Monthly Archives: July 2010

Foreign Affairs

A guy was asking my opinion on foreign affairs. He was just trying to get a conversation going which is something I have very little interest in so I said,

“I’m not very good with foreign affairs. I mean, my wife caught me on my very first one.”

I’m at a party. . .

. . .as an actual invited guest.

Can you believe it?

And I’m being nice.

I know! Unprecedented!

I’m sitting there sipping a beverage, doing the everyday, normal party scene. But there’s something unbalanced in the air. Have you ever had the feeling that someone dislikes to you? You’ve done nothing to them, they don’t know you, you haven’t spoken to them but you can sense it.

That’s what was going on here. There was this guy who gave off a vibe that told me I was not going onto his Christmas card list. To top that off, he was a priest.

I guess they CAN sense evil.

For whatever reason the hostess brings the guy over. I stand and offer my hand which he surveyed as if it was holding a subpoena. I stand in silence for a moment. After my ‘nice to meet you’ lie I have nowhere to go so sit back down.

My ass hits the seat when he asks if I am a catholic. I say I was raised catholic but the nicest thing you could say about me is I’m lapsed. I have about sixteen other not as nice things to call me but, not wanting to converse, let’s stick there.

Unfortunately, that’s wasn’t his thinking. He starts in so abruptly the hostess was shaken back. During a lull in his attack she leans in and tries to explain his behavior by telling me he’s ‘in his cups.’ I wonder what the penance is for punching a drunk priest? Two Hail Mary’s and a night of bingo calling?

A couple of guys come over and try to redirect him but he goes on that it’s people like me who’ve ‘turned their back on the church’ (there are many things I’d do to the catholic church but turn my back on it isn’t one of them) that’s lead to this moral collapse.

All that was fine. Then he got personal. But, again, I let it slide. Not out of respect for the uniform but for the dumbstruck hostess. He’s running out of steam so the two guys being leading him to the door but can’t help but get one last shot in,

“When you are in hell you will remember my words.” He spun dramatically to give his final words flourish and began descending the staircase.

I actually feel a little bad for him. He really thinks I’m an asshole. Maybe I should do something nice for him. A little something so he doesn’t question his judgement. Being a good guy, almost saintly, really. So I call out to him,

“Yeah, you’d better go. Those kids aren’t going to molest themselves.”

Not taking him seriously

That was the complaint leveled against me.

And it wasn’t true.

To a point.

I was taking him as seriously as one could a gentleman with too much cologne, perfectly arched eyebrows, top level machine tan, with an ironed and starched wife beater covering his decades in the making torso.

Although I wasn’t overtly making light of him I was just not buying into the gravity of his perceived situation. What, to him, was of the utmost importance was, in the reality of the world at large, not.

This is the type of guy who would get pissed off because a red light made him stop. He came in gripping about a problem. With an entirely other business not connected to my industry in any possible manner. And that too was nothing more than his ballooned sense of inalienable rights.

The problem in dealing with someone like him is, sooner or later, the posturing will begin in earnest. In the beginning it may be that I’m not giving him the gravitas he feels is his due. But that quickly devolves into my questioning of his masculinity.

“What?” He sputters. “What’s this?” He stammers. “What’s this thing?” At this moment my only fear is that he’ll continue to add one word until he formulates a complete sentence.

“Sir, I’m doing my best to help you.”

“Are you being a wise guy? Do you know me? What? Don’t you think I’m a tough guy?”

“I assure you, the tender or toughness of you is none of my concern.”

“Oh, so you are being a wise guy! You’re not taking me seriously here. I’m a fucking tough guy, you know that?”

I’m fucking done! All I’m trying to do is complete a transaction. He gives me money, I give him stuff. Fucking simple! But he wants to turn it into some simplistic stand-off long enough for him to have to reapply hair gel.

I just don’t have time for that.

“No, I can see that you’re tough. Hell, I’m sure even your balls are tough. As a matter of fact, I’m sure your balls could slap the shit out of some guys ass.”

A Little Advice

Hey! New or about to be new parents! Listen up!

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Thank you.

Okay, a little terse. Let me expound.

We know you’re very excited about your new thing. That’s natural. I get excited when I get new shoe laces. But the difference is I don’t try to include anyone in my joy. I tie it tight and skip through the day with an inner smile.

But new parents don’t do that. They have to include. They have to point out how great their kid is. But kids are a lot like pets. Most of the time they’re only interesting to you and very few others. Sorry, new parents, that’s the truth.

Then there are the about to be new parents. Please, listen carefully here, most of us don’t want to hear about the conception much less the amniocentesis. It’s not that we don’t wish you well, we just don’t need too much information. We all have experience or very vivid imaginations.

And don’t try to include us in any of your plans and schemes. I’ve heard people keep a diary during their pregnancy telling their unborn child how things were going. I don’t know about you, but, I’m not sure that would be on the top of my reading list.

Day 64
“Dear Unborn Child, YOU KICKED!!!!!! It was such a magical moment shared between us!!!! I’ll never forget this moment!”

Day 242
“Dear Unborn Child, GET THE FUCK OUT!!!!!!! You’re killing me you bastard! I want you to know you’ll be fatherless if you don’t get here soon!!!!!! The two of you SUCK!!!!!!!!!!!”

I was in the company of two such people (pre-homicidal impulse). They were taking pictures, writing prose, shooting video. And that’s all well and good. In private. Your own images and words. But that wasn’t enough. They wanted others to give their thoughts on this joyous occasion.

I’m happy for them and that’s about all I could say.

“I’m happy for you,” I would say. “I hope little fetie doesn’t tear your snatch too badly.”

What else can you say? After congratulations is there really anywhere to go that doesn’t cause discomfort or sound cloying? I can’t think of anything.

“We’d like you to record some words, advice, comments, feelings, whatever for our little bundle of joy.”


Too terse?

No, thank you.

The problem is I have no idea what to say. I barely know these people and have no clue what the kids like. What if the kid turns out to be a homicidal limerick writer? Last thing I want is an old recording of me used as a character reference.

I try to beg off. I tell them I really don’t have anything to say. I am happy for them. Wish them the best. But I don’t think I have the skills needed to converse with something smaller than my cat.

But they insist. I get a little firmer. They smile the smile of a true believer. I, eyes darting nervously, attempt diplomacy. They gang up with their sing-song platitudes. I, for the last time, tell them that I am not a good person to ask to do this.

“Oh, come on! It’s just a few simple words!”

So are, ‘Guilty, your honor.’

But I can see they are not going to go anywhere. They are going to stand in front of me, video camera waving in my face, until I give in. So, I give in. With a caveat.

“You may not like how this turns out.”

I’m not going to go out of my way to fuck with them. But, for me, this is an uncomfortable moment. I truly have nothing to say. But, camera now rolling, I look into the lens and say,

“This is more of a favor I’d like from the parents. So,” I motion to the father to be. “If you could stand here so I can address you.” The father gleefully joins me. “When the baby is born, less than a minute old, I’d like you to take it in your hands, look it proudly into her eyes and say, ‘Always remember that, from this moment on, there will always be someone younger, prettier, and more talented than you so, don’t get too cocky.'”

Now I didn’t think that was too bad. But, boy, did they disagree. They told me I was making a mockery of the blesses event. They’re tongue lashing me while quickly destroying the evidence of my blasphemy.

And I’m hurt by this. Truly. I censored myself. And I told them so,

“I thought that was better than my first thought about not fighting so hard to keep her virginity.”

I wonder if I’ll be invited to the Christening?

Letter Meme

My buddy Aimee asked me to do this. I won’t ask anyone else to do it because, well, in my experience people don’t often do what I ask.

I was told to use the 1st letter of my last name to answer the questions. But you know nothing goes simply in my life. She added this little caveat:

(This is impossible to do with the letter Z for some of these questions.)

I considered that pretty cruel on her part!

What is your last name?
Zell (See? I didn’t know she had this level of cruelty in her)

Type of animal?
ZigZag salamander (because it sounds like a Cheech & Chong fan)

A boy’s name
Zared (because it means ambush)

A girls’ name
Zona (this one means prostitute!)

An occupation
Zzxjoanw player (Come on! Who wouldn’t want to be that?)

Mogul Moises Saba Z”L (this one was hard. It was either him or Jay-Z)

A color
Zaffre (of course!)

Something you wear
Zucchetto (although I’d never wear one but I have been known to sport zori’s when threatened)

Something you drink
Zipperhead (because it was my Mom’s pet name for me!)

Something you eat
Zwieback (who needs mouth moisture?)

Something found in the bathroom
Zimmermannella (and, no, it doesn’t cause you to break out in Bob Dylan songs)

A place
Zell (it’s not only a state of mind, it’s a place!)

A reason to be late
“Great mole rats are surrounding my house!”

Something you shout
“Back up everyone! I’m going to zapazeronlonie.” (when you google this, and I know you will, look at the third listing)

Don’t make me. . .

. . .put on the foil!

We must, as a civilized people, band together to stop this, this fiasco:

I blame the landlord.

I mean, couldn’t he have seen this coming?

TULSA, OK — A Tulsa man has bonded out of jail after he was arrested early Wednesday morning on a complaint of assault with a dangerous weapon.

Tulsa Police say 28-year-old Jesse Thornhill tried to run down his landlord in his ’96 Ford Windstar van Tuesday evening in the 1200 block of South Delaware Place.

Thornhill’s mother told police she and her neighbor, who is Jesse Thornhill’s landlord, “had been having problems with her son.”

She told police there was an altercation Tuesday evening and that Jesse left the residence, but then came back and tried to hit his landlord with his van.

The landlord jumped out of the way and was not injured.

Tulsa Police located Thornhill and took him to the Tulsa County jail on a complaint of assault with a deadly weapon, in this case his van.

Just discovered Beatles demo!

Who knew Paul had it in him.

Foul language within (you’ve been warned):

I know a guy. . .

. . .with no arms.

Lost them in an accident years ago.

Needless to say, I have ridiculed him since the first time we met.

Oh, don’t give me shit!

He started it!

The first time we met he was getting the old ‘you poor thing’ from someone and I could hear his sarcasm drip onto the floor. The woman would hear none of it and kept going on how brave he was.

“I’m not brave,” I remember him saying. “You know who’s brave? My wife because she has to wipe my ass every day.”

Brilliant! Instant kinship.

We don’t see each other often, actually, until this moment, I probably hadn’t seen him in a decade. But he’s the same old prick. We’re catching up, just like people do, when a woman comes in and sees this lunatic waving his stumps* around while telling a story. He’s a very animated speaker.

She begins to stammer out an apology for interrupting when he says,

“No, I’m glad you’re here. I need a witness.”

Oh, oh, I see pop into her expression. I’m sure she’s thinking she’s going to be dragged into court.

“I want someone to watch while I kick his ass.” He pauses long enough for her stomach drop and quiver. “On the basketball court.”

Now the person is a little more relaxed but even more confused.

“Tell her,” he says to me. “Tell her I can kick your ass on the court.”

“Yeah,” I smile at the woman. “He is quite a handful on the court. But, in all the years I’ve known him, I’m undefeated in rock, paper, scissors.”

* He has prosthesis but he goes all stumpy because, well, he’s the kind of fucking asshole who likes to fuck with people.

I Get In Trouble. . .

. . .with kids.

Strike that. Kids love me. We always seem to have fun and get along.

I get in trouble with kids parents.

You see, I can play with and listen to kids without problem. They’re at least trying to make sense and learn and have fun. They’re non-judgmental. Treat people equally. Don’t take themselves too seriously. Find excitement in the littlest things.

What’s not to like?

I’d go over a friends house and his kid would go ape shit when I’d walk in. He’d stick to me and show me all the new and wonderful things he’d discovered that week.

One day we’re on the porch having beers (me and the kids father. I think the kid was drinking Gerber’s Baby Scotch) when, all of a sudden, the kid jumps off my lap and goes to his father.

He sits there for a few seconds before he farts on his father and runs back to me. Now we’re laughing so I ask the kid why he did that.

“I’d never fart on you!”

I’d be hard pressed to find a better definition of friendship.

It’s the parents who take their tyke too seriously, who would have chastised the kid for pulling that last stunt, I seem to get in trouble with.

Something that makes me uneasy is being lead to a response. You ask me a question that’s not a question.

“Isn’t my daughter the most perfect being you’ve ever seen in your life? She is, isn’t she? Right? Right? Right?”

Hey, if I want to complement your kid I will. Don’t try to extract it from me like a burst appendix because if you do, all that will happen is blood will be lost.

These parents were double teaming me. I mean, the kids right there, I can see her, touch her, smell her yet they’re showing me pictures of her. What’s up with that?

But they’re in the tag team of cuteness. If ones not telling me of her natural beauty it’s the other one. If ones not propping her up to show off her adorableness it’s the other one.

And I’d about had enough. I said the kid was cute. I’d looked at the pictures. Hell, I’ve even screwed a smile on my face while doing it.

What more do you expect from me? I’m only human!

“Yeah,” I say knowing if I don’t extricate myself from this situation I’ll probably make this kid the loveliest orphan known to man. “You’re right, she is one BILF!”

I know. I know. There’s a special place in hell for me. But, you know what? I’m fairly positive it’ll be a place crowded with people who have all kinds of interesting stories to share.

And I’m just out there making sure I have enough stories to compete.