Rock ‘n Roll
I was going to write up a post about rock ‘n roll, but then I realized I’m kinda too rock ‘n roll for that.
I mean, whatever, if you’re into stuff or whatever, that’s cool. I more into, y’know … rock. Rock ‘n Roll.
I mean, that’s what it’s about, right? Just going for it, full on rock-style? Just, like, being into rock ‘n roll and living rock ‘n roll. Actually being, y’know?
I guess it’s just a thing I’m into.
[Note: Hey um, guys, does it sound like I’m trying too hard in this post? I’m working on sounding cooler. And, a big part of being cool is getting outside of my own head and calming down. But, the thought of that’s making me nervous. And, when I get nervous, I get nose bleeds …
… Am I trying too hard to sound like I’m not trying too hard? I thought rock and roll would be a good, bland topic to start out with. So, I looked up rock and roll on Wikipedia. It didn’t have much advice; it was more of a history lesson. I was hoping for an annotated, step-by-step guide to being cool …
… I did a Google image search for “cool,” and a lot of that stuff made sense. There were a lot of smiley faces wearing sunglasses. But, no real patterns were emerging as to what’s cool and what’s not. It seems like being cool is totally subjective and random. That can’t be true, because then I’d be considered cool …
… I guess I’ll just go on being vague about rock and roll and see where it takes me…]
Yeah, so yeah. That’s what I’m into. Like music and living and stuff.
Oh, you’re into music too? That’s cool. We should, like, hang out sometime at a music venue focusing on a mutually agreed upon rock ‘n roll ensemble. Perhaps we can partake in a tête à tête regarding specific sub-genres and eras of rock we prefer. Pardon my candor, but may I ask why you're looking at me so strangely?
Is it my nose? Am I getting a nosebleed? Oh no, here it comes. Excuse me, I need to find a bathroom. We should hang out sometime. Yeah ... cool.
Dog Sweaters
This morning, I stole a sweater off of a weimaraner. It was a mint green cable knit. It was nicer than most of my sweaters, but it wore a little snug in the shoulders. On me it was snug; it seemed fine on the weimaraner.
My morning walk was freezing. I'd misheard the weather report, and I had on only a flannel button-down and my fall jacket. That’s when I passed a weimaraner wearing that fancy sweater. It’s easy to steal from dogs. I just rubbed its belly until it rolled over, and I slipped off the knitwear.
Its owner never noticed. He was on his Blackberry.
Like I said, the weimaraner’s sweater was nice. I thought at the time it was cashmere, but someone later told me it was chenille. (I’m not dumb; I just invert words sometimes.) The sweater wasn’t very warm, though. On my body, it fit more like an open-front vest. So, I stole another dog sweater.
The second one was off a greyhound. It was tan with gray accents. Not the sweater; the dog. Its sweater was purple with a cowl neck and an oversized argyle. I slipped that one and the weimaraner’s sweater over my sleeves as a kind of a makeshift dancer’s shrug. It cut the cold, but by then I had gotten a taste for crime.
I went around the rest of the day stealing dog sweaters, one at a time. I called in sick to work. I think they heard the el train in the background, but I was too busy casing my next mark to worry about it. There was a dachshund hanging around the edges of a dog park near the Natural History Museum. It had on a red Christmas-y wool. I thought it might make a good scarf. I was right.
After that was a borzoi wearing an orange cardigan. Then a boxer with a black crew. A corgi in a turtleneck. You might think I’d feel bad stealing from dumb, defenseless animals. But, like a lot of criminals, I began to resent my victims for being so innocent, so trusting. They’d just sit there. Especially when I said, “Sit.”
It was all so easy. A bit of kibble here, a scratch behind the ear there—like taking candy from a baby. Except the candy was sweaters, and the babies were dogs. Only a poodle/spaniel mix gave me any problems, but I distracted it with peanut butter on the roof of its mouth. I’m wearing its blue V neck over my left pant leg as we speak.
Now, at the end of the day, I stand before you clothed head-to-toe in dog sweaters. All shapes, all sizes. Tiny pom poms jangle at my wrist. Embroidered bones and fire hydrants dot across my waist. Mostly designer labels, and almost all of them the latest styles. I’m sure my outfit right now cost more than my wedding suit.
The back of my knees itch like crazy. I think that damn Scottie had flees. But, it was worth it. I’m warm and content, euphoric in my ill-gotten gains. I feel like I could do anything right now.
Though, for some reason, all I want is to dig under my neighbor’s fence and shut up that goddamn alley cat. I hate that goddamn cat.
Jellyfish Sting
Barbara! Barb, come quick! I'm hurt. I need your help. Oh, thank God you're here. I just stepped on a jellyfish, and it stings like crazy. You need to pee on my foot to stop the pain. Can you do that for me, Hon?
What? Whad'ya mean, “Why?” Because I'm your husband, and I've been stung by a jellyfish; that's why. Please, just hurry up and pee on my foot. It burns like a sonofabitch.
No, this is not some trick to get you to pee on me. I'm serious; I'm in a lot of pain here. You've never heard about jellyfish stings? The only relief is if you tinkle on my foot. It’s the left one. Quick. The acetic acid in human urine helps mitigate the chemical compounds in the nematocysts of the mid-Pacific box jellyfish.
Wikipedia? No, that does not sound like something I memorized off Wikipedia. I just happen to know important facts about Nature. Stop stalling and pee on me. I'm serious. This has nothing to do with all the other times I've tried to get you to pee on me.
First off, I'm not really into that anymore. You said no a dozen times, and I let it go. I even sent back the rubber sheets I got online.
Secondly, have I even mentioned you peeing on me in the shower lately? No, I haven't. I've been very careful not to bring it up for the past three and a half weeks. Which should be plenty of time to forget my former obsession with pee play. (Or "watersports" as it's sometimes called.) This isn't some elaborate ruse to trick you into some sort of sexy golden shower scenario.
I'm telling you, Barbara, I've been stung by a poisonous jellyfish. Now, you've got to pee on your husband! Right now! Here, on my right foot.
Oh shit, did I say left foot earlier? I meant right foot. You know what? You'd better pee on both of them just to be safe.
Barb! Barbara, come back! Where are you going ... Barb?
Insider Jokes
As winter sets in, I worry about spending too many nights inside with my wife, Colleen. I’m afraid without outside contact, my sense of humor is getting too insider-y, too niche.
I'll give you an example: Yesterday at work, my boss found out I write comedy. So, of course, he asked me to tell him a joke. I said, "Alright, well, I haven't performed stand-up in awhile, but this joke that gets a big reaction from my wife." And, I pulled up his shirt and put my cold hands on his belly.
He didn’t laugh at all. It’s as though he totally didn’t understand the premise. Doesn’t he have a sense of humor? I put my cold hands on his warm belly. How is that not hilarious?
So, I went in for the follow-up joke, which is a tickle fight. It’s a classic “tag,” as they say in the comedy biz. A one-two punch. Again, he must not have gotten the joke, because no laugh.
At home, this stuff gets huge laughs. Mostly from me. Colleen never laughs at my hilarious jokes. Even the extra funny, super hilarious jokes. Like, sometimes, when she’s doing the dishes, I’ll stand behind her making farting noises with my mouth. Or, if she’s trying to read, I’ll climb in her lap and make farting noises.
Okay, so those jokes are amazing, right? Never a single laugh from Colleen. (Only huge laughing jags from me.) But, at least she properly acknowledges the jokes—she’ll push me away, she’ll roll her eyes, she’ll pinch me. An eye roll tells me, “Yes, I admit that your joke is very droll. You are indeed a rare wit, and I am humbled to be your audience. But, I can’t laugh right now, because I’m busy doing our taxes.”
Did my boss roll his eyes? Did he cross his arms and purse his lips? No, he just calmly walked into his office, closed his door, and emailed Human Resources to set up a meeting with me tomorrow. That is not someone who appreciates a good cold-hand-on-a-warm-belly gag.
I’m just glad I didn’t waste my spot-on impression of my apartment building’s super on him.
We Need To Facebook
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.
Anthropomorphism
Honey, I know you're only three years old, so you might not understand this, but I need you to stop anthropomorphizing everything. It's making it very hard for me to throw things away.
Do you know what anthropomorphizing is, Bobby? Do you, sweetheart? It means when you make "friends" with things that aren't alive. Like Teddy--Teddy is a stuffed toy. He's not alive. It's okay to love Teddy and think he has feelings, because Teddy is special. But, a carton of orange juice is different.
When you make friends with a carton of orange juice, and you name the carton, and you tell Mommy what the carton wants to be when it grows up, it makes putting that carton in the trash very hard for Mommy. Mommy gets sad when I have to say goodbye to the orange juice carton. Which is unreasonable. Do you know what unreasonable means, Bobby?
It means you can't tell Mommy that baby mice miss their grandpas like you miss your grandpa. The baby mice don't miss their grandpas in that way. They’re not the same as you and me. Mommy has to believe that difference exists in order to be able to set the mousetraps. Humane traps don't work, Honey. I've tried. Believe me, I've tried.
Okay, you know how you love Mr. Printer? And, you say the noises he makes when he's printing are him singing? Well, Mr. Printer's scanner broke three months ago, and I don't have the heart to get a new Mr. Printer. We need a scanner, but Mommy can't stop picturing what will happen to the old Mr. Printer in the dump.
Please--I'm begging you--stop naming your t-shirts. Especially the ones with holes in them. And, don’t talk about pigeons like they’re waiting to be adopted. Because, I was this close to letting one come inside before I realized what I was doing. It had one foot, Bobby. One foot.
You have to stop anthropomorphizing things. Bobby, you have to do it for Mommy. I’m at the end of my ropes here.
Do you remember yesterday, when Mommy was crying during The Brave Little Toaster? That wasn’t because of the movie, Honey. It’s because I realized what my life has become.
Nothing in the Rulebook…
I hereby call to order this emergency meeting of the National Collegiate Athletic Association. We will be amending procedure in order to expedite this meeting.
It has come to this board's attention that there are serious gaps in the rulebooks covering organized sports at the collegiate level. Apparently, there is nothing in the rules that says a golden retriever can't play football.
This loophole has seriously undermined the integrity and sanctity of college sport. Not only are the opposing players made to look like fools as they bumble into each other chasing said golden retrievers, but our referees, too, can do nothing but throw their hands in the air, befuddled.
Therefore, as our first order of business, I call for a vote on an amendment of rule 12.113C calling for specific language banning golden retrievers or any breed of dog larger than 30 lbs. from membership on a football team. Further, no such dog shall be allowed to participate in competitive gameplay during any sanctioned pre-season or bowl games.
This ban covers the following positions: kicker, running back, tailback, lineman, wide receiver, quarterback. Mascot and waterboy positions are not covered under this ban. Thus, dogs can serve in these capacities. I would suggest using a St. Bernard, because that would be adorable.
Should this ban pass, it would apply retroactively to the beginning of the season. This would call into question Michigan State’s victory over Notre Dame on September 18th along with the Pitsburgh Panther’s win over Rutgers on October 23rd. Players “Rex” and “Buffy the Wonder Pooch” on their respective teams would be asked to step down pending review.
A vote has been called and seconded. All those in favor of the amendment to rule 12.113C, please say aye. Those opposed? The amendment passes.
Moving on to item two: The situation with orangutans playing hockey…
Car Talk
Excuse me, are you Mike? The sign outside said Mike's Garage. Can I ask you a question about my car?
It's been making a funny noise for a while now. Maybe two weeks? At first, it was kind of a "whrrr whrrr krickk," but lately it's making a sound like "chrck chrck chrck kkkkillllll thhhhemmm. Kkilllllll thhhhemmm alllllll." Do you know what that might be?
At first, I thought it was the fan belt, but I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't recognize the fan belt if I saw it. Maybe the alternator?
Here, I'll do it again. The noise is coming from the right towards the front, and it sounds a bit like "chrck chrck chrck kkilllll thhhhemmm. Waaaattch thhhemm bleeeed."
Do you think it's the alignment? I just had it realigned last spring. I hope this is an easy fix, because it's starting to keep me up at night. Even when the car's not running, I still hear this low "crrck crrck kkilllll" in my dreams.
I had this same, exact problem with my previous car. That was back in Omaha, before I moved and changed my name. Back then, though, it was because I still had fingerprints. That can't be the problem now.
Mike, are you backing away slowly? Oh, Mike, don't do that. You don't want to make the car angry, do you?
I had a thought that it might be something rattling against the drive shaft. Like possibly some unclean souls? But, like I said, I don't know much about cars.
Here, I've got AAA. Sorry if the card's a little sticky.
Do you take Visa?
The Olive Diet
The Olive DietTM is a simple, scientific diet plan devised to help you shed pounds quickly and easily. I’ve spent years formulating a foolproof weight loss system without calorie counting or awkward exercise equipment. It’s all based around one simple idea: Olives are disgusting.
That’s it! It couldn’t be easier!
With the Olive DietTM, you put olives on everything—pizza, tuna salad, appetizer plates. You’ll never again eat too much, because olives are super gross. Oversize portions are a thing of the past. Going back for seconds? Never. Just two bites into any meal involving olives, and your gag reflex will keep an eye on your waistline.
Black olives, green olives, kalamata, picholine, dry-cured, brine-cured—they’re all equally repulsive. Ugh, just talking about it is making my stomach upset. Hopefully yours too. That’s the secret to keeping portions small and meals sensible.
Feeling hungry for a sandwich? Try this simple recipe: Aged prosciutto, smoked ham, arugula, and Dijon mustard on crispy French bread. Sounds pretty tasty. Now add olives. Revolting! Inedible even. A nibble is all you’ll be able to hold down.
With the Olive DietTM, you can eat anything, as long as you put olives on top. Lasagna, dips, fish, pasta, salad, burritos, French toast, pudding, grilled cheese, cake, tomato soup, tiramisu—literally any dish can be ruined with the addition of olives. Olives are Nature’s appetite suppressant.
I guarantee you’ll lose inches around your tummy within weeks. You’ll never again experience the guilt and sluggishness from overdoing it at the dinner table. In fact, you’ll start feeling nauseous just thinking about the dinner table. I do.
How did I come up with this diet plan? Through years of experimentation. I discovered at a very young age that olives were yucky, and I’ve built an entire theory of nutrition around that idea. The Olive DietTM has literally been decades in the making.
“But, what happens when I get desensitized to olives and start ignoring their sickening, vile flavor?” you might ask. Well, first, I seriously doubt that’s going to happen. But, if it does, the Olive DietTM has a fallback plan: Capers.
Capers are kind of like if olives pooped out tiny, disgusting rabbit turds on your plate. Even looking at capers will help you avoid eating normally delicious foods.
If—through some sort of reverse miracle—capers don’t keep you from eating, you can move on to sun-dried tomatoes or, as a last resort, cooked green peppers. The Olive DietTM is about so much more than simply olives; it’s about any disgusting food that can ruin a meal and curb your appetite.
For more information about the Olive DietTM and its amazing results, send a check or money order to Olive Diet Industries for my handy educational booklet, Olives: Blech. Or, go online to order my instructional DVD, The Olive Diet: Whaaa? Gross!
Order yours today!
Don’s Discount Sushi Shack
Welcome to Don’s Discount Sushi Shack! We bring you the fresh-ish sushi at the lowest prices! Guaranteed, or my name isn’t Don the Sushi Kong Deity. (Awkward translation, I know.)
At Don’s Discount Sushi Shack, you’ll find great savings on sushi, sashimi, tempura, teriyaki, waffles, hot dogs, maki rolls, turkey chili and more. Anything you want, we serve it. Raw. If you don’t see what you’d like on our 14-page menu, we’d be happy to whip it up special.
Terrific example: Last week, a gentleman walked in and ordered a reuben sandwich. Most sushi restaurants would have turned him away. “Oh, we don’t serve delicious reuben sandwiches,” they’d say. Well, Old Don here had his chef Keisuke go out and get some corned beef, some sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Russian dressing and roll it all up in rice and seaward. Pop a little salmon roe on top. Blammo, instant reuben roll!
You like edamame? We’ve got so much edamame we have to store it in the basement behind the water heater. You like tuna? Our tuna is so big, it’s technically not even tuna anymore. But, you bet your blowhole it’s mighty tasty.
At Don’s, the only thing we love more than fish and fish-like substitutes is value. That’s why we bring you amazing weekly deals like: Buy one tentacle, get six free! Half price eel when the fridge breaks down! And, if your child finds a band aid in her food, she gets all-you-can-eat chicken fingers!* (*Sometimes called duck feet.)
How do we keep prices so low? Volume and ingenuity. Most sushi places jack up their prices by buying softshell crab with its shell already soft. We found a way to soften that shell on our own using ordinary household cleaners. That’s thinking outside the bento box!
Don’t forget dessert! Candied clam, dried sea urchin in mayonnaise, frozen yogurt. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Grandma Satsuki’s Live Chocolate Lobster. Watch out for those snapping claws--they’re delicious!
Critics are calling Don’s Discount Sushi “Probably the…sushi ever…put…” and “Unbelievably…” But, you don’t have to take their word for it. In fact, please don’t. Come on down and see for yourself.
I promise, this will be one sushi dinner you will never forget. Never.
Don’s Discount Sushi Shack. Located kitty-corner from the gravel lot, behind long-term parking at the freight airport on Hwy 12. Just follow the smell!