When I was around preschool age, I was obsessed with the television show, CHiPs, much like all the other kids I knew. As far as I was concerned, the coolest motherfucker in the world was California Highway Patrol officer Frank Poncharello aka “Ponch“. With a cool uniform, a motorcycle and proficient in a wide variety of skills such as skate boarding, street and roller hockey, handball, racquetball, basketball, flying, singing, jet-skiing, hang-gliding, sky-diving, wind-surfing, demolition derby driving, square dancing, drag racing, volleyball, chess, and Karate—Ponch was cool. Ponch got bitches a-plenty. I wanted to be exactly like him. His partner, Jon Baker was a fucking hick tool.

One day, I watched an episode where Ponch, having returned to his apartment from exercising, pours a glass of milk, cracks two raw eggs into it and drinks the mix. Supposedly, this is Ponch’s secret recipe for starting the day off right. I became fixated on this raw concoction. It was the magic potion of coolness. If I were to drink this elixir of milk and egg, I would instantly become cool like Ponch. If I managed to drink it every day, I’d surely get a motorcycle and roller-skating bitches would just flock to me like a pint-sized porn magnet. I was a big kid now. I didn’t need diapers anymore and I sort of knew what a vagina was. I needed this.

Unfortunately, my beast of a mother disagreed. I begged, cried and rolled about, throwing the most convincing tantrums I could muster—all to no avail. The golden, eggy elixir of utter coolness was denied to me. Still, I refused to give up. I prodded, needled, cajoled and demanded until finally, when faced with a long car trip to visit my grandparents in another state, to get me to shut up, she relented and mixed me up a batch of that Ovo-Lacto Nectar of Dudeness.

I dimly recall that shit tasting really gross, but I chugged it down like a champ. Nothing was standing between me, my motorcycle, uniform and a bevy of Farrah Fawcett-haired bitches who would bake me peanut butter cookies and rub my belly to my heart’s content. I had arrived.

My future looked bright. The youngest kid ever to become a California Highway Patrol officer and licensed motorcycle speed demon. I eagerly climbed into the back seat of my parents shitty, blue Nova and away we drove. Off to my grandparents house in the next state over. Life was good.

It wasn’t more than a couple hours before my stomach suddenly felt decidedly unwell. I started a cold sweat and as I poked my head over the front seat (this was before the days of seat-belt responsibility) to tell my parents that I felt funny, the world started to swim as my eyes teared and Ka-Blammo!

I projectile vomited all over both of my parents and large portions of the front half of the interior of that Nova as we drove down the interstate. My father had to pull over and throw up as well. I was crushed. This would never have happened to Ponch. That motherfucker drank that egg and milk shit every damn day and here I am, a panty-waist wimp that blows chunks on his first try.

I had failed. I would never be cool like Ponch. I was not fit to wear the CHiPs uniform. I would never own a bad-ass police bike and forget about getting cookies, belly-rubs and figuring out what to do with Farrah Fawcett’s vagina. All was lost—splattered across the dashboard of a beat-up shitty, blue Nova piloted by two puke spattered hunks of white trash, ferrying their weakling child down the road to mediocrity.

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