Don’t Be Scurred

Holy duck fuck, it’s been far too long since I’ve come here. (Sorry ladies, Uncle Charlie gets busy.) If you don’t mind I’d like to jump right into things and throw out a big “Ehhh…fuck it” to all the apologetic shit that I usually go through.

This past weekend I was gathered with a group of my best friends in a house in the middle of nowhere, sitting, reminiscing, doing what guys do, when we decided to do something we really haven’t ever done together: shoot guns. Now, most of you guys probably know me by now and have a deep understanding that I loathe guns, not because of any political reasons, but because I am a huge pussy. Things that go boom plus me equals many, many tears. I’m exaggerating of course, but I come pretty damn close to screaming like a nine-year old girl stuck in a Rob Zombie music video when it comes to guns.

Being from Ohio, naturally a couple of my buddies have some guns on hand for such a bonding moment. Mind you these are not 9MM pistols or a simple .22 Rifle that we’re planning to shoot. Nay, we skip all the quote “baby shit” and move on to bigger and louder things. I’m talking a .357 Magnum, an AK-47, and some old rifle that has a Soviet hammer and sickle imprinted on the ass end (so you KNOW you’re in for one lovely, slightly Communist time).

If this doesn’t scream “FUN!” then I don’t know what does.

So there we are, masculine and in our underwear (just picture it), shooting these heavy pieces of big bang machinery; I was scared. I vocalized my fear of weapons long before they whipped ’em out, but due to peer pressure, I of course got a hold of that AK-47 and shot away at a large, empty field. PROOF:

Those two shots, which, by the by, were actually pretty badass, got me thinking about all of the illegitimate fears I have in my life. Clowns, millipedes, heights: I think all of these are rational phobias. There are some, however, that people give me shit for, some that make me the Stuart Minkus of this proverbial lifelong sitcom. For instance, did you know I have a great fear of birds and, well, anything with wings? It’s true! Birds, bats, big dragonflies. If it’s in the air, I don’t want it in my hair. (That rhymes. Pucker up and suck it, Seuss!)

But yeah, this guy ain’t a big fan of these things. One particular cringe-worthy time that I remember is when my friend, Spenser, and I found this baby bird in the middle of the road, so I, being a relatively kind soul, asked him to gently brush the chickee into the ditch so that no cars would hit it. “Awwww!”, say the girls reading this right now. We can discuss prices in a moment, my darlings, but first allow me to finish my story. As soon as Spenser got the bird into the grass, the momma bird, who apparently had us locked in via satellite long before we saved its spawn, came swooping down, letting out the loudest CAW!!!! I’ve ever heard in my life. Now, just picture big ol’ Chuck G running and screaming like a big ol’ bitch back to his little ol’ house because momma wanted to rip our goddamn hearts out. Once I made it back to safety, Spenser was sure to let me know that it was just a robin and I ran away for nothing, but I know the truth…

Momma was a harpy.

Another stupid, idiotic, crazy, lameass fear I have is — and this is really hard to explain — cramping up on a long staircase. HEAR ME OUT! Have you ever been walking/running down a flight of stairs when all of a sudden you feel your calves tighten up? Oh fuck, you think, I’m about to cramp. You slow down and gently stretch out your muscles for a good three seconds and blam, you’re back to your trip down a concrete death trap. Really? Am I the ONLY one who does this? I only do it because I have this huge “what if” running through my head. It’s actually a lot of “what if’s,” but it all basically boils down to one big one: What if my legs get all stiff and 350 pounds of red hot man lovin’ goes tumbling down the stairs like a mentally impaired Olympic gymnast with no coordination? THEN WHAT? I’m one broken sumbitch, that’s what. That scares the hell out of me, man. I don’t wanna go out like that. God and the angels in Heaven would have a field day making jokes about poor me. “Oops, Charlie dropped his keys down the Heavenly Stairway again. Better go get ’em. BAHAHAHA!” I can see it now. I’d be the laughing stock of Heaven.

That means George Harrison drops to number two.

Aren’t those fucking ridiculous? I think so and I’m the one who has to deal with it. Other fears include dropping a newborn baby, suffocating in down comforters, getting pulled down to the deepest part of a lake, and dealing with an apocalypse consisting of fast, “Dawn of the Dead” remake kind of zombies. I put up with these all the time and until I swallow my pride and go see a shrink, I’m royally railed. Looks like Charlie’s gon’ be a big pussy for quite a long time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must retire to my bed, where I’ll be using mink blankets and not anything down. Don’t wanna wake up dead.


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