Back in the old days when I still hunted, triceratopses were my favorite game.

I know that sounds cruel, but I did not hunt to kill. Rather, the goal was to shoot rubber balls at the right speed and angle so that they would bounce in between the three horns like a pellet in a pinball machine. The joy came from witnessing these gentle giants utterly confused, trying to decipher what it is that is making their heads vibrate. If you’re as good at the game as I was, it was not unusual to see one so dizzy with thought that it completely tipped over. The only time I felt the game was cruel was when a particularly overweight specimen, whom I had named Ted, tipped over and was swiftly devoured by a T-Rex.

It makes me sad now to think I will never be able to experience that again. Things have never been quite the same since the last mass extinction.

I have tried to reinvent the hobby with rhinoceroses but not only is it harder with just two horns, but rhinos, being mammals, are also much less prone to confusion. The one time I tried it, the rhino figured it out immediately and communicated to me quite clearly that it was not amused. I wanted to explain that it was me I was trying to amuse, but understandably, it did not speak English. It was from Africa.

My own experiences tell me the rhinoceros is only God’s disappointing sequel to the triceratops, one for which I had high hopes, but which ultimately fell short. But I have my fingers crossed.

Come on, God. One word.

Trilogy.

I used to think I was plagued by personal demons, but they have since assured me that it was nothing personal. They, it turned out, were business demons.

The differences between the two are subtle and are probably best explained through examples. A personal demon may wither away your social life and cause you to wash down your sorrows with drinks from the liquor store. A business demon, on the other hand, would give you more friends so you would go to a bar instead where you would pay a premium and leave a 20% tip. A personal demon may inject doubt into your marriage and cause you to seek escape with the open-minded neighbor next door. A business demon, on the other hand, would make you hire a prostitute and pay a fair rate. You know you are dealing with demons of the business ilk when, in trying to accurately determine an appropriate wage, you ask a prostitute for references.

Business demons, clearly, are obsessed with money and are thus much worse. It is one thing to take my soul, but quite another to take my wallet.

My attempts to cleanse myself have led me to church. I was told I needed only to accept Christ as my personal savior, and I liked the sound of that. Personal.

I sat down, listened to the sermon, sang the hymns. I prayed. I accepted. I waited. I was so touched by the experience I felt I could give up the rest of my life just so I could be there forever. The man next to me then passed me a plate. Noticing my confusion, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, telling me to put some money in it.

Haha. Well played, business demon. Well played.

I always felt there is glory in being first: to be in first place, to be first choice, to be First Lady. The glory is so great that for those lucky enough to be first in posting a comment to an internet article, sometimes all you really need to say is “first”. This is why I never quite understood why my one and only spouse gets so irritated when I call her my first wife.

I’m writing this only because of what happened last night. We were at a bar when she had to leave early. Before she left, we embraced and kissed, and I, being the playful devil, patted her bottom. I waved her goodbye, then sat back on my stool.

“Who was that?” the bartender asked.

“My first wife,” I said.

“And you still treat her that well, huh?”

I admit I was a little surprised. I always believed that in choosing to get married, a couple should treat each other fairly well. But this was a new part of town, about 8 miles from my home, and I surmised that perhaps here, the criterion for marriage was mutual hatred. Immediately, I grew interested. I am a huge Travel Channel fan, and my favorite part was whenever the host would mingle with foreign cultures.

“No, see, where I’m from,” I said, proudly, “we get married when we love each other.”

The bartender’s confused look only confirmed my theory.

Finally, even later into the night, he explained that in calling my wife first, I was implying that there are or will be others. He asked me if I planned to marry anyone else. I did not answer him for two reasons: first, his tone offended me, as if I was stupid when it was him who was part of an inferior culture. And second, I do not plan that far. I did not even know how I was going to get home.

I do wonder, though, about the second wife. Is that the one they’re supposed to treat better? Someone from the Travel Channel should look into that.

I do not wish to reinforce negative stereotypes of the Chinese, but it is a fact that no matter what kind of hat I put on, I look like a fisherman.

I first discovered this phenomenon in high school when, on a shopping spree with friends, I put on a baseball cap backwards in an earnest attempt to look gangsta. In the mirror, I hoped to see myself spittin’ rhymes in front of an audience eager to throw me their lingerie. Instead, what I witnessed were waves several feet tall, slamming against my ship as my crew mates tumbled across the deck.

Other times I have been slightly more successful. For a costume party in college, I had put on a cowboy hat in hopes of looking like a manly cowboy ready to reel in his herd. I was ecstatic when I looked in the mirror and saw the scorching backdrop of a desert, the air distorted by the heat. My heart sank only when I saw my herd. My cows flopped on the ground, as if out of breath. Through holes in their fur, the sight of wet scales was unmistakable. They were only fish in disguise.

This is unfortunate. Sometimes, like when a party drags on into the early morning, I would like to be able to put on a trendy cap and look like the cool dude who outlasted all his buddies in a 7-hour chugging contest, not the man who is awake at 6AM because that is the best time to catch cod.

So it seems that perhaps for the same reason I could never be a 13-year-old ballerina, I was never meant to put on hats. Ironically, the one hat I have yet to try is an actual fisherman’s hat, but I don’t think I ever will. I’m worried the moment I put one on and look at myself in the mirror, I realize that is the exact point in which all my possible fates in all the possible alternate universes converge, and I may never be able to take it off.

Often when taking the bus, I am forced to decide whether or not I should give up my seat for an older person. On one hand, the older person may tire more easily and deserve to sit down. On the other, my journey can take up to an hour whereas his/hers may only be a mere five minutes. Thus in giving up my seat for his/her five minutes of comfort, I risk having to stand for an hour. Unless I receive a written guarantee that upon his/her departure, the seat is rightfully returned to me, I hope it can be understood why this is such a dilemma.

I have, however, come up with a solution. In the future, if you’re ever wondering whether I would give up my seat for you, the answer is NO.

Or to be more specific, it depends on your NO rating, which is calculated as follows:

NO, where:
N = number of miles you are traveling
O = how old you are

For example, Kevin is a 25-year-old traveling 30 miles, which means he has a NO rating of 750. Stranger is a 65-year-old traveling 11 miles, which means he has a NO rating of 715. Because a higher NO rating is more deserving of the seat, Kevin would have priority. If, however, Stranger was traveling 12 miles, he would have a NO rating of 780, and Kevin in this case would sigh and reluctantly stand up.

I admit the formula is not perfect, especially if you move towards the ends of the spectrum. Following the scenario above, a 2-year-old traveling 374 miles would have to remain standing. But first, where is that baby going? Why is there a baby trying to leave the state? I think that is a more important question.