The Unkillable Bill

It's a very good thing for Uma that my uncle wasn't the Bill in Kill Bill.  Because guess what?  I'm related to a superhero.  Oh ya, be jealous.  My Uncle Bill is Unkillable.  Never heard of him?  Then where you been, cuz he's a ROCKSTAR.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jen," you say.  "Where's your proof?" You say, "because my uncle is pretty amazing, even though he may or may not be named Bill."

"Well," I say, "being named Bill is definitely a requirement because, you know, then he wouldn't be an Uncle Bill.  But there are a few options available to you here."

Is your uncle regularly referred to, with good reason, as Wild Bill?  Then your uncle might be as amazing as mine.

Does your uncle also hold the highly esteemed title of Grandpa Bluejay?  Mine does.  I mean, seriously, how can you not be legendary if your own grandkids call you Bluejay?

Are there DOZENS, nay HUNDREDS of stories floating out there in the world about the legend that is your uncle?  There are about mine.  In fact, I suggest you share yours in the comment section!

"And yet," you say, "you have not yet supported the claim that he is the Unkillable Bill."

Oh just you wait, I've got the proof and then you're gunna feel silly for doubting me.

Never doubt the Unkillable Bill.

Way back once upon a time in 1948, an adorable baby boy with brown eyes and a huge grin was born to Rachel and Roger, who had been given a pretty solid warm up with the birth of their first genius/bonkers child, Sarah.  But a tiny, teeny piece of Baby Bill was missing.  Normally this wouldn't be a big deal as none of us are born completely perfect and quite a few of us out there function for years without noticing there's a big gap between our ears.  This little bit of Bill that was missing, however, happened to be in his heart.  Bill was born with only two parts of the main valve in his heart that is supposed to have three.  Now remember, this is 1948.  Open heart surgery was extremely new and not at all reliable. But after a few years, he underwent surgery to replace that malformed valve with a new one ... from a pig.  Yes, Bill was given a pig heart valve.

Now listen up, because this is the key element to why Bill is Unkillable--

Bill is part BACON.

How can you not be a superhero if you are part BACON?!

But that's not the end of my proofs, in fact we're just getting started!

Things that have failed to Kill Bill (besides Uma):

Look at his face!! Bhahahahahaha!

• Two more open heart surgeries
• A pacemaker
• Being a champion wrestler for the Army with said heart
• Being a moron and smoking while being a wrestler for the Army with said heart
• The Vietnam War
• Continuing to be a moron and continuing to smoke for five decades with his Bacon-heart
• Innumerable solo excursions in to the wilds of the Cascade Range to pursue the perfect Fly Fishing experience with said moronity as mentioned above
• Growing up squashed between three (bossy) sisters.  Ok, well, one of them isn't so bossy.  I ain't saying which one, though.
• Literally having scars from said sisters (but not from the not-bossy, unnamed one.)
• Having to raise my cousin, Jessie, Queen of Bossy Big Sisters.  And yes, that's coming from ME, Grand Dame of Bossy Big Sisters.  Oh yeah.

Don't be deceived by her pixie cuteness.  She will take you DOWN.

And most recently, a tiny bump on the head.

"Really?" You say, "You're comparing a tiny bump on the head to the entirety of the Vietnam experience?"

"Yep," I say.

OPEN BRAIN SURGERY, PEOPLE.

GULP!!

After acquiring a subdural hematoma one afternoon, HE WENT FISHING because, you know, it's Bill.  Yep, Grandpa Bluejay took his grandson fishing because he's just awesome like that, but then began to feel a mite poorly later that evening.  And when his right hand stopped working, thus preventing him from riffing on his slide guitar (I mean, c'mon!  He's even the guitarist in a real band!) he finally decided that this was more than a bump on the noggin and a long day of fishing.

With the greatest of sacrifices to the Gods of Beautiful Hair, the great white mane was shaved and a friggin' baseball-sized blood clot was removed from his BRAIN STEM.

And with standard Unkillable Bill-ness, he's not only fully recovering, he's doing it twice as fast as expected.

I'm telling you, at the end of the Apocalypse, it's going to be a load of cockroaches ... and Bill.

PS -- He rejects the Bacon-Heart Superhero category and politely requests that you refer to him as the Atomic Hero with the Bionic Valve.  But I think he's wrong.  Bacon is way better than atomic bionics.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Autocorrect

So, autocorrect.  I have a solid Love/Hate relationship with autocorrect.  I think it may be one of the most useful/useless tools of our modern electronic devices that allow typing.  By way of evidence, I give you Exhibit A:

Let’s evaluate this.  On the one hand, Autocorrect, which technically has no sense of humor because it is non-sentient and all, is actually suggesting I correct “cjoxlate” to the greatly improved “cjomlate.”  Please make note of this incident and file it away for future reference to an upcoming blog post titled, “2001 is truly here and HAL is real and running everything.  What other excuse could there be for Trump,” as evidence that Autocorrect may not be as non-sentient as we would like to think, along with other bits of our digital tools.  Seriously, ask anyone about their experiences when their phone has suggested ads and posts relating to conversations they have just had IRL while their phone was in their pocket.  The droids are coming, people. 

But for now, the Autocorrect Droid is still suggesting that I swap one nonsense word for an equally garbled nonsense word.  Sooo helpful, AC. Methinks, though, that I am being a bit too quick to bite the digital hand that is helping me.  AC DID pick up cjoxlate as a misspelled word.  I just garbled it so badly it didn’t know what to do with it.  “Sheesh what did she type now?  I mean I know I’m programmed by MIT supergeniuses and can recognize 2,657 different languages and dialects, but there’s only so much a megacomputer program can do!” 

So, touché, AC.  You make a fair point. Yes, your suggested correction was crap, but so was the input I provided.  It got me thinking, though.  What if Autocorrect was programmed to correct our real lives, not just our crappy typing? 

(Wavy scene transition and “Woo-woo” music clip) 

Scene: Saturday evening, on the stoop of a modest apartment.  Two 20-somethings walk up to the front door and stop. 

Dude, still surrounded by the haze of cologne he bathed in before the date and wearing his only clean button up and jeans: 

So, this is where you live? 

Chica, still bearing the vestiges of the makeover her roomies imposed on her before departing on the date: 

Ah, yep.  This is the place. 

Autocorrect:  

That should be, “Yes, this is the correct location.” 

Chica, sighing and closing her eyes in resignation: 

Ok, sure. 

Autocorrect:  

Do you confirm this correction? 

Dude, staring at Autocorrect:   

What? 

Autocorrect: 

This is not a complete sentence.  Please stand still while I draw a blue wavy line around your feet. 

Dude:  

Do NOT draw on my shoes! 

Chica, waving off AC: 

It’s ok, I understood what he meant!   

Autocorrect (with a hint of stiffness, getting down on all fours with a large stick of blue chalk):  

The wavy lines will remain until corrections are made. 

Dude:  

Fine!  I meant to say, “what is going on here?” 

Autocorrect:   

I suppose that will suffice.  Please continue your discourse. 

Chica, side-eyeing AC:  

So, yes, this is my apartment. 

Dude:  

              Looks pretty nice.  How long have you lived h . . . 

Autocorrect:  

RED WAVY LINES! RED WAVY LINES!  STRANGER DANGER! PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION. 

Chica:   

Chill!  He’s not a stranger, I just went on a date with him! 

Autocorrect, leaning towards Chica and whispering loudly in her ear:   

Why is he asking about your living arrangements?  Does he have a criminal record?  Did you ask for references?  Did you properly vet him on the national register of sex offenders?  

Dude:   

I am NOT a Sex Offender! 

(Elderly couple approaching on the sidewalk give Dude the Rascally Varmint Stare and cross to the other side of the street.) 

Dude, glaring at AC:   

Thanks. 

Autocorrect, fully serious:   

I exist to serve you. 

Chica:  

Listen, Autocorrect, can you just take a break for a bit so we can have a conversation? 

Autocorrect, with an offended sniff: 

Fine.  Take your life your own hands.  Don’t mind me, just trying to save you from sex offenders. 

Chica:  

There are no sex offenders here! 

(Elderly couple on other side of street begin scurrying away) 

Dude:   

You know, I have to be at work early tomorrow.  I, uh, had a great time.  I’ll call you. 

(Walks away quickly.) 

Chica, watching her date walk away like his shorts are about to catch fire: 

Well, you did it again, Autocorrect.  What can I say? 

Autocorrect, back turned to Chica: 

You should apologize. 

Chica, outraged: 

Apologize?! You just ran off my seventh first date this month!  I haven’t made it to a second date since I updated your program! 

Autocorrect, with grave majesty: 

You are most welcome. 

Chica:  

I WASN’T THANKING YOU! 

Autocorrect: 

Someday you will.  Just keep an eye on the sex offender registry.  I’m certain one of them is bound to show up. 

Chica, opening her front door and slamming it in Autocorrect’s face: 

GO AWAY! 

Autocorrect, running and calling after elderly couple: 

Excuse me, I believe I just heard you use the phrase “hoodlum” and this reference is unclear to me.  Please halt while I draw a blue wavy line . . .  

So, thinking about it, random gobbledygook corrections aren’t so bad, considering what Autocorrect could be.  Or maybe I should just learn how to type and spell.   

And for the record, the word I was attempting to type was CHOCOLATE.  Honestly, AC should have gotten this if it knew me AT ALL.  Sniff.