The Very Worst Driving Instructor In The World (Me!)

The teenage boy is learning to drive.

I’m not helping.

At all.

I’m a bundle of nerves every time I give him the keys. I would prefer that the car be like the Flintstone mobile so I could slam my feet through the non-existent floorboard every time I feel like he is getting to close to another car.

Yabba Dabba…slow down we are going to hit that car!

Sample conversation:

Me: OK, make sure you look left, right, behind you, straight ahead…watch for cars just suddenly pulling out…watch for helicopters…

Teenager: OK.

Me: Watch for semi-trucks. Semi-trucks will squash us like a bug.

Teenager: Got it, Dad, semi-trucks are bad.

Me: And taxi cabs. Taxi cabs are dicks.

Teenager: Right, taxi cabs are dicks.

Me: Hey! Watch your language! OK, now don’t get too close to the car in front of us and don’t stay too far behind it either, watch that car on the side of us…are you drifting in the other lane? I feel like your drifting…

Teenager: I’m not drifting, Dad. I’m clearly in my own lane.

Me: Maybe we should drive more in our own lane, like on the sidewalk. The sidewalk is safe. Drive on the sidewalk!

Teenager: I can’t drive on the sidewalk!

Me: No, no…you’re right. Better let me drive now, the traffic is getting bad.

Teenager: We haven’t even left the Target parking lot.

This parking lot is a little too full of cars for me to take the teenager to practice in. We will have to find somewhere else.

I know, I know, I need to relax. I don’t remember my Dad freaking out as much as I do when he taught me to drive…but then again he might have been drunk. You know, it was a different time…seat belts cost extra in most cars. As a matter of fact, one of the cars my Dad owned didn’t even have a front seat. We sat on the floor and avoided the rusted out hole in it.

The major problem is that I’m in Orlando, one of the worst states for road rage and home to about 50 million lost tourists.

Where the hell is Disney located?! I don’t see a castle anywhere on this map!

I learned to drive in the great winding empty country roads of Ohio.

*singing* Country Road, take me home, to the place where I belong, no teenage drivers, mountain mama, take me home…

I know my screaming like a little girl doesn’t help his confidence. He is actually doing a pretty good job. Orlando is a tough place to drive. Besides the lost tourists, there is a mixture of cultures to contend with, each thinking they own the road, many, many, so many buses, those dick taxis, and a city that grew faster than it’s roadways can handle.

I don’t think I would want to learn to drive here.

I have been kicked off driving instruction duty, the wife is now in charge of teaching the teenager.

I’m also not allowed to cover the car in bubble wrap anymore.

And I’m suppose to replace the headliner of the car where I ripped it to shreds Wolverine style every time we came to a stop that I felt was too close.

I have also been told telling the boy it’s time for his driving lesson if he can find the car keys which I have buried somewhere in the tri-county area is not a good motivational game, and the fact that I created an old timey pirate treasure map to pin point the location of the keys does not count as helpful.

And finally if I’m going to take apart the engine, pretending it’s “broken”, I should learn how to put it back together again.

Truth be told…I can’t wait until he learns to drive so I can send him on errands…so many errands….

*evil laughter, wringing of hands, pulling on invisible curly mustache*

If Blogging Invaded TV Shows

Local newspaper reporter Susie Stackedhouse knows how it feels to be an outcast. “Cursed” with the ability to post three times a day, she starts a blog about vampires and vampire culture. When  vampire/blogger Burt Romperton, a handsome 173-year-old living vamp comes to town, Susie is drawn into a series of journal blogs surrounding Burt’s mysterious penchant for only posting at night. Add in a blogging werewolf, several video blogging fairies, and a Tumblr addict shapeshifter, and Susie’s world will never be the same again.

The Blogging Dead tells the story of the months and years that follow after the internet is destroyed. A group of bloggers, led by a ranter blogger, Dick Grimey, travel in search of a new internet connection. Along the way they encounter dangerous groups of people with no internet…and nothing to do. This new people just stumble aimlessly around, lost and growling, looking for something…The group must survive these internet-less zombies…and each other…

“Blogging Bad” follows protagonist Willy Whipple, a copyright editor who lives in New Mexico with his wife  and teenage son who has dyslexia. Whipple is diagnosed with Stage 12 cancer and given a prognosis of two months left to live. With a new sense of fearlessness based on his medical prognosis, and a desire to secure his family’s financial security, Whipple chooses to enter a dangerous world of blogging with Amazon Advertisers to help pay the bills. The series explores how a copyright editor such as Whipple releases a typical How-To blogger from the daily care free post-whenever-the-wind-blows-world and follows his transformation into corporate spokesperson.

The show revolves around the conflicted world of Dude Dabbler, the biggest blogger in the business, and his co-writers. As Dude makes the decisions on which articles to post, he struggles to stay a step ahead of the rapidly changing social media fickle times and the young bloggers who just want to post boob pictures nipping at his heels.

Summers with kids out of school seem to span decades. Winters can last a lifetime. And the struggle for the Blogging Throne has begun. It will stretch from the south, where budding recipe bloggers think they should publish a cookbook; to the vast and savage eastern lands filled with fashion bloggers; all the way to the frozen north. Sex Bloggers, Ranters, Mommy Bloggers, Travel Bloggers, Reviewers, …all will play the “Game of Blogs.”

For Sammy and Rudolph, the awkwardness of being the new bloggers is made worse by the fact that their dad has taken a job as the High School Journalism teacher. The school is one big culture shock for Sammy, a sweet and friendly blogger with a passion for cutting and pasting google images, and Rudolph, a wiz at blogging lists, and who was adopted by the Wilton family after they took him in as a foster child. Sammy and Rudolph have a close sibling relationship, which they’ll need to help them cope with all the teen bloggers, including Naomi, who doesn’t use her real name on her blog; Erik, a popular video game reviewer; David, an aspiring blog journalist who heads up the school’s stamp collecting club; and Goldy, a rebel who produces and stars in a YouTube-type video series. The Wilton family has just begun to realize how much their lives are about to be published.

Dear…Sincerely

Dear Candy Crush,

Playing Level 65 a thousand times without beating it is not fun!

Sincerely,

Not Spending Any Money On Charms You Bastard!

—–

Dear 6 Year Old,

I’m changing my name so you can’t call it a million times an hour.

Sincerely,

Mxyzptlk-ya-gowkza (Formally Known As Dad)

—–

Dear Game Of Thrones,

All you have done is talk for 9 episodes, and now we are going to make it exciting?!

Sincerely,

Smells Like Boardwalk Empire

—–

Dear Fart,

Your timing sucks!

Sincerely,

She Is Not Impressed With My Lovemaking Skills

—–

Dear Lazy People,

TV Remotes, Dishwashers, Car Clickers, ATMs, Cell Phones, Sporks

Sincerely,

The Spork Is Underrated

—–

Dear Iphone 6,

We have already released our phone so you could copy the features and make everyone buy new phones again. You’re welcome.

Sincerely,

Galaxy 4s

—–

Dear TV Executives,

Sleepy Hollow, Hannibal, Bates Mates…recycling at it’s best.

Sincerely,

That Does Nothing To Save The Planet

—–

Dear Three Blind Mice,

Sorry to hear your tails got cut off.

Sincerely,

1-800-Find-A-Lawyer

—–

Dear Eminem,

It would be cool if you were a TV advertising spokesperson. Just saying.

Sincerely,

M&M’s

—–

Dear Every Light On In The House,

Kids…Why? Is This Necessary?

Sincerely,

Thanks For Making Me Sound Like My Dad

Please Help Find Nichole

I Want To Ride 80’s Style

Reblog Thursday is upon us again. It only seems like a week ago it was Reblog Thursday…

Anyway, I can take both sides of the issue in this piece…you are missing the world with your head glued to the usually broken glass of your iphone 5, yet a lot of times the world ain’t all that exciting…you know…with everyones face glued to their broken glassed iphones.

Often if I’m not driving I take the opportunity to visit my Simpson’s Tapped Out town on my unbroken glassed Galaxy III phone even though I grew up listening to Dad’s AM light rock radio and figuring out landmarks along the way to Grandma’s house to know how soon we would get there.

By the way at the big rock that looks like a butt, means we are almost there…

HEY BEERGUT!!

I don’t know about these iPod’s and stuff.  What the hell ever happened to sitting in the car hour after hour as a kid and looking out the window?  Now the kids are all hooked into their stupid devices where they squint (maybe that’s just me) at a screen hour after hour while the scenery goes by.

Listen, I totally get the drown out the parents thing.  Back in the day it was all about having my hand-me-down Sony Walkman and listening to my tunes instead of the endless classical music my parents played on the radio, from which relief was granted every half hour by way of the news that would drone on for what felt like forever.

With my Walkman and head phones on, I would gaze out of the window and take in the landscape, the wildlife and the other vehicles sharing the road.  The only time…

View original post 264 more words

High School Musical Reunion (minus the Musical) Pt One

I’m about to date myself.

I don’t mean I was going to take myself out on a date, I haven’t had to do that since High School.

Speaking of  High School, my 25th Renioun is coming up.

I’m thinking about going since I didn’t go to the 5th year renioun…or the 10th, 15th, 17 1/2, or 20th High School Reunions.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about going to be honest. I can’t say High School was all that fun, or enjoyable, or even defined me as a person.

The first year and an half down right sucked.

I’m not sure I want to rub elbows 25 years later with people who used to stick gum in my hair and knock the books out of my hands while I was walking to class.

Ha, ha, guy who did that to me, scatering my books and notebook papers all over the hallway….

Good one.

Everyday…

…good one.

My High School was a big wrestling High School, and if you didn’t wrestle….well, you were not cool.

I didn’t have the competive spirit, nor the body, nor the stomach for sticking my face in some other kid’s junk, to really want to wrestle.

My talents lied elsewhere, like being rejected by girls.

I was really talented at that.

At least this was justly deserved, as I was a big old nerd…with a nerd’s haircut, nerd braces, nerd’s slouch, freckles, and my only impressive skill: folding notecards into frogs.

Which to preteen/teenage girls…not that impressive.

So for that, my books and notebook paper would be scattered on a daily basis in the hallways of my Alma Mater.

As well as they should.

Right?

If the wrestlers thought about it though, not really a good recuitment campaign to get me on the blue wrestling tights band wagon. I’m glad that  recuitment companies in the real world don’t use that same technique.

That would be really weird.

I pretty sure if I had joined the wrestling team, I would have had my ass handed to me, plus I’m a little nervous about heights, and I wouldn’t ever be able to do a flip off the top rope.

Which, I’m being told there is no ropes in High School Wrestling, so I guess that was not a valid excuse.

I did sit on the bench of the Freshman Basketball team to try to up my High School sports cred.

It didn’t work.

To be honest…everyone made the Freshman Basketball team.

I sucked so bad at Basketball. I really deserved to ride the bench. I was a pro at riding the bench though. I knew where to sit so as to not get any splinters in my bum, I could take a big swig of water from the sports bottle like I had just played hard…even though I didn’t, and I could cheer and get into a big game hudle with the rest of the team like I was important to the chances of winnig or losing.

I wasn’t.

If and this was a big if….I made it onto the basketball court during game time…like usually the last 30 seconds of the game, and you passed the ball to me, I would probably either:

A) Dribble it until it was stolen from me

B) Pass it right back quickly like we were playing hot potato

C) Shoot it towards the basket, having it fall three feet short of the net.

 

I ran up and down the court like a boss though. And my basketball sneakers were always clean and my socks were always knee high.

So, I turned to theater. Which I also failed miserably. In the fall we had a drama and in the spring we had a musical.

I can’t sing, so in the spring I would end up in the chorus. Sometimes there would be speaking parts in the musicals that didn’t require you to sing, but those always went to the same guy. As a matter of fact, most of the parts in any production we did went to the same people. I would get little tiny parts with one or two lines, which I would rewrite to be funnier or ad lib something during a performance. My enhancements would go over pretty well and the drama teacher would let me keep my new versions, but I’m pretty sure she would have rather me stick to the script.

I’m a more off the cuff type of actor, which eventually lead to me joining an improv troop much later in life, but that’s a whole different set of stories.

The only good thing that I got out of the drama department was I got to snuggle with some of the girls while I was waiting to deliver my one line.

I felt sorry for my parents. They sat through an entire season of basketball watching me and the bench become one. Then they had to sit through 2 hour High School plays of really bad acting so that could hear me say my one ad libbed line.

At the very end they were more than supportive,

“You were great as Soldier No. 4. You really nailed it! So much better than last year when you were Village Peasant No. 2!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I basically injected my lines myself, otherwise they would have been watching me just stand on stage for two hours doing nothing like the wooden trees built by the stage crew.

So scoring big zeros in sports and drama, I tried Art. One of the guys I went to school with could draw cars really, really well. Come to think of it, he could only draw one kind of car really, really well. Which he drew over. And over. And over.

And I don’t think it was an actual in production car. I think it was a bunch of different styles of cars mashed into his ultimate “cool” car creation.

My hand at drawing was simplistic at best. Stick figures having sex mostly. I learned to draw eyes pretty good though…not whole faces mind you…just eyes.

Art was out.

For my music venture, I tried Guitar. I was in the church guitar group for awhile and thank God there was four other guitars to cover up the horrible sounds coming from my instrument. I couldn’t read music nor play any cool rock songs. I was able to successfully get my pick stuck in the guitar hole quite a bit, thus turning the guitar into maraca. If I was smart, I should have invented the Guitaca.

Maybe I still will. I just copyrighted Guitaca(tm) before any of you guys get any ideas.

I left High School with no intentions to look back. College was a much, much better experience.

So what really brought on these ponderings?

A guy from my High School wants to friend me on Facebook. He was neither mean nor nice to me, but he hung out with the book slappers. I remember once he snapped the bra of a big boobed girl in class one day.

I thought that was cool. I wanted to do that so bad, but…you know…not a cool kid.

It wasn’t all bad. Things started turning around towards the end of Freshman year.

I’ll tell why in part two.

Not Really A Writer Pt One

Got some really nice comments from a lot of you on some of the fiction I have been attempting. Thank you so much.

For example:

Thank you Rhonda. I do appreciate it, but I think I must leave the real writing to people such as yourself, La La, David Stewart, Marc Schuster, and so many others that I read. There are a lot of you. If I listed all of you, this would be very boring post*.

Although I do like to pretend to write, I don’t really enjoy it. It’s really, really hard for me.

Like really, really, hard. (When you italicize and underline a word, you mean business!)

When I was in High School, I joined the school paper because my English Teacher made me. She said that my essays and book reports would be better off in MAD or Cracked magazine than in any type of academic offering.

Which was fine by me…have you ever read a book report by someone?

Boring!

Smart kid’s report:

“My book report is on Cat In The Hat. I liked it because I like kitties. Sometimes I sneeze around kitties and my Mom makes me take an epsom salt bath. I think Dr. Seuss is a great writer because he makes up words. I would someday like to make up words. I think everyone should read this book because cats and hats are very important to society.”

That kid would get an A.

My effort:

“If you want to waste about 172 hours of your life, read Jane Eyre. This book would stop a raging bull rhino from destroying a village of pygmies just by reading the opening paragraph out loud to it. (I’m saying it would be put him to sleep in case you didn’t get it!) First off, I don’t know why you would think any high school male would want to read this dribble, except maybe Marty from drama class. I think he would like this book a lot. I mean A LOT! But Marty also likes musicals, so go figure. This book was so boring even the Cliff’s Notes were hard to get through. Could we read someone more contemporary like Stephen King, Chewbacca, or Dan Brown? In conclusion I think hats are very important to society.”

I would get a C-.

But isn’t that what a book review should be?

My opinion and interpretation of the book?

Huh, Teach?

Huh?

No, in school a book report is just a carbon copy of the very first book report ever…. insert different book. I don’t know why teachers over the last thousand years would assign themselves such a mundane task to sift through.

Sometimes I would do slightly better by adding the line:

“Jane Eyre reminds me of  my English Teacher, Mrs. Bender. They both distill a sense of self-worth and dignity, a commitment to justice and principle, a trust in God, and a passionate disposition.”

That usually got me C+.

—–

So, the English Teacher sends me to the Journalism Teacher telling him I’m “colorful.” I’m about the whitest dude you would ever meet, so I don’t know what she was talking about. The Journalism Teacher decided my first assignment should be a report on the school cafeteria’s new vending machines. So now I’m thinking, “colorful” means “knows a lot about soda.”

Which I do.

I know a lot about soda.

But really, what kind of assignment was that?

I submitted this,

The New Vending Machines In The Cafeteria

by Christopher De Voss, Soda Expert

 

If you look to the far corner of the cafeteria, instead of the usual blank area, you will see 3 vending machines. The one in the middle is the shiniest. Don’t bother looking for Dr. Pepper. There is none. I looked already.

 

Well let me tell you how “colorful” the Journalism Teacher was when he discussed my article with me!

 

– I need to take this seriously! (I did. What can you say about vending machines? They vend. That’s really it.)

– Where was the investigative reporting? (Who was I going to talk to about it? VendiMart the owners of the machines? Marty? Mary Parker?)

– Did I think this was funny? (Actually yes!)

– Why was it so short? Could I find nothing else to say on the subject? (Actually no!)

– This was a very poor and lazy effort! (I spent 5 minutes on this! I could have been watching TV instead.)

– Why was my shirt never tucked in? (I had an awkward teenage body.)

 

To which I replied,

 

“I don’t want to write. You people want me to write. If you force me to write something, then you must really want to read it…so if that’s the case…you have to accept whatever I write. And give me an A, regardless. I will now sign an autograph for you if you like.”

 

The journalism teacher just stared at me.

 

“Ha ha…joking,” I said sheepishly. “Could I do a Dave Berry style article instead maybe?”

 

He paused and stared at me some more. He kind of looked like he was holding in a fart.

 

“Sure, due tomorrow!” he said.

 

I couldn’t believe it! Really?! This was going to rock. I bamboozled the Teacher. Total freedom to write about whatever I wanted. No school play reviews, no high school football games, no interviewing the kid that painted the mural in the art room…just me and my random thoughts of….

 

What?

 

What was I going to write about?

 

I had nothing to write about. Everything from that point before was forced upon me to write, now I had to come up with my own ideas. English class didn’t prepare me for that!

 

What the hell was the Teacher thinking?

 

What the hell was I thinking?

 

I had no ideas.

 

My life consisted of staying away from seniors and trying to get Mary Parker to flash me her undies.

 

This sucked worse than writing about the school cafeteria vending machines. 

 

Well played Journalism Teacher!

 

I decided to use a recent tragedy that had befallen my car. I was backing out of a car port when I hit one of the support poles. It tore off the entire right front end of my Dodge Omni. I was going at the most, maybe 2 miles an hour. Stupid car! You would think it was made of tin foil. So I wrote a story about going out with my friends and jumping some school busses or a giant fire pit, or something stupid, and that’s how my car got damaged.

 

It wasn’t that good, but everyone loved it.

 

Most likely because the rest of the newspaper was about things like the new vending machines. It wasn’t that my writing was so good, it was the rest of the paper was so dull. Anything would have stood out, including a picture of a pebble.

 

“Did you see that picture of a pebble Chris De Voss took? He is a genius!”

 

I think I spent the night before the deadline writing and rewriting the damn thing like a hundred and fifty times. It was only about 200 to 250 words, but they were a rough 200 to 250 words.

 

Lots of man tears were shed…or at that time, teenage angst tears.

 

But at the end of the day, all those that told me I would feel a great sense of accomplishment and relief when I was done…were wrong!

 

And to make matters worse, they wanted another article next month!

 

Where was I going to get my next idea?

 

How many sleepless nights would it take to write it?

 

How many commas could I use in one sentence? (I, don’t, know,,,,)

 

What about Mary Parker’s undies?! Where they pink today?

 

Aaaaargh!

 

To be continued………

 

 

 

 * You could find this a boring post anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

A Lazy Day Looking At The Toilet Paper Holder

Went into the half-bath to…you know…read a  book…when looking down at the toilet paper holder, I see this:

I understand it’s hard to throw away the toilet paper tubes in the trash can less than a foot away.

So verrrry hard!

While “reading my book” I  pondered the toilet paper holder and imagined shapes in it, sort of like looking at the clouds in a dreamy, lazy summer day…if that dreamy, lazy summer day included a toilet.

What do I see? A toilet paper factory looking back at me!

El Diablo! The Devil! Mad that you used all the toilet paper!

Change the tube, Beavis! Mahaaa Mahaaa (that’s supposed to be Butthead’s laugh)

And of course…like you couldn’t see that coming…ready for it…the boobtube! Hahahaha!

Preteen Vs. Call Of Duty Pt 2

Bang, Bang, Machine Gun Sounds, Explosion

OH COME ON!

Some cursing, Bang, Bang…More Machine Gun Noises, Someone yelling Help!

HE IS CHEATING! HOW DID HE SHOOT ME! I’M BEHIND A WALL!

Some weird leveling up noise, a bit of music, shotgun noise

AAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!

You know you love me. You know you want to play with me for hours…I’m your best friend!

Your so frustrating! I hate you!

Shhhh! Don’t talk that way. You are almost  to the next level. You are so good to me. Listen to my helicopter noises. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrllllllllllll.

Do you really think so Call of Duty? Really? I’m good?

Of course Preteen. Let’s not fight…outside the game that is…

Ha Ha Ha!

Ha Ha Ha!

The End ????

Randoms Pt 15

I’m doing the laundry, a chore I hate immensely. While my head was in the dryer I hear the Toddler call from the other room:

“Daddy!”

Me: “What?”

Toddler: “Grandma gave me a surprise yesterday…”

Me: “Oh really. What?”

Toddler: “Jesus!”

Me: “Oh. Okay. Wait, what did you say?”

Toddler: “I said Mommy gave me a surprise yesterday. Chuck-E-Cheese’s!”

Me: “Oh, okay. I’ve got to get my hearing checked.”

—–

Words of Wisdom From The Teenage Boy:

I’m going to get a tattoo of a shirt, so it looks like I’m wearing a shirt even when I’m not. You can’t go wrong with a shirt tattoo.

Me:

Except when you want to wear a different shirt…

—–

The Teenage girl is obsessed with a boy band called One Direction. She has been obsessed with them for a long time.

A really long time.

A really, really, really, long time.

So she was looking at her Twitter the other day and says this out loud,

“(One of the boys in the band) He has perfect collarbones and he is ruining them with tattoos. And he has perfect arms and he is ruining those with tattoos of random objects that are important.”

Wife: Like refrigerators and toasters?

Then she shows us a picture of his perfect collar bones.

And his arms.

Me: What the hell are perfect collarbones?

—–

I like to send random texts to my friends because I think it’s funny.

They…not so much.

Here are some recent messages:

—–

—–

—–

—–

—–

—–