Question 2

Assume you've just met the perfect mate. You and this new person are compatible in every way and your personalities compliment each other better than any person you've ever been with. You find this person intellectually stimulating while maintaining a high level of physical attraction for them. This person is successful, happy, and generally well rounded. They also get along surprisingly well with all of your friends who have congratulated you on finally finding your other half. Best of all, this person brings out the best in you. Since meeting them you feel like you are actually a better person.

After a month of dating, this person invites you to meet their family at the monthly Sunday family dinner, which they rarely miss. You accept, and attend the dinner with high expectations. Once there you realize that their family has an interesting quirk. They are obsessed with slapstick comedy, particularly that of The Three Stooges. The obsession has elevated itself to the point that it has almost overtaken their lives. This person’s dad has even made himself to look like Curly, while their mom has taken on the persona of Larry. After the first hour of the first visit you have already been slapped, whacked, nose smacked, yoinked, and bonked on the head more times than you can count. None of it is malicious, but all in good fun, and while you try to be polite, you are blown away by the family’s level of dedication to the show, which seems to be never ending. Even your significant other becomes part of the show as they take on a persona that is nothing like the person that you have already fallen in love with. However, as soon as you leave the home, this person immediately stops with the slapstick routine and becomes their old self. Not only that, but they also never speak of or reference the unusual Sunday dinners. This part of their lives is reserved strictly for the once-a-month dinners.

Knowing that these Sunday dinners will be a regular occurrence, could you be with this person?

Question 1

SCENARIO: You’ve just been in a major accident and are mortally wounded. In exactly 5 minutes you will be dead. The paramedics have already informed you of your certain demise and you have already gone through the Five Stages of Death; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and have just arrived at acceptance. Your family will be well taken care of as you have recently taken out a large life insurance policy on yourself. 4 minutes before you pass a Chinese angel appears above you and informs you that you are not going to Heaven. To your relief, you are also not going to Hell. Rather, you will be reincarnated, born again, into one of two possible lives.

Possibility 1: You can be born into your run of the mill, middle income, American family. There is nothing extraordinary about this family. They are normal in every way. You will have a good relationship with your parents and all of your siblings. You will be, for the most part, happy. But you will remember absolutely nothing from your previous life. You will start life from square one as a newborn infant.

Possibility 2: You are born with every one of your memories intact. Even as a newborn infant, while breastfeeding, you will know who you are, where you came from, what your real age is, and you will be able to think and reason with the same depth you now enjoy. But, you will be born into the most backward, redneck, hillbilly family in the deep Appalachian Mountains. Everything about your family is dirty, weird, gross, and offensive, and there is a good chance your mother and father are blood relatives. Though your diet consists mostly of possum, raccoon, and corn, you are generally well fed and pretty well taken care of. However, you have nothing in common with your family and you will have little to no contact with mainstream civilization and will be completely unable to leave your parents until you are a legal adult.

QUESTION: Which possibility do you choose and why?

Suggestions For New Olympic Events

Indian Leg Wrestling

One Handed Knife Fighting (like in Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” video)

Poetry Recitation (no original poems allowed)

Star Gazing

Heckling (this could be done in conjunction with any of the real events)

Whistling Dixie

Pistol Whipping (to make it more objective, it would have to be to the death of course)

The Border Cross (contestants run and swim through an obstacle course whilst being shot at by armed guards)

Lactating

Gay Tweakers

[The following post was written over a year ago while I was still living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. For some reason I never posted it. I think I refrained from doing so because I didn’t think the humor translated well when I wrote the experience down. (That’s also my disclaimer if you don’t find it the least bit amusing.) Anyway, I never bothered erasing it because my dad passed away soon after, and this short post illustrated two of his strongest characteristics – his humor and his inability to pass someone in need without helping.]

The other night my dad, brother Patrick, and I were driving to my parent’s house in Kelly Wyoming, which is just outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Before we got to the Kelly turn-off we noticed a hitchhiker with a cold thumb exposed, and decided to give him a ride. As soon as he was in the car we realized he was a little off. Having no experience in the field of psychology I was unable to diagnose his particular type or severity of off-ness but sufficed to say it was evident to anyone who may have encountered him. The following dialogue is as close as I can remember it.

Hitch: Thanks for stopping.

Dad: No problem. Where are you going?

Hitch: Dornans. (Dornans is one of those Dutch-oven-dinner/restaurant/gas station/fish-and-tackle sort of places. I’m somewhat blown away it’s not a nation wide chain.)

Pat: What do you do out there?

Hitch: I wait tables.

Dad/Pat/Me: Hmmm. Nice. Harrumph, harrumph.

Hitch: Where are you guys going?

Dad: I live in Kelly.

Hitch: Oh, okay. (pause) I sure am glad you guys are normal.

Me: What do you mean?

Hitch: Every time I hitch, I get picked up by the weirdest people. Just a few days ago I got picked up by these Indians that were totally wasted. I was sure that if we didn’t all die in a wreck, they were going to take me into the woods and beat me to death. And a few weeks before that I got picked up by two gay tweakers.

Me: What’s a gay tweaker?

Hitch: (looking at me with mild surprise due to my ignorance and then saying with a frank matter-of-factness) A gay tweaker. You know, a queer tweaker.

Dad/Pat/Me: (laughing at the misunderstanding)

Me: I figured out the “gay” part. What’s a “tweaker”?

Hitch: (again, with the same look of surprise) Someone who tweaks.

Dad/Pat/Me: (laughing)

Me: What does someone who “tweaks” do?

Hitch: They tweak; get high; take drugs.

Dad/Pat/Me: Oh, well. Of course. So simple. Should have known.

Dad: Well you lucked out because none of us are “gay-tweakers”. Although, (pointing to Me, then Pat) he’s gay and he’s a tweaker.

Hitch: (with look of concern) Really?


Needless to say, “Gay Tweaker” is now one of our favorite insults, and is used liberally on each other at any and all opportunities.

What's in a Name?

My brother Tom and I have been rocking under the name The Quinn Brothers for some time now. Unfortunately that name hasn't taken us anywhere. I blame the name because I refuse to believe there could be another explanation for our lack of success, like, we just suck. No, I won't admit that. It can't be true. My mom says we're good and mommies never lie to their children, so we're good. That said, rockin' tunes, dreamy melodies, thought provoking lyrics, and ridiculous good looks just aren't enough. We need a new name.

Below, I listed some ideas off the top of my head. Obviously some aren't as serious as others. But I'm just brain storming here.


Bucket-O-Puke
The Poor Snobs
American Ideal
The Racists
ToadStool Sample
Tender Moments
Tender Loins
The Pulled Hammies
Rubber Souls
Fire Retards
Hop Scotch
Crime Scene Investigators
The Artists Formally Known as The Quinn Brothers
Agent Yellow
Plastic Soldiers
Tar Stain
American Sons
Yankee Doodles
Fenetics
The Windbags
Grand Theft Autocrats
The Special Guys
Small Band
The Orphans
Unholy Cow

That's all I've got for now. But here's the deal, we're hoping everyone who reads this will also leave a suggestion of their own. Whether it's a vote for one already listed, a variation of one or more of the above, or something totally original, please tell us who The Quinn Brothers should be. (If it's important that you know what we sound like before you make your suggestion, go here.) If we choose your suggestion as our new band name you will win two free tickets (valued at $175 each) to a concert put on by a band that has not been named yet. Good luck.

My Life As A Biker

I’ve heard it said, that a woman becomes a mother the moment she feels the baby move inside her, and a man becomes a father the moment he sees his child. I think it goes something like that. Anyway, now that I have been through the experience twice I can testify of its truthfulness. Long before I felt any connection to the little bag-o-guts, my wife was already loving, thinking, and planning; forming a bond that was months ahead of the one I would one day begin.

There is a little less known saying that goes, a man becomes a biker the first time he hears the roar of a hog motoring down the street, but a woman becomes a biker's wife only after her husband secretly withdraws money out of their joint account, sneaks out, and buys a motorbike. I think it goes like that. I am happy to say that that day has finally arrived, and we are now the proud new parents of a Shadow Aero 750.


My life as a biker is everything I dreamed it would be; freedom, adventure, power, women, bar fights, hell raising, rock ‘n’ roll, wheelies, rumbles, petty crime, superior gas mileage, and the amazing feeling of wind in my short hair. Well, the gas mileage and the part about the wind are true. Everything else is stifled by my strong sense of civic and family responsibility. But for the most part, it’s everything I dreamed it would be.

To those who know me, it may seem that I remain mostly unchanged. They’re probably saying, “Sure he rides a kick-A hog, but it’s still the same old Ben. He still baths and everything.” But I have changed. For those who don’t own a motorbike this may be hard to understand, but I am a brother who comes from a vast fraternity of brothers. No, I’m not black. (Not 100% anyway.) I am the newest member of the family of bikers. To the layperson it may be hard to see the bond of friendship and love we share. (This bond doesn’t include bullet bikers. Nobody likes bullet bikers. Not even themselves.) The idea of such a bond is completely foreign to car drivers, but that is because car drivers hate each other. When you are in a car, the only thing that can make you angrier than social injustice and child abuse is a stupid driver. And when you’re in a hurry, everybody is stupid, except you. But such is not the case among bikers. We live by a higher law. And although you may not see the bond and higher law, it’s there. Don’t believe me? Next time you're driving behind a biker on the highway, watch what he does when he passes another biker. If he thinks you’re not looking he’ll take his left hand and point at the ground at a 45 degree angle.

I quickly learned that this was called the “Signal of Brotherhood” (S.O.B.). At first, I was certain everybody was pulling the “made you look” joke on me. But I figured this wasn’t the case when they never came back to punch me in the arm. Later, I determined they were pointing at Hell, as in, “See you in Hell, bro.” Again, I was mistaken. Finally, I learned that it was a signal of recognition and acceptance, as in, “Hello there brother. I see you, and you see me. We see each other and therefore we are not alone. I do not know you personally, but I love you and am loved of you. If you are ever in trouble, just perform the scream of the Norse god, Kerfluggon, and your brothers will be there, in all their raging furry, to fight on your behalf.”

Upon further research I learned that the S.O.B. was not always performed the way we see it now. Up until 1973 the S.O.B. was a low five. You actually slapped hands with oncoming bikers. You’re probably thinking an actual five is way awesomer than a non-five, and you’d be right. It was way awesomer. But the original S.O.B. was wrought with peril. S.O.B. deaths were not uncommon. But it wasn’t until Sonny “Bones” Wilcox, leader of the Southeast chapter of Hells Angels, S.O.B.’d a passing biker, swerved into an oncoming semi, folded like an accordian on impact sending his butt through the back of his face, and killing him instantly, that the biker community decided to change the way the S.O.B. was performed. Needless to say, the language is changing but the feeling and intent remain the same.

Despite my new adoption into the larger family of bikers, I am convinced that true arrival as a biker does not occur until one is part of a "gang." But rather than join and conform to the rigid traditions of an existing gang, I’ve decided to form my own. That way, I make the rules by which I live. Since the names, “Hells Angels” and “BACA” ,(which turned out to be an acronym about some sissy child advocates group), were already taken I decided to name my gang “The Pillow Fighters.” Right now I am the sole member of the Pillow Fighters, but we’ve got a lot of spirit and I see us doing great things. That said, we are now taking applications for membership and would be happy to consider anyone. So, if you own a hog and would enjoy the association, camaraderie, and fun-loving good times of the Pillow Fighters, then please leave your info and I’ll be in contact.

BORN TO RIDE! RIDE TO BORN!

Deep Dialogue

SCHOOL
UnMighty: If you had to pick a leader based on one quality, what would it be?
Student: Someone with a state of mind.
UnMighty: Which state of mind?
Student: What do you mean?
...
UnMighty: Tell us about your book.
Student 1: The book I read was called “Code Talkers” and it was about an Indian guy who served in World War 2 because America wanted him to use his language like a code that the Japanese couldn’t understand.
Student 2: What tribe were they from?
Student 1: I don’t know. Native American?
...
UnMighty: If you could do anything without failing, what would you do?
Student: Rid my rats of mites.

HOME
Wife: What are you writing about?
UnMighty: Twinkies.
Wife: (gasp) Are you writing about me?
UnMighty: Yes. It’s about how your body is starting to take on the shape of your favorite foods.
Wife: You are such an #*@#%&@.
(She sees that I’ve just typed this conversation.)
Wife: (gasp) Don’t you dare write that I just said that!
...
(Just left the grocery store with 3-year-old daughter)
Maggie: Gimme my donut. I want to eat my donut right now.
UnMighty: I'll give you your donut if you get in your car seat and act like a sweet girl. Can you be a sweet girl?
Maggie: That's me. Bing!