Not Judge
I recently discovered that one of the actors on How I Met Your Mother is not Judge Reinhold. His name is Jason Segel. Both actors look very similar. I tune in only once a month, usually in the middle of an episode, so I don't catch the opening credits. I still feel like a jackass though. Judge is pushing 55 or 60, and every time I catch H.I.M.Y.M, I nudge the nearest person and say, "Judge has aged really well since Ridgemont High. He's a real life Benjamin Button." Why hasn't anyone corrected me and put an end to my stupidity? You can try to comfort me right now and say, "But Mike, you're not stupid. It's just a TV related error. You didn't screw up on something important like basic math or science. At least you're not like those asinine American college students who are handpicked every year to locate the U.S.A on a map and end up choosing the map key as their final answer." (FYI...those same test subjects guessed "railroad" to be America's largest city)
Okay...maybe I'm not dumb. However, knowing Fred Sanford ran a junkyard could get you a $200 clue on Jeopardy. Knowing Jack Tripper's first landlord was named Mr. Roper could equal $10,000 on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire. And all those college students who are stymied by a map know who Jason Segel is. But they probably don't remember Judge Reinhold...so I wonder what goes through their minds when they catch Fast Times at Ridgemont High on TV.
Why is Santa Getting Cheap on Me?
A few years back, a local newspaper reported that some punks threw lit matches down a mailbox containing letters to Santa. I'm not condoning such deviant behavior, but I am irked by the article's intention. It clearly urged parents to inform their children of this incident, and to have them rewrite letters to Santa for a future mailing when the box is repaired. Perhaps such advice sounds ridiculous to me because I’m not a caretaker. However, I was a child, and that type of lowdown can be an anxiety attack in the making for many a toddler.
Why would any parent elect to needlessly disrupt a child’s perceived innocence of society? This will happen naturally, the same way it did with us. Kids will have a myriad of chances to experience emotional pain and disappointment in their adult lives: layoffs, broken hearts, stock market collapses, exhaustive rush hour traffic, herpes complexes from skanks in short leather skirts. Eventually they'll learn to walk hand-in-hand with misery, so back off and don't rush it for them.
One reason we convince children to believe in tall tales is to keep them in line. That’s why Santa knows when you are sleeping and knows when you’re awake. That jolly hunk of lard hooked us up to a bunch of LoJacks. Can’t sneak anything by him so don’t even try. Children get accustomed to the imaginary peeping toms, and eventually, they can’t imagine life without them. In fact, as soon as we are told that Santa’s saga is exaggerated, a shrink has to immediately prescribe us a reasonable dosage of happy pills along with electroshock therapy. For the next few years, we’ll use the Santa thing in our arguments with the parents, especially when they insist on accusing us of being psychotic demon spawn rather than bored youths who commit mischievous acts out of monotony since we are allowed to do nothing fun by law.
Mom- What in hell is possessing you? You can’t be my child. Only a lunatic would pee on Brandy Butler’s head AND super glue the cat to a telephone pole in the same afternoon.
Teen- OH, SO I’M THE MENTAL ONE, MA? Did you forget about all that flying reindeer crap? Remember when you forced me to be pen pals with a reclusive toy maker from the Arctic Circle? And who was that other friend of yours? The cheap twat who floated into kid’s bedrooms in search of great bargains on baby teeth? Nobody buys teeth unless they are made of gold. Since when has enamel become a precious commodity, freak?
Hopefully the dangers of taking imaginary stories too far have been successfully illustrated. It can be very confusing to the little ones when it is finally time to outgrow fairy tales. Here’s an account of how I got retribution on my parents for their roles in trying to get me to believe in Santa Clause.
At a traditional Christmas Day unveiling of presents, a kid wakes up groggy as mom says, “Sorry honey, you missed Santa again. He was here while you slept.” And the poor tyke just stands there, feeling sad, with one thumb in his mouth and the other up his ass.I have a nontraditional family who opens gifts on Christmas Eve, a few hours prior to midnight mass. It wasn’t easy swindling me with this legend since I was always awake for Santa’s arrival.
Me- MAMMA! It’s nine o’clock. Why isn’t Santa here yet?
Mom- Oh dear! Well, he refuses to be seen by children. You’ll have to pretend to be in bed. We’ll call you after Santa leaves. Don’t you dare try peeking.
I scampered upstairs to my room, perplexed as to why Santa was antisocial during his scheduled deliveries, yet so extroverted at the mall a week prior. That’s as bipolar as they come. But it didn’t take long for excitement to take over as I snuggled under the covers, listening closely for footsteps atop the roof. After fifteen minutes I yelled, “MAMMA! DID SANTA COME YET?”
Mom- Shhhh! If he hears you screaming, he won’t leave toys. Good boys don’t scream ya’ know.
I tiptoed to a room that was equipped with a meek skylight, climbed on a tall stool, and situated myself as close to the ceiling window as possible in hopes of sneaking a glimpse at the generous, jelly-bellied old man. Disappointed, I saw no signs of him, nor his sleigh. Everything was quiet until a deep voice shook the walls and shouted, “HO HO HO!” It came from the downstairs den.
I checked another window, thinking Santa might have parked in the driveway. Nope, no sleigh there either. Our backyard was one gigantic fruit and vegetable garden. Dormant fruit trees and plants were mummy wrapped in thick cloth and insulation in order to survive the harsh Northeast winters. We couldn’t have a pool because Italian fathers are obsessed with devoting their entire backyards toward the production of homemade tomato sauce, and they will defend the harvest area to the death even though it is lifeless and frozen. So this ruled out the possibility of Santa parking his reindeer in the back since pop would have beaten the holiday cheer out of him.
Mom- Ok Mike, c’mon down. Santa left.
I scrambled perilously down the steps to see a brand new bicycle complete with training wheels beside the holiday tree. The purple handlebar streamers had to go. Between the wheel spokes was a tag that read, “To Mike, from Kris Kringle.” Santa’s handwriting was eerily similar to that of my older sister. Suddenly, I was distracted from my new toys by some awful moaning emanating through the bathroom door.
Me- Mamma, why is pop sick? Did he drink Santa’s milk?
Mom- Not at all, silly boy. You know pop can’t drink milk, just like you.
Under no circumstances would my mom and sister taste milk. They despised it. Pop was raised in poverty, so he hated the idea of wasting food, even if its consumption could kill him. Have you ever heard a lactose intolerant person fall ill? Milk based products travel through our digestive systems like bullet trains. I pressed my ear against the bathroom door and heard a rapid succession of crisp anal expulsions that are so common among the lactose intolerant who succumb to heavenly temptations of dairy. It sounded like machine gun fire on the Gaza strip.
Me- Mamma!! Pop had the milk!!
Mom- Hush up! He forgot to scrape whipped cream off of his apple pie, that’s all! Now get away from that door or the stink will strike you dead.
The family hadn’t fooled me one bit that night. I went to sleep bewildered and hurt. It seemed as if my loved ones were playing a cruel joke on me. This called for revenge, so I pretended to believe in Santa until the age fourteen. I was guaranteed extra gadgets like video game consoles, boxes of trading cards, and sports equipment. Every year, dad continued to transform himself into a human geyser because mother and sister kept turning down the milk. I would spout humorously insensitive remarks such as
“Did pop forget to scrape the whipped cream off of his pie for the 8th year in a row? Gawd!”
They often suggested pouring orange juice instead, but I objected.
“NO WAY! Orange Juice will give Santa acid indigestion.”
When I turned thirteen, the folks really started to worry about me. They thought I had a brain abnormality and considered psychiatric counseling.
Mom- Mike, honey. Santa doesn’t give toys to big boys and girls.
Me- Hmmm, I do believe that is age discrimination.
That year, Santa brought me a pair of sweat socks, nothing more.
Me- Why is Santa getting cheap on me?
Mom- I told you. Santa reserves toys for the younger children. As a matter of fact, older kids laugh at the thought of Santa being real. Don’t they make fun of you?
Me- They are cynical, for sure. So I refuse to tell them that Santa stops by with ultra neat stuff. Those nihilists would never take me seriously.
Pop tossed back a shot of Pepto. Being the diehard Roman Catholic that he is, one year I caught him giving himself the sign of the cross as he prayed, over a candle lit mantel, that I would come to my senses. Oh the irony. Here was a man asking a cloud dwelling, supernatural being to help me stop believing in a jolly gift giver who possesses a limited wardrobe and gravity defying pets.
The following year was worse. Santa gave me a washcloth. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? A FREAKING WASHCLOTH? Uh-oh. Mom and dad probably caught on to the scam but had no definitive proof of my trickery.
Mom- Santa noticed you haven’t been scrubbing thoroughly behind your ears.
Me- [blank stare]
Mom [sarcastic tone]- Mrs. Clause knitted that especially for you. Now wipe that grimace off of your face and be appreciative.
In the upcoming weeks I decided to end the charade and let my folks off the hook by finally admitting skepticism over the Santa thing, but I never disclosed that I was fooling them for eight years. Pop is crazy enough to bill me for all those extra presents.
Non News
The more I watch local news, the more I’m convinced that very little is going on in the world. Newscasts spend the first three minutes discussing important topics such as the stock market (plummeting), the Middle East (exploding), and the job market (what’s left of it). The full minute devoted to each of these essential topics includes the anchor’s uncomfortably long pauses as the teleprompter freezes and interns whack it with a rolled-up newspaper. If that doesn’t do the trick, anchorman will read from that paper’s business section until the next commercial break. The next twenty-seven minutes features a glut of absurdity that only the most critical of brain trauma patients would consider newsworthy. Here are some examples:
1) College Move-in Day
Young adults lugging armoires and hanging Katy Perry posters on dorm walls is news? Since when? How come we don’t get coverage every time we move into yet another shitty apartment?
Reporter- Oooh. You went with a one-bedroom this time?
Me- That’s right. No more studio apartments for me.
Reporter- And no more futon I’d guess.
Me- Umm…I still have it. It’s just no longer in my living room.
Reporter- Wow…37 years old and still rocking the futon. Back to Chad with sports.
2) Fat Cats
Ever see the recurring piece on morbidly obese pets, like a 40 lb cat? That’s 400 in human pounds I suppose. Cameras pan on the bloated feline struggling to mount a sofa pillow, and everyone goes, “Awww…cute!” WHY are fat pets showered with adoration and TV time, while fat people are the only group left that we can ridicule mercilessly (that’s until the NAAFP is formed.) SouthWest Air should be charging fat ass Fluffy for two kitty carriers while Jenny Craig’s cat gets her off of the Garfield Diet pronto!
3) Winter Ocean Plunge
Every winter, a gaggle of furry overweight men (and a few similar looking women) strip down to their tiny Speedos and risk hypothermia by taking a quick dip into an icy sea. Participants chalk up such bone chilling torture to charity, but I always find it easier to cut a check in front of my warm fireplace. At least I’m not wasting precious airtime and forcing unsuspecting viewers to see my hairy white ass (Yes, only white people do this for some reason)
4) The Old Man of Steel
Once in a while the news will feature a ninety-eight year old guy who still chops his own wood, or runs ten miles a day without ever clutching his chest in a panic. I get it…it’s rare to find such an ancient specimen who continues to defeat the debilitating effects of aging (especially when I got winded once from climbing into an H2 Hummer,) but leave the inspirational stuff to Oprah Magazine, and show me the Giant’s highlights.
5) Youtube Video of the Day
This is just crazy dumb. Why show Youtube videos on the local evening news when we just finished watching five hours of Youtube on our computers at work?
This blog will have sequels. There’s no shortage of non-news.
The Legend of Chuck Saul
A few years ago, I spotted such a man during a hike. He was chopping trees and resembled the mascot for Brawny paper towels (but with far less teeth, and only a few fingers on each hand).
Me- How are you?
Man- Heya, Hoss!
Me- Are those logs for sale?
Man- Sure are, chief. I'm the only lumberjack for miles. Pleased to meet ya'. I'm Chuck.
And a business relationship was born. Chuck offered a very low quality type of wood. It was the only kind I could afford. I called it "steel wood." A blowtorch was no match for those petrified tree trunks. If such trees made up California forests, the state would not burn to the ground on an annual basis. It often took me fifteen frustrating minutes to get a cozy fire going; but on nights when patience was scarce, I decided on a potent combination of lighter fluid, Zippos, and hair spray...a sure fire (get it?) method that also took care of my pesky nose hair problem.
A month after my first delivery, I called Chuck for extra wood.
Chuck- Hello?
Me- Hi Chuck. It's Mike. I could use another load of logs when you get a chance.
Chuck- Who the f*ck is Chuck?
Me- That would be you.
Chuck- What's wrong with you, boy? My name is Saul.
Me- But...but you said it was Chuck.
Chuck/Saul- IT'S SAUL...like that damn king in the Bible.
Later that night, Whatshisname came with the goods.
Me- What's up Saul?
Saul- Who the f*ck is Saul?
Me- That would be you.
Saul- What's wrong with you, boy? My name is Chuck.
Me- But...but you said it was Saul.
Saul/Chuck- It's CHUCK...like that Texas Ranger.
It went like this for years. He was Chuck in person, and Saul on the phone. Hoping to get to the bottom of this strange dilemma, I called his house during chopping hours, knowing that his wife or young children would answer the phone.
Son- Hello?
Me- Hi. I'm your daddy's customer. Is his name Saul?
Son- Sometimes.
Well, there ya' go. "Calm down," I told myself. My sister worked with a guy who had multiple personalities. His name was Ted during the work week, but on weekends he was Randy (Ted's "twin brother"). It was amazing how Ted and his twin also owned twin cars with twin dents under the left tail light.
It is a law of life that all relationships must come to an end. My final contact with Chuck/Saul occurred last autumn when he/they really started losing his/their marbles. He/they called me via cell phone.
Me (recognizing the number on caller ID)- Hello Saul.
Saul- I got your cord of logs. That'll be $170.
Me- But last week you said it would cost $160.
Saul- No I didn't.
Yes they did.
Me- Fine.
Chuck arrived.
Me- Hello Chuck. Dump it in the back.
Chuck- Howdy. Beautiful morning...that'll be $185.
The guy just changed names twice, and prices thrice, in less than seven minutes. At this point, I wasn't happy with Saul nor Chuck, so I lost it.
Me- WHAT'S GOING ON, NUTTY? You said $160. Now it's $185?? Your shit doesn't even BURN! It just SMOKES...which would be fine if I was preparing SALMON!! Oh wait...let me guess...$160 is SAUL'S price, and $185 is CHUCK'S price. You didn't tell me that you're running a partnership with YOURSELF!
Chuck/Saul- You are one crazy Mofo, ya' know that?
He shot me a disgusted look while shaking his three-fingered fist at me (I never knew fist shaking existed outside of cartoons where animated ants get angry at having their ant hills knocked over). He proceeded to erase me from his client list before storming off...something I should've done long before.
Moral of the story: It's alright to do business with crazy people as long as their prices aren't crazy.
It's that day again
St. Patties Day Extremist- HEY! You're not wearing green! Have you forgotten what day it is?
Man About to Get in Taxi- Oh my. Forgive me. Hold my cab while I go back inside to change shirts. Is lime green okay, Weirdo? I don't own a darker shade.
The Irish even get insulted if you are not wearing enough green.
"Seriously, Mike?? Green shoe laces, and THAT'S IT? What the heck, man?"
I'm also scolded for not going out to Irish bars with friends on St. Pat's day, sharing bowls of steamed cabbage, getting plastered, and "dancing" to the DropKick Murphy's. By dancing, I actually mean hopping around like a coked-up rabbit amid a bunch of drunk, shirtless dudes and getting sucker punched in the gut every thirty seconds. Calling that dancing is no different than referring to a demolition derby as a "leisurely Sunday drive." Enjoying yourself Miss Daisy? CRASSSSSHHH
But who am I to tell people how to celebrate? Go get drunk...kick ass...eat crappy food. It's your holiday.
I am confused by one thing however. March 17th is the ONLY day I ever see or meet people with Irish accents here in America. I mean real thick ones like that of the Lucky Charm's mascot. Are they flown in from Kilkenny and then shipped back out on the 18th? Do we keep them underground 364 days of the year like Punxsutawney Phil? What's the dillio?
"Alright, O'Leary family. I'm removing the manhole cover. Climb on out. It's your day again. Donovan...your assignment is to provide commentary for today's parade. You better do a good job...it'll be aired twelve times a day on cable access for the next four months. Christy...you'll be serving green Guiness down at the pub. Ian...slip into this skirt and go play bagpipes in the park. Don't forget your knee-highs this time. Colin will be reciting poetry in front of the James Joyce monument. Y'all be back by midnight sharp...that's when we lock the escape hatch. HEY, CHRISTY. YOU'RE NOT WEARING GREEN?? Have you forgotten what day it is?"
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
My Pet Chicken
For two weeks, I had a pet chicken named Teepee. Most children would have called it Spot or Chicken. That’s because most children are imbeciles. On the other hand, I was a creative and eccentric tyke. Atypical, you could say. Dad constructed a holding cage, pointy at the top, resembling the shape of a well known Indian dwelling, hence the name Teepee. See? Creative. On sunny days I would make numerous failed attempts at draping a leash around my feathered companion’s neck in hopes of walking her around the block while whistling Oh, Susannah. See? Eccentric.
"We’re so sorry honey. Teepee escaped,” cried mom. "Mea culpa, son. The cage door wasn’t secured,” said dad.
Being surrounded by a plethora of narrow minded adults meant neighborhood parents viewed my efforts at chicken interaction through fearful eyes. Clinical insanity crossed their minds whenever I tossed a stick at the flustered fowl and yelled, “FETCH GIRL!”
It hurt knowing Teepee was not flattered by the vast amounts of attention I offered. Trying to cradle her like a baby often resulted in vicious undertakings to peck out my eyes with a needle-sharp beak. She would also flap her wings at amazing speeds thus transforming herself into Kamikaze poultry.
It was perplexing how much I loved that bird even though it couldn’t stand my presence for more than a nanosecond. We can relate to this even in adulthood when we are mesmerized by people who do not acknowledge, nor care about, our trifling existence. They blow off all of our genuine attempts at friendship or courtship, each stinging rejection creating a deeper desire to get closer. Well, I loved that eye-pecking whore of a hen with all my heart. One afternoon, I returned from school to find an empty cage with an open door. Mom and dad emerged from the forest, filled with despair.
I was not angry at my parents, although I cried for hours, dreaming about the horrific encounters Teepee must’ve had with rabid squirrels and famished wolves. I was certain she was dead. It was quiet at the dinner table that evening. A lump in my throat made it difficult to swallow the delectable meal consisting of fried chicken breast which tasted an awful lot like birthday cake.
Want to read more? Chronicles & Opinions of a Nobody is available at
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Book Excerpt
During a brief stint as a temporary administrative employee, I fell under the spell of an alluring coworker named Crystal. The simple act of speaking in complete sentences became virtually impossible when having to address this goddess of lobby receptionists. Here are some examples of our most engrossing conversations.
Me [Pointing to her feet]- Oooo. Careful. Um...uh...break neck. Slippy.
Her- Do you mean I should watch out for the spilled coffee or I’ll get hurt?
Me- Right!
***********************************************************************************************
Me [holding out document]- Hi Crisco...um...I mean Crissla...uh...he-he-hey there...fifty...boss says... need...um...like soon.
Her- Do you mean the boss needs fifty copies of this memo immediately?
Me- Right!
It wouldn’t be surprising if Crystal is a top notch interpreter these days. There are over two hundred additional samples of these riveting discussions...none recorded on tape...thank goodness.
We’ve all said some cockamamy things in public. Many of us would turn back the clock in order to take back those words, and delete them from oral history. The dumbest combination of words ever spoken flew from my mouth. Feel free to challenge me if you’d wish, but here is a story leading to my award winning sentence of stupidity.
Lunch hour was always spent alone, in my car, listening to Weird Al Yankovic Polka CD’s. On this particular afternoon, a miniature ice-filled cooler sat atop my lap as I ate turkey sandwiches. It was a popular brand name cooler known as Little Playmate. The dashboard clock indicated that snack time was almost over, and a cubicle was calling my name. I sprayed on some cologne and performed a last minute nostril check in hopes of looking sharp upon greeting Crystal in the receptionist’s area. I must’ve made a remarkable entrance because she immediately welcomed me with a high pitched shriek while pointing an index finger at my crotch.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I thought, with a satisfied grin.
Suddenly she covered her mouth with one hand as her eyes grew larger than frisbees. It took a few seconds to realize that her shriek wasn’t a JEEPERS-YOUR-MAN PACKAGE-IS-SO-HUGE-shriek. It was more of a I-CAN’T-BELIEVE-OUR-SON-IS-GAY-shriek. Or a HOLY-SHIT-I’M-ABOUT-TO-DRIVE-INTO-THAT-POTHOLE-AT-95 MPH-shriek.
Absolute horror filled her soul.
I peeked down to see what the commotion was all about, and discovered that my crotch area was soaked to the bone (a bone that quickly diminished out of embarrassment). I was in panic mode. Knowing how awful my communication skills are, a more appropriate plan of action would’ve been to step back outside, calm down, and prepare a valid explanation, as well as a desperate apology. Instead, I felt the urgent need to clear up matters right away by frantically shouting the following:
"NOOOOO, LET ME EXPLAIN. MY LITTLE PLAYMATE WAS LEAKING!"
Smooooooooth.
Amazing! That was the only sentence I ever directed to Crystal without stuttering, and she TOTALLY misinterpreted it. Instead of summarizing the process of storing food at nonlethal temperatures sans the luxury of electric powered refrigeration, I decided to incorporate damage control by running away, as fast as I could, to the bathroom. Things only got worse when the company’s Vice President walked in and saw what he thought was a sexually deprived employee humping the hand dryer.
Want to read more? Chronicles & Opinions of a Nobody is available at
http://site.michaelangelothewriter.com/Buy_My_Book.html
By the way, What was the dumbest thing you ever said? Share, please.
$9,000 Pomegranates
I was immediately seduced by a stunning portrait of two jumbo pomegranates. The realism was so uncanny I thought I could see the fruit's succulent juices oozing from the canvas.
"How much for the the poms," I asked, confidently removing a wallet from my back pocket.
"$9,000," replied an employee with a sympathetic look on her face.
EEEEK! I could barely afford the generic, prefab wood-like frame.
I recall my local grocer featuring a section of semi rotten fruit that is marked down by 90% or more, so I frantically searched for fruit paintings where the artist added a worm, hovering flies, or mushy brown spots. Perhaps such a piece would be discounted to $100? No such luck. It's funny how our view of art can change within a few seconds based on how much we can afford: "OH MY LORD! It's MAGNIFICIENT! ORGASMIC! Such a majestic creation MUST hang over my fireplace for eternity. What? $9,000?? For this piece of crap??"
I was confused. Aren't artists political liberals? Aren't they supposed to frown against Capitalism Gone Wild?
There was another striking painting of a wheat farm. A farmer probably would've loved to have it, but could farmers afford the $20,000 price tag? Perhaps the ones who are paid massive government subsidies to not grow anything could afford it, but I can't. Yes, I am a farmer. I run a small operation consisting of 7 dirt-filled Dixie cups adorning my basement window sill. I specialize in peas. Unfortunately, the government does not see my lackadaisical cultivation methods as a threat to glutting the pea market and driving down prices. Therefore, congressional subsidies to cease my pod harvest will not be coming anytime soon. So can I get the wheat painting for $300?
Art councils keep asking for government funding, but it seems they have grasped the concept of Free Enterprise in order to support themselves. There doesn't seem to be much difference bewteen an Art gallery and a Porsche dealership in my eyes. They both offer something I can only afford to stare at. However, aesthetically speaking, if you've seen one Porsche, you've seen them all. But every painting represents a new experience, and perhaps a new outlook on life; and that's what pushes me to support the Arts, in a moral sense of course.
Can I keep my name?
Last week I ran into an old college friend. We’ve seen each other only twice in the past decade. The last time we met, he possessed a generic American name. It was simple and rolled easily off the tongue. Let’s call him David Sanders.
I went to high-five my longtime pal, because I'm pretty cool for my advanced age. “Wassup, Dave? Long time no see,” I chimed (I may be cool, but my greetings are horrendously unoriginal) Dave stared at me in a condescending manner and said, "I am no longer Dave. From now on, you must refer to me as Hassan Amjed Ibrihim Musharif Abubakr di Jambalaya." Or something like that.
I was momentarily confused, trying to decipher whether Dave was speaking in tongues or reciting an ancient alphabet that went extinct long ago. He further explained that he was a new convert to the religion of Islam, and it was imperative that he shed himself of all Western influences (he was wearing a Nike shirt and drinking Pepsi) and designations, particularly his birth name. Unfortunately, I was having trouble pronouncing anything past Hassan. Actually, I was also messing up on the Hassan part, apparently failing to accent the correct “S,” so I shortened my friend’s new name to "H-Man.” Did I mention I’m cool? Well, Hassan didn’t think so. Hassan merely scowled. Upon further review, Hassan scowled throughout our entire conversation. David tended to smile more.
The meeting with David/Hassan reminded me of when my Jewish ex-girlfriend requested that I convert to Judaism. I declined out of fear that my name would have to undergo construction. Although I’m not infatuated with it, I have grown accustom to it. My girlfriend stressed that not all religions require a name change. She also explained that by participating in an innocent ceremony, her sect would allow me to retain my current name and consider me to be a righteous gentile who is accepting of Jewish traditions. Okay, that sounds harmless. But I still couldn’t find the courage to go through a religious conversion. I kept having a horrible nightmare where a rabbi was bestowing me with some kind of blessing ritual on the steps of a grandiose temple. When he finished, he said, “Welcome to Judaism, my son. Let us enter the temple and pray. By the way, from now on you will be known as Murray Finklestein”
Reunited With Cable T.V.
The last year I had cable television was 1999. I pay a few dollars per month for the four major networks and constant PBS telethons (Only $200 will buy me a Celtic Woman CD while ensuring that this wonderful station continues to exist and provide me with unlimited performances of The 3 Tenors. Just what I need) So imagine my surprise when I turned on the tube this week, and noticed more than a dozen channels I haven't seen in over a decade; mind numbing stations like MTV, VH1, and Spike Channel. Is this a mistake like when the cable company unknowingly gave me three free years of HBO? Oops, I shouldn't have mentioned that. Whatever the case may be, here were some of my thoughts while surfing cable television for the first time in this new millennium.
-If I could date a cartoon, it would be Kim Possible.
-So that's Hannah Montana? She's got soul for a white girl.
-FOX News: still fair & balanced after all these years. NOT!
-What the heck happened to Rachel Ray's ass? She's still cute as a button though.
-Uh-oh! Did I just laugh at The Suite Life With Zack & Cody? I wonder if Brenda Song is legal.
-MTV still doesn't play music videos. Thank goodness for VH1.
-VH1 no longer plays music videos. C'mon!
-Since when did Peggy Bundy become a biker chick? Do Al and Bud know about this?
-Damn, why can’t Kim Possible be real?
-Mmm, all that food on The Food Network looks fabulous. Back to my Cheez Whiz sandwich.
-There should be a law limiting the number of Times TBS airs "Die Hard" in one week.
-The Golf Channel cures my insomnia. Excellent!
-Holy cow, Pro Wrestling still has fans? Well, at least someone will be voting for Sarah Palin in 2012.
-The U.S.A Network: Where acting careers go to die.
-Thank God for The Travel Channel. Now I can impress women at bars by pretending I've been to Borneo and Kuala Lumpur.
-Poker is not a sport. Get it off ESPN!
-Paris Hilton: You’re no Kim Possible.
-What’s with all the cake decorating shows?
-I can get 5 quarters for only $30. Great deal, QVC.
-The award for stupidest T.V. channel name is: Versus
-Hugh Heffner. Three freaking girlfriends. You bastard.
Cable television stinks. I'm going back to online Scrabble and internet porn.
Just Give Me a Burger!
I did a lot of embarrassing things in my life. I got my head stuck in a vase at a flea market when I was nine years old. I somersaulted down a flight of stairs, in college, while turning around to check out a hot girl. Despite all that, I never felt sillier than when I order fast food.
The names given to some entrées are so bizarre and childish that it can be downright mortifying to give an order. At Wendy’s it’s biggie this and biggie that.
Me- I’ll have the number 6, please.
Employee- With Biggie fries?
Me- Excuse me?
Employee- BIGGIE?
Me- He was an exceptional rapper, but what does that have to do with my fries?
Don’t even try referencing the food’s generic name. Loyal counter help won’t take your order unless you honor the trademark name. I walked into a sandwich shop and requested a vegetable sub. “We don’t sell that,” snapped the employee. How odd, a vast array of raw vegetables and seven types of fresh baked bread sat before him. So I pointed to the menu and said, “Oh yea? Then what’s the vegg,” I stopped mid word after realizing the sandwich is known as a Veggie Delite. Does the “sandwich artist” really expect me to say Veggie Delite? Apparently so, since he refused to move. Impatient customers behind me could be heard muttering, “Just say it, Ass face!” I don’t want to say it!
Self respecting adults shouldn’t have to request Horsey Sauce for their chicken sandwiches (thank the tards at Arby’s for that one). Nor should they be expected to order an Awesome Blossom when craving batter dipped onions. And saying, “I’ll have the Lumberjack Slam” sounds ridiculous even if you are a lumberjack.
Message to Sonic: it’s called a hot dog, not a Coney. Hey BK, it’s a burger with everything, not a Whopper. Listen up, Denny’s. Even children feel like total dorks when asking for Moon Crater Mashed Potatoes and Anti Gravity Grapes. And how are you so sure the waitress won’t slap my face for ordering her Moons Over My Hammy? How about IHop's Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity? Yea, sounds "fruity" alright. Too fruity actually. Even Rupaul would pass on it.
Why can’t restaurants create a loyal customer base by way of quality service rather than humiliating promotional gimmicks? Just give us plenty of condiments, don’t let our food get cold, tighten the lid on our drinks, and try to lighten up even though your uniform consists of an over sized pirate hat and frilly Capri pants. Those four things will be enough to earn my business. But having me say, “Big Mouth Burger for the lady” is just going to encourage me to enroll in cooking lessons.
Bottom line: if we are expected to speak like toddlers when ordering our meals, then we should be allowed to pay with Monopoly money.
Suze Orman Thinks I'm a Loser
Knowing that I'm an Accountant, you shouldn't be surprised if I tell you that I haven't been out on a Saturday night in well over a year. That has absolutely nothing to do with my typical accountant habit of staring down at my shoes when trying to flirt with women. Saturday evenings are spent at home because the Suze Orman show is on. WOOOOOT!
Suze hosts a personal money matters show. In one segment, callers inquire if they have enough assets to purchase a desired possession or service. Suze then says "approved" or "DeeeeeeeeeNnnnnnniiiiiieeeeeeeedddddd!!" (in a shriek that can scare a howler monkey dead as it tumbles out of the highest tree).
I'm not embarrassed by capitalism, but this show still tends to irk me when so much poverty and oppression exists throughout the world. Imagine if it took place in Djibouti where the barter system might still be in play.
Suze Orman- Welcome caller. And what would you like to buy?
Caller- Hello. I'd like to buy an entire cow to feed my sons.
Suze- And how many daughters do you have to prostitute?
Caller- Just one.
Suze- Deeeeeennnnniiieeeeed!!!! We're talking an ENTIRE cow, dude!! You'll have to swap at least three pre-pubescent girls to the local sex slave industry if ya' wanna munch on hamburgers all month, you greedy slouch.
Did I mention Suze has a mean streak? Back to the American version.
Two types of callers dominate Ms. Orman's show in the Western world. The first one is the guy who only has a bucket of doo-doo to his name, yet wants the most expensive car, home, penis implant on the market.
Suze Orman- Welcome caller. What do you want to buy?
Me (umm...I mean some random putz)- I want a Porsche Carrera GT.
Suze- And how can you afford that?
Putz- I have $200 in savings, grandma sent me an additional $25 for my birthday, and I found a quarter under my seat at the movies last week.
Suze- Any long term investments?
Putz- A Kobe Bryant rookie card.
Suze- You can afford the Carrera's cigarette lighter, loser.
Putz- But I don't smoke.
Suze- And you can't afford to start.
The 2nd type of caller is the irritating show-off who has EVERYTHING but sounds like he's gloating for a woman who keeps rejecting his advances. He probably asked her to tune in.
Suze- Welcome caller. What do you want to buy?
Pretentious Gasbag- First I'd like to send a shout-out to Jennifer in Orlando. She's a total skank. I own 2 houseboats, 30 acres of land in the Bahamas, a Porsche Carrera GT that the previous low-life caller wants, 1 million shares of Apple stock (go I-Pad Tablet, no matter how silly you look), and Mt. Everest. I also own the number 50...I get royalties every time someone writes 50 (the author of this blog owes me $20 so far) or celebrates his/her 50th ($30) year of being alive.
Me- That's bogus, Suze. 50 is an entirely different thing when a "TH" is placed on the end. HEY JENNIFER, good thing you blew off this prick...give me a call...I'll take you to Chili's with grandma's check...Do you like Awesome Blossoms too?
Suze- Original caller....SO WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BUY?
Pretentious Gasbag- Hmm...I have it all. Um...uh...can I afford to upgrade from a 4-slice bagel toaster to an 8-slice?
Suze-You should go with a penis implant instead.
So... what do you want to buy?
