Things to Do Before You Die
18 Things to Do Before You Die:
1) Watch the sun set across the Grand Canyon.
2) Swim with dolphins in the Caribbean.
3) LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU!!!
Whew! Holy cow! Man, are you okay?
Good thing you jumped out of the way! Are you sure you're okay?
Alright… Let’s get back to the list then…
4) Learn to play an instrument.
5) Climb Machu Picchu.
6) Whoa, Buddy, DON'T EAT THAT PEANUT!
Jesus. Did you forget about your peanut allergy? You've gotta be more vigilant about that.
Seriously. Okay, moving on...
7) Drink champagne at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
8) Make love to... a...
...that ladder looks a little shaky. Maybe don't stand on the top step like that. WHOA!!! WHOA WHOA WHOA!! GRAB HOLD OF THE BOOKSHELF! Here, give me your hand!
Okay, now put your foot on the wardrobe. Stay there while I hold the ladder.
What the hell, man? Do you not want to make it through this list? You need to be more careful.
10) HEY! A cattle prod is not a toy! Don't you realize you're standing in a puddle of water?
You know what? I think that's enough for the list. Clearly you're not interested in doing any of this stuff before you die.
Which is too bad, because I had some great ideas about dancing in the moonlight and reading The Bhagavad Gita in its original Sanskrit. But, you go ahead and keep taunting that cobra.
NO, STOP! I was only joking about taunting the cobra! Don't do that! Jesus, dude…
Paper/Finger Cutter
You’re the new temp, right? Welcome aboard. Let me give you a quick tour of the office.
Over here is the kitchen. Make sure to wash your dishes, or else Deborah the office manager will throw them away. Seriously. You’ll see what she’s like. The bathroom is down the hall to the right. If it’s ever out of supplies, there’s more of everything under the sink.
And, this here is the paper cutter. Have you ever used an industrial paper cutter before? No? Well, it’s pretty easy; you just line up one edge here and slide back the safety latch. Then, it’s zip zup, and there you go. It can cut up to fifty sheets of 90 pound cardstock at a time.
The only advice I can give you is to not think about cutting off your fingers. Whatever you do, don’t think about exactly that while using this machine.
Because, it’s kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Whoever worries about cutting off his or her fingers tends to do just that. I don’t know why.
I mean, I always give this same speech to every new temp. I say, “Whatever you do, do not picture yourself slicing off three and a half or four fingers on this would-be finger-slicing machine.” Yet, every time, they get a frightened, distracted look in their eyes. Then, they overcompensate or distrust their grip and adjust in the wrong direction, and then … hello, stumpy.
Gosh, you’d think they’d learn after hearing the many, many cautionary tales of fingers being severed. Sometimes, I’ll even stand behind them, whispering in their ear, “Hey, if you imagine bloody nubs where you knuckles are, that’s exactly what will happen. So try not to think about that.” And, you know what happens next---The Great Digit Drop, as I call it. Repeatedly.
I tried putting up a poster with photos of the last few office befingerings. (The insurance company makes us take Polaroids before any trips to the E.R.) And, underneath I wrote:
KEEP THESES IMAGES OUT OF YOUR BRAINS
AND KEEP YOUR FINGERS ON YOUR HANDS.
I guess folks ignored the poster, though, because there were more fingers chopped off than average that week.
The worst part is that it almost always seems to happen the first time anyone uses this machine. So, nobody gets to be very much practiced at it. Which is too bad, because I’m sure once you get over the thinking about it part, it’d be smooth as non-finger-mangling silk.
Anyway, why don’t you give it a try? If you want, I can blow this air horn to distract you from your thoughts.
On three. Ready? One… Steady… Two…
Broken Phone Tips
Here are a few helpful tips on what to do when your smartphone breaks, organized into five easy stages:
STAGE ONE
- Ask yourself if this is a dream. Is this a dream? I mean, who drops their phone into a pot of boiling minestrone? Who does that?!
- Try drying off the battery with a hair dryer. It’s probably just that the battery shook loose, right? Right?
- Somebody once told me putting your phone in a bag of dried barley overnight can wick away the moisture. (Although, this sounds a little like black magic, so maybe hold off.)
- Hopefully all the info is synced onto your computer. Think of the last time you synced to your... I MEAN, WHO DROPS A PHONE INTO SOUP?!!
STAGE TWO
- Pace wildly in ever-tighter circles.
- Contemplate whether you believe in A) a spiteful God or B) no God.
- Call the TechGuys Store about repairing your phone. Hold up; their info was in your contacts list on your phone. DAMMIT! It’s a catch-42!
- Wait, 42 isn’t the right number. What’s the right number? Catch-44? Let me just Google it on my… DAMMIT!
- Call Charlie to ask if he can look up the TechGuys’ number one his smartphone. Also, ask him about the catch-42 thing. But... how are you going to call Charlie without a phone? Stupid Charlie!!!
STAGE THREE
- Check to see if you still have a landline. Where was that phone jack when you moved in? Behind the headboard? If you do have a phone line, maybe you can remember Charlie’s number.
- See someone walking outside the bedroom window with a smartphone. Yell out the window that you’ll give them $100 for their phone.
- Tell your neighbor you’ll only stop yelling if she lends you a bag of dried barley.
STAGE FOUR
- Notice your hand is shaking from Twitter withdrawal.
- Sit in an empty bathtub for a while.
- Go ahead and eat the minestrone. Then some ice cream. Then something salty, to cut the sweetness. Maybe nachos. Or hummus.
- Or potato chips. Then more ice cream.
- Regret the final text you sent before dropping your phone. If only you’d known it was the last one, you wouldn’t have typed “LMAO.” So disrespectful.
- Sit fully-clothed under the running water in your shower.
STAGE FIVE
- Take a long, hard look at your smartphone. It's no longer your phone; it's just an empty shell. Your real phone is out there in the network somewhere.
- Look around. Finally see your apartment for the first time in months. It’s filthy. With no Facebook available, you might as well clean up a little.
- Get eight hours of sleep for once. I guess it’s not that important that you beat your high score at Fruit Ninja.
- Wake up next to someone. Who is this person? Oh, it’s your spouse.
- Try to convince your spouse to stop reading his or her Kindle. Drag them away from it if you have to.
- Take a nice, leisurely morning walk together. Remember what freedom feels like.
- Pass by an AT&T Store. You might as well just pop in a get another phone.
- Sit on the curb and get in a few good tweets and maybe five or six rounds of Fruit Ninja.
- Mmmm… sweet, sweet smartphone. You feel so right.
Like I Like My…
I like my women like I like my coffee.
I like my coffee like I like my pajama pants.
I like my pajama pants like I like my deep dish pizza, and I like my deep dish pizza like I like peeling the protective vinyl film off of LED screens.
I like peeling the protective vinyl film off of LED screens like I like Mid-Century modern furniture, which I like like I like my Netflix Streaming, which in turn I like like I like my hammock.
I like my hammock like I like old Charles Adams cartoons, and I like old Charles Adams cartoons like I like frozen custard with chunks of banana, and I like frozen custard like I like taking a sauna.
Which is to say a lot. I like all of these things a lot. You know what I don’t like? Killing marine life with soda can rings. Let’s stop doing that, you guys.
---
The above is what I’d say if I ever become a famous actor on the NBC network, and I get to do one of those “The More You Know” Public Service Announcements. Exactly in those words. And, if those corporate suits try to eff things up and change ONE SINGLE WORD!!! they are going to have a fight on their hands! Yessiree. They are messing with the wrong celebrity, my friends!
I did not scrap my way to the top just so some network stooge can tell me what I can and can’t say. “How ‘bout we say Charles Schultz instead of Charles Adams?” Well, how ‘bout I stick my foot up your dumper, you soulless bureaucrat?
I am an Artist. Capital A. When I say, “Hey, you guys, let’s cool it with the soda rings,” it is because I have chosen those words incredibly carefully. I’m like a goddamn poet with these PSAs. If you don’t like it, maybe you shouldn’t have plucked me from obscurity and given me a makeover and acting lessons and touted me as an up-and-coming star of your television … network…
… Which I guess you haven’t done yet, because this is just an imaginary scenario.
You know what? It’s fine. If you want to change the script for my “The More You Know” PSA, that's fine by me, Mr. Imaginary NBC Executive. Whatever you say. I promise I won’t become a diva.
Probably.
Missing Link
Reasons this skull I discovered might not be the missing link:
1) Hairline fractures along the occipital bone could only have been caused advanced stone tools.
2) Wear along the molars suggests the consumption of cultivated grains.
3) Rather than displaying classic Hominidae post-cranial traits, this is closer in shape to a vole or rodent's skull.
4) I found it on a picnic table in Central Park.
5) A group of ten-year-old boys were trying to hit it with a stick, but I chased them off.
6) My former colleagues at the museum insist it's a squirrel skull.
7) When I questioned their reasoning, they told me I was supposed to hand in my museum ID months ago.
8) My ex-wife agrees it's a squirrel skull, and says I need to stop coming around. She’s married to Donald now.
9) The foramen magnum is not positioned as anteriorly, which would suggest a semi-erect posture.
10) My buddy down at McGinty's, Dirty Pete, thinks it is the missing link, and he's usually wrong about things. Also drunk.
11) It’s in pretty good shape for being 200,000 years old.
12) The guy at the pawn shop wouldn’t give me more than five bucks for it.
13) I am pretty drunk right now.
14) The skull still has some bits of squirrel attached.
15) So, those are my reasons why I think this possibly might not be the missing link, officer.
Updated S&M
Welcome to Modern Sensations S&M Club, where we give masochism a modern sensibility. You're new here, correct? Let me give you a quick tour.
The first thing you'll notice is the waiting room. Everyone arriving has to wait an hour before entering the facility for no reason other than the receptionist being distracted by Angry Birds on her phone.
Can you feel your frustration rising? You're already being dominated!
That's exactly the kind of up-to-the-minute domination technique used here at Modern Sensations. We strive to give our patrons a much more realistic sense of humiliation and degradation than the standard whips and diapers S&M clubs.
After the waiting area, we’ll pass a long hallway of video screens displaying unflattering Facebook or DMV photos of you. (Please email those in ahead of your appointment. There’s an FAQ on our website with acceptable files formats.) If you’re really interested in degradation, we can also put up photos of your ex, who is now fifteen pounds lighter and happier.
And, then it’s on to the sex dungeon.
Unlike traditional S&M sex dungeons, there are no black velvet curtains or darkened corridors here. Simply one large, brightly lit atrium with bad acoustics. It in, you’ll find a series of poorly managed lines and unhelpful signage. There’s a take-a-number machine at the front, but it’s out of number slips.
These many lines lead to a wide range of bondage and domination scenarios. There aren’t any leather masks or chains at Modern Sensations, but you can wait in an apartment all day for the Time Warner Internet guy to never arrive.
We also have a faux laundry room where you can make uncomfortable small talk with your religious landlady. Then, there’s the cocktail mixer during which someone will misinterpret an innocent comment of yours as racist. Or, maybe you’d prefer the three-weeks-sober-at-your-wife's-family-for-Thanksgiving dinner scenario.
All these and many more role-playing arrangements await your exploration. Whatever sorts of present day embarrassment or discomfort arouses you sexually, you can find it here.
And, rest assured, we are indeed judging you for your weird erotic predilections. That’s simply another part of the humiliation we strive to provide at Modern Sensations S&M Club, you weirdo.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour. Feel free to look around and join in the masochism. Remember, the safeword is “ugh, gross.”
Mystery Key
For the past couple of years, I’ve had an extra key on my key chain. I have no idea what lock it fits, and honestly, I only noticed it by accident when I mistook it for my front door key. (By the way, no I was not high, Mr. I-Make-Assumptions-About-Andy's-Life-Choices.)
I asked my wife about it; I tried it in all the doors of our apartment; I looked for distinguishing marks… I got nothing, you guys.
So, I’ve come up a few possibilities as to what this key might open:
- My laundry room two apartment buildings ago.
- Some attic somewhere.
- The ancient chest in the corner of the basement with the scary thumping sounds.
- Half of a locket that I never knew held the identity of my royal twin, from whom I was separated at birth. And, also he’s bored by his pampered life. If only he could somehow switch places with someone… And, also he has a really cool dog.
- Happiness / my dreams / success / the Twinkie drawer.
- My super-secret wall safe behind my painting of Scrooge McDuck.
- The gun rack in my uncle’s '82 Impala.
- The complex allegory of visual motifs of Mulholland Drive.
- A rental car I keep forgetting to return. Ugh.
[Wait a minute, I was only kidding earlier about the Twinkie drawer, but now I can’t stop thinking that it might actually BE the key for my drawer full of Twinkies. Let me go check that again…
... Nope. They’re still stuck in there.]
- My mailbox. Do people still send snail mail anymore? Oh my god, do you think that’s where all my utility bills went?
- The motel room of that creepy dude from the aluminum siding conference.
- THE CAPS LOCK.
- A storage space filled with collectible teddy bears.
- Some sort of guerilla theater thing my wife planned for my 30th birthday but then gave up on.
- Some sex stuff I don’t want to get into on my blog.
Anyway, I’ll probably remember what this mystery key is for eventually. Until then, it’ll stay right here on my keychain between my key for the lobby and this key for the… um…
Huh, where’d this other key come from? COLLEEN, ARE YOU IN THE KITCHEN? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS KEY IS FOR? NO, A SECOND KEY…
Publishing Infamy
I'm hoping to one day publish lo these many humorous essays into a physical book. Or, if not a physical book, then at least an e-book I can put on my wife’s Kindle. That way, I can still drop it at college reunions and feign embarrassment. "Oh my, did I misplace my published book? How embarrassing… No no, you’ve pressed ‘menu’ by accident. Hit ‘back’ please to see my embarrassing book." (Pretty good feigning, right?)
But, here's the rub: In order to sell millions of e-book copies and afford a beautiful, energy-inefficient Mid-Century modern house, I'll need much greater name recognition. As it is, I'm jockeying for position on Google with the guitarist from OK Go. Stupid rock stars, always hogging the Google.
So, I would like to propose the following: If there are any Hollywood starlets reading this who would like to have a scandalous, tabloid-grabbing sexual tryst, please contact me. I can provide references and Polaroids.
I could be like the hip East Village DJ or vaguely European hedge fund manager boyfriend. Except instead of those things, it’d be me---comedy essayist and part-time storyteller Andy Ross! So, how ‘bout it?
I think we could really help each other add to the omnipresent publicity dross. Do you hear that buzzing sound? That could be our post-brunch paparazzi photo on Access Hollywood.
(Only early career starlets, please. I’m not looking for any leathery, spent starlets. I don’t want to seem desperate.)
Alternately, in order to gain publishable notoriety, I thought maybe I could survive some sort of harrowing disaster, like digging myself out from an avalanche or fighting off an escaped zoo tiger. I honestly considered the tiger thing, but then I remembered how nervous I get around escaped zoo tigers.
Another way I could become famous is by becoming the winning-est Jeopardy contestant ever. How hard could it be? You just ask questions, right? And, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Margaret Furnington-Hamlisch, always told me there are no stupid questions. [nods, self-satisfied]
Of course, then I thought about the time I was a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and I threw up all over guest host Shawn Robinson. They edited that part out, but she was not at all as gracious about it. I guess her dress was a loaner.
Ultimately, I’ve decided to become famous through frivolous lawsuits against chain restaurants. It’s a win-win. If I lose the court cases, I still get all that great publicity. If I win the court cases, I’ll be a millionaire. Then, who cares about publishing a book of stupid comedy essays?
So, it’s a plan. Boston Market, here I come. With a banana peel in my pocket and a dream in my heart.
My Way Or the Highway
Listen, there are only two ways we can do this---it’s my way or the highway. The highway is faster, but my way is more scenic.
The highway has more restroom opportunities and a Wendy’s, though. I think we all know how I feel about Wendy’s. That said, my way sometimes has waterfalls this time of year because of snow runoff, and it’s quieter. Ugh, it’s so tough to decide.
I mean, you’d think my choice would be my way. I tend to choose my way. But, I’ve chosen the way we do this the last four times, and I’m starting to get tired of my way. So, unless Google maps says the highway has traffic, I think we should do the highway.
Hold up, hold up. I just realized; we could also do this the hard way.
Whad’ya think?
I’m not going to mince words, the hard way can be a little hard. It’s definitely harder than the highway. I think it’s worth it, and I’ll tell you why: 1) We’ll feel very satisfied afterward. 2) New adventures. 3) There’s a frozen custard stand. 4) Did I mention the frozen custard stand? 5) I don’t actually like the highway. I was just sick of the alternative.
So, do we have a consensus? Are we going to do this the hard way? I know the name is intimidating, but I assure you, it’s only mostly hard. Not completely hard. Boom, that’s what she said. Sorry---off topic.
By show of hands, how many people want to do this the hard way? Let’s see … one, two … Jerry, is you hand up? No? Okay, two then.
How many people want to go with the highway? One, two, three four five … a couple over there … Graham, Donna, Bethany … sixteen, seventeen … Alright, it looks like everybody wants to go with the highway.
How can I convince you guys we should do this the hard way? Frozzzen cuuuustard. No? Nobody wants frozen custard? Fine, I’m using my veto. We’re doing this the hard way. Sorry to have to use my veto…
No no, there’s no use complaining. The hard way it is. You guys will thank me when it’s over. Let’s get moving.
Wait a second, I just remembered that I’ve been wanting to do this in the worst way. Now, hear me out…
Book Delay
This blog post is meant to address the growing unrest of my fans in regards to the---shall we say fluid---release date for my tween murder mystery novel, The Purplest Nurple.
The novel, as you know, follows a plucky seventh-grader named Tim McGivens and his tubby sidekick Smitts as they investigate the death of a fellow classmate. A death by titty twister.
When I offered up a brief excerpt online (reposted here), I had no idea the response/demand for the book would become as large as it has. People began writing letters asking about its progress; a few folks started online chat boards to share plot theories; there was even some rather disturbing fan fiction.
That was fifteen years ago.
Since then, demand for the book has grown exponentially. There have been two fan-made film adaptations, with accompanying making-of documentaries. A biannual Purplest Nurple convention draws huge crowds to Sydney, Australia. And, apparently, the largest subsection of the online role playing game Second Life concerns Martindale Junior High, where the book is set. All this, and people have never read the complete book.
Initially, it was supposed to come out in June of 1997. Then, as I was writing one particular scene about dissecting a raccoon in Biology class, I saw the story open up before me in ways I had never thought possible. What began as a two hundred-page book grew to four hundred pages, then twelve hundred, and finally around 17,300 pages.
We now learn not just about Tim’s investigation but also the history of Martindale as a commercial fishing hub, detailed accounts of dodgeball games with accompanying statistical analysis, and several television scripts for Restless Embers, the fictional soap opera Smitty’s mother watches in the book.
Also, footnotes. Thousands of footnotes each carefully crossed-referenced and catalogued.
Now, The Purplest Nurple is about more than simply a tween mystery. It also outlines a philosophy/worldview I’ve invented called Theoreticalistic Holism, which lays out new gender roles based on our closest genetic relatives, the Bonobo chimpanzee.
Well, I’m happy to say that the end is in sight. The final typewriter key has been struck, and the carbon copy has been sent off for proofreading. I simply need to write up a few appendixes and maybe a glossary of Norwegian terms. (The final third of the book is written from the perspective of Tim’s maternal great-grandmother. She speaks only Norwegian.)
Then, I’ll begin painting the book cover and deciding on a font for the interior. I was thinking about taking a font-making class, since none of the ones I've seen have really grabbed me. They’re all so serif-y.
All in all, expect a 2014 release date…
You know what? I just realized I never got around to writing who the murderer was. I got distracted by other aspects of the story. Do you think that’ll be important to the fans? Maybe I should call the proofreader to see if I can get it back for a rewrite. Start over from page one…
Check back here for updates.