Wait For It… a blog by Andy Ross

Baby Bird

Posted on July 30, 2010

When I first found this baby bird, it was lying on the ground with a broken wing. Now, after four weeks of care and shelter and hand feeding, it’s ready to fly away on its own. And I can’t believe how ungrateful it is!

Seriously, not one thank you. Never a single word of gratitude or any small acknowledgment of all the hard work I put in. Without me, that stupid little shit would still be fluttering around at the base of that tree. No, worse; it’d be in the belly of some tabby.

All the time and energy to help this songbird heal—it all went unappreciated. I made a newspaper nest; I crafted a splint out of index cards and bendy straws; I even mashed up worms from my flowerbox. You know what I got back? Nothing. All I got was a view of some tail feathers flying away.

Goddamnit, you put yourself out there. You care for someone. It never comes back. I beginning to think this whole idea of reciprocity just doesn’t exist. I mean, it’s not like I was looking for a hand-written notes or a muffin basket. It’s a bird.

But, just a nod. Maybe a tip of its bird head. Something to show that it understood how much work I did. Nope. Nothing.

Wait, what’s this? He’s flying back to me! My little bird is coming back to say thank you! Come back to me, Bird! Come back. I forgive you.

Oh, never mind, it’s just a crow. You fooled me again, Songbird. You fooled me again. Jerk.


This Bank Robbery

Posted on July 27, 2010

Guys, this is going to be the best bank robbery ever! Are you psyched? I’m psyched!

Eddie, Turk, One-Eyed-Pete, Jerry—c’mon you guys, this is exciting! Don’t look so serious. I didn’t get into robbing banks to hang around a bunch of Gloomy Gusses. This is supposed to be about getting out, having fun, and holding people at gunpoint.

Seriously, you all need to lighten up. Where’s the joy we had casing this place? Remember how much fun it was bribing a city clerk for these blueprints? Or, when we stayed up all night trying on masks? I want to recapture that feeling for today’s robbery.

We’ve got walkie-talkies for cripe’s sake! You can’t be a grump with a walkie-talkie. And AK-47s! Hey, look at me, I’m Die Hard. Oh my god! I just realized; we’re totally the bad guys from Die Hard. How awesome is that?!

Turk, look at your face. You look like you’re in line at the DMV. Where’s the Turk from last week—the guy who seduced a teller to find out where they keep the dye packs? That Turk knew how to party.

I mean it; this bank heist is going to be a blast. Get it? A blast? Because of the C4. Aha, there’s a smile! There’s a smile out of Jerry. Check out Jerry, everybody. He’s getting into it.

Now, before we leave this hideout, I want some enthusiasm. I want some excitement. And, I want a big group high five. And remember, if the bank guard even blinks, shoot him in the fucking head.


This Pigeon

Posted on July 20, 2010

Oh geez! Why didn’t somebody tell me I had a live pigeon tangled in my hair? Gross! How long has it been in there? All lunch? Are you guys serious?!

I can’t believe you let me sit here with a pigeon stuck in my hair this whole time. I’ve been totally wondering what that flapping and clawing sensation was. I just assumed I was under the AC vent. Has a pigeon seriously been in my hair this entire meal?

When did you first see it? Was it there when I got to the restaurant? Shit, it was? Ugh, that’s so embarrassing. I’ve probably had this thing trapped in my hair since I walked through a flock of them earlier.

Oh my god! I just realized—my job interview this morning! No wonder that guy was looking at me so weird. I thought I’d messed something up on my resumé. No, it was that he was watching an adult pigeon struggling to free itself from my scalp. That must be why he told me “good luck out there.” He meant with the pigeon.

Dammit, and I was flirting with that girl on the bus. Like she’d even be interested in a guy with a garbage-eating bird stuck in his hair. Not likely. I bet the phone number she gave me isn’t even real.

Can someone please help me get this pigeon out? Which side is it on? I wish this place had a mirror.

There, did I get it? No? Shit, you’ve gotta be kidding me. How ‘bout now? Still there? Dammit.

What gets live pigeon out of your hair? Peanut butter, maybe?  No, that’s for gum. Never mind, I’ll just go home and shower. Maybe that’ll loosen things up, and it’ll fly away on its own.

Thanks a lot. You guys have been a real big help. I’m being sarcastic, in case you didn’t notice. See if I tell you next time you have a pigeon or an owl or something tangled up in your hair.


Your Eyes Are Like…

Posted on July 16, 2010

Your eyes are like deep azure pools reflecting a thousand, glittering fireflies. Your lips are like delicate rose petals, damp from the morning dew. Your hair is like if spaghetti and a spider web had a baby—in a good way—long like spaghetti but soft like a cobweb. So, like silk, I guess.

Your back is like a rolling sand dune made out of marshmallow fluff. Your neck is long and sexy, like a sexy swan neck. But, not that long, because a swan neck would be too long for a lady.

Your arms are like a sculpture—a sculpture of beautiful arms. Your teeth are very much like ivory. Your breasts are like … uh, like … what was I talking about? I’m sorry, I got distracted thinking about your breasts. Oh yeah, I was saying what your stuff is like.

Your hands are like delicate, wooden puppet hands. Your nose is like a tiny ski jump. Your butt is like a goddamn miracle.

Your knees—I could give or take your knees. There’s nothing wrong with them. I’m just not a knee guy. Never really had a thing for knees. But, going back to your butt for a second, it’s just amazing. Really, congrats.

Your feet are like—

Oh, this is your train stop? You’re getting off? Well, it was nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your commute. Bye.


Axe Murderer

Posted on July 7, 2010

Axe murderer is such a weighted term. I mean, yes, when I murder, it tends to be with an axe. But, is that all that defines me? No. I’m much more than that.

I enjoy playing the piano and cooking. I dabble in watercolors. I collect pottery and German medical books and human thumbs.

When people hear the term “axe murderer,” they think of some seven-foot-tall hairy mute, hitchhiking along a desert highway. That hasn’t been me for years. In fact, the more I murder, the chattier I get. Why, that nice newlywed couple I killed last week—I practically talked their delicious ears off.

If I killed people with a gun, would I be called a “gun murderer?” But, you kill one guy with an axe and the media brands you for life. (Alright, it wasn’t just one. But, c’mon!) If I had known people would be so narrow-minded about my work, I would never have sent the newspaper those doll heads.

It’s gotten me thinking; maybe I should try new tools for killing. I’ve always been interested in mining equipment. But, then I think, “Whoa. Who are these people to tell me how to murder? That’s my dog’s job.”


Competitive Napkin Folding

Posted on July 6, 2010

This is an official announcement: I, Andy Ross, am returning to the world of competitive napkin folding.

Many of my fans may be shocked by this. When I retired from competition, I vowed never to return to professional napkin folding. At the time those were my intentions. But, times have changed.

There are still the same problems I spoke out against inside the World Napkin Folding Federation—rampant commercialism, lack of standardized linen thread count, little to no safety oversight. But, today this grand sport faces a bigger danger. That danger’s name is Freddy “Creaser” Plimpton.

We’ve all seen his smug face on the jumbo screen. We’ve watched him prancing around onstage, showboating. Tell me, is a bright red cloth napkin appropriate for a family-friendly competition? Freddy Plimpton seems to think so.

The hubris this man displays—it’s like something out of Sophocles. Not only does he pimp his line of “Creaser Brand Napkin Rings” in clear violation of WNFF sponsorship guidelines, but he dares use the WNFF logo on the packaging. That logo used to mean something noble and pure. I believe it still can.

Who is this “Creaser” Plimpton, anyway? Just some schmuck with a few swans and a napkin crown under his belt. Would he even recognize the great napkin folders of yore? Gus Hedge? Nellie Dinkels? Lon McSundry? These were professional napkinners of honor. These were gladiators.

When I was four years old, I saw Gus Hedge fold a standard white table napkin into a koala climbing a eucalyptus tree. He took one corner, wiggled it, and the koala waved. That’s when I knew this was the life for me. Freddie Plimpton wouldn’t know a koala if it fell in his lap, light-headed from the low nutritional value of eucalyptus.

So, I’ve decided leave behind my inspiration speaking tours and my series of napkin-folding mystery novels and return to professional napkin folding. “Creasor” Plimpton had better watch his back, because I haven’t spent these last five years simply resting on my laurels. I’ve been developing entirely new categories of napkin folds.

Next month, you can come watch me at the regional qualifier at the Red Roof Inn in Paramus. I’ll be in Conference Room B putting the finishing touches on my new masterpiece. Prepare yourself for ... The Linen Phoenix.


Health Class

Posted on July 2, 2010

Listen up, class. I know this might be uncomfortable, especially because you’re normally split up between boys and girls gym. But, we’ve brought you together, because health is an important conversation. And, I don’t want you to think of me as Mrs. Archer today; I want you to think of me as Joan.

Now, we’ve all noticed our bodies. By hands, who’s noticed their bodies? Okay, there should be more hands than that. You must have noticed you bodies. They’re those squishy parts underneath your heads. And, that’s what I want to talk to you about--your burgeoning … squishiness.

Girls, I know you all want to dress sexy, like that Katy Perry, but just know that putting yourself on display is a slippery slope. Your bodies are for running and jumping and such. They are not for the boys to objectify.

I understand there’s pressure. In a few years, you’ll go on spring break, and there’ll be thong dancing contests or what have you. Well, you might think that’s okay. But, then it’s wet t-shirts or eating a banana covered in whip cream. And, the next thing you know, you’re in some back room in Tijuana turning a flashlight on without using your hands.

Now, you boys may think you’re in for some great show. But, you be careful, too. Because, you look at these girls with navel rings, and you watch these webcams and everything’s exciting. But, soon, that’s not taboo enough to get you revved up. One minute it’s strip clubs, the next it’s hard core MILF porn. And, before you know it you won’t be able to get an erection without sticking your hand in a bowl of lukewarm macaroni while your wife hums the William Tell Overture. But, don’t think she’ll stick around for that, because teaching gym pays plenty well enough to afford an apartment.

Okay, to sum up: our bodies are a temple, and that temple should be hidden away underground until some brave archeologist--consensually and in college--unearths it slowly with shovels and then those little paint brushes.

Class dismissed.


My Fan Club President

Posted on June 30, 2010

Alright, as the incoming president of my fan club, you’re gonna have many more responsibilities than a regular fan. I want to make sure you can handle it. Unlike the last president.

First off, you’re in charge of the convention planning committee. That covers everything from final say on the venue city to pricing out life-size Andy Ross ice sculptures.

Second, you’ll need to monitor the fan sites. And not just the official ones. Stay constantly active in the chatrooms, even those in other time zones. Please make sure no one has too old a photo of me as their avatar.

I’ll be relying on you to ghost write my next memoir. The previous president just strung together a bunch of my tweets. In this one, I want something new. Maybe say I once fought a lion or something.

Oh, and you need to check my fan mail for stalkers. If someone sends in a portrait of me, that’s fine. If it contains any human tissue, that’s a red flag. Also, only pass along the female underwear.

The archives are your responsibility too. It’s mostly ephemera, so wear acid-free gloves.

You’re welcome to sign any headshots to send out, but I did buy a machine for that. It holds ten Sharpies at once. It’d be a shame to waste it.

Ummm … starlets. There’ll be a lot of starlets coming in and out in the mornings. So try to familiarize yourself with their names. Especially, because I might need help remembering.

What else? What else? Oh yeah, please don’t hide underneath my bed to listen to me sleep. Your predecessor was terrible about that.

That’s it really. I’m so excited you won the election for fan club president. I know it was a tough race, especially because the incumbent tried to murder you. But, I really think the t-shirts you silkscreened made a big difference in the campaign. Kudos for that.

Before you ask any questions about day-to-day, can you run out and get me some Perrier? Thanks a bunch.


German Club

Posted on June 29, 2010

I thought I dust off this old video, since it's one of my favorites, and it hasn't made it to the blog yet. Directed by Steve Delahoyde.


Skydiving Questions

Posted on June 28, 2010

Excuse me, Mr. Skydiving Instructor? Tad, was it? I don’t want to be a bother, but I have a quick question or two before we take off.

Okay, I think I’ve got my tuck and roll ready for the landing. And, I’ve checked and re-checked that my chute is packed properly. Then, I went ahead and re-re-checked, just in case. But, after this two-hour skydivng lesson, I did want to ask a few things before we leap out of a moving airplane.

Like, when you said that some people pass out when they jump, but they usually wake up in time to pull their rip cord. You wouldn’t have any percentages on that “usually,” would you? And, is there a way to avoid that altogether?

Also, is that the plane we going to fly up in? Because, it looks very old and sad. Like it might still remember some of its old WWII missions. If that plane started to crash, would we have time to jump out with our parachutes?

Are these straps supposed to dig so hard in my crotch area? Because, one of my … guys … is ascending, and I’m feeling a little queasy. But, if it’s a safety thing, I’m fine with it.

Um, and why is “Live Every Day Like It’s Your Last” the motto for your skydiving school? Is that supposed to be ironic? Or tempting fate? Or are you guys dumb, maybe?

Finally—and I’m going to open this one up to the whole class—why are we doing this? I mean, I know that for me, I lost a bet, and it was either this or have a swear word tattooed on my neck. But, if I didn’t have to do this, I wouldn’t. Because, I have a family that loves me, and I understand that my actions have consequences that affect those around me.

So, I guess my final question is: Does anyone have any weed or a Valium I could borrow? Or three Valium, maybe? That’d be a big help. Thanks.

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