Boy Scout Honor. Spoiler Alert. I Was Never a Boy Scout.

November 11, 2010 at 12:31 pm (Uncategorized)

I lie.

That may not be an earth shattering statement since I would wager around 94 percent of Americans do lie and the other 6 percent are babies that can’t talk yet to form sentences to lie. Most of us lie in order to get us ahead, make us seem more popular, or fudge the facts so we don’t yelled at by our significant others for coming home with glitter on our faces at 3 AM.

“No, honey, strip club?!? STRIP CLUB?!? HOW DARE YOU! It was raining from the heavens. God wants to keep us shiny. I spoke to HIM. Hallelujah and Amen. PS. Didn’t leave the toilet seat up. Also God.”

In this job I have I tend to stretch the truth or make things seem not as they are. Why? Because we’re in big business and big business takes a backseat to no business so just mind your own business cause it’s Business Time. Business Time. They aren’t huge lies and in no way will alter the state of the universe, but they are lies none the less. It’s something I’ve gotten accustomed to since I started doing this and something that you become good at over time. Just like practicing making that cranberry sauce over and over again for Thanksgiving so you get it right, lying takes a certain je ne sais quoi.
French makes everything more sophisticated.

Garcon! To the Peugeot! Snap.

And while I’ve gotten comfortable lying about business and other dealings with large conglomerates, over the recent months I’ve become disenchanted with telling white lies especially personally. Maybe it was the months flipping by until I turned 30 or more likely it was my dad’s heart attack which scared me into thinking that it’s ok to be honest with everyone. You never know when you’ll lose the chance to tell someone your honest feelings. (Disclaimer – I am not responsible if you tell Martha in HR that you hate her beehive hairdo and loads of Angel perfume in the morning and your subsequent firing. Let’s pick our battles people. Marthas win. They always do. But, seriously, Martha. It’s 2010. )

So while this whole thing may seem like the beginning to some bad 80s romantic comedy starring Emilio Estevez or more likely an average 90s comedy starring Jim Carrey, telling people how you feel about them is a freeing proposition. I went through almost my entire 20s not telling anyone anything. If you did me dirty (Urban Dictionary) I would keep my mouth shut and move on because my pool of friends was at around 4 and losing 1 would put me at 3. Math. Indian. It happens. Now that I’ve adopted this new philosophy it feels a whole lot better that everyone knows what you think about them and they can then make the decision whether or not to bring your Batman Lunchbox back to your place.

The Riddler Thermos completes the look.

We have a lot of nicknames for November. We have Movember, No shave November, Remember the Embers, but may I suggest another one. Truth-ember, but not September. I admit, it is a tad wordy, but should get the point across. Let’s all be honest together. It’ll make you feel better. Guaranteed. And if it doesn’t, then let’s still be friends. See that barista at the Coffee Bean and like the way they make your latte? Tell them. Hug your roommate and thank them for paying the rent on time. Tell your mechanic you don’t like the way you always end up paying for more things than you came in for. Call your mom and tell her there was no need for her to tell your date in high school that you were having sweat issues. Let’s all be free!

Just leave Martha alone.

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Andy’s Dandy Famous Promises Haven’t Come True

November 2, 2010 at 11:49 am (Uncategorized) ()

We all want our 15 minutes of fame. To be fair Andy Warhol promised me a quarter-hour of famousity in 1968 and I have yet to get it. It makes me wonder why he picked 15 minutes as the limit to someone’s fame. Why not 30 minutes? That’s nice and easy and is half of an hour. You would think people would be able to relate to that sort of time frame. Why not a whole hour? Is that too long and preposterous that someone could be famous for an entire hour? Only Andy Warhol knows the answer to this and, unfortunately, he is not, how you say, above ground at this moment. Must be nice to be famous and not have to answer any pressing questions.

Seriously, what DOES love have to with anything?

Answers being accepted.

People that are famous now will most likely be famous for longer than Warhol’s time frame. The running joke is “(insert celebrity)‘s clock is at 14:58, 14:59” and somehow that clock never runs out. The Situation, I’m looking in your direction. Because of the Internet and Social Media everyone hangs on to fame longer than they used to. No one leaves our collective conscience at all because TMZ won’t let them leave, which is fine with me. I like seeing washed up stars make fools out of themselves in places I will never be at with more money than I can ever count. It makes me feel like my life has been such a failure that I should be taking the money that I do have and shoving it up my nose in powder form for that sweet, sweet high.

Heard that once.

Since my celebrity clock hasn’t started yet, I’ve been thinking about who are the most famous people in the world. Of course, we have our David Beckhams, Brad Pitts, that one that’s married to Brad Pitt and that other one that’s married to David Beckham. Oh, we also have this Obama character and the one that makes the computers and such, and the Ruler of the Free World, Oprah. WE’RE GIVING AWAY A FREE CAR!!!!! Sure, sure these people are very famous and well-known. Traffic would probably stop and people would throw their first borns to them with no regard for human life just to touch their velvety skin. These people are famous, but are they the MOST famous? No. There’s only one way to know the most famous person in the world.

You see, Movies do this thing when they’re telling you who is in the film and especially in the previews. (Aside: I generally don’t like previews because they lengthen the movie watching experience and I have people to see and couches to sit on. I know. The previews are the best part! If that was the case everyone would be walking out of the movie theater right before the little Coca Cola Ad and “turn your cell phone off PSA” the theater runs. When I saw The Town I didn’t hear anyone say, “Man, should have left after the Due Date preview. That preview was worth $12.50. Suck it Affleck.”). What they do is run the 2 minute preview, they tell you who is starring in the movie, and then at the end they drop a big “AND”. To me the “and” or “guest starring” credit is always the biggest because it’s the last name you see.

For example. “This summer, Paul Walker (shot of Paul Walker), Clive Owen (Shot of Clive Owen), Jennifer Lopez (shot of J-Lo), Nipsey Russell (Stock footage. RIP.) AND…” It is at this point I get so excited about who this could possibly be. Oh goodness gracious, I hope it’s Christian Bale, no, no Ed Norton, yeah he would be better. What if it’s, gasp, Anne Hathaway?!!? Oh god. Then they reveal who it is…

Queen Latifah.


Now I’m not exactly sure when Queen Latifah became this person that gets the greatest credit in movie previews, but she always does. I’ve never seen a preview that says” Queen Latifah and Verne Troyer will guffaw it up this Christmas with ‘Little Beauty Shop of Horrors.’” No, the Queen always gets the coveted last spot. This is an amazing phenomenon that no one has unearthed. Hollywood has decided for everyone that Queen Latifah’s name carries a lot of pull in previews.

Her first choice when changing names? Princess Poindexter.

Now I know some of you are saying, “Queen Latifah?!!? She isn’t even a descendant of the throne. This is poppycock and schadenfreude!” To that I would say, I think you used schadenfreude improperly. Queen Latifah is pretty well-known in our culture. I mean this is a woman who once rapped, “I punched him dead in his eye and said, who you calling a bitch?!!?” That is how you bring back U.N.I.T.Y. By punching people in the eye. You go girlfriend. He wasn’t all that and no need for him to get all up in you and your homegirls’ biznass. Nuh, uh. No one messes with the Queen!

Read all of that on Urban dictionary.

When you’re having a discussion with your friends about celebrities you can play the Queen Latifah card. People will call you crazy. They will make fun of you. You probably will lose 83 percent of the people you call “friends.” But know this. You are right. Queen Latifah is our generation’s biggest and brightest star. Remember when you’re at the movies and they drop in the previews that if they throw an “AND” in there, it has a 97 percent probability of being Queen Latifah. The other 3 percent of the time it’s Whoopi Goldberg. That’s just the way it’s going to be.

Andy Warhol never saw it coming.

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New Jerseys For the Jersey Shore Would Be Better

October 27, 2010 at 11:43 am (Uncategorized)

For all intents and purposes I despised everything about high school. Even though I was on the baseball and football teams I had a limited amount of friends due to my love of Dave Barry columns and AM radio. If anyone knows a 15 year old kid that reads humor columns from a guy not based in his own newspaper and listens to voices from a box talk about home refinancing at 4:30 in the afternoon, let me know. I would like to be that kid’s MySpace friend and tell him that he will not be having the sex anytime soon.

Abstinence is not in any teen’s Top 8.

Needless to say since I didn’t have any of the cool crowd guiding me in things such as “talking to girls” or “pointing at nerds”, I also didn’t have anyone to tell me how to dress cool. Because of this my outfits consisted of my mom’s fashion choices from Sears (clearance bin!) and anything I saw on TV. When I was in high school I watched sports on TV since I participated in them. That automatically meant my high school wardrobe was made up of sports jerseys and something called Zubaz. If you don’t know Zubaz the only way to describe it is this. Think of the worst design in your life. Then put it into Zebra form. Then wear it.

In high school, I thought my vintage Joe Montana Kansas City Chiefs jersey was pretty rad. I thought all the kids were looking at me and saying “Hey Joe Montana was a San Francisco 49er! This kid is going against the man! Let’s be best friends!” When, in reality, they were talking about how I got a spaghetti stain on the numbers on the back of the jersey since that defied all laws of physics and personal hygiene.

E= M.C.U.R.A. Slob.

Physics Quips.

Looking back it seemed perfectly acceptable to be wearing my condiment infested sports jerseys to school to support my favorite players. I like sports. I like clothes. Let’s do this. The older I get though, the more that one thought keeps creeping back in my head about sports paraphernalia and sports jerseys in particular.
It’s the dumbest thing ever.

Now, I’m not saying I automatically despise anyone that wears one out or likes to support their team. I get it. What I don’t understand is when did it become perfectly acceptable to wear the same outfit of someone that’s giving you entertainment? Think about it, every day in stadiums across the country people are going to games and rooting for sports heroes that have used capitalism to their benefit and go the games wearing the jerseys of the home team. Go to a Laker game and see 12,000 people wearing a Kobe Bryant jersey. Go to Yankee game and see fans in Derek Jeter uniforms. Go to a Clipper game and you’ll be the only one there. The sports jersey has become synonymous with an outing at the arena or stadium. Grown men with children are wearing jerseys of players that are half their age. Where is the line drawn?

I draw it at the $5 bag of skittles. Rainbows shouldn’t cost that much.

Only in sports is wearing the same clothes as the participants not only welcome, it is encouraged. When I saw Pirates of the Caribbean 3 in the movie theater I didn’t see 400 people in Captain Jack Sparrow outfits. No, I saw one. And that one person was ridiculed by the other 399 paying patrons for dressing like someone in a movie. That one person may or may not have caused a popcorn throwing incident that was fueled by a violent mix of hatred for Davy Jones and the sugar rush of Sour Patch Kids that went to my brain. When people go to concerts I don’t see anyone looking like Buckethead from Guns and Roses and thrashing along wildly to the music. (Aside: this reference would have made more sense in circa 1989 since Guns and Roses are societally irrelevant at this stage in American pop culture. In hindsight, I should have gone with a Miley Cyrus or schoolgirl Britney Spears to bring the metaphor to this century. In my defense, Appetite for Destruction got me through many a painful night of eating cereal for dinner and watching Jeopardy on mute.)

At some point people decided that wearing the jersey of the participants would be so amazing that we should do it, yet no one walks around with an Abe Lincoln top hat or grays their hair to look like Bill Clinton. Aren’t these people more important than someone that throws a round ball through a cylindrical object which has twine hanging from it? Apparently not. The highest form of flattery for a player is someone wearing their jersey. It shows they are popular and most likely very good at their craft. I think it’s high time we honored some of the other world greats in the same fashion. We should all be wearing Saris to honor Mother Teresa. Let’s all put crazy wigs on for Einstein. And if we’re feeling bold next Thursday we’ll all wear suspenders for Steve Urkel for showing us how to do that dance.

Waldo Geraldo Faldo got no respect.

So let’s show the sports world that we can support some other people in other mediums. One time this guy that was running for something or other used the catchphrase, “Yes We Can.” I’m pretty sure he was referring to this movement. Our adoration doesn’t have to be for sports anymore.

I’ll be wearing my Dave Barry uniform tomorrow.

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Your Age, My Age, Our Age is Well Aged. A Gym Love Story.

October 19, 2010 at 11:58 am (Uncategorized) (, )

We, the people, are beat over the head constantly with looking perfect from beach body articles and magazines on a daily basis. All of us strive for that perfect body that we can flex in the mirror by ourselves or with two hookers in a NYC apartment that we then chase around with chainsaws because we’re “psycho” and “American.” Every day in my inbox I get a tip from Men’s Fitness or Men’s Health or Men’s Cat Fancy telling me another tip on how to get the best abs in ONLY 10 minutes a day or how to name my nonexistent cat so it doesn’t resent you for life. Unfortunately, I’ve only carved out 4 and 3/4 minutes a day to do this and have a mediocre to below average abdominal region for immediate viewing.

On the other hand I would name my cat, DJ Scat.

Even the people that we think have perfect bodies like (insert celebrity that was in a period piece battle movie) always have to work out to keep that body in shape. That’s why the gym was invented. Starting January second of every year the gym is littered with people trying to get themselves into better shape, keep their shape, or just watch Larry King Live with no sound on. Then on January 15th the gym is back to normal attendance because those people realize that their significant other loves them for them and not because they need to be a size 3 or 32 inch waist. That and American Idol is on and I totally have to vote tonight because my vote counts in a reality show where nothing counts.

Yes We CAN!

I’m still fascinated by who invented some of this equipment at the gym. It has my favorite piece of equipment ever invented. In the list of inventions it surpasses the toaster oven (A mini oven? That toasts? Unreal) and the air hand dryer in bathrooms (drying off with air? Air is all around us. Stop the madness). It’s the stair climber. What was the thought process into making that? “Let’s see, what do people hate the most? Got it. Climbing stairs. Let’s develop something that simulates stair climbing, but you actually aren’t going anywhere. It’ll make hundreds, nay, tens.” Yet, at the gym this is always the most popular thing. People love climbing stairs that go to absolutely nowhere in a space where nothing goes anywhere. I used to work in a building on the 9th floor, not once did I hear someone say, “Let’s take the stairs.” But at the gym, let’s climb to freedom! The popularity of the stair climber at the gym is like creating a new restaurant solely based on the circus peanut and having no available tables for the next fortnight.

Welcome to Circus Peanut, your table of disgusting is ready.

Of course, I rag on all of these contraptions and continually use them all so I can get a good look at all the guys hitting on the front desk girl with their lame excuses of “My ID doesn’t work,” “My shorts are too tight,” and “which way is the Steroid dispenser?” Every time I use the machines it asks you to put in your weight and age. And without fail, every time I lie to the machine. Weight? Shave off 5 pounds. Now, it’s totally ok to lie to your wife or political opponent, but lying to an inanimate object? Well, that’s the lowest of the low. What’s next? The ShamWow only holds 8x its weight in liquid and not 12?


Does it help me to be lying to the machine? Of course it does! The machine doesn’t talk back to me. Doesn’t break down my psyche. It accepts who I am. For better or worse. I automatically feel better about myself. Sometimes for the giggles I’ll tell the machine I’m 22 years old. For one 45 minute session I’m 22 again and trolling through the fields picking dandelions without a care in the world. But, in reality, at 22 I was living at home and asking my mother if she could bring me an orange soda because Supermarket Sweep was at the Big Sweep and I couldn’t miss yelling at the contestants to stop wasting time on the bonuses. It’s not worth it!

The Big M&M was so cute, though.

But unlike Pee-Wee Herman and Bart Simpson we actually do get older. We can’t be 22 forever. We’re not really 175 pounds of lean muscle mass. We get to the point where lying about everything to something that doesn’t talk back to us doesn’t fulfill us in the ways that it once did. In 2 days I will be changing the number in front of my age to a 3. I won’t be able to make fun of friends that turned 30 only months or days before I did. My friends have talked me out of this deep depression since 30 is the new 20 or some other lame cliché, but that makes no sense since we couldn’t drink at 20 in the US. Luckily, I’ve saved my fake ID. I’ve come to grips that I can’t stop time or go in reverse. We get older. We get wiser. We get tired at an earlier time. We drink warm milk. So in two days I’ll have to change the age on the stair climber to 30 and life will go on. I’ll shudder and climb the steps to Murder She Wrote re-runs.

Or I’ll just leave it at 29.

No one will ever know.

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Ain’t No Party Like a Rescue Party Cause a Rescue Party Loves Dressing Up

October 13, 2010 at 11:55 am (Uncategorized) ()

Let us all rejoice. Starting last night, the 33 miners that were stuck in a mine in Chile were being saved one by one by a contraption that looks eerily similar to one of those capsules that we all saw in The Jetsons. When I was watching it yesterday I expected them to get to the surface and be greeted by a “Ruh Roh” and maybe a robot maid. But, definitely, not Mr. Cosmo G. Spacely because that guy was a nickname for “Richard.” Everyone around the world is happy that all these guys are alive and can’t wait for the movie in 2012 starring Gael Garcia Bernal as a depressed miner that is thinking of taking his own life because he has enormous debt and a wife that is going to leave him only to have a mine collapse, but he comes out with 32 new friends and a new lease on life that shows, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE. From the directors of “Mr. Holland’s Opus” and the casting agents of “Monster In- Law” comes a true story of one man overcoming his flaws and a group of men overcoming their fears. Coming during Christmas of 2012 it is….

A Miner Inconvenience.

So everyone is happy. The miners are happy because they are out. The families are happy because they get to see their loved ones after 2 months. The TV stations are happy because they can run this continually for the next 13 hours and we can stare at Anderson Cooper’s sexy hair instead of telling us about the newest British related disaster in the water. I’m not happy for any of those reasons. No, I am happy for these guys for one reason and one reason only.

They get to celebrate Halloween.

It’s the most glorious adult holiday in all the land. Men get to wear superhero outfits out of the house without hearing “Captain America night, again?” from the parents they live with. Women get to turn everything into the most revealing outfit ever. Slutty Mother Theresa, come on down! We’ve got hoes in all kinds of places with a 3 digit prefix for a 7 digit telephone number. West Hollywood turns into a den of sin and nudity for one crazy night as opposed to the other 364 insane ones. Sure, sure there are kids that all go trick or treating and collect “candy” and have “fun”, but who cares about them? This is about us adults getting to dress up for one day of our pathetic lives and pretending to be someone else that was infinitely cooler or more famous than us. “Who are you going to be for Halloween?” is thrown around the office more than a sexually charged remark immediately followed by “I’m kidding.”

Human Resources is the worst costume ever.

The only problem with Halloween is that my costume choices are limited. Since I’m a brown person I am automatically ruled out of being any kind of white person. Brad Pitt, out. George Clooney, out. Screech Powers, out. Why, god, Why? When I was 13 I wanted to be a vampire for Halloween. Have you ever seen a brown vampire? I haven’t, even though you think they would be more popular because we could just blend in with the night and then jump out at you to suck your blood, or make teenage romance novels or whatever it is vampires do. My mother doused me with white makeup or as much white makeup we had because the do-it-yourself vampire kit wasn’t equipped to handle 5 feet of brown skin. After about an hour, instead of looking like a scary vampire, I looked like a sad zebra. But I got some Butterfingers that night that I wasn’t allowed to eat without being inspected for razorblades and Rohypnol and that’s all that matters. On the other hand, Halloween is the best time to be an Indian person because we get to be the one thing that all Indian people want to be at one time in their lives.

A black person.

Indian people love meeting cool black people. Usually Indians call them, “my man” as in “What is going on Daryl, My man!” followed by one of those hearty Indian laughs like we just got one over on them. Go to a 7-11, you’ll see what I mean. (Aside: not that everyone named Daryl is black because Daryl Hannah is white and a woman which is one of the biggest shocks when it comes to names of all time. That’s like someone named Sanjay Kumar Akbar being Chinese and a transgender.) Ever since college instead of trying to go the “white man” route, I’ve turned it around and gone towards the cooler people on the planet. I’ve been Flavor Flav, Rick James, Don King, and a pro basketball player because there are no white people in the NBA. Wait, I’m being told that there are. Interesting. I will have to research. For one glorious day, we are cool!

Oh wait, 2 days. People love Diwali even if they have no clue what it is.

This year I will be going again as one of my brown skinned brothers. Sure, some iconic costumes are ruled out like Superman or Captain Jack Sparrow, but we’ll always have early 90s rap moguls. Halloween is our time to shine. No more curry jokes and gas station punchlines. No, today is our Independence Day! Well, not today, but Halloween is our Independence Day. That phrase doesn’t work as well, though, and phrases are all about being remembered like that “One small step” thing that guy once said. So, I would like to thank black people for being cooler than us and for letting us be you for this one day. In appreciation you guys can totally be Apu or Gandhi or that kid from Slumdog Millionaire on Halloween. Or really the rest of your lives if you so choose. We don’t mind.

Chilean Miners, welcome to Halloween. Gael Garcia Bernal outfits are optional.

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Lying is the Most Funny a Funny Person Can Have

October 8, 2010 at 11:24 am (Uncategorized)


I’m not going to lie, I hate liars.

Ok, that was a lie.

Oh, no. I’ve become what I always feared.

Let’s be serious, we all lie. Even politicians. And when politicians are lying what choice do each and every one of us have? I mean, the former governor of New Jersey was a man who liked men (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but had a wife and kids. He was lying to his family. Of course, with that kind of role model I had to lie too. So when my parents asked me if I mowed the lawn, I, of course, said yes. Then they looked at the window and saw that the grass was knee-high.

Mom- “No you didn’t.”
Me- “Sure did moms.”
Mom- “The grass is still tall!”
Me- “But I did it. Maybe the lawnmower is broken.”
Mom- “Why are you lying?”
Me- “Mom, our government officials are lying to all of us. We must LIE TO SURVIVE!”
Mom – “You’re dumb.”

I’m going to throw this out there and it may make some of you angry, but people who don’t lie or that are “honest” all the time are un-funny people. That’s right I said it. Lying makes you funny. It’s true. It’s in google.

You all may remember Abe Lincoln as our 16th President. If you do, then you are old. If you don’t, then you know him as that dude in pictures that always had a beard, wore a bow tie and is so lazy that he just sits all the time in Washington D.C. And something about freeing slaves and such. Anyways, people called him “Honest Abe” because he was honest. In fact by doing some research I have come across Abraham Lincoln’s famous knock knock joke of 1862.

Abe- “Knock Knock”
Random person – “Who’s there?”
Abe- “Abraham Lincoln”
Random – “Abraham Lincoln who?”
Abe- “I’m Abraham Lincoln and I have a beard. I am the 16th President of the United States. Why would I lie about that?”
Random person- “that’s it?”
Abe- “That’s the joke.”

See not funny. If that doesn’t convince you then nothing will.

People have been lying for weeks. Wait, hold on, I’m being told people have been lying for centuries. Is this true? I have lost faith in mankind. The reason I bring up this whole lying thing is that the past couple of weeks I’ve been watching some advertisements on the television, aka boob tube, aka idiot box, aka awesomesquare.

By the way awesomesquare is officially trademarked. Suck it.

We’ve all seen the “I’m a PC, I’m a Mac” ads. The Mac guy is hip and cool and has been in movies such as Accepted and Die Hard 72 and makes out with hot chicks. The PC guy is a big nerd with glasses that makes jokes on the Daily Show. I totally get what they’re trying to say.

Macs make you famous. PCs make you nerdy and funny like Weird Al and you have to learn to play accordion.

Got it.

I guess PC (Windows) has had enough of getting destroyed by Apple in the Apple advertisements, so about 5 years after the fact they came out with ads with people stating “I’m a PC”. Way to be on time PC. Imagine if I made fun of someone and they came back with something years later?

Me- “you smell.”

5 years later

Friend – “You smell.”
Me- “What? Why would you say that?”
Friend- “You told me I smell 5 years ago.”
Me- “I’ve forgotten to care.”

I’m watching this ad and not caring about anyone when out of nowhere a celebrity pops up and declares, “I’m a PC”. I know that person! I know that person! That person? Pharell Williams. You may know him as Pharell from the Neptunes or Pharell from N.E.R.D. At this point I realized something.

Pharell lied.

There is no possible way Pharell is a PC. He is a record producer. Out of all the record producers (2) I’ve met, none have been PC users. They all use a Mac because it’s much easier to cut and mix your sound with a Mac. There is no doubt about that. Why would he lie? I’m sure Pharell has some big time money, there’s no reason to be telling these falsitudes. Pharell saying he’s a PC is like Dr. Phil endorsing Supercuts, Chris Farley endorsing treadmills, or Kate Moss endorsing cocaine. It’s all a lie.

Well except that last one.

She’s ridin’ dirty.

I was devastated. Pharell? Really? What about all those songs. Remember when you told me “No one Ever Really Dies?” That was a lie. We all die. We’re going to die. I’m depressed, now. I believed we were immortal. Remember when you said you were “just frontin”? You weren’t. That was the true you. And remember when you told me “I’m you’re favorite girl?” I just checked. I’m not even a girl. All LIES.

Abe Lincoln is probably a MAC.

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Rich Dad, Poor Dad, Cosby Dad Is a Rad Dad

October 5, 2010 at 10:25 am (Uncategorized) (, , )

Fathers. Dads. Papas. San Diego Padres. All of us have or had a dad of some kind. Maybe he is tall. Maybe he was short. Maybe he’s like my dad and likes to watch Sanford and Sons on TV Land at 7:30pm and start snoring in the middle of The Jeffersons. Fish definitely don’t fry in the kitchen. All of our fathers have differently personalities. It’s what makes them human, I’m guessing, but I didn’t take any Freud type classes to make a distinction between humans and other worldly type creatures with psychotherapy that may or may not be accepted in the “new” world.

Not enough people are named Sigmund.

Last week, when I was visiting the place where I grew up and ate fruit by the foots I saw my dad and it was just like old times. That’s right. The old times when your dad tries to be hip and cool and instead makes a 35 minute trip to a nice restaurant awkward and reminds you of the time he asked your date why she has a “black type” name. What’s a black type name? You would probably have to ask my dad for the answer to that, but his response would be something along the lines of “You know. The names on those programs.” Right. The programs. You see, my dad wasn’t born in this country, but he has assimilated himself quite nicely into American culture the last 35 years. He has a slight, probably nonexistent, hint of an accent. He went to all of my baseball games growing up. He became President of the Little League for a year. He drinks Coors Light. He drank Coors Light at the Little League while watching my baseball games. Former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey knows him by name. That’s right. In the pop quiz of American life, my dad has received at least a B+ because once you’ve become tight with the corrupt, married, former governor of New Jersey that had a homosexual affair with one of his advisers that forced him to come out of the closet then you are more American than Hulk Hogan.

Hulkamania shouldn’t run wild on anyone. Be more aware of your surroundings.

Since my brother and I are both first generation Americans my dad had to raise us in a different way than he was raised. We eat with utensils, while my dad likes devouring anything with his hands in a fashion that most resembles a gorilla eating, well, anything. I’ve always campaigned for a world fastest hand eating competition just to see where my dad would place. He has to be a top 5 competitor and we would be rich if such a thing existed. So, in conclusion, I blame the rest of the world and their “etiquette” for my family not being the masala kings of New Jersey.

Mahesh Masala. You have won this round.

My dad did the next best thing when it came to raising us. He watched TV. I’m pretty sure that he learned all of his parenting skills from Heathcliff Huxtable, the lovely doctor played by Bill Cosby on the hit NBC program, The Cosby Show. You may have heard of it and if you haven’t I suggest you quit your job right now, sit at home, and turn on the TV. You’ll be caught up in 3 weeks. I realized my dad was trying to be Bill Cosby when one of my friends was talking about how he was raised and I got to thinking how I was raised. My dad would always sit next to me on the bed and try to discuss life lessons. On TV, Bill Cosby would always sit on the bed next to Theo and talk about life lessons. It would always end with Cosby telling a joke to Theo or the studio audience saying “awww”. In real life, my dad would try to recollect these things he saw on TV and say things he thought Bill Cosby would say. I particularly remember this gem. “Remember, this is life. Sometimes lives of things don’t live like other lives. Remember.”

If there was a gong in my bedroom I would have hit it.

Many of these sayings he tried made zero sense at all. “Patience is something you must have.” “A bird in the hand is like two birds.” “Fill up my cup. Mazel tov!” Yeah, I don’t know either. We weren’t even Jewish. But bless my dad for continuing to try the Bill Cosby method of parenting. If he would say something serious to me about my report card or studying he immediately tried lightening the mood by asking me what kind of music I listened to and then butchering the names of every band. Weezer became Wheezing. Pearl Jam became Earl Jim. Snoop Dogg was Snoopy. “Hey honey, have you heard of this Wheezing?!?! It’s nice.” I would like to say things have changed on the front, but they haven’t. When I was home my dad asked me what I was listening to. Before I got to answer he remembered that I had a Fallout Boy CD. (I was emo, ok?!? I sat in my room and wondered why I was never her “number one with a bullet.” Then I bought a My Chemical Romance CD. And in my defense that one song is pretty good. I rest my case. I won’t be judged.) The only problem was that he couldn’t quite remember the name of the band. After 30 seconds of stumbling around for bands with “boy” in them he finally came up with it.

The Beach Boys.

I guess now should be the time where I mention that my dad also likes singing songs in the only way he knows how. Terribly. After finally pulling out The Beach Boys from the recesses of his brain he asked me, “Do they play the Beach Boys in California? You guys have a beach. I like that one song. You know it. I get around, around, around, around around around . I get around, around, around, around, around, around. (turns to my mom) Honey, you know that song? It’s nice.”

I just shook my head.

He must have seen that on Magnum P.I.

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Get Rich or Die Traveling

September 28, 2010 at 11:40 am (Uncategorized) (, )

I am infatuated with time travel. I have still not given up hope that we can actually make a machine that transports us through time. It is for that very reason that one of my favorite movies is Back to the Future 2. The whole reason that it’s one of my favorites is because in the movie they take the DeLorean into the future and Marty buys the sports almanac to bring back to present time so he can make some money by knowing the outcome of future events. Oh. Sorry. Spoiler. Retroactive to the previous sentence. (Aside: At what point are we allowed to talk about the endings of TV shows and movies? A month later? Two months? A year? Now that we have DVR’s and TiVos, no one has seen anything anymore. The days have ended where we can say “Man, 30 Rock last night was amazing! I can’t believe Tina Fey is really a man!” No. We can’t say these things. Now we have to say, “Hey, did you see 30 Rock last night? Oh, you’re 8 episodes behind? Why are you the way you are?” All these conversations now end with most of us going to TV show message boards, throwing out our one liners and quips from last night’s show on the screen and generally guffawing to ourselves while eating massive amounts of Red Vines. Only did that once.)

Back to Marty and his amazing foresight to buy the future almanac. If I’ve learned one life lesson in my 29 years on this planet it is this; how can I get mines? That is why I love the time machine. It can make you rich by getting information from the future. It can take you back to the time you got that scar from your brother hitting you in the head with a replica baseball bat from Yankee Stadium. It can give you the chance to not drink so much at that one college mixer when you threw up on the girl you liked and then fell down, only to lay there and ask for pizza because pizza cures everything while she disgustedly vowed to remove you from her AIM buddy list.

Sad emoticon.

It’s all just a pipe dream to think that one day we’ll have time machines. That we can’t pick a specific point and change it so we can live a totally different life. Those are the thoughts I had before last Thursday and that’s when my life was turned upside down by a discovery of a place where time has stopped. Where you will be brought back to the past of surly men, polyester, and overall ignorance to present day. That place?

The airplane.

As a general rule, I hate flying. Maybe that’s weird, but I don’t like not being in control of anything at 30,000 feet in the air. I sat down in my window seat and readied myself for the flight. Seat Belt on. iPod in. Peering to the front of the plane to hope the cute girl I saw in the waiting area sits next to me for the 6 hours done. As I waited for the enormous mountain of a man that was inevitably going to sit next to me, the PA system came on. “Waaa, Waa, Waaa, headsets, Waaaa, waaaa, headsets.” The fact that the airline industry can’t get a functioning PA system, but can, I don’t know, fly in the air is mind boggling. Also mind boggling? How did they get the teacher from Peanuts to do the announcements? I can only imagine the rights fees associated with that. She doesn’t come cheap. (Insert sexual connotation here). I’m pretty sure military personnel in Vietnam had a better functioning communication system. Then to top it off they’re handing out “headsets.” HEADSETS. I kept waiting to the airline attendant (PC alert) to walk by with those big headphones and a small microphone attached.

Cut to camera 2. Cut to Camera 2!

Can we not update the lingo here? When is the last time anyone said headset that wasn’t working at a television or movie studio? 1978? If we can’t update a simple term as headset then what’s to say the wheels aren’t from the Wright Brothers first flight?

First in flight, last in repair.

If that wasn’t enough, upon our descent the flight attendant got on the PA to tell us to turn off all our portable electronic equipment such as our “portable phones and Gameboys.” Gameboys. He told us to turn off our Gameboys. Do we know the last time this crew was actually incorporated into civilization? I’m guessing the one time these people were not on a plane was 1993 when they were allowed to use the bathroom at O’Hare airport. “Oh, little boy, that’s a very small etch a sketch you have in your hands.” “It’s a Gameboy dummy.” “Game…Boy? I shall remember this for future endeavors! Onward and upward. To the sky to release our message of Gameboys and Gamegirls!” We don’t have to look any further. Our time machine is here. Once we get into to go into the future we will be rich as thieves. Rich as thieves.

Spoiler Alert.

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Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, But Words Hurt Even Worse

September 21, 2010 at 12:01 pm (Uncategorized) (, )

We all have pet peeves. Of course, for the first 27 years of my life I thought the phrase “pet peeves” actually referred to something that you liked. I figured that if it had “pet” in the phrase that it must be a good thing and didn’t make my way to the second part of the phrase which include “peeves”. Who doesn’t like pets? Why would you even have an animal if you didn’t like it? So obviously “pet peeves” would be a joyous declaration of love and affection. “Don’t fret my pet.” This is what Steve Urkel used to say. He also used to say “Did I do that?” which is a sentence many Americans should probably be saying after they mess up the 400th project at their job they are not qualified for or after they have intercourse. Either way really. Regardless, he was using the term pet in a loving way. This is not a me problem, this is a problem with the people who created this ambiguous phrase that small brained people could not grasp.

It’s not me, It’s me.

After I figured out that the term pet peeve is something that annoys you, I realized that I have more than a couple of pet peeves. I’ve already mentioned some of them on this blog, but there always numerous little things that get under my skin. Here is a partial list of them. If you do any of these things please do not tell me because I do not want to lose any friends since I have a finite number of people who actually enjoy conversing with me.

Saying the phrase, “Happy Friday”
Blowing cigarette smoke in my face and then asking if it bothers me
Dogs that are not on leashes when out for walks
The person who wears pants at a pants off dance off party
Misusing the word “literally”

Listen, I’m no grammarian. I don’t know how to use a semicolon properly, whether you italicize a movie title or put it in quotes, or even what the word “grammarian” means. I’m pretty sure Kanye West has won plenty of Grammarians in his lifetime. But I do know how to use the word “literally” in the proper context. My main beef (I’m bringing this back to the early 90s Coastal rap feud. “I gots mad beefs with some crafty peeps ’cause I dropped them sick beats on some yellow beets. I was hungry, yo” I’m not sure exactly what happened there) is when journalists and people who have gone to, you know, SCHOOL don’t know how to use that word. I was watching the news the other day and heard this sentence.

Facebook has literally turned some kids into zombies.


Run, everyone run. Do not look back, do not pass go, do not choose the thimble as your monopoly piece because you are trying to be an ironic hipster. There are children zombies everywhere! I’ve seen Michael Jackson videos, this does not end well for any of us. We’re all going to be singing and dancing and wearing hideous red leather jackets in no time. Facebook zombies have no respect for anyone and will soon be biting us and turning us into zombies that leave lame status updates and make us “fans” of Bill Bellamy. The future is now!

I have one thing to say to that newscaster.

Go to hell.

No, seriously, go there. Go down to hades, shake the hand of Beelzebub and stay there. While you’re there how about getting a dictionary and reading it if it doesn’t burst into flames when you open it. How do you not know how to use the word “literally” properly? We all know people should be saying “figuratively” instead of literally since literally means that it WILL happen. Is this so hard to grasp? I guess it is since the people telling us about world affairs don’t have the foggiest notion how to use it correctly. I’m not talking about people using “literally” sarcastically since there are people who do that. I’m talking about stone cold journalists and writers. Right now in the office, ESPN is on the TV in the lobby. ESPN is stupid, but I’m sure this is the smartest thing ever said on the network.

“It is literally sudden death overtime”

Sweet love of Chuck E. Cheese.

I wasn’t planning on seeing a live execution of a sports team on national TV today, but I can go along with it. There’s a first time for everything. I think the better move would be for the field to just open up into a pit of crocodiles and once one team wins the losing team just falls to their bloody death right there. That’s about as sudden death is going to get.

I, literally, will become Urkel if that happens.

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Dead People Dress Better

September 15, 2010 at 3:22 pm (Uncategorized) (, , )

Today I was perusing the, as I’m wont to do, reading all the inane stories that get publicized on that site. Tea Parties, Republican Parties, Keg Parties, Parties at Larry King’s funeral, everything is just one big Fiesta Forever. No Peace in the Middle East, BP is coating the oceans with Oil, and Anderson Cooper has a hair that’s out-of-place. As the late, great William Shakespeare once said,

Can’t turn a ho into a housewife, ho’s don’t act right.

Maybe that was Ludacris, I get them confused.

Aside: At what point do we stop referring to people who are dead as “late”? Is there a statute of limitations on this sort of thing? One week? One year? A decade? The other thing I never understood is why do we never say that murderers or people who do bad things that die are “late”? I’ve never heard Timothy McVeigh referred to as the “late” Timmy McVeigh. Or Hitler referred to as the “late” Hitler. Everytime I see McVeigh referenced he is usually called “A-hole” Timothy McVeigh. Not “Late, Sort of A-hole, but really a huge complete Penis Head” Timothy McVeigh. And another thing. These people aren’t late. They are expired. How did this phrase start anyways? ” Marie Antoinette is late! Is she adding a 95th curler into her hair, again?!?!” “Bro, she totally got beheaded today.” “Oh, guess she’s ‘LATE’ if ya know what I mean.” “I don’t.”

Let them eat cake, indeed.

Back to the CNN. As I was snooping around I saw that some girl in Oklahoma achieved a perfect score on the ACT, which is some kind of Non SAT, but still counts sort of thing for college. Who takes the ACT? Hell, if I know. I was always told the SAT was the be all end all for all college admissions test. I know what you are thinking and no, this girl who got the perfect score was not Indian or Asian, even though India is in Asia and we have to separate ourselves because the “man” doesn’t count Indians in the Asia population count. As my dad has repeatedly told me, “We are NOT Pacific Islanders! And we are not other! Be proud to be Indian!” Then I asked my dad what I should check because “proud to be Indian” is not an accepted box on any form and he grounded me. That was yesterday. I hate the long distance groundings, but you have to respect the dads, which is why I’m writing this in my room with no television for a week. Sorry J-Wow. As for this girl, she was white. In the history of upsets this has to rank right up there with a cow starting a huge fire and Dewey beating Truman.

Hold on. Dewey did NOT beat Truman?

This 1948 newspaper is ridiculously out of date.

While I was watching this video, I was taken back to a simpler time when I took the SAT. A perfect 1600 is what we all aimed for and not some cockamamie 2400 or 5200 or 97000 score that you have to get for perfection now. We didn’t have all these racial bias shenanigans or maybe we did, but I don’t remember because I usually just opened up the newspaper to the sports section, then the comics, then back to the sports section, and then the mini Parade magazine pull out on Sundays. Oh, look career advice from C. Thomas Howell. I better take notes. This was my excitement.

I remember when I took the SAT. The SAT was always administered on a Saturday and most kids dreaded going in on a Saturday because they couldn’t sleep in. Not I. No, I took this as a day we could do whatever we wanted to do since, hello, school is never open on a Saturday. We could dress how we want to dress. Be free with our Ticonderoga Number 2 pencils. TODAY WE LIVE! In joyous occasion of this day of school freedom, I wore what I always wanted to wear to school. I was going to show Principal Warner that I thumb my nose at his school policies and referendums on dress.

I wore basketball shorts and a basketball jersey.

Basically, I dressed as if a basketball game was going to break out right there in Room 322 and I was going to get called to go in. “Hey, there’s a break before the verbal section, I wish someone wore some basketball clothes so we could…wait..that kid did! Hooray! Now we have a 10th player!” In hindsight, I blame my mother for letting me go out like that. I have made some poor choices in my life. Women, jobs, women, clothes, women, but when I look back this was the absolute worst. Yes, even worse than wearing Zubaz. The teacher giving us the test made fun of me. My friends made fun of me. I think the janitor snickered. You think he, of all people, would respect a uniform. Didn’t these people know it was Saturday? They did?

I did not get a perfect score that day. I did not play basketball that day. I did not make any new friends that day. I did check Pacific Islander on the SAT box, though.

At least I wasn’t late.

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