Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

Never Give Up On Your Stupid, Stupid Dreams

Written By: Humor Mike - Jan• 31•11

I don’t know about you, but I’m certainly glad the holiday season is behind us. One of the main issues I have with that time of year, other than the way my money seems to fly out of my wallet without regard to my rent or cable bill, is that the holidays really test your knowledge of religion. Imagine my shame when I incorrectly wished one of my Jewish neighbors a happy Kwanzaa. Oops. It would be so much easier if we had some form of notecards or something to tell us which holiday was celebrated by which religion. (Oh, so you’re Canadian, give me a moment to check my notecards.) Thus, I love this time of year where you’re able to just say, “Happy Friday,??? or “Have a good weekend,??? because everyone believes in Fridays and weekends regardless of religious, ethnic, or political affiliations—I think. Hmmm.

Well, it’s official. In spite of my abysmal GMAT score, I was somehow accepted into the University of Baltimore’s Master of Business (MBA) program. Go ahead. I’ll give you a few moments to applaud. I’ll wait. Is that it? Are you done already? It wouldn’t have killed you to have clapped for at least a full minute or two. Geez. I would have done it for you. You should have seen how enthusiastic I was the other day when one of my coworkers called to tell me that their 12-year-old son would no longer be wearing pull-ups because he’d graduated to big boy undies. Personally, I couldn’t have been prouder. I clapped for a full five minutes, might I add.

Anyway, I must admit that I’m not exactly sure what got me over the hump. Maybe it was the pizzas and cheese steaks I had delivered to the admissions staff along with my application. Or, maybe it was the hand washing and waxing I performed on the staff’s cars during the admittance process. Then again, it probably was the Swedish massages I gave the faculty, which was a feat in itself due to the unusual amount of back hair some of those ladies had. Yuck!!! I mean, I could have braided it if they’d asked. I’m glad they didn’t.

Ok, maybe I went a little overboard with the Swedish massages, but at least I didn’t resort to doing anything unethical to get in—again. No money actually exchanged hands—this time. And I can neither confirm nor deny that I did any direct deposits into the admission staff’s bank accounts. Regarding that matter, I plead the fifth. Also, I’d like to point out that I only washed their windows, handled their copying needs, and ran some errands for the admissions staff as a part of an “internship??? that just happened to only last for the couple of hours my application was under review. Purely coincidental and completely innocent. Right?

In any case, I got in and I’m incredibly excited, nervous, and a little frightened. I’m excited because I genuinely enjoy the learning process. I’m nervous because I want to do well, but I know that the pursuit of the MBA is going to be a challenge and will take me way out of my comfort zone. And I’m frightened because I have no idea how I’m going to keep up with the coursework and the new season of “The Bachelor??? at the same time. For me, this is a very real fear. I mean, how else am I going to learn how to find real love? Duh! Furthermore, I’m frightened because the curriculum calls for accounting classes, which means I’ll have to add and subtract and stuff. Wait. I know that you’re saying to yourself, “But, Michael, you work in accounting.??? I know. But not the type of accounting where you need to be able to add—or do anything with numbers, for that matter. It’s a completely different kind of accounting. I won’t even bore you with all the details.

Although I haven’t actually cracked open a book yet, I can already tell that this semester is going to be sort of painful. One evening, because the administrative office stated they would close at 7 PM, I drove all the way from DC to Baltimore after work just to find a notice on the door apologizing for their closing at 4:30 due to “unforeseen circumstances.??? Apparently they don’t know how much gas costs or how much my time is worth. My job values my time at about $2.55 an hour, but that’s neither here nor there, and I’m too much of a man to even bring it up. I’ve never been the type to rub my success in people’s faces. I believe in humility.

Speaking of humility, during that same trip I was recognized by several students who’d seen my picture on the University of Baltimore admissions website. I was thrilled as I answered questions about what I’d done since I graduated, what tips I could pass on to someone just starting school, and whether I had any spare change. It was as if I were Flavor Flav or somebody. Honestly, I may have embellished just a little by telling them that I had a world-famous blog and that I was in the process of touring the country to meet all my fans. I mean, it may be true one day. Anything is possible. Anyhow, I also was probably a tad bit overzealous by asking if they wanted my autograph. They declined—even after I begged. Yes, it was a sad day for Michael.

If all that wasn’t bad enough, I had a very unfortunate incident occur in the campus bookstore while attempting to purchase textbooks. See, what had happened was, I was minding my own business while standing in line when I went to reach into my left pocket out of nervous habit. Despite the fact that I’d just bought the pants and had maybe worn them once prior, there was a loud ripping sound as I reached to fumble with my wallet. Fearful of what I’d find, I slowly removed my hand from what was left of my pocket. That was when I felt the draft. I gasped as I surveyed the damage. There, for the whole world to see, were my Barney boxers peeking out of the hole the rip had caused. I was mortified. On the flip side, after seeing my underwear, I was finally asked for my autograph. Unfortunately, it was by the policeman who arrested me for indecent exposure.

On a final note that’s completely unrelated to school, my mother recently called with some disturbing news. Somehow, a link had popped up on her computer requesting that she check out a blog entry titled, “Mam, I Swear it’s Not Herpes…Really!!!??? The title sounded familiar. A little too familiar. Just as I was about to deny having any knowledge of the alleged blog entry, she mentioned that my picture had popped up beside it. Busted! Now, I’ve never been ashamed of my blog, but she just had to stumble upon THAT blog entry, didn’t she? Needless to say, I’m on punishment for the next few years. And I doubt that I’ll be able to sit down anytime soon. However, when I think about it, the downtime may not be such a bad thing. At least I’ll have time to study.

Michael Rochelle

Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1
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How I Flunked The GMAT

Written By: Humor Mike - Dec• 19•10

As an adult you learn to take responsibility when you make a mistake or fall short of expectations. Allegedly, it makes you a bigger person to take ownership, learn from your shortcomings, and simply move on. If you let it, failure can be just a pit stop toward eventual success. After all, Thomas Edison failed a thousand times before he invented the light bulb. A thousand! That said, realizing that failure is just temporary, and keeping in mind that the adult thing to do would be to accept all blame for the outcome, I’d like to report that I successfully failed the Graduate Management Admissions Test (GMAT). However, it wasn’t exactly my fault. Really.

The day started out on a down note. Since the test was at 8 AM and the administrators requested that we get there at least 30 minutes early, I arrived in downtown DC around 7:10 AM just to learn that there was no street parking and most of the parking garages don’t open until 8 or so. After having to valet my car over 10 blocks away, I had to practically run to make it to the test center on time. Do you know when the last time I ran was? 1986.

The building was under construction so I had to use my limited Spanish-speaking skills to figure out how to get inside. Because I have a hard enough time knowing my left from my right in English, of course, I still ended up using the wrong door and then got fussed at and called every name except Michael by three men in Spanish. The only thing worse than getting cursed out in English, is getting cursed out in a foreign language. They curse with more emphasis. Fortunately, it only happens once or twice a week.

When I checked in at the security desk, I asked to use the restroom. The security guard sent me through a door and down some stairs to the lower level. I pushed on the door at the bottom of the stairs, but it was locked. When I went back up the stairs and attempted to return to the security desk, I found that the door I’d used to access the stairs was also locked. I then climbed 4 flights of stairs and checked all the doors along the way before learning that I was stuck on the stairwell. All the while, time was ticking away and I still needed to use the restroom.

Immediately I began to think of all the movies I’d seen where someone had used a stairwell to get away from an attacker before realizing that all the doors were locked. I listened for any form of sound. Nothing. Well, except for my stomach, which was upset due to the Starbucks I’d gotten that morning even though I’d been precautious and had taken a Lactaid pill that was supposed to have saved me from that experience. It was as if I was being drop-kicked internally. No lie, as soon as I finish this post, I’m calling the local drug store where I go the pills to speak to someone’s manager.

Anyway, after re-checking all the doors and realizing that the security guard wasn’t coming for me, I decided to take the stairs down as far as they went, you know, past the point where the janitors stop sweeping and mopping. Fortunately, when I reached the bottom, I found two unlocked doors: one that led into a parking garage, and one that led to an alley. The door would have locked behind me if I entered the parking garage and there was no guarantee that I’d be able to find a way out, so I hesitantly went back to the door that read alley.

Again, I began to think of all the movies I’d seen where some helpless individual was innocently strolling through an alley before an attacker chased after them. I had to wonder, was it safer to stay in the stairwell with one unknown attacker, or to venture down the alley where there’d be another attacker waiting? Because it was broad daylight, I opted to take the alley. Just as I was about to make it to the main street, two guys appeared and headed in my direction. I panicked as they drew closer. Surprisingly, they seemed really offended when I threw up my hands and offered them my wallet and iPod. I was just happy the two police officers declined. But in my defense, from a distance, cops and robbers look just alike.

When I finally made it to the suite where the testing was held, I almost got into a fight with the administrator. She asked what test I was there for, and I replied, “The GMAT.??? She then asked, “The Kaplan or the GMAT.??? Huh? Again I replied, “The GMAT.??? Apparently I needed to have said it twice for it to register. I then took a seat and tried to make friends with the other test takers by asking them for a stick of gum. As soon as I’d gotten a piece and began to chew it, the administrator said, “You’ve got about 5 seconds before I make you spit that out.??? I immediately scratched her name off my Christmas card list.

Next, I was stripped of everything: my wallet, my iPod, my cellphone, my watch, and yes, even my ChapStick. “But the test is 4 hours. I’ll die without my ChapStick,??? I pleaded. The administrator must have believed all the answers were somehow stored within my lip balm. I was then given an ultimatum: either I give up the ChapStick, or I wouldn’t be allowed to take the test. I handed it over, but not before demanding that she not use it either. I gave her the evil eye to let her know that I meant business!!!

While the other test takers and I waited in the holding chamber before being seated, they began talking about how many months they’d studied prior, how many GMAT prep courses they’d endured, and how many times they’d already taken the test. I was too ashamed to admit that I’d studied on my own for a few weeks using a crappy GMAT book that had misspellings and bad math calculations that even I knew were wrong. It was then that I was told that we wouldn’t be allowed to use any form of calculator and we’d have to do the math by hand. Multiplication, division, fractions, decimals, percentages, exponents, perimeters, etc., all by hand!!! I was in need of a huge miracle. You know, like one of the parting of the Red Sea kind.

As soon as the test started, my mind went completely blank. The first hour was spent writing two essays and I, the writer, couldn’t do it. For once in my life, I had absolutely no opinion. I mean, I’m the guy who’d written a 15-page essay during the commercial breaks of an episode of Family Guy. I wanted to cry. To make matters worse, there was a timer in the corner of the screen that pointed out just how little I’d written and how many minutes I had left to make something happen, which certainly didn’t help my writer’s block.

And then there was math. Have you ever tried to multiply 5 x 5 x 5 x 5 x 5 x 5 x 5 x 5 without a calculator, knowing that you only had about 2 minutes per question? Or, what about dividing 66,342 by 359 all by hand? Yeah, well, after about the twentieth question, I knew that I’d have to start guessing or else I wouldn’t finish that section of the test. Ironically, the final section, reading comprehension, critical reasoning, and sentence correction, which should have been my stronger points, also left me stumped. Again, in order to finish the section, I had to guess the answers to the last 12 questions.

Finally, when the test ended, my dismal score popped up on the screen followed by video footage of Fred Sanford from Sanford and Son saying “You Big Dummy.??? I knew that I’d done horribly, but a quick Google search proved just how terribly I really scored. You know you’re a failure when people who scored 200 points higher than you also complain about how horribly they did on the test. Yeah, it was just that bad.

So, what now? I’m moving forward with my application to grad school as is. If I get in, it will be based on my GPA, resume, and letters of recommendation. If I don’t get in, I’m going to pick myself up, dust myself off, and try again in three months—after I’ve taken the GMAT course like everyone else apparently has. Though I’ve never done so badly on a test in my life, the real story will be how I rebound from this failure. Well, my friends, that chapter is still unwritten. I guess we’ll all have to stay tuned…

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

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When Chicken Is Your Last Name …

Written By: Humor Mike - Dec• 13•10

It’s hard to believe that it’s mid-December already. It seems like it was just yesterday when we were ringing in 2010. Now, if you sneeze twice and yell Bloody Mary, it’ll be 2011. Like most, I’m in the process of establishing new year resolutions. Reappearing on the list for the millionth time will be the usual suspects: eating healthier, going to the gym, and nominating myself for People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive??? contest—again. Last year, after a long and hard-fought campaign against Mario Lopez, I’m pleased to say that I did get one vote. Thanks Mom. Despite that, I’m also thinking of including more reasonable goals, like going to Wal-Mart for bleach and somehow spending less than $100. Ok, maybe I’m being just a tad bit unrealistic with the Wal-Mart thing. I should probably just focus on my speech for when I defeat Mario Lopez in the swimsuit competition. So what if he has dimples and six-pack abs. I have a blog. Checkmate!!!

As I prepare to set my alleged goals for the new year, I have to wonder, what did I accomplish this year? Well, I successfully got into grad school and then dropped out before the ink on my first homework assignment dried. Then, I bought some fitness games that I intended to use to burn off calories, but, instead, I’m using them to throw at the TV when my favorite shows are running repeats. Next, I learned that I can sound knowledgeable about any sport by just shaking my head in disappointment and saying, “Hey, you win some, you lose some,??? even if I know nothing about the game. Oh, and I can’t forget that I’ve watched the complete first season of The Closer, which has given me a whole new perspective on crime solving and the art of interrogation. However, because I’m not a real cop, my coworkers get really upset when I put them in handcuffs and try to take them down to central booking after I’ve accused them of using my coffee creamer. You should have seen the look on my manager’s face when I attempted to read him his rights.

Speaking of being productive, I may have mentioned that I’m in the process of studying for the Graduate Management Admission Test (GMAT) so that I can reapply to graduate school in the spring. Because I accidentally put it off until the last minute due to my participating in the nationwide boycotts of Dancing with the Stars because Bristol Palin somehow made it through to the top 3, I now have five days to learn all the principles of algebra and geometry. Although I work in accounting, math involving triangles has never been my strong suit, and I think I must have missed the episode of Barney when they discussed fractions. Seriously, how often in day-to-day life do you need to simplify an equation? And when was the last time your life depended on your knowing how to read a bar graph or a pie chart? I can almost guarantee it wasn’t within the past week.

In any case, I’m requesting that my blog readers pray for me because this coming weekend I’ll be sweating bullets for 2 hours and 10 minutes trying to recall all the stuff I was supposed to have learned in pre-school Calculus. If for some reason I draw a total blank, I’m just going to focus on my breathing and ask myself what would Taylor Swift do? Fail the test and then write a song about it and win a Grammy that Kanye West would feel that I didn’t deserve? Hmmm. Well, if all else fails, I’m hoping that the test administrators sit me next to someone really smart so that I can accidentally check my answers based off theirs. Remember, it’s not considered cheating unless you get caught. And if it doesn’t fit, you must acquit.

Moving right along, recently I’ve received some disturbing looks and comments due to my continuing to wear short-sleeve shirts even though it’s almost winter. I don’t know about you, but I’m always hot. In fact, if I ever do something of a criminal nature, there would be no need to send me to jail. The perfect punishment would be to just force me to wear a cardigan sweater and some long johns because it’s pretty much a guarantee that I’d die of heat stroke within a few moments. Do you remember that scene where the Wicked Witch of The West shriveled up and died after Dorothy splashed her with water on the Wizard of Oz? Yeah, it would kind of be like that. Except, I’d hope no one would chime in and sing “Ding-Dong, Michael’s dead.??? Anyway, I know that I’m getting up there in age, but I never expected that I’d go through THE CHANGE this soon. So, if you see me wearing shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of a blizzard, there is no need to be alarmed or to send me to the loony bin. I’m just having hot flashes and it’s completely normal for men my age.

With Christmas being right around the corner, many of us are starting to evaluate how we’re going to make our paychecks—the same ones that barely cover our weekly trips to Starbucks—stretch to cover gifts for ourselves and maybe a gift or two for someone else. It’s also a great time to score brownie points for doing good deeds. Like most years, I decided to participate in the Angel Tree program by selecting a needy child’s wish list and filling in for Santa. As I selected the last child’s list off the tree, I got super excited. What would the kiddo want? A Barbie? A Truck? World peace? My heart melted as I saw that the child was a 3-year-old girl name Jazmine. How cute! Just as I was beginning to picture her little angelic face, my eyes scrolled down to her request and I panicked. An iPad! For a 3-year-old!!! They cost like 600 million dollars and I don’t even have one. I quickly placed little Jazmine’s request back on the tree, but not before I accidentally scratched out her name and wrote in my name instead.

Anyway, I have good news. After years of searching, I just realized that my soul mate has been right under my nose all along. I can’t believe I was so blind all these years. Here I was telling people that I was single and no longer capable of feeling love because my heart had retired and was living in Hawaii off its pension. I’m just glad I realized the truth before it was too late. Now I understand what everyone means when they say that you’ll know real love when you find it. Finally, I feel complete and I realize that my search for what I thought I wanted and needed all this time has been misguided. Mariah Carey said it best, “I had a vision of love, and it was all that you turned out to be.??? That said, I’d like to take a moment to exclaim my love to the world. Thanks to you, I need nothing else. When you are weak, I’ll do my best to make you strong. You can count on me. I love you, iPod. May we never, ever part—unless someone gets me that iPad.

On a completely unrelated final note, I’ve been running into some situations lately that have made me take a moment to ponder the logic. For instance, I was at the drive-thru of a Kentucky Fried Chicken one evening and the voice over the loud speaker stated that they’d run out of chicken. All chicken. No wings. No breasts. No thighs. No nothing. I mean, I know it’s a recession and all, but, KFC, chicken is your last name. And how does it make it better if they offer you all the biscuits you want due to the inconvenience? “Umm, yes, I’ll take 12 biscuits to go, and supersize that please.??? However, KFC is not the only fast food chain guilty of these sorts of things. Recently, after I’d paid for my meal at McDonald’s, I was told that they’d run out of straws. In an effort to resolve the situation, they upgraded my medium drink to a large—for which I still needed a straw. Anyway, that said, here’s wishing you all the wings, breasts, and straws your little heart desires.

Happy Holidays!!!

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.justmichael.net

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Hey, You Can Always Just Drop Out

Written By: Humor Mike - Nov• 22•10

Ok, so it’s been a while since I’ve done an update. Of course, this is after I promised that I’d post an update every two weeks. Well, what had happened was, my pursuit of an MBA degree kind of took over my life. I had so much homework and research to do that one would have thought the goal was to save the world, or, more importantly, to save Brandy on Dancing with the Stars. In any case, I have great news. Due to my missing the opportunity to connect with my readers, I dropped out of school! Yes, mam. You read correctly. A measly little MBA means nothing to me if I can’t blog. Trust me. I know what’s important. I know what really matters. And it’s you. Not some degree that will all but guarantee me an extra $40,000 a year. Not some little piece of paper that will barely help me to get promoted from Wal-Mart greeter to cashier. Like they always say, there is no YOU in MBA.

But wait a minute. Before you start calling my team of shrinks and demanding that they squeeze me in for an emergency appointment, I didn’t really drop out of grad school for the sake of my blog. Instead, I was right smack in the middle of leading a group project that required a 25-page paper when it dawned on me that I needed to change schools immediately. I don’t know if you’ve ever worked on a group project, but whenever I’m assigned one, I believe the professor takes a poll of the class to see who will contribute the least and then matches me up with those individuals. Since it was an online class, the only sign I had that any of the other three members of my group were alive was that I’d get a “good job” or an “ok” message from them each time I finished one of our group assignments. And in case they’re reading this, Hi. Hope you get a good grade on my…I mean your work. Yes, readers, I went there.

Since my heart had been set on going back to the University of Baltimore where I’d gotten my undergraduate degree, I logged on to their admissions website and got the shock of my life. There was my picture on the main page listed as a recent graduate. Under normal circumstances this would have been a joyous moment and I would have called my mom, my dad, Britney Spears, and Al Sharpton, but in this case, out of the 100 or so pictures they took of me back in February, I couldn’t believe THAT photo was the best one. I’d seen road kill look more vibrant all while executing better poses. I immediately envisioned Tyra Banks looking at the photo and banning me from standing in front of a camera again—EVER—and then suing me for mental anguish. To add injury to insult, my name was wrong. I’m not sure who this Kenneth Rawhide Jenkins is, but I can assure you that I am not him. If that wasn’t bad enough, my graduation date was listed as January 2009 instead of January 2010. Awesome. Simply awesome.

Despite this travesty, I have decided to move forward with the application process. Unfortunately, because of the completed application being due by January 1st, I have about three weeks to study for my Graduate Management Admission Test (GMAT). Usually, potential graduate students are encouraged to take three to six months to prepare. I guess I’ll just have to wing it. I mean, I’m kind of smart a little bit. And you probably get points for spelling your name correctly. If I get nothing else right, I can guarantee that those points are in the bag. But if all else fails, everyone knows that the answer is always C. Even if it’s an essay or true or false question, still choose C. I’ve had an ok success rate with that technique thus far, why change it now?

In other news, on October 23rd, I accidentally turned 31. I’m not exactly sure how or why that happened, but let’s just say I’m not too happy about it. Usually I’m good at getting some form of presidential pardon that would allow me to go down a year instead of up. However, this year Barack said he had been a little busy with other things like the status of the economy. I guess that’s understandable. Well, despite my being 30ish, my plastic surgeon has assured me that I don’t look a day over 45. Next week he’s going to start me on some age-defying treatments to ensure that I’ll eventually look young enough to play a high school kid on “Glee” if the producers ever realize that they need my talent, and they remove the restraining order against me for showing on the set those one or two—ok, thirty—times.

The awesome thing about this birthday was that, even though I did absolutely nothing to celebrate it except two research papers and a mid-term exam, I got over 100 birthday wishes from my “friends” on Facebook and around 50 text messages and phone calls in honor of my special day. Even my bill collectors were surprisingly friendlier and wished me the best prior to demanding that I send a payment before they were forced to repossess my two goldfish and a toothbrush as collateral. I will definitely miss the fish, but toothbrushes are replaceable. Honestly, I don’t think it’s hit me that I’m 31. I mean, besides the back pain and my being on the list for a hip replacement, 31 feels exactly the same as 30, which felt exactly the same as 29, which oddly felt exactly like 16.

On the other hand, I do feel like I’m beginning to get more cranky and forgetful as I age. One day last week, I unnecessarily walked over 10 blocks to where I thought I had parked my car before realizing I had parked it elsewhere. Let me be the first to tell you that the police do not like it when you unintentionally call in a false report about your car being stolen. Unfortunately, I had to learn this the hard way. Also, I may have forgotten to pay my rent once or twice over the past few months. There is nothing like seeing your sofa and your stuffed animals taking up your parking spot when you get home after work on a Wednesday evening. And when I did finally write the check, I may have accidentally written it for $10.00 as opposed to the full cost of my rent. Honest mistake. I’d just neglected to add several zeros and overlooked a couple decimal places. It happens. Don’t judge me.

In closing news, I don’t know if you remember my mentioning that I have issues with insects, but despite my dislike for them, they seem to love me. In fact, they are somehow able to track me down in the weirdest of places. For instance, I was minding my own business in the bathroom stall at my job one day when, all of a sudden, a bee decided that I’d been in there too long and it was his turn. I assume the bee was male because we were in the men’s room. I didn’t check though. Anyway, before I realized what I was doing, I let out a scream higher than any note Mariah Carey has ever tackled. Then, as opposed to using the door to get away from my attacker, I somehow managed to hit the floor and wiggle my way into the next stall. Maybe this would have been fine had the other stall NOT been occupied by a soldier who was simply trying to take care of his business. It also probably didn’t help that my pants were around my ankles at the time. Anyway, to make a long story short, the police do not like this sort of thing either, especially when it’s the same officers who responded to your false report of a stolen car. I’m just saying.

Michael Rochelle

Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.justmichael.net
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

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Pop-Tarts, And That’s My Final Answer

Written By: Humor Mike - Sep• 23•10

Have you ever been right smack in the middle of a tough situation and realized that it could have totally been avoided had you just taken a few moments to think things through before diving head first into it? Well, this was the case the other day when I found myself wearing a Baltimore Raven’s t-shirt in DC—Redskin territory—for wear-your-favorite-sports-team’s-jersey-to-work day. First, let me be honest with you. In no way, shape, or form am I an authority on sports. Make no mistake about it. If you’re ever on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” and the question is sports related, if you decide to phone a friend, you may not want to call me. In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find someone who knows less about sports than I do. Except toddlers, maybe. But trust me, I will not be offended by your calling my mother or one of my sisters instead. I guess all those years of my grandmother tackling me in the middle of the yard and dunking on me in high heels and her Sunday best didn’t pay off.

Actually, it’s really not my fault that I know so little about sports. First, it’s a huge myth that all men like sports. Some of them like Pop-Tarts instead. Second, my mother raised me in a very religious household. If it didn’t involve a bible, I probably didn’t participate. Matter of fact, I could have told my mother that I was going down to check the mailbox and she’d tell me to make sure I took my bible with me. I once told her I’d failed a math test and she said, “That wouldn’t have happened if you’d had your bible.” Then she’d send me upstairs to read the “Book of Genesis” again and do an essay to summarize what I’d learned. Because of this, I may not be able to rattle off the difference between a free throw and a field goal when questioned, but thanks to Google, I’m never more than just a few clicks away from figuring it out.

That noted, common sense should have probably told me that, given my limited level of sports knowledge, it wasn’t smart to be strolling through one major city while wearing the sports team of another city. But you know what they say, common sense ain’t so common. Thus, as I walked the few blocks to work, I began to panic. It was as if the Ravens’ logo on my t-shirt had become a scarlet letter once I’d crossed the DC city line. I was so ashamed. At any moment, I expected torch-wielding villagers to start darting out of alleys and begin chasing me down the street until they cornered me at a dead end. Actually, now that I think about it, maybe that scenario wouldn’t have been so bad. What if, just as the villagers were about to get me, someone threw me a red jacket and a silver glove, and we all broke out into Michael Jackson’s “Thriller?” If you ask me, that would have been kind of cool. Especially since I practically minored in Michael Jackson in college. Hee-Hee. Crotch grab.

I wondered what I would say if someone asked me why I like the Ravens. What if someone wanted to know specifics about a certain game or the team roster? Better yet, what sport did the Ravens play? Golf? Then it hit me. I could probably make it through any line of questioning if I just randomly threw out words like “offense” and “defense” every chance I could. I think I’d heard those terms used when I accidentally sat on the remote one time and the channel changed to ESPN for a few seconds. Anyway, when I made it to campus, I noticed one of the armed guards eyeing my shirt. I knew what was coming. So, when he asked me how I thought the Ravens would do against the Bengals at the next game, I smiled and proudly said, “With Kobe Bryant as quarterback, our defensive line is looking awesome. We got this game in the bag. No sweat.” The guard gave me a blank stare. Maybe I had gone a tad bit overboard by mentioning Kobe by name. Other than that, I think I handled it pretty well. Later that day, I even went on to explain to someone why Kobe and Derek Jeter were the best things that had happened for the Ravens in a long time. People were stunned at my level of knowledge. I considered it a job well done. But between you and me, I’m just hoping the Ravens don’t trade Serena Williams anytime soon because I plan to mention his name the next time someone questions me about baseball.

Moving right along, have you ever had something so strange happen to you that you wished you could freeze time to ponder the situation further or call a reverend for a second opinion before responding? Well, the other day, I had yet another Comcast technician out to try to resolve some issues I was having with my home phone and internet service. Being that he was the third cable guy I’d had out in less than two months, I was a tad bit annoyed when he arrived. Anyway, after about a half hour of his working downstairs in my living room, he then went upstairs to start testing things out in the loft area. Once he began fiddling with the connections, he turned to me and asked, “Could you go downstairs and get my cable bag?” Hmmm. In the past, I’ve had cable guys ask me to help them move a TV, but I’d never been sent to fetch something as if my name were Fido or Muffin-top. In this case, I decided to take one for the team and headed downstairs. I mean, he was a little older than I was, and maybe his arthritis was acting up. However, when he asked me to also bring him up a beer, that was taking things just a little too far. Who did he think he was? The Rock? Fortunately, he finished up soon after and he left before I had to make him dinner or run him a bath or something.

As some of you may know, in two weeks I’ll begin embarking on the next stage of my quest for higher learning. As if all the essays, mid-terms and finals during my undergraduate years weren’t enough, I’ve now decided that my life won’t be complete until I get a Masters of Business Administration (MBA). Why? First of all, my living room wall will look more balanced with two degrees hanging there instead of just one. But before you start thinking that’s a silly reason to get and MBA, I did take the more rational route of searching for a painting that I could hang there instead. However, after coming up empty handed at Wal-Mart, Kmart, and Target, I decided to just settle for another degree. Indeed, the benefits of an MBA don’t simply end there. Just imagine the speedy service I’ll receive at McDonald’s when I don’t just request a Big Mac, but instead say, “I’d like to have the MBA Big Mac value meal, please.” And do you think the cable guy would have sent me downstairs to get his bag if he’d seen an MBA degree on my wall. I think not. Thus, I know I’m making the right decision—at least until I find a picture that will match my drapes. If I do, I’ll be promptly ending my grad-school venture.

On a final note, as you may know from previous posts, I drink coffee. So, the other day, I was on my second or twelfth cup when someone casually mentioned that coffee is bad for my blood pressure. Actually, that was a nice way of addressing it. In the past, various terms like “addict” and “should be a criminal offense” were thrown around. Immediately, I began to wonder whether people would give me such grief if I had an MBA—another excellent reason to get one. Also, there are so many other things that I could be doing that are far worse than drinking a gallon of coffee every morning. I mean, it’s not like I keep a flask of vodka at my desk or take hits off it during board meetings. Technically, I guess I’d have to be promoted to head janitor before I’d even be invited to attend board meetings, but that’s beside the point. I don’t smoke. I’m not mean to puppies. And I only curse when heavily provoked—or when the coffeepot is empty. In all, I’d say I’m a pretty decent person. Because of this, I’m starting a new campaign called, “It’s Not Crack, It’s Just Coffee.” Feel free to support this worthy endeavor by donating Starbucks gift cards to my attention. Seriously, if Lady Gaga can wear a rack of lamb on her head at the MTV Video Music Awards, certainly I can enjoy a cup of coffee every now and then.

Michael Rochelle

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Reasonably Unreasonable Within Reason

Written By: Humor Mike - Sep• 08•10

The other day, I opened the front door of my fourth-floor apartment to find an unwelcomed visitor standing in the middle of my kitchen. Immediately, my heart began to race as I dropped my groceries, allowing a single head of lettuce to roll gingerly across the living room floor. Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about the 5-second rule because I’d only bought the lettuce to impress my mother during one of her visits so she could stop complaining about my not eating vegetables. Anyway, as opposed to running back out the front door, I decided that I was going to roll up my sleeves and battle it out. There was absolutely no way I was going to let a cricket ruin my day and force me to stay at a hotel for a few weeks until I was sure it was gone—AGAIN! Nope, this time would be different. This time, only one of us would be leaving the apartment alive. I hoped and prayed it would be me.

Snapping into survival mode, I eyed the phone book that sat on the counter. I lunged for it and patted myself on the back for my quick thinking, happy that I snatched it up before my opponent did. I flung it at the cricket and ran into the bathroom for cover. Once I thought it was safe, I tiptoed down the hall and peeked over the kitchen counter to survey the damage. I expected to see little cricket bits splattered everywhere. However, I had missed, and the cricket turned toward me as if to say, “Do it again and I will get you and your little groceries too!” In a quick motion that I learned from watching The Matrix, I did two somersaults and a backflip off the microwave before landing into a handstand. This stunned the poor cricket. I gave a chuckle and said, “Any last words?” My father would have been so proud of me.

It wasn’t until after I’d had a moment of silence in honor of my adversary that the magnitude of what had taken place hit me. Some of my friends can barely make it up the four flights of stairs. A few of them had even called me from the midway point and told me they were giving up and heading back home. If that’s the case, how was it possible that a cricket—of all things—made its way into my top-floor apartment? Suddenly it hit me. I’d been set up. Someone must have planted that cricket there simply for the purpose of getting me out of the way so they could hijack my blog. Yeah, that had to be it. It was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with. Think about it. Crickets can’t climb stairs. The good news is that I thwarted their evil plans and lived to tell the story. I guess it’s all in a day’s work.

Actually, that wasn’t the first time my life had been in danger due to an insect. Of course, there was that unfortunate cicada incident a few years ago where one was flying toward me in slow motion, and despite all the bobbing, weaving, and arm flailing I did, it still managed to land right on my top lip. Then, there was the time I was at a department store going through a rack of clothing when I noticed a bee on the shirt I was just about to pick out. Honestly, I’m not sure why the manager got so upset just because I grabbed the fire extinguisher and went after the bee. Sure, some of the clothing and electronics did get a tad bit damaged, but at least no one got stung. I totally saved them from a lawsuit. Some people are so ungrateful. In addition to my now being banned from the store, I think the bee alerted all his little bee buddies, so I wasn’t completely shocked last week when I was at the state fair and a bee landed on my hot dog and refused to move until I tossed it and the hot dog in the trash. Now that I think about it, it’s completely reasonable for me to think that maybe the bees were planted too, and the person used a cricket in the most recent attack to throw me off their trail. Hmmm. I guess anything is possible.

Moving right along, I have great news. After 7 months of working on a military base, I was finally mistaken for a soldier. No lie. I was just as shocked as you are. Me? A soldier? Well, I guess if we can put a man on the moon, my being a soldier is somewhat within reason. Anyway, so I’m walking down the hall, minding my own business, when someone says, “Oh, I thought you were one of the soldiers with that walk.” I couldn’t have been happier. All those months of following behind the troops and hiding in the bushes so that I could study their stride had finally paid off. I thought about enlisting right then and there. I mean, if I’d gotten the walk down so quickly, certainly I could learn the other ins and outs of being a soldier in no time. But when I think about it, it probably wouldn’t be advisable for the military to allow me near a gun—especially with all the renegade bees buzzing around. On top of that, I’ve never been a huge fan of green. I’d have to talk to someone about getting some blue fatigues instead of the green camouflage uniforms they wear. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too much of a problem though.

Excited about my finally mastering the technique, I started doing the soldier stroll everywhere I went. At the mall. At the library. At church. I’ve even decided that “Do the Soldier Walk” will be the first single off my hip-hop country album scheduled for release in the fall of 2029. I’ll let you all know when I shoot the video with Lady Gaga and Brad Paisley. Well, I was soldier strolling down the block the other day in hopes that someone would ask about my military status, when a part of the sidewalk reached up and grabbed my foot. Needless to say, I tripped. Actually, it was more like a stop, drop, and roll. I rolled right on down the block. When I came to a halt, I played it off by popping up off the ground and doing the soldier salute—yes, I learned that too. Despite my bruised knees, elbows, and forehead, I’m not giving up on the soldier walk. I just need a little more practice. And who knows, maybe it will catch on and I’ll be the next big thing. Maybe I’ll even get a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame! Completely reasonable and realistic if you ask me.

In other news, I realize that the topic of aging has been a recurring theme throughout my past few blog entries. In all honesty, at 30, I don’t believe I’m old. I may exaggerate just a tad about needing a walker, and how awesome it is to be able to sit in those first few coveted seats on the bus reserved for the elderly and disabled. And I may even brag about pulling rank on other senior citizens and winning debates regarding whether my glaucoma is worse than theirs. Despite this, I repeat, I do not believe I’m old. However, apparently that view is not shared by the Smithsonian whose senior citizen discount services department recently mailed me a magazine subscription offer at the senior rate of $10—an 81% savings off the cover price. In addition, I’ll get special discounts at the Smithsonian gift shop and a personalized membership card. Awesome!!! Thus, regardless of what I think, in the court of public opinion, I’m considered ancient. Because of this, I will continue accepting my senior-citizen discounts with all the pride and dignity that an elderly person should.

Lastly, as adults, regardless of age, we have to ensure that we make decisions that reflect our roles as such. Thus, as I stood in Target with a $5.89 toffee mocha latte with an extra espresso shot from Starbucks (a complete bargain and worth every penny), I was shocked and appalled to see that a 100-day supply of multivitamins was $7.99. The nerve! It’s completely unjustifiable to pay that much for some pills that allegedly have some form of major health benefit. We’re in a recession. Who has money like that? I almost whipped out my phone to alert Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson right then and there. However, because I figured they were probably busy with other more important things, I decided to let my money do the talking and NOT buy anything other than the $153.97 worth of stuff I had in my cart—and I only bought that stuff because I absolutely needed the watermelon scented body wash. It was on sale for $8.99. Otherwise, I would have left the cart right there in the middle of the aisle. Thus, if you are ever forced to choose between vitamins, prescription drugs, or Starbucks, go with the Starbucks. You’ll get more bang for your buck, and it’s a completely reasonable option. Besides, if you get hit by a bus one day, it won’t matter whether your blood pressure was under control or not, or whether you’ve gotten your daily requirement of zinc. I’m just saying.

Michael Rochelle

Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Mam, I Swear It’s Not Herpes … Really!!!

Written By: Humor Mike - Aug• 23•10

One of the best things about having a blog is that you can vent about whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want. I guess a blog is kind of like a spouse except your blog won’t eventually divorce you for a younger, more updated model, or call you to ask you to delete various messages because its wife went through its phone and may be contacting you. That rarely ever happens with a blog. Anyway, as those of you who keep up with my entries are aware, I sometimes have issues with acne. When the pimples decide to launch a mutiny on the Bounty, I have absolutely no control over when or where that battle will take place, or how many casualties there will be. The only thing I can guarantee is that the battle will be of immense proportions. I mean, all this time astronomers thought Pluto was a planet when it turns out it was just one of my pimples.

Anyway, against my better judgment, the other day I decided to launch an all-out attack against one that sprouted up on my lip. I know that it is recommended that you don’t pop them, but this zit could have easily taken a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records. It was so colossal that I thought about wearing some form of mask so that I wouldn’t be arrested and placed in isolation or sequestered off onto a private island until some form of cure was developed. After the deed was done, I celebrated my victory against the zit and went on with my night. However, the following morning, the pimple retaliated by becoming very red and inflamed. In a fit of delusion, I assured myself that it was going to be ok. No one would even notice it. I mean, who would really be looking at my top lip that hard? And isn’t that shallow of me to just assume that out of everything going on in the world, someone would give my lip, of all things, a second glance? Seriously, who do I think I am? It’s not like I’m Justin Bieber or somebody. I didn’t have any video or photo shoots scheduled that day. Geez. The nerve of me.

A few hours later while I was at work, aside from the tingling sensation I felt every now and then, I’d completely forgotten all about the blemish. That afternoon, my HR manager stopped by my desk to ask a few questions. After we’d finished discussing something very important…like American diplomacy or something, his eyes zeroed in on my lip. As if I were psychic, I knew exactly what was coming. “Is that herpes???? he asked. I could have died. In fact, I think I did die. After explaining that it was obviously just a pimple that I’d popped the day before, he eyed me suspiciously, ended the conversation, and fled to the safety of his office as if my zit was threatening to reach out and touch someone. After being asked that exact same question several more times throughout the day, I became so self-conscious that I wanted to extend my hand and start each conversation with, “Hi, I’m Michael. And no, it’s not herpes.??? Instead, I decided it would be a lot easier to just buy a t-shirt or bumper sticker that read, “Silly rabbit, it’s just a pimple.??? Unfortunately, there is no such thing. Thus, I’m using my blog to tell my two readers to spread the word—although I probably shouldn’t use the term “spread??? when referring to either acne or herpes.

Speaking of pimples, on a completely unrelated note, you guys are going to be so proud of me. I’ve been hitting the gym. Actually, I’ve been in the gym several times over the past few months, but I’m not sure if I can count the times I only went to use the restroom, or the times I went to steal paper towels because I’d run low. However, if we only count the times that I physically used the equipment for something other than to lean on, then let’s see … five times a week … four weeks … ok, I went once. Hey, you have to start somewhere. Starbucks wasn’t built in a day. Anyway, so I’m at the gym and I’m lifting … ok, playing with the dumbbells, when I get this crazy idea that maybe I should try bench pressing. My momma always told me that I could do anything I put my mind to. Well, after a 20-minute pep talk and some vigorous stretching, I’m happy to report that I did successfully move the 125-pound weights a few inches before succumbing to extreme exhaustion. Actually, I’m not sure if I really moved the weights, or if it was all in my head. Regardless, I’m giving myself an A for effort and I’m sure that next time I’ll be able to lift the weights completely off the rack. Believe me, if I can do it, you certainly can too. Except you should probably start with a 5-pound weight and work your way up slowly. Everyone isn’t as strong or as physically fit as I am and I don’t want you to hurt yourself while aspiring to be like me. I look out for my readers.

Moving on, about a year ago, I did a blog entry on turning 30. Admittedly, the article was a tad bit dramatic—which totally isn’t my style—and it chronicled my preparation for a walker, wheel chair, and my joining an assisted-living community. I may have even touched on the joys and wonders of being able to order senior citizen discounted coffees. I probably also mentioned the aches in my knees when it rains and my buying stock in the Ben Gay Corporation to ensure that they’ll always keep the arthritis ointment coming. As proof of my belief that I’m old and decrepit because 30 is the new 80, a 26-year-old recently confirmed what I believed to be true all along. Forgetting my age, he explained that he was in a hurry to accomplish his goals “because at 30 you’ve already lived your life.??? Thus, as I stare down the barrel at 31, it was probably a huge shock for the 26-year-old to see me, a senior citizen, without a cane and breathing without the assistance of a respirator. If you ever want to find out how ancient you really are, just ask someone a few years younger than you for a true assessment. Oh yeah, and if you happen to be over 21, you may just want to go ahead and look into burial plots. I’m just saying. Tomorrow isn’t promised.

In other Michael news, because I’ve recently devoted an entire day to watching old reruns of Top Chef, I’ve now decided that I want to learn how to cook. Trust me, I’m sure that I can sauté a mean Cheerio if I would just put my mind to it. Imagine a dish named after me. The Michael, or La Rochelle, or pickled Williams. As a matter of fact, why stop there? I wouldn’t have to just have a platter named after me. I could open my own restaurant. I’ve already got the theme all planned out. Picture this. An all-you-can-eat Hamburger Helper buffet. I’m going to give you a moment to let that marinate. See, I already know the cooking terminology. Genius, right? I’m surprised no one else has come up with this idea already. I could start off small with like a little stand in a park somewhere. Maybe near a school. Children love Hamburger Helper. Then I can expand and go global. I could put McDonald’s right out of business!!! That does it. I’m turning in my two weeks’ notice right now so that I can be an entrepreneur. I could rent a billboard in Times Square. And who knows, maybe Oprah, Barack, and Julia Roberts will show up at my grand opening. Look out world, Michael Rochelle is on the rise. If I were you, I’d go on and make reservations now.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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In Memory Of Grandpa

Written By: Humor Mike - Aug• 19•10

During the writing of the blog entry that would have been posted sometime this week, my grandfather, Frank Harry Dorsey, passed away. I’m still kind of in denial about it. You know how there are older people in your life and you always expect them to be there because they always have been and you can’t imagine there ever being a time when they won’t be? You celebrate their birthday each year not really thinking about how different a birthday is for a 30-year-old, than it is for a 79-year-old. In one instance, your best years may still be ahead of you. In the other, making it to the next birthday is truly a blessing—and may also require a mail-order subscription of Ben Gay. We celebrate each year not realizing that the more birthdays we observe, the fewer we have left to anticipate. That thought process really makes you want to take the time to stop and smell the Panera bagels.

Fortunately, a day before he passed, we got the call from the nursing home, where he’d spent the last few years of his life, and this allowed us to spend some very precious last moments with him. When I arrived, he was completely unresponsive and fighting to breathe. It was truly difficult to see him that way. This was grandpa. He was a fighter. He’d dealt with medical issues before and was able to bounce back. Why would this time be any different? But it was different. It was detectable in the eyes of the nursing home staff. I heard it in my grandma’s voice. I witnessed it in the quiet nature of my mother that day—she’s never quiet…ever…unless she’s stopping to think of something to say. I’m kind of like that too. I guess she gets it from me.

We asked questions about the odds of him coming out of the condition successfully and were told that he was in the transitioning stage toward death. Despite the overwhelming sadness in the room, we were fortunate enough to have a few bright moments. After several hours of his being in that state of unconsciousness, someone mentioned a hot dog and, lo and behold, there was my grandfather’s voice proclaiming that he wanted one too. I hadn’t heard his voice since June. We laughed. Before we realized it, we’d all fallen back into our usual routine of asking him questions and feeding him ice chips just like we’d done the whole time he’d been there in the home. He never opened his eyes, but he did tell us that he loved us. When we went to leave, he asked us where we were going. We told him we’d see him the next day, just as we’d done repeatedly throughout the years. Because of how interactive he’d become, we kind of developed a false sense of security and believed that we would be able to continue our bonding session the following day. We had no idea that night would be the last time we’d see him alive.

Less than 12 hours later, we got “the call.??? Grandpa was gone. He passed away at 6:45 AM on August 17, 2010. He had so many visitors after his passing that it was clearly apparent that he was not just special to us, but to everyone he came in contact with. At some point throughout the day, nearly all the staff of the nursing home stopped in to pass on their condolences and to share their fond memories of him. In addition, many of the patients stopped in as well to offer kind words of encouragement. However, I must say that the high point of the day was when the musical director came in and told us that she used to sing with my grandpa to entertain him and help pass the time. I had never associated him with music. When she asked if we needed anything, I jokingly asked her to sing one of the songs they’d sung together. Surprisingly, she snatched up her guitar and sang Lena Horne’s “Stormy Weather??? as my grandmother, my mother and I looked down at my grandpa who looked like he was just sleeping. I held one hand as my grandma held the other. It was truly a beautiful moment. It will forever bring a smile to my face to know that my grandpa left this world in a way that was so fitting of his life: expressing his love for his family, being talkative, and asking for a hot dog.

Rest in peace, Grandpa.

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I Don’t Wanna Grow Up, And You Can’t Make Me!!!

Written By: Humor Mike - Jul• 21•10

I was sitting at a red light one morning when a gentleman and his little boy crossed the road. The man, who I assume to be the kid’s father, was holding the little boy’s hand as the boy skipped happily across the street. It was the cutest thing. Immediately I wanted to skip too. If I could have, I would have gotten out of my car and skipped right on down the block. I would have continued skipping right past the armed guards at my job and all the way until I got to my desk. All that day, whenever my boss asked me to do something, I wanted to say, “Yes sir??? and then go skipping down the hall to get it done. Whatever happened to those carefree days when skipping was acceptable? How old will that little boy be before his father sits him down on his lap and tells him that he’s too old to skip and now has to get a part job if he wants some new crayons or Play-Doh? And who was this wise old person who decided that a 30-year-old man was too old to sing Barney songs if he darn well pleased? Hmph!!!

Nowadays, as opposed to skipping on down the lane, due to the recession, we’re skipping meals and skipping phone calls from bill collectors. Instead of having that happy-go-lucky spirit we once had as children, we’re now fighting people over the last bag of low-calorie chips at the supermarket, and counting the items in other people’s carts so that we can report them to upper management for having eleven items in the ten items or less line. Is being an adult really that serious? That is what was going through my mind as I watched the child and his father with envy. For one, the little boy’s outfit was way cooler than my work clothes and I could tell a Popsicle was in his near future. But I wanted a Popsicle too! Aside from having a bed time, not being able to eat as much ice cream as you wanted, and relying on your parents’ sense of style and color schemes, being a kid was sooooo much easier than being an adult. Oh how I long to be a kid again when there was no such thing as rent, car payments, or federal and state taxes.

Now that I think about it, everything wasn’t so great for me as a child. First of all, I hated my name. One reason was because I was a Jr. Imagine being 5 years old and trying to find your place in the world and getting all excited because someone is calling your name because they want to talk to YOU. They need YOU for something that’s probably really super important. Who knows? Maybe they need the solution to world peace and they’d like to give a preschooler a crack at it because no one else seems to have a good answer. I mean, why not? So because you hear your name called, you answer with all the strength your little lungs can muster and the response is, “Not you! Your dad!??? as if you’ a moron for thinking someone wanted to talk to you because they said YOUR name. Honestly, my shrink and I have spent many hours trying to reverse the damage done by my being confused due to all the years of being told to be an original and that I was unique, but then being given the exact same name as my dad.

On top of that, I wasn’t handed down one of those cool names like Jamal or Kelvin. Because my father was born in the fifties, the government hadn’t yet created and approved the use of cool names. Instead, I was given the name … wait a minute … come closer to the screen so I can whisper it to you. Closer. I would hate for this information to get out. Look over your shoulder. Is anyone nearby? Who is that lady I see in the background? Oh, that’s just a picture. Ok, well, if you’re absolutely sure that this will stay between the two of us, and you will guard this information with your life, and you wouldn’t give up this secret even if you were a prisoner of war and the fate of the next season of “The Bachelor??? rested in your hands, then fine, I will tell you. My first name is William. Shhhhhhhh!!! I know. Stop laughing!!! I’ve cried myself to sleep many nights. Granted, I could have had a worse name. I mean, I could have been named Wilbur Bartholomew-Lamar Jenkins Jr., so I guess I should count my blessings.

Because I was nowhere near cool enough for my name to be shortened to Will, adults began calling me Bill, which is at least a trillion times worse than William. Attention Future and Current Baby Makers of America: If you call a child Bill, you might as well go ahead and tattoo the number to the nearest psychiatrist on his or her forehead because they are obviously going to need one. I understand that once a person reaches a certain age—like 50—being called Bill may seem logical and appropriate as it does with Bill Clinton, Bill Cosby, or Bill the mechanic, but there should be a law against bestowing this name upon a toddler. I’m just saying. And if Bill wasn’t bad enough, because of my last name, my fellow classmates began to call me Roach. Imagine that. I had to choose between being called Bill or Roach. Take your pick. It was obvious that if I was one day going to grow up to be a relatively normal, tax-paying, responsible adult, something had to be done. Fortunately, when I was in the ninth grade, I switched high schools and the guidance counselor at the new school asked me what I’d like to be called. From that day on, I’ve been Michael … or Mr. Rochelle if you’re nasty.

While we’re on the subject of names, as a child, I heard the words “grow up??? so much that I often thought it was my nickname. Ironically, even though children really don’t have control over the whole process of growing up, whenever I did attempt to be more like an adult, I was promptly told to stay in a child’s place. As a matter of fact, my mother still uses that one every once in a while. I will never forget being in the fourth grade and hearing my teacher tell my mother that I wasn’t mature for my age. I was 9. Pardon me if I wasn’t reading “Newsweek??? or keeping an eye on the stock market at that point. Although that sense of being behind everyone else regarding maturity would be something that would follow me to this day, I get a kick out of being a big kid and feel that it works in my favor. Because of it, I can laugh at myself and then write about it. Would a person who focused on being mature have the ability to run a relatively successful self-deprecating humor blog like mine? I think not. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Ms. Kulick.

Anyway, although we progress into adulthood, it’s funny how we never really grow out of having authoritative figures in our lives. When you’re young, those figures are called parents. As you get older, those figures are called supervisors. When you’re young, your parents force you to go to your room. When you get older, your manager forces you to go to your cubical. When you’re young, you’re parents may request that you stop talking so much. When you get older, your boss may request that you stop talking so much. Your parents may have forced you to eat broccoli as a kid, and now your boss forces you to eat whatever is provided at the departmental potlucks—especially that crusty stuff over in the corner that you just know your co-worker, Nora, let her 6 cats dip their paws into. And when it comes to cleaning your room, as a kid, your parents may say you aren’t performing up to your potential or to their expectations. As a grown-up that same message is delivered by your boss in the form of a performance review. So, in reality, we never really grow up. This is why, Your Honor, I believe adults should be allowed to Skip To My Lou if we so desire.

Furthermore, there are tons of things we miss out on as grown-ups. Personally, I’m still mad at McDonalds for waiting to build those awesome Playlands until I was too big to enjoy them. While all the littler kids got to go inside and have a blast, I had to watch from the outside with my nose pressed against the glass as I ate my chicken nuggets just knowing that they’d taste so much better if I could’ve eaten them inside that little room with all the balls. Oh, and imagine how much fun it would’ve been to go to Chuck E. Cheese, or explore Elmo’s Castle at Bush Gardens. Don’t pretend you don’t sometimes wish you could get on a merry-go-round or ride in a tea cup at an amusement park without having people stare at you. I know you do. And don’t you remember those days of ripping and running until you were so tired that your parents had to carry you to bed with juice stains on your shirt and a lollipop stuck to your forehead? As an adult, no one carries you to bed anymore … well, then again, maybe they do, but I’m sure it’s for a very different reason than to just tuck you in.

My point is, many of us have lost that inner child that allowed us to be free spirits and find the humor in everyday situations. For example, the other day a cashier at the gas station asked me why I was buying a hot coffee and a cold one. Not that it was any of his business, but I told him that I was buying the cold one in case the hot one was yucky. He asked, “What are you? A kid? Did you just describe something as yucky???? Of course, I could have used a more adult response like, “Well, this cold one is just in case the hot one tastes like (insert your expletive of choice here).??? However, what’s wrong with my being 192 years old and describing something as yucky? What happened to our being able to laugh and play and have “accidents??? without worrying about our insurance premiums going up and possibly being sued? And more importantly, where did all our imaginary friends go? For some reason, I can’t find them on Facebook.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.justmichael.net
Find me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

Posted in Humor Blog , , , , | 1 Comment »

Sometimes You Just Don’t Fit In

Written By: Humor Mike - Jun• 17•10

So, the other day I saw the most awesome suit on sale in the Sears catalog. I mean, it didn’t have exotic polka dots or rhinestones or anything, but still it was an amazing suit nonetheless. The kind that Denzel or Prince would wear to the Grammys or to McDonalds or something. I had planned to spend the day being lazy and lounging around, but this suit was definitely worth showering and shaving for. When I got to the suit rack at the Sears store, I almost had to fight two women who’d beaten me to the punch and were hogging all the merchandise. Instead of throwing a temper tantrum like I initially started to do, I patiently waited my turn. No need to get thrown out of Sears and end up on the 10 o’clock news again. Besides, it’s 2010 and there is such a thing as women’s equality which entitled them to wear a men’s suit just as much as I am. And who am I to judge?

After what seemed like an eternity, I just couldn’t wait any longer. I politely excused myself, reached past them, and grabbed a suit jacket and pair of slacks off the rack. It was a good thing I was quick because one of the ladies looked like she wanted to gnaw off my arm for interrupting her shopping experience. Unfortunately, there weren’t any size 34 pants left. Those ladies had probably taken the last of them, so I ended up with a size 32. No problem, I thought. I’d skipped a couple meals that day. I had to be able to fit into a 32, right? No sweat. I’d probably been buying 34s not knowing that I’d really been a size 32 all along, or maybe even a 30. After all, anything is possible. Grinning, I headed over to the fitting room just knowing that everything was going to work out fine. Of course I could fit into a 32. And when you think about it, my telling folks that I was a 34 when I was really a 32 had been false advertisement. What on earth was I thinking?

First, I tried on the suit jacket. Perfect. I looked very dapper, if I may say so myself. Barack would have been so proud. That suit was the key to my future. I just knew it was. I could see myself getting job offers, clearing up the budget deficit, and winning cases on Federal Hill solely based on my wearing the suit. Feeling good about myself, I then moved on to trying on the pants. I thought I was in the clear when I pulled them up past my knees without the tiniest bit of resistance. However, I ran into some slightly major technical difficulties when I tried to button them. It was as if the button was a republican and the buttonhole was a democrat. There was just no way I was going to get them to meet in the middle.

I tugged as hard as I could. I tried holding my stomach in and not breathing. I even tried jogging in place for ten whole seconds in order to quickly sweat off a few pounds. Nothing worked. So, I did what any normal person would do. I called for help. Luckily, the guy in the next stall was free to give me a hand. A few moments later, still nothing. To save face, I told him the pants were mislabeled or defective or something, but he just shook his head in disbelief and went back to his stall. Deflated—but not deflated enough to fit into the pants—I hugged the suit, said goodbye to my future and Barack’s approval, and placed the suit back on the rack. Despite this, I am moving forward with the discrimination lawsuit against the manufacturer because there is absolutely no reason that they shouldn’t make size 32s that fit people who wear a 34. It is not fair and I simply will not tolerate it.

Moving on, as many of you know, I moved a few weeks ago from Baltimore to the DC area. I must say that I did an awesome job with the packing process. I had 53 boxes and not a single thing was broken or damaged. Maybe I should have my own TV show like Martha Stewart. I’d call it Packing for Dummies, or Get Moving with Michael. I’ll think more about the title. Anyway, I even came up with this packing process where you stuff plates and glasses between sweaters and comforters to save on buying those super-expensive dish boxes. Now, I may spend $5 on a latte, but there is no way I’m spending $5 on a dish box to protect my autographed American Idol plates. Seriously, who can afford that? We’re in a recession. At any rate, the move went very smoothly.

To jazz up the new place and give it more of an adult feel, I bought a brand new 42-inch flat-screen TV for the living room. The only problem I had was getting the TV from the store to my apartment. Since I didn’t want to pay for delivery costs and I was by myself, I had to choose a TV that I’d be able to carry to my car and up four flights of stairs on my own. The salesperson encouraged me to try to pick a few of units up right then and there to see if I’d be able to manage it. However, because we were in the middle of the store, I said I’d keep looking around and then come back after I’d worked up the nerve to try to lift one of them. It had been a while since I’d lifted anything heavier than a stapler, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by appearing weak or dropping a new TV in front of all the other customers. Imagine that. Without hesitation, my salesperson bent down and picked one up with absolutely no problems at all. I’d been worried over nothing. I thanked the salesperson for the demonstration and asked her if she could be a dear and carry it to my car for me. I mean, she had already lifted it and everything. Don’t judge me!!! It wasn’t as if I’d asked her to drive out to my house and carry it up the stairs too. Now that would have been a bit extreme.

And in case you were wondering, things are going great at the new job. I’ve managed to learn my tasks and fit right in within a relatively short period of time—well, fit in as much as an unarmed civilian can fit in with a bunch of gun carrying uniformed military personnel. But when I think about it, there was this one time where I had this slight incident, but it really wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t. And it could have happened to anybody. I was just minding my own business and doing my duty in the restroom. When it came time to flush, I did so without reservation. Initially, it didn’t alarm me when the water didn’t stop running after a few seconds. However, when the water was still flowing into the toilet after I’d finished washing my hands, it was then that I knew I was in trouble.

As the water filled up to the brim of the toilet bowl, I began frantically fiddling with the handle. Despite this, the water kept running. I looked for something to use to scoop some of the water out of the toilet with, but there were no buckets or cups or anything lying around. I thought about throwing a roll of tissue or paper towels into the toilet to sop some of the water up, but my job doesn’t use Charmin or Brawny so I knew the paper wouldn’t be very absorbent. It was then that I noticed the water starting to spew onto the floor. Relying heavily on my nonexistent military training, I decided to abandon the mission and flee the scene as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, there was a line of people standing outside the restroom door waiting to get in. Without saying a word, I ran as fast as I could. Hey, it was either fight or flight and I know when to pick and choose my battles.

In all, the damage from the toilet overflowing wasn’t completely catastrophic. I mean, I’m sure the people that worked downstairs were ecstatic to have the rest of the week off from work due to the ceiling caving in and the computers getting all wet and stuff. It could have been worse though, right? So, what I’ve learned from this experience is that people should really flush at their own discretion as opposed to doing it just because society says it’s the polite and neighborly thing to do. When push comes to shove, will society be there scooping water and crap out of an overflowing toilet with you because you were allegedly doing the right thing? I think not. Furthermore, will society be there to comfort you when you learn that you can no longer squeeze into a size 32 even AFTER you’ve applied margarine, Crisco, and motor oil to your legs? Take it from me. You’ll be slathering and trying to fit in all by yourself.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.justmichael.net

Posted in Humor Blog | 2 Comments »
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