Nathan DeGraaf: Quoted, Hated and Generally Pompous
"[Nathan DeGraaf] expresses himself in a way that while provocative, illuminates what I believe are ultimate truths about contemporary life as we know it."
Comedy Writing
I Know Where You Got Your Shoes At
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/thirdtry-788013.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/thirdtry-785362.jpg" border="0" /></a>I love New Orleans. I mean, I really love it. So, hearing about what has happened to the Big Easy has made me more than a little despondent.
Snippet Your Thesis
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/pen-766161.bmp"><img style="float:left;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/pen-761397.bmp" border="0" /></a>Me: Hey man, grab a pen.<br />Court: Can’t you just e-mail that stuff to me.<br />Me: Can’t you just grab a pen? You remember pens, right? Writers use them.<br />Court: Dude, just e-mail it to me.<br />Me: Fine. I’ll bet you forgot what your handwriting even looks like.<br /><br />Scott: That was some party; you should write about that.<br />Me: Yeah, that’d be real original. I can see it now: ‘There was a party with beer and women. At one point, someone puked. It was awesome.’<br />Scott: Fuck you.<br /><br />Court: I’m setting up your blog so that the snippets are archived separately.<br />Me: Great. My Dad’ll be so happy.<br />Court: Yeah, that’s why I’m doing it.<br /><br />Tony: Do you need help carrying that?<br />Random Girl: Yeah, I could use some help.<br />Tony: Well, don’t just stand there. Help the poor girl, Nate.<br />Me: Fuck you, Tony.<br /><br />Me: I can’t believe that online encyclopedia linked to that Latoyia Figueroa thing I wrote.<br />Court: Yeah, it was funny how they linked to it like you’re a real responsible journalist or something.<br />Me: What are you trying to say?<br />Court: Nothing. I just think you may want to double check the spelling of Latoyia’s name.<br />Me: Shit.<br /><br />Me: We’re agreeing with each other and we’re still yelling. It’s like we argue even when we agree.<br />Mike: That’s only because you’re always wrong.<br />Me: Whatever, biscuit head.<br />Mike: I see your biscuit head, and raise you a noodle dick.<br />Me: I see your noodle dick—<br />Tom: You’ve seen his dick. I had no idea you guys were that close.<br />Me: Fuck, I walked into that one.<br /><br />Me: You’re not advocating abandoning Hooters for Wing House are you?<br />Mike: The Wing House has a better talent pool, they serve hard alcohol, and it’s a more laid back atmosphere.<br />Me: So, no more Hooter’s Night?<br />Mike: We’ll always have Hooter’s Night. It’s tradition. Don’t worry.<br />Me: I was getting a little upset, there.<br />Mike: Yeah, I saw that tear welling up in your eye.<br /><br />Sharon: Okay, it is very important to me that you are sober at 8 PM, tomorrow night.<br />Me: Too bad it’s not that important to me.<br />Sharon: Nathan, listen. You will be meeting the most important professor in my life tomorrow at 8 PM. I need you to behave yourself and be sober. Or there will be problems.<br />Me: If I’m sober at 8 PM tomorrow, there definitely will be problems. Couldn’t you have picked someone else to be your damn citizen advisor, or whatever?<br />Sharon: I could have. But, unfortunately, you’re the best writer I know. And besides, you owe me.<br />Me: All right, I promise not to have more than three beers before meeting your professor.<br />Sharon: One of these days, you’re gonna make some unlucky girl very, very miserable.<br />Me: Is there any chance that this conversation is over now?<br /><br />Sharon’s Professor: So, Mr. DeGraaf, what do you think of Sharon’s thesis topic?<br />Me: The one about plucking chickens with crack heads?<br />Sharon’s Professor: Ha ha, very funny. No, but seriously, do you feel that the ways in which people use humor in everyday life could one day help us define personality types? Humor is, after all, a very useful tool. Perhaps the ways in which we use it say quite a great deal about who we truly are.<br />Me: Perhaps, but I could really care less about defining myself or learning how to use humor. I just laugh when the old people fall down, and that’s pretty much it.<br />Sharon: Nathan’s more of a “found” writer. He collects stories from his life and relates them to his readers.<br />Me: When I’m not just making shit up, that is.<br />Sharon’s Professor: Dr. Smith spoke very highly of you, Mr. DeGraaf. He praised you as one of the best writers he ever taught.<br />Me: Please thank him for me.<br />Sharon’s Professor: He also said you were a blatant smartass who didn’t have enough sense to come in from the rain.<br />Me: Again, please thank him for me.<br />Sharon’s Professor: Well, I’m sure Sharon looks forward to your input. And because you write for a humor website, you certainly qualify as both advisor and subject.<br />Me: So I can go now, right?<br /><br />Sharon: Well, you made quite an impression on my mentor. After you left, he said you were a perfect example of someone who uses humor as both a defense mechanism and a tool for avoidance.<br />Me: He’s a perfect example of someone I’d like to slap the silly shit out of. Who does he think he is? Sizing me up after a few minutes of knowing me. What a dickhead.<br />Sharon: He also said he could tell that your parents were divorced.<br />Me: Yeah, well tell him I can tell he’s an ugly fuck who lost his virginity to a third cousin, pity-fuck style.<br />Sharon: This is gonna be a great thesis.
If You Ever Needed Half-Assed Advice
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/bed-757548.bmp"><img style="float:left;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/bed-750018.bmp" border="0" /></a>If you ever see a truck full of men on the road with two women in the truck bed, you can bet the following: those are two cool chicks, those are four happy guys, and when it rains they’ll probably end up hanging out underneath the awning of a bank or abandoned drive-thru, or possibly even a veterinarian clinic.<br /><br />If you ever see a whole bunch of guys and one girl standing outside a party, smoking cigarettes, you can’t say for sure that the guys are actually regular, everyday smokers; but the hot chick the guys have formed a circle around sure is.<br /><br />If you ever see a beautiful chick with a rosy face, no makeup, no bra, matted hair and an exhausted look in her eyes, you can bet your last peso that she just got fucked. Well.<br /><br />If you’re hanging out in a pub and you see the cook playing a video game when you put your order in, do not expect quality grub.<br /><br />If you’re ever in jail and get asked by a fellow inmate what you what you’re in for, do not say anything. Trust me on this. If you must say something, tell them you were set up and leave it at that.<br /><br />If you’re ever in a bar and you get approached by a girl who starts talking about how jealous, crazy and strong her “ex-boyfriend” is, run. Seriously, put down your beer and get out of there. Odds are, she wants to see you fight him. Never good.<br /><br />And finally, because half-assed advice is a specialty of mine, I leave you with the following: If you’re ever asked by your girlfriend if, while you were broken up, you slept with someone else, admit nothing. I don’t care if she admitted to doing the entire local college football team while you were broken up. Just trust me. You were way too heartbroken to cheat on her, and yes, you forgive her. You must save the “You cheated on me with the whole Defense” card for the time you actually get caught in the act. Again, just trust me.
Behind the Scenes—Thanks for Reading
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/behindthe-712931.gif"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/behindthe-710669.gif" border="0" /></a><br />The coolest thing about being an obscure internet hack (instead of a professional writer) is the feeling you get when you find out that people actually read your stuff. The following five behind the scenes moments prove that people really are occasionally reading The Nate Way.<br /><br />1) I walked inside The Local Pub and ordered a beer. Bartender Devin grabbed my beer, handed it to me, and said, “You’re just mad ‘cause I fucked <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/2005/08/your-mom-digs-my-shirt.html">your mom</a>.” Nice.<br /><br />2) I received the following email from PIC editor, Court Sullivan:<br /><br /><em>I often analyze site statistics to see which websites people came from to get to pages on PIC, and I came upon a link to your article about </em><a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/2005_07_01_archive.html"><em>LaToyia Figueroa</em></a><em> on wikipedia.<br /><br />check out the last link on this page under "External Links": </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LaToyia_Figueroa"><em>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LaToyia_Figueroa</em></a><br /><em><br />Cool huh?</em><br /><br />Later, I called Court and he said the following, “The funniest is how they posted up that link like you’re a real responsible journalist or something.”<br /><br />Once again ladies and gentlemen (just so we’re clear on this), Court is on my side.<br /><br />3) I received an e-mail from a woman who said she was using <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/2005/07/cute-white-boy.html">The Cute White Boy</a>, in one of her classes on racism. The e-mail praised my work in eloquent prose and suggested I find more serious topics to address. She wrote, “The world has a lot of problems, Mr. DeGraaf. And your voice could help with many of them.” I dumbly responded, “Wow. And I thought that was just about eating fried chicken.” Needless to say, she has not replied.<br /><br />4) I was sitting in The Smoky Pool Hall when buddy Royce came up and slapped me on the back of the head.<br /><br />“Why’d you do that?” I asked.<br /><br />“Does your momma read your blog?”<br /><br />“Yes.” He hit me again.<br /><br />“Get those fucking cuss words outta there already.”<br /><br />5) Brother-in-law Paul asked me the following question while I was in St. Louis: “How are things going for you on that website—you know, the one I can’t access from work?”<br /><br />I told buddy Mike these five moments and he said, “Further proof that there’s just not enough quality entertainment on the internet."<br /><br />Just so we’re clear here, Mike is also on my side. Though he reserves the right to abandon my side at any moment in the name of attractive females. Who can blame him, really?
My Best Cop Experience
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/popo-787007.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/popo-783605.jpg" border="0" /></a>The motto of police everywhere is to protect and serve. This is clearly a big-honking, lard-covered lie. I have never in my life been protected or served by a police official. I have been ticketed, cuffed, arrested and assaulted by the police, but these actions hardly live up to the definition of their motto, so I guess what I am trying to say, for the most part, is that cops suck (useless observation: have you ever noticed how no one ever says that they are trying to say “for the least part,” or “for some part?” It’s always for the most part). A few weeks ago, however, Joe the Tile Guy reminded me of the time last November, when we met a cool cop.<br /><br />As Joe and I were walking to the apartment of a mutual friend, a female police officer sized us up with all the grace and subtlety of an insane gladiator gutting a lion with a blunt butter knife (read: no grace or subtlety). Joe began to get nervous, muttering something to the effect of, “Dude, I don’t need this.” (To be fair, Joe lays tile for a living. So, maybe he ain’t the most law abiding chap on planet Earth, but he cuts a mean floor.)<br /><br />After we nervously entered the apartment and informed our mutual friend about the cop staring at us, our mutual friend muttered something to the effect of, “Fuck, I don’t need this.” Clearly, some kind of problem had presented itself in the neighborhood. We waited all of forty minutes before we left the apartment of our mutual friend. As we entered my car, the police officer came over to us and said, “Can I ask you guys a question?”<br /><br />It was at this point that my adolescent memories of police interaction came flooding back, the old heart skipped a beat or three on its way to near-terminal acceleration and Joe began to sweat the sweat of the unjust (I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean).<br /><br />“Um, sure,” I replied.<br /><br />“Can I use your muscles? I’ve got this huge fish tank I’m trying to get into a friends’ apartment and we’re just not strong enough.”<br /><br />Joe, after breathing the biggest sigh of relief that has ever been breathed by a white man not on trial for stock swindling, replied, “we’d be glad to.”<br /><br />So, after we lugged this huge fish tank up three flights of stairs while we smiled the huge smiles of lucky white people, the police officer gave us $20 for helping them move. I tried to refuse the money but she would not consider it.<br /><br />What a cool cop!<br /><br />I’ve been waiting twenty years to write that line. It felt so damn good, I’m gonna do it again.<br /><br />What a cool cop!<br /><br />Wow, that felt just as good the second time.
Snippets from the St. Louis Trip
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/flyingaplane-700521.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/flyingaplane-797826.jpg" border="0" /></a>Random Australian Guy: I don’t like that term, Remote Economy Parking. It sounds so meager and distant.<br />Me: Yeah, they should at least advertise it a little and change it to something like, “Hey, At Least we Have Shuttles.”<br /><br />Security Guy: Wow, this is not the first time you’ve traveled, huh?<br />Me: Actually, I think I had you last time I was inconvenienced by the system.<br />Security Guard: Well, it’s nice to leave an impression, I guess. You sure didn’t.<br />Me: You love this gig, don’t you?<br /><br />Kid Sitting Next to Me: When I grow up, I’ll be taller than you.<br />Me: Is that so?<br />Kid Sitting Next to Me: Faster, too.<br /><br />Teenage Girl: I’ll give up my seat to sit in the middle over there.<br />Middle Aged Father: Shut up and sit down.<br /><br />Captain: In case you were wondering, I am one of those flight captains who points out the many sights and locations I know you can’t see from your seat. I Just thought you should know.<br /><br />Me: Seriously, when did all the pilots turn into amateur comedians?<br />Mother of the Kid Sitting Next to Me: Well, it has been rough for the airlines this year. And humor is a way to cope.<br /><br />Me: So, what do you do for a living?<br />Mother of the Kid Sitting Next to Me: Raise children.<br />Me: Good money in that?<br />Mother of the Kid Sitting Next to Me: Not where I work.<br /><br />Me: I like coming home and seeing y’all. You’re a lot nicer than I remember.<br />Chip: Yeah, well you left a while ago. There’s a lot to forget and a short time to enjoy ourselves.<br /><br />Dino: Doc won’t go to the ballgame with his son.<br />Me: My last game in Busch Stadium, too.<br />Dino: And I’ll bet your Dad went to your first one with you, didn’t he?<br />Me: He sure did. And he paid for it then. I was gonna pay for it this time.<br />Dino: Aw, that’s too bad. Doc, why won’t you go to the ballgame with your son?<br />Dad: It’s way too hot.<br />Dino: Because of the heat? That’s your pansy ass excuse? Come on, Doc. He’s your son.<br />Dad: He’ll be fine.<br />Dino: I don’t know. I think he’s heartbroken. I can see a tear welling up in his eye. I think he may take that into therapy with him one of these days, Doc.<br />Dad: Lay off, already. It’s too damn hot.<br />Me: Pansy.<br />Dino: You tell him, Nate.<br /><br />Tiffany: We’re staying for the whole game, right?<br />Me: Yes, we are, because I have seen the Cardinals come back from down two runs as recently as Tuesday.<br />Tiffany: I was just asking.<br /><br />Mom: You should write children’s books.<br />Me: Yeah, that’s a great idea.<br /><br />Lloyd: So I’ll bet the weather’s worse here, huh?<br />Me: Yeah, but not by much.<br /><br />Me: So, I’m sorry I missed church.<br />Mom: Yeah, we’re not gonna talk about it.<br /><br />Lloyd: So who pulled the number down when you were at the game?<br />Me: Mike Shannon. I’m glad it wasn’t someone I would have wanted to boo, like Tim McCarver.<br />Lloyd: Yeah, I imagine a lot of fans suffered that fate the day he pulled his number down. Probably not a good feeling. On the one hand, you want to commemorate the game, on the other, well, you just don’t like the man. Sounds like you got lucky all around.<br />Me: Well, the weather sucked.<br />Lloyd: Maybe, but it was like that for everyone Friday night. Count your damn blessings already.<br /><br />Me: My flight in was much funnier than this one.<br />Stewardess: Yeah, um, I’m sorry about that, sir. We’ll try harder next time.
The Graveyard
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/cemetery-718134.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/cemetery-705372.jpg" border="0" /></a>Growing up in St. Louis, I lived about fifty feet of forest from a graveyard. When friends came and saw the graveyard adjacent to my house, they would say things like ‘ooh, that must be creepy’ or ‘that looks scary, let’s go play ghost in the graveyard.’ (Keep in mind. We were kids.) But the truth of the matter is, the graveyard was not that scary. In fact, I really liked it.<br /><br />The entire graveyard sloped down approximately one hundred fifty yards of hill, casting shadows the entire way. From the bottom of the hill, one could look up and see the moon while pretending oneself was buried deep within the canyons of some forgotten wasteland where medieval warriors came to die. There were white, concrete stairs that ran down the middle of the hill with flat, broad, eleven foot steps. At the top one could view the ever-expanding county, jutting out across the once-wild landscape, basking in the soft glow of artificial light and buried under the smog of an industrial city. You could see for miles.<br /><br />Around the age of eleven, after living three years in the house, I developed a love for the graveyard. I walked it daily, learning the name of every person on those stones—the deceased, leftover world was marked before me like some life sized index. I knew the war veteran burial sites from the family plots. I knew where the oldest and youngest stones could be found and I would point this out to my rather apathetic friends who, upon seeing a one hundred thirty year old headstone would simply say, ‘so what’ and invite me to shoot pool or steal quarters from the local fountain in the name of ice cream (once again, we were kids).<br /><br />My favorite headstone was named Fred Krueger. It was more than just the “Nightmare on Elm Street” coincidence that caused my favoring this particular stone. It was the size of the stone—as big as a tall man—and the fact that it was made out of a bright red marble that really stood out among all the grey and white headstones.<br /><br />I once told my friend Curt about that headstone and he said the coolest thing. He said, “all money ever really gets you in the end is a nice funeral and a marble headstone.” But enough about Curt. He owes me money.<br /><br />By the time I was thirteen, I was talking to Krueger (the stone not the dead body), telling him that I understood his pain while feeling that he understood mine. I would bitch and moan my heart out to a rock and it was probably the best therapy I ever received, dismal as that may seem. Occasionally I would lean up against him, drinking whiskey from my father’s flask, making up drunken poetry for only Krueger to hear. He liked it I guess. I was a fairly sick kid.<br /><br />As I aged and my hunger for illegal substances grew along with my love for trouble, the graveyard became my own little park. My friends and I would drink alcohol there during the day time, jamming our loud, offensive punk music, winging Frisbees and thrashing the place with our skateboards. Occasionally, after we tired, we would use the headstones to prop our heads against while bullshitting about the meaning of life (graveyards can inspire philosophical conversations better than any institution of higher learning). Cops chased us out of the graveyard on four separate occasions but never caught us because I knew all the hiding places in the woods and we were only seconds from the safety of my parents’ house.<br /><br />One winter, a police officer caught me sledding in the graveyard, dodging headstones at light-speed like some masochistic-rush-junkie. He saw me walking up the hill and yelled at me from the top to freeze, that he was going to have to talk to me. In a rush of logic I jumped onto my sled and disappeared into the winter night. I was fifteen years old. He never followed me. Maybe he didn’t know my house was at the bottom of the hill, hidden behind the woods. Maybe he didn’t really care.<br /><br />When I was sixteen, quite caught up in my hormones, I made love in the graveyard. The date started with a sunset picnic, but by the end of the night, the picnic blanket was the only thing separating our naked, writhing bodies from the cool grass, the hungry insects and the smooth, suburban soil. It was quiet love, like the moon was hushing us, watching over us, reminding us that we were young and foolish and therefore needed to be discreet. I remember thinking, as the moon inhaled the distant flavor of our sweat while she and I felt each others’ naked shivers, wrapped in nothing but the night sky, that the best time to be foolish is when you’re young. When you get old, there are consequences. Your actions come back to haunt you. You will not be forgiven by the state, your parents or possibly even yourself. When you’re a kid mistakes are fun and cheap, but you can’t be a kid forever.<br /><br />By the time I was seventeen the graveyard was like an old friend that I had grown apart from. I would walk through it and tap Krueger on his red marble shoulder, yell at the lawn mowers to watch for some fallen stones, maybe even stop for a second and think to myself about the meaning of life, but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t embrace the graveyard—I certainly didn’t fear or hate it, I had just sort of become numb to it, like when you move next door to an airport and there comes a time when you don’t even hear the planes anymore. I was immune to the appeal of the graveyard by that time, though it welcomed me with the same love as it had every time I visited.<br /><br />Friends came and went. Girlfriends entered and left my life in turns. My world changed as I changed but the graveyard never moved. Shortly after I turned eighteen, before I moved away to college, someone put an ugly wire fence around the graveyard. I didn’t really mind too much though. The fence was an easy climb.<br /><br />Sometimes, when I’m feeling introspective, I go somewhere in my head: a place where I am free to create amongst stone critics and feel the spirit of the graveyard march through me. It turns out, I’ve turned into a fairly sick adult.<br /><br />I don’t think a graveyard is a scary place. I think it’s kind of beautiful in the same twisted way that funerals are beautiful, and if you look at it like that—like a thing of beauty marking lives long passed—then you can kind of get caught up in the majesty. Millions of stories lying in the dirt below your feet, millions of tales untold, hundreds of souls let loose to wherever it is souls go, all enticing you to live life to its fullest. The graveyard was where I discovered who I was. Even as I am now, one thousand miles from Krueger and six years displaced, I know there will always be a graveyard lingering within me, provoking my actions and shaping my opinions, and I know that I will never ever lose its solid lesson: live life right now, because later is a marble stone.
Observations Like a Nasty Hangover
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/bats-725325.bmp"><img style="float:left;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/bats-722179.bmp" border="0" /></a>
Check Please
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/lions-704184.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/lions-790531.jpg" border="0" /></a>I just landed in hot and sticky Tampa after spending four days and five nights in hot and sticky St. Louis. It was a good trip. I managed to do just about everything I wanted. Want me to tell you about it? I won’t wait for your response.<br /><br />I had to see one last game in Busch Stadium. And I lucked out because I got to see the Cardinals come back from a four run deficit by scoring five runs in the ninth, Friday night. I exploded when this happened. I mean, I think a few pieces of me are still somewhere on Stadium Plaza. Also, I learned that I have no connections in St. Louis anymore. This is an insanely difficult year to get tickets because it’s Busch Stadium’s last year (all the bleacher tickets for the rest of the season are already sold and I thought you had to buy those day of, but apparently management decided that anyone who wants to camp out just to see a game can go fuck themselves). So, who got me four free tickets behind home plate? You didn’t guess it. My Mom. My Mom is officially more connected than I am in St. Louis. I am now totally useless in that town. Anyway, check off the Cardinal game.<br /><br />I ate some Lion’s Choice with my sister about fifteen minutes after landing. While we were waiting for her food to come out, I started eating my sandwiches right there at the counter. Au Jus sauce and all. The woman behind the counter didn’t really comment on this, which surprised me. She probably thought I was deranged or something. So check off the roast beef.<br /><br />I wanted to meet Points in Case columnist, Mike Forest (who just moved to St. Louis). We went to a couple of strip clubs, which I also wanted to do. So there’s two checks. (Some side notes: Diamond’s Cabaret is now called The Penthouse. They did a little remodeling, but otherwise it seemed like the same place; Mike Forest seemed mentally balanced. I know you’re shocked. Also, he’s an excellent driver. I’m not going anywhere with that but I figured I’d throw it up, you know, for the record. And in case any of you loyal PIC readers were wondering, the story about how Forest got his nickname really isn’t interesting.)<br /><br />I chowed some great homemade grub, celebrated my niece’s birthday and met my new nephew. Check, check and check.<br /><br />Some shout outs:<br /><br />I want to thank Nicky, Dino, Scott, Dave, Johnny, Jon and Lloyd for making sure my dad never lives down the fact that he missed one helluva baseball game and a chance to go for free with his son to said game because he felt the weather to be, “too hot.” You're getting old, Pop.<br /><br />Thanks to all of my family and friends for their hospitality. You all make that place worth going to.<br /><br />And finally, thanks to the St. Louis Cardinals and my mom for giving me one last great Busch Stadium experience. To borrow from the late, great Chris Farley, that was awesome.
Old & Moldy Snippet Style
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/747-770049.gif"><img style="float:left;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/747-761615.gif" border="0" /></a>Okay, so here’s the deal. I have to grab a flight to St. Louis, and I probably won’t be writing for a day or so and I don’t have time to write today. I do, however, have a bunch of stuff from my old e-mail list. I wrote these snippets on May 18th of 2005 (though I don’t think the date really matters). To everyone on the old e-mail list who may actually be disappointed by this reprint, don’t worry. You’ll see me in like six hours.<br /><br />Dennis: Hey, did you hear that John Ho died?<br />Frank: Who?<br />Dennis: You don’t remember him? The lil’ Korean guy who played chess.<br />Frank: With the big fat guy?<br />Dennis: No, that was that Chinese guy, Thang. I’m talking about John Ho. He played electronic chess.<br />Frank: You mean the lil’ guy?<br />Dennis: Of course he was little. He was Korean.<br />Frank: Yeah, I remember him. What about him?<br />Dennis: He’s dead.<br />Frank: Crying shame.<br /><br />Alana: I always feel bad when I see dead animals on the road.<br />Jason: Well, I mean, I don’t think it makes anyone feel good.<br />Steve: I don’t know…sometimes when it’s a cat—<br />Me: Dude, that’s just wrong.<br /><br />Heather: I hate finals. I get so stressed out. What did you do to deal with the stress?<br />Me: I majored in creative writing. I was drunk for four years and woke up in a black robe. They tell me I took finals but I don’t remember.<br />Heather: Are you trying to frustrate me?<br /><br />Emmy: There is way too much testosterone in this room. Why do men have to be so cocky?<br />Me: ‘Cause you like it.<br />Emmy: I like wine coolers, too.<br />Me: Touché.<br /><br />Nickel: I can’t believe Brian is gonna spend the whole day inside.<br />Me: Why not? He has the experience and the training. He’s good at what he does.<br />Nickel: But he doesn’t do anything.<br />Me: Yeah, but he’s good at it.<br /><br />Greg: How the hell did Americans invent baseball?<br />Me: Dude, baseball was invented because Americans didn’t like and couldn’t understand cricket, but they still wanted to hit projectiles with a stick.<br />AJ: Man, I love hitting projectiles with a stick.<br /><br />Sheila: So, do you think you could pick me up at the airport?<br />Me: Uggh! The airport question. I hate the airport question.<br />Sheila: Okay, I’ll ask my mom.<br />Me: No, I’ll do it. But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just one friend picking up another at the airport.<br />Sheila: So when my coworkers ask, I can say my friend, who is a heterosexual male, is picking me up at the airport. I can call you my boy… friend.<br />Me: I hate the airport gimmick.<br /><br />Emmy: I’m twenty-three.<br />Mike: That means she’s really like twenty seven. Women always lie about their ages.<br />Me: Yeah, but they don’t start doing that until they get close to your age.<br />Mike: I’m taking your beer.<br />Me: I will die for that.<br /><br />Me: So my first column’s gonna be about being a good person.<br />Royce: I’m waiting for the punch line.<br /><br />Me: What are you doing tomorrow?<br />David: You mean besides viewing the premier of Star Wars Episode Three?<br />Me: Tell me you’re not dressing up.<br />David: I’m not dressing up…<br />Me: Thanks<br />David: Much.<br /><br />Jason: Nate, you ever been to one of them renaissance fests?<br />Me: Indeed, myne gracious presence, on one peculiar occasion, blessed the curious endeavor that is thine renaissance fest.<br />Jason: Dude, I did not see that coming at all. You’re like, part geek.<br />Me: Not really. I woke up in a field while they were setting up. I had fun though.<br />Jason: So, they serve alcohol at those things?<br />Me: Oh yeah. And not quite all the chicks are ugly.<br />Jason: Wow, didn’t see that coming either.<br /><br />Jared: I’ve read like forty in my life.<br />Tony: Really, forty?<br />Jared: Well, that’s a ball park figure. How many have you read?<br />Tony: Probably around a hundred.<br />Jared: Nate, how many have you read?<br />Me: How many what?<br />Jared: Books.<br />Me: Like, what kind of books?<br />Jared: Any kind.<br />Me: I don’t know.<br />Tony: Jared, that’s like asking you how many cigarettes you’ve smoked. He’s always got a book.<br />Jared: And a beer.<br />Tony: He’s multifaceted.<br />Jared: Good word.
Your Mom Digs My Shirt
<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/soaker-720044.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/soaker-710532.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yesterday, I saw a guy wearing a T-Shirt that said, “I Fucked Your Mom” and I had to laugh because we were in a huge corporate toy store (I was buying a present for my niece). Little kids were running around, picking out toys and being generally noisy, and this guy (who purchased four super soakers, by the way) had green hair in a mowhawk, was wearing black jeans (current Tampa temperature is six thousand and seven degrees Fahrenheit) and had on the aforementioned shirt. Anyway, because I am who I am (read: a total idiot who doesn’t know when to shut up), I asked homeboy a question.<br /><br />“Don’t you think that shirt’s a little inappropriate?”<br /><br />“You’re just mad because I fucked your Mom.”<br /><br />Now, I’m pretty sure he had that line in the can (it wasn't his first time wearing that old shirt) but I had to admit, it was a pretty good line. So good, in fact, that it took me all of eight seconds to respond.<br /><br />“Actually, I’m more bothered by the fact that you stole all her hair products in the morning.”<br /><br />Kinda lame, I know. But the guy had me. Between the green mohawk, that line, and his shirt… I mean I had no edge. I was wearing a pair of slacks and a button down shirt. The damn shirt was even tucked in. I looked like I fell from the pages of <em>Conformity Monthly</em>, and he, well, he looked like he really despised people who looked like they fell from the pages of <em>Conformity Monthly</em>. If we were black, he would have called me an Uncle Tom.<br /><br />Anyway, I threw in the towel and followed that zinger with, “I’m sorry, man. Wear what you wanna wear. It just seems like this is an odd place to wear that shirt, with all these kids around and everything.”<br /><br />“It’s cool, man,” he said. “I really don’t give a damn.”<br /><br />Just then, a young boy walked by and said, “Mommy, that man’s shirt has the F word on it.”<br /><br />“I know,” said his mother. “You stay away from people who look like that. They’re all on drugs.”<br /><br />And we both laughed rather heartily.<br /><br />So why am I telling you this story? Because, the experience got me thinking. I mean, there has to be an acceptable middle ground, doesn’t there? Is wearing a shirt that says ‘Fuck’ in a place meant for children really okay? For that matter, is it okay to assume someone to be a drug user just because he has a green mohawk and a shirt with the F word on it? And if not, where’s the middle ground? How much do you really need to respect the children? How much do you really need to respect the adults? And furthermore, how much for one of those shirts?<br /><br />And where can I get one?