One of the most bizarrely cool people I’ve ever met was an oral surgeon who treated me after a ridiculous accident (that’s another story), Dr. Z.
Dr. Z. was, easily, the best and most competent doctor or dentist I’ve ever encountered – and after that accident, I encountered quite a number. He came stunningly highly recommended, had an excellent record, and the most calming bedside manner I’ve ever seen.
That last wasn’t the sweet gentle caretaking sort of manner, which some nurses have but you wouldn’t expect to see in a surgeon. No; when Dr. Z. told me that one of my broken molars was too badly damaged to save, and I (being seventeen and still moderately in shock) broke down crying, he stared at me incredulously and said, in a tone of utter bemusement, “But – I am very good.”
I stopped crying on the spot. In the last twenty-four hours or so of one doctor after another, no one had said anything that reassuring to me. He clearly just knew his own competence so well that the idea of someone being scared anyway was literally incomprehensible to him. What more could I possibly ask for?
(He was right. The procedure was very extended, because the tooth that needed to be removed was in bits, but there was zero pain at any point. And, as he promised, my teeth were so close together that they shifted to fill the gap to where there genuinely is none anymore, it’s just a little easier to floss on that side.)
But Dr. Z.’s insane competence wasn’t just limited to oral surgery.
When I met Dr. Z., he, like most doctors I’ve had, asked me if I was in college, and where, and what I was studying. When I say “math,” most doctors respond with “oh, wow, good for you” or possibly “what do you want to do with that after college?”
Dr. Z. wanted to know what kind of math.
I gave him the thirty-second layman’s summary that I give people who are foolish enough to ask that. He responded with “oh, you mean–” and the correct technical terms. I confirmed that was indeed what I meant (and keep in mind, this was upper-division college math, you don’t take this unless you’re a math major). He asked cogent follow-up questions, and there ensued ten or so minutes of what I’d call “small talk” except for how it was an intensely technical mathematical discussion.
He didn’t, as far as I can tell, have any kind of formal math background. He just … knew stuff.
I was a competitive fencer at this point in time, so when he asked if I had any questions about the surgery that would be necessary, I asked him if I’d be okay to fence while I had my jaw wired shut, or if it would interfere with breathing.
“Fencing?” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “like swordfighting,” because this is another conversation I got to have a lot. (People assume they’ve misheard you, or occasionally they think you mean building fences.)
“Which weapon?”
“Uh. Foil.”
“No, it won’t be safe,” and he went off into an explanation of why.
Turns out, he was also a serious fencer – and, when I mentioned my fencing coach, an old friend of his. (I asked my fencing coach later, and, oh yes, Dr. Z., a good friend of mine, excellent fencer.) (My coach was French. Dr. Z. was Israeli. I never saw Dr. Z. around the club or anything. I have no idea how they knew each other.)
So this was weird enough that later, when I was home, I looked Dr. Z. up on Yelp. His reviews were stellar, of course, but that wasn’t the weird thing.
The weird thing was that the reviews were full of people – professionals in lots of different fields – saying the same thing: I went to Dr. Z. for oral surgery, and he asked me about what I did, and it turned out he knew all about my field and had a competent and educated discussion with me about the obscure technical details of such-and-such.
All sorts of different fields, saying this. Lawyers. Businessmen. Musicians.
As far as I can tell, it’s not that I just happened to be pursuing the two fields he had a serious amateur interest in – he just seemed to be extremely good at literally everything.
I have no explanation for this. Possibly he sold his soul to the devil.
He did a damn good job on my surgery.
He’s a 900 year old vampire. No other explanation.
Okay, as a lot of you know, I work overnights at a hotel. It’s for a pretty recognizable brand, so we get a lot of high paying customers.
Part of my job is to prep the breakfast area before the breakfast team shows up so that breakfast is done by the time it needs to be. This, of course, means that I have to step away from the desk. It doesn’t really help that the time I need to start working on breakfast is also when customers start checking out.
So I had the bright idea of making a sign. It’s not fancy, the letters are pretty big, and it basically just says “Hey if you need me I’m in the kitchen, just give a holler.”
It’s worked really well so far; people see it, they call for me, and I get them taken care of with little to no fuss. Or, at least, it’s worked up until now.
This guy.
This. Fucking. Guy.
I finish prepping the breakfast area, I walk out, and at the front desk is a man, huffing and puffing. He harshly asks “Are you working the front desk?”.
I say with my best customer service voice “Yes sir, I just had to prep a few things for the breakfast team. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yeah you can help me by giving me some fucking service. I’ve been waiting for almost five minutes and I have to catch my flight!”
Oh boy. Here we go.
So I tell the man, “Well, sir, if you’ll look right in front of you, if you needed me, that sign tells you that I was in the kitchen.”
And this man. Just. Fucking looks at me. And says.
“You expect me to fucking read on my day off?”
And I just.
I was floored. That someone would say that. Completely unironically. With no hesitation.
gather round, folks, that i may pass down the tale of Fuck-It Jonn, because that dude is just the GREATEST FUCKING CONMAN in the WORLD, and he WASN’T EVEN TRYING. he absolutely fucking STUMBLED ON ACCIDENT into THE SCAM THAT WOULD DEFINE HIS ENTIRE LIFE. the lie that transformed his ENTIRE EXISTENCE out of SHEER RANDOM BULLSHIT.
and his sole motivation was to EAT FINGER FOOD.
consider:
in the Wayback Days™ before i was born, the people who would later become my parents had this friend named… yeah, let’s say jonn. i’d rather not say his real name. bitches not snitches, and all that.
so. france in the late 80s. jonn and my parents had just finished school and all found jobs in computer engineering. (not that they STUDIED computer engineering, mind you. no, they were all studying how to become fish farmers or some shit. but those were simpler times, when knowing how to turn the fucking screen on got you a comfortable salary at the ripe old age of 24 years old.)
except that jonn, who was a chill hippie kind of dude, was bored to death by his desk job. so bored that he decided to just up and quit. “fuck it”, was basically jonn’s motto. fuck it, he’d find something better! fuck it, and things would work out! EXCEPT (as you may have guessed) THEY DIDN’T. for months and months he didn’t find another job. and so he ended up depressed, struggling, and eating dinner at my future-parents’ tiny apartment, three times a week, so he wouldn’t literally starve.
time went by. jonn was still unemployed. so before his resources hit rock bottom, jonn did the only logical, reasonable thing. what’s that, you ask? begged for his old job back? went back to school? crawled home to his parents? ha ha! obviously you do not share jonn’s ADVENTUROUS AND ENTREPRENEURIAL SPIRIT. and also you lack his BIZARRE LOGIC AND PLAIN WEIRD APPROACH TO LIFE.
what jonn did was: say “fuck it” (again) and leave for thailand.
because you see, thailand was cheap by french standards. so cheap that even a penniless dude on unemployment could live there for weeks on end, spending much less than he would have in france, as long as he didn’t mind roughing it. and jonn didn’t mind! “fuck it”, he’d said. and by god, he would stand by his words!
so jonn gamely scrounged up the money for the plane ticket and then… yeah. basically bummed it out in thailand. for two months. seeing the sights. sleeping on the street. making new friends.
and one of these news friends turned out to be very adept at FORGING PAPERS.
huh, jonn said to himself (probably high at the time) this sounds not at all shifty and more like a ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY; what could POSSIBLY GO WRONG. my new thai best friend is even offering me a FAMILY DISCOUNT. for fake papers. fuck it! let’s have some!
as far as i can tell, jonn… didn’t even need fake papers?? like, he was literally just trying not to pass up on an opportunity here. so he smoked some more weed (i can only assume) and got A BRILLIANT IDEA. fake ID card? LAME. fake driver’s licence? HACKNEYED. fake medical degree? PEDESTRIAN. no! jonn got himself a fake press card.
but why??
well, OBVIOUSLY, just so he could get into cultural events for free – conferences, art premieres, etc – and eat all the finger food. that was his grand plan. stroll into press-only events, wave his poorly-made card around, and gorge himself on canapés. no more going hungry! ever! jonn would live off tiny slices of toasted foie gras and flutes of cheap champagne for the rest of his life!
so now jonn, Very Obviously Fake Journalist™, is back in france and he’s DOING THE THING. and guess what? this was before google. before facebook. before linkedin. impersonating a journalist was very easy. if people asked where you worked you just said you were freelance, then steered the conversation to current politics and stealthily devoured the entire buffet while everybody was busy debating.
and so. this is what jonn is doing. his monumentally stupid plan is actually working. this is how he eats. with thai-made fake papers and sheer fucking confidence. and of course people start noticing him eventually! jonn is always fucking there! at all and any events in paris! because, again, THIS IS HOW HE EATS! but it’s always the same people running around in these circles, anyway. so nobody’s surprised to see the same dudes popping up over and over again. jonn blends in! and jonn is very good at making friends. and changing the subject. and eating canapés.
and then ONE DAY
one of jonn’s newfangled journalist friends (a REAL journalist, mind you, who has NO IDEA that jonn isn’t What He Seems) basically goes: “dude i’m so swamped rn. everyone wants everything all at once. fuck. shit. are you swamped too?”
“oh, for sure,” jonn says through a mouthful of his twenty-ninth serving of canapés that night. “not a second to myself”
“god. fuck. tell me about it. shit. i’m just so damn swamped.” Real Journalist shakes his head. “if i could only find someone to cover for me on this one article.”
now, i know i said before that jonn was smoking weed. but i must confess now i said it for humorous effect. i have no idea if jonn’s ever been within five hundred yards of a blunt his whole life. but what you must understand is that jonn is Chill™ on like. a soul-deep level. his whole mind is one long exhale of smoke followed by the words “fuck it”. this is a man who left his job for no reason, lived in thailand on a tourist’s visa for two months, got fake papers there for the lol of it all, and is now living off press-only events in paris. jonn was BORN HIGH.
SO. when RJ asks him: “dude. jonn. you said you were working freelance. i know you’re busy but don’t you think you could maybe cover for me? just this once?”
jonn NATURALLY answers: “fuck it. sure”
then goes to an unemployment center and applies for one of their free one-week classes. on journalism. jonn spends ALL OF ONE WEEK learning How To Write An Article Like A Real Journalist With A Real Press Card. then writes the article. basically bullshitting his way through that thing. half-assing the life out of it. faking his heart out. because why not? FUCK IT.
i have NO IDEA if he actually did a good job or not. but it was in fact good enough for RJ who really must have been truly swamped, and was so truly grateful that he told all of their mutual journalists friends. who were ALL SWAMPED. i’m given to understand it’s the natural state of the journalist in the wild.
and so jonn is now REGULARLY COVERING FOR ALL SORTS OF JOURNALISTS.
not making much money i assume. but still, not bad for a dude who studied journalism for five whole days.
and well, it’s kinda fun! better than moping around at home waiting for the next free canapé press-only premiere. so jonn keeps at it. and eventually it occurs to him that hey! he spent two months in thailand. why not make an article out of that? so he writes himself a lil paper, retelling his Bumtastic Adventures in the Land of Thai People, Cheap Living and Forged Papers (That Last One Having Nothing to Do With Him Personally of Course). and he’s kinda proud of it. so much that he gives it to his journalist friends. can they maybe pass it around? see if anybody would be interested in publishing it? for a modest fee and some more canapés?
and yeah. someone was in fact interested in publishing it. and that someone was:
THE
NATIONAL
GEOGRAPHIC
(french edition.)
so jonn got a REAL press card. got a FULL-TIME JOB at the national geographic. and spent the REST OF HIS WORK LIFE traveling abroad for six months, then going back to paris the rest of the year to write about his wacky journeys. he’s retired now, having published several books full of his articles and photographs. he’s bought a b&b in the french countryside with all his money. and continues to say “fuck it” to any problem that comes his way like the absolute fucking legend he is.
as far as i know, none of his journalist buddies nor his boss ever found out about any of this.
Small town culture is knowing that there are Old Folks with strange nicknames but never knowing the stories behind them.
Of course, I made the mistake of asking why everyone calls this one guy Brickaday and it turns out that he worked at a brickyard for 40 years, stealing exactly one brick every day and making no particular efforts to conceal the theft. Nobody thought anything of it until years later he was discovered to have built three houses.
His boss is said to have shrugged and made some remarks about the importance of coming up with a plan and sticking to it.
I‘m trying to arrange my face into an appropriate approximation of silent bafflement and failing miserably.
i appreciate brickaday
chaotic good
My grandpa once told me he worked with a guy called Scrappy at General Motors back in the 50s. Every few days he would wheelbarrow out metal shavings and the foreman was convinced he was stealing things and hiding them in the scrap metal to get it out of the factory. But every time they’d go through the scrap they’d find nothing. He was stealing the wheelbarrows.
One of my late grandfather’s friends was called Salami because he used to steal salami and cured meats so I’m seeing a pattern here
Story Time: in 2012, when I still lived in Florida, I used to work for a credit union, and I had the absolute worst manager and assistant manager. They were sloppy, lazy, and offloaded their work onto other people. No biggie; I’m grown and I can handle my job and not stress because I’m damned good at it. Problem: the manager and assistant manager, who happened to be best friends in real life, also happen to be very, very conservative older women. I’m talking like, hardcore conservative Christians, the kind who are not very good people and are very unlike Christ. I don’t make it a point to tell people I work with my business because when you work, you’re busy and you don’t want to burden other people, right? At least, I don’t. Subject of my love life comes up after a while of me staying in my lane, and I’m also not a liar, so I casually mention that I happen to be gay and I’m dating someone at the time.
The change in my managers was almost immediate. From that point on they tried their utmost to make my life miserable, but I wasn’t going to break. Fast forward about a month after this mess and one of the tellers, Tanika, and I have become really good friends, and she pulls me aside one Monday morning to tell me that she overheard the manager and assistant manager talking about firing me, and she didn’t want to get too involved, but she didn’t think it was fair so she wnated to give me a headsup. Here’s the best part: these asshats are SO lazy that they literally say – or so Tanika tells me- that they’ll wait for the end of the week to do it, because otherwise they would have no one to cover my Wednesday shift, and they’d have to sit on the teller line, and no siree Bob, they’re too good for that! Too important! Too. Fucking. Lazy.
Immediately I type up a two week notice at my station, print that shit out, and take it to that sloppy ass manager in her sloppy ass office. They have no receipts on me, but these people will find anything and use it to get rid of you if they can, and I’m not having a forcible termination on my record and dealing with how that will look to future employers. Keep in mind that I’m not supposed to know that they’re planning on firing me, and I’ve done my homework on company policy about two week notices (they had just changed it in January, and it was February). I give her the paper, sit in front of her, tell her some cock and bull story about needing more time for school. She looks upset, tells me to leave the letter, and go back to my station. I pull out a second copy of the letter and say: “Sure! But, first, I need your signature on this one, which is my copy of the two week notice.” Her face was a Goddamned mask at this point, but I could tell she was burning up inside. She’s trapped; she has to either sign it and pretend everything is fine, or she refuses and I go in on her for her “suspicious behavior” and call her higher ups. She signs my copy. I go back and finish my day.
Day ends and the assistant manager comes to me and tells me they have spoken to the president of the credit union and they have decided to terminate me anyway. Tells me I need to turn in my drawer and vault keys immediately and leave the premises. I refuse; “I’m not leaving until we count my drawer down together, I have a printed and signed copy of my balance, and you have signed paperwork confirming that I have given you all keys back.” She has no choice. I walk out with all necessary paperwork, get home, and immediately email the credit union president telling him what happened and how I think it’s utterly unprofessional for an employer to behave this way. He calls me the next day to my personal phone, and tells me the manager and assistant manager both told him I had quit on the spot and walked out without so much as a goodbye. I tell him I have a signed two week notice from the manager, because this sloppy ho can’t even keep own story together for five minutes. He tells me to photocopy it and email it to him. I do. Tells me he is going to have a discussion with the manager and call me back ASAP. Calls me back, apologizes profusely, and tells me that I shouldn’t have been treated as such, so he offers to pay me for the two weeks I had give notice for, ON TOP of an extra two weeks of compensation, and I didn’t even have to show up to the branch anymore. He was paying me a full month for no work to make up for the situation.
First paycheck comes in, and I put on my best outfit. Pick out the hottest shit in my closet that says: “I look incredible” but also “I have free time and you don’t” and “enjoy working here while I get paid while napping at the beach,” and I walk my happy little ass into that bank to pick up my paycheck like:
Happily greet the manager and assistant manager, who are both there like:
Say hello to my friend Tanika, who is at the teller line like:
Enjoying the fuck out of this show, right? Like, she can’t say it out loud, but she’s fucking living for this goddamned circus and it’s written all over her face!
I talk to her and loudly tell her how amazing it feels to have four weeks off with pay, and how polite and nice the bank president is.
Then I walk my happy little ass out of the bank like:
But not before saying bye to the manager and assistant manager and reminding them that I’ll be back in two weeks to pick up my next check, “probably right before I head to Key Largo for the weekend.”
…and that’s the story of how I once absolutely wrecked two people who thought they could use their positions of power to come for me unfairly, and a story I’ll be telling my grandchildren so they know, as grandpa knew on one February morning of 2012, that you take bullshit from absolutely no one.
i knew in the 2nd grade that standardized testing was bullshit. harry potter book 4 had just come out and i was at a good part. harry had just put his name into the goblet of fire.
during the standardized test, we were allowed to keep a post-test book on our desk. i diligently got started on part 1: english. at the time, all of the answers went on the same sheet, but all of the questions were in different booklets. so i finish all my english questions, read in my extra time, and then it’s part 2: math.
i realize i have answered all of my english questions on the math portion of the answer sheet. at first, annoyed but undeterred, i’m like. okay great i gotta erase every bubble. but i get bored around question 5 of doing this because… like… harry potter is sitting on my desk and i could just give them the wrong answers. so i answer maybe 10 whole questions in the math portion, copy the english answers over to where they actually belong, and then crack open the book and call it a day.
i obviously failed. this is the real life, not a movie. my parents were called in. i had scored in the lowest percentile. i was bad at math. i was concerningly bad at math. i could have done better just guessing than how i did with the english answers.
if this was just a funny story, someone would ask me “why did you do so badly when you usually get fairly average grades” and i would have said “i wanted to read harry potter, not take this stupid test.” but it’s the real life, and nobody asked. instead, i was branded stupid and bad at math. i got placed in a lower math than i needed to be in; got bored, stopped paying attention. knew i was in the “worst at math” group, started saying “i’m bad at math” and 100% stopped trying because the further i fell behind, the worse i got. through the rest of my academic career – until senior year in high school, i never got above a c on a math test, because i was “just bad” at math.
i had undiagnosed adhd. the only reason i know now i have adhd is because at 22 years old, i finally went to a therapist, who effectively said, “are you kidding me you have the most obvious case of attention deficit i’ve ever seen.”
but nobody had been looking. my one test grade had given teachers permission to not look, because, obviously, i was bad at math. the one time i got 100% on a math test – that one time in senior year – i remember my math teacher looking at it and saying “it’s clear that if you just focused, you could do the work.”
in college i’d take a math class and i actually “just focused” for the first time in my life – meaning i treated math as a challenge, but one i could overcome with the skills i’d learned all on my own, through constant work and practice. i got the highest grade in my class. i still think i’m bad at math.
which makes me wonder: how many people got fucked over because of something stupid like “i was too preoccupied with harry potter”. who had nobody looking out for them. who slipped under the radar because – come on, aren’t some people just bad at things?
No one is bad at a subject in school. Some subjects are just harder for some people’s brains to grasp the way they’ve been taught. If a kid isn’t doing well, don’t destroy their future school years by saying they’re ‘bad at x’ give them more ATTENTION. Ask them if they need help. Ask them how you can explain this better. You’re a TEACHER. Your job is for every kid to leave your class confident in what they’ve learned, not spit out a curriculum and leave the kids to fend for themselves.
There isn’t ‘bad at math’ there’s ‘i don’t understand what you’re saying’ or ‘i keep forgetting the formulas’-which can be fixed with a differently worded explanation or some flash cards.
There isn’t ‘bad at english’ there’s ‘I don’t see the message you’re telling us is there’ or ‘it’s too much and i’m confused’. This can be fixed with another explanation, or breaking down the information.
There isn’t ‘bad at science’ there’s ‘all these terms are making my head spin’ or ‘i just don’t get WHY’. This can be fixed by focusing on the broader topics and not all the little terms, or letting them keep pages of definitions, or trying to explain the connection in more detail.
There isn’t ‘bad at history’ there’s just ‘i’m bad at remembering dates’ and ‘this class is boring’, which can be fixed by maybe giving them the dates first and then filling in what happened (what happened in the year 500) or spicing up the curriculum! Have them put on skits, write stories, draw pretty diagrams!
If a kid is failing in a subject, it doesn’t mean they’re stupid. It means the WAY they’re being taught isn’t working for their brain.
-sincerely, an autistic lizard who gets good grades, but still gets extremely frustrated and gives up if i have trouble understand something, sucked at history until my teacher made it fun, and definitely wouldn’t be where I am today without adults who were willing to sit down and work with me until I figured it out.
i Still cant believe sneaking out is an Actual thing that teenagers Do
this is just so unrealistic to me like what the fuck how do yall do it??? i have Arguments and Questions
1. like what am i supposed to do if i live in a building??? do i just wait for the elevator?? do i take the stairs?? mind me there could be a Lot of stairs 2. how THE FUCK do yall manage to do all this shit without waking anyone up?? this is So Fake!! if i so much as sneeze into my pillow my mom will come into my room and see if my ass is okay and then complain that i woke her up 3. HOW THE FUCK DONT YOUR PARENTS REALIZE YALL ARE GONE?? AND HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO COME BACK?? WHAT THE FUCK!! 4. if my mom found out that id been going places in the middle of the night u bet your ass id be dead the next day 5. i dont believe in this concept At All
i mean i guess it’s possible the way american houses are built but it’s still a bit far fetched imo but yea growing up in Puerto Rico in an urbanizacion it was like lmao you can’t sneak out in a house like that. first of all our windows are miami style of whatever, second of all there’s only 1 functioning door (technically our house had 2 but 1 of them had potted plants on both sides so it was never used but in any case both were on the same side of the house), and the house is so small like you would hear someone opening and closing it. plus you just know at least 1 person on your street would be up and would spill that piping hot tea to your parents the next day.
so my sister snuck out of the house one night because we live in an old house in the country that’s always creaking and “settling” which, good news: is perfect for sneaking out because there’s always weird noises anyway; bad news: we’re in the middle of the woods and there’s always creepy fucking noises
but hey, what are white girls gonna do except sneak out at night and through the woods to go have sex with their boyfriends?
what could go wrong??
and I do literally mean through the woods. our driveway is a quarter of a mile long through actual wooded area, and she wasn’t smart enough to grab a flashlight. but she could sort of see the headlights of her boyfriend’s car at the very end so it wasn’t so bad going down to be picked up
except when she got dropped off, she had to make the trip back up the driveway, through the dark scary woods, with no light whatsoever, at like 3 am or some other Gonna Get White Girl Murdered time
and she was high as fuuuuuuuuuuck
so she’s creeping her way back up the driveway, trying to move slow or else she’ll fall off the ground and get lost in the sky forever. really fucking high
then she steps on a frog
because we also have a 3 acre “pond” like our property isn’t fucking creepy enough already and my first-time-to-ever-be-high sister stepped on a FROG and apparently it both squished and belched, and keep in mind that with no light whatsoever she doesn’t know what the fuck just happened AT ALL
I wake up to a series of frantic text messages
hlp he lp HEL
dont’ tell momd and dad
i jsut murdered somtheing
also, just for context, this is also the sister that pierced her own ears and gave herself a stick’n’poke tattoo with a lighter and my mom’s sewing needle because she “got restless” and picked a fight with a girl two grades above, half a foot taller, and probably a hundred pounds heavier AND WON
(it doesn’t matter if you’re smol if you get ‘em on the ground and get on top)
anyway
so waking up to an “I just murdered something” text from her was … actually kind of inevitable. siblings are either ride or die or no officer I’ve never seen that person before, and that night, I decided I was ride or die
so then I take MY dumb white girl ass out into the woods in the middle of the night, but at least I’m smart enough to take a flashlight. sister had already texted me she was “onthe driveways” but again, that’s a quarter mile journey
finally I arrive at the scene of the crime
sister: sitting in the gravel, crying, makeup a Mess
frog: laying still beside her, looking like a slightly smaller Jabba the Hut
she points at the frog and sobs that it’s a heart. obviously a frog. a fucking BIG ASS frog, but still. I’m relieved, but also super pissed, because I drug myself out of bed, snuck out too, and dangled my sumptuous human body in front of all the Forest Monsters on my way down here and there isn’t even a fucking body
just a frog, which I pick up to show her is not a heart, and turns out to only be stunned! not dead! still very much alive and full of pee!!
so it pisses all over me and slimes out of my hand, escaping into the night
also, I totally held my sister’s hand with my Piss Hand as I led her back home because she deserved it
so apparently when my sister and i were little we took golfing classes and we got kicked out after a week. the reason being that the old white male instructor kept calling my 4 year old sister Maria “Mary” after she told him several times that her name is pronounced Maria. anyway, at one point, he tells her “well, that doesn’t matter anymore. you’re in America now.” and that distressed my sister so much that she hit him with her golf club.
that’s not what did the damage, though. what fucked that old dude up is that i saw my sister hit him from where i was standing and i ran over and started beating him with MY golf club. my mom says that i didn’t know what the hell was happening, but i squared up.
that’s why we got kicked out.
I support your unconditional readiness to throw hands for your sister
my grandparents have to lock their car doors when they go to sunday mass because people have been breaking in to unlocked cars and leaving entire piles of zucchini
i feel like i should’ve added more context when i posted this. my grandparents live in a rural area where farmers and casual gardeners alike are, at this point in the year, suddenly being hit with unexpectedly abundant zucchini crops. there aren’t just some random vandals leaving zucchinis in people’s cars for the hell of it, this is the work of some very exasperated, probably very elderly, folks who have more zucchini than they know what to do with
Yep. You can also expect to find a bag of zucchini on your porch.
My grandfather once found his neighbor stealing his tomatoes out of his garden at three in the morning. Red-handed, with a basket of the nearly-ripened ones. He thought he was going to find gophers or something, but no, here’s Henry, taking his tomatoes. The best ones.
There was a long pause between them.
My grandfather (allegedly) said, “Henry… it’s OK. You can take some tomatoes if you want them.”
Henry sighed in relief.
“But,” my grandfather said, “you have to take two zucchini for every tomato.”
There was another long silence. “That’s a harsh bargain, John,” said Henry. “But I accept. I’ll tell Joe up the street, too.”
My grandfather said, “Tell Joe he needs to take three.”
a friend of my dad’s came by in the middle of the night, he seemed very nervous when my dad answered the door. he wouldn’t come inside but he leaned in and whispered to my dad in spanish, “i have some fresh grapes for you.” and then this happened:
the melon was a special bonus.
MY DREAM
A friend of mine lives in a rural area and he has been surrounded by zucchini for most of May, June, and July.
At one point he was so done with the whole zucchini madness that he came to classes actively begging people to “Please please please!! Take some my family’s damned zucchini!! I’ve been eating zucchini for weeks!! I’m going insane!!!”
Having grown up in a rural area and having come home to zucchini on the front step or in the mailbox, i find it highly amusing the OP had to clarify. I’m sitting here nodding “yup.”
I have a friend with a garden in Oregon who literally made Zucchini Chocolate Chip Cookies and sent them to me in Indiana. I texted her back “I SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE”
I’m waiting for the day when someone will hear about my background in Botany and ask me for advice on what someone who’s just wanting to start exploring planting vegetables should try.
I know fuckall about gardening because my background is wild plants and not agriculture, but I’m gonna tell them
“Zucchini. Definitely try Zucchini. Just plant plenty of them and you’ll get a decent sized crop! They’re very rewarding to grow.”
It may be a bit of a long game, but I’ll enjoy their screams of despair from across the void as they realize that they will eat zucchini forever
This is NOT an exaggeration, guys. Zucchini (and most squashes, really) will outgrow you so fast. Let our tale be a caution– or an encouragement, whichever. You decide as you hear the story of Squish.
When we were so broke we had to choose between gas and store-bought-food (I think I was about 10?), we had a garden so we could eat regularly (we also had chickens and pigs and hunted, but that’s beside this point). One summer, we planted 6 rows of yellow squash and 6 rows of zucchini. Each row probably had 10, maybe 12 plants in it. We created this giant squash-block in our garden plot so it was all right there together in the middle, and the needier plants like tomatoes were on the outside of the whole plot. We thought we were clever, til the first crop started coming in.
The outside two rows of each squash, yellow and zucchini, were normal. High yield, of course (because squash), but standard size for both summer squash and Italian zucchini. The inner 8 rows, however, created this hybrid monstrosity that we called Squish. It was pretty– a nice swirly yellow and green combination that made it clear the squash and zucchini had interbred.
Squish became a living nightmare for us. Something about the hybridization caused them to forget how to stop growing, or at least how to grow at a normal rate because those suckers were longer than my dad’s forearm, and bigger around than my (albeit child-sized) thighs. They didn’t get all hard and nasty on the inside, either, for some reason, like most squash will at that size. And they just kept coming. I don’t even remember seeing that many flowers, but every day we were pulling upwards of 20lbs of Squish out of the garden, only for there to be more the next day, or sometimes by the end of the day if we harvested in the morning. I don’t know where they were hiding, but it was like some sort of squash portal had opened into our yard and started crapping out Frankenstein’s Squashes.
At first, it was great. We could eat all we wanted and not worry about rationing it. But the growing season in Arkansas is long, and we had incredible weather that summer, so those darn things kept alternating flowers and fruit. Pull off a few Squish, new flowers budded out, and they ripened super-fast in the heat. We were absolutely swimming in Squish, because they were so big that even gorging on them meant only 1 or 2 got eaten per meal. (I think I recall using a few particularly enormous ones as swords for a duel with my sister, if that says anything about their size. I cannot overemphasize how absolutely, heinously gigantic they were. You probably don’t believe me but I am not kidding. Those things were bigger than a newborn by several many inches and a couple pounds.)
We had (luckily) a big deep freezer, and someone gifted us a bunch of freezer ziploc bags, so we started chopping them up and freezing them as we pulled them off. We ran out of bags real fast, so we caved and bought a ton more. We filled that deep freezer near to bursting. It was probably 3-4 feet deep, (as I remember barely coming up to the edge of it), and at least 4-5 feet long, about 2.5 feet across, and we filled it to the top with Squish. And that’s while we’re eating fresh ones every day with dinner! But still more Squish came before the first frost, so we started packing the fridge. And my grandma’s freezer. And my grandma’s fridge. And feeding them to the pigs and chickens. And giving them away at church.
Do you realize how big a deal it is that people who were so broke that they had to choose between gas and the power bill were GIVING AWAY FOOD??? That’s how much gosh darn Squish we had. And little did I know, but apparently, my dad HATES squash. He only planted them because they were a cheap, quick source of food and my mom loved squashes. And he got stuck with the folly of his decisions. For over a year.
Yep. We had Squish in the freezer for over a year. Eating it regularly. It lasted for over a year. A family of 5, plus often feeding my grandmother, we ate off a single garden’s haul for over a year. Of just the Squish. I tell you, if we’d had a farmer’s market back then, that Squish could probably have single-handedly lifted us out of poverty. Well, maybe not, but you get the idea.
We never planted both again, probably because my dad would have combusted out of rage if he’d ever seen another Squish in his life. But man those were the days for thems of us what loved squash.
So survival tip: If you need an absolute crapton of food, plant you a row of yellow squash and a row of zucchini, and keep that pattern going for as many rows as you like. You too can drown in Squish and love it.
Oh wow.
The last story is well worth the read. It might be long but I found it absolutely delightful! Thank you for sharing your childhood Squish gardening adventures!
CaptainBubblebath 