A quick note to email spammers:
How can every college fuck fest be the ultimate college fuck fest? The ultimate? Are you sure that’s the word you’re looking for? C'mon, spam email, they can't all be the ultimate college fuck fest.
Sure, one of them is indeed the ultimate college fuck fest. I admit it's out there somewhere. But, technically, the next one down the line would be the penultimate college fuck fest. You see? Penultimate means the thing just below ultimate. There’s only one ultimate college fuck fest. That’s why it’s called the ultimate one.
There’s an order to the world. You can’t just go around jumbling every fuck fest together into one single level of fuck fest.
It goes the ultimate college fuck fest, the penultimate college fuck fest, and so on and so on. Until, finally, you reach the least ultimate college fuck fest. That’s the one with the least collegiate, least festive fucking--a fuck fest that reaches just a bare minimum requirements to still be considered a college fuck fest. Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, it’s an absent-minded hand job at the Kansas City ITT Technical Institute.
Under your rubric, even this half-hearted HJ would count as the ultimate college fuck fest. Do you see how that demeans the quality and vigor of the actual ultimate college fuck fest? Those kids are working hard for that title. They deserve your respect. Don’t belittle their accomplishment.
I know, spammers, that you’ve got a job to do. I understand that it involves a certain amount of hyperbole. But, some sort of standard has to be kept.
If every college fuck fest becomes the ultimate college fuck fest, then no college fuck fest is the ultimate college fuck fest. Think about it.
It's official that on this day, November 29th, my jack-o'-lantern has reached its peak scariness.
I’d hoped it would have attained its peak scariness at Halloween. I mean that's what we all hope for right? But, I've often found that jack-o'-lanterns never become truly, frightfully scary until mid-to-late November. Sometimes even into early December. Definitely past the first frost.
Look at it there, sitting on the front stoop, looming over passers-by. Its eyes, once wide with terror, now drooped into a condescending scowl. Its teeth, so carefully carved to seem haphazardly crooked, now actually haphazardly crooked. Its cheeks, once plump and undefined, now sunken and gaunt. Only now is this jack-o'-lantern truly horrifying.
And, the color. When I first carved it, it was a bright orange. Now, it’s a kind of hazy gray/tangerine. Your eyes can never fully adjust to just what color they’re seeing. Is it matte? Is shiny? Parts of it seems translucent. Whatever it is, it feels unnatural. Or, is it too natural? Is this an unnerving glimpse into the viscera of nature, itself?
What do we see when we look into an early-winter jack-o’-lantern? Behind its unsymmetrical face, with its hints of Bell’s palsy. Behind the shadows of limp, stringy flesh dangling from its cavities. Behind the mold spread across its once-pristine surface. Do we see our own slow death? Is it simply the fear of decay?
Or, is it the fear of being forgotten—left past one’s usefulness on a porch or a concrete windowsill? Is it the dread of existing beyond our utility? What is there for us beyond our allotted time? Slow nothingness?
Whatever it is, it’s fucking scary. That is the scariest fucking jack-o’-lantern I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine it getting anymore goddamn scary. Seriously, I can’t.
I think this is its peak scariness. Thank God.
Oops, I think I got caught up in the spastic rush of Black Friday shopping today. I worry I may have bought a blue, plaid shirt that I already own. So, I decided to keep this handy list on my phone of all the blue, plaid shirts in my possession. Just so that I don't make the same mistake again.
- Blue. Plaid. Bits of brown. Short sleeves. The Gap.
- Blue. Plaid. Accents of red and light blue. Long sleeves. Banana Republic Outlet.
- Blue. Plaid. Alternating light blue and white. Long sleeves. Chili stain on right chest pocket. H&M.
- Blue. Plaid. Green lines. Cowboy cut. Collar sits a little high. Accents my man boobs and love handles. Rides up in the back. (Remember to donate this one to Goodwill.) The Gap.
- Blue. Plaid. Mother of pearl buttons. Witnessed a murder while wearing this shirt. Dry clean only. The Gap.
- Blue. Plaid. Flannel. Bits of green and yellow. Actually a plaid picnic blanket that I wrap around my torso and tuck into my pants on laundry day. Land's End.
- Blue. Plaid. Linen. Accents of dark blue. Lent to girl I had a crush on in high school. Never washed since. Still smells slightly of her, though mostly masked by mildew at this point. Unknown store.
- Blue. Plaid. Oversized from when I weighed 300 lbs. Shot that before-and-after weight loss commercial with it. Got paid in weight loss supplement that gave me arrhythmia. Sued. Won settlement of more weight loss supplement. Found out my class action lawyer was bribed by the defense. Chased him to Cancun after he fled the country. Wrote a mystery novel detailing it all. Still waiting on the galley copy. Land's End.
- Blue. Plaid. Breast pocket always seems to have a movie stub in it. Macy's.
- Blue. Plaid. Flecks of purple. Short sleeve. Has the words "R.I.P. Tupac" embroidered in script across the back.
- Blue. Plaid. Accents of red and light blue. Long sleeves. Banana Republic Outlet. (Now own two of these.)
Tonight, after a long Thanksgiving with my relatives, I'm full of turkey and passive-aggressive tension. Both are tiring. So, instead of my usual bit of wordy, pedantic nonsense, I thought I'd share a true story. It's about my parents' first Thanksgiving:
My father and mother started dating while she was in grad school and he was working at the phone company to save up for law school.
The first time my grandparents met him, it was at his black-satin-sheeted bachelor pad. (He had picked up some European flair while serving in Italy in the navy.) I guess it wasn't the best first impression. Especially because my grandfather was an imposing figure--the head of surgery at the Cleveland Clinic.
So, my dad was trying very hard to make a better second impression when my mom dragged him to Thanksgiving in Cleveland that year.
He bought a couple of roasted chickens in preparation for the trip, and he practiced carving them until he had it down to a science. When the big day arrived, he graciously offered to carve the turkey.
Swip, swip, swip. He honed the knife against the sharpening steel, and with a grand flourish, he sliced into the turkey. White meat, dark meat--it was as effortless and beautiful as a magician fanning a deck of cards. The turkey simply unfolded before the family at the table.
With a cocky grin, my dad looked up at his future father-in-law and said, "Well, Doctor, how's that for a handsome bit of surgery?"
"Nice job, hot shot," replied my grandfather. "Now let's see you put it back together."
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.
The following is a list of things I'm thankful for on this thanks-based holiday:
- My health, which is moderate to high moderate.
- My hammock. I would have listed this first, but I didn't want to jinx my health.
- My day job. Much better than my old day job of being unemployed and catching the second half of Miss Congeniality 2 on USA every couple of weeks.
- Mife, which is short for "my wife." (I'm also thankful for my amazing abbreviation skills. Myzingabbills, if you will.)
- New batteries for my beard trimmer. I now look up to 20% less werewolfy.
- The non-racist branch of my family.
- The five dollar bill I just found in this turkey costume I haven't worn since last year.
- The Internet and it's amazing spellcheck capabilities.
- All my expensive birthday gifts. The inexpensive, yet thoughtful gifts are okay, too, I guess.
- My eyeballs. They needed reading glasses just in time to make me look even more pensively handsome.
- That part in Van Morrison's Sweet Thing where the violins go "doo do do do do doo dooo."
- My ability to laugh at myself. Or, more specifically, my ability to laugh at the thing I just wrote and then ask mife (my wife) if she's read it yet.
- Netflix Streaming's you-might-like suggestions. Quirky foreign sex comedies? Don't mind if I do!
- Jack Handey.
- My annual stop at Wendy's during my Thanksgiving road trip to Cleveland. Oh, number seven with frosty, absence has made my heart grow so fond.
- My blog readers. The both of you.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. The way to his stomach is through his mouth. And, the way to his mouth is through his lips, teeth and gums. Is this getting too complicated? Here, I’ll give you the directions to a man’s heart on step at a time.
Alright, from where you are, you’re going to want to face the man whose heart you want to reach. Approach said man and politely ask him to open his mouth. After he does so, crawl inside.
Keep your hands out in front of you to push the tongue out of the way. Get a good foothold on the teeth. You’re going to need a strong kickoff to make it down past the epiglottis--his gag reflex will be fighting you the whole way.
At the fork, make sure to take the esophagus. Do not take the larynx! If you take the larynx, you’re going to get all turned around in the lungs. The bronchioli are just a series of dead ends. And, all of them look the same. You’ll swear you’re going around in circles.
Slide down the esophagus to the gastroesophageal junction. (The sign might say GE junction. Don’t worry; it’s the same thing.) Pass on through. Congratulations! You’ve just entered the stomach, or as the brochures call it, “The Gateway to the Heart.”
Somewhere around the duodenum is where the trip gets uncomfortable—a lot of pancreatic enzymes and bile and such. If you can, skip all that and enter the bloodstream through an ulcer.
Then, it’s just a matter of finding a vein and following it to the end of the line. All veins eventually lead to the heart. I mean, I guess I could give you the step-by-step of travelling though the venous system, but you’ve made it this far. I have faith you can find the heart from here.
So, that’s it. Follow these simple step-by-step instructions, and you’ll make it to your man’s heart.
It’s only once you’re inside his heart, though, that things get complicated. What with his love of audiovisual gadgets and his feelings for his long-suffering mother making it pretty crowded in there. Good luck with all that.
If I have one birthday wish today, it is that I get a thousand birthday wishes. I learned my mistake last time. Alright, so now I have a thousand birthday wishes. Let’s dig in.
First, I wish for world peace … BUT, only if these wishes on non-monkey paw wishes. If these wishes are monkey paw-based, I do not wish for anything. Every time you wish off a monkey paw, shit goes way wrong. If I monkey paw wished for world peace, everyone would just die or something, and I’d be left with broken glasses at the library. I know your tricks, monkey paw!
Second, (and from here on out, I’m assuming there are no monkey paws involved) I’d wish from a bigger apartment to hold all the the stuff I’m about to wish for. I haven’t made up my mind as to whether or not I’m gonna wish for a pet tiger, but if I do, I’ll need more space.
My third wish is that I have a tamed pet tiger wearing a special saddle. (I made up my mind about the tiger thing, by the way.) He’d have to be big enough to hold my weight, because I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think I should wish to be thinner. It’s important to have goals, even when you have wishes available. And, one of my goals is to trim up so that I look better riding around on my pet tiger.
My four wish is that my tiger won’t ever bite or maul me. I know we’re not dealing with monkey paw wishes at this point, so the tiger wouldn’t necessarily turn out evil. But, at the same time, I think even a non-evil tiger probably does its fair share of mauling. That’s pretty much the whole reason I want a pet tiger—to ride it around mauling people.
My fifth wish is that we bump the number of wishes down to a hundred or so. Because I’m already running out of ideas, and a thousand wishes just seems like a burden at this point.
My sixth wish is for a refreshing glass of ice tea. There’s ice tea in the fridge if that makes it easier. Could that one count as half a wish, since I already told you where the ice tea is? It’s not like you have to magically make it appear out of nowhere. How ‘bout this? How ‘bout we split the difference and say that it’s two-thirds of a wish?
My seventh through fourteenth wishes are for the following movies on Blue-ray:
Where the Wild Things Are, Stop Making Sense, Ghostbusters, Fantastic Mr. Fox, Mad Men: Seasons One and Two, and Coraline.
My fifteenth wish is for a ten minute break to think up some more wishes.
Before that, though, my sixteenth wish is for a plush tiger bed for my incoming pet tiger. Like, the very finest, plushest tiger bed there is. I just want the place to be set up nice before he gets here, because I really want him to like me. Maybe check and see if Hammacher Schlemmer has good tiger beds. Oh man, I hope he or she likes me.
Gosh, this sure is good ice tea.
So, I talked with my nephew, Donny, and I decided that Mitch’s Surplus Medical Supplies needs to get on the Facebook. For too long, we’ve gotten new business based on customer satisfaction, word of mouth, and careful community interaction. But, that’s all the past. The future is the Facebook.
Now, I know a lot of you are saying, “Mitch, why now? Aren’t we doing okay selling reasonably priced surplus medical supplies as is?” Ah ha! See, I caught you! In that hypothetical thought of yours I just spoke aloud, you thought/said the word “okay.” Well, we should be doing better than okay; we should be doing the Facebook numbers. I don’t know exactly what those numbers are, but I assume they’re huge.
I mean, everywhere you turn, it’s the Facebook this and the Twitter that. Somebody’s making a load of money off this stuff, and I think it should be us. So, here’s what we do:
Step 1 – We get on the Facebook. That means setting up a password that we can all remember. I suggest the word “compression,” because the computer is right near the compression hosiery.
Step 2 – We make a page where people can talk about how much they enjoy Mitch’s Surplus Medical Supplies.
Step 3 – We see what happens.
Step 4 - Maybe our “fans” start sharing photos of their purchases in use. They can post personal stories of surplus medical supplies they’ve enjoyed. I don’t know what these people do on the Facebook. But, it must be goddamn fascinating, I’ll tell you that.
Step 4 – Ask around as to how people monetize all this stuff. I’m sure somebody’s figured it out.
Step 5 – Lean back and let the Facebook money roll in.
I haven’t crunched the numbers yet, but this seems like a pretty intuitive plan. Let’s cancel all our existing marketing and move over to the Facebook. Donny said he could make us up a Facebook website with the Twittering and the like.
Maybe we throw in a deal that if people make their own Facebooks of our surplus medical supplies, they can get a ten percent discount on their next purchase of a wound care product.
Somebody get on that. I gotta go clean up a spill in the hernia cushion aisle.