Stuck inside on a rainy day? Here are a few suggestions to keep you busy/sane:
- Update the first half of your contacts list on your phone before giving up.
- Do some meal planning. It should all be salads, but that would make you kill yourself, right?
- Make a fort out of blankets, cushions, broomsticks, a mini trampoline tipped on its side, a cardboard box with spaceship controls drawn on it, a beanbag chair, a couple of dirty magazines, that old Tilt-A-Whirl car in the living room, and clothespins.
- For a craft project, you’ll need a paper towel tube and a pair of scissors. Cut the paper towel tube into thirds. Done! Now you've got homemade toilet paper tubes.
- Break out any puzzles or board games you haven’t played in awhile. There might be pot hidden in one of the boxes. That’s just a guess.
- Bake cookies. Unless you are missing one ingredient. If so, try not to think about the delicious, delicious cookies you could have been making right now.
- Watch the movie War Games and try to mentally count the number of times you’ve watched War Games on a rainy day. Catching the last forty minutes on AMC counts as a half point.
- Second nap.
- Take a bath. (Make it one of those sexy baths with candles and rose petals and some soft R&B music playing from the other room.) Gently cry it out.
- Tie up your recycling. Set aside that unread Newsweek with the cover story about Afghanistan, which you will set aside again the next time you tie up the recycling.
- Put together a scrapbook that indexes all your other scrapbooks. Trying to remember which scrapbook has your trip to see Mama Mia? It’s cross-referenced under M for Musicals and A for your Aunt Gladys.
Wanted: One Jug Player. Professionalism and 3+ years experience required.
Up-and-coming jamboree band recently lost its jug player to a rival jug band. (If you’re reading this, Willy, we hope you enjoy your new “friends.”) Looking for an experienced, reliable jug player with own jug and van.
Must be career-driven and willing to put the band first. This is not a position for a jug player who might bail for a less motivated jamboree band just because he had a kid.
Must be familiar with the following songs:
- Swamp Brush Stomp
- Uncle Gomer’s Gone Missin’
- Dirt Porch Two Step
- My Straw Hat
- Space Oddity
- Possum Go Home
Again, looking for someone interested in taking their jug playing to the next level. Goal is to be signed by a major label within the next six months, and everyone needs to put in their share of the legwork—flyering, mending overalls, out of town gigs. Ability to sit in on spoons and/or washboard a bonus, but not required. Also, HTML skills a big plus.
If interested, please contact “Slim” and provide a phone number and available dates for a possible test hoedown.
When I say that I’m the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer, I hope that doesn’t come across as cocky or vain. I am simply stating a fact, like “the sky is blue” or “towels are for drying things.” I am the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer. Fact. Period. Done. Fact.
It’s not an insult to anyone else’s dancing. It’s not a challenge. Believe me, it’s not a challenge. It’s just something I’ve come to accept about myself, and something I’m finally starting to embrace.
I don’t know how it happened. It’s not like I dreamed as a young boy of becoming the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer. I never trained for it or took lessons. I just sorta fell into it. I guess it was that perfect mix of natural talent and luck. The opportunity (read: weddings) presented itself, and I rose (read: pop and locked) to the occasion.
Part of it is that I don’t just move to the music; I become the music. Earth Wind & Fire, Prince, Sister Sledge—the rhythm enters me through my chest and streams out through my limbs. It’s as though my body becomes a conduit so that the beat can gain physical form. Sometimes I feel like the music takes over, and I watch myself from the outside as I shake my hips. What I see looks good.
It’s not just all hips with me, either. As the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer, I am not afraid to throw my hands up in the air if the situation calls for it, which it always does.
Listen, I don’t go into a wedding reception to intentionally outshine the bride. Strike that. I guess I do. But, there’s nothing malicious about it. In fact, I believe I’m helping the bride by making her wedding the most memorable day possible. Without me and my World’s Greatest Dancing, it’s not really a reception; it’s just some sad get-together after the ceremony.
As the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer, I go to a wedding with one goal in mind—to have every guest there saying, “Who is that amazing dancer? No, no, the chubby guy over there spinning and spinning. My god, he’s incredible. And sweaty.” If I hear that, I know I’ve done my job.
Twirling, shimmying, hustling, electric boogalooing, dropping it like it’s hot—as the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer, that is what I bring to the table. That is my gift to the bride and groom. (Sometimes I’ll buy them an ice cream maker, but the real gift is the dancing.) And, it is also my gift to the world.
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Dear Perfect Pushup Manufacturer,
I am writing to complain that you have sold a defective product, and I demand my money back.
Seven months ago, walking past a GNC store, I saw your exercise device—The Perfect Pushup—and I purchased said device. This morning, when I finally opened the box and attempted one of these so-called “perfect pushups,” I found it incredibly difficult impossible. How, in good conscience, can you sell an exercise product too difficult to use by those most in need of exercise?
The Perfect Pushup is simply unworkable. I have tried everything in the last fifteen minutes—using both hands, girl pushups, taking frequent breaks—and none of it has made your product easy or effortless. I am still grossly overweight.
I called GNC to exchange the defective merchandise, but they refuse to accept any return now covered in cat hair and bits of cereal. Therefore, I am emailing you directly.
I insist on a refund of the full purchase price of $39.99 for the Perfect Pushup, which I assure you I paid, not the sale price of $14.99 listed on my receipt. Also, an apology for wasting my morning. If I do not hear back from you within ten business days, I will be seeking legal counsel from my downstairs neighbor, Larry.
Alright then, a bit about little ol' me.
[Text of the above audio. Best read in a deep, Southern Gentleman accent.]
Now, I’m just an old-time southern lawyer. I don’t cotton much to the fancy things in life. If I had my way, I’d spend my days sittin’ on an old porch swing, sippin’ on a nice, cool ginger beer or lemonade, watchin’ the moss grow on Miss Bessie’s willow trees and reminiscin’ on a nice game of golf I saw when I was a young boy.
Maybe run my thumbs under my suspenders—a new maroon pair every Christmas from my wife, Adelaide—and ponder a life lesson or two imparted onto me by a mystical colored fella I met after the war. Sit there hearin’ his soothin’ voice in my head replayin’ gentle words of wisdom about takin’ it easy and enjoyin’ life as it comes along.
Instead, I’m here in my offices, tryin’ to sync my Blackberry calendar to my Google calendar. But, our IT manager has uploaded a new Linux-based OS to our client server, which he claimed would ease some of the bounce back we were getting’ durin’ our batch processin’ of large data dumps for our class action clients.
Every time I boot up the shared drive, I’m gettin’ these Windows registry errors, and I tried to log in as the network administrator and look at some of the lines of code to see if I could recognize any common glitches in the information architecture. But, it seems to be havin’ problems authenticatin’ passwords, so I’ll just ask my assistant, Jeffrey, to do it when I return home from my trip to Dubai on Wednesday.
Okay, first, I think your script is terrific. Thank you so much for asking my opinions on it. For the most part, I think everything is in place, but I do have a few ideas. So here goes:
- I think the opening scenes are nice—very visual, snappy dialogue—but, the screenplay really starts rolling on page 78 with the dining hall scene. So, I think you should just start there and cut everything up to page 77.
- I like your sense of place in the script. You paint a very good picture of a claustrophobic space station. It gave me chills.
- I like the character of you. I know you named her Jessica Striker, but it’s pretty much your personality in an astronaut’s body. And, I think that’s great. It’s good to have a hero with flaws.
- One thing I didn’t like was the villain. He seemed a bit too monstrous and cruel. The audience needs a credible bad guy, so that the danger feels real. Also, I don’t know why he wears my brown sweatshirt and has my beard. How is that appropriate in space?
- (By the way, you left your lap desk and a couple skirts behind at the apartment. I’ll be away at 1pm on Thursday if you want to get them. You can leave your key on the kitchen table.)
- I thought your ending was really cute. It showed a fresh innocence about how the world works. I’m sure a lot of little girls out there will really connect with the idea that one character can be completely wrong and the other completely right.
- When the heroine finds a great new boyfriend, you fail to address how he’ll react to the heroine being a lying skank.
- On page 112, when you have the heroine disintegrate the villain with her space laser, maybe you could have her slowly crush him with her nagging instead.
Other than those notes, I think your script is in really good shape. You might want to run spellcheck in a few places, but nothing big. Oh, and I don’t think it’s customary to have casting suggestions at the front, so you might want to cut that. Also, Cameron Diaz? Really? Are you sure you don’t mean someone fatter?
[Author's note: Blog readers, it's probably confusing that I talk about my wife in one post and then about having an imaginary girlfriend/breakup in the next. There's a simple answer. Laziness.]
Inside every soap bubble, there is an entire rainbow. And, at the end of every rainbow, there is a pot of gold.
And, in every pot of gold there is one Canadian penny. And, on every Canadian penny there is a maple leaf. And, within every maple leaf, there is a million years of evolution.
And, in a million years, there has never been anyone who enjoyed Cool Ranch Doritos as much as me. And, in every serving of Cool Ranch Doritos, there is 4% of your recommended daily fiber. And, in every fiber of her being, my wife hates the smell of Doritos on my breath.
And, in every breath, there is life. And, in every life, some rain must fall. And, every fall, we carve pumpkins. And, inside every pumpkin, there are seeds for more pumpkins. Which I always pretend are the pumpkin’s brains.
It really makes you think.
Alright, calm down. It’s gonna be okay. I know you’re scared, but you can do this. We can do this. I promise. We’re going to have to deliver your baby inside this elevator.
No no no, I understand. You’re upset. You wanted to have your baby in a hospital or maybe at home like a hippie. But, we’re trapped inside this stalled elevator, and your baby says it’s time to come out. So, I’m going to need you to breathe, and when I say so, I want you to push as hard as you can.
Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t fight it. It’s Mother Nature. Women have been having babies for centuries. Maybe longer. Just go with your instincts. Now, I don’t have any towels or boiling water with me, but I do have this suede jacket a bottle of Aquafina—
What? You’re not in labor? But, you’re sweating and breathing so hard. Yeah, I guess you were running to make the elevator before the doors closed. That would explain it.
Wait a minute, you are pregnant though, right? Good! Phew! Good, ‘cause if you weren’t nine months pregnant, this would have been way more embarrassing. Two months? Oh. Well, congratulations on twins. No? Just a big lady. Okay.
Wow, I hope they get this elevator moving soon …
Sorry I didn’t hear you earlier when you asked me to hold the doors. iPod …
Have you thought about any names? Right, I’ll be quiet.
I’ve called this press conference today to state definitively that I, Andy Ross comedy writer, am not on steroids. I have not now, nor have I ever taken steroids. Despite all evidence pointing towards me being on steroids.
First off, my testicles have always been this small. My mother says that small testicles run in our family. But, she did let me spend all day, every day on a rocking horse until I was 10. There might be something there.
Secondly, the hair growth in odd patches in odd places. That one’s weird. I admit that. But, my hope is that hair growth is simply part of the aging process, and I am plucking wherever I can reach.
Thirdly, I admit to a disturbing increase in forehead acne, which points towards steroid abuse. However, this one has a straightforward explanation. I recently found that unsalted butter is the only thing that makes my bangs stand up the way I like. There’s nothing more to it that plain ol’ butter bangs.
Finally, the fits of seeming "roid rage." Okay, I know that I got pretty upset earlier, but it’s just that I couldn’t find any postage stamps in the apartment. Even though I just bought a whole entire goddamn package of stamps last FUCKING TUESDAY! AND, THERE’S NO GODDAMN WAY WE COULD HAVE USED THAT MANY STAMPS BY NOW! … Sorry. I’m sorry. Pardon the, uh, outburst. I just— this stamp thing is one of my buttons, y’know?
So, in conclusion, I swear to you in the press and to my fans that I am not now, nor have I ever been under the effect of steroids. The added body mass is just because we got an ice cream maker for Christmas. I will not be taking any questions. Thank you, and God bless America.