misunderstandings every day.  Where is this commercial?


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So, my son was reading a book online about winter activities.  Keep in mind, we are not those kind of parents.  We don’t have a family where the son is reading a book online and the daughter is in her room playing with dolls.  Of course, at this time, that was exactly what was happening.  Even a blind squirrel finds a nut.  Anyhoo, my son reads a book online, then listens to the program narrator read the book, and then takes a quiz on the book.  I know.  Kind of nerdy, right?  He loves it!  He gets points for books read and quizzes correctly answered.  It is called Raz Kids.  I highly recommend it.  Besides, if you met my son, you would know, he is anything but a nerd, not that there is anything wrong with that.

In the book, the narrator kept referring to building a snow person.  A snow person?  You mean building a snowman?  I am not exactly anti political correctness, but sometimes I think we go a little overboard with being politically correct.  Are people truly offended by the term, snowman?  Are little girls not growing up to their full potential because of the lack of snowwomen examples in their lives?  Give me a freakin’ break!

I believe in gender issues.  I will be the first person to tell you that images on TV and movies are ridiculous.  I hate the fact that any girl clothing I buy for my daughter is pink.  My daughter doesn’t like pink, and that should be OK.  I think it is disappointing that the only images of women on TV are thin blonde, overly ethnic aggressive, or too jolly fat women.  The reality is that people like female stereotypes.  If you don’t believe me, look at the money made by movies in which women are not played as stereotypes, i.e., Princess and the Frog (see previous blog on this subject).  My three-year-old daughter wanted a doll house for Christmas.  The doll house options made me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit.  You know what I got her?  Scratch that.  You know what Santa brought to our house?  My daughter received a Doc McStuffins Clinic.

Best dollhouse EVER!

Best dollhouse EVER!

It looks just like a house, but it is really a doctor’s house with a female black doctor.  You can’t beat that!  My point is that I believe in gender equality, but I refuse to support the term, snow person.  Why?  Because of the simple fact that all snow beings are male.  How do I know?  Snow balls. I rest my case.






Can you imagine if we take this to the next level?  Hey everyone, let’s go outside and have a snow genitals fight!  Talk about a sign of the apocalypse.  I’m just sayin’ …

Then again, maybe they are gender neutral.  Anatomically correct?

Then again, maybe they are gender neutral. Anatomically correct?  Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone!

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So, my mother-in-law has a dog.  Scratch that, she has a daughter who happens to be a dog.  No, she has a partner, who happens to be a dog.  The point is, my mother-in-law has a dog that is very, very important to her.  She has been divorced for eight or nine years, and as far as I can tell has no interest in getting into another relationship.  This dog is the closest thing to a relationship that I have seen her in.  I don’t say this to be mean, but I am simply attempting to set the stage for the importance of this dog to my mother-in-law.  She is a mix, but with a lot of Cairn Terrier.  The dog’s name is Annabelle.

Not Annabelle, but a pix that looks like her.  Just imagine this dog black, mixed with white hairs.

Not Annabelle, but a pix that looks like her. Just imagine this dog black, mixed with white hairs.

In October, she wanted to visit our family.  She requested to bring Annabelle.  I said, no.  It’s not that I have a problem with little cat-sized dogs.  Scratch that, I do have a problem with little cat-sized dogs, but the stories that I heard about Annabelle did not impress me.  When my wife visited them over the summer, Annabelle barked and growled at my kids.  I found this unacceptable, so she was not allowed in my home.  This did not go over well, but I did not budge on the safety of my children.  So, when we visited them for Christmas, I was very curious how things were going to go with this dog.

Annabelle barked and growled at my kids, my wife, and me.  Unacceptable.  This dog needs to be trained.  This dog needs discipline.  I will tame this dog.  I knew it would be better for everyone if this dog was friendly to my family, but I also felt that I was the Dog Whisperer, and the only thing this wild mutt needed was a little taste of me.  By Christmas day, Annabelle no longer barked or growled at me, nor my wife.  The kids were still an issue, but now I could tell her to stop, and there was a chance she would listen.  My mother-in-law even stated, “I knew you would be able to control her.”  Darn tootin’.  ‘Cause I’m the Dog Whisperer.

On Christmas day, the house was in chaos.  Mother-in-law was in the kitchen cooking.  My wife was sick in bed.  The cousins and brother-in-law were playing in the snow, and sister-in-law was caring for my wife.  Annabelle needed to be walked.  I volunteered, after all, she and I were friends now.

She was leashed and we were off on our walk, or closer to a run.  I see a guy drive by and all I could think was, “This is not my dog, dude.  I would never own a little dog like this.”  Then, she started pulling on the leash as if she had somewhere to be and she was late.  This dog needs to be trained, I thought.  I pulled the leash and told her to stop.  She kept pulling.  Her leash got tangled.  Served her right.  I decided to enter a tennis court, remove her leash and set her straight.  We walked into the fenced-in court, trudging through snow taller than her.  I took the leash off, thinking, even if she runs a little, we are in a fenced-in tennis court, so where could she go?  The leash is off, and she bolts away through the small opening in the tennis court fence. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no …”

I yell, “Annabelle COME!”  She stops.  I exhale.  OK, now, nice and calmly, “Annabelle, come.”  She doesn’t move.  She just stares at me.  She is about 10 feet away, but she might as well be 10 miles.  I need her to come to me so that I can get the leash back on.  I take a step towards her and she runs away another 10 feet.  “Annabelle COME!”  She stops.  She stares at me.  I stare at her.  I take another step.  She runs away another 10 feet.  I stop.  I stare.  She stares.

She stares back as if to say, I’ve got to do this.

No, you don’t have to do this.

I have to do this.

This does not end well for either one of us, Annabelle.

I stare.  She stares.  And with a wink, I swear I saw a wink, she takes off running.  I run after her while continuously screaming ANNABELLE!  And as I am running, I can’t help but think, why is this little dog’s name Annabelle?  Why couldn’t I be yelling Butch, or Hank, I’d even settle for a Sam, a name that could go either way, but I’m yelling through the streets of Minneapolis, Annabelle.  I can’t go out like this.

Then out of nowhere, a huge dog runs out into the street towards Annabelle, probably named Butch or Spike, or something like that.  No, no, no, no, no, no, no,… ANNABELE!! COME!! Luckily the owners of the big dog come out of the house and reign in their manly dog, but of course they hear me screaming Annabelle and running down the street.  “It’s not my dog, but can you grab her!?!”  Annabelle takes off running, straight for a very, very busy street.  No, no, no, no, no, no, no … All I could think of was, “Today is Christmas.  I can’t kill my mother-in-law’s dog on Christmas.” Cars drive passed, but she makes it across safely.  I see the house up ahead.  She is clearly heading home.  I get my cell phone out of my pocket.  I call my brother-in-law.  “Please help me get Annabelle.  She is loose and heading towards the house.  If at all possible, please be discrete.”

I finally make it back to the house.  I see my brother-in-law, and he gives me the thumbs up.  That could have went all kinds of bad.  I get to the backyard, and Annabelle starts barking up a storm at me.  My brother-in-law informs me that no one knows a thing.  Good man.  I walk into the house, up the stairs and into our room.  My wife is still in bed.  I am wheezing.  I pull out my inhaler and take a hit.  “Is everything OK?” my wife asks.  “Just the cold air”, I respond.

I return to the back yard.  Annabelle barks at me.

I thought, you and I are going for  a walk.  You are going to come to me and I am going to put this leash on you.  Then, we are going for a walk.  I’ve owned dogs that would eat you for breakfast.  We are going for a walk.  “Annabelle, come.” She stops barking and stares at me.  “Annabelle, come.”  She takes a step towards me.  I bend down, I put the leash out in front of me and calmly, but sternly say, “Annabelle, come.”  She walks to my hand, I grab her by the collar and hook her to the leash.  We went for a walk.  She did not pull, she did not run, she never let the leash go tight.  She never barked nor growled at me again.  She still barked at my kids, but we will work on that next time, but at my house.


You ever forget that it was Valentine’s day? Or your anniversary? Or your girlfriend’s birthday?  If so, you have ended up at a florist five minutes before they closed.  At this time, you will see a group of guys huddled around a refrigerator looking for the last remaining rose to appease their partner.  It’s a supportive group of people.  We encourage each other.  We commiserate, and we share our own personal stories, “Forgot my wife’s birthday.”  The other man replies, “Anniversary.”  The two men exchange glances as if to say, “I’m here for you buddy.”  I call this the Doghouse Club.  A time and place where you will never be judged, always supported, and always forgiven by those who have been there.  A place where you could probably get a hug from a complete stranger and a “There there”.  I found a new time and location for the Doghouse Club, a gas station on Christmas Day.  Where you can buy a bag of chocolate chips for five bucks, but be consoled by another man with his story of forgetfulness, “I forgot the meat for dinner.  The wife was not happy.”  We exchanged glances as if to say, “I’m here for you buddy” and I wished him a Merry Christmas.  I would’ve given him a hug too, if he asked for one.  I’m just sayin’ …

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So, I have come to a very simple conclusion:  White people don’t use wash cloths.  Or if you are the sophisticated type, face cloth.  Is this true?  How can using a wash cloth have any cultural bias whatsoever?  I mean seriously, it’s a wash cloth.  Or for all of my homies, a wash rag.  That’s right, I just used the word, homies.  But based on all the homes I have stayed in and showered in, I have to conclude that white people don’t use wash cloths.  At least not in the shower.  Maybe nowhere, I just don’t know.

If I stay at someone’s house and they are of the Caucasian persuasion, and they are a well-prepared host, they will have linens ready to go.  However, 9 times out of 10, I will have to request a wash cloth.  And 9 times out of 10 they will look at me strangely, as if I just requested shower shoes.  And for some of you out there, shower shoes would not be a strange request.  You know who you are.  Clean it up!

What is even more interesting, I have had people ask me if I wanted a wash cloth, but they made the request in a weird way, as if to say, “I normally don’t use one of these things, but I think I read somewhere that your people do, so I’m going to see if you want one.”  Now it makes me wonder, if I get offered a face cloth, does that make them racist?

Seriously, I want to know.  If you are white, do you use a wash/face cloth in the shower?  If not, why the heck not?  Every black person I know uses wash cloths.  How can this possibly be a race thing?  I am sorry, but wash cloths just make sense.  I need to know.

PS – Dry off before you get out of the shower.  Yeah you got a shower mat, but stepping on a soaking wet shower rug is just gross.  I don’t think this is a race thing, but it’s my thing.


According to one of my classes, students have made it very clear that shower shoes are a requirement for college.  Is this true everywhere?  I feel like with all the issues and challenges college has to offer, getting foot rot should not be one of them.  I’m just sayin’ …

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