Siri Calls My Bluff

Published on April 8, 2012. 0 Comments

You’ve seen the iPhone commercials recently. These days, Apple is all about talking to your phone, and Siri does it all.

So I’m watching one of these commercials and this kid asks Siri to call him “Rock God” from now on. Being the person I am, I immediately hold down that button on my iPhone and request that, from how on, I be referred to as Mr. Big Penis. Over the next few weeks I did this several times in mixed company, in order to get a laugh out of some folks. Quite honestly, no matter how many times you hear a computer-voiced lady call you that, it never gets old. Here’s the thing, though – Siri asks you if this is what she should call you. I have never confirmed…or so I thought.

So my father and I are on a road trip a few days ago. I tell him about my clever trick. He, of course, requests that it be demonstrated. This time, however, Siri responds “Yes, that is your name, Mr. Big Penis.”

Upon hearing this, I almost peed myself. There is a picture of my virtual business card up on the screen. It reads, and I kid you not, First Line: “Matt Chapman” Second Line: “Mr. Big Penis” Third Line: Company I Work for.

At this point, I’m caught somewhere between hysterical laughter and absolute fear of who I may have sent my contact info to. For the next few weeks, you can best bet I’ll be noting any strange looks.

The Weight Watcher

Published on January 16, 2012. 0 Comments Tags: , .

I am ready for New Year’s Resolution Season to be over. I’m tired of Fat Charles Barkley challenging me to “lose weight like a man” and the gym is predictably overcrowded with goofballs trying every machine in the place. Just get me February, where those of us with “Life Resolutions” can carry on with business as usual.

While there is a market for such things, however, I would like to share with you my latest idea for capitalizing on all of the silly dollars spent on New Year’s Resolutions. I like to call it “Weight Watcher” (lawyer people – notice the crafty lack of “s”). The concept is pretty simple – an electronic scale with intelligent mirror that sees where you are at in your weight loss journey and comments accordingly.

It’s the spouse you always wanted, with brutal honesty abounding! If you are doing well, then the Weight Watcher provides slightly inappropriate encouragements such as “Oooh, I’d hit that!” or “Keep this up and we can leave the lights on!” Fail to meet your goal, though, and you may think twice about doing it again. Once the Weight Watcher registers your lack of progress and sees that chunky butt, things could get testy! You will here scathing remarks like “Dadgum you need to lay off the cookie dough!” “Somebody get out the stretchy pants!” and “I think you are missing the point here…”

Tell the nerds in China to start working on this for next year. It’s going to make me millions!

The Best Birth Control Ever

Published on December 12, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: , , .

A good friend of mine asked a while back if I would help with a Christmas party for a bunch of sixth graders. Val needed assistance setting up for the event and a DJ (yes, I DJ – does that make me cooler?) to make it hopping, so I obliged. Being without child, I really didn’t know what to expect, but in the days leading up, she laughingly iterated that it would be “outstanding birth control” for my wife and I.

By Friday afternoon, we had the place decked out to fully satisfy an ADD generation – Arcade basketball game, Wii and Xbox with projectors, popcorn machine, soda bar, as well as a limbo pole at the ready. Oh yeah, and DJ Chappalicious had sold his soul to download a number of top 20 hits from iTunes. My only rule was no Bieber…I just couldn’t bring myself to sinking that low.

The first crop of sweaty juveniles arrived right on time – boys of drastically varying height who, based on their apparel, were anticipating less party and more athletic competition. They immediately chugged soda, tossed popcorn everywhere, and set about trying to break the basketball game. Stereotypes confirmed.

About ten minutes in, they figured out two things that would make my night significantly more difficult: 1. DJ Chappalicious was obligated to take requests, and 2. I had a microphone. Grubby little hands quickly commandeered my mic. They huddled around it with joy – singing along with the music (obviously channeling Glee), hurling amplified insults at one another, and shouting words that are bound to be funny at that age (use your imagination). For the better part of an hour, male-dominated chaos reigned supreme. And then, the girls showed up…

A relative calm fell over the Bieber-haired boys as this gaggle of ladies sauntered in, dressed much more appropriately for the occasion. Rather predictably, the groups retreated to opposite ends of the dance floor.

By now, one boisterous kid had taken full control of the mic. Being smaller than most, he had obviously turned to wit as his means of getting a leg up on the world. Admittedly, I thought he was pretty funny. He narrated through the limbo competition, even adding “I love this song, it makes me feel like I’m in the jungle!” when I slipped Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana” into the mix. (note: later in the night I told Val I wanted to mentor this little guy, cause he had potential. She responded with a story about him conning the choir out of $40 on their last trip, claiming he would give it to charity.)

Once the limbo was over, an inundation of requests flooded in. The girls wanted slow songs. The boys wanted rap. Mothers asked for songs that were in style the last time they hit up the clubs for a girls night out. Despite reasonable preparation, my library was devoid of most of their requests. I was dropping $1.29 a pop to hold their interests for maybe thirty seconds before the shouts for another came. It was all a bit maddening. Eventually, I figured out most of these kids already had these songs downloaded on their iPhones (yes, most 12 year olds have iPhones now). This, I thought, was a brilliant approach, because if little Jimmy’s request ended up being insanely vulgar, I could simply respond with “well, one of you geniuses has allowed a child to purchase this with your credit card.”

Still, I had my standards. At what prove to be my favorite moment of the night, a line of at least five youths came to me with the same ask – a selection by Lil’ Wayne known as “Blunt Blowin.” One after another, they responded to my denial with a frustrated “But why?” Barely fighting off laughter, I referred each of them to their parents for an explanation of why that was an inappropriate song for a sixth grade party. In retrospect, I guess there was something reassuring about their naiveté.

So much of the night played out like you might expect, having experienced middle school for your very own. Eventually, everyone had the opportunity to endure an awkward slow dance, although some where ultimately forced to partake. A few of the boys even managed to change into respectable attire, thus proving their heightened levels of maturity. The attendees were escorted out by their parents, one by one, until all that remained were a few that decided to serenade those of us cleaning up all the popcorn they had scattered about.

In the end, it was just Val and I, sipping margaritas generously while her son played Xbox on the projection screen. I regaled her with stories from the evening while she listened attentively. When I had exhausted my list, she turned to me with a grin and said “So, are you going to have kids anytime soon?”

Lucy and the Yodeling Pickle

Published on December 7, 2011. 0 Comments

Kitty Blood On My Hands

Published on October 17, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: , .

I came home during lunch, trying to get in a quick run before heading south.  Things were going swimmingly until it was time to back out of the garage.  I glanced at my mirror in routine fashion, but there was definitely something out of place this time.  My heart sank at seeing its furriness.  Another quick glance confirmed that the creature was undoubtedly cute and lifeless.  There was no way that this situation would end well…

Slowly, I eased my car back to get a full view of the victim, who was identified as Bartholomew (a name my wife came up with); the wandering neighborhood cat that routinely pisses off my dog.  Rather selfishly, I weighed my hand in this situation.  The feline was on my property, and could have very well been offed by my rear wheels upon exiting the garage early this morning.  If the evidence was left there, I could get the rap for this.  I may have been in a hurry to get back on the road, but am not personally equipped to handle the potential visit and blame from a crying child.  This had to be taken care of.

With the garage door still open, I put the car in park and grabbed a shovel.  Reminiscent of a reluctant undertaker, I shuffled toward the fly-covered carcass.  The look on Bartholomew’s face said it all – death had certainly come all too soon and unexpectedly.  Poor guy.

 

No parts of him appeared to be mushed, so I felt a little better about my role in this situation.   A quick poke indicated that kitty was experiencing full-on rigor mortis, giving him a Frisbee-like quality.  This, I thought, would help with the shoveling.  Instead, however, the firm nature caused it to skid across the pavement as I struggled to slip the shovel underneath.  I’m certain that a few passing cars used this opportunity to take a disturbing mental picture of a guy pushing a dead cat around his driveway.  I was at a loss for how I would even begin explaining this situation to onlookers.

After several attempts, cat was successfully sitting atop shovel.  Now what?  I didn’t have time for a proper burial.  Of course, the placement of this thing would be crucial.  If found in an unnatural state, it would be obvious that he was moved post-mortem.  For a moment, I reflected – If I were hypothetically a kitty, where would I go to die?

My buddy Cheese used to begin each night of debauchery by proclaiming his end goal of “face-down in the gutter!” which I historically refer to as “Edgar Allen Poe style.”  Having a rather large culvert (in the real estate listing, they referred to it a “creek”) that runs through our property, I thought maybe Bartholomew might have liked to make Cheese proud.  I descended the bank and gently shoveled him up into the 24-inch drain pipe.

Situation handled, I returned the shovel to its resting place and slid back into my Honda Civic.  With the blood stained cement still visible, my conscience weighed heavily.  I had to know if this kitty died at my hands.  I mean, who wants to live out their life with the blood of an innocent feline weighing heavily?  In recalling, the morning commute was fuzzy at best, having taken a healthy dose of Advil PM the night before.  An unexpected thump under the rear wheels would have been very audible….but then again, would it?  I had a crime scene to go off of, and a relative timeline, but needed more to reach a verdict.  So I called up my firefighter friend and asked him what he knew about kitty rigor mortis…

The Asterisk

Published on September 12, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: , , .

Welcome to the age of the asterisk, where everything from sports stats to commercials comes with an added caveat.

My wife and I bought a car last week.  The entire process was quite irritating.  You know those commercials where dealers tell you how great of a deal you can get?  They are full of it.  Of course there is an asterisk, because nobody will ever qualify for it and/or actually want the car that applies to such a deal.  Sure you can have that Mercedes convertible for $299 a month, but it has extensive hail damage,  the only color option is hot pink and we’re pretty sure a homeless person has been using the interior as a toilet for the last 8 months.


Maturity and Suggestive Pants

Published on August 11, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: , , .

As is usually customary, our beach trip this past weekend incorporated a stopover at the Foley Outlets.  On most occasions, I try to talk Allison out of it, but this being the annual Tax Free Weekend in Alabama, I knew any resistance would be a waste of effort.  There were sales to be had, come Hell or high water.

Our shopping was thankfully limited to two stores; both which at least had a men’s side.  Being primarily utilitarian in my needs, I went after plain button down shirts and comfortable pants.  This led me to the wall of jeans. 

Jeans are a close third (after dogs and beer) in the running for man’s best friend.  We keep them forever, they go with anything, and can be worn for weeks without washing.  Likewise, you can tell a lot about a man by his jeans.   Want to know how vain a man is, whether or not he is hard-working, or even his maturity level?   Just have a look at the denim he is rocking.

I highlight the third element (maturity) because it leads back to my thought process as I stood before this wall of jeans.  In my rotation at home was one pair of solid, non offensive, yet stylish mid-priced jeans that, according to my wife “make my butt look pretty good.”  These get the large majority of wear, but occasionally, when the odor of them is too offensive, I reach in the closet and pull out a pair from my wild-and-crazy single days.  These babies, although not skin tight, are a little snug in the…how should I phrase this?…crotchal region.  Let’s put it this way: you get a pretty good ideaof what is happening in my nether-regions on backup jean day.

Being in range of 30, with two mortgages, a stable career, and little remaining hope of rock & roll stardom, those neatly piled stacks of denim were my avenue to finally having the closet of a grown man.   With a hint of sentimentality, I grabbed a straight leg 32×32 in a sensible wash.  The dressing room confirmed that my choice was a solid, non-phallically-suggestive one, and I must admit:  my butt did look pretty good.

When we arrived home, I ceremoniously honored my old jeans with the dignity and respect they deserved before replacing them with my new adult pair.  In the clothing life cycle that they will inevitably experience, my well-worn pants will make their way to a thrift store rack, where an optimistic young man will give them rebirth.  He will take the jeans home, slip them on, and admire his new purchase in the mirror while thinking “chicks are going to love seeing the outline of my pecker in these things.”

Why I Should Have Been a Dentist

Published on August 3, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: , .

I have recently been weathering what must be a quarter-life crisis.  Seemingly too far into a career to consider re-educating myself, and philosophical enough to wonder what might have been, a few coulda-should-wouldas float around from time to time.  I occasionally hear the perks of other jobs and think, “Well, that would have been nice.” 

Recently, I was talking with a friend of mine about her father (Dr. John, if you remember from an earlier post) and his retirement plans.  He is getting close to what most consider the appropriate age for such things.  Reba, accustomed to this question by now, quickly replied “I don’t know why he would; his job is cush – only working three full days a week.”  Dr. John happens to be a dentist, and a very successful one at that. 

Dentistry has never been a hugely popular career choice, but the more I think about it, I don’t see why not.  There are plenty of sweet perks.  Why don’t we step back for a moment and analyze what such a job entails.

First off, let’s talk education: 4 years of undergrad and 4 of dental school.  This sounds daunting, but doable.  At the end of it all, you get to make people refer to you as “Doctor” even though you will never have to work a hospital emergency room, be on call, or examine old person genitalia.  I’m angling for an honorary doctorate later in life for this very reason.

How about the daily routine, you ask?  Well, I haven’t seen much of the behind-the-scenes action at a Dentist office, but I can take a guess based on my interactions over the years.  For starters, people come into your place of business with the sole purpose of showing you how good their teeth look.  In preparation for a visit, paying customers essentially do your job – scrub the Hell out of those pearly whites, floss extensively, and drink a bunch of mouthwash.  What they don’t get to, a Dental Hygienist will take care of before you make the rounds to inspect.  Sure, there is the occasional tooth pulling/repair, but the vast majority of inspections end with small talk and a polite suggestion that you floss more.  Side Note: After 27 years, I’m not sure what the appropriate level of flossing is, but it must be the Holy Grail of tooth care.  If you find it, then please let me know.

The hours, as you read earlier, are pretty tempting.  In Dr. John’s case, he essentially has a 4 day weekend every week (with a few hours worked on Thursday mornings).  Other accounts I’ve heard have been pretty similar, especially when one operates their own practice.  If this were my schedule, I would call my corporate friends every Friday and rub it in their suit-wearing, coffee slurping, email-addicted faces.  I would take up quirky hobbies simply because I could.    

Professional requirements: I have yet to find another profession where you can be an expert on something but completely ignore your own advice.  Imagine if your CPA failed to pay his taxes or your cardiologist was grossly obese.  Some of the worst teeth I have ever seen, hands down, belonged to our family dentist in Atlanta.  Each end-of-checkup lecture reminded me of my elementary school DARE officer who was caught getting high off the sample stash.  That being said, I had very few cavities as a child, so the man did his job.

Another bonus is that scrubs are acceptable attire.  They are casual, loose fitting, and best of all if you are a single dude: a serious chick magnet.  That cheap cotton/polyester blend might as well be dollar bills sewn together.  Fellas, let’s be honest here:  if you wear scrubs to work, it is a given that you have used them to your advantage at least once…

On that note, we will finish with some icing on the cake.  How about that cash money?  Dentists make serious bank.  According to a quick Google search, the median dentist in the US makes $134,000 per year.  Break that down by hours worked and you are looking at a pretty awesome gig.  Where do I sign up!?

Open Wide, It's Your Future!

The Upright and Locked Position

Published on August 1, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: .

Flying unnerves me a bit.  The routine of checking in, going through security, and embarking/debarking seems horribly inefficient no matter how you slice it.  In tolerating the process, I inevitably find something each trip that could really use fixing.

This go ’round, on our flight back from Montana, I noted the extremely high percentage of people that failed to return their seat to the “upright and locked position.”  Flight attendents carefully examined the angle of each and every seat back, to the point I thought they were about to whip out protractors.  People who hadn’t even attempted to recline were scolded for sitting in a chair that somehow passed muster on a previous flight.  It was all quite annoying.

This was enough for me to dedicate 30 seconds of brain power to a solution.  Honestly, how hard could it be for all the chairs to automatically lock back into place at the appropriate time with a simple button push in the cockpit?  Heck, it might even wake up the people who are sleeping, thus removing another flight attendant duty.  That way, they can devote more time and energy attending to important things…like yelling at me for still having my kindle on.

 

Chappy’s Guide to Shameless Unfollowing

Published on July 25, 2011. 0 Comments Tags: , .

I am no social media expert.  I dabble in Twitter and tolerate Facebook.  If you add me to your Google+, I’ll most likely place you in a group (if you’re shady, we might just be “acquaintances”) and leave it at that.  In short, Chappy isn’t commanding hordes of followers or enlightening the masses with hundreds of tweets a day.

When I initially tried to build a base of folks on Twitter, I did it the old fashioned way – by finding similar people and following their followers.  Some of these people were curious enough to follow me back.  I maxed out my allotment and repeated a this exercise few times in the weeks that followed.  Eventually, I suckered about 300 folks into returning the favor, but this left me with quite the disproportionate Following to Followers (ugh, I wish there was a synonym i could use for this) ratio.  This left me feeling like an optimistic loser, while simultaneously clogging my Twitter feed with people I share no interests with.

In order to somewhat legitimize myself, I have taken on the task of whittling down my follower list to a respectable number.  This has proven difficult, however, as my conscience occasionally gets in the way.  It’s like kicking people off the island in multiples of ten.  I can’t help but wonder if we might have hit it off and become great friends over time.  One of these people I’m axing might have taken Chappy’s Thoughts global for me….but alas, it must be done.

To ease the process, I have developed a set of rules to go by.  It mechanizes the routine and helps me distance from any “feelings” that might be involved.  So here you go, in no particular order: Chappy’s Rules for Shamelessly Unfollowing People on Twitter.  Feel free to use them for your very own.

1. Tweeting in a language I don’t understand – This one was super easy.  I don’t know what you are saying, therefore this just isn’t going to work out between us.

2. Just Flat Out Racist – Sometimes I wonder if people know that their thoughts are publicly visible.  There was a girl the other day that went on an angry tirade about Indian people.  I don’t even want to risk being associated with your openly racist ass.  Click!

3. The Overtweeter – I don’t need to know every single thing that you do or every thought that enters your brain.  If I can figure out the timing of your bowel movements and sleeping patterns by reading your tweets, then I am going to move on.

4.  Retweeting Obnoxious Celebrities -  Endorsing these people will only make them worse, and the world doesn’t need that.  Also worth noting; you and Chad Ochocinco are not friends.  Goodbye!

5.  Completely Different Interests - This one could take a while to figure out, but is a pretty easy cut when rationalizing the situation.  You like Death Metal, the WNBA, or articles about Knitting?  I respect that, but let’s not waste our time here.

So there you have it.  Feel free to send me your own personal rules for unfollowing.

Hugs!

Chappy