So, what's your story?

Here’s mine:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qtmi4Nc-3dE

You’ve got to help me. I’ve done something horrible. I caught my boyfriend cheating with my best friend. When I saw them together, I got so furious, I slit their throats with my pocketknife. Then, I buried the two bodies and my mom got scared And said, “You’re movin’ with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air.” I whistled for a cab and when it came near The license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror If anything I could say that this cab was rare But I thought, “Nah, forget it. Yo home to Bel-Air!” I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 And I yelled to the cabby yo holmes smell ya later Looked at my kingdom I was finally there To sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.

My mom was a 17 yr old virgin in small town USA, and a lot of buses come through with famous people. So mom leaves on the bus with Merle Haggard. Merle is making out with her and mom mentions she’s a virgin and he calmly steps back, and buys her a bus ticket from StL back to our town, wanting no part of that bidness…lol She always says I could have been named Hagatha.

One day when I was about ten, my mom and I went to the laundrymat and took an old white hamper that kind of favored a trash can. In came these rockstar guys from Three Dog Night, and since it looked like a trashcan, they used it as such. We were mortified because we needed to put in our laundry and leave. Instead, mom & I waited until they were gone, cleaned out the trash and then left.

My husband teases me all the time because when I was a tween my dream guy John Schneider (Dukes of Hazzard) signed my upper chest at his country concert in Branson, so he always says John signed my boobies when I was twelve and he’s a perv.

Mom got dissed by Dice when she went to LA. He was smoking a cigarette, she went and tried to talk to him and we all know what an ahole he is. So he tells his security to ‘get her away from me’ and my mom’s a five foot tall christian woman from Missouri, she was absolutely mortified.

*I could do this all day, it’s fun!

So… this is the ‘80s during my ad agency years. I’m sitting with a sound engineer in an L.A. recording studio, trying to pick a music track for a TV commercial I’m working on, and suddenly behind me I hear a VERY familiar voice—a magnificent voice—rumble, “Is this where I’m recording today, guys?” I swivel around and see a smiling Orson Welles, black outfit and all, absolutely filling the doorway.

Now kids, I’ve never been shy about introducing myself and talking to “celebrities”—and in those days, producing commercials, I met a ton of them. But for me, Welles was in a class all by himself. He was and will always be one of my writer/director/acting gods, and in that moment I was so rattled seeing him in the flesh (most ample flesh, I should add), I was dumbstruck… all I could do was stare.

The engineer, who had worked with Welles a lot, replied without even turning around to face him, “Nah, Orson, you’re in Studio C down the hall.” And before I could move, Welles was gone, and to this day I’m STILL kicking myself for not having had the nerve to follow him down the hall.

Well, just a few hours ago, I was in my apartment and saw something interesting outside my window.

I’m on the third floor of an apartment building. This apartment has a deck that faces the usually empty side of a grocery store parking lot. Think of that extra space off in the distance where absolutely no one parks.

So I stroll by my sliding glass door unsuspecting when I see a truck. No problem, I see random cars there alone all the time. But this time I saw movement. Is that a…..head of hair? Ah yes it is, and it’s bobbing up and down.

Nothing wrong with a little fiery passion, because we’ve all done it. But after the foreplay these guys really went at it. From what I saw (I kept checking up on them over a period of 45 minutes, I didn’t watch the entire time) the did two different positions and it was really rough and passionate love making.

So yeah, that was cool.

Yesterday we went to clean out the house of an 89 year old man and his wife, who had moved. I found a poster sized photo of the husband, head swathed in gauze, sling on his arm, hang-dog look on his face. I knew there had to be “a story”

Seems he was at a convention and he split his knuckle. Someone said, “Looks to me like you need to go to the hospital, you might need a couple of stitches.” He goes to the hospital and sits. And sits. Finally, he’s taken in and given – exactly – two stitches. According to HIM, he then says to the nurse, “Damn. I feel bad, driving so far and taking so long just for 2 stitches!” To which she replied, “Oh, hold on a minute, I think I can fix you up!” and she bandaged him up like a ski slope invalid.

I later asked him if we could use his name on the auction sale bill. He was, like, “Eh, if you want to.” I told him that if we could use his name, I would display the invalid picture prominently. He immediately caught on and said, “YES! The pity bid! Let’s GO for it!”

I swear, the guy could/should do stand-up.

Don’t need to repeat again really.

A few decades ago Ted Bundy is pacing up and down a maternity wating room awaiting the arrival of his seed. In comes a nurse: “Congratulations mr. Bundy, it’s a girl! ” Now that blessed girl is crafting this very response!

@ZEPHYRA Seriously, you’re Ted Bundy’s daughter Rosa? Wow, I really thought that was just a rumor. Coolio!

I once slow-danced with Buddy Holly’s widow Elena, for whom he wrote the lovely True Love Ways.

I think I’ve told my best tales here too often:

Meeting the President in the White House.

Voting at the DNC at the age of 18.

My family dissing Ted Kennedy in Newsweek and possibly preventing his presidential nomination.

Given a topic, I can usually have a story…just ask @jonesn4burgers.

Well OK. There was this one time? In band camp? Well actually I never made it to band camp in junior high school due to a conspiracy against me.

The school was offering to pay for two deserving poor kids to go to band camp. I felt sure that they would pick me because my family was very poor and I was the best trumpet player in the band. However they picked the first chair saxophone player and the third chair clarinet player. How was this a conspiracy? Well it all goes back to when I first got to junior high school in band class. I started out as last chair trumpet. Over the course of the next two years I managed methodically challenge and beat all the trumpet players ahead of me one at a time. My goal was likely obvious to everybody and that was to become first chair trumpet player which was occupied by “David” who was the obvious favorite of the band teacher Mr. Moore. When I challenged David I gave him two weeks notice of a solo. Mr. Moore reluctantly and sadly declared that I was the winner. David said nothing to me. He just put his horn away and left. The next day he was playing the tuba I guess because there was no way that he would ever play 2nd trumpet to me.

All was OK for a while until the last week of school at a show for the entire school when Mr. Moore announced the David was his 1st trumpet player and had David stand all the while holding the tuba. I was shocked and aghast. The trumpet players next to me were laughing And the look of horror on my face must have been funny as I noticed some of the kids in the first rows of the audience were also laughing. I thought what was the first trumpet player doing playing tuba? What is going on? David never challenged me first chair back . No one said anything to me. A reasonable person would conclude that they plotted against me and stabbed me in the back. As hurt and confused as I was, I kept it all in never saying a word about it.

So at the junior high graduation concert David was 1st trumpet. David stood out front and played all of my solos. After the concert it took all of my strength to tell David (without sounding phony or sarcastic) his solos were “superior” and he bought it. But the truth of the matter is that he just did OK with his always weak and slightly flat sound. Whereas people described my sound as bold. Anyway…

I was determined to excel in high school where I practiced extra hard and far out played David and he soon dropped out. Whenever I didn’t feel like practicing I just remembered what happened in junior high and that gave me strength to persevere. Then at my senior concert, I was the 1st trumpet. I was the anointed “Outstanding Senior Musician”. I was the one standing out front of the band playing solos (including Al Hirt’s Java). I was the one who won the music scholarship. Also I went on to play trumpet through 4 years of college and auditioned for and accepted into the U.S. Army Band.

Thank you David an Mr. Moore were ever you are. I had the last laugh. HA!

Yes, I will vouch for @ibstubro‘s storytelling skills and enthusiasm. Bro’, I suppose you sent this to me because of my many lengthy responses.
I stared at my screen until I nearly caused myself to go blind from the bright glow. First I wondered if I had any stories I hadn’t already told. I started to think of a few, but they were all depressing, or vulnerability episodes. I was hoping to think of something cheerful. I have a number of short, amusing tales from my childhood you may enjoy.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Too Small For Prey >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I was a toddler. We were living in Chicago then. My mother sometimes took me to the zoo, I imagine to tire me out so she could have an afternoon. She was amused to see someone had tossed an ice cream cone to the monkeys. One picked it up, dumped out the desert, and started dipping water from a puddle and drank from it like a cup. When she turned back toward me, I was not in my stroller. She scanned the crowd, and saw me by the lions. I was so tiny, I had walked right under the handrail, and was reaching between the bars, saying “Here kitty kitty.” My mother couldn’t reach me, and had to have a keeper retrieve me for her. She said the lions had looked completely unconcerned, as though I was just too little to make a decent bite.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Cherries Jubilee >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I was only two. We had left Chicago, and were living on a family farm. My mother decided one day she wanted to pick some cherries. It was some distance from the house, so she drove the car, and of course, took me along. She knew I was easily drawn away by most anything, so she put me on the hood of the car, and told me I couldn’t get down.
Deeply involved in her picking, she called out from time to time, asking me what I was doing. “I called back, “I’m painting my lips.” When again she called out, my reply was, “I’m painting my face.” This continued, with me painting my arms, my legs.
When my mother come from the other side of the fence, she could see me. One branch of the cherry tree hung within my reach. I had pulled off a few of the cherries, didn’t care for the tartness, and went about smearing them all over myself. I’m told I was a uniquely pink girl for a couple of days.

I walked up behind my six-years-older brother while he was digging a hole with a shovel, and got hit between the eyes and knocked out. Not that big, until you add that my three-years-older sister ran into the house and screamed, “Mom, mom! Come quick! Bill just killed ibstubro!”

My sister loved drama.