Pooyaht

Every time we travel, some friends and I bring along a little notepad to write down ridiculous things that get said. I present them here without citations and context. This is the fourth installment. If you'd like to read the first three, check out Muyaht, Neuyaht, and Ooyaht. Enjoy!

Pooyaht

by Odie, Sam, Adam, Stella, and me

Where is the center of Quiznos? No one knows.

What a way to start Pooyaht- by pooping at Stewart.

Something about birds.

Total 6:51:45. Flight turbulence at 31:48, 1:00:50, 1:09:41, 1:23:02, 1:34:28, 1:39:56, 2:29:47, 2:42:45, 3:07:54, 4:22:40, 6:19:00, 6:27:46, 6:30:42, 6:51:45.

No rush, goulash.

Oh, Jimmy broke his back.

Mister Heartbreaker, breakin' hearts.

Do not ball-gag your father.

I'm not retarded. Bill's a wombat.

Well, Tomorrio.

Smell this man's ass. 'Tis a great ass.

When you own a bar or a food place, you have to have bendy straws.

I could definitely eat a hand at some point.

So you're the contact man. I'm the key man. What type of man do you want to be?

I haven't said one thing about butts!

Did you just pull out Twombli?

Odie, don't hurt my friend Rob.

I would love a song about all-you-can-eat buffet.

You want some chips? You don't have to pay for them.

All he has to do is come down and we'll be here.

Any guy who sounds like Nutella is fine with me.

9 pounds. It comes with five people.

Who's Dennis?

IT'S GENETICS. ME HANDS ARE BIG,

BUT SMALL...

BUT THEN...

THE PERFECT WRAP FOR A COCK'S SKIN.

YOU NEED NO LUBE.

YOU NEED NO CHARM.

ALL YOU NEED...

IS A STRONG ARM!

0131 777 7777

N3 -

I gotta do these things before I'm 45. Before I'm 37.

Handsome is not handjob.

Do you like snails and free blackberries?

Get that bean!

Stop looking back. It's weird.

That side smells like hose.

I need to get to the lake so I can wash my ass.

I will always remember Mr. Tweomptay.

Oh man, this is butt-washing water.

The body type of Scotland is a bear claw.

You mean like a cruller???

I like you guys. You smell cheesy and fun.

Put the mic down and put your head in the pool. And don't come up!!!

Pati + Bartek = Oskar

If it has something to do with butts, it's either you or someone like you.

I hate Nirvana. I'd rather listen to Neil Young fuck a cat.

And then there were 3.

The caribou is dying but won't give up.

Sam and Rob said something funny before but I forgot.

It's gorgeous outside... and it doesn't smell like farts.

Blood pudding farts.

And then there was 1.

Patscherkofel has a new lift and I found Jerome. All is good.

Today I am the king of beef farts.

What is the secret of the cold meat?

You're uncomfortable so you get warm and cozy. Then you go outside and get wet and miserable. Seems pointless but that's life.

Jerome gave me a free beer. That's so Jerome of him.

Ladies and gentlemen, we're arriving in Jenbach. Please exit from the right side.

Asian tourists make me happy. They're so goofy and love selfie sticks.

Slovenian men have a real hard time crapping... and they mumble to themselves while doing so.

Attack of the Asian Tourists: Part Two!!! Ljubljana.

I see. He was a crapping bum. Not representative of the average Slovenian.

Pooyaht, pfft. I can't wait until Armyaht.

Dennis the monk from Ljubljana. A good guy.

It was peaceful here. And then Italians came.

So many people are telling us on the walls what to think and do.

Gross slob to my left. Indian man punching is leg to my right. Everything is normal.

Nice flight... but everyone has hemorrhoid farts.

Why do the Irish still have that accent? The air? Because the buildings are small? I know there's an intelligent answer but... maybe it's because they have so many sheep.

Being in an 800-year-old church is cool. Being in an 80-year-old bar is cooler.

Yup. After 12 years of analysis, old fat American white women are horrible.

Vienna is the best airport to crap in. Privacy. Big stall. A hanger for your coat. A hanger for your bag. Plenty of toilet paper and hand sanitizer.

Now it smells like giant poop and shit on this plane.

How is it possible to keep the happy-go-lucky traveler's mindset once going back home when you're surrounded by morons!?! They announced it'd be a 7-hour flight when we got on the plane. Now, about 3 hours into the flight these old fucks are shocked there's 4 hours left. What part of the booking, traveling, checking in, going through security, and boarding did they miss? FUUUUUCK!!!

2 hours and 20 minutes left of the flight. I will try to fill the remaining pages of Pooyaht.

Half-Stewish

Half-Stewish
by Rob Cottignies

There is a guy named Stew, like the food only much more annoying and probably less tasty.

Stew has the rare condition of being allergic to not speaking. Ignoring social cues from people who are completely uninterested in what he’s saying is among his favorite hobbies.

During my first work shift with Stew, he announced his appointment with a Podiatrist. Stew didn't want to go to the Podiatrist. But Stew's foot was cracking and his doctor suggested going to the Podiatrist.

So Stew went to the Podiatrist, and there was quiet in the land.

Then Stew returned to tell everyone all about the Podiatrist.

I hate Stew. Not only does he constantly speak but he'll blurt out uninteresting things simply to ignite more talking. His father had to stop drinking for a month. He doesn't understand why there aren't stricter gun laws. He ate portabella fries the other day. Small tidbits, sure, but they always lead to seemingly-endless conversations. Hmm, maybe ‘soliloquies’ would be a more accurate word.

Stew also claims to be very politically-correct, because he doesn't want to offend anyone.

Stew told me a story about a guy who said "the K word" on TV. Stew whispered "the K word" after looking around to make sure no one else could hear it in a setting with very few people, none of whom would've been offended.

The K word which the TV guy had uttered which Stew could not bring himself to say was ‘kike’. Certainly not a pleasant word but one which should only be taken sorely if it's yelled in a mean way.

…

On my way home, I realized I had missed a grand opportunity.

My response to Stew's whisper should've been, 'What K word?' The discomfort on his Stew-pid face from having to say the word would’ve been so delicious. Then I should've asked what the word meant, after which I should've explained that when Jewish people entered America, many of them could not write their names in English on the entry forms. Instead, they drew a circle. The Yiddish word for 'circle' is 'keikl' [kike-uhl]. So, the agents referred to them as Kikes.

(And there’s the history of that particular thing.)

However, I did not say any of that.

In the time it would have taken, Stew had already begun rambling about new video games and every quirky cartoon on YouTube, so I'd have to wait until next time.

…

Next time came around and Stew was still relentlessly speaking, which I assumed was just a run-on sentence continued from the week before. At one point, Stew was ranting about Lenny Kravitz for some reason. Stew mentioned that Lenny is half-black and half-Jewish.

I had him.

It was time to play dumb-but-ultimately-smarter.

"How can someone be half-Jewish?" I asked.

I also wondered which half of the Torah Lenny believed. Stew said that Judaism is both a religion and a nationality. I told him it was not, as this blog by a Rabbi confirms. He gave several more replies, each of which garnered "But how can you be half of a religion?" from me.

Then, finally, he shut up. Two entire minutes went by without Stew saying a word. I had tamed the wretched beast.

…

The phrase 'half-Jewish' is unique, too. I've never heard anyone referred to as half-Buddhist or half-Pastafarian. So why does half-Jewish happen? (If you're still wondering, now would be a good time to read that blog by the Rabbi.)

As for Stew, I expect that the next time I must put up with him he will talk endlessly about things which are only of interest to himself. But now I know the monster can be defeated. You can beat your monster, too. (Innuendo not intended, but pretty funny.)

So get out there and destroy the beast that bothers you most. You'll feel good. I promise.

Take Me Out

Take Me Out
by Rob Cottignies

Despite COVID-19’s best efforts, baseball is happening once again.

Normally, it would be another half-year of the same boring game in various uniform colors on every screen in bars. But now, many of us are not allowed into bars and there is not even the slightest hope of seeing a fight in the stands since cardboard is yet to attack itself.

I have often wished baseball a slow, wretched death because it is such a slow, wretched game.

…

But first, a non-baseball issue:

Before a game, everyone is asked to stand and remove their hats while the Star-Spangled Banner is performed. Standing supposedly displays respect and patriotism but therein lies a contradiction: How can something be patriotic if not everybody can do it? Are people without legs or who are wheelchair-bound not patriotic? I would think whoever made up the tradition (yes, it was simply made up one day) would have chosen something everyone can do.

And stop with this standing/kneeling debate. It doesn't matter whether someone stands, kneels, sits, lies down, vomits, or does jumping-jacks during a song. If love for your country is in your heart, that's good enough. If you want to stand during the Anthem, great. If not, great. Putting emphasis on something that really doesn't matter is useless.

Or, you know, do some research into why they’re kneeling instead of yelling about it.

The hat-removal topic is even more inane but watch George Carlin do a much better job discussing it than I ever could.

…

Back to baseball. What’s happening on the field?

Batter steps up to the plate...
Stretches for a bit...
Demands everyone wait for him…
Adjusts his batting glove…
Digs into the dirt...
Takes some practice swings because he’s clearly new to the activity…
He's ready to bat...
The pitcher stamps his feet on the ground...
Bends over...
Looks at the catcher's crotch...
Shrugs off one signal...
Shrugs off another...
Glances at the guy on first base because he moved an inch…
Stares at the guy on third…
Looks back at the catcher's crotch...
Shrugs off another signal...
Nods his head...
Stands up...
Looks at the guy on third, again...
Finally…THE PITCH!!!!!!

Ball one.

And it repeats...

…

Here’s how I would fix this mind-numbing routine:

Every batter gets one pitch. If the pitcher is good, he'll throw a strike. If the batter is better, he'll get a hit. One strike is an out; one ball a double; swing and miss and you're out for the game.

Also, each team gets one pitcher per game; no relief or closers. If his arm gets injured or tired, he can throw with the other one, which just might lead to hits and things happening and excitement!!!

This would also hopefully prevent a horrible pitchers’ duel. I cannot think of anything less interesting, except…

Our batter is still at the plate and the count is now 2 balls, 1 strike. We missed two instances of crotch-looking and it couldn’t matter less.

While the batter removes then replaces his batting glove for no reason, I’ll take time to note how lovely the weather is.

Baseball is always played in lovely weather because rain might cause their obnoxious uniforms to get a tad muddy or, worse yet, someone might develop a wittle itty bitty case of the sniffles. But don’t worry- If a player gets a cold he can go on the disabled list along with macho men who stubbed pinkies and didn’t get their diapers changed before nap time.

…

A little more crotch-looking and we’re at 3 balls, 2 strikes.

Is something about to happen!? The count is full so there must be action on the next pitch.

And it’s a hit!

Foul ball.

But a foul is a strike so the batter is out, yes?

Nope.

This nightmare can only end one of three ways: 1) There will be a real strike and the batter will get angry and sit down after wasting ten minutes of everyone’s time; 2) He will hit the ball and a few people will have to move; or 3) The pitch will be outside of the strike zone and this bonehead will get to WALK to first base after accomplishing nothing.

Whatever happens will be dull but at least it won’t be an *intentional walk*. Please don’t make me describe that awful scenario.

…

What bothers me about the steroids debate is if I were to watch baseball, I’d want to see home runs. I do not care if Fastball Frankie can throw a ball with such a spin that it dips at the right time, resulting in a swing and/or miss. That guy should go into Physics and invent something useful with his skill. I want to see a smash hits which go out of the stadium to shatter people's windshields. I WANT A FINAL SCORE OF BREWERS 53, CARDINALS 45!

(Those teams were chosen randomly. I hold no allegiance, if you’ve not figured that out already.)

Also, I dislike how only one team can score per half-inning.

In real sports, one team has possession of the ball or puck but the other team can steal it and get points at any time. That’s exciting! How can you watch a team only play defense?

I propose the team in the field earns a point for pegging a base runner with the ball. Two points for a face shot. That would surely make Captain Five-O’clock-Shadow rethink stealing second.

Or, once per inning, the catcher can body-slam a batter to the ground and take his bat, hitting his own team’s pitch and scoring based on distance. But the batter can fight back with his cleats! The catcher has all that equipment on so why not use it!?

How about having only one umpire? And it’s a one-eyed four-year-old from Uzbekistan who doesn’t leave right field!

Are my suggestions practical? I don’t care. I just think baseball should be as exciting as television’s eternal coverage pretends it is.

…

I (obviously) find baseball dreadful.

For a weird segue, I find the Ku Klux Klan even more dreadful.

Check this out:

At baseball games, a common practice is to hang a banner with a K on it for every strikeout the home team gets.

In the 1800s, some limey Brit developed a system for scoring baseball games. He is responsible for the scores by inning as well as the Runs Hits Errors part after it.

My guess is he devised this structure over the course of a few games (and tea with crumpets) because he was so insanely bored.

He abbreviated a single with an S, so a player being struck out was not-so-cleverly abbreviated K.

Today, something like this happens: After strikeout #1, whoever's in charge of the banners displays a big K. After #2, another K is added next to it.

The third strikeout where things get dicey.

If the same pattern repeats, it would read KKK, which is the usual initialism for the Ku Klux Klan- a group of unsavory white folks with a particular distaste for anyone who is not white and whatever other stupid criteria.

People generally don’t want to promote that group, so the third strikeout's K is frequently reversed.

Apparently a forward or backward K indicates whether the batter struck out swinging or looking, but most of us know what three sequential Ks represents.

Also, another yawn.

These are the things baseball fans pay attention to because there is so little action during the game.

Then there’s this argument:

Offended Guy: 'Hey, that means Ku Klux Klan.'
Banner Guy: 'No, it means the pitcher threw three strikeouts.'
No-Longer-Offended Guy: 'Oh, all right.'

And that would be it! Modern baseball does not promote white supremacy that I know of. The league and stands are filled with boring people from all sorts of boring places and backgrounds. The banner guy is not wearing a white robe with a stupid pointy hood.

Unless he is. Then the whole thing is racist.

…

I saw haircut store (a what?) in Tennessee named Kim's Klassy Kuts. Again, in Tennessee, not far from Lynchburg. That was quite likely racism disguised as something cutely vomit-inducing.

To end with an interesting bit of history, in 1925, there was a baseball game in Kansas between an all-black team and the Klan. The (black) Wichita Monrovians had an open invitation to anyone who wanted to play them.

Guess who accepted. Well, you don't have to guess because I’ve already told you.

Apparently, the game was a peaceful money-making success which ended with the Monrovians winning 10-8.

Check out the full story here.

It would be fascinating to know which direction the Ks faced during that game.

To close, baseball stinks. Have a nice day.

 

In The End, Blow Up The Outside World

In The End, Blow Up The Outside World
by Rob Cottignies

I hate hypothetical situations, but here is one anyway:

Suppose I find out that I am going to die tomorrow. The source is 100% positive and is able to convince me of that.

It is 5:00pm. I make some phone calls, tie up loose ends, etc., then decide that I will not let Death take me but I will go to him.

At 10:00pm, after eating an entire pizza, I drink some beers that have been in my fridge for years, waiting for their perfect time. I would not exactly call this perfect, but they get me drunk. Really drunk. And full. Really full.

It is 11:30pm and I run out my front door screaming.

I am wearing a Viking helmet and no pants, chugging one last beer and looking at the visible stars when my neighbors come over, like a drunk pants-less Viking screaming obscenities near midnight warrants attention.

I mumble that it has been nice living near them, then pass out. Somewhere in my mind, I know I will never wake up.

An ambulance comes and takes me to a hospital.

The doctors do all they can but at 2:00am I am declared dead from alcohol poisoning.

I did it. I beat Death to the punch.

However…

The prophecy was correct. I died tomorrow. But what killed me started today and would not have begun unless I heard the prophecy.

Was it really correct? If I did not drink myself to death, would another doom have been waiting for me?

For those who believe in fate, I was supposed to hear this prediction then get really drunk from awesome beer. For those who do not believe, something else was definitely going to take me out at some point tomorrow.

What is the point of all this? I don't know. But I say you should have fun while you can because having fun is great and not having fun is stupid.

…

Before anyone gets all nervous or whatever, there is nothing to worry about. I am fine and shall continue to be so until something decides I should not be anymore.

Some of you might say, 'I know those excellent beers are strong, but would they be enough to kill you?' Maybe not, but the shots of bourbon during the whole escapade would likely seal the deal. And why did I not throw up? Because I am tough, that's why.

(This piece is oddly dedicated to Linkin Park singer Chester Bennington and Soundgarden singer Chris Cornell, hence the article’s title.)

 

But Is It Irony?

But Is It Irony?
by Rob Cottignies

When John Hinckley attempted to assassinate President Ronald Reagan, he missed his intended target. Reagan, however, was standing outside of his vehicle, which had bulletproof windows. One bullet bounced off a window and struck the President. That window was installed specifically to prevent Reagan from getting shot but in this instance caused a bullet to hit him.

That is irony.

When a group protests a controversial movie, they want to sway people from being interested in it. Quite often, the public pays more attention to the movie because of the uproar and many people see it when they might not have been aware of it had the group not protested.

That is irony.

When my mother called me a son of a bitch, her intent was to insult me, yet she actually insulted herself.

That is irony.

Not one thing Alanis Morissette describes in her song 'Ironic' is ironic.

That might be irony.

Seeing some bozo wearing the same shirt as you is not ironic. It is nothing more than a very small coincidence.

And please stop wearing that shirt. You look stupid.

…

The meaning of ‘irony’ is highly-debated but it is officially described as something spoken or occurring that is the opposite of the intended result.

Many people mistake coincidence for irony, such as you and a friend both wanting pizza for lunch. The only way this could be remotely ironic is if you went to a pizza place only to find out they had no more food.

But that is really more like bad luck, Alanis.

There is a myth that silent film actor Charlie Chaplin once secretly entered a Charlie Chaplin look-alike competition and lost. Of course, the real Charlie Chaplin would have been expected to win such a contest. No record of this happening exists but if it did, irony!

Sarcasm is a form of irony, if used properly. The difference here, though, is inflection. If it is obvious that you would hate to go to your friend’s kid’s Little League game, you might say ‘I would LOVE to go to the game’ with a snarky tone. That would be ironic, and your friend would probably hate you. However, if you said with a straight face ‘I would love to go to the game’, you would simply be a liar and your friend would be better off without you.

(And why would you want to be friends with someone who suggests going to a Little League game as if it would be a fun time?)

…

I recently faced a conundrum- I wanted to run in the park and it was raining out. I generally cannot stand wearing a wet shirt so I wore a zipped-up raincoat to prevent it from getting soaked. After the run, I took off the coat and my shirt underneath was soaked. Said raincoat was non-porous, therefore my body heat was raised and the extra sweat produced caused my shirt to become soaked in gross human moisture.

I wondered if this was ironic. The coat did its job in keeping out rain but my shirt got wet anyway because of the coat. However, if I had not worn the coat, my shirt would still have gotten wet.

This can only be reasoned with by inserting or removing the phrase with rain.

'I wore this coat so my shirt would not get wet. The coat caused my shirt to get wet.' Irony.

'I wore this coat so my shirt would not get wet with rain. The coat caused my shirt to get wet, but not with rain.' Not irony.

But then there is the inevitability that the shirt would have gotten wet regardless. A person could go crazy thinking about this stuff, which I do constantly.

The next time I feel a rain run, I will just go nude. That will certainly show the ironic overlords who the boss is.

Also, check out this video spoofing Alanis's dopey song.

Sharing ≠ Caring

Sharing ≠ Caring
by Rob Cottignies

It baffles me how people are so quick to give personal yet ultimately useless information to strangers. (If you’re a stranger visiting this site, please forgive my hypocrisy.)

Here are three examples:

ROSIE

My friend Dennis was working behind a bar one Sunday. Aside from me, there were three people in the place. Dennis knew two of them so he introduced himself to the third.

Like a child under ten years of age, she shrieked, 'My name is Rosie and it's my birthday!!!!'

Unnecessary information shared strictly for attention. Dennis did the obligatory “nice” thing and gave her a free beer, an act I condemn but probably would have done the same.

Shortly after, I started texting him hateful things about Rosie. 'I hope this is Rosie's last birthday.' 'Pour her a pint of poison.' 'I wish Rosie would somehow get stuck inside her balloon.' You know, cheerful stuff.

What I didn't know was that Dennis's phone was not in his pocket but on the bar in front of the crew. Nosy, as people tend to be, one of Rosie’s friends looked when it vibrated and lit up. Fully shocked, he motioned to ask if I had sent the messages. Playing dumb, I said, 'No, that's not my phone.' He then rudely picked it up and showed it to the other friend and Rosie.

Somebody else's phone. The nerve.

All three looked at me in disgust, or so Dennis told me since I didn't acknowledge them.

Apparently, they were so furious that they did the only thing furious people would do- quietly finished their beers and left. No screaming, no defending, no fighting. Nothing.

I felt badly at the time because I had accidentally lost Dennis some business and I feel worse now because this story doesn't have an interesting ending.

PAIGE’S DAD

I was sitting at a bar (noticing a theme here) when a hipster guy and an older guy came in. The bar was otherwise empty so of course they sat near me and spoke loudly. Due to their inconsiderate volume level, I found out the older guy wasn't the hipster's father but the father of the hipster's girlfriend, whose name was Paige.

I immediately hated Paige.

To make things worse, the hipster was asking Paige's dad for "permission" to propose marriage to her. I lost my appetite and feared what I had eaten would erupt at any moment. Also, I knew they would somehow rope me into this garbage pile of a conversation.

Of course, I was correct.

In a "clever" plot to tell the "good news" to the bartender, Paige's father introduced the hipster to him as his son-in-law. In a pure Aw shucks golly gum gee whiz moment, the hipster said it was too early to be saying that. Not to be outdone, Paige's dad said that no one would blab because only the three of them knew. "And this guy."

Me. Poor, unfortunate me.

At least they sort of acknowledged how loudly they were speaking.

I looked up to see their idiotic faces staring at me, so I said I wouldn't tell anyone because I didn't care.

Do you think that was mean? Do you also think honesty is the best policy? Hypocrite.

DALE & BELINDA

I met my friend Julia at a concert and she was with a friend whose name was not Dale but I instantly forgot it so here we are.

Julia introduced us then suggested getting beer, which is always a great idea. She offered to buy the first round, leaving Dale and me to stand there awkwardly. I hate small talk but sometimes it can't be avoided.

Aside from standing in the same building, the only thing we had in common was knowing Julia so I asked how they met.

Immediately, he replied, 'She was friends with my wife who died last month.'

I had JUST met this guy and he told me the worst news of his life.

What was I to do? My mind didn't automatically go to expressing condolences or asking how he was doing, so I asked how it happened since I was mildly curious and he opened the door. He shouted, 'THAT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.' I was ready to say, 'You made it my business' but Julia came back with the beers and obviously that was more important.

I never found out what happened to Dale's wife, so here's my theory based on exactly zero information:

Dale and his wife, Belinda, were walking along a city street. They'd both tried to quit smoking many times without success. Dale took his last drag and flicked the cigarette butt into the street.

Ever the environmentalist, Belinda reached down to pick it up and place it in a proper waste receptacle.

At that exact moment, a truck swerved from its lane to avoid hitting an old woman named Sue who was standing in the middle of the street for no reason. This truck hit Belinda and knocked her head clean off her body. It flew into the nearest waste receptacle with the cigarette in her mouth, exactly how she would've wanted it.

However, the butt ignited the contents of the receptacle and the two children playing near it. Also, the decapitated body gave Sue an awful fright and she died on the spot from a heart attack, so it was all for nothing.

See what you made me do, Dale? You were inconsiderate and years later a guy you've probably forgotten made up a horrible (though likely accurate) story about your wife dying. This is the pain you have caused. You're a monster.

…

Why do people share this stuff with strangers!?!?

Attention, that's why.

These are the same people who "send" thoughts and prayers to victims on social media. Attention makes them feel good, so I suggest giving them none.

But I guess this article counts as giving them attention so figure that out for yourselves.

Whatever. Leave me alone.

 

The Greaving Mother

The Greaving Mother

by Rob Cottignies

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. -Arthur Conan Doyle

I wish I was clever enough to make up this bizarrely true and truly bizarre story. Also, I did not change names to protect anyone.

Enjoy…

A friend and I were destroying robots, running from dinosaurs, and battling aliens. It was the coolest gaming system around.

My father interrupted the fantasy worlds by calling and telling me to "Come home NOW". He was clearly angry but what could a good 12-year-old have done to make that so?

My friend obviously asked why I had to leave.

"I don't know."

I really didn't.

As soon as I got home, I desperately asked what was going on but was told it would wait until my mother got there.

So I sat, confused, in the living room with my furious dad. Seconds, minutes, hours. The whole time wondering what I'd done. No alcohol, no drugs, no girls, no bad grades.

I just sat there, without the faintest of clues but frightened to ask why again.

My mom arrived and they stood above me as I sat on the couch. Intimidating. One of them firmly said, "Is there anything you'd like to tell us?" I could think of nothing so I remained speechless.

"Mrs. Greaves stopped by a little while ago. Why do you think she would do that?"

(Mrs. Greaves was the mother of twins my age- Brian and Paul. They were known in town for consistently acting fragile during school sports. In soccer, the slightest touch would send either one of them flying and crying, which prompted the mom to run onto the field screaming at the ref, the coaches, the kids, anyone. After a while of this (and not realizing the kids were certainly not to blame), everyone started viciously hitting the boys. If chaos and a penalty would ensue regardless, why not earn it?)

Back at my house, I had no idea why Mrs. Greaves would stop by. I wasn't friends with the boys and our parents had never met before.

Once more, "Is there anything you'd like to tell us?"

I still had nothing to express but confused rage so I demanded to know what was going on.

Mrs. Greaves had brought Paul with her and there were finger marks on his neck. He had clearly been choked, and I was accused of doing it.

I hadn’t, and told my parents as much.

To my frustration, they didn't believe me. Why would they? Sure, I was their son but an upset mother had more clout than an adolescent.

I was sent to my room while they sorted out the details. I was so scared that I wondered how I could have strangled someone then forgotten about it. It was the only thing that made sense. I must have done it. His mother was crying, there were marks on his neck, and they both accused me.

But I didn't remember doing it! And it would've just happened!!!

After another indeterminate amount of time, my parents came in. They gave me one last chance: I was in trouble regardless but if I confessed, my punishment would be less severe. I'd taken that road a few times in my youth but not this time; there was no way I choked this kid.

Possibly because I'd been so honest in the past, I felt like they believed me, at least a little bit. Plus, I likely seemed shaken and nervous instead of defiant.

The night went on and I was asked a few more times, though more casually. They were angry, I felt helpless, and everybody was confused.

The next day, my parents took me to school to meet with the principal. They explained what happened and I explained what didn't happen.

Surprisingly, she did not seem alarmed.

Situations like this had happened before with the twins and their mother. The principal had a thick folder of accusations and investigations. Most of them went nowhere or were deemed false.

There was no proof but we all determined that Mrs. Greaves herself had choked Paul then blamed it on me, which was curious enough without adding that any quarrels I’d had were with his brother. Her fatal flaw was picking the wrong kid to strangle. Regardless, a grown woman attacked her own son then blamed it on a 6th-grader without any apparent motive.

The whole thing made no sense but it was the only reasonable theory.

My parents profusely apologized to me but I understood their predicament. Though a stranger, Mrs. Greaves had a strong case and I was 12- naturally wired to cause mischief and deny it to save myself.

Two more years went by without incident until the twins went for schooling elsewhere.

I've heard they're doing all right now, so I guess the crazy old witch didn't affect them as negatively as predicted. I wonder if Paul remembers this story or if it just got archived along with other unimaginable lunacy.

My point here is that you should trust yourself but weigh the facts because you just never know what people will do.

And don't strangle your kids, unless they deserve it.