.45 Caliber Headspace

Both of you reading this may now be asking yourselves, “What the ‘F’ is a .45 and why am I asking myself this?” Well, let me explain by describing what .45 means to me. When I think of “.45 Caliber”, my first instinct is to not want to be shot with this size bullet. That would be pain of the sort I hope never experience. A sample of other words I associate with 45 Caliber (besides pain) are: large, forceful, penetrating, impactful, resonant, and destructive. While a blog of Chad can neither be nor aspire to be any of these adjectives, a blog of .45 Caliber can and should.

Any lesser blog, say that of .22 Caliber, might just as well remain that of Chad, the bar being set so low, who’s to care if it’s ever reached? I could suffer some .22s, like if I had to, for the cause. Only in the ass, though. While still providing little padding and sure to be a source of humiliation in future recall as well as cause for difficulty in sitting and especially horseback riding, at least none of my more vital organs would be violated and will continue blissfully pumping blood and oxygen to other parts I cherish most.

And thus, .45 Caliber was born. A much higher bar to be reached (and bullet to avoid suffering in the rear or elsewhere).

As an addendum to the previous post, I thought it fitting to note that the other night an aquaintence of mine, whom I’ll call Jake Charles (Email: moc.liamg@selrahcXekaj Addr: 4025 9th Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94116-1302) for the sake of anonymity, thought it would be appropriate to tell me, “Chad is a crap name. Whenever there’s a Chad in a movie, he’s always the obnoxious jagoff that everybody hates.” Thanks, yes, and whenever there’s a Jake Charles in my earshot, he’s always the guy whose jaw I want to crack to keep stupid observations from coming out of his mouth.

Conversely, a woman I know, whom I’ll call Infinitely Tasteful Woman, for the sake of anonymity, recently told me that she has a T-Shirt she loves that says “Chad Is Rad” and features a picture of the country, Chad, in Africa. I told her I would have no shame in wearing that T-Shirt with regularity, and neither should she. In fact, I’m going to order a grip of those T-Shirts and convince (pay) as many T-Shirt friendly (stacked) female models as I can to wear them around town, preferably wet. This, in a campaign to take “Chad” back for all that is good and right in the world…and sex sells. If not to the masses, then at least to me, and for a dozen or so “Chad Is Rad” wet T-Shirt models, I will gladly pay through the nose. “Let’s make this happen!”, I continue chanting in my daydream.

Fine Print: The identities referenced above are purely fictitious. Any similarities to persons living or dead is unfortunate. If you attempt to contact these persons and they respond, I recommend changing your own identity and moving to Guatemala.