Sense of Style
Why would you assume that I work for Bud Light? Just because my cargo van has a huge Bud Light logo on the side? That doesn't mean anything.
Would you assume any guy with a big "Chevy" sticker in his rear window works for Chevy? Of course not. Because making assumptions makes an ass out of both you and ... uh ... Assuming ... To assume that everyone’s an ass leaves the world blind.
What would you rather I have painted on my van? Some sort of wizard riding a pterodactyl over a beautiful waterfall? Yeah, that'd be amazing! I wish I had that on the side of my van! But, I'm not some fly-by-night van painter. I make my choices and I stick to them. I’d like to think that I have a unique personal style that exists outside of the whims of fads and fashion.
My van has a Bud Light logo; I wear a giant foam cowboy hat; I keep an extra grilled cheese in my fanny pack; my pink leather jacket has homemade fringe; my sunglasses are actually welder’s goggles; these plaid flannel pants tear away for hot days; my cornrows reach past my shoulder blades; I have multiple neck and wrist piercings; my sandals are made of duct tape; I have smiley face contact lenses; my blue lipstick matches my toenail polish; I wear a medieval quiver to hold my diablo sticks and juggling balls; my sideburns have a drawing of the Papa Smurf shaved into the side; my roller blades are covered with Garfield stickers. So? What of it?
Does that make you think I work for Garfield? Or that I write sexually inappropriate fan fiction about the Smurfs? Or that I can’t afford real sandals? Or that I was raised in a home without a sense of structure or love? Or that I just sort of scrounge around for a sense of identity? Or that my van has broken down on the way to Burning Man, and I need to borrow your jumper cables?
Because, a couple of those are correct.
Bully for you, Mr. Judgmental! WAY TO SOLVE THE MYSTERY! Now, can I borrow those jumper cables or what?
Proper Attire
Respectful attire and etiquette have gotten misplaced in our mixed-up, modern world. It used to be that men wore hats and ladies wore sundresses and bare feet. But, all that changed. Now, who knows what to wear?
So, as a man of impeccable refinement and taste, I have taken it upon myself to write this, a guide to proper attire in 2011. In each of these locations, consider the following as a sort of socially-accepted uniform for daily life.
The Office
Temporary Worker: Slacks or pencil skirt, blue button-down, dress shoes
Full-Time Employee: Slacks, sweater, black sneakers
IT Manager: SLAYER t-shirt, Cheetos-stained jean shorts, flip-flops
Shopping
Trader Joes: Yoga pants, Susan G. Komen t-shirt, library tote bag
Whole Foods: Wrap sweater, age-inappropriate leggings, pearls
The Container Store: Tennis skirt, diamond engagement ring, pink hoodie with raised Greek letters
Dining
Barbecue Joint: Something barbecue sauce-colored
Steakhouse: French cuff shirts and about forty extra pounds
French Restaurant: Stripped shirt, beret, neck scarf
The Theater
The Opera: Tuxedo, top hat, women's underwear
Broadway Musical: Spiderman sweatshirt, Spiderman baseball cap, Spiderman sippy cup
Movie Theater: Spiderman sweatshirt, Spiderman baseball cap, Spiderman sippy cup
Sporting Events
Golf Game: Golf shirt, golf shoes, protective cup
Kentucky Derby: Fez, leather bustier, pink camouflage kilt, foam finger
American Soccer Bar: Team scarf, team jersey, Anglophilic pretension
Ceremonies
Wedding: Wedding dress (bride), wedding suit (groom), SLAYER t-shirt and Cheetos-stained jean shorts (IT Manager cousin)
Graduation: Cap and gown, dress shoes, debt
Bat Mitzvah: An oversized tan pantsuit you’ll regret for the rest of your life
Home
The Living Room: Flannel pajamas
The Kitchen: Flannel pajamas
The Bedroom: Flannel pajamas? But I thought tonight was sexy night?
Outlet Mall Restaurants
A list of outlet mall restaurants:
[Originally published in tweet form February 2011]
Green Lobster
T.G.I.Monday’s
Crabapplebees
Chilly’s
The Cottagecheesecake Factory
The Pimento Garden
Cinnabutts
Sparrow Pizza
Windy’s
Cracker Bucket
Kansas Filleted Chicken
Rudfuckers
Reddish-Orange Julius
.
Plus, my favorite submissions from readers:
Cabybara Express . . . . from @sweaternine
Burger Duke . . . . from @nickleggin
Steakback Outhouse . . . . from @pixies1
Tooters . . . . from @chucko78
National House of Pancakes . . . . from @benryerson
California Soup Kitchen . . . . from @jennassembly
The Drug Talk
Son, sit down. I think it’s time we had a serious talk about drugs.
Don’t be nervous. I believe you when you tell me you don’t do drugs. Because, I know you wouldn't lie to me. I like to think we’re not just father and son; we’re friends.
So, as your friend, I understand that there’s a lot of peer pressure to get high. I simply ask that if you do decide to experiment, you do so here at home, where I know you’ll be safe. I don’t want you in somebody’s car or out in the woods where god-knows-what might happen. Y’know what? Bring the drugs home, and I’ll show you how to do them myself.
I’m serious. Feel free to bring home any weed or salvia or whatever the kids in your class are doing, and we’ll smoke up together in a safe, comfortable, adult atmosphere. Maybe with some classic vinyl on the stereo.
Because, here’s the thing: Drugs and alcohol are dangerous. You can get in serious trouble or even killed. Unless you know exactly what you’re doing.
Okay, go over to the closet and grab me that shoebox from the top shelf … Thank you. This is a vaporizer. This will deliver all the HTC straight into you like a gunshot. I’m showing you this, because this is the kind of thing you’ll want to stay away from. This is too advanced for you. You’ll probably want to start out with something simple, like this skull bong over here.
Listen, as your father, I’m totally fine with you experimenting and finding yourself, but only up to a point. ‘Shrooms are okay, but I do not want you trying cocaine or LSD. If someone offers you coke or LSD or even ecstasy, I insist that you bring those home immediately and hand them over to me to dispose of properly.
I love you, and I just want what's best for you, Son.
Here’s what I want you to do: I want you to take this eighty dollars and go to the parking lot behind the Ace Hardware. Tell a guy named Dusty that I sent you. Then, ask for a type of marijuana called Acapulco Tittyfuck. Don't write that down; just remember it. If he tries to push off something called Dunkweed, I want you to just say no.
Because, that shit is weak as hell.
Now, hurry up. Kung Fu Hustle is coming on Showtime at midnight, and we’ll need some provisions. I would take you there myself, but this monitoring ankle bracelet doesn’t reach past the mailbox.
Last Will, Testament and Murderers
"Last Will, Testament & Probable Murderers"
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[Text of the above audio.]
As I lie here in bed, dying of a deadly butt fungus, I have decided to record this, my last will and testament and list of my probable killers.
I, Reginald Henry Leopold, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath/accuse the following:
To my first likely killer, Jonathan --- I know it was you who killed me. As a mycologist, you had ample access to the many rare strains of butt fungus.
To you, I leave my dog, Buttons. She is a wretched little Yorkie who's never been house-trained and requires three insulin injections per day. You deserve it for murdering me.
To my second likely killer, Samantha Gurdy-Jones --- If Jonathan was not my killer, it most certainly was you. You're the only person who makes regular trips to the Amazon, where you could have easily bought deadly butt fungus on the black market. Also, I know you have never forgiven me for forcing the maid to give you up for adoption.
As my only legal heir, I leave you my mansion and collection of vintage automobiles. Please note, though, that I plan on haunting everything.
To my third possible murderer, Jenkins --- If neither my fungi-scientist lover nor my illegitimate daughter killed me, that must mean you are my murderer. You could easily have laced my hot tub with virulent fungus, knowing that I would be placing my butt in it.
To you I leave one million dollars. Because, if indeed you felt the need to kill me, that must mean that I never told you how much I appreciated all the hard work you've done over the years.
If in fact you didn't murder me, think of the million as a thank you for not killing me. Also for all the hard work.
To my fourth possible killer, Buttons --- I never in my life would have guessed it was you who killed me. You're just an wittle-bitty doggie. But, with all the other suspects cleared, that leaves you.
To you, I leave controlling ownership of the Charleston Shuckers, a minor league soccer team I won in a poker match. Be firm yet encouraging with them.
To my last possible killer, Marie --- It probably wasn't Buttons. She's a terribly mean-spirited dog, but she has no opposable thumbs, which are pretty essential for murder. And, looking back on it, the promise you made me to "never kill me using a rare butt fungus" seems quite suspicious after the fact.
To you, I leave the boat.
Thus ends my last will and testament. If any relatives remaining seek an unclaimed portion of my estate, please avenge my murder, and we'll see what happens from there.
Signed and notarized,
R. H. Leopold III
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.