Monthly Archives: September 2010

I’m At It Again

“I’ve been working on an integrated sub-system of rectified and dynamic aggregation for the multi-level processing of local and global modularity in the pending vortal framework.” He chuckles wholeheartedly. “And we’d already be done IF we could get those chuckleheads in marketing to see the big picture.”

“Ha! Yeah! Marketing chuckleheads!” I chuckle halfheartedly.

I will admit that his paragraph may not be exactly as stated but, believe me, it sounded stupider and went on much longer. I know how busy you are so I thought I’d take a hedge trimmer to his verbiage.

“So,” asks this man as interested in my answer as he is my taking the hedge trimmer to him. “What have you been doing?”

I know! You’d think the word would be out by now. I really don’t mind the question but I’d like you to get to it quickly so we can move on.

“Hi, Chris! What have you been doing?”

“Not much. You?”

“Well, I’ve been working on an integrated sub. . .”

“. . .want a beer?”

“. . .syste. . .yeah!”

You see, in polite society we don’t actually ask you what you’re doing to get a reply. We ask it to give us a little time to make sure the bar has our adult frosty beverage of our choice.

Trust me, it’s safer because, while your talking no one is listening to you. Some people may be fantasizing about the most horrific ways to kill you while others, such as myself, spend the time coming up with an answer to your question that will force you to listen if only so you have a vivid image in your head that will cause a psychological breakdown if you ever broach this subject again.

“I’m glad you ask,” I lie. “I actually shot the pilot for a game show. It was pretty cool and we have a good feeling that it’ll get picked up.”

“What’s it called?” He gobbles the bait.

“It’s a youth market show called Extreme Circumcision.” Here is when I have to work fast before he wraps his head around that idiotic phrase. “We pit three doctors or moyles, we were going to call it Extreme Bris but that didn’t test well, against each other to see who can do the most circumcisions in one minute. It got pretty intense. The audience was going crazy screaming, ‘go for skin, go for skin’ and there was skin and blood everywhere. Screaming kids. Crying parents. The winner did thirteen circumcisions and one sex change. He was docked two clean cuts for the snip or he would have had fifteen. We feel pretty good about the concept.”

Then I stand there.

And watch as they back into the night.

Never to small talk again.

You’re welcome.

Questions. Always questions.

I don’t know why it is, what the fascination is, but I swear I get asked more questions, personal questions, than your average person.

And it seems I never run out of some smart ass response.

I’m not sure who the bad person is in this equation sometimes.

I’m standing outside with a woman I’ve known for quite some time. We’re fairly close and she’s very touchy. As she’s telling me a story someone else I know comes up to us, looks at her with her hand on my waist, standing hip to hip and asks,

“That your girlfriend?”

Why do questions I get asked often come in poorly phrased?

“No,” I responded. “Just some chick who dry humps me from time to time.”

A big day

I! For-one; “have, been – waiti’ng.” For: ‘this’ day . . . (for a) very [long] time?

New Slap Shot trailer

I didn’t know there were so many lines in the movie without swears!


Oh, I fucking hate that.

“I’m in big fucking trouble.”

Oh, I fucking hate that too.

“I fucked up big time.”

Oh, I really fucking hate that.

Turns out the moron in question cheated on his wife. The only difference is, this time, he got caught.

“What the fuck should I do?”

Stop fucking every secretary in the company?

“Should I buy her something?”

Like a home STD test kit?

“Come on! Help me out here.”

“Yeah, buy her something.”

“I don’t want to spend a lot of money. She spends enough of my fucking money. What the fuck should I get? Flowers? You think flowers are good?”


“What should I get? Roses? No. Roses are such a fucking cliche. What the fuck, dude? You gonna help me out here or what?”

This could go on forever (it seems like it already has) so I know I have to say something so this is what I go with,

“Yeah, my daughter works at a florist.” I jot down the number. “Call her and tell her you want a bouquet of chlamydia.”

“Chlamydia? They pretty?”

“There’s little else that will get a wife’s attention.”

I really should get sainthood or a better lock on my office door.

They REALLY want to learn!

They’ll supply the signs!


As some of you know, I have a checkered past with karaoke. I feel it was created as payback for Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I feel many people take it way too seriously*. I feel it is ripe for comedy**.

* We were in a parking lot getting out of the car to go into a restaurant. While waiting for my girlfriend I looked around and noticed this gentleman in a vehicle. He seemed to be having an argument with himself. Or singing. I was hoping for the latter but the moment I saw his license plate I now only knew he was singing but what it was.

I tell my girlfriend the restaurant may be having karaoke and, while passing the singing mans car, told her he was going to sing and what he was going to sing. She asked me how I could be so sure. I pointed to his license plate which read ROBOTO.

Which, near the end of our meal, he did indeed sing.

** I wrote and directed a show called Kouch Karaoke. This is a shitty video of it. The history of the show is on the site not that you’re interested.

I also don’t care that it exists. People strap electrical wires to their genitalia. So, in the scheme of things, karaoke is a somewhat less intrusive pastime.

What I get agitated about is when someone has to badger you regarding their performance. Trust me, you did fine. Even if you didn’t, you did. Let’s be honest, the bar is set very low and the grading curve is flatter than Paris Hilton’s CD sales.

But for some reason some people have to keep asking how good they did. Yes, I know, you’re still stoked from your thrilling rendition of ‘All Summer Long’ and want the feeling to last. But, trust me, it was the best of the four I’ve heard tonight.

Even if it wasn’t.

Do you get a clue of any pattern here? There are a few friends, my girlfriend included, who I’ll critique seriously, but, for the most part, unless pushed, you did just fine.

But some people just don’t get it. Well, until I’m fed up.

“So, really, you won’t hurt my feelings. How was it?” This guy rephrases his question for the fifth time about his unique version of ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ and I was done talking about it. “I want to know what you think.”

“I think it sucked so badly I’m going to kill Van Morrison so he can commence spinning in his grave.”

Boy, some people can’t take constructive criticism.

Modern Day Fairy Tale

The Double Wife

We’re sitting with a few couples and the women are talking about Ellen Degeneres and Portia de Rossi. The men are also sitting there but having no conversational input. Not that we don’t care about the lovely couple it’s just that we don’t care enough about the lovely couple to talk about them.

Someone (a woman, if you need to know) says that they call each other their wife. This is when I decided to join into the conversation.

“Uragh,” or something just as manly. “That must be horrible!” Everyone looks at me. “I mean, look how terrible a home is with one wife?”

I think, if there was any doubt, we all now know why wives don’t like me around.