Ok, ok. That was a cheap shot. From what I hear, they've released some amazing albums these last few years but anytime I hear some critic wet their pants and gush about R.E.M.'s newest, excellent album and then never, ever hear a listenable song on the radio (the radio! Remember that?), I'm suspect of the quality of that effort.
Indeed, R.E.M. broke up today. As arguably one of the most important bands ever, they deserve all the kudos and sad goodbyes us fans can give them. However, in my opinion, they've been out of the game for years. In all of the albums since their last radio album, 1994's Monster...wait...they released six albums since Monster? Six? Seriously? New Adventures in Hi-Fi, Up, Reveal, Around the Sun, Accelerate and Collapse into Now. Huh. Who knew?
Where was I? Ah, yes. All of those albums (Six?!?!) were released to critical acclaim but I dunno...they just don't do anything for me. My buddy Marc insists that "New Adventures" is their best album and also insists that the next few are really good too. As I've always said, everybody is entitled to their opinion, even if that opinion is wrong.
Marc and I used to have a joke about Paul Simon: He could take a dump in a box, record the sound and win a Grammy. I've felt the same way about R.E.M. these last few years. Like critics wanted and needed the albums to be better than they actually were. I've been guilty of that. When Pearl Jam released that comeback album of theirs a few years ago, I listened to it and told people for a while that the Jam was back! Woot! Only after listening to it a few more times, I realized that while I wanted it to be great, I didn't actually feel it was. Were critics thinking the same thing about R.E.M.? Maybe. And maybe Michael Stipe had incriminating pictures of every critic in the goddamned world.
That is not to say that I am not a fan. I loved, LOVED R.E.M in their heyday. As a matter of fact, when I got my first CD player way back on Christmas day in 1990, my Brother gifted me my corresponding first CD: R.E.M.'s Reckoning. I wore that disc out. Granted, it was the only CD I owned for a few weeks but man, I loved it. I snapped up their back catalog--"It's the End of the World as We Know It" worked it's way into my life during this period--and I eagerly awaited the release of each new record. Fortunately, my discovery of the band was right in their creative and commercial wheelhouse: Out of Time and Automatic for the People would be the rewards for my devoted fandom. When Monster came out in high school, I easily peaked as a fan. Not only did R.E.M. finally release an album that rocked, I decided to dump by obsessive high school girlfriend at their concert at the World Music Theater when I was forced to miss the first couple of songs because she refused to go to the bathroom by herself. Thanks Mike, Mike, Bill and Peter!
A few years ago, I had just gotten paid and was spending a Thursday night drinking wine by myself and rocking out to a 90's playlist I had created. R.E.M. stuff kept coming up over and over again so I grabbed my laptop and drunkenly hopped on Amazon.com. Never a good thing. I was (barely) cognizant of Marc's advice that the new albums were good so I decided to buy them. In addition, many of my older R.E.M. albums were nicked to shit or just plain lost after spending 6 years in Tulsa with me. So, I purchased their entire catalog. Since I was drunk, I even bought a few albums twice (damn you Golden Gate wine!). I spent the next few weeks gleefully revisiting some old classics--their I.R.S. stuff holds up surprisingly well 25 years later--and trying to like their newer efforts. I continued to not like these efforts.
Maybe it's time to revisit their more recent works. After all, I am the guy that finally admitted Paul McCartney was a fairly important member of The Beatles. It's only fair that I offer the same courtesy to another of my all time favorite bands.
Yes. It is time to revisit the newer albums. It's the least I could do, if only to honor a newly dead, once great band.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Victory is Mine!
I won my fantasy baseball league! Wait, Wait, strike that...I finally won my fantasy baseball league!
You see, for the last 6 years, I've been involved in various YahooSports.com fantasy baseball leagues. Each year, I dominate the regular season, only to lose in the playoffs or, more often than not, the championship game. I'm like the Buffalo Bills of Yahoo Sports. Check it out:
2006: John .316, 2nd Place
2007: The Wookie Stompers, 2nd Place
2008: Abe Vigoda's Boner, 5th Place (everyone else cheated)
2009: Clown Baby, 2nd Place
2010: Shark Week, 2nd Place
But finally, a team of mine broke through:
2011: Fat Jesus, 1st Place
It wasn't easy though. Turns out, my arch-enemy and best man Brad was my opponent in the finals. A looooooooong while ago, back in March, Brad had the #1 overall pick in our fantasy draft. Like any sane person, he drafted Albert Pujols with that #1 pick.
Not only did Brad luck into the #1 pick in our keeper league, he used it to draft the best baseball player (non-'roids division) of my generation.
As luck would have it, Brad and I were locked in a virtual tie after a full slate of Sunday afternoon games. There was just one game left in our fantasy baseball season--last night's Cardinals/Phillies matchup--to determine a league champion. And, between our two teams, there was just one player active in that game: Albert Freakin' Pujols.
I won't bore you with the details but I had a .899 to .889 lead in OPS (On base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage) heading into that last game. And, after Pujols destroyed the very 1st pitch he saw 15 rows deep into the left field stands, I was suddenly down .899 to .907. My only hope for victory was for Mr. Pujols to go hitless in his last few at bats.
He did, in fact, go hitless in his next 2 appearances heading into his final at bat in the 8th inning. Brad was up 7-6 (categories-wise) and if I could flip OPS, I would win the league. So, 6 months after we had all gathered at various computers around the city and country, our entire fantasy baseball league literally came down to one at bat. It was simple: If Albert reached base via a hit, a walk, or a hit by pitch, Brad would win. If Albert made an out, I would win.
At this point, I was a little drunk and nervous and kinda shaking...I think Krishni was a little worried about me.
Albert Pujols came to the plate in what would likely be his last at bat of the game and took strike one, ball one, missed at a pitch and...struck out! "YES! Victory is mine! Wo-hoo! Wait, why is he still in the box? Christ, he fouled off that last pitch! No! Nooooooo!"
I have never in my life been more sure that a hit was forthcoming than at that moment. I knew--deep down in my testicles--that Pujols was not only going to get a hit, he was going to deposit another one onto the left field concourse, making the recipient of that ball amazingly happy, as I chugged vodka in soul-crushing defeat.
Happily, that was not to be. On the next pitch, the greatest hitter of my generation swung and missed at a sinker, low and inside. I screamed for joy, Krishni asked "What happened?" and I gave her an awkward high-five. We popped the $12 bottle of "champagne" that she had purchased for the occasion and we shared some bubbly as I reveled in my victory and giggled for the next 20 minutes.
Thank god for stupid shit. What would life be without it?
You see, for the last 6 years, I've been involved in various YahooSports.com fantasy baseball leagues. Each year, I dominate the regular season, only to lose in the playoffs or, more often than not, the championship game. I'm like the Buffalo Bills of Yahoo Sports. Check it out:
2006: John .316, 2nd Place
2007: The Wookie Stompers, 2nd Place
2008: Abe Vigoda's Boner, 5th Place (everyone else cheated)
2009: Clown Baby, 2nd Place
2010: Shark Week, 2nd Place
But finally, a team of mine broke through:
2011: Fat Jesus, 1st Place
Woot! Woot!
It wasn't easy though. Turns out, my arch-enemy and best man Brad was my opponent in the finals. A looooooooong while ago, back in March, Brad had the #1 overall pick in our fantasy draft. Like any sane person, he drafted Albert Pujols with that #1 pick.
Seen here tattooing a ball into orbit
Not only did Brad luck into the #1 pick in our keeper league, he used it to draft the best baseball player (non-'roids division) of my generation.
As luck would have it, Brad and I were locked in a virtual tie after a full slate of Sunday afternoon games. There was just one game left in our fantasy baseball season--last night's Cardinals/Phillies matchup--to determine a league champion. And, between our two teams, there was just one player active in that game: Albert Freakin' Pujols.
I won't bore you with the details but I had a .899 to .889 lead in OPS (On base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage) heading into that last game. And, after Pujols destroyed the very 1st pitch he saw 15 rows deep into the left field stands, I was suddenly down .899 to .907. My only hope for victory was for Mr. Pujols to go hitless in his last few at bats.
He did, in fact, go hitless in his next 2 appearances heading into his final at bat in the 8th inning. Brad was up 7-6 (categories-wise) and if I could flip OPS, I would win the league. So, 6 months after we had all gathered at various computers around the city and country, our entire fantasy baseball league literally came down to one at bat. It was simple: If Albert reached base via a hit, a walk, or a hit by pitch, Brad would win. If Albert made an out, I would win.
At this point, I was a little drunk and nervous and kinda shaking...I think Krishni was a little worried about me.
Albert Pujols came to the plate in what would likely be his last at bat of the game and took strike one, ball one, missed at a pitch and...struck out! "YES! Victory is mine! Wo-hoo! Wait, why is he still in the box? Christ, he fouled off that last pitch! No! Nooooooo!"
I have never in my life been more sure that a hit was forthcoming than at that moment. I knew--deep down in my testicles--that Pujols was not only going to get a hit, he was going to deposit another one onto the left field concourse, making the recipient of that ball amazingly happy, as I chugged vodka in soul-crushing defeat.
Happily, that was not to be. On the next pitch, the greatest hitter of my generation swung and missed at a sinker, low and inside. I screamed for joy, Krishni asked "What happened?" and I gave her an awkward high-five. We popped the $12 bottle of "champagne" that she had purchased for the occasion and we shared some bubbly as I reveled in my victory and giggled for the next 20 minutes.
Thank god for stupid shit. What would life be without it?
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I must apologize
Yesterday's post was kind of a bummer. Yes, it was an insight into what is actually a rather fascinating job, in an anthropological sorta way. But--and I'll be the 1st to admit--child porn is not something you typically come to this blog to read about.
I will say this: when I did make the one sort-of joke--the one about R. Kelly--I originally had typed the sentence as: "Who finds child porn funny? Besides Phil Spector?"
For those not in the know, Phil Spector was a famous music producer who, among other things, rescued The Beatles album Let it Be from the ashes and made it super-syrupy with his signiture "Wall of Sound". I also remembered him being involved in a statutory rape case but it turns out I was thinking of Roman Polanski. Phil Spector murdered an actress. Also, he looks like this:
Clearly, the comedy level of that mugshot is off the charts. But thanks to something stupid called "fact checking", I wasn't allowed to use it. What, do I fancy myself a journalist or something?
Yes. A sexy, sexy journalist. For chubby chasers.
I will say this: when I did make the one sort-of joke--the one about R. Kelly--I originally had typed the sentence as: "Who finds child porn funny? Besides Phil Spector?"
For those not in the know, Phil Spector was a famous music producer who, among other things, rescued The Beatles album Let it Be from the ashes and made it super-syrupy with his signiture "Wall of Sound". I also remembered him being involved in a statutory rape case but it turns out I was thinking of Roman Polanski. Phil Spector murdered an actress. Also, he looks like this:
Clearly, the comedy level of that mugshot is off the charts. But thanks to something stupid called "fact checking", I wasn't allowed to use it. What, do I fancy myself a journalist or something?
Yes. A sexy, sexy journalist. For chubby chasers.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sigh. Days like this are just not worth it.
(Warning! This post contains colorful language and one--or perhaps two--horrible, horrible people)
Today was a good day. It really was. They moved our office from one end of the building to another and now I have, like, 3 times the space I used to. Check this shit out:
I spent a fun morning putting crap from the Onion up on my cubicle walls and eating Honey Nut Cheerios and pretty much just stretched out in all the space I've been given. And then the phone calls came in. Here are the highlights of the call that kicked it all off:
Ass-Bag Caller: I can't register.
Me: What seems to be the problem? Are you having trouble actually registering or have you registered and are having trouble logging in?
ABC: (angrily) Look, I'm just trying to jerk off and I can't get into your sites!
M: Sir...that's disgusting. But let's see if we can't get you logged in...
And then later in the same call:
ABC: It keeps saying my credit card is rejected.
M: Hmmm. Are you using a Visa, Mastercard or Discover?
ABC: None. I'm using a Swedish card.
M: A Swedish card? Like, from Sweden?
ABC: Yeah.
M: I'm sorry. We don't take any cards other than Visa, Mastercard or Discover.
ABC: MAN! Why you gotta be racist?!?!?!
M: (pause) ...Is there anything else I can do for you today?
ABC: Yeah, FUCK YOU BITCH!
After I hung up on him, I was lucky enough to get his next call:
M: Good afternoon! How may I assist you today?
ACB: Why'd you hang up on me nigger?
He then continued to call in for the next 80 minutes. Another guy, claiming to be the initial caller's brother, demanded to be transferred to our supervisor, saying I called his brother "disgusting" and threatening a lawsuit. He eventually did speak to my supervisor...and continued to insist he was going to sue us because I called him disgusting. After complaining to our supervisor, he changed his tactic and called back in wanting to talk about the magazine and give a complaint about the content. I got him again. This time, I was determined to outlast him and would not give him the satisfaction of getting to me:
M: As I said before, you're going to have to contact the magazine if you have any complaints about the content.
ABC: You don't understand. I'm looking for stuff not in the magazine. Like child porn.
M: Child porn? That is quite illegal and I can assure you that content will not be appearing in the magazine. Ever.
ABC: Yes. Child porn.
M: Sir, if you have a comment on the content of the magazine, you will have to contact the magazine.
ABC: And if I do, they will put child porn in the magazine?
M: No.
It was at this point that the call got...weirder.
M: Child porn will always be illegal. If you'd prefer, you can contact your local police station and tell them that you think it should be made legal. I'm sure they will have plenty to say to you about that.
ABC: The police? No, they're stupid. (pause) I fucked a cops daughter once. She was a child.
M: Sir, are you calling from (telephone number)?
ABC: Yes.
M: I need you to know that it is my legal obligation to contact the authorities with this information. What you are claiming you did is quite illegal.
ABC: Oh.
Wait, it gets weirder. He kept calling back. My friend Lisa looked up the number through the magic of the interwebs and found a page dedicated to people who have been pranked by this number. Apparently, these two dudes just sit around all day calling people like some amazingly dumb and horrible version of the Jerky Boys.
These dudes are sick. Who thinks child porn is funny? Besides R. Kelly?
Yes, yes, yes...this job is hilarious on most days. Days like today, however, really take it out of you.
Today was a good day. It really was. They moved our office from one end of the building to another and now I have, like, 3 times the space I used to. Check this shit out:
It's like I'm a real worker! And yes, it's sad that this makes me excited.
I spent a fun morning putting crap from the Onion up on my cubicle walls and eating Honey Nut Cheerios and pretty much just stretched out in all the space I've been given. And then the phone calls came in. Here are the highlights of the call that kicked it all off:
Ass-Bag Caller: I can't register.
Me: What seems to be the problem? Are you having trouble actually registering or have you registered and are having trouble logging in?
ABC: (angrily) Look, I'm just trying to jerk off and I can't get into your sites!
M: Sir...that's disgusting. But let's see if we can't get you logged in...
And then later in the same call:
ABC: It keeps saying my credit card is rejected.
M: Hmmm. Are you using a Visa, Mastercard or Discover?
ABC: None. I'm using a Swedish card.
M: A Swedish card? Like, from Sweden?
ABC: Yeah.
M: I'm sorry. We don't take any cards other than Visa, Mastercard or Discover.
ABC: MAN! Why you gotta be racist?!?!?!
M: (pause) ...Is there anything else I can do for you today?
ABC: Yeah, FUCK YOU BITCH!
After I hung up on him, I was lucky enough to get his next call:
M: Good afternoon! How may I assist you today?
ACB: Why'd you hang up on me nigger?
He then continued to call in for the next 80 minutes. Another guy, claiming to be the initial caller's brother, demanded to be transferred to our supervisor, saying I called his brother "disgusting" and threatening a lawsuit. He eventually did speak to my supervisor...and continued to insist he was going to sue us because I called him disgusting. After complaining to our supervisor, he changed his tactic and called back in wanting to talk about the magazine and give a complaint about the content. I got him again. This time, I was determined to outlast him and would not give him the satisfaction of getting to me:
M: As I said before, you're going to have to contact the magazine if you have any complaints about the content.
ABC: You don't understand. I'm looking for stuff not in the magazine. Like child porn.
M: Child porn? That is quite illegal and I can assure you that content will not be appearing in the magazine. Ever.
ABC: Yes. Child porn.
M: Sir, if you have a comment on the content of the magazine, you will have to contact the magazine.
ABC: And if I do, they will put child porn in the magazine?
M: No.
It was at this point that the call got...weirder.
M: Child porn will always be illegal. If you'd prefer, you can contact your local police station and tell them that you think it should be made legal. I'm sure they will have plenty to say to you about that.
ABC: The police? No, they're stupid. (pause) I fucked a cops daughter once. She was a child.
M: Sir, are you calling from (telephone number)?
ABC: Yes.
M: I need you to know that it is my legal obligation to contact the authorities with this information. What you are claiming you did is quite illegal.
ABC: Oh.
Wait, it gets weirder. He kept calling back. My friend Lisa looked up the number through the magic of the interwebs and found a page dedicated to people who have been pranked by this number. Apparently, these two dudes just sit around all day calling people like some amazingly dumb and horrible version of the Jerky Boys.
These dudes are sick. Who thinks child porn is funny? Besides R. Kelly?
Yes, yes, yes...this job is hilarious on most days. Days like today, however, really take it out of you.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Allow me to share with you something that is almost "Krishni-beautiful"
Back in the early 70's, when Disney World was just scratching at the surface of its financial potential, Roy Disney built a community of condominiums on the Disney property to be called "Lake Buena Vista". These condos were to be state of the art, California-styled architecture and allow the vacationer an opportunity to own and to live (or snow-bird) on the Disney property. They actually built the homes only to completely abandon the property, Jurassic Park-style when they realized they would have to allow the residents to, you know, vote and stuff.
The structures stayed mostly empty for quite a long time--at one time hosting about 1,000 "residents" who were part of the Walt Disney World college internship program. Essentially, what started as a grand dream was pissed away on some horny college kids. Eventually they just gave up, tore the place down and the site is now the Saratoga Springs Resort and Spa.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's boring in that "I live in Florida and wear my pants up to my armpits" kind of way. But here is what makes that house super-duper-freakishly awesome:
Bam!
The structures stayed mostly empty for quite a long time--at one time hosting about 1,000 "residents" who were part of the Walt Disney World college internship program. Essentially, what started as a grand dream was pissed away on some horny college kids. Eventually they just gave up, tore the place down and the site is now the Saratoga Springs Resort and Spa.
It's like Hell on Earth.
It would seem that Roy's dream--and mine--has been resurrected, Zombie-like. Allow me to show you my dream home:
Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's boring in that "I live in Florida and wear my pants up to my armpits" kind of way. But here is what makes that house super-duper-freakishly awesome:
Do you see what I'm seeing? Not only is this house a scant 3 miles from the Magic Kingdom theme park, but it also has a freakin' interior pool with the house wrapped around it. That and you can also buy the until-now-only-rumored Disney VIP pass that allows the passholder and 4 (!) friends free entry to the park--every park!--for life!
Now, there are some definite draw-backs. The house costs $1.7 million and that is without the "optional pool". And there is something like $12,000 a year in neighborhood association fees. And there is the heat. Anyone who has ever seen me walk 50 yards in heat and humidity knows that I need to bring along several canteens to rehydrate myself on the trip.
But my God. Disney! House! Pool! Epcot!
Krishni really, really needs to win the lottery.
Now, there are some definite draw-backs. The house costs $1.7 million and that is without the "optional pool". And there is something like $12,000 a year in neighborhood association fees. And there is the heat. Anyone who has ever seen me walk 50 yards in heat and humidity knows that I need to bring along several canteens to rehydrate myself on the trip.
But my God. Disney! House! Pool! Epcot!
Krishni really, really needs to win the lottery.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Tupid
I wouldn't call myself a stupid man. Sure, I like to pretend I'm ignorant of the world swirling around me but the reality is, I know some stuff. My knowledge is based on books, the interwebs and good old fashion thinking and common sense. It also helps to have graduated from two accredited scholastic institutions, even if one of them was in Oklahoma. Finally--and I cannot recommend this enough--I also married the smartest person I know.
Add all of the above together and you don't get a guy that any reasonable person would refer to as "flighty". Why do I bring this up, you may ask?
Well, as many of you know, I am a tremendous fan of Fightin' Irish football.
Many of you would see this alone as a reason to question my intelligence. But love 'em I do. I'm always on the lookout for new folks to add to my ticketing harem...that is to say, new people with connections to Notre Dame tickets. Until this past year, it had somehow escaped my attention that my good friend Mary Kate had a father who is a season ticket holder. Touch down Jesus Hopping Christ! How on earth did I not know this?
Lucky for me, I was able to get my hands on 4 tickets for the upcoming Michigan State vs. Notre Dame game. Score! All I had to do was send her Father a check for $320 for the face value of the tickets. This is simple transaction that has been done thousands upon thousands of times featuring passage of Irish tickets between interested parties. How could I mess this up?
Well, her Dad's name is "Michael". And when I wrote the check, apparently I was on autopilot because in the "Pay to the order of" slot, I successfully wrote "Michael" but for whatever reason continued on with "Jacklich". I then wrote a humorous thank you note on a post-it, sealed the envelope and mailed it to the correct Michael in Hinsdale, IL.
To recap: I wrote a check to myself for Notre Dame tickets and sent it to the ticket seller.
Now, Mary Kate's Father isn't the biggest fan of Mike Jacklich to begin with. One of his daughters once threw up on my shoes on the mean streets of Chicago while she was very underage. And please understand, this was not by a long shot the worst transgression that involved me and one of his daughters. I was, after all, partially responsible for Mary Kate's arrest at Goonfest.
Apparently, he didn't notice the mistake until he had taken time from his day to go to the bank and attempt to deposit the check. Sigh.
As my Godmother would say, "Tupid, Tupid, Tupid!"
With the possible exception of her racist, soul-crushing harpy of an older sister, Mary Kate's family is super nice, full of Irish levity and warmth. I don't want these people to think I'm stupid. They already look at me with an arched-eyebrow due to my younger transgressions.
So I did the best I could, under the circumstances, and sent her parents a note along with a new, correctly written check:
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mike Jacklich. Friend of Mary Kate, proud graduate of Benet Academy, eternally suffering Notre Dame fan and a dumbass.
I have no earthly idea why I would write a check to myself for the Notre Dame tickets and send it to you. Confusion? Excitement? A gushing head wound? I’ve got nothing.
Please accept my apologies for the confusion and subsequent hilarity that must have ensued around your dinner table upon your return from the bank. Perhaps I should have taken my Mother’s advice and continued my higher education at the Taco Bell University of Book Learnin’ from which I received my bachelor’s degree.
Sincerely,
Michael Jacklich
Add all of the above together and you don't get a guy that any reasonable person would refer to as "flighty". Why do I bring this up, you may ask?
Well, as many of you know, I am a tremendous fan of Fightin' Irish football.
Pictured here, fumbling as usual.
Many of you would see this alone as a reason to question my intelligence. But love 'em I do. I'm always on the lookout for new folks to add to my ticketing harem...that is to say, new people with connections to Notre Dame tickets. Until this past year, it had somehow escaped my attention that my good friend Mary Kate had a father who is a season ticket holder. Touch down Jesus Hopping Christ! How on earth did I not know this?
Lucky for me, I was able to get my hands on 4 tickets for the upcoming Michigan State vs. Notre Dame game. Score! All I had to do was send her Father a check for $320 for the face value of the tickets. This is simple transaction that has been done thousands upon thousands of times featuring passage of Irish tickets between interested parties. How could I mess this up?
Well, her Dad's name is "Michael". And when I wrote the check, apparently I was on autopilot because in the "Pay to the order of" slot, I successfully wrote "Michael" but for whatever reason continued on with "Jacklich". I then wrote a humorous thank you note on a post-it, sealed the envelope and mailed it to the correct Michael in Hinsdale, IL.
To recap: I wrote a check to myself for Notre Dame tickets and sent it to the ticket seller.
Now, Mary Kate's Father isn't the biggest fan of Mike Jacklich to begin with. One of his daughters once threw up on my shoes on the mean streets of Chicago while she was very underage. And please understand, this was not by a long shot the worst transgression that involved me and one of his daughters. I was, after all, partially responsible for Mary Kate's arrest at Goonfest.
This also might have not been the worst transgression involving one of his daughters.
Apparently, he didn't notice the mistake until he had taken time from his day to go to the bank and attempt to deposit the check. Sigh.
As my Godmother would say, "Tupid, Tupid, Tupid!"
With the possible exception of her racist, soul-crushing harpy of an older sister, Mary Kate's family is super nice, full of Irish levity and warmth. I don't want these people to think I'm stupid. They already look at me with an arched-eyebrow due to my younger transgressions.
So I did the best I could, under the circumstances, and sent her parents a note along with a new, correctly written check:
Mr. and Mrs. Collins,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mike Jacklich. Friend of Mary Kate, proud graduate of Benet Academy, eternally suffering Notre Dame fan and a dumbass.
I have no earthly idea why I would write a check to myself for the Notre Dame tickets and send it to you. Confusion? Excitement? A gushing head wound? I’ve got nothing.
Please accept my apologies for the confusion and subsequent hilarity that must have ensued around your dinner table upon your return from the bank. Perhaps I should have taken my Mother’s advice and continued my higher education at the Taco Bell University of Book Learnin’ from which I received my bachelor’s degree.
Sincerely,
Michael Jacklich
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