Highway 10 Revisited.

Good On Paper.

2012-01-20T22:45:00.000-05:00

Often you will hear that something is ‘good on paper’. This means that while it would seem like a delightful idea in theory, once you actually play it out, it doesn’t quite live up to the beautiful list of benefits that may or may not have once listed onto some sort of paper at an earlier moment in time. There are things out there which are more obviously ‘good on paper’ but ‘bad in practice’, such as Communism, Adult Diapers, Napping, Water Beds, or Unprotected Sex. However, some things are much more covertly ‘bad in practice’. Leave it to me to assist you in avoiding the following list of ‘good on paper – bad in practice’ things and shit and whatnot that may otherwise take you by surprise.

Smelly Candles.

Who wouldn’t like fresh cookie smell? Or pumpkin pie smell? Or laundry smell? Or Christmas Tree? The thing is if you have a bunch of good smelling candles lying around, at some point, you’ll end up lighting one up before sex, or, on the opposite side of the spectrum after taking a huge dump. And given how connected smell is to memory, over time, the given smell will act as a trigger. Which means that this particular smell will either make you pop a boner or completely relax your colon, neither of which are very desirable when you are standing at ‘Mrs Fields’ at the mall, or cutting down the Griswold family Christmas tree, or eating dessert with the In-Laws, or folding clothes, and so on and so forth. If you are female, replace ‘pop a boner’ with the female equivalent.

Digital Cameras / Camera Phones.

I realize that this is old news, but I wish that I could have prevented this one, and warned so many people of what was to come. On paper, it reads that “I can take so many pictures!” In practice it becomes “I must take so many pictures” or “I need to take pictures of everything forever” and everyone ends up with a never ending library of photos that no one will ever look at. I’ve covered this before, though (see: Picture Perfect). I guess I’d just love to go somewhere, ANYWHERE, and not see people taking pictures of everything. Just once please.

Netflix.

Again, I’m far too late to have prevented this, but on paper, we all love the ease of use, the accessibility and the huge selection that Netflix and the like have to offer. In practice, however, there are no more movie stores and I miss browsing. And fuck Redbox too, especially since the one at Shaw’s was busted tonight.

Drinking Eight Glasses of Water per Day.

On paper – I’ve never felt so alive, hydrated and healthy. In practice – I’ve never peed so much. I can’t commit to a one hour meeting, out of fear of pissing myself. The commute home becomes a race to not pee all over my car.

Stalls with Walls that Go All the Way to the Floor.

I learned this on a recent business trip, where the office building I visited had bathrooms equipped with stalls of this kind. I know what you’re thinking “but Kev, what about the added ankle privacy?” While it is true that no one will be able to figure out who you are by the crumpled up pants and shoes normally put on display, it is also horrifyingly true that every smell that has ever been in the stall up until that point will be trapped in this poorly aerated stall, possibly forever and ever. The smells all mingle together to create some sort of perpetual super smell mixture. Stepping into the stall is like being slapped in the face by an old sweat sock drenched in piss, chock full of shit, and sprinkled with some sort of onion-garlic-curry hybrid. Too much?

Ice Makers.

I agree that the old school method of having to fill little ice cube trays is both tedious and slow. And I ALWAYS spill water on the floor when travelling from the sink to the freezer… But I don’t think I’ve ever had ice cubes from an ice maker that didn’t smell funny. And not ‘ha ha’ funny. I prefer my ice non-smelly.

Alpaca Sweater.

I honestly liked how it looked on me at the store. It was slimming, it was warm. So, dagnabbit, I bought it. What I didn’t know about an Alpaca sweater, and you should know, is that little fluffs fly off the sweater and go everywhere. The floor at home – covered. The floor at work in and around my cubicle – also covered. Belly button and ass crack – full to the brim. But seriously, my little fluffs are all over the office. You can actually tell where I have been. And forgive me for once again bringing up the workplace poop, but I left more than just trace amounts of Alpaca on the floor in the stall. HENCE, EVERYONE KNOWS WHERE I’VE BEEN – the frequent trips to the kitchen area and to the bathroom. Alpaca Sweater makes my workplace routines completely transparent! It didn’t take me long to throw it away. I felt like taking it back to the stupid GAP where I bought it. I don’t remember seeing fluffs on the floor around the display. FALSE ADVERTISING. They must have had someone armed with a ‘Ghostbuster’ backpack style vacuum cleaner to run out and clean house every five minutes while no one is looking. Damn you GAP, your Alpaca sweaters and your stupid staff of vacuum ninjas.

Well, I’m sure there are plenty more examples rampaging out there and maybe I will get to them one day. For now, I think that is a good start. You’ve been warned.

That’s it. My Alpaca just came out of the dryer and I need to use the potty.

Writer's Block, Vol. VI.

2012-01-05T12:05:00.002-05:00

I recently took a huge dump at Barnes & Noble. Anyone who knows me, or has read enough of the things that I write will know that browsing leads to photo finishes in the restroom. Bookstores are the worst for this, especially since I usually end up with a coffee in my hand, which is yet another of my favorite and most effective laxatives. So there I was, racing from the bargain bin to the lavatories, desperately hoping that my usual stall was free.

Yeah, I have a usual stall.

Yeah, I am worried that the Barnes & Noble people refer to me as “The Shit Guy” or “Mr. Poo Dude” or “Maybe we should just stop serving him coffee”.

So I did my business. I won’t get into graphic details, but let’s just say I lost about five pounds. As I was pressing the little flush handle (by the way, I love that they haven't switched to those automatic flushers yet, because it allows me to better control courtesy flushing, as well as the timing of everything as I stand up to wipe), someone who must have recently entered the bathroom (like a ninja, I must say, since I didn’t even hear the door open) shouted something out to me.

"CAREFUL WITH THE FLUSH IN THAT FIRST STALL."

It was too late, I had already flushed, but everything seemed to go down correctly. When I exited the stall I saw a guy, probably in his twenties, holding a wrench, and wearing some sort of tool belt. He looked at me and said, "Sorry for yelling, I wasn't sure it would flush right, I'm here to fix that one" as he walks past me and heads directly into the stall I just annihilated with a few days’ worth of bad eating (Chinese food, pizza, brie… some kind of onion soup… many eggs).

I turned around to advise him against immediate entry into the danger zone, but I was too late. So I say to him, "Well, in that case, let me apologize for the air quality in there." I was tempted to add in a “That skid mark on the bottom was totally already there when I arrived.” Also worried that he might lift up the seat, I could have potentially added “Any below the seat markings were probably not from me.”

Anyways, before I could add anything else onto my apology (for what had to be a brutal scene), without skipping a beat, this is what the guy says to me, from his KNEES in the stall, FACING a toilet that I had just destroyed.

"Welcome to my office."

It sounded so HARD and so wise. The dude was twenty-something, but clearly, as my brother said, "When you work a shitty job like that, you grow up real fast." I don't think my brother actually said 'SHITTY' job, but I felt the pun worked rather well. Sorry big brother, if I misquoted you.

I realize that the holidays are over, and many of us are bummed that we have to wake up early again, go to the office, and pretend to work for eight hours. Well, the next time you go to the washroom, any washroom really, and are face to face with a clogged poopy toilet, just remember, THAT could be your office.

Suddenly the cubicle seems pretty nice, doesn’t it?

That's it. I need to go look at books, I’m pretty backed up from all that holiday eating.

Where the Cheese At?

2011-12-23T11:05:00.006-05:00

Dearest Readers of HXR,

As you may have already noticed, I have been spending less time writing for your beloved Super Happy Fun Blog, Highway 10 Revisited, and spending lots and lots of time writing for my Action Packed Full to the Max Blog, Zombie Hall.

I have still been writing comedy and Highway 10 material, albeit mostly in my mind, and will document some new stuff in the Newest Year of all recent New Years in memory, 2012.

Here are a few thoughts that will likely work their way into some upcoming material:

- Why I stopped going to Open Mics
- Alpaca sweaters are awesome but the worst too
- Where did my pants button go?
- Yankee Swaps are fucked up
- Who buys this shit?
- Who watches this shit?
- Newt Gingrich? More like Shit Sandwich (and similar remarks for all of those candidates)
- Real Adventures of Kev D. in Public Restrooms
- But I don't FEEL 30...
- Never juice an onion
- Don’t try the hot sauce
- I’ve never had an ‘AH-HA’ moment, and I don’t know what it feels like
- Where jokes go to die
- Grown men look stupid in sunglasses, especially indoors
- Warm sheets good, warm toilet seat bad

And so on and so forth.

Happy Holidays and all sorts of hugs and shit,
Kev D.

That's it. I should probably start writing some of that stuff.

Expert Opinion.

2011-10-13T23:00:00.005-04:00

People tend to have different passions in life. What bakes one person’s beans might not, in fact, bake someone else’s beans to quite the same level of bakedness and/or bakeosity. Some people don’t even like beans. Some people eat beans and get all gassy and smelly. The point is, beans are pretty awesome, especially if you put hot dogs in them. Wait, no, that’s not the point.

Allow me to start over.

I see people obsessing over sports and don’t really understand what the big deal is (see: Color Commentator). I see people loving cars, and think, what a waste of time and energy. Just like some people may not understand why I know so much about obscure zombie films (see: Zombie Hall… no seriously… If you’ve been wondering where the hell I have been, I have been writing there lots…). Some people try to keep up to date with all of the newest gadgets and iDildoes, learn about fine wine, or eat all sorts of soft cheeses. I sort of get it, but who has the money for that?

Some people go bird watching. No comment.

The point is everyone wants to be a buff of some kind. I fancy myself a music buff, and a bit of a film buff, but if you are looking to be a buff and have not yet chosen something to buff on, allow me to present you with a buff list (which I guess makes me a buff buff), of what I feel are underrepresented hobbies and passions that surely must exist in the world today, somewhere. Be a buff like these, and you’ll really stand out as a one-of-a-kind buff.

The Urinal Buff

I would imagine life as a Urinal Buff would be exciting and full of non-stop action, especially if you’re a woman. Imagine being able to stop at a random rest area somewhere like southern New Hampshire and come out cheering.

“Honey, they have the new Falcon 4000! Limited edition! What a swirl! Get the camera!”

Sure, people might look at you funny when you enthusiastically piss, but every public urinal pee would be an educational experience. You’re probably thinking that there isn’t much to know about urinals. Maybe the Urinal Buff could also have vast toilet seat knowledge. You don’t know.

You don’t know because you’re not a Urinal Buff. By the way, the Urinal Buff prefers to be called Whiz Kid. I bet the Urinal Buffs would have all sorts of inside jokes slagging guys that sit down to pee, or prefer the comfort and privacy of a stall.

Other types of buffs along these lines could be Toe Nail Clipper Buff (“I just got the new model Trim”), Shower Curtain Ring Buff (think John Candy in “Planes, Trains”), Ceiling Fan Buff (“It’s got eight speeds!”), or Late Eighties’ Microwave Oven Buff (“You can cook a whole turkey to the max”) just to name a few.

The Crayola Connoisseur

Outside of the weird kid who ate crayons in class, few people seem to have a real appreciation for crayons, and I think that’s a shame. I think a true Crayola Connoisseur would be able to take a crayon that is missing its little rolling paper and still be able to name which color it is, likely based on its smell and texture. They’d probably get confused between Mahogany and Shit, though.

“Smells like Magenta, but has a bit of a Fuchsia aftertaste.”

They’d actually understand the purpose of that built in sharpener on the box too. Also, let it be known, that the Crayola Connoisseur wouldn't respect people who know a lot about markers, because, markers and marker experts are bullshit. You ever smelled those smelly markers?

“Uh, yes well, the last time I checked, the color pink does not actually smell like bubble gum” said the Crayola Connoisseur, quite condescendingly.

The Firework Enthusiast

Fully grown humans enjoying fireworks have always, to me, seemed a little bit ridiculous. I often like to blurt out things like “classic Pinsky formation” or “I wasn’t sure if they’d bring it home, but then BAM, double Fapperwheel!” because I’m so silly like that, and to me, that joke never gets old. But imagine someone who actually knows the terminology of fireworks. You’re probably thinking that there isn’t a terminology. Well, probably not. But I’d assume that the fireworks enthusiast would invent his own glossary of firework related terms and maneuvers. I bet ‘bouquet’ and ‘finale’ would totally mean something.

I know you’re out there and I’m dying to meet you. Probably you’re good friends with someone who knows all the techniques for making various styles of paper snowflakes.

“Check this one out! I only used three scissor cuts.”

Dental Hygiene Assistant Fanatic

If you think that they would only know about the famous ones, you’d be wrong. They’d know about the local up and comers too, and they’d have trading cards, like baseball cards, that have their stats printed on the back. You know, like Cavity Assists, Cleaning Time Average, and Drool Handling?

“I’ll trade you a ‘Melinda from Springfield’ for your ‘Peggy from Rochester’ rookie card.”

Seriously, if we throw other healthcare professionals (nurses, pharmacists, the person that operates them fancy machines in the hospitals, etc…) into the mix, we could have whole talk radio channels centered on them. I’d listen to that.

“Welcome to ‘You Can’t Handle the Tooth’, I’m your host, Barry Jogbar, let’s go to the phones.”

“Yeah, hi Barry, long time listener first time caller, what do you think Portland Charlene’s chances are at being called up to big show this year?”

“After yesterday’s veneer performance, I think they are pretty strong. Pretty strong indeed.”

Honestly, they are already wearing colored uniforms. We might as well organize the color scheme a little more and make them form teams. Besides, they’d certainly be better role models than people in ‘US Weekly’ (see: Keepin’ it Real). Think of the children, people.

Cigar Aficionado Aficionado

I’ll leave it up to you the reader to decide what exactly this would be. It’s kind of like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, minus the horrific cover art and the fact that I always die on purpose.

“To jump off the cliff and end your adventure, turn to page SET BOOK ON FIRE.”

Most likely a Cigar Aficionado Aficionado involves some kind of parallel universe. I believe that it has very little to do with cigars.

I wanted to add Muzak Lover to this list, but when I did a quick search on that there Google thing, sadly, it turns out that this type of buff exists already and will therefore not make this list. In any case, don’t feel the need to follow something on this list necessarily. I’m simply trying to get your brain motivated to get out there and be creative. Go become the first SOMETHING Buff. The world needs buffs of all kinds. Except illegal stuff, or stuff that involves a lot of eating. There are enough of those buffs as it is. Also, don’t confuse Buff with Fetish. You should like something, not like-like something. Big difference.

That’s it. My office building got the new Falcon installed and I need to go try it out.

Impulse Drive.

2011-09-08T22:00:00.000-04:00

We've all seen the commercials and billboards for them. And, sure enough, they are sprouting up everywhere you turn. Otherwise desolate strip malls are now decorated with bright yellow signs promising you cash for all of your unwanted gold. The ads all sort of start out the same, implying that most of us have extra sacks of pirate booty hiding in our attics and under our beds just waiting to be melted down and cashed in on. Are you sick of carrying around dead stinky grandma’s stinky old dead jewelry? She’s dead and you’re poor, so get rich! Get rich now.

At an open mic’ once, a very funny guy was on before me, and did an entire bit about leprechauns and ‘cash for gold’ advertisements. I don’t remember exactly what he said, or what his name was, but I figured that I should give him a cosmic nod of some kind, and telepathically thank him for warming up the audience for me that night. There’s no way that my bit about inflatable mattresses was that funny.

So, anyways, we can all agree that the ads are already ridiculous enough. But a few weeks back, I saw a closed down gas station that had recently been converted in to a ‘cash for gold’ temple, with a rather large sign obnoxiously advertising what they are all about. In case you were wondering, they give cash for gold. Right underneath this sign, a poor sap standing in one hundred plus degree heat was holding a big arrow that read ‘CASH 4 GOLD’ and was pointing it to the store directly next to him. To top it off, he was wearing a Mr. T sized gold medallion.

Makes me think of the dudes standing outside of the strip club asking me if I like boobs and/or pussy, as if I am going to suddenly stop in my tracks, unaware of what lay beyond yonder walls.

“Wait, wait… you have the beaver to cure my fever? Finally! Thank God you were out here to let me know what was available in your fine establishment. It wasn’t clear from that naked woman on the neon sign. Now, just so I’m clear, your establishment features both breasts and vaginae? Honey, you go ahead, I’ll catch up with you later.”

Now, aside from the ridiculousness of holding the arrow (and playing air guitar on it) directly below a Buick sized billboard, one must wonder how many extra customers are coming in thanks to this roadside arrow. Ordinarily this type of sidewalk luring is meant for drive-by impulse buys.

“How will I ever make it up to Cindy for that pesky 'whoops wrong hole' incident? Oh, hey now, FLOWERS!”, thought Gerald, as he whizzed past the lonely clown holding a sign indicating where one might buy roses.

And then there is always the classic ‘sexy girl car wash’, or something involving free hot dogs. I mean, who wouldn’t pull over for that? But how many people are actually driving around with treasure chests of doubloons in their trunk, just in case they have an impulse to sell?

“Cash for gold eh? Why not!?! Get the good gold out of the glove compartment, we’re going in.”

Is it often enough to warrant having him out there?

“We were on our way to the grocery store and thought, well, since we have all this unwanted gold hidden in our seat cushions, we may as well pull over. We just couldn’t resist the sweaty fat guy with the arrow. Say, how much for my wedding ring?”

And why do these signs sometimes try for some cheap play on words? It’s insulting to my intelligence. Granted, we are a nation of people that need to be told to ‘click it or ticket’. Yeah.

“I saw the sign, and didn’t want to miss my ‘golden opportunity’. Now, do you guys have pliers? I have some teeth to rip out.”

You think any alcoholics have ever brought in their peepee and poopoo after a night of binging on Gold Schlager? ... Too far? I’m just thinking that that would certainly be unwanted gold.

Perhaps the sidewalk charmer is aimed at criminals fleeing the scene of a crime. Although, unless their crime was a gold heist, I don’t see what good it would be. Maybe if they robbed another ‘cash for gold’ place.

“This way! Hurry! Follow the arrow!”

I think about these things when I should be more focused on the road. Even as all of this raced through my head, I was still tempted to pull over, because I thought it would be a solid joke to go up to the guy holding the sign wearing that enormous medallion and say, “Hey man, that’s an awfully big medallion. Is that gold? I’m pretty sure there’s a place around here that would pay you good cash for that... Not sure where though... Any ideas?”

Moving right along.

My realization in seeing Goldenboy McNecklace-Chest is that if the place needs to dress a guy up in a bunny suit or tutu or whatever to try and lure you into the store, it’s probably a store and product that you can do without. This realization, in turn, got me thinking about what the worst impulse buy situations would be (other than cash for gold), and whether they could even employ a sidewalk goon or not.

In general, you shouldn’t impulse buy at all. The most tempting, and often easiest, impulse buy to give into is food, because after all, you definitely need to have that brand new sandwich. But, if you see any of the following examples, or anything like them being advertised on the side of the road, or being dangled at you so seamlessly in front of the checkout, you really need to just move on.

Colonoscopy

Granted, if they had a sidewalk guy and his sign said 'ENTER IN REAR' or something of the like, I would still have to pull over just to give him a high five, you know, in the name of comedy. As long as he’s not the one administering the procedures, because then maybe just a fist-bump, followed by a lot of hand sanitizer, might be better. For the record, most medical procedures are not recommended to be purchased purely on impulse (unless the purchase is Emergency Medicine that you suddenly need due to bleeding from the head or something).

Foreign Babies

I know it seems like celebrities pick these up on a whim, but if a place is advertising with a guy on the street, you might be better off just calling the police. I know you want to be like Brangie, but the babies here won’t be the quality foreign babies you’ve come to appreciate in such magazine photo shoots as ‘US Weekly’ or ‘In Touch’. Not sure what that magazine is in touch with. Definitely not reality, or ethics.

Cult Membership

Never pay money to join a cult, and certainly not on a whim. I guess don’t join one for free either, even if they promise cookies. Especially if they promise cookies. The expression ‘Drink the Kool-Aid’ exists for a reason. How do you think they got so many people? Arrow signs. I’m telling you, look it up. No don’t. Lifestyle changes should be discussed with your wife / husband / family / brain before you just proceed on an impulse. Same for those Timeshare deals, which are rather cult-ish. Just give me my free gift and take me back to the strip, and no, Steve, I don’t care how often you went skiing last year.

Christmas Tree

Especially if you already have one, or it’s not Christmas, or you don’t celebrate Christmas. Seriously, it’s a tiny apartment, where the hell would we put it? This goes for all holiday-related gear. No, Halloween is not a holiday. Nonetheless, avoid those Halloween superstores. Forever.

“But the bags of fake cob web are on special, buy eighteen get one free!!!”

Yeah, exactly. If you collected everyone’s unused Christmas and Halloween decorations, you could probably build a tower to the moon, or at the very least, you could probably bury a lot of really annoying people.

Drug Trial

This is a special one, since it’s not so much an impulse buy as an impulse sell (much like the 'cash for gold'). What you are selling, of course, is dignity and potentially your overall well-being. A respected clinical trial place might not be so bad, and you might only end up with the more traditional diarrhea side-effect, but do you really want to even risk having a story that ends with “and that’s the story of my exploding left testicle”? And you really don’t want to know what non-traditional diarrhea looks like.

Anything at a Mall kiosk

Face it, if you really needed it, they would have an actual store. They are hoping that you hate yourself enough that you just can’t resist their redundantly shitty product. Excuse me sir, do you like [ face cream / toy helicopter / funny slippers / cheap sunglasses ]? No. But not nearly as much as I dislike you. I realize that this is getting away from the idea of sidewalk people, but then the mall will go and have a sidewalk sale, so they can pretend to have a sidewalk with which to lure you in, as well as sidewalk people who are all “50% off everything! Except what you might want to buy!”. Seriously, that's not on sale? Fuck you, mall.

Haircut

The cheaper the place, the more likely they are to have a guy on the street, and the worse off your hair will be. Well, unless you want to look five years old again. Even a good haircut is the worst, because you have to go to work, and everyone is like, “hey, new haircut?”. So imagine a bad one.

In conclusion, I’m sure there are some important impulse transactions that I am missing, but if you go directly after the more obviously bad impulse buys like PROSTITUTES, ANOTHER BOOK from THE BOOKSTORE, SKINNY JEANS, GAMBLING, NEW CAR, HOME OWNERSHIP or the Godfather of all impulse buys, PETS, you probably deserve whatever grief you are currently feeling.

In conclusion part two, never listen to people on streets holding signs, unless they are the police or one of those old lady crossing guards with the big lollipop stop sign. In those cases, I will leave it up to you to decide if you want to buy what they are selling.

That’s it. I’m going to go drive around and see where my impulses take me.

Writer's Block, Vol. V.

2011-08-19T11:15:00.008-04:00

The end of a vacation is always so bitter sweet. Sure, I’m glad that my cat’s not dead and seems to remember that I’m the guy that feeds him. It’s also nice to be back in my own bed, where my pillow smells like my old gym socks and my wife and I know exactly how to angle the fan for a refreshingly pure and blissful sleep. But that last day of vacation, when I’m back home and unpacking has that awful feeling that Sundays always had when I was a kid.

How can I enjoy today when there’s school tomorrow?

Whenever I get to work after a vacation everyone just seems so content in their office cocoon. I feel like I’m missing out. What do they know that I don’t?

It’s kind of like how growing up, all the other kids seemed to like ‘Winnie the Pooh’, but I found the entire ‘Pooh’ world to be thoroughly depressing. Seriously, 'Eeyore' makes me want to kill myself. I have vivid recollections of watching the cartoons and feeling sad inside. James Taylor has the same effect on me. Some people sit there finding his music toe-tappin’ and smooth, I find it pants-shittin’ and moldy.

And all the 'back-to-school' paraphernalia out there this time of year isn't helping. On top of my current vacation withdrawal, my brain is flashing back to the dismal feeling of wonderful summers coming to a close and returning back to school, where I can get in trouble for speaking English in the halls.

Still, complaining about having a job definitely qualifies as complaining with my mouth full. So I’ll shut up now, as it is rather impolite to talk with my mouth full, even if I’m still not sure whether or not I like the taste, or whether or not this particular mouthful will give me a heart-attack someday. Or make me choke, right now.

I’m still hopeful that in the long run it makes me poop gold.

That’s it. My cubicle calls.

Survival Horror.

2011-07-28T13:30:00.002-04:00

Because of my own personal obsession with the Zombie genre (see: Zombie Hall), and the fact that I have recently found a tick on me TWICE, and had a brush with poison ivy (like they say "Leaves of three, Kevin you SUCK"), I have come to the conclusion that in an apocalyptic survival scenario, I’m as good as dead. You may be thinking the same thing yourself. I’m no boy/girl scout, and probably, neither are you. Well, I’m here to help. Whether it’s Zombies, World War a Million, The Rapture, Alien Invasion or The Jersey Shore that come to get us, the following preparatory steps will help you out when civilization reaches its breaking point. I won’t get into the obvious ones like 'FIGHTING', 'HUNTING', 'BEING IN SHAPE', 'AGRICULTURE', 'MAKING SHELTER', 'MAKING FIRE', or 'WHAT BERRIES CAN'T I EAT' because those are clearly the least important.

01) Eat Garbage.

It’s good for the immune system, and eventually, it’s all that will be left, so better get used to it. To be fair, the average American already eats garbage, so this is no stretch. Anyways, practice with actual garbage, not just Happy Meals.

02) Jogging Pants.

When the end of the world rolls around, you’ll want the comfort of elastic waistbands and cottony delightfulness, so better to start creating a stockpile. Plus you don’t need underwear with jogging pants. Matching hooded sweatshirts are a nice touch as well. If you have enough for some friends you could be a gang, the Comfort Gang. Whether or not you go with the elastic at the bottom of the legs is entirely up to you.

03) Poop Outside.

I don’t see there being toilets, so start practicing. Although be careful when choosing a wiping leaf ( as they say "Leaves of three...", “Please tell me that’s not how you recently had a brush with poison Ivy, Kevin.”, “No, it’s not.”).

04) MacGyver.

Watch episode after episode, because I’m sure most of his inventions are fundamentally sound and would work in real life. If you can make a solar powered laser beam from a pistachio, a soiled prophylactic and your own eyeball, trust me, you’ll do fine in THUNDERDOME WORLD.

05) Learn Guitar.

You could totally be the next Bob Dylanesque folk hero in the Post-Apocalyptic uprising (assuming that you are uprising against some type of force, like Pod People, or Snooki). Hmm… maybe learn the Ukelele or Harmonica though as they're more portable. Or invent your own instrument with the skills you’ve learned watching MacGyver.

06) Hide and Seek.

Although, it’s mostly the hiding part that you will need after the end of the world, unless you’ve taken to cannibalism, at which point, maybe you’re a seeker. Oh, also play with other adults, because kids are AWFUL at hide and seek.

07) Home Brew.

You know, because the MOONSHINE guy is always loved in the Post-Apocalyptic community.

08) Monologue.

Start being comfortable talking to yourself, because you might be the only one around for long stretches of time. And be ok with it. Don’t create yourself a lover named Wilson from a ball used in the sport Volleyball. A volleyball, if you will.

09) Nick Name.

Figure out what you want to be called after the apocalypse, because people named Kevin don’t last long. People named SOLITAIRE or DESTRO or TRIXIE or DYNAMITE or NITRO or MALONE can survive a long time. Do not use names like TARGET or GONER.

10) Catchphrase.

Have a catchphrase, like “thrill me”, or “I’d buy that for a dollar”, because if someone is shooting a documentary about the aftermath, you’ll totally get more screen time. It might be good if you have a theme song too. It’s even better if you wrote it (see: Step 5 - Learn Guitar).

11) Hoarding.

Have enough to be ready, but not enough to end up on 'A&E' with that psychiatrist with the huge forehead (Dr. Fivehead, as she is called in our household). Or just rob an Extreme Couponer. Have you seen those stockpiles? That’s a lot of green beans.

12) Be Nice.

You know, to people, in general, because karma is a bitch. Especially in a flesh eating scenario.

I know a lot of these steps seem drastic, but you really never know when the big change is a comin’, so you’re better off having these things ready. What’s that saying? “The best preparation is awesome preparation”. No wait, it’s “the best prepared people are prepared for the worst”. Is that a saying? If it is, it’s kind of a bummer. Fuck that.

I’m probably missing some vital preparatory steps, but this is a good start.

That’s it. MacGyver Season three… GO!

Judgement Day (a.k.a. Panel of Judges 2).

2011-07-15T10:30:00.006-04:00

Often times they say that you should not judge a book by its cover. I think more realistically it should be that you should not always judge a book by its cover, but that sometimes it is ok, especially when it has a buff pirate on it and you can see his nipples. You know what that book is going to be about. Who holds a sword like that? Come on. Anyways, this can also sometimes be true of people (see: Panel of Judges). But the ridiculous clichés like “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes” as I previously discussed, or something equally absurd like “You can tell a lot about a person by the company that they keep”, you will find, are not accurate barometers of personality and character. Like I discussed when I dissected the shoe argument, there are probably cases where the latter argument could still ring true.

When someone hangs around a bunch of snobs, it can sometimes be safe to say they probably are themselves rather snobby. However, just because someone lives within a society of mountain gorillas, it does not mean that they, in fact, are a mountain gorilla. Maybe they don’t even like mountain gorillas, maybe they spend most of their time talking about the king and queen gorillas behind their backs to the plantains. You don’t know.

Anyways, if 'shoes' and/or 'company kept' are off the table, but you still would like to effectively try and judge a book by its cover, then here are a few accurate ways to gauge someone’s personality, just by observing some random thing about them.

You can tell a lot about a person by…

the number of cats that they have.

I’m still working on the algorithm a little, as well as the graphs and flow chats and whatnot, but essentially depending on the number of cats, this is what you are saying to the world:

1 Cat: “I love my cat, cats are awesome.”

2 Cats: “I love ALL cats, I’m a cat person.”

3 Cats: “I love my cats, probably a little more than I like people.”

4 Cats: “Sparky and Mittens are my babies and they will never leave me, not like my lousy kids.”

5 Cats: “Last week I knit myself seventeen Christmas sweaters, all with cats on them. My cats.”

6 Cats: “The local kids say my house is haunted. It is.”

7 Cats: “I speak cat… MEOoooooW Rehhhrr!”

8 Cats: “The urine that you smell is mostly feline, but also mine, mostly.”

9+ Cats: “SHMARGLE GLUB! Darrrrrr, Gabaraga WEE dee fwaaa? Hahahaaaaaaaa…”

It also says a lot about a person if they claim that they are striving to become the crazy cat lady / man / hermit / wildebeest. Mostly it says 'stay away' or 'keep away from children'.

Increase in cats, increase in crazy, which, if you have a cat, makes total sense.

You can tell a lot about a person by…

the size of their pit stains.

You can tell if they are nervous, have recently exerted themselves, or whether or not they are wearing antiperspirant. Depending on how far down and widespread the stain is, you can tell how long they have been feeling anxious, warm or physically strained.

There’s a scene in ‘Superman 3’ (or maybe it was number four, there’s no way for me to remember, really) where Superman is lifting an enormous ice block or person or something and has atrociously large pit stains all down the sides of his best blue tights. I’m not sure that Superman actually would sweat, and especially not when he is somewhere in Antarctica like he was in this particular scene. What this tells us is that this ‘actor’ is not actually Superman. Now the fourth wall is broken and I’m back to reality. Thanks a lot, Hollywood. Next you’ll tell me that the mall Santa Claus is not the real Santa. Well, then how did he know I wanted a pony? How did he know?

More importantly than all of that, if someone is wearing a light gray shirt on a hot humid day, so that it clearly accentuates and highlights the tremendous pit stains, you can tell that they do not have much in the way of foresight.

But seriously, how was I supposed to know the office would be this warm today?

You can tell a lot about a person by…

whether or not they plug their nose when they jump into a pool.

People that do this may as well be wearing one of those bathing cap bonnets like in those old synchronized swimming videos (with the rubbery flowers and the metal snap button strap across the chin). No matter a person’s age, when you see them doing this, they immediately look about four years old. For the record, at four, I already did not plug my nose. I already knew that I did not want to look like a weenie (see: Weenie Roast). Get your shit together! One thing you can tell about these people is that they clearly are not comfortable in the water, and they’ll be the first to go when the whole world floods.

Hopefully when it does happen, it will be less like ‘Waterworld’, and more like ‘The Little Mermaid’, what with the musical numbers and magically delicious crabs. Seriously, Sebastien would make a sweet crab roll. Hot buttered soul.

Either way, the nose-pluggers are fish food.

Well, that, along with my previously stated guidelines (see: Panel of Judges), ought to get you started along a path of judging books by their covers, only when it is completely acceptable to do so. Or not. You be the judge.

That’s it. I’m going home sick, these are gargantuan pit stains.

Keepin' It Real.

2011-07-08T09:00:00.038-04:00

It’s no secret that the majority of young (and probably old too) people in America think that the surest way to success and happiness is by being famous, by being on a reality show or some kind of rock star, or actress, or whatever. It’s everywhere. Even a lot of people writing on the cyber spaces think that they’ll be plucked for their writing gift and sent on a whirlwind book tour with movie deals and celebrity encounters. When did becoming famous become the end all solution to life?

People are force fed extreme drivel twenty four hours a day with shows like the ‘Hill People from Jersey’, or the ‘Real McWives from Buttfuck County’. These same people then idolize the insanely undereducated ‘funny’ and ‘quirky’ people that they see on television, mostly because they all seem to live a life where all they do is inject themselves with chemicals, spray themselves orange, drink martinis and own dogs. I'm pretty sure children are accessories. There are at least one million reality shows at this point, so who can blame kids growing up thinking that that is what life should be? Do nothing, bitch about stuff and then talk about it live on ‘Bravo’ with that guy who looks stoned all of the time.

I wouldn’t mind peoples’ obsession with reality shows so much if the shows focused a little more on actual reality. And don’t think that if shows were centered on ‘regular’ people that it wouldn’t be as entertaining, because that’s total crap. Think about it, think about how many people you know that are one billion times more charismatic and hilarious than ANYONE on these reality shows.

Now if I could just get the attention of stupid people that own networks, we could work on getting all the ‘Following Around Rich and Wannabe Famous Assholes with Cameras’ shows cancelled and replace them with real flesh and blood people (I’m convinced that some of the ‘Housewives’ characters are refurbished animatronic robots from a closed down Chuck E. Cheese restaurant somewhere). The thing is that, in order for it to stay authentic, the real people featured would have to not get paid for being on the show. In fact, we would have to prevent them from making any kind of profit from being on the show. Otherwise, we are right back to square one, following rich assholes around with cameras. Also, the ‘I Wanna Be Famous’ instinct would kick in the minute that they know that the cameras are focused on them, so we would have to tape the shows secretly, without them knowing that they are even on television (this would only work for one season, so only one season is allowed), like they did with those special hidden cameras that they used to tape ‘Planet Earth’. Also, the old dude from Jurassic Park could narrate.

“Welcome… to Jurassic Park.”

Anyways, I’m pretty sure the animals didn’t see a dime from that program, and they stayed all animally and humble.

The people on the shows would all need to fit the following criteria:

a) Not famous

b) Not rich

c) Not crazy

Because we have reality shows about either rich people, or famous people, or crazy people, or people who are all three. Shows with not rich, not famous, but completely crazy (often diagnosed as such) people seem to be all the rage nowadays, with shows like ‘Confessions of Intervention Hoarders’ or ‘Extreme Pouponing’ or those shows about people that bake gigantic wiener cakes. And I don’t want to see ‘regular’ people put in intense competitive situations either, like ‘Top Loser Survivor All Stars’, or something completely removed from everyday life. No, we need to capture ‘regular’ people in ‘regular’ places, doing ‘regular’ things, secretly, of course.

So who would we ninja-film to best encapsulate the possibly entertaining human condition, as narrated by crusty ol’ Jurassic Park guy? Glad you asked. Here is my list of top ten reality shows that need to happen. The names of the people are purely fictional. Should any of these shows actually come to be in the coming months, expect to hear from my lawyer. Or at the very least expect to hear me shitting my pants from a distance.

1) Mascots.

Cameras follow around the people playing the different costumed characters at a small town amusement park. At the heart of it all is Glen Speen, who has played Captain Space Squirrel for over 75 years.

Tagline: If you can’t stand the heat, take off the space suit.

2) Test Drive.

Cameras film notoriously unsuccessful used car salesman Jeremy Fapperwheel from a distance, leading up to his eventual termination at the end of the season.

Tagline: He’ll take you for a spin.

3) The Circle.

A stationary camera records the events at an actual Wisconsin community sewing circle where Lynn Ogdenflur is being shunned for all of her juicy gossiping.

Tagline: She’s hanging on by a thread.

4) Hip Hop Hooray.

Career guidance counselor Sean Yonder teaches Hip Hop dancing to pregnant teens on the weekend. This is his story, filmed in black and white from a van.

Tagline: Womb! There it is!

5) Meat Heads.

Helmet cams are placed on those annoying people that are always at the gym but never seem to be working out, except for randomly lifting a few crazy heavy weights here and there and grunting (they are told that the helmets are special workout hats). They’re insanely built but no one knows why or how. We’re about to find out.

Tagline: Hanging out with dumbbells.

6) Tax Season.

Hidden cameras are placed all over the IRS during tax season, because you know there are some wacky hijinks going down in there. Amidst a sea of strangely obese people, Paul Doublestraps takes charge and gets shit done. Hard.

Tagline: For once, they’re giving something back.

7) Do You Believe in Magic?

Filmed entirely on camera phones at children’s birthday parties, this show documents the legendary careers of a local group of birthday party magicians, led by Alfred Humpy (a.k.a. Lightning Hands), in this uplifting tale about following your dreams.

Tagline: You’ll be glad they didn’t get a clown.

8) Master Baiters.

Like the deadliest catch, except it follows a group of retired seniors that go fishing every week at a quiet lake in like, New Hampshire or something. What happens on the lake stays on the lake.

Tagline: You’ll be hooked.

9) The Lounge.

Webcams capture the conversations in a teacher’s lounge at an elementary school. Warning: This show contains vulgar language and makes fun of children, a lot. Honestly, Principal McGraw, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

Tagline: You’re going to want to stay after class…

10) Fresh Prince.

From selling door to door to hosting exotic Tupperware parties, Jean Papineau is passionate about keeping your food fresh, and talking to himself. He regularly breaks into song and cries when doors are slammed in his face. Filmed in HD.

Tagline: He lives in his car.

Well, alright so maybe those still sound insane (man, you should see the complete list).

How about this? How about Hollywood starts fucking writing actual scripts and stories again, and uses actual actors and comedians?

Dare to dream.

That’s it. There’s a show on about real estate tycoons opening a titty bar in Area 51, gotta go.

Don't Call It a Comeback.

2011-07-01T09:20:00.000-04:00

Sometimes something needs to stay gone.

At times, some people like to fool themselves into thinking that certain things have comeback into fashion. These were the idiots sporting mullets a few years back, and will likely come up with some sort of retired porn-star Burt Reynolds mustache to ride 'stylishly' into the future (probably while drinking PBR). However, much like the mullet, or any form of rat-tail, these people were and are wrong. That doesn’t mean that all comebacks are in the wrong. I was all for the return of bell-bottoms.

Some comebacks involve words and slang, not all of which deserve a comeback (see: Bad Language for examples of slang that should go away NOW and stay gone). Sometimes it can even be a person that makes a comeback, like Bill Murray or the Ninja Turtles. And sometimes, people attempting a comeback should cease and desist, like that bizarre mixture of the New Kids and the Backstreet Boys, where I’m pretty sure they added in a few extra people from a random Sears catalogue photo shoot.

So how can we tell the difference between a good comeback and a bad comeback, you ask, quite annoyingly? Usually you can’t until it’s too late. Something can seem like a good idea for a comeback on paper, like Indiana Jones, but end up being bad idea jeans, like Indiana Jones and the Crystal Wiener Schnitzel or whatever. To be completely frank, it takes an innate sense of awesome to know what is the shit, and what is just shit, when it comes to comebacks.

Now, we all have fantasy island comebacks, in the back of our minds, you know, something that you desperately wish would come back into the now and be the norm again, like hearing good music on the radio, or there being television shows that aren’t centered on insane people with plastic boobies and/or questionable morals. Hell, I’ve even argued about trying to make certain expressions make a comeback (see: Express Yourself). But when a truly random nostalgia wave hits, and something like Pog starts coming back into popularity, you need to be able to declare whether or not you should jump on the bandwagon, or boycott it completely. Incidentally if people start buying Pogs or Beany Babies again, take my advice, and do not jump on that particular bandwagon. The same goes for those hideously frightening Troll dolls.

Anyways, in order to help you hone your skills, I will list a few examples that, should they try to make a comeback, you absolutely should not get on board with, and you can use that as a sort of blueprint for any kind of fashion / culture / food / expression / bullshit thing that may come up between now and forever as an attempted comeback. Well hopefully not forever. I assume in the afterlife, there isn’t really any use for this talent, and that there will no longer be any kind of cyclical trendy caca poopoo. I’m kind of hoping that we’re all bald, wearing the same one piece robe or unitard, and speaking in rhyme. All the time. And I’ll finally stop hearing people say “Like us on Facebook”.

So, if you were to see any of the following examples actually attempting a comeback, you must do everything in your power to prevent it from happening. Do not get on board. Also, let me know about it, because it would mean that I am at least part psychic, and that would be pretty rad. I would totally join the Psychic Friends Network (which also should not be allowed to make a comeback).

Hitchhiking across the land.

Because no story that starts with “He was holding a sign that said Headin' West” has ever had a happy ending.

Macauley Culkin and the like.

Trust me on this one, Neil Patrick Harris is the exception to the rule. Child stars need to stay gone. Yeah, I’m talking to you too, kid from Sixth Sense and those weird looking kids from Home Improvement.

Pot Pourri.

Honestly, you don’t much hear about Pot Pourri anymore, which is good, because it translates to rotten pot, and needs to stay gone.

Commercials about preventing static cling.

I don’t know if static cling still exists or not (or ever did) as a terrible day to day issue in the world, but the commercials need to stay gone. I am so happy to not see commercials where a woman gets to work and has a sock stuck to her ass. That would never happen. I’m all for suspending my disbelief, but that’s just crazy. I'm sure static cling would be awful, if it were real. On the subject of advertising, I also didn’t care much for those ‘Head and Shoulders’ commercials either where there’s a dude who’s all:

“… but you don’t have dandruff-”

“EXACTLY!”

I would, however, like to see that same ad campaign applied to ‘Preparation H’. Because the situation where one person has, not only the knowledge, but the nerve to say to the other:

“… but you don’t have hemhorroids-“

“EXACTLY!”

is just very absurd to me, and funny. Shit, I’d buy it.

Incredibly pointy shoes.

I’m sure there are people out there still wearing them, but hopefully, their pointy tips are helping them trip and fall on a busy staircase somewhere, far far away from here. Imagine getting kicked in the nuts by one of those things? Jesus.

Saying something is ‘Money’.

I liked ‘Swingers’, but enough is enough. Dear dudes out there, no, you are not actually Mikey and T, the sooner you recognize, the better we will all be. It feels like it finally has mostly sunken in, and that you don’t hear this much anymore, and that’s good. Do me a favor and keep it that way.

McDonald’s Pizza.

Can you believe that it even held on as long as it did the first time around? I kind of wish Ronald and his entire dizzying array of emergency-diarrhea inducing food would pack it in for good, but I realize that isn’t happening ever. The least that we can do is make sure they never try pizza again.

Chicken Soup books.

No explanation necessary.

I could go one for a while, especially if I started listing people that shouldn’t make a comeback, but I think with these examples you get an idea of what to steer clear of. I could even go on listing people and things that need to go away right now, and then subsequently never make a comeback, but again, then we would be here forever.

So, if you get anything from reading this, it should be that not all comebacks are created equal, and that you need to be careful out there. Now, take what you have learned and apply it in all of life. Remember, only YOU can prevent shitty things from making comebacks. Or forest fires.

That’s it. I need to go acid wash my jeans.

Get on the Mic.

2011-06-24T08:00:00.013-04:00

Good morning or something! Rather than just admitting to the fact that I have been mostly lazy and uninspired for the past few weeks, I will list all of the things that got in my way recently and prevented me from writing new material. Some are reasons, some are excuses, and some are just thoughts that passed through my head. I will not list laziness, because that would be too honest. I seem to have problems writing routines when my actual daily routine gets upset. It's DEFINITELY not because I haven't had the time. So here they are, in no particular order, my list of excuses.

- Packing.

- Moving.

- Doing taxes.

- Clipping toe nails.

- What's my wife watching? Jersey Shore? I should probably study it.

- Eating.

- Watching zombie movies.

- Writing on a Wednesday seems wrong.

- I'll write tomorrow.

- But I currently need to poop!

- The sun is still up.

- The sun just went down.

- Umm...

...

Wait a minute... I just realized that this shtick is pretty much lifted from David Cross's "I Drink For a Reason". But that's ok. The main reason for writing this was to get my head back into it, and to assure anyone out there in TV Land that I have not died, stopped making observations, or worse, decided that I had nothing left to say. I promise not to take any long breaks ever again ever, even though I can't promise that, since, at anytime I could wind up dead, stop making observations or decide that I have nothing left to say. Anyways, I've made that promise before (see: Unclogue), so I guess I'm all about empty promises. But this will be a NEW new chapter. Chapter three of Highway 10 Revisited starting... NOW. Ready? And... Break.

That’s it. Welcome home Kev.

More Bad Language.

2011-05-17T11:00:00.021-04:00

I've never really liked the expression ‘buzz word’. And ‘buzz word’ is kind of a buzz word in itself. Honestly, fuck any snooty word that works on multiple levels like that. You may think that I would like that kind of thing, but, surprisingly, I don’t. You know who likes buzz words, and saying “buzz word”? The same people that say Happy Tuesday (see: Celebrate Good Times? Come On). These can sometimes be the same people that say ‘[BLANK] is in the hoOOoouuuuse’. Sometimes they may say ‘hizzle’ or ‘heezie’. Sometimes they even go the extra mile and shorten it to ‘hiz’, as in “Douchebag in the hizzz.”

Honestly, if anyone follows any type of ‘shizzle’, ‘hizzle’ or ‘drizzle’ with ‘my nizzle’, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal not to kick them in the nuts and/or muff (unfortunately, even hermaphrodites are sometimes guilty of this) and then run over their foot with a motor scooter (for increased humiliation). The same goes for ‘da bomb’, ‘dope’, ‘fresh’ or ‘tight’.

Yes, I do realize that often times these expressions are spoken in an attempt at ironic humor, like “check me out, I’m lame, it’s so lame that it’s funny”. It’s not. That angle is played. So played.

These are the same people that do ‘air quotes’.

If you don’t stop them now, they will keep repeating these atrocities the way that modern restaurants repeat the word chipotle.

“The Chipotle Pizza is prepared with a blend of chipotled chiplote cheeses and generously topped with chipotlish chipotles of chipotley chipotle. The chipotle sauce, is to chipotle for.”

I think you are starting to understand the type of people and expressions that I mean. Almost everything that people like this will say, should not be said. Watch an episode of 'Jersey Shore' and you'll get what I am saying. Scratch that, please don't watch an episode of 'Jersey Shore'. And anyways, I have discussed these types of expressions and people previously (see: Bad Language). At that time, however, I really only scratched the surface.

The following is a continuation, an addendum if you will, of a couple more things to absolutely never say anymore, and to discourage everyone else in the universe from ever saying. These tend to be said by anyone and everyone, not just people that look to Snooki as the voice of their generation. So read carefully, take note, and prepare to make some changes.

Foodie.

I don’t understand why this has become so popular, and how it has managed to propagate and become so widely used. The first time that I heard it, I assumed it was some kind of group of people with a weird sex fetish. You know people that like to bang each other with strap on submarine sandwiches or make love to a pizza bagel or something? But no, it’s people who just like food, and feel that they like it enough that, somehow, they need to distinguish themselves from the rest of us, who also like food.

Is this where we’re at? Making up creative names to categorize us for qualities that come naturally to every human / animal / organism? How shitty is the non-eating section of your life that you’re defining yourself by something that we all do, innately, for survival?

“I love eating, I’m a Foodie.”
“Oh well, I like food too, so, doesn’t that make me a Foodie too?”
“NO! I WANT TO BE SPECIAL! I NEED TO BE SPECIAL! YOU’RE NOT SPECIAL LIKE ME!”

I got news for you, we all like food. You’re not special. Honestly, what’s next?

“I’m an Airy. I don’t know what I would do without breathing. I mean, I just can’t live without my air.”
“Yeah… that sort of goes for all of us.”
“No, but I’m special, I know a lot about breathing. More than you. I know where the best air in the city is. By the way, I’m a Watery too.”
“Yeah, so’s my cat. He peepees and poopoos in a box.”

In the end, it kind of seems like a more friendly way to describe people with a food addiction. Although, calling a fat person a Foodie sounds sort of mean, doesn't it? Does this mean we should call a sex addict a Sexy?

“Roger needed to go get some help, he checked himself into a Sexy Facility.”

Sign me up. Or maybe it is more about the level of knowledge that they have.

“Roger has the biggest porn collection I’ve ever seen! What a Sexy!”

I like taking dumps. And I could talk about poop for hours. Maybe I should be a Dumpy, or a Poopy. But alas, as fun as making up bullshit titles for ourselves clearly is, we need to put a stop to it now, before this gets out of hand. Sorry Foodies, it’s time to find a new special talent, and to stop using that word.

While we’re at it, let’s completely stop trying to make random snappy expressions by adding ‘Y’ or ‘IE’ to words. What are we, five fucking years old?!?!?!

“She’s my Besty!”
“Hey, guess what? You’re the fucking Worsty.”

The most offensive ‘IE’ word out is when people deliciously call premature babies ‘PREEMIES’. Is it supposed to make it sound cuter? Well, it sounds gross, and frankly, I feel like it downplays the whole situation quite a bit. No offense to all the Preemies out there. Also, it rhymes with ‘creamy’, and somehow, that’s really fucked up to me.

I think the original hip and cool ‘IE’ word was ‘Hippies’, and seriously, don’t we all just hate hippies? Not just for the smell, but because they’re awful? So why follow that blueprint?

In conclusion, fuck you, self proclaimed Foodies.

But before I close the topic of these so-called food experts, for the love of God, everyone stop saying ‘Fast-Casual’. It’s fast food. Just because it costs more and looks nicer, doesn’t change what it is. It is food, given to you fast, that you eat fast. Afterwards, you feel shame (and a little bit of pre-diarrhea tummy rumbling). That’s fast food.

It is what it is.

Of all of the ‘non statements’ out there, “it is what it is” is by far the most vague and useless. It is applicable in virtually any situation, and yet, brings absolutely nothing to the table. Why not say “it isn’t what it isn’t”? Or “it does what it does”? Or “it schnooblers what it schnooblers”?

The same people that over use “it is what it is” also seem to flock to the expression “that being said”, which is another choice ‘non statement’. I call these ‘non statements’ because you could replace them in the conversation with complete silence or even with a mild, possibly nervous, fart, and pretty much have the same impact.

“I know it sucks, but, it is what it is.”
VS.
“I know it sucks, but… [squeeeeeeeeeeeeee]…”

No difference to the listener. Except smell. If anything, the nervous fart has more impact.

“They sure do use the word ‘chipotle’ a lot. That being said, the Chipotle Pizza is delicious.”
VS.
“They sure do use the word ‘chipotle’ a lot… [squeeeeeeewawawawawpwent]… The Chipotle Pizza is delicious.”

It actually feels more from the heart, with that big ol’ mild and nervous fart*.

So, join me in boycotting these expressions. If we continue to work on ourselves, and avoid such annoying expressions, eventually, we may be able to all unite together as one gigantic happy family. Someday, one day… That being said, I don’t see it happening anytime soon. It is what it is.

That’s it. I'm late for my Foodie tour of the city!

*: from ‘Highway 10 Revisted: The Musical’

Time of the Signs.

2011-04-18T23:30:00.035-04:00

"Hey everybody! It’s Mindy’s birthday on Tuesday, so we will be passing around a card for all of you to sign! Then we’ll have a mandatory lunch time party on Tuesday! It’s not actually mandatory, but if you don’t go, people will just correctly assume that you’re an asshole! And everyone will awkwardly sing Happy Birthday to someone that they don’t really know anything about! Except that her name is Mindy! It will ruin your usual lunch time routine of eating alone in the parking lot! And there will be one random guy who’s really into it!"

Alright, so I’m exaggerating quite a bit. And to be honest, I don’t mind the forced socialization and the free shitty cake. I think what really pisses me off is the passed around group card. You know the kind with the lame joke and the cheesy picture?

Depending on when you get the card, it can be annoying for different reasons. If you’re the first to get the card, unfortunately, you know that you’re setting the bar for everyone else. You’re declaring the emotional tone, the level of jokiness and the overall desired length of each individual message. Suddenly you have become the blueprint for how everyone else is supposed to feel about Mindy. You’re a Mindy barometer, and you don’t even know what she fucking does at the company.

You may even sign the card and then realize at the party that you were thinking of someone else. Plus, no matter what you do, you know everyone who gets the card after you is going to read your message.

“Did you guys see what Johnson wrote? What does that even mean?”

Getting it last isn’t much good either, because all of the good standard messages are used up, which doesn't really matter because there’s no space left to write an actual message anyways. You end up writing “YAY” and signing a shortened version of your name, followed by a little smiley face, if space permits. And now Mindy thinks that you don’t care.

Which you don’t, but you’d hate for her to find that out based on a group card.

If you get the card somewhere in between first and last, there is usually room to write something, but as I have said, all of the standard messages are used up. You read through everyone else’s to get ideas, and end up judging them, like you feared you would be judged. And like future signers of the card will do unto you.

“Adam wrote ‘loose’ instead of ‘lose’? Who still does that?”

Alright, enough of that, you need to get back to figuring out what to write, Mr. Grammar Police.

“Let’s see, I’ll put Happy Birthday Sue… wait… shit no, that’s been done already, ok… how about Best Wishes? … Damn! Carl already wrote that, I fucking hate Carl.”

You contemplate scratching off Carl’s name and writing your own, but somehow, you feel like you would get found out. You would, and the consequences would be severe. Well, maybe not severe, but you might not get cake, and that’s probably not a risk that you want to take. So you rack your brains trying to figure out something short and sweet. And it sucks.

Let’s face it, eventually everyone just starts randomly slapping words together in a nonsensical way, just so that it doesn’t say exactly what the others say, but still conveys the same general message.

“All the best” – Steve

“Nothing but the best” – Jimbo

“Mostly I wanna say, hey, take some best” – Amanda

“Good luck with all things best forever wishing you the best ‘n shit” – Jennifer

“I CANNOT BELIEVE ALL THE BEST THINGS I WISH ON YOU!” – Carl

Amidst the confusion it’s only a matter of time before someone forgets what the card is actually for, signs the wrong thing, crosses it off and then tries to make up for it.

“~~Sorry for your loss~~ Get ready for all my best wishes coming your way” – Shawn

Shawn should have stuck to his guns. At least it would have been original.

Rather than go through all of this torment, why not just think “Seriously, who gives a shit?” and just write the same thing as someone else. Do you honestly think that the person is going to get the card and go C.S.I. on it? Original Vegas, not Miami or whatever? Also, original cast?

“Well Jeremy and Cassandra both wrote the same thing, and, when I brought the card into the lab, clearly, Jeremy’s ink was fresher, wetter, guiltier, thus making him the plagiarizer. Alert the press.”

“Great work, Grissom!”

Why write anything anyways? The card already says what we all want to say. Does anyone get the card and think “well Happy Birthday is clearly printed on the inside and the cover page, but I should probably wait and see what everyone wrote on the inside to gauge what the card is really all about”?

Someone should just write “from everyone” and be done with it, even if it’s one of those ‘BLANK INSIDE’ cards. No, especially if it’s one of those ‘BLANK INSIDE’ cards. Fuck it. They know why we’re here.

“It’s your birthday, here’s a card.”

“It doesn't even say anything.”

“It’s from all of us.”

That would probably more accurately depict what we all think of each other in an office setting anyways.

I’d like to see someone get fired on their birthday, and be thrown a going away party disguised as a birthday, and they only find out when they start reading the card.

“Oh thanks everyone! What a lovely birthday party!”

“OPEN THE CARD!”

“It says… You’ll be missed… ??? … good luck for the future… ???? What the-”

“The wrapped present box actually just contains all of the belongings from your desk. Security will escort you out immediately.”

“Can I have some cake?”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s for employees only.”

Have you ever accidentally not signed a card that everyone else in the office has signed? And when you see the person reading that card in front of everyone, their eyes slowly going through the signatures, you can somehow feel what they are thinking?

“Bill… CHECK… Chris… CHECK… [insert your name here]… Oddly absent from the card, and yet, there they are, eating cake, joining in. Watching. Laughing.”

At this point, you might even try some kind of covert operation to get the card back before they leave for the day.

“Say Mindy, do you mind if I see that card?”

“Why? The messages in it are meant for me.”

“Yeah but you know everyone reads them as it goes around the office anyways so-”

“I trust people not to do that.”

“Well that’s dumb, look, can I fucking see it now?”

“I already know that you didn’t sign it, and that’s why you’re holding that pen. You’re too late. The jig is up.”

Maybe it wasn’t that covert after all. And as everyone’s suspicious whispers begin to grow louder, you jump out the window and throw your two weeks notice at the boss on your way out, written in chocolate frosting on a paper airplane napkin.

“It’s been real. I’m out. PEACE!”

In the end, I suggest just finding a really original way to sign your name, and leave it at that. Just a signature. It’s even better if you get it carved into a custom stamp and use an ink-pad to stamp your mark on future joint cards. It will give you a mysterious edge at work, which will work to your advantage when there is only one donut left in the breakroom, and you are face to face with the overweight guy from sales.

Behind him, the receptionist offers him a word of advice.

“Dude, I’d let him have it. He doesn’t even write messages in cards, who can honestly tell what he’s capable of.”

Answer: no one. But seriously, it had those toasty coconut sprinkles. It was a big win for me.

That’s it. There’s no more room left on the card.

Hairy Situations.

2011-03-28T23:00:00.011-04:00

Hair is a complex entity. When it comes right down to it, there is really only one place that we consistently like to encounter hair: on our heads. Whether on the body, off the body, on the head, or wherever, hair is generally a tremendous pain in the ass. That being said, there are places that are, hands down, the worst places to find hair. Allow me to guide you through this hairy hall of shame.

On the Body.

You will have to forgive me, in advance, for my somewhat gender biased approach to body hair and the unfortunate places that one might come across said hair. I am coming from the point of view of a male humanoid, but, please know that, I do agree that women have it way worse when it comes to hair. Oh sure, the male species may, in general, have more of it, but for women, unfortunately, nearly everywhere that hair naturally grows is frowned upon and looked at as undesirable.

We have brainwashed our entire civilization to assume that any hair found on women, other than on the head, should immediately be dealt with in an excruciatingly painful way. We have to train ourselves to see a hairy lady as a beautiful natural beast. Unfortunately, as it is, we see a hairy lady, and we assume troglodyte. Is that fair to the dirty stinky unhygienic she-ogre?

No.

Armpit hair, leg hair, bikini zone, arm hair… The amount of time and effort that women have to put into the hair on their body is ridiculous. Everything is judged with a fine tooth comb (no pun intended). That being said, allow me to navigate you through what I feel to be the worst places to find hair, on the body. If you are a woman, multiply any of these by a million, in terms of annoyance and grief factor, and burn your bra.

3) Unibrow

There’s a fine line between a regular human and a Neanderthal. That fine line is the line that connects two eyebrows together, forming one solid Unibrow. There is a small window of people that can pull off this look, people like Bert (of Bert and Ernie fame). Unless you are Bert, you will most likely need to take care of it. I suggest an awful routine of tear inducing plucking, followed by a healthy dose of cursing your hairy parents, and their furry brows.

Try to stick to only plucking the connection between the two individual eyebrows. Once you start trying to play God and shape your eyebrows into something new and enticing, you run the risk of overdoing it and reducing your eyebrows down to a ghoulish penciled in line (even worse if it literally is penciled in with some kind of makeup marker and there actually is no hair left), causing a perpetual look of confusion and intrigue. This will look far worse than the initial Unibrow, and will likely send you to jail, should you ever be part of a police lineup.

“Definitely, Number 3, just look at those pencil-thin eyebrows and that permanently guilty expression.”

“What about Number 2?”

“What the guy with the solid line over his eyes? Unibrow? No way, he looks like he collects stamps.”

“Bert, you’re free to go.”

2) Hobbit Feet

If foot hair somehow miraculously made a person more desirable to the opposite sex, then maybe there would be some case to argue that hairy feet and toes could be a positive physical trait. Unfortunately, this is not the reality that we live in. And really, would you want to be with someone who was into foot hair? Sexually?

You might think that hairy feet would stay warm. You would be dead wrong. My hairy feet are constantly freezing cold, and yet somehow, ridiculously moist and sweaty throughout most of the day. Some might want to blame bad circulation for my cold and smelly feet, but I know better. It’s that damn hair.

After an entire day of wearing socks, the foot hair actually hurts, kind of like when you wear a baseball cap all day, and then it hurts to move your head hair. And forget about comfortably wearing sandals and flip flops. The hair gets pulled at, and, you have to survive mountains of clever and amusing insults, such as

“Hey, what’s it like living in the Shire?” or

“Don’t eat me, ogre!!!!”,

rendering your confidence to an abnormally low level. I can’t even imagine what a hairy-footed lady must have to endure. And the skin on the top of the foot is so thin that trying any kind of hair removal would basically be torture. I don’t recommend torture, so, as a result, it is a constant struggle to decide which is indeed the lesser of two evils: being seen with socks and sandals, or showing off your hairy hooves.

Since stupid science is not yet advanced enough to offer hairy feet people with the option to amputate and replace their feet with sexy smooth robot feet, I’m afraid my only advice is to keep them covered up, until science catches up. Once they do, though, I’m totally paying extra to have guns and rockets put on mine. Science and Mattel still haven’t delivered the Hover Boards that were promised to us by Back to the Future II, but I feel that my eventual jet-powered rocket feet (complete with guns and racing stripes) will more than make up for it.

For the record, I am not talking about one or two cute little hairs sticking out of one toe-knuckle, or a couple of little strays on the top of the foot. I am talking about a thick concentrated jungle of hair completely connected to the leg hair, creating one uniform and continuous river of fur flowing all the way from crotch to toes.

1) Nose Hair

If nose hair would just stick to its primary function and remain hidden within the nostril, it wouldn’t find itself in the top spot. Alas, nose hair frequently ventures out of its home searching for dust and dirt with which to form the finest of snots. Often times, it brings a booger with it on its journey out of the nostril rim, indifferent to how poorly this will reflect on you, during your one-on-one meeting with your manager.

After giving your two weeks’ notice, on your way home from the office, should you decide to pluck the stray nose hair, you will be rewarded with pain, watery eyes, and the high possibility of forming a dreaded inside-the-nose zit. Also, you’re holding a nose hair, which looks like some kind of mutant insect leg.

Each of these painstaking battles with your nose hair is part of a lifelong war, and honestly, if you look at any elderly person, it is quite clear that it is a war that the nose hair will inevitably win.

Eventually you will give up, and over time you will become nothing more than a filthy bouquet of nose hair, with a face around it.

I say, embrace it now, and let them go hog wild.

On the Body - Honorable Mentions:

Back & Shoulder Hair – care for a banana?

Ass Hair – wiping just got a whole lot harder!

Ear Hair – what is that constant rustling sound!

Knuckle Hair – I repeat, care for a banana?

Facial Hair – let’s face it, shaving sucks!

Genital Hair – no explanation necessary!

Off the Body.

Now, as offensive and repugnant as unwanted body hair may be, it pales in comparison to finding hair anywhere off of the body. In this case, man, woman, child, or Wookie, we are all in the same nasty hairy boat.

3) Foreign Shower Stranger Danger

When you step into a hotel shower, often times, it has been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected, so you likely will not encounter any wild hairs. I’m pretty sure if you find one, you can complain and get free breakfast out of it. Seems fair.

The showers that contain the most offensive wild hairs are shared showers that, unlike hotels, are not washed in between visitors. These are the showers at friends' or relatives' houses, public showers like in a gym, or, even your own shower, if you happen to share it with people that you do not also make sex on (in some cases, the stray hairs of your partner in sexy sex may still disgust you, especially when it is time to wipe that hair catcher drain thing clean - don’t worry, your secret is safe with me).

When faced with this foreign shower stranger danger, there are few ways to help cope. Latex gloves will allow you to touch things such as the shower curtain or faucets without risk of making contact with a hair. Bring your own soap. Because, Lord knows, when a wild hair attaches itself to a soap bar, there is no way of removing it without getting on your skin.

Because the walls may in fact be lined with nasty long or short hairs, you may want to consider wearing some kind of rubber footwear to protect yourself from runaway hairs that could potentially graze your feet on their wishy washy way down to the drain. Shower caps will do in a pinch. You can also wear a full body wetsuit, but it is harder to get that deep down clean you might be looking for, and I keep getting fucking shampoo in the snorkel!

The only sure way to avoid all icky shower hairs is to simply not shower.

I will leave it up to you to decide which is worse: have a bad smell day, or risk touching rabid, loose, possibly diseased, wild hairs. The choice is yours.

2) Secret Ingredient

I think we all can agree that food is a pretty bad place to find a hair. There are different levels of severity when it comes to food hair, and what we are talking about here is known as the Secret Ingredient. This is when the hair is mixed deep down into the food, like in the center of your mashed potato pile, or mixed right into your marinara sauce.

Not to be confused with the Secret Garnish (a.k.a. The Parsley), which is when a hair is gingerly perched atop your salad, rice or steak, the Secret Ingredient is far worse because you can't even attempt to pick it out, as you only find out about it when it is halfway down your throat.

There really is no advice I can give you, except, if it is a restaurant, the rule is, never go back to said restaurant. If you cause a big enough scene, you might get free breakfast out of it, in which case, feel free to break the rule and go back, because, shit, free breakfast!

If it is the hair of someone you know, who has just cooked a meal for you, kill this person. Don't worry, they'll never convict you.

“I plead guilty, but seriously, it was a six incher mixed right into my spaghetti!”

“Bert, you’re free to go.”

1) Special Seat Sprinkles - Hair to the Throne

You’re running towards the washroom, number one, number two, either / or, it doesn’t matter, but you need to get there and get things started, stat! You arrive ready to unleash the fury when something catches your eye and interrupts your mojo.

There’s a pube sprinkled on the seat / bowl / urinal / place one does their business.

So, a few observations here, how does a hair like this get there? Is there someone who ejects or explodes pubes from their pants as soon as they unzip, like some sort of pube based firework display? Is it actually a head hair, and if so, what is the person’s head doing so close to the pee and/or poo zone? Was there some furious wiping that caused some bum hair shedding? Who looks at the bowl on their way out, sees a bunch of their hairs and decides, “Hey, I’ll leave it for the next visitor”?

An asshole, that’s who.

The best way to deal with this problem is to always go to the washroom armed with matches, so that you can light fire to the suspect hairs. As an added bonus, it will warm up the seat on those frosty winter morns. Also, it could help with the smell factor, if needed.

If you are looking to be inconspicuous, I would say use a regular matchbook, found in most restaurants and bars. If, like me, you are afraid that the short match size might allow the hair to touch you while burning, I suggest those really long wooden matches normally used to light fire to the logs in a fireplace. It is not recommended, however, to attempt to light any logs that you may have dropped in th bowl, they are not made of wood, and will not catch fire.

If you are scared of burning yourself, I suggest you use a leaf blower.

Off the body - Honorable Mentions:

Your Cubicle – someone’s been sleeping in my bed!

Treadmill – I bet it’s sweaty too! It is!

Seat on the Bus – I wonder where it’s going! Answer, your face!

Stuck to the T.V. – I knew that wasn't part of the show!

The Wall – seriously, how the fuck did that get there, and how is it staying there?

I think these are just some of the many reasons why anytime you hear about futuristic alien societies coming to visit crazy rural folk, they are hairless, smooth and shiny. I think all intelligent beings will just eventually evolve themselves out of having hair. We, as a race, just aren’t there yet, which is probably why the aliens never stick around. They get off the Mothership and are like “ewww, there’s fucking hair everywhere here, lets bail.”

That’s it. I need to go draw myself some eyebrows.

Writer's Block, Vol. IV.

2011-03-21T09:45:00.065-04:00

There I am behind a bumper with a bumper sticker on it that reads “HONK if you like musicals”. I have already declared a hatred for anything stupid to do with automobiles (see: Stupid is as Stupid Drives), but there’s just something even more special about this one. Now, no matter the massive amount of honks and cries coming from fellow road travelers, this person gets to drive like an asshole, and carry on ignorant and happy, like a child who just shit his pants during brunch at Applebee's. Did I honk at them when they cut me off?

Absolutely, I did.

Do I worry that instead of thinking “Oh curse my awful driving, I may have just pulled some asshole-ish maneuver just now, here in mine vehicle, at the expense of this fine specimen of wonderful driving”, he actually thought, “Oh man, I wonder which is his favorite. Me? Oh I’m an Andrew Lloyd Webber man, as far as I am concerned it just don’t get no better than Phantom, except maybe Grease”?

Even more absolutely, I do.

If Lloyd Webber fan is so damn passionate about musicals, then they need to get a bumper sticker that will make it a little bit easier to distinguish who is honking at them because of their elderly-blind-person driving abilities versus who is honking because they've seen ‘Cats’ forty times and touches themselves to visions of Mister Mistoffelees shoving his tail up their ass. I suggest changing it to something like “Give three brief honks, followed by one long honk, if you like musicals”. Also, depending on the rhythm and panache with which the person carries out this specialty honk, Captain Bumper Sticker can even measure just how musical this other driver is.

Maybe if there is a good enough honk, they can both pull over and break into song together. And that will give me the opportunity to run my car into their heads and/or brains.

Once I passed by the driver, I gave them the obligatory evil glare, and to my delight, it was not an old Asian lady like we all generally assume it to be when we notice someone driving like a four-year-old on the bumper cars at Canobie Lake Park, but a young student eating a breakfast burrito with his big fucking sunglasses on. Hooray world, for proving me wrong.

While I was glancing at Studious Burrito I ran my car into the back of a Ford Focus, being driven by an old Asian lady. Hooray world, for your delicious irony.

No, not really. But these are the exciting scenarios that run through my brain when I should be either focusing on the road, or on the work that I am supposed to be doing this very moment.

Maybe it’s just the fact that the mornings are darker and it’s harder to wake up. The nights are brighter, so I stay up later, and that makes the mornings even darker, and even more impossible. But, regardless, please take the damn bumper stickers off of your car, or please go and drive your car off a cliff. Whether or not you are in it as it travels off of said cliff, is entirely up to you. I will trust you to do the right thing.

That’s it. I've got to go watch re-runs of ‘Glee’.

Express Yourself, Again.

2011-03-11T08:00:00.005-05:00

While I have previously discussed the idea of awesome expressions that disappear (see: Express Yourself), I don’t feel like I have even scratched the surface of the world of slang, be it good or bad. Please follow along with me, as I list some more words and expressions and explain why we need to work together to bring them back into circulation.

!) Bad.

I miss being able to say something is bad, to mean that it is good. At some point someone thought bad-ass just made more sense, I guess. Instead of “that’s a bad skateboard you got” it became “that’s a bad-ass skateboard you got”. Why? What is this need to add 'ass' to everything. Don’t we have enough 'ass' as it is (feel free to add whatever mental picture you want, whether it’s some Kardashian, a parade of Biggest Loser contestants, or some reality show about sexy people)? Bad was doing just fine on its own, sans 'ass'. This tends to happen with lots of words though. Cheap becomes cheap-ass, lame is lame-ass and so on and so forth. Drop the 'ass' act people.

On a side note, do you think it was Michael Jackson that made everyone uncomfortable and in turn made it no longer cool to call something bad? Too soon?

@) Bumblast.

On the topic of ass, we used to often employ the term bumblast. Now it was generally used in derogatory schoolyard conversations attached to a lot of the other homophobic insults hat were thrown about so hastily back then and perhaps that was why it disappeared. The homophobia needs to stay gone, but it is a shame, really, that we weren't able to hold on to 'bumblast'. Because, rather than use this in a way like “oh yeah, well you and Max like to bumblast each other all night long” we could simply use it in a more adult conversation.

“I’m into anal.”

That doesn’t sound too appealing at all. It sounds all icky and scientific.

“I’m into BUMBLASTING.”

Hell yes – sign me up, like a rocket to the moon! Now that sounds like fun.

#) Sucks the bag.

When something really sucks, we used to say that it 'sucks the bag'. It’s brilliant because it leaves it up to you the listener to decide what kind of bag it actually is, what is contained within the bag, and how you would go about successfully sucking on it. Is it the bag itself, or what is contained within the bag? So many questions... If you have ever heard Louis CK’s routine about sucking a bag of dicks, you’ll understand the gist of what I am saying here.

How could we have let this one fade away?

$) Poser.

I think poser died along with the grunge movement and the word ‘shaft’. Essentially it means the same thing as phoney, but it just feels more insulting, doesn’t it? I understood why ‘whigger’ died, because frankly, it is offensive on numerous levels, but poser is so wholesome and real. There is something to be said about an insult that sounds so gentle and yet calls to question a person’s entire existence.

“Nice hat, poser.”

It’s like weenie (see: Weenie Roast) or party pooper. It may sound wholesome, but no one wants to be one.

%) Japanimation.

At some point this became Anime, and personally I don’t think that it has the same ring to it, at all. Japanimation doesn’t sound nerdy or dorky, it just sounds like exactly what it is. It's fun to say, unlike Anime (pronounced like a Spanish word or something... what the fuck) or Manga or stupid words like that sound like something off of the periodic table of the elements, which in turn, makes them sound even nerdier and thus even lamer. Maybe I just exposed my nerdiness by referring to the elements, but whatever. At least I don’t watch Anime. I watch Japanimation.

There are tons more trash talking words that I can think of that don’t get the airtime that they used to, like dickwad, shit for brains or numbnuts. While I won’t get into every one of them here, do your best to revive cool old insults, expressions and slang. Start with the ones I have discussed, but then, come up with your own list of forgotten gems that we can all work on together as one harmonious society.

That’s it. I’ve got a big-ass headache.

It's Business Time.

2011-02-28T23:15:00.014-05:00

It creeps up on you, real quiet like. At first you think maybe it’s nothing. It will pass. But you’re starting to re-think the insane amount of peanuts that you ate after your peanut butter sandwich lunch. It’s not creeping anymore, it’s attacking, and it’s gnawing at your insides. It’s time. You need to take a dump at work.

First things first, change to your spare pair of shoes. What you don’t have a spare pair at work? Well you should. Not just because bathrooms are gross, but also, if someone walks into the bathroom while you’re halfway through a wretched fart, they won’t be able to recognize you by your shoes. They’ll spend the rest of their day trying to find the mystery shoes, but you will have hidden them safely away in your drawer / briefcase / pants.

Now that you’re wearing your poop shoes, you can set out to the bathroom, just as soon as you prepare your entertainment. As long as you are away from your desk and dumping, you might as well make a little spa relaxation time out of it. Cell phones are popular for their gaming, but be sure it has a nice silent touch screen. Loud clicky buttons are a dead giveaway for any eavesdroppers, sorry Mr. Blackberry, but we all hear you in there, and we are all disgusted. Shit, I bought an iPhone just because I knew it would allow for silent gaming while pinching a loaf at work. Even though we all play cell phone games while pooping, it’s one of those don’t ask don’t tell things. We all do it, kind of like not washing up after peeing… wait, what? Oh and be discrete, and turn off the sound.

Don’t bring a magazine or book, because someone might spot it and ask you where you are going. Magazines and books are reserved for the home edition.

Some people take entertainment free dumps. They just sit there and will the crap to happen with the power of their mind. I commend these warriors for their exceptional bowel prowess and deep thinking capabilities. That’s like running on a treadmill without an iPod.

Now, you’ve made it to the bathroom, and it’s empty. So you can make a run for the stall of your choice. Try and get a nice corner stall. Makes for a bit more reverb, and you can only have, at most, one neighbour. If there is already an occupied stall (multi-stall unit), then it is your call whether or not to press on. If it was me, I would turn around, and try again later, although, at times there is no time for that. It is a personal choice.

Make sure you lock the stall and try the door before you drop trou and have a good sit. The last thing that you want is to be so focused on ‘Angry Birds’ that you fail to realize that the door has swung open and you sit, exposed, cell phone in hand, poopy in bowl. At which point you would have to quit, move and change your name, which can be rather expensive. This can be especially dangerous if the stall faces the door to the outside where the water cooler is. “Does that really ever happen?”, you may ask yourself. Yes. One hundred percent yes. If you could only see the single tear running down my cheek as I write this. Learn from my failures, folks.

Now, with all locks checked, you sit. Commence.

When sitting in the stall, doing your duty (doody?), and there is someone else in there with you, you may feel the need to clench up and refrain from making any sound. This timid behaviour is not abnormal, but can be rather unhealthy for the ol’ colon, most doctors agree. ‘The Icebreaker’ is a manoeuvre I came up with that you should always keep in mind. It is when you or the stranger lets out a little fart, just to let the other know that, it’s ok, and no one here is judging. Once you hear a fart response, you know what it means: “Go ahead pardner, let’er rip”.

If neither of you make any noise, because no one wants to ‘speak’ first, you could end up sitting on the can for hours, in some kind of bizarre Mexican standoff, which would be fine if the pins and needles in your damn legs would go away. Avoid all of this, by being an ‘Icebreaker’, pay it forward, karma. Do unto others as you would, you know, all that shit.

Now that it is happening, there are some things you should remember.

Don’t talk to yourself, ever. Not ever. I once heard a guy clearly say, “oh my god” with a certain groaning tone in his voice. I wish that I could go back to a time and life before having heard it, but I can’t. Don’t be that guy (or gal). And yes, grunts count. You shouldn’t have to push so hard, certainly not while at work. Start looking into getting more fiber in that diet of yours, Groany McAwfulstein.

Don’t talk to other people either. If it is illegal to talk on the phone while driving, it certainly should be so while pooping. Even if its hands free, I doubt anyone wants to know that your free hands are potentially wiping your ass. That's one conference call you don't want to be a part of.

“Hey, Bill, could you mute your phone? Why are you breathing so heavily?”

“What can I say, I guess I’m just really into this shit.”

Also, people that talk from the stall to anyone else in the bathroom should be fired. Or there should be a button you can press that sucks them down into the toilet and ejects them out of some chimney somewhere. What? It comes with a parachute, in this fantasy world, in my mind.

"I tried to tell my wife that her creamed corn does this to me every time, but she jus-"
-EJECTOR BUTTON-
"AAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh..."

I understand that some people need to cover the toilet with a layer of toilet paper, or use one of those toilet seat prophylactics. I get it. You don’t want someone’s butt cooties. But if that’s the case, be sure to dispose of your bullet proof vest along with your dung. Preferably in separate flushes to avoid clogs, which I will discuss below. Last thing, about that extra protection, don’t be that freak that wraps the entire toilet like some kind of mummy or cocoon, and then leave it behind. Seriously, what the fuck? I feel like I’m in a science fiction movie and the CHUDS or Ghoulies are going to be birthed out of this thing.

And throw in a courtesy flush whenever necessary, even when you are alone. It’s good to keep the bowl fresh, and the air as light as possible.

Always flush the nuggets prior to placing any toilet paper in the toilet. Regardless of its size or girth, the last thing that you will want is an at work clog, which would cause you to quit, move and change your name, which can be rather expensive. If you eat excessive amounts of cheese and are known for rather solid logs, perhaps bringing a pocket knife would help, as you could break it up into pieces to avoid any problems. The Swiss army knife scissors are usually pretty effective. You be the judge. Although public toilets tend to have tremendous strength, honestly, if it looks too big to go down smooth, it just may be.

I know, you may be thinking that I have crossed some kind of line, but I’ve never caused a clog, nor been responsible for the perpetration of poopy water all over the bathroom floor. Save your judging for someone who deserves it, like those responsible for ‘puddles’, ‘leftovers’ or ‘poopseat’. Those are the careless people that live with an overall disregard for anyone else’s well being. It’s not like I use that same paring knife to cut my snack cucumbers. You should be thanking me.

Once successful flushing has been achieved, it will be time to make a break for the sinks. Obviously wait until the place is empty before exiting the stall. The walk of shame from the stall to the sink is an especially long one if it turns out the president of the company is in the bathroom. Even more so if the muggy, thick air acts like a punch in his smug, presidential face. He probably doesn’t even have to poop, he probably has a servant that extracts it from him and turns into pot pourri (poori?). Why is he in my bathroom anyways? Doesn’t he have some golden toilet somewhere that massages his ass while he sits on it and spits out money for every turd he squeezes out?

Not that this has happened to me or anything, twice, at the job I quit last year.

If you really are worried about run-ins with co-workers or bosses, remember the three keys of real estate: location, location and location. Try and go to a different floor if possible or even, a different building if your schedule permits. For example, maybe there’s a great McDonalds down the street. Also the cheap cheeseburgers can often help induce labour, if you have been having trouble lately. Just be sure to allow enough time to get there. While most work place poops are photo finishes, you want to be sure you make it to the finish line, or else you will definitely have to quit, and move, and change your name, and that can be rather expensive. First you'd have to change your pants.

Look, I know this is an awful lot to take in, but if you don’t feel like you can follow these simple guidelines, then maybe you need to find a job that you can do from home. Or just be unemployed. Or just hold it in.

That’s it. I got to stand up and wipe (that’s right, STAND… see: Panel of Judges).

Weenie Roast.

2011-02-17T23:00:00.021-05:00

As hard as you can try, eventually you will find yourself in a position where you look like a weenie, or feel like a weenie, or are just acting like a total weenie. It can creep up on you and come at you unexpectedly, or, at times, you can see it coming from a mile away. Some people are just total weenies all the time, and to those people, I apologize. There is little that I can do for you. For the rest of us occasional weenies, I will try and help you navigate the road of life avoiding the obstacles that can obstruct your overall coolness and make you feel like a weenie. Some of these obstacles can’t be avoided, and in those cases, I’ll try and help you cope.

According to the dictionary, a weenie either means a frankfurter, a penis, or a nerd. According to me, however, a weenie is not so much being a nerd, which can have certain positive connotations, so much as just being totally lame.

I guess that for me, it can still mean frankfurter or penis as well.

When it comes to looking like a weenie, obvious examples would be faux-pas’ like ‘socks and sandals’, the ‘bowlcut’, wearing snowpants or those awful hats with the big ear flaps. I won’t go off on a hat tangent at any point, as I have already done that once before (see: Accessory Before and After the Fact). Obvious examples of feeling like a weenie could include losing at dodgeball, having your credit card denied or failing a driving test. Obvious examples of acting like a total weenie should include mispronouncing easy words, confidently shouting the wrong answer in a game of Trivial Pursuit or singing in your car with the windows down (see: Turn it Up, Man).

Are you starting to understand?

In short, sometimes you can avoid being a weenie, but sometimes you just can’t. The best that we can do is deal with the risk factors that we can control. I can’t cover everything, but these basic examples should help (one for each kind of weenie moment).

On looking like a weenie...

One of the easiest ways to look like a total weenie is to wear a backpack. Now, before you get all in a tizzy and tie up your panties into infinity knots, yes, I do recognize the usefulness of backpacks. And it’s not everyone that needs to avoid them altogether. But it’s kind of like how some guys put on a suit and look like they’re wearing their dad’s pyjamas, and other guys put on a suit and look quite dapper and shit. In turn, some people rock the backpack just fine. They look like a casual businessperson on the go. But you know the type of backpackin’ weenie I mean. You know how some people put one on and instantly look five years old and just begging to have their lunch money stolen?

If you absolutely must employ a backpack, then there are some things that you should know. This can help reduce your wienieness.

Don’t tighten the straps all the way to the max. It’s like when you see a guitarist with the strap all tight and the guitar is up at his chest. He doesn’t look like a rock God anymore. He looks like a member of the wiener patrol. Another example is someone with their shoelaces tied real tight.

“Look how tight my laces are, these babies will never come off.”

What a weenie. If the backpack straps are that tight, you may as well just bite the bullet and sport the fanny pack, taking you into ultimate weenie territory.

Don’t fill the backpack to capacity either. There’s no way that you need to be carrying around enough stuff to fill a whole backpack. What’s in there, a basketball? Honestly, now you look like a lil’ kid on their way to the basketball court to shoot some hoops with his pals. Except you don’t actually have any pals. All you have is a backpack full of shit and a weenie aura that alienates all of those around you. You don’t make friends with backpacks.

A full backpack just makes you look small and weird, like when people wear exceedingly large sunglasses. Seriously, don’t wear gigantic sunglasses unless you are:

a) Elton John

b) A pilot in the movie Top Gun

c) Dead with both eyeballs missing

d) A clown

e) All of the above

Moving right along… The worst thing you can do is have a full backpack with the straps tightened all the way. Even if you’re hiking, you should try and avoid this, because you’ll just look like a granola weenie. And isn’t that just the worst kind of weenie?

Also, put both shoulder straps on. The backpack slung over one shoulder doesn’t look casual after the age of twelve. It looks ultra lame, and thus, quite weenieful.

I have a backpack that I bring to work, and every day, when I go out to the car, I feel slightly less cool then I did before. Still, it seems better than paying money for a more adult looking bag. At least my backpack is black, and truth be told, that’s another thing that can help. Don’t have a bright ass backpack that looks like it has all sorts of nifty pockets made to hold your pencil case, calculator and retainer / headgear.

On feeling like a weenie...

Bringing the car in for maintenance at a garage is a surefire way to make yourself feel like a weenie. Most of the time, I don’t even understand what I am asking them to do to my car. I just read what needs to be done off of my vehicle’s maintenance schedule thingy they gave me when I drove it off the lot. When I am reading it off to the guy at the garage I just try and mumble it, or cough while saying it, in the hopes that he will correct me, and guess what I am talking about.

It’s like ordering off of an Italian restaurant’s menu, when they obnoxiously put the stupid fucking menu items in Italian.

“Yeah I’ll have the … ummm… panooni… giupallda… pancechia.. bruschegnochi?”

“The ravioli?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The mechanics tend to worsen the situation, by asking you questions that you don’t really know the answer to.

“Yes, I need my breaks serviced.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Umm... nothing I think, just according to my maintenance schedule, they require servicing.”

“You been having problems or… what is it exactly you need done?”

“Would you like to see the maintenance schedule?”

“No, that’s ok.”

“You know, I’m not normally such a weenie.”

This is much like how an overall lack of sports knowledge can get you into similar weenie waters with sports superfans, but I believe I tackled that already (see: Color Commentator). There are two ways to not feel wienerific in front of the mechanic. Either educate yourself about the inner workings of your automobile (not happening), or just fake that you know what they are talking about (that’s the one).

“There’s a problem with your Flarnder Rodenspiel.”

“Oh yeah, I totally noticed that last week, just you know, give it the usual.”

“What?”

“Proceed with the tune-up.”

The mechanic will still know that you’re a weenie, but you’ll walk away with your head held high, a proud weenie.

On acting like a weenie...

“I bike to work every day on my banana seat bicycle. Kneel before me, the king of all weenies.”

They take up an entire lane as if they are a car, but then go through red lights. They have pants tucked into socks, or are wearing one of those elastics to stop their good work khakis from clogging up the gears. They ride the elevator up to their floor while still wearing their helmet, as well as the previously mentioned pants elastic. They have super aerodynamic sunglasses. They are the weeniecycles.

“Of course I’m turning, did you not see my hand signal?”

Riding a bike in the city does not automatically make you a weenie, but it doesn’t help. If you have a bell, horn, basket or tassels on your bike, please close your computer and go set fire to your bicycle immediately.

With these three examples you have the blueprint for what makes a true weenie. Try your best to extrapolate from this guide other situations during which you may look, feel or act like a weenie, and avoid them forever.

That’s it. These snowpants are really making my balls itch and chafing my groin.

Watch Your Mouth.

2011-02-10T08:00:00.002-05:00

There are plenty of situations that arise when a person’s brain filter doesn't catch a nugget of truth on its way past the vocal cords and out of the mouth, causing a person to say something that creates an awkward and uncomfortable situation for all of those involved. This is often referred to as putting your foot in your mouth. I’m not going to discuss that here. Out of context, there is no way for me to know what is or isn't appropriate to say in whatever situation you are in. Clearly saying something along the lines of “kind of like how your mother used to be an actual prostitute in a real brothel” is probably not something you want to say. If you have the nerve to blurt out things that are obviously taboo, then you may very well deserve whatever shunning will certainly follow. What I would like to do is help you avoid certain situations in which you may accidentally say something embarrassing because you did not realize what it could mean, or be interpreted as, as you were actually saying it.

"BLANK my ass."

Sometimes you will hear something that you think is bullshit, and you will wish to call bullshit on the person that said it. An expression, that is not too uncommon is ‘BLANK my ass’.

“That Jeremy Fapperwheel sure is talented.”

“Talented my ass!”

In this case, clearly you did not agree that Fapperwheel had any talent. This is totally acceptable. You just need to be careful what sort of statement you are using this on. It can get you into a strange predicament.

“So you don’t think he has any talent?”

“No, I really don’t think Jeremy Fapperwheel is all he is cracked up to be.”

“What are you saying? Come on, man!”

“Come on my ass!”

“…”

Once the awkward silence subsided, the two relative strangers went about their day, as if no sexual advances had in fact been made.

"Don’t BLANK me."

Similar to ‘BLANK my ass’, you really just need to make sure that what you are putting into this context can’t be taken in a different direction.

“You honestly think that your mullet is cool? Whatever dude.”

“Don’t whatever me!”

That sounds ok, I suppose. It’s a bit lame, but it works.

“You honestly think that your rat tail is cool? Come on, man!”

“Don’t come on me!”

On top of the discomfort you both will feel, if anyone else is in ear range of your conversation, they may start to question what’s going on in your cubicle. I guess maybe just try to avoid being told to “come on”. If told to “come on” run away as fast as you can.

"Fucking BLANK."

I understand that the ‘f’ word is a wonderful word used to enhance many statements in today’s modern conversation. If during your exchange with another human, you should feel strongly enough about a certain something, you may throw it in there for good measure.

“Was Smokey and the Bandit any good?”

“Man, it was fucking amazing!”

Seems totally acceptable to me, your sentiment is both heard and emphasized. However if you try to use it in the same way, under different circumstances, and emphasize the wrong part of a sentence, the outcome can be severely altered.

“Was Burt Reynolds any good in it?”

“Man, I want to be fucking Burt Reynolds.”

“Like… circa 1977, or like Boogie Nights era? Present day? I guess he was really good…”

Clearly what was meant was something a little less lustful.

“Man, I want to fucking be Burt Reynolds.”

It is all in what you emphasize. The response that followed works in either case, but the feeling is very fucking different. Also, never start a sentence with an ‘f’ bomb, as it can lead to you demanding people to do the unthinkable. Perhaps, for example, you mean to inform someone that your mom sent a text to you.

“My mom sent me a text.”

Great. However, when people get carried away with the ol’ fuck word, sometimes it gets slipped into the beginning of every statement.

“Fuck! My mom sent me a text.”

Written out, you may see nothing wrong. Like "Holy shit! My mom [..]". But, read it fast. That’s right, you just told someone to “fuck my mom”. Time for you to go stick your head in the oven my friend. Fucking use fuck carefully, fuck. Perhaps this is how those mother-brothel rumors get started.

"I’ll BLANK you."

That’s right, another one where context can really do you in.

“Put the stapler back next time!”

“I’ll put you back next time!”

That makes a certain amount of sense. Is it witty? No. But I suppose one could argue that it has a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. But things can go dreadfully wrong.

“Would you mind turning the light on? “

“I’ll turn you on!”

“Shit, what kind of office is this?”

You can even take it a step further.

“Blow out the candles!”

“I’ll blow you!”

“My kind of party…”

Rather than risk any danger, maybe just discontinue the use of the ‘I’ll BLANK you’. As we have just seen, it doesn’t work that well even when it does work, regardless of its je-ne-sais-quoi qualities.

"Hi how are you?" – [BRAINFART].

These are self explanatory. There are so many ways in which you can respond something completely nonsensical.

“How’s it going?” – “Not much, you?” or

“Hey, what’s up?” – “Pretty good, yourself?” or

“Hi.” – “Can’t complain, how about you?” or

“Can you believe this weather?” – “Hey.” etc.

You get the idea. You look stupid when, really, you just don’t care enough to formulate an adequate response.

So, listen, if these kinds of things happen to you a lot, all I can suggest is that you try and slow down the speed with which you answer questions. Sure, you’ll be called “a little slow” or “dumb” behind your back, but it beats the alternative. I think. Maybe it doesn’t. Just stop talking altogether. Give people little more than a nod, or a tip of the hat. The vow of silence will make you look noble and courageous, or, like a creepy mime. Either way, people might finally start leaving you alone. And isn’t that really what all of this was about?

That’s it. I have to go practice my 'walking against the wind' and shit.

Naming Convention.

2011-02-06T22:15:00.003-05:00

I think that we all know that some people have phenomenally lame names. I don't mean it in that endearing "Boy Named Sue" kind of a way either. Parents-to-be out there, please, use real fucking names from now on. I don’t want to name any names in particular and alienate anyone out there, or offend anyone, but I will use an example to illustrate my point.

“Hi y’all, meet my children Kayden, Brayden, Mayden, Jayden, Fayden, Snayden and Dayden.”

Pronounced similarly, this batch of rhyming made-up names makes me wish that y’all had been doing less impregnayden and more masturbayden. Guess what? You’re kids will grow up and want to trayden their name for a new one. Oh yeah, I just done and went for it. Now, I realize that I could have enhanced the example by spelling them all with different endings, like Shaedyn, or Gaydin, but when I started writing it out, I threw up in my mouth. If it’s an English name, I should be able to figure out if it’s a boy or a girl.

Poorly named people out there, it is time to start adopting nicknames.

“Hi my name is Branaeedyn, but you can call me Michael.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ll be frank, it’s because my name sucks.”

“Listen asshole, are you Frank or Michael?”

Whatever happened to standard names like Jim and Paul and Max? What the hell were these people thinking? Just because it rhymes with a real name, doesn’t make it a real name, and certainly doesn’t give you the right to use it to just invent sucky names. Yeah, I’m talking to you, Bouglas and Bimothy’s parents. And don’t tell me that the name has some special meaning in some mystical unicorn language. It may mean ‘beautiful’ but it’s fucking ugly.

I’m all for having names with meaning, but choose something that doesn’t just sound so aggravating. And if you want to go unique and special, than at least get crazy with it, Frank Zappa style.

And, in the end, I guess I did name names after all.

“But it’s my name! I can’t just stop using it!”

Not with that attitude.

The next time that you’re In Whole Foods looking at expensive orgrainic vegetable crackers, and there’s this kid throwing gluten-free wafers around screaming about wanting his soy treat and honey wheat ball, listen carefully when the mother and/or father yell out to the child. Listen to the name. You will hear an example of a name that you should never name your child. Take note of it, if needs be, and create a list. Don’t limit yourself to Whole Foods. Do this anywhere. Anytime you hear a lame name come out of the mouth of lame parents scolding their lame child, write it down in your lame name journal for safekeeping, so that we can stop the cycle of insanity once and for all.

I’m not normally like this, but some kid named ~~Haedyn~~ Bralaedyn just kicked me in the shins and punched me in the nuts.

That’s it. Jnaeden is asking for me.

Requesting an Audience.

2011-01-31T11:00:00.003-05:00

Going to the movies is not what it used to be. And no, I don’t mean because tickets cost infinity and no one can even afford salty snacks or sugary treats any more. It's not the gigantic overcrowded parking lots and uncomfortable saggy wobbly seats. It's not the sticky floors and smelly recirculated air. While all of those factors definitely add to my frustration, what actually sends me over the edge is the movie goer population, made up of horrifyingly annoying people. If you are in fact one of the cinemorons that I am about to describe, then please do us all a favor and stop going to the movies, forever and ever. If, like me, you are stuck dealing with these people, hopefully this helps you cope, and realize that you are not alone when facing the human obstacles that stand between you and a pleasurable viewing experience.

A) Talking Heads

I don’t mean a tiny whisper into your neighbour’s ear. I mean talking or whispering so loud that everyone can hear. If you have the balls to be a shusher, or call the fuzz (the dreaded pimple-faced teenager with a flashlight), then please do so for the sake of everyone. You may even get applause upon successfully terminating the talking. Personally I just like to throw my drink at their head. Well, I don’t actually do it, except of course in my non erotic fantasies.

The Narrator

This is the person cheerfully sitting with the dumbest person, possibly in the entire world, and decides it is their responsibility to explain everything that is happening throughout the entire movie, so that ol’ half wit can keep up. Sometimes the half wit is a child, which does not excuse this behaviour. It is still completely fucking unacceptable.

Take them to see Justin Bieber and keep them the hell out of my movie theatre (whether we’re talking about a child or not).

The Detective

This is the person whose powers of deduction are so startlingly poor, that they might actually feel that the comments that they are announcing to the crowd have not crossed the mind of every single living thing in nature.

Scene: Bruce Wayne lowers himself into a cave, full of bats.

The Detective says: “The Batcave! I think that will become the batcave.”

Scene: Bruce Wayne is presented with a prototype armoured vehicle.

The Detective says: “The Batmobile! Did you see the Batmobile?”

Scene: A new villain leaves behind his calling card, the Joker from a deck of cards.

The Detective says: “The Joker! Oh I bet it’s the Joker, the new villain is the Joker.”

Even half-wit I mentioned before probably figured these ones out. I can’t even imagine what an actual conversation with one of these people would be like.

“Oh wow. You kicked me square in the nuts. I bet that means that you have a problem with me.”

The Stand-In

This is the person that has already seen the film, and thinks that loudly fucking up lines of dialogue moments before they are actually spoken in the movie will somehow gain them some kind of street cred. Honestly what’s the thought process here? That afterwards we’ll all join together and say “Oh, YOU were the guy that knew all the lines, man, you were so cool, even when you messed 95% of them up you totally improved the movie, I preferred your version, and you’re the winner of life”?

You know what? Fuck you.

The Too Cool for School

Maybe he’s on his cell phone, maybe he’s with some other asshole and they are talking about the stock market, but the point is, with how expensive the ticket and snacks are, you have to really be ignorant to sit in a movie theatre, think you’re too good to bother paying attention and carelessly ruin everyone else’s fun. You’ve just paid a bunch of money to promote and showcase just how much of a piece of shit you are.

Congratulations.

The Open Book

This is the person that screams in horror films. They say “OH MY GOD!” or “DIOS!” or “I CAN’T WATCH!” when there is a tense and suspenseful scene. They laugh way too hard during funny scenes (they’re all “THAT’S HILARIOUS!”). They say “YES!” really loud when something triumphant transpires. They might even say “OH NO!” as something bad is happening or “I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” when a sad scene arises. The worst ones actually try and talk to the characters on screen, in the hopes that the movie is actually some sort of interactive Choose Your Own Adventure, that the projectionist can and will swap in different rolls of film depending on the reactions of the crowd... “DON’T OPEN THE DOOR!”

Please, hold that shit in, from now on, until the end of time.

B) Make Some Noise

Coughy

Whether choking on expensive popcorn, loosening up some phlegm from a nasty cold or just the result of an overall shitty airway system, Coughy will gross you out and ruin your movie.

Chewy

This is the kind of person that gets the stickiest candy and produces wet smack noises in between moo-cow grade mastication noises. Chewy doesn’t care about you. Chewy wants you to have an awful time.

Crumply

“My popcorn bag is almost empty, but rather than just put it aside, I will fold it over one million times, quite loudly might I add, so that I can save the rest for later” thought Crumply. Does anyone EVER eat the popcorn they bring home from the movies? Answer: no.

Slurpy

“MY DRINK’S ALMOST EMPTY. LISTEN TO HOW LOUD I CAN BE!!!!” slurped Slurpy during the film’s climax. Then he shook the drink to listen to the maraca sound of the ice cubes.

Sobby

Honestly, my heart goes out to Sobby, it really does. But if a movie is making you sniffle and moan that loudly in public, maybe you should stick to reality.

Your best bet in these noisemaker situations is to give them one of those double-entendre coughs, It's a cough, but it really means “Ahem… excuse me, but please refrain from further nuisances” (picture that in a snooty euro-trash kind of accent). Just don’t do it too often, or you might turn into Coughy. If the shut up cough doesn’t work, you’ll have to upgrade to a full shush and failing that, once again, resort to the ratting the perpetrator out, if you have the balls of course, as mentioned earlier. You can always mimic what they are doing, but sometimes people don't clue into that very quickly. Especially not these keen minds.

C) Let’s Get Physical

High Beams

This is when the dingbat in front of you is texting or browsing the internet on their phone and blinding you with the light, making it somehow impossible for you to see anything else. The best thing to do is to turn on your phone and hold it in directly against their eyeball. They won’t always get why, but chances are they will stop shining the light in your direction since most likely their phone will be on their ear as they call the police. Hopefully the response time around where you live sucks and you’ll get to see most of the movie. If you don’t have a phone, use a match, lighter, flashlight or shoe.

Decreased Visibility

I have a huge head so I know to sit low. People with big heads that haven’t figured this out yet should be in prison. If it’s the hair that’s making the head in front of you so big, just trim some of it off with a pair of scissors. It’s dark, and they won’t notice what you've done to them until they get home. By that time, you’re already half-way to Mexico.

Kick It

Sometimes the person behind you kicks the seat accidentally. Fine. Sometimes it happens over and over again. Noticeably less fine. Next time this happens start swing your arms behind you. Once you eventually make contact, turn around and confess “oh, I’m sorry, I, like you, totally forgot that there were other people sitting in the chairs around me.” You can replace arm swings with throwing ice cubes or gummy worms over your shoulder, and generally, it will produce the same results.

Close Encounters

If the theatre is completely packed, and there is not a single empty seat in the house, then, yes, I understand when a complete stranger sits directly next to me. But when there are ten thousand empty seats, why would you not give me, at least ONE FUCKING SEAT of buffer zone. Seriously, it’s like when a dude chooses the urinal right beside me, when there are so many other urinal options to choose from. These people need help.

And then I end up feeling guilty when I get up and move over, as if I am telling them that they repulse me, or smell bad. Well, probably they do, so maybe it’s not such a bad thing. If no one ever tells them, they will never improve. Or shower, apparently. It helps if as you move over you casually mention “God something really smells.”

Please note that these are usually the same people that get up in the middle of an important scene to go to the washroom and step on your foot while shoving their ass in your face.

Peep Show

Honestly, don’t come to the movie theatre just to make out and touch each other’s peens and vageens. Just go get a motel room. It’s probably cheaper and maybe even a little more comfortable. If it’s the public nature of it all that bakes your beans, then at least find somewhere that the rest of us haven’t paid to be. If you catch someone in this type of scenario, just shine a flashlight on them and yell “TICKETS PLEASE!” They’ll probably stop, if not, try hitting them with it, repeatedly.

Maybe I just didn’t notice it as much when I was a kid, but it really feels like it’s getting worse and worse. The only real way to get around these obstacles is to go to the movies when absolutely no one else is there, in the middle of a weekday, on your half hour lunch break. I know what you’re thinking, that there would be lots of old people there at that time, and that, certainly old people must fit into many of the above mentioned categories. Wrong. And shame on you for stereotyping. Old people fall asleep when they go to the movies, and don’t bother anyone. Unless they start snoring, at which point it is best to shove a kernel of popcorn into each of their nostrils.

That’s it. The best scene is coming up.

Please Put Your Hands Together.

2011-01-27T08:00:00.010-05:00

There is a select group of visionaries in this universe that were born with the gift of making fart noises with their hands. They are called the Windbreakers. Being one of the chosen few, I recognize my power and respect the responsibilities that come along with it. A lot of folks assume that all it takes is sweaty palms and a little determination. This may be true of armpit, under the knee, or mouth to hand fart noises, but does not apply to the Hand Fart. The Hand Fart is a whole other beast. While wet palms can give birth to a wider array of flatulent sounds, it is the shape and size of the palm that seem to create this innate ability. You either have it, or you don’t. It’s like being able to wiggle your ears, or fold your tongue in half. I’m pretty sure they talked about in Biology class.

If you are among the Windbreakers, you mustn’t just produce Hand Farts whenever you please, all Willy Nilly and shit. Certain situations call for them, and others do not. It is important to know when it is your duty to step up to the plate, and when you should just let the pitch go by, no matter how tempting it may be to squeeze one out. Allow me to help. Even if you are not a card carrying member of the Windbreakers (I am in the process of having physical cards made), you may continue reading, to better educate yourself on exactly what it means to be able to make fart noises with your hands, and what it takes to be a part of this elite group of sound effect champions.

The following are some examples of moments when a Windbreaker is required to produce a noise. From it, you may extrapolate a much longer list of vital situations in which they are destined to fulfill their duties.

- In class whenever the teacher bends over

- In church whenever the priest coughs

- During any tense and suspenseful silent scene in any film

- Whenever there is a pause in a conference call

- When you can’t sleep

- The moment that a good idea pops into your head (unless the good idea is to make a fart noise, at which point, just one will suffice)

- When your spouse leaves the bed in the middle of the night to pee and/or poo

- When the doorbell rings, after you stand up and say, “I’ll get it”

- While actually farting (covers up the noise, however, does nothing for the smell)

- When a woman in a bikini jumps off of a diving board

- After saying goodnight to a houseguest

- When passing by an aerobics class (lean into the classroom for better reverb)

- On a ski lift, when people ski under you

- When an elderly person opens a refrigerator

- When someone tells a racist joke at a dinner party, during the awkward silence

- As soon as someone stops tap-dancing or clogging

- Anytime after January that someone wishes you a Happy New Year

You get the idea.

There are some other important things to remember. At times a Hand Fart is considered inappropriate or dangerous. Please remember the following, taken from the Code of the Windbeaker.

- Never Hand Fart and drive

- Never Hand Fart at a funeral (unless it’s in a church and the priest coughs)

- Never interrupt your spouse with a Hand Fart

- Never use a lubricant to increase your Hand Fart range and volume

- Never attempt to create music with Hand Farts

- Never Hand Fart at the dinner table (unless an elderly person opens the refrigerator)

- Never Hand Fart if you are supposed to be holding the ladder steady

- Never use a Hand Fart to try and break-up a crowd or line-up

- Never try and teach someone how to Hand Fart

You can’t teach awesome like that, and don't be fooled by anyone who tries.

I am sure that I missed some important examples, rules, regulations and situations, but you now understand the basics. One final piece of advice: if you or someone you know has been Hand Farting uncontrollably in their sleep, seek medical attention immediately. Treatment may involve wool mitts, handcuffs, or in the worst cases, amputation.

That's it. My boss is bending over to pick up a pencil.

A Brief Pause.

2011-01-21T11:30:00.010-05:00

Not all punctuation is created equal. This much I know. The ‘holier-than-thou’ Period has always enjoyed a nice prestigious spot by being the ending point to almost every sentence. As if this wasn’t enough, it is also the only mark of punctuation that can be spoken aloud to accentuate and drive a point home even more clearly.

“You are the world’s worst employee PERIOD”

"Excellent point Drew!"

The poor and often mistreated Comma does not have that luxury.

“Hey COMMA what’s happening?”

“My name is Bill, you fucking asshole.”

As you can see, it just does not seem to work. It is not very well received at all.

When the Age of Information came along and the whole triple-w thing, I thought maybe the Comma could get some more responsibility, some more respect. But when the debates started about the webpage notation, and email addresses and so on, you should have seen the Period’s Spin Doctors and their awful smear campaigns against the Comma.

“Who would want to visit a Comma Com? No one. Dot Com! It just feels right.”

“Comma Com? Try saying that three times fast. You can’t nor should you have to. Dot Com for the win.”

“Burt COMMA Malone at hotmail COMMA Com? I don’t think so. Dot Com for president.”

It went on for months and months.

And if that wasn’t enough of an insult, random punctuation marks started getting high profile positions, like the ‘@’ symbol for email. Where the hell did that come from? The Square Brackets, the Squiggly Brackets, the Pointy Brackets, the Slash and Backslash, the Colon, the Underscore, the Dash… It felt like everyone was getting in on the fun, except the Comma. The final nail in the Comma’s coffin was the tremendous outbreak and internet support of the Semi-Colon, and I don’t just mean for its involvement in the Winking Smiley Face.

“Why, separating email addresses sounds like a job for the Comma, doesn’t it?”

“Sorry, we’ve elected the Semi-Colon. Seriously who invited the Comma?”

The only hope left was in everyone's everyday reading and writing. Surely people still need to insert brief pauses here and there? One would have thought so, but things are just not the way that they used to be. With all the Twittling and Façadebooking and Toblogganing and McTexting going on, it seems like all people have the time, energy and patience for is the Period and his sidekicks Question Mark and Exclamation Point. I’m pretty sure that the newer cell phone and computer keyboards will even start eliminating the Comma due to its lack of use. They’ll probably replace it with some new symbol like Happy Face or Skateboard.

“wassup people??ima watchin teh new episode of real housewifes of yellowknife… its da best! seacrest out.”

“i cant believe ricky gervais said that11!!! who he thinks he is? :S”

“my zodiac sign changed i have no reason to live i think ima die”

“best. movie. ever.”

“that is so ophiuchus ;) … i heart astrology!”

“i had lots of sex today now my peepee hurts 8==o”

Maybe we should dub this the Age of Too Much Information. Granted if I have to hear one more person actually say “TMI” out loud, I’ll shit my pants, and then possibly throw some at them (see: Bad Language). So much sharing going on of personal details and whatnot, and yet there is so little punctuation used during their display. And don’t get me started on all of the grammar issues and lack of capital letters. For now let’s stay focused on punctuation.

The Period and his smug team of hipster elitists have clearly won this round, but let’s not let them win the battle. If ever I seem a tad bit Comma-Happy, I do apologize, but it’s time to help out the little guy, the underdog, the common man, the Comma.

Fight the good fight, use the Comma.

That’s it. PERIOD.

The Last Straw.

2011-01-17T11:00:00.005-05:00

They say that all divorces (breakups too, I would imagine) are caused by two things, sex and/or money. I think we all know that sex and money may cause some of the splits out there, hell, a lot of them, but that generalization obviously overlooks some of the other core ingredients that can lead to a couple’s disbanding. In so many movies, television shows, books and whatevers, there is always that one awful personality trait (disorder) or behaviour that happens after the whole sexymoney thing and then becomes the straw that breaks the camel’s back (you know, like, when the dude bangs some secretary floozy at work and the wife finds out and forgives him but then it’s the fact that he walked through the house with shit on his boots n’ shit that makes her flip out and leave him).

Allow me, if you will, to go through a few of the reasons that I have seen that, to me, are definitely grounds for divorce / breakup / walkout / explosion, and could eventually become the proverbial straw, if you let it.

Cleaning tends to make people unhappy as it is, but cleaning up after someone else is even worse. Of all the things that need cleaning, I would imagine that dirty dishes have caused the most breaking points. I’ve compiled a list of the worst types of dirty dishes that you can leave unattended for an unsuspecting spouse or partner who is about to do the dishes.

- Bowl of oatmeal (it honestly seems like you will never get all of the crusty dried oats off the bowl)

- Saucepan (when the warm water hits it, it literally smells like if someone puked whatever the sauce was into your face and nose and mouth)

- Soaked food (like when the person puts a stack of plates into the sink to “soak” and when you come by later to wash the stack of plates, there is a forgotten slice of toast or pizza crust left on one of the soaked plates that has expanded to the size of your head and feels a little like dog barf)

- Milk glass (seriously I can’t fucking reach the bottom, and it’s all covered in some kind of milky white milk film, I guess I could just throw it away)

- Egg remains (not just bits of food like the above mentioned fiasco, but I mean a bowl in which eggs were scrambled, but now, there’s a ring of dried up egg yolk around the bottom)

- Grease, in a bowl, frying pan, or wherever (especially when it has congealed into a weird sort of waxy puss)

- Certain spatulas, potato mashers, and miscellaneous kitchen utensils (everyone has that one kitchen utensil that they hate cleaning, that never feels clean, like your arch nemesis of dishes... if your partner uses it and leaves it for you, why, that’s just one big slap in the face)

Sadly, dishes are not the only things that need cleaning. The following scenarios have certainly brought on arguments as well. Follow me as I discuss the possible tipping points.

Scenario: “Oh yeah, well when was the last time you vacuumed?”

Tipping Point: After finishing vacuuming, they press the button to bring the power cord back in, and it whips them in the shin/testicle/face/breast.

Scenario: “I guess I’ll take out the garbage, again!”

Tipping Point: The garbage bag leaks brown, possibly chunky, garbage juice onto the person’s bare foot, somehow.

Scenario: “It just seems like I’m always the one scrubbing the bathroom down.”

Tipping Point: When placing the toilet brush into the bowl water, somehow water shoots up into the cleaner’s face (mouth and nose included).

There are many other scenarios in the bathroom, like leaving the toilet seat up and someone falls in, someone gagging after fishing the hair out of the bathtub drain for the millionth time, and of course, the dreaded floor piss. The only real solution I can see to any of these problems is to possibly hire a maid. Also find a home with a dishwasher, and maybe a urinal.

Food gets us into a lot of trouble too. Avoid eating like a disgusting pig in front of your partner. Also, never eat the other person’s leftovers without getting a written and signed document stating that permission has been authorized to eat the last two slices of Meat Lovers. If your partner has put any effort at all into cooking, recognize the effort and resist the urge to say things pointing out any flaws.

“Meat loaf? More like Shit Loaf.”

“First time cooking this? Tastes like it.”

“What? Seriously are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to taste like that.”

“It might have been good if it wasn’t FUCKING BURNT TO A CRISP.”

And so on and so forth. Maybe a solution would be to hire a chef.

It seem like most of the above mentioned things stem from laziness. Laziness is a huge factor in these combustible unions. Notice there is always one person who gets the door, or phone? The first time that they say “I’ll get it” they say it with genuine love, and a desire to allow the other person to remain in their comfortable position. By the twenty hundredth time, the “I’ll get it” has a certain sarcastic tone, as if to say “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll get it, don’t trouble yourself” or even sometimes a more sadistic “I’ll get it AND KILL YOU WITH IT!” My solution to this is that nobody gets it, or maybe just hire a butler to get it.

A badly timed fart or bathroom break can definitely get you into some heat (no pun intended), but I’ve already discussed that (see: 7 Levels of Conversation) so there is no need to revisit it now. But it brings up a valid point: Communication.

First things first, avoid the backhanded compliments.

“I love you in that jacket, you look less wide.”

“Great soup honey, I haven’t thrown up in my mouth yet.”

“Looks aren’t that important to me.”

“Really, I don’t mind that you’re stupid, I kinda like it.”

Never tell anyone that their breath smells bad either. It’s always insulting, but can be especially insulting in certain contexts.

“I love you.”

“Your breath really smells.”

Instead, try a more subtle approach.

“I love you.”

“Gee thanks, say, let’s go brush our teeth!”

See, now you’re doing something as a couple. Success!

My last point about communication is to avoid all conversations in cars. They are never worth the effort and have a tendency to go sour, usually because the driver does not give the full attention to the passenger. Heaven forbid I should focus on the road! FUCK! Larry Miller did a great bit on this last summer when I saw him with my wife. We talked about it on our drive home, until we got in an argument over which is better, Shish Taouk or Shawarma. I guess you should just hire a driver. Also, the answer is, Shawarma.

Although, now it seems like solution-wise we’ve thought of hiring a maid, a chef, a butler and a driver. I guess all we need is a nanny and we have a typical Hollywood marriage, and we all know how well those marriages work out. Back to the drawing board I guess.

Anyways, the first time that any of these things happen, it’s usually more of a “the honeymoon is over” kind of a moment. But after the twelve millionth time you’re making up miscellaneous reasons to hit the store.

“Honey, we’re out of milk” says the dude as he is pouring a half gallon down the toilet.

Certainly everything mentioned here is only the tip of the iceberg, but better to at least know what the tip looks like before the whole damn Titanic sinks into oblivion. Maybe just try laughing about these things. Laughter is, as you may know, the best medicine. Also stop hogging the fucking blanket.

That’s it. I’m going to go kiss my wife now.

Writer's Block, Vol. III.

2011-01-07T15:00:00.018-05:00

The month of January is really just one gigantic hangover. I don’t mean that in that "Maxim magazine" party animal hangover kinda way like you might see in the movie of the same name (you know, The Hangover). I’m not even trying to say that we all party so hardy on the 31st of December that the entire month that follows is just a horrible headache coupled with both diarrhea and constipation at the same time. It’s just that the holiday season includes time off, running around visiting people, a lot of eating (in quantities that are serious health risks), and increasingly late bedtimes, which makes for a rude awakening when it is time to start setting that alarm once more for an entire new year of the grind and an imminent re-entry into the real world. Also the entire month is just a horrible headache coupled with both diarrhea and constipation.

In the summer I run outside, almost every day. In the winter, however, especially around mid January, I run… out of pants that fit. Groan. A combination of the sun being down all of the time (see: Seasonal Affective Disorder.), laziness to get my fat gut to the gym (see: What’s My Motivation?) and the overall lethargy that comes from several consecutive days of eating meat pie for breakfast makes waking up for an office job seem like an impossible feat. It’s like a daily all you can eat buffet, all the time, every time (see: All You Can Eat.).

To be honest, all of this makes doing anything relatively impossible. It feels kind of like unemployment, without all of the fun and excitement of job hunting and creating new and improved sandwiches every day (Tuna fish and Doritos? Why that’s Kev’s Mexican Fish ‘n Chips Panini!). Oh and also, you have to go to your job. Maybe it’s not that much like unemployment, but, you know what I mean.

Jotting down a list of resolutions seems like a positive activity, but really, all you’re doing is admitting all the areas in which you failed miserably in recent memory. The more resolutions that you come up with, the more you are declaring how hard you suck. Hard. But hey, admitting you suck is the first step towards recovery.

The second step is doing something about it. And since most resolutions are mirror images of the previous year’s resolutions, I guess we’re not very good at step two. Let’s move immediately to step three where we’re like, man, fuck resolutions, I can’t be held down by some list. Nothing can hold me down. Nothing! The holidays are over!

No more policemen directing traffic in the mall parking lot. No more navigating through what seemed to be an endless array of drivers following pedestrians carrying shopping bags, in some sort of insane ritual of replacing one shopper’s car with another immediately (even though, there upon yonder horizon I see a whole row of empty spots, a whole vacant area of parking fun… presumably the extra steps were just too much distance to handle at this festive, fat, lazy and bloated time of year, for the average holly jolly consumer, that is). No more hearing that particularly grating rendition of jingle bells that plays as I make my way through a blinding fragrance section in Macy’s and get sprayed by some clown lady.

No more eating too much.

No more running around trying to see and please everyone.

NO MORE!

I may have gotten a little lost in my tracks there, but I’m pretty sure that I understand most of what I think I am trying to say. Could it really be that the end of the holiday season brings more relief than sadness? Is the magic really gone? In short, Chris Murphy (of the awesome band Sloan) said it best when he said that “The scariest part about my Halloween, is that November rent is due. I’m not a kid anymore.”

Oh shit, my boss walked by the cubicle thrice, I really should stop now.

That’s it. Time to go sit on the toilet and not poo for a little while.

Focusing On the Present.

2010-12-30T14:00:00.070-05:00

Giving presents is easy. Oh sure, some may claim to be stressed about the possibility that the recipient won’t enjoy or appreciate what you spent minutes picking out for them. But in reality, most people, regardless of what you wrapped up in your finest tacky Santa Snowman Rudolph Jingle Balls Birthday paper, will put on a happy face and give you a big ol’ hug and/or kiss and wish you a Merry McSomething. If you know the person well enough, or they simply have no pokerface, then you may indeed go home feeling like shit, knowing you had a shitty gift. But no matter what the case may be, just assume the best and give in to whatever their reaction is. Don’t try and dissect if it’s fake or not, by staring them down and asking dumb questions.

“Are you sure you like it?”

“Is it the right size?”

“You don’t already have it do you?”

“Bla bla bla fuckin’ blabadee bloo?”

These questions are like a festive gift oriented version of “Do I look fat in these jeans?”. Regardless of their real answer, or how they feel about your gift, the answer will, in most cases, be a firm “I Love It”. They are already put enough on the spot by having you (and everyone else) watch their every facial expression. Honestly, is an added interrogation really necessary? So, don’t do that. In short, receiving presents is the trickiest, and that is when you are really in the hot seat.

There are essentially five situations you can find yourself in after opening a gift.

I Love It.

In this scenario, there is usually no need to act or pretend. You can be very open about how great the gift was, and dance around to your heart’s content. The only exception to this rule is if you are married and the gift did not come from your spouse. In this case, you may show your happiness, but there should be slightly less rejoicing than there was at the opening of your spouse’s gift to you. Otherwise, Lucy, you will have some ‘splaining to do.

“Oh man, that’s AWESOME. Best present of the year, hands down” he tooted not realizing that his wife looked down upon him with a cold stare that could freeze-kill most babies. Once he caught wind of the stare in his keen peripheral vision, he assured the crowd, “… after the Snuggie that my wife gave me, of course. Let’s reiterate shall we, number one present of the year, Snuggie from wife, number two, this amazing thoughtful present.”

… and scene / divorce.

I Hate It.

Unless it is part of some kind of office party Yankee Swap, openly admitting a present’s suckiness is bad form. You can’t ever let anyone know that their present sucked. If you’re a total asshole or just want to make the person breakdown, then, by all means, have at it with a nice fat “What’s this shit?” or a “You gotta be kiddin’ me” or a “Really? That’s the gift?”. But, as long as you want to keep the giver’s feelings intact, you have to get your best Meryl Streep on and find at least one reason why it is a good present (even if the person clearly did not even attempt to think about you when selecting it). Try not to repeat the name of the present too often, as it’s a dead giveaway (yes, you’re right, that is taken from an episode of Seinfeld).

“Well, I’ve never tried snowboarding before, but certainly, now, with this snowboard, I just might.”

“Assorted nuts! Thanks! Regardless of my pesky deadly allergy, I’ll give it a whirl! Where’s my Epi-Pen?”

“I can’t wait to light up my room with this here Lava Lamp! They’re so useful!”

“Oh, the new Britney Spears perfume! Normally I wear cologne, given that I am a male, but I’m sure the ladies will be all over me when I smell like this sweet candy!“

“I’ve heard about these Snuggies! Oh, looks like you left the receipt in the bag here, oh don’t worry, I’ll hang onto it. Oh wow, look at that, it has the address of the store and everything, hmmm interesting!”

I Already Have It.

Similar to the “I Hate It”, you generally have to come up with a reason why it’s perfect. It’s easy since, you already have it, and know exactly why you like it. In some cases, you can probably let the person know. But be careful. People giving gifts are in a fragile anxious state, and you would hate to see a suicide note that mentioned your reaction to a gift. The absolute worst thing to do is admit you already have it, but then try and find some reason why having two of them is okay.

“No, it’s great, now I can have a copy of it in each car.”

“Seriously, I was actually hoping to have a second plunger for my single toilet.”

“Look, it’s always good to have extra Snuggies.”

What the Hell Is It?

Also similar to the “I Hate It”, the problem here is that you won’t be able to find a valid reason why it’s a perfect gift for you, since you don’t what it is. It may in fact be a perfect gift for you, but you’d never know by looking at it. Sometimes the giver knows that it’s a weird unknown gift item and will explain what it is immediately after you open it. After this, you can move into option 1 or 2. If they don’t make with the explaining, then you have to find something to say, and fast.

“Oh wow, I love the color, they make them in blue? Didn’t know that, nice.”

“Niiiiiiiiiiiii-(stalling for time)-iiiiiiiiiiiiice………….. it’s prettttyyyyyyyy-(while saying this, try reading on the back what the fuck this thing is and react accordingly)-yyyyyyyyy………”

“Well, it’s definitely not a Snuggie, so thank you.”

Where the Hell Is It?

The only difference between this and “I Hate It”, is that in this case the person didn't even give you a present when you were expecting one (the true spirit of Ex-Mas). It’s a non-gift, really. Usually this comes in the form of an empty card, or a Holiday Wish accompanied by a hug-kiss. Sentimentality is generally attached to it in a cheap attempt to stop you from feeling cheated. Try not to let the disappointment show.

“What a beautiful card! It’s definitely better than the new iPood I gave you! You win.”

“Oh! Careful! Don’t give me too big a hug, I will feel like the gifts that I actually bought for you with actual money that I earned weren't expensive enough!”

“At first I thought there was something else hidden inside the Snuggie, but no, the Snuggie is more than enough. It’s definitely an actual present.”

When I was growing up I thought that gift cards were lazy and stale, but now I realize that it might be the only sure win. It’s not cold and thoughtless the way cash is, and at the same time, leaves it open for the recipient to find something that they might actually want. There is still some thought involved, since you had to have thought of a store that they would actually like. As a last resort, always go with the cinema gift card, which pretty much says “I don’t know anything about you, but cash just seems too impersonal, certainly there will be a film of some kind you might enjoy someday”.

That’s it. I’ve got a Snuggie to return.

Foot Note: Sorry that this comes a few days late, but I was busy employing the techniques contained in this very article. Also, feel free to replace Snuggie with Pajama Jeans, ShamWOW, or whatever is currently found at the end of the aisle at most Rite-Aids and CVS stores. !!!HD VISION GLASSES!!!

Bad Language.

2010-12-17T10:00:00.037-05:00

While I do feel that some expressions die out before their time, there are definitely some expressions that hang on far too long, well past the point of being totally played out. Usually the way an expression fizzles is that someone exceedingly lame gets a hold of it, and completely ruins it for everyone else. Picture people still spouting the “whazaap” catch phrase from those fucking beer commercials and you’ll know the type of people that I mean. They may even be the same people that would wish you a "Happy Tuesday" (see: Celebrate Good Times? Come On.). Sometimes the expressions that they use were never even that cool to begin with (once again, “whazaaap” comes to mind), and yet somehow they infect the language and become widely used in everyday conversation.

The following is a list of expressions and sayings and things that I would like to do away with immediately, as they have either outlived their relevance and usefulness, were never relevant or useful to begin with, or just should have never become as widespread and popular as they have. They also tend to piss me off every time that I hear them, and I would usually like to kick the perpetrator in the nuts and/or boobies.

1) “Old School”

The popularity of the movie of the same name only worsened the needless propagation of this expression that I personally feel no one really understood in the first place. For something to be of the old school, it needs to be something that used to be the standard practice and has since been replaced by some new standard practice, a.k.a., the new school. This is not how most people use it.

“Oh man, what you eatin’? Fuckin’ fishsticks? Man that shit is old school.”

“There’s like this old school dude standing on the corner peeing.”

“I like the old school episodes of the Cosby Show.”

I really did like this expression for a while. But now it is overused, warped, and thus, quite lame. Dare I say, it is old school to use old school properly. People overuse “hardcore” in a similar fashion, but I’m willing to keep it in circulation. Just promise to stop using it so much, I want it to remain at least somewhat special.

2) “Man-Cave”

This has not become lame through overuse. This was simply lame to begin with. If I have to hear another dickhead talk about his man-cave I think I might shove my boot directly up his man-cave.

“Aw fuck yeah, this is perfect for my man-cave, yeah, fuckin’ flatscreen right there get my beer on, fuckin’ pool table, fuckin’ burgendyblooblooblearghenshpieldoods!!!!!!!! I’M A FUCKIN’ MAN!”

The expression is lame enough, but behind it is a whole adulescent mentality of dudes and whatnot trying to hang on to their college heydays in some sort of bizarre nostalgia for an age that never existed, and that’s what’s even worse. If only the energy spent fantasizing over a perfect cavern-like saloon-style dungeon room full of “manly” paraphernalia could be put to better use by these types, like by jumping off a bridge, we’d all be better off. Maybe I should just stop watching so much damn HGTV and I wouldn’t hear it quite so frequently. Seriously all the dudes on those house shows say it.

Along with this term, let’s get rid of Bromance, Frosh, Metrosexual, Flatscreen and Grillin’.

3) Any word ending in ‘z’, or, you know, pluralizing shit for no reason

Sure, I am guilty of it sometimes too, but I’m sick of it. Sick of it for realz.

4) Saying obnoxious sounding abbreviations out loud

As early as high school I remember cringing when someone would refer to Geography as “geo”. In college “Polly Sci” made me want to puke everywhere every time that I heard it. Now we have a whole generation of jackasses saying, out loud, stuff that was only meant to be used to shorten the amount of keystrokes in a digital message. Do they not realize that saying OH EMM GEE takes the same amount of time as saying OH MY GOD? Count your fucking syllables people! These are all the same bunch of lunatics that invent words like "Texting", and then, in turn, "Sexting". Rom-com? Tomkat? Double-You Tee Eff (Its longer than saying WHAT THE FUCK)?

To top it all off, now at work I have to hear people talk about VAYKAY time (meaning vacation… yes, really). And just when we thought we were done with the valley-girl-ish “whatever”, we were bombarded with “whatevs”.

You will notice that the people that use these abbreviated kinds of expressions are the same people that never fucking shut up. I wish that they would just abbreviate themselves.

5) “Indie”

Using this word to describe music, film, comedy, art, people or whatever is about as played out and vague as describing food as “organic”. Please note that it is perfectly acceptable to use this word when referencing Indiana Jones.

There are a whole slew of other words like “Emo”, “Goth”, “Fusion”, “Nerd”, “Punk” or whatever that have become distorted over time, and are now meaningless. You will know these expressions when you come across them, because they will make you feel dead inside. I couldn’t possibly list them all here.

6) “Recession”

Whether it’s your hairline, your gums or the economy, seriously, fuck recession.

If we all work real hard at boycotting these expressions, sayings, manoeuvres and shit, then maybe, just maybe, there will be some hope for us as a society. In the meantime, I’ll just continue complaining.

That’s it. I needz to get back to my old school man-cave now.

Express Yourself.

2010-12-06T23:00:00.011-05:00

Often times popular slang terms come along and replace the previously popular slang terms meant to describe given actions, nouns, persons, or whatever. While I think that this is a necessity for the advancement of our species as a whole, and for the progression of popular culture in a society, I don’t always agree with the replacement slang terms. Sometimes the old one has not yet worn out its welcome, or simply, should not be replaced by such tacky new slang. I have carefully selected some examples to present here in an attempt to show you what I mean, and perhaps even assist in the bringing back to life of some expressions that I prefer over their modern day replacements.

1) Shaft.

Although it did not last long and was soon replaced by “dissed” or even “busted”, shafting somebody was what we said in my schoolyard days growing up when someone gave someone else the business. In today’s terms, you would no doubt know this as “burning” someone. You might even say “Oh, burrrrrrrn” or “burned!!!” or even concoct all sorts of insane hybrids like “burnination”, or “superburn”, or something involving burns ‘n shit.

Formulating a good burn and then telling someone that they got burned may indeed be satisfying, but it lacks the all out crassness and vulgarity of telling someone that they just got SHAFTED. A burn is something that might sting a little like, “Ouchy that burns!”, and then makes you shed a single tear. A shaft on the other hand…

“OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP!”

Followed by vomiting, crying in the foetal position, years of therapy and an overwhelming sense of failure throughout the rest of life’s challenges. It’s a hell of a lot more degrading and demoralizing than a wimpy, sissy little burn. I’d take a third degree burn any day over a huge shaft. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

2) Wet fart.

Look, I can appreciate the humour and intelligence behind the construction of the word “shart”. But let’s be honest, it doesn’t hold a candle to the term “wet fart”. Wet fart is much more descriptive, raw and emotional. Incidentally, don’t ever actually hold a candle up to a wet fart, because it can cause explosions. People probably still say wet fart, here and there, but shart has clearly become the more popular term, and I really do feel that that is a shame. Wet fart is much more elegant and graceful (the expression, not the actual fart).

“Lord Backingfield wept at the sight of his eldest daughter shamefully retreating from her wedding ceremony at the tail end of a true wet fart. The crowd stood motionless, silent, horrifed. The white dress was a white dress no longer.”

3) Dickhead.

You’re probably thinking, “hey no, hold on just a second there ya ol' poo, people still say dickhead”. But think about it. Think real hard. Do they? Do they really? Not as much as they used to. I’m not sure what the direct replacement was, maybe it was douchebag. That seems to still be a popular one. The sad thing is, most people don’t know what a douchebag is actually referring to. Do douches even exist anymore? I guarantee that if they do, they definitely don’t have bags anymore. A dickhead, on the other hand, well that’s easy to figure out. It’s what you call someone, when they are being a dickhead. Say it a few times. You’ll see how satisfying it can be.

“What a dickhead.”

“Man, that Jeremy is a total fucking dickhead.”

“Let’s bail. This place is for dickheads.”

Feels good don’t it?

I think that if we all try real hard, we can start bringing back some of the best expressions of yesteryear. I know at first you may feel like you are going against nature, but I assure you, if the expression is awesome to the max, it will catch on once again, and return to the mainstream. Like fashion, I feel that slang can be cyclical. And then you will be known in your inner circle as one of the wonderful few that helped start the comeback and restoration of a once decayed piece of slang history. You will have been ahead of the curve, for once in your fucking life. Oh burn.

That’s it. I’m going to go shaft some more people.

Pack Man or Mispack Man?

2010-11-29T13:00:00.021-05:00

Packing a bag for a vacation is the worst part of the vacation. It almost ruins the whole vacation. You put it off as long as you can. You’ll eat, you’ll exercise, you’ll call relatives, or you’ll do whatever. You may even find yourself cleaning your entire apartment the night before you leave, before you have even packed, because, apparently you would just hate to come back to a mess. You haven’t even left yet, and already you’re thinking about what will happen when you come back. Can’t you even relax for a second? Fuck! Why is it that the current present ‘you’ can live in this pig sty, but the future post vacation ‘you’ can’t put up with it for a second? What a condescending prick, all relaxed and vacationed and shit. Future Kevin thinks he is so much better than me. Why should I clean? He’s the one that just took a vacation.

Anyways, all of this procrastination stems partly from the fact that packing makes you feel stupid. You wind up losing the ability to perform even the simplest mathematical equations and arithmetic. Even worse, you start talking to yourself. You could be a mathmetologist for NASA and still need an old school abacus to pack for a three day retreat to some fucking log cabin. Out loud you say unto yourself:

“Ok, let’s see, I’m leaving tomorrow and coming back the following Tuesday. SooOOOooo, tomorrow is Friday and that means I need… eight pairs of underwear? Wait do I need to count tomorrow? Hmmm… I’ll already be wearing some tomorrow. Gee this is tough…”

Using the Harry Potter calendar on your wall and a solar powered calculator from high school, you come up with a number that seems right, but, regardless of your day count, the packing experience ends up becoming a frantic free for all, where you’re pretty much just trying to fit as much stuff into your bag as possible. Bringing a tube-top to a wedding in the Yukon? Why not?! Then the zipper on the bag won’t close, and you wind up having to cut some articles from the vacation team. The first few articles are always easy to cut.

“Yellow turtle neck? You’re cut, sorry, try again next vacation.”

“I guess I don’t need every pair of jeans that I own.”

“I suppose one bathrobe is enough.”

“I’m not exactly sure when I would even make use of this DICKEY.”

After that it’s more difficult and you wind up trying to figure out which sweat-stained half-ripped band t-shirt you absolutely need, or don’t need. You may like to tell yourself that you would do well in a desert island situation, but I think that inability to make decisions would probably do you in.

“Oh gosh, which plantain skins would make for a more durable beach hat? … hmmmm…”, thought the castaway, and then, out of nowhere, a monkey tried to eat his two eyeballs.

Imagine building a raft to try and sail back to the mainland and having to pack a desert island bag for that trip? You’d wind up cleaning up your base camp five times before choosing which coconut halves would make for better goggles, or earmuffs, or miniature helmets for your monkey. No, not the eyeball eater, it’s a different monkey. It’s a helper monkey.

“You never know, I just might wash up onto shore again, and I’d hate to come back to a mess.”

Moving right along.

So after carefully discriminating against the swimming trunks (you know you won’t end up in that god damn hotel pool anyways) and the extra pair of running shoes (you know you won’t end up at that god damn hotel gym anyways) the zipper still won’t close, and you take out more and more, almost at random now. You stand on top of the bag to zip it up, unknowingly causing your deodorant/lube/sunscreen/lotion/shampoo bottle to explode. Don’t worry. It will be a nice surprise when you arrive. Unfortunately, as you started discriminating, you completely lost track of the amount of each type of clothing that you actually will need, and you’ll end up with a dizzying array of assorted and mismatched items. Not enough underwears, too many socks. Not enough t-shirts, overload of pants. You get the idea.

I once went on a three day trip and managed to pack six pairs of underwear, three shirts, a single pair of socks and no pants, except for the pair of jogging pants that I travelled there in. By the third day, my pants stank like sweaty farty plane cushions and lightly fermented guacamole. I had a pair of underwear on each foot, due to the sock shortage and the only clean shirt that I had left was soaked in shampoo because the exploded two-in-one shampoo stored in the side pocket leaked into the main compartment. On the bright side, the fruity smell covered up the eerie stench of the jogging pants. Also, my shirt was so healthy looking it shined, and my chest hair never felt so soft! Anyways, needless to say, I did not get the job. Apparently, they went with a more experienced candidate. Personally, I think they smelled the Pert Plus and were looking for more of a Head and Shoulders or Dove kind of a guy. I guess what they say is true. Two-in-one shampoos just don’t work. Anyways, all of this got me thinking.

My solution is disposable one-piece jumpsuits. Not for all of the time, just for when you are travelling. It would make packing real easy. Five days, five jump suits. Even better, all hotels could start selling them, so you wouldn’t even need to pack. Just show up in a pair of boots and then buy as many as you need. Now, they should be loose enough to not show too much of one’s bits and pieces, but not so loose that they would blow up like a big ol’ balloon every time there is a big gust of wind. After all, we’d hate for people to take off like kites. Anyways, they’d kind of look like those HASMAT suits that the people wore in E.T. when they came to operate on him, except without the helmets and melodrama. Kids, never follow a trail of Reese’s Pieces into a stranger’s house. It will only lead to trouble.

But I digress.

Sure, jumpsuits would make tourists would stick out like sore thumbs, but at least it would make shit simple. And you can still make yourself stand-out by wearing snazzy dress shoes. So, no, not everyone would look the same. They’d have different shoes, and perhaps different hats. Different faces too, I guess. Until the jump suits become widely available (I’m working on a prototype), I would suggest that, after you’ve finished packing, throw in some extra underwears just in case. Even if you don’t end up using them like they are intended to be used, they can come in handy and fill a variety of other uses like handkerchief, bowtie, hat, sock, bathing suit, kite or flag (you know, in case you need to surrender to someone, you can just place white underwear at end of a branch and wave it around).

Even with my eventual jumpsuit solution, you’d still have to pack all of that other stuff that you take on vacation, like bathroom crap. But that’s the stuff you always throw in at the end, and usually forget anyways. Have you ever forgotten your toothbrush and had to ask at the front desk of a hotel for one of those disposable ones? Why the hell are they made so thin, and yet so fucking long? It’s like the toothbrush that a really delicate miniature pony might use to brush his teeth. Some of the toy toothbrushes come with powdered soap already on them. The assumption of course is that if you forgot your toothbrush, you obviously forgot your toothpaste. I’ve always found they look and taste a little suspicious. It’s like they sprinkled some Comet on the end of it. Maybe they are actually meant to be used by the cleaning staff for scrubbing stains off of the sheets and/or toilet seats. Either way, try and remember your toothbrush.

“I’m sorry, I forgot my toothbrush, do have one of those little ones?”

“Sure, here. Careful, don’t hold it too hard, it might break in half. Also, here is some toilet cleaner, your breath really smells.”

“Thank you. Wow, what a quality toothbrush, I can actually count on my hands the number of bristles. There are four bristles, oh shit, it broke.”

“Here take a few more, we got buckets of them.”

“Do you have any glue? Maybe if I glue seven of them together, it will be a better brush.”

Is the toothbrush the only item that they have little toy store replacements for behind the desk? I bet they probably have some of those little combs too. I wonder if anyone has ever gone up to them and said that they forgot their enema. Surely it happens. Lord knows that we all tend to get backed up when we travel. To me, the need for a replacement enema would come up more often that the need for the shoe shine glove thing, or the sewing kit. Who fixes buttons on vacation?

“Honey, are you coming for dinner?”

“Hold on, I’ve got two more shirts to mend and then I need to shine my shoes.”

Anyways, I’d like to see what kind of MacGyver enema that they would come up with (e.g.: Funnel with a Gatorade filled water balloon). Actually, now that I think about it, most rooms already come with a laxative in the form of shitty hotel coffee and powdered dairy creamer. If that fails, hopefully you’re staying somewhere with the free continental breakfast, where anything is guaranteed to make you make the poop (like when you’re climbing up a ladder, and you feel something splatter).

Good thing you packed all of that extra underwear.

And is it just me, or are the shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, facial soap, moisturizer, etc. all just the same goopy mucus shit with a different label and bottle? In the end, sometimes it’s best to just stay home. Packing for that is easy. You’ve probably already done it. You can’t forget anything, because you’re already there. Not to mention, if you don’t leave, you won’t worry about coming home to a messy apartment and can continue to live in your current filthy nasty household. These are the kinds of things that I think about when I should be packing.

That’s it. I have a jump suit to try out.

Be Our Guest.

2010-11-17T09:00:00.034-05:00

The only thing worse than having guests, is being one. Yeah I said it. Staying at someone else’s place sucks. Oh gee, am I even allowed to poo? And not just because I don’t have home field advantage in the bathroom, although, that is a big issue. It’s tough to win one when you’re the visiting team. But just in general, is it considered impolite? Can I hold it in forever? What will that do to my insides? Maybe I can sneak one out when everyone has gone to bed. Is it normal or even considered alright to bring a matchbook to someone else’s house? Damn, I don’t know how sensitive their smoke alarms are. Imagine setting that off, and waking everyone up, just so that they can run out of their rooms to find that first, there is no fire, and that second, it smells like barbecued poops (a.k.a. barbepoo)? Is there a big potpourri store that I don’t know about that gives this crap away? Why does everyone else’s bathroom appear to be tidier than mine? Maybe they all go out to shit. Sometimes peoples’ kitchens look immaculate because they always have take-out. Maybe some people always have shit-out (take-shit-out would also be an acceptable term).

Then there’s the ‘what to wear to bed’ dilemma. Do I go with the ‘stretched to the limit’ boxer briefs and risk showing half my nutsack to an innocent passerby during a middle of the night trip to the foreign toilet? Do I bring my Pyjama Jeans? If I wear the full coverage flannel or fleece bottoms and shirt I’ll sweat more, guaranteed. How worried should I be about getting all my moist stinky sweat all over their good guest pillows? Do I leave my toothbrush in the bathroom, or bring it back to my suitcase? Is it bad form to clip my toenails here? Well, shit, they’re going to bed, so I guess I have to also. Oh well, they said good night, I for sure can’t just keep watching their TV. I wish they’d stop asking me if I needed more blankets or pillows. How many fucking pillows do their guests usually need? Maybe the last people made a fort.

And how does the showering work here? Should I bring my own bar, or will soap and shampoo be provided, as it is in most hotels? There is definitely a free drawer in this stinky old dresser. Does that mean I can unpack my underwear into it? What if I don’t want to? Is it rude if I don’t? Is it rude if I do? Where do my dirty clothes go? If I put them back in my bag the rest of my clothes will stink. If I shove them in the corner, it will look weird. If I ask them for a garbage bag, that might look weirder. Can I tell them that it’s too fucking hot in here? This is the fan they have for this room? Is that a normal noise? Where is that light coming from?

While all of these questions and concerns are both normal and annoying, they are not the worst part of the stay-over. The worst part is always the SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS. No matter what your hosts have prepared for you, they will always open with a promise of how comfortable the arrangements are.

“This thing is so comfortable, it’s awesometacular. Aw man, so comfy, it’s the best.”

Did I say promise? I meant lie. If it’s really that great, then why isn’t it in their bedroom?

1) The Spare Bed

Every guest room spare bed has a story behind it. Unfortunately, none of these stories are ones that will psychologically assist you in getting a good night’s sleep.

First off the bed’s back story can indicate that it’s as old as fuck. And honestly, fuck is pretty old and probably has a lot of bed bugs and shit.

“That bed, yeah my parents got that bed at a yard sale back in nineteen sixty seven from people that had gotten it from their grandparents guest room. I think it's made of steel.”

Sometimes instead of declaring it to be old as fuck, they’ll casually mention that it was used to fuck.

“That’s the bed we had when we were first married. Jeffrey was conceived on it. Do you have enough blankets?”

If that concept doesn’t spook you, try this haunted tale.

“It was Aunt Cecilia’s death bed. She died right on that side, right there. Oh that’s the side you sleep on? Well, don’t worry, we Febrezed it several times. Do you need some more pillows?”

Sometimes the beds come with instructions or warnings.

“Just try and keep to the top left, there’s this weird brown stain from here to… well... euh… It’s probably nothing, and, I mean, we put a sheet over it so, you know what, forget I said anything. Is that blanket thick enough?”

The brown stain is probably from the last guest who blew his brains out, or maybe a guest who shit the bed, too timid to get up and go to the bathroom. Maybe it just turned brown from being so old, like an old brown banana. And who doesn’t love an old brown banana? In short, be psyched.

That brings me to the physical obstacles, like stains. If you manage to get past whatever emotional baggage the bed comes with, then you will have to deal with the physical obstacles that generally come with the guest bed. You must remember, this is the bed that your hosts cast aside when they couldn’t take it anymore, and went on to buy a new bed for themselves, and put this old dung heap in the guest room. It may have springs coming out of it, dents in certain areas, or even its own signature smells

The bed will likely be shaped like a ‘U’, sunken in the middle like a thick hammock. Don’t bother trying to sleep anywhere but the middle, as you will be sucked into the springy vortex. If sleeping alone, this can sometimes be comfortable. It’s like your own little bouncy canoe. If sharing the sunken-in bed, however, be prepared for severe amounts of night time touchage and a healthy dose of sweat, oozing from the other person's brains, and getting all over your face. If the bed is sunken in enough, you will need a grappling hook to exit. The bed is almost always very low to the ground, so be careful to not slam your knees on the ground when exiting. The lowness would be a plus if you regularly fall out of the bed, but this will never happen due to the patented ‘U’ shape design of the guest bed.

Guest beds are often at least as firm than the floor, so consider both the bed and floor as viable options for sleep. If there’s carpet on the floor, it’s a no-brainer.

B) The Couch

If there is no guest bed, then chances are there isn’t even a guest room and you will be facing the sofa bed or futon. You will be placed out in some heavy foot traffic main living area, probably near a bathroom where people take night time dumps and loud pees. There will be light shining in through the windows from what feels like a UFO of some kind, but is actually some streetlight shining directly in your face. Also, at some point, you may end up being mauled by a cat, or humped by a dog.

In any case, either sofa bed or futon, just sleep directly on the sofa or futon without unfolding them (sometimes all you have been offered is a regular couch that is hopefully long enough that you won’t have to sleep with your legs up like you are riding on a rocket to the moon). It is also acceptable to remove the mattress from the frame and put it directly on the floor. Now you can easily avoid the dreaded ‘middle of the back bar’ on the sofa-bed, or the fact that futons are seemingly made only for people less than five feet tall. Being on the floor can increase cat maulings or dog humpings, so please take that into consideration.

There is no shutting out the streetlight because your hosts don’t have blinds or curtains over those windows. Better luck next time, asshole. In any case, you’ll be forced to wake up whenever the first person in the household wakes up, since you are out in the open. Just pray that your wiener or nipple or vagina or ass-crack or taint or pubes aren’t showing.

IV) The Air Mattress

They always seem like a good idea, but they also always leak air. If you know that you are sleeping on an air mattress, blow it up as soon as you get there, even if it is morning. You need to know how bad it is leaking, stat. Once you confirm that it is leaking, you have to hunt for the holes. Hole-hunting basically means that you have to hover over it with your hands, like it’s some kind of mystical ouija board, and then shush everyone.

“Shhhhh quiet, I’m listening for the air. I’m trying to feel where the leak is – WITH MY MIND.”

Once you find holes, you have to patch them with the million patches that come with the air mattress. That really should have been the first sign that these things aren’t very reliable. That’s like giving out morning after pills with packs of condoms, you know, just in case. The patches kind of look like the patches your mom used to use to cover the holes in your finest pair of husky jeans, and also, they never actually stop the air from leaking out. You fall asleep in the air, and wake up on the floor. The sides of the air mattress are hugging your sides like some kind of hot dog bun. But, in this scenario, you are the big ol’ sausage! You may be thinking, "it's kind of more like a taco, and I am the ground beef", but you are wrong. The answer is hot dog.

Sharing an air mattress sucks even harder, because every move the other person makes shakes you around like you’re trying to sleep through an earthquake. I suggest yelling out “EARTHQUAKE” every time the other person moves. It’s great for their self-esteem. The morning after sharing an air mattress with my wife was the only time that I have ever woken up, looked over at her, and wished that she was way the hell fatter than me. Because there she was, gingerly perched on a cushiony cloud of airy comfort, while I lay on the ground, with my feet slightly elevated. I did what any good husband would do, and rolled off, sending her on a quick descent towards an abrupt hardwood wakeup call. This is an excellent way to share a laugh with your partner, eventually, when they begin speaking to you again, sometime during the following month.

Also, if the mattress is a bit saggy and your partner is laying on it, don’t jump too hard onto it, or you will risk sending them flying out the window, into the ceiling fan or head first into a light bulb. If this is your plan, then be sure to get the angle just right. Practice makes perfect, so maybe do a few trial runs with the local dog, cat or children.

But, honestly, I suggest you just fill the air mattress with water. That way, if it doesn’t leak, you get a water bed experience. If it does leak, then you’ll get water everywhere, but you can blame it on your host for giving you a shitty air mattress. Win – win.

There are definitely other sleeping arrangements that can be thrown at you, like a tree house in the back yard, foam placed on a concrete floor (they look like mushy egg cartons and feel like crap!), sleeping bag in the bathtub, or even a Murphy bed. So bring lots of Aleve, you’ll need it. That or horse tranquilizers. Personally I just ask the host for more pillows and blankets, pile them under the sheets so it looks like I’m sleeping in there, and then I check into a nearby hotel.

That’s it. I gotta go blow up the air mattress for my mom. It’s really comfortable.

Writer's Block, Vol. II.

2010-09-22T07:00:00.057-04:00

I sprayed Pam into a frying pan and got some on the counter. Now what? How do you clean Pam off of the counter? Pledge, you say? Won’t that just make everything even more greasy and slippery? Honestly, that’s like cleaning a shit stain with a melty chocolate bar. Yes, it’s exactly like that. In all seriousness, you could accidentally mix up the labels on your Pledge and your Pam and no one would know the difference. Well, until someone starts noticing a certain lemon-bleachy zest in the fried tilapia. That and everyone’s teeth start shining extra bright like freshly stained and polished cedar. But, I feel that Pledge's whole ad campaign should be based on its ability to turn a regular coffee table into an air hockey table.

"Honey, pass me one of those coasters."

[COASTER GLIDES ACROSS TABLE AND FLIES THROUGH THE WINDOW]

"I win, I win! One to nothin'!!"

Seriously though, when you go overly apeshit with the Pledge (or Pam for that matter) and get some on the floor by mistake, it takes years for the floor not to be slippery anymore. It's a death trap for anyone wearing socks. Suddenly you have small zones of floor all around your house, marked off with cones, that you know to be careful around, like hardwood black ice.

“Careful over there, there’s a slippery spot. Don’t wear socks in that room. You need to put on your cleats.”

Who are these people that wear shoes in their own house? Creepy. Ever accidentally done the splits because of a Pledgey spot on the floor? Me neither. My mother used to clean the kitchen table with Pledge and when she would call us down for supper (in Canada, we say SUPPER), we would come running down, excited, and then go flying across the floor like some kind of linoleum Slip N’ Slide. Except instead of a refreshing pool at the end, it was an open oven. That’s actually how we lost our cat, Mr. Majestyk. In retrospect we should have called him Mr. Tender N’ Delicious. I’m kidding, we didn’t eat him. But he ruined our fucking lasagna.

Slip N’ Slide was one of those disappointing toys, wasn’t it? The commercial was full of guitar solos and people having an absolute blast. In reality, you were lucky if you even made it all the way to the end without veering to the side, touching the grass and/or pavement, and doing a horrifyingly painful backwards somersault. I guess toys like that set us up for being disappointed by a lot of things in life in general as adults. Oh shit, remember Pogo Ball? How were those asshole kids getting so much air in those commercials? Again, guitar solos, turntable sounds, jump kicks, sideways or backwards hats and flying happy ninja children. I’ll tell you, my brothers and I barely got the thing off of the ground, let alone got three or four feet of air. Picture trying to jump with THE PLANET SATURN between your ankles and you get a bit of the idea.

“Hey guys, check this out, I can jump even higher if I throw the Pogo Ball into the garbage.”

There was also a brief yoyo craze when I was growing up, but my attempts at the “Around the World” trick ended when the yoyo tagged me in the balls. What a nice surprise (see: Quelle Surprise!). I always managed to get hit in the balls during sports growing up. I was the only kid that insisted on wearing a cup while playing hacky sack. I’d get hit in the nuts during Hide and Seek. Speaking of which, did you ever have a game of Hide and Seek that ended prematurely? You know, where everyone goes home before someone gets found, but no one bothers to tell that kid?

“Did anyone find Jeremy?”

“No, but, eventually he’ll figure it out. Let’s all go to our homes.”

Jeremy remained crouched in the garbage can seemingly forever, figuring that their cries of “come out Jeremy, come out wherever you are, we’re going home, the game's done” were just a lame ploy to lure him out prematurely. He was eventually found, hungry, shivering and holding a Pogo Ball for warmth. He sat there, in a pile of his own poopies, victorious. He was the clear winner.

In short, sometimes it’s better to lose.

That’s it. I'm trying to use this hot Snickers bar to remove this skidmark.

Celebrate Good Times? Come On.

2010-09-14T14:30:00.005-04:00

It all started off when somewhere, some lunatic first thought to themselves that “saaay, Friday is one day before Saturday, and boy oh boy does that ever make me happy”, figuring it was like some kind of a holiday to him. So he goes around wishing everyone a ‘Happy Friday’. Wow, so witty and clever. This is the same joker who probably has a nickname for everyone he’s ever met in his entire life.

“What up [enter obnoxious nickname that only this person uses]?"

Long pause.

"[repeat obnoxious nickname but stretch out the final syllable and make the voice go higher and higher by at least three octaves]!”

You know, I bet they have a big fucking barbecue too, and always mention that they’re going to grill or golf or whatnot. They do real well for themselves, no doubt. They say shit like 'that's what I'm talking about' or 'you da man' or 'story of my life'. They’re named like, Karl or Travis, or Casey, or like Wendy. Well shit, the keener intern/temp/asshole from two cubicles down (the one who bakes cheesy doodles and marzipan hot buns for EVERYONE in the office every two or three days) picked up on this cheerful and awesomely fun behavior and started applying it to Mondays too. You know, to be ironical and/or cute or something. It wasn’t. It’s not. They’re not.

Telling someone that they have a ‘case of the Mondays’, Office Space style, is lame, but it isn’t nearly as lame as suggesting to “turn that frown upside down” and then bringing it all home with a big ol’ “Happy Monday!”

Seriously fuck you. Turn your head upside down and stick it UP YOUR ASS WITH BROKEN GLASS. Now. Go back to the temp agency forever and ever please. Now. But hey guess what? Happy Monday and Happy Friday just weren’t good enough for these happy office folk. It was only the beginning. This brings me to one dreadful Tuesday, when someone said unto me, ‘Happy Tuesday’. I don’t remember when it was, but I seem to remember taking a few personal days afterwards, understandably so. I even contemplated quitting. I wanted to set fire to my ears and never go back to the land of hearing.

“Well, enjoy the freshly baked lemon poppy seed jalapeño popper pizza bagel coffee cupcakes that I baked from scratch. They’re healthy and nutrasweet! Happy Tuesday!”

This is where we’re at now? Celebrating moments of time just for existing once a week? Obviously Wednesday and Thursday came next, and so now, we’re all pretty much fucked. Perky, chipper, screechy-voiced wienies are coming out of the woodworks wishing us all Happy Anyday and wanting to tell us about their weekends and plans and home renovations. What’s next you ask?

“Happy 5th of November everyone!”

“Happy dusk on a Sunday!”

“Happy Bathroom Break! Seriously, number one or number two?”

“Happy Which Conference Room is the Two O’Clock Meeting in this Afternoon??!!”

“Happy 3:17PM Eastern Standard Time.”

What happens when their birthday falls on a Tuesday? Does their head explode when they try to process the joy at having two such gigantic things to celebrate?

“Happy… Tuesduh-Berrrthday- toomEEEeeEEEee HELP …. SYSTEM FAILURE…”

Explosion.

Dare to dream.

The only consolation is that these people probably aren’t happy at all, and that’s why they need to pretend that it being Tuesday is reason enough to throw a HAPPINESS PARADE. Guess what? It isn’t. You can be happy, and it can be Tuesday, but if ever you feel the need to say Happy [insert any day of the week], please stop for a minute, take a big deep breath, and jump out the god damn window.

That’s it. Happy Tuesday.

Love and Pepperoni.

2010-09-10T08:00:00.007-04:00

In this, the age of information, we seem to be bombarded with a million options every time we have to make a choice. The grass isn’t necessarily always greener on the other side, but nonetheless our commitment phobic society tends to assume that, obviously, it must be greener somewhere. Not just any green, but a magical green that will solve all of life’s problems and make more people like you even more, if you just wait and wait and never choose, and never commit. It will all be handed to you.

“Sure, this seems like the right pair of boxer-briefs, but what if there’s another pair out there that massages my balls while I walk and makes my peen bigger?”

Honestly, if you set the bar high enough, you’ll never be happy with anything ever. In fact, you may never end up with anything period. Awesome. The one exception for most people, I guess, tends to be with food. People know what they like and where to get it from. They have all their brands and snacks and cheesies and pretznels and wundernips and frooble-dee-froo. Don’t get me wrong, people are still picky as shit when it comes to food decisions, but eventually when they make a choice, they actually stick to it, usually forever. This is especially true with pizza joints.

“Let’s get pizza. I know the best place. It’s the best. Oh man, I’m the man.”

Don’t get me started on the overuse of the word ‘best’ again (see: Best of the Best). The point is people have no problem committing to and trusting a food delivery place. I can’t imagine why that, when people can’t seem to commit to anything, this is what they are able to commit to. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just stuff like electronics and lederhosen that people were afraid of sticking to.

e.g.: “wait what there’s a new PiePhone? omg!!11 well shit, I NEED it, I can’t stick with this old shitty one, it doesn’t even automatically cook my turkey while I’m off skiing, if there’s a better one, then I need to have it ASAP, my want it, my wants, mommy mommy, my wants my new MyPhone, gimme gimme gimme” he texted to his mother from down the hall.

But it’s with relationships too! Sadly, nobody trusts anybody, and this is the real problem. I could deal with the attention deficit society if they didn’t apply the same spoiled brat adulescent childish ‘me-first’ generational behavior to love, lust and everything in between. I find it, well, strange that some people can call up pizza delivery restaurants and be giving a stranger their name, number, address and even credit card information, without batting an eyelash, but on another night have casual sex with a stranger, without wanting to divulge any one of those four. Unless of course they’ve managed to find a prostitute that accepts VISA, and then maybe one of those four could get satisfied. They could even have those portable little debit machines like they have in them fancy restaurants these days and bring it right to your bed.

“You can enter dollar amount or percentage for the tip, hun.”

“But, I already gave you more than the tip. Heyooooo!”

“Very funny, I already gave you the clap.”

“Can I get a receipt for that?”

But otherwise, in a non-professional scenario, the conversation after a typical adult themed casual encounter might go a little a something like a this.

“Yes, my name is uh… Dean. No, no last name, it’s just Dean, it’s like Cher or Eminem… and yes, I live here, at the Super 8, just call and ask for Dean, they know me here” he said politely to the woman who could have sworn last night he said his name was Dwayne, as he called a cab, and casually threw her underwear and khaki Capri pants out the window. “Wait, before you go, do you know the number for Domino’s?”

Brandon Toode (a.k.a. Dean or Dwayne) will give his real info to Domino's for handling his pepperoni, but can’t give it the woman who just handled his salami. What the hell kind of expression is casual sex anyways? In general, I have difficulty in seeing anything casual about penetration, of any kind. Try sticking your dick in some mashed potatoes and acting casual. Better yet, try sticking a cucumber up your ass and acting casual.

“Hey Pete, you catch Letterman’s Top Ten last night? Man, it was so-”

“Bill, umm, sorry to interrupt, but I believe that you’ve got a cucumber up your ass.”

“Oh, yeah, no big deal. I actually forgot it was there… Anyways, are you gonna finish those mashed potatoes?”

Honestly, anything that you can’t do in public without fear of arrest can’t be considered casual. Even simpler, if it involves your privates, it can’t be considered casual. Casual sex is just a way to disguise the term meaningless sex so that the people getting all random-sexied don’t feel meaningless afterwards. I guess they don’t really have privates, they have publics.

“It wasn’t meaningless! It was… casual.”

I guess paying a prostitute would be business casual.

It makes me wonder how these types could ever hold a steady job. I would have to assume most don’t make it past the first casual Friday, given their definition.

“I don’t know Trey, I mean, I got to work, grabbed my coffee, went to the morning meeting, dropped my pants, and then the next thing you know, I’m being escorted out. I mean, I thought it was casual Friday! I didn’t even have time to ask who wanted to get them some of this!”

“So, let me get this straight, they call it casual Friday, but you didn’t even get laid?”

No, he got laid off. Say, I wonder if that’s how that term came to be.

So, regardless of how often the pizza came late, the toppings were wrong, the pizza was terrible, the delivery guy was rude or even the pizza never came at all, we all still go back for more. Now, I know, you’re thinking, that’s because pizza is awesome. And you’re right, pizza is awesome. It’s the king of the culinary kingdom, housing all seven food groups in one delicious package: Dough, Sauce, Pepperoni, Fire, Crispy, Cheesy and Grease. Who wouldn’t want to hit the hut? If you get a hungry enough person, I bet you could lay a log of dump on top of a slice a pizza and sprinkle some extra cheese on it, and still, blindfolded, they’d eat the shit outta that shit.

“This is some good shit! What’s this pan crust?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Let’s call it bedpan crust. Those are homemade toppings too.”

But, where is that commitment and tenacity when it comes to love? Why did you break up with him/her?

“I don’t know, I mean he called my cell at 10:13 AM, like, that’s weird. I don’t know if I could be with someone that makes phone calls on odd numbered minutes.”

“She texted ‘haha’ and I’m more of an ‘lol’ kind of guy.”

“I mean, sure, her boobs were big, but they weren’t super giganto-big.”

“He only had like 37 friends on Farcebook. Oh Em Gee. I can’t be with a complete loser.”

“She didn’t wanna take shit on my chest. What a prude?”

“His name is Jeremy, and I’ve always seen myself with more of a Dean, or a Brandon.”

“It just wasn’t a love connection.”

Maybe you’re line is down. Maybe reception is just bad because you’ve built some hefty walls around you. Dating really seems to have gotten to the point where people treat it like shopping, or worse, real estate.

“Now’s not the time to buy, now’s the time to rent” claimed Brandon Toode.

The problem with ol’ Tooder’s attitude is that years of renting and moving around both repeatedly and frequently has damaged all of his furniture and left him completely bankrupt. Lost in the metaphor? Broken furniture and bankruptcy equals a busted wiener and the herpes. Shopping online for dates is kind of like browsing with a real estate agent. Paying for dating opportunities, much like the commission you might pay a real estate agent. Hookers and/or gigolos are more like a motel though, and the pimp is the guy at the front desk. Be careful! A really cheap motel could have crabs on the toilet seat and man juice on the sheets. Lost in the metaphor again? Crabs are, well, crabs. Toilet seat is... whatever you want it to be. You know what? Forget it.

People tend to lose sight of the fact that, much like a new apartment, no relationship will feel like home right from the start. Some things will be surprising, unexpected, different and maybe even scary (or simply not what you are used to). It takes time before you realize what you have could be something special, and that you have found where you belong. You’re home. Then again, some places do have rats and bugs. But maybe you’re into that.

Now I’m not suggesting that, whether we are talking real estate or relationships, you settle down prematurely. That just creates bad relationships, bad breakups and bad marriage statistics (I would say bad mortgage, bad credit, but I’m done with the analogy, starting... now). By all means, play the field for as long as you want or feel you need to. Just be sure to never lead anyone on into thinking that you are being exclusive if you have no intention on halting the sale of your particular brand of magical delights and treats at other retail locations.

“Exclusive? Nah, let’s be inclusive, baby, I will include you in the list of people I am seeing.”

“No thanks, please exclude me from your life forever.”

The pretend committers are often the same people that eventually become the actual cheaters. The delusion that you could cheat and never have your spouse or partner find out is almost as stupid as cheating in the first place. If you cheat on your diet, your spouse will find out. Go to the grocery store, buy a pepperoni stick, eat it on the way home, who’s gonna know? They will, every time. They’ll spot the sausage casing stuck in your teeth, smell it on your breath, in your car, on your clothes. Oh, you’ll try chewing gum, washing your hands, driving with the windows down, but still, they’ll know. Now, if they can pick up on the light guilt and fragrance that comes with speed-eating a Slim Jim and ruining your appetite, imagine if you’ve been eating or frequenting COCK OR PUSSY. I’m pretty sure those smell at least as strong as beef jerky or a good Colby cheese.

All this to say, if you feel like you’re ready to settle down, then stop being afraid and start giving things a real chance. You might get hurt, you might get happy, but get out there, and find the right pepperoni pizza for you. Find one so good, that pepperoni sticks don’t even tempt you anymore. Seriously, what am I even talking about at this point?

That’s it. I have to finish this kielbasa before my wife gets home.

Stupid is as Stupid Drives.

2010-09-01T13:00:00.001-04:00

Seriously, cars create stupidity. I’m not talking about the obvious kind of stupid, like when a person sees a nice car and wants to check under the hood, groan and gnarl with a Timallenesque woof and beat off all over the V8 Carbonomator Spark Ploogues. No, I’m talking about the subtle kind of stupidity that cars manufacture, the kind that cars bring out of people. It takes real smarts to design cars and put them together and be all hella-fast. Wild scienticians are finding new ways to do more with less that costs less and kills less trees and shit. But once it’s finished and one of them geniuses steps into the car… potential moron. While I won’t bother to list obviously stupid driving mistakes made by regular people behind the wheel, I will list through a few of the more convincing and seemingly random arguments to prove that cars bring out the stupidest side of stupid, whether with their operation, their decoration or just their existence in general.

1) Vanity Plates.

Who first thought that this was a fun investment? Have you ever heard of a situation where having your license plate be easy to remember would be a good thing? Every time in life or in the movies you hear “Did anyone get the plate number?”, it’s generally preceded by something like hitting an old person, running through a restaurant terrace, exploding a fruit truck, drive-by shootings or running over a small family. In these cases, if your plate number is snappy and easy to remember, then shouldn’t we assume it makes you easier to catch? Wouldn’t it be embarrassing for a hooligan to get caught because of their vanity plate?

“Surely I’m not the only one in a silver Saab, I mean, what does that prove?”

“Is your plate 'MADD DOGGZ'?”

“Umm…”

“Seriously, otherwise I wouldn't have known where to find you.”

It’s not as if the coppers are tracking down anyone to reward them for good driving.

“Wow, did you see that guy parallel park in one move? Did anyone get his plate?”

“Hi, I heard that you witnessed the lady that came to a full stop at the stop sign… did you happen to get her plate number?”

“That’s the seventh car he has let in ahead of him, I’m going to take down his license plate and give it to the authorities, you know, for reward.”

So why bother having a nifty catchy plate? Is it so that the other drivers can know just a little bit more about you and what you’re all about? Sad.

“Say, that guy’s plate says ‘4 REALZ’. Geez Patricia, do you think he likes reality TV, or reality in general, or maybe he is a very genuine person? Oh! Maybe he is in a boy band called 4 realz… hmmm… well, I guess the only way to find out is to run him off the road and ask him.”

“I don’t know Stan, that one there says 'RKR CHK', she sounds like fun. I would assume that she is a chick, and also that she potentially rocks. We like to rock don’t we? I mean, in general, we rock. Let’s crash into her.”

“You never like any of my ideas!”

Divorce.

Some don’t even make any sense, because people take letters out of the words, usually vowels, and leave it up to you the reader to decide, like ‘BJNSHT’ you know for ‘Blowjobs and Shit’. They’re not always easy to figure out, which, begs the question “what’s the fucking point”. Sometimes the word is pronounceable, but meaningless to anyone but the driver, like 'SARTO' or 'FANAPY'. Is ‘HPY’ hippy or happy? Is that a ‘5’ or an ‘S’? Who really cares? I saw one that said 'AXNDRA'… which maybe means Alexandra, or maybe has something to do with an axe. Why are people being so cryptic? If you are that lonely and desperate to have tailgaters know just a little more about you, why not just have a regular plate and then put a banner on your bumper that says “my name is alexandra”? Just state facts like “hey man, check me out, I like cats”, instead of ‘CNTLUVR’.

I guess that’s all bumper stickers are. I once saw a car that had a ‘Jesus Loves’ type of caca bumper sticker taped to the inside of the back windshield. Were they worried about changing their mind down the road and not being able to take it off the bumper? They don’t want to fully commit to the idea, but still want to display it. Apparently they just kind of love Jesus, for now, but not enough to make it a permanent fixture on the bumper. I find that kind of insulting, you know, for Jesus. I guess when someone better comes along they can just swap it out for Buddha, Tom Cruise or evolution. Bumper stickers are stupid.

Sometimes I come across a plate and I’m not sure if it’s a vanity plate or not. If vanity plates didn’t exist, this wouldn’t happen.

“'583 MAN'… hmmm… well I wonder what the significance of that is” he pondered as he drove the car into the snow bank. ‘Dreamer’ by Supertramp softly played in the background.

The only real use I could see for a vanity plate is if you actually plan on committing vehicular crimes and want to make it impossible for anyone to remember. Get a plate with 27 numbers, letters and symbols placed at random.

“Did anyone get the plate number?”

“I think there was a ‘J’ and a happy face in there somewhere…”

“No, it was one of those winking happy faces… I think… or the one with the tongue sticking out.”

“I think that was a ‘e’ with umlauts.”

2) Rubber Band Traffic.

Nothing says stupid like traffic caused by nothing. People slow down enough, to look at an accident, that it then has a ripple effect and causes traffic, or another accident. All because they need to slow down, check shit out and think or say out loud something extra dumb.

“Oh gee, I hope no one got hurt.”

Who, out there, is hoping people are hurt? Is anyone driving by thinking the opposite?

“Hmmm… ’94 Tercel, I hope they’re all dead.”

“New York plates? Well it’s about time.”

“If only they’d just FUCKING EXPLODE ALREADY!”

I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if people actually had thoughts of that nature. At least then they would likely speed up, and I would make it home in time to watch ‘Kardashians Take a Dump’, or whatever. Sometimes it’s not even an accident, sometimes it’s just some car parked on the side of the road because the driver probably shit their pants or needed to pee. Sometimes it’s because there’s a state trooper on the side of the road, who’s already pulled someone else over, flashing lights and everything. Well, shit, shouldn’t you speed up then? Now’s your chance! Floor that sucker, and give the trooper the finger on your way by.

3) Global Positronic Swerndieferndenspiel (that sounds right).

Didn’t someone follow their GPS into a river? I don’t really think any more needs to be said about that. Granted, it’s not as if before GPS people were smarter with directions, driving all around town with a few notes jotted down on a post-it (like “left at the second lights after the second MacDonald’s” or “you gotta go three stops past the Burger King”) that would cause people to get lost, not pull over to ask for directions, and subsequently have the night end either in divorce or dying in the woods somewhere thinking “we must have missed the turn somewhere back before we hit the Canadian border” or “seriously, I didn’t see any sign that said Fluffandstuff Beach, did you? There was no sign!”

4) Nose Picking.

There’s nothing quite like cleaning house after a long day’s work breathing in conditioned air and office dust. Next time you’re in traffic heading home from work, look around. Two out of three cars house a driver that is up to their wrist digging for gold. These people would never stand in line at the bank or super market and do this, but in the car, in traffic, they somehow feel safe, and are also too stupid to realize that windows are see-through and are too busy flicking boogers towards their passenger seat to notice that they’re being watched.

5) Ritualistic Car Washing.

If you have a good dozen or so bird poops blocking windshield visibility, or better yet, a homeless man used the back seat of your car as a brothel / toilet / bathtub, then go ahead and give your car a good once over. You have my blessing. Otherwise just wait until it rains. I could see cleaning your car religiously every week if you were going to drive it in your house. No sense in leaving pesky tire treads all over grandma’s new carpets. But since no one is really about to do that, let’s just take a deep breath and remember that we drive our cars outside, and outside is dirty. Nothing stays new forever, let your shit age gracefully, it’s embarrassing.

“Look at my car, it’s clean, it’s like new, I’m like new, I’m shiny, my life is empty.”

6) Motocyclette.

You know what? I won’t even get into this right now. They are half of a car and exponentially more stupid. Screw motorcycles. Motorcycles don’t make stupid, they just are stupid. You like motorcycles? You’re stupid.

7) Laws.

Why do we need so many road signs? Because we’re that dumb in cars. 'BRAKE FOR MOOSE'? As far as I’m concerned, if you can’t figure that one out, maybe it’s just your time. And what’s with those deaf child ones? Are people coming up to a kid in the middle of the road and not stopping? Are we not trusted to stop for a child unless we are told they are deaf?

“It doesn’t say deaf child anywhere, any non-deaf child should really know better.” BOOM.

Or honking once and hoping for the best?

“Well fuck him, I honked, he had his chance.” Kablammo-Smoosh.

I wonder if those signs are the result of some lawsuit where some scumbag got off scot-free.

“If I’d known he was deaf I would have flashed my brights at him, thrown my water bottle at his head and slowed down a little. But I really thought he heard the honks. I gave him a good half second to get out of the way. I’m the victim here. I thought this is what he wanted. You know there really should be a sign.”

How come you don’t see any signs regarding blind children? I would assume they’d be more likely to be out in the road accidentally. And why stop at blind or deaf children, or, hell, why stop at children at all? Why not just have a big sign that says ‘TAKE’ER EASY – people jump out into the road around here, totally at random’. That’ll get people’s attention. Sadly, while they are reading it they may have run over a child or two. Maybe we should stop building roads that go directly through play areas. Or were the playgrounds built near the roads? Chicken and the egg, I guess. Maybe they should point the signs towards the side of the road where all the kids are running out from and write ‘WATCH OUT FOR ROADS’ on it or something, or ‘CARS WON’T NECESSARILY STOP FOR YOU, KID’, or build a fence.

Even speed limits exist because people can’t be trusted. Without them people would just never stop speeding up.

“Slow down Gerald the exit is coming up!”

“Blow your exit out your ass, Vera! I’m going to keep going until the needle flies off.”

In any case, regardless of all the road signs and laws, people break them all anyways. You’d never shoplift, or kill your wife, or hamburglarize. But get behind the wheel and you’ll definitely do a U-Turn over a median going seventy-five in a school zone, drunk.

“Stick it to the man, God damnit! Laws were meant to be broken!” said Nigel, the LOCAL PRIEST.

They even have to make laws to tell people what not to do while driving. Like being drunk or making and eating a sweet hoagie. You have to tell people not to text while driving. And still you see people doing it all the time. Well, I assume that’s what they’re doing, as they only have one free hand on the wheel and are looking down towards their crotch and manipulating something. You got it – they may be whacking off. (Texting… masturbating, is there really a difference?) Probably shouldn’t do that either, though. I’d like to see Oprah challenging people to take that pledge. Celebrities would be lining up. Seriously, though, imagine getting pulled over for that?

“License and registration please."
"Hold on, the license is in my pants, I threw them in the back seat somewhere..."
"No, sir, hand them to me with your other hand.”

“You got any Purell?”

In some colder areas of the universe they had to start forcing people to put snow tires on their cars… assumedly because people weren’t smart enough to feel it was necessary. As long as we’re heading in that direction, let’s ticket the moron that clears a fist sized hole out of the snow on their windshield, for visibility, and thinks they’re fit to drive on the highway.

“Hey, I can see my own hood, and that’s sure good enough to know if I hit anything.”

Helmet laws, SUVs in the suburbs, that robot that gets help for you when you’re in a jam, locking keys in the car, double parking, drive-thru anything, people listening to iPods while driving… ET CETERA ET CETERA. Look, I know public transportation isn’t the answer either. I saw an ad campaign, for a while, that was trying to be all green and ecosexual, insisting that public transportation was the ‘car of the future’. Have these marketing assholes ever even been on the bus or subway? What a bleak future that would be – unreliable, old, smelly, and being driven by the absolute cream of the crop (people still rocking the mullet and wearing the same outfit since the mid nineteen seventies). Imagine picking up a date in the car of the future.

“Be on the corner of Stain and Shart at 8:02 pm.”

“Can’t you pick me up at my house?”

“Well, no I can't, Wendy, I have a very futuristic car of the future. Now, make sure you’re there at 8:02, because that’s when I will pick you up, in this future car, otherwise the date is cancelled, or I suppose you could just catch the next future car and meet me at our destination. Anyways, look for the car that is big and rectangular and makes lots of noise and says ‘Downtown’ on the front. Oh, and I won’t be driving, and there will be other people in it. See you then.”

“That sounds like the bus.”

“Bye.”

There are certainly some parents that could have some fun with it.

“Hey Dad, can I take the car out tonight?”

“Sure son, you can take the ‘car of the future’. Here are the keys” said the father as he threw some change out the window.

Thank heavens more and more people are working from home or just simply getting too fat to drive. Honestly, until we invent transporter beams or some kind of high speed travelling tube system like they have in movies set in the year 2000, I don’t think there’s much hope for intelligent daily commuting. In the meantime, at least avoid the crap I just went over, and be safe, please.

That’s it. My exit’s coming up.

Unclogue.

2010-08-09T22:00:00.006-04:00

Good morning or something! Moving is heavy, man. I don’t just mean that because unemployment and moving have rendered me the fattest I have been since I can remember, but also because it can take a lot out of you. Sure, in the end it is worth it, and I feel all happy and whatnot, but it takes a whole lot of time to get settled in somewhere new, establish a new routine, and find the new milieu’s version of all the things that you know and love. It is a long and hard process, and, honestly, nothing could be worse than discovering that the KFC doesn’t taste as good here as it did where I came from. It’s all soggy and chewy like a bag of corn chips that was left open overnight. Seriously, what the fuck? Not to mention public transportation makes me want to puke all over the place forever, all of the time. So, did I suddenly run out of things to complain about, all of a sudden, back in April, you ask? No. Have I given up on attempting to write out my observations in a hilarious way to match how funny they are in my head? Absolute no.

But I have been busy… and lazy. Mostly lazy I suppose. Also I watch a lot of home renovation programs. I won’t get into the brutality of moving right now, as I intend on covering all of its many joys and awesomeness in separate segments over time, along with anything else that comes up. So sit back, relax, have eight or nine drinks and then tell me how funny I am. Chapter two of Highway 10 Revisited starting... NOW. Ready? And... Break.

That’s it. Welcome home Kev.

Best of the Best.

2010-03-30T12:00:00.011-04:00

I get about one gazillion emails a day, and there are far too many of them using the ‘best regards’ closer. Oh sure, some people try and mix it up sometimes with some warm regards, kind regards, delicious regards or even plain ol’ regular adjective-free regards. But generally, the best regards are the most popular of the regards. But how can all of these regards really be the best? Isn’t best supposed to be the best? You know, as in there can be only one best? Like Highlander, and shit? Apparently people have thousands of their best regards, just laying around to be given out for no good reason. Personally, even if I had thousands of my best regards to spare, I’d reserve the best regards for people that I care about, and for important messages only. Some people are giving best regards in insanely inappropriate contexts.

Hi Bill,
I need that report by five’o’clock or else you’re fired.
Best regards,
Benjamin

It’s only a matter of time before people take it up a notch and start sending people their best best regards. Just once I’d like to see someone close an email with a more honest set of regards, like second best or fourth best regards, the worst regards, smelly regards, awkward regards or simply zero regards.

Hello Benjamin,
Take your report and shove it directly up your ass.
Absolutely no regards at all whatsoever, not even one single regard,
Bill

When letters or emails are outside of the formal business kind of context, people tend to gravitate towards best wishes instead of the regards. But the same logic should still apply. There is always that family of assholes that sends out some long Christmas letter to everyone they’ve ever met to update them with every single thing that has happened to them over the last year, no matter how personal it may be, and how private it should have remained. I’m sure you know the kind of letter that I mean. And it always ends with wishes, but not just any wishes, the best wishes.

Dearest Fapperwheel Fanclub Member,

This year was another roller coaster of a whirlwindy year for the Fapperwheel clan. The family’s patriarchal figure Benjamin Fapperwheel was promoted early in the year and has succeeded just tremendously in his new role as the guy that stands on the side of the road in a Spiderman costume to entice people to come and buy roses at the flower shop. He gets to make his own sign, with an arrow and everything. He also has a Santa Claus costume for the holiday season. We are blessed with all of his newfound success. As for myself, the mother hen, Tiffany Fapperwheel, I was let go mid-June from my position at the Bouncing Titties Buffet and Salad Bar. Rather than get down on myself for too long, I turned it around into an opportunity and started giving dancing classes at the local YMCA. Once the initial protests died down, the classes became quite popular, although many of the class members were overweight unemployed men who refused to participate, and just liked to watch. The tips have been generous though!

Our youngest son Jeremy Fapperwheel is settling in well at his new high school, where the other kids have nicknamed him the Whiz Kid. Not because he is smart, at all, but simply because of his continuous and frequent need to urinate, often accidentally. We all feel that this is a vast improvement over his former school’s nickname for him, Piss Face. Keep it up Piss Face, I mean, Whiz Kid! Our middle child, Dandylion Fapperwheel, a.k.a. Dandy the Amazing, has continued to AMAZE audiences at children birthday parties the county over with her magic act. Contrary to what you may have read in the paper, the parent’s of that particular child dropped the charges in the end, admitting that the burns were not so severe after all, and that in all likeliness her hair would probably grow back just fine, and the same color as before. With a lot of careful editing, a little movie magic, and frequent use of the star wipe, she just completed her video portfolio to send off to clown college, so keep your fingers and toes crossed for her!

Our eldest son, and other middle child, Benjamin Fapperwheel IV, is following in his father’s footsteps by dropping out of school to pursue a career at the car wash, being the guy standing on the roadside trying to get people to turn in and get their car washed. We’ve never been more proud! Our eldest daughter, Britney Fapperwheel, got knocked up at some point this past summer and is planning to marry early in the New Year, you know, before the baby comes, to some real asshole, quite possibly not even the father of the kid. Check your mailboxes soon for the invitations! The ceremony and reception will be held at the Chuck E. Cheese in town where she works, where she usually can be found cleaning the balls one by one from the ball pit where the kids play and pee. She just loves big ol’ shiny balls! Our hearts are just bursting with excitement and joy!

I would like to end on a small note about our two beautiful dogs Prick and Von Johnson Woofenwiener. They’re dead.

All our love and best wishes,
The Fapperwheels

Now that they have used up all of their love as well as their best wishes, one would assume and maybe hope that they would have very little to live for. But don’t get too excited, somehow, they’ll be back, year after year, with all new love and shiny new best wishes. What the hell do I want someone else’s best wishes for anyways? Unless one of their best wishes is that my best wishes comes true (or somehow happens to be the same thing as one of my many wishes,) then I really can’t use them. I doubt that their best wishes are for me to somehow win lots of money. Maybe Jeremy Fapperwheel’s best wish is to stop peeing so much. What the hell good does that do me? And what good does that do him if he gives that wish away?

“Dad, I had wished to stop peeing so much, how come I can’t stop?”
“Oh, that’s easy, son, I gave all of our best wishes away to everyone that we know. Incidentally, we really hate each other now, because I gave all of our love away too. Now, would you mind standing on the plastic, Piss Face?”

The end of letters like that should just read ‘Some love and occasionally decent wishes.’ If you want to spice it up, feel free to make it ‘lots of love and wishes’, but just don’t promise your best. To make matters worse, some people don’t even feel that the best is enough, and they will follow the ‘all our love’ motif and throw in an ‘all the best’.

Hey there Petunia,
I heard through the grapevine that you finally had your head successfully pulled out of your ass. Kudos!
All the best,
Spud

All the best… what exactly? All the best… chicken wings? All the best… aluminum siding? All the best… testicular cancer? No matter what it refers to, can this person really claim to be giving them all to you? Like, everyone’s? Not just all their best, but all the best... in the world? Who the hell do you think you are, thinking that you can just give away the world’s entire best? Well, I’m keeping mine, god damnit! And if that shit is not proof enough that people don’t understand the concept of ‘best’, just look at how overused it has become in various expressions, all throughout society. Best man, man’s best friend, the best for last, best of the best? Come on! How could a movie ever be a good with a title like that? It doesn’t even make any sense. It makes even less sense that they made three sequels. And what was James Earl Jones doing in the first one? And what was Ernie Hudson doing in the fourth one? Man, you were Winston Zeddemore, for crying out loud! Winston! Further proof of improper usage of 'best' is that people will say things like ‘absolute best’.

“I did my absolute best.”

As opposed to your other 'best', the one that isn’t absolute? I saw an advertisement for a radio program that claimed it was the ‘#1 BEST SHOW in town’. At first I was annoyed, knowing that there was no need to use both the ‘#1’ and the ‘BEST’ descriptors together. But, eventually I realized that the advertisers are probably only doing this to accommodate the average person, who overuses ‘best’ and has no clear picture of its 'best' meaning.

If they just put ‘BEST SHOW’ then people would ask a stupid question:
“Oh sure, it’s best, but is it the absolute best?”
In contrast, if they just put ‘#1 SHOW’ people would ask an even stupider question:
“Yeah, it says #1, but how do we know if it’s the #1 best?”

So, choose your words carefully, and stop giving out best regards, wishes or whatevers all over town, all willy nilly and shit.

That’s it. All the best regards and best wishes for the best.

Writer's Block, Vol. I.

2010-03-23T22:30:00.010-04:00

I sat in a grey office, dimly lit. It was the middle of the afternoon, and there was little to do but reminisce about the bad lunch with my colleagues. Man, work sucks today. I knew I shouldn’t have had that extra portion of veal curry. That was going to come back to haunt me pretty soon. But then I thought, well, going to the washroom is the most enjoyable part of my work day, so that’s a good thing, which either means that I really don’t like my job, or that I like pooping a little too much. Either way, I was looking forward to veal curry’s triumphant return south of the border.

So, sometime not long after this revelation, I got the call. I entered into the washroom and saw an orange peel in the garbage can. Who is taking oranges into the washroom? More importantly, who is peeling oranges in the washroom? I needed to drop my deuce, so I ventured into one of the stalls, only to find some kind of cocoon built on and around the toilet. Don’t get me wrong, I understand covering the seat with a thin veil of rough public washroom paper in a useless attempt to protect yourself from flying herpeecrabs and liquid chlamydia, but this was just insane. I couldn’t even see the toilet seat. I couldn’t even see the water. This person actually brought paper towel from outside the stall to help build his little nest. I didn’t need to see anymore to know that this was not the stall for me. Who does this to a toilet? Hopefully it’s not the same moron who pees in the stall without putting the seat up, and manages to get it all over the seat and even hit the toilet paper dispenser and the surrounding floor, which was the story of the second stall. Who are these people? I decided that I would try and hold it in. Then this guy came in and washed his hands before peeing, but then not after. Who does that? Moreover, what was he playing with before his visit to the washroom that had him convinced he needed to wash up before handling his junk? Probably oranges. I guess the citric acid could sting a little on the ol’ peener. And why the instructions on how to wash our hands? If people haven't figured out how to wash up at this point, are we really to believe that the problem is that they haven't been properly shown? Obviously it's part of some multi-million dollar government effort to eliminate swine-cow-bird-caca-flu.

"Oooooh, you dry at the end! I was drying first, then rinsing and then putting soap all over my hands." or
"Ahhh, that man just sneezed into my open mouth, I'd better go wash my hands. Hopefully the bathroom here has instructions."

That's how it works, and we are that stupid, apparently. As I left the washroom, I noticed that the next guy walking in was wearing open toe sandals. To me, this seemed like a dangerous choice for a public washroom, especially one used by people with such shockingly bad urinary aim. He had toothpaste and a toothbrush in his hand, hopefully to brush his teeth with.

On the way back to my desk, I ran into that idiot that walks around the office real fast, in an attempt to look busy and important all the time. This is usually the same person who writes everything they've ever heard at work in a little notebook. Hey, I wonder, do they have shelves full of notebooks at home? Are they figuring that someday the CEO will walk in and say, “excuse me, but what did I say eight and one quarter years ago, at the company meeting? Oh, you know? Awesome, you get an instant super promotion…”? Not gonna happen, busy bee. Busy bee tripped over my extended leg, accidentally of course, and went flying out the window. It made a really cool sound. The whole floor cheered. I returned to my cubicle, where I sat watching the clock until quitting time. “I sure could use a muffin”, thought I. In my peripheral vision I could see someone napping. Maybe they were dead, but probably they were just sleeping. You could hear people, all around, complaining about how much work they have to do, but it is obvious that no one is doing any of said work. And then quitting time arrived. Quitting time's arrival is always kind of anti-climactic isn’t it? I wish that just once it could be like in the Flintstones. You know, with a squawking bird and I could slide down a stegosaurus?

It was raining out, so I had to dodge umbrellas. Despite my best efforts, some guy ran into me with his umbrella, top speed. In an attempt to shield himself from the rain, he had the umbrella in front of him, thus blocking his entire field of vision. The tip of the umbrella went directly into my eye. He said sorry and smirked and then, thankfully, ten seconds later, has a similar encounter with a bus. He flew through the air, umbrella still in hand, all supercalifragilistic and shit. As the paramedics took him away, he said sorry and smirked. Somewhere between then and the time that I got home, I thought of something really hilarious to write about tonight and then fell asleep on the subway. I can’t remember what it was though. I think it may have involved the fat lady busker’s monotone singing of “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” dressed head to toe in a hot pink snowsuit, but I could be way off. They say if you retrace your steps, that the idea may come back to you. Well I just did, super accurately, not making anything up at all or changing events in history, and the idea hasn’t come back to me. And now it’s becoming increasingly annoying to type with this eye patch on. In conclusion, umbrellas are for assholes, and it’s probably best to time your poops for your at-home hours of the day. Oh yeah, and don’t bring food into the bathroom.

That’s it. I’m going to go make a grillcheese sandwich and have a good sit.

Fool's Errand.

2010-03-10T21:30:00.006-05:00

Don’t you just hate doing the groceries? I don’t mean going to a little yuppie cutesy market and buying little organic wheatballs or whatnot. I mean the weekly groceries. Milk products, eggs and string cheese, meat sticks, fruit roll ups, frozen stuff and all that other shit. There are always so many obstacles standing in your way from having a nice, carefree and smooth errand run. The main problem, as always, is the clientele at these establishments. At the grocery store, you will likely be there at the same time as some of the following schmucks.

A) Bullshit parents with their sucky children.

You know what really bugs me? A kid walking around eating potato chips out of the bag before it’s been paid for. The parents always look like real champs too.

“Mommy I wants my potatey chips! NOW!”
“Fine, here you go, Travis, have your Pringles. What can I say? He just doesn’t like to have to wait until he gets home to eat his Pringles.”

Doesn’t like waiting until he gets home? Does this apply to everything in the store to you people? If it does, I gotta say, I’m a little bit frightened to go down the toilet paper aisle. Thank god you’re not shopping for toilet seats or dildoes. Why are you so Gung Ho on creating all kinds of needy little fat monsters, anyways? Here’s an idea, let’s teach the kids about patience. They can wait. No one needs Fudgeos that badly, ever, never, not ever. This is the same ass-hat parent who sees his kid eating grapes out of someone else’s cart and thinks:

“Isn’t that cute? No, Todd, don’t take that man’s grapes, here I opened the chocolate milk for you.”

Yeah, real cute, a little thieving bastard. I say we should be ratting these kids out to the security guards at the front, and the parents too, because I think they’re in on it.

Ever seen one of those jackasses with their jackass child on one of those leash harness things? I’ve actually had it where Jackass was looking at granola bars on one side of the aisle and Jackass Junior was on the other side licking cans of cake icing. This, in turn, was causing the leash to act like some kind of police caution tape, or velvet rope, or any other blocking belt like instrument. I suggest you bring scissors along for just such an occasion. Chances are a good thirty minutes might go by before Jackass sees that their kid is no longer at the other end of the rope.

"I now declare this bridge open."

How about the moron that lets his dumb kid operate the cart? I’m not talking about the responsible parent/kid team with the kid who knows the score. Those kids are awesome, and should instantly be promoted to adult status. I’m talking about the dumb kids, produced by dumb parents. Look, if your kid sucks and you want them to learn about responsibility, give them extra chores, get them a dog, force them to work in a factory, or send them to Maury, and subsequently to Boot Camp, but don’t let them push the cart. The other day, I turned a corner into the cereal aisle, and there was a child piloted cart perpendicular to the row, a roadblock, if you will. The kid was just sitting there, dumbfounded.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t’ see a parent anywhere. Probably they were chasing their other child, currently free and running around with half a leash dangling behind them. Or maybe the parent is one of those real important looking people (with the Bluetooth headset and high-speed raditude) and was busy talking about something very loudly and simply didn’t realize that their kid wasn’t behind them anymore. You know the kind of douche bag that I mean, who's all like “I said fourteen million god dammit!” Just push the cart out of the way, the kid won’t really notice or care, as they are more than likely busy playing Gameboy and/or picking their nose. Don’t hold onto their cart for too long or they might start following you, and assuming that you are their parent.

Recently I was in a parking lot, and this horrible looking mother was trying to get her horrible looking daughter out of the car, at which point the daughter screamed at her mother to “get the fuck out of my face, faggot”, to which the mother replied something along the lines of wishing that she could send her daughter back to Russia. The daughter of course said she’d be happy to get away from her “faggot” mother, and of course the mother said that she would love to do it too, and that she should “just wait... you just wait an' see”. Hey, at least they finally agreed on something. I can’t begin to explain the cornucopia of problems I have with all of these statements and with this pair of winners. Personally I wouldn’t want to send her to Russia, because that would just be exporting the bad genes, and could ignite a war. Let’s keep it local. I guess I don’t really have a point at the end of all of this, except that I really wish that that wasn’t a true story and maybe that some people just really shouldn’t make any babies.

B) Old people, just in general, but especially the really old ones.

They never know what they want, and they never know where to find it. They navigate their carts the same way that they drive, making incredibly wide turns and nearly running people over. They knock shit off the shelves without even realizing. When choosing eggs, they take forever. They fill their carts with oddly large quantities of fish. I think their goal is to slow everything down, and keep everyone in the store for so long that, upon exiting, everyone is old like them. If they are in an aisle, that aisle is slow, if they are at checkout, then that checkout line is terribly slow. They have coupons, and they want to try and negotiate prices, even though they can’t. Also, once it’s finally time to pay, they always pay cash, and it’s always, “Hold on now, now just wait a second, I think I’ve got the seventeen cents”… in pennies.

I once saw an old lady arguing with the cashier over the price of the decorative wax fruit she picked up in the non-food section of the grocery store. She was insisting that bananas were on special, at twenty-nine cents per pound, and asking for the manager. Either she is brilliant, confused, or completely insane, but in any case, you definitely don’t want to be behind her in the checkout line. I don’t know how this particular wax banana argument ended, because the cashier two rows down opened up a brand new line and I ran over a small boy and his mother to get there before anyone else. I was out of there before the manager had even made it over to resolve the banana dilemma. The best way to deal with old people cluttering up the aisles and checkout lines is to ask them if they need any help with their groceries, and then club them over the head with a baguette when their guard is down.

C) Couples,you know, the annoying kind.

Maybe they just moved in together, maybe they are newlyweds, maybe this is the first time they’ve gone shopping for groceries together and they are letting themselves get carried away in the romantic sights and smells of the milk products and various butters, but honestly, let's keep the hardcore make out sessions for home. The really annoying ones get so caught up in the moment that they leave their cart in the middle of nowhere, and that’s when there’s an obstacle created. Screaming “Get a Room” or slapping one of them on the back of the head, won’t get you anywhere. I like to just take off with their cart, or throw random shit in it, like pickled bull testicles, or expired cheeses. Pickled bull testicles and moldy Camembert? But, those aren’t on the list!

“Honey did you put these in the cart? Because, you know I’m allergic!”
“How do I know you’re not just getting them for that bimbo floozy at the office?”
“That’s it, I want a divorce!”

…and scene.

Couples that fight at the grocery store aren’t good for anyone’s well being either. Yelling, screaming, dangerous arm waving… All of these can lead to trouble. I get stressed out just being in an aisle with them. I feel like I have to get out of the aisle and give them their privacy, but then I think, that’s bullshit, I really need some of that artificial cheese. If you see a couple fighting, then throw a jar of apple sauce or a container of plain yogurt right at their feet and yell out “cleanup on aisle seven”. That ought to shut them up, shut them up real good. Then reach right over one of their shoulders onto the shelf behind them, and be like, "excuse me, but I was really just trying to get some Velveeta".

D) Picky people picking out produce, taking forever.

Some people apparently know all of the tricks to finding the best fruit and veggies ever. Man, fuck those people. They sit there in front of the tomatoes taking up space, when all I want to do is grab four or five tomatoes and move on quickly to the next item on the list. One technique I like to employ is to tap them on the shoulder and ask them to pick some out for me. They’re happy because they get to show off their “skills” and I’m happy because I still got my tomatoes before them. If they say no, then just throw tomatoes at them, and boo them. These are the same people that you see squeezing all the loaves of bread, in some kind of psycho-sexual quest for freshness. Always take the loaves at the back of the shelves, there’s less chance that those ones have been thoroughly molested. The bread feelers seem to feel the front most loaves and then move on.

And, this is completely unrelated, but why do they even have those huge peanut sacks in the produce section near the potatoes? Are there a lot of elephant owners in the urban milieu? I’ve never seen anyone buy a single one of these huge sacks. If you want to get some attention, dress up like a circus ringmaster and fill a cart with those peanut sacks. Everyone will get excited and think that the circus is in town. Speaking of which, does the circus still come to town, and if so, do people get excited? Do they still travel by train, with the giraffe head coming out of one car? You know, and the bearded lady and stretchy thin guy are married, and their kids are wolfboy and fartface? These are all questions that fill my head and cause me to forget to pick up liquid fabric softener and garbage bags. Meanwhile, this asshole is still checking each cantaloupe one by one. Just make a fucking decision already!

E) Cheap people, focusing solely on sale items.

These are the idiots that think that toilet paper only goes on sale once every generation. Have you ever seen a toilet paper sale, where it’s one of those big packs of about forty-eight rolls on sale for half price, and it says ‘limit of eight per customer’? And you’re thinking, who could possibly buy more than one, let alone eight? Right after asking yourself that, you see the guy. He’s got eight of them balancing in his cart, like the leaning tower of teepee, trying to navigate through the aisles to get to the cash. He’s not even here for anything else. He’s just here for toilet paper. How much shit could your household possibly produce that you need this much toilet paper? I wouldn’t even know where to put it. I’d need a spare room in my apartment just for the toilet paper. This is the same person who feeds his children Christmas Logs for supper everyday in January, because they are now eighty-five percent off. After all, it has all four food groups: milk, molasses, fruit and logs. I guess, a family surviving on an all Christmas Log diet, would go through quite a bit of toilet paper. Increase Log input, exponentially increase log output. Everything is starting to make more sense now, you know, mathematically.

The good part about these people is that they usually know exactly what they want. They often do their homework and know specifically what is on sale. The real trouble comes when you get the people that go in blind and just browse for sale items. These are the people that take up space and try reading the bar codes to see if the little sale label corresponds to the product that they are holding.

“I can’t tell if it’s all the Mini-Wheat varieties or just the cinnamon bun ones that are on sale.”
“Check the bar code.”
“I’m trying to see. There’s a number here that ends in ninety-two, do you have a ninety-two?”
“I’ve got a seventy-five.”
“Hmmm.”

I like to give them misinformation. Tell them that, "actually, it’s all the cereals other than the Mini-Wheats that are on sale". They’ll be very excited. Try to sound like you work there. Generally these people are stupid, and will believe you. If you do this, though, be sure not to end up behind them at checkout, or else you will be there for a while.

“But the cereal man said it was all on sale.”
“Right, which ceral man was it? Was it Captain Crunch or Tony the Tiger?”
“No, he was dressed all in black.”
“Sure. That’s Count Chocula. Are you on any medication?”

Sometimes these people are also old, so you’re facing all the same problems mentioned earlier as well, at which point you should ask them if they need any help with their groceries, and then club them over the head with a baguette when their guard is down.

If you find a grocery store that is open really late at night, then going late at night can often assist you in avoiding many of the aforementioned problematic peoples. However, beware, because late at night, you risk running into a whole mess of other types of problematic peoples such as: crazy people, the homeless, night shift workers, vampires, lounge singers, prostitutes, crackheads, insomniacs, ninjas, or combinations of those I just listed. If you are able to go in the middle of the day, on a weekday, this is also advantageous, as it will diminish the overall number of people, however the concentration of old people, will be increased. Make sure to load your cart with day old baguettes, and you'll be fine. It’s clobberin’ time.

That’s it. Toilet paper’s on sale.

Color Commentator.

2010-03-04T12:45:00.021-05:00

Baseball cards and other types of collectible cards are pretty stupid aren’t they? I think even as a child you kind of realized this. It’s the one thing that you might have collected as a child that had absolutely no use to you at all. Toys, you can play with, comics, you can read, but cards? Nothing. It's also the only type of possessions that you have that you'd be willing to trade to a friend. That's how little you cared about the cards themselves. I think that was why when those Magicky playable types of cards came out, all of the kids flipped out.

“Wait a minute! So, you can collect them, but then also, you can play with them too? Oh man, I’ve gotta get these. All of these.”

The whole gotta get them all syndrome came in way before Pokemon. Pokemon was just the first organization that wasn’t shy to admit it and just put their balls right out there. But the sports cards? Boring! Likely they were only invented to create consumer adults who have the need to collect useless shit, and buy useless storage for their useless shit. Sadly, my favorite part was opening the packs and then organizing all of my cards into a nice neat book, giving in to the collector habits. I guess I was a bit obsessive compulsive even at an early age. But once they were in those binders, what the hell do I do with them now? Look at them and read the backs? That’s not very entertaining. Usually I liked to go and find the worst player ever. You know that one guy who's so terrible, that even his action shot on the card is of him striking out? Hit percentage .00002? Most people would accidentally hit more than that. It always gave me a bit of hope. Surely if this guy made it, then I could succeed in whatever I want to succeed in, in life, eventually.

Sometime after finding the worst player though, I would put the binders of cards away in my bookshelf, and they would stay there, pretty much forever. They would still be there now if my parents hadn’t moved. As a result, they are actually in a big box in my parents’ current garage. You know someday they might be worth something. That’s what you tell yourself as a kid. You even go out and get one of those shitty cataloguey books that tells you which ones are rare, which ones are medium rare, and which ones come in every single pack. I armed myself with all of this valuable information and even tried to sell some cards at one of those hobby shops once. I was convinced I was walking out of there rich. And then I could buy more cards.

“I’d like to sell these cards, sir.”
“Pass.”
“But the book says they’re rare.”
“Then how come I already got them?”
"Would you like to see the book?"

Those books were total crap. Maybe it is their vintage that is the problem. Maybe I just haven’t waited long enough, and someday when they are very old, then, and only then, they’ll be worth something. I need to keep them and pass them down to my children’s children’s children, so that someday, long after the apocalypse comes, the collection will be valuable, and can keep them warm for just a few more days.

“Papa, the fire looks very colorful and warm today, how did you make it so?”
“You can thank your great great great grandfather for that, my son. He bestowed these binders full of flammable paper upon us many ages ago. Throw another Wade Boggs on the fire.”
“Oh no! Careful Papa! The Wizards are coming!”
“EVERYONE HIDE! Save the ‘91 Upper Deck Binder!”

And so, in the end, they’re not rare at all, they’re well done.

Groan.

Like I said, as a kid, you eventually realize that the whole trading card thing is a sham. And that is why recently, when I saw a grown man opening up packs of hockey cards on the subway, I was completely baffled. He was a hefty man, probably in his forties, with a big fuckin’ moustache, and dressed in his work uniform, that of a paramedic. Oh yeah, that’s just who we want saving our lives, isn’t it?

“Quick, get the oxygen!”
“Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeet, a Lagrosselaide hologram card! I don’t have this one yet. This one’s really rare!”
“Hey, yeah, well, this guy’s really dead.”

Maybe it's just the moustache, but to me, any grown person who collects anything completely devoid of use, is really weird. Think Fabergé eggs, stamps or coins... Weird. Alarm bells are ringing, sirens are going off, and sadly, this guy is showing up. The collector of cards was actually separating the cards into piles, signifying that he already knew which ones were doubles. He had that memorized. Then I saw him checking out the stats on the backs, possibly committing them to memory as well. Is there any information in the world less useful than sports statistics? As a kid, I can understand buying into the whole magic of sports, being amazed by how many homers and ribbies a guy has. As a kid, playing games is pretty much all you do, and all you want to do, so why not idolize grownups that get to play games all the time? But as an adult, honestly who gives a shit?

“Who was the M.V.P. in the nineteen swibble-dee-swoo Stanley Cup finals?”
“Pfff... That’s easy, it was Art Farnswilly.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry, but the correct response was ‘who gives a shit’.”

Unfortunately, you will find, that a lot of people give a shit. Lots of shit. At least five or six shits. And you can’t always avoid these people, and can’t always ask them who gives a shit. After all, you don’t want to look rude, and sometimes you might even want to feel like you’re part of the gang. So, at times, you may find yourself needing to humor these types, and sometimes even, join in and fake some sports knowledge. I’ll try and offer a couple of pointers from my years of experience being a non-sport-watching-guy living in hockey country.

Sometimes sports fans will refer to the home team using ‘we’. These people are delusional enough to think that sitting at home in your underwear drinking beer and yelling at the television counts as being part of the team. And they’re doing their part. Unless you want trouble, you’ll have to resist the urge to correct them, and point out their stupidity, when they talk like this (Seinfeld has pointed this out before, of course).

“We played really hard yesterday, we won.”
“We did nothing. They won. You just watched. I still don’t care.”

Also, you’ll realize that in every game where the home team loses, it would appear that some referee type made a bullshit call against the home team. So if ever you’re put on the spot, and you know the home team lost, you can casually refer to the existence of a bullshit call. It will make it look like, not only, that you saw the game, but that you are so well versed in the rules of play, that you know when a call is bullshit. Be careful though, as you won’t know any details of the bullshit call, and if someone asks you to elaborate, in the end, they may call bullshit on you and your bullshit call. And who would ever want to be a referee anyways, while we’re on the subject? Nobody likes you, referee. You’re really just a lame person that wants to make sure everyone else follows the rules, and then you whine when people don't. Whiny little crybabies. And honestly, nobody likes anyone who uses a whistle for a living. Traffic cops, lifeguards, referees and gym teachers… no one likes any of you.

Contrary to the home team loss, it would seem that every home team win is a great game. If you deduced that they won, mention the sweet play / goal / hit / tackle / kick / pass / shot / whatever that transpired during the game. Even if you don’t know what it is you’re talking about, they’ll assume that they know, and start commenting on it. Always make sure to quit while you’re ahead.

“What a game last night, such a sweet goal.”
“Which? Tchetchnevievo’s in the third period? You must mean that. Man that was sweet, eh? God what a game, we played so well.”
“They sure did. You stay here, I gotta go this way.”

Some people get into sports enough to gamble on the outcomes. Some big ol’ Nostradamus type thinks he can predict sports, because of his excellent stat knowledge. If he talks to you about it, and you don’t want to sound like a total wienie, ask him what the spread was. Ask him if he covered the spread. Sports’ gambling seems to involve some kind of spread. I think it's made from hazelnuts.

If you want to avoid all of this confusion and trouble, just be open and honest from the get go like me, and explain to this crew around you that you simply don’t follow sports, at all. This will be hard for them to understand, but eventually they’ll accept you for who you are. Or they’ll call you a pussy. Either way, you’re better off not hanging out with them anyways. Oh, and also, don't collect anything that you can't use. Throw that shit out. And don't sell it to anyone else at a garage sale, because, as I've previously said about cutlery (see: Knife, Spoon, Fork, Garbage), that would just be spreading the disease of useless collecting.

That’s it. The game’s on.

Panel of Judges.

2010-03-01T23:45:00.010-05:00

Probably, you care what people think of you. Probably you care too much. While it is true that first impressions can be important, relying on them too much is kind of a cop out. Lazy people too lazy to bother getting to know someone properly will rely on first impressions to write people off, and thus, judging a book by its cover. For instance, they say that you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their shoes. But I don’t know how accurate this would really ever be. Like if a person is wearing plastic bags, you will think that maybe they’re homeless, but I’ve gone to university classes or grocery stores wearing crusty old slippers, or duct taped holey shoes, and I’m pretty sure that I had a home at the time. It’s not like there are specific shoes that go with different jobs either, like police shoes, or janitor shoes, or taxidermist shoes. Except for clowns, they have their own shoes. Speaking of clown shoes, they’re also a good example that shoe size doesn’t always reflect foot size, so you can’t count on that assumption either. What about those goofy looking morons who walk around wearing those super pointy dress shoes? Surely their feet don’t actually come to a sharp knife-like sheik style curly conclusion like that? Hence, shoe shape does not equal foot shape.

And forget about thinking that you can tell where they’re coming from, or where they’re going, based on their shoes, and all that Forrest Gumpshit stuff, because if you see someone wearing soccer cleats, you might assume they’re playing soccer soon, but now your guard is down, and maybe they’re actually about to kick you in the nuts. Look out! I guess getting kicked in the nuts by a steel-toe shoe would be the most painful. Clogs or even elf shoes would be quite painful as well due to their shape, and also would be tremendously humiliating. You’d sure feel like a loser if and when they’d start dancing around you, as you lay on the floor, in the foetal position. A clown kick in the balls, with the squeaky shoes, would probably be the most embarrassing and humiliating of all, though, you know, because it would squeak once or twice upon testicular connection. Also, it’s usually a pretty wide shoe, and would probably strike each individual gonad with equal force.

Anyways, if shoes are off the table, but you still would like to effectively try and judge a book by its cover, then here are a few accurate ways to gauge someone’s personality, just by observing some random thing about them.

You can tell a lot about a person by…
how drunk they currently are.

This completely depends on context too, but is mostly self explanatory. If you see someone dancing around with their shirt off, at the office, on their desk, while simultaneously peeing themselves, slurring their speech, holding a whiskey bottle, and talking about how the government stole their best pair of bowling shoes, and you’ve seen this happens three times this week, then you can safely say that they have a problem. You might also wonder why they still have their job. What’s your company’s problem? That does look like fun though, doesn’t it? If they can get away with it, then why can’t you? Now you join them. Now you have a problem too. Oh no! You barfed on the floor. Oh well, that’s the janitor’s problem. What are you looking at? What’s your problem, man?

“That's mister Vice President to you. Pack up your things, you’re both fired.”
“No problem! I hated this job anyways.”

Unemployment is a huge problem.

You can tell a lot about a person by…
which finger they use to pick their nose in public.

Be careful picking in public. You’re giving away hints about who you are. Some of you might find it wrong to pick in public altogether. Well, you are considered to be snobs. You can generally be spotted by your huge nose, turned up at the rest of the world, completely full of snots which are entirely visible from the outside. You won’t clean house, and we can all tell. You know when someone has one just barely hanging on to the outer rim of their nostril, swaying with the wind of each exhale, and you just want to yell at them to take care of it? Well I like to throw one of those little tissue packs at them. It’s well worth the dollar. If you’re more normal, and you realize that there is an urgent need to empty out after a long day of breathing in crusty air, but still care what other people think, then you will likely first attempt the thumb pick. This tells the rest of us that you don’t want to offend us with visible boogers or whistling nostrils, but also don’t want to make it too obvious and gross us out. Now that’s class. Unfortunately, due to its larger size and awkward positioning, you often can’t get anything meaningful with the thumb. Sometimes you’ll even be cursing yourself for having clipped your nails the night before.

“Curses! If I only had yesterday’s superior longer thumb nail I could have gotten this thing out by now. Why did I clip!?!”

Usually you just work at it a bit and loosen it up for your next line of defense, the index. You gain much more reach with the index. You should, however, be careful not to start digging when anyone is looking directly at you. You can still hide most of the nostril with the thumb, in case someone glances your way, but for the initial penetration, you should make sure the coast is clear. Remember, the key word here is class. If you successfully pluck one out of the nose, you might have to move up to the middle and ring finger, but only to roll it into a flickable morsel, not to dig. Be sure to only ever flick it onto the floor or a small child. Never use the smear technique, unless you can smear it onto a tissue, or else you risk smearing your reputation if someone spots it. Also, it is important to notice that the middle finger and ring finger never entered the nostril. The index and thumb are the only ones that should penetrate the nostril in public.

If you’re caught using the pinky to pick in public, then it tells the rest of the world that you’ve completely given up on yourself, and should be arrested, immediately. There is nothing more disturbing than catching someone in the midst of a full-on backhanded pinky dig, with the elbow raised in the air, and making that nose pick face like they’re trying to pull their eyeball out through their nostril, eyes watering ever so slightly. You obviously mustn’t care what the rest of us think of you, or that we’re scared you might start bleeding if you dig any harder. And don’t think that wrapping a tissue around the pinky somehow excuses you. It’s still revolting to see, especially since we know you’ll end up examining your findings after the gold dig is over. The same goes for rolling up a tissue and using it like a soft sixth finger. That's bullshit.

Remember, if you see a person with a very long pinky nail, sure, they may be a flamenco guitarist, or they may be an honest to goodness coke fiend, but be careful, because they just may be a public pinky picker, and no one wants to see that. Look away! Jeepers creepers, get a room.

You can tell a lot about a person by…
their breath.

You can tell what kind of food they’ve been eating, if they’re a smoker, if they’re drunk, if they’ve recently had a genital in their mouth, if they’re dehydrated, if they’re sick, if they’re all minty fresh, what kind of gum they like, if they’ve had too much coffee today, too much tea, if they forgot to brush their teeth, remembered to brush their teeth, if they’ve recently napped, or any number of other smelly giveaways.

Most importantly, if you are able to detect such subtleties in their breath and can even clearly see the texture of the shit caught in their teeth and of their gums, then this means that the person is definitely a close-talker. This, in turn, means that they are one of the worst people to talk to ever, and are potentially psychologically damaged. Careful, they're grabbing your arm to pull you in closer!

You can tell a lot about a person by…
whether they wipe their ass sitting down or standing up.

You may or may not have realized, but there are indeed two popular methods utilized for wiping in the modern day afterpoop routine. The timid people, more reserved and prudish, tend to remain seated, possibly in an attempt to conceal the fruits of their labour. I’m no scientician or psycho-analysisser, but that sounded totally legit. The standing people, on the other hand, are proud and fearless. They like to properly examine their output before extinguishing the smelly fire. They check for inconsistencies and take mental pictures to remember length and girth, and compare with previous efforts. Some people claim to be somewhere in between, but these people are indecisive, and that to me, screams of sitters. Standers are sure of themselves, and proud to be standers. The sitters of the world are sneaky, untrustworthy types.

That’s why I believe that the automatically flushing toilets were conceived by politician-sitters to try and convert the proud standing people of the world into more passive sitters. Now, for the standers, on these auto toilets, wiping has become a race against the auto clock. If you miss that first round flush, your autographed paper is still sitting in the bowl, un-flushed and exposed, alone. Now you have to sit back down, not knowing how long you need to wait until you can get back up and make it flush again. It hardly seems fair. Those damn sitters probably wipe, and then walk away and never look back. Well, probably they pull up their pants first. But I bet they don’t even care if it clogs. Not the standers. They are considerate, they stand, they watch, and they make sure everything goes down smooth. They also pull up their pants before walking away though. Some sources have told me that most automatic toilets have an override button, but I think that’s bullshit. I haven’t ever seen one. That sounds to me like a rumour started by sitters to try and keep the standers from rioting.

“There must be a button here somewhere… I guess I just don’t see it…”
“Haw haw haw, those fools. There’s no button! Yes… Sit back down! Good…Sit...”

While we’re on the subject, the courtesy flush becomes a little awkward, for both sitters and standers, with the automatic toilet, doesn't it? Because, either you have to get up and walk away a little, even though you know you might have another round coming, or you have to lean forward far enough that the toilet thinks you’re no longer there. The problem with leaning really far forward is that you’re bent over far enough that someone outside the stall can now see your head. Now they know it’s you, and that you were in the midst of such a dirty experience, that you required a courtesy flush.

Now that I think about it, I suppose that in a public bathroom, you could tell a lot about someone by their shoes though, by looking at the shoes in the stall, and then later recognizing them walking around in the workplace, or school, or street, or wherever.

“Hey, I know those shoes. Second floor bathroom lunchtime diarrhea guy, right?”
“STOP JUDGING ME!”

Here’s a question. When a sitter is at home and runs out of toilet paper, and the cabinet is empty, and then they have to leave the bathroom to go get some more elsewhere in the home, do they stay in the seated position the whole time? These are the kinds of questions I ask myself, when I probably should be doing my job instead.

You may be wondering how you would even find out if someone is a sitter or a stander, especially when we are talking about first impressions, and you just don’t recognize their shoes from any previous bathroom visit. Well, that’s easy. Follow them to the can and wait. Duuhh. Or just ask them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Wallace.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Alfred… say, do you wipe your ass standing up or sitting down. I just want to get to know a bit more about who the real you is.”

You’ll make a lasting impression. That’s what all of this was about anyways, wasn’t it? I guess it wasn’t about that at all. Oh yeah: Learning to not judge a book by its cover, except for certain cases where you should. Never judge a book based on its shoes, or else you might get kicked in the nuts. Unless you saw those shoes in a bathroom stall, and can then assume a certain level of knowledge regarding the frequency and style of their bowel movements. Also if the book has swords and dragons and dwarves and shit, then it could potentially be a really lame read. These are all just very loose guidelines. Now, go use the power of observation! I’m sure I’ll think of some more ways to judge the covers of books later. I’ll be sure to let you know.

That’s it. I need to go out to buy some shiny new shoes and books.