Civil Juvenile Delinquent

The Man-uel for Blind Dates (A Satire)

2010-05-23T20:39:00.000-05:00

   As a male, you may find yourself periodically thrown into the doghouse of love by some female Cruella de Vil. Eventually, you will amass enough sympathy from your male friends to invoke Rule 21. Rule 21 of the Male Handbook states, “Men in good standing with the female population shall secure a date for any male friend that is in the midst of a dry spell that exceeds four weeks.” Further exacerbating the social stigma associated with being lovelorn, this arrangement is called the “blind date”. Do not take the word “blind” literally. The date will probably be able to see quite clearly, although possibly through the help of corrective lenses. This Man-uel will guide you through the nuances of executing a successful blind date.

   The first step of the blind date is to set up the location. A park bench or other neutral location is optimal to scout out the prospective date using binoculars or other viewing tool. Upon viewing the subject, rate her on a scale of one to ten, with ten being out-of-this-world sexy. If she is a five or above, proceed with the date; anything below a five, you should take to your feet and console yourself by drinking large amounts of intoxicating fermented beverage. If you value the friendship of the one who set up the blind date you should call the prospect and offer a very reasonable excuse like, “I realize I am not completely over my last girlfriend, therefore I cannot commit to a new relationship. That would not be fair to you.”

When approaching the female unit, consider one’s own physical stature. If you are physically attractive (people don’t mind seeing you at the pool), then take off your shirt and jog to the prospective girlfriend, pretending you just finished a run. Your physical prowess will make her swoon. For added effect, pour Gatorade over your body to imitate Michael Jordan and other studly athletes. If you are fat, ugly, or pale, keep all your clothes on and display a façade of opulent wealth, which is the only other thing women are attracted to.

   The meal is one of the most important aspects of the blind date. The best option is to take the lady back to your place. This is a two-fold strategy; food can be prepared quite cheaply in one’s own kitchen, and after-dinner-activities can be executed in the comfort of one’s own home. When you get to your home, show the woman the kitchen and let her do the woman’s work. This test will provide invaluable data to determine if the damsel would pass muster as a potential mate. Be polite and pre-select recipes for each of the courses she will prepare. It would be rude to put her on the spot to make such decisions on the first date. You, the male, may now proceed to your command station, the nearest La-Z-Boy, and watch ESPN or other sporting show, provided it is not NASCAR, fishing, or poker.

   Unfortunately, because you are on the first date with this woman you are required to participate in that pre-mating ritual known as conversation. Since you are just getting to know the lady, this conversation should be conducted in the manner of an interview. Suggested questions include: What is your favorite color? What is your favorite animal? What is your salary? What is your relationship with your mother? What venereal diseases do you have? If you do not have a good memory it might be good to take notes on the female’s responses to these questions.

After the question and answer session, you may find the situation feels awkward and uncomfortable. Use appropriate humor to ease the tension. Many take offense to jokes about weather, lawn care, and the March of Dimes. Ethnicity is a popular non-controversial subject. You and your date can laugh about the plight of the lesser races. Other appropriate sources of humor are religion and politics.

   The next step is to evaluate your date to determine the next option. You should judge her in several categories to determine whether you would like to ask her on another date or just show her the door. Evaluate all aspects of the meal including: preparation time, meal presentation, food taste, and kitchen cleanliness. Remember to use the information you gathered during the mealtime conversation to help make your decision. Also, factor in her attractiveness and amount of complaining she does. Before making your final verdict, you must be sure you are aware of her flaws. She is single and on a blind date for a reason. If she fails this test, waste no more of your time and politely escort her to the nearest exit. It is not too late to seek solace in large quantities of an intoxicating fermented beverage.

   The final step in the Blind Date Program is every male’s favorite activity involving a person of the feminine sex. Due to the taboo nature of this activity, this guide cannot go into details about the actual act between two persons of the opposite sex. Chances are high that the woman will initially resist your efforts. This obstacle can be hurdled by giving the woman several intoxicating fermented beverages. Eventually, through a combination of intoxicating fermented beverage, begging, and possibly chloroform, you will achieve success to the highest degree. Taking photos, or better yet videos, can come in handy as visual proof of your accomplishment or an additional source of income.

   This concludes The Man-uel for Blind Dates. The author, editor, and publisher of this document are not responsible for any restraining orders you may receive due to use of this guide. Second date advice is not available at this time because the state of Second Date has yet to be achieved by any of the research scientists participating in the production of this guide. Ten percent of all profits accrued from pictures taken during the final step of The Man-uel for Blind Dates should be remunerated to the Spurned Casanovas Society.

*This is satire. I do not appreciate nasty comments from people who took this seriously.

Wrong Name

2010-04-15T20:26:00.000-05:00

In school, my parents excelled at Math, Science, English, and History. But obviously, they failed at Naming Babies 101. On the night I was born my parents had assumed that they were having a baby girl. They had decided on the name Shaquita. Unfortunately for them, I was a boy. My mom called my biological dad, who was in the Marion Federal Penitentiary, and told him he had a son and explained that the child needed a name. My dad’s first suggestion was to name me after his last vision of freedom before the iron gates closed at the big house, and that was the nearby town of Christopher, Illinois. Out of respect, or maybe just plain fear, he also suggested that my mom should name me after his cellmate, John Gotti.¹ Not wanting to name her son after a mobster, my mother decided upon the name Christopher.

The name Christopher means “Christ-like.” But, Jesus Christ and I have very little in common. When Christ was born he received gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. When I was born I received gifts of dresses, diapers, and pink hair bows. Christ was the son of a carpenter, I—the son of a jailbird. Jesus told parables to guide mankind to the path of righteousness. I tell fibs to keep myself out of trouble. Jesus humbly washed the feet of his disciples, and I only take biweekly baths if my mom makes me. Christ turned water into wine, but I have the talent of turning white snow into yellow mush.

If my parents were on their respective A-games on the day I was born, they would have chosen a very different name. Based on my current personality, several other individuals have more in common with me than Christ. Frequently, people tell me that I have a beautiful singing voice, thus I could have been named after Cher. Based on my penchant for speeding, I could have been named after Ricky Bobby or Starsky. Oprah would have made a good namesake, because we both grew up in households without our biological fathers. Due to my incredible strength, I probably should have been named Hercules. By combining the first letters of each possible name, the perfect name for me can be found. Ch-ri-st-op-her; maybe my mom had it right after all.

As a little boy I was perfectly satisfied with my name until I learned to write. I became instantly jealous of my best friend in preschool, Ben. At Mrs. Ronda’s Montessori School, we had to write our name five times before we could get in the snack line. Ben had to write fifteen letters and I had to write fifty-five. I was always last in line, and the kids with shorter names took the best snacks before I got there. After a few days of stomach-rumbling penmanship I openly declared that I my name was Chris not Christopher. Even though I am now a high school student, my aptitude for minimalism causes me to answer to Chris.

Frequently, I wonder how other people’s names affect them. Some people are ridiculed for having a humorous name such as Itamar. Others treated with fear and respect for having a name such as Regina Johnson.² In Shakespeare, Juliet says to Romeo, “What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.” But Juliet was wrong, everything is better at the front of the snack line when you only have to write fifteen letters.

1 - Itamar comes from the name Itamar Shapira. He is my one of my classmates. He likes pistachios.
2 - Regina Johnson is my English teacher. She was the one who graded many of my essays including this one. This essay got a 95.

My First Kiss

2010-02-07T23:00:00.005-06:00

Dedication: This essay is dedicated to Rebecca Cooley. The time and space between us has only made you more beautiful.

     Rebecca Cooley had sat in the same seat for the last eight weeks but I barely noticed her since the school year began. But today something was different; she was the prettiest girl my eyes had ever seen. Our eyes met across the room, I quickly averted my eyes. I was a seven year old second grader at Weatherly Elementary. The only thing I knew was that her name was Rebecca Cooley and that I could not help thinking about her. Until this day, I had cared solely for ice-cream, recess, and sports. I was confused. Why did my mind tell me to keep looking at this girl? I knew that boys were supposed to like baseball, soccer, and football—not girls.

     The hands on the clock seemed to stop as I thought about how the sunlight glinted off her dark brown hair. Unsure what to do, I consulted my three best friends. The ever-wise Matthew knew exactly what to do. Most of Matthew’s worldly knowledge came from the movies he watched, especially the movies his mom picked out, “the stupid movies without robots or superheroes.” He often shared with us his misery about watching those chick-flicks, but he dared not complain to his parents lest he lose that most revered privilege, watching PG-13 movies! His instructions: just go over there and kiss her, because that is what always worked in the movies he had seen. My friend Shawn immediately proclaimed that I was too chicken to kiss Rebecca. I unquestionably detested being called a chicken, but being strong of heart I was able to ignore his banter.

     I held up well under their pressure until the ante rose above my tolerance threshold. Jeffery, the shrewdest of my three friends, offered me his Incredible Hulk pencil sharpener, the Rolls-Royce of pencil sharpeners, to kiss her. The Incredible Hulk’s stainless steel hand gripped dual pencil ports with blades as strong as The Incredible Hulk himself; it was the envy of every second grader in Mrs. Adcock’s class. But the straw that broke the camel’s back came when Shawn dared me to kiss Rebecca. He did not just use the run of the mill dare. He used the coup de grâce of all dares, the infamous triple-dog-dare. I no longer possessed the willpower to chicken out. My head was screaming no, but young and foolish I declared that I would kiss her.

     I knew with perfect certainty that I should have nothing to do with Rebecca. For a long time I had feared the hair pulling wrath of girls as exemplified by my sister. Girls had cooties, played with dolls, did not like dirt, and most importantly did not appreciate the indispensable talent of burping the letters of the alphabet. It was the ultimate sign of weakness. I wanted nothing to do with their kind. I secretly held hope that an opportunity to kiss her would never manifest itself. Not deterred by my unwillingness, Matthew formulated a plan so that Rebecca and I would be the last two people in the classroom before recess. As soon as we were alone I was to get the job done. I searched for some possible escape. Unrelenting, Shawn passed an unsigned note to Rebecca telling her that a secret would be revealed to her if she waited to be the last to go to recess. Shawn knew the target well. She, like all giggly second grade girls, could not resist the lure of a secret. The ball had been set into motion and there was nothing I could do to stop it although I desperately wanted to.

     “Time for recess,” Mrs. Adcock called out. Normally this announcement stirred joyful anticipation in my soul, but now that anticipation had simply turned my stomach into one large knot. The inevitable time had come. I tried to slip out the door, but Shawn and Jeffery blocked the way. Matthew quickly joined them. They barred my path and forced me to wait. Students hurriedly exited the room until only Rebecca remained in her seat wondering who would reveal the juicy secret. I could take it no longer, I caved in. It was better to get it over with than face this ridicule from my three best friends. I had a date with destiny. Staring at my feet, I slowly trudged across the room. After what seemed like an eternity I arrived at her desk. I mumbled a lame greeting. Rebecca spoke with the voice of an angel, “Do you have a secret for me? Wait, what are you doing?” As I had already committed to this self-inflicted torture, I felt no need to respond. I quickly leaned over, closed my eyes and puckered my lips. For an instant, our lips touched. During that brief moment in time, I was certain that I was in heaven. My heavenly bliss ended when Rebecca screamed and pushed me away. Apparently, she was disgusted with the whole idea of being kissed by second grade boy. I ran as fast as my legs would take me down the hall and outside.

     Within seconds, Matthew, Shawn, Jeffery, and the rest of the boys were circling me like vultures around a carcass. To rid myself of these drama scavengers, I told the tale of the last few minutes carefully leaving out the details of my brief brush with sensory heaven. I turned red from shame when they laughed at the ending of my tale. When the ridicule stopped we went to play kickball. By consensus, I was banned from playing because I now had cooties. I sat by myself waiting for this eternal recess to end. Across the school yard the girls gathered around Rebecca were looking directly at me, their mouths twisted in an expression of disgust like they had just sipped some rancid milk mixed with warm orange juice.

     As the class filed in, Mrs. Adcock pulled me aside. She sternly told me to leave the girls in the class alone or else she would have to call my parents. I was on the verge of crying and calling my parents would only serve to further humiliate me. I felt the spotlight of shame shining on me long after my peers had forgotten the incident. The Cooley family moved two weeks after that fateful day. I often wondered whether Rebecca knew that I had mustered the bravery to kiss her only to escape certain mockery from the peanut gallery. To this day I secretly cling to the possibility that Matthew was right when he said, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Disclaimer: My apologies to Logan Tucker. This was a long time ago. I have no plans for the immediate future.

An Email for All Seasons

2009-12-29T10:44:00.000-06:00

Greetings ___________ (recipient’s name here),

How have you been? How is the spouse or do you not have a special somebody? I have been well. Things have been pretty normal these last few years without you around. I have not died. Hopefully, you haven’t either. Nothing in my life has changed.

I have been very busy with all the trivial events I have to go to. I eat. I sleep. I work. I poop. I eat and poop. I sleep and poop. I work and poop. It is exhausting.

Do you remember that guy/girl (choose one or both) we did all those things with? I have not talked to him/her (choose one or both) since the last time I saw him/her (choose one or both).

There is weather here. It happens daily. They say that where I live has the highest chance of weather in the world. We have a lot of weather. Sometimes I wish there was not so much of it. How is the weather there?

I work when I have a job. I do not work when I am unemployed. At my job, I have a boss. My boss is always telling me what to do. I guess you could say my boss is bossy.

Not long ago, my family had a family reunion. All my family was there. Only the people who could not be there were absent. I live with the part of the family that shares a residence with me. I do not live with anybody else that does not share a residence with me.

Salutations,
____________ (your name here)

A Bag of Candy

2009-11-30T17:00:00.003-06:00

Background:

Recently, I was cleaning up in my house and found a large supply of candy. This included Starburst, candy canes, Fruit Roll-ups, Smarties, and other sugar filled delights. Knowing I could not devour all of this candy alone, I decided to share with my AP Physics B class.

Actual Story:

My classmates were overwhelmed with my generosity and forgot the main rule of the civil delinquency. “Don’t get caught.” The teacher, Mrs. Margie Zoladz, quickly shut down the candy eating operation by walking over and grabbing the bag. Underestimating her most audacious student, she placed the back on the floor behind her desk.

The moment she turned to the board to work the next problem, I hit the deck in full secret agent mode. I crawled on hands and knees around the back of the classroom and up to her desk. Grabbing the bag of candy, I quickly returned to my desk distributing candy and the bag along the return trip. My giggling classmates once again broke the rule of civil delinquency, “Don’t get caught.”

Mrs. Zoladz knew who the culprit was but without evidence she could only threaten me with ISS (In School Suspension) if the bag was not returned within 10 seconds. My fellow students had my bag and gave her the bag. This time, she took better precautions and locked the bag in a cabinet. And thus, the candy struggle ended fairly peacefully. Or so I thought.

The next morning, to my surprise, I learned that Mrs. Zoladz had given away the rest of my candy in classes latter in the day. Not only that, she had blamed me for the loss of the active pen (which I had nothing to do with). This infuriated me. I had only one choice. Retaliation.

A few minutes after the bell that signals halfway through class rang, I stood up walked toward the door and cleared my throat. When all eyes were on me I began speaking.

“Four score and seven years ago, a force of oppression was born in Mexico. This force goes by the name of Mrs. Zoladz. Mrs. Zoladz has starved ravenous students’ taste buds of refined sugars and aritificial sweeterners. On the threat of ISS, students cannot have what is rightfully theirs.

I have a dream that one day out sons and daughters will live free. I have a dream that our brothers and sisters can eat candy of all colors whenever they choose. I have a dream.”

I walked out the door, slammed it behind me, and went home.

The End

An alternate ending:

Looking back, I realize that I should have stood on the desk to give my speech. Upon the recommendation of Robert Sanek I changed my original speech around to read as above. The following is the first attempt.

“Four score and seven years ago a force of oppression was born in Mexico. This force goes by the name of Mrs. Zoladz.

She has stolen the food from the poor school child. Mrs. Zoladz has starved the taste buds of entire populations. Starving children, who were crying from hunger pains, tried to steal a tiny morsel. Insensitive to their suffering, Mrs. Zoladz threatens to throw them in prison.

It is time for us good citizens to throw off this oppression. We need to free ourselves from this foreign tyranny. We have suffered too long. It is now time to drive the foreign devil from our homeland.

I have a dream that one day out sons and daughters will live free. I have a dream that our brothers and sisters can eat candy of all colors when they choose. I have a dream.”

Post Scriptum:

This post gives an unrealistic view of what goes on in Physics. To set the record straight, Mrs. Zoladz is a wonderful teacher and AP Physics B is one of the best classes I have taken at Vigil Ivan Grissom High School. Thanks to Mrs. Zoladz’s wonderful sense of humor she made this possible.

But, this is not to say that any of the above is not true. It is all fact. It actually happened the way I said it happened.

SZ7VXWQAFWEE

A Survival Kit

2009-11-03T19:08:00.000-06:00

To survive an average day inside the cave, formally known as Virgil I. Grissom High School, I carry a backpack containing the necessities of life as well as unessential items such as my stainless steel water bottle, my lunch, and my schoolwork. After depositing this virtually worthless mass into my locker, I double check to make sure I still have all my essentials. There are three items I carry in my backpack everyday so that I may live to tell the tale of a day in Grissom High School.

The first item I carry with me at all times is paper. Unlike the average sheet of paper, my paper is not destined for math problems, physics formulas, or history notes. Entire trees have made the journey through my backpack to a better future: helping me stave off boredom. Each sheet of paper spends just a short time in my backpack before soaring off into the abyss as an airplane, ninja star, or other random flying object. When I am in a sporting mood, I create paper footballs and practice my kicking. Occasionally when the moon is full and I feel like a werewolf, I create paper claws. Fortunately, through intricate folding of paper origami, I am able to soothe my savage inner beast. Paper helps me to “cope with the realities” of spending most of my waking hours inside a moldy, festering cave.

The second article I carry in my backpack is my TI-89 graphing calculator. The name of this gadget is misleading. My TI-89 is actually a gaming device with an optional calculator function. While it may appear that I am deeply engrossed in analyzing complex algorithms, I am actually engaged in stacking shapes in Tetris. When playing with blocks is not enough to hold my attention, I turn to Space Invaders in which I destroy enemy ships with my triple plasma cannon. Fortunately, my parents are blissfully unaware of my TI-89’s alter ego. The TI-89 allows me to inconspicuously retreat to a digital world of fun while flying under my teacher’s lazy-student radar.

The third essential I carry is perhaps the most unusual, and it is certainly the most important. I am not normally superstitious, but I know it brings me luck on tests for which I forget to study. When a girl cries, I am a gentleman and offer it to dry her tears. When the restrooms are out of paper towels, it dries my hands. When I have a cold or the swine flu, it is a tissue. When my windshield fogs up, it is a rag. When there is no toilet paper, it wipes me clean. Clearly, it is by far the most vital item I carry with me, and amazingly, one single item is able to fill such a myriad of duties. It is my favorite pair of Fruit of the Looms. What used to support me literally now supports me figuratively.

Sheets of paper, a TI-89 graphing calculator, and my lucky underwear make the pains of everyday life tolerable. They allow me to cope with the stress of being a student at Virgil I. Grissom High School. When I am bored, I take comfort in my paper. Whenever I need to escape the realities of the putrid cave, fondly known as Grissom, the games on my calculator make me happy. My lucky pair of Fruit of the Looms remedies runny noses, teary eyed girls, dirty cars, and dirty buns. My backpack is the perfect transportation vehicle to keep my essentials on hand, ready on a moment’s notice.