Here’s a Dumb Story…

Dumb Story #1: Unique Itch Scratcher 

One night, in high school, I was sitting at the desk in my room pretending to do homework but really just procrastinating. While I was busy working to figure out the best ways to get out of doing work, my leg started to itch. Now, this would not qualify as a dumb story if I did what any normal person would do in a situation where their leg itched: scratch it with my hand. To my right, sitting unused and begging for attention, was my stapler. So, naturally I grabbed the stapler, placed it against my tibia where the itch was, and slightly pressed down. This may be where you think the dumb part of our story happened, but unfortunately for you, it is not. The staple lightly pressed against my skin, protruding ever so slightly from the stapler, and served as a perfect itch scratcher. I then removed the stapler from my leg, the staple receded back into the mouth of the stapler and relief hit me from my perfectly scratched itch. However! My mind now focused on the fact that I could push the stapler ever so slightly causing a staple to protrude from the mouth of the stapler but not fully click and release. Could I replicate this action on another part of my body! Time to test it out. I took the stapler in my right hand, opened 180 degrees so that nothing could block its mouth, and pressed it against my left index finger. I proceeded to follow the same steps I did when scratching the itch on my leg. I pressed down on the stapler ever so slightly, trying to push the staple just out of the mouth but not hard enough to click and…

*click*

I pressed too hard. The stapler pressed all the way down. I sat there in shock, unable to move the stapler and see for a fact that a staple was now lodged into my finger. A moment of panic washed over me as I worried that the staple folded over inside my finger (forgetting the metal indents on the bottom of a stapler are what cause it to fold over when stapling paper). As I covered the staple with the stapler, not seeing it inside my finger, I thought that maybe nothing had come out. There was a part of me telling myself I was not stupid enough to have just stapled my finger. But when I pulled the stapler away, there it was. A nice shiny metal stapler lodged inside my finger. I closed my eyes and yanked on the staple. Fortunately, the inside of my finger does not contain any metal indents designed to fold staples (that’s a good thing to know). It came right out leaving behind two tiny red puncture holes on the distal phalanx and middle phalanx of my left index finger. I have not tried to staple a body part since…

Stapler

Dumb Story #2: You’ll Never See This One Coming

*Don’t judge me too harshly for this one

When I was between the ages of 10-12, I used to attend a summer camp in Colorado called Sanborn Western Camps. This was a five-week overnight camp where we would do a variety of fun outdoor adventures like horse back riding, mountain climbing, hiking, and other adventurous things.

At camp, we would sleep in these big green tents with around six campers and a counselor in each tent (my sister was a counselor on the girls’ side of camp). Throughout the weeks spent at camp, campers had the opportunity to go on different expeditions of their choice. There were day long activities, where you would go out, do some fun thing, then come back and sleep back in your big tent. There were also two day, three day, even four day expeditions. These involved more intense activities including mountain climbing. I remember some of my big trips including climbing Mt. Sherman, Mt. Antero, and a few others. We would take vans out as far as we could, then hike into the area, pitch our own three person tents, and then climb the mountain the next day.

When not out on an expedition, we were spending time at the home camp doing activities like ultimate frisbee, day hikes, arts and crafts projects etc…Spending almost everyday in a large, yet confined, tent made us very close with our tentmates. And every year I found great friendships. As many of you have probably experienced (or maybe not if you are more civilized than myself), when you become really close with people oftentimes that friendship manifests through giving each other a bunch of shit. We would mess with each other all the time by playing pranks on each other, making fun of each other, you get the point. So this is where out story begins…(please don’t judge me too harshly for what is about to pursue, I was young and dumb and still live with the guilt all these years later)

For one of our two day expeditions, my friends and I all decided to go together on the same trip. I’ll be honest, I can’t even remember what the purpose of the trip was as what is about to happen is implanted in my brain, and I will never be able to override it. The first day we spent our time hiking out to the campsite. It was not a particularly long or grueling hike. We arrived at our destination around mid-morning or early afternoon. It didn’t take long to pitch our tents (I was sharing a tent with two of my best friends at camp during the time). After the tents were up and lunch was eaten, the counselors in charge of the trip offered up an optional afternoon hike. One friend of mine and I decided we were good for the day and wanted to stay at the campsite and play tag or ultimate frisbee, whatever the activity would be. My other friend decided a hike would be fun and took up the counselor’s offer for a hike, so he headed out with a group of kids on a short afternoon hike.

Now, this friend of mine who decided to go on the hike would not be considered the cleanest or most organized kid at camp (coming from me that’s saying a lot). So, despite the fact that we had been at the campsite for maybe an hour or two, the contents of his pack were strewn all over the tent floor. My other friend and I were in the tent about to play cards, but we needed a clean playing surface. So we started to shove our friend’s stuff to his side of the tent. And that’s when we saw it: his bright white, teeny tiny, tightie whitey underwear. I mean we were 12 year old boys, could we not grab them and laugh at him about them? (The answer of course is yes, of course we could have not made fun of him, but that’s not how our friendship worked). I decided to be the bad guy, and when he returned to camp, I was going to make sure he knew that we found his underwear (as I write this, I just can’t stop thinking about how stupid this is).

Fast-forward a few hours and I see the hiking party returning. At long last my incredible moment of making fun of my friend has arrived. I see him in the distance with the counselor walking up our way. I don’t care that he’s with the counselor, I can’t help myself I need to laugh at my friend’s expense. I shout at him, waving his underwear in the air, “I think you forgot your underwear!” I’m laughing, my other friend is laughing, but our hiking friend is still too far away. So I shout a little louder, everyone in the camp can hear me. The entire camp’s attention is on my friend. All eyes drawn to our fallen comrade. As my hiking friend and the counselor approach closer, I notice the counselor’s arm is around him. I notice tears in my friend’s eyes. My jaw drops. The underwear drops. Chills of guilt and embarrassment run through my skin. I feel like I’m on fire. I will never forget the feeling. I think to myself, it was just a joke. This friend had pulled much worse pranks on me. Still, the look of severe pain on his face, the tears in his eyes, how small in that moment he looked will stick with me forever. I go up to apologize. When I start apologizing both my friend and the counselor have no idea what I’m talking about. They look at me quizzically when I mention underwear, and I even see a small smile cross my friend’s face at the word underwear (we were 12, the word underwear was funny then for some reason). Neither of them had heard me yelling about the underwear (although after I told the counselor about it, he gave me a stern talk later that night). It turns out my friend was kicked by a horse.

The End

Dumb Story #3: I Believe I can Fly

In honor of The Last Dance, here is my MJ related story. When I was in high school or home from college, I used to go to Lifetime Fitness with my friends to play basketball. Sometimes we would play one-on-one or just shoot around, but a lot of the time we would play pick up games with other random people who were there. As many people know, Michael Jordan lived in the suburbs of Chicago. That meant that his children, who were around my age, lived and hung out in the same areas that I did. Marcus Jordan, his youngest son, used to go to Lifetime Fitness as well. And it just so happened that he liked to play in these pickup games, too.

Lucky for me, one time when my friends and I were there, we happened to play in the same game as Marcus. We were not fortunate enough to be on the same team as him though. Before a game starts, players on each team match up with their opponents for who they will guard throughout the game. I must have been tying my shoe, or getting a drink, or something, because somehow I got matched up against Marcus Jordan. Yes, the 6 foot 4 inch Marcus Jordan, son of the greatest basketball player of all time, was going to be guarded by me and my wiry 5 foot 9 inch body.

The good news is I didn’t spark much fear in Marcus Jordan, and for the first part of the game he didn’t go very hard. He would shoot a bunch of Steph Curry ranged threes for fun, or pass up shots to involve other players. He played lackadaisical defense against me, but it was Marcus Jordan, I wasn’t itching for the ball. However, one time I received a pass at the top of the key behind the three point line. Marcus was daring me to shoot, playing back, hands barely up, kind of smiling like he was saying I know you won’t shoot it. So I did.

Swish.

I nailed the shot and smiled. I couldn’t help it. I just hit a three in the face of an MJ. It felt good. For about three seconds…This was Michael Jordan’s son remember? He was pissed. The next possession he takes the inbounds pass. I was feeling myself a little. I pick him up at the three point line, it doesn’t matter. He basically just bullies me to the basket and just throws down a dunk in my face knocking me over, stands over me for a second, then trots back to his side of the court. Let’s just say someone else switched to defense on Marcus for the rest of the game. But for the rest of my life, I will always remember the time I swished a three in MJ’s face and ended up with a shoe print on my back as a reward.