One Egg Shy

The musings of Chris. Writer, humanitarian, hero.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Check it out

So I stumbled across this site, which has a whole bunch of porn spin-offs of major movies. The only problem is, I wrote a sketch back in the day called "Big Willie Style" that was all Shakespeare porn take-offs, and most of them are in this list. Guess I wasn't the only one who could come up with them :(

My favorites are: "Oh Brother, Who Fuck Thou?" "Porn on the 4th of July," "Moulin Splooge," "Mating for Guffman," "Interview with a Vibrator," Indepoondence Day" "ET: The Extra Testicle," "Beetle's Juice" "The Great Muppet Raper" "Three Men and Some Gravy," and "Who Reamed Roger Rabbit." There are plenty more, so it's worth checking out.

Also, I have reached a new high in my writing career, getting linked on a website called PoopReport. It's my ice fecal matter one again, but it's still cool.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Love is in the air


Take a deep breath. Smell that? Spring is in the air. It’s more than that tree that smells like a vagina. It’s a sense of life taking over, of romance, of exercise and sunshine.

Spring often brings with it the promise of new love. People emerge from their cold winter caves white and pudgy, as bears emerging from hibernation. They meet, they dance, they share a newly bloomed flower, and the courtship ensues.

The best thing about new relationships is the chance to start over. You have a clean slate. Gone is the time you tried to sleep with your ex’s sister. Gone is the time your ex called you the wrong name by accident. Gone, hopefully, are your STDs (if the cream works correctly, that is).

Your old, tired stories become fresh again. Your strange quirks seem intriguing and endearing, instead of incredibly annoying. You’re able to share all of your favorite movies, songs, storage areas for kidnaped children, and sexual positions (like the underwater jackhammer or the oscillating beetle) with someone who will find them fresh and exciting. You get the chance to explain your strange hobbies like toenail collecting and condom-wrapper origami to a captive audience. You can reinvent yourself.

But careful my friend. Careful. Come summer you could begin to wear thin. Your quirks may first become infuriating nuisances and then intolerable annoyances. Your sexual positions, once so exciting and wonderful, may seem dry, boring. Your hobbies may induce yawns, and your STDs could flair up (no thanks to you, Herpiecillian).

But hey, summer is far away. Don’t forego planting flowers because they may eventually wilt in the summer sun or freeze in the harsh winter. Enjoy that shit while you have it. Oh, and please send me to a website that teaches some of those sexual positions you know. The oscillating beetle sounds freaking awesome.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Jeopardy!


Don’t know if you saw this, but you can take an online test to pre-qualify to appear on Jeopardy! Note: that exclamation point was part of the show’s name, not my own excitement.

Since I was a kid, my brother and I have often battled while watching Jeopardy! on television. We used to keep score and somehow try to taunt each other with macho posturing when one of us knew who Emily Dickinson was; somehow raising the roof for knowing the first four lines of Part IV on Time and Eternity didn’t go well together. We also used to have a computer version that lead to some viscous battles.

The nice thing about watching Jeopardy with my bro is that while we of course have some areas of knowledge that intersect, our college majors and chosen professions have allowed us to branch out into all different realms of knowledge. I, for instance, can name minor characters in Shakespeare; he knows how much a blowjob in Cleveland costs (kidding, kidding...he’s never even been to Cleveland).

Anyway, I’m going to take the test and you should too. I’ll post how well I perform. If they are grading your Jeopardy! ability on how well you signed up to actually take the test, however, then I’d already have failed. I entered both my phone number and e-mail address incorrectly.

Anyway, you can check it out here.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

True Colors

As I cleaned bird shit off the hood of my car with windex and a paper towel (is dry-wretching a symptom of the bird-flu? If so, I’ve got it), I got to thinking about dating. See, I was getting ready to go to lunch with a girl. It was our second date, and I was furiously cleaning my car so it would appear passable when I picked her up.

My car was a mess, and I had been meaning to clean it anyway, so it was no big deal. However...

I was lying. I was lying because to present to this girl a clean car would be an inaccurate portrayal of myself. Am I the type of person who travels with a clean car? No. I’m a borderline snob, as my mother would be quick to tell you. So really, I’m a liar, right?

Except that I think all people lie when they first date someone. They wear their best outfit, they pluck their unsightly hairs, they go to the nicest places possible. I think a truer test of whether a relationship is going to work or not would be to present yourself at your most grotesque–unshaven, unshowered, filthy. If you still click with a person at this most horrible of stages, then you’ve got something going. You get all your grossness out of the way and can move on to seeing if other things work out.

Maybe I should have just dirtied my car up again. On the other hand, I didn’t wash it or anything, and the upholstery was still dusty. I can deal with some dusty upholstery: that sounds like me.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Im Chaos.

I first learned how to use “alt + tab” my freshman year of college. If you don’t know, “alt + tab” is a keyboard shortcut that allows you to switch between windows without using your mouse. Try it, I’ll be here when you come back.

Welcome back. The great thing about “alt + tab” is that it saves a lot of time that would be wasted using your mouse. The bad thing is sometimes you can switch to a window that you didn’t mean to. Normally this doesn’t matter. Sometimes, however, if you’re talking on IM and not paying attention, this can have disastrous results.

For example, my freshman year I was talking to a girl I had just started dating at the same time as a friend from home. I don’t remember what I was talking to the girl about, something innocuous I’m sure, but I know I was talking to my friend about that very girl. In the middle of alt-tabbing, I accidently sent this message to the girl, when it was meant for my friend.

OneEggShy’sSN: Yeah, I’m into her, but she’s not that bright.
GirlIwasDating: What?

Ok. Here I had to think quick. To backtrack. I told my friend, desperate for advice, and all he did was laugh at me.

OneEggShy’sSN: Oh, that’s um something my friend just said to me. He’s having trouble with a girl.
GirlIwasDating: Oh, okay. Sucks for him.

The funny part is she proved that she fit my description perfectly.

I did a similar thing last summer when I said “I hope she invites me over for sex” to the girl I was talking about. You think I would have learned. Anyway, remembering my own mess ups with “alt + tab” made me scan the history books for other famous IM mishaps. I found the following ones:

JWBooth: Nah, I can’t chill 2nite, I’m goin’ to the theater to shoot the prez.
HonestAbe7: What?
JWBooth: Oh, hey...I was saying how I was gonna shoot the bull with you later.
HonestAbe7: Oh. K. Awesome. Cya there!

OsamaBDizzle: Today infidels die.
GBush2: What?
OsamaBDizzle: Nothing. Wrong window.
GBush2: Oh, so other infidels?
OsamaBDizzle: Yeah, totally. Don’t sweat it.
GBush2: Oh, cool. I’m gonna go read to some kids then.
OsamaBDizzle: K. L8r.

JudasIzzy23: Yo, how much silver for selling out Jesus?
JCTheMessiah: What?
JudasIzzy23: Shit. Wrong window. Christ.
JCTheMessiah: Yes?
JudasIzzy23: I sent it to the wrong window.
JCTheMessiah: I forgive you.


The moral of this story? Be careful when alt-tabbing. Very careful.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Last.fm


Last fall two friends of mine stopped by on an impromtu visit. I did improv comedy with them in college, and they had scattered to Tennessee and California, respectively. They visited on a whirlwind tour of the east coast, driving and visiting as many people as possible. I had two hours notice. It was nice.

Anyway, while here, the Californian friend told me about a website he was on called last.fm. Last.fm is advertised as a way for people to share and discover music. After you create a profile, you download software that tracks what artists you play, and then compiles a page based on your preferences. You can then search for other members who like the same crap as you do.

Well, in January I decided to make a page. It seemed fun! I could meet other people who liked some of the more obscure artists that I enjoyed. I signed up, made a page, attached the program to my iTunes and was good to go.

At first it was fun. I could see as the songs I played were compiled into a nice and easy to see graph. But then...but then.......

I started getting like self-conscious. I'm the type of music fan who gets obsessed with a band for a period of time. Normally, this obsession in known only to me and whomever I'm spending the most time with. But now it was displayed on my page for all to see.

One night I wanted to listen to some Iron & Wine as I read in bed. I picked nine of their songs to play and fell asleep. I woke up at 4 a.m. with the music still going, unaware that I had put iTunes on repeat. Normally, no big deal. But now it looked like I listened to these songs each 6 times in a row and it messed up my stats. I felt dumb.

Then I kind of forgot about the page. When I checked it again, I realized I had been listening to some bands a lot. I mean A LOT. Like, I listened to songs by this guy Sufjan Stevens 80 times in a week. I felt embarrassed.

I began to feel like someone was watching and judging my musical taste. I didn't want to play a certain song because of how people would look at it. Sure, I listened to some weird stuff, like a track by the Beets, that band from the show Doug (a friend sent it, I swear) and ABBA (as mentioned in a previous post). But I don't think I should be judged by what I do in the privacy of my own room. Should I?

So now I want to get rid of it, but I'm not sure how. I feel like my neurosis is on display for the entire world to see, and I hate it. Fuck last.fm. Don't judge me, soulless Internet site. Dammit.

Weekly top artists:
Clem Snide 15
The Postal Service 14
Citizen Cope 13
Ben Harper 5
Feeling Embarrassed 4

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

They call him the working man

My brother, who once found a pubic hair in a chicken sandwich at Friendly’s, would probably be upset if he knew that I went there for dinner last night. I had a restricted amount of time between work and class, however: too much time for a quick bite at a convenience store or fast food place, and not enough for someplace a little ritzier. Oh, and did I mention I’m poor?

Anyway, that’s not the point of this story. The point of the story is while I was sitting and chatting with my dinner companion, I saw capitalism at work in the form of a job interview. A young man, probably 17 or 18, came in to interview for a position. I was too far away to be able to hear the discussion that followed, but I was able to immediately judge that he wouldn’t get the job.

Now, those who know me would agree that I’m not exactly Mr. Corporate America (that would make a kick-ass pageant, by the way). I’ve never held an office job or anything requiring a dress code more complicated than a pair of slacks and an oxford shirt. So perhaps I’m not the best to comment on this, but I get the feeling that a Chicago Bulls t-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans are not the best job interview attire.

Am I wrong? Am I naïve? Does interviewing for a job at Friendly’s not entail looking professional? It’s hardly Applebees, to be sure, but it’s still a place of business, right? So what if, when ordering the chicken sandwich, you have to ask your waiter or waitress to “hold the pubes.” So what if their idea of artwork is an Ansel Adams knockoff of a cactus? I still think, and maybe I’m old fashioned, that interviewing for a job, ANY job, requires at least some attempt at looking like a put-together adult on the part of the interviewee.

On the other hand, maybe that’s what has kept me from getting hired at any of the 20 restaurants where I’ve applied over the past 5 years for a job. Maybe I need to find my Phoenix Suns sweatshirt with the hole over the left nipple and jeans that cut off the circulation to my scrotum for my next job interview.

The saddest part is, I can already write the conclusion to these musings: the next time I eat there, I’m sure to find the pubic hair of the Bulls t-shirt kid floating in my milkshake. How will I know it’s his? Because fate is a cruel bitch.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Too lazy to come up with a headline


People are lazy. I’m a person. Therefore, I’m lazy.

Sure, there are probably some people more lazy than myself, but I am tipping the scales of laziness at quite a weight. To tell whether you too are a lazy idiot, I have devised a simple test. If you can relate to some of the things I talk about, there is a good chance that you should be wearing the lazy dunce hat with me in the corner of the room. There will be a guide at the completion of this post to test your status in the world of laziness.

My laziness is amazing. I’m the type of person (and I bet there are many of us) who chooses the easy route nine times out of ten. The problem with me is that, often times, what I believe to be the easy route turns out to be a much more difficult one. For example, picture me relieving myself (well, don’t really, that’s kinda gross). I will be standing there, doing my business (number one, mind you), and I won’t feel like waiting until I’m finished to flush. I mean, it’s much easier to flush when you are almost finished to save those precious seconds that can later be squandered on some other useless endeavor, liking counting your toes or posting on your blog . Well, I've mastered this art on my own toilet (which I like to call my home court); I can time is so that my last drop coincides with the final liquid being flushed. I just have trouble with away games. I get cocky (pun intended). I will be staring at a new hopper and misjudge my time of completion, which means I wind up urinating into the new, fresh water rushing back up from the depths of whereever rather than the desired water that was leaving the premises. I then have to flush twice, wasting more time than I would have saved if I had just been patient. It’s a waste, I tell you, a waste, and I bet I’m not alone in this.

I’ll be nice and give you a more tasteful scene to imagine. Here's the scene: In the course of vacuuming, I come across a penny. Resolute, I attempt to pick up the lost currency with the vacuum. Uh oh, seems as if the little sucker is a little too big for Mr. Hoover to handle. I could, of course, reach down and pick up the coin with my hands, pocket it, and maybe buy myself something nice later, but this would require too much "work." So instead, I attempt for however long it takes (sometimes hours) to pick up the copper coin with the vacuum until I either succeed or pass out from fatigue. Sometimes in the course of trying to vacuum the penny I'll see a quarter on the ground. Now a quarter is worth bending down for. So I'll stop the vacuum, pick up the quarter, and then go back to trying to pick up the penny the old fashioned way. If someone kept me fed, hydrated and took care of my waste materials I would probably stand there attempting to pick up the penny until the end of time, never realizing that I could easily just have used my hand.

Finally, picture this: I’m on my bed at home watching TV. Like the typical restless human, I can’t sit still, so I’m flipping the remote control in the air and catching it again, training for my eventual career as an Olympic juggler. One of my throws goes awry (since I can’t juggle to save my life) and slips into the crack between my bed and the wall. Frustrated, but not willing to miss whatever pointless television program I am watching, I reach down to try and retrieve the fallen tool. Oops! Seems as if my hand and arm are just a little too big to slip into this crevice. Now, logic at this point would tell me to get up, move the bed, and retrieve the remote with little-to-no effort.

Well, logic is the enemy of laziness, and reaching my hand down into the crack is much easier (in theory) than getting up and moving the bed. So I reach and reach and reach, despite the sharp pain in my wrist, forearm and logic center of my brain, until I get my hand down into the depths of the forbidden chasm. But the job isn’t quite accomplished yet, my friends. Once again, the notion to just move the bed comes to mind, but since I’ve already wasted five good minutes I can’t give up just yet. When I finally touch the lost artifact, the bloody stump that used to be my hand can’t get a good grasp due to the missing digits, so I finally give up and proceed to try again with the opposite arm, hoping against hope that maybe the two appendages are different sizes. I manage the same scenario with my left hand, and when I finally reach the remote, once again only a bloody stump remains. Perhaps this is the time to admit defeat, go to the hospital, and put off watching television. Nah, I’ve gone this far, might as well continue. Using the two bloody stumps that were once my arms, I reach down and manage to sandwich the remote between my mangled wrists, using them as a perverse set of pliers. Letting out a bestial exclamation of success, I pull up my lost friend and begin the difficult task of learning how to switch the channels with my toes.

God, I'm pathetic. To see how lazy you are, follow this simple guide. If you can relate to one of the scenarios described, you are somewhat lazy. Two of the scenarios? You are as lazy as a dog on a hot summer day. All three of the scenarios? You, my friend, are like a child stuck between learning to crawl and being able to walk (a time I call "the 90's"), and you can now join my special club. Just remember, the fact that I don’t show up to the meetings doesn’t mean that I’m not still president, so don’t get any fancy ideas.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Super Bowl

Anyone have a newspaper?
So I started this post with the intention of telling how I took a crap at work for the first time ever, and going into a history of how in 13 years of grade and high school I only used the bathroom once for #2. I had a streak (pun intended) of 11 years going before I finally broke down.

But then, when I was searching for pictures of a toilet (one I found had a turd in the shot), I found this picture of a cat on the toilet that stole the focus. It's part of an article on toilet training your kitty.

It's hilarious. I thought this was only possible in such hilarious movies as Meet the Parents but apPARENTSly (I have to stop) you too can teach your cat to crave the backsplashes of a toilet.

I think this is a great idea, but it seems as if it takes a lot of patience and dediCATion (seriously, someone stop me). I can't imagine having to, "teach him proper squatting posture. Catch him beginning to use the toilet as much of the time as possible and show him where his feet are supposed to go." I think my cat (if I had one) would probably be annoyed if I came in while he was trying to do his business and moved him all around. I try to be empathetic and imagine someone rearranging me while I do my business, and I can say I think I'd be pissed (I'm just going to start a tally...that's 4) if someone moved my legs and legs around.

I can imagine this being humiliating to a cat, but the end results are definitely worth it, if not for lessening the amount of work involved in caring for your cat, than at least in the value of your cat as a party favorite. If, at a party, the host asked, "Who wants to see Bonkers shit in the toilet?" I'd be first in line. But I'm also easily amused.

Cat owners: try it out and let me know if it works. It beats the crap (5) out of a boring Saturday morning.