Saturday, December 4, 2010

Shame On You!

I'm not one of these music snobs. You know the type: their favorite bands are groups you've never heard of, they hate anyone who's mainstream, and they're always way too passionate when they talk about music. However, with only a passing interest, I can't help but to notice that almost everything on the radio is either a cover of a song that has already been a hit once, or at a minimum, the new song samples a piece of an old hit. We all came to love "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" after watching Dirty Dancing. Patrick Swayze was spinning Jennifer Grey around like a ceiling fan, and all was right with the world. Well, now The Black Eyed Peas have sampled the chorus in their song "The Time (Dirty Bit)." Between that ridiculousness and the Glee kids' cover of the original, Swayze is rolling over in his grave. And so is Jennifer Grey's old nose.

Nothing is new or original now. Willow Smith's "Whip My Hair" was originally sung by Loretta Lynn in 1994, for Christ's sake! Google it, if you don't believe me! The last truly original song that I heard was "The Bed Intruder Song." Catchy, entertaining, instructive. It's a cautionary tale. A story of bravery, courage, and taking a stand against both violence and proper grammar. But what do I know? I don't like gospel music.

While visiting my grandmother over Thanksgiving, she shamed me, not once, but twice because I'm a, well let's say, "passive" Christian. The first conversation went like this:

Granny: "You don't like gospel music, do you?"
Me: "Not really."
Granny: "Shame on you!"

The second conversation was similar:

Granny: "Do you read your Bible?"
Me: "No ma'am."
Granny: "Shame on you!"

So between Granny's issues with my lack of Christian devotion, and my parents being appalled that I support gay marriage and gay adoption, I'm pretty much the liberal heathen devil-child of my entire family. My parents think my brother is a selfish asshole, but if I continue to discuss politics and religion with them, he'll be promoted to the position of "the good son" in no time.

To an extent, I can't blame them for their small-minded beliefs. Most of the local pastors fill their heads with visions of sugarplums--no, wait, that's Santa Claus. The local pastors fill their heads with darker ideas: like the idea that all homosexuals are pedophiles who, when they aren't molesting the children of the community, are recruiting them to become the next generation of gays and lesbians. Biblical quotes from the Book of Leviticus and the mantra "God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" zoom around homophobic arguments like flies over horseshit. I don't know which disappoints me more: that my own mother quoted that phrase, or that she actually misquoted it and said "God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Adam." I hate to break it to Mom, but if she is taking up the cross against having sex with yourself, she's going to have even less supporters than the anti-gay protesters. It'll be her and that nutbag Christine O'Donnell--who's not a witch, by the way, because she only dabbled in witchcraft and that was years ago.

Not all churches are bad. I found one in Tuscaloosa when I lived there that seemed to get it. And there's at least one in Savannah that definitely gets it. But there are a lot of churches, and worse, a lot of Christians that keep spewing this hateful anti-gay rhetoric that is causing verbal bullying and physical violence and is leading the charge in creating the environment that has 14 year-old gay KIDS committing suicide left and right. And I don't know if their taking a stand against cause-and-effect like they are against evolution--and often against logic--or if they just don't care if all the gay KIDS keep killing themselves, but maybe my grandmother needs to be directing her advice of listening to more gospel music to the community in addition to me. As I recall the song goes, "Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so." It doesn't have the caveat of "unless I'm gay, then the Bible tells me I'm gonna burn in hell, but not before I suffer a lifetime of anguish by hateful people who hide behind His name." Quite frankly, that doesn't rhyme, and the melody for such a long line would be terrible.

*I know this was probably my least funny post, and I'm sorry you suffered through it. I started off with the intention of writing about my grandmother telling me "Shame on you!" twice while I was home, but then, as usually happens when I get to talking politics, I got angry and the post took a more serious tone than I intended. But when 14 year-old kids are killing themselves in droves over something so easily fixable, that's an appropriate time to get serious.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Bob Vila in My Pants & Cock Wine

My balls participated in No-Shave November. I was so ready for December 1st. The last two weeks of November felt like I had Bob Vila in my boxerbriefs. I think my balls might have been renovating a house. They were installing hardwood floors in a turn-of-the-century brownstone. They were gueststarring on Home Improvement. I know that show hasn't been on the air in 10 years, but you get the idea.

I went home for Thanksgiving and arrived at my parents' house to find the place empty, so I decided to buy a bottle of wine to pass the time. I went to Piggly Wiggly in search of pinot grigio. The Pig's wine aisle leaves a lot to be desired. Actually, it's not even an aisle; it's two shelves tucked away in the corner of the store, like a child who's being punished. My decision as to what brand to choose was a quick one, as they only had one brand of pinot grigio: something called HRM Rex Goliath, which costs $6 and features a giant rooster on the label--the name and the label design, I have since learned, is a tribute to the legend of a 47-lb. rooster featured in the Texas circus-circuit over 100 years ago. Nothing screams "klassy" like a cheap bottle of wine that pays homage to a giant cock. Actually, purchasing and drinking said bottle screams "klassy" just as loud.

And so it came to pass. I took my wine home, and of course my non-drinking parents failed me yet again by not having a corkscrew. I texted my brother to see if he still had the generic Swiss Army knives we were given as children, to which he responded, "It's in my hiking backpack and covered in tuna." Fortunately, when I pinned him down on the specifics, it turned out that only the can opener tool on the knife had gotten tuna juice on it when he opened a can on his last camping trip. After washing the knife, I spent fifteen minutes using the poorly made corkscrew to get the even-more-poorly made cork out of the bottle.

By the time my family started arriving, I was down to the last glass in the bottle. If I had eaten lunch, I probably would been unaffected, but since I hadn't eaten in nine hours, I was tipsy. My parents arrived, and so did my brother and his quasi-girlfriend--a lovely girl, but a cross-clutching Christian who had been home-schooled and who I imagine has lived a sheltered life.

After introductions, the girl sat on my parents' couch as Mom made smalltalk with her. Mom asked "So what do you think of Hayden's beard? He's doing that No-Shave November."

"So am I," I said with a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin across my clean-shaven face. I had already told Mom the joke about my balls, as I enjoy horrifying her as much as possible without getting taken off my parents' payroll. Immediately, she whipped her head around: "Jeffrey! That's enough out of you!" The girl sat confused as I laughed and Mom struggled to quickly change the subject.

I knew better than to say anything more, but in my heart, that's who I am: an inappropriate person who enjoys pushing the boundaries. Case in point: my friend texted me a few weeks ago while waiting on her friend to get an early-morning abortion. We made some fun jokes: "And I thought Folgers was the best part of waking up." "It's like having a parasite removed." "Too bad it's not like tick that you can get rid of by burning it with an extinguished match and pulling it off with tweezers." God knows, I have a high tolerance for the dark and dirty, but even I had a twinge of sadness. I love abortion jokes in the abstract--they're my favorite kind after handjob jokes--but picturing my friend sitting in a waiting room thumbing through a faded issue of Time magazine while her slutty, irresponsible friend's fetus was scraped and sucked like an oyster was a little too real for me. The discussion left me very disenchanted with the whole subject. It was as if she had aborted Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

But I digress. My drunken night wasn't the only story to come out of my Thanksgiving trip home for Thanksgiving. As we all know by now, my mother is insane. If I ever say anything about being old or single, she immediately rushes in with, "You're only 24! That's not old!" But unprovoked, she loves to initiate conversations about my romantic life--or lack thereof. While decorating for Christmas the night before I returned to Savannah, she said, "We could hang another stocking if you found someone to date before Christmas." I guess that was supposed to be some incentive for me; maybe Mom thought I'd be excited about the possibility of this girl sharing all the candy that would be in stocking with me. "Mom, even I could find someone to date SOON, I couldn't do it before Christmas; that's less than a month away." "So? I got your father in less than a month." "Yes, Mom, but unlike you, I can't fake a pregnancy scare." Boom! Shutdown!

Look, here's the deal: in my family--especially my extended family--you're either a dumbass or a smartass. Everyone plays the hand they're dealt, and fortunately, I was dealt a Royal Flush when it came to being a smartass. What's worse, is that in addition to having a smartmouth, I'm actually well-read and aware of current events, which just makes me all the more obnoxious. Comments like calling my No-Shave Novembering brother "Hayden bin Laden" and responding to my mother's claims that he runs a lot with "From who? The Department of Homeland Security?" roll off my tongue. I have low self-esteem. I don't like not being the funniest person in the room, and fortunately, it's rare that I'm not. Also fortunate is that my brother is a hilarious smartass like me, but not quite as funny as me; he has morals and standards and considers some things "off-limits" and "sacred"--conditions that affect me less often than I get the flu. So when he immediately came back from my first "Hayden bin Laden" comment by calling me "Drew Carey"--because of my new Buddy Holly-style glasses--my heart swelled with pride. Maybe I never taught him about how to talk to girls, and maybe I never showed him how to tie a tie, but, damn it, he learned how to make someone feel worthless with a backhanded compliment delivered in a sarcastic tone at the feet of the master. I'm, of course, referring to our mother, but I like to think he learned a little from me too. :)

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Tanning Bed Sex

My brother and I couldn't be more different if we tried. Specific to this story, I'm very emotional and he's a cold, unfeeling robot. I cry every time I watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. My feelings get hurt very easily, and I get angry at the drop of a hat. My brother, on the other hand, lacks emotion so much so that it approaches the border of sociopathy. That's why when he dates a girl, my parents and I can never get any kind of read as whether or not he is actually interested in her or if she's just a hobby to pass the time.

So, these days, he's sort of dating this girl in Tuscaloosa. She came to visit him and stayed at our house a few weeks ago for 2 days. Mom made my brother sleep on the couch so the girl could have his bed, which I find to be hilarious, because he's 19, and if he wants to bang her, he's going to bang her, and the separate sleeping arrangements is just preventing cuddling, not banging, and if he's like most guys, this is a win-win situation for him. But I digress. This weekend, he went to Tuscaloosa to stay with her, and Mom was quick to point out that the girl and her roommates have a guestroom that my brother will be staying in, as if I'm one of Mom's fellow churchgoers who would be horrified and get the vapors over it or something.

Anyways, before he left, Mom told me that she told my brother that she didn't want him having sex right now--to which I had to ask "'right now' as opposed to when?" And she said when he gets married, which gave me a good laugh and reminded me that the reason I talk to her on a daily basis is because I get good material like that. So, she jokingly says "But maybe you should talk to him too." And I blew it off with my usual, "No, I'm good." But 2 minutes after I hung up the phone with him, genius struck!

I texted my brother: "Mom says you're going to Tuscaloosa for the weekend. Don't have sex with anyone who's pro-life." I was so proud of that joke! My favorite jokes of mine are the ones that make ME laugh! Anyways, needless to say, I had to bust Mom's balls, so I call her like an hour later and I say, "Well, no need to thank me, but I had the sex talk with Hayden." "NO YOU DIDN'T!?" "Yep." "Please tell me you're joking!" "Nope." "What did you say?!" And I told her, and she was horrified, which was icing on the cake of my great joke.

Now, obviously the joke was that my brother shouldn't have sex with anyone who's pro-life because if she were to get pregnant, she'd be opposed to going to see "the dentist." But more importantly, you don't want to sleep with anyone who's pro-life, because, quite frankly, they're probably really bad in bed. They probably look like someone who eats fried chicken straight out of the KFC bucket while they watch The O'Reilly Factor, and people like that are not sexy. These are the people who call-in to Nancy Grace, and worse still, watch Nancy Grace. Their idea of lingerie is granny panties and the Old Navy 4th of July t-shirt from 2003. There's no spice, no kink--no feathers or leather, except for the animals on their farm. Most pro-lifers have what I call "tanning bed sex." That's where you lie on your back, motionless for 12 minutes, feeling warm, and afterwards you're covered in sweat and you smell funny.

I kid the pro-lifers...with love. Most of my friend are pro-life, and they're mostly nice people. Of course, I'm pro-choice, and I'm always recruiting: if you have your baby, he could grow up to be a vulgar, foulmouthed, inappropriate asshole just like me :)

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

My "Breaking Hymens, Breaking Hearts" Tour

My mother is a loose-cannon; I think that's been made clear. She's so tightly wound in her conservative Republican, evangelical Christian ways that my liberal, bleeding heart skips a beat whenever I can shock and appall her. And today was no exception.

The past few days have been amazing for me creatively. I've come up with some great jokes and gotten pretty good feedback via texts and Facebook least from my target audience. On Saturday, I came up with a joke about how I want Alabama meteorologist James Spann to co-host a talkshow with a Hispanic, and the show has to be called "Spick and Spann." Severely racist, I know, but nothing is sacred, so I texted it to a few people--mostly my liberals who would think it was funny because of the pun and the outrageousness of it, and not because they enjoy racist jokes. I got a good response and came out with a less regional version in case my Facebook friends weren't familiar with James Spann and I posted it: "I think the phrase 'spick and span' is very racist considering the large number of Hispanics in the janitorial industry."

I also came up with "The child who has been screaming in this restaurant throughout my entire lunch reinforces my pro-choice stance," which was even more well-received, probably because we've all had meals ruined by ill-mannered parents who bring their undisciplined kids to restaurant and let them run a muck like they're at Chuck E. Cheese.

Capitalizing on the baby-killing success of my abortion joke, I followed it up with "I'm going to be terribly upset if they kill the baby in Paranormal Activity 2...unless it cries a lot, and then all bets are off."

Then, I've been talking to this really aloof girl lately and can't get a read on whether or not she's interested, so I got to thinking: is she being aloof because she's playing "the game"? Is she debating if she's interested? Is she hatching a plan to abduct me and sell me to a Russian businessman in the international sex trade, because (and then I was inspired by Jackie Kashian) I know people look at me and think "Wow! I bet he's a tiger in bed!" and I hate to ruin the fantasy, but no, I'm not. Do you want to know what I'm like in bed? I'm a lot like I am in everyday life: socially awkward and kind of lethargic. And then a shortened version of that thought process became my next Facebook status, and again, I was praised for my comedic genius.

So today marked Day 4 of my creative streak, and still thinking about the aloof girl and regretting having told her that I'm a Taylor Swift fan, I began to analyze why anyone--other than Kanye--would hate Taylor. Slowly, I began to accept that some on her songs are a bit whiny and melodramatic--particularly that song "Fifteen" about her friend who loses her virginity to a guy who turns out to be an asshole. And then LIGHTBULB! "That song could be called 'Broken Hymen, Broken Heart'." I was so proud of myself! I added afterwards that that is also the title of my Lifetime movie. I posted it on Facebook, tweeted it to a few close friends, and I was so excited, I even had to tell my mother.

Needless to say, she said that the joke was terrible and I was terrible and she doesn't know where I get my dark, liberal, vulgar sense of humor and she just prays that one day as I get older, I'll outgrow it--as if it's a bad habit like picking my nose or leaving dirty laundry on my bedroom floor. So, as fun as horrifying Mom with the joke was, my real joy came about an hour later as I was driving and thought to myself: "I should add some CDs to my Christmas list. Would anything be better than Mom asking the clerk at Wal-Mart 'Do you have the new Shakira album "Dirty Sanchez"? No? Well, what about Buddy Holly's "Cleveland Steamer"? No, you don't have that one either, eh? Well, the only other one on the list is Kenny Chesney's "Tossed Salad." Do you have that one?'" I literally laughed off and on every time I thought about it for half an hour. Even now, six hours later, I've got a huge grin on my face just picturing her naively saying crass sexual slang to some 17 year boy who's shitting himself laughing and waiting for his shift to be over so he can call everyone he knows to recount the story of the middle-aged women who wanted a Lady Gaga CD called "Blumpkin."

As I become the next Chelsea Handler, with book deals, my own TV shows (Chelsea's getting another one called "After Lately" that will be like Curb Your Enthusiasm set in her office), and have a mattress stuffed with $100 bills, I will call my stand up tour "The 'Breaking Hymens, Breaking Hearts' Tour" and I'll comp your ticket because we're old friends.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

My Giant Armenian Ass

Remember college? Did you squeeze every minute of fun out of it? Keg parties, BJs at the frat house, watching Brittany do the Walk of Shame from your place back to sorority row, sleeping late, skipping class, no responsibilities. That certainly wasn't my experience, but it's still how I'd like to remember my college days. Actually, that's not true; all my nostalgia revolves around the hope. Back in college, the world was my oyster, ready to be cracked open. But two years later, reality has set in and I'm now the cynical poster boy for giving up on lost dreams and the hope that the future is bright and shiny.

My alarm goes off every morning and each time as I hit "snooze" I utter a profanity, each one more vulgar and heartfelt than the one before: BEEEEEP BEEEEEP "Damn it!"...BEEEEEP BEEEEEP "Son of a bitch!"....BEEEEP BEEEEEP "Motherfucker!" until finally I've slept so late that I know I'm going to be really late to work, but yet I have to get up now because if I'm any later than what I'm already going to be at this point, I'm going to get chewed out when I get there, and, hey, that's no way to start a Monday.

So I shower and do a half-ass job of shaving. I grab a pair of clean boxerbriefs from the pile of laundry that I got out of the dryer and threw on the chair in my room. Wrinkled clothes, dirty glasses...most days I look like a hungover Drew Carey, even though I didn't have anything to drink the night before. I get to work and look at the clock every 10 minutes until 5:30 and ask myself 100 times: "You couldn't have figured out that you wanted to be a comedy writer 7 years ago? No clue at all, huh? A scholarship to NYU or UCLA wasn't worth giving your career aspirations a little more thought? No? Ok, well go back to filing now. Better hurry because your bosses' lunches aren't going to pick themselves up, are they?"

Then I'm exhausted, though I can never be sure if it's because of working hard or the fact that my spirit is gone, so I try not to focus on it and just pick up a burrito for dinner and go home to lie in bed and watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Maybe if Kris Jenner had been my mother, I'd be more successful now. Sure, I'd be pushing 30 and still dressing and acting like 13 year-old, but I'd have money and fame--the only things that really matter. Of course, I'd vomit every week when the credits ran and I remembered that I was on a show that was a Ryan Seacrest Production, but that would keep me skinny, except for my giant Armenian ass.

And then I start thinking that maybe I should just adopt a kid. I can't afford it now, but maybe if I cut out the Starbucks for two or three years. But then I think how I'd be a terrible father. If I adopted boy, I'd be completely screwed. I hate the outdoors. I know nothing about sports, video games,...what else do boys like?

And if I adopted a girl, I'd be fine until she got her first period; then I'd be useless. "Here are some tampons. Don't go swimming; you'll attract sharks. And don't go camping; you'll attract bears...and wolves. Congratulations, sweetie! Today, you're a woman!"

But I do think I'd be good when it came to talking to my daughter about boys. "Don't be a whore or no one will ever marry you." Sound advice. Concise. To the point.

And after all that, I fight the necessity for me to go on anti-depressants because I'm worried it might interfere with my "creativity" and prevent me from writing the world's next great dick-joke. Because I know in my heart that that's how I'll become famous: tweeting some joke about how my crotch is clean-shaven and ready for basic training or a court appearance. HBO will order a 13-episode season, and I'll be on my way to becoming the straight Michael Patrick King.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

In A Contest With No One

None of my clothes fit me. Yesterday I wore stuff that was way too big--like I borrowed my outfit from Oprah--and today I wore stuff that was way too tight--like I borrowed my outfit from Oprah. I used to be a clotheshorse...or is it clotheswhore? I don't know, but the point is, there was a time that I would've performed sexual favors in exchange for quality fashion. But that little thing known as disposable income is now gone, so if I can buy something at a retailer better than JC Penney it's like that warm, sweet liquor for an alchy.

My finances are in the toilet. Food is my only really indulgence, but it's so damn expensive. And earlier tonight, I had a white trash moment, where with only $21 to my name and an empty gas tank, I decided to buy a chocolate milkshake and a six-pack of Coors Light (I know, like I'm a college sophomore) and then use whatever money was left over to buy gas. Klassy, I know.

I understand my financial situation, which is one reason why, even I were banging someone right now, I'd be sure that she didn't get pregnant. I can understand having one unplanned're drunk, you put the condom on your happens. But several of my high school alum seem to be in a contest with no one to see who can have the most kids without being married or being in anything resembling a monogamous relationship. Which is why I'm working on spreading my own public service announcement: "Condoms: Not just for balloon animals anymore." This will run concurrent with my other PSA: "Abortions: Not just for rich white girls anymore." Speaking of which, due to harsh economic conditions, I've had to close my abortion clinic. We just didn't have the volume of clients we needed to keep the doors open, which is surprising, because I ran a huge ad in the Yellow Pages in the "Pest Control" section. Silver-lining: I now have a huge surplus of wire hangers and knitting needles at my house. But let me know if you want the wire hangers, because I'm seriously worse than Mommie Dearest about those bastards. It's all plastic in my closet!

If I ever see a woman with a moustache, I have to wonder: if that's what the upstairs looks like, can you imagine the basement?! (I told that joke to my friend Eryn and she started singing the Chia Pet jingle: Ch-ch-ch-chia!)

So, I write a lot of liberal material (in case you haven't noticed), but I don't write too much political material because if I ever go up against one of the CNN junkies, I realize about 3 questions in that I don't know any of the details of the issues. That's why I like to get my news from Bill Maher and Jon Stewart. They've done all the research and they lean the same way I do (which is so hard to the left that we almost fall over), but then I get a false sense of security and feel ready to battle my right-wing friends, but--again--as soon as I quote Bill or Jon, I'm out of ammo. I tend to actually dig in and fact-find during an election year, but otherwise I just coast by with what I pick up from liberal political comics and common sense, and I manage to get by.

With that said, I have to say that I'm so happy that Prop 8 was ruled to be unconstitutional. I know there are a lot of prohibitive amendments in state constitutions (especially the bad states), but in the U.S. Constitution the only amendment ever added that restricts people's rights instead of securing them was prohibition, and we all know how that ended: bottoms up! (I think that was also the sentiment the day Prop 8 was ruled unconstitutional, but I'm not sure it referred to drinking.)

Well, folks, in continuing my white trash night, I was once told that nothing is better than drinking a cold beer while standing under a hot shower, so I'm about to go try it and go to bed :)

Thursday, July 29, 2010

She's Doing Poo-Yogurt Commercials Now for Christ's Sake!

My brother and I are kind of assholes. I embrace it and entertain you all with it. He denies it, but it's nonetheless just as true about him. That said, it's no surprise that my mom is so impressed with one of my brother's friends that she can't shut up about what a sweet boy he is. The first time she brought it up, I just kind of rolled my eyes. The second time, I was said "Ok! We get it! You want to bang him!" And of course, she was like "No! I do not want that to him!" I said, "I said 'bang,' not 'eff.' You can say 'bang him'." And then she tries to change the subject by talking about what a filthy mouth I have. Me thinks she doth protest too much. And I don't really know why. I mean, the guy is legal, so there's no chance of her being on Dateline: To Catch a Predator, although believe me, I would send out engraved invitations to my viewing party if she got busted for something like that after all the conservative bullshit she's made me listen to over the last 23 years. I guess she had to put up a fight because Dad was in the car with us. He thinks I'm hilarious, and who wouldn't? But now, I bust Mom's balls all the time. Even if she's talking about another friend of my brother's, I'm like "Is that the one you want to bang?" Ah, good times.

Speaking of my brother and his friends: he has injured himself yet again. The Thursday before Easter, he pulled a soccer goal over on himself, which cut open the center of his forehead and required about 7 stitches. Fortunately, that healed rather well, but for awhile he looked like Ashton Kutcher with a Harry Potter symbol on his forehead, or (alternate punchline) a new Manson family recruit that backed out when the swastika was halfway carved into his forehead. Anyways, now that that's about healed, his friend ran into him while playing ultimate frisbee or some other ridiculous pseudo-sport and separated his index and middle fingers so wide that the skin in between them ripped and continued to rip AROUND his index finger. Again, I believe the number of stitches was...Lucky # 7. So, basically at this point, he's sewn together like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, and ironically enough, my brother also does not have a brain. Most amazingly, he does very dangerous things like rock-climbing, and...I don't know...other dangerous things that my fat ass is too lazy and scared to do. But does he injure himself then? No. It's when he's playing frisbee. Guess who's getting a helmet and pads for Christmas?

It was great to see my family last weekend, and the main reason it was great is because I was only around them in short spans of time. Being with my family is like interval training: high-intensity for short periods of time with frequent breaks needed in between. So, my trip to Huntsville for a wedding was a great distraction. I left with plenty of time to arrive early. And let me just break here and say that there once was a time when I was a truly classy person. I kept the foul language among only my closest friends, I was prim and proper and had a much bigger stick up my ass than I do today. However, I think that any shred of dignity or grace that I ever possessed was erased when I finished getting ready to attend a very lovely wedding by stopping by the restroom at the Wal-Mart in Arab, Alabama. This little diversion put me behind schedule and had me literally running (eh, jogging) into the church as the wedding party was lined up in the narthex about to go down the aisle.

But I got there on time, and the service was beautiful, but me, not ever able to take anything serious, couldn't focus because a soloist sang "Be Thou My Vision" which is a sweet Christian song. However, it was also used in the teaser trailer for Saw 5, so I kept thinking "Wow, I didn't even know they were fans. How cool would it be if I gave the pianist an extra twenty bucks to play the theme from 'Halloween' when my fiance walks down the aisle! Maybe a couple of bars of the Wedding March to get her started, but then a quick change to the 'Halloween' theme. Maybe I could get Jamie Lee Curtis to come to the wedding and run across the altar screaming 'Michael!...Michael?!' I mean, she's doing poo-yogurt commercials now for Christ's sake! How expensive could she be? Maybe $5,000?...Oh, they're married now!"

The weekend was fun, but when I got back to Savannah on Sunday night, things were not. The air conditioner at the condo wasn't working so my neighbors generously let me stay in their guest room. I watched Mad Men with them for the first time that night and instantly became hooked. I rented the first season on DVD and am fascinated! Part of me wonders if there was a TV writer who was like "I want to make sexist, racist, homophobic, anti-semitic jokes on national TV and have it be ok. How can I get away with it? ... Oh, I know! I'll set it in 1960s Manhattan!" And another part of me thinks, "Wow! If they can do this on AMC, what would they do if a REAL network had picked up the show?" I mean, Mad Men is wonderful, and Breaking Bad looks good (although I've never watched it), but I see these shows on AMC and just feel like that network is HBO's nerdy little brother. Like Showtime comes over to HBO's house and they're hanging out, sneaking booze from their parents' liquor cabinet, and AMC is sneaking cigarettes when they aren't looking, but it just keeps coughing and getting nauseous whenever it tries to smoke them. Is it just me?

***On a side-note, one of my comedic icons Jackie Kashian and I tweet with one another on a regular basis. Earlier today she tweeted (to everyone) that she is doing a show in Tucson this weekend and that she will have to dust off her Apartheid material (which is hilarious because Arizona is also controlled by racists seeking to do a less violent ethnic-cleansing). Anyways, I replied and said "Make sure you have all your papers; no exposure to sunlight until after the show; and don't use words like Chihuahua." And then she replied to me and said "haha! Chihuahua! I may use that in my show (with your permission)." Holy fuckballs, you guys! I haven't been so happy in months! I post my witty tweets and status updates and I trot out one of these blog posts once a month or so, and I would LOVE, LOVE, LOVE to make some kind of career with my comedy, whether it be stand-up, books like Chelsea Handler's, or writing for television and/or film, and I have people like Liz and Beth and most of the people who read this blog say very encouraging things, which is so sweet and wonderful, but I never know if you're just saying them to be nice. So to have a comic that I idolize validate me like that just put me in the best mood and built my confidence so much! I don't know if I'll ever work up the balls to overcome my fear of public speaking and do stand-up, but knowing that an expert on funny thinks I'm funny enough to consider putting my joke in her act inspires me to keep sending my witty tweets and keep updating this blog and actually do some real damn comedy writing!

Thursday, June 24, 2010

I Made It as Far as "Attending the University of Phoenix"

Hello! It's been awhile since my last post, and so little has happened. I took my usual Memorial Day trip to Gulf Shores. I let the Goose loose the first night and only have a portion of my memory. Astonishing how I can drink such nice vodka and yet smoke a Black n Mild like I'm at late night barbecue in Section 8. But I paid for it by straining my back for the rest of the weekend, possibly from falling asleep (AKA passing out) while lying on a wooden deck. So when I got back home, I had to see the doctor about my back. He put me on generic Valium! I was so excited! Having never taken any muscle relaxers, I had high hopes of becoming like those classy ladies in "Valley of the Dolls." Not Sharon Tate, but maybe Patty Duke or the other one. But alas, they had no effect on me. The anti-inflammatory meds "healed" my back, but I'm still not able to train for that marathon to raise money for the orphans...with cancer...affected by the oil Haiti.

But seriously, I hate exercising. I understand the vanity of it--you know I think that unattractive people are the real "untouchables"--but all that sweating, and the breathing hard, and having to miss "Last Comic Standing" to go to the gym. It's not for me. I'd rather wait until I can afford lunch-time lipo. And I want Botox too, but not that bad batch that Kate Gosselin got. Jesus Christ! As if her face wasn't jacked up enough, now she has that "No, I've always looked like a villain from the Batman comics" face. Speaking of Christa Miller...another time.

Oh, and guess who's girlfriend is pregnant! That's right, congratulate me now, because when the clinic opens in the morning, it'll be too late. (I've been trying to work up the balls to do that joke as a Facebook status, but I'm really not in the mood for the conservative backlash. But it's a solid joke, and I'm proud of it, as I am all my jokes--they're like my children.)

I'm really broke these days. I auditioned for a porn and was offered the role, but I turned it down. It was a fetish porn, and the fetish was fast food icons. I was on board when they wanted me to be the Burger King--they were even going to let me keep the giant plastic head--but there were legal issues with BK and McDonald's. Eventually, I was cast to play Jared from Subway. Now, nobody loves double entendre more than me, but all the "$5 footlong" jokes in the world couldn't get me to demean myself that much.

I need a date. I was going to finally give in and try the online thing but I read a few profiles and most of the women on there have kids. I was telling my friend about it and how 90% of them are really young, single mothers. She said, "Don't they have planned parenthood offices in Georgia?" I said, "Apparently not enough to keep up with the demand." But I pushed on, and eventually found someone age-appropriate and moderately attractive--she looked like Princess Diana (when she was still alive...not now). So I started reading her profile, and I got as far as "I'm currently attending the University of Phoenix..." and I was like, "I'm out! If this is what's out there, I'll gladly stay single!" I say that, but actually I had a date last night. I'm gentleman, so I won't kiss and tell, but let me just say that I spent the better part of today figuring out how to get semen out of a microsuede couch. I know, I know; I'm a hopeless romantic.

Although, not much has gone on in my own life since my last post, there's been a lot going on in Hollywood! It's so sad about Gary Coleman. You know he died pretty much penniless? Thank God, they can save the cost of a casket and just bury him in a cooler. Maybe they can get one with wheels--like the kind you take to the beach--that way, they can just have one pallbearer. And Heidi broke up with Spencer. I heard she caught him having sex with a blowup doll. In his defense, he probably thought it was her. And, not that they're real celebrities, but the soccer players have been all over the news because of the World Cup. I haven't watched any of it, but I keep hearing people talk about these things making this loud, irritating noise. I can't remember what they called them...I think they called them "vulvas?" I don't know; it was something Spanish. People were blowing all these vulvas at the World Cup and the noise was distracting the players. I mean, the game really should be all about the fans though, so I say if they were having fun blowing vulvas, God bless. Live and let live.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

They Make Larry Craig Look Like Billy Graham

What the hell? Remember the good ole days when a celebrity affair was classy? One man with a nagging wife. One whore with Daddy issues. In the really interesting cases, there was a Senator blowing a 17 year-old page or tap dancing in the Minneapolis Airport bathroom. Ah, simpler times. Nowadays, when the news breaks that a celebrity has cheated, it immediately turns into a clown car of sluts--each with a more intricate story than the one before. Tiger Woods had 12 mistresses and Jesse James had 4, and those are just the ones we found out about. Tiger was with a porn star. Jesse was with a neo-Nazi white supremacist. Reille Hunter did a photo-shoot dressed like Jenna Jameson at church. There's no dignity to it anymore. No discretion. Marilyn Monroe, the country's biggest movie star, in all likelihood had an affair with JFK, America's most beloved President until Black Jesus...I mean Obama. And to this day, we can't be sure, because that pill-head and Bullseye McGee knew how to keep their mouths shut. Just the thought of it makes me nostalgic.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

"Don't Get An Erection!"

I love getting massages, with the exception of this one time when I used my friend Jaime's gift certificate and went to a male masseur, which I have no problem with in general. However, this man was old and super creepy and to this day, I don't know if he was a Licensed Massage Therapist (LMT). Anyways, his "studio" was in the back of this old musty shit hole strip mall. Unlike all the massages I had gotten previously and all the ones I've gotten since, this man's massage did not include a sheet for me to lie under. I can't remember if there was the usual tranquil music or not, but in any case, it was me lying uncovered in my boxer briefs on a table while this man poked and prodded me with his bony old fingers. There was no skill to it--just pain. I was like that episode of Friends where Ross pretended to be a massage therapist, and he beat the client with wooden kitchen spoons and rolled a Tonka truck across his back, except this wasn't comedic--it was somewhere in between Hostel and Dateline: To Catch a Predator. The worst part was while most LMTs tuck the sheet into the top of your underwear and pull it down maybe an inch to have plenty of room to massage your lower back, Uncle Creepy (having no sheet in his way to begin with) pulled my boxer briefs much further down, exposing half of my ass. I've never been so glad to leave somewhere as when I left his "studio" that day!

Anyways, I didn't let that one bad experience put me off spending excessive amounts of money that I don't have on a luxury service that I don't need :) And since she was running a "Tax Season Special" for the accounting firm where I work, I decided to take advantage of the $40 hour long deep-tissue massage that was being offered. My appointment was yesterday morning and when I arrived in front of an old house that is currently being used as a construction company's business office, I immediately had post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks to my hour of hell with Uncle Creepy. But when the LMT arrived, she led me to her studio on the back side of the house, which was well-appointed and looked as a massage studio should. I had made sure she was actually licensed before scheduling the appointment, and the fact that she was wearing something akin to scrubs made me feel at ease.

The massage began, and thankfully it included a dimly lit room and flute music played over the sound of ocean waves. Now, despite the peaceful environment, my mind is working every waking hour. There is no transcendent place where I let my mind wander and relax. No, I was deciding where to go for lunch afterwards and thinking about the sitcom pilot I'm writing for Paula Deen. So I kept trying to push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on relaxing. And let me just say that the massage was intentionally not relaxing; I chose deep-tissue over Swedish and then asked for a lot of pressure. I was trying to loosen my muscles and force out the toxins that have built up from my diet of Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches and Tahitian vanilla bean gelato and a lack of exercise. By the way, the intake form I had to fill out before the massage asked what type of exercise I participate in and how often; I wrote "NONE/NEVER."

So I finally get the practical thoughts out of my head, which was a huge mistake. Because then my outlandish comedy mind kicked in. I became concerned that this girl might ask if I wanted a happy ending, and while this girl was only somewhat cute (barring the tattoos), I couldn't help but let my mind wander down that road. But 10 seconds in, I was yelling at myself in my head "Stop it now before it gets out of control! Don't get an erection! Don't get an erection! Think of dead bodies and baseball!" So then I start smiling at the ridiculousness of my life and my thought process (and I immediately started drafting this blog in my head). Thank God my face was in the face hole on the massage table because I had this huge cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin on my face!

So later I had to roll over--and no worries: this is not an erection story. But I did get to thinking about how I had to talk myself out of letting my mind wander about the happy ending and I wanted to laugh and I could feel myself beginning to smile--not a sexual smile, but a my-life-is-an-episode-of-Everybody-Loves-Raymond smile--so then I'm biting my lip so I don't look like a big weirdo. It was just bizarre, as is most of my life.

On a side-note, she told me to drink lots of water for the rest of the day; of course I didn't because I hate water, and I've felt flu-like symptoms ever since, including nausea and exhaustion, so FYI: Do drink lots of water after a deep-tissue massage; they're not kidding when they tell you that.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

I'm the White Oprah

I'm the white Oprah for two reasons: 1) I participated in meatless Mondays once about 2 weeks ago. If you're unfamiliar with this, it's a simple concept: for health benefits, you go without meat one day a week, and since Monday provided alliteration, that was the day they chose to abstain. As any meat-eater might guess, it freaking sucks. It especially sucks for me because my diet is built on four food groups: meat, bread, cheese, and sugar. But I suffered through it, and through my triumph of the human spirit, I survived, and now I'm just like Oprah because this is something she pretends to do while sneaking hot wings in her dressing room...allegedly.

The other reason that I'm the white Oprah has to do with my tax refund. Remember that episode a few years ago when both Oprah and her audience were more ridiculous than usual because she gave everyone in the studio a free car? And then the clip that was played on all the news programs and parodied on countless shows was the clip of Oprah pointing at people individually and screaming "And you get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!" and all the soccer moms and the old ladies and the gays in the audience were holding each other and jumping up and down and crying. It was event television.

Anyways, I got my federal tax refund yesterday, so now I get to point to Express, Discover, my roommate who I owe for utilities, and my friend who paid for our beach rental for Memorial Day, and I get to scream at them: "And you get a check! And you get a check! And you get a check!" I'm hoping for the same reaction of Oprah's audience, but only time will tell.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

You Play the Part of the Little Mute Girl...Action!

I created this blog like the day after I got hired for my job in Savannah with the intention of blogging everyday beginning with the day I moved here. Well, here we are 5 months later, and I'm churning out my first post, and it has nothing to do with Savannah...yeah, that sounds about right.

So, being that there's nowhere to see stand-up comedy in Savannah other than the Civic Center which only gets big names like Lewis Black, Sommore, and DL Hughley, I constantly check the websites of my favorite B-list comics to see if they're coming anywhere within driving distance of Savannah. Well, about 6 weeks ago, I discovered that two of my all-time favorite comics were doing a show together in Atlanta. So I invited all my friends to meet me there...and two actually showed up. Being that the drive from Savannah to Atlanta is about 5 hours with all the necessary gas, pee, and Starbucks breaks, I decided to make a weekend of it.

I scheduled lunch with my 9th grade history teacher, formerly Ms. Young, now Mrs. Jackson, at Copeland's in Buckhead. I've been dying to see her since I graduated high school 6 years ago, and I've been dying to have wood-grilled chicken with yams since they closed all the Copeland's in Alabama more than 6 years ago, so this lunch was win-win. The food was delicious, just as I remembered it, and seeing Mrs. Jackson and her daughter was absolutely wonderful.

Following lunch, I met up with my high school classmate Kate. She and her boyfriend Michael had driven in from Auburn to spend the afternoon with me and then go to the show last night. We decided to do the World of Coca-Cola tour. I arrived before Kate and Michael, and as I sat in the big park between the World of Coca-Cola and the Aquarium, I felt like the prom king. Hundreds of people there, snot-nosed kids running around and screaming, fatties, baldies, pregos, and a parade of bad haircuts. I probably saw ten people with either better genetics or more style than me; it was quite the self-esteem booster.

After Kate and Michael arrived, we bought our tickets and did the World of Coca-Cola tour. Interesting enough for $15, but Kate and I were all in it for the last stop on the tour: the Tasting Station! A giant room with a big counter top for each continent and that continent's Coke products. Most stuff was weird but not bad, but the last thing I had was the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. It's called Beverly and it's sold in Italy. It tastes like vinegar and toilet water. Absolutely disgusting!

On the way out, we stopped in the gift shop, and as we stood in line for Michael to pay for his stuff, I saw the most disturbing sight of the weekend. A family: the dad is a soldier--clean-cut in his military uniform. The mom is about 10 months pregnant, looks like she hasn't had a bath in days, and looks like she fell out of the trailer park tree and hit every white trash branch on the way down. So all of that, I'm used to; Mrs. Greaseball isn't my first experience seeing skanks. The kicker is the kid. Can't be more than 3, and that's probably a liberal estimate. Little boy with...a pierced ear! What the hell?! I begged Kate to ask the mom what the deal was and why they had pierced their toddler's ear, but as she pointed out, the mom, severely pregnant as she was, could've probably kicked Kate's ass.

So, the comedy club is through some obscure back hallway of this weird biker-themed bar and grill in midtown. I was really worried that it was like one of those weird sex places like in Vegas where you go down the dark corridor and it's like a mass glory-hole and there are naked women masturbating behind Plexiglas windows...turns out, it wasn't. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My friend Samantha came in from Birmingham via her parents' house in North Georgia to have dinner with us and go to the show. All the servers at the restaurants looked like art school grad students. The girl waiting the table behind us had two French stick figures tattooed in the center of her back...and the reason I know they were French stick figures is because the guy stick figure was wearing a little beret. Another waiter had Adam Lambert get the picture: just really hipster kids. I'm sure they were smoking weed on their breaks....allegedly.

So we finish dinner and go down the back hallway to the comedy club. Now when I say "comedy club" I mean a tiny room about the size of a high school classroom with about 50 folding chairs and 3 rows of booth seating set up like a judges' panel. Very intimate, and I loved it, but it was not at all what I was expecting after having seen shows at The Stardome in Birmingham. I thought the wooden booths would be slightly more comfortable than the metal folding chairs so we grabbed the back row which was still only 40 feet from the stage.

The club requires a two-drink minimum and had two bartenders--a girl and a guy. The girl was the main one who took care of the four of us (me, Samantha, Kate, and Michael). Like the servers in the restaurant, she was a hipster. Bleach-blond hair shorter than mine, wearing some little headband with like a feather or a flower or some other symbol of femininity to signal that she wasn't some twink who'd be dancing at Pirate's Booty later that night. Anyways, she was ridiculously ditsy, and it took her three attempts at making change for us before she got it right.

But there we were, sitting in the club with our drinks waiting on the show to start. I had been excited all day and was on the verge of jumping up and down in anticipation about seeing two women I had watched on TV since I was in high school. We sat through the emcee's mediocre set and then a lovely black lady's set...I think her name is Joelle. She was pretty funny, but I see why she isn't headlining.

And then the moment I had been waiting for: Jackie Kashian bursts onto the scene. Brilliant and hilarious! She even closed with a joke from like 8 years ago that I had asked her to do via our Facebook communication (I'm a dork...I know it, you know it. Let's move on.) But during the middle her set, this drunk girl in the second row interrupts her when she was talking about how ridiculous it is that we spend thousands of dollars to keep 20 year old pets alive when they're really sick. So Jackie responds, "Uh...ok, Miss, do you have a cat or a dog?" "A dog." "How old is it?" "Four." "Well, you're dog's fine then, so fuck off!" The crowd goes wild! The whole set was great, and I hope I can see her again soon.

Then it was time for the headliner: Maria Bamford! Her set was amazing and hilarious too, but the most interesting part was her interaction with the drunk girl. The girl keeps interrupting her and so Maria asks the guy she's with how he knows her; the guy says it's their first date. Poor bastard! It's bad enough he was with this alchy, but what came later was just tragic. So, the girl keeps interrupting, and Maria tries to handle her in different ways. "I know some people like to play a part in my show, so I'm going to give you a role: I want you to play to the part of the little mute girl. Just sitting there, quiet as can be...action!" and then later "You seem to think that this isn't a comedy show, and tonight, you're right. This is an intervention. Myself and everyone in the community has gotten together to tell you how we feel when you make a jackass of yourself at comedy shows. We're going to go around the room using 'I' statements to tell you how this makes us feel. I'll start..." Now, I saw her do this in a video clip from Jamie Kennedy's documentary "Heckler." The response usually ends "I'll start. I you should shut the fuck up!" But unfortunately, Maria didn't get to do that, because when she says "I'll start," the drunk girl interrupts AGAIN, and says something like, "Just keep going." So at that point, the male bartender finally wised up and comes and escorts the drunk girl and her boyfriend out. And Maria is like, "Oh, I hate to have to do that, but it's better that she left now before I start saying things like 'Don't they have a curfew at the whorehouse?' and I don't want to go down that road." So then Jackie comes out and takes their seats to watch the rest of Maria's set and we all clapped and went crazy! She finished her set and it was great! The whole show was great and I love them both now more than ever!

Sam went back to her parents' house in North Georgia, and Kate and Michael went back to Auburn. It would've been ridiculous and unsafe for me to drive back to Savannah that late, so I got a great room at the Hilton Atlanta. I had a room on the 14th floor with a beautiful view of the cityscape.

The whole trip was wonderful, and it was so good to spend time with Mrs. Jackson, Kate and Samantha :)