Tales from the OKC, Part 5

This, the final installment of the OKC series, is dedicated to all the mockers out there.

If you'll recall, the entire purpose of going to the OKC was to watch the National High School Mock Trial Championship Tournament and to try to recruit high school mockers for our intercollegiate team.

Frustration number one: The people in charge of the tournament were just what we should have expected: low-level bureaucrats on a power trip. They thought they were the CIA or something. You see, they assigned team numbers to the representative teams from each state, but wouldn't tell us what the teams' numbers were; and they wouldn't let the teams tell us either. So there we were, watching random teams play each other, talking to random teams, and having no idea whether we were talking to kids from New Mexico or Kentucky. We would've liked to target schools from our region, but it basically boiled down to a bit of racial profiling and guessing after listening to accents.

Frustration number two: Peer pressure. When we talked to one or two students individually, they were fine, they asked questions, and they seemed genuinely interested in what we were saying; but as soon as we approached a team as a whole, we encountered a whole stinking shitload of attitude. One girl raised her little nose at us and informed us (in the most snotty manner possible) that she had already been accepted to a school with a nationally recognized program. Okay, miss priss, but (1) whether you got into that school doesn't matter to us because we don't recruit seniors; and (2) take your pride and shove it, because we don't want to work with someone who has her head shoved up her ass. As you know, we couldn't say that. Instead we mentioned that we had played that program in several competitions and proceeded with our spiel.

Once in the rounds, we had to work hard to stifle laughter. Allow me to give a brief caveat: Two of the teams we watched were immensely talented and well-trained. They could take the places of several intercollegiate teams right now and do a fine job. But several of the teams we watched were. . . well . . . less talented and less well-trained.

Thus, I took notes to present the following to you:

Our favorite question on cross examination (we saw it more than once): "And that made you wanna hurl, didn't it?"

Note to myself: That's amazing. He's pacing at a podium.

One team had a witness that was WAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY over the top. These exchanges took place with her own directing attorney.

1. "What is your occupation?" "Oc-oc-u--are you trying to ask me what I do for a living?" "Yes." "Then ask it." "Okay. . . what do you do for a living?"
2. "She was singing my favorite song: 'Oklahoma.' [Sings] Oooooooooooooklahoma!." "Oooookay. . ."

The same witness was overly combative on cross examination (go figure). She said these things to the crossing attorney.

1. "Yes, I was. Weren't you listening?"
2. "Something like fifty feet. I didn't have a ruler."
3. "I said, 'Yes.' Why weren't you paying attention?"
4. (And this is just funny.) "The meanest and most baddest animal I ever seen."

A girl with a pronounced accent (either Native American or Latina) actually asked a white, Southern crossing attorney, "Could you slow down? I can't understand your accent."

More combative responses on cross. This time from the accent chick.

1. Attorney asked, "You never searched X's hotel room, did you?" Witness responded, "Why don't you ask me WHY I didn't search it?"
2. Attorney asked, "That's a 'no,' isn't it?" "Counsel, were you paying attention to the first part of my statement?"

An attorney asked, "Didn't you said . . . ?"

The highlight of the final round, though, were some Classic objection arguments:

1. "Objection! We can't hear the witness." "Your Honor, I ask that opposing counsel be more sensitive to my witness in this time of emotional distress."
2. "Objection. Pursuant to rule 401, this is irrelevant." "Your Honor, we didn't memorize the rule book. I ask that opposing counsel explain."
3. "Objection, your Honor, argumentative." "Counsel?" "I'm trying to make a point." "The objection will be sustained."

Tales from the OKC, Part 4

Boredom is a dangerous thing. Almost as dangerous as Osama Bin Roadrage. And that's pretty bad. Think of a lab technician mixing the next batch of penicillin on a bad day, then add in a boss straight out of Office Space, and wonder what a vendetta that employee might have; then fear what that employee might do about it. Now think about how similar that action might be to the actions taken when the employee is bored. See? Different intent in each situation, but similar results. Either way, thousands of people die. And one person laughs.

Frat Boy Mike and I spent much of our time in OKC bored out of our minds. We discovered early in our stay at the magnificent Bricktown Econolodge that our television was not working properly. It had been adapted to fit the surroundings. We prefer to call it "Ghettovision," in honor of its staticy goodness.

We found a bit of excitement when we left the hotel room though. For instance, we were followed by a homeless guy while walking downtown. That was kind of scary. And we embarked on a phone charger saga that spanned two entire days of the trip.

You see, FBM had forgotten/lost his phone charger at home. And we were in need of cell phones during this trip, being that emergencies seemed to arise every five minutes. When we went to the mall to purchase my new suitcase, FBM bought a phone charger from a little booth in the middle of the food court. Clue number one: a cell phone store should not be located between Chick-Fil-A and Wendy's. Clue number two: the receipt was hand-written, without an address or contact information of any kind. Clue number three that this guy was not a reputable vendor: the phone charger rattled when shaken. The damning evidence: the piece of shit didn't work.

So we got back to the hotel with a broken phone charger. Needless to say, FBM was pissed. But going back to the mall to try to find this guy and get his money back would have cost more in taxi fare than the price of the actual charger. [I am reminded of the episode of South Park in which the boys (just Stan and Kenny, I believe) pay to take a bus to LA to get their $18 from Mel Gibson because The Passion sucked.]

The next day, we were walking through downtown OKC, from lunch back to the courthouse for more mock trial, when we passed a cell phone store. FBM was determined now. He had to have a working cell phone charger. So we stepped inside and he purchased a cell phone charger for the same amount as the dysfunctional junk plastic he had bought the day prior.

Can you guess what happened? If you need a hint, just remember that we were still in OKC.

We got back to our immaculate accomodations and FBM plugged in the charger. Then he unplugged it. Then he plugged it in again.

Then he swore.

Then he swore again.

Then he tried another outlet.

Then he swore some more.

Then (and this is the fateful moment) he turned the phone on. Low and behold, his phone was being the p.o.s. It refused to charge unless turned on. So now FBM began to wonder. . . did the other phone charger work too? Had he just dished out an additional $22 for no reason?

The answer, good readers, is "no." The other phone charger did not work.

But thank goodness FBM got that functional phone charger. Otherwise our boredom may have endured forever. Thanks to the full battery on FBM's phone, we were able to engage in a long-forgotten and neglected pastime. It's a good one. Maybe you've done it before: pranking random 1-800 numbers.

FBM gained access to a restricted account by making up a four-digit pin number; he ordered a catalog (for what, I don't know) to be sent to me at our hotel address; he found several fax and internet access numbers; and best of all, he found phone sex. In the airport. We were in the airport, he had speaker phone enabled, and he "randomly" found phone sex. (It may have been a bit too convenient, don't you think?) If you've never called a phone sex number though, please do. It's hilarious. They ask for a credit card number, and as you're making up sixteen digits to punch in, a ridiculously breathy, unsexy voice keeps telling you how you're making her so hot by pushing her buttons that way.

But prank calls weren't our only form of entertainment; we're far more sophisticated than that. We also played a rousing game of Rambo Deer!

What is Rambo Deer, you ask? I will tell you.

While walking through Bricktown, trying to find something to do, we decided to explore the adventurous world of Bass-Pro Shop. You know, all of those dead animals, caged fish, and equipment with which to kill more animals and cage/kill more fish is quite appealing. We were meandering our way through the store when FBM spotted the games. They're arcade games. Only, instead of racing cars or fighting mutants, you get to shoot things--primarily wild animals.

FBM chose to play a game that would simulate a deer hunt. He picked up the fake rifle, planted his feet, and prepared to aim. And then deer started running across the screen. FBM shot and he shot, but he missed and he missed--that is, until the final round, during which FBM shot all three bucks.

It was amazing. The first deer did a back flip into a ditch after being shot. The second deer tucked its head and went into a triple somersault before slamming into a tree. The third deer. . . well. . . it's just too gruesome to describe.

I thought I was watching a Rambo film. This wasn't hunting. This was action.

But not all of our entertainment in the OKC was equally riveting. On Friday night, FBM and I decided to see a movie. We didn't check the movie times before heading to the theater, so I picked a movie based on its start time alone. We saw Art School Confidential.

Do not see Art School Confidential. Whatever you do, do NOT see Art School Confidential.

FBM's main reason would be the amount of male nudity. Apparently streaking through a frat house is perfectly acceptable, but a male nude model for an art class? Absolutely not!

My main reason for advising you not to see the movie is that the characters make no sense. By that I do not mean that they are quirky or "unique" or even mentally ill. What I mean is that just when you think that you know the main character and you know why he's in art school and you know what he defines as art, he goes and does something that betrays his moral fiber (as it has been portrayed to you, the viewer) in its entirity. And there is no good explanation given either. Way to go, Sony!

Tales from the OKC, Part 3

Taxi cabs are quite the American phenomenon. We have had entire television shows devoted to them, along with movies. We have certain stereotypes about the kinds of people who drive taxis. And we associate them with certain parts of the country.

For instance, when someone mentions a taxi ride, our minds might first think of hopping into a bright yellow boat of a granny car on a street corner in New York City, only to find that the driver does not speak English and may not understand where he is supposed to be taking us as he provides a death-defying experience, changing lanes without notice, speeding through every intersection, and cursing in foreign languages. Or we might think of the theme song from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Either way, I have returned from the OKC with tales of taxi cabs.

Keep in mind that we rode in at least ten different cabs over the course of one weekend, so this is a mere sampling of our experiences.

Let us begin with a woman who will be called Deborah. (Not to protect her identity, but rather because I can't remember her name.)

Deborah was taking us from the hotel to Bricktown. We were still pursuing a suitcase, entertainment, and nourishment, so Bricktown was supposedly the place to be. Frat Boy Mike decided to ask her about the various eateries in the area. (He later explained that he thought she may be a reliable source; after all, her size indicated that she found food somewhere, and one would hope that she found the food enjoyable.)

Rushing through her response to FBM's question, she took it upon herself to recommend some alternate activities. As seductively as she could, she said, "You could take a ride down the canal. [Awkward pause.]"

Deborah was not the only cab driver to mistake us for a couple though.

Creepy Cal dropped us off in Bricktown the next night. "So, you taking this lovely lady out to dinner?" [Again, his name has been changed--in part because I never learned it and in part because I think this one suits him.]

"Yes, sir."

"She's a cutie. You know, there just aren't too many good women left out there. I married a good woman once. Then, two years later, I found out she was the devil and we got divorced."

"Yeah, well, you oughta see this one in the morning."

"Sir, I'd consider that a privilege."

"I'm sure you would."

I was dying. I felt dirty and I hadn't even done anything. The thought of Creepy Cal with his sweaty cab smell waking up next to me. . . ugh. . . no really. You didn't see this guy.

Ugh.

Trivia of the day: What is worse than a creepy cab driver though?

Here are your options:
(A) A deadly cab driver,
(B) A foreign cab driver,
(C) A cab driver who lacks a sense of direction, or
(D) All of the above rolled into one man who could make an atheist pray within two minutes of starting the engine.

As you may have predicted based upon the general theme of ghettoness and terror that surrounded our trip to the OKC, the answer is D, All of the above. We shall refer to this one as "Osama Bin Roadrage." We were headed back to the hotel from the mall, and this guy (1) didn't know how to get there, and (2) didn't know how to drive.

He was weaving in and out of traffic, going anywhere from 50 to 65mph on a street with a 35mph speed limit. No joke, this guy practically ran a truck off the road. You see, the truck's driver made the mistake of driving as though a sane person was behind the wheel. Big no-no.

Osama got pissed, starting cursing in such a way that we could not understand a word of it, and tried to tailgate/pass the truck at the same time. FBM and I just kind of gripped the doors and seats, exchanging glances. We couldn't say anything for fear of pissing Osama off even more. What if the crazy-ass little man decided to run into a telephone pole just to spite us? It would be almost like a suicide bombing . . . kind of . . . shut up.

The friendliest cab driver? The one who tried to get us to sign up for his work-at-home-on-the-internet-and-get-rich-quick scheme. *Nods.*

People amaze me.

Perhaps I should just drop out of school, go buy myself a big yellow car, move to OKC, and join the surprisingly strange group of people who work for the cab company. Perhaps then I would seem normal. It might work. After all, I was once told I was too sane to be a psychologist.

Tales from the OKC, Part 2

Let's talk about lodging. More specifically, let's talk about the Bricktown Econolodge.

For starters, the "Bricktown Econolodge" is 1.5 miles from Bricktown. Nice little use of deceptive advertising. The taxi company (a monopoly) might as well send the Econolodge a thank you note for that.

If the "hotel" wasn't conveniently located in Bricktown, just where was it? Next to a truck yard.

Frat Boy Mike and I arrived on Thursday morning, checked in to our luxurious home away from home, and then walked around the building to our door. Upon sliding in the card and pushing with all our might against the sticky door, we were bombarded with a smell that rivals the odor emerging from the asscrack of Satan after he's been doing cardio in the fiery pits of Hell. FBM described the smell as "monkey shit." I have no idea what it actually was, and I have a feeling I don't want to know.

We entered the room, which could only have been decorated by a colorblind and mentally retarded person who had been locked in a basement since the 70s. The bedspreads were some ungodly baby shit shade of brown with a paisley pattern. The curtains incorporated that same horrific brown, adding some blue and tan stripes. Then! (This is my favorite part.) There were watercolors hanging above the beds. They were too small for the spaces and their frames were too light, not to mention the fact that they were shades of pink and purple, when the rest of the room was that terrible brown. If we looked to the right, there was a mirror hanging crooked on the wall next to the lamp with a lopsided shade.

As we admired the gorgeous accomodations, we left our door propped open with a suitcase. After all, we were still trying to get rid of the mysterious monkey shit aroma. We also had the curtains pulled open; even in a shithole, sunlight can be nice. Next thing we knew, a young Mexican ran past our door. Then another. Then a group of rough-looking men. Then some more. Then they paused outside our door while talking loudly.

Let's keep in mind that FBM and I were still trying to figure out why the hell we were in this place. As we noticed the people running by, we became more and more alarmed, until finally we sat frozen in place--as though the gang of hard-ass truckers standing outside our room would forget we were there if we didn't move. As soon as they ran along, we darted for the door, slamming it closed (as quickly as was possible considering the door needed some serious WD-40) and then attempting to deadbolt it. I think it's telling that our door had two deadbolts in addition to the standard chain lock. Unfortunately only one deadbolt was working.

Deciding we didn't feel secure and we wouldn't want to sit in the room all day even if we did, we began searching for something to do. The airline had decided to obliterate suitcase number two of the year, so I needed to buy a new one before traveling home.

We phoned the front desk to ask where we could buy a new suitcase. We were told that we might try the travel plaza across the street. Though skeptical about a trucker's plaza, we decided to try it. After all, it couldn't be any worse than staying in the monkey shit room with truckers running by the door.

Walking across the street, we entered a trucker's plaza, looking for a new suitcase. The prospect of success seems even more ridiculous now, as I type this, than it did at the time. Needless to say, we left the plaza still in need of a suitcase.

But, as we exited the plaza, it seemed that all hope was not lost. Indeed, there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel. We had run into a shuttle van with our hotel's logo on the hood and sides. FBM approached the driver to ask whether we could get a ride into Bricktown.

We were referred to the phone number of another hotel. You see, the same company owned our hotel and the hotel located next door, so both logos were on the shuttle. We called the front desk (despite the fact that no one can get a Verizon signal in OKC) only to be informed that we could not receive transportation.

What!?

That's right. They put a hotel's name on a shuttle, fully intending to refuse service to patrons of said hotel. I asked whether we could get shuttle service to the hotel. No. Shuttle service to Bricktown? No. Shuttle service to the airport? No. No service for our hotel. Only the hotel next door. (Let us not forget that this is the same hotel where our pool was "conveniently located.")

Now pissed off, we returned to the hotel room. We called the cab company to get a ride into Bricktown. They, of course, needed an address for the hotel. We provided the name of the hotel and the address on our room phone, but the cab company's operator read back a different address. We repeated the address we had provided. The cab company's operator read back the same different address. It was not until we left the building to get in the cab that we realized there was a different address on the front of the building than on the room phones.

What kind of hotel doesn't know its own address?

My little sister was supposed to accompany us to this fine establishment, but was injured by a piece of shit less than one week before our departure. FBM summed it up best: "Maybe it's a godsend she didn't come. You know, maybe it's better to get hit by a chair than a bullet."

Moral of the story: If you must go to Oklahoma City, stay the hell away from the Bricktown Econolodge--and any other trucker's haven in disguise. Trust me.

Tales from OKC

Frat Boy Mike and I returned yesterday from a trip to the lovely Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. We had quite the adventure--so much so that my tales of the OKC will be presented in a series rather than a single post.

Just to pique your interest, I will give you a few miscellaneous quotes. The longer stories are to follow in the upcoming days.

Worst pick-up line of all time [heard in the Chicago O'Hare Airport]: "Hey, that's a big book you've got there."

Worst statement ever to appear in a hotel information guide: "Your pool is conveniently located next door at the Quality Inn."

Best message from an airline pilot: "Thank you for flying American Airlines--the only airline that hasn't gone bankrupt."

Gender Equality

I recently wrote about the difference between "women" and "ladies." Being that I am one to advocate for gender equality, I thought it only appropriate that I write about the difference between "men" and "scum-sucking crazy-ass motherfuckers" ("scum" for short).

I must admit that my motivation for writing this is not as benign as it may at first seem. I am not just thinking of gender equality. I am thinking of being an equal-opportunity hater of people. I loathe people. All people. And I am about to tell you why.

There is a scum-sucking crazy-ass motherfucker out there who needs to be killed. This person of the male persuasion (definitely not a "man") deserves a great deal more than the prison sentence headed his way. In fact, if you would like to join the army of vigilantes ready to kick his ass (after reading our reasoning for wanting to do so, of course), please, by all means, feel free to enlist.

So what did the scum-sucking crazy-ass motherfucker do?

We got a call at three o'clock on Sunday morning telling us that my little sister (who is more like my daughter than my sister) was in the emergency room. They wouldn't tell us anything else--whether she was alive, whether she had been in accident, nothing.

My mother and her husband went to the hospital. They talked to the police and the nursing staff, trying to figure out what had happened. I started making phone calls, trying to locate the girls with whom my sister had gone partying.

Turns out she was at a party in a bad section of a bad town, and some scum-sucking crazy-ass motherfucker had been all over her all night. At one point he started licking her neck, so she kicked him in the balls, telling him to get off of her. He stormed away--but only after telling her, "Don't act like you didn't like it." (Because we all know that this charming piece of shit, with his incorrect grammar, was just irresistible.)

She was in the process of telling everyone within earshot about his actions, which was quite natural, when he returned. After all, where we come from, if you're pissed off about something or someone, you just bitch loudly, then move on with your night. Well, this scum was not from where we were from, and thus his mode of conflict resolution varied significantly from our own.

The scum walked up, started yelling, grabbed my sister by the throat and backed her against the wall; then, when people pulled her away and were yelling at him, the scum did something that we would never have expected. He threw a chair at my sister's head.

Take a second. Let it sink in.

He threw a fucking chair at a girl's head.

What kind of low-life asshole does such a thing?

Her eye, along with a gash in her forehead, started gushing blood. Two people who lived down the street came running, saying they were former paramedics, and accompanied my sister to the hospital. Once there, the police were called, a DNA swab was taken from her neck, and the scum has yet to be arrested. Apparently he assaulted two other people after my sister left.

She had to be transferred to another hospital to have a CAT scan done. There was no damage to the eye socket, but she has stitches on her lower eyelid, in the corner of her eye, and near her eyebrow. She had a concussion, and she just regained the ability to open her eye today.

Are you pondering this person's actions and asking the question that is burning on all our minds? "W T FUCK!?"

I thought so.

Want to join our army yet?

I just don't understand. . .

But I need to wrap this up. I started by talking about gender equality and "man" versus "scum." So what reminded me of the term "man"?

I was standing in my backyard when I saw a father and son riding a four-wheeler. I don't know why I was so impressed by them, but I really thought they were adorable. And I was refreshed to see a man doing something good. Scum is everywhere.

In the words of Haley Joel Osment in Pay It Forward, "The world is shit."

Ladies v. Women

The impetus: I was sitting outside Offenhauer when I saw a guy and gal walking toward the entrance. The guy was holding an umbrella and had his arm wrapped around the gal's waist to hold her close as he shielded her from the rain. What did this gal do? She elbowed him. She elbowed him multiple times, shoving him away as he tried valiantly to protect her from the water falling from the sky.

When our generation says things such as "Chivalry is dead," what do they expect? Come on, now. Of course chivalry is dead. We killed it. We took an ax to its head, we split it open, and then we lit it on fire.

If a nice young man is trying to protect your hair and makeup from the rain, don't elbow him. This is common sense.

I was going to entitle this blog entry, "Ladies." As in, "Ladies, we need to chat." But then, I started thinking about that term. It's too kind. You aren't "Ladies." If you were, you wouldn't be elbowing the kinds of guys who hold umbrellas for you.

Later this same day, I was walking across campus and saw a woman and a man, probably the ages of our parents, walking. She was talking on her cell phone; he was walking next to her, holding an umbrella to shield her from the rain. Did she elbow him? No. Again, did she elbow him? No.

Hell no.

It doesn't fucking make sense to elbow someone who is in the process of doing something nice for you.

When a professor gives you an "A" on a paper, do you give him a hearty, "Fuck you!" in return? I don't think so.

If you want to be called a "lady," then act like one.

Incidentally, I have a funny story to tell about that term. I was camping in San Diego with my family. My stepmother was scolding me for smoking a cigarette, saying it wasn't "ladylike," only to beckon me to her side moments later. "I can't get this tent stake in the ground." She handed me the mallet and had no qualms with my beating a metal stake into the hard earth. Apparently that was "ladylike" enough for her.

My point? Be nice to boys. We don't want to give them reason to be assholes.







[Short enough, FBM?]