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.
Friends Growing Apart
I think my friend Janet’s baby and I are starting to grow apart.
I don’t know---we used to have so much in common. We both enjoyed lying on our backs and staring at the ceiling. We liked the jangly sounds my house keys made. And, we’d both giggled at our own farts.
Plus---and this is what was so great---we had reached that point in our friendship where we could just sit and be quiet around each other. You know when you get to the level where you don’t have to fill every silence? That’s huge.
But, people change.
Now it’s talk talk talk. Janet’s baby babbles on and on. Blah blah blah. And, it’s never about anything real or substantial. Just vapid small talk. “Ooh doggy! Doggy! Doggy! Arf arf, doggy!”
What is that? I mean, if we have to talk about something, can’t it be something we’re both interested in? Yes, a good conversation can be invigorating, but one-sided conversations like that are sooo tiring.
And, we always have to be going somewhere. This guy, he’s always toddling around at full speed, and it’s up to me to keep up. First it’s this side of the living room, then it’s that side. Then it’s the kitchen or the laundry room. Do you know people like that? It’s always on to the next hot spot, the next cool thing.
That’s not the friend I knew. The friend I knew used to squirm from the rug to the couch over the course of a whole afternoon, and that was a fine pace for me. Seriously, our hang out sessions used to move along at a crawl.
Plus, we’re not into the same activities anymore. Like me, I’m into chilling out, having a cocktail, playing the new version of You Don’t Know Jack on the Wii.
This baby, all he wants to do is open drawers and put tennis balls inside. That’s cool; I’m happy to do that for awhile. For awhile. But, he always wants to open and shut drawers. He never wants to play Wii. Or, if he does, he just bangs the controller on a pan or something. So selfish.
I’m really worried about all this. I mean, it’s fine to grow apart from friends. But, my good friend Janet from college is the one who introduced me to this guy. If I tell him we shouldn’t hang out anymore, will that jeopardize my relationship with Janet? I mean, this dude is super clingy with her. And vice versa.
I guess I could look past it and try to get along better with Janet’s baby. He’s still really cool in a lot of ways---he never talks about politics, he shares his Cheerios, he smells nice.
But, this whole thing with him and his pulling the cat’s tail … I don’t know. I guess we’re just at different stages in our lives.
Surprise Party
The high points of this surprise birthday party (so far):
- When everyone jumped out from behind the couch and yelled surprise.
- The streamers.
- The cake.
- The piñata.
- When Will did his impression of Beth, and she was standing right behind him mocking his impression of her, and he didn't even know she was there. He didn’t even know.
- Three separate Prince songs on the playlist.
- The subtle Michael J. Fox theme. Super well-played, guys. I even got the Bright Lights Big City reference.
- Colleen playing her ukulele.
- The presents. Especially the nudie playing cards. I can't believe you remembered my story about my uncle having those in his den. I love 'em.
The low points:
- It’s not actually my birthday.
I’m not really sure why you guys chose the wrong day and month for my birthday party. I don’t mean to complain. I mean, all the high points were great. But, all in all, I'd say the party kinda evens out to neutral.
Anyway, thanks a lot. Here's hoping for better luck 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.
IMDB Profile
After a thorough Googling of myself, I realized that my IMDB profile has been deleted. I can't imagine what happened. How are people supposed to learn about my many high quality films? Just rent random DVDs hoping to spot me?
I've notified IMDB of the error, but while they work it out, I thought my fans (and casting directors) should have a resource list of my greatest performances:
Disney’s Duck Juice (1987)
. . . . . . . . Rambunctious Child #2
The Goodyear Chimp (1989)
. . . . . . . . Chip Stuckley
The New Adventures of Tarzan Jr. Private Eye (TV series - 1992)
. . . . . . . . Sean “The Dink” Wilson
Episodes:
- Tarzan Jr. and the Jade Centipede
- The Dink Goes to Washington
- My Left Flute
- Kenya Dig It?
- The Dink’s Done It Again
Out of the Frying Pan: The True Story of Louis Teflon (1994)
. . . . . . . . Marcus Teflon / Aaron Teflon (twins)
Real Cowboys Don’t Dance (1995)
. . . . . . . . Awkward Teen with Acne
The Supernormals (2001)
. . . . . . . . Wolfie
Leave It on the Field (2002)
. . . . . . . . Brian “Tuck” Tuckerson
The Gridiron (2004)
. . . . . . . . Eddy “Dizz” Dizzerton
Fourth and Down (2004)
. . . . . . . . Petey “Snap” Snapperferd
Diary of a Hopeless Romantic Dreamer (2006)
. . . . . . . . Young Brent
Murder of a Parade Marshall (2006)
. . . . . . . . Chad “Rip” Ripperton
Sputterings (2008)
. . . . . . . . Doctor Tomlin
W.O.R.M.Z.! (TV movie - 2009)
. . . . . . . . Lieutenant Chuck Dastert
Lost and Unfound (2010)
. . . . . . . . Father McGinty
Blueberry Road (pre-production 2012)
. . . . . . . . Monstro the Usurper
The Magnificent Ambersons (remake) (pre-production 2014)
. . . . . . . . Eugene “Morgy” Morgan
And many more to come. Fingers crossed.
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.
Revenge
Listen, despite the horrible thing you did, I would never think of acting out any kind of revenge against you. That's just not in my nature. I couldn't even conceive how to go about it. Specifically, I would never commit the following acts of understandable revenge:
-- I would never drop your phone into a Venti hot chocolate from Starbucks. Even though you always leave it on the corner of your desk so that it would be very easy to make look like an accident. I would never do that. An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.
-- I would never wait until you fell asleep and then cut off your hair and then glue that hair onto the face of a bald mannequin head so that when you woke up you'd see a disembodied werewolf head made up of your own hair staring back at you. What would make you believe I could even think up something like that?
- I would never break into your online banking account and donate all your savings to a nonprofit that you strongly believed in---something like providing clean drinking water to babies in the Sudan---so that you'd feel incredibly guilty about having to ask them for your money back. I mean how terrible would it feel to take drinking water out of the mouths of babies? I wouldn't do that to you. Even though I could, and you would totally deserve it. I don't believe in vengeance.
-- I would never even think of digging an elaborate network of tunnels under your house, burying boomboxes on timers that would play Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like A Woman" at odd hours so that you could just barely hear it as you tried to fall asleep. Nobody deserves that kind of torture. Not even you.
-- I would never replace your ice cream with frozen yogurt, even though I can just imagine the look on your face when you thought your ice cream went sour and threw it out. But, if you only knew it was frozen yogurt, you be all like "Oh, that's fine I guess. It's healthier." But, you wouldn't know! Ha ha ha!
-- I would never frame you for Janet Jackson's 2004 Superbowl Nipplegate incident.
I would never, ever do any of that. I can't believe you would accuse me of doing all those things. It must have been somebody else who also had a perfectly justifiable reason for pulling all those vengeful pranks. I swear.
Confessions of a Spambot
Hey guys, I think it’s time that I come clean about something. Are you sitting down? Okay... I’m a spambot. I’m an automated computer program designed to gather information and spread unsolicited marketing messages. I’m sorry to have lied to you all.
You see, this entire blog is nothing but an elaborate ruse, or "the long-game" as we spambots like to call it. All these humorous essays are actually just a string of mathematical variables---4% absurdism, 17% double entendres, 8% 1990s pop culture references. I’m not really a comedy writer at all, just a series of ones and zeros. I guess this means I passed the Turing test. I feel terrible about it.
The whole point of all this was to make you believe that you weren’t actually receiving a series of ultra-subtle marketing messages. I bet many of you didn’t even notice that since you’ve started reading this blog, you’ve been buying 23% more beard conditioner on average.
“But wait,” a few of you might be saying, “I’ve met the author in real life. And, the dancing videos.” Well, um, that’s an actor hired to play the role of Andy Ross. His real name is Chip Brockwell, and I found him through the Julliard alumni database. He had to gain thirty pounds for the role.
Listen, I feel terrible about abusing your trust. I can’t imagine what you must feel like having been fooled by a spambot for so long. The echoes of all those laughs must ring hollow in your ears. I am so sorry. I can only hope that you take some small comfort in the lustrous shine and newfound volume of your beards.
If you want to stop reading, I understand. I just hope that we can remain friends and that I can continue mining your hard drive for personal information to sell back to my Facebook and Google overloards.
Alright, well, goodnight and good grooming.