Pizza War. What is it Good For? Absolutely Nothing.

Do you ever pull a pizza revenge? Probably not because you're an adult and you don't see food as a form of ammunition. But just in case you're curious, it's when you start your day with something really delicious and terrible for you, like biscuits and gravy and a bloody Mary. You're feeling all warm and happy, maybe a little tired but life is good. Lunch rolls around and you're all like "You know what you want, tummy?" and it's like "No! What?" and you go "A HOTDOG!!" and it's like "Hooray! You're a genius!"

You get on a bit of a roll...someone offers you a nice cookie or a slice of cake and you go "Hey, tummy. Is this cool?" and it's all like "Define cool." and you're like "Um, are you looking at this cookie? It's totally covered in pink frosting! That's the Webster's definition of cool." and it's like "Reeeeally?? You NEVER eat the ones with pink frosting! Does that mean I get to slave away on sugar and Crisco all afternoon, on top of all this mystery meat? I cant wait!"

Such negativity on the part of your stomach not only cuts through your enthusiasm like a hot knife but just plain hurts your feelings. You want to get back that best friends, you-and-me-against-the-world feeling the two of you shared not minutes before. So you eat only half of the cookie in an attempt to appease your stomach but course, by this time you've pissed it off and it doesn't appreciate any attempt at compromise. It's like that roommate who pretends to love partying until you try to host a party, at which point it starts bitching and moaning about having to work at 7 am and could you please throw away your own beer cans for once?

So it pitches a little tantrum which forces you to back off the snacks for a few hours but at this point, you're getting a bit resentful, yourself. Isn't this your life? Shouldn't you be able to eat whatever you want without your belly going AWOL? It's so unfair! You patiently wait for the tantrum to subside so you can get back to your super fun day and end it on a good note. You've got a pizza on the way and you don't want it to get cold!

An hour or so goes by. All seems calm on the battlefront and that pizza ain't getting any warmer so you hastily seize your moment. But no! It's too soon! You just walked into the eye of a perfect storm! What seemed like a past tense tantrum is now a super volcano of anger and mutiny! It's like you broke a battery in half and ate it.

"FUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOU!!" you scream to your stomach as you reach for slice after slice of pizza, gorging yourself until you don't even know where you are anymore. You can no longer hear the cries for mercy, for you are far, far away. "YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!" Eventually you pass out on the couch around 4 am. Like so many times before, you wake up feeling bloated, thirsty and alone. Sometimes the price of battle is too high. In the wise words of Dan Folgelberg, bearded songster of the '70s:

"Lessons learned are like
Bridges burned
You only need to cross them but once
Is the knowledge gained
Worth the price of the pain?
Are the spoils worth the cost of the hunt?"

If "the hunt" is pizza and the "the spoils" is your own body, then, no. Obviously no, they are not. Eat a salad.

Bathe Different

I was watching a slasher film the other day when something very strange happened. I realized that seeing some poor girl get hacked to pieces by a chainsaw made me feel absolutely nothing. No fear, no empathy, nothing. I began to wonder if I had finally become the psychopath I always knew I had it in me to be. Then suddenly, it dawned on me that I had just been to a video arcade prize shop the night before where I was raped in the peepers by these:


If you can't tell from the small photo, they are rubber ducks with celebrity faces on them. I thought to myself "Wow. Those are the most life-alteringly fucked up things I have seen in three decades of existence." But they weren't for long. I turned the corner and was greeted by this:


If you could cook a nightmare down to some purer form, grind it into a powder and snort it up through a large straw, you could then begin to appreciate the sheer terror I felt as this stared at me from behind the plastic. What's worse is that in order to win one of these monsters, you'd either have to be some idiot savant of gaming and beat every game in the arcade three times over or blow your entire mortgage on it. They cost roughly 180,000,000 points. I think a tiny, plastic soccer ball cost 50,000 points.

Other highly prized items included seat cushions vaguely resembling the ghosts from Pac-Man. Of course, they had to be won individually so until you complete the collection, you just have three flat ghost pillows sitting out of context in your house. There were lots of stuffed animals which would start to fall apart on contact with your skin and several nearly life size, obscure characters from very outdated Japanese video games. I didn't stick around long enough to find out, but I'm pretty sure the grand prize was a framed photo of the arcade franchise's CEO flipping the winner off with both hands whilst being blown by a hooker.

So, you see, I now no longer have feelings. I'm like one of those ghost cushions, alive but not alive, waiting to see the weirdo that won me drag another child down to his basement to "play video games" with him.

The Road Home is Paved With Fruitcakes

It's Christmastime. A time for giving, a time for family, a time to reflect on the months behind us and look forward to the months ahead. But most of all, it's a time to eat weird, gelatinous grandma food. Year after year I have struggled to understand how the type of food every cell in my body begs me not to put in my mouth has come to be a time honored tip of the hat to Jesus. I think I may have finally stumbled onto a likely hypothesis:

One day, not so very long ago, everyone over the age of 70 was whisked away together to some sort of magical jellyfish planet where they lived for ten years. Everything was all colorful and special and glazed there. It was the best time of their lives. But alas, as we humans tend to do, they overindulged in the bounty of dense, rubbery foods the elderly love so much not to have to chew. The Jellyfish people grew increasingly resentful as their food supplies dwindled. Then one day, without so much as a warning, the old people were violently ripped from their gummy paradise and exiled back to Earth with nothing to eat but Earth food.

Cold, shivering and devoid of joy, they hastily pieced together a menu consisting of wobbly cakes molded into shapes, unnaturally pigmented fruits contained within bricks of sickly sweet bread, and strange, translucent gravies. Indisputably disturbing as each of these concoctions are, these pale comparisons to the bountiful fruits of a superior planet are all these poor refugees can muster up to pay homage to a golden age. A better age. Though not a one of these elderly folk dare speak of this time for fear of being dismissed as batshit crazy, they toil away each Christmas to bring these dishes to our tables and share a small fraction of unknowable bliss with us, their loved ones.

It is a mourning, a celebration, a prayer. I think these people hope to be returned to what they see as their home and who would want to deny them that? This is why you eat their food. Because even though you know it is fucking disgusting, you love your grandma and want her to get to Jelly Heaven. Merry Christmas, everyone! Please pass the fruity rum cake balls with dates and candied pineapples. And a shot of something to wash that shit down because it's not going down on it's own!

Show Your Patriotism With a Public Coronary!

How long has it been since you've been witness to a really special adult tantrum? The kind where some dude gets up from the table at a crowded, four star restaurant and sweeps his arm across it, knocking gravy, wine and pasta all over everyone's clothes and faces? The whole 1960s, alcoholic dad tantrum. Every time I feel inspired to pull a maneuver like that, it's because I'm watching the news at home, by myself, so I never get a chance to carry it out. Not that I hang out in four star restaurants anyway, more like Burger King. So the sweepy arm motion would lean toward a much sadder end than a dramatic one. But at least it would be an opportunity to see a cheeseburger fly across the room which is never not a good thing.

We should probably all buckle up for a few of these in the near future. Personally, I couldn't be more pumped about it. Decades of political correctness has left a gaping, sucking hunger in the hearts of millions for something like a country wide bar brawl to erupt. I think I might even want to participate in it. People have been holding their asshole cards so very, very close to their chests for such a long time now that it's not always easy to see just how Lord of the Flies this country has become. I want to know what everyone is really all about! Let your secret racist flag fly! Say shit like "I care more about tax cuts for the rich than making sure the 9-11 first responders can, like, not slowly die and shit." or "Our health care system is perfectly fine the way it is!" Say that one to my face. Get it out in the open! It'll feel so good!

Take a cue from Fox News. Hypocritical, asinine sentiments seemingly pulled from the Mythical Land of Jehovah's Witness Heaven are given ample representation on that network every, single day. They even make neat little graphics and charts for those who can't grasp the complexity of statements like "Global warming is a myth." I dunno. I think that one kind of speaks for itself. But if those guys can do it and get the vast majority of the American viewing public to give them the high five, why can't we? What are we so scared of? Is it that the lazy, commie, socialist lefties are going to flood the landscape with their booze and tears or is it that the insanely rich tea partiers are going to get so drunk with power that they crash their yachts into each other in an attempt to escape the flood? Don't even worry about that! For to because of the gun-toting, mustachioed NRA weirdos have built underground bunkers, so at least they will survive to once again propagate the species. So, we're cool already. Go nuts!

The sooner we get all of this hateful bullshit out of our systems, the sooner we can all hug it out. I'm just sick of waiting for the inevitable food fight to happen. The longer you let that food sit there, the more rotten it will get and the whole issue of why we were throwing it in the first place will have to take a back seat to the fact that everybody is super grossed out and covered in E.coli. So, let's get to forgetting our manners and say what we really feel. Ready...set....Go shove your tax cuts up your precious, self interested asses! Wow, that was fun!! Now you!

No, Monsieur Ghost, You May Not Have my Wallet!

Tomorrow, my very good friend, Rebekah, is flying me out to New Orleans for a few days. Though I've barely been able to contain my excitement and gratitude over the past few weeks I've been having a terrible time trying to ignore that stupid little voice in the back of my head that always says "You're totally gonna get mugged my a ghost!" every time I think about going to New Orleans. I know this won't happen, of course, because:

a) despite all of those TV shows that tell you that New Orleans is a cartoon land where ghost muggings happen, it's not.

b) even if it was, I'm sure the ghosts wouldn't use our same currency. Obviously, they'd use francs because all ghosts in New Orleans are french.

In the event that I'm wrong I have put a curse on each piece of currency I own, which will trap thieving spirits inside a snow globe of Delaware that I purchased at St. Vincent De Paul. This is a laborious, somewhat gross, definitely humiliating but potentially very useful curse to perform if you happen to be traveling anywhere largely populated by french ghosts.

Here is a list of materials you will need, should you wish to perform the curse:

-one jug of Eagle Brand Apple Cider Vinegar
-two small "Autumn Fruit" Yankee Jar Candles
-a bathtub full of holy water
-one stick of incense
-a bar of antibacterial soap
-one pair of quality running shoes
-a large, ceramic basin
-a towel

-The first step in executing this curse is to fill your ceramic basin with apple cider vinegar. Soak all of your money in the vinegar for one full day.
-Three hours after moonrise, carefully take the money out of the vinegar and place it on a paper towel. Pat dry. Set aside vinegar for later.
-Once this step is complete, light your candles and incense and place them on the edge of the bathtub.
-Next, and here is where it gets a bit unpleasant, dump remaining vinegar into your bathtub full of holy water. Jump in the tub and soak for twenty minutes. This very important step helps you to bond with your money and it's history. It might also help you to bond with hepatitis (most money's history is very, very filthy) but the holy water should at least somewhat protect you from that. Plus, I think vinegar kills germs or something.
-Get out of the tub and towel off.
-Lace up your running shoes and sprint around the block with no clothes on. All the while, try to think of a suitable object inside which to banish the ghosts (e.g. a VHS tape of the movie "Powder", a packet of Chex Mix, a copy of Reader's Digest, a stapler, an old picture of Hillary Clinton.)
-Try not to let the fact that you're naked and freezing break your concentration. It's very important that you focus on this object.
-Should you get back to the safety of your own home without being arrested, jump in the shower immediately and wash away the vinegar, hepatitis and shame with very hot water and anti-bacterial soap. Scrub hard.
-Curl up in a corner and cry for an hour.

Completing all of these steps to the letter should keep you safe from any and all ghost attacks involving money in New Orleans. It will not protect you from live muggers, actual french people or ghost attacks of any other nature. You will have to research these curses on your own. I can't recommend this precaution more highly because the sense of security you will feel as you stroll without a care down Bourbon Street is like a vacation of it's very own. Happy spending and safe travels!

Plants Can't Cry and That is Good.

I had an idea today that I was so convinced, for about forty-five minutes, was my big million dollar idea. I was about ready to patent it until I started thinking about it in the larger, global sense and realized it was the worst idea anyone ever, ever came up with ever. Much like the nuclear bomb and the flowbee, this thing would have been a most perfect double edged sword. No, make that a triple edged sword. Alright, fuck the sword, it would be like another nuclear bomb. It's such a bad idea that I'm going to sabotage it thoroughly by telling everyone about it. I'm sure some dick out there will be all like "Wow, what a great idea!" and rip it off but I hate the idea so much that I want this moron to invent it and make millions of dollars just before it turns on him and destroys whole populations, making him the Biggest Dick in the Universe. I super hate this idea.

Basically, the genesis behind this monster was a dying plant. See, my house is filled with them. Every once in a great while, I like to tell myself that I do possess, somewhere in my hollow frame, a capacity to care for things. I don't. My husband and I have two cats and they are still breathing. This is something I love to pat myself on the back for. But the thing is, they wouldn't still be breathing if not for two very important facts. For one thing, they can cry. For hours. Only after about hour three will I arise from my slumber, grunty stomping all over the house, cursing their names for being too stupid to feed themselves. Half the time, they're faking it anyway. How dare they want a snack??

The only other thing keeping these poor creatures from starving to death in a pile of their own excrement is my husband, a man who has more maternal instinct in his middle finger than I have in my whole body. He cleans the litter box, not out of disgust but from a place of genuine concern for their hygiene and well being. He gets up in the middle of the night to give them snacks and comforts them when I callously brush them off my favorite spot on the couch. I love my cats as much as I can love anything but, truth be told, they are sooper dooper annoying and loud and they break what feeble hold I have on concentration at very regular intervals throughout the day. Plus they eat whatever is left of the plants and barf them all over my already hideous carpet.

Which brings me to my invention.

What if someone were to create a small device which could detect when nutrient or water levels are depleted in plants and give off a beeping sound to let plant owners know? What a freaking brilliant idea, right?? Yeah, totally. Let's create another thing that makes using your brain a complete waste of time. Why don't we make carpets that beep every time they need to be vacuumed? Or an alert sound for when the lights need to be turned off? Perhaps when we leave the window open for too long, we can have it beep and shut automatically. Let's make pans that beep whenever your water boils.

Think about what would happen if six or seven of these little plant thingies were going off at random points in time, along with all of your other beeping mechanisms. Every day would be like the Starship Enterprise being ambushed by Klingon warships. You would soon lose all perspective on stressful situations. If a fire alarm went off, it would go unnoticed or at the very least be counted amongst the many mundane sounds surrounding you at all times, leaving you to die in a very boring fire.

Another potential catastrophe to consider would be product malfunction. What happens when the batteries run out on all of your little alarms? What if there is a partial power failure? Since you have become conditioned like a trained puppy to only respond to beeps and whistles, you will no longer possess the coping skills to decide if your pancake is done or if the bathtub is about to overflow. You will be utterly screwed in every possible way.

So, if you don't want to rely on memory alone, I invite you to create a feeding chart for your plants. I probably won't because as I've mentioned before in other posts, I'm extremely lazy. But I refuse to be responsible for the demise of my entire species. I'm sure that some As Seen on TV clown is inventing something similar to what I'm talking about here anyway so it's not like I'm laying out doomsday blueprints or anything. My conscience is clear. But don't say you haven't been warned. Your GPS is but the first stumble on a very slippery slope down Pudding Brain Hill, and the body count at the bottom of that hill is growing by the day.

Godspeed, friend. Oh, look. A peanut.....

The Raw, Healing Power of Sweatpants

You know that thing that always happens when you tell your friends and family that you haven't left the house or showered for a week? That thing where they whisper amongst themselves about it until concerned whispering escalates to a climax of judgey whisper yelling over a conference call your house, demanding that you explain yourself? Some people are a bit more generous and will say things like "Good for you!" or "You deserve it!", provided that you are ill or are genuinely suffering from exhaustion. As far as I know, there has never been a healthy person in written history who has gotten away with three or more weeks without a unanimous cry of "Gross!" from their entire community.

It seems as though some prejudices need to be dispelled here before things get out of hand. Clearly, a few people are drinking the anti-sweatpants Kool-Aid. Fear of sweatpants and what they represent hold so many of us hostage to stringent laundry schedules and stiff, belted work suits that people have forgotten what comfort feels like. Comfort often leads to more comfort. If one isn't careful, they might inadvertently hit the snooze button one too many times and miss work. For a week. And before you know it, BOOM! Their job has been given away to some energetic young buck from the other side of town, leaving one to wander the streets in their pajamas, searching for heroin and Funyuns.

But people need to see that this is not necessarily a punishment! No! It's an opportunity. One can never truly reap the total benefit of a pair of sweatpants in any period less than full month. So few people have ever been brave enough to test drive a pair out of the parking lot, much less take them for a scenic ride through Beauty Sleep Valley! It really is a wonderful valley and if people stop napping, it will disappear into nothingness just like Fantasia in the Never Ending Story.

It's important to start thinking of extended periods of R and R as horizontal meditation time. Time to formulate a rock solid plan for your triumphant return to the land of the living. Why do you think they call it "beauty sleep"? It's because when one endulges themselves a long and lustrous slumber, they burst forth onto the world, glimmering like a newly polished ruby! Razor sharp and creatively inspired through hours of quality television, they razzle and dazzle all they know with brilliant sounding pop culture references memorized over multiple viewings. Loss of muscle tissue will soon give way to a slim new figure and lack of sun exposure will keep your skin as pale and as the day you were born. You are ready for anything. That young buck who stole your job will drop to his knees at the sight of you, shielding his eyes from your blinding beauty and hand your job back to you inside a golden chalice. And you will say "I no longer need this job. I have laser eyes now." and walk away peacefully.

Take a lesson from our friend, the caterpillar: hard work and cooperation may help an ant contribute to it's greater, social good. Patience and cunning may help a spider capture it's prey but what caterpillar ever worked it's way into a set of totally fabulous rainbow wings with sparkles and dots that look like giant eyeballs?? I would hope that you know the answer to this question but just in case you don't, it didn't. It spun itself some rad silk pajamas and hung out in them for weeks upon weeks until the wings sprouted themselves. And then it flew around.

This same analogy applies to humans, just unfortunately not literally. You won't develop flying powers by lying around in your own filth for a month. But you will learn something about yourself. I have no idea what that is. It's your journey. So next time you get the urge to avoid the outside world for a really, really long time, give it a whirl! I dare you. Unemployment rates are at an astronomical high right now so if you tell everyone you got laid off, no one will suspect you of lying. But if you decide not to do it because you're better than that or whatever, could you please stop bad mouthing sweatpants? Cozy pants are not to blame for your inability to embrace life's more unconventional adventures!

And on that note, sweet dreams!! I just drank half a bottle of Ny-Quil!

A Chimney Full of Gluttony

People are a little bit inconsistent. Perhaps that would explain how trick-or-treating in the traditional sense has become a thing that many parents consider negligent to a point of abuse. You know, because leading children on a supervised door to door run for pre-packaged candy is essentially begging strangers to fondle or poison them. Yet, from the mere age of three, we have been taught to enthusiastically await the arrival of an old, obese man with a preference for the meekest of us. Every year, on Christmas Eve, he sneaks into our homes in the dead of night, eats our food and watches us sleep. If we allow this to happen without interruption or protest, we are then showered with gifts.

We find this idea so universally appealing that decades after our little hearts have been shattered with the news that this man isn't real, we've forgiven the lie. We then, in turn, have let Santa take a great deal of the credit for Christmas gifts we purchase for our children, making an often thankless holiday season even more thankless by default. All in honor of a man who, were he not omniscient and immortal would have been someone's jail wife a thousand times over by now. Or dead from the diabetes. And so the cycle has continued into an era where money is sprouting wings and flying off into deep space before we even know it's there.

It's almost as though Santa Claus is one of the last little vestiges of hope and innocence that the Western World has chosen to cling to. Isn't that sweet? We still have one. Kind of an odd choice, though really. The drunk, bearded dude at the mall who we stand in line to hand our screaming children over to so he can then prop them onto his lap and breathe all over them? Why don't we just hand our kids over to a junkie we see passed out on the sidewalk? You don't have to stand in line for that. And if you really must document the experience, take a picture of the pair of them with your cell phone. That way you won't have to stand awkwardly in a cardboard representation of the North Pole while a stranger photographs one of your children being traumatized for the first time. We should just have Santa give the really little ones a flu shot right there, just to kill two birds with one stone.

Why do we still love this guy so much? It's not as though Santa Claus has really been holding himself up to the standard that we do anyway. How often does he make good on his promises? You were a kid once. Remember that bag of tube socks you got when you asked for a Tonka truck? You cleaned the gutters every, single week that year without being asked and even earned straight As. What do you think happened there? Did Santa blow your truck money on some more rum or perhaps a space heater to keep the tiny people he has working for him in the tundra from freezing to death? Maybe getting what you want for Christmas is like getting into Heaven. You have to be the perfect child. But then why did Santa give that rich kid in gym class who held you down and farted on your head a flying, robot bike that year? That didn't really jibe with all that "naughty or nice" Christmas justice you were taught about, now, did it?

Maybe Santa is simply some parents' idea of a scapegoat. An entity at which to deflect blame when the ridiculously opulent ideal of Christmas cannot be matched by their pocketbooks. But this can only temporarily bandage the inevitable scar of resentment that gouges it's way across every parent's heart when they realize that for about ten years, their children have hated them for a lot of really stupid reasons. And you can bet your ass that your children will add perceived Christmas failures to their list of stupid reasons why they hate you. It doesn't matter if you beat them within an inch of their life or bought them a football stadium full of ponies. Teenagers are vengeful little vortexes of need that cannot be corked by any force, natural or otherwise. And if there is one talent they all equally share, it's an ability to remember the ways you have failed them. If you have somehow produced an exception to this rule who has not yet reached the age of 25, a toast to you, my friend! You are made of miracles and rainbow sunsets and should be President of the World.

But what's to stop us all from beating our children at the pass? Break at least one cycle of imminent resentment this year by creating your own mythologies around Christmas! Ones that have more to do with giving than receiving. Dress up a giant box in a Santa suit and have your kids throw presents they got for each other into the box. Throw some random presents in there yourself and have your kids unwrap them and give them to each other. Make a Santa piñata filled with small, fun things that your family can enjoy together and bash the hell out of it. Let Santa absorb some of your kids' misdirected hormonal rage for once!

Get together as a family unit and write anonymous, threatening letters to known child molesters in your neighborhood and leave them on their doorsteps, attached to bags of homemade gingerbread cookies. Or hey, if we're gonna do the traditional Santa thing, let's get back to the Burl Ives version with the wooden, handmade toys and thoughtful sentiments instead of the increasingly perverse, wasteful, debt perpetuating one we have allowed Macy's to convince us that we love. It's getting icky and it doesn't really do a lot whole lot to promote the spirit of giving. Neither does picking through candy to see which pieces are poisoned but at least that's something we can all do together! Besides, you can always buy more candy because unlike football stadiums full of horses, candy is one of the few fun things left in this world that is CHEAP!!

So, here's hoping for a happy Christmas for everyone this year! If you're walking your toddler along and she screams bloody murder at the sight of a big, rosy cheeked bearded guy in a red suit, you should probably consider it a blessing that your child has well honed survival instincts and just run with it. Don't convince her to be this dude's friend. You may be saving yourself years of back peddling!

Nothing Says 2011 Like a Zack Morris Haircut!

The nineties are back!! All of them, apparently. We have everything from the Kid n' Play Gumby cut to the clawbangs and shoulder pads to "Harem" pants (which is pretty much just Hammer pants with some letters changed around). Oh, glory beeee! I've been so much looking forward to ditching all of my tailored, fitted clothing in favor of styles more reminiscent of a beige set of curtains being birthed by a football player. Pleated, tapered slacks, here I come!

I really can't wait for it to get to this point though.






























Now, I'm no fortune teller but we can all see this in the horizon. It's okay! It will be an era of sexual safety. I can now walk down the street with confidence, no longer wondering which man amongst me is the rapist. Why? Because in the nineties, sluts dressed like sluts, normal women looked like asexual lumps, children wore old people clothes, and all men dressed like pedophiles! The men won't touch me in my matronly frocks and they won't want the kids in their geriatric uniforms either. You see? Everyone will be safe! Except for the sluts!!

Sooner or later we will get to a point where no one even bathes. It'll be like Paris during the Revolution only we'll all look like we raided our grandpa's Goodwill box in the garage and then crawled off to go nap under a log for month. I can't wait!! It all sounds so COMFORTABLE!! And no worries, if you absolutely have to jazz it up, you can shave most of your head except for one lock around which you can crochet embroidery thread with some bells on the end, OR if that's too edgy for you you, just go for a simple permanent wave.

You see, it's not so bad. You thought it was just going to be a lot of loud, floral prints, grey ponytails and bolo ties but it's really so much more! Now, head on down to Value Village, grab anything at all that you see (it really doesn't matter) and I'll see you all at the Celine Dion concert!! Don't forget to bring your Corn Nuts!

Jive Ass Turkey

I got you, Turkey!! You're dead. Suck on that! Oh, wait. You can't. Because you're dead! Oh, man. I feel kinda sleepy. Is that you, Turkey? That all you got? It's not so bad. It's pretty great, really.

You birds need to come up with a better way of defending yourselves than having beaks and being tender and tasty. Nothing's wrong with tasty. "Tender" is a bit of a bummer to say but it doesn't make you any less dead, Turkey. I'm puttin' you in my SOUP, Turkey! With CARROTS and CELERY!! They're dead too.

Tomorrow, get ready to meet Bread and Mayonnaise. They're not as dead as you yet but they will be once I eat 'em. Maybe I'll just drown you all in gravy. Gravy that I made outta you! You dumb, dead, delicious, can't even fly, bitch! GOBBLE, GOBBLE, BOK, BOK, BOK!!!



Happy Thanksgiving, Family, Friends and Loved Ones! xoxo

Pen vs. Sword

Let's just settle the argument now. You can't decapitate your mom with a pen, so sword clearly wins. However, it's not your every average Tom, Dick or Harry who has access to a sword, or even proper sword wielding skills. A pen is very elegant weapon and when coupled with a sharp mind and a really juvenile disposition, it can cause some lasting emotional damage. Not to mention property damage, which is more useful in some circumstances. Pens are small, light, legal anywhere you go and very difficult to have turned back on you, at least in the lethal sense. That is why no nerd should ever be caught without one.

First and foremost, pens can do this:

Unoriginal as it is evident of a huge problem with society in general but imagine the sequence of events once this ding-dong wakes up. I can already see you cracking a mean spirited smile. So, if a pen can do this, imagine all the other possibilities. Alright, fine! I will!!

THE FIVE POINT PALM EXPLODING PEN TRICK

Okay, I think we can agree that all teenagers are assholes. If you're reading this, and you happen to be a teenager, just think back on the events of the last three days. You probably only need to go back as far as day two before you reach an asshole moment so shut your petulant face for once and read on. This is useful info for you too. The next time some little shit mouths off to you, start drawing all over the palm of your hand with a permanent purple marker. Right when they get to the pinnacle of their tirade, probably making fun of you for writing all over your hand, put that hand on their shoulder and say "I understand." When they notice that you've ruined their favorite shirt (all of their shirts are their favorite shirt) and flip out, just break the marker in half so it explodes all over their face. It'll get on you too but you don't care because making a teenager cry is totally worth ruining a $20 shirt and getting pen on your face.

THE PRESCRIPTION CHANGING GAME

Say a coworker you don't like very much has a prescription for blood pressure medication. Say that coworker leaves their desk for a few minutes. Say you can think of a different medication for a different ailment that has almost the same name. Change a few of the letters on the prescription and viola! I know you're probably thinking that this can't possibly work, but I'm telling you it can! Have you ever seen a doctor's handwriting?? It's barely legible chicken scratch. And when the pharmacist gets to the part of the transaction where they ask if the person has taken the medication before, they will of course say "yes" because they will be thinking the pharmacist is referring to blood pressure medication. This trick is a classic amongst homicidal sociopaths everywhere. Or it should be. I don't really know.

BLACK OUT RETURN ADDRESSES

This one only works if you have access to your neighbor's mail. Whenever your most turdly neighbor is gone for the day, go through his mail and black out all of the return addresses on their bills. This is not a big deal over the course of a day but over a week or two, it becomes extremely time wasting and annoying. This trick will only be available to you for a month, tops, before the victim takes action but it's fun while it lasts. Just don't get caught.

DRAW ON PEOPLES' CARS

I believe this one is pretty self explanatory. Just don't get caught.

JUST DON'T GET CAUGHT

Here is a short list of things pens can do which rely on the aforementioned principal. They can:
-draw bunny ears on precious family photos.
-write the word "ass" on a person's hat when they're taking a nap so when they wake up, they'll be walking around wearing an ass hat.
-be dumped all over the floor by the hundreds so that a person who's chasing you falls down.
-be thrown into someone's laundry.
-be replaced by pens with no ink cartridges. Try this at a friend's house who has wronged you. Just replace every pen in their house with a dud while they're in the bathroom.
-you can throw them at your cat.

So you see, while not as lethal as a sword, a pen can pack a very subtle, yet explosive punch. The results may not be as immediate and bloody but when executed correctly, they are quite satisfying. If the situation warrants it, and you happen to have a sword on hand, reach for it and do your thing but just remember: if you own a sword, it's highly possible that you are just as much of a special needs case as the person you're going after with it. Possibly not but owning a pen just makes you normal. At least, apparently normal. And isn't appearing normal a weapon, in and of itself??

Think about it.

Napping as a Weapon

Is anything more hurtful than watching a someone's head hit the desk when you're only into minute 45 of an hour long story? I think not. Nearly always, polite embarrassment on the part of the audience will be followed with a range of applicable excuses such as, "Your voice is very soothing and it lulled me to sleep" or "I had meatloaf for lunch" or "I'm narcoleptic". The blame is then subconsciously shifted to you for not recognizing the audience's already fatigued state. This scenario is usually presented as accidental and it's impossible to prove it otherwise but I happen to believe that it is always done purposefully and with malice. And it's a brilliant move!





If a better way exists to say to someone "Oh my god, your stories are so EXQUISITELY boring that they make regular boredom feel like a hand job on a roller coaster.", without ever having to utter the words, I certainly can't think of one. And if you're able to cram a few genuine "Z"s in there without the storyteller noticing, you can reserve energy for the next round of stupid anecdotes you have to sit through. Eventually, people will become so skittish about rendering you comatose with their blathering that they will either instinctively wrap it up or they'll attempt to dazzle you with only the choicest cuts they have to offer. Or people will just stop talking to you. Any way you slice it, it's a win/win situation. Just always come prepared with a bullet proof excuse, a convincing sorry face and some tissue to wipe up the drool and you're good to go. Now go practice this trick on your most boring friend. Knock yourself dead!

Diffusing Tensions with the Majesty of Dance

You know what makes people happy? Boogieing. That's not a country in East Asia. It's a type of free form dancing. The kind you do when the beat gets so fierce, your feet have to move or you might just do something stupid. To boogie is to lose yourself in the rock n' roll, to surrender to the power of it's fist pumping might. It's literally selling your soul to the Devil. Don't worry about it, he'll probably just hock it for some coke and you can get it back next week.

If you haven't boogied yet, stop fighting; it will come for you and it will win. You will stand with your hands shoved into your pockets, looking like a lonely, sheepish asshole. Some desperate weirdo will see you as bait and force you onto the dance floor. Nervous energy along with years of pent up frustration will just explode into a sad orgasm of sweaty air punches and shoulder shaking. It'll be like that barn scene with Kevin Bacon in "Footloose" only not skilled. The key is to harness this power and use it to your advantage so it won't take advantage of you. You need to sign up for a jazz dancing class!

I know what you're thinking. "Jazz dancing is very, very awkward!"


"It has nothing to do with Jazz!"


"It's the whiter than a rice cake in a snowstorm!"


Well, you're not wrong. But the problem is that if you are old enough to read this and you don't know how to dance, it will never come to you naturally. You don't understand the basics! You don't know that the only numbers that exist in the world of dance are 5, 6, 7 and 8. You don't know that you have to brainwash yourself into believing that you're super toned and hot so you can shake what your mama actually gave you in front of a bunch of strangers. You don't have good posture! Okay, you might have good posture but your instructor will tell you that you don't and then touch you inappropriately to help you correct it.

The point is, it's too late for you to be cool. You're not cool. But you could be! You just have to wear an ill fitting leotard one day a week and hammer out a bunch of combinations to some awful song that was super popular four years ago. Once you get a feel for it, you can move on to sexier pastures, add your own flavor, go nuts! When a situation gets too real, or you're about to be called out for some bad behavior, just click play on your boom box and bust a move. When you're done, walk away with the music still playing. That's what I do. It's how I get out of everything.

People know I am not to be messed with. When they try I just circle them slowly, close enough so they can feel my breath. The moment confusion and fear replaces anger, I make my move, dancing with ferocious passion and strength until they eventually shrink away into the shadows. Ask anyone and they will tell you that I'm a legend around here. I'm untouchable! And I owe it all to my sweet, sweet kick split with a quarter turn and a step, ball-change.

You Reach for the Stars. I'll Reach for a Donut.

Yeah, that's right. Donuts are cheap and tasty. Stars are really, really far away and burn your hand something fierce when you try to grab them. I'm not saying not to dream big but we could all use a lesson in appreciating things that are well within our reach. So many people lose their appreciation for small things on their big long journey toward fame, fortune and immortality. Why? Because small things are obtainable. Obtainable=lazy and lazy=atrophy and atrophy=death and death scares ambitious people. Only in becoming truly lazy and complacent can one face their fear of death. How do I know this? Because I'm lazy as fuck.

No worries, I'm totally proud of it. I've lived a long and full life. Sure, my life might be filled with things like five dollar paintings of horses, Hershey bars, illegally streamed movies, cat toys, "vintage" furniture, Cook's champagne and pizza but these things make me feel good. Over and over again. How do you think I've gotten through life only having gone to the doctor like, eight times? I might have twenty forms of cancer but I'll never know! I'm too blissfully happy!

We live in a golden age of technology and convenience. Not to mention excellent micro-brews! High definition television makes expensive things like travel totally obsolete because I can see every brick of every monument in every country in perfect, crisp detail. The internet totally surpasses college in it's abundance of information. I can have stimulating conversations with everyone I know via social networking sites and I don't even need to have a boyfriend. I can create one with my computer. One I can check in on every single minute of every day!

It's almost too hard to comprehend how great life is nowadays without breaking a sweat, which I'm not going to do. I can't get my heart rate up too high because I may or may not have high cholesterol (I have no idea). But really, what I'm trying to get at is, if you should fail at your dreams, don't fret!! Being a bottom feeder isn't so bad when the shit that floats down are things like MP3 players, Target pajamas and cookie dough ice cream. Cheers!

Conquering Your Fear of Muffin Ping Pong

Admit it. You're scared. Not just because muffin ping pong sounds like a dirty sex act but you're scared you might enjoy it. It's okay. Just because something is different, doesn't necessarily make it bad. Well, yes it does but muffin ping pong is really not that different from regular ping pong. You just use muffins instead of balls. It's very innovative.

There are advantages as well as disadvantages to using muffins for this game that add refreshing variety and tension. First and foremost, muffins have a different physical makeup than a ball. While a ping pong ball is small and light, a muffin can vary in size and is almost always kind of squishy. Sometimes it will fly apart on contact. Often it's larger size is easier to hit with a paddle but doesn't travel very far. This can work to the advantage of players who prefer a shorter game.

The real brilliance in this revelation lies in the fact that muffins can be a punishment or a reward. Some muffins are fluffy and delicious while others are dry and sandy. It may be fun to offer up a tasty muffin (or whatever is left of it) as incentive to win a match. Conversely, the loser could be forced to eat a very dry muffin. Either way, there is opportunity to laugh at each others' expense and eat food, which are two things that really encompass the spirit of sports.

So, as you can see, there is nothing in this exciting new twist on a well loved classic to fear in the slightest. It's unfortunate that it has not caught on like wildfire in the ping pong community. There is every bit of confidence on the part of it's developers that it will, very soon, because if there is one thing that serious ping pong players show absolutely no fear of, it's fun!

Social Conventions for a Far Away Planet

I woke up stupidly early today so I decided to while the hours away by inventing a planet. This planet may or may not exist but hey, guess what? Thanks to the whole super scientific concept of infinity, BLAM! My planet totally does exist! So deal with that.

Obviously, every planet needs manners. Manners are what keep individuals from enjoying themselves so much that it becomes irritating to others, ultimately resulting in nuclear war. So, what I've gleaned from my existence here on this planet is that social conventions need to embody four major concepts: pretending that bodily functions are a myth, not being too comfortable, only becoming publicly intoxicated while others are too intoxicated themselves to notice, avoiding violence unless you are good at making it look cool. Oh, and we should probably make sex in all it's forms clandestine and shameful too. That's an important one.

I also threw a few rules that parallel some of our more nonsensical contributions like "don't eat with your elbows on the table", "don't drink alone" and "don't wear pajamas on an airplane" just to make sure this whole idea is realistic. I'm sure my planet has it's fair share of behavior policing, judgmental assholes inhabiting it. I mean it is my planet. So let's get on with it, shall we?

RULE NO. 1

Whilst dining, one must always cover the hand they are not using to hold an eating utensil with a bag. If one does not have a bag, a sleeve is an acceptable, if not ideal alternative. An idle hand is an unsightly hand. For this reason, a glove must not be used because it's shaped like a hand.

RULE NO. 2

Whilst operating a motor vehicle, drivers must always wear a top hat of the same color as the vehicle they are driving to assure the public that this vehicle does, indeed, belong to them. The top hat must always be made from a matte color as metallic colors reflect sunlight, resulting in glare and temporary blindness to other drivers. Temporary blindness causes death. For this reason, all vehicles will be painted with matte colors.

RULE NO. 3

One must never look an individual in the eye or address them by name unless they are already friends with the person they are addressing. Of course, this will make meeting people or conducting any kind of business next to impossible but it will also ensure that no one thinks they are being glared at or talked about in a disparaging way.

RULE NO. 5

Grooming or relieving oneself must take place during two designated blocks of time, at which the whole of the world will stop whatever they are doing and take care of their private business, simultaneously. This may prove inconvenient for people in certain time zones but for the sake of propriety, sacrifices must be made. An accident or emergency which does not occur during these times shall be considered an offense akin to hitting a small child.

RULE NO. 6

A female must never let her ability to reproduce be seen directly by a male. Her fertility should instead be implied, indirectly, with a series of semi-painful gestures and affectations. Any woman worth her weight in babies will wear a set of stilts, just tall enough to walk in (but hey, the higher the better! Right, guys? I mean, right?) to highlight the length of her legs. She must also never let her breasts be seen but instead wear a set of prosthetic breasts of roughly the same size (but hey, the bigger the better! Right guys? I mean right?) over her shirt.

RULE NO. 7

Public drunkenness shouldn't have to be tolerated by a civilized society. Therefore, every city block containing within it a drinking establishment shall be lined with woods for drunks to wander off into. These woods will be outfitted with several sheds containing cots, sleeping bags and buckets in which to vomit. It is, of course, up to the drunks to clean up after themselves in the morning.

If a person drinks to excess, they will be given a balloon to tie around their wrist. People on the streets who run across a drunk with a balloon are encouraged to herd the drunk in the direction of the woods by any means they see fit (prodding, screaming, tazers) until they eventually find their way. If a person feels threatened in the presence of a drunk, it is okay to ignore them, leaving the drunk to aimlessly wander the streets with a balloon tied to his wrist.

RULE NO. 8

All pants will be a universal size 6. This will not only guarantee an unlimited supply of pants but will discourage people from eating too much or too little. Taller people may find this to be problematic but to make it fair, all shirts will be an XXXL.

RULE NO. 9

If an argument escalates to a point of violence, it will be necessary for all spectators of the fight to assess the situation carefully. If the loser of this fight is in danger of long term harm, a person or persons should, of course, attempt a swift rescue. However, if no real harm comes to the loser, it is customary for spectators to form a giant pig pile on top of him/her until (s)he says "uncle" and promises to never embarrass themselves like that again.

RULE NO. 10

Sex before marriage is punishable by banishment to an island. An island full of people who like to get laid.


Well there you go! This concludes my first installment of "Social Conventions for a Far Away Planet". I hope it provides a good basis for a culture to thrive on in the long term. I'll be spending every spare moment thinking of ways I can improve the lives of all of these good people. I want them to succeed where perhaps we have failed and take inspiration from our successes. Because I care about these people. I love them more than anything I have loved in my whole, entire life.

Survival Tips for Solitary Confinement

1) If you can get your hands on any kind of writing material (use your own blood if you have to) draw little dials and screens all over the place and pretend you're an astronaut on a really important solo mission to save the world. That's basically all being an astronaut is anyway. If you were put in there because you're crazy, this is an excellent way to occupy your time because you'll most likely convince yourself that it's all true.

2.) Press your fists against your eyes while they're closed. Trust me, it's like a free high. You see all kinds of sparkly, weird shit and you can do it for hours. It's probably bad for your eyes but obviously, your eyes are the least of your problems, friend.

3.) Prepare your "YOU did this to MEEEEEE!!" speech for your parents. Refer to the Ralphie, "soap.....POISONING!" speech from A Christmas Story for your inspiration. Practice it every day. Perfect it. Have a back up person to deliver it to just in case you already killed your parents. Obviously several people along the line failed you and that's why you, in turn, are such a blight on society that you can't even be roomies with muderers. Think of the satisfaction passing the buck to these people will give you. It will happen, and it will be orgasmic.

4.) Make up your very own martial art. You will, of course, have no frame of reference or a sparring partner to determine whether or not this fighting style works but it sounds pretty fun, right? And you'll probably look kind of sexy doing it. Try it on one of the guards when you get out. You might actually escape!

5.) Practice your multiplication tables. Who knows? You may get out some day and if you do, it couldn't hurt to have some kind of edge on the rest of your peers. Isn't it something like half the country that can't do basic math? I'm not really sure about the numbers because I have no idea how one figures that out but half sounds like an impressive enough number to use in this post.

Wow! Look at you, busy bee! I'm kinda jealous of all the fun you're having. You're going to be such a well rounded individual when this is all over that we probably won't even know what to do with you. Shoot, you may even get lucky and end up right back in the hole again!! The Fun Hole!! Have a great day, stay alert and see ya soon! Probably not!

Afghans Aren't Really Very Comfortable. We Just Wish They Were.

Neither are wool sweaters. They're very scratchy. They're also inconvenient because if you get too hot, you have to take them off, which involves lifting them over your head and dealing with static cling, the single dumbest thing physics ever invented (at least as it applies to sweaters and things that are made of wool).

We just like things that are old-timey and quaint even if they're kind of strange. Like marmalade, which tastes like a Yankee Candle. Bonfires, which sting your eyes and make you smell like bologna. Blue cheese, which is not only redundant because it's rotten milk that's even more rotten but really not that tasty until you eat it enough times to convince yourself that you like it. That seems to me more like submission to societal pressure (because it's in EVERYTHING on the menu at Red Robin) than a genuine preference.

I'm assuming this instinct serves a higher purpose, perhaps preventing us from just shoveling donuts, ice-cream and french fries into our faces without remorse. It may even apply to exercising and not just wearing sweat pants all the time but I'm not really sure. All I know is that we like to create tiny little hurdles for ourselves every single day in the funniest ways and we usually do it with stuff. And booze. And hot sauce.

I'm sitting here on my laptop all wrapped up in the afghan that my Great Grandpa made for me and just the sheer impressiveness of it's existence, the fact that someone made something so pretty at the age of ninety with his bare hands makes it comfortable, even though it's not. Maybe that's the reason we like weird things; we're impressed that they can be fun even though they're a bit of a pain in the ass. Or maybe it's because we feel as though these things are challenging us to like them and by rising to that challenge, we're proving that we're tough and kind of classy. It just cracks me up that the same basic function that motivates me to want to eat truffled mac n' cheese and strawberry rhubarb pie is what, when pushed to it's darker extreme, also motivates people to binge on crystal meth. And finally, when pushed to the loftiest peak of ridiculousness, forces a person to drink another person's pee.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I'm really glad that I don't want to drink another person's pee, or even my pee. Itchy old afghans and root beer candy totally do the trick for me.