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.
Valentine’s Day Ideas
Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, and I need to come up with a romantic plan for me and my wife.
Listen, I know that Valentine’s Day is an artificial construct engineered by faceless corporations to guilt us into spending money. But, isn’t everything? I mean, stop and think about it---doesn’t that describe every single aspect of modern life?
I just blew your mind, didn’t I?
Alright, so we acknowledge that Valentine’s Day is as equally valid/invalid as everything else in our culture. That still means I need to figure out plans for a date. Something surprising. [Colleen, if you are reading this, stop right now. I’m serious, Colleen. SPOILER ALERT!]
I had a couple of preliminary ideas:
First I came up with a hot air balloon ride. But, then I remembered that I’m deathly afraid of ballooning ever since my sister and I survived a hot air balloon crash when I was little. [True story. I’ll tell you about it later.] I thought maybe I could overcome my fear by facing it head on. Then I threw up all over the ballooning brochures.
I decided maybe we could go on a romantic horseback ride instead. Colleen loves horses, don’t you, Colleen? [Ha! I knew you were still reading this! Colleen, stop trying to ruin Valentine’s Day!]
But, then I remembered the last time we went horseback riding and how saddle sore I got. I felt like a goddamn wishbone afterward. And, if there’s one day my pelvis needs to be in proper working order, it’s Valentine’s Day. Am I right? I’m winking right now, FYI.
What else could we do? A sunset cruise? Kiss atop of the Empire State Building? This isn’t amateur hour, people. I needed to come up with the perfect Valentine’s plan. That’s when I thought of it…
Fondue!
Everybody loves a romantic evening at home with fondue. The tiny burners requiring vigilant attention; fishing fallen bits of bread out of the hot cheese; the scalding oil dripping down your chin---it’s all so romantic. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Gooey equals sexy.
I did a test run while Colleen was at a work conference, and it went pretty well. Three tablecloth fires and one chocolate carpet stain later, and I’m feeling super confident as a fondue chef.
I even bought an apron that says “Fonduers Have Fon-Doing It!” Clever, right? You know, the brain is the most sensual organ after the genitals.
So, we’re all set. Colleen gets back from her work conference Monday night, which is Valentine’s Day night. She’ll be carrying three bags and a briefcase and a portable video projector. Plus, it’ll be the end of a 14-hour flight once you account for her layovers in Denver and O’Hare.
But, when that airport shuttle drops her off, I’ll be sitting in our apartment, nude except for a novelty apron, surrounded by a labor-intensive eating experience. And, once she cleans the fondue dishes, which is only fair since I will have cooked dinner, we’ll retire to the boudoir for a little post-cheese-fondue romance.
I do believe it’s gonna be the sexiest Valentine’s Day ever.
Levels of My Attention
Sometimes (read: often) I get distracted by my own thoughts or outside stimuli. I don’t mean to; I just do. That means that if I’m talking to you, you might not have my full attention. I apologize in advance.
It would probably be helpful to the both of us if you could gauge how much of my concentration you’ve got beforehand. So, here are the levels of my attention from greatest to least:
(Most Attentive)
1. We are in a room together / The TV is off.
2. We are in a room together / The TV is on.
3. We are in a room together / I have said something embarrassing to a stranger earlier / I am obsessing over it.
4. We are in a room together / I’m searching Facebook to see if that person has posted something about me embarrassing myself.
5. We are in a bar / I’ve had two drinks to calm down.
6. We are in a bar / I’ve had three drinks and am now drunk.
7. We are in a bar / I have said something embarrassing to the bartender (three drinks, remember).
8. We are on the phone after the bar / I am staring at a wall.
9. We are on the phone / I am microwaving nachos.
10. We are on the phone / I am eating nachos / A wolverine is attacking me.
11. A wolverine is attacking me and the TV is on.
12. I am exhausted from a wolverine attack.
13. I realize my nachos are gone / I am hungry.
14. I am obsessing over having said something embarrassing to the wolverine / Do you think it heard me call it a badger? / Was it offended?
15. The wolverine has not yet accepted my Facebook friend request where I apologized for calling it a badger / The TV is on / I am hungry.
(Least Attentive)
Witness Protection
When I entered the Witness Protection Program, I only had a couple---two or three---demands. Nothing big. The first was that my new name be Tad "Ace" McCool, and that I be a professional surfer.
I thought it was a reasonable new identity. My agent guy was a real hardass about it, though. He said I couldn't surf. What, like surfing's not allowed in witness protection?
No, he meant I had never surfed before. I offered up that maybe I could be a semi-retired famous surfer. I could hang around the beach looking regal and tan, and all the surfer girls would whisper and stare at me, longingly.
Agent Bill told me the whole point of witness protection is to be a guy people don't stare at, even surfer girls. So, I started to tear up again and talk about seeing all them murders. That usually works. I just have to be careful not to crack up laughing.
I sniffled and asked if I could at least wear the eye patch. (I came up with this terrific back story where I fought a killer whale, and that's why I retired from surfing.) Agent Bill said no way. That guy's a twerp.
Reasonable idea after reasonable idea---all shot down. Could I be a Navy Seal? No. What about the announcer at a water skiing stunt show? One where they jump off ramps through flaming hoops? No. How about a Cuban drug runner with a huge cigarette boat?
Eventually, I got him to let me be a home aquarium repair specialist in Phoenix. It was the closest I could get. But, I still get to wear board shorts and flip flops to work, which was a big part of it for me. My new name is Arnold Nump.
(Maybe I shouldn't be broadcasting all this. I'll have to ask Agent Bill.)
I did have one last request. I asked that my superpower be flight.
He said we don’t get superpowers in witness protection. What the fuck? What’s the point of having a secret identity then? Jesus … these guys.
Damn You, Body!
Listen, body, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. But, let me make one thing clear: We are gonna stop being so fat. Starting now.
Hey! Body! I’m talking to you! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me; you’re the one with the ears. I know you can understand me, body. I’m your brain, for cripe’s sake. It’s time to get our ass in shape. Literally.
Don’t you want to be in shape? I would love for us to be in shape. It would make it so much easier on the both of us. For one, you wouldn’t be so winded climbing the stairs. And, I wouldn’t have to feel this constant self-doubt and embarrassment every time our spring wardrobe comes out of storage.
Alright, here’s the plan: 1) You’re going to stop eating so much. 2) You’re gonna exercise. 3) I’ll provide the fantasies about looking good in a European-cut suit.
That’s it. It’s a three-point plan. You execute the first two points, and I’ll try my damndest on the third. I think that sounds like a equitable deal. (Fair warning: I may lapse every now and then by encouraging some late-night, depressive binge eating.)
Hey! Where’d you’d get that Mallomar? Do not eat that Mallomar! I said, do not mmphhh mmmphtt … Oh god, it tastes delicious.
Alright, fine, one Mallomar is fine. That’s fine. But we are going to exercise. Stand up and put on your headband. I know we left that Pilates mat somewhere … No, don’t sit down and turn on E! It’s terrible. We are not watching that horrible, vapid … Ooh, did Kendra get a new house? NOOO! No, we’re exercising.
Wow, she sure did lose that pregnancy weight fast. Good for her.
Alright, maybe just one more Mallomar. It’s so tasty. [crying] Damn you, body. I hate you so much.
The Lost Page
This is very exciting news! I don’t normally break big stories on this blog, but someone has to. The world needs to know.
A week ago Saturday, a friend of mine---let’s call him Johnny Z to keep his anonymity---discovered a book in the attic of his promiscuous mom’s house. [That she’s promiscuous doesn’t really pertain to this find, but I believe it’s important to paint as rich a picture as possible.] He knew this particular book had a reputation amongst rare book enthusiasts [me], not just because of its scarcity but also the folklore surrounding it.
According to urban legend, the book has a “lost page.” That is to say, there is a page in this book that consistently goes unread, even by the most careful reader.
Some say it’s in plain view, but one’s eye avoids it because of a mystical “glamour.” Others say the page appears blank unless viewed under the exact right conditions---through the periphery of sight with one eye in sunlight and the other in shade. Still others say the page skitters throughout the book, never in one place, always avoiding the gaze of the reader.
But, it’s been found! J. Zeigler [first name withheld to protect his identity] mailed off the book to me, and I, in turn, finally discovered the missing page. [Turns out it was the one-eye-in-the-sunlight thing. Obvs.] And, I’ve transcribed it for you here. For the first time ever!
The following is the famed “lost page” from the 1988 Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel The Yeti Versus The Brotherhood of the Ninja:
---
You step across the threshold of the small castle at the top of the mountain in Nepal. The Yeti, otherwise known as the Abominable Snowman, supposedly lives in these mountains. Jeremy, your friend and climbing partner, has also heard that ninjas guard the walls of this castle. Has he heard correct? You don’t see any ninjas.
“Are you sure there are ninjas guarding this castle?” you ask Jeremy.
“That’s what I heard,” says Jeremy.
Footprints, the size of giant feet like the kind of feet a Yeti might have, lead away from the castle. They lead toward a dangerous cliff that looks hazardous. But, the castle also looks risky or dangerous, because ninjas might be inside, or even outside but around the corner and out of sight, like ninjas tend to do.
---
If you follow the (probably Yeti) footprints, turn to page 56. If you go into the castle where the ninjas might be guarding dangerous stuff, turn to page 37.
So, yeah, that’s the secret lost page that I’ve been searching for for the last twenty years. It kinda sucks.
It’s not the best writing. It's repetitive, and it doesn’t really advance the story. I can see why everyone else skipped it without noticing. It’s sort of a letdown to be honest. Maybe I shouldn’t build it up so much when I talk about it.
Anyway, live and learn.