You Had Me At Idiot

Interpret This Dream, Hippies

For most of my life, I've thought that all those barefoot, granola-eating hippie whackos were... well, whackos. But little by little, they're starting to win me over on some things.

Global warming. I now worry daily about global warming. Well, okay, maybe not daily. But every time I drive my SUV two blocks to mail a letter, I feel kind of bad and think about all the polar bears drowning.

And it used to be that I always considered the most evil organization in the world to be the Dallas Cowboys. And Nazis. Nazis and the Dallas Cowboys. Tied for #1. But nowadays I'm thinking Monsanto. I think there's a special place in hell for anyone who works for Monsanto... and the Dallas Cowboys... and the Baltimore Ravens... and the Nazis.

Okay, so there you go. Global warming and Monsanto. Two areas where I agree with the smelly hippies. But I still think they're whackos when it comes to other things. Take dream interpretation. Every time somebody tells you that dreams mean something and that they can be interpreted, it's almost always a hippie who dabbles in acupuncture on the side.

Last night I had a dream, and for the life of me, I can't imagine that it could mean anything at all. If you're a hippie and you can intrepret this dream for me, I will give you one hundred billion dollars. But since hippies don't believe in money, I'll give you a toothbrush instead.

Okay, so last night I was in bed, and I was thinking about this Mexican guy that I saw in a restaurant last week. I was thinking about him because he had possibly the thickest, fullest head of hair I have ever seen on a man. But he also had what was possibly the stupidest haircut I have ever seen on a mammal in captivity. It was a really bad Dorothy Hamill bowl cut. But it was extreme. This guy had hair about 5 inches thick. It came down and then it just stopped kind of high on his neck, which was completely shaved from that point down. And this made me really angry. The reason it made me really angry is that someone out there has this much hair and obviously takes it completely for granted. I would kill to have that guy's hair. Because I'm one of those gusys with a head of hair that makes complete strangers come up to me real somberly and say, "Radiation therapy is terrible, isn't it? You know, my cousin had leukemia. Well, keep your spirits up."

That's what I was thinking about when I fell asleep last night. And then I had this dream...

I'm on a bus that is heading west on I-70 in Kansas, driving toward Colby, where I grew up. On the bus with me was the entire Cincinnati Bengals football team. This made me even angrier, because I hate the Cincinnati Bengals. Bunch of whining crybabies with stupid uniforms. And even worse, Chad Johnson walked all the way to the back of the bus, touched my knuckles with his, and sat down next to me.

Soon, the entire team decided it was time to go night-night, even though it was something like 2 in the afternoon. All of their seats electronically glided so that their backs were to the side of the bus, and then they all scrunched back like a bunch of human accordions so that they all smashed against each other with no room between them. This apparently is how people in Cincinnati sleep.

A few minutes after this, the bus stopped somewhere outside Wakeeney, and the entire Colby High School Booster Club came aboard and began passing out pamphlets. And by the Booster Club, I mean all of the ugly girls who didn't make the cheerleading squad.

We drove on for a few miles and then everybody started to grab their passports and other important legal documents because we were approaching Grinnell. For some reason, we all had to walk up to the front of the bus, where there was a counter with two people behind it. And we were supposed to hand them our "papers" so that we could proceed past Grinnell, a Homeland Security hotspot.

I frantically scrounged through my backpack, trying to find whatever important papers I might have in there. But all I could find were some gas receipts, papers with incorrect mapquest directions, and handi-wipes, which Jodi makes me take everywhere I go.

Then I said, "I don't have a passport! What do I do?"

For some reason, my sister Linda was sitting next to me and Chad Johnson. And she said, "Well, keep looking. You gotta have a passport."

"Why do I need a passport to go to Colby?"

"We don't live in Colby anymore, Paul. We're not going there. We're going to West Virginia."

"What?! Why are we going to West Virginia?"

"Because Mom always wanted to live in West Virginia. But we don't live there yet. Right now we live in Hudson, Kansas."

"Where the hell is Hudson, Kansas? I never heard of a Hudson, Kansas! Why do we live there?"

"Because Mom always wanted to live in West Virginia."

"Mom died 26 years ago. Are you on drugs? And besides, I don't want to live in West Virginia."

"But Mom always wanted to live in West Virginia. In fact, she and Dad conceived you on the carpet."

"WHAT?!!"

"Mom and Dad conceived you on the carpet."

"What does that have to do with moving to West Virginia? And by the way, thanks for putting that image in my head. But what does that have to do with anything? Do they even have carpet in West Virginia?"

But she just kept repeating, "Mom and Dad conceived you on the carpet." I couldn't get her to say anything else.

It was kind of like trying to get Hillary Clinton to give you a straight answer during a debate...

"Senator Clinton, recent polls suggest that 70% of Americans think you're full of shit. Making up stories and basically being a giant asshole to everyone. My question is, why do you you lie all the time?"

"Well Bob, let me just answer that by saying that there are 15 million Americans that Barack Obama wants to have put to death, and John McCain is suggesting that we hang senior citizens from the ceiling by their nipples and beat them into submission with claw hammers. I am the only candidate who will not beat our old people with claw hammers. And that is why I am running for President of the United States. The American people are sick and tired of politicians hanging their nipples on hooks and beating them to death with claw hammers. I for one will fight for them. I will stand up to the politcians and say, 'No more nipple hooks! No more claw hammers!'"

"Yes, but that doesn't really answer my question. Why do you feel it necessary to lie about everything?"

"Mom and Dad conceived you on the carpet."

The Day Carl Was Delivered From My Butt

The reason I haven't posted in so long is that somebody sent me a text message on my phone, and it has taken me a month and a half to figure out what was happening and how to respond to it. I am not kidding. A month and a half. Sorry, but for the life of me, I just cannot understand the thrill behind this whole text messaging thing. I mean, why spend a month and a half telling someone to leave me alone when I can do it the old fashioned way in two seconds?

Anyway, I'm also out of my normal routine these days due to the emotional loss of my ass bump, Carl.

One day, after I had contracted the black plague from somebody, I decided to go see a doctor. While the doctor was treating me for the black plague, I decided to tell him about Carl, who had lived in my butt for the past 8 months. And the doctor looked at Carl and said, "Well... could be cancer... could be nothing. Let's take it out!"

So I said, "Okay, let's take it out. When?"

And he said, "In two weeks."

And I said, "But what if it's cancer and it kills me before then?"

And he said, "Well, we can't remove Carl until you get over the black plague, and if you die in the next two weeks, it'll probably be from that."

Two weeks later I returned, and I sat in his waiting room with 20 other people who were being treated for the black plague. There was one person sitting in the corner, and it was the freakiest looking clump of white trash I've ever seen. I have no idea if it was a man, a woman, or a hermaphrodite. All I know is that its head was sort of turned toward the ceiling, and its face-like area was all scrunched up with a big, puckered fleshy hole in the middle.

So I sat there looking at this bizarre, pulsating flesh hole for about 45 minutes while the other 20 people wheezed and coughed and farted on me. I would have gone outside, but if you're not there when they call your name, you go to the end of the line. That's why I sat frozen with my hand over my mouth for 45 minutes, wishing I had some Skittles. Not because I wanted to eat them. But because I wanted to see if I would be able to throw some into the fleshy hole of the beast in the corner and make it move.

After every person in the state of North Carolina except for me and the fleshy-holed beast had come and gone from the waiting room, my name was finally called.

I was led to a small room. Then I was instructed to remove all of my clothes and put on this big paper napkin that they handed to me.

So I put on the big paper napkin and sat in a cold chair for another 45 minutes, waiting for the doctor. That small room sucks. The only thing to look at is the dispenser on the wall holding the plastic gloves that doctors wear when they molest you. I almost asked them to go get the fleshy-holed beast from the waiting room and bring it back to my little room so I would have something familiar to stare at.

But finally the doctor and his assistant came in. They made me lie face down on the table thing with Carl and the rest of my butt sticking out. I still don't know what the big paper napkin was for.

In order that I wouldn't feel any "pain" from the incision, the doctor began sticking a needle into my ass 163 times, and each time it felt like he was jabbing a great big steak knife in there and twisting it around and around. Again, they do that so that you don't feel "pain."

Then he started slicing up my butt and saying things like, "Oh, look at that! Oh wow, yeah! Oooh, it's a deep one!"

Not only that, but at some point the doctor must have picked up the black plague from one of his Chia Pet patients in the waiting room, because he kept sniffling. At one point the assistant had to get some tissue and hold it to his nose. I just shut my eyes real tight and waited for the inevitable feeling of a giant snot bubble to fall into my open butt crevice. I don't mind dying of cancer, but I would be really pissed if I died of a doctor's snot bubble in my ass.

Before I knew it, Carl had been extracted.

The doctor said, "There it is!"

And the assistant said, "Do you wanna show it to him? Let's show it to him!"

So I opened an eye and the doctor's hand came into view, holding Carl, who looked like a glob of Gouda cheese covered in blood. They wrapped Carl in a blanket and gave him to me to cuddle for a few minutes. Then they took him away to the nursery.

"It was just a alskfjalskdlaskjdfkajsdf cyst," said the doctor. "Just a cyst. Nothing to worry about." He almost sounded disappointed.

I asked, "What's a alskfjalskdlaskjdfkajsdf cyst? What causes it?"

And he said, "Oh, it's somewhat common. It just happens due to excessive sweaty blah blah blah blah..."

And I said, "But I've had Carl since June, and I don't remember sweating on my ass. Not until I started going to the gym last month."

And the doctor said, "Blah blah blah blah blah," as he put stitches in my butt.

When we were all finished, he gave me a prescription for a bunch of pills. Then I asked, "What about the gym? Will I be able to go to the gym with these stitches?"

He asked, "What sort of things do you do at the gym?"

And I said, "I do squats and I fall off the treadmill."

"Oh, that should be fine," he told me as he sent me on my way.

As I left the tiny cyst-birth-giving room, I stopped by the nursery to take one last look at Carl. Sometimes I still feel guilty, like I abandoned him. But then I come to my senses and realize that I'm much too young to be taking care of a big clump of bloody Gouda. He'll be better off with people who know what to do with him. Someone like the big fleshy-holed mutant who was still in the corner of the waiting room when I left.

My Obituary

I'm pretty sure that I now know where the end of my life will take place--on a treadmill. I'm pretty good when it comes to walking in a parking lot or on an empty sidewalk. I'm not so good on a treadmill.

So this is how I imagine my obituary is going to read: "Paul Stoecklein, age 40, was killed Monday morning by a treadmill. He was not a member of the Rotary Club, the Elks Club, the Lions Club, the Polar Bear Club, the Prairie Dog Club, the Common Field Mice Club, the Ruritan Club, Von's Club, the Jaycees, the VFW, the Knights of Columbus, Jerry's Kids, AAA, Eagle Scouts, Hands Across America, Feet Across Oklahoma, the Red Hat Society, the Blue Shirt Society, the Green Sock Society, the White Underwear Society, or NAMBLA. He did not belong to any club. He was far too busy watching Project Runway, NFL Total Access, the Andy Griffith Show, and a bunch of movies he's already seen a million times before. He is survived by his wife Jodi, her cold that will never go away, one dog that eats poop, another dog that farts when people come over to dinner, a bunch of weird red bugs in the backyard, seven siblings who are much, much older than him, six cans of Dr. Pepper, and a tub of Red Vines. In lieu of flowers, please send money and magazines to his wife."

That's it. That's how it's all gonna go down. A treadmill. Trust me on this.

We actually bought a treadmill many years ago. It was an orange one. We saw it on television, and we bought it for four easy payments of $39.95. When you walked on it, the thing would squeak really loudly. I think we used it for about a week and couldn't stand the noise anymore, so we stopped using it all together. The treadmill folded up so you could store it when you were not using it. But we were too lazy to fold it and store it, so there it stood, in the middle of the living room for about 2 years.

That was my only experience with treadmills until we started going to a gym last month. Eventually I was coerced into using a treadmill. They just said to me, "Hey, you don't look stupid enough walking on the track upstairs. Why don't you get up here on a treadmill and see what you can do to injure yourself?"

So I did. And let me tell you, treadmills have changed a lot since 1993. I get up there and it looks like a cockpit. I've never seen so many buttons in my life. I'll bet there are crazy Arabs going into gyms all around the country saying, "I want you to teach me how to use a treadmill. I just want to know how to start it. I don't care about landing."

Now, after figuring out which buttons to push, I might have been okay. The problem is that you look up and there are eight televisions hanging in front of you. And out of the eight televisions, there's only one channel that I don't care for--the one that is showing non-stop country music videos. Thank God I can't hear it unless I put my headphones into the thingy attached to the treadmill. But I don't even need to hear it to tell you that there are basically two kinds of country music videos. The kind with a guy wearing a cowboy hat, and the kind with a bunch of haggard country women who look like they've been ridden hard and put away wet.

So yeah, you get me up on a treadmill, the thing starts moving really fast, and I'm completely distracted by eight television screens. The very first time I tried to use one of the treadmills, there was a guy on the Today Show who had blue skin. I don't know why he had blue skin; he just did. All I know is that I found it impossible to walk in a straight line whenever I would look at him. My left foot kept stepping on the outer part of the treadmill and I'd have to grab the rails to keep from falling down.

Most of the time, my eyes go right to the ESPN or CNN screen when I'm on the treadmill. For some reason, I'm kind of interested in this year's presidential race. I don't know why. I've never cared before, but now I just seem to like watching them fight and see who wins what. I'm not a Republican or a Democrat. I don't know what I am. I'd say that the majority of people in the country tend to have moderate views on most subjects, so they tend to vote for the person who is closer to the middle. Not me. I tend to have extreme views, either leaning to the right or the left. For example, I'm very much to the left when it comes to global warming. I'm in favor of trying to figure out a way to use alternative fuels, like sunlight or Milk Duds and get rid of oil companies and executives all together. On the other hand, I'm very much to the right when it comes to crime; I say give me a gun, line all the criminals up, and let me create world peace on the spot. In the end, I think my vote will come down to the person I'll most likely be able to stand watching on TV for the next 4 years, and right now that's Barack Obama. Hillary's ass and mouth are way too big, John McCain looks like a hand grenade went off in his cheeks, and Mike Huckabee just has a really stupid name. I mean, it would be better if he had my soap opera name (Blaze Tanner) or my porn star name (Giz Trickle).

So walking on the treadmill and watching television at the same time is just way too much for my brain to handle. That's why I decided to use my iPod instead and try to ignore the TV screens as much as possible, even though ignoring a TV screen is very much against my religious beliefs.

So I bought an iPod holder thingy, which you put around your arm. But I'm too uncoordinated to get it on my arm without it falling off.

One day, I just got fed up with arm thing, so I took it off completely. Then I noticed a little slot under the cockpit buttons on the treadmill. It was just the perfect size for stashing an iPod while I walked.

Out of 10 or 15 treadmills in a row, I was on one near the middle, with a row of weird elliptical machines lined up behind. For the first 30 or 40 seconds, my iPod plan seemed like a really good one. As I began walking faster to the music, my arms started to move a lot more. Normally, this would be a good thing. But just as I felt myself really getting into a groove, one of my hands hit my ear phones cord that was hanging from my ears to the iPod in the cubby hole. The iPod went flying into the air, my legs instinctively stopped as I tried to catch it, and I went shooting off the back of the treadmill and onto the floor.

After the laughter finally subsided, I managed to get back on the treadmill, situate my iPod once more, and press the correct cockpit buttons. And then, 2 minutes and 14 seconds later...

I did it again.