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Posts from the ‘Wit & Humor’ Category

Dec 12

casino_night

Casino Night

Every boy comes to a point in life when he tells his mom to wait in the car. For me it was during freshman year in high school as I visited Men’s Wearhouse to pick out a tuxedo for my first semi-formal. Before my mom even had the chance to unbuckle her seatbelt, I shot out of the car and told her I got this. My outer assuredness, however, belied my inner feelings. I had no idea how to pick out a tux for a semiformal. Hell, I had no idea what a semiformal really was.

“Semiformal” –even the word itself was foreign to me. Since childhood I associated “formal” with Sunday School and death grip ties and panic because what the hell shade crayon do I use for frankincense in my coloring book? My feelings were more split about “semi,” though. Semi-trucks were pretty cool, but semicolons, those were for dorky English teachers. Semisweet chocolate chip cookies and seminude people –both great without nuts. Semicircles were cool; they were like half a pie. I was an optimist. Also kind of pudgy. Read more

Aug 31

Dave Introduces Himself to his College Roomate

FROM: DWhitney@gmail.com
TO: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com

Hey Greg,

As you’ve probably seen in the letter from the freshmen’s dean office, it looks like we’ll be roommates this year. I’m excited to meet you on campus next week. In the meantime, I thought we might want to coordinate our communal furniture. Here’s some stuff we’ll probably want for the room:

-A futon
-A mini fridge
- A TV/ TV stand
- A DVD player

Am I forgetting anything?

-Dave

FROM: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com
TO: DWhitney@gmail.com

toilet paper.

FROM: DWhitney@gmail.com
TO: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com

Greg,
Good to hear from you. And yeah, we’ll obviously get toilet paper as we need it. I was thinking more along the lines of furniture. Any ideas?

FROM: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com
TO: DWhitney@gmail.com

Naw. Just plenty of toilet paper. I’m talking that real soft, triple quilted kind that feels like an angel is breathing her soft, angel breath on your ass, evaporating all that’s ever been bad in this world. So none of that cheap rough stuff. My girlfriend hates that shit (pun intended lol!)

Also, can I get the top bunk?

P.S
I don’t go by Greg. All my buddies from home call me Dump Truck.

FROM: DWhitney@gmail.com
TO: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com

Hey Dump Truck…

Duly noted on the toilet paper. And yeah, you can take the top bunk. I actually prefer the bottom anyway.

FROM: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com
TO: DWhitney@gmail.com

Awesome, man. When I was a kid at summer camp no one EVER let me take the top bunk, so I really appreciate it. I just hope the mattress is big enough to fit a 370 pounder! (500 lbs when you include my girlfriend!)

That reminds me. We should probably figure out a way to indicate when one of us needs some “privacy” with the ladies. I mean, you’re welcome to sleep in your bed when my GF visits, but you may want to hang somewhere else at that time. She’s into some weird stuff.

Oh yeah, I thought of something to add to the list of things to get for the room: a video camera.

FROM: DWhitney@gmail.com
TO: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com

Tell me a little bit more about your girlfriend. How often do you expect her to visit? I only ask because I have a girlfriend, too, so maybe we can work out a rotation on the visits.

FROM: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com
TO: DWhitney@gmail.com

Man, my girlfriend is awesome –you’ll love her. We met this summer standing in line for the port-a-potties at a concert for The Infernal Hell Monkeys. I let her cut me in line, and the rest was history.

She won’t be visiting that often. She has a commitment every other night, so she’ll be visiting Monday-Wednesday-Friday. (Probably a good thing…I don’t think I’d be able to keep up with her every day! Dump Truck would run out of gas).

Can’t wait for you to meet her…just don’t ever touch her. I can get violently jealous (just ask my parole officer). Also, her prescription skin cream hasn’t arrived yet. So seriously, don’t touch her.

FROM: DWhitney@gmail.com
TO: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com

She sounds like quite a girl. Actually, her schedule works out perfectly, since my girlfriend volunteers at Darren Hospital every other night and can only visit me Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday.

You’ll barely notice her when she’s here…she’s really quiet and reserved, so don’t be offended if she’s shy around you. I’ve been dating her for three years and she’s still not totally comfortable opening up to me, so I imagine she’ll be extra timid around you.

FROM: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com
TO: DWhitney@gmail.com

Whoa! Dude! MY girlfriend volunteers at Darren Hospital TOO! Ask your girl if she knows Kayla. She’s tall, blonde hair, super hot and loves peanut butter, snorkeling, and webcams. Also, she’s totally exhausted every Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday morning. LOL! And she’s a real talker –always complaining about her pansy ex boyfriend. Glad I’m not that kid.

FROM: DWhitney@gmail.com
TO: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com

Weird…my girlfriend’s name is Kayla, too. Kayla Mealey. I’ll ask Kayla is she knows Kayla.

FROM: Gregzilla6969@hotmail.com
TO: DWhitney@gmail.com

Dude, go to the pharmacy right now and get “Lotrimin Ultra Anti-Fungal Skin Cream.” Trust me.

After that, do me a favor and jump off a bridge.

Aug 11

eKester on eReaders

It’s important for me, as a writer, to read a lot. I read books by the world’s best authors so I can pick up new techniques for my craft, and to make sure people like Stephenie Meyer aren’t plagiarizing me. Mostly, though, I read because I need to keep track of my competition and stay up to date on market trends. Recently, my empirical research has shown that, if I want to obtain unimaginable wealth, I should be writing a bestselling book about wizards, or vampires, or wizards who are also vampires. This is a cause for concern, considering my strategy the last few years has been to write a free blog about nothing in particular. But what can I say? I can only listen to my inner muse, and my inner muse happens to be lazy.

I’ve been encouraged by a lot of people lately to make the switch to an eReader, the lovechild of my two favorite things, books and technology. I’ve put a lot of thought into the matter, but I just can’t bring myself to abandon old-fashioned books in favor of a Kindle or an iPad.

I must admit, there are times when I’m tempted to buy an eReader. I’m attracted to its slender size, which makes it far more portable than some books. I’m currently reading Mark Twain’s autobiography, which is exactly a bajllion pages long. The meteor that killed the dinosaurs was smaller than this titanic hardcover. This causes a serious problem when travelling, because in order to cram the cement block into my suitcase, I usually have to jettison one of my sneakers. Do I want my trip marked by wit or level footing? I’ll usually choose the shoe over the book, which explains why I’ve read the latest edition of SkyMall 29 times.

So yes, thick books can be annoying for travel, but eReaders have their own problems. Take the iPad, which has an iBooks application among its myriad other iFeatures. I have one, but I can’t read books on it. There are just too many distractions on the iPad, and it’s hard to make progress on a book when I constantly receive notifications that Grammie has emailed me another YouTube video. Sorry, Mr. Salinger, Holden Caulfield may be a compelling character, but he ain’t no kitten getting stuck in a pickle jar. The iPad also has problems with glare, and the reflection on the screen can be really irritating while reading. I don’t know about you, but I prefer not to look myself in the eye as I read Snooki’s book.

Call it pretentious if you will, but I like filling my shelves with the books I’ve read. It’s kind of like a hunter putting stuffed animal heads up on his wall. Sure, books don’t put up as much of a fight as a moose, and sure, most of my conquests take place on the toilet instead of the wilderness, but still I’m proud of each book I’ve completed. I want you to walk into my apartment and notice the amount of books I’ve vanquished, and not the smell. I want you to marvel at how culturally refined I am, and wonder how I possibly had the time to read all 22 volumes of the Peanuts Anthology.

Aug 11

My Daily Torture

Like most people, I think about the gruesome legend of Prometheus several dozen times a year. But in case you don’t have the mindset of a demented adolescent boy, I’ll give you a quick recap:

According to legend, Prometheus was a Titan back in the era of Ancient Greece (after dinosaurs, before Twitter). All Titans were freaking jacked because, let’s be honest, the League of Immortals didn’t test for steroids yet. But Prometheus had some brains to go with his brawn, and one day he deceived Zeus and stole fire from him. He then gave it to the mortals, because shit was getting cold down there and Snuggies simply weren’t getting the job done.

Zeus, as I’m sure you’re aware, was the Father of the Gods. But I bet you didn’t know he was also the Uncle of Overreaction, and he punished Prometheus for his little prank by chaining him to a rock so an eagle could eat out his liver. The liver would magically grow back every day and the eagle would return, his appetite for foie gras never satiated. The daily torture was excruciating, and Zeus gave this punishment a time limit of eternity, just to be a dick.

By now you’ve surely realized that this article is about how much I hate shaving. This daily torture is easily the worst part of my day, and this is coming from a guy who lives on the 5th floor of a walk-up apartment building. I probably would never shave if it weren’t for my parents, who like to subtly hint that they prefer me cleanly shaven by saying they love me a lot less when I have a beard. Sometimes I’m tempted to say “screw it” and live my life as an orphan, but usually I do what I’m told and dutifully shave off my beard. This is what happens when a 25-year-old still wants an allowance.

Women simply don’t understand how annoying it is to shave your face. They’ll complain about your beard, saying stuff like, “Your stubble hurts my face when we kiss” and, “Shouldn’t you shave? I’ve been telling my friends that you’re a banker and not a writer.” So you shave, and then they complain again, because “why is your face all red and irritated like that?” Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s because on your orders I just spent ten minutes scraping my previously adorable face with RAZOR SHARP BLADES.

Despite dropping a figurative napalm strike over your entire face, you always miss a spot or two. This usually means that you positioned your razor at the wrong angle, since your insolent stubble goes in all different directions, kind of like this blog post. You go back in the bathroom to fix it, but you don’t put on more shaving cream, because screw that. Next thing you know you’ve got a microscopic cut that doesn’t stop bleeding for three and a half hours.

The back of the razor box tells you that, in order to avoid cuts like this, you need to always use a fresh, sharp razor. It makes literally no sense, but since I have no sense myself, I follow their directions and pick up more razors. Too bad the typical pack of razors costs more than the street value of meth. Only bankers can afford it, and as we’ve already established, I’m only a writer who specializes in entrails and ranting.

By the time I’ve gotten over the torture and horrors of shaving, it’s time for bed. Then, like the liver of Prometheus, my facial hair magically grows back overnight. What have I done to deserve an endless punishment like this? I’ve never stolen fire, or any element for that matter. In fact, the only thing I’ve ever stolen in my entire life was a pack of razor blades.

Aug 11

Oh Baby, We’ve Got a Problem

(Originally published 11/23/10)

I’ve done some embarrassing things in my life, put myself in some horribly awkward situations, but at least I could always say I never got in trouble for placing my crotch near a baby’s face. After last week, I can no longer say that.

As with 75% of stories involving babies and crotches, this tale takes place in a Dunkin’ Donuts. It was a weekday morning, and I headed over to D-Squared for my usual large hazelnut coffee with milk (skim, because I care about my health) and extra sugar (because I don’t really care about my health). As a writer, my morning coffee is absolutely essential because the caffeine injection really helps me stay alert and focused as I stare intensely at a blank computer screen for hours on end.

This particular Dunkin’ Donuts was totally packed today. Fortunately most of the customers inside had already ordered and were crammed off to the side as they waited impatiently for their breakfast sandwiches to heat up in nuclear-grade microwaves. The actual line to order, which was partitioned off by rope dividers to form a narrow alley to the register, was practically empty. I couldn’t believe my luck –apparently I just missed the big rush.

I had barely stepped through the front door when an available cashier looked my way and shouted, “May I serve the next customer please!” A knot of anxious anticipation formed in my stomach -it was my turn, my time to shine. I swiftly approached the partitioned lane, that Golden Brick Road to Java Jubilation, but then stopped suddenly in my tracks. There in front of me, blocking my path to the register, was a goddam baby.

Now, this baby wasn’t just chilling out on the floor playing with a rattle or Twitter or whatever babies do these days –if he was, I probably would’ve accidently stepped on him and this blog post would have an entirely different tone. He wasn’t waiting in line to order, as far as I could tell. He just sort of sat there in silence, wedged in a stroller like a watermelon in a shopping cart.

The problem, you see, was that this stroller had the approximate size and durability of an army tank –there was no way I could walk around it, especially with the horde of customers waiting on either side of my lane. Even worse, the baby’s mother was about 20 feet ahead, placing an order at one of the registers and totally unaware that this dude (me) was looking at her child with growing irrational anger.

“May I serve the next customer please!” The free cashier waved at me again, desperation growing in her voice as a crowd of new customers were now standing behind me, waiting for me to proceed ahead.

It’s a question that’s been debated for centuries, and I was faced with it now. Are you allowed to move someone else’s baby? I could’ve grabbed the stroller and given it a little push –just the slightest nudge –out of the way and released this distressing bottleneck of caffeine-deprived customers. After thinking about it for a moment (I even went as far as looking for the release lever for the stroller’s wheel-lock), I decided I couldn’t risk moving that baby. If it started crying, and I was seen pushing the stroller, I would have a mess on my hands that could involve the authorities. Even worse, I probably would have to leave without my coffee.

“MAY I PLEASE SERVE THE NEXT CUSTOMER!!” The cashier was about ten seconds away from losing her shit. I was left with no other choice, so I proceeded to swing one leg over the stroller, trying to climb over it the way you might get over a waist-high fence. I was midway through the action when the baby alarm system blasted the room with a piercing shriek.

“WAAAAHH WAAAAHH WAAAAHH!!!”

I should’ve kept going, but I froze mid-climb. The mother spun around to see me, an unshaven twenty-something with a multiple ketchup stains on his sweatshirt, straddling her crying baby’s stroller.

Suddenly, coffee wasn’t so important –to me or the mother. She ran to the stroller to accost me, but by the time she got there, I was back out the door, running for my life down the street, headed toward the next closest Dunkin’ Donuts, half a block away.

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