Devilish Deeds of an Absentminded, Lovable Lout

By Chris Slatsky

Chris Slatsky grew up in the suburbs of Birmingham, Alabama, in the late 1960s in a small community named Minor.

As a little boy, he ran as fast as his little legs will carry him, finding adventure everywhere. He tried to be a mini-version of his father, mimicking his every action and sticking up for his familys Catholic beliefs.

In high school, he enjoyed wrestling, even though he hardly ever won a match. He hung out with his two best friends, Jed and Jay, and they spent countless days playing pranks and getting in trouble.

Before entering graduate school, he met a woman with strawberry blonde hair in church. He learned her name is Sandy and asked her to go to the zoo with him; more than twenty years later, they are still together.

Since the day they met, she has relished his folly, and to this day, they playfully engage in flirty competitions for supremacy. But youll have to read Devilish Deeds of an Absentminded, Lovable Lout to discover whos currently on top in their ongoing competition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469795195

Chris Slatsky

Chris Slatsky graduated with a bachelors degree in biology from Birmingham-Southern College and earned a masters degree in education from the University of Alabama at Birmingham. He is an environmental government worker and lives in Moody, Alabama, with his wife, Sandy, and their sons, Andrew and Daniel.

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Contents

Introduction

Boyhood Daze and Rogue Extension

of My Dad’s Ways

Grades 1 through 8, Making Teachers,

Friends, and Neighbors Irate

From Trees to Bachelor’s Degree—

Tales of High School and College

Swept Off my Feet to Elkhart Street:

Fun and Jokes of My Twenties

Laughing at my Sweet Little Babies

and Ding-a-Ling Hazes

Goats, Boats, Jokes, Chokes, J. C.

Up in Smoke, Soapy Floors, Knock at the Door, Set My Trap, the Last Ten Years Is a Wrap

Introduction

The purpose of this book is to laugh our tails off at funny situations that have flowed in everyday life. I have always been too naive and trusting for my own good. My inability to read between the lines or take statements figuratively has yielded numerous stories of embarrassment and hilarious folly.

When I was a little boy, I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me between conscious mischief and innocent misadventure. I dwelled within my boyhood daze, and everyone living in reality suffered the consequences. My earliest troublemaking was usually catalyzed by my zany father. I admired him and strove to be a mini version of him. I mimicked his every thought and action. I was simply too young to recognize social boundaries; therefore, I provided both intentional and accidental projections of my dad’s beliefs.

My elementary school and junior high school years were dominated by hanging out with my mischievous buddies Jed and Jay. My friendship with Jed has lasted a lifetime. We spent countless days playing in the nastiest of ways. We unleashed a barrage of typical adolescent pranks that backfired in the most surprising and compromising ways. I altered their names due to the nature of the hilarity they provided. They can reveal themselves to whomever they wish.

My high school and college years marked the transition from impish mischief to misfortunate circumstances created from my airheadedness or just bad luck. I provide frank insights of an average high school boy’s thoughts, dealing with the irony of being embarrassed in endeavors but thrilled someone noticed. I emphasize the fun and realness of dating life. Dating my wife provides a smooth transition from college to adulthood.

When I reached manhood, my boyhood dazes simply transformed to adulthood dazes. I simply strolled into extremely compromising positions because my mind was focused on its happy place as opposed to the dangers or responsibilities surrounding me. My best redeeming quality has been the ability to pick wonderful friends who don’t take advantage of my absentmindedness or kill me when I accidentally break the embarrassment stick off in them.

The idea to write this book first surfaced when the director of environment services at the health department decided to improve morale by requesting each specialist come forth with his or her funniest inspection story. Approximately fifteen specialists came forward with a total of about twenty comedic stories. I was the costar of at least fifteen of these tales. My friend, who is part of the composite character Jennifer, exclaimed, Chris should write a book about all these adventures!

I continued to eat lunch with my friends J. C., Jeff, Jed, and Brian after I left the health department. All four of these guys dropped a hint to write this book. J. C. and I were laughing uncontrollably over some of these tales at a restaurant last winter. We noticed the couples in the adjacent booths were enjoying themselves by eavesdropping on us; however, we couldn’t bring ourselves to behave. A very entertained and genuine couple leaned toward us and told us that we had to write a book.

Work is not the only location of my ding-a-ling deeds. Sandy, my wife of more than twenty years, has relished too much enjoyment from my airheaded folly. Her entertainment has been multiplied, as our two sons appear to have inherited my predisposition to effortlessly bend folks over. Sandy and I continually and gleefully engage one another in flirty competitions as we spar for supremacy. You’ll have to read more to find out who is currently on top in our ongoing competition.

Boyhood Daze and Rogue Extension

of My Dad’s Ways

I grew up in the suburbs of Birmingham, Alabama, in the late 1960s. Our little community was called Minor.

Minor was the Mayberry of Jefferson County. A citizen could be expected to be greeted with a friendly smile, followed by a warm greeting, and often finalized by an offering of whatever food happened to be simmering on the stovetop. Southern hospitality was the gift given to those who conformed to an unspoken list of folklores and beliefs. All of the residents wore their Protestant faith and collegiate football loyalties on their sleeve. Therefore, alcoholic beverages and profanity were big-time no-nos. Men’s appearances included a crew cut or a flattop haircut. Long hair was taboo, but sideburns were permissible. The men generally worked manufacturing jobs in Birmingham while their Southern belle wives stayed home, cleaned house, and mothered children. Minor was the perfect place to be raised if one adhered to the Southern way.

Ironically, my father never attempted to conform to the aforementioned standards. My father was the child of Italian and Russian immigrants; he grew up Catholic in a coalmining town called Brookside, Alabama. Brookside was a rough, impoverished town that resembled the Wild, Wild West. The men drank whiskey, fist fought, and used swear words as substitutes for adjectives. This rough upbringing produced a rogue man that would prove to be a thorn in the side of our gentle community. He was a rebel whose cause was needling at both the Southern traditions and superficial piety to expose the anger simmering beneath the outward illusion of Southern politeness.

Dad was an outspoken man who had never heard the word discretion. His bluntness revealed his every thought. If he thought you were wonderful, he heaped copious amounts of praise on you with lengthy hyperbole. He always told me that I was a fine, outstanding, colossal boy. Children loved him because he was quick and enthusiastic with praise. He coached many successful Little League teams because he was the perfect blend of child motivator and sports junkie. Our backyard was Legion Field or the Notre Dame Stadium for fall family football games. The site’s name changed to Three Rivers Stadium or Yankee Stadium in the summer. He was one of the best dads in the world. He was a most complimentary and amiable man if he liked you. Dad not only resembled the actor Robin Williams in appearance, but he also possessed the entertaining, loud zaniness of Mork from Ork.

However, he had zero tolerance for anyone attempting to mainstream him into an acceptable Protestant denomination. I was four years old when a zealous evangelic duo came knocking at our door in hopes of saving our souls. They were trying to obtain members for the newest neighborhood church. Dad was devotedly Catholic and responded with venomous insults to anyone who hinted he should even consider embracing the more culturally suitable Protestant way. The warm spring day seemed to chill as Dad harshly instructed these men to take their good intentions elsewhere. He was not interested in anything they believed or taught. They were still pleading their theological case when Dad closed the door in their faces. I asked him why he had been so mean to those strangers. He informed me that I should ignore the Baptists because they go to church on the dodo train.

I was