So, Do You Like … Stuff?: A Collection of Things

By Mike Kenny

Inspired by his blog of the same name (which is inspired by what the author considers to be one of the great all-time "Simpsons" quotes), So, Do You Like Stuff? is a collection of Mike Kenny's funniest material.

Follow the author as he questions whether or not he picked up the correct child from daycare. Watch and learn as he interprets nonsensical hit songs. Feel for him as he attempts to accomplish the mundane tasks assigned to him by his father-in-law. Hide in fear with him as he passively fights off grizzly bears by hoping they go away.

So, Do You Like ... Stuff? is a compilation of newly improved, reedited columns and blog posts, as well as original, previously unreleased material. "Stuff may cover a wide range of topics, but the themes here are common to everyonefamily, work, health, cat condominiums. The usual. Just, unusually funny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456733384

Mike Kenny

Mike Kenny was born and raised in New Jersey and now lives in the Phoenix area with his Brooklyn-born wife and their daughter. He is the creator and sole proprietor of the blog So, Do You Like ... Stuff? and writes a popular, weekly humor column for The Glendale Star and Peoria Times newspapers. He is also a co-contributor to the critically acclaimed, The Baseball Card Blog. His regard for the sublimely ridiculous, biting sarcasm, and brutal honesty when it comes to his own mishaps and shortcomings—as well as those of loved ones—has earned a loyal following. Mike Kenny's writing style is immensely engaging, and while virtually anyone can relate to the dilemmas and situations he often finds himself in, few have the ability to describe them with such insight and unbridled hilarity. In his spare time, of which he has none because he has a one-year old daughter, Mike enjoys watching baseball and going to the public library where he poses for headshots, looks at the pictures in many history books, and reads the personal memoirs of reality television stars which they did not actually write themselves.

Book preview

Contents

So, Do You Like …

Knowledge?

Image Overhaul

Everything and the Kitchen Sink

College, a History

Family?

Getting Grilled About a Grill Cover

The Technological Revolution Hits Home

When Bears Don’t Attack

Children?

The Frog Prince

The ABCs of Pimpin’

My Failed Attempts To Properly Pick Up a Girl

Health?

These Kids Make Me Sick

A Parental Breakdown

My Embarrassing Struggle With Drugs

Music?

‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ Explained

Worst. Christmas Song. Ever.

‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ Explained II

‘How Does It Feel?’ Dylan & Co. Respond: ‘Too Hot’

‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ Explained III: The Finale

Sports?

I Almost Died at the Spring Lake 5 and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt

The Accidental Golfer

Work?

Xeroma

La Protesta

The Creation of Crazy

Dogs on the Bone

Vanity?

My Dreams of Being Tanner Fade to White

On Aging, Not Being Afraid To Dye

The Indifferent Clogger

Religion?

Under the Rubble of Christmas Spirit

Kumbaya, My Lord

Oh, Christmas Tree, How Painful Are Thy Branches

Transportation?

Decent Society and the Turn Signal, a Love Story

Traffic Cameras Cause Safety, Complain Safety Hazards

On Bulging Veins, Trains, and Automobiles

Stuff?

Roadhouse, For Scratch

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

The Scorpion Hunters

Prologue & Acknowledgments

Notes on So, Do You Like … Stuff?

So, Do You Like …

Knowledge?

Image Overhaul

Many people who meet me assume that I can do manly things like build decks, not because of my physically imposing presence—I have a cleft lip that appears to be the remnants of a fight that I lost—or my tattoo, but because I drive a pick-up truck.

In reality, the only manly thing that I really know how to do is drive a pick-up truck, although I have been known to mow a lawn or two in my day, if that counts. Oftentimes I will become unwittingly engrossed in a casual conversation with a fellow pick-up truck driver, at which point this man—or woman—will look my own truck up and down and then ask me questions about it so as to relate on a more blue-collar level. The truckster will say something like, What kind of truck ya’ got there? to which I will reply, Red. The follow-up question will be, How many cylinders does it have? at which point I will pretend that someone is calling me on my cell phone.

I drive a pick-up truck because I accepted a job in the field of construction when I graduated college. My background in construction consisted of living inside various structures that were constructed by people other than myself. I took the job, I think, because a) they were going to pay me, and b) they promised that construction experience was not necessary since they would train me. With regards to the latter, they failed due to their assumption that I possessed any basic knowledge—for example, how to install an outlet plate—which must have inevitably made them question why they agreed to the former. It must have pleased them all the more when I submitted the cost of my work boots for reimbursement.

Anyway, I needed a pick-up truck for this job so that I could haul building materials like plywood, bricks, hammers, baseboard, and conventional ovens all over the site. I also had to haul humans, who the company often hired to clean stuff up. After several incidents that highlighted my inability to build anything, fix anything, or direct the contractors I was technically in charge of, I found myself sweeping up slab floors and unloading bigger trucks with my laborer buddies. Afterwards, they would ask me for a ride home. Most of my days back then involved picking up garbage for eight hours and then heading home, but not before dropping off Pablo and Ricky. When I reached home I would then stare at the valuable college History Degree hanging from my wall. I eventually did the manly thing and quit this job.

Here I am now, years later, yet with the same pick-up truck that doesn’t always have the same manly effect. This is because I now drive it around mostly while wearing a shirt and tie, whereas I used to drive it while wearing my work boots and making mean faces at other cars as Like a Rock blared from the radio.

Regardless of what my automobile may imply about me, I still can’t actually DO anything manly, evidenced by the fact that I had to call my dad to come over last week to fix the hot water heater. He brought over his bucket o’ manly tools and then went to work while using terms like gasket, washer, and can you get me some paper towels? He tried to show me how he fixed it so I could do the same if it should break again, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

My philosophy, however, is to maintain the illusion of manliness my truck affords me until, and only until, I am mercilessly exposed. In fact, at least once every two weeks after work, I throw on a ratty t-shirt and some Wrangler jeans, load the lawn mower into the back of the pick-up truck and head over to my grandfather’s house to mow his lawn. As far as everyone who sees me on the road is concerned, I might as well be Chuck Norris. Or a young Bob Villa. A hybrid of the two is what I aim for.

Of course, my confidence is shot once I arrive and am unable to start the lawn mower. Also, my grandfather’s mere presence serves as an instant reminder that I’m far from an actual man. He only occasionally drives an ’85 Buick, and is approaching 90-years of age. He’s also, however, a World War II vet who can drink five Johnny Walkers and still recite the Rutgers fight song while standing on one leg. Stories of his youth, which he tries to downplay, usually involve somebody other than him getting punched in the face. He doesn’t mow the lawn only because he doesn’t have to, but sometimes he starts the mower for me.

The only other time I really get to pretend to be a man is when people need something moved. Just this past weekend my wife’s uncle was getting rid of some firewood that we decided to take, so I loaded it into the back of my pick-up truck in a very manly fashion. Then when I got home I carried it all upstairs—it took several trips!—and I got pretty dirty. Eventually I had to stop because I got a splinter, which my wife had to take out with her tweezers.

I didn’t cry, but still—I think she’s onto me.

Everything and the Kitchen Sink

Our kitchen faucet has been leaking for three months. We keep a plastic container that used to hold oatmeal raisin cookies from Trader Joe’s underneath it to capture all the water, and then everyday I will take that container outside and use it to water the plants that aren’t hooked up to our drip system. All of these plants, however, died when we traveled back east for a week. So now my favorite thing to do after work is take the water from our leaky faucet and use it to water dead plants. This is my adult life.

A better man would have fixed this faucet a long time ago. That is why I have employed better men—namely my dad, father-in-law, and buddy Pete—to check it out. I wanted them to fix it, and not to tell me how to fix it, and so in my mind they have all failed.

I am not, as it has been well documented, Mr. Fix-It. I am open about this. I even have several friends who have claimed to share this inability to do manly things. Then I will go over to one of their houses one day and discover a new shed in the backyard, and I’ll be like, What the heck? And they’ll be like, It’s just a shed … it was easy! And I will say, We’re not friends anymore.

This is not to say that I cannot do things. I am just consistently intimidated by not knowing how to do things and fearful I will do them incorrectly. I have even found minimal success in states of emergency. Last month my mother-in-law clogged her garbage disposal with potato peels, water was leaking everywhere, and I was the only man, at the moment, in the house. So I got on the floor and—with my wife’s help, admittedly—took apart the pipes, unclogged them and fixed the problem. I emerged from underneath the sink a hero, sweaty, and covered in potato peels. I could not have felt more like a man if I had just returned home from war.

But that moment was fleeting, and I am reminded of it every time I hear the drip of our kitchen faucet. Granted, I and we have made attempts to fix it. None of them have worked. Last weekend we went to Home Depot with faucet in hand (by the way, that is my Home Depot strategy when applicable: bring what needs fixing there, and hope that they, Home Depot, will fix it out of frustration with my incomprehension with what they are telling me). The guy there recommended we soak it in CLR. I said, Alright, cool. What is CLR? My wife rolled her eyes. It stands for calcium, lime, and rust, she said to me as she then turned back to take over the conversation with the Home Depot worker while I stared blankly into the distance.

It didn’t work. The reality is only now (my dad said two months ago that we needed a new faucet) setting in that we may need a new faucet. I can’t even determine the manufacturer of our current faucet and am unsure of how to tell which potential replacement is compatible with our sink. It would probably take me two seconds to figure this out, but then I’d have to install it. It’s one thing to unclog someone else’s sink in a fit of passion, but to install a new faucet of my own with my skeptical wife looking over my shoulder? No thanks.

Let’s just say I’m dragging my feet. This is important though, because if I can’t fix everything but the kitchen sink—and I can’t fix the kitchen sink—then there is no hope whatsoever. In the meantime, the plastic container remains indefinitely.

Besides, dead plants can’t water themselves, ya’ know? I may not be handy, but thank God for my green thumb.

College, a History

I’ve been thinking about college a lot lately, and how it has influenced my life. For example, I can’t remember anything I was taught in college, and my current career has absolutely nothing to do with my collegiate major. On the bright side, I still have approximately $18,000 left to pay off in student loans, and I made great friends with many people, about three of whom I now speak to at least twice a year.

My major in college was History, and I have used that extensive knowledge of historical events to do things like watch reality television and create a blog so that I can make fun of my old baseball cards. My friend Pete helped me set up the blog because he’s good with computers—a skill he has used to succeed financially within the real world. On the other hand, he knows jack about the French Revolution. It’s a wonder we became friends in the first place.

Not that I know much about the French Revolution either, although I’m fairly certain that I did at one point. It just doesn’t seem that I’ve been able to retain any of