Thank you for taking the time to read my name off your list of hopeful employees. Thank you for noticing that I have a large gap in my employment history, and thank you for thanking me for my time.
I realize that my college education makes me overqualified for jobs that list high school diploma or GED as a requirement. It warms my heart to know that an 18 year old child with zero experience in anything is more employable than I am. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished so much in the last 16 years of my life. Do you want to hire the teenager because you can boss him or her around? I’m the youngest in a family of six. I’ve been bossed around my whole life. I prefer to be bossed around unless you are looking for a self-starter in which case, I’m good at motivating myself. Also, the last word that I’d use to describe me is wishy washy.
What exactly is your problem with me? I saved money. I had no debt. Why is a gap in employment history such a deal breaker with you? I was trying (unsuccessfully) to jump start a writing career. I thought if I tried hard enough that I could somehow monetize my skewed worldview. It didn’t work out for me. I’m sorry. I had no idea that it would ruin my future chances with you. If I could go back and get unlaid off from my previous full-time job, I so would.
I’m assuming that the gap in employment history makes me sound lazy. I’ll have you know that I lived on my own, paid my own rent and bills, and still managed to buy groceries for most of the last few years. Sure, I was passively looking for work, but I felt that I could be choosy. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to resort to cleaning up puke at Chuck E. Cheese. I still don’t yet, but tomorrow is another day.
I wish I could tell you that I’m smart without coming off as an ego maniac. People actually have told me that I’m smart and not in a condescending way. I am so smart that I can usually do simple tasks such as typing, writing, transcribing, answering (and dialing!) phones, filing, fixing computer bugs, ordering supplies, driving, using a wide variety of Microsoft Office programs, lifting over 100 lbs. right over my head, and I do play some piano. I’m not going to lie to you. The songs that I play on the piano are “Heart and Soul” as well as “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
I know. I know. In the competitive job market of approximately $9.00/hr. there are people who are better fits for your organization. Meth addicts, felons, blind deaf mutes, the severely concussed, the Taliban, infants, quadriplegics, Satan worshippers, coma patients, and people with face tattoos are just more employable.
Honestly prospective employer, I wish you’d shorten your online application. I know you use these to weed out people, but I’ve filled out roughly 200 of those things in the last few years. You know if you are going to interview me in the first two pages of that 20-page application, but you don’t care. You’re the one with the coveted job opportunity answering phones at H&R Block so it is your right to force me to spend an hour and a half writing an essay on why I would excel at this job.
Do you know what the most discouraging part of this whole situation is? I would be good at your job, and I would show up every day on time, wearing appropriate clothing, and smelling like I had excellent hygiene. I’d work for you so hard, and I’d probably use my brainpower to help improve things and save you money. However, I look like shit on paper, and I must interview for crap too. In these last few years out of approximately 200 applications, I have had 3 interviews. Guess how many of those jobs I got? Zero.
Look, I know that I’m not the easiest person to employ. I have responsibilities so I can’t work on Saturdays after 2 p.m because finding child care on Saturday evenings via Craigslist is not something that I am comfortable doing. I’ll work any shift Sunday through Friday. I’d like to point out that I rarely get sick, and I’m almost never contagious so there is no reason why I’ll ever need a sick day.
Do I have your attention yet? Is my story pathetic enough yet? Well, my last full time job was a nightmare. I worked for an evil woman. She called my time there a probationary period, and she made all these plans for me, but one day she decided that she didn’t want a man in the office. She hadn’t had a male in her office in close to five years, and she let me go so my last job lasted for 90 days from January 2012 to March 2012. Can I tell you that she was a witch without looking bitter? Can I tell you how she always brought her kids to work, and expected employees to be her personal daycare and still do their duties without looking unprofessional? Can I tell you that she brought in one of her best friends to “volunteer” and then a week later decided that my services were no long needed without looking like a dick? It was a horrible time. I worked over 50+ hours each week giving my all for that organization, but all I got was the ability to put on my resume that I got fired.
My job before that was teaching at a middle school. I enjoyed teaching. I worked with great people! Guess what? The economy went to shit, and my job got cut. These are the reasons that I’ve not been at a job for more than 2 years. I suppose you can blame me for the failing economy, and if you do, I totally understand why you don’t want to hire me.
All right, I know what your next question is. Why aren’t you teaching somewhere else? That is what you are licensed in. Good question, no, great question, I am not teaching and have no plans to teach because no one will hire me for a teaching job either. Also, I got into teaching for job security, and you see how well that worked out for me. I was a great teacher too. I have excellent references. Do you want to see them?
I know. Life is not fair, and we are all struggling. America is no longer the same America where my parents grew up. There are no purple mountain majesties or fruited plains. There are just government bailouts and white collar criminals.
I’ll probably be cleaning up puke at Chuck E. Cheese the next time we talk. It won’t be much, but I’m sure you’re thinking, “at least it is something.”
Brad, The Discouraged.
By Brad Ramsay
Good news if you’ve always dreamed of getting drunk just like the Founding Fathers! Mount Vernon is producing liquor using George Washington’s age old rye whiskey recipe.
You’ll get drunkenly transported back to a simpler time. A time when white men were encouraged to own slaves, poop outside, and die of small pox.
Imagine filling your glass mug (make sure it isn’t properly cleaned, rinse it out in river water) with the divine taste that once touched George Washington’s probably syphilitic lips. I know that Benjamin Franklin was the horn dog, but everyone visited whores back then.
“You’d cross the Delaware for Mount Vernon whiskey too!” I assume this will be the big ad campaign where you suspend disbelief that Washington wasn’t actually strategizing a military attack, but rather hoping to get drunk on Christmas Eve.
Even better, “Even Little Georgie Washington would tell a lie to get his hands on some of this mash liquor!” This is a subtle marketing ploy to turn children into alcoholics, but only alcoholics that drink George Washington’s own recipe.
Imagine the smooth taste of an uncorked jug with three X’s getting you so blackout drunk that you want to go have sex with one of your field slaves. Then you wake up the next morning with that sassy next door neighbor who tells you that you definitely “chopped down her cherry tree” last night.
I guess at this point I should say the whiskey costs $95, and it probably tastes terrible. According to Newser, Washington used grain to make awful tasting whiskey, which kind of makes sense when you think about it. Alcohol technology has come a long way. There used to be a time when vodka only came in vodka flavor, and a screwdriver was just a tool.
For more information, check out the story I read here.
Also my writing has no focus, nor does it seem to make sense. I do love a good George Washington joke though.
By Brad Ramsay
I have taken a writing sabbatical. I could blame it on my computer crashing, the common cold, trying to navigate life on this big blue marble, stress, Obama, the current state of education in this country, the age old mystery of D.B. Cooper, militant gnats, a fear of words coming alive and eating me, or diarrhea, but I won’t.
I just haven’t had anything to say. No fresh ideas have entered my brain. I even stopped posting my pithy observations on Facebook for awhile. It’s like the writer in me died. He probably hung himself. (He wouldn’t have wanted to steal Sylvia Plath or Ernest Hemingway’s thunder.)
So here you have me attempting to perform CPR on this long dead writer. Imagine a body, a horrible stench, and maggots crawling out of his ears, and you’ll see me trying to revive him. It’s an upsetting image, right? That’s why I have been putting it off, but therein lies the paradox. The longer I waited the more unlikely he’d revive. It’s a whole bad irony situation, and I don’t want to get into it.
I’m guessing you want to know what’s been going on with my life since my last post, which at the moment, I can’t even remember. I’ve cooked some dinners, I’ve done some laundry, I’ve watched some television reruns, and I’ve even drunk some wine (and on rarer occasions, rum).
Can you see why I haven’t been writing yet? I know, I know. I’m riveting. You’re on the edge of your seat wondering what I’ll say next.
Giraffes who order takeout are less likely to contract STDs. I caught you by surprise didn’t I?
I might as well go out on a high note. See you next month!
By Brad Ramsay
People are more comfortable with even numbers. Noah took animals two by two. All tables come with an even number of chairs. The recommendations for aspirin are generally two pills. Vehicles either have two or four wheel drive. Why? Because ones and threes make us uncomfortable. I think it started in caveman times when Krog was born with three balls, and he was burnt alive when fire was discovered.
This is why we need to ostracize and contain all “oddballs” or single people. They should be rounded up and put into camps.
I’m pretty sure that single people are responsible for 9/11, and I’ve heard that Freddie Mac and Fanny Mae are single and responsible for the housing market crisis. The United States once made the mistake of electing a single man as president. It was a disaster and led directly to the Civil War. It’s true. You can look it up.
I was single until fairly recently (I bolded and italicised “was” because I wanted to emphasize it). Singles are just bad, bad people. They can’t be trusted. They have shifty eyes. They are creepy loners really. They could be in relationships if they really wanted to, but that might soften their hearts and ruin their plans to be awkward and make people in relationships uncomfortable.
The advice that my married friends always gave me (when I was a creepy single person), “Go out and meet people.” I’d never really thought about doing that before. It changed my life. It was so simple. I felt stupid that I wasn’t introducing myself to random strangers. (You’re supposed to do these sorts of desperate antics when you’re single. Being roofied and murdered is preferable to singledom)
I recently went through an intervention and “unsinglified” myself. It’s a lot like an exorcism. Afterwards, it takes a lot of counseling, and there will be tears. My brain basically had to be retrained to think “normal” thoughts. However, I now know the truth.
Single. People. Are. Gross.
The problem is that television romanticizes them. The television show Friends made being single and young in New York seem like a never ending cavalcade dating models, hanging out with friends, and lesbian weddings. In truth, all single people in New York are heroin addicts, and they spit on children.
Any time there a single person on television, there will always be an attractive single person that moves in next door or sexual tension with that woman in an unhappy relationship at the office. Basically, it has to prove that the single characters won’t be single for long, or they’d be, you know, weird. (i.e. on heroin and spitting on children)
Single people are mostly ostracized from society. Sure, there are some that still have the audacity to eat alone in restaurants (instead of getting food to go and crawling back inside their hole) or see movies in theaters, but for the most part, they know their place. They are only allowed out after dark on Friday and Saturday nights desperately searching for someone that can save them from being a lonely weirdo (the heroin and children spitting thing is implied now, right?).
I don’t want to sound racist or anything, but just because I know single people exist, it doesn’t mean I want to see them. I don’t think there are laws banning single people from voting or owning property, but maybe it is worth looking into. (I hear that if we slowly strip away their rights, people won’t speak up.) At the very least, single people should have to wear something like stars on their clothes so that normal people in relationships can spot them far away and avoid them. (I’m just spit-balling here. I’m going to read Mein Kampf later to get some better ideas.)
Until the stars are sewn into their clothes, we (normal people in relationships) will have to deal with single people occasionally. If you already know they are single, you are obligated to ask if they are dating anyone yet.
–If they say “yes,” you are allowed to smile and pat them on the back (women are allowed to hug each other). However, don’t get drawn into their web. They could be dumped as early as tomorrow.
–If they say “no,” you are allowed to extend sincere pity their way. If that makes you feel awkward, fake a phone call. Tell them your phone is on vibrate, and it is very quiet.
If a new acquaintance comes out to you as single, the appropriate response is to tilt your head slightly to the left and wistfully sigh that they’ll meet someone. Then, you run away from that person. Run away so they don’t infect you with their single person stank.
Happy Valentine’s Day
By Brad Ramsay
Why do I suddenly see so many people patting themselves and their friends on the backs for being good parents? What the hell makes you so special? Did you take your kids out to dinner? Wow. Let me get you a medal. All hail, the best parent in the world!!!
This seems to be a new trend. I never saw adults when I was a kid congratulating each other on being a good parent. If you go back to the early 1800s, I doubt you’d see a conversation that went like this:
Esther: Of my 18 chittlins, only 3 died of dysentary, 2 of cholera, and 4 of small pox.
Ruth: Oh Esther, you is a goodly mother.
Guess what? You’re not the best parent in the world. You probably don’t know the best parent in the world. Stop thinking you’re so great. If your kids are normal, they are going to grow up to hate you for a significant period of time anyway. (Not my kids, Brad. They are being raised by a good parent who they will forever love.) Shut up.
Also, after you hit 55, they are going to think your mind is starting to go. They’ll start joking about your quirks behind your back. For example, if you vacuum the bed instead of washing the sheets or have a syringe of heroin as an afternoon snack. They’ll love you when that time comes (probably) but you’ll still be ridiculed.
The truth is you have no basis for calling yourself a good parent. You could raise a child that cures cancer, but if your other kid turns out to be a disease-infested prostitute, you’re a shitty parent.
You can never judge in the present that you’re a good parent. Maybe you surprised your kids with that puppy they always wanted. If that puppy ends up biting your kid’s fingers off, guess what? You’re a shitty parent and a shitty pet owner. I bet you’ll always treasure the excitement on your kids’ faces when you gave them that puppy, especially as you watch a specialist teach them a new way to write (without thumbs.)
I guess you think you’re a good parent because that one time you made your children smile by taking them to the zoo or buying them their favorite toy. Sorry. That doesn’t make you a good parent. (You might be able to call yourself a “fun” or “permissive” parent.) When children are young, a parent in the human world is the same as a parent in the animal kingdom. Feed your child. Protect them from predators. Provide them with a suitable habitat. Beyond that, you score no points. Doing those things doesn’t make you a good parent. Sorry. It makes you a parent.
But Brad, I spend time with my kids, and they know they are loved. I’m a good parent.
My answer: Bullshit.
What sort of monsters do you think are out there raising children? (Granted, there are exceptions to every rule. Please don’t send me facts about abuse.) You spend time with your kids? Really. That’s why you’re a good parent…because you have the luxury of having free time? So working moms and dads that don’t get to stay home are by definition…shitty parents? What about parents that put their kids in 1,000 weekend activities? They must be shitty parents because they aren’t spending that quality family time together. Hey, I know! You’re a great parent if you never let your child go to sleepovers. You’re spending all your time with them instead (and not turning them into a needy freak). What kind of parent instills into their child that they are loathed and hated? You’re words (imaginary parent) make no sense.
Who exactly are you comparing yourself to anyway?
Are you looking at your parenting skills vs. your own parents’ parenting skills? That’s a shitty thing to do to your parents. Perhaps, you grew up in a turbulent household. I’m sorry. I truly am, but not raising your kid in a bad environment doesn’t make you a good parent (I feel like I covered this before.) However, if you still love and respect your parents but think they did everything in raising you wrong, guess what you’re doing. Do you know? You’re saying that you’ve turned out to be a shitty person! Congratulations! (But Brad, how can a shitty person be a good parent…because I must be both?!)
HAHAHAHA (I just made myself laugh.)
Maybe you’re comparing yourself to the deadbeats and meth-heads you see on the evening news (or at least their mugshots). If that’s what you’re doing, then you’re setting the bar really, really low. “Hey, I didn’t smoke meth today. I’m the world’s greatest mom!”
I also see a lot of people (moms) posting that they are taking an afternoon nap. (Naps are great for everyone. I have nothing against naps.) What irritates the shit out of me is all the comments from other moms that say “Yes, you so deserve it after taking care of those angels!” or “Yay! Rest up for those kiddoes!”
STFU. Really. Just shut up.
I’m not talking to you, napping parent (You get your nap on whether or not you deserve it). I’m talking to all your cheerleaders that seem to be stalking you. They don’t know you deserve a nap. You could have gotten out of bed at 9, thrown two Pop Tarts on the kitchen floor, gone back to bed at 9:05 to sleep off Tylenol PM you took because the baby was crying half the night, get back up at noon, dumped some cereal on the floor, forced Nyquil down the kids’ throats, gone to Facebook and posted, “Just laid the kids down and this mama is going to take a nice nap with them.”
Granted that seems like the worst case scenario, but they don’t know you deserve a nap…or do they? Maybe they know you need a nap because you constantly bitch about not getting enough sleep at night. They may be just excited that you’ll shut up about constantly complaining that you’re tired every single day. Maybe bitching about being tired makes you a good parent?
Also, I’m just saying stop patting yourself and your friends on the back for doing things that normal, loving parents would do anyway (if they could afford it, having a lot of money doesn’t make you a good parent either.)
The history of Team Wrad (like us on Facebook) is long, complicated, and rich. Actually, it is just stupid so I’m going to gloss over it.
Fortunately, Team Wrad has spawned some really interesting moments and learning experiences in my life. First, my friend Dan Hageman (who has retired from Team Wrad due to a successful writing career i.e. Ninjago: Masters of Spinjitzu and Hotel Transylvania) introduced me to a frighteningly insightful dilemma he documented in the short story My Father’s War. William Bilyeu (-Bilyeu) introduced me to the heartbreaks and learning experiences of childhood (his own and his daughter’s.) in Kick Out the Jams and I Stomped a Bunny to Death in Front of My Daughter on Her Fifth Birthday.
I wrote some stuff too (The Story Where Brad Embarrasses Himself and His University). Anyway, we did a great job in the early summer of 2011 writing Facebook notes and blog posts. Our idea was telling personally embarrassing stories and tales of fantastical situations involving transvestites. It seemed like an idea that no one had before. Those imaginary dollar signs all covered our eyes. We all knew we’d be millionaires by February 2013 if we’d just persevere and continue to brand the Wrad name.
We may have failed. We may have failed by July 2011.
However, once in a lifetime, someone comes along to breathe new life into a horrible idea. That man’s name for Team Wrad turned out to be Thomas Fulks. Here’s a picture of Thomas that sort of proves my point.
Tom’s idea was new and (W)radical. He called it Wrad-Fu, (It’s a play on kung fu and the first two letters of his last name. Don’t feel bad if you think it is stupid. I did.) and it was a podcast.
Yes, he had scoured the blog posts and Facebook notes, (he also went to high school with William Bilyeu) and he saw some potential. He may have been the
first only person to see potential in a rag tag group of Internet acquaintances/friends.
That is how Wradcast was born.
You’ve never heard of Wradcast? You must be living under a rock (or out in the open).
It exists. (even on iTunes)
What are we about? Honestly, nobody knows. First and foremost, Wradcast exists to damage my self esteem (I probably have too much anyway). After that, topics vary. Tom hates Norway. Will likes to talk about how he can make women feel special. I add stuff too, but I just can’t think what I add right now (I don’t like to be put on the spot).
Anyway, the whole point of this post was to tell you that Tom lives in Arizona, but he got the opportunity to visit his hometown last week. This meant that we got to do a live Wradcast with all of us in the same room. It was a momentous occasion. (We invited Oprah and President Obama, but they were too busy preparing for Black History month.)
It was a crazy mix of Norway hatred, making women feel special, and me adding stuff.
I guess what I wanted to say was that I had fun. I suppose this whole blog post could have been significantly shorter.
I had fun.
By Brad Ramsay
People seemed to be upset that I didn’t write about pizza yesterday. I’m not talking “March on Washington” angry, but more like “slam the phone down” angry. Blanket apologies all around.
It’s delicious. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Frink, told our class once that she didn’t like pizza. If she hadn’t been such a good teacher and nice person, I’d probably still hate her to this very day.
Seriously, what’s not to love about pizza? It’s the perfect food. It has members of all four food groups. I’m talking about the four real food groups that I learned growing up. None of this splitting fruits and vegetables into their own groups because they’re stupid and don’t clog your arteries. (Plums are gross. It had to be said.)
I know all my readers (and we’re up to five now! Hell…YES!) are wondering, “Brad Ramsay, what is the perfect pizza?”
I’m glad you asked that, my friend. I’m glad you asked.
The perfect pizza has a thin crust. It has pepperoni, rich tomato sauce, and mozzarella cheese. It’s simple. It’s wonderful. (My girlfriend once told me that she didn’t like pepperoni. We broke up. She just doesn’t know it. I mean, I care about her, but I don’t think that I’ll ever love someone that can’t love pepperoni.)
I also like barbecue chicken pizza. My mother does not. She once came very close to spitting a bite in my face when she mistook it for a more traditional slice. (She felt justified spitting it into the waiter’s face. It did sort of surprise her.)
Now, I’m going to rank popular pizza chains. My rankings shall be thus: Gwen Stefani = Love, Katy Perry = Indifferent, and Lady Gaga = Vomit.
Pizza Hut: Gwen Stefani
Pizza King: Gwen Stefani
Papa John’s: Lady Gaga
Little Caesar’s: Katy Perry
Domino’s: Slut mix (Sometimes a Katy Perry, sometimes a Lady Gaga)
Chuck E. Cheese: Lady Gaga
Sbarro: Katy Perry
I’m tired of this, but I love pizza.
By Brad Ramsay
Guns seem to be a hot topic these days. People are freaking out about the idea that their guns might be taken away from them. I don’t really love it when paranoid people with guns freak out. They shoot things.
Don’t take people’s guns away. They’ll probably get mad. People tend to buy guns thinking that one day they will get mad. Don’t make them mad. Let them keep their guns!
I would like someone to take your assault weapons and double digit magazines away because I don’t think you need them. I’ve never been in a situation where I thought, “Wow, if I only had the power to murder a crowd of people in less than a 5 seconds, life would be sweet.” (If you have a nuclear weapon, I’d like to take that away too. Not me, but someone trained to handle the radiation.)
I know. I know. It’s none of my business if you have an arsenal. I feel like it should be. If you have enough weaponry to conquer say, Honduras, I feel like I should know. My friends might like to know too.
I’m okay with hunters freaking out about the possibility of losing guns. If you’ve ever shot a bow and arrow, you’d understand their concern too. I really, really hate deer. Rabbits, turkeys, and ducks are okay. I actually have no opinion on them. But deer? They should writhe in pain in the bowels of hell. I rooted for the fire in Bambi. (Sorry, deer suck. If you’re a deer enthusiast, you made a wrong turn in life.)
I’m also fine with gun collectors. These people more interested in the gun than the ammunition. They are great! They are on the same level as philatelists and oenophiles. No problems with them. (Not that I have a problem with you, gun owner. You’re great. Yay! The Second amendment rocks! Please don’t shoot me.)
You need guns to hunt (Slingshots are worse than bows and arrows). If you collect guns, you also need guns to be a collector. You don’t need guns to protect yourself unless you’re just an unrepentant asshole that everyone is out to murder. If you’re on more than 3 people’s I Wish I Could Murder You list, I’d say that you’re problems are significantly higher than a need for a high caliber assault rifle with a 100 round clip. I suppose you could live in a really terrible neighborhood and get mugged and raped every day on your walk home. Then, I’d be okay with you have a small pearl-handled revolver that shoots buckshot (I’d like for you to try mace first.)
I’m kidding. You should have an AK-47 with a 30 round magazine so you just open fire when anyone approaches you or your house. There was a man in Georgia who killed someone because their GPS took them to the wrong house. I’m guessing the man he shot looked ethnic. If that crotchety old murderer, doesn’t have the right to lay waste to people that get lost near his property, then I don’t know what to believe.
I’m fairly smart. Probably smarter than the average person. What I’ve noticed about gun enthusiasts (I didn’t say gun nuts. I chose my words very carefully.) is that they tend to be less smart than me. I’m not saying there aren’t highly intelligent gun owners (because, you know, I don’t want to get shot), but I’ve noticed a trend.
I just don’t know that people who are paranoid about getting attacked, stolen, or victimized are the best people to own a weapon. I know that the second amendment doesn’t say “keep and bear arms…unless you’re a paranoid lunatic.” I think it should though.
People that would shoot fifty babies in the face if that’s what it took to keep their guns scare me as well. You’re mean and paranoid. Stop being mean, and get on medication for your paranoia.
I don’t own a gun because I’m not a morning person. Even if I get jolted awake, my mind isn’t all that sharp. (I’m imagining keeping my gun on the nightstand or under the pillow in this scenario.) I tend to toss and turn so I don’t want anything potentially fatal around me while I slumber. This is also why I don’t sleep in the same bed as a black mamba or a bucket of acid.
My point is that I’d probably kill myself if I had a gun. (I know, I know. You’re not me.) I’d hear a noise at night, and in a panic, you know, shoot myself.
I probably sound like I’m anti-gun. I’m not. If everyone (who is sane and not a felon) in the world wanted to own a handgun and/or a hunting rifle, I’d be cool with it. (I mean, I don’t get the necessity, but sure.) However, the people that are stockpiling weapons for the revolution are frightening. Of course, some people stockpile weapons because they believe people crazier than they are stockpile weapons. It’s a vicious cycle.
I sincerely don’t think that the dudes at the constitutional convention ever envisioned a world where a single gun can kill fifty people in less than a minute. (These are the same guys that were using ramrods and gun powder.) Maybe I’m wrong, and Benjamin Franklin prayed that one day he’d be able to shoot multiple people without having to reload.
I know people will disagree with me which is fine. I don’t really care much about guns. I definitely won’t march about keeping them or taking them away. I really just needed something to write about. I grew up knowing that having opinions on things is wrong, especially if my opinion is different than yours.
Also, I love guns. I own 75. I have some buried in my parent’s backyard in case the revolution comes.
By Brad Ramsay
I’d like to point out that I’m not profoundly mentally handicapped. Some people might even call me intelligent. You might not be one of those people, but they are out there. They know who they are.
The reason for the disclaimer is that I come off as dumb as shit in the story I’m about to tell. I’m not proud, but it is true. I’m only sharing this with you because the three people that read my blog are kind and benevolent, and they don’t judge people who let the tard-monster get a hold of them every once in a while.
It was a dark and stormy night (it wasn’t but I figured setting the mood horror movie style would make it more suspenseful and less about my stupidity). I was making dinner. This dinner required me to hard boil some eggs. I followed the hard boiling instructions to the letter. I put the eggs in a pot. I filled the pot with water. I put the pot on the stove. I turned on the burner. Insert a crash of thunder somewhere in the middle of all that boring exposition.
Here’s where it starts to get creepy. You see, I turned on the wrong burner. The heat from the burner caused a minuscule amount of smoke to set off the shrieking banshee of the fire alarm. I swear they sang in Satan’s choir. I ran over to the stove where I made mistake number two. I turned the correct burner on instead of turning off the incorrect one. Oh no! Granted the fire alarm is still going off which is what I’m blaming that brain fart on.
I’m not a tall man, but I can jump and pull. This seemed like a smart choice. I jumped. I pulled the fire alarm down. It is connected to a wire. It’s still conjuring up the dead with its high-pitched cry.
I finally got my wits about me and opened the door to the balcony. As the billowy smoke escapes the apartment, I realize how frigid the temperature outdoors has become. It was probably only 8 degrees, but those fire alarms can’t seem to understand the concept of cold (hot they know, obviously).
So now, I’m freezing, the alarms are still trying to control my thoughts, and two burners are on high. One of them is continually sending up the smoke to feed the villain of a fire alarm.
It’s at this time that I notice both burners are on so I run over to the stove and turn off what I thought was the correct burner, and quick as lightning I push a chair over to disconnect the fire alarm. Just as I stand up on the chair, that asshole has the gall to stop crying wolf.
I step down from the chair. Guess what happens? You’re right. That mother effing fire alarm goes off again…for like three seconds. It just wanted to taunt me. I think it was trying to show it’s dominance over me. I’m not really familiar with fire alarm jungle code.
I’m not going to lie. We had quite the staring contest until I faintly smell smoke and realize that yes, I had turned off the wrong burner.
I quickly rectify my mistake. The eggs get hard boiled.
It’s time to make bacon.
You’d think all I would do is turn off one burner and turn on another. You’d think. I don’t know how burner with the eggs got turned on again, and the burner to the bacon got turned off, but I about stabbed the stove. Hard. With a knife.
The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. You’ll have to ask me some other time about that stupid bitch of a clothes dryer.
By Brad Ramsay
I wrote a book. It was published and not self-published. It was like published by people who publish stuff.
Let’s start off by saying, I’m bad at titles. Really bad. The title sucks. It’s pretentious, and no one knows what it means.
jer·e·mi·ad (j r -m d). n. A literary work or speech expressing a bitter lament or a righteous prophecy of doom.
Now, at the very least, you learned a new word! You may even understand the title of my book. About a year ago, I experienced pure joy when Olivia Wilde’s character on the television show House said the word, jeremiad. I jumped up from my couch and shouted, “See! Smart people know what it means!” No one was around me at the time, but trust me, it was an exciting moment in the Ramsay household.
Let’s move onto the typos in the novel. There are more than a few. All I can say is that I read that stupid book at least ten times in the two weeks I had to copy edit it. I guess that I fell asleep at the wheel. It was my first book so sue me. How many flipping books have you written? (I substituted the word flipping instead of a more profane word. I apologize to people who write actual books on flipping.) Also, if you’ve written like 10 perfect typo-free books, you don’t need to tell me.
The next problem some people seem to have is the novel is a bit convoluted. Everyone that read it really enjoyed it (I know some people lie.) However, I was told by some that they had to continue flipping (see what I did there?) back because they’d forgotten a key piece of information. I guess when you plan and write a book, you forget that some people may not be as acquainted with the facts that you’ve had on post-it notes on your wall for months. Sorry.
There were also a few remarks from people who grew up in the real life version of the town I fictionalized for my story. The town is named Judson, but you already figured that out, right? What I did was use a few real last names of people that lived in Judson at that time in history. They were mostly throwaway characters that I mentioned just to make people smile. They were not based on your family. Seriously, I wasn’t alive in the 1930s so I didn’t know how respected your ancestors were. I didn’t know you were so precious that just by mentioning that name soiled your grandfather’s grandfather’s stellar reputation. My apologies to the Smith family, and all Smiths in the entire world.
Now that I’ve gotten you so excited about my book that you’ve peed your pants, let me talk about some of the good things.
1. I wrote it.
2. My mom read it, and she liked it. Also my friend Hillary read it and reviewed it on Amazon. To date, it is my only review. I think I appeal mostly to non-Internet users (at least, that’s my hope).
3. Several people have asked me when my next book is coming out. (They’re probably just being nice, but it counts as a win for me. I don’t know when/if my next book is coming out.)
4. It’s still available on Amazon.com. Click that link for more information.
5. It’s about a curse, and I know that reading about curses is fun.
6. It’s been optioned as a miniseries for PBS. (That’s a lie, but if that got you excited, my work is done.
7. My favorite line from the novel (and I might be paraphrasing, but I’m too lazy to look it up), Drusilla graduated from mulling with wine to plotting with scotch. Sorry if you think it is stupid. I still like it. I may not like you anymore though.