Well it finally happened. I have given up on humanity. I’m always teetering on the edge of converting all my assets and credit into cash, changing my name to Miguel and going off the grid. But this weekend pushed me more than one step closer to a life of south-of-the-border siestas. At roughly 11:00pm Saturday night my girlfriend and I were at Blockbuster video in St. Paul. We went through all the new releases, took our time and found our selections for the evening. Aside from the annoying people in line ahead of us who didn’t have their membership information, it was a generally typical and not entirely unpleasant experience. I even purchased a bottle of orange soda for the drive home which turned out to be a more important purchase than I could have imagined.
Having my plans for the evening set and even my very own Orange Fanta, I approached the driver’s side of my girlfriend’s car with a sense of contentment. With my movies and my soda in my right hand, I reached down to lift the door handle of the little white KIA Rio with my left. “What the hell is that?” I ask myself as I quickly pull my fingers away from the now open door, feeling some sort of slimy texture. I looked down at my hand, not believing what I am seeing at first--I am in denial. “No, it can’t be…” But it is. There is simply no denying the familiar color and odor. There I stand, in muted horror, looking at my left hand covered in dog shit.
Yes, you heard that right my friend. Someone crammed dog shit under the handle of the driver’s side door of the car while we were in the movie store. Not just any dog shit mind you, but the light-brown, still warm, semi-liquid variety… just viscous enough to adhere, out of sight, underneath the door handle.
Calmly I walked to the front of the car, resigned to my fate, and using my Fanta, washed my hand off wiping it on the pavement, the grass, the dirt anything I could find. For some reason I did not panic, I did not issue forth a stream of obscenities, I simply walked back to the car, got in and looked at my girlfriend. She had this expression on her face that simply said, “What were you doing out there?” I answered in the only way I could. The only way anyone who had experienced such thing could: “Someone stuffed dog shit into the door handle.” What else can you say?
Really, what more need be said?
So if you have anything important to say to anyone in your life, I suggest you do it within the next 45 days. You see, the Universe is about to unfold at a point and collapse in on itself. Not as the result of God’s final judgment on mankind, but rather as the result of curiosity. The Large Hadron Collider project is underway. The goal essentially is to bring about the Grand Unifying Theory of the Universe by bringing together such elusive concepts as gravity and energy. In other words, there are a bunch of scientists in an underground bunker in France trying to create black holes and inject matter into the Universe while simultaneously attempting to disrupt the gravitational constants that bind our little planet together so they can… “See what happens.”
This is the kind of shit that keeps me up at night.
I’m less afraid of nuclear war than I am of some Swedish scientist somehow ripping a gaping-wide whole in the space-time continuum or collapsing matter into itself in order to see what happens. I’m less afraid of killer bees… but only slightly because they still scare the hell out of me. I don’t think we’ll have time to see the effects of global climate change destroy our civilization. No… I am afraid of nerds. I went through this same anxiety about 5 years ago when some punk European scientist claimed that he was able to transport a particle of light or some such nonsense and have it exist simultaneously in two places. Wait a minute… is he actually adding matter to the Universe? WTF? Hold on a minute there… are you sure you’ve thought this one through? I mean, won’t that sort of break physics? It turns out he was wrong. How do I know this you ask? Well it’s simple really, we still exist.
I know, I know… “They said the same thing about breaking the sound barrier or the Manhattan Project”. Comparing the Manhattan Project to this little experiment in Universal Russian Roulette is like… well I am not sure what it’s like. I’m not sure what to compare this to other than it’s like comparing an atomic bomb to a black hole that’s filled with a bunch of atomic bombs.
That said, I can’t wait to see what happens.
There’s a well documented phenomenon that I feel compelled to address… fat guys and the hot chicks who love them. Ever since Jackie Gleason made professional failure and spousal abuse hilarious on the Honeymooners, this has been a staple of the American sit-com, especially of the cartoon variety: The Flintstones, The Simpson’s, Family Guy, King of Queens just to name a few. As a short, aging fat guy I applaud this effort by the American media to brainwash the women of this country into buying into that double standard. Sadly however, I don’t think their efforts have been successful.
I was watching this show, Millionaire Matchmaker, where this oddly unattractive woman and her minions hook up millionaires with hotties who want to date them. Sort of the inverse of the fat guy hot wife sit-com phenom. It goes without saying that the stated policies Millionaire Matchmaker are that they do not accept girls who are gold diggers and the men are not allowed to have sex until the contract is over. Of course, this is all a lie. If this wasn’t about rich guys finding a chick they can pay to have sex with the show would just be called “Matchmaker”. So this is televised prostitution. I’m fine with that. But one thing I noticed sort of stuck out at me. There was this nice guy, obviously rich and successful, who didn’t seem like a dick and genuinely was looking for a relationship. Sounds like dream come true to these would-be heiresses. But very few were interested in him. Why you ask? Well because, in spite of being fairly good-looking, he was only 5’9”. What a loser! It’s not like these women were tall, they were like 5’6” to 5’9”.
This is, of course, shallow and lame. What’s that you say? “It’s a TV show Scott, what do you expect? That’s just those people they pre-screen for this to make it seem that people are pettier than they really are.”
Perhaps.
So today over lunch I perused the personals in a couple of local papers to get a sense for what people were looking for in a mate. I’ll admit, I’m not into the dating scene. I’m not on the market and haven’t been for quite some time. As such I was surprised by how little information was available. So I turned to the online standby: Match.com. As I perused the profiles of men and women looking for that special someone I noticed a common thread among all the profiles. They are all a pack of lies. Every God damned last one of them.
So in an effort to help out any single readers looking to meet that special someone here’s my handy translation to some of the most common lies I found:
What he says: “I’m looking for a woman who isn’t needy.”
What he means: “I’ll pay for dinner if you put out, but don’t expect me to talk about our ‘relationship’.”
What she says: “I want a man who is caring and patient who isn’t obsessed with sex.”
What she means: “I don’t give blow jobs.”
What he says: “I want a woman who can have a good time and I enjoy being with and just hanging out.”
What he means: “Do whatever I want to do when I want to do it and we’ll be fine… oh, and I’m broke.”
What she says: “I’m not into games.”
What she means: “I’m into games.”
What he says: “I’m a nice guy.”
What he means: “I’ve got a beer belly and I’m desperate to get laid.”
What she says: “I’m looking for a nice guy.”
What she means: “I’ve been cheated on, messed with and dumped repeatedly. I have a chip on my shoulder about it, but am still looking for a guy to do that to me again.”
What he says: “I don’t like the bar the scene.”
What he means: “I get drunk a lot and hit on chicks in bars without success.”
What she says: “I need a partner in crime.”
What she means: “I’m a tease.”
Oh and don’t forget about the “angles”. Be wary of the photos that clearly hid one’s true appearance. Shot at obscure angles with over lighting to conceal the fact that he/she weighs 250lbs or has a hunch-back.
Good luck out there.
I have recently been reminded of my penchant for what I call “hyper-anti-climactic jokes”. Before I go into them, be advised, there are only five people on planet Earth who find this even remotely funny. Three of them read this blog and the other two are most likely in China or India. That said, here they are (continue reading at your own risk):
A horse walks into a bar. The bartender asks, “Why the long face?” The horse says, “I’ve had a really bad day.”
So a priest, a rabbi and a politician are on an airplane that’s about to crash. There are only two parachutes. One of them is going to die.
Two cannibals are eating a clown. The first cannibal asks, “Does this taste funny to you?” The second cannibal replies, “Nope, tastes fine to me.”
Hitler dies and meets Saint Peter at the gates of Heaven. He asks Peter, “So, can I get into Heaven?” Peter replies, “No.”
A man walks into a bar. He is an alcoholic who is destroying his family.
“Knock Knock” - “Who’s there?” - “Someone at the door.”
How many goldfish does it take to screw in a light bulb? Goldfish can’t screw in light bulbs.
So a blonde, a brunette and a red-head all jump off of a cliff at the same time. Who will hit the ground first? Answer: Hair color doesn’t impact the speed with which an object falls.
So this family goes to see a talent agent. The agent says, "Okay, tell me about your act." “Well... the grandmother fucks a goat. The mom and dad do it doggy-style in a church pew. There's finger fucking, dildo-licking, group sex, beastiality, and for the finale grampa fucks a dead guy up the ass.” The shocked talent agent says: "What do you call yourselves?” "The Smiths."
I was going to acknowledge those who contributed some of these jokes. Then I thought better of it, assuming they would prefer to remain anonymous.
Well it finally happened. I have given up on humanity. I’m always teetering on the edge of converting all my assets and credit into cash, changing my name to Miguel and going off the grid. But this weekend pushed me more than one step closer to a life of south-of-the-border siestas. At roughly 11:00pm Saturday night my girlfriend and I were at Blockbuster video in St. Paul. We went through all the new releases, took our time and found our selections for the evening. Aside from the annoying people in line ahead of us who didn’t have their membership information, it was a generally typical and not entirely unpleasant experience. I even purchased a bottle of orange soda for the drive home which turned out to be a more important purchase than I could have imagined.
