Where the Hell Was I?

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I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
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October 27, 2003

So, How Many Weight Watchers Points Would ‘M&Ms Chili’ Be?

Lately I’ve been trying to eat healthier. Not healthy, mind you. Just healthier. I’m not talking tofu and roughage crap here. Please.

But I’ve been a bit nicer to my body than usual.

(Not in that way, you perv. I’m not being ‘nicer’ to my body like that. Jeez. Let it go already.)

Anyway, it’s not exactly hard to be better to myself. I’ll never be the poster boy for ‘SoloFlex‘, you understand. Me and that Jared kid from Subway ain’t never gonna be ‘tight’, all right?

(What’s up with that guy, anyway? I know he lost a shitload of weight, but damn — did he shed his friggin’ personality, too? He’s so stiff and wooden and blah… I’m not even convinced it’s a real guy. I think Subway just killed off the fat guy in the ‘before’ picture and built this puppet that looked like the same guy, only half as big.

Oh, sure, give me that look like I’m crazy. Right. Where do you think we got Ted Danson and Al Gore from? They’re not real; they’re robots or something. It’s a whole little cottage industry.)

All right, where was I? Ah, my eating habits. Okay.

So I’m eating better lately. It’s not hard, really. A little restraint here, a good decision there. Really, the little things do add up. I’ve stopped crumbling pork rinds into my milkshakes, for instance. I still go through the bag of Snickers every day, but I’ve stopped deep-frying them. I still sprinkle bacon bits onto my double-chocolate hot fudge sundaes, though.

(Look, there are some things more important than good health, all right?)

Anyway, my recent abstemious behavior seems to be paying off. All those horrible sacrifices are producing results. Even my doctor has noticed a change. That’s right — I can now utter those four magic little words:

‘I lowered my cholesterol.’

Now, don’t get all wiggly over it or anything. It’s still up around four thousand or something. Little globs of grease float over my eyeballs sometimes. My feet squish when I walk. I sweat burger grease. So it’s not low. But it’s low-er. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Still, I’m not gonna go around telling everybody about it, like that assbag in the commercials. A clerk at the store — ‘I lowered my cholesterol.’ Some fool on the street — ‘I lowered my cholesterol.’ The pimply-faced teeny-boob handing him his McMegaMeal — ‘Hey, my cholesterol’s down!‘ Dude, nobody cares. Get over it.

Besides, what kind of moron goes around volunteering his personal medical history? That’s private shit, man. You don’t see me going around flagging down strangers on the street, exclaiming, ‘Hey! I used to be a woman!‘. Or bugging old women at the mall, professing, ‘You know, I think I’ve finally licked that herpes thing.’

(Um, not that I would need to say those things. I was just using myself as an example. In hindsight, that was a pretty crappy idea. Bitches.

Plus, even if I could say such things, I would never say I ‘licked herpes’. That’s just gross. Besides, it’s often licking that gets you into that sort of thing in the first place. I’m just saying.

Look, this whole aside just got damned creepy. Can I just end the parentheses now? Please?

Thanks.)

Okay, what the hell was I saying? Oh, cholesterol. Right.

So, the plan seems to be working. Eat less crap, get more healthy. I guess life is actually fair once in a while. (I continue to maintain it’s just a coincidence, but hey, I’ll run with it for now. Or, you know, jog. No need to strain myself, after all.) My well-being and shit had better continue to improve, though. I’m not giving up pork rinds for nothing. Even I have my limits.

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Categories: Foodstuff Fluff

October 26, 2003

Oh, I’ll Be an Asshole… But What Kind of Asshole?

I have a decision to make. The deadline is tomorrow morning, around nine o’clock. And I have no idea which way I’m gonna go yet. Maybe you can help me.

See, three days a week I drive my dog to her ‘school’ on the way to work. It’s a place that does training, and lets dogs socialize, and keeps them exercised and all of that.

(Yes, I know. It’s ‘doggie day care’. You think I don’t feel the shame? That I don’t know how frigging ridiculous that sounds? That I don’t see the smirks when I tell people? And worst of all, that the dog — the damned dog — is more pampered than I am? Oh, I know. I most certainly know.

But what the hell can I do? She’s already been there for three years or so. I can’t very well unenroll her. I’m not going to pull her out of classes, now that she’s settled into a routine. The best I can hope for is that she gets herself expelled for not studying, or talking in class, or getting caught doing drugs. It’s a longshot at best, I realize.

Still, it’s all I’ve got. That’s why I’ve started grinding marijuana leaves into her food every morning. So far, the folks at the kennel haven’t noticed. And the dog has been eating all the chips and Twinkies in the house. Damn. Maybe I need a new plan.)

Anyway, I take her over there three days a week. And the guy that runs the place always says hello, and chats for a while. He’s usually pretty cool. Until recently, that is. Lately, things have changed. It’s different now. Tense. Edgy. Different.

Here’s the problem: since the World Series started, this guy’s become a Yankee backer. Now, he never talked about baseball before. I remember him even saying once that he doesn’t like baseball. But ever since the damned Yankees manhandled the hometown Red Sox to advance to the big dance, this guy’s been acting like he’s from the Bronx. Maybe he’s just been yanking my chain. Or maybe he’s hopped on the bandwagon. Maybe he’s channeling that big fatassed Babe Ruth. I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. It’s payback time.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a big Marlins fan. And that’s why I didn’t say anything up till now. I just took my medicine, and sucked up the ‘How ’bout those Yankees?‘ and ‘Did you see New York kick ass last night?‘. Well, that would be fine from a guy who’s been a Yankhole for years and years. You’ll never convince me that George Steinbrenner’s not the Antichrist, but I could at least respect a fan with some consistency. A little bit of loyalty. But this ‘fair-weather’ shit? Nuh-uh. That shit don’t fly, people.

And so, when I see this guy tomorrow, I’m simply gonna have to say something. The Marlins shut the Yankees down — in their own house, no less — and he’s going to hear about it. Oh, yes. The question is: what angle should I take? Below are just a few of the many options. And so I ask you — what kind of asshole should I be? I’m like a kid in a candy store here — I simply can’t bring myself to choose.

The ‘Hothead Homer’ — This is the guy who believes that his team can do no wrong, or at least can do less wrong than any other team out there. The home team is the best, the brightest, and has the best cheerleaders / mascot / stadium / fans. Period. No amount of logic or evidence to the contrary will ever convince the ‘Hothead Homer‘ that the local players don’t walk on water. And the more you argue, the more belligerent he gets.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Hothead Homer‘:

‘You know… the Red Sox would have never gotten beaten by the Marlins. The Yankees suck!‘
The ‘Bandwagon Bitch‘ — This would be fighting fire with fire. I could pretend that I absolutely love the Marlins. I could suddenly become their biggest fan, and wax poetic about their ‘grit’ and their ‘heart’ and how they’ve ‘won one for the little guy’. This is also a good way to subtly belittle the Yankees by suggesting they just don’t have the right ‘makeup’. Yankees fans hate that.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Bandwagon Bitch‘:

‘Wow, those Marlins sure played with a lot of spunk, didn’t they? They really came together as a team.‘
The ‘Aw Shucks Shithead‘ — These fans always like to pretend their team has no chance, leaving little room to argue with them. Even when their team wins, they manage to be self-effacing, and generally chalk it all up to luck. If there’s ever a firing squad put together to kill off the most annoying people in the world, these folks will be some of the first lined up against the wall.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Aw Shucks Shithead‘:

‘Man, can you believe that the Marlins pulled that off? And in Yankee Stadium, too. I would have never dreamed it!‘
The ‘Know-It-All Numbnuts‘ — This is the fan that not only knows every useless and irrelevant statistic about the teams in question, but he’s the first to share his wealth of trivia with you. No matter how little it has to do with the outcome. Or how viciously you gouge pencils in his eyeballs to make him stop. Relentless, pedantic, and holier-than-thou — that’s the MO for the ‘Know-It-All Numbnuts‘.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Know-It-All Numbnuts‘:

‘Well, of course the Yankees lost. They weren’t able to hit right-handed pitching in night games when the temperature is under sixty degrees all year. What the hell did you expect?‘
The ‘Underdog Backer‘ — These people cheer for whoever’s not favored to win, or is behind, or has a worse record, or has a piddly little dinky payroll. No matter the sport, the venue, the part of the country they’re in — the little guy is the good guy, and the good guy should always win. Always.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Underdog Backer‘:

‘Dude, the Yankees have enough World Series rings, anyway. Somebody else should win now.‘
The ‘Button-Punching Prick‘ — This guy doesn’t really give a shit who’s playing, or where, or what the score is. He’s all about getting under the skin of anyone dumb enough to pay attention to him. This guy would wheel a hot dog cart around Riyadh at lunchtime during Ramadan, just to get people’s goat. (Or camel, perhaps, in this case.) His only goal is to annoy, for his own twisted entertainment.
Asshole comment I could make as the ‘Button-Punching Prick:

‘Wow, you’d think with all that money, the Yankees could win the big one. What a bunch of chokers.‘

Okay, that’s all I can think of off the top of my head. Given all the assholes I’ve dealt with, I’m sure I’m missing many, many other kinds. But for now, I’ll go with these. Now I just need to decide which one to unleash on the guy. Man, it’s hard to choose. But damn, is this going to be fun! Yan-kees suck! Yan-kees suck!

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Categories: Wide World o' Sports

It’s Just Not Fair, Dammit!

I went to a dinner party last night. It was small — my wife and I, another couple, and the host couple and their two small daughters, aged six and eight.

It was a nice little soiree. I won’t bore you with the details, but I did want to mention one small thing. One small, tiny, intensely frustrating, unfair thing. Which is this:

After dinner, as we sat with dessert on the table, we saw the ‘girls of the house’ for the first time. They’re sweet kids.

(Seriously, I don’t say that often. Kids and I generally don’t mix well. We have this mutual agreement — I ignore them as best I can, and they do their best to bug the living shit out of me.

Yeah, maybe we need to work on the ‘mutual’ part some more. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding of some kind.)

Anyway, the kids came out to get their sugar freaks on. And the older girl brought a deck of cards with her. Fine. She asked whether I — not everyone, you understand; just me — wanted to see a card trick.

(Of course, everyone else horned in and watched, too. Everybody likes to watch.)

So, she showed me a trick. It was pretty good, though she fumbled the cards a bit.

(And explained afterwards how she pulled it off. That really took the sparkle off her star. For just a minute there, I thought she was a little Harriet Potter or something.)

Anyway, she wrapped up the first feat of prestidigitation, and then asked if I wanted to see another. Sure, why not? And this is when it happened. She looked at me, and nodded, and said, in her most earnest big-girl voice:

‘Okay, but this is really going to be magic, because you’re going to use your own hands.‘

Uh…

Well, I…

But…

Shit. People, I haven’t been set up that well for a zinger in years. Years! And of the half-dozen or so nasty, smart-assed things that came to mind, I couldn’t say any of them. Sure, the kid probably wouldn’t have known what I was talking about if I said something like:

‘Honey, everything I do with my hands is magic‘

‘Aw, I bet you say that to all the guys‘

or even

‘Nah, I use my own hands all the time, and the magic’s pretty much faded. Can we use somebody else’s this time?‘

But her parents, looking on and smiling, would have known. And I’d have been hustled out the door and never invited back or spoken to again. I might not have even been able to collect my shoes. They’d have emptied the cat’s litter box into them and mailed them back to me later. And nobody wants ‘cat poop shoes’. Really, I’ve been there. It’s not pleasant.

So, I said nothing. I stuttered and gulped, but otherwise kept my mouth shut. I think my legs kicked involuntarily. My heart may have stopped for a moment. But I fought it off, and — for once — didn’t make a rude, lewd comment. It was very unnatural. I didn’t feel like myself the rest of the evening.

But I got through it. And it was good to finally sit down here and get out what I really wanted to say. Still, it’s not damned fair. A setup is a setup, right? If you get a good set, you’re pretty much obligated to spike it. So maybe I should have fired back with something like,

‘Sure, it’d be ‘magic’ if I use my hands. But wouldn’t it be positively ‘mystical’ if I used my mouth?‘

But I didn’t. Why don’t I get this kind of setup at work, or when I’m out drinking with friends? It’s just not fair!

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Categories: Awkward Conversations

October 25, 2003

Well, If You Didn’t Do It, And I Didn’t Do It…

So, I’ve got a dog. I’ve mentioned this many times before. I’ve talked about her nose, for instance, and her dubious bladder control, and her unfortunate odor problem, among other things.

But what I haven’t told you is how handy it can be to have a dog. Seriously, adopting our puppy is just about the most useful thing I’ve ever done. Oh, sure, there’s the love and the companionship and all that nicey-nice crap. Yeah, that stuff is cool, I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.

But the real beauty of having a dog around is, of course, that I now have a ready scapegoat for just about anything. Not to mention a willing accomplice to help me cover up — or more likely, eat — any incriminating evidence. All I have to do is make sure that my wife doesn’t actually see me doing something dangerous, or dumb, or downright disgusting, and I’m in the clear.

Say I’m eating chips on the couch.

(Um, you know, healthy chips, of course. Chips made from… um, broccoli or something. Carrot chips, maybe. Baked cauliflower chips?

Aw, shit, who am I kidding? These are not the kind of chips that are good for you. They’re greasy, nasty, drippy, salty cholesterol wafers, all right? I might as well just inject Cheez Whiz into my veins, or hook up some sort of pork rind enema. Um, liquefied pork rinds, of course. Otherwise, it’d be all tickly.)

All right. Where the hell was I? Ah. Chips on the couch. Okay.

So, let’s further assume — theoretically — that I’m a big fumble-fingered slob, and I drop chips and chiplets and salt all over the couch, and quite possibly the floor. Let’s even say — just because we’re on a roll here, you understand — that I don’t have a napkin handy, so I wipe my greasy hands on the wall beside the couch. Not cool, right? The wife’s gonna be pissed, no?

Well, no. Not necessarily. Every bit of this heinous mess can be erased easily — and happily — by my furry four-legged friend. She’ll hoover the chips off the floor, and suck the couch clean, and lick every drop of lard off the wall. And wag her tail while she’s doing it! It’s like I’m doing her a favor — what could be better? Sure, the whole room is then covered in dog spittle, but come on — you know how dogs are. That’s gonna happen anyway. It’s the perfect crime.

But that’s not all. Not by a long shot. Even the dog’s propensity to drool comes in handy. I’m always patting the dog, or rubbing her chin, and coming away with smears of slobber all over my cuff or sleeve. Disgusting, certainly. But useful. After a few months of walking around with sticky goo on my shirt, it’s no longer questioned. People just accept any slimy crap as pooch juice of some kind. You can probably see where this is going.

So now, if I need to wipe my own mouth, or my nose, and I’ve got a sleeve handy — well, why not? No one will ever suspect what’s really stuck on my cuffs. Hell, I’ll even let other people use them. Friends, coworkers, strangers — what’s the difference? Of course, not many people actually take me up on it. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Them: *achoo!*

Me: Gesundheit! You all right?

Them: Um, yeah. *sniffle* Sorry. Do you have a handkerchief?

Me: No, sorry. But here — use my sleeve.

Them: Uh, that’s okay. Maybe just a tissue?

Me: Nah, but really. Here — just wipe it right here. It’s cool.

Them: Dude, that’s crazy.

Me: Come on! It’s fine.

Them: No! *snurrrf* That’s gross!

Me: Look, you need it. Snot on my sleeve, dammit!

Them: Ew!

Me: Here, I’ll just rub it for you. Just blow out.

Them: Mmmff. Gah! Get the hell away from me! Help! Police!

Yeah, I don’t have a lot of friends. (Why do you ask?)

Anyway, even if no one else wants to take advantage of my situation, there’s no reason I have to suffer. I can lie and beguile people into thinking anything is harmless dog drool. And it’s not just about bodily fluids, either. I can smear Chapstick on there if I want, or extra deodorant for an emergency.

(Though it’s important not to get those two confused. While it’s nice to know that I’ll never have chapped armpits, it’s no friggin’ picnic walking around all day with Right Guard breath. Blech!)

Anyway, it’s good to have the dog around. I can’t count the number of times she’s come through for me in one way or another. Hell, I’m thinking about taking advantage of her right now.

(No, not in that way, you pervert. I’m not gonna put on some Barry White and rub kibble on my nipples, okay? And under no circumstances will there be peanut butter applied to my nether regions. Do you know how hard that shit is to get washed out of your hair down there?

Um. From what I hear, that is. Yeah. Ahem. Moving on.)

But I think I do have a use for her. It’s not completely unheard of for her to have an ‘accident’ on the carpet, you see. And I’m sitting on the couch watching football right now, thinking that I’ve really got to make a number one soon. And our bathroom is soooo far away. I could probably just lean back and ‘rainbow’ it over there next to her. When my wife comes in, it’ll just appear to be another doggie tinkling on the rug. No problem, right?

Hmmm. Nah, I’d better not. With my luck, I’d miss, and pee all over the dog’s back or something. That would be a little tougher to explain. ‘Um… maybe she rolled in it? Or bounced it off the wall? I can’t keep an eye on her every second, you know!‘

Yeah, I think I’ll just hit the head, and leave the pooch out of this. I almost got caught letting her eat peas off my plate last night. I probably shouldn’t push my luck. I think my wife might be just a bit more upset over this ‘pee’ than those ‘peas’, too. You gotta pick your battles, you know.

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Categories: Dog Drivel

October 24, 2003

If You’re Not ‘Da Shiznit’, Then Dammit, Don’t Say ‘Da Shiznit’!

I think it’s important to know how cool you are. But more importantly, how cool you’re not.

Unfortunately, most people don’t. Just about everyone out there thinks they’re a lot cooler — or hipper, or smoother — than they really know how to be. They think they’re ‘plugged in’ and ‘hot shit’, when really they’re ‘nice, in a creepy sort of way’ or ‘trying too hard’. These folks have no idea exactly where they fall on the cool continuum.

Well, not me.

I know exactly where I stand. Namely, right in the middle. If there was a ‘Cool or Fool?‘ test — hell, maybe there is — I’d be right in the middle. A 4.8, maybe, or 5.3 out of 10. Half fool, and half cool. A silky smooth yin to offset a gangly, dorky yang. Equal parts James Bond and Mr. Bean. Yeah, that’s me — James Bean. James Friggin’ Bean.

Now, it’s not like I want things that way. I’d love to always make the right move, and say the right thing, and to wear my underwear inside my pants. Truly, I would. But it’s just not meant to be — I can fool some of the people some of the time, but other times I dump spaghetti all over myself, or accidentally spit gum at someone while I’m talking.

And that’s okay. (Embarrassing as hell, of course, but okay.) The key is that I know my limitations. I’ve taken a good hard look at myself, and my life, and my sputtering brain, so I know where I stand. And I know what I can and can’t get away with, unlike many people walking around out there today. For instance:

I can listen to dance music if I want, but under no circumstances should I attempt to sing it. Or worse yet, dance to it. (Besides looking like a walrus having an epileptic siezure, there’s a good chance of hurting myself. Or others. Not cool.)
I can probably say ‘da bomb‘ without sounding like a goober, but I’ll never get away with ‘da shiznit‘. Correspondingly, this is the only time you’ll ever see me use the phrase ‘all the hizzle-fashizzle-dizzle‘.)
I don’t ‘raise the roof’. Not any more. I used to raise the roof, until I was informed that I look like a praying mantis stuck in molasses trying to do jumping jacks. It’s apparently beyond me. So I quit.
I can ‘shout out’ to friends with a ‘Yo, dog!‘ or a ‘Whazzup, G?‘, but only ironically. And only if there’s no one else around. And if I’m drunk. And the friend is drunk. And if I don’t actually call it a ‘shout out’.
I can go to concerts (but not to raves). At these concerts, I can shuffle back and forth (but not mosh). I can drink beer (but not martinis). And I can sing along with the song (just not out loud). When the concert’s over, I can scoot out the door and get the hell home (not lingering to party/smoke/drink/get laid with the band). And I can talk about the concert the next day (but no one will give a damn).
I can watch cool, hip shows like MTV Cribs, Paradise Hotel, That 70’s Show, and Angel (and Buffy, for that matter, if I’m ‘old-school’ — and I am). But I couldn’t actually admit it. And frankly, I’m not really cool enough to want to watch them in the first place, so I just don’t. (Well, okay, maybe a little Buffy, now and then. But you didn’t hear it from me.)
I have no business wearing anything made from Spandex, leather, plastic, latex, or PVC. Nor should my outerpants ever be drooped enough to reveal any part of my underpants. (Or lack thereof, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.) My niche is denim, rugbies, and the occasional button-down shirt. Period. High fashion is not for the half-assed cool. (And definitely not for the double-assed non-cool. You smell me, Meatloaf and Tom Arnold?)
I will never get away with sayings like, ‘Snap, yo!‘ or ‘Bling bling!‘. It’s just not going to happen. ‘Homeslice‘? No. ‘Juicebox‘? Man, I wish. I don’t even know people who can say ‘juicebox’ without getting snickered at. No way, man.

As you can see, I’ve given this a lot of thought. And as much as I embarrass myself on a daily basis — and clearly, I do — it’s not because I’m trying to be cooler than I can realistically manage. It’s usually something simpler than that, like trying to speak coherently, or walking in a straight line, or controlling my ‘drool reflex’. But not trying to ‘outcool’ myself — believe me, I know my limitations, impressive that they are.

But maybe I can help you. Maybe you’re one of the millions of people out there who don’t realize that cool and hip and smooth have passed them by. Perhaps you’re fooling yourself even now, at this very moment. You might be wearing sunglasses inside, or referring to yourself in the third person. Or maybe you’re wearing your visor askew on your balding head, or sporting a FUBU jacket, when the garment is neither F-U nor B-U. Well, I’m here to offer you one simple rule that can help you get over this awful, embarrassing mental hump. The rule is this:

If you can’t say, or even think, a word without putting ‘mental quotes’ around it, then for the love of Puffy, don’t use it in public!‘

Read that again, folks. It’s a powerful message. If you’re not completely comfortable with a word or phrase, then it’s overwhelmingly likely that you’re not cool enough to get away with using it around people who know better. And once you stop saying cool, street-savvy shit that makes you look like an aging clueless asshat, the sooner you’ll stop dressing and acting that way, too. Leave the cool shit for the cool kids, man. Someday soon they’ll be old and fat and dorky like us — don’t begrudge them their all-too-brief time in the sun.

Seriously, you don’t want to be ‘that’ guy or girl, the one who ‘rarf-rarf-rarf!‘s with everybody else without really getting it, or struts down the street, thinking they’re ‘pimping’ when they’re really just ‘limping’.

Take my mother, for example. Fine lady. I love her to death. But shit, people — my mom’s not cool. And I think she accepts that, finally. Back in the day (which I’m just cool enough to get away with saying), she used to try to be cool. But it was futile, and just damned embarrassing for all involved. See, it was obvious she wasn’t cool, because she mind-quoted the very word ‘cool‘. She couldn’t just say it, or work it into conversation. It was always obvious she was trying to fit in. We’d have conversations like this:

Her: So, how was school today?

Me: Um, okay. I guess. (Hey, I was a teenager. What do you want, friggin’ Shakespeare?)

Her: Didn’t you have a field trip today?

Me: Oh. Yeah. We went to the museum. And stuff.

Her: Oh, wow! That’s great! How was that?

Me: Uh, all right, I guess. There were dinosaurs. Those were all right.

Her: Yeah, you always liked dinosaurs. That sounds pretty… *pause* ‘cool’ *pause*. Yeah? ‘Cool’? Did I say it right? *pause* ‘Cool’?

Me: Bleh. I’m goin’ outside to play.

Good Lord and butter, she tried, people. But it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe she was cool at some point — or more likely groovy, man — but she definitely wasn’t cool by the time I knew what cool was. She was just trying too damned hard.

So the lesson is: know your limits. Don’t glom onto your crotch and gliiiide through the crosswalk unless you know what you’re doing (and you can actually feel something when you go a-grabbing down there). Don’t go to a job interview and ‘give props to the pimps and the bitches in the hizzouse‘. If you’ve selected a robust and charming Bordeaux to sip with dinner, you’re probably not going to get away with pouning the first drink on the carpet in honor of all your ‘homies what never made it out da hood‘. Just don’t even try, all right?

Or if you do, at least check the room first to see what you’re dealing with. If you’re surrounded by a bunch of other stuffed-shirt old-fart fuddy duddies, then you just might earn some ‘cred’ with your antics. But be careful. There just might be one or two genuinely cool folks lurking in the background, ready to call you out for being the square cat that you are. And you’ll never spot ’em; they’re blending in with the crowd. Playing it cool, you see?

So it’s best just to save the fronting and posturing and ‘hey-hey-hey‘s for your private moments, lest you cause an unwanted brouhaha in your favorite bar or hangout. (Or Denny’s, if you’re particuarly delusional. Dude, nobody who was ever cool has gone to a Denny’s. It’s like oil and water, man. Oil and water.) The last thing you want is to be thrown out of some joint on your ear because you pimp-slapped a waiter, or told the manager to ‘talk to the hand, bee-yatch‘.

Anyway, I hope this has helped. And this is a case where helping you really does help me, if I don’t have to watch you dance or sing or strut your skanky stuff around. I’m just embarrassed for both of us at that point. So be like me and keep it under wraps. Dont’ be ‘cool‘ — just be cool, and everything will be fine. Trust me, I’ve lived the alternative, and that’s not what you want. I still can’t get those damned wine stains out of the carpet.

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Categories: Making Fun of Jerks