Left-Handedness
I know it's fashionable today to say that left-handedness is an equally valid lifestyle, that people are somehow born left-handed. But, let me make one thing clear---left-handedness is a choice, pure and simple.
Or, should I say impure and simple. [See what I did there? I used clever wordplay. Did you catch that?]
"But, who would choose such a depraved life?" you might ask, and probably are asking right now. Thank you for asking. Goofballs and nogoodniks is your answer. Goofballs and nogoodniks.
"Oooh, look at me. I get flummoxed by scissors. When I use a pencil, it looks like I'm protecting my lunch tray in a prison cafeteria." Shut up, lefty. I happen to have been to prison several times for check kiting, and that’s not at all what eating in prison looks like.
God, don’t you hate how left-handed people think they know everything about prison? It makes me so mad, I just want to titty-twister somebody.
Listen … listen ... listen to me, I am no blind bigot. A bigot is somebody who secretly wishes he were left-handed. And, I do not. Not never ever. Why would I want to be left-handed? So the cool kids would think I’m cool and let me into their cool leftish clubs? Gross.
So what if I can only climax using my left hand? That doesn’t mean nothin'.
Left-handed people are an abomination, impure and simple. [Tee hee, I did it again!] Let me ask you this, if God wanted us to be left-handed, why would he have invented right-handed can openers? Boom. Trump card. I just laid down the ideological trump card on you goofballs.
Some say it’s a matter of public decency, that left-handedness should be kept indoors. I say if you want to be left-handed in the privacy of your own home, that’s also disgusting. Grody, you guys.
I am so grateful that my parents had the foresight to send me to a sleepaway camp where the camp counselors bound my left hand to my leg and made me right-handed. It was totally worth all the confusion and self-hatred. Plus, now I can shoot a bow & arrow with my teeth.
So, I guess what I’m saying is that left-handed nogoodniks are goofballs. Grody, grody goofballs.
Listen up, southpaws. You can keep your screen printing and your Ethiopian food and your cargo vans. Who needs ‘em? Not me! [crying] You hear that, world?! [still crying] I don’t need anybody… I DON’T NEED ANYBODY! [storms out, knocking over gumball machine.]
The Apocalypse
Oh no, it's the Apocalypse already? But, I have so much stuff left on my to-do list!
Shoot! I thought I had more time before the End of Days. Are you kidding? It really snuck up on me. I guess I should have listened to that Bible-thumping Chinese lady on the train. I thought she was talking in metaphors. In metaphors!
Now what am I supposed to do? Do I just rush through writing the ending of my novel and try sending it off to a publisher? They're probably pretty busy clinging to their loved ones and making peace with their god. And, I doubt UPS is on schedule, what with the rivers of fire. Also, I’ve still got no idea how to tie up the bank robbery plot. You can’t rush these things.
I’ll have to put my novel in the "B" priority list. For now.
What has first priority now is … shit, I was never good at this. Should I clean out the fridge before it’s consumed into a chasm of nothingness? It seems like maybe that’d be a waste. On the other hand, I haven’t cleaned it since I moved in …
Ah man! And I totally intended to take that wicker furniture weaving class this summer! I swear I was gonna see it through this time. I’d put it off forever, but now I'd even looked up classes on their website. But, sheesh, now that Armageddon is here, I might never weave my own rattan ottoman.
What have I been doing this whole time leading up to the end of the world? I mean, yes, I made up a to-do list. That was good for me. Normally, I don’t even get that far. But, then we hooked up the Wii, and I bought that book about treehouses … I just thought I’d have more time before the angels of destruction descended upon the lands bearing swords of pestilence and famine.
Stuff like this always pops up when you don’t expect it. There's a lesson about procrastination in here somewhere.
Well, I guess I’ll just bite the bullet and start in on these taxes. Normally, I’d wait until April, but if I don’t do ‘em now, they’ll never get done.
Oscars Speech
A transcript of my acceptance speech from last night’s Oscars:
Oh, wow. Wow, y'know? I just... I mean... I just had no idea I'd be up here accepting this award. I probably should've popped this giant zit on my nose.
First off, I wan to thank my fellow nominees. Sir Ian, Dicky, John, Johnald---I'm humbled to be counted as your peer. (Or now, according to my new pay scale, your better.) Your performances this year really pushed me to campaign so much harder for this award. You guys are badasses, and I [bleep]-ing mean that.
Whoops. I just got bleeped. Hopefully that came across as charming and not crassly self-indulgent.
I want to thank my parents. Where are you, Mom? There she is, sitting in front of Jenny McCarthy. Mom, you gave me so much love and support and the genetic coding that went into this symmetrical face and thick, wavy hair. Not these teeth, though; these are caps.
Also, Mommy, you encouraged me to follow my dreams when that creepy casting director with stubby fingers discovered me on the McDonald's playground.
I'd also like to thank all the people behind the scenes who stuck with me through all my stints in rehab and my petty assault charges. I'm glad I was handsome enough that people still rooted for me. I've always said, Hollywood is a family.
And, to my team---my manager, Sol. My stylist, Reynardo. My dietitian, Rolf. My trainer, Gerhard. My lawyers, Putney Green Freeburg & Putney. My full-time make-up artist/mistress, Playmate of the Year Stasha Ivjorinkchvic. Without you, I would never have been able to pretend a giant CGI turtle taught me to be a better father.
And finally, thank you to my director, McG. You steered the ship. Every morning, you kept the technical nerds and sound girls from quitting over my coked-up sexual advances.
And, to my producer Harvey Weinstein---you managed to pay off that one NYPost reporter about that “thingy.” Plus, you had the foresight to cover up the film's breastfeeding mother with an exploding nun, dropping the rating from NC-17 to PG.
Oops, the music’s starting. Well, shut it off. I'm important. I said, shut it off…
Finally finally, I wanna say that this award isn't just about PR and spin. It's about the work. Everyone in this room loves this art of filmmaking. We understand how important it is to still look [bleep]-able while crying. We understand how to remember words for up to three minutes. Or, if we can’t remember whatchamacallits… words… then we can make up even more betterer words.
And, because of our deep love of film, we’ve done horrible, degrading things at the whim of hairy, obese men. We’ve listened to Gwyneth Paltrow talk. We’ve given up solid food and the ability to feel emotion. But, here tonight, with this tiny false idol in my hands, I know it was all worth it.
Thank you to the audience. Thank you, Academy. And, thank you to our thetan overloads.
[End transcript.]
Presidents’ Day
As a former sitting president of the United States, I gotta say that I love Presidents’ Day! It’s my all-time favorite holiday.
Every year, my children wake me up with breakfast in bed. It’s never anything special---just burnt toast and grapefruit juice. You can’t really expect them to be able to cook. They are only state governors, after all.
On the tray, there’s usually a bud vase and a crudely-wrapped gift box. Every year, it’s a new American flag pin. We joke about it being a cliché, but they know I love it.
My wife will get me a nice card from Walgreens and have the whole family sign it. Two years in a row, it’s been the same “World’s Greatest President” card, but I didn’t mention it. Wouldn’t want to embarrass her. I know the choices are pretty slim at Walgreens, especially considering how few living U.S. presidents there are.
After the morning is over, the rest of the day is mine. I don’t have to mow the lawn or give any speeches to the U.N. Conference on Trade and Development.
Instead, I go down to the snack stand near the mini golf place and get my free small dish of frozen custard. I can afford to pay, but I look forward all year for that freebie. It’s the little things.
This year’s Presidents’ Day was especially nice.
My wife, the former first lady, was presenting at a fundraising banquet at night, so I got to stay home to look after the grandkids. We watched It’s Presidents’ Day, Charlie Brown, and I made grilled cheese.
We played board games in the secret bunker underneath my Presidential library. Then, I tucked them into bed and wrote a chapter in my memoir about the different ways we tried to kill Castro. Did you know exploding cigars are a real thing? Crazy stuff.
I honestly can’t wait ‘til next year.
Terrible Music
Hey, I think you'd really like this reggae band I heard. They seem to be right up your alley. In that they're awful.
You know, because you've always been into shitty music. Remember how in high school, you'd play Smashmouth or Reel Big Fish on repeat? And, you'd go to those local "funk" shows, where all the musicians were 24-years-old and white? Like the kind of bands that used to play on the Jenny Jones Show?
Then, later you got into Evanescence and Linkin Park and the more gritty terrible bands. But, like suburban mall gritty. I mean, I've always thought you had really eclectic taste in music, as long as it's terrible.
Well, last night I was out at a sports bar for a bachelor party, and I heard this reggae band. They were amateurish musicians, and their songs were trite and poorly-crafted. I remembered what a huge fan of bad music you are, and I thought of you immediately.
Whenever I stumble across some sad-looking jam band or nu metal [ugh], I always think, "Sam would be super into this. He likes crappy music. He still listens to his old Incubus CDs for Christ's sake."
I know, I know---I'm not always the best at making music suggestions for you. Like, I suggested you might like My Morning Jacket as a good-band alternative to Phish. And, I honestly thought you'd enjoy the energy of The Flaming Lips. But, you said they didn't have enough "character."
What the huh? Well, I've come to understand that for you, "character" means soul patches.
But, hey! Guess what?! This reggae band all had soul patches! And, one of them was wearing a t-shirt with the Family Guy monkey character. That's a thing right? I mean, I know that has nothing to do with their music, but it does give you a sense that they're awful and you might be into them, right?
They were called Jammin' Aright. [Slight gaging.]
Anyway, I bought you one of their CDs, which was embarrassing at the time, because the singer wanted to talk to me about some band called Tuggawar, which I'd never even heard of, but I'm pretty sure must be even more shitty. You should probably check them out too. That's just a guess.
So yeah, enjoy the CD. Please don't play it when I'm around.
One Leg at a Time
I’m just like everyone else. I put my pants on one leg at a time. Same as all of you out there.
Well … um … my butler puts my pants on for me. One leg at a time, though, which is very similar to everyone else. Yessir, every morning at 11 a.m., I awake and have my pants put on---
I’m sorry; I lied. It’s my valet who helps me get into my pants. I don’t know why I said butler. Maybe I was trying to seem more down-to-earth by implying I have only a butler to help me instead of both a butler and a valet.
There’s an important distinction between the two. My butler is in charge of the male household staff, specifically in the dining room and wine cellar. My valet is more of my gentleman’s gentleman. He helps me with shaving and putting on pants and the like.
If my valet is away on holiday, one of my footmen usually helps me put on pants. But, I swear it’s one leg at a time.
Also, technically they aren’t referred to as pants. They’re jodhpurs. You see, I’m going riding later, so my valet is helping me to put on my jodhpurs one leg at a time. Just like everybody.
…
They’re breeches. I’m sorry. They’re not jodhpurs; they’re breeches. Geez, I keep underplaying things. I thought maybe you might not understand the difference between jodhpurs and breeches, which have different lengths and accompanying boot styles. And, I didn’t want to seem pretentious by having to call that out.
I guess it’s because I’m nervous. I want you all to like me even though my life must seem so different than yours. What with the servants and hunting weekends in the country. And the many, many galas.
I swear, though, whatever legs coverings I’m wearing---be it breeches or tuxedo trousers or silken pajamas from the deepest Orient---I have them put on one leg at a time. I promise you that.
Please like me.
Witness Protection
When I entered the Witness Protection Program, I only had a couple---two or three---demands. Nothing big. The first was that my new name be Tad "Ace" McCool, and that I be a professional surfer.
I thought it was a reasonable new identity. My agent guy was a real hardass about it, though. He said I couldn't surf. What, like surfing's not allowed in witness protection?
No, he meant I had never surfed before. I offered up that maybe I could be a semi-retired famous surfer. I could hang around the beach looking regal and tan, and all the surfer girls would whisper and stare at me, longingly.
Agent Bill told me the whole point of witness protection is to be a guy people don't stare at, even surfer girls. So, I started to tear up again and talk about seeing all them murders. That usually works. I just have to be careful not to crack up laughing.
I sniffled and asked if I could at least wear the eye patch. (I came up with this terrific back story where I fought a killer whale, and that's why I retired from surfing.) Agent Bill said no way. That guy's a twerp.
Reasonable idea after reasonable idea---all shot down. Could I be a Navy Seal? No. What about the announcer at a water skiing stunt show? One where they jump off ramps through flaming hoops? No. How about a Cuban drug runner with a huge cigarette boat?
Eventually, I got him to let me be a home aquarium repair specialist in Phoenix. It was the closest I could get. But, I still get to wear board shorts and flip flops to work, which was a big part of it for me. My new name is Arnold Nump.
(Maybe I shouldn't be broadcasting all this. I'll have to ask Agent Bill.)
I did have one last request. I asked that my superpower be flight.
He said we don’t get superpowers in witness protection. What the fuck? What’s the point of having a secret identity then? Jesus … these guys.
Modernist Furniture
I can remember at six-years-old crafting my first piece of modernist furniture. It was a rocking horse made out of Plexiglass and discarded aluminum tubing. The conceit was that it didn't necessarily "rock."
It was as though a firecracker had gone off in the world of modern design. The MoMA called my work "disturbingly present."
Soon, I discovered molded plywood. It felt like finding a magic world all of my own. Within days, I had built a minimalist living room set inspired by soap bubbles. Mies van der Rohe wrote me a fan letter after having seen it in one of Charles and Ray Eames' filmstrips. I was eight at the time.
However, as with many modernist design child stars, fame took hold too quickly and too hard. Julius Shulman's pictures of my work in Observe & Ponder Magazine made me a household name. My fiberglass and resin piece, Slide Redacted, was the original impetus for Herman Miller’s move into playground equipment manufacturing.
I even had my own catchphrase: "Function demands empathy, form demands sacrifice."
Soon, I found myself partying at Philip Johnson's Glass House. Buckminster Fuller was constantly around, tossing Utopia-through-design hippy girls my way. Drugs, fights, shoplifting drafting materials … For my twelfth birthday I rented out Taliesin and burned it to the ground. (I know---again, right?) My tween life was out of control.
I won't lie---that period marked some of my greatest achievements in object design. Probably a subconscious nod to my own life's downward spiral, my Treehouse with Double Helix Fireman’s Pole drew rave reviews, even from the normally staid Austrians. I was a madman, up until well past dawn on amphetamines, sketching end tables and racecar beds.
But, it's always the same story. I burnt out.
At fifteen, I was asked to redesign the lobby of Lincoln Center. I turned in a scribbled crayon sketch of a Labrador Retriever in a riding helmet and jodhpurs. My parents checked me into rehab.
Some new child designer quickly took my place. I wasn’t jealous; I was tired.
Today, I lead a normal life. I have a beautiful wife whom I met in rehab. (She had been a famous abstract expressionist ceremacist at age seven, so we understand each other.) We have a nice little house and two lovely daughters. I teach Sunday school at the Unitarian church.
Every now and then, I’ll design a storage ottoman for Target. Nothing big or flashy. Just something to keep my hand in the game. I danced with the Design Devil and made it out alive. That’s enough for me.
Damn You, Body!
Listen, body, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. But, let me make one thing clear: We are gonna stop being so fat. Starting now.
Hey! Body! I’m talking to you! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me; you’re the one with the ears. I know you can understand me, body. I’m your brain, for cripe’s sake. It’s time to get our ass in shape. Literally.
Don’t you want to be in shape? I would love for us to be in shape. It would make it so much easier on the both of us. For one, you wouldn’t be so winded climbing the stairs. And, I wouldn’t have to feel this constant self-doubt and embarrassment every time our spring wardrobe comes out of storage.
Alright, here’s the plan: 1) You’re going to stop eating so much. 2) You’re gonna exercise. 3) I’ll provide the fantasies about looking good in a European-cut suit.
That’s it. It’s a three-point plan. You execute the first two points, and I’ll try my damndest on the third. I think that sounds like a equitable deal. (Fair warning: I may lapse every now and then by encouraging some late-night, depressive binge eating.)
Hey! Where’d you’d get that Mallomar? Do not eat that Mallomar! I said, do not mmphhh mmmphtt … Oh god, it tastes delicious.
Alright, fine, one Mallomar is fine. That’s fine. But we are going to exercise. Stand up and put on your headband. I know we left that Pilates mat somewhere … No, don’t sit down and turn on E! It’s terrible. We are not watching that horrible, vapid … Ooh, did Kendra get a new house? NOOO! No, we’re exercising.
Wow, she sure did lose that pregnancy weight fast. Good for her.
Alright, maybe just one more Mallomar. It’s so tasty. [crying] Damn you, body. I hate you so much.
New Crutches
Seriously, no one at work is going to ask me about my crutches?
I mean, that's fine, I guess. It's not like you guys have to keep up on every little change in my appearance--new jacket, haircut, stuff like that. Who wants pushy, personal observations at work. But, crutches? That's kind of a big, obvious thing that you might wanna point out.
I guess I kinda expected it to be the first thing anybody asked me about today.
I'll admit I had a little mini fantasy where I got off the elevator and everyone gasped and rushed to see what happened. Then, maybe I'd tell the---I'm gonna go ahead and say amazingly life-altering---story of how I ended up on crutches, and everyone would tsk tsk and coo over me. Maybe not everyone, but certainly in the fantasy, Alexis from New Media cooed.
But, now it's 3 o'clock, and we've had three meetings, one of which was about loading paper into the new printer. And, not a word about these crutches. I think, "What happened to your legs?" should come before, "Legal size goes in the lowest tray." That doesn't me a narcissist, does it? I'll answer. No, it doesn't.
I've gotten used to no one asking about each other's weekends. It was weird at first that nobody said "bless you" when somebody sneezed, but I came to accept that. But, crutches and a limp that weren't there yesterday? Let's at least try to pretend that we're still real people in this office.
Then, there's the tuxedo. Nobody noticed that I'm wearing a torn tuxedo and have a black eye? Not one person? What the fuck, people? What ... the fuck?
Excuse me, can you move that recycle bin so that I can hobble away on these new, apparently invisible crutches? ... Hello? Can you move that? ... The bin next to you? Never mind, fuck it.
I gotta find a new job.