Archive for May, 2012

Kevin Bacon is an actor with a strange-looking nose. On a petite girl with stunning dark hair, this nose might be attractive. On the dude from Tremors, it’s odd. There was a book written called “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” Actually I’m not sure if it was so much written as it was handed to Moses on top of a mountain. Basically the book is about how you can connect any actor to Kevin Bacon within six people. How many trees were killed for that I wonder. In real life we have similar Kevin Bacon like connections. We meet friends of friends. Sometimes they’re good. Sometimes they’re bad. More often than not they’re awkward.

 (Matthew Lillard, this is your future. Except Kevin Bacon still gets roles and you’re living off of Dead Man’s Curve royalties)

Rarely do I make good with friends of friends. It’s weird. What do we have in common? We get free rides from the same doofus. That doesn’t mean we should talk or respect each other. I always feel uncomfortable talking with a friend of a friend. We’re both phony and have nothing more to do than ask each other about work or the last time we were forced into talking for 5 minutes. Certainly we’re not going to spend our time talking about how great our mutual friend is. Except in cases where we want to let that friend of our friend know that our mutual friend likes us better. I’ll make up lies and say that the person we have in common must like me better because I know his deepest darkest secret. My rival will retort by telling me that he IS the deep dark secret. Does it make you a better friend to be the one who has been told about the hidden homosexual relationship or to be the one in that relationship? I’d really like to know. I may be owed money.

People not named Me can be more normal in these situations. They will actually enjoy the company of friends of friends. I know, crazy right? If you’re one of these people be warned, you do not want to become a friend poacher. When Person A is friends with Person B and Person C then Person B starts talking to Person C without Person A around this is poaching. It’s a terrible social crime. I think I’ve mentioned it before. I probably posted a hilarious photograph of an elephant getting shot too. Or a delicious egg. Women are more friend poachers than men are. Women will go shopping with a friend of a friend because women hate being alone. Just because a bathroom can fit two people doesn’t mean it should. Why is it that women hate being alone? Doesn’t that mean you’ll not only get raped but also have to watch the same thing happen to your friend again? This must be what they mean when they say women are bad at math.

(No Helen. 5 times 4 does not equal 89 + 832 x 512 – 90387562)

Whenever someone introduces me to their friend, as their friend, I am weary. I feel like they have some sick fantasy where all three of us take a road trip. Maybe we can get lost in the woods Blair Witch style. Get into a fight over which of us gets to ride the tandem bike we find inside a dumpster. I feel like I’m being set up with this friend. My friend must have cancer. There’s no other reason why he’d let me meet his other friends. That’s his other separate world. That’s where he keeps the comic book geeks, the corporate schmucks, and fat girls he’s too embarrassed to be seen at the mall in his hometown with. Let me be that other part of your life. Let it be just the two of us. We can even sing the song of the same name. But please, don’t make me have a conversation with someone who knows you as something that you’re not.

(Wow it all makes sense now. Will Smith was trying to get rid of Jada for years)

The scariest thing about friends of friends is when you’re the one being introduced. You never know what those people think of you. Has your friend done a good job in describing your personality? I had a girl say to me once “Wow, you’re as funny as I was told!” Then we talked a little bit more and we grew to hate each other. Did I blow it? I don’t care. We were never meant to be friends. I think we were only introduced as confirmation that both of us existed. I’m still not positive if she was real or not. I never met her in person and she made all of the same typos online that my friend would make. But why question it? I can’t go back in time and not have cybersex with her and/or him.

What do you really think of the friends of your friends? I almost always find them stupid and wonder how the one I’ve come to like had slipped through the cracks. How someone cool around me can be so lame surrounded by the “Friday Night Crew.” If your group of friends has a nickname and you take it very seriously please Thelma and Louis yourselves off a canyon. I know there were only two of them, but you can always go off in pairs.

I remember seeing someone on Myspace years ago post that one day they were going to be on Saturday Night Live. He assured everyone willing to read his rant, his hopes, his dreams, that one day he would be a success. This Myspace character was named Jimmy Fallon. You can only imagine how pissed off he was when he found out that there was already a popular cast member of the same name. Myspace Jimmy Fallon quit his dreams and nobody ever saw him again. Myspace Jimmy Fallon was delusional. One of my favorite types of people. The ones who think they’re not going to fail like the rest of us.

I worry at times that I am delusional. I worry that I’m really a retarded man. Each time someone pays me a compliment it’s because they feel sorry for me. I knew a retarded person. We’ll call him Retarded Jimmy Fallon because I feel like continuing to make up the fact that I actually knew other people with that name. People would go up to Retarded Jimmy Fallon and tell him how cool he was. They’d say his Cowboys Starter Jacket was awesome. I don’t know if what they were doing was wrong or not. RJF wasn’t very cool at all. He’d yell out nonsense and make disgusting noises. His Cowboys Starter Jacket, it had a paint stain on it. That’s not how I define awesome. Did they help feed the flame of delusional thoughts into RJF?

(He does have the death stare of a retard)

Nearly every day I come across someone delusional in some way, shape, or form. The most common are people who think they’re interesting, funny, or smart. You’re lucky if you get one of them. Most people are pretty boring, lame, and dumb. They’ll talk about themselves and people they know and who I have never met. I don’t care about what your ugly cousin did in a kayak. Unless it was her tipping over and getting her foot caught on seaweed at the bottom of the lake, shut up. Terribly unfunny people are the worst. You can easily spot these people by their novelty t-shirts and special skills in quoting things from the Cartoon Network. Don’t get me wrong. A few novelty shirts is fine. And to throw out a funny line here and there from a talking milkshake, priceless! But that doesn’t make you funny. That makes you a purchaser of good shirts and an idiot savant. As far as smarts goes, we all know lots of dummies. People who ask the worst questions possibly. “How are you?” is the most common dumb question asked of me. I’m awful. You’re near me and the only one I have to interact with at the time. That’s how I am.

(What to get for the dad who fixes everything? A shirt to remind him that he does all the work while his fat children run up the electric bill)

Delusions become a big problem in life when you just don’t know when to quit. Striving for your dreams is always great. But by golly eventually you need to stop wasting people’s time with what you call talent and do something more productive like make an equally untalented child or light yourself on fire. There’s no real set time frame when you should give up and settle for a bad life. You probably should never give up because most of all you’re wasting your own time. And that’s not my time, the time I care about most of all.

People are delusional about the way they look a lot of times too. Go to a Walmart, Ihop, or any other place that exists for further details on girls who think they’re attractive and are not. Worse than girls with orange skin and purple lips are the alternatives. People who try too hard to be antisocial. I saw a guy wearing a cape thing while walking the other day. A long, black, covered in chains and whistles cloak. I’ve seen this outfit a lot. One time it was a guy at a flea market selling swords talking about kung fu movies. Why is it that people work so hard to look so different? It feels very dishonest to me. To dye your hair a thousand different colors, pierce every orifice of your body, cover yourself in ink, and wear clothes that look like they belong on Mongolian soldiers is insane. Yes. These “alternative” girls are pretty hot a lot of the time. But their attitudes leave a lot to be desired. They’re mean, self-centered, and complain that people aren’t open minded. You look like a woman who should be operating a Ferris Wheel and dating the World’s Strongest Midget. Excuse me if it takes a little bit of time to understand you’re not a sexy mutant.

(I swear I could accidentally eat him)

As much as I think delusional people should be rounded up and tossed into the ocean, the same can be said of the opposite. People who settle too early. They take corporate jobs without really caring if that’s what they waste their life with. If you’re into reincarnation sure, that’s fine. You’re more worried about not coming back in the next life as a cup of yogurt or something else edible. Some people don’t seem concerned at all about where their life takes them. That scares me. To think I’d ever be fine with an average job, in an average town, with an average wife, with average kids makes me want to scream. I’d go out every week with the same people from high school. We’d laugh about old times. Then we’d run out of old times to laugh about and one of us will kill ourselves. Settling with the same group of people in your life for eternity means that you guys will forever be attached at the hip. Make friends somewhere else. You only liked each other in the first place because you both had Mr. Finkleshit for science. Mr. Finkleshit is dead now and you two are still friends. Where has the time gone?

(Mr. Finkleshit survived the Holocaust but he couldn’t survive his 3rd period biology class. They murdered him by all forgetting to do their homework. He was heartbroken)

It’s impossible to tell if you’re a delusional person or not. That’s the thing, you don’t know. You never will. Maybe years from now on your death raft (I’m predicting massive flooding to kill most of the current population) you’ll look back at these years and think you wasted your time on an impossibility. You will wonder how you could have been so delusional. If you’re going to be ignorant though at least be ignorant trying to achieve something great. Don’t be one of those blissful idiots who are happy enough just to have a job that allows you to drink water bottles are your desk. That’s not called “not appreciating life.” That’s called being a doormat of society.

Most of our first experiences with rocks involves our mothers cheering on bullies to find an even bigger one to throw at us. At least my first experience with rocks is like that. Rocks, by their very definition, are lame pieces of stone that hang out in the dirt. I can’t remember the last time I even saw or touched a rock. I think it’s the same reason why I never notice gnats anymore. I’m not outside unless it involves walking to my car or burning garbage/missing women’s clothing. Rocks are pretty lousy as far as small pieces of earth go. They look cool inside, I’ll give them that. But the same could be said about a pool filter. Sure, it’s mostly over chlorinated water. Occasionally you’re lucky and find a dead fly or a bloody missing Band-Aid.

(A rock giving birth to a flamboyant British man who doesn’t know the purpose of a hat)

The word rock can also be used to describe something. Like saying “you rock” for instance. Nobody ever tells me that I rock. Probably because I don’t. In order to rock I feel you must be able to shake your head to music. I just can’t do that. I can’t commit my head to shaking unless I’m seizuring or really don’t want another soda and my mouth is too full to tell the waiter to back off. You can also rock by being an overall cool person who gets the job done. Rarely do I get the job done. I’ll start a task and hope that someone else finishes it. Maybe that’s a poor example. You come up with a better one.

(I wish I could be this passionate about something. Notice the pattern of bored, excited, excited, thrilled fat lesbian, excited, excited, bored)

Not only can a person be described as rocking, they can actually rock as in move. Fun things to rock are chairs, babies, and gondola rides. Rock N Roll stars rarely do much rocking. I would describe their movements more as thrusting or giving the finger. Only during a dumb slow song will you see a real rocker rock. They’ll put one arm up in the air and rock their body’s back and forth. They’ll try to get the crowd to go along with it but once the crowd gets involved it becomes a sway, not a rock. So stop trying to involve the crowd like that you dumb millionaire drug addicts. Please don’t point at us then ask us to sing along to the chorus. If I wanted to sing then I would have gone to church or taken a shower. I go to a concert to forget about my problems and hear how you sound nothing like you do on the album in person.

The term Rock N Roll though actually comes from sex. I guess sex involves some rocking. Not so much rolling. Except that one time I decided to leave my pants on and stepped on a candle. I not only rolled, but before that I stopped and dropped. The word rock is also used in the entertainment industry by Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He took this name from his father, Rocky Johnson. Rocky seems to be a pretty popular name amongst people who fight. And flying squirrels. Rocco is another similar name popular among Italians. And wallabies with modern lives. There’s also Rocky Dennis. I guess in a way he was a fighter. He managed to survive having a debilitating disease and Cher as a mom. And he kept his dick as its original form.

(And it was all downhill for Gingers after this)

Objects can be described as being rocky. Usually those are cliffs with actual rocks poking out. Sometimes situations can be described as rocky. I guess impregnating a student could be a rocky situation? Or is that more of a sticky situation? Because I know how much students like to chew gum. If students like hard candy more, then sure, it would be a rocky situation. The more I think about it the more I realize nobody ever says a situation is rocky. Roads are rocky. Roads are so rocky that there’s a popular ice cream flavor named Rocky Road. It sounds very appetizing. A flavor with the same name as the worst nightmare of a driver with hemorrhoids. Try driving over a pothole with an anal fissure and tell me that isn’t an accurate comparison.

(This looks delicious despite the fact that it looks exactly like my dog’s poop from 2 months ago when he had worms)

Even Major League Baseball acknowledges the existence of the word rock. That’s more than the NFL can say about the Holocaust. Can you believe that 45% of the players in that league deny that one of the most tragic and horrific events in human history never happened? Even more impressive is that only I know this statistic. The Colorado Rockies came along in the mid-90s giving the word rock a new audience. Originally the only sport where the word belonged was on school yards and hostage situations when Rock, Paper, Scissors would be played. If that game can teach us anything it’s that rocks are destructible. And by paper! A product so weak that a gust of wind or a heavy fart makes it fly away. Looking at it with that knowledge makes me lose respect for the word rock. So the next time a girl comes up to your friend and tells him that he rocks and basically ignores you, tell her you’re paper. Then refer her to this post. She’ll feel uncomfortable and leave. But at least your friend won’t get any. And we both know he doesn’t deserve it. He barely bathes and still owes you money.

“Rock out with your cock out” – popular t-shirt slogan of people whom you know have never actually been invited to a party without a goody-bag

Every day after school when I was young I would come home and stuff my face with food. When I got to the bottom of the bag of cheese doodles I’d feel guilty. I had seen these infomercials about exercise. The people in those infomercials were fit and gorgeous. I wanted to be that! So I would grab my baseball glove and a tennis ball, go into the backyard, and throw the ball against the wall simulating a game. I had created an entire league in my head. Players had back stories too. One player I created had to retire early because of a brain tumor. I was the third baseman and occasional left fielder for the Philadelphia Phillies. In right field was Jeff Breadsom, a friend I made in high school. I never did meet someone named Jeff Breadsom and I don’t think that’s even a real last name. I couldn’t have been less accurate with a prediction of how my life would have turned out.

As with fictional friends I would hope to one day meet, the league was filled with actual friends. The kicker was all of my friends played for their favorite teams too. Except for when we all decided to retire. That year we would get together and play on the same team. Who knew one elementary school would have produced so many All-Stars? Again, this was very inaccurate. I think the best anyone from my elementary school is doing is the kid who won a bunch of money betting on horses this past weekend. Lucky Larry we used to call him. Until his dad beat his mom to death with a brick. Then we called him Loser Larry.

Fake athletes aside, I sometimes wonder what happened to my actual teammates from my first year playing. Thanks to the magic of Facebook and everyone in town having sex with each other, I have a decent enough of an idea of what crappy human beings we all grew up to become.

“The Kid Who Always Bunts” – This was a nickname given to a teammate of mine. It was thought that he would always bunt. He kind of did always bunt too. He didn’t make it a secret either. Nobody was ever caught off guard. He had a really big heart that little guy. I mean literally. Doctors were amazed that he was still alive. I added him on Myspace and he said that he knew who I was. I remember him also posting something about how his brother got shot to death buying drugs. I didn’t know he had a brother. At some point he deleted me and I’m not sure whatever happened to him. A girl in high school told me that her grandma was neighbors with him. I nodded and we never spoke again.

(In little league, if your coach tells you to lay down a bunt it means he knows you won’t get a hit anyway)

“Old Mom” – I’m calling him this because he had a really old mom. If memory serves me right, she looked like the woman with the shaved head on The Walking Dead. If you don’t watch that show then imagine any woman in her 50s with a shaved head. Creepy, right? This kid became a huge burnout drug addict. He was also a drummer in a band with a swear word in their name. I think we met again once through a mutual acquaintance. This acquaintance had a Ted Bundy tattoo on his calf. If I had to bet, Old Mom was also shot to death while buying drugs.

(Technically she’s not bald. But saying “old dyke hair” sounds inappropriate)

“Quota” – The lone black kid on my baseball team. He was a really bad kid. I remember one time the coach had me catching and Quota batting. Instead of trying to hit the ball he tried deflecting the ball into my face. The coach yelled at him and chased him off. He never returned again. My gut tells me he shoots white guys trying to buy drugs in the hood.

(This prediction isn’t so much a joke as it is probably totally accurate)

“Bucktooth” – Bucktooth has the dubious honor of being the only person with bucked teeth that I’ve ever met and never spit on. He came from a really religious family. When I broke my leg that season he told me that he would pray for my leg. What about the person attached to that leg? His dad was an abusive firefighter. Not abusive because he fought fires, but any man who has to slide down a pole before going home every day probably has enough calluses on his hands to give him a reason to hit a kid. I think Bucktooth is my only friend who ever got to see my bedroom. It was really messy too that day. I remember having tighty-whities (clean and dirty) sitting on a chair. Bucktooth found a Yo-Yo and asked me if he could have it. I let him. Bucktooth lived too far away for us to really cross paths again. My guess is he’s a cop who busts drug dealers for shooting white kids.

(He had the same dull dark eye as this royalty free picture)

“Eye Liner Face” – This guy always looked to me like he was wearing eye-liner. I spent a lot of time with him. I even got invited to his grandmother’s beach house in Seaside when Old Mom was too busy smoking his first doobie. A lot of strange things happened on that little vacation. The first was he told me that a witch lived there. This was his logic for why the fan would turn off and on all night long. Never did he consider that this was an energy-saving feature or his grandmother wasn’t good at paying the bills. We did a lot of wrestling and fudgesicle eating while we were there. I remember his sister crying during Titanic and his dad singing Cheeseburger in Paradise. Clearly I wasn’t in paradise. The strangest thing that happened was in the shower. Somehow he convinced me that it was a good idea that we get ours over with together. We shook hands like gentleman promising not to look and washed our own soft bodies. Later on I accidentally dropped my towel and he saw my butt. Even later than that I saw his penis poking through his boxers. Somehow he still turned out to be a better athlete than me. He made the high school baseball team. I cried when the coach/math teacher wouldn’t let me miss the first practice because I didn’t feel like walking home. Where is he now? Probably showering with some poor dope who is concerned about the melting ice caps. Where should he be? Shot to death by a drug dealer.

(I swear he naturally looked kind of like this)

I guess I don’t so much know what happened to these guys as much as I like to pretend they’re all caught up in worse lives than mine.

Lately I’ve been on a salad kick. Of all the things to be addicted to, salads have to be the healthiest. Also probably the most humiliating. I guess if you were addicted to putting things up your butt you might be a little upset about admitting it. Your mom would ask you where all of her cookies went and you’d blush, feel of guilt knowing where they really were. That’s probably not a good example. Nobody puts cookies up their butt. Unless they run out of chocolate chips. Then that kind of solves that problem. At least from a first glance.

(Sorry for the early poop joke. It just came with the flow of things. At least you may never eat a cookie ever again)

The kind of salads that I’ve been eating are nothing special. I’ll purchase a bag of some mix high in Vitamin A, usually romaine. I am obsessed with eating lots of Vitamin A. I really don’t want to go blind. I’ll have to learn brail. I don’t have the fingers for it. And I love sight gags in films. The Naked Gun is way too serious without them. I’ll open my bag with the orange scissors I stole from school a decade ago. Pour it all into my giant new salad serving bowl, heat up some chicken, mix everything together, and douse it with salad dressing. I use a salad serving bowl because I like big salads and I can fit a lot in there. It might look a little ridiculous, but the only one to ever see me eat out of it is McGwire the Dog. He’s mostly embarrassed that I’m eating vegetables. I tried giving him a carrot the other day. He decided a better meal was biting his own genitals.

My salad dressing of choice has been raspberry vinaigrette. It’s what a rich woman with wrinkly skin living in New York City would say “is to die for.” Some people don’t like a fruity flavor with their salads. I can understand it. Because who wants to feel so healthy like they’re eating fruits and vegetables in one serving? I did buy a calorie free dressing of ranch which was terrible. I’m not sure if I dislike ranch or if I’m just not fat enough to enjoy it. Really, ranch is for people who live in ranch style homes because they’re too lazy to walk up stairs. It comes with disgusting foods that guarantee heart failure. Slowly but surely I’ll digest this substance that must be nothing more than flavored water a lot of salt thrown in. Worst $4 I ever spent since donating money to that sick kid who died a week later.

Some people have are more fancy and get their salads pre-made. Or they’re even fancier and follow directions or recipes and build their own salads following those guidelines. There’s the Cobb Salad named after ruthless murderer and baseball player Ty Cobb, there’s the Caesar Salad named after the haircut of the same name, and there’s the Chef Salad named after the Isaac Hayes character from South Park. A few others are more specific and give away what’s inside. Things like buffalo chicken, Asian noodle, or garden are a few other choices to select from. I hate garden salads. I’d feel like a rabbit. Vegetables without any meat present feels like two Ken Dolls trying to have sinful gay sex. There’s something missing that makes the whole experience suck.

(The one on the right is a billionaire who has paid the other two to do nasty things to one another. The one on the far left is just doing it for the money. The one in the belly shirt has done this before)

I used to wonder how anyone could ever eat a salad. It seemed so plain and unfilling. I don’t remember the first salad I had. Sometime during my turn in life toward “healthy living.” One time my sister bet me $10 I couldn’t eat an entire giant thing of lettuce. I never ate my vegetables as a boy, but I also never backed down from a challenge. After about 3 bites I felt like throwing up. I was crying. The lettuce hitting my taste buds was painful. I never finished it and I don’t remember if I got the money or not. I was alive and at the time that’s all that mattered. Plus my mom yelled at her for almost killing me. I think I was taken out for ice cream after for at least making an effort at eating vegetables. If I ever say my childhood sucked, remind me of that.

 (Pissed off weekend dad or child murderer who they’ve never seen before? I dig her 33-year-old shirt by the way)

I would eat more salads, but they’re really expensive. At Subway, it’s $5 for a salad with the same amount of meat you get for a 6-inch sub. Technically you would be better off ordering a regular foot long sandwich, throwing the bread in the toilet, and eating what you have left out of your lap or a bowl. Salads I guess are so expensive because you have to pay for the dumb plastic bowls, but also the labor it takes to chop the pieces of meat up and properly sprinkle cheese around the outer edges. You know, grueling tasks like those. If salads weren’t around $5 for around 250 calories, maybe more people would get them and be healthy. For now I’m going to stick with my homemade salads. Eating them out of a gigantic tin bowl with 4 servings of dressing on the top. It’s 1/4th the usual fat content or so they say. This way it’s like I’m eating normally and go through a bottle in 3 days.

Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve taken this long to brag about how famous I am. Unlike you, I have appeared on television. You nobody. Feel like a loser yet? I even had a few speaking lines. In fact, I’ve been on TV so much I’m not sure if I remember all of the times. I’m like the David Schwimmer of my generation. And I don’t mean Jewish and gay.

The first time I ever remember being on TV was when I was around 12 years old. The local affiliate for UPN was at the mall covering a Philadelphia Phillies baseball caravan. What that means is they take their shittiest players, put them in a mall, and force them to sign autographs. A blonde woman was going around with a microphone asking people about their favorite moment in Phillies history. She was amazed by my answer of “When Curt Schilling struck out 318 guys in one season.” I’m a guy who doesn’t impress women much. But geez, if I was a foot and a half taller, 50 pounds lighter, and had at least started puberty she would have been mine. Some kid I barely knew was behind me in line. She asked him his favorite moment. He said it was “When Ron Gant hit a game winning home run.” Pff. I could see her nipples go from erect to concave. He wasn’t giving her anything interesting. What a douche bag. I’m not sure if my segment ever aired, but a camera was shoved in my face. That’s good enough for me to believe there’s at least film of me somewhere on the cutting room floor.

 (Kevin Sefcik was always at these things. Look at these Hall of Fame numbers!)

One of my non-speaking roles came on my appearance on VH1. Yeah, I was on a nationally broadcasted television show. Dice Undisputed! Remember that? When Andrew Dice Clay tried making a comeback around 5 years ago? He said he was going to sellout Giants Stadium. How did his career turn out? Giants Stadium no longer exists. Last time I saw, he was performing at some shitty restaurant that seats 40 people. Eek! My face can clearly be seen on one of the episodes. I saw Mr. Dice Clay live and in concert. I think it may have been his first show back. If you don’t know who he was, he was a big comedian back in the late 1980s. He’d say “balls” in a Brooklyn accent and people would laugh and be offended. He’s a starter comedian basically. Anyway, in one of the episodes you can clearly see my face in black and white laughing. My stupid, dumb, Irish grin going up and down like the Cherish Cat. I tried to talk to all of the girls at school about this. None of them seemed to care. They had never heard of Andrew Dice Clay or his TV show. I had to tell them it was the same channel as the drunk Vern Troyer show. That clicked with a few of them.

(I think he threatened more people into laughing at him than anything else)

My biggest creative input into television came about 4 years back. My class was putting together a telethon to help Quakers give food to hungry people. We threw away a lot of pizza that night that went uneaten. I thought that was a little cruel. I was the one in charge of making the “parody videos.” I don’t think it’s because the teacher thought I was very funny either. It was the least important part of the whole 5 hour marathon. I had to create 4 minutes of content. I was the piss break in this piss break of a show. I ended up doing all of the work almost on my own because everyone else seemed too busy or annoying. What you call a control freak I call independently productive. The teacher had so little expectations of me that instead of helping setup he had me in his office making copies. “Tim, you work in an office! Come do this fucking waste of time activity for me” he said with a big smile. The videos I created turned out pretty well. I was supposed to have speaking lines in one of them but the teacher didn’t like my voice so he had the black kid do voiceover for me. So if you frequently watch the Mercer County Community College channel and remember seeing a white kid who had the camera cut away from him while speaking and for some reason he spoke jive, that was me.

(Back in the 70s when it was okay to have three white guys publicly make fun of the way urban youth spoke)

The same class that put together the Telethon was rewarded with a trip to New York City to see a live taping of Maury. I remember feeling really fat the entire day and took up jogging that night. The actual taping of the show was okay. It was a paternity test episode, again. I was hoping for fat babies. The strange thing about the way they use the audience reactions for this show is that you don’t necessarily appear in the audience of the show you actually saw. For instance, I may end up in the audience of a fat baby episode. I actually got a phone call from someone when they spotted me in the audience. All you can do is see me smiling and yelling out curse words. The highlight was actually getting to shake Maury’s hand outside after the show. The worst moment was having that same hand broken by security.

(Now you feel better about your own weight problems. My good deed of the month was accomplished early this May)

 Have you ever been on TV? I’ve also been an extra during numerous sporting events. I’m the guy with the hot dog.

There are a lot of things wrong with me. One thing I never have to worry about is my face. Well, there are things about it but never the structure. I compare it to a decrepit old factory. Yeah there are a few shattered windows, some graffiti, and a homeless man urinating somewhere on my backdoor/chin. What I’m really trying to say is that some people out there have really strange faces. Ones worth writing about.

Of course some faces are really odd-looking even from a distance. You think Mr. Met is standing across the parking lot when really it’s some Armenian guy out to run errands at Staples. Who even goes to Staples for office supplies? People without self-control. I’m sure WalMart or Target has much cheaper pens. But going there you convince yourself to buy other things like peanuts and detergent. At least I always do because those are the two items on the way to the register. The bigger a person’s head, the more of the possibility of them having a strange face. It’s really a math thing. Like how the Westboro Baptist Church people have so many children. Don’t they realize that means one will probably end up being a sinning gay? I guess they don’t think very logically in much so I’m sure they’ve never thought that.

(I bet at least two of these kids grow up to own a company specializing in hot pants)

Then there are faces you need to get closer to for the weirdness to be known. Tenth grade was the worst year of my life. I’m pretty sure no person in the history of the world ever had a worse year. Even Jesus was really popular the year he died. I talked to one girl that entire year in school and it was my lesbian gym teacher. Study hall that year a pretty girl sat near me. At least I thought she was pretty. Then she talked to me and I noticed how strange her face looked. I could see the lines where the makeup began and ended. It was like seeing it raining on one side of the street and not the other. Her nose was also kind of strange. I could see an extra trail of eyebrow hair making an escape toward her ears. She had pimples I had never noticed before I think her last name was also that of a pizza chain. That should have been my first hint for the pimple spotting. Most of her facial strangeness was her own fault. I don’t feel bad for talking about her because she never stood up for me, an older male. While her friends Robert and Fat Spanish Kid (a very accurate name) would make fun of me she sat idle. At least I managed to see her for what she really was. A girl with a prostitute’s face.

(Courtney Love having many colors on her face and in her hair. Cameron Diaz has this picture all over her home. She knows one slip up and she’ll turn out like this too)

A few faces have common strange things about them. Usually it’s when anything is plentiful. Too many freckles, too big of a smile, or too much lip skin can mess up a perfectly good face. The two most important parts of the face are the eyes and the chin. Glaring, squinty, sour-puss eyes can be very damaging. Unless you’re Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Then it just makes you look tired. Like you don’t give a damn if nobody really thinks you’re a good actor. A chin should look like a chin. Butt chins are okay. I just have a problem with chins that look like they should be smashing rocks, not being goochy-gooed by my index finger.

(I could find this image yet not one of a baby having its chin tickled. The Internet is officially not safe for children)

Good faces also need a nice head to be placed on. There was a kid I went to school with who I always thought had an oval-shaped head. He’s a Mets fan and cried whenever he would get hurt during recess. Probably because he was afraid the egg on top of his neck had cracked. He was a “hate the face” person. Those people you just look at and despise. He had heavy baggy eyes to go along with his balloon head. I’m pretty sure he invented gelling up the little chunk of hair in the front up. For someone I knew for over 10 years and never talked to, I sure hate him. How could someone who roots for a second-rate team like the Mets be a better athlete than me? Mets fans probably also enjoy pie crust better than the actual filling. Just be a Yankees fan. You’re already an asshole.

 (“No need to finish making the pie. This is good enough for me.” – Anonymous Mets Fan)

Ultimately a face is the biggest representation of who we are. Other than our personalities I guess. Now here’s a positive message. Even with a flawed face, you can still be beautiful. You may look like a horse but all that means is that people expect you to be able to be graceful and have a big dick. That’s not so bad. If people say you look like an El Chupacabra then you know that they’re lying. Nobody knows what a real El Chupacabra looks like. Even for those of you out there who look like uglier versions of celebrities have a chance at happiness. Say you’re uglying yourself up for a new film. If a girl asks you for ID for proof that you’re Corky from The Facts of Life, tell her to stop being paranoid. She’ll feel guilty and take a chance. You’ll still be ugly but at least you got to engage in men’s favorite pastime. Lying to women.

Bon Jovi once wrote a song called “Bad Medicine.” Or at least he stole it from someone else. I’m convinced that one man with so much talent couldn’t possibly have come up with all of those great ideas. A cousin of his taught music in my high school. I never had him yet whenever I would see him would be an ass and use Bon Jovi puns whenever I saw him. One day when it was raining I warned him to be careful outside because I heard it’s “slippery when wet.” I think he heard that one before but he slipped and cracked his head open anyway.

I don’t take too many bad medicines. Most of the medicines I take are good ones. They help me live longer. Maybe not. None have killed me so they must be good, right? I knew someone who told me Reese’s Peanut Buttercups was her medicine. I think she was serious, not a practical diabetic jokester like she turned out to be. If Bon Jovi ever wrote a song called “Good Medicine” it better fucking be about peanut buttercups. The only thing better than chocolate filled with peanut butter is a sexy woman covered in chocolate filled with peanut butter. I guess you could have sex with a peanut buttercup though. Off to the store to find out!

(If it’s got a hole we can make it work)

Every morning I try to take three different medications. The first I take is a multivitamin. I’ve heard conflicting reports about multivitamins. They say they’re a waste while other people say you should take one. I have them so I take them. How can a multivitamin be bad? It’s vitamins! Multi amount of them! Next in my line of pills (I actually do keep them in a line) is my allergy medication. I take allergy pills everyday. I used to get allergy shots once a week I’m such a nerd. These usually do the trick and help me from sneezing. I’m not a fan of sneezing. I swear one day I’m going to get a hernia from sneezing. I’m getting older which means my sneezes get more violent. I miss my little “achoos” and not my current “blah blah bloos.” You shouldn’t have to drop your pants and cough after a sneeze is what I’m getting at. My final morning pill is a fish oil pill. Like multivitamins, I hear these are essential or a complete waste. It would be kind of an ass move not to take them. Fish were killed for their oil just so I can delay a heart attack. That sounds kind of cruel. Americans are so obsessed with oil. I hope we invade a country filled with fish oil. Even in a buy-one-get-one-free pack they were a little pricey.

There are other medicines that I have stored away in case of emergency/post nasal drip. I have a lot of Mucinex, the most disgusting name of a medicine. It says exactly what it is, yes, but mucus is one of those words that make me shiver. Like supper or Cher. I also have a lot of anti-headache pills. Four straight years on July 4th I would get a massive headache that would last up to a week. The most painful throbbing motherfucker of a headache. It always happens on the right side of my face. You can see the vein throbbing out. I’ve actually cried from this pain and nothing makes me cry. Except dead kittens underneath lost kitten signs. I haven’t gotten one of those horrendous headaches in a little over 2 years now. I think it’s because I eat too much salt. Can you believe that salt actually helps with sinus problems? That delicious goodness will never be limited in my diet.

(What did this fictional character’s relatives do at Ellis Island to get such a bad last name?)

I used to have a lot of trouble sleeping when someone was next to me. I never would have survived marriage in olden days. Well actually, didn’t they not share beds? Or was TV lying? For a good 3 months or so I would pop a Benadryl down my throat to get some sleep. Even if I was sleeping alone I’d do it out of habit. Why is sleeping alone such a “lonely” thing? I sleep amazing whilst by myself. A flamethrower to my face couldn’t disturb me. Unless I drank too much water before bed. For someone my age I sure do wake up a lot to urinate and completely miss the toilet.

Amongst digestive pills I also have many creams. I think I have about 8 different containers of lotions. People come over and find out I’m a professional hand job giver. I’m retired now. The hours weren’t flexible enough. I have simple lotions, Vaseline, anything to help keep me from getting too dry. And boy do I get dry. My face, neck, and arms are the worst victims of winter dryness. Some days I feel like I’m a giant piece of dandruff with arms and legs. I already have the same lack of complexion and personality of one. Not much is known about my family tree. I would like to officially claim myself as a piece of dandruff. Where’s my casino?

(Even this brave chief wouldn’t be able to figure out how you scalp a man made entirely of dandruff)

I can’t imagine a world before medicine was plentiful. I guess it’s not that way everywhere. Some parts of the world would envy me for having moisturizing cream. But they live in climates where they rarely get little red rings near their noses. I should be jealous of them, right? I appreciate my medicine. It keeps me from sneezing, helps me sleep at night, and lets me look more beautiful to people who don’t find me beautiful and never will. Medicine, you’ve done a job well done.

It’s a good thing I am not the head of a major corporation. If I was then I would only hire people I knew and hot women. Maybe a few ringers too for an annual softball game against my rival company, GloboTek. Who knows though, maybe one day I will be the head of a major corporation. I already share a name with the head of Columbia Sportswear. Irish men all look-alike anyway. The transition will be seamless as I take his place. That is after he dies of alcohol poisoning or IRA bomb. I’m pretty sure that’s how all Irish people die.

I’ve always wanted an assistant though. A real yes man. Someone who tells me how awesome I am all of the time. For now I’ll have to settle for using my Home Alone 2 voice recorder. I’m kidding of course. My parents never loved me enough to buy me that recorder. That’s probably a good thing. Those things were recalled in 1995 after being linked to ear cancer.

(“Get out of here you nosey little pervert!” – the uncle in Home Alone 2 and Mr. Culkin when Michael Jackson snuck into Macauley’s bedroom via ladder)

If I did have a real life assistant though there would be many tasks for them to do. I won’t mention sex slaves because I don’t also want my sex slave cleaning my bathroom. That’s a bit of a turn-off. Like farting on a first date. Did she really think that would get a good reaction from me? Farts are hilarious. Never to be used in August in a car without air conditioning or windows that can be lowered. Cleaning my bathroom would be one of the most important tasks for my assistant. For some reason I’m a very linty person. I could make an AIDS quilt out of all of the black lint I find in my belly button. Are AIDS quilts black? That seems kind of gloomy. I’d imagine most are neon pink, the happy cheerful non-death color.

(AIDS quilts have such a Native American influence to them when it comes to the color schemes)

My assistant would also be required to drive me places. I hate driving. I get so agitated by everyone. I call all women with kids “mom”, all old people “grandpa”, and everyone else a “fucking whore.” Driving with me is the least pleasant experience one could have. Really, I’m a good driver. I’d go into why I’m fantastic but I don’t want to brag about all of the hit-and-runs I’ve successfully escaped from. I might make the driver wear a hat. I haven’t decided on that. Definitely if it’s a woman though. She’d have to wear a baseball cap. Have I ever mentioned how much I love it when girls wear “caps”? It’s so cute watching a woman pretend to be a fan of sports.

(Alyssa Milano likes her air baseball caps and air conditioning. See her nipple for further understanding)

Giving me encouragement is another thing that my assistant would do. While working out, they would shout out encouraging things like “You can do it!”, “Makin’ copies”, “Hi, I’m Deuce Bigelow”, and other lines that Rob Schneider is known for. My assistant would prepare many meals for me. They’d tell me how proud they were when I cleaned my plate and I’d laugh and ask for another manwich. Encouragement is the most vital of things an assistant can do for its master. Yes. My assistant will be forced to call me master. If it was up to me, everyone would call me master. It would make me feel more like the southern gentleman that I am.

(Southern Gentlemen always wear white. It lets us know they don’t have shit in their pants)

The rest of my daily chores would be accomplished with my assistant. We’d do laundry together and gossip about mutual enemies. Vacuuming would involve my assistant chasing me around with the Dirt Devil. We’d laugh and I’d know deep down inside that my assistant was only pretending to enjoy themselves in hopes of getting a raise. I’d joke that spending time with me was worth enough. They’d agree because they’re Polish and don’t want to go back to their home country.

I may even take my assistant places. I’m not so cruel that they’d never be allowed to leave the apartment. Rarely will they be allowed, but for celebrations like my birthday or my half-birthday they’ll be allowed to leave to attend the party. Of course they’ll have to do all of the planning and setting up. They’re my assistant. Not my thing to worry about. I’d also love for my assistant to go out to bars with me. They’d hype me up to women. Maybe put a few roofies in drinks and I could swoop in and knock them out of the hand last second. I’ll be a hero. The ladies will swoon over me and my assistant will drive us all back to my place while we make-out in the backseat. I know all bugs are supposed to have a purpose. I don’t know what ladybugs do other than hide in bathrooms. At least roofies can help me look like a cool dude.

(Collared shirt, sunglasses, and one of those cloth hats picnic table hats. So cool)

Please apply if you think this would be a good job for you. I would mostly enjoying a female as the maid outfit I purchased seems to be made more for that of a woman’s body. But I will not discriminate. As long as you’re willing to do whatever I tell you to do we’ll be a perfect match.

*This blog post has no affiliation to the one similarly done by A Gripping Life a few months back. I am terrified of being sued.