Sometimes I write sketches. Like this one: The Asylum

Sometimes I think about living somewhere graceful and serene. A secluded mountainous region, maybe. Or just a smaller, quieter town.

Then I remember that I'd probably need a car. And when I drive, bad things happen.

June, 1998: I pack a life's worth of crap into my Plymouth Caravelle and prepare to drive home from college one last time. One mile in, the engine shits itself good and dead.

September, 1998: A steering wheel comes off in my hands.

December, 2000: a cop pulls me over to give me a ticket, one of many I will never pay. He casually informs me that by the pinging sound he hears, my engine will explode in less than a month. It's Christmas Eve.

One month later: the engine explodes. They fished chunks of cylinder wall out of the radiator.

March, 2002: I hydroplane on a freeway. When everything stops spinning, the car is facing the wrong direction, in the middle lane. And I'm stalled.

I have unpaid speeding tickets in several states. My license has been revoked twice, both for failure to pay those tickets. If I even think about applying for a new license, the DMV lady will lean over the counter and punch me in the face. I'm pretty sure that if I try driving a car anytime this century, a police helicopter will rise up over the the next crest and shoot me off the road.

So I guess I'll stay here, then.

The excerpt below is posted exactly as it was spoken.

Panhandler: I wish people didn't treat me like a freak.
Me: Well, you are dressed like an insane clown.
Panhandler: That's a fair point.

My shoulder’s been acting up lately. It could be from swimming or the racquetball, or maybe an activity I didn’t just make up now. Seriously, can you see me swimming laps? I might as well have said shot-put.

ME: Yeah, I was, uh, scaling sheer walls. Guess I wrecked my CV joint in some awesome sporty way, man.
HELP THE CHILDREN INTERNATIONAL “STREET TEAM” REP: CV joints are for cars, asshole. Now, do you want to help the children or not?

But I do swim. I like it fine, with my prescription goggles and my cute little earplugs. Swimming burns roughly 8 billion calories an hour, nearly the amount found in the cupcakes they sell IN THE LOBBY OF MY GODDAMMNED BUILDING. I can smell them from across the street. Or I could, if not for my perpetual sinus infection. Right now, it’s hiding. I can feel it hunkered down in the depths of my nasal cavity, napping in my eustachian tubes. Scheming, waiting for the right moment to launch an offensive. Allergies, cold air, being in the general vicinity of my mother...it waits for these triggers, it splooges its histamine-laden payload all up in my business, and then retreats by the time a doctor shines a flashlight in there like a monkey trying to fix the space shuttle.

But today’s whiny jew-boy rant is about my shoulder. You know what’s fun? When you put out your arm to open a revolving door, and end up opening it with your face. What if I get challenged to an arm wrestle? After backing out last time by saying I had arm rickets? Not good. What about breakdancing? Sure, you don’t need your arms for every move, but I can only spin on my head for so long before folks get suspicious.

Maybe I could train my feet to work like hands, like the drummer from Tool.

Starbucks, Part 4
(Panic At The Starbucks)


So I'm at the local 'bucks, sipping and reclining as I do, when the calm is punctured by a shouting match.

CUSTOMER: I just want more milk! Why should that cost more?
BARISTA: I TOLD you, a CUP of milk means LATTE PRICING!"
CUSTOMER: You know what? FINE!

He goes for the exit, stops, pivots, points at her, and with voice a-tremble, he says: "You're insects. You're ALL INSECTS!"

Then he leaves. "And don't come back!" sasses the sassy barista, whom I have always liked.

It was up to us customers, our frail bubble of tranquility shattered like Michael Douglas' snowglobe in Falling Down, to pick up the pieces. So we did the silent-nervous half-chuckle to each other, sputtering the occasional "What's with THAT guy" and such. I mean, he HAD to be the crazy one, right?

I think so. I've never seen a Starbucks employee provoke the kind of wrath this guy spewed forth. Even when they give me foam, I like them.

If this happened at the DMV, I'd side with the guy, because they're all bastards at the DMV. One time I asked for a pen and not only would the guy not give me a pen, HE WOULDN'T REPLY. All he'd do is glare at me, as if merely presuming the right to ASK such a question was itself a crime.

I know pen-fetching isn't your job, Grumpy McScowl. But you work here; you're stuck here 'till closing, so why not brighten my day? Hey, neither of us WANTS to be here, but as long as I keep blowing red lights, in school zones, in front of cop cars, I have to keep showing up here. If you hate it so much, you could quit.

(I may have exaggerated just now, with that school zone thing.)

Take the Secret Bias test! Fun times!
https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/

Click "demonstration" and follow the instructions.

I got the link off Yahoo, from a Newsweek article. Basically, so the theory goes, everyone is still secretly a racist, and quite biased against all manner of other groups as well - the elderly, the fat, etc. But everyone just buries it or lies a lot.

So they came up with this really cool test where you have to sort images with good or bad words like "joy" or "awful". You do this very quickly, without thinking about it. What the test measures is how much harder it is for you to do this task when it's good words but a group you dislike.

You can measure your secret hatred of a skin color, age, weapons, all kinds of stuff!

I thought it was pretty cool.

Wowzers! I got a new table from Ikea. Opus sez: "Thanks. It's mine now."

I've figured something out: whenever I start beatboxing, it means I'm perfectly caffeinated.

The NYPD just isn't what it used to be.

I mean, c'mon. How can I feel safe when cops are riding Vespas? And how are those fatsos gonna chase anyone down on those little scooters? If you have to leave the scooter and go on a footchase, do you bring your front tire with you? Do those things have sirens? Do they count as vehicles for Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru purposes, or do you have to park and go inside? Does this mean you can also bring me chinese food? Does the Vespa Battalion have any kind of rivarly with the Horsey Brigade? I want answers!

And shine your damn shoes, dammit!

I think I prefer the 70s NYPD, with the .38 revolvers and the button-down tunics. You clubbed perps on the head and asked questions later.

The downfall of society will be linked to one key event in our lifetime.

You remember a few years ago, they said milk wasn't good for you? And then they said it was?

That was it. That was the unraveling of all humanity. Because it gave every asshole in the world something to rally around. Go ahead: approach your local asshole and cite something based on scientific evidence. Global warming, whatever. In response, you'll hear some variation of the following:

"Yeah, so? SO? Remember they said MILK was bad, and then it wasn't? They can't even get their heads around MILK, man! Who wants to go out clubbing tonight? Anyone got some speed? Susie in accounting's got such an ass, holy shit."

Or maybe:

"Eh, you amereeecahns are so neurotic. Where I come from we do not worry about such things! Who is to say, eh, what is good and bad, they cannot even make up their minds! Who would like to go disco dancing with me? Do you like my man-stink?"

And so on.

By the way, milk negates the positive benefits of green tea. Think about it.

Starbucks, Part 3

ME: Double-tall, non-fat, no foam, no whip mocha.
BARISTA: Double-tall, non-fat mocha!
COFFEE MAKER GUY: Here's your soy chai, sir!

ME: Double-tall, non-fat, no foam, no whip mocha.
BARISTA: Grande double-foam mocha!
COFFEE MAKER GUY: Dibbidy fibbidy flim flam babbidy boo!

ME: Double-tall, non-fat, no foam, no whip mocha.
BARISTA: Espresso brownie! And a gin & tonic!
ME: Hey, just like kindergarten.

ME: Double-tall, non-fat, no foam, no whip mocha.
BARISTA: Where it's at?
COFFEE MAKER GUY: I got two turntables and a mochaphone!

ME: Double-tall, non-fat, no foam, no whip mocha.
BARISTA: How about some cookies?
COFFEE MAKER GUY: STELLAAAAAAAAA!

Hey, kids - now you try!
ME: Double-tall, non-fat, no foam, no whip mocha.
BARISTA: _______________
COFFEE MAKER GUY: ____________________

Recently, I bought a pair of jeans for $220. They weren't on sale. They were the opposite of that.

What am I, meshuga?

As the cash register dinged shut, I could hear the faint "thoomp", about 45 minutes northwest, of my mom's head exploding.

I'd like to talk about Starbucks some more.

I order a "double-tall latte, skim, no foam, no whip". Sometimes it stuns the baristas into bewildered silence. For just a moment. But then, invariably, they nod. They nod slowly, in solemn understanding. For I have crafted the perfect beverage and shown them a realm of wonder.

Now, before you mock me - and by the way, who mocks lattes anymore? It's 2006, go join an emo band.

So anyway, I like me some caffeine. It helps me unlock the power within. I also enjoy delicious but manly beverages, and that's what the latte is all about. Mine in particular has been engineered for maximum energy transfer, like fat sticky tires on a 1981 T-Bird Camaro.

That's right. My latte is the Bitchin' Camaro of dairy-based drinks.

Let's break it down. First of all, lattes use espresso, so they're stronger than regular coffee. Mine uses double the espresso, hence "double tall". Double the espresso also means less room for milk and other sissy crap. Speaking of milk, mine is skim. That means no fat. That's high speed and low drag. Caffeine is also more soluble in milk than water, which means it gets into my bloodstream faster. Did I just make that up? Maybe!

No foam means none of that honkytonk steamed sputum on top. I hate this stuff. It seals the heat in, keeping my drink scaldingly undrinkable. And you can't stir in your Splenda (Sugar + Chlorine - Calories = Splenda. MANLY!); the foam traps it. The foam also gets on my lips and I look like I just blew the Pillsbury Doughboy. No stupid foam, thank you!

No whip means no whipped cream, as bad as foam for the same reasons and also because I want a caffeinated beverage, not a cookiepuss from Carvel.

So there you have it. The perfect latte. Sometimes I get a mocha version of the same, but then I drop and do 50 pushups to make up for it.

It's not that I'm bitter.

People enter my corner Starbucks and instantly regress to silverback apes. You know why? Multiple lines. You have to guess which lines will move faster or you lose, and everyone senses the inate brutallity of it all, and so anarchy hums just below the surface, waiting for an excuse. It's like Lord Of The Flies set to a Dido CD.

It's 2006, and we still can't be served in the order we've been waiting? They can't crack that one? We can clone rats! We got hovercrafts and shit!

I mean, people should be served in the order they've been waiting. Right? Right? Yes! Obviously! One line. Banks get it. Disneyworld gets it. Movie theaters, usually. But Duane Reade? Nooooo, you have to pick a line and then watch other people move up faster while you fantasize about eating their brains.

Not that I do that.

I went speed-dating recently. The following has been just slightly dramatized.

ME: Hi, I'm Josh!
HER: Nice to meet you. Say, do you think that tall guy in the corner is smiling at me?
ME: Looks like he's smiling at the redhead behi...hey!
HER: That was rude. Sorry.
ME: Um...
She clears her throat. I sip my gin & tonic through the little red straw.
HER: So, uh...what's your favorite TV show?
ME: Why, The Prisoner, of course! It's a classic British sci-fi series from the 60's, which uses clever allegory to juxtapose the social...hey, do you know why my eyes suddenly sting?
HER:Um...I maced you. Sorry.
ME: But why? I'm a nice guy.
HER: You look so desperate. You guys always have some creepy trick hidden up your sleeve.
ME: Frankly, I'm offended. Hey, a Vuitton sale!
HER: Wha? Where?
She looks around. I ditch the chloroform-soaked rag I had hidden up my sleeve, then chuckle nervously.
ME: Whoops, it was just the battery 'n' slinky lady from the subway. Call me, Kim Li!
HER: So..uh, what are you looking for? In a relationship. Or something.
she starts painting her nails
ME: Well, I...
MUSCLEBOUND OAF: Is this him?
HER: Yeah! Take 'im out back, Tony!
MUSCLEBOUND OAF: I'm gonna make you cry like a little girl.
ME: Big deal, I was gonna do that anyway.
ALL OF US: And, scene!

Then we'd all break into a soulful bar of "Lean On Me", while the battery lady be-bops us home. And the world...would be a better place. Mmm-hmmmm!

From the archives

An open letter to the traffic cop that I got in a tussle with at Wendy's.

Dear Traffic Bitch: Thank you for confronting me in the stupidest and most obnoxious way possible, earlier today at the Wendy's on Fulton Street. Watching you fail miserably at your blatant attempt to cut in front of me in the express line was awesome.

You do remember, right, Shirley? I don't know your name, but you look like Shirley from "What's Happening". So anyway, Shirley The Traffic Cop Megabitch, remember how it was one of those express lines where you place your order at a register halfway through the line, and then your food is ready when you get to the front of the line? It's brilliance, right? But when I stopped to place my order at this halfway point as explicitely directed, you said to me, "Keep it moving".

I was stunned at first, Shirley. You said it with such authority, as though your jurisdiction extended to this particular Wendy's. I tried explaining how it works but you wouldn't listen. When I refused to keep it moving, you sort of pushed past me to the front of the line. Where they wouldn't serve you because you hadn't placed your order as explicity directed beforehand like I tried to tell you. And I laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Then, when you tried arguing with the server at the front of the line, I made sure to let them know how it really went down. And Shirley, all you could do was stand there and fume. You had lost.

That's right. You got the smackdown levied upon you, Shirley. But good. You should have known better to fuck with me in my element, lady. This is not the free-for-all line at the check cashing place, Shirley. This is a quality establishment. You can get barbeque sauce without having to pay extra for it, usually. You can eat great, even late. So you remember that the next time you come around here trying to boss people out of your way, Shirley. Maybe then you'll be nice.

Boy, that breakdancing kid on the subway grew up fast.

If you live in NYC, you've seen the breakdancers. It's four dudes, a boombox, and a subway car. Been going on for years. Now, one of these kids is maybe 10, and I remember when he was 5. And I've watched him grow up right in front of me. I mean he was spinning on his head, and I was pretending to look bored and unaware, but I really think we're beginning to forge a connection.

I wonder if they've ever got in a fight with the M&M kids.

EXCUSE ME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. SORRY FOR THE INTERRUPTION. I AM SELLING CANDY. NOT FOR NO BASKETBALL TEAM, NOT FOR NO CLASS TRIP, BUT FOR MYSELF. TO KEEP MONEY IN MY POCKET, AND TO KEEP ME OFF THE STREET. THANK YOU, GOD BLESS, AND HAVE A SAFE TRIP.

We got fancy new chairs at work. I like them plenty, but there's one problem: the part where your butt sits...I don't know what you call it...the butt cushion? That thing, the ass holder-upper, is not soft and plush like most office chairs. It's hard and plasticy, and perforated almost like a screen door.

I think you know where I'm going here. It's not a fartable chair.

A nice foamy chair, you can blast a metric ton by volume of methane into that motherfucker, and NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW.

This thing...it disrupts the wind shear of the fart at a molecular level, acoustically agitating the fart. It's like ripping one into a megaphone.

My lumbar has never felt better, though.

You know what guys really hate?

Other guys who can play the guitar.

Because you know there's a chance, however small, that he's gonna steal your girlfriend while you just stand there like a dork. You can't do a thing, Guy With Guitar is like the crane kick: there is no defense. He tries to start a sing-along, what are you gonna say? "Oh, we don't care for guitar music. We really prefer spoken word, right honey?"

"A sing-along, that's a little much, don't you think? Can we please just go to Bennigans, like we planned?"

I have an idea: when he whips out that guitar, you whip out your "magical recorder" and challenge him to a measuring contest. I'll do it, I swear. I carry a tape measure with me, I'm remarkably handy for a jew.

Chicks dig musicians, and chicks dig bad boys. My greatest fear is that Twisted Sister will come screeching around the corner in their van, my girl will hop in, and they'll speed off, Dee Snyder screaming out the window to me: "NOW SHE RIDES WITH US! AND HER NAME... IS VIPER!"

Then I wake up and I'm all sticky.

The excerpt below is posted exactly as spoken.

Me: Excuse me.
Large 'roided-up guy who just took the last five towels in the health club: Yeah?
Me: Are you going to use all five of those towels?
Guy stares at me, bewildered
Me: Can I have one of those towels?
Guy: Fodo?
Me: What? Can I, um, if you're not using all five...
Guy hands me one of his towels, then points at me.
Guy: Fodo!
Me: What? Do I look like someone you know?
Guy: Yeah, that Lord Of The Rings guy!
Me: Oh. Frodo. Yeah, I guess so. Thanks!
I'm unshaven, and wearing a Megadeth shirt. I look nothing like Frodo. I smile and walk away quickly. I think this guy might rape me in the locker room. But at least I'll be dry.

I like to chill drinks by adding ice last. I like that it takes longer to chill that way. It's like terraforming a planet.

Phew. I've been working on this movie-based website for about two years now, and it's finally ready to show. It took so long because I'm lazy. And unskilled. I'm surprised I remember to hold my breath when I swallow.

Anyway, check it out! http://www.moviecheat.com

Basically we have these hybrid review/synopses, like a Cliffs Notes for movies. Plus cool ratings and a forum.

Now I'm off to buy kitty litter.

I was watching Death Wish, and I thought one of the thugs was really hamming it up, playing a spaced-out stoner type. Then I realized it was Jeff Goldblum playing himself. His feature film debut, in fact! He's credited as "Freak #2".

And so begins Yom Kippur, the day of Jewish Atonement. Who needs a holiday? Growing up in my house, every day was atonement.

I don't want to go to services. I hate Yom Kippur services. I'm not religous. That's right, "jewish" is more than just a religion - it's also a tasty dessert topping!

I'm a secular Jew. That means I'm not religious, but I identify with the jewish culture and ethnicity. Strict jews say there's no such thing, I'm either jewish or not. To them, I say "I think I'll go eat some bacon while I DO MY OWN TAXES." It makes their head explode.

You know what else isn't Kosher, aside from pork? Shellfish. And tattoos. And Ovaltine and chino pants. It certainly couldn't be less random. Shellfish and tattoos? What?!? Someone was fucking with us! "And, uh, God says no more saltwater taffy. And he says I get the better country."

All I know is, I'm getting a tattoo, on my forehead, of a pig, in a frying pan, wearing a lobster bib, and if I try to go to temple, why I'll get tasered! I try to get in that building, they will have snipers trained on me. Sorry mom! Can't go!

My roof caved in today. AGAIN! The only thing funny about this is how it freaks the hell out of the cats. That, and vacuuming. And guys on motorcycles doing wheelies at 3am outside my apartment. The cats would really prefer you laid off the nitro at 3am, douchebags. And why are you up so late? Don't you all have some 16-week GED program at Interboro Community College/Minimum Security Prison to get to in the morning?

But like I was saying, the roof caved in. You ever just want to beat the shit out of someone with a wiffle ball bat? You know, just totally go Buttafuco on some motherfucker, without ending up in jail? Meet my landlord.

"No problem, I'll send a guy to fix it tomorrow. Hey, what's that behind you?" And then he jumps out a window, onto a trampoline that vaults him over a fence, where a speedboat takes him to Haiti.

It's a shame about that capsized boat on Lake George. I wonder if anyone was parasailing nearby. They'll have a fun story to tell!

"Here's a photo of the mountains...here we are trying some saltwater taffy...oh, here's me gliding over some floating corpses."

For those not "in the know", parasailing is when you strap on a parachute, and then tether yourself to a boat, which pulls you along as you float through the air. Whoever thought of parasailing clearly got the idea from watching G.I. Joe cartoons. Death from above! COOOOOOBRAAAA!

"Hey! People died on that boat!"

Yes. It's funny 'cuz they're old.

Tonight, Conan O'Brien was one full hour of U2. Awesome. Those are a few of my favorite things, Irish Edition. Rounding out the list: marshmallow clovers and the chick from Ronin.

I even look Irish, until I open my mouth and "Can I help with your taxes" comes out.

In fact, I have the U2 iPod. Yes! I paid $50 for no damned reason at all except to inform girls on the subway that I am a hardcore U2 fanboy. Guess how many concerts I've been to? None. In reverse chronological order: I was broke, sucky album, really sucky album, I was broke, I was broke, I was 12, I was etc.

So the U2 iPod and my extensive collection of stolen songs will have to do. Check me out!

Hey, I'm back. Typing is fun!

I've been freelancing lately. Nothing funny there...ooh, ooh! Yes! Oh, this is rich. Today? I had an interview? So I took a cab ride? From Brooklyn to Hell's Kitchen? And forgot my wallet. It was great, the cabbie was like "Nice weather we be havin' for OctobWHATCHOOMEANYOUFORGOTYOURWALLETMON?"

It was strange. Rasta dudes aren't supposed to freak out like that. It's like if Dido started breakdancing, or Klingons ate pie with dainty little forks.

To be fair, these guys get shafted like this all the time. I had to convince him that I really honestly truly would pay him when I got my wallet. Nothing doing. He made me give him my cell phone as collateral, which he gave back several hours later when I had his money.

On the up side, they had cats at the interview. Big fat ones, my favorite.

I've been going on lots of job interviews, which basically means I'm doing really well in my job hunt - until I have to meet people. I don't know what could possibly be turning them off! I'm polite, professional, relaxed. Very puzzling.

I mean, I guess I could stop eating cheese doodles during the interview. But that would be silly! It gives me an opportunity to show that I'm willing to share, and also that I'm well-mannered, because I eat them with a toothpick to keep the cheese dust off my fingers. A mint flavored toothpick. I mean, that's eloquence. Now gimme the job! Give it!

The other possibility - and it's a longshot - is that they don't like me dressing like a pirate. See, I think the key is to stand out.

"What about that one guy, with the great portfolio?"
"Yeah, what was his name again?"
"Hmmm. I can't remember. Let's just use the pirate."

Hey, you know what pisses me off? Lots of things. Here's three of them.

1) Those douchebags at Creative Labs. Why? Because they couldn't just release one MP3 player, or three, or five. They had to release eleventy fuckity billion MP3 players with really confusing nomenclature, names like "Muvo FM 200", "Muvo TX", "Zen Muvo",", "Zen Touch Micro", "Zen Muvo Micro Touch TX FM 200", and they all come in 13 different colors and three different sizes, and at any given time, 66% of them are out of stock, and that changes daily. Ay Caramba!

2)You know how some people who speak English as a second language interrupt at annoying points in conversations? Bleah! I know it's a cultural thing; we have a conversational style embedded in our brainwaves, we're used to interrupting at certain accepted points. But they fuck it all up! I CAN'T STAND IT!

3) When register people hand me a mountain of change, sitting on the receipt, which is sitting on the paper money. Hi. How ya doin'? Clearly you can see that I have just one hand free because I'm holding my wallet open, so how'm I supposed to deal with this clusterfuck of change, you stupid, stupid lady?

Sometimes, instead of putting my hand out for them to plop the mess into, I'll close my hand into a fist with just the thumb and forefinger extended, reach into the clusterfuck, pinch out the receipt, pocket that, then go back for the rest, while they stand there. If they think their little gambit saves times, I'm going to make it not so much worth their while. Just doing my part. You're welcome.

I would have had more, but a kitten is using my forearm for a pillow. So...cute...can't...breathe...

There's five or six of you out there that come across this blog by searching my name. And I'm flattered, because I can pretend you're all girls I had crushes on in junior high school. But I'm also torn. Because I'll be sitting there playing Jedi Acadamy, and thinking "someone's googling me right now, they're counting on me to fill their lives with joy, STOP THE FUCKING GAME RIGHT NOW."

But then I think maybe you're all just in on some mindgame. You're fucking with me. Or maybe it's just bots.

Maybe you could tell me, mystery googlers! C'mon, it'll be fun! You can email me or announce yourself here, either way, and then we can joke about old times, like when you gave me that wedgie, because if you knew me in junior high school, statistically speaking, it's likely that you gave me a wedgie. That's just numbers.

You're probably cool now, though, mystery googler. I hope so, because I stopped playing Jedi Academy, where you can simultaniouiouously force-choke stormtroopers while also stabbing the shit out of them with your lightsaber AND shocking their cloney punk asses with force lightning, just force-push them off cliffs. I gave it all up for you, unknown readers that are stalking me, or maybe you're hot in which case that's fine.

Who says I don't love ya? Eh? Eh?

I just woke myself up with the sound of my own snoring. WHAT THE FUCK!

Why African Kids Are Starving, Part II

I'll tell you exactly why. Because toiletries keep getting cooler and cooler, and I can't not buy this crap. This is stuff I needed. Really.

1) Gillette M3P Razor. This is a vibrating razor that...vibrates. And is a razor. I can't wait to see what they do for the ladies model. $12.99.

2) Crest Cinammon Burst Gel Toothpaste. This comes in a pretty, shiny tube, and the toothpaste itself is sparkly and red. It's like a rave for my molars. $2.95.

3) Brand Name I Can't Remember And I'm Not Getting Up To Check Hair Gel/Wax. This is the first time I've ever bought gel/wax, because I like my hair to flop dangerously. It's like a million little nun-chucks attached to my scalp. "Don't fuck with me, punk!" says my edgy, floppy ninja hair. It also says "I am a tool", though. So. Gel/Wax. I'm gonna look like an anime cartoon, hopefully one from Voltron. If you say "Midge", I will beat you down. $3.50

Total amount not given to starving kids: $19.44. What would my mother say? Oh, let's face it: she'd just be happy to know I brush my teeth.

So, how about that O.C. season finale, eh? Eh? Ryan's brother Troy tries to rape Marissa, who ends up shooting him, maybe fatally? Maybe? We don't know! They didn't tell us! And who knows if Kirsten'll ever dry out? And with Caleb finally biting it, will Julie and Jimmy really give it the old college try? See, this is what the show was supposed to be about, instead of the coma-inducing yawnfest I've been forcefed all seasonlong. THIS is how it's done in the O.C., bitches.

Califooooorniaaaaaaaaaaa. CalifOOOOOOOORNIAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Here I COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME!

Today, I finished Stephen King's epic Dark Tower story, which is seven books long. Easily the most I've ever read voluntarily in my whole life. I think it was around 10th grade, when we had to read The Old Man And The Sea, that I was finally like, "That's it. I'm out." Since then, it's been nothing but Maxim, cereal boxes and stereo instructions.

And of course, Stephen King. This particular story is about a spaghetti-western gunslinger charged with saving the Dark Tower, which is the linchpin of time and space. It's dork heaven!

Us Jews, we don’t have enough self-esteem. People are always telling me - if you don’t like yourself, nobody else will! They say that to me all the time. Then they pull my pants down and throw me down a manhole.

For me, it all started in 1982. Disco’s reign of terror had ended, you could play Space Invaders for a quarter, and a new craze swept the nation: Who Shot J.R.? Fuckin’ Dallas, man. See, my initials are J.R. I had to take it up the ass all through second grade, man! This one kid would run after me, “Hey, you’re dead, I’ll hit you on the head!”

I hated school. That asshole’s probably a stockbrocker now.

I think I would be an awesome pro wrestler. But first, I need to bench more than 85lbs. Then, a mask. And a cool name. That part is easy: If I were a pro wrestler, my name would be...Deathquake. I know! It's awesome, right?

I don't think it's taken.

You know what's funny, though? I would obviously do this so girls would give me lapdances, but I don't think a lot of girls like wrestling. The audience is apparently 17 year old males, because all the commercials are for videogames and condoms, or occasionally movies about robots.

Then again, I've never been a good judge at what women find attractive. As evidenced by the crotchless Stormtrooper outfit in my closet.

This is not a joke.

This teenage girl has been missing for 13 days. She's from New York, but by now, she could be anywhere at all. Her family is offering a $50,000 dollar reward for information that leads to her.

If you see her, please contact me, or Jill Twiss.

If you could post this info on your own blog, that would be great.

Ahhh, sorry. Had some domain name hijinks going there for a day or so. End result to you: missing graphics. They should all be back now; let me know if you see any missing.

In other news: I'm a busy lad. I won't be posting very much for a while. :(

I don't care what people say; the job market is still tight.

Funny how employers get in this kind of market. I read a classified yesterday that said, "seeking overqualified canditates for underpaid entry-level position. And no fatties, please."

And the next ad down said, "Ha, fucker. It's still us. You're fucked. And we thought we said to lose some weight."

I really should take up a sport. Would ping-pong count?

After all, I play ping pong at work, and ping pong is also an olympic sport. They should have olympics for more things I do to kill time at my job. Olympic playing foosball with the chinese delivery guy, and Olympic fantasizing about beating the shit out of my computer, perhaps.

By the way: Here's a great piece of trash talk you can use for your next ping-pong game. When the score is something like 10-15, or 9-15, when you announce the score, say "It's 10:15. Do you know where your game is at?"

Maybe you had to be there.

Yes, this post was refined from a series of other jokes that I figured out I could piece together. Don't like it? As a skinny dude once said, "If you got some big fuckin' secret, why don't YOU sing ME something?" Ok, I don't really know what that means.

So, American Idol is back. I could take a cheap shot, but the truth is, I could totally dig American Idol. With two simple tweaks:

1) Nothing but Dokken songs.

2) If a contestant does poorly, he can earn a second chance... by winning a grappling contest with Nitro from American Gladiators.

That's it. Now you've got a show.

In fact, I believe this formula would enrich Any TV show ever.

LARRY: I'm standing in the night alone...
BALKI: Foreverrrrrr!
LARRY: Togetherrrrr!
BALKI: We're...the...
LARRY AND BALKI: DREAM WARRIOOOORS!

As I have mentioned in the past, I have a day job as a salesperson in the mail-order division of a large electronics company. It's commission based - part of the job is customer service, answering questions, etc...but I only make money when I sell something. And so, Ladies and Gents, I present to you yet another fine edition of:

Conversations in Hell

----------------------------
*BEEEEP*
ME: Thanks for calling, This is Josh, how can I help you?
CUSTOMER: Yo, my man JOSH!
ME: Yes sir.
CUSTOMER: Wassup, brother?
ME: Ummm.
CUSTOMER: You sold me a DVD player, dude! My inv# is 12345678.
ME: Ok, cool. Let's see...ah, actually you got that from another salesperson.
CUSTOMER: Oh, that's right - you wouldn't come down another $10, so I kept calling your office until I found someone who would. Say, since I got you, can I ask you a whole bunch of questions about it anyway?

-------------------------------------

*BEEEEP*
ME: Thanks for calling, This is Josh, how can I help you?
CUSTOMER: I'd like a dual-deck tape recorder. Which ones do you have?
ME: Well, quite a few. First of all, do both sides need to able to record?
CUSTOMER: No, just one side.
ME: Ok, great. Well, I'd recommend the-
CUSTOMER: Why, do you sell ones that record on both sides?
ME: Actually, no, I just wanted to rule that out up front. Since you don't need that, I'd recommend the-
CUSTOMER: Well, what do you know about the ones that record on both sides?
ME: Honestly, since we don't sell them, not much. But to answer your original question, I'd recommend the-
CUSTOMER: Do you know if they even exist?
ME: I think so, we just don't have any. But it doesn't matter, since you asked for-
CUSTOMER: Why'd you even ask me about it, then?
ME: As I said, sir... so I could rule that out. Now, we do have a Sony for $140 that I-
CUSTOMER: Ok, give me the name, serial number, list price, your price, availability, dimensions, and features of that one. Plus every single other one that you carry, have ever carried, plan to carry.
ME. I can't really go over all of them on the phone, but you can check out our website for the latest info.
CUSTOMER: Naw, I hate computers. What, are you too busy for me?
ME: Let me ask you this, sir - would you be picking this up in the store or having it shipped?
CUSTOMER: I'll bring a tape down there and test all the units; then I'll buy from a salesperson directly at the store. But I want you to answer all my questions first.
ME: Well, this is the mail-order sales dept. If you're heading down to the store anyway, the guys on the floor will be much more helpful...
CUSTOMER: *click*

-------------------------------------

ME: Ok, let's get this shipped out. What's your phone number, please?
CUSTOMER: 718...555...
he stops there
ME: Yes?
CUSTOMER: Yes.
ME: Keep going.
CUSTOMER: 781..um, I mean, 718...uh, 555...
ME: Hello?
CUSTOMER: Yes, that's correct.
ME: No, I said "hello".
CUSTOMER: Why, hello yourself!

-------------------------------------

*BEEEEEP*
ME: Thanks for calling, this is Josh, how can I-
MY MOM: I called your cell three times. There's a blizzard, why don't you call your mother???

-------------------------------------

*BEEEEP*
ME: Thanks for calling, This is Josh, how can I help you?
CUSTOMER: I saw a Sony laptop for $100 less from a competitor. Will you match that?
ME: It depends. Where'd you see the price advertised?
CUSTOMER: HONEY, WHERE'D WE SEE THE PRICE?
WOMAN IN BACKGROUND: DATAVISIONCOMPUTERS.COM!
CUSTOMER: Datavisioncomputers.com.
ME: Ok, and what was their shipping, and do they have it in stock?
CUSTOMER: WHAT WAS THEIR SHIPPING AND DO THEY HAVE IT IN STOCK?
WOMAN IN BG: $15, AND YES!
Customer: $15 for shipping, and yes, in stock.
ME: Ok, we'll go ahead and match that. First, I need the billing phone number.
CUSTOMER: WHAT'S THE BILLING PHONE NUMBER?
WOMAN IN BG: 555-123-4567!
CUSTOMER: 555-123-4567.
ME: Ok, and the...
WOMAN IN BG: NO, WAIT, IT'S 4576!
CUSTOMER: Wait, it's 4576.
ME: But of course it is.

-------------------------------------

*BEEEEP*
ME: Thanks for calling, This is Josh, how can I help you?
CUSTOMER: Sorry about the bad receptBZZZZZZZZZZZ...if you could...BZZZZZZZZZ...with a hard dri...BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...to Texas by tommor...HOOOOOONK, HOOOOOOONK...sorry, I'm on the highw...BZZZZZZZZZ

Sorry for the lack of content; I've been a busy lad. Here's a golden oldie.

So here in NYC, the cops are wearing chino pants now. Or maybe they're Old Navy cargo pants, something like that. Comfortable AND functional.

I think that's great. You know, those button-down shirts look pretty stuffy, don't they? How about this: they get fluffy pink fleece sweater vests, with magenta piping. Then they could trade in the gun for some sock puppets, and they'd be like Mr. Rogers, and when they saw a psycho with a blowtorch, they could be all "Howdy, Mister! Say, you don't really wanna light those people on fire, do ya? That would make Coppo The Socko real sad!"

And what's the bad guy gonna do after that? What criminal would stab Mr. Rogers in the face? If Mr. Rogers gave you a warm brownie, you'd behave, right?. And our nation would be free of crime at last, plus a lot comfier.

If you haven't already, be sure to check out one of my favorite blogs in this quadrant: The World Of Jill Twiss.. Jill is one of the funniest people I know, and her blog never fails to make me giggle. Except when she gets punched in the face by muggers, but that hardly ever happens, which is good.

Wow, I really do love this country. Several of you saw fit to counter the grave injustice perpetrated by our unknown monkey-men. Thank you very much for the excellent ratings, Andrea, Jay, and whomever else helped out. I doubt I'll ever get back to the 9.16 I had before, but y'know, that's OK.

Golly. Who knew I could be such a blog whore when I wanted to be?

Heh. My little rant cost me at least two MORE '1' votes. I love this country. :)

When Bad Votes Happen To Good People

Hey, you. Yes, you: the pre-adolescent douchebag what done rated my blog a 1 over at Blog Explosion. "But how did you know..." MOMMA DIDN'T RAISE NO FOOL, THAT'S HOW. My rating went from 7.51 to 7.37. With 47 votes, only a rating of 1 makes that possible. I know I shouldn't care, but, see, here's the thing: now I'm down to 7 stars. 7.51 rounded up to 8 stars, and stars are pretty, and you fucking stole one of mine, which is why I'd like to beat you like a piñata. With a wiffle bat, but it'll smart plenty.

So why'd you do it? My theory: you're a crackhead.

Either that, or you're the guy that cheats at Counter-strike just to piss everyone off. You heckle comedians and when you were a kid, you made fart sounds during the Chinese girl's cello recital. Yeah, I know the type: the no-talent hack that tries to knock others down to your level. You're utterly mediocre in every facet of your existence, and you can't stand that everyone's better than you, so you get your lonely, bitter jollies by lobbing feces at the rest of us. You pathetic little chimpanzee. You're a sad little crackhead monkey, like some kind of Curious George story made into an anti-drug PSA gone awry ("Now, George," said the man in the yellow hat, "didn't I tell you to stay away from that bag of powder I brought from the jungle?" But it was too late, and poor crack-addled George went apeshit on the man in the yellow hat, ripping into his soft flesh and feasting on his succulent eyeball juices until the S.W.A.T team dropped him with a tranq dart and sent him to the zoo. So Stay In School, Because Drugs Ain't Cool!)

It's cool, though. I can take whatever you've got to dish out, Chimpy. I just wish you weren't so cowardly about it. Don't be yeller, feller. You got an actual beef with my blog, tell me what it is. You're entitled to your opinion, right? Sure. In fact, you and I, we're going to be pals. This blog needs a foil. An antagonist. You're gonna be a star, Chimpy!

Well, I reskinned the site. Which was a feat, because when it comes to CSS, my cat could stomp around on the keyboard and the results wouldn't be any worse.

What I have learned about CSS is this: they have these things called classes, or maybe they're called spans, and there's probably a difference between those but I'm pacing myself. Also, they use lots of curly brackets. And just to make my head explode, they break up those brackets like

{
this
}

instead of {this}.

Why? Why would they do that? What possible good could come from that? And why use curly brackets? All I can figure is that the Pringles guy has a handlebar mustache that strongly resembles the CSS curly bracket. Coincidence? Or BBQ-flavored conspiracy?

Anyway, if you see anything funky, let me know. I'll be sure to reprimand my cat Lucky, who was distracted by a butterfly during debugging.

I get lots of hits from people searching on google for the Polar Express theme song. Here's the post they end up at. Muahahaha!

The Reign Of Margaret Cho Ends Now, And That Punk Wheaton Kid, Too.

The 2005 Bloggies are here. If you like this blog, please nominate me for the humor category, or whatever categories you deem fit.

Now, before you scoff at the idea of a punch-buggy like me being considered for such an honor, picture this: Zach Braff's big fat Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon-sized head, crashing down to earth. Power to the motherfucking people! We're coming for you, Braff. And you, Wesley! And you, Margaret Chump Cho!

Normally, a no-name like myself wouldn't stand a chance against these entrenched giants. But thanks to Blog Explosion, I get way more traffic that I deserve. And if you're here from Blog Explosion, you've got 30 seconds to kill. You could nominate me in that time. It's for a good cause.

Ok, how about this: nominate me, and if I ever meet you, I'll buy you some chocolate milk.

Disclaimer: Josh loves Margaret Cho. He got a little carried away. Just saying.

PS:Oh, FINE. He loves Zach Braff Too. And Wheaton's aiiight.

PPS: Blah blah blah, Blog Explosion, blah.