Tag Archives: Dysfunction Junction

By: Kent McCarty, Editor

Spring Break is a wonderful time to sleep, hang out with friends, and not be at school (most importantly).  For me however, Spring Break, like any holiday, is a time for me to break things, get lost, throw up, and have inspiration for this column (most importantly).  Last year, we made it to Disney World and back in one piece, so I thought surely this year would be the same.  Unfortunately, for my mom’s sake, it was nothing of the sort.
Vacuum Cleaner: 1, Mom: 0
For those who don’t yet know, my mom fell down the stairs while carrying the vacuum cleaner and broke two bones in her leg at the beginning of January.  After two months of recovery, she’s mobile, but not yet ready to take on the world as she was B.C. (Before Crutches).  For example, we had originally planned to go to Atlanta over Spring Break but decided there was too much movement involved in the ATL.  Instead, we took a short trip to Jackson on Tuesday to go to the zoo and the new childrens’ museum before my brother’s baseball game in Madison that Wednesday.  Of course, a trip to the zoo would be about as feet-intensive as a trip to Atlanta, so my mom decided we needed to bust out the wheelchair. Being the loving son that I am, I volunteered to push her around as we took a “relaxing” stroll through the Jackson Zoo.
Gravity: 1, Kent: 0
The Jackson Zoo is built on the side of a mountain -one that’s quite possibly bigger than Everest itself.  At the top of the mountain are several bird cages and other enclosures that are typical of any zoo.  Seeing this gigantic trek in front of us, my mom and I decided that wheeling to the hilltop was not in the cards if the only benefit was catching a glimpse of the rare barn owl.  Unfortunately, we later found out that the entrance to the otter enclosure was only accessible from the top of the aforementioned mountain, because the more easily reached entrance was broken (go figure).  Further rationalization led us to conclude that the hike was worth the otters, so we marched on.  Of course, it was worth it in the end because otters are awesome and the animated Mr. and Mrs. Beaver from “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” were also present.  It wasn’t until we noticed the challenge of using a wheelchair on a steep downward slope that we began to regret visiting the furry rodents in the hilltop habitat.  With great care, I slowly lowered my injured mother down the hill while she used her good leg to steady the rapid descent.  Unfortunately, we lost the battle with Jackson’s Mount Vesuvius, and my mom’s wheelchair slipped from my grasp momentarily.  This is where prior knowledge of my mother enhances the story:  Imagine my mom, wheelchair and all, zipping down a hill with no way to stop herself.  That visual will forever be engrained in my mind as my aunt and I chased the runaway chair down the hill at speeds that made cars on the interstate look like Razor scooters manned by toddlers.  For the entire freefall, my mom was screaming unintelligibly, likely due to the sheer shock of the whole event.  She continued down the slope until adrenaline took over, and I was able to catch up with the chair, just before she was ejected into the flamingo pen, which would have totally ruined an otherwise nice day.  Needless to say, mom and I opted to sit on the beach when we got to the Children’s Museum; it sure beat the alternative of chasing her down three flights of stairs.

By: Kent McCarty, Editor

When my friends and I first decided that we were going to go to New Orleans for a Mardi Gras parade, I knew the trip would likely be the inspiration for this column.  I was initially worried that, since I would be driving my car, I’d be writing another column about dry-heaving and picking parts of my bumper out of a ditch (see, Dysfunction Junction January 2010), but thankfully that was not the case.  In fact, with the exception of weaving into rumble strips every ten minutes during the drive home, we didn’t experience any car-related dysfunctionality.  In comparison to the norm, in fact, the trip went off without a hitch until right as we were about to leave.
Caution: We’re making frequent stops
For those who don’t know this about me, and I don’t know why most would, my bladder is the size of the period at the end of this sentence.  I go to the bathroom… a lot.  So when I go on road trips or even drive down the road, I make sure I go to the bathroom first.  I was conscious of this while in New Orleans, so I made sure to make pit stops where ever possible; even if that meant waiting in line for the Café du Monde bathroom for upwards of 30 minutes.  Of course, after 15-plus glasses of water at Margaritaville, it was a miracle I didn’t go on myself before the bathroom became available.  At that time, the hold-up at the bathroom was the only unfortunate thing that had happened.  But generally, dysfunction comes in twos with me, so I’m always a little more cautious when the first stage rears its ugly head.  After leaving the remnants of a powdered sugar war behind us, we began the walk back to our cars, which were around one thousand miles away.  When we arrived at the cars later that week, we decided a bathroom break was in order before beginning the drive home.  Of course, I was in favor of such a stop because I knew my large coffee from Café du Monde wasn’t going to stay put for very long.
Journey to the imaginery 11th floor
We then embarked on the long haul to the nearest bathroom, which happened to be on the 3rd floor in the Canal Place mall.  Why a mall would locate bathrooms ONLY on the 3rd floor is puzzling.  Why a mall would lock those bathrooms at 7:00 p.m. is one of the great unsolved mysteries of our time, next to who killed President Zachary Taylor and where Elvis has been hiding all of these years.  With Plan A down the toilet (though obviously not one in Canal Place), we immediately began searching for another option.  We tried the bathrooms at the movie theatre also on the 3rd floor, but the imbecile working the counter informed us that their bathrooms weren’t public and that “they have a no one under 18 policy.”  Her blatant disregard for my recent birthday almost made me cause a scene, but the nicer theatre employee stepped in and told us to use the bathroom on the 11th floor.  One problem: when we got on the elevator, the numbers stopped at time.  We quickly switched elevators, only to find that the “11” button on it was as dysfunctional as we were.  At this point, we admitted defeat and headed to our cars, hoping to find somewhere easier to make a pit stop on the way home.  Luckily, the grocery store at which we chose to stop didn’t discriminate against 17-year-olds.

By: Kent McCarty, Editor

For those who don’t check Facebook’s birthday alerts, I recently celebrated my 18th birthday.  If you forgot to wish me a good one on my special day, don’t feel bad; the cloud of misfortune that stalks my life didn’t either.  In fact, he didn’t even give me the day off.
On the morning of my birthday, I woke up with a big smile on my face.  The day ahead was going to be all about me, at least in my eyes, and there’s no joy greater than that which comes with knowing you’re temporarily the center of the universe.  My school day was filled with “happy birthdays” and jokes about getting old, and things were looking good.  When I got home, my mom was waiting with my coffee cup-shaped birthday cake and various members of my family stopped in to say hello, eat cake, and talk about how I’m 18 going on 1800.  When the excitement died down, I decided I’d be productive while I was in a good mood and write one of my essays for my Honors College application.  I sat down at the kitchen table and began to pour myself over a riveting essay discussing the effect texting has had on our generation.  As I was typing, I got to a particular heated portion of my argument in favor of texting and started typing too fast for my brain, causing me to jumble up my words into a mash of unintelligible dribble.  Being the computer-shortcut aficionado that I am (or thought I was), I used the Ctrl-Z shortcut to undo the last few lines of type.  I got a little too excited with my shortcut usage and “undid” too far so I used the Ctrl-R shortcut to “Redo” what I had just undone.  Makes sense, right?  As soon as I released Ctrl and R, however, I broke into a cold sweat as I watched the web page I was typing my essay on refresh, resulting in a complete loss of every word I had typed into my application that day.  When I say that I stared at the screen in silence for six minutes, I’m probably understating it.  I snapped out of my daze when our dog started barking, so, like any sensible 18 year old, I threw a salt shaker at her.
Following my outburst at Princess Ella, I decided I needed some fresh air, so I hopped in the car and drove up and down my street, blaring Nickelback to remind myself that there are at least four people more despicable than myself.  Just as I was turning to go home, I slammed into a deer that made Bambi look like the monster from Cloverfield.  Of course, I felt no sympathy for the deer until I assured myself the only damage he had caused was a few scratches to the front bumper, which my brother later informed me were actually streaks of blood.  For PETA’s information, the deer scampered off into the woods before I could rush him to a clinic. Sorry.
Back at home, I apologized to Princess Ella and began writing the texting essay for the second time.  For my sake, and the sake of all woodland creatures within a  five-mile radius of my home, I typed this draft in Microsoft Word.

By: Kent McCarty, Editor

Anyone who knows me would sum me up in one word: tardy.  It’s not that I particularly enjoy being late, or that I’m not responsible enough to get somewhere at a designated time; it’s just that I’m physically incapable of being punctual.  By that I mean that most of the time, bizarre and unexpected circumstances kick in just as I’m about to be on time for something and delay my journey for minutes, hours, and in some cases decades.  Quite recently, I was having a rare morning where everything was going perfectly, and I was on track to arrive to church on time.  But, like an 18-wheeler on Ice Road Truckers, it went downhill fast.
Barefoot Baptist
The morning began just as all Sunday mornings do: dysfunctionally.  I woke up relatively late at 8:45 and got my initial caffeine boost that is required to get me moving every day.  At about that time, my family had left because they’re overachievers, and I was left alone at home to go about my routine.  You’d think at 17 that I’m old enough to handle myself at home alone, but you’d be giving me too much credit.  In the time I was home alone getting ready, I managed to burn toast that I’d left in the oven on broil too long (our toaster is inefficient), spill the rest of my coffee on my church clothes, and misplace my keys somewhere between my room and the front door. Still, compared to past Sundays, I was moving at a brisk pace and was well on my way to arrive at church before the 9:15 time that Sunday school actually starts.  At 9:00 sharp, I was locking the front door and getting ready for an 8-10 minute drive to Temple Baptist West, still putting me in good shape to arrive at church early.  Of course, it’s not in the cards for me to arrive on time for anything, so Satan had to intervene and throw me drastically off course with a truly unthinkable roadblock.
As I pulled up to the church and stepped out of my car, my foot landed on something sharp, resulting in a minor laceration on my foot.  How did something manage to cut my foot through my shoe?  Well, it wasn’t hard considering I had forgotten to put shoes on my feet before leaving the house.  In a panic, I tore through my car without finding a single shoe, and I was willing to settle for Crocs.  With a defeated look on my face, I went home to retrieve some footwear.  Of course, it doesn’t end there because that would be too easy.
Up a creek without gas
On my way back to church, my steering wheel locked up and all my dashboard alerts began to light up.  It only took me about three seconds to recognize the all too familiar situation.  I had run out of gas.  I wanted to throw my hands up and sing “Jesus, Take the Wheel,” but there was no time for in-car karaoke.  Instead, I let my car glide down the highway and carefully turned the wheel when I got to the Hwy. 98/Old Hwy. 11 intersections.  I had just enough momentum to make it into Keith’s where I gassed up in record speed.
For those keeping count, I made it to church at approximately 9:55, nearly an hour after I first made my way there.  Aside from setting my clocks 24 hours forward and leaving for things a day in advance, I’ve given up on ever arriving somewhere in even a half-timely manner.

By: Kent McCarty, Editor

Dysfunction Junction chronicles the unfortunate strings of events that plague my life.  Everything below is true, and that’s what’s scary.

Aside from the wreck I had last December (I try and act like that didn’t happen), I’ve had pretty good luck with cars during the almost two years I’ve been a fully licensed driver.  Considering how catastrophic even the most routine occurrences can be when you’re me, that’s definitely something to be proud of.  However, behind the wheel of my Mountaineer on Tuesday, September 21, even I, a seasoned pro at dealing with jaw-droppingly unfortunate events, was left scratching my head in amazement at the event that unfolded before me.

As I drove home from work on that fateful Tuesday night, I decided to go home a different way.  As is the case with nearly everything bad that happens, I could have easily avoided what happened next simply by staying on the beaten path.  Mere seconds after I turned to go the back way, I felt a thud and a bump underneath my front right tire.  This thud and subsequent bump weren’t like what you feel after hitting a curb or a pothole, but more like something that happens as a result of hitting a living creature.  I stopped the car immediately and walked around the front of the vehicle to see what the disturbance had been, but what I saw next had me wishing I would have just kept on driving.
Lying there, still and lifeless under my tire, was what I thought was a grayish-black cat.  I immediately began to panic, realizing that I had just killed someone’s pet.  Now I’m not an animal person, and if I’m being honest I was more worried about the blood on my tire than the cat underneath it, but I knew that I had to do the right thing and tell the family.  When I rang the doorbell of the house closest to where the incident went down, a woman quickly came to the door and put my courage to the test.  Using as much fake emotion as I could muster, I asked her if they had a grey or black cat.  Of course they did, and of course I saw her soul visibly die when she realized what was going on.  Before I could finish telling her what had happened, she’d already called out and assembled the cavalry, consisting of her husband and young daughter.  She explained what had happened to her husband and daughter as if she saw the whole thing go down, and the four of us made our way down to the scene of the accident.  As we approached the car, her husband looked at the squashed creature thoughtfully before giving out a nice laugh.  As I said, I don’t like animals, but even I had enough respect for the family not to laugh at their crushed kitty.  Mother, daughter, and I were growing more and more perplexed as he continued laughing before finally explaining what he thought was funny:  “I’m laughing because what you hit isn’t our cat.  That thing under your tire is a raccoon.”  Sure enough, upon further inspection I too saw that I had made a horrible and embarrassing mistake.  With the exception of the confused little girl, we all three began laughing as I quickly hopped into my car so I could drive away before the cat-turned-raccoon completed the cycle and turned back into a house pet.

Without a shadow of a doubt, that experience will stay with me forever as the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever gone through.  My only advice to the world is lock up your pets because the next time I feel a little bump under my tire, you can rest assured that I’m going to keep right on driving.

By: Kent McCarty, Editor

Dysfunction Junction chronicles the unfortunate strings of events that plague my life.  Everything below is true, and that’s what’s scary.

For the majority of people, starting school is always full of chaos and disorder.   With that in mind, imagine for a second how much of a hectic ordeal starting school is for someone who lives every day as a hectic ordeal.  That situation perfectly summarizes my life, and the start of my senior year was no exception.

Surprisingly, the first day of school came and went without any real disasters.  I remembered to wake up on time, I didn’t fall when I ran the halls, and I got my car out of the parking lot without having to call and make a claim on my insurance.  After that first day, things were looking up.  However, by the end of the second weekend of the school year, I was in bad shape.

Sunday afternoon, my sister Callie Anne, 7, and I were playing hide-and-seek in the playroom when she decided that the only thing more fun, was chasing me around the house with a tennis raquet. While I was running from her and her Barbie tennis raquet, I hit my toe on the table leg, and it bent in a direction that a big toe shouldn’t go.  I fell to the ground in pain, which meant nothing to her who proceeded to beat me relentlessly with the tennis raquet.  It didn’t take long to determine that my toe was broken, and it took even less time for me to determine that an out-of-commission big toe is detrimental to walking.  Being the practical guy that I am, I asked for a wheelchair, and my dad quickly told me that that was not going to happen.

At school, I hobbled around on my toe and by Organic Chem, I began to think that I had the walking thing down.  We happened to be doing a lab that day, which sounded good because it would give me something to do other than sit and feel sorry for myself about my stupid toe.  Of course, chemicals and I mix about as well as fire and ice, so my optimism was short lived.  As I was attempting to “waft” cyclohexane out of a pipette, I lost my balance because of my toe issue and squeezed the pipette as I was trying to catch myself.  The jolt sent a large spray of cyclohexane onto my face and into my mouth and nose.  Now I don’t know much about cyclohexane, but what I do know is that it burns.  I imagined my face dissolving off of my body as I hobbled over to the sink, yelling for Mrs. Fortenberry the whole time.  Even though the right side of my face went completely numb a few seconds after contact, Mrs. Fortenberry assured me that a skin graft would not be necessary, and that I should expect to make a full recovery within a few minutes.

It’s been three weeks since I broke my toe and chemically burned my face, and, although the toe still gives me trouble, Mrs. Fortenberry was right about not needing a skin graft.  My main concern now is that if I can’t handle starting grade school, which I’ve been doing for 13 years, how am I going to make it in college?

By: Kent McCarty

Dysfunction Junction chronicles the unfortunate strings of events that plague my life.  Everything below is true, and that’s what’s scary.

Disclaimer: To avoid any law suits, I will refrain from mentioning the name of any business mentioned below; though slandering their name across the land does sound fun right about now.

I’ve never had a big problem with bugs.  When I see a bug on the ground, I step on it.  The bug is dead.  Game over.  But while bugs on the ground are no big deal, a bug in my food is a problem I can’t easily get passed.

The day before the incident, my mom had promised us a trip to our favorite steakhouse as long as we would all find something to eat at home that night.  Being the lover of steak that I am, I agreed to scrounge out something from the pantry, deciding on a classic peanut butter sandwich.  The next day, I opted out of the school cafeteria lunch of a chili dog, and, though I was very hungry throughout the day, I kept telling myself it would all be ok since a wonderful feast was awaiting me at supper.

When my mom and family arrived at home with our food from the restaurant (we ordered our food to-go), I was on the verge of starvation.  I immediately pulled my meal–a salad, a steak, and a potato–out of the to-go bag and opened my salad.  Right before I plunged my fork into the lettuce, I caught a little flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye.  Upon further inspection, I realized that the bit of movement I saw was coming from a living, or half-living, creature; a roach, to be exact.  Of course, I didn’t believe what I was seeing.  I tried to tell myself it was an olive, or a raisin, or even an unidentified piece of trash, but no, it was definitely a roach.  I looked to my mom with a concerned face and told her that my food was contaminated; I was trying to be subtle because I knew if I made a scene my younger sister would never quit talking about it.  My mom, however, didn’t pick up on the subtlety and announced to everyone that a bug had made its home among the lettuce and cucumbers.  Of course we threw the salad away, and I couldn’t even bring myself to eat the potato; when I got done searching through it for other signs of uninvited guests it just didn’t look too appetizing.  I did, however, reluctantly eat the steak, all the while fearing that a worm or snake was going to crawl out of it.

After nearly 30 minutes of discussion with the restaurant’s managament, we realized the conversation was going nowhere.  They, of course, had a predisposition to deny any accusations of unappealing additions to entrees, and since our order was to-go, they decided we had no concrete proof.  It was at this point that we vowed never to eat there again.  It’s been a month since roachgate, but I can safely say that our family hasn’t been back, which is saying something considering we ate there at least once a week B.C. (before cockroach).