Monthly Archives: October 2012

‘The Question’

You know what I hate most about this time of the year?

Yes, ‘the question’.

“What costume are you going to wear this year?”

Why would you ask a grown ass man that? Especially me? But it doesn’t seem to stop some. Most times I’m as nice as I can be,

“Stop asking me stupid questions or I’ll think even less of you.”

But sometimes I tend to land of the not as nice as I can be side of the conversation. Like this morning when, in response to ‘the question’, I said,

“I told myself I’d go as the next asshole who asked me that so I guess I’m going to have to go as you.”

Zell, Like Machete, Does Not Text.

Don’t get me wrong, email is my friend. It’s the best way to communicate because it decreases the number of words people get to spit into my ear hole. But standing there with a phone (a telephonic device created to speak into) and typing on a keyboard made for a mouse is the height of lunacy. I know it’s because people love to be busy and nothing whiles away the hours then typing, “Hey! What are you donging tonight.”

Followed by the message. “DOING! I meant dogging. DOING! I meant doing. Fucking smart fill.” on their cramp inducing keyboard.

It’s nothing more than make work and I’m a lazy fucking ass.

If I want to know what a friend of mine is donging. . .DOING!. . .I meant doing (damn dyslexia) that evening I will dial his number, speak words
into a transmitter of sound and hang up the fucking phone! Fifteen seconds! BANG! Done! Back to doing nothing.

But, alas, I am a man alone with my principals. People text idiocy like, “I’ll be there in two minutes.” That gets to me the moment they walk in the
door. Is anyone else seeing the bizarre pattern here? First, why are you telling me that? To give me time to hide? To give one last thought to
whether I should go through with the booby trap I set or not? No. It’s nothing as helpful as that. It’s as if the quote, “I **, therefore I am.” has
morphed into, “I text, therefore I am so fucking busy and important!”

Go walk into a manhole and die your dweeb.

I am the type of person who will find the most expedite manner in which to complete a task.

THAT makes sense.

To me.

Sadly, not everyone I know.

There’s one guy (whose name I should change but I’m not because I want to publicly humiliate him), Mike Bruno, who will do nothing but text.
He actually got mad at me, he called me names! NAMES! All because I called him due to the fact that I need some information. Trust me, there is
no other reason for me to call him. A ‘friendly’ conversation with him as akin to eating grout. It not only leaves a bad taste in your mouth, it’s
going to make you sick to your stomach (yeah, he reads this. I told you I can I was in humiliation mode on Mike). But he got pissed that I forced
him to waste his dulcet tone on me.

“Just text me when you need to get me.” He said. “It’s much quicker.”

Let’s go over that for a second, shall we? You mean to tell me, Mike, you ass-eyed waste of feet, that you can type all that in and send it in the
three seconds it took you to say it? No wonder you’re always late for everything. You have the time management of a meerkats.

“Just text me when you need me.” He said completing out conversation.

Sadly, there happened to be another time I was forced to communicate with this fat bag of puss. So, following his directive, I typed in a message
and sent it to him. And when he got it, from the reaction I received (yes, more name calling) he did not appreciate the directness of my text

I don’t know why he got so angry. My text just said,

“Call me.”

Technology doesn’t. . .

. . .make every situation better.

A guy was talking to me about being in an argument with his girlfriend. He stopped taking her calls because it wasn’t helping. He actually turned off his phone because she won’t stop calling. He said she’s been leaving voice mails about twice a minute for the last day. I shook my head sadly and said,

“You kids these days. You’ll never know the satisfaction of taking a phone off the hook and letting her stew into a busy signal for a month.”


People are often willing to give me unsolicited advice about my work. How I should be funnier, how I should write in different styles, different formats, things that would make me a better writer, you know, things people who’ve never written anything longer than a to do list are qualified to critique.

Most times (as hard as it may be to believe) I’m nice. They’re trying to help. Listening is free. But every once in a while someone just won’t stop. It’s always that person who has the most useless advice.

“You should write something like The Walking Dead meets The Office.”

He actually said that. My response was,

“It’s been done. It’s called A Day At The Registry of Motor Vehicles.”

Finally I had to shut him up. I needed to go so I figured I’d say something so convoluted he’d be forced to wander off to ponder (or get the fuck away from me. I didn’t really care at this point.).

“Your opinion is your opinion because it’s your opinion. Your opinion is not right just because it’s your opinion.”

Ah, I love the sound of a brain clicking shut.

To show. . .

. . .(as if you needed it) that sometimes I take things too far (at least in some folks opinions), I was asked to write a thirty second ‘comedy ad’ for a ‘fake kids entertainer.’

Seems simple, huh? I figured I had twenty minutes to kill so I gave it a shot. I guess it’s up to you to tell me if I captured the spirit of the thing.

INT. Room Day
The Bobster is sitting on a chair with a guitar.

Coming to your area for the first time ever it’s the kiddie musical stylings of The Bobster! Pack the kiddies up and bring them around for a fun filled afternoon of hearing The Bobster sing his greatest hits. Hits you like like:

The Bobster (singing)
When you feel a little urge
And you know you wanna splurge
When you know you gotta poop
Say urrrgh

And how could you let your little loved ones go through life without knowing ratting is for jerks!

The Bobster
You’re lucky for your mother
and you’re lucky for your dad
so if you don’t want them to go
never tell the cops the things you know

Then there’s The Bobsters tale to brighten a little boys day.

The Bobster
Come on little boy
and wipe your tears
’cause grandpa can’t
touch you no more

And that’s not all! Who could forget The Bobsters back to school ditty!

The Bobster
It’s the first day of school
and it will only get better
if you don’t tell the kids
that you’re a bed wetter

Or his soothing night time song!

The Bobster
There are no monsters in the closet
There are no monsters in the closet
There are no monsters in the closet
They’re all ready in the room!

Then there’s the hit that got it all started for The Bobster!

The Bobster
It’s coloring time!
It’s coloring time!
So if you don’t want
Your father to die
Please make sure to
Stay between the lines!

Oh and don’t think The Bobster’s would forget to lay down a stern warning!

The Bobster
Don’t get into cars with strangers
Don’t get into cars with strangers
Don’t get into cars with strangers
And don’t play horsey with uncle Joe

And his song to soothe a little kids tears.

The Bobster
Hey little buddy
don’t you cry
Momma’ll find herself
another guy

And the uplifting song about that new baby coming home!

The Bobster
I know we had a new baby
but you don’t have to fret
mommy and daddy still love you
just a whole bitty bit bit less

And what kid can’t relate to the time they first try out adult words!

The Bobster
You know you’re not supposed
to say words like that
words like that words like that
You know you’re not supposed
to say words like that
do it again and I’ll kick your fucking ass! (swears will be beeped out of ad)

So get your tickets before the sell out! Come and listen to The Bobster and his entertaining musical stylings.

The Bobster
Come out and see The Bobster! We’ll all have a real good time!


Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? But it seems to me they won’t be asking me to submit anything again.


Proving I may not be a morning guy (having already proven I’m not an afternoon or night guy) I’m entering work early but there’s already someone waiting.

“Awesome!” He says cheerfully. “I hope you have breakfast ready.” He adds bright insult to high spirited injury.

“As a matter of fact,” I reply unlocking the door. “I have a bag of egg McGofuckyourselves with your name on them.”


My girlfriend and I were at a comedy club. We’re sitting outside the main stage. There’s a wood half wall and glass partition separating the rooms so it’s quieter when we’re at. A friend is on stage so she’s looking through the glass. Being short she has to stretch to see. Another comic friend comes over, sees her struggle so asks,

“Do you want ten fingers up?” He says helpfully.

“No thanks.” She replies. “I can only take two at a time.”

I bet the fucker steals that bit.

A Simple Dinner

I went out to dinner with a friend. We only get together a couple of times a year so the meeting is jammed packed. We talk shop bullshit (he’s a network news cameraman), work bullshit, then the bullshit bullshit that piles up in life.

We entered a small local restaurant we both like and I noticed right away the place was lousy with politicians and politicos from both sides of the moat. I didn’t know why so many were here. It must be Free Graft Night. I said hi to those I’m supposed to and even a couple I actually like. All in all a fairly painless event.

We’re seated near the back and my friend sits with his back to the crowd. We start talking about the shoots we’ve been doing then we get up to upcoming shoots.

“So,” I ask. “What’s up with you this week?”

“Urugh.” He responds. “I’ve got to go shoot the president.”

Unbeknownst to him, EVERY head in the room spun to memorize a description of this potential assassin. I see it and laugh.

“Don’t worry, everyone.” I calm the throng. “He’s not a hired killer, he’s a news cameraman.”

That seemed to assuage them.

But I did see someone fumbling with a camera phone.

Better to be safe, I guess.

“I’m an asshole!”

Let’s all sing that song!

Sometimes I think Denis wrote that song about me!

And here’s an example why I think that way.

I was at a friends house and their seven/eight year old kept asking me to go shoot some hoops with him. After a minute or so of him driving me fucking crazy I said yes to shut that little bastard up!

I’m good like that.

I don’t know what it is but, instead of shooting around, all he wanted to do was dunk the ball. The problem is he’s four feet tall and has the leaping ability of a four foot tall rock.

So he beseeched me to adjust the hoop down to a manageable size for him to make his tomahawk, three hundred and sixty degree, backwards dunks (in his mind. The reality was more like putting a cup on a highish shelf). Against my personal belief (a rim should be ten feet from the ground. Lowering it is blaspheme) I did it.

After putting on a display of dunking prowess not seen outside a donut shop (seriously, he thought he was an air borne ranger and celebrated like a champ after each successful basket but, in reality, he wasn’t draining D’s anywhere near that level. But I guess being in the ‘everyone’s a winner!’ generation a less than 50% success rate was worth, if not a Gatorade shower, at least a Gatorade bidet. And the ones he did make just made it. He was getting over the hoop no more than two knuckles), he asked if I could make some time in my schedule to come back the next day to, I don’t know, stand there watching him pretend to be a competent jumper. Because, truthfully, all I did was stand there. Oh, I retrieved the errant ball now and again but there really wasn’t much in the terms of fun or activity for me.

But, knowing I had to be back there the next day anyway, I figured what the heck! I like standing! It’s one of my skills!

The next day I’m walking down the driveway, the basket a little over eye level, when my innate evil hit me. Remembering how difficult a time he had the day before I adjusted the basket up. Not much, six, eight inches. Just high enough to ‘challenge’ him but not enough for him to notice.

I’m sitting in the living room when he comes home. He’s excited to go show time with me. He grabs a ball and excitedly races to the driveway.

Where he attempts his first dunk and fails spectacularly. Didn’t even hit rim. Just lamely rolled onto the grass. The ball not him. But he did stumble before staggering to a precarious halt.

“Maybe you’re tired from your long day at school.” I disguised my delight with helpfulness. “Give it another shot.”

This time he backed up a few more steps, really going to give it that elementary school try, took a running leap and DEEEEEEEJECTED!

His face begins to register frustration. I give him some helpful advice.

“Maybe you should try jumping higher.”

Yeah, a coached a little b-ball.

Again and again he tried achieving nothing. He blames it on the surface. As if the driveway had somehow turned to quicksand overnight. Then he has another thought.

“Maybe the basket is higher.”

“How could that be?” I innocently ask. “You were here when I put it down yesterday.”

“Then why can’t I do it?”

“Maybe you put on some weight since yesterday.”

He glares at me then the basket. He give it another try.

And, I didn’t mean to but, as you know, laughter is an involuntary reaction. Oh, who am I kidding, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Sorry.” I say as he picks up the ball. “I was just thinking of something funny your mother said.  Go on, do it again. You’re this close to making it.”

He tries again and the earlier frustration turns to anger. Anger to near tears. Near tears to actual tears.

And no, not for a minute do I think my constant trash talking at every failure had anything to do with his tears.

After a few more failures I couldn’t take it anymore so told him we should try again later. No, not because I had an ounce of compassion, my stomach was starting to ache from holding in my torrents of laughter.

But I think he learned a valuable lesson: rules are rules for a reason and not following them can, and often does, end with disastrous results.

But that didn’t stop me from humming the song in my head.


Oh yeah, on the way out I put the basket back down to his reachable height.

Yeah, now THAT’S an asshole move! Because when he tells me how great he did, all I’m going to say is,

“Yeah, well, of course. When I’m not there.”


A guy was trying to talk me into joining a club he belongs to. Truth be told, I’m not much of a joiner. And then all the initiation and deep, dark secret stuff they all seem to have. Sorry, I keep enough secrets. I don’t need to try to squeeze a handshake in there.

I’m trying to let him off gently. I don’t need another place I’m rarely at yet throw money into (like my house). I’m rarely in this side of town so it would be an effort to get here. Yes, I know the drinks are cheap but I rarely have time to keep up with all the other bartenders I support.

But he’s tenacious. Good thing I’ve had my shots.

“You know what I always say.” I say. He rolls his eyes and sing-songs the response he thinks is coming,

“I know, I know. You’d never be a member of a club that would have you as a member.”

I look at him askew.

“What are you talking about? I’d never be a member of a club that would have you as a member.”