Peter Pocking Tail

The internet might think Taylor Swift invented this Easter “egg tapping” tradition, but whatever. I was paqueing Easter eggs before I even knew what paqueing was. (Or pocking. Or pokking. Or packing. No one can seem to agree how to pronounce it, much less spell it. This will likely only be resolved by future historians.)

Anyway, I cheated.

Well, cheating is a pretty strong word. Basically, I just refused to be bound by the arbitrary rules imposed upon me by an uncaring universe. Or by a gaggle of Cajun cousins I’d never met before. Whichever.

Growing up, we didn’t do many family reunions, probably on account of how they were usually held in places that took too much gas to drive to. We didn’t have a lot of money.

But we did manage to make exactly two reunions on my Dad’s side. They were both over Easter, somewhere not in Lake Charles, Louisiana, but close enough to drive to from Beaumont, Texas without breaking our 1980-something gas budget. It was called The Ole Place, near Sugar Town. (Not to be confused with Sugar Land in Texas, which is just another word for the endless urban sprawl that is Houston.)

The first one we went to was fun, if a little awkward. I didn’t know anyone there, and any cousins my age had about as much use for the scrawny, nerdy comic book kid as the scrawny, nerdy comic book kid had for a bunch of cousins who could probably punch him into the next parish using only their pinkie fingers and a determined glare.

We had a big Easter egg hunt, followed by a round of smacking our eggs together to see whose egg cracked first. This, I would later come to find out about five minutes ago when I looked it up, was called paqueing (or one of the entries on the aforementioned list of alternate terminology). It was probably the only game they actually played with me as an equal, so I had fun. But I lost a lot.

The next year, I went prepared.

For some weird reason known only to herself, my mother had a collection of alabaster eggs she’d put out as a decoration every Easter. I snatched a few off the shelf, then boiled some of those goofy shrink-wrap bands onto them that were probably new and revolutionary in the ‘80s, but just seem cheap and kind of stupid now. (This pretty much describes a lot of the ’80s, now that I think about it.) Still, once wrapped, the alabaster eggs looked more or less like regular Easter eggs, so I figured we were good.

I was ready. When it came time for the annual smacking of the eggs, I strode onto the field of battle with a level of confidence my scrawny nerd body had never known before. Then, I found my first victim.

tap…tap
tap…tap
*smack*
*crack*

I WIN!

I mowed through rows of cousins, each one falling to the might of my mysterious, impervious eggs. I did have the good sense to bring a few spares, though. I’d switch them out every now and again to avoid too much suspicion, just so the other kids might think I’d lost once or twice.

I never did.

The field of battle was littered that day with the shells of those crushed beneath my righteous fury. My egg was fortified with years of oppressed nerd rage, and I was unstoppable!

Right up until one of the cousins stopped me.

He snatched my egg from my gloating fist when I wasn’t paying attention and shouted, “HEY! HE’S GOTS ROCK EGGS!”

The other cousins ran up and gathered around, sensing my fear like a hundred hungry vultures circling a tiny woodland creature with a promising limp.

“GET HIM!”

I ran.

They caught me.

As punishment for my crimes, I was held down and basically waterboarded with off-brand Kool-Aid. You know, that weird red punch that comes in plastic milk jugs and tastes faintly of vomit that was ubiquitous at every kid’s birthday party back in the day? Yeah. That’s the one.

Ah, memories…

Looking back, I probably bit off more than I could chew. Or maybe I just got too cocky with each new win. If I’d just quit while I was ahead, then I might have walked away un-punched and the totally rad neon shirt I was wearing that day wouldn’t have been ruined.

Then again, I also wouldn’t have yet another humiliating story from my youth that I could capitalize on later as a grown-up trying to sell you this book. (Assuming you’re reading this in a bookstore or in an online preview or sample post or whatever passes for marketing these days, anyway.)

Life is all about balance, y’all.

(If you enjoyed this excerpt from A Lifetime of Questionable Decisions, why not buy the book and impress all your friends with how fun you are at parties? All the cool kids are buying it. Don’t you want to be cool, too?)

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
Available now from the following retailers

The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.