Turning tricks

How goes it, friends? We're back on another Monday and ready to kick names and take ass. I hope you all had fantastic weekends, and it pleases me to be here with you. This week, we shall celebrate Halloween, so I figured I'd start it off by telling a couple of stories regarding tricks I've pulled off in the past. After all, you can't spell "practical joker" without P-ter.

These two stories have something very important in common. Not "important" in the "fate of the world" sense, but rather in the "I wrote 'important' and didn't feel like hitting the backspace key" sense. The thing they have in common is the fact that they both turned out to be way better tricks than I ever could've hoped for.

The first one comes to us all the way from about a year ago. My mom can correct me in the comments section if I'm wrong about that. She and my dad had just returned from a trip to China the day before. I called to see how they were doing, how they were adjusting back to good ole Pacific Standard Time, etc. When they didn't answer and I got the machine, a quick flit of inspiration hit me. In a horrible attempt at a Chinese accent, I said, "Ello, Miss Klane, this Bae Lin from Shanghai. You leave deposit in toilet. Please call." I hung up, smugly smiled at myself, and went back to work.

The next day, my mom called me and we talked for a little while. Near the end of the conversation, I said, "Oh, did you like the message I left yesterday?" She was quiet for a second, and then asked, "What message?" "The one where I pretended to be calling from Shanghai," I said, pretty confident that that would clear up any confusion. Instead I was met with three to five seconds of silence. Finally she spoke: "That was you?" "Of course that was me!" I said. "You leave deposit in toilet - who else would say that? Why, did you think it was real or something?" Sheepishly, she answered affirmatively. As it turns out, she got the message and called the hotel in which they stayed in Shanghai. "But Mom, deposit in toilet!" "I know, I know, but they don't speak English correctly and everything was that off. After being there for a while, 'deposit in toilet' could easily mean 'credit card in the bathroom' or something like that." I was very pleased with myself, but sorry that my joke had caused an international phone call. She tried blaming it on jetlag, but I wasn't having any of it. My Irish accent is decent, my Jamaican half-way decent, and my Chinese horrible. I think she should've known better, half-asleep or not.

The second story is from a summer in the late 90s. The only difficulty in staying in Santa Barbara in between school years was the fact that leases tended to all end at the same time. Therefore, I needed a place to crash while I was out of my old place but still waiting for my new place to be cleaned and officially ours. The lease changed over in the middle of my workweek, so I just stayed where I'd been staying for an extra couple of days.

One morning, though, I went over to our new place to see how it looked. I saw my roommate Jason's car in the lot, and I went in eager to greet him. As I opened the door, I heard the sound of the shower. His bedroom door was open, and I heard his girlfriend Allison call out to see who had entered. I came in and said hi and we chatted for a few moments. Then, mischievous inspiration hit me. "Hey, I should pretend I'm you and hide under the covers," I said, 20% joking. "That would be hilarious!" she said.

Right then, the water turned off. "Hurry, hide in the closet," I said. I hopped into the bed and quickly threw the heavy comforter over my head. I curled into a ball so it would be less obvious that someone about eight inches taller than Allison was in there. It was a warm morning, and the sunlight came right through the window onto the sheets covering me. I remember thinking, "There's no way she'd be under the covers when it's this warm; he's gonna know right away." The bathroom door opened and I hear a few steps coming toward the room. "Hey Al," Jason's voice said. "Hm?" I said, in as high a pitch I could get without going falsetto. He bought it. "I wanna show you something," he continued. Then I felt the covers being lifted, and I knew the time had come. I decided that I would very coolly say, "Hey Jay," as if I'd been there all along.

That plan went right out the window, gentle readers. Instead, the second the covers came off my covered head, I saw a shocked and 100% naked Jason standing over me. Before I could speak (in what would've been an immediate apology), his reflexes told him to cover himself. His reflexes must have really been working well right then, because he hyper-covered himself and essentially punched himself in the crotch. Behind him, Allison was laughing so hard that I thought she might die. I couldn't stop laughing either, although I really did feel bad that my plan worked so much better than expected.

Jason ran back to the bathroom and got a towel to do a better job of hiding his manhood. He came back in, and we all laughed and talked about the incident for a few minutes. Allison said that she almost stopped him before he got to me because she hadn't realized that he'd come out naked. Jason wasn't mad at me, but rather aware of the comedic heights as his expense. He had no idea at all that it was me, so I guess my Allison impression was better than I knew. I apologized again, swearing that I had no idea it would work that well. I promised never to do anything like that to him again. It was glorious, let me assure you.

Ah, that was a good time. I hope you enjoyed, my friends. Have a good Monday, and a special happy birthday to my former colleague Regina. See you all back here tomorrow.

The old ball game

Howdy, my little Thursdayers. I hope this morning finds you well. This morning is good at finding people, so there's really no use in hiding. It's like the scary eye thing in Lord of the Rings, except not at all.

Last week, I wrote about nicknames that Greg and I came up with for people we met at college. Typically, the names were superficial and didn't require much thought at all. I forgot to mention one more of those somehow, so I'll fill you in now.

By a show of hands, how many of you remember me writing about a young lady named Zoe who believed my homey Rockabye and I were brothers despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary? Hmmm, not many, not many, you guys are in trouble out there. (Not really, that's just a line from Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and it came out after the "not many" against my will.) In any case, Zoe had a friend who was often right next to her. I think her name may have actually been Megan, but I could be totally making that up.

One day, the friend jokingly said something about kicking someone "in the nards." I'm not terribly familiar with that terminology. In fact, the only time I'd really heard "nards" was in the movie "Monster Squad" from my childhood. One character kicks a werewolf character in the crotch and then says amazedly, "Wolfman's got nards," if memory serves, but that's about it. Hey look at that: the miracle of the internets:

Back to the story. Greg and I argued with this young lady that it should be "nads" if anything, because (as I so delicately put it), "I'm pretty sure I don't have gonards." Despite our expertise, she never agreed to see it our way. We'd pass each other on campus, and she'd say, "Nards" as we'd simultaneously say, "Nads." What can I say, it was a place where the country's future leaders honed their critical thinking skills. Well, it wasn't long before Greg and I just referred to her as Nards. It didn't even sound weird after a little while: "Susan, Danielle, Zoe, and Nards were on the shuttle with me this morning," for example. Her parents would've been so proud.

Why do I bring this up? Because in an effort to keep writing blog posts for a while longer, I need to occasionally resort to bathroom humor. Hopefully you prefer that to nothing at all. My dad sent me an email with some suggestions of things I could write about, and one of them was, "The time you got hit in the balls in elementary school." It was actually high school, Dad, but I'll gladly tell that story to keep hope alive. I even found a suitable intro; aren't you proud of your boy?

Ah, high school. So much can be said about those awkward years that I'll just skip over that and get to the story. In 9th grade, I was one of the rare folks who enjoyed P.E. Dusty and I had the class together, so it was a time for me to have fun with a friend while playing sports, which was one of my favorite activities. I didn't like being sweaty for the next period, but hey, it's not like I was hanging with too many ladies back then anyway.

One day during the tail end of the year, I was playing softball with our group in P.E. It was slow pitch, and you pitched to your own team. I didn't like pitching because it was a little scary (to be honest), but I took over that day because someone was out. So I'm standing there, way closer than where the normal mound is, and some big dude steps up. Since it's my team, I want him to hit it, and I lob a nice fatty right in there.

According to Dusty, here's how it played it (in present tense for dramatic effect): The big dude takes a massive swing at the ball, and it starts heading right for me. Before it reaches me, I start screaming, seemingly anticipating the pain it's about to inflict...or I'm just scared and wimpy. Bam! Right in the nuts, as if it were a Pete-seeking missile. I collapse to my knees like Roger Federer winning a Grand Slam tourney, and my hands instinctively go to my manhood to try to hold the pain in somehow. A guy from the other team runs up and grabs the ball. "That's three outs; it's out if it hits your own team. Were up now, get off the field," he says, showing a little less compassion than I expect. For a brief second, I think I'm ok. I get up, take a couple of steps, and try laughing it off. Then it kicks in, and I collapse in a heap on the sideline. Obviously, this is hilarious to onlookers, so I can't really be mad at them. I manage to get over to a bench and mutter something about someone else needing to pitch.

Dusty admirably held his laughter in while he asked if I was ok, and I told him that I should probably go to the nurse's office to lie down. I stumbled to my feet, and a long string of gum stretched from my ass to the bench. In my haste to sit down, I apparently hadn't looked carefully enough at where I landed. Even I had to laugh at that insult to nether-region injury, and I slowly headed off toward the nurse's office.

When I got there, I explained what happened. The nurse looked almost frightened and asked, "Do you need...me to...um, check on..." "No, I just need to lie down for a few minutes," I said, saving her from having to select a euphemism. 45 minutes later, I got up and slowly went to my next class. I knew that there was no way to sugarcoat what happened, so I was pretty open with everyone. I got some laughs from my female friends and some heartfelt condolences from the guys.

There, Dad, there's your story. Big Dude hits Ball at Balls, film at 11. Anyone have any kind of similar story that they feel like sharing for some odd reason? Email me at ptklein@gmail.com, and maybe we can commiserate. See you back here tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday. Be careful out there, friends.

Mass un-appeal

Good morning, everyone. I hope this Hump Day has started off in a glorious fashion for you all. Mine started with extra traffic, so that's always a plus. Since I wrote about wheatgrass yesterday, I'm going to stay on the subject of ingestible substances.

But first, I have to ramble and then attempt to pull it all together. Guess who I'm nicer to than the average American? That's right, telemarketers. Don't get me wrong, I really don't like being bothered in an unsolicited manner by people who are selling something I don't want, but I'm a little nicer to them. Sometimes I use sentences like, "I understand the values of what you're selling, but as I stated earlier, I'm not going to be purchasing it." If they persist after two or three times of me nicely saying no, then I tell them, "I'm sorry, but I'm hanging up now." It's a far cry from Catherine Keener's character in "40 Year-Old Virgin" telling a telemarketer to commit suicide, and I'd guess that most people fall somewhere in the vast middle ground.

Here's the thing that gets me about telemarketing though: the ends must justify the means for them to be doing it. That is, if one out of every x number of people takes them up on this unsolicited deal, they make a profit. It's the same reason there are flyers on your car when you come back to it from shopping somewhere. How much did the copies cost? How much are you paying the person per hour to put them on windshields or doorknobs? If it's selling home theater systems, and just one person goes in and buys one, that likely covers every cost and then some. Is this system annoying and bothersome to a large percentage of the population? Oh sure. But until it stops being profitable (which every business owner needs), it'll stick around.

Why was I thinking about this kind of mass, unsolicited marketing? Spam, gentle readers, spam is the answer. First of all, I'm very thankful for designated spam folders in email. They're far from foolproof, but they do a good job at corralling the crap. My wife and I were looking at our spam folders, and we were amazed at how many of the emails were for penis enlargement products. I don't know if it's all for the same product or if each email is for a different one, but the subject lines vary in how they attempt to lure the customer in.

First of all, they waste 50% of their efforts immediately since the subjects are all speaking to men. Still, they must be making money somehow or they wouldn't still be doing this. I've broken down some of the email subjects into a few categories (these are all real emails in my spam folder or my wife's):

The Power of Comparison:
"Adult film stars use it"
"Ron Jeremy uses this"
"Tommy Lee uses this"

Colloquial Science:
"StrongCock" (one word)
"Powerful Dick"
"Make your Jimmy bigger"
"Three inches plus is yours to gain"

Playing on insecurities:
"Improve your manhood"
"Enlarge your manhood!"
"A powerful manhood is only a click away"

Pleasant:
"We offer the selection and prices customers want"

Unpleasant and illiterate:
"your life is really suxx if you fuck like looser or don't do it at all"

Here's one of my main questions: If someone were in the market for "enlarging his manhood," how would he choose one of those emails when they're all sitting in his spam folder next to each other? Maybe he's sitting there thinking, "Man, my life is really suxx because I fuck like looser or don't do it at all...Hey, look at that!" I don't know, and I doubt people are willing to volunteer how they choose one penis enlargement pill over another for a Follow-Up Friday.

I guess it must not cost too much to send out thousands and thousands of emails, so every sale probably makes a big impact for these companies. Enough to cover the costs of making the pills, employee salaries, and everything else associated with a business? I guess so. I don't see how exactly, but I guess it must.

Getting a little off track here: how do you think Hormel feels about "spam" being the universal term of junk e-mail? Not good, I imagine. I mean, it was already the butt of so many jokes before that term was coined. They say no publicity is bad publicity, but I just can't imagine someone associating unwanted email with a food product and then going out to buy some. Maybe that's just me though.

Gentle readers, got any fantastic spam subjects? What other items are you constantly being emailed about besides "making your Jimmy bigger"? Your comments and emails are very much appreciated on this one, because I feel like it's full of potential. So have a great day, and we'll meet back here on the other side of the hump.