Last Will and Testament: Bachelor Edition

Death happens.  You don't always know it's coming, and perhaps haven't prepared or planned for it.  If that happens to me, everyone around me will know what to do.  You see, I have left very clear instructions.  I've written a document titled "Just In Case" and have it on my computer, on the off chance I somehow pass away.  It's also backed up and stored on my external hard drive. And it's on my google account, as a saved document. 
Because I'm such a friendly person, and because I know that I can't be the only person who has a long list of final demands they'd like to see fulfilled, I've decided to share an outline of my will. Personally, I believe that every single male guy who probably doesn't have this prepared yet should copy something like mine, because it's never a bad idea to be well prepared. 
So, I present:  THE BACHELOR'S WILL

1) DELETE MY BROWSER HISTORY

If I'm dead, truly gone, then I don't care much what people think about me.  And yet, some tiny part of me knows that it would be a terrible burden for my friends and family to know all the stupid things I waste time online doing.  I'm not even just talking about porn or anything dirty.  Though, honestly, that should be something every bachelor worries about.  You'll want to ensure that no one gets to include your favorite porn preferences in their eulogy for you (somehow, somewhere, you know this type of thing has happened).  But more importantly, it prevents everyone from realizing you spent 5 hours one day reading star wars fan-fiction when you were supposed to be doing work...or it means no one ever gets to read your long-forgotten facebook messages, such as when you professed your undying love in high school to a girl whose name you've already forgotten.  So in your will, make sure to include the command that they delete your browser history. This is priority number one.

2) DEMAND A VIKING FUNERAL

If I'm dead, there's only one good way to put me out of this world: Burning something in an awesome display of wasteful extravagance and general badassery.  I truly can't imagine a better way of being sent to Valhalla than via Viking Funeral, so this is another must-have demand on my will (or as I like to think of it, a 'post-mortem wish list'). I want to be set out at sea on a massive ship, burned and left to float and crumble for eternity in the ocean.  I want to feed the fishes.  I want to become part of the underwater food chain. I don't want this whole 'give me a real funeral' thing, that's just boring.  I don't want to rot underground in a coffin, and I definitely don't want to be cremated in what is basically just a giant pizza oven, like so many funeral homes have. If I'm going out of the world, I want a massive viking longboat to go out with me, and I want to go in style.  That way, my death will make sure I'm remembered as a kickass, viking-like person. So in your own will and testament, demand a viking funeral.  Viking funerals are cool.

3) KICK MY ENEMIES IN THE SHINS

Past fights and anger are easily forgotten after death: After all, there's no point hanging onto a grudge against a dead man.  But what if there WAS an unresolved grudge?  What if, as you lay dying, you suddenly are haunted by the thought that your old high-school friend never gave you that 10 bucks he owed you, and you never got to exact revenge for this slight?  I don't want this sort of petty demand to haunt my spirit once I'm gone. That's where this third demand comes in: In my will, I'm including a list of people who have wronged me, in any fashion, and have not made up for it yet.  I originally thought to include a list of appropriate punishments for the people on the list, but since I'll be dead if this ever happens, it seems relatively useless to design complex revenge schemes. Instead, I demand that my friends and family find whoever I put on this list, and kick them in the shins during my funeral.  Hard.  Not "break a leg" hard, but at least "Has to sit down and rock back and forth holding their shin in mild pain for a minute" hard. I want to look down from heaven and see my enemies with EXTREMELY uncomfortable shins. If I'm dead, I want to know all my remaining debts are paid, and I'm relatively fond of the idea of these bets being paid via shin-kicking. If I die, make sure you kick the shins of my enemies in my honor. You can't ignore a last request, and this can count as mine.

4) THE BRO MUST GO.

In this case I mean "bro" as in "my literal brother."  If I die, I want to be clear about who is or is not allowed into my apartment, home, or wherever I'm living first.  And it has to be my brother.  For other people, it might be someone in particular, but whoever it is has only one job:  Go into that apartment and destroy or take anything that will make me look bad after death.  I choose my brother because we're not particularly close, but I feel like he's the sort of person who would still have fond memories of me, even after clearing out my apartment.  Whoever this person is in your will, make it clear what they're expected to do: MAKE YOUR APARTMENT OR HOME LESS PATHETIC.  All bachelors are at some level sad sacks, and thus we tend to have terrible habits.  Throw away the expired milk in my fridge.  Clean the browser history at this time.  Throw away the 400 pages of ungraded student work I always seem to have sitting in a pile on my desk that makes me look lazy.  Remember, after you die, it should be clear in your will that one person in particular is given the duty to enter your apartment before anyone else (I believe this is where the phrase 'bros before hoes' was invented), and destroy anything that you wouldn't want seen by your family or friends. Bros enter the apartment, then the rest of the world (BONUS: This means as a last act, you get to indirectly refer to everyone else on Earth "hoes").

5) BEACH PARTY FUNERAL

If I'm dead, that means the collective world just got a little bit worse.  Without me, and frankly without anyone who reads my blog, the world is probably just a slightly worse place.  And I recognize that, and have tried to help account for that in my last will and testament with something wonderful:  A giant party.  Now, as I've stated above, I want a massive Viking funeral to be how I go out, but more than a viking funeral, I want a party. But, since I'll be on a boat on fire slowly sinking into the abyss, that will leave all my friends on land, and likely on a beach.  That's why, as my fifth and last demand on my will, I demand a beach party funeral.  You're welcome to bring a priest or pastor, you're welcome to have a moment of solemn reflection, and you're totally welcome to use the fiery boat I ride to Valhalla as a marshmallow roasting fire, but the only non-negotiable thing here is the party.  If I'm dead, there is significantly less joy in the world, and the only way to offset this is with a massive party.  So the first $1,000 or so of my money and belongings should go towards hosting a massive beach party, which ends with my burning-boat send off to heaven or hell.  When I die, just remember that I want a beach party funeral.  After all, you can't be sad about me dying while playing beach volleyball, right?

As I conclude this brief discussion of the terrible possibility that I will someday die, let me explain again in brief exactly how the timeline of events should happen:

• I die (It's alright being sad, I will be missed by many.  I'm just friggin' awesome like that.)
• My Brother enters my apartment, retrieves my computer, and locates a document with my living will and testament.
• My brother deletes my internet browsing history.  He does not look at it himself, either. 
• My Brother then cleans my entire apartment of anything embarrassing.
• My family and friends get permission for a beach aprty and bonfire
• My family and friends spend my life savings on a beautiful Viking longboat. 
• My family and friends have a massive beach party/Viking Funeral, and try to be happy, because my dying wish is for them to have a great time.
• While enjoying my viking funeral, my family and friends hunt down the people on my list to kick in the shins, who have been stealthily invited to the party-funeral just for this reason. 
• My enemies experience terrible shin pain for several days.
• My friends and family have a free-for-all on my stuff, because I spent so much time writing about revenge and viking funerals that I forgot to actually write the rest of the will. 

And that, dear friends, is how I'd like to go out.
Thanks for reading BB+B, and I hope this gave you a chuckle!
-Brian, The Author Guy

The Awkward First Date Sonnet

I was writing a post for you all today about a very embarrassing high school date.  And, as I wrote the post, I accidentally put several lines in iambic pentameter.  And crazier yet, several of those lines somehow rhymed.  Well, there was only one option after I saw that:  Write up the story in the style of a Shakespearean sonnet! A BB+B story that's short, amusing, and rhymes? Enjoy!

Sonnet 1: "The Zombie Movie Disaster Date"

When I was just a youth in search of love,
I found myself a woman to enjoy.
Her hands fit in my own just like a glove!
Her smile was sweet, her actions very coy.

Our first date was quite fun, I must admit
(Though awkward too, as first dates often are).
I tried to fill our talks with jokes and wit
But her film choice was strange, even bizarre.

I tried my best to show her I was strong,
But soon enough I felt my courage fail,
She thought I was fearless, but she was wrong
My fear of zombies will always prevail.

And thus with a whimper soon this girl sees,
Though I seem strong, I'm too scared of zombies.

Thank you. In sonnet form, that is the tale of my only date with a girl who decided she wanted to go to a zombie movie marathon, somehow as a romantic first date.  If you don't speak 'sonnet' fluently, basically I spent the whole movie jumping and obviously uncomfortable.  After the first movie we called it quits, and we never went on another date again. It was awkward, strange, and embarrassing, and I hope that this very short post will tide you all over as I handle LOTS of work, and have VERY little time for writing!

Thanks for reading BB+B! More frequent updates will be coming in the near future.
-Brian, the Author Guy

My Dog Merlin, the Glutton

My dog just died. It’s always sad losing a pet.  It’s strange, because in your head you recognize that the pet probably didn’t have the thoughts and emotions you ascribe to it, but all the same, the loss hits you.  It’s almost like losing a family member, though not quite as emotional. But no matter your age, losing a dog is sad.  But I'd prefer to focus on the happy stories, instead of the sad, so I’d like to share a Merlin (my dog) story with you BB+B readers today.

Merlin was a chocolate lab.  When we went to buy him, my mom specifically wanted to get the largest pup in the litter, despite the fact that at the time his head was so heavy he seemed unable to balance himself.  He was oddly proportioned, highly energetic, and from day one we knew there’d be a lot of work to train him towards any semblance of domestication. But we bought him anyway, and were lucky to have him. Merlin, though, was not the guard dog my mom had hoped for.  It seemed that more often than not, he would run up to strangers and lick them, as opposed to trying to protect us from intruders. Apparently, our trust in Merlin as a guard dog was somewhat misplaced.  

We never actually NEEDED a guard dog, in the time we owned Merlin. No one tried to break in, no one attacked us, and really the only protection we needed in our home was for our food.  That’s because Merlin loved food with a zeal and affection that no human being could possibly understand: His little doggie brain didn’t even fully comprehend his love, and it so overpowered him that his drool would hang down in long drops and lines every time we began to cook.  Merlin looked like a dog, acted like a bull, and ate like a pig. 

When he was barely a year old, Merlin decided that he was going to finally make his big criminal debut, and steal some food from the kitchen.  On the particular afternoon in question, my mom and dad were cooking banana bread.  They had everything lined up nicely on the counter, clearly out of the dog’s reach.  They had 5 loaves of banana bread made, several full sticks of butter from the cooking process, and were in the process of cleaning up the kitchen when Merlin made his entrance. 

He crept in, his head he low and tail carefully held still, its characteristic permanent wagging momentarily halted.  He crept past the stove, and towards the counter with food, he crept past my mom, and sidled next to my dad…and leaped.  In full view, he leapt onto the counter, bit down on the nearest piece of food he could find (an entire box of butter) and then sprinted out of the room.  My parents were so surprised at the audacity of the theft that it took them several seconds to stop laughing and chase after him.  And somehow, in LESS than ten seconds, Merlin managed to eat two full sticks of butter, wrappers and all. 

My parents, of course, scolded him.  They put him in his crate, and were very stern.  He looked appropriately ashamed, but in reality that first butter theft had awakened something in our cute little pup:  He had found his calling. He was a food thief, from that day on.  

Later that afternoon, when he was let out of the crate by my parents, he seemed extremely sad.  He moped around, he apologetically followed at their heels and tried to nuzzle them and cuddle up, an obvious apology if I’ve ever seen one.  My parents knew not to completely give him forgiveness, so as to avoid rewarding his behavior, and we were confident Merlin would stop his thieving.  That’s why we didn’t even think to move the banana bread to a higher counter. 

I don’t recall, after all these years, what exactly it was that held our attention, but my family and I left the kitchen alone for at least a few hours.  When my dad wandered in, finally, he was confused to only see half the banana bread loaves he expected.  And the dog, he quickly realized, was nowhere in sight.  Despite having consumed his full daily meals, and two sticks of butter AND butter wrappers, Merlin had stolen two loaves of banana bread.  When we finally found him underneath the dining room table hiding from us, Merlin was face deep in the second loaf-pan, licking the last remnants of banana bread up with what can only be described as canine ecstasy.  He happily surrendered the empty loaf pans to us, happily went to his cage, and spent the entire rest of the afternoon burping quietly to himself, enjoying and digesting his pilfered treats.  When we let him out later, he made a bee-line for the kitchen, which we’d now carefully secured beyond doggie-stealing.  He looked despondently about the kitchen, unable to find even a single snack to sneak, and then decided to go out into the back yard and vomit his massive meals back up.  

Merlin, though, never learned.  In the little over a decade since then, Merlin stole over a dozen more sticks of butter.  He stole countless loaves of bread, both normal and banana, and he stole more food than most third world nations even have.  This dog was the criminal kingpin when it came to stealing food, and until the day he passed, enjoyed gobbling up absolutely anything he could get his hands on.  He was a glutton, he was a thief, he was obsessive and stupid and profoundly incapable of patience, and he was the very best dog I could’ve asked for growing up. 

Nothing on Earth is as incredible as the loyalty and love of a dog, even one that constantly steals your food. 

Thanks for reading BB+B!
-Brian, the Author Guy

The WebMD Of Doctors

WebMD is the curse of the modern age. If you think you have strep throat, WebMD convinces you it's actually throat cancer.  Got a migraine headache?  No, according to WebMD, you have meningitis and brain tumors, possibly both at the same time.  Also, maybe your dog died.  However, most of the time if you simply talk to a medical professional of some sort, your concerns are put to rest.  But not always...sometimes, doctors are just as bad as WebMD, and because they aren't on the internet, it seems even worse.

In 2007 I ran into a whole slew of health problems.  I had a brain disease that was a single, not too terrible occurrence.  Yes, it screwed with me, yes, it sucked to get sick, and sure, it has had a pretty substantial impact on my life ever since.  But it wasn't deadly, and when a doctor starts to talk about your brain as a 'site of infection', the words "not deadly" suddenly sound pretty damned comforting.

When I first got sick, I had no idea what was wrong.  I was at college, spiked a 106 degree fever, and was basically an ebola patient (Aside from the whole 'death and projectile bleeding from every pore on my body' part). The whole story of my rescue from illness involves my good buddy Beardo, a long and complicated hospital visit, and many more side tales, so I'll cut to the point before I get sidetracked: I was sick, I went to the hospital, and they found that I had lesions on my brain when they gave me an MRI.  On a scale of 1-10, brain lesions are basically an 11.5 with fire ants on the side, in terms of scariness.  Not much fun.  After that, I went home from college.  My parents and I were on rocky footing (another story for another time) but the really important thing was that they were extremely supportive throughout this whole mess.  They arranged my doctor's visits for me, did research online, and took care of me when I felt like disease and death incarnate.  Then one day, the week before Christmas, I met a doctor who can only be described as 'Ghengis':  She rampaged through my life, pillaged and burned, and her last name may or may not have been Khan. And I'm not 100% sure, but I think she may have conquered China at some point.  My history's pretty rusty, though, so maybe she just ATTACKED China, but didn't conquer it all. In any case:  Dr. Ghengis=scary doctor.

Dr. Ghengis' office was located in a nice side-building of the town hospital. A week before Christmas 2007, my parents and I showed up for my first appointment with the neurologist-of-doom, Dr. Ghengis, and stepped into her brightly lit waiting room.  We were quickly ushered through the entrance, and placed in an examination room for the doctor to come.  Dr. Ghengis was, we were told by her assistant, waiting on a final printing of my newest brain MRI scan before coming to talk to us.  And so, we waited.

And we waited.  We aged, the moon came and went through its lunar cycle, the seasons passed and I witnessed the beauty of spring ten thousand times over, and eventually after what felt like aeons beyond aeons, Dr. Ghengis showed up with a half-eaten sandwich and my brain scans folded up and tucked under her arm.

She sat down and I expected some sort of preamble, or introduction:  "Hello, I'm Dr. Ghengis, and I'll be your doctor." would have been great.  "I'm Dr. Ghengis, and I'm about to ruin your fucking day!" would've sufficed even.  Instead, she ignored all introductions and launched into the possible diagnoses by listing a dozen diseases in such rapid succession that I only caught snippets of their names.  "You show lesions symptomatic of *garbled phrase* disease, *snippet of the word 'myelin'*-itis, perhaps brain cancer, ALS, or lupus." The only thing I knew for certain, after her speech, was that Dr. Gregory House might be proved wrong, because Lupus might seriously be an option.  The rest of her diagnoses?  I didn't understand, because I'm not a neurologist.  My confusion meant that I was going to have a lot to ask about, but when I began to ask questions, Dr. Ghengis cut me off and started down her next uncomfortable list. This time, she listed the various tests I needed to now immediately undergo.

She locked eyes with me, almost predator-like, and said, "We're going to need to do some tests.  Maybe a spinal tap, or lumbar puncture.  Perhaps multiple." She ignored the utter terror and confusion I was obviously feeling, and continued with, "we'll also need some brain scans, blood tests,-" I admit that I sort of blacked out in terror for a moment, so it's possible she didn't actually say it, but I distinctly remember also hearing her mention, "ripping the soul of your unborn children from your body with scalpels and rusty hacksaws" before she finished with, "-and a urine sample."

Then she clapped her hands together, as if somehow congratulating herself for getting through the entire meeting in under 5 minutes after letting us wait for 50 years.  She leaned back in her chair, locked eyes with my dad, and said, "So anybody have questions?  Because I know this is all pretty complicated, but I think we should probably hold off on more diagnoses until after the new tests get back." Her offer of questions led my parents and I to spend the next hour and a half barraging her with questions, concerns, asking for clarification and details.  To every question we asked, she'd respond, "I don't feel confident in anything yet, let's just wait and see." When asked about the possible tests I would have to undergo, she would sarcastically respond, "It can be pretty unpleasant, but it's better than the alternative!" because apparently making death jokes is a good idea for doctors.

At the end of our meeting, my parents and I walked out of the office, numb.  I knew that I had a ton on my plate the next day.  I would give enough blood to feed a hundred starving vampires, have my brain scanned enough to give me radiation poisoning, be attached to what seemed like thousands of electrodes to see how my head still worked, and give enough urine samples to start my own bottled 'water' company.

But all I said was, "She wasn't a very comforting doctor, was she?" My parents immediately comforted me and told me I was going to be alright.  And they were correct, though it took over a year to get an actual diagnosis. We got it from a doctor less Ghengis and more Mr. Rogers.  When he told me the diagnosis, I cried with joy, because it meant I wasn't going to die, and  when he asked why I was so HAPPY about a diagnosis that still involved possible brain damage and pain, it was my dad who spoke up: "Doc," admitted my dad, "it's nice to get an answer that doesn't involve the word death or cancer."

The doctor was shocked at why my dad had to say, and asked, "Who the hell would tell you something like that? Never use WebMD for diagnoses, it gives you too many scary options!"

Now it was my turn to speak up, and with a great deal of bitterness in my voice I argued, "Sometimes, WebMD is better than doctors.  It doesn't make jokes, and actually answers my damned questions!"

Dr. 'Mr. Rogers', as I think of him, actually laughed out loud.  "If your doctor is making jokes or being unclear, they must be some sort of idiot!" My mom, dad, and I were silent.  None of us disagreed.


Hopefully this story amused you!  And don't worry, I'm healthy and doing just fine! 
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Thanks always for reading!
-Brian, the Author guy