Time Travel
Sometime last year, I was standing on the toilet seat when I fell and hit my head. That's when I came up with the idea for a pepperoni and fennel sandwich. It was while eating that very same sandwich that I came up with the idea for a time travel machine.
I made it from bits and bobs around the house, mostly scraps from my failed anti-gravity attempts. The metal colander on top is just for decoration.
I tested out the time machine on my dog, Banjo, whom I later saw in the background of an old Marx Brothers movie. I took that as a positive test result. Banjo seemed happy.
The first thing I did was go back in time to my sophomore year of high school. I thought I'd learn guitar and use my knowledge of today's music scene to become a famous indie rocker. I played rudimentary versions of Arcade Fire and TV on the Radio at my school's talent show, and it totally worked!
My girlfriend's hotter friend finally took notice of me. A VHS tape of the talent show made its way to the record labels (thanks, Mom!), and I got signed. I quickly became famous by recording covers of songs that hadn't been written yet. Who would have guessed people in the mid-90s would enjoy LCD Soundsystem so much?
I became a rock star and a fashion plate. I knew the trend of men wearing scarves was coming up eventually; so I went ahead and brought it back early. Also, I made everybody skip the bellbottom resurgence and go directly to boot cut jeans. You're welcome.
But, it didn't last. Eventually, I ran out of groundbreaking new work to steal. All I had left was some Kanye stuff, and let's be honest---I can't pull off bravado.
I ended up becoming kind of a joke. Well, not a joke, but... when people bought my album on Amazon, it suggested they might also like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. That’s when I knew something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
So, I came back to the present and tried again.
I decided this time to go back to the Middle Ages and weasel my way into becoming a famous inventor. I brought my iPod with me and a digital alarm clock and whatever else fit in my pockets. I figured I could reverse engineer most of that stuff once I got there. I had managed to build my own time machine for cripe's sake!
At first, the king thought I was an evil sorcerer, because I happened to arrive during a solar eclipse. Also, I had told some maidens I was an evil sorcerer to try to impress them. But, then he ended up being a big fan of Angry Birds, and things were cool between us.
Anyhoo, I hadn't really planned ahead for my electrical needs. I'd brought back diagrams for a generator, but I forgot that the medieval times didn't have gasoline. FYI, lamp oil is a quick way to destroy a blacksmith-made generator.
When the Kindle conked out halfway through the King's reading of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, I high tailed it out of there.
What followed was a series of wacky misadventures. I don't remember much of it, because I messed up the time continuum pretty bad. Essentially, if you think of time as a piece of string, I wadded it up and tied a bunch of knots in it. I can't fully explain the butterfly effect, but somehow we ended up with giant killer butterflies for a while.
Now, because of my self-admitted bumbling goofishness, the present is overrun by anthropomorphic mole people. And, when I say the following I don't mean to come across as a specist: but, they are damn dirty. They are! They are covered in dirt.
So, I'm trying to go back to the past to put stuff right. And, if I become famous or beloved in the process, so be it. That's the price I pay for caring.
My first step is to go back and un-kill Hitler and try out a few different ways of re-killing. Mix and match, you know? Time travel is more of an art that a science.
Well, wish me luck.
Phone Message
Hey, I’m stepping out to grab some lunch. If my phone rings, can you answer it for me? You can just take a message or whatever.
Wait, you know what? If it’s a call from a guy named Todd, could pretend to be my secretary and then take a message? And, maybe you could make your voice sound kinda sexy? Like British sexy?
Who’s the lady who used to be married to Hugh Grant? Oh shoot, what’s her name? She was in the remake of Bedazzled, and technically she’s an actress, even though that’s the only thing I can think of her having been in. What else was she in? She used to be in a lot of perfume commercials, I think. She’s more of a celebrity than a thespian, I guess.
Anyway, if you answer my phone, can you maybe do an impression of her, as if she’s my secretary?
Also, maybe hint that you have an unrequited crush on me? Nothing big or salacious---just like a general longing. I don’t want to give you any exact lines, but maybe mention something about my eyes being the crisp blue of the Colorado sky.
Ugh, what is that woman’s name? Maybe she wasn’t married to Hugh Grant; maybe she was just his girlfriend. But, it was for sure during that whole thingy with him and the prostitute. (At the time, didn't you think the media attention around that was kinda racist? I always thought so. They'd always mention the prostitute was African American. Off-handedly, of course, like they didn’t really care. But, why even bring it up then?) And, whomever this actress is I’m trying to think of stuck by Hugh Grant all through that.
So, yeah, just do a quick impression of her, and say that I’m in a meeting, and I’ll get back to whoever calls. And, maybe have a slight wistfulness to your voice. Like, maybe you wish I’d get back to you about a romantic question you once posed to me.
Oh! Also, she was in one of the Austin Powers movies. Yeah, she was for sure in one of those. It’s weird, because I think she's a genuinely good actress, but I guess that’s not where her attention is focused. She’s more one of those actresses who has babies by hedge fund guys or Mediterranean shipping magnates.
Why does that always happen? It’s so odd that that's a common occurrence. Do they meet at fancy parties or something? Salma Hayek did that with some billionaire, too, I think.
Can you do a Salma Hayek impression on the phone? Because, that would be amazing.
No, never mind. That'd be too much.
Also, don’t pick up on the first ring. It looks too needy. If you wait until the third ring, the caller will think my office must be super busy. Shuffle papers while you’re at it, if you could.
Elizabeth Hurley! Boom! It’s Elizabeth Hurley. That’s her name. I was a little confused, because in the back of my head I was thinking Catherine Zeta Jones, but she’s Welsh not British. And, I don’t really like her accent as much. But, it’s for sure Elizabeth Hurley whom I was thinking of.
You know what, I’m just going to take my phone with me to lunch. You don’t need to answer it. I’ll use it to look up Elizabeth Hurley on Wikipedia. See what else she acted in… Oh yeah, look at that. She was in Permanent Midnight. I remember that movie.
Do you want anything from Subway, by the way? A cookie or anything? No? Are you sure? Because I’m happy to bring you a cookie. No? No cookie? A bag of Sun Chips or something? No? No Sun Chips? It’s fine. I’m gonna bring you back a cookie.
I'll be back in two shakes. See ya.
Turtle Whisperer
Dear Turtle Whisperer,
I have a pet tortoise that I think might have emotional problems. It was a rescue tortoise, and while it's really bonded with my children and husband, it has terrible separation anxiety.
Every time I leave the house, I can hear it slowly rustling, which I know is a sign of bad things to come.
I've tried crate training my tortoise, but I keep coming home to messes in the kitchen and partly chewed-up shoes. (It can’t really do much damage in only eight hours. We left for Orlando for a week, and we came back to a fully-shredded slipper.)
I’m at my wit’s end. I can’t imagine another sixty-to-eighty years of this. Can you help me?
Signed,
Shell-Shocked in Shreveport
Dear Shell-Shocked in Shreveport,
How many times do I have to explain this to you assholes? It's right there in my goddamn name. Turtle Whisperer. Turtle. T-U-R-T-L-E. Do you see the word “tortoise” anywhere? Can you even read? I whisper turtles. I don't whisper fucking tortoises!
Every week with you people! Jesus Christ, you'd think someone would read my column at least once before writing in. Once. But, no---always with the tortoise questions.
"Oh my stars, my tortoise is eating my houseplants! My tortoise won’t stay off the couch! My tortoise has a urinary tract infection!" What the fuck do you want me to do about it? I don't know anything about weirdo tortoises. I'm a turtle whisperer.
Would you people ask a porpoise whisperer about dolphins? Would you ask a crocodile whisperer about alligators? You know, scratch that. You probably would, you monsters.
Who even owns a pet tortoise? What are you, some kind of serial killer?
You want my advice? Go fuck yourself. Fuck you, and fuck your fucking tortoise and your fucking house and your fucking two-car garage. I’ve never seen your face, but I bet it’s smug and shitty, and I’m pretty sure you’re wearing pearls and a sweater set. Fuck your sweater set.
I’m sick of this bullshit. If anybody out there has any questions about FUCKING TURTLES GODDAMNIT, you know where to reach me. But, until then, take your fucking tortoises and shove them up your assholes, you assholes.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have dozens of terrariums to go clean.
Fuck you very much,
The Turtle Whisperer
Life Lessons from Chess
Let me give you guys a bit of advice: Life is like this chessboard here. You have to plan ahead. Know your moves.
For instance, take this little piece up front with the round top. How does it move? One square forward? Two? Eleven? I have no idea. Are there even eleven squares on this chessboard? Hold on a second while I count…
Hmm, this board only has eight squares. It must be defective.
Hold on. I’m writing myself a note to order a better chessboard online. Maybe black marble with green flames…
Anyway, instead of being this little piece in the front, you probably want to be this tall piece in back---the one with the cross on top. It must be the Pope.
You want to be the Pope, strutting around with your Pope sword and your Pope crossbow. And, if anybody gives you shit, you just be all like, “Ba-blam, thunk, Pope arrow to the face! You’ve just been Poped, mutha-fucker!”
And, then you just strut.
So, that’s one life lesson you can take from chess.
You know, you don’t have to be this Pope piece in life. You could be the horse dude, instead. Going around eating grass and taking dumps wherever you want. Just like, “Hey, I gotta take a dump. In this field? Sure. During a parade? Hell yeah.” So, I guess that lesson from chess is to act intimidating.
Also, there’s this piece like looks like a Muppet staring straight up. Like maybe he’s watching a jet fly overhead, and his mouth is hanging open? Let’s call him Bert.
You could be Bert. I’ve actually seen how this piece moves. (It was playing on one of those video screens at the airport next to the moving sidewalk. Probably an ad for some boner medicine.) Bert kinda moves like he’s doing the Electric Slide. And, if there’s one lesson I’ve learned in life, it’s that you for sure need to learn the Electric Slide. Nobody wants to be the only guy at a wedding who doesn’t Electric Slide.
I can’t tell you how many times my Electric Slide technique has gotten me laid.
There are other chess pieces, too. Like the castle, which I think just sits there. That’s fine for some. There have been times when I just sat there. Like when I was unemployed for a year.
But, in the long run, you get fat. Then you have to join a gym, which is expensive. Especially on unemployment. Suckville.
I’m not sure what lessons we can learn from the pieces being black and white. It seems a little racist. I mean, where are the yellow pieces? Or the brown ones? I tell you, as soon as I get my eleven-square chessboard, there will be room for all the races to fight each other.
That’s a promise.
So yeah, anyway, chess. There’s a shit ton of lessons there if you take the time to learn them.
Good Morning, Summer
Good morning, sunshine. Good morning, birds. Good morning, flowers and trees and puffy white clouds.
Good morning, heat. Good morning, garbage smells. Good morning, drip of sweat sliming its way down between my shoulder blades.
Good morning, crowded elevators and angry moms and old ladies too tired to hold in their farts.
Good morning, fashion assistants wearing sunglasses on the subway even through there’s no sunlight down here and you look like assholes squinting down at your asshole Blackberries.
Good morning, melted gum and dog feces. Good morning, babies with heat rash. Good morning, even more garbage smells.
Good morning, air conditioner exhausts and air conditioner drips and the ever-present grind of air conditioners. Good morning, air-conditioned luxury stores with your doors wide open, because fuck the world, right?
Good morning, Russian men in Speedos and Brazilian men in thongs. Good morning, exposed beer bellies of the world. Good morning, back hair.
Good morning, road construction. Good morning, jackhammers. Good morning, people talking about the Hamptons.
Good morning, bees. Good morning, ants. Good morning stink bugs and spiders and cockroaches and silverfish and those gross wispy centipedes that look like eyebrows.
Good morning, mosquitoes.
Good morning, pit stains. Good morning, weight we meant to lose. Good morning, hot pillows.
Good morning, children with ice cream all over your faces and hands and t-shirts and everything you touch. Good morning, general stickiness.
Good morning, eight-dollar iced lattes. Good morning, hot leather convertible seats. Good morning, lacrosse players in backwards visors and shower shoes.
Good morning, heat stroke. Good morning, dehydration. Good morning, brownouts and blackouts and thunderstorms and tornadoes.
But, finally, a big good morning to tan-lined cleavage and flippy sun dresses. Thank you for making everything else okay.
First Impressions
I scheduled a haircut after work, because my iPad 2 is finally arriving in the mail this week, and I want to look my best.
I don't know; maybe I'm making too big a deal of things---clearing space on the desk, freeing up a dedicated power strip. Does a vase of flowers read as too eager?
Then again, you only get one chance to make a first impression. This iPad is traveling all the way from China, after all. The least I can do is trim my beard and get a haircut.
Also a manicure. And slight eyebrow management.
I'm unsure exactly what date my iPad will arrive, so I've planned out an entire week of my best outfits. Personally, I kind of hope it gets here on Thursday, because I laid out my navy sport coat, which makes me look skinny… Well, skinny-ish… Well, not fat. Mostly.
It's been a long wait. For the both of us. I stood in line the first day they were coming out, but the store was sold out of the exact model I wanted. So, I walked away. It was hard, but this is too big of a commitment to have it not be a perfect match. Not that anything is a perfect match. You have to work through the little things together.
Gosh, I wonder what I'll say when I open up the box. Do you think the UPS man will be nice? I hope he's not flippant about the hand-off. You hear these horror stories where the delivery driver is rude and it ruins the entire tone of the event.
Man... butterflies, right? Whew, I am just a bundle of nerves. How's my breath? Should I shave my beard? Are these reading glasses too much? I'm trying really hard to seem like I'm not trying too hard.
I hope my new iPad likes the case I picked out for it. I went with black, because it’s a classic. I mean, I figure I'd have the case waiting for it when it got here, and then we could pick out some apps together. I scouted out a few, but I don't want to seem presumptuous...
Was that the doorbell? Oh no! The place is a mess! I thought I had more time! Let me just, um... WHERE’S MY COMB?!!!
You know what? Never mind. It'll be fine. Nobody's perfect, and I can't control for everything, and nobody's expecting me to, and the place looks fine, and I look fine, and I'll just answer the door. I'll just go do that now... Okay, now.
Wish me luck. [licks palm and smoothes down bangs.] Okay, now.
Words to Live By
Words to live by:
Sometimes bad things happen to good people.
Sometimes good things happen to bad people.
Sometimes rad things happen to badass people.
Sometimes mood rings happen to rude people.
Sometimes, could things happen to Brad, people?
Sometimes nude singers amend two peepholes.
Sometimes puddings upend two mad clavicles.
Sometimes foodies happen too, bat people.
Sometimes dudes fling happiness onto May poles.
Sometimes sad kings happen upon Mott the Hoople.
Sometimes glued wings wrap into admirals.
Sometimes lewd fingers apple tuba pebbles.
I don’t know if that last one makes a ton of sense, but it’s seen me through a lot of tough times. I have it cross-stitched above my bathroom mirror, and I read it aloud ever morning.
Don’t stop believing, you guys.
Ironic Shirt
Why, yes. Yes I am wearing this shirt from the Gap ironically. That’s very astute of you to notice. I think everyone else at this gallery opening just assumed I’m some sort of hick from Wisconsin. Yes, yes this is an ironic outfit. Sure it is.
Those are very interesting legwarmers, you’ve got there. Are those made out of beer cozies? That’s what I thought. They’re nice. Did you make those yourself?
No, of course I’m kidding. I know who that designer is. He’s very … five minutes from now.
My shoes? They’re from the New Balance Outlet Store. It’s meant to be a commentary on the plebeian fixation on function over form. Which we all know is ridiculous. So flyover state, right? Yeah, who would wear non-ironic sneakers? Some sort of gross doofus.
I like your glasses, by the way. They’re very reflective. I can see myself sweating a little. I’m surprised you’re not warm in your beer cozies.
So, what do you do for a living? I’m just kidding. I can tell by your expression that that’s an offensive question. It was actually meant to be thought-provoking. Like as in, what if people had to work for money? Wouldn’t that be weird? It’s fine that you didn’t catch the subtext. Don’t be embarrassed.
Whew, I hope this champagne kicks in soon.
So, um, what do you think of the exhibition? I saw the artist masturbating in the corner as part of a performance piece. At least I hope it was a performance piece, ha ha.
Oh no, I didn’t realize the piece was about the Apartheid. Yes, you’re correct; there’s nothing funny about the racial segregation.
Do you know the artist’s work then? Oh, wow, it must be interesting being the daughter of a famous artist. Does he practice his performance pieces at … you know what, never mind.
Where is that waiter with more drinks?
So, did you watch the Parks and Rec finale? Sure, that’s okay. I’ll just go stand over here then. Nice talking with… buh bye.
Thank You, Oprah
In honor of Oprah ending her show, I want to take a moment to acknowledge all she’s given to us all over the years. So, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to thank Oprah for a few things:
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for teaching us to define ourselves through consumer goods.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for sharing The Secret with us.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for giving Jenny McCarthy a nationwide platform to discourage childhood vaccination.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for a constant flow of gurus.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for providing a safe place for closeted Scientologists to talk about their private jets.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for bringing us the person who brought us the word "yummo."
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for getting the world to read books with “buzz.”
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for inspiring Tyra Banks to be the way she is.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for helping corporations pass off public relations giveaways as charity.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for making suburban soccer moms refer to their genitals as “va-jay-jays.”
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for all the screaming.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for the Backstreet Boys reunion.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for turning on James Frey and making his artistic/self-promotional choices seem like a personal emotional assault against you and your viewers.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for a southern psychologist who berates people for a half hour in place of therapy.
Farewell, Oprah. Thank you for teaching us that it doesn’t matter what weight a woman is, as long as she defines herself by her constant struggle with weight.
Thank you, Oprah. You’ve left the world and yourself a richer place.