Archive for the ‘Bits’ Category
August 9th, 2010
I booked a commercial. One of those late night/mid-afternoon 18 to 30 seconds advertisements telling people to re-examine their life and go back to school.
“My life is a mess, then I found [insert college name].”
Literally. We did about six different versions each with a different college name. Then I listed three possible careers one could study. Cut. Three new careers. Cut. Three new careers… “Cardiovascular Sonography, Medical Billing and Coding… Video and Game Design.” Yes, it’s one of those kind of commercials. I’m changing lives, people. Probably at about 12:45 in the afternoon during an Oprah commercial break. I’ll take it. I have wedding cupcakes to pay for soon.
“Hey kid, are you like me and want pursue your passion with your free time but you’ve wracked up enough college and fun miscellaneous debt to keep you pinned down to a day time job that you can’t afford to quit? Yeah… no one cares, so here are some careers that you wished you had some desire to study so you could just be normal and move to the suburbs. Good luck with that welding degree. Hope you have a minor in accounting, you blissfully ignorant 18 to 22 year-old. Tell your loving and supportive parents they are committing acts of child abuse by attending those piano recitals of yours. You can’t solder rent, Pinocchio! Why don’t you just crochet a retirement fund while you’re at it?!”
It’s a little strange when you are essentially describing your own life in all its proud, artistic instability while being paid to tell someone in your same predicament that they shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.
April 26th, 2010
The internet sometimes is the best source of birth control.
Goddamn Chatroulette. Invented by a seventeen year-old, dicks galore, friends from other countries decked out in hoodies and internet courage*. I feel like I’m rubbernecking after passing by a horrible accident.
Other than the boil “zit” lancing video, I have maybe 4-5 images burned into my mind permanently due to the internet. If you’re not already familiar with the ones I’m mentioning, good. You don’t need to be. Don’t research them. There’s absolutely no need. You will lead a perfectly normal, healthy existence, and probably can still be sarcastically morbid with these images NOT IMPRINTED IN YOUR BRAIN.
- Motorcycle Face Accident Dude – Courtesy of Rotten dot Com. Dude’s Face + Motorcycle Accident = Lack of Face displayed on Internet Site
- Japanese Shit Volcano Shower Girl – Courtesy of “Takes All Kinds” Sexuality. Shower + Upside Down Japanese Girl + Jesus Help Us That’s a Lot of Diahearra Spewing Vertically Out of Her Asshole = Questioning Humanity’s Pleasure-Issuing Synapses
- “Goatse” — Courtesy of “The Body Sure Can Stretch” Philosophy. Ever wonder what the inside of your body looks like, say, if you decided to check it out via your anus? This man did. If you need a giggle, go check out the delightfully clinical Wikipedia description of the “Internet Shock Site.” If you need to make sure your gag reflex is working, just Google the word. Takes “spread ‘em” to a whole new level.
Anyway.
Yesterday, since I slept in until 10:30 in the morning, I apparently had the ability to stay up ALL THROUGH TIME and could not sleep at all. The thought crossed my mind to visit Chatroulette to pass the time. Honestly, I felt weird about it. Like, it was the equivalent of drinking alone. It was okay to do it with friends, but if you are on the site on your own you had a problem. Then I realized I do drink alone, was drinking alone, and should address those issues another day… Okay, fine, I’ll go on Chatroulette.
After school special advice whooshed through my head as I signed on: Do not trust anyone, at any point you can be recorded (AKA wear a disguise of awesome Batman proportions), curb your reactions so as not to be the victim of a screen capture or YouTube montage.
Be prepared. You will be harassed, sexually or otherwise, by signing onto Chatroulette. It’s a damn wild concept–hell, maybe it’s Youth overreacting to their elementary school music teacher friending them on Facebook– but I’m sure within a year’s time, The Dicks are going to ruin it for the rest of us. Literal dicks. Dick after damn dick after damn dick. Porn is no longer a Hustler mag in a garage, it’s a random 4 second flaccid French dude’s Freedom Fry on a computer screen. But whatever, your 14 year-old is going to see a lot of dicks on this so-called information superhighway, so make sure you talk to them about the appropriate sites they’re allowed to visit at their sleepovers. Otherwise they’re going to see dick parades. Then the cycle continues and those teens will be dicks and ask girls to show their boobs like the assholes they were destined to be.
So, these kids are born with internet courage:
*Internet Courage. (noun) - Fearlessness and conviction that one is correct and protected within the boundaries of cyberspace. One with internet courage has complete disregard towards anyone’s feelings, and gravitates towards unwarranted attacks. Stems from desensitization, fueled by the culture of the 2 second attention span and watching episodes of “Family Guy” and the misunderstanding that hurt feelings can be mended with the abbreviations “lol” and “jk”. Often times someone afflicted with Internet Courage will use all capitalization or long strings of unnecessary punctuation.
There’s no fight or flight anymore, just fight. Which finally brings me to my point. I’m a little terrified by today’s youth. I think I saw a 13 year-old’s taint on Chatroulette and frankly I’m having a hard time dealing with it. Even typing that sentence made shudder again.
Like I said, the goal (my goal) of Chatroulette is to either be with a posse of complete goofballs who can’t be hurt by anyone’s hatred, or to be completely unphased by the dick n’ ball nature of this weird world. On the screen pops two young kids who see me, a girl on the screen. A perfect opportunity to test the boundaries of courage and young dickitudedness.
“Ah ha!” they say to themselves. ”A woman! Let us show her our chest so that she might show us the same!”
After typing, “MILF,” to woo me, they corrected it to the flattering term, “GILF,” and Kiddo #1 proceeded to show his own underdeveloped tits to the computer screen as a demonstration of what I do in return. Being 90 years older than them, I didn’t do much to encourage them, but their own flailing was contagious between the two. Kiddo #2 takes this opportunity to moon me, his sphincter begging for a reaction. His friend bounces with his shirt nearly off, and I don’t do much but half-grin at the spectacle.
I’ve been mooned before, and I’m sure I’ve even mooned someone myself. But there’s mooning from a safe distance, and then there’s accidentally misunderstanding how much a web cam can capture the chiaroscuro one’s back door. ”Welcome to Chatroulette, Me.” Here I was sitting on my couch, in dumb sunglasses and a hat, my cat snoring next to me, and there is some English kid’s unknowing asshole winking at me on my screen. And that is the #5 image that is now burned in my brain thanks to the internet.
I continued to half-grin at the two pre-rapists. I would not give them the reaction that they wanted. It worked. Normally the receiver of this poop-shoot salute would click out of the room and the kids would start over, because there’s only so long one can jump around with an ass or two in the air before running out of things to do with a butt. So they may have won and actually gotten a subliminal reaction out of me, but at least I had to make them click out of the room after they eventually felt weird being pantless in front of their friend and a stranger on the internet. Hooray for me being creepy…?
It’s catharsis, writing about this immature cyber-bullying. It’s also a reason to double up on birth control. I don’t want to breed an asshole who shows his asshole. Then again, it’s also hard to not want to suit up in a dumb wig and sunglasses and log on to the damn site again right now for another freak show before bed time.
April 12th, 2010
Dear Maria,
I write you this at a dark time. Netflix didn’t deliver what they promised and your baby Derrick piddled on my favorite tennis shoes. He’s here staring at me with those damn beady eyes. I don’t know why you insist in keeping a ferret. It’s meant to be worn as a necklace not kept as some foppish guard rat. So anyway, not only was I in a state because of that, but once I sat down to awful reruns of “According to Jim” while you were off at your “night classes,” I realized that I have not one friend. No posse. No buddies or pals.
I was just sitting there in your robe with the clicker in my hand. I realized you were the only one I have and everyone else thinks something else of me. That’s a very sobering thought. Or, it would have been if I wasn’t as blitzed as I was.
Now darling, please don’t hold this against me, as I admit that I am weak right now and this fact would break anyone’s heart if they weren’t as strong as I am. I’m like a python. A very handsome python. With a wallet. And pockets for said wallet.
But why bother, right? Who else will appreciate my routine as much as I do? If they don’t like “Fawlty Towers” and key parties, who needs them? Just kidding, darling. No one has ever taken up my offer for a key party no matter how hard I try, and you’re the only one who will admit to liking John Cleese.
It would be so much easier if my parents hadn’t adopted a second child and instead gave me a real brother. How am I supposed to relate to someone who grew up for the first six months of his life in an orphanage? There’s just something that connects two people together when they squirt out the same birth canal. No orphanage can provide that type of bond. But orphans can’t help it. It’s the diet of gruel and singing while mopping with brushes strapped to their feet. They’re doomed from the beginning. An amazing pseudo-brother like me can only help the little tike so much.
I just want to know when this happened. I think I used to have friends, didn’t I? A whole lot of them, really. They would all gather to drink swill with me and march me around on their shoulders. We’d go to Vegas and have adventures, great ones at that. We blacked out due to accidentally ingesting rohypnol on the roof of our hotel… Then we found Mike Tyson’s tiger in our room… And my friend lost a tooth, but we made it back for the wedding in time… And the car we wrecked, it was okay that we wrecked it because it was actually a wedding gift… We gave back a baby too. Oh, those guys. We had some good times.
But where are they now? What about my personality has driven everyone away? I find myself wondering if I’m just a sad sod of a sack nowadays. Have people made up their mind about me and I can’t get it back? That’s enough to drive a man to drink if he hadn’t drinked all the booze in the house already. That reminds me, dear. I drank your Zima thinking it was tooth paste, so you’ll have to pick up some more on the way home. Why don’t people like me anymore?
I’ll ask you not to remind me of this tomorrow, as I’m sure these feelings will pass. I am comfortable in my skin, who I was, (awesome), who I’ve become, (probably more awesomer), and what jerks the company I used to hold have also become (opposite awesomest). What’s that phrase, “It’s not you, it’s me”? I agree 100% with that statement if say, you were saying that to me, and then replacing “me” with them, so we could just say, “It’s them, not me.” And I would agree with you agreeing with me about them. I sincerely believe that you are right to support me, Maria, no matter how much the “Thems” of the world dispute it. If it’s not me, then it must be them, right? Or you, I guess.
I’m glad I could express to you these feelings. If I’ve fallen asleep on the couch, please don’t wake me and just keep my side of the bed warm, darling.
Yours,
Charles
March 20th, 2010
Watched some men’s wrestling on ESPN while at the gym.
It was either that or “Half Baked.” Wrestling won. It’s surprisingly easy to watch and it drowns out the sound of your knees screaming, “Fuck you!” It’s also pretty easy to feel like you’re getting away with watching pornography while running on the treadmill.
Dudes in spandex writhing on the ground. Cute Iowan farm boys with butts and thighs that were sculpted from will power and a need to prove something to his parents.
“Look at me, Dad,” he says with fire in his eyes. “I am strong. I am worth something. I am more important to you than your dairy cows.”
Dad takes a vacant swig from his Coors and stares at his muscular child, now nearly a man, seeking his approval.
“Bessy is strong, too. Bessy brings in more money than you do, son. Bessy don’t waste time rollin’ around on no mat with another faggoty-ass cow, now does she, boy? Now get a job or get a wife, but get out from under my roof.”
Then the boy screams something like, oh, I don’t know, “I DON’T WANT YOUR LIFE!” and pins his dad in a choke hold. His father gasps for air and taps the floor for mercy as the boy’s angry tears stream down his cheeks. He releases his father’s neck just in time, and they both sit on the floor breathing heavily until the silence overwhelms them both. Then Hollywoods gives me moneys and I win.
(Actually, the kids who were wrestling instantly bounded up into the crowd to tackle their parents with hugs after a victory with such energy, it just made you want to have a litter of wrestling babies.)
Back to the fact that I was watching hot dudes touch each other. I kept looking around to see if anyone else was seeing this hot spectacle on the flat screen, but everyone there was mesmerized by March Madness activities. I wanted to scream, “Kiss! Kiss!” hoping my pleas would spark the men’s lips to touch. I wanted to clink glasses and see some man on man action. Show me my homoerotic pornography on ESPN while I’m running at the gym, goddammit! Make the outrageously expensive monthly dues fucking worth it! America wants its gay porn!
I eventually changed the channel. It was all hot and sexy until the winner was interviewed about what was going through his mind.
“I was just asking God to give me the strength to win…”
Snore… Jesus really kills your gay porn boner, I tell you what.
February 15th, 2010
Key Word Search Time! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
Time to review what brings people to my little corner of the world. All eight of you. Hello there.
thea what have you done - Other than, “Yeah, really, what the hell have I done?.” This person clicked on the public zit lancing post after googling this. (Warning: Don’t. Don’t watch the video. Just don’t.) Which leads me to ask myself the same question with different emphasis: What have I done? Why did I feel the urge to publicize one man’s attempt at personal cottage cheese production? Why why why on Earth is this something that you want someone you care about to see? I’m not so much the social activist. Mother Theresa never picked her scabs in public to teach a lesson, who the hell do I think I am? This video needs to be buried.
But apparently acne is plaguing America and people don’t know how to confront and deal with these pustules on their epidermississippis. So they seek help from The Google and more people find me:
lancing zits – The video The Internet brought to us will either help youth succeed in dermatological cleanliness or be a successful forehead/back/buttock dairy farmer. If you have to lance more than one zit, or any for that matter–”lance” should not be the verb you use in the same sentence as acne–you should just see if you can get part-time work as bubble wrap.
giant zit videos as of january 28, 2010 - I do not want to see this person’s cache. It’s probably as filthy as his pores.
snowking mandolins – Best band at Pitchfork this year.
butt hoe artist – They must be a fan of his work, or, it’s the artist googling himself to see if people are talking about his tags around the city. Yeah, Butt Hoe Artist, you’re that good.
butt hoe - Well shit, the motherfucker’s listed in the Urban Dictionary.
bday messages for departed - I know this is probably a sad sentiment, but all I could think of was, “Zombies don’t need birthday cards, silly.”
norms of a gym - If you are like the Norms in my gym, you “Look Better Naked” because the lighting design of the gym resembles that of Pilgrim times when 1 footcandle of illumination made any frumpy Puritan look like a slutty Lutheran.
Fran Drescher fart - This search came up for a second time the other day. It’s sparked my curiosity enough to make me search for it as well. Is there a Fran Drescher fart video that I’m not aware of that I need to be aware of immediately? Please, give me something to spout off about at the water cooler other than the weather and the YouTubes. If you’re just talking about her farty voice tone I will be disappointed.
sheer panic at the thought of turning 30 - Don’t come to me with this one. If you’re not happy by 30 you’re not going to be happy ever. Wait, are we ever really happy, Pooh Bear? You’re asking someone who’s trying to succeed as an actor. Don’t go to the internet to tell you how awesome your life was in high school. Do something with your life, schlubbo!
BIRTHDAY WISHES FOR A DEAR WIFE – I feel sorry for the poor soul who was looking for some poetic love-phrasings but came across Charles’s brand of affection instead.
Happy birthday my dear wife, love you so much – Whoops. In the same aisle as that other guy.
how to rip a fart – Really? You need to look this up? And you come to this site to guide you? Uh… Okay, well, it’s like “Put your lips together and blow,” except it’s more like “Clench your colon and bear down until your sphincter squawks or shits.” Does that help? I’d suggest googling this again because I’m sure there’s a better site for this. Maybe Puddingfarts.com can help. And if you haven’t heard of that site, be forewarned: They clench and bear down. And it’s exactly what you’d expect from a site
“real talk” coffee mug - If there was any merchandise associated with R. Kelly’s “Real Talk” song–no, not song, not masterpiece… EXPERIENCE–I would buy them for myself. If you haven’t listened to the Andy Kaufman of hip hop, which is what I tell myself so I can sleep at night, please do so, or just read the lyrics first, and then immerse yourself the brilliance and madness that curls up in a cozy little place in America’s hearts.
Cue stand up bit for when I’m standing up as a stand up and I do stand up with my own “Real Talk” phone conversation with my significant other:
Hey, I’m not calling for any reason. I’m on my lunch break.
I think I’ll be home around six or six-thirty, ’cause I work til six, but we got real slammed today at work.
And I’m going to the gym, so let’s make it eight-thirty. I said I’m going to go to the gym. I’m going to the gym! Goddamn, AT&T–Real Talk.
How’s your day? Nothing exciting? What time are you off? I said, what time are you off work?
Don’t say, ‘”the same time every week,”
‘Cause sometimes you’re going over to Stu’s house for D&D and you’re home past ten-thirty sometimes
I can’t keep track–Real Talk.
Maybe tonight we can go to a movie, or rent a movie, or Dexter will be here early from Netflix, I’m just thinkin’ out loud–Real Talk.
Are you busy? Or do you just need to eat? Speaking of which we really need to go grocery shopping, I’m just thinking out loud once again–Real Talk.
Did you get the picture I texted you this morning? Yeah, I sent you of the picture of the cat. The cat was being real cute and then she got bite-y–Real Talk.
Okay, well I don’t why I called, I’ll talk to you later when I get out of work or after the gym, I love you bye!
[A fight breaks out randomly in the background, and a "To Be Continued..." subtitle star-wipes onto the screen.]
And my favorite:
stupid women – You found me!
January 9th, 2010
To My Darling Wife,
What a New Years, Maria! I know I apologized earlier while I was revisiting my alcoholic choices in the loo, but I’m truly sorry I dropped that bottle of vodka as we were on our way to your sister’s house. You were so excited, at least I’m assuming that’s what that foreign expression on your face meant, but what good is New Years without a drink or two in your system–especially when family is involved, right? Don’t be upset about missing the gathering. That’s the great thing about New Years, it happens every year, whether or not you’re alive to enjoy it. Things go on, such is life. I’m not saying that to discourage any hope you have regarding your sister’s treatments.
Now, on to more important matters.
I awoke with a start tonight as we were trying to sleep. I was trying to clear my mind of all thoughts but was unable to do so since being medically diagnosed with my large cerebellum. And you, with your heavy breaths that would convince anyone in the world to get over the awkwardness of a CPAP Mask–I’m sorry to digress, darling, but you don’t look like an elephant with that mask. Would you rather be a dead elephant or an elephant that sleeps soundly? And even if you did pass in your sleep with the mask on, I promise I would not participate in any making-fun-ofs when the coroner arrived. I would not mention the floating pink pachyderm I drunkenly imagined only to find your cold body lying next to me in the morning still in that pink fleece sack of a nightgown you insist on wearing. I believe I read somewhere that elephants are cold blooded due to their skin being so thick so that’s probably why I would be fine with a cold, dead elephant next to me in bed… Wait, that doesn’t completely prove my point, but well… I said it was a digression.
Anyway, my love, as you were blissfully comatose with your mixture of pretty blue pills, my mind was racing and I had to get up and pace a bit. I thought to myself, we’ve just entered a new decade, it’s been a whole year since the episode of your “episode,” and 2009′s resolutions have remained untouched. I’m not as rich as you would like me to be, and you haven’t attempted that diet you insisted on putting in air quotes. I thought I should make a new list, and since you never really seem to care much about things of worth other than e-cards these days, I made your resolution list as well. It’s just easier, darling.
1. Join a Gym - It’s important to take care of ourselves, because we don’t want to die young and leave the other to have to pay off extraordinary credit card debt. And if you need it to be, the phrase “joining a gym” can be a malleable definition. It could mean fine-tuning an already well-oiled muscle machine, to which I’m referring to my own frame. It could mean just exercising your tear ducts to control the awful amount of liquid that seeps out when too much boxed wine has entered your system. Or, just finding the strength to remove your legs from beneath the bed covers. Either way, it’s for the best. I don’t want to be married to a fatty. Again, I know it’s a digression, but you had slightly more big to your bones when we were courting, being a size 6 and all, and I thought secretly buying your dress two sizes smaller would inspire you to fit in it. Now I claim “my bad” because, as we all know, instead you just looked like a glowing sausage wrapped in rice paper. I do feel bad for keeping that secret during those three years of our engagement. I thought your own self-deprecation would eventually evolve into motivation. So, yes, back to joining a gym. I’m sure you know of a YMCA or something with all those fruits you hang around with, right? They look fit. Most gays do. Get on that. Not the gays. Don’t get on the gays. They won’t like that.
2. Raise a small dog — Since I don’t like children, I’m sure you can get over those psychosomatic allergies of yours. Here’s what I figure: a small dog is easier to remember than that hopeless charity box coin purse you bring around. It’s easier to run to Pet-Co than to mail pennies in an envelope to a child with a click in its unpronounceable name . Besides, if I don’t spend my extra change on a sugary snack, I come home unbearably cranky. Low blood sugar alone may jeopardize our marriage. I can’t bear to think of such things. And I mean really, what is 25 cents going to do for a family in need? Will they buy their own sugary snacks to help them be less cranky about being starving or having a case of AIDS? Ring up a Zebra Cake and take it home to the family to compliment their dusty bag of rice some hippy brought them? They have Zebras in their front yard so why would I want to confuse them? We’re getting a terrier dog puppy and we’re naming it Chumpo. Or you can name it that clicky name after your charity case. I don’t know why we’re still on this topic, darling. These are resolutions to improve OUR lives, not others.
Well, it seems you’ve woken up, so I’ll have to complete my list another time. God, why did I let you keep that nightgown from your sister’s closet? You look like a pathetic mascot for a breast cancer walk. People see you wearing that and they want to get cancer.
I love you darling, Happy New Year!
Yours,
Charles
P.S. Would you mind taking the trash out in the morning? My resolution is to get more beauty sleep.
January 2nd, 2010
A belated holiday post.
Last year around Xmas, I went to a good friend’s holiday gathering as I do every year. There was a holiday graffiti artist that was out in full force using snow and unsuspecting windshields as his canvas.
This year, I was pleased to see the return of the snow artist. For those who worried his work would become stagnant and rely heavily on repetitive fecal references, luckily he’s branched out to images of dicks and balls.
What’s made this art even better for me was Photobucket’s suggestion of all the things I could put this artwork onto:
December 27th, 2009
I joined a new gym.
Having felt a little meat and potato-y since a hairdresser decided to frame my face with a cut rivaling Ramona Quimby’s, I joined the gym downstairs in my company’s building. I decided that I wanted to forgo the feeling of relief that you gain when a new better paying job provides a financial breath of freash air. I believe that my natural state is one of flailing. This gym causes weight loss by removing the extra pounds from the wallet. You no longer spend money on food because you have convinced yourself that the convenience of an expensive gym downstairs justifies the price and outweighs rational thought.
I’m used to going to a gym with Norms. The Norms wear old T-shirts and Umbros, they sport a pooch of a belly that never quite leaves because they have to leave the gym to feed their dogs at home. They grunt, they sweat, they understand that they’ll never be models, their frame is what it is, god bless us, everyone. I’m used to this.
This new gym is for Superheroes. Superheroes who work in sales and power up with Miller Lite. Superheroes that have tight butts in tight butt pants and shoot from work to the gym in pneumatic tubes. They spend three hours in classes that have puns in their titles. “Fant-ASS-tic Workout!” “Be More BUTT-iful!” ”ASS! ASS! ASS! ASS!! ASS!!!” After the classes, they emerge glowing (not sweating), maybe even twinkling like Twighlight Vampires, and hover towards the dressing room. There, they proceed to pose and flex without shirts. In the women’s locker room, a staff photographer captures their perfect frames as they do 20 push-ups with their perky breasts before continuing to vogue topless. They drop their towels and mousse up their already magazine-tousled locks as the photographer captures their god-like figures, shamelessly displaying a half-boner beneath his jeans. Now, I know I live under a rock, but I was quite surprised at how many naked people there are in the locker room.
Of course there are a few other Norms at the gym that can be seen doing leg lifts under a heavy blanket in a dark corner, or are straining to keep up with the über-race in the “Save America from Burning Buildings with Your ASS” class. They’re there. We’re there. And you may even see us buying some tight workout pants some day because they’re like, totes supes cute. In fact, we gain confidence walking amongst the Superheroes. We know that we are protected and we are not really threatened by this race of Übers. They go about their business, and we go about ours. Them with their lightening tree legs, us with our excess packaging. It’s focused and calm in the gym since there is no sexual tension or possibility of mating betwixt the two species. You don’t see humans lusting after cheetahs. The Norms and the Superheroes are two different breeds. In the bedroom they would cancel each other out and there would be some sort of, I don’t know, sparky explosion as their piston-like genitals attempted to climax in a vat of sex dough. Capes would get caught in ceiling fans and Norms would have heart-attacks, breathlessly attempting to rescue the spinning lover just out of reach above them.
So in the gym, we feel safe, at ease even. The Superheroes are there as eye-candy, as inspiration, and as protection in case there is ever an Evil Villain lurking, waiting… plotting… Ready to attack at a moment’s notice–
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” scream the Norms, struggling to sit up with their medicine balls.
The Superheroes’ ears perk to the sound of the gym walls crashing, the building’s innards shoveled forward. The smell of cedar overtakes the room as the sauna crumbles and is pushed into the main machine room. A steely tank-like machine now sits breathing smoke and steam in the middle of the workout room blasting Ted Nugent ominously from a tinny boombox strapped to the roof. The Norms stare in horror as they see a now half-toweled Norm, startled at this repositioning, scramble to safety away from this geared creature.
The metal beast begins to move forward, and The Norms now look to the Superheroes gazing calmly at this impending danger. Just then, the top of the tank opens and a leathery Norm dressed in an ill-fitting track suit emerges from the tank. He delivers his manifesto. A lot of evil plan blah-blah-blahs similar to the ones at the end of movies, grandiose statements and gesticulations, those snap-poppers you throw on the ground during the 4th of July… But still, it’s not something The Norms see every day, so it’s pretty scary. Then, a giant laser death gun rises out of the tank and sheer panic erupts in the gym. The leathery Norm unleashes his fury and workout equipment explodes with a push of a button. Yoga mats rocket across the room, slicing and mauling any slow-moving victim in its path. The Norms desperately cry to the Superheroes for help. Surely this is the time when Good and Super-Good unite against Evil! The Norms begin to psych themselves out for this great battle. They have taken enough step-aerobic classes to help throw at least one punch at the side of their muscled comrades! They look around to sound the battle cry, but the Superheroes are no longer found. Realizing they are now alone, the slack-jawed Norms are left to be es’ploded by lasers.
If you were to check the surveillance video you would see a flash of spandexed individuals bolt out of the gym as the Evil Norm struggled to deliver his lengthy evil plans in iambic pentameter. In perfect form, they speed off in their Audis and laugh about it later on leather couches over a Miller Lite and an episode of “America’s Got Talent.” Tomorrow’s just another day at the ‘ol office.
November 3rd, 2009
To my darling wife, Maria,
I know they say that age is a relative thing, like, our relatives are aged and grow old and die, and that’s exactly what crossed my mind earlier this evening.
This, your 30th birthday, is something to celebrate. And not just at TGI Fridays.
I don’t want you to expect gifts or songs or cheer, because think if I did not give you those things. What if I instead gave you one word: “Life.” Now, some would throw a fit and lock themselves in their room and eat the last of the Raisin Bran claiming it was the only thing she was going to have for her birthday dinner. And that someone would be guilty of two things: Not finding the $10 Borders gift card under her pillow, and not understanding that I just gave her the best gift ever. Technically the gift of life can only be given to a child from a parent. And technically that may have some truth behind it, but I am the one who will remind you of your alived-ness.
So this, on your birthday, seize it like you seize those sour cream potato chips. Stop saying the word “old” to describe yourself. You’re not old. You’re just “alive.” You’re at the age where people stop themselves when you tell them how alive you are. When you say, “I’m turning 30,” people say, “You don’t look that–you don’t look like you’ve…reached that milestone.”
You’re at the age where previously mothers would hang themselves with their newly born baby’s umbilical cord once she realized the gestation period and birth alone nearly killed her and she had two more years before a dog with teeth ate her in a cave. You have not been eaten by a dog with teeth! That’s really living!
Thirty is the new twenty! Plus, you apparently don’t look thirty, I mean, a haggard thirty. And how are we supposed to act when we’re of age, really? I wouldn’t know since I’m not thirty, but these are all phrases that popped into my head while I was looking at birthday cards. Being thirty means that you don’t have to finish that bottle of wine. Now, there’s wine in a box now that’s perfectly acceptable for you to purchase, AND that has at least 2-4 bottles in it! Who’s going to gossip about you if you drink 2-4 wine in a box bottles? It’s not like you go out with friends or anything because they all have babies, probably.
What to do when you’re another year alive-r? Are you supposed to sit and check your messages on your phone as the young people joyously play Catch Phrase? Are you proud of your ability to spend more money on alcohol because of your discerning taste? You should boast of your many credit cards. Young people have to spend two dollars on swill to have a good time. Young people, or should I say, dead people.
(Okay, I know they’re not really dead, but they’re more dead than you in this metaphor, even though you’re like, way closer to actual death. So maybe they’re more like comatose vegetable people. Or the walking dead. Vegetable people might be less creepy.)
So you’re thirty and looking at these zombie vegetable people and still feeling sorry for yourself because you didn’t get a cake or phone call or other meaningless expressions of good will? That shit doesn’t matter. ALIVE is what matters. You know you’re alive and you know who you are. You have to go to bed at night because you have responsibilities. Young people don’t have that. They are doing things like lolly-gagging that require frivolous double letters. Your responsibilities are mono syllabic: Work. Home. Drink. Sleep. You know what’s important. You are not lost in the complications of whose bed you’re going to end up in, or what adventure you will find yourself in next. Your path is mapped.
I hope you read this birthday card. I’m sure you remember, but last year’s was nearly unintelligible after your tears smeared the ink so much, so hopefully this birthday’s message will last for years to come, unless you die within the year.
So happy birthday, my love. I know you like marble cake, but they didn’t have any, so I just got us toilet paper, which we needed anyway and you said you were going to buy but apparently didn’t get around to it.
Yours, as always,
Charles
October 11th, 2009
Going on vacation to Puerto Rico where there is apparently something called “heat” and “sunshine.” Even though it’s considered US territory, that’s a foreign concept to me. But when looking at the weather report I see something more familiar to my vocabulary, “rain and thunderstorms.” Hopefully that’s not Spanish weather talk for “tropical storm.”
Also prepping for swimsuits and traveling. Bikini waxes, even basic ones, make the female region so much more amusing than usual. Pained and raw after the initial procedure, the freshly shorn pelvis appears vulnerable, injured even, as the non-waxed area is surrounded by a moat of seemingly sunburned skin. If you ever had trouble locating a woman’s genitals, never fear; a waxing will clearly outline the approximate region. Also after a waxing, if you put your ear close and listen hard enough you can hear the faint crying of Gloria Steinem.
Eight minutes of small talk while a woman rips out your follicles. 55 dollars (plus tip) for a week without razor burn. God I love beauty and being so beautiful. Now, it’s not like I’m craving an hour long session or need endless small talk from the esthetician as she’s noodling with my noodle parts. It’s difficult to talk about the weather (and you know that poor girl must have to talk about the goddamn weather with every goddamn client who comes in all the goddamn time) when every three seconds you’re attempting not to wince or bleed from your eyes. But 55 bucks for 8 minutes? That’s more painful than the waxing. At least compliment my socks or something. But hey, no razor burn, right Gloria? Beauty is so worth it and I love being full of beauty.
And with that too much information, I’ll be on vacation now.
