Jeff 

Master of None
 

Welcome...

 

You've reached the website of humor columnist Jeff Brown.  Although he likes to consider himself a "Jack of all Trades," his efforts at work, car repairs, home improvement projects, relationships with his pets, and body building, (he has a Weider 5000) always seem to prove him to be, well...not so much.

Read Jeff's column "Master of None" here every other week or so.  Most of the website is set up as a blog, so feel free to click on a story title and make a comment when you  feel the urge.  (He wants to at least create the illusion that lot's of people come here.) 

 

But, if you do, just remember what Tom Hanks' mom used to say, "If you can't be nice, you're as dumb as a box of chocolates."

Counter

These are the three columns that got me my first place in the 2011 NSNC column writing contest.

 

 

Master of None

By

Jeff Brown

 

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." - Ray Bradbury   

 

"I must stay drunk on writing so reality doesn’t set in and I have to enroll in Bigfoot School." - Jeff Brown 

What's Next? 

 

During the weeks leading up to my layoff from the factory last December, I put a lot of brainpower into what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. This was my big chance, I thought, to pursue my dreams. It’s time to turn the page, turn over a new leaf, turn lemons into lemonade, and turn that knob on the door of opportunity and step in it, so to speak. Then I heard on the news that funding for NASA’s manned space program had been canceled.  

 

Well, I guess it’s back to the drawing board for me. 

 

Although my ambitions of becoming an astronaut have been dashed, I’m not letting it get me down. (Hey, Mr. Obama, how about spending a little of that stimulus money on something that actually matters, like, say, sending me to the space station so I could float around in zero gravity and flush the space toilet. That would be so cool.) Believe it or not, I have other (if not more realistic) dreams too. 

 

For instance, I’ve always wanted to be a newspaper columnist.  Although the pay at this stage of my writing career sucks, (they don’t call it "free-lance" for nothing) the fringe benefits are terrific. My old job had big inconveniences I had to deal with daily such as a "boss" and "regular working hours." Can you believe I was actually expected to show up every day at the unholy hour of "the morning" and do things like "work?" (Oh, the memories. I shudder just thinking about it.) 

 

Now I can write whenever I want, day or night, and it doesn’t even matter. Heck, I don’t even have to be dressed to write. In fact, I could write an entire column in my boxer shorts (a somewhat unpleasant image, I know) and you, the unsuspecting reader, wouldn’t be the wiser.

 

At my old factory job, the boss was perpetually concerned with how often I visited the bathroom. Heck, nowadays, I could write an entire column in the bathroom if I wanted to.  

 

Special Note to the Editor: You might want to wash your hands after proofing this story. 

 

But, I know I have to be realistic. I need a career of some sort to fall back on in the unlikely event that I don’t make it as a writer (please, please, read my columns!). That’s just the way I’m wired- always dreaming big with my head in the clouds and my feet planted firmly on terra firma. This is why I’m contemplating higher education in the sciences. After hours of research, (I fell asleep the other day with the History Channel on) I’ve narrowed my areas of interest into three entirely possible and realistic career goals. 

 

1. Ufologist.

2.  Paranormal Investigator.

3.  Bigfoot Researcher. 

 

My personal favorite is "Bigfoot Researcher." (I wonder if the University of Phoenix has a good Bigfoot program.) I also know that in today’s world of rising unemployment rates and challenging job markets, it pays to have multiple marketable skills. This is why I’m thinking about majoring in Bigfoot and minoring in UFO’s. (Realistically, I think of ghost hunting more as a hobby.) 

 

So, after writing this column, I’m going to grab the bull by the horns and enroll in Bigfoot school. A little insurance policy in case nobody likes my writing (please, please, read my columns!).

 

Chasing Sasquatch won’t be easy and I guess it’s true what they say: the hardest part of any journey is taking that first step. But, before I do,

 

I’d better put my pants on.

 

 

Master of None
by
Jeff M. Brown

"It’s funny how dogs and cats know the inside of folks better than other folks do, isn’t it?"    - Eleanor H. Porter

"It’s funny how I know the inside of my wife’s dog better than he does." - Jeff Brown

Black and Brown Friday

The horrible scene keeps replaying itself in my mind. If I had a psychologist, I’m sure I’d be diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. All I can say about the incident is that it was the most horrible ordeal I’ve ever had to overcome in my life.

Ever since that day (I call it Black and Brown with a touch of Green Friday) I’m terribly preoccupied with the digestive cycle of my wife’s dog, Traveler. "Hey, dog," I say at least one or two or ten times a day in a concerned, but reassuring tone, "when was the last time you did your business? In other words, how are you feeling today, Traveler, intestinally speaking?"

To say the dog had an accident would be a colossal understatement. This was no fender bender in the world of doggy misdemeanors; this was a major chain reaction pileup (literally). The first inkling I had that something might be wrong was when I got home and stepped through the kitchen door. Something didn’t smell quite right. Did I forget to take the garbage out last night? Did the sewer back up?

When I went into the living room, there was no doubt of the source of the offending smell molecules: the dog had apparently exploded. Don’t get me wrong, Traveler was fine. He was fast asleep near the front door waiting patiently for my wife to get home. But, somehow, I didn’t quite understand because it must have violated several laws of physics and quantum mechanics, the entire "inside" of the dog had somehow materialized "outside," or, to be more specific, "on the surface of my living room carpet."

It was everywhere. There were (not that I was counting) 23 globs of dog poop scattered haphazardly from the kitchen, through the living room, all the way to the office, not unlike some sort of canine minefield. Unfortunately for me (and the carpet I had just vacuumed the evening before) these were no ordinary dog turds that could easily be picked up or, as some dog aficionados (which I am definitely not) might say, "scooped." They were more of a pudding like consistency comprised of the remnants of the previous night’s supper (kibble and bits and bits of pure evil).

How was I going to clean this up? For a few moments I just stared at the carnage slack-jawed, but that didn’t last long because I almost puked, so I stepped outside to clear my head. Okay, Jeff, you can figure this out, but you need a plan. Let’s see… I could wait for my wife to get home. It’s her dog. She should do it, but she won’t be home for hours.

"Jeff," I said aloud, "you’re a man of action. You can’t just let a sleeping dog’s poop lie, especially all around the inside of your house!" With renewed resolve, I marched back inside and grabbed the cat’s litter box shovel, a container of Lysol Disinfecting Wipes, a can of carpet cleaner, and the trash bucket. All the while I worked out a 5-step cleaning procedure.

    1. Take a deep breath and hold it.
    2. Scrape the poop off the carpet with the shovel.
    3. Scrape the shovel off in the trash bucket.
    4. Wipe up the carpet as best as I could.
    5. Rush outside for another breath of fresh air before I passed out.

I repeated this procedure no less than 23 times (not that I was counting) and then I steam-cleaned the entire carpet. Finally, I thought, Black and Brown with a touch of Green Friday was over. Too bad for me the cats, not wishing to be outdone by the dog, were already planning Upchuck Saturday.

 

Master of None

by

Jeff M. Brown

 

“I’ve been married to one Marxist and one Fascist, and neither one would take the garbage out.”                                                                                              -Lee Grant 

 

“I live with one cat and one dog, and neither one takes the garbage out.”                                                                                                                       -Jeff Brown 

 

The Case of the Missing Garbage Can 

           

             So, there I was, standing by the curb slack-jawed in the early morning sunlight.  My half-asleep brain was still trying to wrap itself around the odd situation that lay before me.  The recycle box was right where I left it the night before, stuffed full of old paper towel tubes, flattened cereal boxes, and a couple empty peanut butter jars. (Cereal and peanut butter are the base of my food pyramid.)  The garbage can, however, was nowhere to be seen. 

           

            Tuesday morning is when the garbage gets picked up in my neighborhood.  I always take it to the street Monday evenings because I’m prudent.  One of my worst nightmares is to forget to get the garbage out on time.  The re-occurring dream usually involves me chasing a garbage truck down the street with my cat’s dirty litter box under one arm, and a punctured Glad Force Flex bag under the other.

 

Interesting fact: Although the Force Flex drawstring garbage bag is remarkably tough and durable, you can only force and flex it so much before dirty cat litter erupts out of it like a tiny, unsanitary, Mount Vesuvius.

 

What kind of idiot criminal, I wondered, would want to steal my garbage can?  I’m certainly not the most absorbent paper towel in the grocery store, (that would be Bounty, the quicker picker upper) but if were going to steal a garbage can in cold blood, I would, well, you know, DUMP THE GARBAGE OUT FIRST.

 

Then a most terrifying thought struck me- maybe I was being stalked.  Somebody could have been going through my garbage right at that very moment, looking for valuable insights to my incredibly glamorous and interesting life.  My inner Sherlock Holmes reasoned that the dirty cat litter proved my wife’s cat used the litter box regularly.  All the yucky paper towels, I hypothesized, proved our geriatric dog didn’t.  The stalker, I deduced, should be throwing up right about now. 

 

Elementary, my dear Watson.

 

I scratched my head and tried to think clearly.  Maybe I hadn’t been robbed or stalked.  Maybe someone was just messing with me. I looked up and down the street.  There were trash cans in front of nearly all the houses.  Could one of them be mine?  Although I’ve owned my can for years, I’m not sure if I could positively identify it in a police lineup.

 

            Imagine this...

 

A police officer and I are sitting behind a one-way mirror at the local jail.  There are six garbage cans lined up on the other side.

 

Officer: Do you recognize any of these cans?

 

Jeff: (Hiding my face behind my hand) Are you sure they can’t see me?

 

Officer: Yes, it’s a one-way mirror.

 

Jeff: (Squinting intently.) Could someone turn can number three sideways? (An officer on the other side of the mirror turns the can and accidentally knocks the lid off.  He promptly doubles over.)

 

Jeff: (Coughing and holding my nose) Yeah that’s my garbage can. I thought you said it was a one-way mirror?

 

This was crazy, I thought.  My can had to be nearby.  I walked down the sidewalk, paying special attention to everyone’s garbage.  Before I knew it I found myself standing in front of an especially impressive heap.  This neighbor sure had a lot of trash this week, and several garbage cans to boot.  One of them looked vaguely familiar, but was it mine?

 

There weren’t any cars coming.  I glanced at the house and didn’t see anyone gawking at me through the windows.  Oh my Gosh, I thought, I could get arrested for this.  I tried to be nonchalant.  I put my hands in my pockets.  Yep, neighbors, it’s just me, Jeff, going for a leisurely morning walk.  I’m not doing anything wrong or suspicious, and I certainly wouldn’t dream of going through your garbage. 

 

But, there I was, standing by the curb in the early morning sunlight, doing just that.  I didn’t know who put the can there, and I didn’t know why, but when I removed the lid, I knew it was mine.  I drug it and its unsavory contents back to my house. 

 

Somewhere along the way I pulled a muscle in my back.  To help recover from the ordeal, I sat on my front step for a few minutes.  Sure enough, the garbage truck came around the corner.  As I watched the garbage man empty the neighbor’s garbage cans, and then mine, I realized something.

 

Yeah, I’m an idiot.