First Kiss
Honey, I have something to tell you. I've been keeping this a secret for a long time, and it's always weighed on my heart. And, I hope that in finally saying it out loud, we can accept it and move forward stronger than ever.
Remember the story of our first kiss? Remember how you'd tell everyone that you knew it was true love, because a single drop of rain hit your cheek just as we were about to kiss? But, then it didn't rain. Like, somehow our kiss kept the clouds at bay? Well, it wasn't a raindrop. I gleeked on you.
There, I said it. Now, we can move on. Whew, it feels great to get that out in the open! Right? Okay, well, thank you for listening, and we don't ever need to talk about it again---
What's a gleek? ... You're asking what a gleek is? … Um, okay, well a gleek is when … a jet of … an involuntary jet of saliva shoots out of a person's mouth involuntarily. A tiny, tiny jet of saliva. I'm not sure where from---maybe from inside the cheek or under the tongue---
No no no! I didn't spit on you! It was just a gleek. That's totally different. I would never spit on you---
Yeah, but---
No, see---
Whoa, alright, slow down. I think I see the sticking point here. You seem to be assigning some sort of intentionality to gleeks, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. It is totally involuntary.
Here, let me look up the definition on my phone. I’m sure that’ll settle things ... Geez, bad reception. Let me just hold this up to the window, and...
There, see. A gleek is a “fan of the tv show Glee.” Goddamnit! That’s not what gleek means, Internet! God, I hate that stupid show! Who names their own fans? Stupid, self-satisfied asshole television.
Anyway, listen, while my phone reloads, let me just say that it doesn’t matter if it was a raindrop or an unintentional gleek. Our first kiss was beautiful and special, and even eleven years later, I’ll never forget it.
We were standing under that street lamp on West Washington Avenue, and you were wearing that green polka dot dress, and you’re hair was tied back. And, when I leaned in---
Yes, polka dot. Green with white polka dots ... Becky Santos? Oh, you’re right! That was Becky Santos who had the polka dots. Oh my god, that’s true. Wow, whatever happened to Becky? She was such a sweetheart ...
Honey? Honey, where are you going? ... Don’t go! It was only a gleek!
Sweetie...
[muttering] Dammit, that fucking show Glee ruins everything. I hate that show.
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.
My Senses
For a couple of months in 1989, I lost my sense of smell in a freak tongue-in-a-light-socket accident. It eventually came back, but during that time, the rest of my senses became heightened. And, not just the standard senses. I began to perceive extra-sensory sense perceptions.
Here's list of my current senses:
1st Sense: Sight
2nd Sense: Hearing
3rd Sense: Smell
4th Sense: Taste
5th Sense: Touch
6th Sense: Impending doom
7th Sense: I can sense whether or not I've eaten mayonnaise in the last 24 hours.
8th Sense: Superhuman Rhythm
9th Sense: Nipslips occurring within a one-mile radius
10th Sense: Magnetic North
11th Sense: Milk Age/Quality
12th Sense: I can feel other people’s embarrassment. Especially if they can’t. (I’m looking at you, Gwyneth.)
13th Sense: Fashion [snap]
14th Sense: Spidey Sense. (ie. I can sense if spiders are crawling into my mouth while I sleep.)
15th Sense: Bargains on Towels
16th Sense: The mass of people sitting next to me on busses
17th Sense: When Prince songs are about to play
18th Sense: I think my allergy to lavender counts as a sense, in that I can always tell if lavender is around, because my throat closes up.
19th Sense: UV-Light (By the way, your bedspread is filthy.)
So, yeah, those are my extra, extra-sensory senses.
I tried to get onto the freak show circuit with a few of them, but I burned too many bridges with my diva-like demands. I don’t understand how painting my Reese’s Pieces to look like M&Ms is too much to ask for.
Although, it might have been that I kept misidentifying my boss as “the bearded lady,” when she was in fact just “the lady.” Meh.
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.]
Margin of Error
This blog post has a margin of error of plus or minus 3%.
Which, I guess would mean that that number, itself, could be wrong. If it's three percentage points in error of its percentage of error, then this blog post could have a margin of error as large as 6% or as little as 0%, which would mean it was absolutely correct.
And, if we assume that it's absolutely correct that it has a 6% chance of being wrong about its 6% margin of error, than six times six is a 36%. Wow, this blog post has a possibility of being totally wrong a full one-third of the time!
I'm sorry, I think I got my math wrong. I was never so good at numbers. When I said "possibility" I should have said "probability." because, we're dealing with probabilities, right?
That means this post is probably wrong 36% of the time. So, let's say that we test this blog three times, and each time it's one-third wrong. One-third times three is 100%. This blog post is probably totally wrong 100% of the time.
Or, 0% wrong, which is absolutely right. Both are equally valid possibilities/probabilities.
So, how can we tell if this blog post is 100% right or 100% wrong? Well, the only way is to ask one possibility what the other possibility would say and then assume the opposite.
See, if you asked the blog post that was right 100% of the time---let’s call that Post A---what the blog post that was wrong 100% of the time---Post B---would say… Let me start over.
Post A asks Post B if it’s correct, and Post A says that Post B said no. Well, if Post B is always wrong, Post B is wrong about it being wrong, which makes it right. But, then that makes Post A wrong about Post B being… I’m getting a really bad headache here. Does anyone have any ibuprofen?
Anyway, I can’t be sure, but I think this blog post is trying to create a paradox that would destroy the Space/Time Continuum. But, I think I can stop it by---
[BOOOOOOOMMMMM … pfizzzzle… pop!]
Oh shit, existence ended. Sorry, guys.
One-Year Anniversary!
Heeeeyy! It's the one-year anniversary of me starting this blog! Hey, look at that, you guys ... Heeeeyy!
When I first started this project, the point was to write something funny every single day. Not just tweets or jokes, but something substantial and unique like a Shouts & Murmurs-style essay or a funny list or a video or a comic. And, I've done just that every day since.
[Well, after a while, I remembered I had a wife, and I started taking off Saturdays. Then, I took time off for the two holiest of holidays---Christmas and Monroe Wisconsin's Cheese Days Festival. But, other than that...]
This year hasn't simply been about writing a blog and starting a storytelling show and getting a new job and moving. [Oh my god, I'm so tired.] I've also had a series of everyday adventures. It's been a pretty big year for ol' Andy "Rad Tad" Ross.
Here's a list of things I've done/accomplished over the past year of writing this blog:
- I learned two chords on Colleen's ukulele. I also invented a third, extremely dissonant chord that might not technically be a chord but has promise.
- I gained twenty pounds for a movie role. Alright, home video role.
- I saw a really awesome dog on 8th Street and the park.
- Through careful Googling, I've gained a shaky understanding of awhile vs. a while.
- I legally changed my name to Commodore Baby Boy Ross. For tax purposes.
- I had a conversation with a stranger without nervously vomiting on his/her shoes.
- I learned how to ice skate, finally justifying this sequined leotard.
- I masturbated my way out of a clinical depression.
- I fell asleep at the opera twice, nearly doubling last year's record.
- I stopped drinking soda. Except when thirsty.
- I perfected my impression of Patrick Stewart's impression of Dana Carvey's impression of George Bush. It's pretty great.
- I briefly ran out of Thai spicy ketchup.
- I traded places with my royal doppelganger but found his clothes too itchy around the neck.
- I finally switched beard conditioners, which was terrifying.
- I mated a camel with a llama.
- I'm sorry, that last one should read "mated with a camel and a llama."
- I wore every one of my socks.
- I remained the Greatest Wedding Dancer Alive.
It's been a pretty big year, you guys. Thank you for reading the blog. It continues to be a lot of fun.
Let’s make this next year the Year of the Share Button. Whad’ya say?
In the Uncanny Valley
Here's my take on the uncanny valley as it pertains to your toupee:
First off, whoa! That's a toupee!
I mean, I’ve probably seen toupees before. But, I've never seen a toupee that makes my brain scream "toupee" over and over again. Which yours does … Big time.
I can't take my eyes off it. Even though I desperately want to. What if I miss my subway stop?
Have you heard about the uncanny valley? It was first posited in 1978 by Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori, but it didn’t enter popular discussion until pretty recent CGI advances. I think when the Final Fantasy movie came out. Or maybe Polar Express ... Anyway, that part's not important.
The uncanny valley says that anything meant to mimic natural, animal life and movement is fine as long as it's either somewhat stylized or perfectly realistic. If it's trying to perfectly mimic nature and fails in the slightest, it sets off an evolutionary instinct that says something is wrong. Very, very wrong. Like alien-in-a-baggy-flesh-suit wrong.
Guess where that toupee falls.
Because, if you were wearing like a big pink beehive, I wouldn't be so freaked out. I'd think, "Oh, that guy's having a one-man Groove Is in the Heart party" or something. But, that you're trying to imply that that ... thing ... is real hair---I'm very uncomfortable.
It's the lack of follicles. I guess the "hair" strands themselves might be mistaken for real hair. The part in the middle, though, looks so matted and nasty. Like a mouse made a nest in there.
So, the big question is, “So what?” Right? My instincts are going haywire over some dude’s cheap wig. You could be ill or recovering from illness, and not everyone can afford a David Letterman-quality toupee.
Aha, but then I noticed how violently you’re folding and unfolding your newspaper. Aggressive reading is never a good sign. Also, you have a Hitler moustache. But, it’s slightly off-center. And, now you blew your nose and then proceeded to eat the Kleenex!!!
So, I would like to say thank you to the uncanny valley. It is a very helpful evolutionary instinct that has told me I need to switch subway cars. Right away. Because, shit is about to go down on this one. This guy is super bonkers.
And, if it weren’t for that toupee, I would have never noticed.
Hangover Cure
Listen, I don't have a drinking problem. When I stop drinking, though, that's the problem. Ha cha cha chaaa. Am I right, folks?
Folks, am I right? ... Folks?
There are only two cures for a hangover like the one I'm feeling today. One is to invent a time machine, go back to Thursday, and not buy that first Ziploc bag full of rum. Despite what you might think, a bendy straw is no guarantee of quality alcohol.
The second, somewhat more practical cure is my grandfather’s sure-fire hangover-busting concoction, The Double Phoenix™. It is as follows:
1) Mix equal parts Gatorade and pickle juice in an empty cardboard milk container. I can’t give you and exact measurement for each, but when you jostle the container, it should make a dunk dunk sound, not a swish.
2) Add two shots of vodka that’s been passed through a Brita filter and blessed by a Greek Orthodox priest.
3) Allow to sit for 10 minutes. Take this time to shiver and throw up in the bathtub.
4) In a blender, mix the following separate from the pickle juice mixture:
- One glass of low acid, high pulp orange juice
- Eight strawberries with the seeds removed (may take time)
- Celery
- One banana so overripe that it smells a little like kitty litter
- Five shakes of the green Tobasco, like the kind they have at Chipotle. Do they sell that in grocery stores? I always just steal it.
5) Wow, there have been a lot of brand names so far. I swear, this isn’t product placement on the blog. My grandfather was simply very brand loyal.
6) Pour each separate mixture into two Bell jars and place the jars two inches apart on the table.
7) Place an old-timey clothes pin over your nose and take a moment to collect your thoughts.
8) While staring at an 8 x 10 photo of Charles in Charge-era Scott Baio, slam the pickle juice, Gatorader, blessed vodka mixture. Wince.
9) Now, drink the orange juice blend. It does not mix well with the pickle juice. If you can’t bring yourself to do this step, have a friend or wife bury you up to your neck in moist river sand. Then they’ll have to force the orange juice/ Tobasco down the back of your throat using a turkey baster.
10) Take a 14-hour nap.
11) Repeat until recovered.
So, that’s it. The first time, it seems like a lot of work for a simple hangover. But, after about a few weeks of everyday practice, you begin to enjoy it. Especially the river sand part, which can feel all squishy and cool up under your gooch. Very soothing.
Well, good luck and God speed.