All Shall Finally Be Revealed  

In my last post I attempted to be all mysterious, "Three Lies and a Truth" style. And as with the majority of my deliberate attempts to foster a sense of cool about myself, I once again forgot that it isn't a road paved with personally embarrassing stories.

Let's do a quick recap of the four possible truths:
  1. I named my very first pet "Farlow," after a character on the classic primetime soap opera (em) Dallas.
  2. Once when I was 13 and walking home from high school, a group of seniors drove by and threw a ICEE out the car window which struck the side of my head, knocking me unconscious.
  3. I only have 9 ½ toes (and yes, I did at one time have all 10 of them).
  4. The only person I've ever punched in the face turned out to be a minister.
So which story isn't a falsehood? While it's arguably the least manly and interesting story of them all, #1 is true. The odd thing about this story is that the only part of Dallas I would ever even watch were the opening credits. Because let's face it, the music was epic and it featured enough nonstop screen wipes that it could give the Star Wars editing team a run for their money. For the record, Farlow was a noisy little finch I got on my 8th birthday, and my older brother used to call him "Far-blow."

Kudos to E, Misty, and Christian, all of whom guessed correctly. Although I did actually promise a link to the first correct guess, so I'm giving E another one for good measure. Also, now is as good a time as any to mention that whenever I see her Twitter handle, which is ewiley, those "For Dummies" books from Wiley Publishing immediately come to mind. I tell you this not because she is a dummy, but because of my own personal disappointment at not thinking of Wile E. Coyote first and foremost. I fear for my status as a known man child should my thoughts continue to prioritize themselves this way.

But wait. You might remember my claim that the three lies were actually more half-truths than total fiction. Allow me to elaborate:

I did get nailed in the head by an ICEE thrown from a moving vehicle when I was 13. It was in the back of the head, and it almost knocked me the fuck out. Apparently having something half-frozen slam into your skull at 30 mph will do that. For a few post-impact seconds my thoughts were cloudy; I remember feeling really cold and there was all this red slushy stuff on the back of my head. I may or may not have freaked out thinking I had been bludgeoned.

Yes, I still have all 10 of my toes. But there is someone out there who doesn't, which happens to be my direct fault. Right around the time I was 12, an old guy in our neighborhood rounded up a bunch of able-bodied teenage boys (cool your pedo-jets pervs) to help him relocate his trailer onto a new foundation across his property. He first assigned me the job of putting the hitch up onto blocks, which I did so in the best way any clueless 12-year-old could, meaning it was barely stable. I might have also been screwing around shortly thereafter and pushed my friend up against said trailer, easily knocking the hitch off my crappy stack job and onto another boy's foot. The weight of the trailer crushed the tip of his little piggy that usually stays home, and the doctors had to take half of it. Everyone wrote it off as a careless accident, but yeah, 100% my fault. The worst part? I don't even remember his name.

Only once in my life have I punched someone in the face, save a few glancing blows dealt to my brother. The person unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of my closed-fisted pubescent angst was about 3 years younger than me and at least a foot shorter. In my defense he completely deserved it; being the son of a minister doesn't grant you the right to constantly tell people that their family is going to hell because they don't go to church. Plus he hit me with a rolled up a newspaper and said I was a heathen. I probably would have responded in kind but I didn't have a newspaper on me, so I punched him in the face and he very poignantly tumbled across the ground and down into a ditch. He climbed right out and charged at me with the rolled up newspaper held high, crying and screaming something about Satan, which I answered by giving him an open-handed slap across the face. Son of a preacher-man just ran home crying, and as far as I know my parents never found out about it. In retrospect, the slap was far more satisfying than the punch, if for no other reason because of the awesome sound it made -- a sort of harmonious mashup of justice and comeuppance that I can only hope will reverberate throughout the ages.

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