Feats of Childhood Engineering and Exploding Cheeseburgers

Today, just because I have the world’s suckiest memory and can’t think of a decent long story, I’ve decided to grace the entire two or three people who actually read this blog with TWO, that’s right TWO short stories. You should feel very special right now.

Anyways, way back down memory lane in the years of early elementary school, I remember having those super amazing days when it had just recently rained, but then the sky cleared and the sun came out just in time for recess not to be canceled. These days were probably my favorite out of any back in the day just because they meant one very amazing and incredibly important thing…

Mud. Lots and lots and lots of mud.

I can remember many a time that my mom had to come to school to bring me a change of clothes, because, like many young children (and animals), I very much enjoyed rolling around in the mud, something that the teachers apparently didn’t like me doing too much. Around the point at which I was so muddy, you couldn’t tell what race—or probably even species I was, they typically wouldn’t let me back into the classroom anymore. At some point in the elementary school portion of my life, I began to grow more intelligent and soon realized… instead of playing in the mud and the wet sand around the jungle gym, I could actually build something out of it! And, to what I attribute as being the beginnings of my future as an engineer and perfectionist, I wanted it to be the best damn structure I could possibly build. So I set to work.
There was a large elevated metal platform with ladders and slides on it, surrounded by what was akin to a giant sandbox. I had often sat beneath it with friends and tried to dig a hole to China, only to dig to a semi-hard hard layer of clay, and beneath that an almost impenetrable layer of some sort of black material. We normally gave up around this point, but my little engineering brain had hatched a plan from this experience…
One muddy day, I decided to dig a hole again, but this time, I kept all the wet sand and clay I collected from the hole and transported it to another sand box—one that was slightly less traversed than the one I had collected my building materials from. I began to firmly pack a layer of wet sand down into a solid flat base. Once completed, I took the large amount of wet sand I had collected and fashioned a highly compacted dome of sand. This was to be the interior of my structure. The outer layer was to be made of a layer of highly compacted clay, smoothed out until it made the perfect dome structure—the perfect shape for withstanding pressure. I passionately guarded my structure from any and all children who walked by with the intention of smashing it(children like to smash things almost as much as they like rolling in the mud, so I can only imagine smashing my dome would be some sort of cocaine-like combination of the two to a little kid), and I eventually left it at the end of recess very proud of my accomplishment, knowing full well that the heat of the sun would soon harden it into the ultimate sand dome.
The next day I returned to my accomplishment to see that it was completely dry, and so I cautiously pressed a hand lightly against the top…

It stood firm.

...I pushed harder.

It didn’t break.

I stood on top of it and jumped up and down.

It was like it was made out of fricking steel.

I was so overjoyed at my creation that I made sure to dare each and every child on the playground to just try and break it, and no matter how many children threw their tiny bodies against my dome in a futile attempt to break it, nobody even left a scratch. This structure stood tall for weeks, a timeless creation, sturdy and enduring, as permanent and majestic as the Great Pyramids and Chuck E. Cheese’s. I couldn’t begin to fathom the sheer amazingness of what I had created, until… it broke.
I can only imagine a group of horribly obese fat children had tried to make some sort of cheerleading pyramid over my sand dome while I wasn’t looking, as I reasoned that was the only way it could have possibly broken. Regardless, I sat there and stared at the shattered remains of my once proud and dominating product of sweat and knowledge. And mud. I realized that nothing was permanent. Everything created has a beginning an end, nothing could withstand the testament of time. So, I sighed, promptly forgot about it, and went back to digging for China, my only concern being how to keep gravity from pulling me into space once I got to the other side.


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You know, I’ve always had a bit of an appetite… especially when I was younger. I could eat an entire pizza or a triple meat cheeseburger and still be going for more—my parents always told me my legs were hollow, and that’s where I put it all, but personally, I just think one of my ancestors may have been a garbage disposal.
Anyways, one day when I was out and about (which was odd for me, considering that I was basically an asocial hermit for most of high school), my parents decided to go pick up some Whataburger (pronounced “Water”burger if you've ever lived in the South) and it had gone just a little too cold by the time I came back home to eat it. So, naturally, like so many other food things, I stuck it in the microwave. Of course, impatient me, I didn’t even bother to take off the wrapper, which just so happened to be made of tin foil.

…And so it burst into flames.

To my shock and horror, my little cheeseburger, the thing I both loved and revered, was suddenly struck by a miniature lightning bolt that spawned from the roof of the microwave. It ignited the metallic casing that surrounded my burger and the thing was enveloped in flames faster than Michael Jackson’s hairdo. With a choice explicative or two, I immediately punched the button to open the microwave door and flung my burning baby into the floor, flailing my arms in some sort of crazed and desperate attempt to pat out the flames before they managed to irreparably damage my cheeseburger.

And somehow it worked.

Smoky and triumphant, I peeled the blackened, charred remains of the wrapper off my cheeseburger, and ate every last bit of it, quickly… as if I was afraid it was going to try and escape me again. My parents had heard the cacophony of my burger flailing from upstairs and called down to make sure everything was alright, so in between the frenzied inhaling my semi-scorched burger, I meekly responded ‘Yes’. And so, due to my incredible sneakiness/ninja-y-ness, nobody ever knew. Except you. So you should feel extra special right now.

Self-Diagnosis of a Wiggling Spleen

It’s funny how you can sometimes guess what a kid will be when they grow up. For instance, I would constantly read through a medical dictionary for fun, which meant that I was probably either going to be a doctor or a gigantic nerd.

When I was about 6 or 7, my grandparents gave me this huge visual dictionary about all sorts of subjects, and, being a nerd even then, I loved it. I would pore over the information about archaeology, geotectonics, nautical terminology and plant biology… but my favorite by far was the medical section. I would read through those pages until I knew the human anatomy like the back of my hand. I was like a miniature little Dr. Oz, which as you can imagine came in handy from time to time.

One day in the second or third grade, I was happily playing during recess like most second or third graders normally do when a gigantic soccer ball came flying at me out of nowhere. It slammed into my gut with incredible speed and force--like an obese man slams into a cheesecake. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

Immediately afterwards the large fifth grader that had kicked the ball came over to me and asked me if I was alright. Doubled over and clutching my stomach, I meekly nodded yes and kicked the soccer ball back to him. I then retreated to the opposite side of the playground until I felt I was a safe distance away from any more peltings by killer soccer balls.

Soon, recess was over and we went to back to class, but I still didn’t feel well. My stomach began rumbling like crazy and naturally I began to grow concerned. I had some idea of what was wrong, but just in case, I raised my hand and asked to go to the nurse. Maybe she could help me confirm my theory, I thought.

I entered the nurse’s office and sat patiently until the nurse was free to see me, my stomach still rumbling from the impact of the soccer ball. Once she was available she casually asked me what was wrong.

“I think my spleen is wiggling.” I casually replied.

She stared at me for a moment and bursted into a fit of uproarious laughter.

“Your… your spleen… is wiggling?” she asked, barely able to speak through her uncontrollable giggling.

“Yes, my spleen is wiggling!” I replied, becoming slightly upset. I couldn’t understand what this woman thought was so funny. I had read my entire medical dictionary. There was a rumbling in the general area of my spleen and a wiggling spleen was the only natural conclusion, although any attempts to explain this only caused her to break into even more uproarious laughter.

“Hold… hold on a second.” She managed to say.

I saw her look something up in a book, pick up the phone and dial a number.

“Hello, Mrs. Meyer?” She said with a devious grin, “This is the school nurse. Your son came in just a moment ago and I’d like you to hear what’s upsetting him.”

She handed the phone over to me and I calmly reiterated my dire self-diagnosis of a wiggling spleen. I thought my mother, of all people, would take my well-being and medical expertise seriously… but I was sadly mistaken. She began to laugh even more uproariously than the school nurse had, much to my disappointment. In retrospect, it’s a miracle I survived. A wiggling spleen is a very serious prognosis, yet neither the school nurse nor even my own mother took me seriously. In fact to this day, anytime I get sick my parents still tease me, asking if I can feel my spleen wiggling.

Thankfully though, I have not yet experienced a relapse of the dreaded wiggling spleen.

The Day I Ran Away from Home

I don’t know what was wrong with me as a child. I think I might’ve had brain damage.

Ever since I was little bitty, I’ve always loved running. Sometimes I’d run into things, or fall on my face, but it never really slowed me down much. Sometimes I would just run in circles for minutes just for the heck of it. I also had a bad habit of sprinting in a random direction for no apparent reason. After a while, my parents started to figure out that they couldn’t leave me alone for two seconds or else I’d be gone… like some sort of freaky Forrest Gump/Where’s Waldo hybrid. I ran away so many times… and every time my parents would ask me why I did it or where I was going, and I’d always say “I dunno” with a sad little face. Sorry mom and dad. Totally unrelated, I wish I could grow a ZZ Top or Gandalf beard. I’m definitely going to someday.

Anyways, I had a lot of energy as a kid. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe as an alternative to gasoline, America could start powering homes and vehicles with children. They’re not going to do anything with all that energy, so why waste it? They’re certainly renewable. And I mean they’re everywhere! I’m sure some people could spare a few. Children-powered rickshaws could totally be the new Hummer.

…anyways… back to me as a kid. The house that I grew up in was on a block that made one big loop, so you could basically do laps around the block without ever having to cross the street. My mom would often take me around the block a few times to try to wear me out. It never worked. When I was about three, my friend Brett came over for a visit. He was about two at the time. I don’t think he said much, being two years old, and I was getting a little bored, so naturally I had the bright idea to run away from home. I ran out the door… down the driveway… down the block… and pretty soon I was gone. I was having so much fun I don’t think I even heard my mom frantically running and screaming behind me with a traumatized little two year old flailing around and freaking out in her arms while I was zooming around the block. I want y’all to know… my mom was an amazingly patient woman when I was a child (it didn't last) but I think I may have really upset her that day. As soon as I was out of sight, she flung little Brett into the back seat of her car and sped down the road after me. I’m still not sure why I decided to run away or where I was trying to go, but I was damn determined to get there quick. I only knew how to go around the block, so I kind of ran in a big circle over and over again, with my mom freaking out and tailing me in her car the whole time, but, oblivious me, I don't think I really noticed. I ran a few laps, having the time of my life, until my mom finally decided she’d had enough. She drove her car ON TOP of the sidewalk in front of me and got out of the car, fuming mad. I think flames may have spurted out of her eyes at one point. It’s hard to remember the exact expression on her face just about then, but I think it may have looked something like this:

I don’t think I tried to run away again for a few days.