No Alliteration Thursday: Ingram’s Odyssey

It was 8:30 on the date of June 26th, and a wiser man would have seen this day for what it was.  A great day.  The kind of day God does not like to bestow upon humble Bobby Ingram.  A wiser man would have known that something of catastrophic proportions was about to, as they say in da Hood, go down.  I am not a wiser man.

Following a fantastic day spent with a few of my TCNJ friends, it was decided that my Sasha was to meet Stacie’s Sasha, and it was to happen immediately.  Now being the courteous guy that I am, I allow my baby out into the backyard to go to the bathroom before bringing her to someone else’s house.  Sasha didn’t get the memo.  Upon being allowed into Stacie’s backyard, Sasha decided to take approximately 83 craps in the course of 15 minutes, while Stacie and Jaclyn laughed at me.

Sasha, shown after having crapped one of her paws off

Now the Sasha incident doesn’t actually relate to the real fun of the night, rather acted as a harbinger of things to come, for that day was no ordinary Sunday, it was also the day before I had orientation for my new job as a camp counselor.  Now, for a normal person this is a simple situation, go to sleep early, wake up and roll out for fun times at the new job.  I am no normal person.  For me this involves first finding out what time I have to be at work, which I obviously wait until the day before to discover.

Fortunately I had the foolproof plan.  I would simply call Corey, and he would fill me in on the required information.  Small snag, Corey wasn’t home, he was in the city at the Mets vs. Yankees game.  No problem I’ll just give his cell phone a ring.  No answer.

*NOTE*It should be noted that Corey’s cellphone display doesn’t really work any longer.  It may have to do with having been run over, which may have been my fault.  That’s beside the point though.*NOTE*

Now when I say I called Corey, I don’t mean once or twice.  As a matter of fact, he would later inform me that one of the few functions his phone could still perform was to tell him how many calls he had missed.  Apparently eleven.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not exactly a morning person.  There’s a distinct reason all my classes next semester come no earlier than 2 p.m.  So it was urgent that I get the necessary information by some reasonable hour, or I would not be waking up for work.

So midnight rolls around and I have no response.  Obviously his phone is either not with him, or he cannot hear it at the game.  Plan B.  AIM.  A simple concise message would inform Corey to kindly tell me when work was to begin.

It was at this point I checked to see how long it had been since the game ended, in an attempt to figure out when Corey would get my messages.  Oh great, just after midnight.  Good thing traffic in the city isn’t bad, they should be home in a giffy.  Just great.  1 a.m.  I would give Corey to 1 a.m.  Until then I would just have to play a little Final Fantasy X.

So its 2 a.m. and still no word from Corey.  As a minor plus, my FFX characters can now kill with mind bullets, that’s telekenisis.  Unfortunately, a big minus must be pointed out, that being that mind bullets would not allow me to know what time work was.

HALLELUJAH!!!  One of my friends came online.  Surely he was at the game, and thus Corey will be home soon.  He wasn’t at the game, nor did he know what time work was.  Damn you Taco.

2:30.  That’s when I said fuck it.  Left a note to be woken up at 7:30 and went upstairs to sleep, intent on waking up and viewing Corey’s response, and possibly speeding to work.

2:45.  That’s when Sasha started freaking out.  Taco it seems, had gone out, and decided to drop in on Bobby.  Well, after cleaning up Sasha pee (cleaning up after the mutt becoming a sort of second-rate theme of the night) I talked to Dan, who informed me he thought Corey mentioned work was at 7.

Fuck that.  I don’t get up by 7, let alone up and out in time to be somewhere at 7.  Like any logical person would do, this causes me to amend my note to be woken at 7:00 on the dot.  Compromise.

It is now closing in on 3.  All attempts at finding the letter which should hold the desired information have failed, due mainly to my brother taking over the livingroom, and doing whatever the hell he wanted with anything of mine in there.  It’s panic time.  This I believe is when call number eleven was made, and then genius struck.  Farruggio was at the game too.  I’ll call him!

Yeah, so they’d been home for over an hour.  Asshole went to sleep without checking his instant messages.  I’d have to kill him for that.  Fortunately Dan thought he had heard him mention being at work by 8.  This was after 7, so I went with that, finally getting to sleep around 4  a.m.

Apparently, in the Ingram household, “Please wake me at 7 a.m.  ❤ Bobby” means “Allow Bobby to sleep until he wakes on his own accord at 7:32 a.m.”  I didn’t know that.  No time to shower, I roll out.  Technically going nearly double all speed limits is not legal, but damnit it gets you somewhere fast.

Well, being who I am, I drove past the parking lot, so I turned around at the next lot, a big house with a gravel parking lot.  I park the car, and follow the provided signs through the woods.  After a few minutes, they led me to a big house.  With a gravel parking lot.

So I’m finally at work, albeit a minute or two late.  ‘Why are there so few cars?’ I ponder.  I go inside, and am promptly informed the orientation would begin around 8:30 a.m.  God hates me.

Corey rolled in some time around 8:45.  He had still yet to check his messages.  I hate him.

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No-Alliteration Thursday: I Should Not Be Allowed to Fend For Myself in the Real World

Time for another Bobby Classic, as I discuss the many ways I managed to hurt myself in a just a few days of working my job at a summer camp.

Seriously, I mean that. If you don’t believe me, just have a quick perusal of the self-inflicted woes I’ve been stuck with in the mere week-and-a-half since camp started, solely as a result of my own stupidity. Oh, and it bears noting that this list is simply the self-harm I can currently remember from the last few days. You can rest assured that there is plenty more that I am forgetting.

The Pole
Resulting Injuries:
Badly scraped/gashed hand, minor scrapes on legs
Also to Blame: Bees
Why I Suck: So, all of 15 minutes into the first day of camp I managed my first moment of brilliance at the basketball courts. With a counselor-to-camper ratio in the cage of a ludicrous number somewhere in the 4:7 neighborhood, it should have been a pretty easy, relaxing morning. A roughly 1-to-2 ration means you have more or less no responsibility, plus the majority of the kids were youngins, so none of the annoying mouthing off you get when mixing sports with eighth-grade boys who are at that age where they are old enough to think they’re tough, but small enough to blow away in a stiff wind. And for awhile, it was pretty calm. Then the bee showed up, and I began flailing and backpedaling with all the grace and control of a raver having a seizure. For those of you who have never been to Camp Sac, the cage can also be used for tennis, so there’s a center pole for the nets, which I completely forgot about in my insect-related panic, leading to one painful introduction of ass-to-asphalt.

Bobby Ball
Resulting Injuries:
Emotional trauma, bruising
Also to Blame: Ally, Cooney, Rev. Ed, Kira
Why I Suck: Apparently tired with the cage’s vast game assortment of Knockout and more Knockout, the children were looking for something new to play. Ally suggested “hit Bobby with the basketballs.” My loving fellow-counselors obliged. I spent the next 5 minutes curled in a ball with the campers circled around me, throwing basketballs at my face. I’m not kidding.

Left Field
Resulting Injuries:
Loss of a fair portion of the flesh which used to comprise my leg, other painful cuts
Also to Blame: Nick
Why I Suck: With the excellent day one, and its fantastic games time, behind me, day two games found us at the kickball field. As is to be expected, my team was getting trounced, as I without fail manage to wind up as the counselor on the team full of kids that can barely walk, let alone partake in athletic endeavors. And Dan, who, despite his closeness in nomenclature to athletic achievement, is even worse than the kids. So, my team is getting trounced when Nick comes up to bat (foot?), and blasts one deep. Thinking that it will be my hustle that will save the day for Team SpEd, I backpedal (you may be noticing a theme here) while intently following the ball. I kept my eye on the ball all the way to within two feet of my hands (thank you Tee-Ball coaches) at which point my priorities changed, as I suddenly realized I had hit the treeline and fallen into a bush. Now, I can only assume the ball hit a branch and bounced back onto the field as I soon saw Dan fielding it. I’m not sure though, as all my mind was focusing on at the time was the fact that said bush seemed to be of the pricker variety, and that one of the branches was somehow wrapped around my ankle a good four times.

The Greg Louganis
Resulting Injuries:
Ouchie wrists, foggy brains
Also to Blame: Ed, Tim, Wesley Snipes and Woody Harrelson
Why I Suck: Games day four, and fresh off an injury-free day three, I’m feeling pretty good. The group before us had played ultimate Frisbee, but our group thought that was totally gay (which it isn’t, but again, eigth grade guys) and decided to instead play soccer. Being that we’re lazy fucks, the counselors sat around and watched. Then Ed decided he could hurdle the Frisbee goals which, as anyone who knows Ed and has some reasonable estimation of Frisbee goal heights (ie: over 2 feet tall) can tell you, he could not. Being that we’re retarded though, Tim and I joined him in attempting to hurdle them, despite the fact that they are somewhere between four and five feet tall. Eventually, I had the brilliant idea to dive face first to clear the hurdle. Stupid. But, as it turns out, I did it successfully and injury free. Twice. Then I joined the soccer game, and decided to celebrate a goal with a third dive. Not a great decision. I landed wrong on my wrists, then had my head slam into the ground, leading to much wooziness.

Fuck You, Tyler
Resulting Injuries:
More cuts on my legs, friction burned shin
Also to Blame: Tyler
Why I Suck: Week two has actually been a banner week for me, since as of right now this is the only injury that I can think of. Tim had us at the maze for capture-the-flag, and since the kids are all a bunch of little cheaters, Tyler and I hid out teams’ respective flags, theoretically somewhere not surrounded by Ow. Tyler put his team’s in the middle of a patch of what I can only reason was razorblades and rebar (is that even how it’s spelled? I don’t know, the metal pole-ish things you find in concrete) which led to my attempted capture, and his attempted tagging of me, being decisions we would both come to regret. As an added bonus, an homage to my last pricker-related injury if you would, while playing kickball today with no sandals (Faith had stolen mine, naturally) I decided to give my throbbing right foot a break by going lefty. The ball took a bounce and I kicked the ball as hard as I could directly off of the big friction burn on my shin that one of the sticks in the maze had given me in my mad-dash to freedom. That fucking hurt.

Witty Title
Resulting Injuries:
Broken (possibly) computer monitor… fuck you, that counts
Also to Blame: God
Why I Suck: If you’ve never seen my room, it’s small. Literally, I have a bed, a built in shelf thing, and this weird little bathroom with only half a wall, a broken toilet and a sink with water I would put somewhere below “syringe full of AIDs” on the list of things I’d like to drink from. Because of the putridness of the sink’s pipes, I bring cups of water up to brush with. One of these cups, inexplicably, I left on my monitor last night. Today, and in looking at it now I don’t know what exactly I was trying to do that caused this, I punched said cup, spilling water all over said monitor. Sure enough it fizzled and went all faded on me. I went to the attic to get another old one, which also decided it hated me, before settling on stealing the one hooked up to my brother’s computer. My actual, not-a-piece-of-shit monitor is now sitting upside down on my eight square-feet of floor space in the hopes that will somehow make it not broked anymore. I don’t know, it worked for my phone.

Like I said before, this is simply the stupidness coming to mind right now, and I’m sure there is plenty I missed, but I’ve been writing for awhile now and I still have to do a fake bio for Jim’s birthday present, since he asked me a week ago, and his birthday is now in the multiple-days stage of passed. In my defense, I’ve been diligently working to create a new MillerBrothersMMA.com (which now looks much slicker and more professional if I do say so myself) because it needed to look better to match the big news regarding them that will be going up in the coming days/weeks.

No-Alliteration Thursday: I Should Not Be Allowed to Fend For Myself in the Real World

Seriously, I mean that. If you don’t believe me, just have a quick perusal of the self-inflicted woes I’ve been stuck with in the mere week-and-a-half since camp started, solely as a result of my own stupidity. Oh, and it bears noting that this list is simply the self-harm I can currently remember from the last few days*. You can rest assured that there is plenty more that I am forgetting.
The Pole
Resulting Injuries:
Badly scraped/gashed hand, minor scrapes on legs
Also to Blame: Bees
Why I Suck: So, all of 15 minutes into the first day of camp I managed my first moment of brilliance at the basketball courts. With a counselor-to-camper ratio in the cage of a ludicrous number somewhere in the 4:7 neighborhood, it should have been a pretty easy, relaxing morning. A roughly 1-to-2 ration means you have more or less no responsibility, plus the majority of the kids were youngins, so none of the annoying mouthing off you get when mixing sports with eighth-grade boys who are at that age where they are old enough to think they’re tough, but small enough to blow away in a stiff wind. And for awhile, it was pretty calm. Then the bee showed up, and I began flailing and backpedaling with all the grace and control of a raver having a seizure. For those of you who have never been to Camp Sac, the cage can also be used for tennis, so there’s a center pole for the nets, which I completely forgot about in my insect-related panic, leading to one painful introduction of ass-to-asphalt. Continue reading

No-Alliteration Thursday: Opeation “Have Mercy!”

So recently I’ve begun to notice my sister, recently married, was starting to pack on the pounds. Having seen a stand-up comic before, I was well aware this is apparently quite normal, as after tricking a man down the aisle, women have been known to kind of give up. As one of the beautiful people however, I wasn’t too keen on becoming associated with an uggo, and so it was that I went about my solemn duty of pointing out that she sure needed to put down the damn cake. Well, as it turns out, Little Miss Has-an-Answer-for-Everything was ready to counter me with “I’m pregnant.”

A likely excuse.

Well, as it turns out, she actually was, which is in itself pretty boring until you think about how it effects me, because I am important. I am now going to be an uncle, and God as my witness, I’m going to be the cool one. I mean, I’ll still be there for the occasional heartwarming bit of advice that succinctly wraps up the little scamps recent endeavors, but I’ll also be the one with the leather jacket and the hot babes. In short, I have to be this kid’s Uncle Jesse.

The need to be the cool uncle is two-fold. For starters, it’s always been one of my life goals to be the cool uncle, because fuck it, it’s not my kid, so I might as well spoil him. Secondly, Dan Jr.’s  the spawn of an ultimate fighter so it’s probably for the best that I am always on the kid’s good side.

Now, as I see it, there are two equally important avenues to making my goal: spoiling the kid rotten to win his adoration, tosand smearing the competition to assure I don’t get relegated Uncle Joey status. Continue reading

No Alliteration Thursday: Dear Nastia Liukin

Some family stuff has come up, and I’m going to be unable to do any new writing for the next few days, so I’m dusting off an oldie.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

DiggThisDear Nastia,

I am writing to you today to offer you my sincerest of congratulations. For you see, as an eligible gentleman, I entered this year’s Olympic Games looking for very little but perhaps a little entertainment. And yet, having watched your performances in both the team and individual competitions, I am proud to say you are a winner. A winner of what? Why the greatest prize in the world.

A marriage proposal.

Now, I know there are likely many reservations you are feeling about this no-doubt inspiring and flattering offer. Fortunately, I have taken the time to address these concerns for you so that you can see that this proposal is indeed all that it is cracked-up to be, and not one of those too-good-to-be-true scenarios one often imagines themselves to be in when proposed to be a gentleman of my caliber.

So… You watch gymnastics? Are you sure it’s a woman you’re looking to marry?

Indeed a fair point. One could argue that, appealing as it is to the feminine masses, gymnastics falls just barely in front of All-Nude, All-Male Wrestling on the list of heterosexual things to watch. And yet, when time came for NBC to broadcast your event, where was I? Right smack dab in front of the TV.

So why would a hetero-sexual man in his early twenties feel inclined to watch?

Was it the gyrating in spandex? Maybe for some creepers out there — well, a lot of creepers out there — but alas, in my case, no.

Was it the excellent work done by the NBC telecasters to paint a compelling story of the fierce rivalry with the Chinese team? No, though that did allow me to cheer more openly and be more invested emotionally in gymnastics than I ever would have reckoned I’d find myself.

So what then? Well, I really wanted to see somebody beat those “16-year-olds” from China, because as a camp counselor, there’s nothing I love more than the sight of a crying 12-year-old. It’s why I love the Little League World Series. Continue reading

Welcome to Bobby Presents!

DiggThisHey there, and welcome to my blog. My name’s Bobby, and this is where I’ll be, you know, presenting. Not sexually, like an animal, if that’s how you read that (and if you did, dude, gross. Seriously.) Instead, I’ll be presenting things. Interesting things, like the UFC and critical review of children’s horror stories by R.L. Stine. Oh, and almanac-like study of various sports from around the world, which may or may not be of dubious factual accuracy.

Now, you my be asking yourself what makes me so damned qualified to talk on such matters, and why you should even care what I have to say about these matters, and to that I say three things. First of all, fuck you. Secondly, oh yeah, well what makes you so great? And finally, you’re right, I’m not particularly qualified, and it was wrong of me to snap like that. My bad.

As for who I am, the honest answer is “nothing particularly special,” or so I’ve been told. I have an undying love for sports, particularly the NFL and mixed martial arts, and was even lucky enough to corner a fighter in the UFC once, where I held the important responsibility of shutting the fuck up and letting the real corner men yell things to better let him hurt another man with punches in and around the face. I also love musical theater, and have been made misty eyed by a very specific Adam Sandler movie more than once, and I don’t mean from his time as a serious actor. So, all-in-all, a pretty average guy. Also, one time I shaved my head into an Irish flag mohawk on St. Patrick’s day, which was pretty fun.

My pretty, semi-drunk, self.

The half-closed eye let's you know it wasn't a sober decision!

Continue reading