Posts Tagged ‘comedy’

My second video for the 97.5 The Fanatic Dream Job application is up on their site. This one I did with a partner, Carter “Wild Thing” Johns. I would appreciate Likes and comments. It will surely make me happier after finding out that I’m a shitty writer who can’t come up with a television show better than Law Show. You can read my last blog post for more on that.

Here’s the link to my duo video

You probably won’t understand anything in it unless you follow Philadelphia sports, but it’s a poorly animated cartoon so I guess maybe do some drugs then watch it. I don’t know. It works for Cartoon Network.

Also you can still comment or Like my single video. Do both.

Thank you and that’s all you have to read. I will find out if I am a finalist in another week and you will never have to hear about this ever again if I don’t make it.

tim and carter

Attention all bookworms. Today is the final day I can give away my book Silence: My Worst Stand-Up Comedy Performances and Experiences for free on Amazon. It will no longer be “Amazon Exclusive” after next week which means I can no longer have the option of making it free whenever I want. It will then be available on other formats where strangers can look at it then ask for refunds.

By now you will either get a copy or not. All I ask in return if you get a free copy is to leave a review when you get the chance. These are very helpful and indeed have helped me to sell copies to complete strangers. It’s also available in paperback which you could give two shits about so I won’t waste your time.

Instead here are 10 fun facts about this book and other related things.

1) I wrote the entire thing while standing up. Okay, so maybe I sat for a little bit of it, but a good majority of my writing was taking place while standing up. It still does. I read a Yahoo article that said sitting is bad so I try to do it less. My life has improved drastically since. I’m kidding. It still blows.

2) This book is made up of a few short stories, all of which are true and involve me getting stared at blankly. If you enjoy reading about other people’s pain then this is for you.

3) I wrote the whole thing in maybe 3 weeks. It’s about 26,000 words which averages out to a number of words per day I do not feel like calculating.

4) There were two stories I was going to add to this, but decided against because they didn’t quite fit or were too short. One was about a show I did where only two audience members showed up after seeing an advertisement about it on a Christian website. The one girl was really cute and smiled at me a lot before the show. Then the show started and she couldn’t wait to leave. She hated us all. The other one involves me almost starting fights with an Asian in the audience and a black man. Only the Asian had anything to do with race. I probably deserved to be roundhouse kicked to death by him.

5) I did indeed have a lot of really good shows. If you really are curious about the best night I ever had doing stand-up I could send you the story. I didn’t include it here because it’s for something else I have written where it would fit more. Plus this book is about failure. I had a girl from Germany, Tennessee, and two from Canada that night come after me with their legs open. What happened to me? I was so cool for that one 6 hour period.

6) I have no clue who one of the people who left a review is which makes me happy and I almost hope they never come forward.

7) Whenever I give away this book for free, it averages about 40 copies in the U.S. “purchased.” Of course it’s not a real purchase since my bank account stays as dry as the Sahara. Sahara of course being what I call–yeah I’ll stop here. It was going to be an old woman vagina joke.

8) The most famous person I ever performed on a show with was Jim Gaffigan. I didn’t see him perform. I heard he’s an asshole from 95% of the people who have met him.

9) One thing not included in the book was when I stole an audience member’s beer and drank from it. It was a cute little moment that was perfectly timed. he one-upped me when he stole my water and drank from it when I had my back turned. It was a perfect little cute moment, none of which are in this book.

10) I don’t burn bridges at all in this book which I am proud of. I don’t really have an animosity against anyone I met so I didn’t feel the need to. However, my next two books “autobiographical” books I am working on are all about burning bridges. For the sake of some brief hype, here are a few people I plan to shit on in future works from Tim Boyle. Think the description fits you? You should have been better.

-My first girlfriend

-The first girl to break my heart

-My first crush

-The homeless girl I went on a date with

-Two different pedophiles I encountered in my life

-The original drummer from Phish

-The Indian kid I sat with at lunch in 11th grade

-Every bully I ever had

-The girl who wanted me to have sex with her then kill her after

-The lesbians who tricked me into buying them drinks

-A girl with a giant empty cage in her bedroom for some reason

-A friend who tricked another friend into getting squirt with a hose so they could play ping pong shirtless

-The last man to touch my testicles

-The only person I have ever threatened to physically harm

-A stranger who tickled me in a Cracker Barrel

-And many more!

But before those are available there is more work to be done. There is still Silence: My Worst Stand-Up Comedy Performances and Experiences to be enjoyed multiple times.

silence standup

A few years ago there was a popular sitcom on television called “Everybody Loves Raymond.” I never loved Raymond. In fact, I wish him dead. I guess the title was supposed to be sarcastic. His wife was a bitch as most television women are because most television writers are gay men, his parents were intrusive because most television writers are loners who come from broken homes, and his brother was a big idiot because most television writers are short and want to make tall people look like idiots. There are some things in life everybody does love. Well, maybe not love. These are generic things nobody dislikes. If you say you hate anything I mention then you’re probably bitter and should think about writing a TV show.

Music: Queen

Everybody likes Queen. You’ll never meet a person who absolutely loves Queen, but everybody can find one song to enjoy. Even the Chick-Fil-A guy admitted in a recent interview that he tries to let his farts out to the beat of “We Will Rock You.” It’s a very steady beat. One only Woody Harrelson cannot get correct. Personally my favorite Queen song is Princes of the Universe as it reminds me of the TV show Highlander. I never liked the show much, it’s the premise I am in love with. You chop off someone’s head, you get their powers. Why is this not the most popular video game of all time? Oh and here’s Woody Harrelson proving that marijuana does not make you better at keeping a beat.

Food: Pizza

Everybody likes pizza. Someone told me recently how much they hate pizza. She’s dead now. I killed her. The cops asked me straight up what happened. I explained the situation then we went out for some slices. What’s great about pizza is it has everything you will need in a meal. Cheese, sauce, bread, and meat normally make a pizza. There are so many varieties if you cannot find something to love about pizza then I probably cannot find something to love about you.

(I can’t tell if that’s pizza dust on the counter or this is a Courtney Love Cocaine Pizza)

Sport: Women’s Gymnastics

Everybody likes women’s gymnastics. For different reasons too. Women like it for the grace, the competition, and how it empowers women. Men like it for reasons which would get me arrested. Women’s gymnastics is a sport nobody really cares about or takes seriously. You can watch it without much devotion. A female gymnast is washed up as soon as she’s old enough to vote. Kind of sad really. All those tiny Russian girls are 20 years old and their lives are practically over. I hear America is nice. You can work as a dancer, a waitress, and a Ross just opened up near me. This was a cheap plea to any Russian gymnasts who happen to read this that I am willing to marry you in exchange for a green card. The offer expires when you get up to 115 pounds.

(In about a month Aliya Mustafina will be 18 and I can say dirty things about her Communist ways. I actually got this photo from typing in “evil gymnast” into Google)

Religion: Buddhism

Everybody likes Buddhism. I know, someone is probably reading this in their church cloak with a human skull in their hand thinking I’m insane. Hear me out. What bad thing has a Buddhist ever done to anyone but themselves? In protest they light themselves on fire. I like this much better than other religions. Christians invade, Muslims infiltrate, Scientologists creep out, and Judaists whine. Buddhism to me is the Rodney Dangerfield religion. It’s about how life is all about suffering. Well yeah, but does that mean I should spend my life accepting how much suffering goes on in the world? Still, Buddhism is the most generic religion. Except for the Richard Gere gerbil fiasco, they’ve been pretty good.

(If Paris Hilton can support Buddhism I so can…nevermind. I can’t bring myself to support anything she does. “That’s hot.” – Paris Hilton upon seeing a burning priest)

Book: The Snowman

Everybody likes The Snowman book. You may not have heard of this book before, it was a favorite of mine as a kid. There are no words. Only pictures! It’s easy on the eyes. They even made it into a movie with really pretty music. Then the snowman melted at the end which was tragically sad. Who invented snowmen? Their life expectancy is entirely too short. I guess dancing with a snowman who dies later in the afternoon prepares you for how everyone you will ever meet dies one day. Snowmen are too grim.

(Spoiler Alert! The Snowman dies at the end after a lobotomy following an attack on Nurse Ratchet)

Comedian: Brian Regan

Everybody likes Brian Regan. He’s clean, he’s funny, and he’s a nice guy in person from what I hear. The only thing not to like about him is how in high school everybody would quote him. We get it, he likes Fig Newtons and so do you. There is nobody I hate more than people who quote nonstop. Do you have no original ideas? Wait, you probably don’t. You’re a 16 year old New Jersey native. You only joined the football team because it’s what everybody does. I think even Brian Regan would tell you to fuck off.

(Even raccoons like Fig Newtons and they’re very picky eaters)

Sexual Position: Any

Take what you can get. If you’re reading a blog you’re probably not very good looking anyway.

(My personal favorite sexual position)

Fun Activity: Zoo Trip

Everybody likes the zoo. Please, if you dislike zoos shoot your face. I get the kids running around can be annoying. You’re not going to the right zoos at the right times. As an avid animal lover yet for some reason a carnivorous meat eater (I’m complicated) I never can turn down the opportunity to go to a zoo. I think my dream job if I ever give up on trying to do anything interesting with my life would be to clean up animal shit in a zoo. I could develop a relationship with the animals. There’s always at least one hot chick working at the zoo. I could threaten to hit her with the shovel I pick up the lion poop with if she doesn’t flash me.

(“What does your dad do for a living?” “He cleans the shit out between hippo teeth.” I so want this job)

What is something generic you feel everybody enjoys? Change that. Not something you feel, something you know. We’re not nancies who talk about our feelings. We’re manly men who are always sure of ourselves. Tell me something you know everybody enjoys. You better not be wrong.

Over yonder in New Jersey, our license plates have the phrase “The Garden State” on them. That’s what New Jersey is known for most. Gardens. It’s true. If you’ve never been here, you can’t dump a dead body somewhere without stepping on a tomato in a garden. There’s a potted plant in front of my apartment. I don’t know who put it there or why it’s filled with cigarette butts. That’s still a garden though, by our standards. You know that much about New Jersey. What you may not know is that the one thing we have more than gardens are hacks.

Webster defines a hack as someone who lacks talent, originality, and has at one point gone by an alias. Webster of course being my black neighbor Jerry Webster. He so smart! I’m a firm believer that outside of Branson, Missouri no place has more entertainment hacks available to the public. You name it, New Jersey has a worse version.

(This isn’t my neighbor Jerry Webster but I’m racist so all black men look-alike to me)

I’ll start with comedians, something I know all too well. Go to just about any comedy club in New Jersey’s website and look at the upcoming schedule. If you recognize someone’s name you’re a pretty big comedy fan. We have guys with names like Bob-O, Spitzy, and Richard “The Human Pretzel” Ramirez. At least two of them use a dummy or a strange instrument in their act which drives the crowd wild. These are the stereotypes of hacks in the comedy world. They do goofy voices, invite audience members on stage, and have headshots older than I am. Yeah, they were on HBO. That was 1991 and it was as an extra on an episode of Tales from the Crypt. I don’t have a problem with exaggerating your credits. It’s hard to convince people to see a comedy show when they could do more fine things like go to a poetry open mic or circumcise themselves. I’m mostly annoyed that no matter what comedy club I look at I see the same damn names over and over again. New Jersey, if you haven’t made it here, try another 15 years. Bookers don’t have time to look at anything new. They go with what’s familiar to them.

(These guys do a great bit about Roosevelt’s “New Deal”)

Professional wrestling is pretty big here. The film The Wrestler actually took place here. It’s a pretty realistic story. You can’t go to a VFW without seeing a poster for an upcoming wrestling show. Why do I go to VFWs you ask? To shout “Baby killers!” at everyone inside. Thing is, these wrestling organizations involve everyone on their way up and then on their way down again. You can see the evil German Jack Fritzenstein take on someone like Jimmy Snuka on any given night. Of course Jack is going to lose. His real name is Ted Hall and he lives in East Orange. He’s just a kid trying to make it in the competitive world of gay sports theater, wrestling. I’m not sure who actually goes to these shows. Probably drunks and weekend dads lying to their sons saying that they’re watching the stars of tomorrow, today!

(If you turn your head quickly and are color blind you might think The Rock is the guy in the upper right hand corner. Thankfully we know better)

The biggest city of hacks is also located in New Jersey. It’s called Atlantic City. Sure, there are some big acts that play there once in a while. But for the most part, you’re stuck seeing people who couldn’t make it in Las Vegas. I’ve been to AC twice. It wasn’t as crummy as everyone made it out to be. Yeah the beaches looked gross and the only person performing whose name I recognized was Liza Minnelli (oh joy!) but it still had some charm. It has a boardwalk where Asian women yell out at you demanding they give you a massage. The security isn’t even all that tight. I could have easily walked into a “member’s only” swimming pool. But why would I do that? I’m too much of a pussy to screw around with anyone’s business.

(All of Cindy’s fans friends showed up to show her some support as she watched her hopes and dreams slip away)

I’ve only lived in one area of the world so I don’t know what it’s like where you live. Are you too surrounded by hacks? I can usually spot them. If you know a musician who sounds quite a bit like someone more famous, they’re a hack. It’s not being a hack being a cover band though. I like to call them rip-off bands because that usually pisses them off. Learn something original asshole. If Lifehouse can play Lifehouse songs, anyone can play Lifehouse songs.

Who am I? What’s the meaning of life? Why are people always whispering and laughing as I walk by them? Questions I ask myself every single day. Let’s stick with the first one. The other two are difficult. The meaning of life could be as simple as there is no meaning. That’s a bummer. As for why people are laughing and whispering around me, jealousy. Yeah that’s right. They’re talking about how great I am and don’t want to say it out loud so it gets to my head. It’s cool. If I was always being told by every female admirer how sexy I was I might have syphilis. Mostly girls with syphilis find me sexy. Something to do with it causing insanity.

(Al Capone died of syphilis. I so could have gotten him in bed)

When someone asks me who I am, usually I say “Fuck off” and they beat me with their gun again. “You ain’t getting a word out of me you pig with a badge” is what I say next. It’s a much deeper question than that though. For a moment, I want you to think of your name. Whatever it might be. Sherry, Lewis, Bram, or one of the other names that human beings have. Doesn’t that blow your mind? What your name is and what it represents is you. Everything. It’s all encompassing and it’s you. This works best while late at night and in bed. Try it. You’ll be fearful of going to sleep based on all of the bad things you have done or years you’ve wasted.

Certain words can define a person. Certain characteristics can as well. I’ve narrowed them down for you. I’m all about self-discovery and helping others reach inner peace/demons.

The first identification you can have as a person is whatever you job happens to be. For instance if your job is police officer then you might at times identify as one. The movie Taxi Driver had a line from my dead brother Peter Boyle. His character Wiz said something like “You have a job. You become the job.” I agree. I think that’s a really good route to happiness. As the Geico advertisements I hear on the radio say quoting Mark Twain “Make your vocation your vacation.” If you don’t like your job you’re fucked. It’s so easy for Mark Twain to say that too. All he did was sat in a cabin and write books. He wrote children’s books with the N-Word in it. What an asshole! You know you’ve got leverage when you can get away with that. Go to the book store and get a Paddington Bear book. I’ll bet you anything there’s not a single racial slur in it besides the first page. Hey, even children’s books have to start off with a bang.

(“Paddington Bear was late to work yet again because that towelhead refused to pick him up. Paddington promptly flipped him the bird” – First Page of Paddington Bear Takes Manhattan)

You can also identify yourself by your religion. I hear people say “I am a Christian.” This bothers me because I think you should give yourself more credit. You’re more than a Christian. I don’t think faith should ever be your number one identity you have for yourself. It feels to me waving your religion around is a little flamboyant. And doesn’t the Bible hate flamboyant people? It’s great that you have faith and are happy with it. I just don’t need that to be the main thing I know about you. Being a Christian, a Muslim, or even an Atheist (I forget the other types of religions out there) doesn’t make me have any idea of who you are. Some of all are good and some of all are bad. Faith isn’t a card where you get to do whatever you want. Most people don’t really want to know what you do with your Sunday mornings. Find something more important to identify yourself with like “Good Person” or “Curer of Cancer.” When religion is the first thing someone brings up to me all I know is that they’re a recovering addict or have been boring their entire life.

(Or you could be like Stephan Baldwin and be both)

A third way to identify yourself as is your relationship to others. You can be a father, a mother, a child, a brother, a sister, you know the rest. I think it’s mostly mothers, fathers, and grandparents who identify themselves in this category. Who calls themselves a cousin? Everyone in the world except for me has a cousin. It’s not a special thing. This is probably the most dignified way to identify yourself as. Anyone can become a telephone repairman and it’s very easy to show up to church then call yourself religious. Becoming a parent is easy. Being one is the tough part. I’m not a parent nor will I be any time soon barring a big mistake, a new direction in life, or alien abduction. I was told the other day that aliens are going around raping people and that this is common knowledge. I must have been hiding under a rock of logic when this was discussed in school.

(E.T. tell you not to phone home. This be yours and his little secret)

Of course, the best way to identify yourself is as an individual. You don’t really need a tag. Sure, I’d love to have a great job where I could say what it is and identify myself as. Right now that’s not the case. I’m probably not going to see Jesus in toast any time soon (I don’t eat much bread) and even if I did I think I’d have more important things to take care of before gloating about my faith. You know, like helping others. Someday maybe I will be a father. I could see myself identifying as that. Even so, I’ll need some other kind of identification for my kid’s sake. No kid wants to be able to brag to their friends that their dad is a father. They want to be able to say he’s an assassin or a rock star football player. For you non-existent child, I will do my best to discover who I am and put a simple one word label to it.

This year is an election year in America. In other words, it means we get really excited that things will change but we all secretly know they won’t. This disappointment leads to something else. It’s called a revolution. I see that word every year. Mostly coming from the lips of people who have no idea what they’re talking about. Usually, soaked in whiskey.

(Future Freedom Fighters of America)

Sure, I would love if things were different. That would be great. I also know that a revolution isn’t the way to go. The Beatles, who were never held accountable for inspiring the Manson Family Murders, had a song where they talked about a revolution. Are they the best people to lead a revolution? They couldn’t even stick together. Before they even became famous they kicked out their drummer. That’s not loyalty. For a revolution to start you need to be loyal to the cause. They tossed Pete Best out into the streets of Liverpool like he wasn’t the best option. He clearly was. His last name said so. Instead they went for Ringo Starr. They cared more about stardom then they did about being the best. Fuck the Beatles. Fuck them and their “all you need is love” mentality. You need more than love. You need the ability to duck from the bullets of fat retarded fan boys.

(He kind of does look like Lennon with a few extra pounds and insanity)

I don’t believe that most people who want this revolution to take place really know what they’re getting into. The American Revolution was huge. It led to freedoms that never existed before. Same thing goes for the French Revolution. They got to cut off their leader’s head! All because she told them to go eat cake. That’s how you know people are pissed off. When they are told to eat a delicious dessert and they cut off your head. A revolution in this country wouldn’t really get us much. What freedoms don’t we really have? We can’t run around naked and we can’t control other people’s minds. I would love to do both of those things. I walk around naked for hours at home and whenever I see a cute girl I always attempt to get her to think “I want to kiss him. Get up and kiss him.” Those things will probably never be possible. I won’t go into why but I’ll blame the Republicans because they’re easy to blame for things I don’t understand.

(It’s Ron’s fault I couldn’t find my car in the parking lot the other day)

Starting a revolution means a few things. For starters, lots of people are going to die. I mean a massive amount. At least a third of us would have to die to just prove a point. I don’t know if that’s really worth it. I’m not willing to die so that people who don’t exist yet have even more rights than they would already have in today’s world. I don’t think you would be willing to either. Some countries do need bloody violent revolutions. That’s because in those countries they live in huts and can’t have their late night talk show hosts do parody interviews about their leaders. Have you seen an episode of The People’s Republic of the Congo’s “Late Night with Dirikeyumbo Mononotouba”? It’s all dick jokes. That one mention of how oppressive the dictator is. The second thing that I will mention about revolutions in this paragraph is that there are too many damn people in the United States for it. We’re too big and too spread out for it to ever be successful. What will end up happening is we’d break up into little territories. We’d basically become Russia. Nobody wants to be Russia. They’re so 80s.

I really don’t even know what there is to complain about politically in this country. Yeah, the distribution of wealth stinks. Families hoard all of their money and for generations their spoiled kids go on to be wealthy and successful too. The only way to stop this is to stop fucking these people. If you meet a Kennedy, do not sleep with them. Don’t let the Carnegies, the Bushes, and the Rockefellers of the world into your pants. If we stop having sex with them then they stop existing. Think of them like pandas. Let’s make those tycoons extinct by forcing them to have sex with each other only to produce inbred children with ears for legs.

I urge you, don’t start a revolution. Leave your Muse songs or your Rise Against music in your file of music title “Good idea, bad approach.” Yeah, the government stinks and they could probably do more to help us out. I just don’t think things are so bad when the worst thing that happens in your day is that your iPad has too much grease on the screen.

Oh us men! We hate asking for directions. Why is it? Because we dislike having to ask a 17-year-old boy at a convenience store or a foreign guy who speaks broken English for life advice. They know how to find the bridge you’re looking for. They are officially sexier in the eyes of your wife than you are.

I’m no different when it comes to directions. I rarely ask for them. I will though, if my life is in the balance. Still, asking for directions can be worse than death. That look they give you like you’re making up a place. They’ve never heard of I-95. I thought it ran from Maine to Florida. Did I dream up an interstate highway?

(It’s impossible to dream in color and since this map is in color, it cannot be a dream)

My sense of direction is pretty damn good in general. I could never get lost in the woods. If Heather Donahue (no clue how I still remember her name) from the Blair Witch Project had been friends with me and invited me to go along with them, I would have kicked the map into the river on the first day and said “It’s okay, I’ve got another map. It’s right here.” then tapped my temple. Nobody would have gotten killed.

I have a GPS system which I can’t really use for more than 5 minutes before it dies. My car’s cigarette lighter doesn’t work. That was never a problem because I don’t smoke. It’s only a problem because that’s where electronic devices should be plugged in. I have to rely on my own feelings to get around. Recently I was using my GPS system to try to get home and it died .2 miles away from the left turn I needed. I decided that I would turn around and sit in the parking lot of where I was and cry until someone realized I was missing. My over/under was 4 days. I think it would take me that long to go missing. Before someone actually noticed I wasn’t around. It’d be someone stupid that would realize too like the mailman. I get a lot of coupons in the mail and he’d realize something was up when they were starting to overflow out of the mail slot. I don’t think he’d do anything. Probably figure I’m on vacation. That’s why it’s imperative that I don’t get lost. Nobody will realize I’m gone.

(Is she not wearing pants or is the mailman a known Klansman and she’s scared?)

The worst times I ever got lost seem to be in Pennsylvania. This is a big problem because in New Jersey we have our gas pumped for us. I’m sure I could figure out how to do it if need be, but still it’s something new. New equals scary. One time I was driving through Pennsylvania trying to get somewhere. I won’t mention the place so let’s pretend it was a strip club for children. Not that the strippers are children, but they do things to entertain children while topless. I don’t know what those things might be. Maybe they squirt milk out of their breasts or dress up like Blue’s Clues characters. I got incredibly lost on my way there. I finally decided that after two hours of driving around I should ask for directions. I stopped at a Dairy Queen and asked them if they knew how to get to the Children’s Strip Club. They said they had never heard of it and asked what town it was in. I told them and the workers turned to each other like they had never heard of the town. The oldest and ugliest Dairy Queen worker said “You’re a long way from home sweetheart.” I didn’t have time to explain to her that I didn’t live in the area and that even if I was at the Children’s Strip Club it would be a long way away from home. Actually, is 30 miles a long way away? I don’t think so. I think she was trying to bully me into getting a Blizzard with Snickers on top.

(Those strawberries look so out-of-place in this diabetic disaster)

I continued driving hoping that I could at this point just find my way home. The problem with going from New Jersey to Pennsylvania is that there’s this cockface in between the two states called The Delaware River. You have to use a bridge at all times to get across from state to state. That really limits your options. This is the same stupid river that George Washington crossed to kill a bunch of Hessians. You know that famous painting of him in the boat with his foot up? Yeah, that’s the cockface river that I’m talking about. It’s caused me more anguish than any other body of water.

(The Delaware River isn’t nearly this rough. It mostly smells bad more than anything else from all the dead Hessians who were tossed into it)

I was still driving because that’s how I spent the last 5 hours of my life. My phone was dying, my car was running out of gas, and everything around me seemed to be closed. My dad tried finding directions for me but I don’t think he even knew who he was talking to. I found a bait shop that was closing. I frantically pounded on the screen door as it began to rain. The bait shop man took pity on me. He gave me directions without making me buy any worms. I guess he figured that it was raining now and that worms would be plentiful. Supply and demand.

Somehow I managed to follow his directions correctly. I crossed over a tiny little bridge and made my way back home to New Jersey. I was the first person to ever enter the state with a smile. Usually it’s holding your nose and going really fast hoping that you don’t get a flat tire in the process. There’s no real moral to this story other than don’t be a nag if you’re not the one driving. Eventually, we all find our ways back home. Except for old people. You should always worry about them. Sometimes they get in their station wagons and are never heard from again. Pretty nice of them. Burials and cremations are really damn expensive.

For years, probably more than half of my life, I thought a tutorial was a large turtle. Something like a tortoise but more turquoise. I was wrong. Tutorials for those of you who like me fall into the realm of stupidity are guides to help you. They’re directions. Rarely helpful too.

I never would look at the guide to video games. This was probably not a smart thing to do. One of the few sleepovers I ever went to involved playing the lesser known video game called Madden Football. I lost on the last play of the game because I didn’t know the rules of football. I also saw my half-Jewish friend’s ass. I don’t know why he showed it to us. Possibly a half-Hebrew tradition. I had another encounter with a football video game where a tutorial could have done me some good. I was at my former friend and now mortal enemy Michael Barbera’s house. I’ve mentioned how much he sucks before and will continue to do so. We were playing Nintendo 64, a system which I did not own or was familiar with, and Michael thought it would be to his advantage to not tell me how to pass the ball. I had to quarterback sneak on every play. Somehow, I stayed in the game. On the last play of the game I made a 70 yard dash for the end zone. Michael was so angry and probably gay that he ripped the system out of the wall. What a sore sport. What bad taste in movies too. His favorite movie was Good Burger and I remember watching Jungle 2 Jungle with him. Christ, I need to stop making friends with people just because they have big funny ears.

(My former friend Michael being fresh)

I have since began to try to at least look at directions. That old paper clip on Word Documents convinced me. Remember that douche? Computers are one thing I have lots of trouble understanding. I’m not even positive if mine is on right now. I might be typing into nothing. I’m going where all of those “missing text messages” I’ve sent people are. Seriously, text messages never go missing. Anyone who says they didn’t receive your text is lying. They’re not an honest person. They thought hanging out with you would be boring. The problem with computer tutorials is that you need to be computer literate to continue with them. It puts you in quite the predicament. It’d be like if you had to die to give birth. You exist only so something else can later exist. What a terrible existence.

(He looks like he’s in love. Even outdated cartoon paper clips had someone to spend Valentine’s Day with. What’s your excuse?)

Cars usually have manuals. Neither of the cars I owned did. I don’t know what use a manual really has for a car. I know how to drive it. I know how to open the door. I know that mechanics will try to sell me parts that don’t exist. A hand guide on how to work my car isn’t necessary. That’s why whenever someone buys a new car they go for a drive around town and toss the manual out the window at a rookie police officer, waking him up in the process. There are certain things that don’t need a guide-book. We can learn to use it by simply doing it. That’s how I learn best. Imagine trying to describe to someone how to eat or poop. It sounds impossible. It’s something you do and learn how to do at an expert rate.

(Tori Spelling; expert pooper and clearly by this picture aficionado at eating)

What was the point I wanted to say with all of this? Oh, it’s this. I don’t like tutorials. Directions, rules, seminars; all of them blow. Has a PowerPoint slide ever taught us a thing? All I ever learned was that my eyesight is getting worse and that I don’t like Sans Serif font. It sounds too much like a terrorist leader to me. My desk at work is covered in binders filled with directions and specifications of how to do something. I hate it. If something needs a guide-book, it’s too complicated. I shouldn’t have to read 200 pages to understand something. I’ve read books that long and still have no idea what they’re about. It took a 22 minute episode of South Park for me to understand Great Expectations. How is that book classic literature? Farting between two pieces of oak tag has more artistry to it.

(Women are crazy. That’s the abridged version for ya)

I was witness to something awesome recently. So awesome that I’m writing about it. I only write about awesome things. That’s why most of what I write about is myself.

I was at a comedy show and while waiting outside noticed a fat girl near the front of the line. She must have been waiting there for 30 minutes already. The show doesn’t start for another hour and a half. My first thought upon seeing her was that she looked like actress Kat Dennings. Actually no. That was my second thought. My real first thought was that she was a fat chick who happened to look like Kat Dennings. And that is why I easily whispered “Hey look, it’s Fat Dennings” into my girlfriend’s ear. She agreed and I felt like a stud. I wanted to pass it along to others in the line, but the man behind me had a shaved head and a goatee. Then the man in front of me had glasses. I was surrounded by brains and brawn. If the joke bombed, I’d be fucked.

We got inside and the first thing I noticed was that Fat Dennings was seated front and center. I mean as front and center as possible. She lined herself up directly with the microphone stand. For the next hour or so (until the show finally started, do shows ever start on time?) she continued to look back, waiting for a friend to join her. It was annoying and creepy. Every 25 second I would have to be subjected to her chubby fat face with even chubbier whale lips. I don’t think whales have lips. It wouldn’t surprise me if they once did and Fat Dennings had stolen their lips to place them on her own face. Her friend finally showed up and she was a very frumpy looking girl. She didn’t look like any celebrities that I know of. Celebrities are usually good looking. This girl was not. She had tumbleweed hair and a scarf that I had earlier in the night seen a homeless man shining his penis with. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but later on I had a laugh about it.

Then came the big failure. At the end of the show, Fat Dennings who I am convinced is a stalker, stood up. She was giving a standing ovation. The thing about standing ovations is that they must start somewhere. It’s like all human life. It makes me think of that whole “which came first, the chicken or the eggs?” shit. F.D. was about to not only fail at giving life, she was having a miscarriage in doing so.

Her fat arms flapped together. A nice clap. She was officially giving a standing ovation. Standing, clapping, giving ovation to a show well done. I thought another man was about to stand, but he was adjusting his ass in his seat. F.D. turned around and noticed that she was the only person standing. It had only been about 10 seconds of her making a fool of herself, but I noticed it and being front and center, others must have too. She had failed at a standing ovation. For a second I thought of giving her a standing ovation for her failure. Or perhaps a round of applause. That is, clapping my hands in a circular motion. I learned that one when I was 5.

F.D. sat back down embarrassed. It must be like how those douches at baseball games feel when they try to start the wave and instead get peanuts thrown at them after they trip.

She should have seen the omen. The entire show she was shielding her eyes from the light that was shining immediately into her face. Front and center and the entire show you have a blinding light detaching your retinas. That’s a sign that you suck. Sit down, shut up, and stop being fatter versions of already questionably overweight celebrities.

I didn’t see a Jesus face in a sandwich. My Virgin Mary salt and pepper shakers didn’t begin to cry blood. Neither of those amazing events did not occur in my life. Something more miraculous happened. I interacted with devout Christians twice in the span of 4 days. What is this world coming to? The lion is really lying down with the lamb. I’m the lion. Lambs are kind of wimps. I also haven’t shaved in about a week.

I’ve never had a big argument with a follower of Christ. There’s no point in it. What am I going to yell at them? GRARG!!! ? Chances are, we’re both wrong in what we believe. I don’t go out spewing my beliefs and when others yell out theirs I usually just agree to keep the violence level down. It’s like that famous argument between Barney Gumble and Wade Boggs:

There’s no point in arguing over something like the origin of man or where we go after we die. What matters is the here and now. Lets live together in peace and fight it out when we are reincarnated into spiders.

My first religious encounter came at a bar. That’s where I guess most people find God. I thought I found God in a bar bathroom before. He was tall and boisterous with a long coat on. Directly out of a Medieval Image of God himself. Turned out that it was a homeless man shaving. I found that out when he told me to tug on his beard and was met with a handful of shaving cream. I avoid public bathrooms now. Tugging on beards as well.

I’m sitting at the bar minding my own business with my buddy listening to the musician that is there every week playing the same Oasis songs. Oasis must be the easiest band to cover. Everybody knows how to play Wonderwall. We’re sitting there when a man in a Texas Longhorns hat walks up to us. He has a very small face and squints a lot. His goatee is a fiery red. The woman he’s there with, a ghoul. He turns to us and asks if we’re from Seattle. He must be drunk. Then he explains that we’re dressed with the “Seattle style” and that he lived there before. The Seattle style meaning I’m dressed like a bully from The Simpsons and my friend has on a plaid shirt. We took it as a compliment. Much nicer than saying we’re dressed like someone from Princeton, the location of this encounter. People in Princeton dress like Ivy Leaguers. They tie sweaters around their waists and walks around with women on their arms who wear jewelry that would sell for more than my entire family. In other words, it’s hell.

The man goes on to tell us that he’s a seminary student and works at the church up the street. He didn’t ask us to come sometime which surprised me. Religious people will sell you anything. They never follow-up though. I gave one religious man my e-mail address to send me information on his church and how I could be enlightened. Never got an e-mail from him. My guess, he was hit by a bus after turning the corner.

What surprised me with my interaction with this holy man was that I did not lie to him. I usually lie to people I meet at bars. Usually, it’s not hard. But with this guy I couldn’t tell a lie. I told him my name, where I was from, and the last time I masturbated, just for good measure. He had a hex on me. His charm and unwillingness to convert me disabled my ability to lie. Maybe he found his true calling. If he can get an ass like me to be honest to strangers, maybe he does have Jesus on his side.

Then came my second encounter with some religious folks. I was at the library updating my blog, e-mailing television agents who will have a good laugh at my query letter then delete it, and searching about what the latest results were on last night’s episode of Monday Night RAW. I was wearing my Boondock Saints hoodie which on the front contains the two stars pointing guns downward, execution style. On the back is what they say before blowing someone’s brains out. I’d type it all out, but do not feel like standing up. Something about shepherds and thus and ye. It’s a popular hoodie of mine. Girls have come up to me and talked to me about it. I begin to flirt then they yell “Hey honey, remember that movie?” and their boyfriends twice my size approaches and begins to talk to me. Fuck. Thought I had this one.

I’m sitting there wondering how many people in my township don’t have day jobs. The library is packed for it being noon on a Tuesday. Not everyone is old either. The man cleaning the toilet is, but the girl asking her friend if they should rent Kramer vs. Kramer must be around my age.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Shit! I’m about to be asked to leave. I turn to see a bearded man with lines on his face. You know when you wake up in the morning and your bed sheets are all folded over and wrinkly? That was this man’s face! He had his ugly wife/girlfriend/partner/fuck buddy with him. She was short and fat. I didn’t look at her much. But I did notice that I could see her tonsils through the gaps in her teeth.

Sheet Face told me he really liked my hoodie. Then he began to read the back of it. He was amazed. I think he stopped reading when he got near my ass. That would be a sin. He asked me where I got it from and I told him the truth, Hot Topic. Then, almost in a cocky manner, he said “So I take it you’re a Christian?” I stuttered out a “Yes, of course.” He and his lumpy partner were impressed. In a world with so many horrors, they could still find a young man who believed. They shook my hand and told me that they were good Christians too. I just remembered that I touched their hands. Shit. I need some soap. Religious people always have dirty hands. Probably from never cleaning out their holy water. Holy water recycles itself. It’s made of 23% hand grease.

The two holy rollers left thinking that they had made a new Christian friend. Despite the fact that the front of my shirt had men with guns on it and I was wearing an Opie & Anthony hat, I must be a good human being. Or maybe they weren’t just that observant. They saw one detail and thought that it must be true. They didn’t analyze the rest of the situation. Like if I had porn up on my computer, but still had a religious psalm on the back of my shirt, I must be a good Christian. Pay attention to all the facts! That’s how people come to believe half the ridiculous things they read.

I felt a little guilty lying and saying that I was a Christian. The weird thing, it was the same type of guilt I used to feel when I would say that I wasn’t. Have I grown to accept my own beliefs? I think so. It doesn’t matter what I believe. Really, it’s not up to me. I can learn whatever it is that I want, but for me to believe something takes life experiences and depends on the personality that I have. I’m not exactly sure what it is that I believe. What I do know is that I am not a Christian.

So what did I learn from this? With one religious guy I managed to tell the truth. With another, I managed to tell a bold-faced lie. I made the second guy feel good, like there is hope out there for this world anyway. Okay, probably not. But who knows? None of us do. I think the only thing I can take away from this is that when strangers talk to me that I get nervous and say whatever it is that I think they want to hear. If that man asked me if I liked to suck cocks you can bet I would say that I did.

I don’t mind lying to strangers. It’s hard for me to do though. Maybe I’m an honest guy. Or at least slow-witted on thinking up something clever and rude to say. Yep, let’s go with that one.


Before posting this, I had yet a new experience with a pushy religious nut. I was getting my 7,000 mile oil change (it helps the car build up an immunity waiting so long). The shop only contained 5 seats and 4 of them were occupied. I wasn’t about to sit next to a stranger. What am I, a whore? So I went outside and sat on those chairs. I read the book that I brought with me using a ticket from a baseball game as the book mark. While reading, a man came outside on his phone. He spit a lot and had a hoodie over his head. When the phone call ended he turned to me and asked what book I was reading. I told him and explained it then laughed. He seemed disinterested. Until he said something horrible.

“Have you ever read the Bible?”

What does that have to do with a book written by one of the writers of the Simpsons? Did he not hear me explain what my book interests were? I lied and said that I had read parts. I figured, if I said I read it all and he quizzed me and I got it wrong, I’d look like a buffoon. If I got a few questions incorrect, they could be parts that I hadn’t yet read. I was thinking on my toes.

He continued to praise Jesus. Saying how he saved him from drugs, alcohol, and hormones. Those dangerous deadly hormones. I made up a quick story in my head about how he had been taking hormone supplements during a sex change gone awry. I don’t think he would have enjoyed the story.

Aaron, as he introduced himself as before leaving, continue to spew out nonsense. He said that The Bible is a guide to how to live your life and how to get to heaven. I really wanted to tell him that I was enjoying my book and to please go away. I just can’t do it though. The power of Christ compels me to be a non-confrontational liar.

“I can tell that you were raised in church.” said Aaron. I was not raised in church. I’ve been inside churches maybe 10 times in my life. Half were for auctions. The other half were me being tricked into thinking it was some place more fun, like a carpet store. He asked when the last time I had been in church was. I said only a few months ago which I guess is true. The last church I went to was in a fancy hotel. They had big screen televisions and a token Hasidic Jew. What? My excuse for not going to church recently was because I had just moved into town. I’ve been here almost 2 years. Yet another amazing lie told to a religious man.

So maybe what it comes down to is that I can lie to people who annoy me. I didn’t lie to the religious man who didn’t shove his beliefs in my face. I was completely honest with him. Plus he was at a bar. That’s pretty slick for a guy who doesn’t think dinosaurs were real.