So. I’ve had my new Windows 8 computer since April and I just, quite accidently, learned how to change the font style and size in a default action. Heretofore, I was required to adjust the font from Calibri, at an 11 sizing, to size 12 Times New Roman, each time I sat to write. As I haven’t worn a size 11 since 8th grade, and font in my now size 13 setting isn’t well accepted over to my Word Press bloggie dealio, I settled on a 12. As for the font style, the Romans seemed to have anticipated an ink layout that is easy to read.
I wonder when Times New Roman was invented. Did Caesar Augustus or his contemporaries develop the font style? Back then with the quill pens and pimply paper products of the pre-industrial age, it must have been difficult to provide clarity of written documents. All those splatters and blobs from quill-penned words can be off-putting. Like this one time Streaker Jones and I made a pen from a turkey feather and ink from cow’s blood thinned with turpentine.
With my ADD and ADHD, funky, fancy print styles agitate what little focus I have and cause my mind to wander. Makes me wonder too. Like, remember when you were a young teen and your body was growing at its fastest rates? Me, I grew a foot between sixth and seventh grades. This I knew because I was measured and weighed for the William B. Travis Junior High School football team the first day of school.
Coach Pepworth—a nasty little man who most resembled a 5’6” bowling ball covered in a sniper’s ghili suit made of course, black hair—held my opened student file in one hand and the ruler used to mark where, on the height thingie painted on the wall, the crown of a student’s head reached. In my case, run-on sentence aside, Coach P teetered on a chair as I fidgeted around while looking at the marvel that was a junior high school locker room.
I focused on his face for a moment and asked, “Does all that hair itch, sir? I itch all the time and my Gram says it’s because I’m starting to grow pubebies.”
“Stand still, you disruptive little shit, or your pubic hair will be the least of your concerns. I fall off this chair and you’ll see why that two-by-four is sitting over there by the door.”
Coach P bandied about at practice with a scarred two-by-four used to punish poor plays, back-talk, and what he called, “Your lack of enthusiasm, Mr. Johnson.” I still have a bone spur on my hand from when I tried to deflect that fucking piece of lumber this one time. He’d grab you by the face guard and pull your head down to his level to deliver the judge and jury edict before administrating the punishment. However much taller than him were you determined the force he used to pull.
“Well lookie here, Mr. Johnson,” Coach P said to me. “If this record is right, you grew eleven-and-a-half inches over the summer. You’d best be careful in contact drills…I’d hate for you to break one of those tender, new bones.”
I don’t, didn’t remember my bones as soft back then. I can remember lying in bed in the dark with my tiny crystal radio hissing, “In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight…” while I could actually feel my bones expanding. Sometimes I thought I could hear them as they expanded—crackling and groaning. This one night my arms grew a full inch. I have semi-scientific proof.
This was also the summer I discovered the wonderment that is my pecker. Also the summer my fucking Boy Scout leader discovered the wonderment that is my pecker, but that’s another dealio in its altogether. Each night in my efforts to get to sleep, I would lay precisely in place on my bed, position my elbows on the only spot atop the springs of my twin mattress that didn’t touch my funny bones, and I’d play with my pecker. The motions became so machine-like that I could position myself in my sleep. With the usual overnight growing, the positioning adjusted so slightly I didn’t notice change. But this one night was different.
This one night, I lay my head in just the right spot, adjusted to place my elbows on the springs, and reached for the spot where my manhood waited. It wasn’t there—it was AWOL!
I won’t say I screamed like a girl, but as my voice was still in that awkward stage between man and falsetto, my Gram says I screamed like a girl. She burst through my bedroom door with her double-barreled, 12-gage shotgun at the point and flipped on the light.
“What tha fuck, Mooner? I thought that fuckin’ cooner climbed in yer winda and grabbed ya by yer tiny balls”
There was a raccoon we thought might be rabid hanging around the ranch down to the creek. That racoon was a constant subject of conversation until Gram blasted it not long after this night. “It’s OK, Gram, I found it. Not the raccoon, my pecker. It was only an inch away, but I thought it had disappeared on me.” I was scared but I wasn’t crying.
“Oh stop whimperatin’ like a baby. You Johnson men ain’t never lost a pecker one. Yer great uncle George got shot in ‘is ass back to the WW One, but havin’ them ten kids says his pecker worked fine.”
Anyway, I was standing with my back to the gym wall, trying to make my skeleton fit flat against, and Coach P teetered on the chair as I fidgeted and squirmed. Standing on a chair he could look me in the eyes without any adjustments.
“Says in your record that you’re a problem child, Mr. Johnson,” he told me with the dead look of a snake. “Don’t you be thinking that your mother can keep you out of trouble on the football field. Assistant Principal Johnson is a saint, and you are problematic.”
When he stepped down I asked him what problematic meant. Saying nothing, his response was to flip his eyes across the room to the worn timber sitting by the door. I’m not all that smart now, and was smart less back then, but I two-plus-two’d the two-by-four and problematic.
2X4 + problematic = Owie!!!
And whatinthefuck does “wee-ma-whacka” mean? I never thought that song was about a bunch of guys masturbating. Maybe it was a symbolism I’m unable to grasp.
Anyway, and now again, my actual shoe size is a 13, except for some sneakers require me to buy a 14, and all in a wide, or doublewide. The accident that makes this newsworthy lay back in paragraph one, herein. I was fumbling with my computer mouse and accidently right-clicked on the font dealio up top-left of the screen. If I wished to change the font in Word 8 to default, the little box explained, all I needed to do was contort six fingers onto the keyboard in a digital tangle, and sis-boom-bah, I’m defaulted.
Are you feeling as confused as I am? Confused as me, maybe it would be. I refuse to say “myself” as that word pisses me off for some reason and I only use myself when forced to do so. Maybe it’s because sports guys refer to themselves as “myself” so often and I just don’t like it. Speaking of myself getting used:
So, FUCK Walmart!