Broken Phone Tips
Here are a few helpful tips on what to do when your smartphone breaks, organized into five easy stages:
STAGE ONE
- Ask yourself if this is a dream. Is this a dream? I mean, who drops their phone into a pot of boiling minestrone? Who does that?!
- Try drying off the battery with a hair dryer. It’s probably just that the battery shook loose, right? Right?
- Somebody once told me putting your phone in a bag of dried barley overnight can wick away the moisture. (Although, this sounds a little like black magic, so maybe hold off.)
- Hopefully all the info is synced onto your computer. Think of the last time you synced to your... I MEAN, WHO DROPS A PHONE INTO SOUP?!!
STAGE TWO
- Pace wildly in ever-tighter circles.
- Contemplate whether you believe in A) a spiteful God or B) no God.
- Call the TechGuys Store about repairing your phone. Hold up; their info was in your contacts list on your phone. DAMMIT! It’s a catch-42!
- Wait, 42 isn’t the right number. What’s the right number? Catch-44? Let me just Google it on my… DAMMIT!
- Call Charlie to ask if he can look up the TechGuys’ number one his smartphone. Also, ask him about the catch-42 thing. But... how are you going to call Charlie without a phone? Stupid Charlie!!!
STAGE THREE
- Check to see if you still have a landline. Where was that phone jack when you moved in? Behind the headboard? If you do have a phone line, maybe you can remember Charlie’s number.
- See someone walking outside the bedroom window with a smartphone. Yell out the window that you’ll give them $100 for their phone.
- Tell your neighbor you’ll only stop yelling if she lends you a bag of dried barley.
STAGE FOUR
- Notice your hand is shaking from Twitter withdrawal.
- Sit in an empty bathtub for a while.
- Go ahead and eat the minestrone. Then some ice cream. Then something salty, to cut the sweetness. Maybe nachos. Or hummus.
- Or potato chips. Then more ice cream.
- Regret the final text you sent before dropping your phone. If only you’d known it was the last one, you wouldn’t have typed “LMAO.” So disrespectful.
- Sit fully-clothed under the running water in your shower.
STAGE FIVE
- Take a long, hard look at your smartphone. It's no longer your phone; it's just an empty shell. Your real phone is out there in the network somewhere.
- Look around. Finally see your apartment for the first time in months. It’s filthy. With no Facebook available, you might as well clean up a little.
- Get eight hours of sleep for once. I guess it’s not that important that you beat your high score at Fruit Ninja.
- Wake up next to someone. Who is this person? Oh, it’s your spouse.
- Try to convince your spouse to stop reading his or her Kindle. Drag them away from it if you have to.
- Take a nice, leisurely morning walk together. Remember what freedom feels like.
- Pass by an AT&T Store. You might as well just pop in a get another phone.
- Sit on the curb and get in a few good tweets and maybe five or six rounds of Fruit Ninja.
- Mmmm… sweet, sweet smartphone. You feel so right.
Missing Link
Reasons this skull I discovered might not be the missing link:
1) Hairline fractures along the occipital bone could only have been caused advanced stone tools.
2) Wear along the molars suggests the consumption of cultivated grains.
3) Rather than displaying classic Hominidae post-cranial traits, this is closer in shape to a vole or rodent's skull.
4) I found it on a picnic table in Central Park.
5) A group of ten-year-old boys were trying to hit it with a stick, but I chased them off.
6) My former colleagues at the museum insist it's a squirrel skull.
7) When I questioned their reasoning, they told me I was supposed to hand in my museum ID months ago.
8) My ex-wife agrees it's a squirrel skull, and says I need to stop coming around. She’s married to Donald now.
9) The foramen magnum is not positioned as anteriorly, which would suggest a semi-erect posture.
10) My buddy down at McGinty's, Dirty Pete, thinks it is the missing link, and he's usually wrong about things. Also drunk.
11) It’s in pretty good shape for being 200,000 years old.
12) The guy at the pawn shop wouldn’t give me more than five bucks for it.
13) I am pretty drunk right now.
14) The skull still has some bits of squirrel attached.
15) So, those are my reasons why I think this possibly might not be the missing link, officer.
Updated S&M
Welcome to Modern Sensations S&M Club, where we give masochism a modern sensibility. You're new here, correct? Let me give you a quick tour.
The first thing you'll notice is the waiting room. Everyone arriving has to wait an hour before entering the facility for no reason other than the receptionist being distracted by Angry Birds on her phone.
Can you feel your frustration rising? You're already being dominated!
That's exactly the kind of up-to-the-minute domination technique used here at Modern Sensations. We strive to give our patrons a much more realistic sense of humiliation and degradation than the standard whips and diapers S&M clubs.
After the waiting area, we’ll pass a long hallway of video screens displaying unflattering Facebook or DMV photos of you. (Please email those in ahead of your appointment. There’s an FAQ on our website with acceptable files formats.) If you’re really interested in degradation, we can also put up photos of your ex, who is now fifteen pounds lighter and happier.
And, then it’s on to the sex dungeon.
Unlike traditional S&M sex dungeons, there are no black velvet curtains or darkened corridors here. Simply one large, brightly lit atrium with bad acoustics. It in, you’ll find a series of poorly managed lines and unhelpful signage. There’s a take-a-number machine at the front, but it’s out of number slips.
These many lines lead to a wide range of bondage and domination scenarios. There aren’t any leather masks or chains at Modern Sensations, but you can wait in an apartment all day for the Time Warner Internet guy to never arrive.
We also have a faux laundry room where you can make uncomfortable small talk with your religious landlady. Then, there’s the cocktail mixer during which someone will misinterpret an innocent comment of yours as racist. Or, maybe you’d prefer the three-weeks-sober-at-your-wife's-family-for-Thanksgiving dinner scenario.
All these and many more role-playing arrangements await your exploration. Whatever sorts of present day embarrassment or discomfort arouses you sexually, you can find it here.
And, rest assured, we are indeed judging you for your weird erotic predilections. That’s simply another part of the humiliation we strive to provide at Modern Sensations S&M Club, you weirdo.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour. Feel free to look around and join in the masochism. Remember, the safeword is “ugh, gross.”
Mystery Key
For the past couple of years, I’ve had an extra key on my key chain. I have no idea what lock it fits, and honestly, I only noticed it by accident when I mistook it for my front door key. (By the way, no I was not high, Mr. I-Make-Assumptions-About-Andy's-Life-Choices.)
I asked my wife about it; I tried it in all the doors of our apartment; I looked for distinguishing marks… I got nothing, you guys.
So, I’ve come up a few possibilities as to what this key might open:
- My laundry room two apartment buildings ago.
- Some attic somewhere.
- The ancient chest in the corner of the basement with the scary thumping sounds.
- Half of a locket that I never knew held the identity of my royal twin, from whom I was separated at birth. And, also he’s bored by his pampered life. If only he could somehow switch places with someone… And, also he has a really cool dog.
- Happiness / my dreams / success / the Twinkie drawer.
- My super-secret wall safe behind my painting of Scrooge McDuck.
- The gun rack in my uncle’s '82 Impala.
- The complex allegory of visual motifs of Mulholland Drive.
- A rental car I keep forgetting to return. Ugh.
[Wait a minute, I was only kidding earlier about the Twinkie drawer, but now I can’t stop thinking that it might actually BE the key for my drawer full of Twinkies. Let me go check that again…
... Nope. They’re still stuck in there.]
- My mailbox. Do people still send snail mail anymore? Oh my god, do you think that’s where all my utility bills went?
- The motel room of that creepy dude from the aluminum siding conference.
- THE CAPS LOCK.
- A storage space filled with collectible teddy bears.
- Some sort of guerilla theater thing my wife planned for my 30th birthday but then gave up on.
- Some sex stuff I don’t want to get into on my blog.
Anyway, I’ll probably remember what this mystery key is for eventually. Until then, it’ll stay right here on my keychain between my key for the lobby and this key for the… um…
Huh, where’d this other key come from? COLLEEN, ARE YOU IN THE KITCHEN? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS KEY IS FOR? NO, A SECOND KEY…
Publishing Infamy
I'm hoping to one day publish lo these many humorous essays into a physical book. Or, if not a physical book, then at least an e-book I can put on my wife’s Kindle. That way, I can still drop it at college reunions and feign embarrassment. "Oh my, did I misplace my published book? How embarrassing… No no, you’ve pressed ‘menu’ by accident. Hit ‘back’ please to see my embarrassing book." (Pretty good feigning, right?)
But, here's the rub: In order to sell millions of e-book copies and afford a beautiful, energy-inefficient Mid-Century modern house, I'll need much greater name recognition. As it is, I'm jockeying for position on Google with the guitarist from OK Go. Stupid rock stars, always hogging the Google.
So, I would like to propose the following: If there are any Hollywood starlets reading this who would like to have a scandalous, tabloid-grabbing sexual tryst, please contact me. I can provide references and Polaroids.
I could be like the hip East Village DJ or vaguely European hedge fund manager boyfriend. Except instead of those things, it’d be me---comedy essayist and part-time storyteller Andy Ross! So, how ‘bout it?
I think we could really help each other add to the omnipresent publicity dross. Do you hear that buzzing sound? That could be our post-brunch paparazzi photo on Access Hollywood.
(Only early career starlets, please. I’m not looking for any leathery, spent starlets. I don’t want to seem desperate.)
Alternately, in order to gain publishable notoriety, I thought maybe I could survive some sort of harrowing disaster, like digging myself out from an avalanche or fighting off an escaped zoo tiger. I honestly considered the tiger thing, but then I remembered how nervous I get around escaped zoo tigers.
Another way I could become famous is by becoming the winning-est Jeopardy contestant ever. How hard could it be? You just ask questions, right? And, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Margaret Furnington-Hamlisch, always told me there are no stupid questions. [nods, self-satisfied]
Of course, then I thought about the time I was a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and I threw up all over guest host Shawn Robinson. They edited that part out, but she was not at all as gracious about it. I guess her dress was a loaner.
Ultimately, I’ve decided to become famous through frivolous lawsuits against chain restaurants. It’s a win-win. If I lose the court cases, I still get all that great publicity. If I win the court cases, I’ll be a millionaire. Then, who cares about publishing a book of stupid comedy essays?
So, it’s a plan. Boston Market, here I come. With a banana peel in my pocket and a dream in my heart.
My Way Or the Highway
Listen, there are only two ways we can do this---it’s my way or the highway. The highway is faster, but my way is more scenic.
The highway has more restroom opportunities and a Wendy’s, though. I think we all know how I feel about Wendy’s. That said, my way sometimes has waterfalls this time of year because of snow runoff, and it’s quieter. Ugh, it’s so tough to decide.
I mean, you’d think my choice would be my way. I tend to choose my way. But, I’ve chosen the way we do this the last four times, and I’m starting to get tired of my way. So, unless Google maps says the highway has traffic, I think we should do the highway.
Hold up, hold up. I just realized; we could also do this the hard way.
Whad’ya think?
I’m not going to mince words, the hard way can be a little hard. It’s definitely harder than the highway. I think it’s worth it, and I’ll tell you why: 1) We’ll feel very satisfied afterward. 2) New adventures. 3) There’s a frozen custard stand. 4) Did I mention the frozen custard stand? 5) I don’t actually like the highway. I was just sick of the alternative.
So, do we have a consensus? Are we going to do this the hard way? I know the name is intimidating, but I assure you, it’s only mostly hard. Not completely hard. Boom, that’s what she said. Sorry---off topic.
By show of hands, how many people want to do this the hard way? Let’s see … one, two … Jerry, is you hand up? No? Okay, two then.
How many people want to go with the highway? One, two, three four five … a couple over there … Graham, Donna, Bethany … sixteen, seventeen … Alright, it looks like everybody wants to go with the highway.
How can I convince you guys we should do this the hard way? Frozzzen cuuuustard. No? Nobody wants frozen custard? Fine, I’m using my veto. We’re doing this the hard way. Sorry to have to use my veto…
No no, there’s no use complaining. The hard way it is. You guys will thank me when it’s over. Let’s get moving.
Wait a second, I just remembered that I’ve been wanting to do this in the worst way. Now, hear me out…
Quitting Smoking
I’ve never smoked. But, I’m a pretty cocky guy, so I figure I can come up with ways to help other people quit smoking. I mean, how hard can it be? It’s not like cigarettes are addictive or anything. Not like these gummi worms. Oh my god, these things are amazing!!!
Here are some tips to help you smokers quit being that:
- Set a date that you’ll quit by. Then, send yourself an expensive letterpress save-the-date for that upcoming day. You don’t want to have wasted all that letterpress money, do you? That’s 90 lb. linen cardstock.
- Cut back gradually. Quitting cold turkey simply doesn’t work, you goof.
- Quit cold turkey. You’re never going to quit if you keep smoking, goofus.
- Replace you oral fixation. Try sucking on something more socially acceptable. [Raises eyebrows suggestively and then winces in preparation for a slap to the face.]
- Carry a picture of your family. Remember, you’re quitting smoking so that you’ll be healthy enough to run away from your current family and find a new, better family.
- Avoid old “smoking buddies.” Especially Dirty Pete. That guy is no good, I tell you. HE’S NO GOOD!
- Visualize. Picture yourself on a deserted island. There are no more cigarettes. There’s nothing to smoke, so you are no longer a smoker. Wait, what’s this? A human skull?! Oh no! This must be one of those head hunter islands. Quick, start crafting coconut bombs and tiger pits. To the treehouse!
- Reward yourself. With constant workplace bathroom masturbation.
- Deep breathing. Just as when dealing with stress, take ten seconds to slowly breathe in and then out. NEVER OUT AND THEN IN!!
- Exercise. Not only will it help get you breathing again, but when you get in shape, people will want to have sex with you. Then who cares about smoking?
- Substitute. Whenever you feel like smoking a cigarette, try a baby carrot instead. They’re nearly impossible to light. Wacka wacka wacka. Wait, who just said wacka wacka wacka? Is somebody making fun of my advice? This is serious, you guys.
- Nicotine replacement. Try replacing cigarettes with nicotine gum or the patch or heroin.
- Clean your house. Getting rid of old ashtrays and lingering cigarette smells will help you avoid those triggers. Also, that macaroni stain has been on your couch for two years now. It’s probably time you took care of that.
- Find a buddy. There’s no need to try to do this all on your own. Here, when you’re feeling cravings, put your head in my lap. [Raises eyebrows suggestively and then winces in preparation for a slap to the face.]
That’s it. If you need any more tips to help you quit smoking, I’m sure I can come up with a bunch. I’ve got tons of opinions about everything. Even stuff I have no experience with. I’m super helpful in that way.
Book Delay
This blog post is meant to address the growing unrest of my fans in regards to the---shall we say fluid---release date for my tween murder mystery novel, The Purplest Nurple.
The novel, as you know, follows a plucky seventh-grader named Tim McGivens and his tubby sidekick Smitts as they investigate the death of a fellow classmate. A death by titty twister.
When I offered up a brief excerpt online (reposted here), I had no idea the response/demand for the book would become as large as it has. People began writing letters asking about its progress; a few folks started online chat boards to share plot theories; there was even some rather disturbing fan fiction.
That was fifteen years ago.
Since then, demand for the book has grown exponentially. There have been two fan-made film adaptations, with accompanying making-of documentaries. A biannual Purplest Nurple convention draws huge crowds to Sydney, Australia. And, apparently, the largest subsection of the online role playing game Second Life concerns Martindale Junior High, where the book is set. All this, and people have never read the complete book.
Initially, it was supposed to come out in June of 1997. Then, as I was writing one particular scene about dissecting a raccoon in Biology class, I saw the story open up before me in ways I had never thought possible. What began as a two hundred-page book grew to four hundred pages, then twelve hundred, and finally around 17,300 pages.
We now learn not just about Tim’s investigation but also the history of Martindale as a commercial fishing hub, detailed accounts of dodgeball games with accompanying statistical analysis, and several television scripts for Restless Embers, the fictional soap opera Smitty’s mother watches in the book.
Also, footnotes. Thousands of footnotes each carefully crossed-referenced and catalogued.
Now, The Purplest Nurple is about more than simply a tween mystery. It also outlines a philosophy/worldview I’ve invented called Theoreticalistic Holism, which lays out new gender roles based on our closest genetic relatives, the Bonobo chimpanzee.
Well, I’m happy to say that the end is in sight. The final typewriter key has been struck, and the carbon copy has been sent off for proofreading. I simply need to write up a few appendixes and maybe a glossary of Norwegian terms. (The final third of the book is written from the perspective of Tim’s maternal great-grandmother. She speaks only Norwegian.)
Then, I’ll begin painting the book cover and deciding on a font for the interior. I was thinking about taking a font-making class, since none of the ones I've seen have really grabbed me. They’re all so serif-y.
All in all, expect a 2014 release date…
You know what? I just realized I never got around to writing who the murderer was. I got distracted by other aspects of the story. Do you think that’ll be important to the fans? Maybe I should call the proofreader to see if I can get it back for a rewrite. Start over from page one…
Check back here for updates.
BBQ Results
Signs I overdid it at barbecue last night:
- Meat sweats
- Beer shits
- Collard shakes
- Butter pores
- Cornbread ear
- Macaroni jumbles
- Hotlinks toe
- Slaw twitch
- Slight biscuit burning
- Shortened ribs
- Enlarged yam
- Okra heaves
- Violent brisketting
It was totally worth it, though. Best six-months sober party I've ever had. And, believe me, I've had many.
The next one's planned for October 6th. You should swing by. It's going to be a rager. WE'RE GONNA GET WRECKED, SON!!
Substitute Nickname
Alright, ha ha ha, kids. Very funny. Ha ha. Settle down, class. I can see we need to have "the talk."
I'm going to repeat what I said my first day substituting for Mrs. Arnott: My name is Mister Turlinger. Here, I'll write it on the board. T-U-R-L-I-N-G-E-R. It's pronounced just like it looks. “Turlinger.”
Now, some of you have figured out that I'll turn around in response to the name "Mr. Turdlicker." Which is not my name. Again, my name is Turlinger. I’ll admit it does sound a tiny bit like the words turd licker, meaning someone who licks... turds.
Settle down. Quiet, everybody.
Additionally, I realize those times when I do turn around after hearing the name Mr. Turdlicker, I tend to have a goofy, expectant smile on my face. Like I’m excited to hear the nickname. I can understand how that might be extra funny to you kids.
Well, there's a simple explanation for that:
You see, I grew up with an older, cooler cousin named Bobby, and he used to call me "Turdlicker." We had different last names. And, while I first thought of it as an insult, one day Bobby defended me from a group of older bullies---the O’Meary Brothers. He fought off three of them at once and split Ryan O’Meary’s lip wide open. That’s when I realized Turdlicker was a term of brotherly affection.
So, when I hear the name Turdlicker and turn around to face the class, some part of me expects to see my cousin Bobby. But…
… Then do you notice how my expectant smile falls into a look of distant sadness? Like something in my heart grows heavy at remembering the name Mr. Turdlicker? [sigh]
When I was twelve and Bobby was sixteen, we were swimming in an old quarry out past the lumberyard. And, um… Bobby calls out, “HEY, TURDLICKER!” And, I turn around and see that Bobby has climbed this high outcropping on the southern edge of the quarry. “LOOK AT THIS!” he yells, and he lifts off in this cartoony, goofy imitation of a swan dive that is---in its very exaggeration---actually quite graceful.
I watch as he hangs for a moment in the air, and I feel this pang of jealously at his natural athleticism. Then Bobby’s face clouds as he spots something in the water below that I can’t see from where I am… And, then, everything happened so fast. Like I was looking out the window of a train as the world raced by...
I wasn’t a strong enough swimmer. If I could have gotten there just a couple of seconds sooner…
I could have just, um…
I, uh…
Alright, some of you kids are crying now, and I didn’t mean for that. Like I said before, we’re here to make Calculus fun! Right?!
So, here’s what we’re gonna do: Let’s come up with some different silly nicknames you guys can call me. That way, Mister Turdlicker isn’t so tempting. Sound good?
How about “Mister To Linger,” like maybe I linger too long on Calculus proofs? Or Mister Fur Finger? Mister Furry Finger. Or, how about Mister Hurlinger? Do kids still call vomiting hurling?
Can anybody else come up with a playful bastardization of Turlinger? Anybody…
[sigh] “Turtle Dicker.”
Yes, Scott, that is a valid nickname. I’ve actually heard that one before. And, I can see from the class’s reaction that Mister Turtle Dicker will probably be the one to take hold. Which is fine, I guess.
Alright! Settled, everybody? Let’s call a truce and unofficially agree that the class will go with Mister Turtle Dicker until Mrs. Arnott comes back from maternity leave.
Now, if we can, let’s gets back to linear operators and how they relate to derivative functions…