On the Qualifications to be Called an Expert

Having been raised by elk since my wee years, I consider myself somewhat of an expert in elk behavior. I know the ins and outs of mating season and I know when and how often they poop like the back of my hand. I’ve got diagrams drawn if you’re interested. I also know lots about berries and ticks.

I think when one spends a lot of time studying and experiencing something, one’s earned the label of “expert.”

Earlier this week I was watching a morning television show with experts on things like weather and traffic. But the most intriguing expert was featured in a segment on women’s hair brushes. The “expert” was a bald man (though he talked like a woman).

Now I’m no expert on experts, but isn’t that like an elk being an expert on the intricacies of astrophysics?

Interview With an Enraged Youth in an XXXXXL Shirt

Society is full of people wearing shirts and pants. The former cover the top parts and the latter the bottom parts. Both serve a dual purpose of keeping the body warm and expressing a fashion sense. Very clever.

But one fashion sense I’m perplexed by is the XXXXXL shirt. I’ve noticed many male youths wearing them, but none stand tall enough to require such a size. The shirts go down to the knees, almost like a dress. I thought perhaps this was the boys’ way of showing their feminine side, because they were embarrassed to wear a pretty dress. I remember when I first tried on a slinky black dress (that showed off more than a little leg). I was mocked and stared at repeatedly throughout the day. I soon learned the sexy garments were only for women.

To test my dress theory, I stopped a hooligan wearing a long, red shirt and baggy pants to ask him about his choice of clothing. Our conversation went something like this:

ME: Hello. I was raised by elk in the woods and I don’t understand why your shirt is so long. Is it meant to be like a dress?

HIM: What happened? Whatchoo want bitch?!?

ME: What happened was I asked if your shirt was meant to be like a dress. Do you want to look like a pretty girl?

HIM: (Waving his arms around like the wings of a startled bird) Aw shit! This freaky muthafucka’s ‘bout to get his ass kicked yo!

ME: Pardon?

HIM: A’ight, lissen you antler-wearin’ muthafucka, I ain’t tryin’ to look like no girl, you punk-ass bitch. I be wearin’ this long shirt because it covers my ass so I can wear my pants down low. That okay with you “elk boy”?

ME: Yes, it’s perfectly fine with me. I’m used to being around a bunch of naked elk, so this is all new to me.

HIM: Da fuck you talkin’ about?!?

ME: But why do you wear your pants so low? I wear mine at my waist. That way my pants cover my butt and my shirt doesn’t necessarily have to.

HIM: You about to have a foot up yo’ ass. How’s that for coverin’ yo butt?

ME: The pants do just fine, thank you.

HIM: See, it’s like this, I wear the pants low because, uh, shit. Man, fuck you!

Then he walked off looking angry and shoved an old man who was slowly walking nearby. I still don’t understand the long shirt. Strangely enough, I don’t think the people wearing them understand it either.

Why Are My Boogers Blessed?

Yesterday I was trotting down the street when I suddenly sneezed. A handsome woman nearby heard the burst from my nose and said, “Bless you!” I asked her if she was a clergywoman in a church or synagogue and she said she wasn’t. Then she crossed the street. I was left pondering why I had been blessed for my sneeze. Elk seldom bless each other.

With the woman long gone, I turned to a man standing against the wall with a sign about not having a home or something and asked him about the blessing. He muttered an unintelligible response which was of no help and he smelled foul, like a day-old carcass in the sun. So I left to seek my answer elsewhere.

I stumbled upon an elementary school and entered their computer machine lab so I could ask a computer machine my question. A class was in session and several children asked me why I was wearing antlers. I answered them and then asked the teacher if she knew about the blessing. The teacher, who looked old and feeble, explained that in ancient times the phrase was intended to protect the soul from demons entering the body or to protect the soul from leaving the body. The security man escorting me out said that was probably true.

Today I wondered if the same theory held true when gases and air were blown through other orifices. So I returned to the same spot of the sneeze yesterday and farted loudly. It was certainly heard by the many people nearby, but no one blessed me. I did get a few dirty looks though. Very puzzling. I guess hellish creatures never came out of the ass.

People today aren’t concerned with soul or demons, this blessing tradition is merely a way to acknowledge others in a polite manner. But the same does not hold true for a fart. A fart is regarded as a lesser bodily function I suppose. Yet the fart only makes noise and smells. A sneeze also makes noise and can actually spurt yucky nose stuff onto others, endangering them with horrific germs. A fart does not emit such gooey matter. All things considered, it’s much more friendly toward others.

I’ve decided I don’t care about not being blessed after a fart. I think I ought to be thanked.

Sports Fans and Nonsensical Fashion

Sports are something I didn’t have growing up. Sure, I ran a lot with the elk, but there was no prize for getting to the stream first. Although I suppose staying alive was a prize for getting away from the cougars. And the only balls I ever played with were between my legs.

Here in society, what’s been more striking to me than the actual sporting games are the fans. I can understand rooting for a particular team to play well, but I’ve been confused by fans who root for all the teams. Many young, fickle fellows wear hats or jackets or even pants featuring logos from every one of these basketball, football, or baseball teams. The logos seem to be thrown on the garment in a haphazard fashion, perhaps designed by a plucky squirrel. I think it looks like the entire league vomited in a sweatshop.

What’s the fun in liking every team? Aren’t rivalries what make games interesting? Who cares who wins if you like both teams equally? These fans appear to either be wishy-washy or they actually enjoy the look of logo vomit.

As for me, I haven’t gotten into balls with baskets, feet, or bases. I’m just a fan of my own balls. And no one else’s.