life

Sunshine Comes Around

Sometimes it can get dark, and, for most of us–if not all of us–that is a relatable fact. Life is not always this rainbow filled paradise that someone stirred up inside a milkshake, it’s actually a road that changes quite often.

Some say it’s a tough road, some a pleasurable road.

Me?

I think it’s just a road, dependent on what you yourself call it. I am not walking the same road as someone halfway across the world–no way is that possible; but they could be wishing they were walking my road, I could be wishing I was walking theirs.

As I sit here and chomp on Easter chocolate, I think about times I’ve wished to walk another road, or, even, to stop walking it entirely. Grim, I know; and, trust me, I never want to find myself thinking thoughts like that again. But you can’t build a wall around everything.

For me, I think, that can be easy to forget, maybe for others it is, too. Acting as if you can move through the world and be indestructible–I’m a teenager, whaddya gonna do, sue me?–it can size you up pretty well in your mind, then, when you think you have it great and the troubles are all fading, the tiniest thing breaks through your defense and crushes you.

I had dark thoughts. Thankfully, they passed, but when I thought them, when I was in that stage, where it feels like a million dumbbells are pressing on your chest and you’re suffocating from the immense weight so badly, that any chance to remove the weight, the insanity, the stress, is taken, and it is taken with haste.

I felt decrepit, an old man walking in a teenage body; there were times I felt weak, unable to accomplish the routines I was committed to so fondly; and there were times I wanted to get away from it all–would a miracle show up and transport me from this hell that seemed never-ending?

Folding inwards was the route to my happy place, going deeper into my mind than I had in years. Night after night, I plugged away at a novel in which every dark ingredient of my conscience was added to this infesting depression–it was, at times, heartbreaking, blissful, tragic; and, when I reached the ending, both satisfying and saddening.

If you lose yourself, lose who you are, not who you think you are–the grit and bones of yourself–it can be shattering: you can look at the world in such a way that the sky seems to always be cloudy, that it contains these tumultuous emotions and is waiting for the perfect opportunity to barf it all over you. No one around you reveals their true self, that it’s always one mask or another, then you realize you’re the one who is wearing different masks, and now they’re worn and battered from constant use.

It almost happened to me, for about five minutes. It was draining, and; frankly, I have never been in a darker place. From my point of view, however, what else had I to do? A family member was going through cancer, suffering so often, and so much, it got to be unbearable to stay in the house. All of our solutions were going to shit, one after another the doctors kept coming up with blanks. And I felt it was up to me to maintain happiness in my family, each member dealing with their stress in their personal ways, while I was stuck in between a rift of sunshine and darkness–and eventually the darkness overcame the sun, as much as it hurt to know.

“How do you get around that?” I asked myself, and the truest answer for me was, keep writing, keep doing what you love, what keeps you sane. I did. I finished my novel, the darkest story I have ever written, and within those words was the five minutes of total surrender. I still get a chill when I read the scene, as it is personal and full of hatred at everything, regardless of how much these things had supported me beforehand.

I write this because I know I’m not alone. Millions of people go through the worst times of their lives, worse than my own experiences by miles, and many of those people have trouble finding a crack in their storms of darkness.

I write this because I want you all to remember sunshine comes around. It may not seem so at the present, but it is fighting to reach you, all the people surrounding you, who love you, would lay down their lives to help you see the light, if only for five minutes.

And sometimes, five minutes is all you need.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Small Town Losses

I live in a small town.

Since I live in a small town, most big news that goes on reaches these teenage ears of mine; and, as they say, no secrets are truly secret. It can be good to know what happens around here–it keeps things interesting, thankfully; however some times the news is not so good. It is, on occasion, a downer, being that most everyone knows everyone else, and tragedy is oft times the unwelcome stranger.

Tragedy has struck recently, and, normally, I am not a big one for speaking out loud about it–mostly I keep to myself, as many of you can probably gather. This is different. This hit a little close to home. It wasn’t detrimental to me, but it did have–and still does–an effect on me.

Two nights ago, one of my friends was killed in a car accident. The accident was not his fault; in fact, all the blame fell to the opposite driver, who had been driving under the influence. The pictures detailed a nasty crash, both cars were thoroughly battered. The drunk driver sustained minor injuries–my friend, unfortunately, died on the scene.

You know, tragedy is a large word. I suppose versatile would fit. It is the word people use when unexpected sorrow, or, even heartbreak, occurs. I get chills when I hear tragedy, as if it’s some omen, or marker, of misfortune, some kind of posted sign before the news is broken to you.

In this small town, the anxiety brought out by tragedy is amplified, turned up to a decibel so high it spreads itself across each house, each work place, each park, curling into the normal ever so abruptly that many have no time to adjust to these unusual circumstances.

It creates a vacuum: a pressurized chamber sucking out all the happiness and the sense of normality. People here walk around with hearts busy pumping all of their life and love, and they conceal it until an opportunity for aid comes to their side. I am not speaking of aid for themselves because, while everyone, including me, needs a trusted shoulder sometimes, it is the aid we get from supporting others wracked by these tragedies that fills our emptiness and gets us on our way again.

You should all have seen the beauty of cooperation at my school today. What started as a somber morning for all soon evolved into this incredible support system. Students counseled each other, got them chatting and laughing, playing games and having one hell of a time, all in the memory of a great guy who touched hundreds of people, made them feel worth it, because it was his nature.

I think my friend passed from the world too soon, but, I am reminding myself that he, like young Icarus, had a spirit that shined so bright, the world could not handle his brilliance.

I dedicate this post to him, to his family, and the small, yet strong, town in which we all live.

Rest in peace.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Prom and Punch

What is the number one stress of high schoolers all across America?

Finals!

Wrong!

I’m talking about prom, people! The biggest dance of your teenage life prom? The one where the guy asks the girl, and then–it–well, it goes on as normal from there. Anyway, it’s coming up for a lot of folks, which is exciting!

Don’t know if I’m going or not. I did the whole asking thing, but it didn’t turn out in my favor; go figure, huh? Might as well go stag and freak out a shitload of people with my dancing skills.

Woah, check this cat out!

Is he doing the worm? No, it looks like the anteater!

Dude, didn’t the anteater go out of style three years ago?

Yeah, man, this cat is kicking at a dry litter box; let’s beat it.

Totally.

Excellent.

Excuse Bill and Ted there, they sometimes pop up. But I don’t see Keanu Reeves much anymore; rumor is he finally found the sweet spot of Hollywood and is chomping on feature film candy as we speak.

If I do go to prom, I’ll likely stand in the back and drink punch like a creep. Girls’ll walk up to me, and I’ll say, “Hey…you think the punch is good, or what?” I will name it a victory if they don’t dump their punch in my face–oh, not the shirt, please not the shirt!

It’ll be nice. It’ll be real nice.

And you know? That’s exactly what the farmer said to Old Yeller before he shot him.

Actually, I haven’t watched it in a while, so what do I know? Guess I have plans now.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

How To Be Anti-Social

You just got called anti-social.

But what, you ask, can you do about it? Who knows. But why, you ask. There’s got to be a reason, right? You can’t stand being called anti social: a tag associated with all this loneliness and depressing crap that you think of as pointless drama.

You hold it off for now–it’s a thing you don’t want to deal with at the moment, but, eventually, it will become a reality; or is that another misconception? Is being social all that great anyhow? So you’ve learned to chat, Cathy, and the people you surround yourself with are new and colorful and vibrant, otherwise known as the words used to describe a box of Crayola colored pencils–how much of it is touching you as a person, as an individual? When you look into the mirror, do you see you for yourself, or–you for someone else?

You mull it over, take a nap, eat some food, the regular routine. Next day: you’re back at that one place, be it school, or work, even your own home, where you were tagged anti-social. Maybe the accuser isn’t there. They’ve gone off to do other things, but, you’re told, they’ll be back soon. Soon translates to you as never. They will never come back through those doors, into that room, so you can ask them, “What made you so curious as to what I look like on the outside, but you could care less about what I’m like on the inside, where it matters?”

Confusion takes hold. You start questioning, yourself, others, the world–and what does it all amount to but a tiresome headache and a conscience that has trouble forming cohesive thoughts? Anti-Social. The words are in your dreams; 24/7 you’re plugging your brain away at figuring out what the hell that person was trying to say. You lose sleep. You question your morality, who you’re meant to be. Frequent questions to yourself are, Am I a good person? Am I supposed to be here? Am I–it goes on and on.

The world folds in, it feels as if you’re drowning in a placid lake, no tidal waves or whirlpools to suck you down. You alone are sinking yourself to the bottom of the abyss, a weight tied to your ankle. And always it’s those words–anti-social. They’ve become so common in your thoughts, you’ve formed a stigma around them. Anti-social, to you, is all you can be–but, then, you realize, it’s not.

Perhaps you never talk to people as often as you’d like; and perhaps you never talk to people as often because–well, you don’t like to talk. Does that mean, however, that you have to wear a binding around your mouth because you’re a little on the silent side of life? Not quite; in fact, not talking to all those people gives you, individually, strength.

Your solitude feeds you.

It comes, at first, as a shock. How could you, the one who never talks, never voices their opinion, never laughs at jokes, be more correct than the one who labeled you?

But with all shocks, there is a numbness–and in this numbness you reflect, drawing your mind back to the happiest places and the memories you formed from being who you are. You remember life didn’t used to be so bad, it was a game you loved to play everyday. Sure, there were storm clouds on sunny days, rain drops on your umbrella of smiles, but you turned out fine.

You become whole, reinventing inside a palace of glee and laughter and purity that overshadows the darkness of your former shell. With this spirit, you step once more into the world and look around, identify those struggling from the same self-inflicted disease, the massive, horned bull named Doubt, and, ripping the page out of your book, the page someone decided to write in for you, when, in truth, it wasn’t their responsibility, you take on the crushing weight of the demon that has plagued you time and again, that has chewed up your courage and spit it across the universe as a warning, a warning that you are dangerous, considered highly toxic; and everywhere, from the deeps of the dark to the climes of the miraculous, people stray from the phenomenon that is you.

Then, after it sinks in, you know they’re right.

You are dangerous.

All should steer clear, all should tremble when they hear your name, because you, unlike any other human in the existence of anything, are weaponized, armed with the hidden secrets of your self–the source of power no one can attack if they can’t find it.

You are a weirdo.

You are a freak.

You are the unknown that frightens people so badly, they have to give you a name, and it is–

Anti-Social.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Oh, Boy, Another Writing Rejection

This has to be, what, the thirteenth or fourteenth time I have been rejected by a short story magazine? Just so you know, I keep count–there’s this stack of rejection sticky notes hanging on my cork board, stuck to it by a thumbtack. They’re accumulating, so, in a way, I suppose that’s a good thing, getting my stories out there and what not, even if they don’t make it.

I got this batch of short stories, at least seven of those puppies, waiting on special opportunities to free themselves and go out to those great readers that I will have someday. You see, there is no way I’m giving up. I’m gonna shoot off stories until I get published, damn it! And you can take that to the bank, or the publishing company…or wherever you stow your own stories, be it in a crate or a refrigerator.

Fun Fact: Tom Wolfe wrote on top of a refrigerator. Yeah, try that one on for size, you chair lovers.

Rejection is not so bad to me, most of the time. I view my failures as stepping stones, telling myself, “okay, buddy, you didn’t get in this time, but what can you do next time to make sure you receive a personal rejection instead of a form rejection?”

Oh, don’t you just get sick of those? It starts off all kind, “Thank you for submitting, such-and-such to our splendid magazine,” then comes the hammer to the gut, “but we do not think it exactly fits our tastes,” as if, instead of being publishers, they pursued a life of culinary critique. Ah, yes, hand me the fried lobster, would you, dear writer? In the end, they sometimes give you a little compliment, wish you luck, the sort of stuff that makes you want to nod your head while gorging on a Klondike Bar, not me personally, but, hey, whatever works.

I persevere, however. I fight the good fight and write once more into the night. Ah-ha, it did rhyme! I then search the darkest corners of the Internet for magazines accepting stories and blast ’em off, like Buzz Lightyear blasted Toy Story to the top of the Box Office. You go, Buzz! Be a friggin’ incredible Space Ranger! I’m gonna stay here and write some more stories.

Just can’t wait until I get done with these two novels, then we’ll see how hard it is to get published. Oh, you betcha, it’ll be a trial–several trials, in actuality–but I am ready to kick it old school and get my stuff out there!

Whoo! Whoo-hoo! Writing rocks, dudes! Cowabunga!

Ah, crap, I think I stepped too far into the surfer lingo, ’cause all of a sudden I’m in the ocean. Well, the laptop’s sinking now, so…I guess…wait…I think…I’m…breaking up…the connection…seems…to be…going on…the fritz…

Later…dudes…and…dudettes…

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Almost An Adult

This just in–my eighteenth birthday is on the approach! I need cake, presents, and a whole lot of guests; and I want it done double time, soldiers! I want you moving so fast you can hear brain juice sloshing around in your head! And if any of you wise guys get nauseous, it’s fifty laps for you!

Sorry about that, folks, just up in arms over this birthday thing. I mean, I’m just turning eighteen, which is nothing, right? Another age in the span of our super long lives, with the exception of twenty one…if you know what I mean. I at least understand its significance, that of becoming an adult, a man, or so they say, who pays bills and files taxes and works a job, otherwise known as all the boring stuff that comes with adulthood.

I’m like Peter Pan, but not as insane. See, Peter wanted to stay young, and everyone was cool. They said, “Hey, you go, Pan. We’re gonna be over here finding success and making families.” Then Peter got freaking weird and stole other kids from their homes so he wouldn’t be lonely in Neverland. If I remember correctly, Peter butchered the children who grew older than him.

Talk about stunted puberty.

All of you adults out there, I’m sure you know that superior feeling of independence you also get from adulthood. One time I went out to the movies, by myself, and bought a ticket, by myself, and watched the movie, by myself–and a bunch of other strangers who farted and laughed at weird parts of the movie. Then again, that might have been me the whole time.

It was The Conjuring 2, a horror movie. If I’m laughing out loud because there’s a super obvious hint to the ending of the plot, and no one else laughs, then there’s probably something wrong with me. It’d be a good idea to go see a psychologist, or a psychiatrist–I’m not too sure which is which anymore, but I know they both do screwy things to your already screwed up brain.

Birthday party’s gonna be kicking, though, ’cause I’m inviting all these epic rock bands and they’re set to play their greatest hits until midnight, then, when they’ve finished, we’ll shoot off those professional fireworks you always see in New York–those damn New Yorkers get all the fancy crap–and eat chips and salsa until everyone crashes on the lawn.

So, sort of the best party in the history of anything.

Can’t wait to be eighteen! If any of you cultured people got any tips of what to do once I cross the big eight one–wait, I mean one eight, then please, do let me know. I’ll follow some of them, then trash the rest.

Kidding, of course, but I’m not eighteen yet, so I can still lie and get away with it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

What is Smart?

How do we measure intelligence? Why, seriously, do we care? Most of the time a number doesn’t determine how smart someone can be, or how much they can accomplish with what they have to offer.

Smartie pants, what we call people who rank, I guess, between the high 190’s and the 230’s. I’m kinda making up numbers now, so follow along if you can–it’s okay if you get lost along the way.

List of famous Smartie Pants:

Albert Einstein

Nikola Tesla

Thomas Edison

Bill Gates

Steve Jobs

Ronald McDonald

You get it. Lotsa smart folks walking around the world, inventing new-fangled thingamabobs and questioning the norm. They’re not typically looked on as so smart in the beginning; in fact, many of the people on that list are social outcasts, with the exception of Ronald McDonald: he has all those young adults to sit on benches with him in his restaurants.

But, I am asking, honestly, how is it measured? Any of you can do a Google search and give me the answers. Um…it says here, they pull you into a nondescript building with a nondescript medical professional who has nondescript Rorschach tests. Fair. Okay. Not the answer I needed, but o-kay.

We put certain people on pedestals, those we think to have a certain level of intellect; we call them Einsteins and Edisons–and why? They can recite Newton’s Laws while standing on their head? They solve Calculus equations on ham and rye sandwiches–ew, by the way–then eat it after explaining the Theory of Relativity in French? Points for whoever can do that last thing. You are an impressive human being.

Do some individuals automatically acquire this aura of genius about them; but, because our collective eye is so blurred and foggy part of the time, we mistake them for average? For the typical klutz? I am puzzled by that–it’s why I asked you all the question, how is it measured?

I don’t believe it’s the way many others do. What they think is up to them. What I think…well, perhaps intelligence–real spunk–is not about how much a person can hold, but how they can use what little they know with tact and creativity. Use, not storage, is what I believe is the true measure of intelligence.

It’s not how well someone does on a pop quiz.

It’s not how high you score on an online intelligence test.

It’s the present, the future, and the past: what you have done, have created, to make someone think or act to make themselves change, for the better, or for the worse. Intelligence is the popsicle stick house of kindergarten, the argument with your friend at eight years old. It has substance and texture. It has a voice and hands. It has a personality. It’s like us because it is us.

What is smart?

Smart is doing what you did yesterday today; and, tomorrow, doing one part of it a little different.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Southpaw and Abercrombie

Will the real blogger please stand up?

Looks like we’re gonna have a problem here. This guy can’t come up with anything original. Yeah. He says he’s not musically inclined–whatever the hell that means. I can be musically inclined whenever it pleases me, just walk up a hill of trombones and tubas….eh, you get what I mean?

Sure, they get what you mean. Now scoot over and let me have my place at the microphone. There we are…yep, go on back to the techs. I think they need you to wash off the keyboards or something. Okay. Yeah, I hate you too. Oh, what a guy, that Abercrombie.

‘S happening, folks? I am pleased once again to be your deejay for tonight, this special night of March the twenty-third. You can call me Southpaw, or just plain Southie. Whatever works for you cool cats.

While we are in a lull of songs, and while you are stuck listening to me drone unless you change the station, let’s talk about music. I know a bit, never played an instrument in my life; but I know a bit. Let’s put it this way, I have learned how to rock the piano up to London Bridge–and that’s stepping into Ray Charles territory.

Good music is a hard to find commodity these days, at least I think it is.

Says the man who listens to the same two radio stations everyday.

Shuddup, Abercrombie! I thought you were mopping up vomit back there?

This job sucks. You never let me spin the records.

It’s because we don’t use records, you idiot! It’s the twenty-first century!

Yeah, well…I still have a record player.

Big whoop. So do I. Think that makes you unique? You and your tiny ass My Little Pony record player?

It’s not My Little Pony. It’s…It’s Carebears.

Abercrombie, would you leave, please? You’re making my head hurt.

It’s Carebears.

We get it, pal. Is he gone? Thank the musical gods. I can never really finish a talk when he’s barging into the studio. But we were talking about music, good music and how it’s hard to find.

With most bands, I tend to appreciate a live version of a song, over a studio version. I have been recently listening to a lot of Nirvana to find that their band sounds truer, more authentic, when they play such songs as Smells Like Teen Spirit or About A Girl. When Kurt Cobain, especially, is singing on the Unplugged album–

I like Nirvana too.

Abercrombie! How long have you been standing there? It’s like you’re stalking me!

Can I talk on the microphone?

No.

Just three seconds?

No.

Two seconds?

What did I tell you?

One second?

Abercrombie, that’s impossible.

Fine. I guess I’ll leave then.

O-kaaay. Good, he’s gone this time, walked straight out the studio door. I got four minutes left. As I was saying, when Kurt Cobain, especially, is singing on the Unplugged album, it sounds as if he’s singing from inside, from his soul, as compared to the studio versions they play on the radio, where a man with a much deeper voice throws Kurt off the microphone and ties him up in the back roo–

Do you want something from the diner?

Good lord! I’m going to die of fright.

It’s just that…well, my tummy keeps growling. I didn’t want to seem selfish.

That’s it. I’m ending early. Good night. Enjoy your new-age music.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Running: A Short Tribute

This is officially my last year of running competitively in school, that means no more Cross Country or Track in college or anywhere else for that matter. Why? I’m thinking I’ll be a little busy writing stories while attaining a degree–doing fourteen miles a day and stretching takes away some precious time.

That said, I wanted to perform a sort of tribute to the whole shebang of running like a maniac–and some people do call me a crazy man. The feelings never seem to go away, which is what I’m clinging to, hoping I’ll at least remember some of my best races when I’m in my seventies and living in a retirement home.

I have had my fair share of good times and places; but, to me, what matters most is the race itself. The pounding of hundreds of shoes on the dirt or the asphalt or the track. Heavy breathing right behind you, or even beside you. An explosion in your chest: the aftermath of a thousand atomic bombs detonated inside your lungs.

See, I started running in seventh grade. It was not at first my choice; in actuality, my mother persuaded me to join the Cross Country team at my middle school. This meant instead of spending weekends playing video games and/or reading, I had to be out on the road, with my mom, jogging a mile and a half. I would hardly even call my style jogging–at the point I was about as fast a hog when it sees a corn cob on the other side of its sty. My mom beat me every time we went outside.

Then, I joined the Cross Country team, a newbie with glasses and a horrid running form; and, of course, I got fifth place on Varsity. Wait, what? Rewind. You made Varsity as a runner with no experience and the worst form of all the members on the team? Insane! Impossible!

Yes, exact same thing I said; but, guess what, once I got the place, I was determined to keep it, even if it meant tripping over a hill at my first race and scraping my arm–hey, I didn’t cry–and finishing at about the middle of the pack. But it was exhilarating. I wanted to go again and again and again. And I told myself I would…until somebody told me I could not.

Hint: they never did.

I found some of my best friends, even I’d say, my best friend, while running. They stuck by me. I stuck by them. We had fun–excuse me, are still having fun; although, not all of my friends have stayed the line of running. That doesn’t mean we’re not still friends–but now I can’t fart everywhere and have them punch me on the arm.

Back in middle school, about a year after I started running, I was one of the top dogs, along with a couple of my friends, and I felt like the bomb. But don’t we all? Then cut to high school. Instantly my throne was shattered and I became a frightened puppy because the hounds were whupping my ass.

I had to relearn what it felt like to be tiny, a smaller runner in the shadow of those better runners; but one thing I never did was tell myself I could not beat them. So what they were faster now? Give me some time and I’d be right beside them, maybe ahead of them. A couple I did beat. Others I did not beat. I still gave it my best shot at each go.

That’s what I tell the other runners to do–to give it their all and not care whether another guy is faster than them, because it is in them to be faster than the opposite runner. I know most look up to me now, things like that humble you, they really do; and it is always hilarious to watch how shocked they are to find out I was in their shoes when I first started.

This is to those runners.

This is to Cross Country.

This is to Track.

This is to anyone who told me I could do whatever I wanted.

I’ll miss you.

Thank you.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Note: I’m the one who looks like he got punched in the gut.

Does This Post Make You Laugh Out Loud?

There is something to be said about a sense of humor, specifically when it is appropriate versus when it is not. Who determines that? I don’t know, the fuzz? No, likely not the fuzz; no, it’s those guys and girls who don’t like jokes.

But who doesn’t like jokes, you ask.

Who knows? We’re not talking about those people today. They can go back to their boring old statistical books and the manual of HOW TO KEEP ONESELF FROM UTTERING A CHUCKLE. Who’s it by? Oh, Anonymous. I can see why. Go ahead and put the pitchforks and the mob signs away, guys.

I like to think I have a sense of humor. Now, like all sense-of-humorists, I have my greatest hits and my burn outs; see, if I wanted to be most of the hair bands in the eighties, I’d have more of the latter than the former. But, I am not Cinderella, or her Twister Sister.

Like all good things, sometimes too much can be deadly. How do I mean? I can easily get away from myself, not like, “ewwww, get me away from me! He’s so disgusting and unfunny!” I mean losing sight of a stopping point and exhausting myself to the point where, when I’m laughing at my own jokes–what a doofus–I almost collapse out of tiredness.

Mostly it occurs at home–geez, I can a hear a British announcer for the Discovery Channel narrating that sentence–and least of all at school. I like to think I could spin a few doozies, hit a few home runs, squirt a few patties with ketchup, fill some cups with milk…how about I stop with that analogy? Yeah? Okay.

I must admit though, whenever we have a informational video streaming in class, it is a trial to shut my mouth and not say anything that might cause people to bust their guts laughing–just as long as it doesn’t come out the other end. I want get my MST3K on, know what I’m talking ’bout, people?

If you don’t that’s all right. That show was popular before I was born.

At home, of course, I get a few chuckles. I get a fart, too; but I don’t think that’s from me. Most times my family looks at me weird, then they do the “oh-we’ll-laugh-to-make-him-feel-good” bit, and go on back to their work and get onto me for lazing in the armchair in my underwear and skimming through a knock-knock book for ten year olds.

C’mon, you can’t believe that. I am an advanced sense-of-humorist. Who uses knock-knock books when there’s all these yo-mamma pamphlets circulating the corners at my local elementary school?

Yo mamma so hungry, she–

Johnathan Alexander Whitby! Finish coloring your math homework!

Yes ma’am…[in a whisper] she eats the stick off a corn dog.

Poor Jonathan Alexander Whitby, cursed with a terrible name created by mua.

It could have been worse. It could have been–

Think daily,

A Southpaw