Tell Me When It's Over...

I'm not a particularly squeamish person... I am a grown adult (physically anyway), but even as a child I wasn't too badly hounded by terrors. Actually I would almost venture to say that I had less phobias as a child than I do today. I was never really afraid of the dark. Snakes do not haunt my nightmares. Nor do spiders or the like. I do have a problem with parasitic insects which I'll discuss in the next post... But for the most part I don't have an excessive amount of your "normal" phobias.

So I'm pretty tough right? Manly.

No... Not really. You see the whole purpose of that paragraph above, was to prepare you to be swept up in whatever hilarity / life lesson / touching story I'm about to hit you with next (oh the suspense... which will it be!?). It's sort of my 'thing' I suppose.

So this evening we're going to discuss some scenes in movies and such, that this previously mentioned grown adult, still cannot watch with both eyes open.

When I was very young, I spent the night at a friend's house in Charleston... He had HBO and a gigantic sectional couch. We fell asleep in his living room one evening watching some movie or another. This would have been the early 90's I suppose.

At some point during the night, I woke up and my eyes focused upon the TV. My mind immediately locked upon the actor and said "Hey, that's Arnold Schwarzenegger" (really proud of myself for spelling that without looking it up... henceforth in this post he shall be referred to as 'Arnold').

So there was Arnold on the screen... Looking like he was having a rough time. He's standing in a dingy bathroom looking at himself in the mirror. "What's he doing I wonder... and why does he look so fucked up?" (Okay, I probably didn't say 'Fucked up' even in my mind at this point... but you get the idea).

So then Arnold proceeds to take a razor blade and cut out his eye.

This is of course the scene in the original Terminator where the battle damaged T-800 removes his eye to reveal the red glowing dot, and dons the big black sunglasses.

I had no idea what I was looking at at the time as I was recovering from my sleep. I had not seen the original Terminator yet... I actually saw the second one before the first.... And I'm pretty sure I hadn't even viewed the second one yet at this point. But I knew that whatever it was, it was very very bothersome to my sensibilities. I knew that I did not want this fellow to cut out his eye, and that if he just absolutely HAD to cut out his eye, I did not want to witness it. CUT. OUT. HIS. EYE.

Now, as I've grown older this scene has settled with me, and I'm no longer particularly bothered by it. I only include it here because it was sort of the first movie I ever saw that I had to say "Yep... I'm not going to be looking directly at that. Call me when it's over."

With that said, lets move on to some newer fare shall we?

Anybody see Prometheus last Summer? No? Just me and Weapon Mods huh? He didn't review that one did he? Hmm...

Well if you did manage to see it, you may remember (how could you forget?) a little scene where a poor "impregnated by the alien spawn in her husbands body" lady is forced to give herself a C-Section in order to avoid being exploded from the inside by a rapidly growing alien creature. She manages to get the thing removed, and then staples (yes, staples.) her stomach back together.

Wow folks. Just wow. I watched this movie again last night, and let me state for the record that I LOVED this movie, but that scene did not get any easier to view.

Next up, another Arnold offering.

Remember that remake of the Colin Farrell movie that Arnold made back in the early 90's? Total Recall? (That was a joke guys, please don't letter-bomb my office, we just got this place cleaned up.)

Toward the end of that film, there is a scene where, through various circumstances, Arnold and the female lead end up lying unprotected upon the surface of Mars. What happens next will be sort of difficult for me to explain. There is a lot of face expanding, and eye bulging, and Arnold makes "AUGHUAHGHAUHGUHAHGUHGUAHUGHUAUGHH" noises. Their faces turn red and swell up... and it's just awful alright?

Well a big machine generates a magical atmosphere for Mars just in time to save them. And somehow, their faces return to normal... I'd think they would be fucked up for life after that? Hmm... Hollywood eh?

How about Cast Away? This is one of my favorite movies, and Tom Hanks is one of my favorite actors.

There are a lot of really emotionally rough scenes in this movie. But none of these are the focus of my writings. That's right... You know where I'm going, don't you? Removing his own infected tooth with the edge of an ice skate by pounding on the end of the skate with a big rock? Holy fuck. That would hurt. I want no part of that scene. I will watch it... sort of... but ow. Just ow.

Now we get to the mother of all "I don't want to look..." movie scenes... It has to be Robocop. The original, unedited scene in Robocop, where he is 'killed' by the thugs at the beginning.

I cannot watch this scene. The others on this list, I see them, and it's like "Hmm... bothersome." But this one... When I see it I think "I'm going to go get a drink... No no... No need to pause it. I'll be back when the screaming stops."

It's not so much what happens in the scene, as it is Peter Weller's facial expressions during it. Particularly when his hand is removed. It's just awful guys.

80's... you were fucked up, okay? Stay away from me.

There were a few runners up in this... I considered Kill Bill: Volume 2, where Uma Thurman crushes that girl's eye between her toes? Seems like there was something in Event Horizon too but it's not coming to me right now. So uh... The end.

Curious Behavior

I talk to myself a lot.

Sometimes it is sensible, person to person conversation (minus one person), and sometimes it is nonsense... gibberish... I'll speak to myself in imaginary languages that have no meaning. Just random sounds. Sometimes I'll yell nonsense words. "MALARKEY!!", "CHEEZ-IT ASSAULT!!!", "EXPLODED BOLOGNA SANDWICH!!", none of these things would be uncommon to hear around my house.

Lately I've taken to saying one thing to myself, and then I will repeat it loudly in a British accent, as if I am surprised and enraged by what I've just said. For instance this evening I was making rice, which called for two cups of water. I said aloud to myself "Two cups of water." and then my angry British counterpart said "TWO WHOLE CUPS!? ARE YOU DAFT!?".

Sometimes I grab the sides of my dog's face and I yell "FACE!!!". She doesn't seem to mind much, but it's odd that a creature who could simply maul me to death would put up with that. Sometimes I'll wrap her entire head in a towel, and she'll just sit there... towel covered face... staring at the inside of the towel... Weighing options. "Do I really need this human to keep providing me with food?"

When I get home in the evenings, if one of my neighbors is outside, I will sit in my car until they go away in order to avoid any awkward 'neighborly' greetings. I will pretend to go through my mail (there is always loose mail somewhere in my car), or I will act like I'm looking for something over my shoulder in the back seat. Sometimes I'll aimlessly dig through my glove box, or clean out the console. Just any old activity so it looks like I'm engaged in something other than "waiting for you to go away."

If it appears that they are doing yard work or something that is likely to keep them outside I will forgo this ritual, and leave my vehicle, hoping that they will not notice me. But I will not enjoy it. Not one bit.

It also works in the reverse... If I walk out my door to go to my car, and I hear or see one of my neighbors coming out to their car at the same time, I will act as if I forgot something in the house and go back inside until they've left. Doesn't matter if I'm late for work or whatever.

I just really hate that fake waving and head nodding 'how ya doin?" nonsense. I don't know these people... couldn't tell you any of their first or last names... and I'm fairly certain they don't really give half a shit about how I am doing.

I hold doors for people. Sometimes. There are rules that must be followed. My calculation for door holding is as follows: distance from door / rate of speed x obvious handicap. Obviously I don't bother to come up with an actual number (though perhaps I should create a true rating system of some sort), but it's more of a fictional number that I gather from what is before me. You take the distance and the rate of speed, and that pretty well tells you whether you're going to be standing there a long time, looking awkward. However, if there is an obvious handicap to this individual, then courtesy generally dictates that you wait a little longer than normal. Occasionally this system will fail. You'll hold a door for someone, and they'll walk on by, or they'll stop to smoke a cigarette or something and pay you no mind. But usually it's fairly foolproof.

I've noticed that women typically are better about saying 'thank you' for such things. Men will nod, or completely ignore you. Perhaps door holding is an assault upon masculinity.

Recently when leaving a restaurant, and running the door holding calculation for some people (the numbers were not in their favor) I devised an amusing game in which you make eye contact with someone way way far out on the lot, completely ignore the calculations, and hold the door for them, while maintaining steady eye contact all the way. I wonder if they would speed up? Or maybe act like they forgot something in the car, and come back later.

I burn things on purpose when cooking. It is delicious.

I hope my neighbors aren't reading this.

Esteemed Friends...

I feel like I probably owe a post since I haven't touched this thing yet in the year of 2013. I even skipped my obligatory "I didn't accomplish anything in 2012. Life is still exactly the same as always." post (Don't worry, I wont try to sneak it into this one).

So I've decided that, to fill my quota, I will take this time to thank all of you other publications out there for keeping me entertained during the long days in my office. I'll probably be fired for this... Advertising the competition and all... But the bosses did tell me to post "Something".

Slacker Conservative: Your humor laced tirades on the sad realities of politics, and life always manage to crack me up (in the saddest, most depressing way). Thank you for making the sometimes unpopular statements. I don't always agree, and I don't always disagree, but this guy knows how to make an argument. Just don't ask him to open any doors in Hyrule (or me either for that matter).

A Little Unfocused: Your random life musings sometimes remind me of my own mental question and answer sessions. It is a nice contrast to read about someone who is both searching for the best possible life, yet appreciative of all they have at the same time.

The Only Girl Playing: I am glad to see some new posts lately after an absence. This blog follows two stories and reads like a sci-fi, or fantasy story. It's nice to get a look at the world you folks have created, and I look forward to reading more.

Whispering Yak: I still think you should be banned from the Internet. But sometimes the things you find are hilarious (when they're not giving me nightmares).

Point of Aim: You only posted once... and the gods, along with myself, laughed heartily. Please return.

Forbidden Thoughts From Merghast the Unbindable: Another slightly infrequent, but high quality offering. The most recent "Release" conjured memories of all the special moments I shared with the early Nintendo systems. I welcome your writings whenever they arrive.


Well I guess that wraps things up... Seems like I'm forgetting somebody... but oh well. Guess not.








Just kidding.


Weapon Mods: Ohhhh Weapon Mods... Where to start. Your editor is a god damn Excessively-Sized-Venom loving freak, and the nice lady at the front desk is waaaay underpaid. But if it weren't for your prodding, I wouldn't be sitting here typing this nonsense. I laugh loudly, and often at your stories, and I too share a hatred of people making chewing noises. Thank you for the years of amusement, and let us never discuss "Segmented" again.

Well that wraps it up for this little post. I know that I may possibly be the most socially inept, and usually absent, of the group, but I feel fortunate to know you all. Thanks for reading, have a belated happy 2013, and keep fighting the good fight of keeping me entertained while I'm supposed to be working. Goodnight.

Untitled

As of this writing, 27 people are dead in Connecticut. 20 elementary aged children, and 7 adults from the reports. And all day long I've been trying to reconcile with myself how such a thing comes to pass, and for what possible reason.

Unfortunately the circus will now begin.

The media frenzy of reactions, declarations, brokenhearted pleas from those who've lost people they love. For weeks now, details will trickle out about the killer... His friends and family... his situation... the hows and whys of this. And we will devour it... through the Internet, television, and radio. We will watch and listen and read day and night.

And in a month, it will be over, and forgotten. Until it happens again. And during the media frenzy for the next event, it will be mentioned again as a comparison. As in the number of victims for the next mass murder will be compared to the number of victims from this one.

Left wingers will call for more gun control. Right wingers will call for more guns. One side or the other will offer the usual "bad parenting" excuse. Someone will say that we no longer teach family values in this country, and that if the shooter just had a little more Jesus in his life, everything would have been okay. The arguments will persist. Nothing will change.

I am not a parent. A part of me thinks I'd probably be pretty good at it. Another part of me isn't so sure. But I know that if I had a child this evening I would probably be researching home schooling options. Because, sadly, this could happen anywhere to anyone. But we cant be afraid can we? Because then the murderer wins, or the terrorist wins, or Satan wins. Some evil bastard wins if you are affected by this, got it? But we are affected.

Go about your lives they say. Nothing to see here. The president says "Take meaningful action to prevent this." Exactly what meaningful action is there to take? A bunch of school children were stabbed in China a few days ago. It might be kind of tough to regulate guns, and sharp objects too. And if we take away sharp objects, well blunt objects work too.

The sad fact of the matter is that the people who decide to do these things have given up on life. And there are not always warning signs. There are not always meaningful actions to be taken against those who are simply broken inside. They aren't afraid of punishment, or negative consequences because they've already decided they are not getting out of this alive. And they are happy about that. They will inflict one final, unfathomable, unhealable wound. And then with a pull of the trigger and a flash... they go away. Scott free. Blameless. Because what can you do to the dead?

It's actions like this that make us want to believe in Hell. I wish I could believe in such a thing. I wish I could tell myself with absolute certainty that this particular killer was at this very moment having his eyeballs slowly pierced by needles while his genitals were devoured by rats. I'd like to believe he was being torn apart piece by piece, and reassembled only to be torn apart again for eternity. I want to think those kids and teachers are in a better place where life isn't so iffy and dangerous. But I don't really think any of that is happening. I think the murderer is just gone. I think the children are gone. I hope its not true. I hope that I am wrong. But for certain the only thing that remains here is the memory of what he has done. He lives on only as a monument to whatever failure created him... be it parenting, doctors, "the system"... whatever. We'll all read about it in a few days and decide who to blame. And then we'll go about our lives.

The children who survived this will be scarred for life. Perhaps some of them witnessed first hand the murders. Not an easy thing for a kindergarten student. Tough thing for Big Bird to explain. They'll bury it somehow, and hopefully go on to healthy prosperous lives. But it is always going to be there.

I don't know where I'm going with any of this. I just felt the need to spew nonsense I suppose. Basically what I'm trying to say is that there are a lot of broken, hopeless people on this planet. And no law can stop them. No mental evaluation can predict the breaking of a mind. We're all rolling the dice when we leave our homes on the chances of meeting one of these lost souls, and hopefully we manage to survive the occasion. In the meantime I hope that we can all enjoy whatever time we have left.

May the broken ones be intelligent enough to seek help, or at the very least, remove themselves from the population before any more damage is done. Thanks for reading. O.A.D.S. will resume it's regularly scheduled ramblings about silly things upon our next writing.

The Cafe

I open my eyes.

I do not know where I am. It seems to be some kind of cafe. There are customers and staff meandering about. People laughing, and conversing. The bustle of dishes colliding and servers taking orders.

Someone is calling my name.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey! Glad you could make it!"

Dorge Kas sits at a table in the corner, beside a large window. He is waving his arms and beckoning me to the table. I walk over and sit down.

"Hey, did you have any trouble finding the place?" he says.

"I'm... Where am I? How did I even get here?"

He Laughs. "Rough night pal?"

"I guess so... What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you, whats it look like? I thought we should discuss a few things. It's such a nice day out!"

It is indeed a nice day. Through the window I see a calm street with a few passing cars. The sun is shining and the warmth of it through the glass is comforting. It seems to be Spring, which is confusing for some reason.

"Lets get something to drink" He says. "Miss!"

A woman glides to the table. When she arrives I realize she looks exactly like Cate Blanchett... except that she is dressed as a waitress. She has pointy elvish ears. Dorge does not seem to notice this as he orders us two beers.

"Dorge, you know I don't drink."

"Trust me, you'll want to drink today." he says with a grin.

Cate Blanchett glides away and then returns with the drinks.

"Is there some kind of Tolkien fair in town or something? Why does she have elf ears? And why are they serving beer at this cafe?"

"What're you talking about?" He looks at me as if I have sprouted another head. "Whatever, anyway, the reason I asked you here... Was that I wanted to tell you that you were right."

"Excuse me...?"

"You were right!" He exclaims. "About so many things! For instance... Venom... He really shouldn't be ten times the size of a normal human. He should be large sure, cause he's a big guy right? But not frickin building sized you know? I don't know what I was thinking."

As his words begin to sink in... I suddenly find myself considering the beer, but push the thought aside.

"Well that's... I mean I'm glad we agree but... are you feeling alright?"

"Hah! I'm great!" he nearly yells "Never better! Hey, would you like some gum?"

He pulls a package of gum from his pocket and offers the open end to me. My 5th grade teacher walks by and waves.

"No thanks I'm fine... Was that Mrs. Dav...Wait a minute... You hate gum. You despise the very thought of it."

"Nonsense!" he yells while stuffing four sticks of gum into his mouth. "I fucking love gum... what're you crazy?"

Dorge proceeds to stand up and sing the anthem from an old gum commercial. "GIVE YOUR BREATH LONG LASTING FRESHNEEEEEEEEEEESS... WITH BIG RED!!!"

No one seems to notice his outburst. He sits down laughing maniacally. I suddenly feel very uncomfortable.

rrrriiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnggggggggggg...

"Dorge, this is a nice place and all, but I think I'm going to head out... I'm not feeling so great."

"And Watchmen!" he ignores me "I reread your "Watching the Watchmen" post the other day, and I thought what the hell, I'll give it another shot... and you know what? You were right! The movie is EXACTLY like the book! Except that the ending to the movie is SO MUCH BETTER. HOW COULD I HAVE MISSED IT!?!"

He begins to take on a crazed, semi-violent look in his eyes. I look around the room for innocent bystanders, fearing that this is one of those moments just before someone snaps.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGG!!!!

"Did you hear that?" I say.

"You hungry?" He absently asks, apparently not hearing the weird bell sound.

"Not really." I respond

"Excellent. Miss!" He yells "We'll have two slices of pie please."

Cate Blanchett returns, this time in a long white gown. She is glowing faintly. She places upon the table two slices of some unidentifiable pie, bows, and glides away.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGG!!!!

"God is that in my ears or what?"

"Look..." Dorge says while slicing up the pie. "You and I haven't always seen eye to eye right? So these recent revelations... they've made me think back and consider some of our other disagreements. So I thought we could look back and maybe set the record straight."

He puts down his fork and reaches into a backpack, pulling out a volume of pages that couldn't have possibly fit inside the pack. It's cover is dusty and etched with strange runes.

"This is the Tome of Disagreements. A record of all our battles. I used to keep it just so I could look back and laugh at how wrong you are. But now..."

As he places his hand upon the cover a sickly green glow begins to spread from the book.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGG!!!!

"Perhaps we can find some common ground and..."

He stops mid sentence.

I look around the room. Suddenly the cafe is empty save for the two of us. The sounds of life have faded, and outside the window it is pitch black. Dorge's eyes have also become black. He grins at me like the devil.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" he says.

Suddenly I'm swimming in blackness. After what seems an eternity my eyes adjust, and I realize that I am in my bedroom. My phone beeps at me. I have one missed call from Dorge Kas, and a voicemail.

"Hey, it's Dorge, its aboooout 3:15 AM, and I just reread your "Watching the Watchmen" post. I just wanted to make sure you know that you're still a fool for enjoying that swill. It's sad, and I pity your offspring. Sleep tight."

Uncle Jim

Ever have those random, seemingly meaningless memories that just stick with you forever? I have a few. A particular sunny day I spent lying around in my parents front yard playing with Thundercats action figures. The first day I rented Legend of Zelda. Sleepovers at a friend's house spent building blanket / box forts. That time when I put my arms through the hand holes of a Kroger bag and jumped off my front porch like it was a parachute...

I'll open this with one such memory.

It may not have been the first time I heard it... But the first time I REMEMBER hearing the song "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult, I was riding in a vehicle with my Uncle Jim. I was probably about 12. We were pulling his boat behind, and heading for a lake in North Carolina where he lived. My parents were following behind in their vehicle. We were spending a holiday weekend at his home. Windows were down. Music was loud. And even then I couldn't help thinking "Man, the guitar solo really ruins the mood of this song..."

Jim was my father's older (and only) brother of 6 siblings. He was an eternal bachelor who never married and never had any kids of his own. When I was very young he moved away to North Carolina but he came home often, and I like to think we were fairly close. He always treated me as if I were much older than I was in our discussions, and I recall that he always came up with the most interesting Christmas gifts. things that you wouldn't imagine a young child enjoying, but I however, always found great joy in them. One particular year he brought me a gold pocket watch... the windup kind. I still have it.

Uncle Jim passed away when I was 17. A victim of cancer after a battle of several years with many ups and downs. He was only a little over 10 years older than I am today.

When he was diagnosed, I was still too naive I suppose, to really understand yet what that meant, or what kind of a battle it really was. I remember my dad sat me down to have a serious talk about it. I asked if it was bad, and at the time it was not. He was expected to make a grand recovery. Which he did several times.

Jim's reaction to the news was to be utterly and completely unaffected. He went to his treatments, took care of his health, and did what he was supposed to do. "Cancer? Pftt... No big deal." was his general demeanor. I remember he even bought a new car. Some sporty little thing. And throughout the years and the troubles he went through, when I was around at least, he never showed any sign of cracking. And before you knew it, his cancer was gone, and everything was fantastic.

I wont go into the lengthy details of his battle... because that is not the point of this.

The last time I saw my Uncle Jim alive, he was in a hospital bed in Charleston. His health had deteriorated to the point that he felt he should move back to West Virginia, and he had been hospitalized for a particularly rough patch. I am ashamed, and eternally regretful to admit that I did not visit him as much as I should have. The sad truth is that it disturbed me to do so. As I grew older, the word "Cancer" became a terror to me. A scourge of nightmares where someone tells me I am dying from the inside out. The very thought of it unnerved me. And it terrified me to see my uncle as he had become.

This is something I will never forgive myself for.

But that last time that I saw him, we had a nice talk, as we always did. He never acted like a dying man. Just uncle Jim, hanging out with his nephew. I remember that he said something inspirational to me. I'm sad to say that even though I can still remember the sound of his voice (I always wondered if something like that fades over the years after you lose someone) I unfortunately cannot remember exactly how he put it. But the gist of it was "Don't ever let anything keep you from enjoying your life."

He did not say this to me as if he were a dying man making a request. There was no hand clasping, and no dramatic music. No tears. No burst of emotion. He said it to me as if I were saying to you "Hey, you might wanna tie your shoe before you walk up those stairs." I said that I would not.

He also gave me his guitar pick. (My uncle was also an amateur guitarist like myself).

The significance of the pick is something that honestly, I did not consider until quite a bit later. Why would a dying man in a hospital bed have a guitar pick? In my mind, it was as if he randomly produced it from the depths of his pocket as I so often do. But I realize now, that he had it because he meant to give it to me.

The pick was a bit thin (I typically play a medium because I have a terrible habit of strumming way too heavy handed) and so instead of using it (and immediately destroying it by doing so...), I decided to just keep it, as I keep so many other things.

About a week after this meeting, my father called me at my grandparents, and informed me that he had passed on. I had purchased a Tom Petty album that very day called "Echo" which contains a song called "Room at the Top".

It's funny how music finds a way to be potent and relevant at a particular moment in time.

As for my uncle's request to appreciate life as it is, and not for what you think it should be, it took several years for that lesson to sink in. Everyone has their ups and downs I suppose. Even Uncle Jim. But it did eventually settle in my mind that no matter what stupid little dramas are going on in life, most of it really isn't worth getting all that upset about. And so I do not. I'm not sure that I've ever been "depressed" so to speak. But at this point in my life I cant say I would know or remember what it would feel like. Nor do I have any interest in ever knowing. I wouldn't exactly say that I'm elated when I open my eyes in the morning. There are always things that could be better. But at least I have that chance to do something about it, when so many do not.

Anyway, I'm not a believer in any particular religion or faith, and while the afterlife is a pretty notion, I cant say that I'm exactly convinced. But just because I do not believe, I suppose that doesn't mean I cant hope that I am wrong. And so in honor of my father's brother, who never let anything get him down, I dedicate this meager little Internet post to my Uncle Jim wherever he may be, and whatever he may be doing. Hopefully it involves something cool.

Like ninjas.

Ninjas are cool.

Vengeance, Thy Name is Penney.

Since I'm suffering from a complete lack of originality today, I thought I would take inspiration from Weapon Mod's recent post "Dad" and share a tale of parental antics of my own.

This tale begins a long time ago in my early teens or perhaps even before, I cant recall exactly. This story is true, and none of the names have been changed to protect the innocent (or guilty).

When I was a young child I was fascinated with the show MacGyver. I just really liked the idea that someone would be so resourceful, and smart, yet centered and pacifist enough that the bastard never just picked up a gun and shot somebody. Instead, he would rig an elaborate trap using twine, duct tape, three screw drivers, a heavy toolbox and some toothpaste, which would, through a series of pulleys and levers drop the heavy toolbox on the bad guy's head when he came through a door.

The man also had an incredible mullet.

I joined the boy scouts so I could become helpful and resourceful, and I was always looking for an opportunity to rig up something ridiculous to save the day (They didn't really come up very often...).

Anyway, for any of you who watched the show, you will know of course that MacGyver's most important tool was his trusty Swiss Army Knife. It had everything he needed to save the damsel in distress, take out all the bad guys, and fix his old car to ride off into the sunset afterward. And so began my obsession with pocket knives.

I collected them for several years. My grandfather purchased a leather bound case for my birthday one year which I deposited them in. My favorite were the knives with function... The Swiss Army knives (of which I still always carry), and the Swiss Army knock-offs that the Boy Scouts made as well. I was never particularly interested in the single blade, locking variety because well... They weren't very resourceful were they? MacGyver would never carry such a thing.

But I ended up with a few of them anyway.

One day, while visiting my uncle, he showed me a knife that he had acquired somehow, and wanted to know if I would like to have it. This knife was a single blade locking type, but it was huge, at least 5 inches when folded and double that with the blade extended. I'm not really sure what you would use a knife like that for other than murdering something. But it was a knife, and I liked them, so he gave it to me. I placed it into my collection and gave it little further thought.

My Uncle's Gift

We will now fast forward several years. I am a teenager in high school.

One fall evening my friend David was visiting. My parents had gone out and we were just sitting downstairs hanging out.

Suddenly there were headlights outside. My parents had returned.

Why this idea suddenly came to me I cannot tell you to this day. But the truth is, when I saw those headlights, the first thing that came to mind was "Lets hide! It'll be hilarious!". David agreed.

And so we quickly scrambled for whatever hiding place we might manage.

Into the spare bedroom we went. I hid behind an exercise machine of some sort, and I directed David to hide in the closet. "She never uses that closet." I said.

So my parents enter and we sit quietly, proud of our stealth.

Immediately my mother enters the room.

I plainly see that she has intentions of hanging her coat in the closet which I directed David to hide in.

I could have warned her... I could have broken cover and spared him the violence that was coming. But somehow it didn't seem right. I mean, it's every man for himself on these types of stealth missions and my cover was not yet blown. So I watched it unfold.

She opened the door, and there was a large shadowy man standing in her closet. She yelled, and punched him furiously while he screamed "Penney, its me! its meeeee!"

I laughed and laughed. My mother swore vengeance.

"Whatever, Mom..."

Months later during that winter, I was home alone at night. My Dad was at work, and my mother had gone out Christmas shopping. I was upstairs in my room playing some Playstation game or another, probably Final Fantasy 7, given the time period.

I should probably describe my bedroom for the sake of clarity. At my parents house, my bedroom was essentially an attic. There were two separate rooms, a larger one with the staircase leading downstairs, and a smaller one where my bed, computer, TV, etc. were. I basically had the entire upstairs to myself, and I was situated in the smaller room playing my games.

The door to my room always had a peculiar property where when someone opened the outside door, a draft would sort of pull the door in and you could hear it bang slightly in the door frame. Nothing loud or anything, just a subtle "click" and you'd know "Hey, someone is home."

So I'm sitting upstairs playing my game and I hear the pop of my door.

"Mom's home." I think to myself, and continue my gaming.

Several minutes later I decided it was time for a drink. So I head downstairs.

Everything is as it was left, living room and kitchen lights are on, and I could not hear my mother anywhere.

"Mom?" I say. There is no answer.

I decide that the cat must have leaned up against my door or something to cause it to make that noise, and that my mother is in fact not home yet. I grab my drink, return to my room, and shut the door behind me.

Several minutes later, I hear movement downstairs, and decide that my mother has in fact, finally arrived. I walk downstairs to see if she needs help carrying anything... only to find that again... nobody is there. The front door is shut and locked, and there is nobody outside.

Curious, but not yet freaked out, I decided that I'm hearing things and once again return to my room, shutting the door behind me.

Back at my gaming station a few minutes later, suddenly I hear my door slowly swing open.

"Mom?" I say.

No answer.

I walked to my staircase and peered down. There is nothing out of the ordinary. I walked downstairs and again examined the kitchen / living room area for signs of entry. Nothing.

"I must not have pulled the door all the way closed" I decide. I firmly close the door, and return to my room... Wary.

Several minutes pass, and then I hear my door open once again. Blatantly this time. No slow creaking noise, and no convincing myself that it opened by itself.

"Mom...?"

Nothing.

I walked to my staircase to peer downstairs. The door was wide open. All the lights are off.

I am going to die.

My mind flicked through every horror movie ever, and yet I still did not learn from the mistakes of the ill fated teenagers who were about to die in horrible ways. There was a phone available to me upstairs, but I didn't even consider the possibility of calling 911.

No. What I did instead, was look around my room for a weapon.

And there it was. My uncle's gift from many years before. 10 inches of sharpened, lock bladed murder. My fear would not hold me back. I would not bow to this Michael Myers wannabe stalking my home. I would kill him and rid the world of his evil.

And so I locked the blade into "death dealing" position, and cautiously inched down my stairway. Every step was a creaking nightmare as I got closer and closer to the obvious bottleneck of the stairway where the killer would either strike me from the living room on the left, or the kitchen on the right. I hoped for the kitchen because I would have a clear shot to defend myself from there, the door would be in my way to the left.

As I reached the bottom my body tensed for attack but nothing came, so I stepped out into the hallway and then I hear it...

"BOO!!!" says my mother from the kitchen... as if she were the ghost from a Scooby Doo cartoon instead of someone who just reenacted every slasher movie ever.

"MOM!!! I COULD HAVE KILLED YOU!!!"

She laughs and laughs.

And now every time I see that knife that my uncle gave me so many years ago... I think "There's the knife I almost stabbed my own mother with..."

And the moral of the story is... Don't fuck with my mother. She is scary, and evil.