The Fashion Vigilantes

I was driving to work this morning when I suddenly realized what’s wrong with this country: there’s no one in charge of saying, “What the fuck is wrong with you leaving the house dressed like that?” That’s why I’d like to nominate myself as the dictator-for-life over people who can’t dress themselves. The Nazi-General of the Fashion Police, if you will.

Because it’s become apparent to me that people can't even be trusted to extend common courtesy towards each other. This country needs a “No shoes, no shirt, no service” policy.

All of this occurred to me while waiting at a stoplight this morning. Because as I sat there trying to convince myself of a good reason not to just turn around and go back to bed, a jogger of about 60 ran by my car. He was wearing white sneakers and sweat-socks pulled up to his mid-thigh. Probably in the vain attempt to make up for his jogging shorts which had started the morning about 2 centimeters below his testicles. Apparently, after an hour of jogging and two gallons of sweat, the shorts had decided to gradually migrate north, as if desperately trying to escape into his navel.

I’ve seen porno movies from the 70s with less wiry, sweat-drenched hair. Honestly, I might have gotten his wardrobe all wrong—maybe he was just wearing water-logged chaps fashioned from the finest of high-land gorilla hide.

You’ve no doubt noticed by now that I haven’t mentioned a shirt as part of this enchanting ensemble. There’s a reason for that. Either the man was draped in absurdly thick body hair or an obscenely thin sweater. Normally, I’d have guessed the sweater if only for the sake of my queasy stomach. However, the gray hairs and eraser hard nipples screamed otherwise.

This is the kind of thing that makes me want to pull my car up on the sidewalk and commit a hate-crime. Let me get this straight: it’s illegal for a hot supermodel to stroll around the streets topless, but Sasquatch is allowed to jog through rush hour traffic essentially naked? What has our society come to?

And why is it that joggers and bikers are always the last people on the planet to comprehend basic laws of fashion? Have you noticed that anytime you see depictions of the future, everyone’s wearing spandex? Joggers must assume that they're already living in the year 4000. News flash: I’ve been living in one of the most densely populated areas on the planet for 26 years now and the only people I’ve ever see who looked good in spandex were in comic books. Why the fuck would that change in the future? The sign of a truly advanced society would be one where 90% of our population is draped in moomoos, capes, and cleverly designed masks like the elephant man used to wear.

I’ve decided that enough is enough. If the government refuses to grant my request as a duly appointed elected official with the power to levy out beatings as I see fit, I’ll have to resort to vigilante justice. So if you don’t want to be assaulted with a bat by a maniacal white kid in a Honda, here’s the list that will save you a trip to the intensive-care ward:

1. Topless jogging is permitted only for females between 18-35 years of age, and only if the individual weighs between 95-150 pounds.
2. Above rules also go for spandex. Time for you bikers to give up the dream, ok? You don’t look like Lance Armstrong. You look like the morbidly obese motorcycle twins.
3. Speedos are hereby forbidden. It makes you look as if you can’t figure out how to carry grapes.
4. For men, wearing pink shirts is now punishable by death.
5. Unless you’re wearing it with the collar up. In these cases, the “cruel and unusual death” clause is waved. So ask yourselves: is this the day that I want to be strangled with my own nut-sack on my daily trip to Starbucks?
6. The punishment for mullets is beheading. If you can’t figure out how to cut your hair, I’ll show you how it’s done.
7. Josh Rupe, relief pitcher for the Texas Rangers.

Ahh…it’s a good solid list. Some coming amendments might include sweat pants with writing across the ass, sleeveless t-shirts, and anything from “Abercrombie and Fitch.” Keep your eyes pealed for headlines this weekend. Because the fashion-vigilantes could, quite literally, be striking a blow for good taste at a mall near you!

Screwing With Public Speakers

Back when I was in college, I had a dream that I never got to live out. Besides banging the girl’s soccer team, I mean.

What I wanted to do was show up at one class each day, neatly dressed, bright eyed, smiling and participating. I’d sit in the front row and raise my hand for each question. Then one day, I’d stumble into class late, unshaven, in a bathrobe, scowling and clutching a cigar in my teeth. And I’d sit in the center of class and just glare.

Sadly, I never got around to living that dream. The closest I ever got was in my senior year I carried a flask around to class with me for the last week or so. And let me tell you, to the untrained public speaker, the flask is a brutal weapon.

Now, my last month at school I got a letter declaring that I had to attend a lecture held by a bank about the importance of paying back loans. If I didn’t go, I didn’t get to graduate. Now, I don’t know a lot about finances, but I understand this basic premise: I’m fucking poor. And if I don’t pay what I owe, they’re going to send someone to break my legs.

Seriously, my parents handled all my student loan debt and I’m beginning to wonder who the fuck they borrowed money from. I owe money to some bank that doesn’t even have a website. Frankly, I’m shocked they even accept checks. I’m 90% sure that this “bank” is one guy who doubles as a bookie somewhere in Albany. Someday, I know I’m going to get a letter informing me that I have to make my next payment in an unmarked envelop in a back-ally somewhere. Pretty much, it’s the Bank of Joe, and he operates out of his trunk.

So because of the grief that the bank had put me through, when I was told I had to attend some dumb-ass lecture, I just snapped. They want me to waste an evening I could have spent hitting on drunken freshman girls? Fine, they were going to feel my wrath.

So I showed up at the meeting, dressed in a sweatshirt. And I proceeded to sit down, front and center as the rest of the uninspired looking poor kids filtered in. Finally, the bank representative strolled in and stood before us. She was young, and fresh looking. Blonde hair, tied back, and a black business suit/skirt neatly adorning her. She looked like she was so eager to begin her struggle up the corporate ramp. I could tell by the glint in her eye that she believed that she was going to be the one to break through that glass ceiling.

And then I went and crushed her dreams. I waited until she was about five minutes into her speech and then I pulled out the flask. What followed was an absolute train wreck.

The first rule of performance is “the show must go on.” Apparently, this girl had never heard that rule. Because as the smell of Jack Daniels wafted through the room, and all eyes turned towards me, Ms. Banker suddenly had problems remembering what the fuck she was trying to tell us about credit scores and differed payment options.

She kept stuttering her way through her presentation, and I kept taking blatantly obvious gulps from my flask.

I know what some of you are thinking: Why would you do this to some poor girl? If you like, I can send you a copy of my monthly payment plan. Let’s just say that I’ll be paying these people off long after the continents have merged into a new land mass. So I’ll repay my debts, but I’m not going to thank them for it.

All in all, it was a valuable lesson. I’m tempted to try to repeat the experiment next time I have to sit through a meaningless meeting here at work. That should make for an interesting sit-down with the CEO. Christ, I don’t believe I haven’t been fired yet.

This Nation Is Hopeless Screwed

I stopped in a diner last night to pick up some food, when I happened to look up at a flickering TV behind the counter. There, before what appeared to be 5,000 screaming teenagers was a kid of maybe 13 with the stupidest fucking haircut I have ever seen. Imagine Vanilla Ice, Mr. T and New Kids on the Block decided to collaborate on hair for a Halloween costume that would make Erika Badu seem low maintenance.

At first I thought he was having a seizure. But I was having difficulty picturing a Primetime TV series based on exploiting medical curiosities...other than "Making the Band," that is. Finally, after confirming that Sebastian Bach was no where in sight, I realized that this kid with the unfortunate hair must have been dancing. I would have recognized it sooner, but the terrible noises blasting behind him didn’t even closely resemble anything I’d heard classified as “music” before.

The kid finished his spasms by grabbing his cock and staring at the camera. And it was then that I experienced a cultural moment.

Up until last night I figured that I had a pretty good bead on things. Sure there were major cultural icons or fads that I didn’t understand (Greg Kinnear), but generally I felt as if I could see where the rest of this country was coming from.

So I sat there and watched this kid who had just finished convulsing in on national television grab his cock and look at me in a way that made me want to slap him, and I expected one thing: instant retaliation. I don’t really follow a whole lot of network television, but from what I could tell, public humiliation is still big for Primetime, right? I mean, isn’t that why they gave Charlie Sheen his own show?

But then the weirdest thing happened. The audience started applauding and going nuts. And I came to a startling realization: I have no fucking clue what is going on anymore.

If the country thinks this good, literally anything is possible. I’m ready to start ruling leprechauns, unicorns and intelligent blondes back into reality.

The name of the show that brought this revelation on was “So You Think You Can Dance?” And at first I thought people were applauding because all you had to do to win was THINK you could dance. And from the way he was grabbing his pants, it was pretty obvious he THOUGHT he could dance. Even if he couldn’t do it in reality.

But no, the audience actually thought that he was amazing. All I could think was, “Wow, I really hope that they bomb the Midwest soon.”

Of course, the whole experience really strengthened my stance on dancing. The kid and the audience were so white I thought a Klan meeting to break out at any minute. I expected the douche bag to end his routine with the white power salute before burning a cross. But think about it, all these dumb crackers were having a dance competition around full-body dry heaves. And I realized, thank God I don’t dance.

There’s really no other way to describe the level of shock I experienced. But I very clearly realized that I am, apparently, the only sane person left in the world. There is no longer anything that this country can do to shock me anymore. If I saw teenagers smearing each other with feces at a club while chanting anti-Semitic limericks, I’d just have to say, “OK, sure. Why not?” Or maybe, “Don’t worry! It’s Natural!”

I’m very unhappy with this development. Because I don’t need that kind of stress in my life. It’s hard to come to grips with the possibility that you are going to spend the rest of your life wandering through a civilization of 4 year-olds. I mean, look at me! I get stressed trying to figure out Japanese Cartoons. And that was before I realized that I’m the only person left not wearing rubber pants.

If I’m the last hope of this country, this nation is hopelessly screwed.

Revelation

I suddenly realized why I’ve been hating my writing recently: I haven’t been really angry about something in a while.

See apparently, I have this emotional disorder where the shit that I write best is when I’m pissed the fuck off. I first noticed this trend back in College when I was a theater reviewer. A lot of you are no doubt thinking at this point, “OK, so this dude slept in the same bed as a guy AND hung out in the theater??? How fucking gay is he???”

My answer is not at all. Because while most of the guys who hang out in a theater are gay, the women are generally hot and desperate for anything with a cock and an interest. And God blessed me with both…though I won’t make any claims about which is bigger. I like to think they’re both disturbing large.

But the most fun about working as a reviewer was the chance to take my rage out on under-paid, over-privileged actors who sucked. I mean…I heard I actually reduced some people to tears. Here are some actual excerpts from shit that was published:

“…the main character wears a white wedding outfit. That’s fine if you’re western, but I believe that in China white is the color of death and spirits. But who knows, maybe the lead was mourning the death of Mao Zedong. Or her acting career.”


“…emerging from this play I had a feeling similar to that you get after exiting an all-you-can-eat-Chinese-buffet: queasily full of sub-par, deep-fried crap.”


“His voice and technique were lacking quite a bit. If his partners were speeding along in racecars, Greene was trying to crack 30 mph in a ’72 Buick Skylark. Rather than beating a dead horse, let’s just say his singing was “Shatner-esque” and move on.”


“It’s a very long play. There’s no way around that. This sucker clocks in at just under four hours, making it nothing short of an epic. The Star Wars of gayness. The Free Bird of bisexuality.”


Look, I know I’m a psychopath. But I approached my reviews with this in mind: if there wasn’t an out-cry at least once a month to get me fired, I knew I had to ratchet up the hate a little more. Because when it got right down to it, all the funniest shit I wrote was done when I was all worked up and fucking fuming about some aspect of a God-awful show I’d had to sit through.

And that leads me back to my point about my blog. Looking back over the last few weeks, I think I’ve been way too fucking pensive and moody. “Wah, my life sucks because I have girl problems I can’t talk about.” “Wah, I wrecked my car.” It’s high time I get back to the basis of lashing out at unsuspecting targets.

So allow me to rededicate myself to rage by saying:

Fuck the government, religion, society, race, business and the economy. Fuck dating, whoring, and flirting. But mostly, fuck your mother!

I’ll be back tomorrow with more anger issues.

Don't Worry, It's Natural

About a year ago I was in Italy on vacation. In case anyone was thinking of visiting, I have some inside information about the country that you may not know: Jesus Christ is big there. Who knew?

I also learned about the things that we in America take for granted. Things like personal space.

I have a friend who I’ve known since second grade who now lives in Italy. What’s he like? I have a story that illustrates the kind of guy he is.

In seventh grade my class was sitting in math class being yelled at for being the hormonal little savages we were. The teacher was screaming at us for about 5 minutes, and the room was dead silent except for this poor, underpaid babysitter.

“I WANT YOU ALL TO SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET! IF I HEAR ONE MORE SOUND OUT OF ANYONE, YOU’LL SPEND YOUR LUNCH TIME DOING GROUNDSWORK. QUIET!!!!”

27 13 year-olds sat perfectly still.

“NOW DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY QUESTIONS???”

My friend’s hand urgently shot up in the back row and began waving frantically.

“WHAT???” asked the teacher.

“Yeah, you know those broom ends that Roman soldiers wore on their helmets? How do you think those got started?”

That pretty well sums up my friend.

So back to my trip. By the time I’d hunted down his email address, I’d already reserved lodging for my stay. I let him know he was welcome to tag along with my little group of friends and crash on our hotel room floors. He agreed.

So the first night there are four guys sharing a room in Rome. Three of us are in separate beds no more than a foot wide, and my friend is on the floor with all the extra bedding we could spare.

“Are you ok? Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m comfortable.”

So I drift off to sleep, trying not to think about the fact that if I roll over, I’m going face-first onto semen-stained hostel floors. In the middle of the night I awoke suddenly. Maybe it was the time difference, maybe it was a cramp, or maybe it was because my friend had pushed two beds together and was lying about three quarters of an inch away.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, it’s natural.” The great part was how casually he said it. Like he was stating an indisputable fact. It was the same tone you would have used to say, “My car is red.”

I guess to fully appreciate it, you have to understand that he was extremely straight and wasn’t making a pass at me. He just figured it would be more comfortable up on the bed, despite the two guys already occupying them. But I laughed so hard I almost fell on the floor. It became the ongoing joke for the rest of the trip. We would take turn thinking of random shit and yell them across the street to each other in fake Italian accents.

“In Europe is natural for three men to share a bed.”
“In Italy is natural for straight men to share open-mouth kiss in elevator.”
“Ciao, is natural to make love to a woman’s eye socket.”

Who says that Americans lack class?

Why I Have Time For Video Games, Fantasy Baseball And Porn

I came to a startling realization over the last week or so: It’s a miracle that I’ve ever managed to convince a woman to hang out with me. I think I produce my own birth-control.

Of course, it’s been my mouth. Look, some girls will say there’s nothing wrong with my mouth…but generally they have nicer things to say when the only thing coming out of it is my tongue. But I guess that’s another story entirely.

Recently I had a girl from my past make contact with me to kick the tires on the Ehren-machine. It’s a typical move: Hey, I’m single; I seem to remember you being vaguely tolerable, what’s your deal?

Now, a smooth guy would have sent out a cool, interested, but not desperate vibe. He would have set a mood that encouraged her to think, “I could imagine scenarios where I’d hang out with this guy under fewer than four federal marshals and enough pepper spray to neutralize a rhino." In case anyone’s somehow missed it, here’s a news flash: I’m the most awkward mother fucker on the planet.

Having gotten her phone number via email a few days before, I called her. At 12:30 in the morning. Drunk. And that was the high point of the conversation. Things quickly went down hill from there. Let’s just say that at this point I have a better shot of fucking Jessica Simpson, The Olsen Twins, Margaret Thatcher, and the remains of Mark Twain…at the same time.

“So…when’s the last time you got laid?” I asked by way of hello.

“Who is this?”

“It’s a guy you made out with three years ago and are thinking about fucking! Answer the question!”

Yeah…it got ugly. After making several wildly inappropriate comments about her ex, and conveying a play-by-play description of my orgy experience, she tried to put me out of misery by ending the conversation.

“Look, it’s getting pretty late. Umm…Maybe we can talk again later in the week.”

Unfortunately for both of us, I was having none of it. “Fuck you! Don’t be such a girl!”

“Huh?”

“Look, if you don’t want me to call, just say so and I won’t bother you again. But don’t say you’ll talk to me later if you’ve no interest in me.”

“I just said, ‘we should talk later in the week.’”

“I know what that means! It means you think I’m a psycho and you want to get me off the line before I start telling you about the tiny animals I sacrificed to the pictures of you! You don’t want me to call again!”

“What’s your problem?”

“My problem is insincere bitches who can never say what’s actually on their mind! Why can’t you just say, ‘Yeah, on second thought I don’t really want your cock in my mouth’?”

Somewhere, there’s a knife-wielding hobo that’s moved above me on this girl’s list of fuckable guys. Oh well. At least I know I can save my condom money and prepare my self for a long life of video games, fantasy baseball and porn. And until my hand files a restraining order, I’ll always have plan B.

I Suck!

OK, so this is going to be the second day in a row with no real post. I SUCK! The problem is, between the endless supply of seminars, company-expensed meals, and Jack Daniels, I've got almost no time to write. Also, my only computer access comes during the day. So as much as I would like to be broadcasting my pointless rants bashing the handicapped, it's just not going to be possible this week.

I know, I suck. But providing that I haven't completely destroyed all of my braincells with Jack and Cokes, I'll return on Monday.

Handicapped People Are Pimps!

So the good news (depending on your view of me) is that I’ve survived a weekend of debauchery in San Francisco. All in all it was a pretty crazy weekend, and while I don’t plan to bore you with all the details, here were some of the memorable moments:

• Traffic to the airport was horrendous due to the army closing a number of highways in the New York area. Why did they close down roads? A truck carrying a tomahawk missile had crashed, throwing its cargo into the Saw Mill Parkway. Boy, those guys in the military are doing a bang-up job.
• M.C. Hammer is still alive. I was on the same Jet Blue flight as him on Friday night. Meaning that, as far as I know, there were no celebrities on my plane.
• The Wailers (as in Bob Marley and the) stayed in my hotel on Saturday. Meaning that, as far as I know, there were celebrities (and most likely, gang-banged, hash-smoking groupies) under the same roof as me.
• Eight Jack and Cokes, two shots of jagermeister, and a quarter of a bottle of sake is still not enough to get me to dance, sing karaoke, or make out with members of the same sex. I wish I could say the same for my friends...because everything above was engaged in by some member of my posse.

I don’t have a whole lot of experience with hotels. I mean I know enough that if they charge by the hour, you shouldn’t be expecting scented soaps and chocolates on the pillow…Although chances are good that your bed will contain both interesting scents and brown stains.

Let me just say this when it comes to hotel accommodations, though: those handicapped folks really know how to travel in style. And not just because of the mopeds, legal drugs and sponge baths.

This is now the second time that I’ve shown up at a hotel and been given a handicapped room. And people told me that the slow, barely cognoscente glint in my eyes would never come in handy.

The first time this happened, the clerk told me, “I’m going to put you in a room for the differently-abled. Is that ok?”

Not sure what to make of this development, I said, “Umm…sure.” I figured that at most I’d be seeing an extra ramp or something. So I was shocked when I found that my room was equipped with a full-size hot-tub/whirlpool. I really don’t know why they figured that paraplegics needed with a hot-tub. It’s not like they can even feel their legs! They’re enjoying the soak only 50% as much as the rest of us!

I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I’m on the road, I like to drink. Heavily. IN fact, I don’t even consider it a real trip unless I have to go in for dialysis at least twice. And as you all know, when you’re drinking until you suffer massive kidney failure, you have many enemies, not the least of which are stairs, bladder control, and standing vertical. This point leads me to the next reason I love my room: two eyeholes. One for when I’m sober, and one when I’m unable to claw my way higher than my knees. It’s perfect for half-way into that third bottle of Southern Comfort when there’s a knock on your door. Because it’s important to know whether it’s the cops coming to beat you into submission for bellowing off-key renditions of bawdy Frank Zappa songs, or that call girl you ordered what seems like 2 days ago.

My favorite feature of handicapped rooms, however, is the shower. Have you ever laid in bed and thought, “Gee, I’d love to be clean, but that would mean standing on my feet for a whole ten minutes. Isn’t there a way that I can sit on my ass be hosed down like livestock?” Well, my lazy, smelly friends, wonder no longer. The shower in my hotel features a detachable showerhead and a bench. Which is perfect whether you’re suffering from Lou Gehrig's Disease or just a nasty hangover.

All in all, it’s been a truly remarkable couple of days. And between my room and the parking, I’m seriously considering asking some friend to take a bat to my legs. Because somehow I know that the closest I'll ever come to living like a pimp is taking a blow to my spine.

Wow, I’m going to Hell for this post.

Trouble In Gay-Town

The Denizens of San Francisco have no idea what terror is about to be unleashed upon them. Honestly, I don’t even have a good idea.

No matter what Philadelphia claims, San Fran has the whole “City of Man-on Man Love” title locked up. I was speaking to some females who live out there and they were saying that it’s impossible to find straight single men. As my friend says, “If you’ve got an Adam’s apple and don’t like cock, it’s a buyer’s market.”

Of course, this is the same guy who somehow managed to pick up an entire department of straight, female firefighters.

I was thinking that I should invest in this shirt. You know, just to inform ladies of my stance on penis. In case anyone was wondering it’s this: I have enough that I’m not looking for more.

Actually, I don’t think that I’m going to be looking for any companionship while visiting our “jazz-hands” flaunting west-coast neighbors. In fact, there’s a good chance that I’ll simply get drunk, rowdy, and fiercely antisocial. And by antisocial I mean becoming basically the person I represent here in this blog.

Because I foresee a perfect storm of drinking developing on the horizon. Parties on the road are dangerous for a good reason: there are no consequences. The next day there are no brothers, fathers or husbands to come looking for revenge because you’ve already skipped town. It’s almost as if nothing you did ever really happened.

On top of that, I’ll be hanging out with at least one experienced drinker, and trying to deal with recently becoming single. So God only knows what this weekend is going to bring. Really, there are equally good chances that I’ll manage to reach my hotel or that I’ll be killed in a high stakes, back-ally knife fight. Come on, after reading some of the stories of my life, would anyone really be shocked if that’s how this all came to an end? Lest you think that I exaggerate the trouble that parties on the road bring, I have a story for you.

A couple years ago a few of my friends and I drove down to New Jersey to attend a party. The shindig was being held by a friend of mine, who called me up and said, “Hey, you should bring some friends along with you.” Which I interpreted as “Bring cock.” So a bunch of us piled into a car headed out for the wilds of Dirt Jersey.

The party ended up sucking heavily. So the decision was made for two of my comrades to head out in search of poker chips and playing cards. The two chosen on this life or death mission were named Iz and Spencer.

The two took my car and were driving along without luck for quite some time before they saw a Walmart. They parked and wandered through the store for a while until they found an entire poker set, which they promptly grabbed.

As they were heading back towards the checkout lanes, however, Spencer suddenly stopped.

“Hey, Iz, have you noticed that we haven’t seen anyone since we came in here?”

The two did a full 360 and realized that there wasn’t another soul in sight: no greeters, no stock boys, no clerks, and no other shoppers: the place was dead. Two employees in the back froze and turned pale when my friends finally found them.

“Guys, we don’t want any trouble. You’re on film now, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“What do you mean? We just want to buy this poker set.”

“We can’t do that. The store’s closed, and everything’s locked up.”

“The front door’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not.”

“OK, just calm down and tell us what you want.”

“Look, we’re not trying to rob you! The front door is fucking open and all the lights are on!”

So my friends had to leave empty-handed. This story would be amusing if it ended here—but it keeps going.

Perhaps half a mile down the street, the two passed a convenience store on the opposite side. Without thinking, my friend pulled a quick U-Turn. As soon as he did so, sirens went off behind him.

By the time John Law had walked up to the window, Iz was in full spin mode.

“Oh officer, thank goodness I found you. My friend and I are lost. We’ve been driving around all night trying to find Sparrow Lane, we have no idea where we are and I--”

“Shut up a second, ‘Sir,’” snapped the officer. “Do you realize that it’s illegal to make a U-Turn? Give me your license and registration.”

Of course, Spenser and Iz were driving my car, and had no idea where my registration was. The officer grew more and more impatient as my friends rummaged through my glove compartment. Just as they found the papers and were about to hand them over, the cop’s walkie-talkie blurted:

“Attention, unit 8. Attempted robbery reported at 701 West Main Street. Repeat, reported robbery at the Walmart on West Main.”

The officer took a quick look at the registration, tossed it back in the car and said, “Sparrow is two block down on the left. Have a good night.”

The second the officer’s car pulled out Spencer grabbed Iz’s shirt and yelled “DRIVE.”

So let’s see, for one night we had drinking and driving, breaking and entering, attempted robbery, illegal U-Turn, and calling a peace-officer an inappropriate name. And this is my friends going out of their way to be law-abiding.

So there’s a good chance that my weekend will end with death, incarceration, or pepper spray. Wish me luck. If there’s no post on Monday, you’ll all know why.

Why I Drink

I’m doing my best to think positive thoughts over the next few days. Because there’s a good chance that Saturday night is going to be a trying experience for me. Next week I’ll be out of town and, as co-workers are want to do, there is already a department drinking night arranged. I’m not in the least apprehensive about my coworkers or drinking, it’s WHERE we’ll be getting shit-faced that worries me.

I’ve always been a mellow drunk. I like to sip on my drink and chat with people. What I don’t like doing after 18 jack and cokes is moving or screaming. However, I have been out-voted and will be drinking in a club this weekend.

I have zero understanding of the club scene. It’s something that’s just out of my comprehension. Like trying to imagine Mr. Rogers fucking a donkey. There is no way to wrap my mind around it.

The main problem is that I don’t dance. I know that a lot of guys say this, but in all fairness I have a great excuse: I’m white. If I were any paler I wouldn’t cast a reflection in a mirror. And I’m ok with that. It’s not bad being a Jew: I tell jokes, eat good food and cheat White People out of their money. But I don’t dance. Trust me the world is a much better place.

But it’s not just the dancing that I dislike about these hangouts. It’s also the music. OK, maybe I really am out of touch, but answer me these two questions:

1. Does anyone (aside from sorority girls on their 28th wine cooler) actually like the music they play in clubs?
2. How does anyone deal with the volume of the music?

Seriously, the music in every club I’ve ever walked by is enough to make me want to smash my CD player and give up on music all together. No matter how many times you play the noise “inst inst inst,” and how loud you blast it, it’s never going to be a song, ok?

When I go out, I want to be able to chill out, have a conversation, and sit down. I don’t want to wave a glow stick, suck a pacifier, blow bubbles, or try to flag down a bartender through a strobe light, ok? Is that too much to ask?

Maybe I’m underestimating the attractiveness of the general population, or the ease of picking up girls on Xtasy. But most of the guys I know require a bit of conversation to seal the deal. I’ve given up trying to attract women through my appearance. I know that to have a chance, I have to be charming or at least entertaining. Fine. But I’d have a better chance of meeting a woman by wearing an eye patch, knocking out my teeth, and wearing a wife-beater that reads “I rape puppies.” And I really don’t understand how other men are any different.

Fortunately, there’s always one person to whom I don’t need to speak a word to have a fun night out: Mr. Jack Daniels. If he can’t get me through an evening blaring dance beats and men wearing body-glitter, no one can.