One Egg Shy

If Jesus had IM Version II

2006-09-19T12:39:00.000-04:00

At long last, I've completed the second installment. I'm posting it here to allow for comments, but don't forget to visit my all-new, completely owned and operated website OneEggShy.
Don't forget to read the original here:

JesusTheCarpenter: Mom?
VirginMary7: Jesus! Good to hear from You! How are You?
JesusTheCarpenter: I’m good, I’m good.
VirginMary7: How does it feel to be 29?
JesusTheCarpenter: I’m getting near the point where I should be doing my Father’s work, you know?
VirginMary7: What do You mean? You’ve always help Joseph. That house the two of You built was really good. Bob and Suzie are still raving about it.
JesusTheCarpenter: No, I mean My Father.
VirginMary7: Oh…
JesusTheCarpenter: So that’s actually what I wanted to ask you about. I feel like I need a new screenname to reflect My new mission.
VirginMary7: Oh, okay. Well, what are You thinking?
JesusTheCarpenter: I’ve made a list. Tell me what you think.
VirginMary7: Okay.
JesusTheCarpenter: Here’s the first one: PrinceOfPeace.
VirginMary7: Hmm…I like it, but I don’t love it. I think people will have a problem with You saying You’re a Prince, you know?
JesusTheCarpenter: Yeah…so you won’t like KingODaJews either. LambOfGod?
VirginMary7: I don’t like You being compared to an animal.
JesusTheCarpenter: TheTrueVine?
VirginMary7: I don’t like the implication of alcohol.
JesusTheCarpenter: Tough crowd ;) How about TheWordOfLife?
VirginMary7: That’s better. It’s the best so far. What else do you have?
JesusTheCarpenter: What about DaGoodShepard?
VirginMary7: I like that one too. Is that it?
JesusTheCarpenter: The only other one I have is JCDaMessiah.
VirginMary7: Perfect!
JesusTheCarpenter: Yeah?
VirginMary7: Yup, I love it.
JesusTheCarpenter: Okay, that’s what I’ll use then. Thanks mom.
VirginMary7: Glad I could help. Take care. Make sure You’re eating well!

JesusTheCarpenter: Dad? You there?
Auto response from IAmWhoAm: I’m away from my computer right now.

JesusTheCarpenter: Oh, okay, You must be busy. I just wanted to let You know that I was making a new screenname. So if You ever, You know, want to drop Me a line, you can reach me at JCDaMessiah. I think the new name will reflect My new mission and everything.
JesusTheCarpenter: Send me an IM whenever, Dad. Oh, and thanks for the new abilities and things. I’ve been practicing working miracles around the house while no one is around. I brought a caterpillar back to life the other day.
JesusTheCarpenter: So, um, I’ll talk to you later.

Taxman54: Jesus?
JcDaMessiah: Matthew. Hey.
Taxman54: I need to talk to you about something…
JcDaMessiah: Okay, I’m listening.
Taxman54: Well, I did something…sinful. Not just once, either.
JcDaMessiah: Okay…
Taxman54: I’ve been looking at dirty websites.
JcDaMessiah: Oh. Well, yeah, that is a problem.
Taxman54: I can’t help it! I know it’s bad and everything, but I can’t resist the temptation. It’s like I don’t WANT to look at the sites, but before I know it, my hand is moving the mouse and there I am again. I’m so sorry!
JcDaMessiah: Okay. Well, this may sound harsh, but you may have to cut it off…
Taxman54: My hand?
JcDaMessiah: No, your connection to the Internet.
Taxman54: Oh. Crap. But I use it all the time.
JcDaMessiah: If it offends thee, cut it off.
Taxman54: Can’t I at least go to dial-up?
JcDaMessiah: Will that solve the problem, or just make it less severe?
Taxman54: Maybe I would be better off cutting off my hand. LOL.
JcDaMessiah: You know what you have to do.
Taxman54: You’re right. But how will I communicate with everyone?
JcDaMessiah: You’ll find a way.
Taxman54: Yeah…okay, thank you, master.
JcDaMessiah: NE time.

JcDaMessiah: Dad?
Auto response from IAmWhoAm: I’m away from my computer right now. JcDaMessiah: Still out I see. Well, I just wanted to ask why You didn’t show up for my baptism the other day? All the other dad’s were there. I did really well, too. The Holy Spirit came. It was good to see him again. Well, if You can make it, I’m going to be doing an exorcism next week. I’d really like it if You were there, Dad. Mom sends her best.

Martha'sVineyard: Hey.
JCDaMessiah: Martha! Good to hear from you!
Martha'sVineyard: Yeah, um, u 2.
JCDaMessiah: How are you? How’s your brother?
Martha'sVineyard: That’s actually what I’m writing you about.
JCDaMessiah: Oh. What’s up?
Martha'sVineyard: It’s about Lazurus.
JCDaMessiah: Is he okay?
Martha'sVineyard: Not really. I wanted to ask…well, I heard about the whole water-into-wine thing, and we’re all very impressed. I couldn’t believe you healed that crippled man. And walking on water and saving that drowning man? Real, real neat.
JCDaMessiah: Okay…
Martha'sVineyard: But, um, we were wondering just how far your mircales actually could strech.
JCDaMessiah: He isn’t a thirsty, drowning cripple, is he?
Martha'sVineyard: No, it’s a little more complicated than that…
JCDaMessiah: ???
Martha'sVineyard: He’s, um…
Martha'sVineyard: Boy, this is hard.
Martha'sVineyard: He’s…well…really sick.
JCDaMessiah: Okay. Look, I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?
Martha'sVineyard: Oh, thank you Lord!
JCDaMessiah: You’re welcome.

Apostle#7: Yo, jeez!
JCDaMessiah: Hey, what’s up?
Apostle#7: I heard there’s this crazy big crowd gathered in the streets waiting for You!
JCDaMessiah: Yeah, I figured there would be.
Apostle#7: It’s nutz! There must be thousands of people!
JCDaMessiah: I know! I’m pretty excited.
Apostle#7: It’s almost like…nah, I shouldn’t say it.
JCDaMessiah: Huh?
Apostle#7: I don’t want to offend anyone.
JCDaMessiah: Okay…
Apostle#7: Well, I was just gonna say, it’s almost like You’re bigger than the Beatles!
JcDaMessiah: LOL! Nah, I don’t think so. They’re still pretty big.
Apostle#7: I don’t know, there really are A LOT of people.
JCDaMessiah: Listen up, here’s what we’re gonna do. Go into town and find a Ford Pinto.
Apostle#7: A Pinto? Are You sure? Wouldn’t a Corvette be better?
JCDaMessiah: Come on, trust me.
Apostle#7: Okay. So find the Pinto…
JCDaMessiah: It’ll never have been driven before.
Apostle#7: I can imagine why, those cars are crappy.
JCDaMessiah: Bring it to me and then I’ll ride on top of it, like in a parade.
Apostle#7: What about the owner?
JCDaMessiah: If the owner gives you trouble, just tell him it’s for Me. He’ll understand.
Apostle#7: Okay, we’ll do as You ask. I still think You’re bigger than the Beatles.

JCDaMessiah: Hey, I just wanted to let you know that crap is going down tonight. So, um, be ready.
TheRockSays: I’m not going to let them take you.
JCDaMessiah: Yes you are. I know you don’t want to hear this, but all of the members of the D Crew are gonna deny knowing me.
TheRockSays: What? I’d never do that!
JCDaMessiah: Yes you will, Peter. Twice, in fact, before the cock crows.
TheRockSays: I’ll kill the guards before letting them get you. I’ll die myself!
JCDaMessiah: You’re my bff, Peter, you know that, but it’s gonna happen. Just be ready.

JDaBaptist: Sup, cuz?
JCDaMessiah: Johnny, hey, what’s going down?
JDaBaptist: Nuttin’, nuttin. U hungry?
JCDaMessiah: Yeah, kinda. Wanna grab lunch?
JDaBaptist: Yeah, come on over. U want pizza or fish?
JCDaMessiah: I’m getting a little tired of the whole fish thing, to be honest. The apostles are ALWAYS eating it. Pizza sounds great.
JDaBaptist: K. Toppings?
JCDaMessiah: Whatever you want man, it’s your pizza.
JDaBaptist: How about wild honey and locusts?
JCDaMessiah: What? As toppings?
JDaBaptist: Yeah dude, they’re delicious.
JCDaMessiah: Okay, I guess.
JDaBaptist: Okay, come over in like a few.
JCDaMessiah: Oh, John?
JDaBaptist: Yeah? What up?
JCDaMessiah: I have a silly question…
JDaBaptist: ??
JCDaMessiah: Well, I know you’ve done a lot of baptisms and everything…
JDaBaptist: Uh huh…
JCDaMessiah: Well…I still have water in my ear. Do you know a good way to get it out?
JDaBaptist: Oh, haha, that happens all the time. Can’t U just, U know, take care of it Urself?
JCDaMessiah: I don’t like to use my, um, powers on myself, you know? I don’t think my pops would approve.
JDaBaptist: Okay, we’ll take a look at it when U get here.
JCDaMessiah: Thanks, bud.
JDaBaptist: No prob. Cya soon.

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

ChristHasRisen: Mary?
Auto response from MaryMags69: :(
ChristHasRisen: You there?
MaryMags69: Who is this?
ChristHasRisen: Why are you crying?
MaryMags69: They took away my lord’s body and I don’t know where they’ve taken him!
ChristHasRisen: Mary…calm down.
MaryMags69: Wait…teacher?
ChristHasRisen: What up!!?
MaryMags69: Oh My! You have risen! Now I guess the screenname makes sense. LOL.
ChristHasRisen: Can you do Me a favor?
MaryMags69: Of course!
ChristHasRisen: Tell my disciples that I haven’t yet returned to My Pops, but that I will. Okay?
MaryMags69: Yes, yes! I’m so glad!

ChristHasRisen: Thomas!
DoubtingThomas: Who is this?
ChristHasRisen: It’s Jesus! I’m back!
DoubtingThomas: Yeah, sure. Who is this?
ChristHasRisen: Thomas, seriously, it’s Jesus.
DoubtingThomas: Jesus died. I saw his tomb.
ChristHasRisen: Thomas. It’s Me. Really.
DoubtingThomas: Uh huh. Who is this? Matthias? You make a new SN to mess with all the disciples?
ChristHasRisen: It’s Me. I’m telling you.
DoubtingThomas: Not buying it. If you’re really Jesus…what’s your favorite food?
ChristHasRisen: Fish.
DoubtingThomas: Too easy, everyone knows that.
ChristHasRisen: Okay, ask me another then.
DoubtingThomas: Alright, alright. Why did Jesus use stories?
ChristHasRisen: Because when other people listen, they don’t hear, and when they look, they don’t see. I reveal the truth to you guys.
DoubtingThomas: Good answer? You’ve done your research. But listen, I’m not going to believe you until I can stick my hands in your wounds.
ChristHasRisen: Is that really what you want? I’ll take a pic with my webcam right now and send it over. Will that satisfy you? Huh? Then you can see where the spear lanced me close up.
DoubtingThomas: Oh man. You are Jesus, aren’t You? I’m sorry!
ChristHasRisen: I’m glad you believe it, now. But listen, Thomas…the best people will be those who believe in Me without needing a direct connection to prove it.

New Website

2006-08-07T22:12:00.000-04:00

So you may have been wondering why I haven't updated lately.
Well, the answer is simple: I have a new website.

Come check out my new site at www.oneeggshy.com!

Welcome

2006-07-11T21:45:00.000-04:00

In case you're coming to my website via College Humor, here are some posts you should totally check out.

If Jesus had IM
My Mega Job Interview
Clippy the Paperclip

Dear Mr. Mayer

2006-07-10T19:25:00.000-04:00

Dear John Mayer,
Listen. This has to stop.

It isn’t like you’re a bad guy. It isn’t that your music completely sucks. I actually kind of like your weird voice and think you seem like an amusing guy.

But please—for the love of all that is sacred— please stop having your music played in my restaurant.

I just can’t deal with it. I can’t deal with “Your Body is a Wonderland” every five minutes. Jesus Christ, John, I know my body is a FUCKING WONDERLAND.

I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.

When I first heard the song a bunch of years ago, I actually liked it. I knew the lyrics were cheesy and aimed at sleeping with girls. I knew the chord progression was predictable and that the song was made to appeal to the radio, but it still had a nice little groove to it.

But please John, enough. ENOUGH. I can’t listen to your songs 10 times a day. I just can’t. I need variety. I need flavor. I need something other than you crooning over and over again about the wonderment of my body.

It’s nice that you’ve noticed how I’ve been working out. I’m flattered. But it’s gotten to be embarrassing at the job. How can I wait on tables when you keep talking about how luxurious my body is?

So please John. Knock it off. For me, for everyone.

Class Act

2006-07-05T09:10:00.000-04:00

I've been pretty busy lately with both my new job and trying to get OneEggShy.com up and running. Since I've recently been telling people about working at a dinner theater last year, I figured I'd post something I wrote last summer about it.

I am a professional actor. Before you think of such superstars as Brad Pitt, Mel Gibson, or Louie Anderson, you have to realize that I am performing in a dinner theater for tourists at the Jersey shore. I do two seatings a night of what is called the "Medieval Idol," a lame-ass parody of the equally bad "American Idol." I am Justin Ogre, an unscrupulous, ugly, smelly mess of jokes and bad singing that simultaneously repulses and entertains the masses. I'm getting paid to be an actor, and yet I'm getting totally disillusioned. So what the fuck is my problem?

Well, for starters, when most people think of actors they think of red carpets, sexy girlfriends, and millions of dollars. The only carpet that I deal with, however, is the one I have to freaking vacuum in between shows. The sexy girlfriends are the ones who watch the show with their collar-up, backwards hat boyfriends and disappear before I can awkwardly try to hit on them. The millions of dollars refer to what I wish I could pay to regain my dignity.

If you have never been to a dinner theater before, then you don't know that this sort of performance is very interactive. I go out into the audience and talk directly to the throngs of people, hoping that if I joke around enough that they will leave a decent tip. For some reason, however, people think that since I am a lowly actor that they have the right to poke, prod, and sometimes even punch me. I'm serious. Little kids actually punch me sometimes. I try to laugh it off while silently cursing their parents for ever having sex.

Another big problem is that I am about as close to a prostitute as possible without the dick breath. I pretend, over and over, to be enjoying something in order to ensure other people's pleasure. I wear makeup and dress in an uncomfortable costume to entice the masses. I'm good at faking it too. I am not your typical dock trash—I'm a high class whore. You have to wine and dine my ass before getting some snatch, but man, it's worth it.

The only good part about this travesty is that since I play an ogre, I can pretty much say whatever the fuck I want and people just laugh it off. I've told older people to hurry up and die already, parents to stop having children to save the world some torment, and older women to continue drinking and to meet me in the alleyway later for what I promise will be a quickie. Whenever people seem off put by this, I remind them that I am "Justin Ogre" and everything is forgiven. I can be a complete asshole and the crowd will laugh, applaud, and tip me for this boorish behaviour. This freedom has its drawback, however—sometimes after the show I'll want to insult an ugly shirt or rub some bald guy's head, forgetting that I can't act this way when outside of the show. Saying I'm "Justin Ogre" doesn't work when hitting on ladies outside of the theater, but on the bright side, I am developing a resistance to pepper spray.

I should feel lucky that I am not at the bottom of the acting food chain because, believe it or not, there are worse gigs than mine. The worst go as follows:

Renaissance Fair Performer
Sure, it would be cool to do the joust, but more likely you will be playing some blacksmith who has to speak with a ridiculous accent while offering repairs on shields. Totally lame.

Theme Park Mascot
Most of the time you don't even get to speak, you just have to walk around the park in the smelliest, hottest suit imaginable while taking pictures with snot-nosed brats who want to step on your oversized feet. You can't even pretend to hit on attractive girls, and as soon as your hand brushes against some hottie's ass, they are screaming rape.

Straight Guy in a Gay Porn
While I personally don't like "lesbian" scenes in movies (I'm in theatre, so I've met plenty of real lesbians and trust me, they are not weighing 105 pounds with stacked C cups), being rammed as a straight guy is far worse. When you've reached this point in your career, it's probably time to tear up your head shot before you get one. From a dude. On your face.

So at least I'm not doing these things. It could be worse, right?

Age of Luxury

2006-06-27T12:51:00.000-04:00

We live in an automated world. While the predictions for the 21st century made by science fiction writers forty years ago—flying cars, time travel, moon colonies—haven’t yet come around, on a day-to-day basis, we do have some amazing technological advances at our disposal.

Think about it. How many times a day is life made easier by automated devices? In my house, for one, we have several timers for different devices. Our lights turn on 30 minutes before dusk and turn off at midnight. Our central air conditioner runs at different temperatures during different times during the day. We also have motion censors ensuring our safety. A motion censor in the garage turns on a different light whenever someone enters so that we don’t stub toes or bust asses. Our garage door shoots a laser at foot level across the span of the ground—if the door is closing and the laser is broken, the door goes back up, saving us from having to roll Indiana Jones-style to get through.

But it goes beyond the home: most bathrooms are completely automated as well. At the restaurant where I work, the urinals flush when you walk away, the water and soap turn on when you move your hands underneath, and the paper towels come out when your hands, dripping wet, reach for something to dry yourself with.

What would happen, however, if we suddenly lost all of these automatic luxuries? Would the customers at my restaurant leave full toilets and dirty hands in the bathroom?

It’d be even worse at my house. I panic to imagine coming home without our amenities. I’d trip over boxes on my way into the garage and stub my toe in the dark kitchen. Stubbing my toe would send me sprawling and to the ground. When I try to get up, I’d slip on the pool of sweat which has collected on the ground due to the lack of air conditioning. Dazed, I’d try to exit via the garage door, but I’d be decapitated by the garage door which doesn’t stop when I walk under it.

While this technology is impressive, I just hope it isn’t fostering too much laziness. I hope in 200 years, we still have the ability to walk around and wipe our own asses.

This post was written by the Autoblog 2000.

Personal Assistant

2006-06-12T00:11:00.000-04:00

I’m forgetful. Like, really forgetful. Like, someone will ask me, “Chris, can you grab me a soda while you’re in the kitchen?” and I’ll forget my name is Chris.

This doesn’t bode well for my new job. I just got hired as a waiter and, during the interview, one of the answers I gave as to what makes a good server was “attentiveness.” It was a good answer and drew praise. Outside job interviews, however, I’m not very attentive.

What I need is help. When I walk around, I carry a small notepad to make observations in. I write a lot of different things—this blog, fiction, non-fiction, rap lyrics, warnings for poison labels, gay personal ads, obituaries for friends and family behind their backs—and it’s always good to have a pen and paper on me to jot down a note to myself. I’d probably do it regardless of my profession; if I were a police officer I’d write “Reload Gun”; if I were a rapist I’d write “visit Suzie late at night.” It’s really the same.

So when I work as a waiter, I’ll have a notepad to remind me of your stupid, complicated order, but I can’t always pull out a pen and paper in every situation, can I? It's much easier to do it while taking an order than, say, while having a serious relationship talk or arguing with a police officer. Plus, sometimes a reminder to myself will get buried and lost between an idea for a story and a gay personal ad. So what’s a boy to do?

I suppose I could carry around Post-it notes and constantly tack them to places I often look: my computer screen, my steering wheel, Suzie’s ass.
Perhaps a better solution would be to buy a Palm Pilot but, to be honest, when I go out somewhere, I already carry my wallet, cell phone, iPod, keys, pen, small notebook, and Keebler elf friend Wally in my pockets, so a Palm Pilot would just be overkill. Plus, all those electronics so close to my balls could produce mutations...and not the cool X-men, shoot lasers from my balls mutations...more like the mishapen, useless testicle kind of mutations.

So I was racking my brain for a solution to my memory problem (remember, that’s where I started? I know Suzie's ass was distracting) when it finally hit me. The perfect, simplest, least annoying way to remind myself of things: Clippy the Paperclip.

You remember Clippy, right? That cute, helpful little paperclip who used to come with Microsoft Word? He was always a jolly, welcome guest to whatever paper, letter, or ransom note I was writing. He was quick to offer advice and suggestions for content and formatting. He was great!

If I could somehow procure a pocket-sized, real-life version of Clippy, I know my life would be much better.

I could ask him to remember things for me, like where in the mall parking lot I left my car, which way I turn a screw to loosen it, or how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop.

He could jump out of my pocket in situations to make sure I’m not making silly or rash decisions and tell me the best way to go. If my clothes don't match or my fireman costume isn't believable, he wouldn't let me go out in public.

I could also ask his advice: “Which tie goes best with this wig?” I'd ask him, or,“Will I get a ticket if I leave my prostitute tied to this parking meter?” Who can I trust in a complicated situation more than Clippy, a program designed by Microsoft?

I believe that Clippy could be as big as the iPod. The first version will likely be clunky and somewhat cumbersome, but as updates are released, he'll get smaller, sleeker, and capable of speaking other languages like Spanish or ebonics.

I bet you're worried about Clippy getting annoying. We all remember those times when we actually weren't writing a letter and didn't need Clippy's help, but he kept popping up regardless, offering suggestions we didn't need like a needling girlfriend who won't shut up despite the fact that we know perfectly well which exit takes us to Six Flags over Spokane and don't need her gabbing in our fucking ear. But I digress. This Clippy will be easy to silence (if only your girlfriend were as easy), and he'll even come with a self-destruct function if you get too frustrated with his interruptions.

So I'm going to do whatever it takes to get Microsoft to start manufacturing pocket-versions of Clippy as soon as possible, not just for me, but for humanity.

You're welcome.

Related Posts:
Alternate Versions of Clippy
Clippy's Guide to Ransom Notes
Clippy's Guide to Suicide Notes

Other OneEggShy Posts:
If Jesus had IM
Cuddle Parties

Alternate Versions

2006-06-07T10:22:00.004-04:00

Street Clippy:

Man About Town Clippy:

Mexican Clippy:

Clippy's Guide to Suicide Notes

2006-06-07T10:22:00.003-04:00

Welcome to Clippy's Guide to Suicide Notes! I'll take you through a quick series of instructions to make sure you let your loved ones know exactly why you've chosen to take your own life, as well as make them really guilty!

•Tell people specifically how they could have done things differently to keep you alive.

•Use really good song lyrics to sum up how you feel.

•Instead of bequeathing earthly possessions which loved ones will actually appreciate, list weird, creepy objects for people to receive upon your body’s discovery, like your bottles of toenails or chest full of bird carcasses.

Clippy's Guide to Ransom Notes

2006-06-07T10:22:00.002-04:00

Welcome to Clippy's Guide to Ransom Notes! I'll take you through a quick series of instructions to make sure you get the most money out of the hostage's love ones.
• Cut out the letters of your message from fashion magazines; that way, the feds won’t be able to recognize your child-like penmanship.

• Send a non-traditional body part as proof of your kidnap victim. Remember, the more strange the body part, the more demented the captor. Knee caps, ear lobes, and segments of lower intestine will all freak people out.

• Come up with a great fake name to sign off as. Pick a famously evil character like Jack the Ripper or Vlad the Impaler. That'll be awesome.

A Call to Arms

2006-06-06T15:02:00.000-04:00

I'm sure many of you have seen the story about Jie-jie, the three-armed Chinese baby (pictured right). The story brought a lot of attention to the chinese baby, as well as a lot of jokes about what a great piano player he'd be or how great he'd be in the sack, some of them made by yours truly.

Unfortunately, Jie-jie will never reach his full potential.

You see, cruel Chinese doctors have decided to remove Jie-jie's third arm. That's messed up. Why doesn't Jie-jie have a choice in the matter? It's like baptizing a kid at such a young age; he or she should have a hand (or three) in the decision.

Sources close to Oneeggshy are reporting that the reason is because in China, each couple is only allowed to have one child, and Jie-jie technically counted as 1.08 of a person, meaning that the extra arm had to be removed.

Gone are Jie-jie's chances of being the star of a freak show. Gone are his chances of performing the old "third arm" pick-pocket trick. Gone are his chances of standing out from the other billion, boring Chinese people.

It's too bad. Jie-jie could have been something; something special.

Hopefully they'll let him keep the arm they removed. Never hurts to have an extra arm laying around, if you know what I mean (wink wink).

You Got Served

2006-05-18T12:57:00.000-04:00

(DISCLAIMER: Make sure to have your speakers on to get the full experience)

The other day I decided to put in an application at a new restaurant that is opening nearby. I needed a summer job and figured that being able to set my own hours and instantly pocket the money I made was a good idea; it would give me time to write, go to the shore, and do any other meaningless pursuits I could come up with.

I went to the restaurant and was directed to the hiring trailer. Since the restaurant is under construction, the staff is doing all its hiring in a nearby trailer, presumably trying to draw in a white trash core of employees.

I walked in, grabbed an application, and started filling it out. Behind me one of the managers chatted idly about the Boston Red Sox. I stored this knowledge and continued writing. When I was finished, I handed it to Red Sox Man, and figured I'd be on my way. But a strange thing happened... the door to the trailer slammed shut with a steel barrier. Red Sox Man pulled me aside and told me that I looked like a worthwhile challenger, and that he was ready to interview me. I wasn't ready; I felt panicked.

I went in armed with only my meager application (with meager restaurant experience), my wit, a standard mega buster, and his weakness: a love for Boston sports. We battled.

Keep reading ...

Pulling the Rabbit

2006-05-09T12:07:00.000-04:00

David Blaine is an asshole.

Seriously, who cares about these stupid-ass stunts he’s doing? Staying underwater? Standing on a pole? Living in ice? These sound like dares I would have taken during my freshman year of high school.

“Yo Chris, I dare you to try and stand on that pole for 25 hours!”

“Will it be nationally televised?”

“No.”

“Then fuck it.”

I’ve been thinking about becoming Blaine’s manager and promoter. His next trick should be trying to eat an entire tub of vanilla pudding in under 5 minutes. Or getting Becky Kula’s phone number (she’s so gross!). How about running through the halls with only his tighty-whities on!? That’ll totally piss off the vice-principal.

At least David Copperfield had Claudia Schiffer; who is David Blaine married to? Copperfield also had pizzaz, what with the hand waving and gay dancing...Blaine just stands there looking cracked out and making blood come out of weird places. I’d rather have GOB from Arrested Development as the magician for my birthday party than David Blaine; Blaine would just terrify my older relatives by submerging his face in the toilet for 15 minutes. Either that or he’d pretend to levitate in my kitchen, causing Aunt Gertie to exclaim that there’s a devil in our house.

I miss the days when magic was all about the show; these new extreme magicians just don't have the flair of the old timers. David Blaine would take out flaming handkerchiefs from his sleeve and use them to light his hair on fire while he was trapped in a mine. He'd saw a replica of himself in half and fall apart in two pieces in the Iran before eating a Big Mac through his ass. If David Blaine pulled a rabbit out of a hat, he'd probably bite its head off and then re-attach it and watch the bunny hop away...ok, that'd actually be pretty cool. See? I should be his promoter.

What a whirlwind

2006-05-06T23:43:00.000-04:00

So wow. What a crazy few days.

For those who don't check the sitemeter at the bottom of my page (and why would you?), a link on collegehumor to my Jesus IM post brought in over 24,000 visitors to the site in just over four days.

Some people liked it: Some random Christian said…"Dude, that's wicked funny. And I don't find it the least bit offensive.I mean, God's got a sense of humor. Look at the platypus."

While others didn't: Anonymous said…wow!!!! that really sucked!!!!!! u guys really do no how 2 disrespect ur lord!! i mean, even a sense of humor has a limit---2 say jesus would say things like that is absolutely disgusting!!!!ya, theres no doubt ur going straight 2 heaven.-NOTkeep it up and u wont even have 2 wait till u die 2 get tortured-it'll prolly start in this life. i'm not veen a christian and i still have more respect 4 jesus than u ppl. DESPICABLE!!!!

(At least he thought the site was maintained by a bunch of ppl and he knew where the "!" key was).

I'm going to take a break from posting the Jesus IMs, although I did just buy a Bible so I could do more research and I'm going to begin shopping around the idea as a coffee-table book. So to everyone who visited,

THANK YOU!

After a brief break while I finish up my semester, I'll get back to posting.

Chris
oneeggshy.com

Bird Flu?

2006-05-02T09:57:00.000-04:00

So a bird infected with the avian flu was found in Camden County, New Jersey, which is one county away from mine. In a completed related and scary story, I ate chicken for breakfast yesterday morning.

I’m not usually one to get panicked by the threat of oncoming doom, but this news was a little frightening. What’s even more frightening is the group of geese that lives in my backyard. If they got infected, I’d be dead in like, two hours or something.

It’s funny how you never really consider the potential seriousness of something when it’s far away. When birds were dying in Asia, I didn’t really give a crap. Now that it’s in my neighborhood though, I’m a little worried. Not frightened, just worried.

However, as with all things, I like to look at the positive side of things. If the avian flu does strike the good ol’ US of A, at least we’ll get rid of some of the more annoying birds that have plagued us in our history. Here is a list of birds I wouldn’t mind seeing eliminated:

Woody Woodpecker:

I really wouldn't miss this little freak. He always wanted you to think he was harmless when, in actuality, he was an annoying piece of crap. He was always keeping people up with his incessant pecking and laughing that annoying laugh. He's the first one gone.

Tweedy Bird

This little fluttering piece of crap lived to torment poor Sylvester. All Sylvester wanted was to eat the damn bird, but Tweedy was constantly against that for some reason. If he was a good sport, he would have slathered himself in barbeque sauce and laid prone, waiting for his fate. The worst part is Sylvester never seemed to eat anything else because he was always pursuing Tweedy. Get that damn cat a steak or something! Tweedy will be stricken with the flu but, unfortunately, Sylvester too will bite the dust after feasting on the little bird's corpse.

Toucan Sam:

Don't get me wrong, I like Fruit Loops as much as the next guy. I always felt, however, that the bird promoting the cereal was more fruity than the cereal itself. His strange, fey accent...his love of garish colors...how he sometimes hangs around with his three nephews--it just doesn't add up for me. Rather than worry just how fruity our loops actually are, let's just get rid of him.

Road Runner

I just feel bad for the coyote because the Road Runner is such a cock tease. Just once I'd like to see that freaking coyote eat, if not the entire bird, then at least a leg. Since that'll never happen, I'll let the deadly virus take this speedster out instead. You can outrun a train, sure, but how about a disease attacking you from the inside, huh? I bet no street lines leading off a cliff are going to save you this time, you bastard.

The Crows From Dumbo:

These racially charged birds did everything but pick cotton in Disney's Dumbo back in the day. It's funny how you don't pick up on bigotry when you're a kid, but now whenever I watch this movie (nightly?), I can't help but shake my head at the flat-out racism of Walt and his animators. Shame on you Disney, shame on you. I think it's time the bird flu took care of these two once and for all.Oh, and when are we going to get an African American princess to add to the hot-princess ranks? We've already got an Asian (Mulan), a Native American (Pocahontas), an Arab (Jasmine), and a fucking mermaid for the love of Pete, so how about a sista?

If Jesus had IM

2006-04-28T14:32:00.000-04:00

Don't forget to check out the rest of OneEggShy while you're here!

Apostle#7: hey
JcDaMessiah: Yo, what's up?
Apostle#7: Umm...well, there's this wedding today, you wanna go?
JcDaMessiah: Okay. Sounds fun. Will there be dancing?
Apostle#7: Prolly.
JcDaMessiah: because you know I love to break it down.
Apostle#7: Oh, I know. But listen...
JcDaMessiah: What moves should I do?
JcDaMessiah: I'll start with something basic and work up to the complicated dances once I get fired up.
Apostle#7: :) yeah. But I heard they don't have much wine...is that cool?
JcDaMessiah: Not enough wine?
Apostle#7: thats what i heard.
JcDaMessiah: Crap. I need to have a good buzz on to attempt my new dance move.
Apostle#7: ???
JcDaMessiah: I call it the water walk. It'll be awesome. But anyway, will they have other things to drink?
Apostle#7: yeah, prolly. Im sure they'll have water.
JcDaMessiah: If they run out of wine, i'll figure something out. I really want to dance.
Apostle#7: okay, awesome! I'll see you over there. l8r

JcDaMessiah: Simon.
SimonSays: Hey, JC, what's up?
JcDaMessiah: Listen, I've been thinking...
SimonSays: ???
JcDaMessiah: You know you're my favorite and everything, right?
SimonSays: Yeah...
JcDaMessiah: Well, I think you need a new name.
SimonSays: You mean SN?
JcDaMessiah: Yeah, that too, eventually...but also a new, you know, name.
SimonSays: Oh.
SimonSays: Are you pulling my leg? Who put you up to this? Thomas? Nah, I doubt it. It was my bro, wasn't it?
SimonSays: Jesus?
Auto response from JcDaMessiah: BRB!
SimonSays: It was Andrew, I know it.
JcDaMessiah: Sorry, I'm back. Mary called.
SimonSays: Your mom? How's she doin?
JcDaMessiah: No...um, Magdalene...
SimonSays: Oh. You guys still talking?
JcDaMessiah: It's not like that.
SimonSays: yeah, yeah, I'm sure. I know.
JcDaMessiah: You know I wouldn't do that. We're just friends. I had her blocked for a while, but she's back on my list.
SimonSays: I believe you. Don't sweat it.
JcDaMessiah: Anyway, as for the new name...
SimonSays: Right, right.
JcDaMessiah: I was thinking Cain. How's that sound?
SimonSays: cain? Hmm...
JcDaMessiah: Yeah, I thought that naming you after, you know, the bad guy, that you'd like reverse the negative image the name has.
SimonSays: Yeah, I guess that makes sense...
JcDaMessiah: JK! I was just messing with you. Lol.
SimonSays: What?! I KNEW IT! I'm gonna kill Andrew. LOL! And here I thought you really wanted me to change my name. LOL.
JcDaMessiah: oh...crap.
SimonSays: What? Mary call again?
JcDaMessiah: No...I was actually just kidding about Cain being your new name. I really do want you to change it...
SimonSays: Oh.
JcDaMessiah: Sorry.
SimonSays: No big deal. What were you thinking?
JcDaMessiah: How do you like Peter?
SimonSays: Peter? That's not bad.
JcDaMessiah: I was thinking, you know, because you're going to be my rock. When I'm, you know, gone...
SimonSays: Okay, sure, Peter works. Whatever you think, So you are still leaving? Your Dad hasn't changed his mind?
JcDaMessiah: I can't get ahold of him...he's always away.
SimonSays: Oh. Well, maybe he'll change his mind.
JcDaMessiah: Maybe, but I doubt it. Anyway, I should run. I'm doing some sermon on some mountain or something. I don't know. LOL.
SimonSays: Okay man.
JcDaMessiah: Okay. So you're cool with Peter?
SimonSays: yeah, it works. I kind of like it, to be honest.
JcDaMessiah: Okay. I'll spread the word. Later.
SimonSays: Later.

Lucifer666: Yo. U there?
JcDaMessiah: Yeah. Didn't I tell you to leave me alone?
Lucifer666: I know, but I got a bet with my friends.
JcDaMessiah: Huh?
Lucifer666: U c, we’re crazy hungry, but all we got are these stones. Can you make some bread?
JcDaMessiah: >:o
Lucifer666: What?
JcDaMessiah: You don’t need the carbs. Besides, just listen to my pops and you’ll be cool.
Lucifer666: I tried IMing him, but hes always away. Bsides, if ur really, you know, your dads son, I dare you to lick the power outlet.
JcDaMessiah: Seriously, don’t test me.
Lucifer666:Come on! If you do it, I’ll let you copy my buddy list.
JcDaMessiah: I’m blocking you.
Lucifer666: Loser.

VirginMary7: Jeez?

Auto response from JcDaMessiah: Preachin'

VirginMary7: Okay honey, I guess you're out. I just wanted to make sure you were eating well. Remember, you can't live on bread alone! Have some fish or something with it. Be sure to share as well.

VirginMary7: Oh, and your father wants me to remind you that you promised to help him build a new bookshelf. Oh, sorry, "step-father."" Please be nice to Joseph, he was always there for you.

VirginMary7: I hope you're having fun with your new friends. I want to tell you though, I don't like that Judas. Something about him�Just make sure you're not getting in with the wrong crowd.

BackFromTheDead: Jesus!
JcDaMessiah: Who is this?
BackFromTheDead: It’s Lazarus!!! LOL! I just wanted 2 tell u I got a new sn.
JcDaMessiah:Oh, cool. How you feeling?
BackFromTheDead: Kinda hungover, but otherwise OK. Thanks again for, u know.
JcDaMessiah: No problem. G2g. Ttly.
BackFromTheDead: Cya!

JcDaMessiah: Dad?
Auto response from IAmWhoAm: I am away from my computer right now.
JcDaMessiah: Dammit. Oh, sorry.
JcDaMessiah: Oh, sorry. My bad.
JcDaMessiah: I really need to talk to you. I'm confused. I'm starting to doubt myself. The other day, these kids wanted me to bring their puppy back to life. I really wanted to do it, but I didn't want to abuse my powers, you know? Plus, I really screwed up this parable the other day. I meant to talk about a mustard seed, but suddenly it got into this whole discussion on the Holy Trinity, like if I share rent with you and the Holy Spirit if I'm living at a place. Then this guy started asking whether I go to the bathroom if, you know, I'm supposed to be perfect and everything. I could really use your help. Please get back to me when you can.

You have just entered room "chat16669971813739293635."

JCDaMessiah: Hey. I’m here. What’s up?
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: Jesus!
MelchiorWay: Jeez!
BalthasarGallatica: What up?!
JCDaMessiah: Um, hi?
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: You don’t remember us, do you?
BalthasarGallatica: We’re kinda like your uncles!
JCDaMessiah: No, I’m sorry. How’d you get my screenname?
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: We followed a star!
BalthasarGallatica: He’s kidding, we did a gizoogle search, my mizziah.
JCDaMessiah: I really don’t remember you guys. I’m sorry.
MelchiorWay: Oh come on, I bet you do.
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: I’d make that bet.
MelchiorWay: You wanna bet?
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: Yeah, name it.
MelchiorWay: Two tubs of myrrh vs. a gold nugget.
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: Get the hell outta here with that myrrh crap. You know it sucks.
BalthasarGallatica: Boys...
JCDaMessiah: Gold? Myrrh? Wait a minute...
BalthasarGallatica: Now he remembers.
JCDaMessiah: My dad told me about you guys.
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: You didn’t happen to save any of that gold, did you? We’re kinda strapped.
JCDaMessiah: No, I donated it to the poor
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: Figures...
JCDaMessiah: I think I might have some of the frankincense left...let me go check...
BalthasarGallatica: Don’t worry about it. We were really looking for some gold.
MelchiorWay: Our gambling debts are piling up.
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: Plus, Herod never really forgave us for not turning you in, so we’re kinda blacklisted.
JCDaMessiah: Oh...is there anything I can do?
MelchiorWay: Could you, like, turn a rock into gold or something?
JCDaMessiah: Oh...I meant like pray for you or something.
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: I guess you could put in a good word with your Pops.
JCDaMessiah: I will, although he’s tough to get a hold of.
BalthasarGallatica: Do you think we could have His screenname?
JCDaMessiah: Look inside yourself and you’ll know how to contact him.
MelchiorWay: Gee, thanks.
JCDaMessiah: No problem. Listen, fellas, I gotta go.
BalthasarGallatica: Ok!
MelchiorWay: Take care!
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: Pray for us!
JCDaMessiah: Okay guys, l8r.

JCDaMessiah has just left the room.

BalthasarGallatica: I liked him better when he was wrapped in swaddling clothing.
MelchiorWay: You think that donkey is still around? Maybe we could sell him for some cash.
CasparTheFriendlyGhost: I wonder if his mom is still, you know, celibate.
MelchiorWay: Dude!
MelchiorWay: That’s sick.

TheRockSays: Jesus! It's Peter. I know you're out, but I just wanted to give you my new SN. What do you think? It's weird, but I think the chicks are digging the new name. So thanks!
Auto Response from JCDaMessiah: Exercisin'...demons!

MaryMags69: Jesus?
JCDaMessiah: Hey Mary, what's up?
MaryMags69: What u doin?
JCDaMessiah: I was praying, but I can talk.
MaryMags69: You wanna come over?
JCDaMessiah: Um...is something wrong? You see a demon?
MaryMags69: I just want 2 c u.
JCDaMessiah: I don't think that's a good idea.
MaryMags69: BRB. Have a customer. Should only take 1 min.
JCDaMessiah: Okay...
MaryMags69: Back! I told u Id be quick LOL.
Auto Response from JCDaMessiah: Praying really hard.
MaryMags69: Jesus? Where'd u go?
MaryMags69: Jeeeeeeeeeesus.
MaryMags69: Ok. I guess ur really gone. Well, if u wanna come over, the offer still stands. Maybe I could wash ur feet with my hair again? U liked that right? Well, send me a message. TTYL.

The Day the Music Died

2006-04-26T13:01:00.000-04:00

My car tells me when to shift.

It’s funny. Twenty years ago that statement may have elicited raised eyebrows, wet drawers, and provoked thoughts of futuristic flying cars. Now, with GPS systems and artificial intelligence all around us, orders from inanimate objects is par for the course.

So like I said, my car tells me when to shift. It uses a small, upwards-pointing orange arrow when it feels my car’s tires are spinning too many times per hour for the gear. I’ve been ignoring the arrow for so long that I forget it’s there most of the time, but when I do happen to see it, I usually tell it, out loud over the music or talk radio, to “shut the fuck up.” My car, a dented, off-gold Saturn, is nearing the 170,000 mile mark without any major work required. I think I’ve done a good of shifting at the right time.

Honestly, I don’t like being told what to do by technology. I don’t like when my iTunes tells me I should upgrade to the newest version. I don’t like when my virus software tells me it’s outdated. I prefer to live my life the way I want to without technology’s interference.

But I’ve realized lately that as much as I resist technologies gentle machinations, I’m enslaved to her whether I want to be or not. Take last Thursday for example. I pulled into work at 9:02 (two minutes late, of course), and attempted a mad dash. As I rushed out of my car my iPod slipped from the pocket of my hoodie and hit the pavement.

“Oops!” said a nearby co-worker who was also late, but by 32 minutes.

“You didn’t see that,” I told her.

An hour later, my iPod stopped working. It didn’t simply shut off or refuse to play a song; it showed an icon of an anthropomorphic iPod complete with a frown and X’s over its eyes.

“Shit,” I said, “My iPod’s not working.”

“What’s wrong with it?” my boss asked.

“He dropped it,” my co-worker said.

If you work for Apple and are reading this, me dropping it never happened.

After attempting several repair techniques (hitting it, shaking it, praying to St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes), I gave up and resolved to visit the Apple store, located 45 minutes away.

On the way there, I realized my cell phone wasn’t working either. No matter what I did, I couldn’t hear or speak to anyone. With the loss of my two prized pieces of technology, I was vaulted back to the middle ages. I was in a car without access to the 3,312 songs I’ve collected on my iPod or the *2,941 friends I’ve collected on my cell. People would call me and I couldn’t answer. My mother seriously thought I was dead.

Read that again. My phone wasn’t working for a total of 6 hours, and my mother thought I was dead. This is what America has come to. The world has shrunk so much that not being able to contact someone for a mere two hours implies tragedy. Maybe I forgot my phone? Maybe I was engaged in some tantric sex (although this is impossible since my iPod was busted and I can’t listen to Sting) and unable to pick up the phone?

I’d like to say that this epiphany regarding my reliance on technology set me from hardwiring and microchips, but that’s not the case. As soon as both started working, I fired up the Abba on my iPod and gabbed on the phone with my mom about my dad.

Maybe one day I’ll break from the shackles, but for now, I’m listening to some Frank Zappa.

*Slight hyperbole: the number is actually 592

No Baby

2006-04-02T13:26:00.000-04:00

This weekend I visited two college friends of mine who got married in 2004. They had a baby in October, but I hadn’t seen it until yesterday. In the included picture, you will see something revolutionary: the first time I’ve ever held a baby. How did I make it until 23 without ever holding a baby? I’m not sure, actually.

The closest I’ve ever come to having a kid was when an ex-girlfriend and I had the brilliant plan to take her little cousin Becky to the beach with us. This sounded good to me, as I imagined the three of us holding hands and running in a slow-motion circle as some upbeat song blared. We drove to Delaware to pick her up and then to Ocean City, which was about a two hour trip. Luckily Becky was an aspiring comedian in the back seat, although she didn't quite have the whole set-up/punchline concept down. Instead, her jokes followed a simple pattern. "When is a (Blank A) not a (Blank A)? When it's a (Blank B)!" For example, she would look around her, see a car and a Burger King, and come up with a joke. "When is a car not a car?!" she'd ask. "When it's a BURGER KING!" This was funny at first, but like all absurd things, by the fifth time I wanted a lobotomy.

When we actually reached the beach, I tried to get them to spin with me, but Becky couldn't quite do it in slow-motion. Five minutes into our time at the beach, after she had been lathered in sun lotion, baby powder and a lime marinade, she gave the first indication of impending doom, asking "Where's Mommy?" "You'll see her in a couple of hours," I responded. I had forgotten that to little kids, time is this kinda funny concept that only applies in terms of punishments or expectations.

Kids don't understand the whole concept of cause and effect very well. When a child wants ice cream, we are left with a sticky baby. When a child wants to ride the ferris wheel, we have a child covered in vomit. When a child wants a Faberge egg, we are left with a second mortgage. They don't understand that sometimes when adults say no, it's for the greater good, and not because we get off on some kid's tears. You have to be firm and put your foot down, no matter how much they wail. Don't give in.

Another thing I realized about children is that you have to watch them like all the time. If you turn your head for one second to try to read what that 14-year-old's shorts say on her ass, your kid will have found her way onto a jet ski and be half way to Aruba. I used to be totally against those kid leashes, but maybe they aren't such a bad idea.

When is a baby not a baby? When she's a dirty Red! Becky apparently was a Communist, which I didn't realize before this trip. Between ice cream cones and Faberge eggs, she wandered among some other kids who were building a sand castle. She wanted to help them, but the kids had a shitty diaper club going and wouldn't admit her. She got upset and decided to take one of their shovels and start her own castle. Why wouldn't she? To her, this was not any individual's shovel, but the shovel of the proletariat, meant to be shared among all of society in a Marxist bliss. She got pissed when we had to explain capitalism to her and return the soggy bottom kid's stupid shovel. We managed to cheer her up later though when we bought her a plastic hammer and sickle.

After we finally got her home, I swore off kids for at least five years. The moral of this story is, don't have unprotected sex until you're ready. And in payment for this advice, can anyone lend me a couple bucks towards that mortgage?

Check it out

2006-03-30T16:23:00.000-05:00

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.

Love is in the air

2006-03-29T10:10:00.000-05:00

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.

Jeopardy!

2006-03-24T13:57:00.000-05:00

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.

True Colors

2006-03-18T13:14:00.000-05:00

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.

Im Chaos.

2006-03-12T23:42:00.000-05:00

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.

Last.fm

2006-03-10T14:28:00.000-05:00

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

They call him the working man

2006-03-08T12:22:00.000-05:00

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.

Too lazy to come up with a headline

2006-03-05T11:44:00.000-05:00

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.

Super Bowl

2006-03-02T11:52:00.000-05:00

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.

Red Sox Man

2006-02-28T13:08:00.000-05:00

Red Sox Man stood tall and threatening. He took first initiative and blasted out work experience questions. Luckily I countered the questions with a quick dodge and was able to fire back a comment about the big homerun David Ortiz had hit the previous night. The power of the comment hit him so hard that he thought I answered his question properly and took off nearly half his power bar. Not to be out-witted so easily, he again fired a fury of shots.

"What would your previous co-workers say about you?!" I jumped behind his desk and the question sprayed papers everywhere.

"What would previous managers say about you?" I knew I still had some juice left with the Boston remarks, so I raised from behind the desk and told him that Jonathan Papelbon looked like the real deal at closer. This shattered his spirit and knocked off his business man suit, revealing the true Red Sox fan he is. His energy bar was nearly diminished. Now was my chance! I began to joke with him and kissed a little ass. After a few laughs, the last few notches on his energy bar ticked away and he burst into thousands and tiny energy balls and vanished. Immediately afterward I was infused with the power of Guest Service Knowledge.

After winning the battle against Red Sox, I figured I'd leave. However, only a few feet in front of me, a ray of light emanated from the floor. The trailer began to shake, the light became stronger, and the floor exploded! Dust filled the room. I shielded my eyes and waved the dust out of way, and there I saw the silhouette of another man. The dust settled, and it was none other than Jester Man!

Keep reading ...

Going the Distance

2006-02-24T15:49:00.000-05:00

Here's the thing. Sometimes young men and women do stupid things, like get into long-distance relationships. If you currently happen to find yourself in one, first I'll say you're dumb, but secondly I'll let you know that there is hope. Since I've done the long-distance thing, I've been able to compile ways to keep in contact with that distant lover. I hereby present to you, the "One Egg Shy Guide to Long-Distance Sex."

Pony Express Sex
Pros: This has a certain appeal, as it harkens back to the days where women wore corsets and hid those real little guns in their nether regions, adding an element of danger.
Cons: Asking, "what are you wearing?" isn't quite as exciting when the reply takes a 40 day cross country voyage to get back to you with a disappointing reply that reads, "Scuba gear, why?"

Skywriting Sex
Pros: This is great for the exhibitionist in you, as everyone in your county will know that you are getting some. Also, it's sure to reach your mark, as long as they are outside and looking at the sky at the exact right moment.
Cons: You've heard the expression, "Wearing your heart on your sleeve?" Well, skywriting sex requires wearing your heart on a canvas viewable to the unwashed masses. Plus, if you have spelling or grammatical mistakes, God will most likely laugh at your lame ass.

Sonnet Sex
Pros: History has shown the effectiveness of quoting poetry to the object of your affection, so sex via poetry is sure to please your honey as well. Plus, the rhythm of stressed/unstressed/stressed/unstressed is sure to make anyone hot.
Cons: Writing poetry is hard (just look at the wall of any public restroom to verify this), especially with rules as strict as the sonnet. And guys, quoting rap lyrics like N.W.A.'s "She Swallowed It" (Punch the bitch in the eye/then the ho will fall to the ground/Then you open up her mouth/put your dick, move the shit around) just doesn't have the same romantic effect as something by Lord Tennyson for most girls.

Morse Code Sex
Pros: While Morse Code itself isn't the most seductive language, imagine if you could somehow connect the vibrations to your naughty parts? That'd be hot.
Cons: Honestly, good vibrations aside, unless you actually read Morse Code, ..-. ..- -.-. -.- just isn't that sexy.

Pigeon Sex
Pros: The hours it takes to train birds to carry messages of passionate love will show just how devoted you really are to that special someone.
Cons: You have to be careful how you propose this manner of lovemaking, since, "We should have sex with birds" can be easily misinterpreted. Finally, there is always the danger that the bird can take a dump on your partner, which for most (I shouldn't knock the Cleveland Steamer until I try it, I guess) wouldn't be too fun.

Smoke Signal Sex
Pros: Fire is already closely linked to sex with expressions such as "You're making me hot," "She's an old flame," and "Seriously, this isn't a pickup line, my house is actually on fire," so there is a logical leap between this sort of thinking and the erotic technique of the smoke signal. You can set up a series of colors to indicate your level of arousal that will leave your partner gasping (literally) for more.
Cons: The Vatican may think you are hitting on them.

Jester Man

2006-02-22T17:18:00.000-05:00

Jester Man had a sunny disposition, complete with twinkling eyes and a wide smile. I immediately opened fire with an array of jokes from my blaster. “What does the vet say when neutering the race horse? ‘And they’re off!’” He erupted in laughter. He was enjoying this battle. He asked me a few easy-toss questions, each of them parried and answered easily.

However, he caught on to the skills I was using against him, and fired out his hardest question yet: "What is the most important aspect of serving?" The question hit me square in the chest, knocking back into the wall. The cheap plaster walls shattered and rained down in a heap around me. I fell to my knees.

"How can I defeat him!?” I asked myself, “His knowledge of the restaurant business is that of a god!" Then I remembered the skill I gained from Red Sox Man. I equipped the Guest Service Knowledge power onto my Mega Buster. Within seconds I had all the answers to anything that dealt with Guest Service.

Since Jester Man saw how much damage the last question did to me, he tried to fire the same one again, this time with anger in his voice: "What is the most important aspect of serving?!" With my new skill at hand I shot back. I rejected the traditional "Service with a Smile" answer and followed that up simply with "Attentiveness." This nearly depleted his energy. He was awestruck! He replied, "That is without a shadow of the doubt, the best answer I have ever heard to that question."

This must have scrambled his thinking patterns because then he asked me to tell him a funny story that had happened to me recently. I told him a story about my Italian Grandmother after I had determined that he, too, was from the land of tomato sauce and mob bosses. He laughed so hard that it drained what was left of his energy bar. Like Red Sox Man before him, he exploded into thousands of tiny energy balls. I was then infused with the power of Management Skills. With these powers, I would have literally 20 years of restaurant management under my belt.

As I wiped the dust from my Megasuit and thought about looking around for food for my trusty dog Rush, the trailer rumbled. Giant footsteps were approaching! Dust fell from the ceiling with each step. I coughed and aimed my blaster at the door. Suddenly, the sound of tearing wood filled the room as a huge metal claw ripped off the side of the trailer! There before me stood Dr. General Manager in a huge robotic suit!

Keep reading ...

Dr. General Manager

2006-02-20T11:15:00.000-05:00

“They tell me you have absolutely no serving experience!” he said and laughed. His huge claw came in and made a grab for me, but I rolled out of the way and fired a few blasts back at him. They bounced right off his metal exterior! This was going to take some serious ingenuity.

"What makes up for your lack of experience?" he asked.

I tried a joke on him, thinking it'd hurt him like it did with Jester Man. “A doctor walks into a bar looking to have a few shots!” I said. He didn’t even smile. Dr. General Manger grabbed a chunk of the wall and heaved it at me. I tried rolling again, but it struck my side, lowering my power bar.

"Come on, Chris," he taunted. "Why would you make a good addition to our team?"

I thought maybe that kissing his ass would work. “I can already tell this restaurant will be great! I'll just add to it!” He responded by shooting miniature rockets at me. I shot two megablasts to blow them up before they got me.

I hid behind the desk, panting. I could hear his steps and the circuitry of his suit hum as he circled my position. “I hire a lot of servers,” he said, “so why should I care about you?” My mind raced. What did actually set me apart? I peeked from behind the desk and saw his claws pinching menacingly. I knew he could easily lift the desk and reveal me. I beat him to it.

I powered up my megablast and aimed it directly at the desk. I fired and the desk exploded in a fury of smoke and splinters. Under the cover of the explosion, I ran directly under Dr. General Manager’s robotic body. I jumped onto his back and located a simple “On/Off” switch.
“You should hire me because I think on my feet!” I said and turned the switch to off. His suit disengaged and crumbled to the ground with a dramatic crash, leaving him wearing only his lab coat and glasses.

“Chris,” he said, “You’ve impressed me. I’ll take a risk on you. Welcome aboard!” We shook hands.

Keep reading ...

Ending

2006-02-17T09:14:00.000-05:00

With the game beaten, I was ready for the sequel: You Got Served 2: Server Training.

CREDITS:

Story: Chris and Tim
Writing: Chris
Animated Pic: Jake
Still Pics: Phil

Check out the many other One Egg Shy productions or subscribe.

Thanks to Tim for helping with the original idea. Check his site out here.

Thanks to Phil for pics and Megaman info. Visit The Grand Shamoozal.

Thanks to Jake for the animated pic and work on others. Check out his photography here.

What a difference a day makes

2006-02-15T12:31:00.000-05:00

So yesterday I was bumming. Valentine’s Day, dirty snow, the cold, it was all getting me down. I passed this couple while I was walking to work. The guy was skinny, geeky and carrying the case of some instrument. The girl was wearing a snow cap and had black, curly hair framing a cute face. They were young and in love and holding gloves. I say gloves because it was too cold for exposed skin, so they literally had their mittens just touching, since, as we all know, it’s hard to link fingers when the mittens make your hand pretty much one GIANT finger. So I saw this couple and thought to myself, in typical curmudgeon fashion, “God, how lame are they? They can’t even store away their affection for one goddamned minute?”

I got a few valentine offers from friends, which made me feel even worse. I appreciated the gesture, but the “Aww…you don’t have a valentine? I’ll be yours!” really just made me feel worse, not better, although I did appreciate the offers. As I predicted, I fell asleep by myself, unsaved by a Valentine’s miracle.

But.

But I woke up this morning with an IM from a friend telling me that a friend of a friend had linked to one of my articles on her myspace account. She seemed to like it, which was cool.

I also got an e-mail letting me know that this short play I wrote is going to be performed next month. It’s going to be at a high school but still, it’ll be neat.

The sun was shining when I walked outside. The snow was melting, running in small streams along the curb. I went to breakfast with my friend. On my way into work, I passed a couple. The guy was skinny, geeky and carrying the case of some instrument. The girl was wearing a snow cap and had black, curly hair framing a cute face. They were young and in love and holding hands. It was too warm for mittens today. I smiled to myself, happy for them.

Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T12:02:00.000-05:00

Most of you know the gig. I hate Valentine’s Day. This year I showed my hatred for the day
by participating in a college humor writers collab. The other one that I submitted that didn't get posted was, "Love is like the toilet seat in a dirty bar: there when you need it, kinda ugly, and bound to give you gonorrhea."

Last year for the event I took a survey of people on my buddy list (some of whom didn’t make the cut) to gauge what the general feeling on the streets was regarding this holiday.

I set up the survey thusly: people were given three possible replies to the question “What do you think about Valentine’s Day, either A) It’s an awesome chance to say “I love you” B) I don’t have strong feelings about it either way and C) It fucking blows and you know it, asshole. I received 29 replies.

3 people answered A
18 people answered B
8 people answered C

It turned out that people weren’t as jaded as I was, although a former college classmate of mine said, “I highly doubt that one day of being romantic and charming is really going to make up for the other 364 days of being an asshole.”
I responded with a resounding C when I polled myself (man, why does that sound so sexual?). The funny part is, for all of my bitterness about being single at the time, I ended up getting laid that night. I’m hoping that the unexpected, non-relationship sex of last Valentine’s Day was the beginning of a yearly trend (of course, if I were in a relationship, I’d be satisfied with relationship sex).

I’m going to put my sex life in the hands of the fates in terms of getting laid tonight but more likely, my sex life will continue to depend upon my own hands.
Ladies, here is your chance. You know how to reach me.

Snow Day

2006-02-13T14:56:00.000-05:00

So the snow that hit Saturday night into Sunday had me at home watching a good amount of television. One of the main programs this weekend was, of course, the Olympics. I watched some women’s hockey.

I’m not a huge hockey fan. I think the diehards are a little intense for me, and I referred to what is now commonly known as the mullet as “hockey hair” for years. I will, on occasion, sit down and watch a hockey game. I like the speed, the violence and the amazing control some of the players have with both their sticks and their bodies. Speed, violence and control: all three of these things are lacking in women’s hockey.

I probably tuned in at the wrong time, as well. I turned on a match between Canada, a perennial hockey powerhouse and Italy, a country not traditional lauded for their ice skating abilities. The score when I turned it on was 8-0 in favor of, you guessed it, Canada. I continued to watch this train wreck as Canada scored goal after goal. The final score was 16-0.

Other than my obligatory (yet genuine) affinity for the ol’ US of A, I always pull for Italy in national competitions. My mother was born there and came first to Canada (she doesn’t play hockey, unfortunately) and then to the United States, so I feel a sense of national pride when my olive skinned country mates engage in sporting events. When it’s soccer, it’s great. When it’s women’s ice hockey, not so much.

It hurt me to see my motherland’s representatives so thoroughly humiliated on the ice. The Canadian ladies passed, shot, and twirled (okay, there wasn’t much twirling) with great ease while the Italians huffed and puffed, waiting for their shifts to end so they could have some espresso and warm up on the bench. But even the Canadian women, who were clearly light years ahead of the Italian women in terms of hockey prowess, weren’t that impressive. They were slow, they shied from physical contact, and their shots literally trickled along the ice and through the legs of the Italian goalie, who was thinking of the wine she’d drink after she was done wasting time on the ice.

Now, if I was the Italian coach, I probably would have told my girls to start representing their country a little better. I would have allowed them to start checking the Canadians at 8-0, and to use their sticks as weapons once they faced a 13 goal deficit. But I’m old school, and the Olympics are supposed to be about great feats of athleticism contrasted with horrible, life-altering failures, not unadulterated violence. Still though, some bloody Canadian mouths would have taught a simple yet valuable lesson, I feel.

Oh well, at least the Italian women’s curling team is supposed to be pretty stacked this year.

My first piece of hate mail

2006-02-11T15:48:00.000-05:00

Today was a momentous day. I received my first piece of hate mail in response to my latest collegehumor piece. A guy left the following comment on my blog, in reply to the part from my piece that read:

"If possible, find a job that applies to your major. I work in a writing center because I am a writing major and know the difference between 'your' (belonging to you), 'you're' (the contraction for 'you are'), 'ore' (a mineral from which a metal can be extracted) and 'O.A.R.' (a shitty band that only chicks and pussies like)."

The comment, by "Harryeballlls", read:
"You're a dick for saying 'only girls and pussies' like O.A.R. You're a writer of bullshit collumns on some bullshit website. Don't make crude opinionated statements liks that when your opinion is held in no regard whatsoever."

God, I kind of want to frame that comment like a business owner would frame the first dollar bill he's ever made.

I'm not going to attack Harryeballlls. That would be unfair. I'm glad that he is passionate about a band. There are plenty of bands I like that are considered lame by others. I have six tracks by ABBA on my iTunes, including "Dancing Queen." Not that I'd passionately defend them, but I will occassionally listen to one of their tracks and spin slowly in my room like a princess.

All I'm going to say, in my defense, is that if collegehumor is not a place to make crude opinionated statements, then what is? I'm bound to offend some people with what I write, and I'm okay with that. You can't make everyone happy all the time.

So thank you, Harryeballlls, for your opinion and for reading.

Sexual HarASSment

2006-02-10T14:44:00.000-05:00

I read a story the other day about a six year old boy who was suspended for “sexual harassment” after he allegedly put two fingers inside a girl’s waistband while in school. All I can say is, what the fuck? Why do teachers everywhere keep trying to make children grow up so fast?

Sure, I can see a little girl getting upset about a little boy touching her, but 1) the poor kid got a three-day suspension and 2) he’s going to carry the stigma of a sexual harassment punishment around for the rest of his school career. He’s a freaking kid, for the love of Chuck.

At six, I had only a murky idea of what made a girl different than a boy. I knew that older girls had boobies, and that boys and men had wee-wees. I didn’t know about the hoo-hoos that girls hid in their pants, and I certainly wasn’t trying to stick my fingers into any waistbands to find out.

There was a time in the second grade, however, that a classmate of mine dared me to run around lifting up skirts during recess (I went to a Catholic grade school where the girls wore jumpers). I agreed, not out of any sexual interest, but because I knew they’d be annoyed. I had no idea what I was doing or looking for, and I can bet that this poor kid didn’t either.

I heard a recent story that another school has banned the game of tag, saying that it fosters competitiveness and inequality among children. OF COURSE IT DOES, IT’S FUCKING TAG! When you play tag, you go for the fat kid. Once he’s “it,” you run circles around him, poking him with sticks. This is America, where poking fat kids has been celebrated since the first three presidents used to tease Benjamin Franklin for his portly stature (his glasses didn’t help, either).

I just want to let kids be kids. This boy will have his whole life to sexual harass broads, but that doesn’t mean he did it purposefully at age 6. Teachers and parents need to chill out with that crap.

Who Wants to Cuddle?

2006-02-07T11:16:00.000-05:00

At the end of last semester, a friend of mine was bemoaning the fact that her sorority was totally lame. I said I would rather the girls be moaning because of something I did in the bedroom. She didn’t laugh.

She was tired of the mixers, the movie nights and the traditional keg parties. As penance for the bemoaning joke, I told her I’d do some research into a new kind of party that would totally kick ass.

I went home, hit the Internet, and after watching three videos where women stuck various sports equipment into various orifices (who knew a lacrosse stick could....never mind), I googled the word “party” and began searching. Two hours and four clowns hired for a private affair later, I stumbled upon a gold mine: the cuddle party.

Cuddle Parties, according to cuddleparty.com, are “affectionate play events for adults, designed to provide a space to explore and enjoy touch, nurturing and communication.” Basically, it’s a bunch of people lying around and hugging in their pajamas (which are the mandatory attire). This sounded like a perfect event for a sorority! I mean, how many times have men pictured sleep over parties where women lounged about, hitting each other with pillows. Not only did a cuddle party encourage this, but it was mandatory, and the men could be involved. I read on.

At a Cuddle Party, people can get their R.D.A.W.T, or Recommended Daily Allowance of Welcomed Touch. It turns out that, as humans, we have instinctual needs to be touched, hugged, and massaged by people that we like. My R.D.A.W.T. as a healthy young male is ALL THE FREAKING TIME. But yours may vary. Consult your physician before engaging in excess cuddling. So I felt like I had the perfect solution to the sorority soiree situation. I was ready to make my presentation until I came across a section of the website entitled “rules.” These rules have made me rethink my proposal.

1. Pajamas stay on the whole time.
This means you have to pee or shit your pants should the need arise, which will make you less cuddly.

2. No SEX.
No sex. Cuddling? Sure. Sex? Nope. More on this to follow.

3. Kissing and nuzzling, as well as other forms of touch, are allowed, but you must ask permission and receive a verbal YES before you touch anyone.
Okay, you can kiss and nuzzle, but no sex. So it’s pretty much just endless foreplay. Sounds like most of my dates. Asking permission? “Hey, can I kiss and nuzzle you?” If you have to ask, you’re probably a giant loser already.

4.You don't have to cuddle anyone at a Cuddle Party, ever.
What? Why not? I don’t go to super bowl parties and not watch the super bowl. Or birthday parties and not eat cake. So why would you go to a Cuddle Party and not cuddle?

5. If you're a yes, say YES. If you're a no, say NO.
6. If you're a maybe, say NO.
I would do the opposite, just to mix things up. “NO! NO! NO!?”as I cuddle the hell out of someone.

7. You are encouraged to change your mind from a yes to a no, no to a yes anytime you want.
Ask Kobe Byrant how he feels about people changing their minds midway through.

8. NO DRY HUMPING!
DAMMIT! Clothes stay on and you can kiss and nuzzle, but you can’t simulate sex with your clothes on? What kind of lame party is this? I’d try to argue, but they wrote it all in caps. How can you argue with ALL CAPS!?

9. If you're in a relationship, communicate and set your boundaries and agreements BEFORE you go to the Cuddle Party. Don't re-negotiate those agreements/boundaries during the Cuddle Party. (Trust us on this one.)
Hey hon, I know we are together and everything, but I REALLY want to cuddle with this hot chick. Please? Honey? Where are you going?

10. Get your Cuddle Lifeguard On Duty or Cuddle Caddy if there's a concern, problem, or question or should you feel unsafe or need assistance with anything during the Cuddle Party.
Hi. I’m a cuddle lifeguard. Please shoot me in the head. “Um, Cuddle Caddy, could you help me? My zipper is stuck and I really want to fuck this girl I’ve been cuddling with for an hour...oh, rule number 2 you say? How about if I just....oh, rule number 7.” Do you think the Cuddle Lifeguards use rape whistles?

11. Crying and giggling are both welcomed and encouraged.
WHAT?! CRYING?! I don’t even know what to say to that one.

12. Please be respectful of other people's privacy when sharing with the outside world about Cuddle Parties and DO NOT GOSSIP.
Apparently the twelfth rule of cuddle party is you don’t talk about cuddle party.

13. Arrive on time.
14. Be hygienically savvy.
I can see the need for 14, but 13? Why is that a steadfast rule? I’d think there would be an advantage to being late, that way you could scan the field and pick a cutey to cuddle up with. It also takes out the awkward first moments when you are trying to see if that certain special someone will listen to you giggle and cry.

14. Always say thank you and practice good Cuddle Manners.
Hey, thanks, thanks a lot for those terrible 13 hours of unrequited lust. I had a great time.

So, if you are a pervert like I am, you are probably wondering about one thing. Well, they even answered that in a subtle way.“Erections. Erections. ERECTIONS. There, we said it.” You sure did! All that talk about erections has made me...well, never mind. I guess it is inevitable that these things would come up, and their explanation of what to do is this: “At a Cuddle Party, erections become Mother Nature's way of giving us the thumbs-up sign.” Just really think about that statement for a second. Read it again. Close your mouth. If I had known that erections were Mother Nature’s thumbs-up sign, I probably wouldn’t have been so embarrassed all the time in grade school.

So I decided that a sexually frustrating get together might not be the best plan for a sorority shindig, what with the ignored erections, awkward crying, poor hygiene and the stink of rejection that would linger when someone was a “maybe,” which we all know is actually a “no.”

Let’s just have a kegger.

Living with the three stooges

2006-02-01T22:25:00.000-05:00

Within all of us there are three stages of existence. These stages are as well known a trio as Manny, Moe, and Jack of Pep Boys fame or as Larry, Moe, and Curly of the Three Stooges. No, I'm not talking about blood, bones, and bile, or childhood, adolescence, and old fartitude. What I'm talking about is our past, present, and future selves.

Now, I'm sure many of you realize that we exist in the past, in the present, and will exist in the future, but I'm willing to wager that none of you have thought about these three stages as very different and even manipulating individuals.

Our past selves are more than the embarrassing individuals on that old VHS tape who were singing the Macarena wearing only torn He-Man underoos. They are more than that chump who sat through hours upon hours of math classes as a youth just to incorrectly figure out change for a disgruntled customer or the teenagers who were caught having sex with your lubed up couch cushions. No, our past selves are made up of every experience that we can remember, plus some that we have blacked out thanks to years of therapy (I never had a pet rabbit who died on my birthday, I never had a pet rabbit who died on my birthday). Our past selves are a combination of every decision, thought, and haircut that we've ever had. But our past selves have led a dark ... um, past.

Now to the present self. The present self is who you are right now. No wait, right now. Hold on, this is your present. Okay. Your present self is the person that you are who exists just before you try to decide that he is currently existing. Get it? It's okay, I don't either. Anyway, your present self is the moderator of both your past and future selves, and the "number one" that you are trying to always look out for. The problem with your present self is that he always becomes your past self when you aren't paying attention.

The final self that we harbor inside of us is always lurking around the corner, and that is our future self. Our future self is the person that we imagine with rock hard abs, a firm grasp on biochemistry, and who is fluent in Italian. Every penny we save, class we take, and porn download we begin is aimed at improving the lives of our future selves. So if everything went like it should, these three stages of our beings would live in harmony, perfectly coexisting within our lives. But as many of us unfortunately realize, this isn't always the case.

The main complications come from the fact that our past selves are fucking dickwads. As an example, I'll use the Chris that used to be, called Past Chris. Now Past Chris is hard to classify. Sometimes he does things that are great for the Chris enterprise, like starting saving accounts, studying for tests, and treating women with respect. But there is also the other, more lazy side to Past Chris, the one who decides to play video games instead of going to class, to run water over his hands when a thorough washing is really necessary, and to spend money on a new remote-controlled robot vacuum instead of paying a credit card bill. This jerk cheaps out on toilet paper, forcing poor Future Chris to deal with hemorrhoids when he becomes Present Chris. Past Chris doesn't feel like flossing, so Future Chris's gums bleed. Past Chris ate donuts every morning, which contributed to Future Chris's love handles. If the Future Chris that will become the Present Chris is a jerk when he develops into Past Chris, the Future Chris down the line could be homeless and living in not only a dumpster, but the dumpster that the homeless people use to throw their trash out into.

So what can be done to help avoid a rift between your separate stages? The key lies in your present self. Every once in a while, he has to look out for your future Marge or Sam or Judy. This can be done in several simple ways. You can occasionally choose a low-fat option at Old Country Buffet instead of going straight for the deep fried ice cream. You can learn a new hobby like painting or rain dancing. You can even try to surprise your future self by putting some money into a jacket you know you won't wear for a while or by buying an extra bar of soap for when your slivers run out. The point is, you must respect yourself, but not only yourself. Your self four days ago and your self that is yet to arrive.

Far and Away

2006-01-29T11:36:00.000-05:00

Lately I’ve been doing something that I promised myself I’d never do: I’ve become a compulsive away-message-checker. I didn’t used to stall. I didn’t used to care what other people were doing, or what silly little thing they had in their profiles. But the bug finally got me.

I have some advice for all you out there.

Boys and girls, we all have rough patches in our lives, but I don’t like seeing depressing away messages. Okay, okay, I understand if someone passed away that you may want to put an R.I.P. Juan the Gardener, but this is something that should be buried (no pun intended) in your profile instead of displayed prominently in your awayer. Also, things like, “This can’t keep going, can it?” or just the simple :/ face should be hidden away deep in the profile. That way, if I care enough about you to go digging, I’ll uncover these things and ask you what’s wrong.

Now, I know that I too have been guilty of this. I put in song lyrics that have to do with my current situation like, “There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes/Jesus Christ died for nothin’ I suppose,” but at least I have some interpretation that goes along with this dismal and morbid lyrics. It’s better than one that reads, “I’m sad!” or “My boyfriend left me for a Phillipino turtle.” Come on people! People check those things, so why not insert a little humor?

I suggest that anyone reading this should try, for the next week or so, to insert something painfully embarrassing that has happened to you recently for the rest of your buddies to laugh at. Something like, “My vibrator ran out of juice 15 seconds from climax!” or “My friend stirred my drink with the finger that had just been in his own ass 5 minutes earlier.” I’ll get the ball rolling on here: I tripped going into a Wendy’s the other day. See? It’s easy.

On the topic of AIM, I am also going to start systematically removing those from my list who don’t belong any more. But I don’t want to just do so in some haphazard, seek-and-destroy manner. I’m going to do it in an orderly way. And for this, I’ve devised a mathematical system of points based on different factors. Here’s how it is going to work:

For every yearit's been since we talked -100
For creative/interesting away messages +3
For interesting links/news +3
If we hooked up +5
If I think we could hook up again or for the first time +500
If we dated but there's no chance we'll hook up again -1000
If we talk every day +100
If we talk every week +50
If we talk every month +10
If we talk every year +1
If I have a secret man-crush on you -50
If you read and comment on the brilliance of my writing +100
If you put up depressing or lame away messages -50
If you have an alternate SN that you haven't used since the new one -1000

I've decided that as long as you are in the positives, you're safe. Anything lower than zero and you are getting removed.

So let's take a look at a typical member of my AIM buddy list. Let's call her Karen.
I wanted to hook up with Karen our sophomore year (+500) but I haven't talked to her in 2 years (-100 x 2) and occassionally she has depressing away messages about the war in Iraq or the death of her pet squid (-50). Karen totals 250, so she stays on.

Here is another person. Let's call him Curtis. Curtis and I lived in the same building freshman year. He puts up interesting away messages (+3) about how hungover he is or who he slept with, but we haven't talked in three years (-300). Curtis is gone.

As you can see, there is some bias for the ladies. That's thinking with my head.

So this is going into effect as of right now. First to go off my list? The roommate of the first girl I slept with at college.

Be afraid. You could be next.

A little short

2006-01-27T14:21:00.000-05:00

I fucking hate getting my hair cut.

I hate reading bad magazines while I wait. It’s like high school all over again: the hip guys always grab GQ before I get there, the jocks grab ESPN the Magazine, and I’m left cleaning my retainer while reading Popular Science.

I hate never having a specific person that I want to request. I’ve never developed enough of a rapport with any of the assembly line workers to actually seek their service again. I worry that all the good girls–Brenda, Maryann, Candy–have been snagged up by the waiting patrons, and I’ll be left with Sarah-the-new-girl.

When I do actually sit down, I feel stupid because I never know exactly what I want done to my hair. It’s be easier if I had a hip celebrity to emulate. “I want the Brad Pitt” or the “Johnny Depp” doesn’t really work because 1) they are good-looking enough to pull off any hair style and 2) they could be doing a role where they are a cancer patient that I was unaware of, meaning I come out of the place completely bald. Normally the girl tries to help me out. “How do you wear it?” she’ll ask. “On my head,” I reply. The blowdrier sounds exceptionally loud after a bad joke.

I hate the hair cutting process. Since I can’t wear my glasses, I’m never able to tell exactly what is being done. They could be adding pink highlights and I wouldn’t even know it. I also hate how the women press their genitals against my elbow while they lean in to cut my hair. Why does the arm of the chair have to be exactly crotch-level? Oh, and for some reason the Glassboro Haircuttery gets all the rejects from the other Haircutteries in terms of looks–we get the fatties, the bad complexionies, the pregnanties, and the cockeyedies. I still ask them out, but I do so reluctantly.

The absolute worst part is the awkward attempt at small talk. I usually try to give off an air of “Don’t talk to me,” but it doesn’t always work. I’ve entertained the thought of trying to invent new stories every time I go in, but I’m too lazy. “Oh, I’m an astronaut.” “I am a professional wrestler.” “I race ostriches.” I can really be whomever I want, but I usually just tell the lame, boring truth and let my answer hang like a dirty towel in the air. This frigid front I put up also ensures that the girl will rush through the haircut, getting me out of there quicker.

Haircuts are freakin’ expensive too, which is why I try to wait as long as possible until getting one. A good barometer of when one is needed is the first time you are mistaken for a homeless person. On top of the price of the actual haircut is the tip. As Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs laments, how does society decide who is tip worthy and who isn’t? Why do I have to tip some bitch for snapping her scissors a few times? They should know I’m broke by the way I dress and the stink of failure that emanates from my pores.

So what prompted this diatribe was today’s experience. It’s almost the new year, so I thought it was time for a new do. I scrounged together $13 in buffalo nickels and headed to el cuttery de capelli (that sentence was a bastard of like four languages). It was pretty slow for a Thursday at 1:24, so Crystal, the girl at the front desk, took me right on back. She asked what I wanted done. I said, “a 2 on the sides and a half-inch off the top.” Pretty simple, right? Not for Crystal. She talked with other people in store while cutting, sensing my reluctance. Perhaps she was upset that I wasn’t more loquacious, because she definitely cut off most of my hair. Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses and was distracted by the feel of her cootch on my left elbow, I didn’t notice until it was too late. I’ve actually never complained before about a bad haircut; I mean, it’ll always grow back, right? But this time I was combative.

“How does it look?” she asked when her butcher job was completed.

“How, exactly, does this qualify as a half inch?”

“Oh, is it too short?”

“It’d be too short for a lesbian.”

She felt bad and ended up charging me the kid’s price, and for once I didn’t worry about a tip. But here’s a tip for you. Join me in my new crusade to become like the mighty Samson. Don’t get your hair cut again. Ever.

Let's make them drink our expletive deleted

2006-01-25T10:30:00.000-05:00

I don't usually watch the news. Call me ignorant, but I usually hear about things 10-15 years after they happen. I just found out that the Berlin Wall collapsed thanks to the rocking music of David Hasselhoff. Flipping through the channels the other night, I happened to land on CNN, which was airing a report on the unsanitary condition of ice. You know, ice? That stuff that water becomes when it gets cold? Apparently it's no longer safe.

The people doing the report wanted to see if the ice that went into drinks was living up to health code standards, so they tested restaurants in four different cities to gauge the quality of their ice. Included in the test were a 7/11, a Dunkin Donuts, a Burger King, a McDonalds and some corporate coffee place I had never heard of (Javascript or Jim Beans or some shit). Out of the five restaurants tested, four out of five had traces of fecal matter on the ice. Fecal matter! As far as I am concerned, the only place that traces of fecal matter should be found is in larger amounts of fecal matter. I want you to think back to some hot summer day when you lazily chewed on ice at your local Stop and Shop or Piggly Wiggly. Remember that slightly odd taste that you ignored? That was shit. Human waste. The stuff that comes out of your ass.

These types of reports are why I don't watch the news. When is the news ever good? For every story about some old coot making it to the century mark, there are 15 murder, rape, murder/rape, or disgusting ice stories. I could have lived my whole life without knowing that someone's poo was flavoring my drink. As if drinks didn't have enough crazy new tastes (lime, lemon, semen), now I have to worry about Diet Cherry Vanilla Cantaloupe Stool Sample Pepsi? Dr. Pooper? Coke Number II? Mountain Doo Doo?

You may be wondering exactly how the fecal matter gets onto the ice. Well, you have to remember that fecal matter is all around us-- on our money, on our dog's tongues as they lick our faces, on the mints in that little bowl at your favorite restaurant, on sweet little Billy Fredericks' fingers as he plunges into our anus. So it can be transferred from surface to surface quite easily.

I knew a guy in college who rarely washed his hands after using the bathroom. I mean, come on, we all know that sometimes with a quick piss the wash is unnecessary. But this guy would come out of taking a shit without the slightest, most cursory dabbing of water on his fudge-covered hands. And according to the report I saw, to make sure the fecal matter is completely neutralized, it takes about a full minute of scrubbing with somewhat hot water. I'm sure many of us out there would shamefully admit that we don't scrub as thoroughly as we should. But just do me a favor, okay? If you are going to eat my pretzels, hold my hand or allow me to lick your fingers in an erotic display of courtship, just wash up, okay? If you are going to hand me my food at a local eatery, could you maybe make sure that it isn't covered in crap?

There are ways to ensure that your ice is pooless. You could boil the ice to get rid of harmful bacteria and then freeze the boiled water again. You could bring your own spiffy microscope set to examine each piece of ice before allowing it to cool your drink. You could just drink your Sierra Mist sans ice: it's still pretty cool and you don't have to worry about what other substances are floating in your drink. You could do like I do: just accompany the ice attendant to the bathroom to make sure that they are washing their hands sufficiently (this is tougher with food service workers of the opposite sex). Or you could just stop watching the fucking news so you don't know any of the disgusting things going on in this world.

Let's Get Physical

2006-01-22T11:44:00.000-05:00

I exercised yesterday.

I’ll pause here while people gather themselves: murmur excitedly, shoot surprised glances, put your dentures back in.

I’ve been trying to play racquetball since the beginning of last semester, but every time I’d have it planned, something would come up, like the plants needed to be taken to their soccer games or the kids needed watering. Well yesterday, I finally made it to the courts and played.

There’s nothing like a competitive sport to make me feel like a man. There was running, grunting, heaving and sweating, much like most of my sexual experiences (especially the running). After an hour of less than intense play, I was a little tired. I had to catch my breath and take a couple extra drinks of water. But overall, I felt okay considering I hadn’t really exercised since the fall of the Berlin wall. We grabbed our things and headed for the stairs. And that’s where it happened.

With my first step, my right thigh felt like it was going to explode. I paused, surprised. I stepped with my left foot next. It too felt like it was on the verge of exploding. Well, it turns out that my legs, who had grown used to the life of an academic (sitting, thinking, occasionally peeing without stopping the sitting) and were revolting against their new role.

I’m going to try to keep exercising, not as a lame resolution but because I have fun doing it and I could use a kickin’ bod to attract da ladies. And as long as there are no stairs to climb, I should be fine. Otherwise, I’ll just wander buildings looking for elevators.

Car Inspection

2006-01-20T13:02:00.000-05:00

I had to get my car inspected the other day. Normally I wouldn’t be concerned, but in the last year my usually reliable ride has been giving me some trouble.

In the summer my battery died while I was going through a tollbooth on the PA turnpike. After the line of cars behind me realized that honking their horns wasn’t helping me go anywhere, some wonderful, anonymous hero jumped out of his car and helped me push through the toll and onto the shoulder. It was a Sunday, so there were no repair shops. I was somehow five miles away from my family’s mountain cabin, so I figured I could stay there for the night. After a tow truck ride in which the driver pitched movie ideas to me when he learned that I was an aspiring writer, a night spent in a surreal, inter-racial family sitcom with my dad’s friend, his kids, his African American girlfriend and her daughter who were using the cabin for the weekend, and a new, $220 car battery, I sped home as quick as my new battery would allow.

The next problem was a few months later when my car started leaking coolant. For a while, I didn’t even know something was wrong; I thought that the smell of burnt vagina that I kept catching after driving for any distance more than five minutes was maybe the mating scent of the human female college student. It wasn’t. It was a collection of car troubles that dropped me $900.

So as I pulled up to the car inspection station, I was a little nervous. What could be wrong this time? Perhaps the tires would fall off. Could the gas tank explode? Maybe the flux capacitor would break, stranding me in 2005 forever (or at least until 12:00 AM on January 1st). I almost didn’t want to get out of my car when it was my turn.

They make you wait in that little booth. It’s one of those social situations, like getting a hair cut or waiting in line at a peep show, where you are forced to have an awkward social interaction whether you want to or not. You get two shots with two different people. I usually use the mistakes from the first try to really nail the second.

“So, you’re getting your car inspected, huh?” I ask, as if the person could possibly be there for an enema. “What are the odds that she’ll pass?” I don’t usually think of my car as female, what with its being a stick, but it seems to be the standard way of referring to one’s whip.

What I first take as rudeness is replaced by embarrassment when I realize that the elderly, Hispanic gentleman doesn’t speak any English. This is further revealed when he says, “No Englass,” and smiles a toothless grin. He knows enough of our language to know that when the attendant yells “Ford!” that it’s his car. Maybe he was just pretending to not know the language. Lord knows I’ve done it countless times while getting my hair cut.

I get a second chance with the person after me. She was a blonde, probably around 40, with a license plate that read “Steph R.” We made awkward eye contact and I said, “Hello.” She nodded back to me and the silence started. Thinking about my failure with Ramon (yes, I gave him a name), I wondered whether I should even chance it.

“I almost feel like it’s me that they are inspecting, not just my car,” I said, throwing out the feelers.

“I know what you mean,” Stephanie replied. Success!

“It’s like, if my tires don’t have enough pressure, then I’m too fat,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied with a slight smile. It was all the encouragement I needed.

“Or if my turn signal isn’t working, I have no direction in life.” I was going strong, but I guess my brakes were faulty, because I didn’t know when to stop.”Or, or or,” I started, getting into it now. “If my exhaust system is messed up, it’s like I’ve got bad gas!”

Silence.

I cleared my throat. She crossed her legs. I contemplated my fingernails. She fingered her mace.
“Saturn!”yelled the attendant. That was me. I thought better than to try an awkward goodbye. Steph and I left how we started–strangers.

“It’s good for another two years,” the attendant told me.

I was relieved. I now couldn’t get pulled over for anything other than my erratic driving, and I had two years to contemplate better conversation starters for that little room. I’m thinking of starting next time with, “You know, getting my car inspected is kind of like having sex.” What do you think?