|
|
 6-29-02 Jess is Melting
So hot ... so ... hot ...
My baby brother can legally drive now. Every time I lit into him for not passing his written test is suddenly blowing up in my face. He can't actually get behind the wheel until next Friday, and I'm worrying already. I'm so overprotective of my brother, it's disgusting, and it's been this way since he was born. I didn't want him to get to be my age now, then decide that growing up with three broads (including my father, of course) had made him fluffy, and that he wanted nothing to do with us. So I became the big brother. I taught him how to play baseball. I taught him how to play hockey. I taught him how to talk to women. I threw in some cash to help him buy a car, so he could have a nicer one than I did. Then I taught him how to drive it. Which means that, on some level, it's my fault if he wraps himself around a tree. Fuck fuckity fuck.
One thing I forgot to mention last week is that I'm on some bullshit probation at work for writing "personal" emails. Never mind that I was writing it on my lunch hour; one of the higher-ups waddled on by and saw it. So he waited until I left my cube, and then he snuck in and printed it out to use as evidence. Why? Because he's a bitter old douchebag who derives sexual pleasure from the suffering of others.
Incidentally, this was the email:
Dear Anus,
I don't like you. Never have, never will. You are physically repulsive, and you smell. I wish misfortune upon you. Die.
Love, Anus Obviously not work-related. Or mature. But something happens to you when you know you can't ever be fired. You grow a little attitude problem. I'm having trouble fitting it in my pocket.
The other day I was cleaning out my desk, and I found a picture of me riding the armrail of the mall escalator. Actually, not so much riding it as surfing it. Hello? When did I do this? Well, I assume from the absurd Smurfish color of my hair that it was my junior year in high school. More importantly, why don't I remember doing it? And most important of all, why did I do it at all? What am I, some kinda idjit? There aren't enough teenagers driving drunk and overdosing ... now they're practicing acrobatics on fucking escalators? You kids today make me sick. Thinking you're invincible, dying your hair putrid unnatural colors, consuming alcohol when it is against the law for you to do so! You just prance along, scoffing at everyone in your path, until you're squished by a dump truck at a merge one day, and just before your brains leak out of your fingernails, you realize that you ...
Who the hell am I talking to?
Sorry, long day. Long and lonely; no one bothers to drag their pleather-clad Jersey asses into work on Fridays. The office was so quiet, I swear I heard a mosquito fart. Unless that was the janitor...
Five things that everybody should know, but doesn't:
1. Photos of your offspring are not an acceptable Christmas gift; it doesn't matter how many "special touches" you add to them. I worked in a photo lab for three years. I've done these cards in every kind of finish, adding every imaginable tacky snowman border. They're still the most self-centered gift known to man.
2. Just because someone has a TV show doesn't make them smarter than you. (I included those grammatical errors for irony. I did!)
3. The greatest song ever written is Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile."
4. I know I've mentioned this before, but. Pregnant women, don't discuss your vagina with complete strangers. Specifically, tiny redheaded strangers who work in the cubicle across the hall from you. You know, the one who always pretends to be on the phone when you walk by. If you could have a ten-minute conversation with me without bringing up bloating, breast swelling, or the gynecologist, I'd be overjoyed to talk to you. Alas, I do not think you can.
5. And here's another personal one, to my tenth-grade biology teacher: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Looks like I went to college after all, you pretentious bitch. I really wish you hadn't retired, so I could come back and staple my degree to your face.
Ah. All this ventin' gets me Irish blood a-pumpin'! Or ... yeah.
Well, my career as a movie extra is taking right the hell off. Sadly, I've decided to retire before my public gets bored of me.
The movie Anger Management should be coming out in about six months. If you watch one of the scenes at Yankee Stadium, you might spot a ridiculously beautiful blond in a tiny purple tank top pretending to look for her seat. That's my friend Anus. I'm the cranky redhead following her around and periodically poking her in the back. And I'm not supposed to do this, but I'll release a little secret about the film: most of the people sitting in the stands are fake. They're dummies of poor craftsmanship. When I was bored, I could sit back and watch them eerily bob in the wind. Except for this one that was broken, so they just sort of leaned it up against a railing. We called that one Deady.
They started shooting at nine p.m., and Jack Nicholson was wearing sunglasses. I ran into him at the opera one time, and he was wearing sunglasses then too. So why is it that he get away with that, but when I do it, people ask me if I'm baked?
... with a faint bouquet of cat food. It tastes like the shit I scrape off my shoes after walking in Chinatown. It tastes like what's left in the filter of a sewage treatment facility. It tastes like what would happen if vomit could vomit. This is what I'm giving my friend's fiancee as a gift for her (SECOND!) engagement party. That'll learn her.
A flea walks into a bar in Miami and sees another flea shivering. He walks up to him and says, "It's so hot here! What the hell's your problem?" The other flea says, "Well, I wanted to come to Miami, so I hopped on a motorcyclist's moustache. We rode for three days, and after all that wind in my face, I've been here a week and I'm still cold." The first flea says, "Asshole, that's not what you do. The next time you want to come here, go to an airport and get on a plane. Find a pretty young stewardess, crawl up her leg, settle down where it's nice and warm, and go to sleep. When you wake up, you'll be in Miami." The other flea says, "Great idea, thanks!"
Ba-dum-CHING!
"A Haiku for my Coworkers"
Ladies, did you know
The end. I like to express myself through my art.
Looks like I have a new apartment lined up, just outside of Boston. It's very ... what's the word I'm thinking of? Ah, yes, BAD. It's a weird shape, it's about the size of my fist, it smells funny (like chili dogs and feet), and there's approximately seventy-two people living in it. But give me two weeks, and I shall morph it into Jess's Palace of Hot Burnin' Love. See, I'm not concerned when I see places like this, because I always think, "At least it's not as bad as Ex's." Ex's place had very little plumbing to speak of. Meaning that half of the sinks didn't work, and the toilets wouldn't flush toilet paper. Meaning that used toilet paper went into the bathroom garbage can. Meaning that used toilet paper sat in the bathroom garbage can, sometimes for weeks on end.
Yeah. This place wasn't that bad.
So anyway. They're filming this movie at Yankee Stadium this weekend, so for some bizarre reason I'm going to spend my Friday night extra-ing at it. I didn't pay for the tickets, so why the hell not? Then I can go home and tell everybody I met Jack Nicholson, even though I'm the only one I know who would be impressed by that.
Today we were faxed a survey for people who live or work in Manhattan, asking if smoking should be banned entirely from any food-serving establishment in New York. Good to know that this is the state government's top priority right now. I checked "no" and sent it back. Still, I'm vaguely disturbed. If this thing passes, I'm going to start lobbying for NO PEEING signs to be prominently displayed in every subway station. And anybody who says pee isn't a health hazard has never ridden the subway more than once a day. You don't want to leave a restaurant smelling like smoke? Well, I don't want to use public transportation and go home smelling like my Depends failed me. I think that's fair.
In a lot of car windows, I'm seeing pictures of Osama bin Laden with the words DEAD OR ALIVE underneath, like it's a western Wanted poster, and it pisses me off. Shouldn't we refrain from turning this guy, who was responsible for the deaths of 4000 people, into a fucking cartoon? Why don't we just track him down and drop a giant anvil on his head? Maybe we could give him a birthday cake with a stick of dynamite as a candle! Apparently we didn't find him because this is his new disguise.
Assholes.
I went to see Lewis Black at town hall last night. This was my fourth time seeing him, and as usual, I meant to say something incredibly charming and witty and memorable afterwards, and -- big fucking surprise -- this did not play out as planned. I ended up muttering something even I didn't understand while clutching my cigarette for dear life. Meanwhile, my friend Anus just walks up to him and starts chatting. I don't have this problem with, like, 94% of the people that I meet. Only the ones I'm actually interested in having a conversation with. Even more proof that there is a god, and he hates me.
This is not self-pity, by the way. Self-pity is what I'm feeling over Scotty Bowman's retirement. I know. He's getting up there, he's won nine Cups as of Thursday, and he can do whatever he wants. But -- for me anyway -- the hockey world will be an emptier, sadder place without him.
Okay, I'm off to ESPN Zone (sports bar in Times Square). And I will enjoy it very much, and I'll be in a fabulous mood when I leave, largely due to drunkenness, and all will be well again. Ain't nothin' on earth a cheeseburger can't cure.
READ THIS BOOK!
Actually, not too sure about that last one. It might've been good. It also might've been the worst piece of crap ever made. I wouldn't know because it had Anthony Hopkins in it. I would pay $8.50 to watch Anthony Hopkins pick dog hair off his couch.
Today was a real milestone for me. Today I was pulled over for the TENTH time, and I am still ticket-free. I'm not sure if it counts though; I was already pulled over. I was in the emergency shoulder on the highway, because I was having trouble lighting my cigarette while I was driving. It wasn't my fault. The AC was blasting and it kept blowing the flame out, and it's hard to aim that damn thing when you're doing 95. And since my mother vacuumed up the electronic lighter that came with the car (you heard me), I had to pull over. Within about eight seconds, a cop pulls up behind me and gets out.
Him: Is everything okay?
Me: Yep, I just needed to light this. I'm done now.
Him: This lane is for emergency stopping only.
Me: This WAS an emergency.
Him: I could give you a ticket.
Me: I know, but please don't.
Him: [uncomfortable pause]
Me: [uncomfortable pause]
Him: Okay.
Me: Thanks!
Him: Okay. But you ... shouldn't smoke though.
Me: Right.
Nice guy. Wussy though.
I would like to submit that anyone who continues to live with their parents after high school be sainted, or at least knighted, because I don't know how in the hell they do it. They need a gold statuette that says MOST TOLERANT HUMAN BEING EVER. I couldn't pull it off. I'd rather eat a live mongoose. My mother is an insane person, and I'm putting together a written record to submit to the board at Bellevue. In the past few days, she has:
--> made up phone messages that did not exist.
--> refused to put a lime wedge in a bottle of Corona because she cannot recycle a glass item containing a biodegradable fruit wedge
--> discarded half of the items of clothing that I own without satisfactory reasoning
--> become very angry over me flicking ash on the lawn, due to the fact that it makes for "dirty ground" [Maybe I'm just an asshole, but dirty ground? Isn't that redundant?]
That is all.
Okay, now I'd like to apologize for apologizing to Carson Daly yesterday. I don't know what I was That's pretty much it. I'm going out to watch the Tyson fight now, and I'm filled with gnawing shame at how much I'm looking forward to it. I'm also going to get laid. Sorry. Believe me, I know you don't care, but I have a hunch. And my hunches are ... well, pretty much always wrong, but this one isn't. Because if it is, there will be a homicide. By the way, we've never spoken.
Carson Daly, I'd like to take back everything bad I ever said about you. I was wrong, you were right. Thank you for your interview with Dave Attell last night. I will worship you until the impending end of the world, you wonderful wonderful human being.
Okay, and while we're on niceties, here's something I could watch all fucking day. I laughed so hard I hacked up a lung, and now you can too!
Also, for no good reason I'm formally announcing that I'll never wear a hooded sweatshirt again. I'm not one of those people who can't take compliments -- I suck 'em up and live off of them for months -- but there's only so many times one can hear "Look at YOU, you look so CUTE in your little HOOD! Put it on, put it on, put it on! Awwwww" before one begins to feel like a kitten in a bassinette wearing a bonnet. Okay, maybe not a kitten. Maybe a Pomeranian named Snu-Snu. Yeah, that sounds about right.
6-5-02
Lemon-scented paper towels. We have these in the bathroom at work. Lemons. Lemons. Lem -- okay, forget it. I thought it was a little wacked out.
As my friend John's wedding draws ever nearer like, say, a nuclear holocaust, I'm finding myself more and more relieved that he's not a woman and therefore won't expect me -- or any of us -- to give a slobbery sentimental speech. But I know John doesn't read this thing, so I'm writing one anyway. (I tried to capture the patented Wedding Speech Repetition Device. If you don't know what that is, watch A Wedding Story on TLC. Or do yourself a favor, and don't.)
Well, here we are.
It's been a long few months, and I admit, we've all been a little crazy. But I wouldn't trade this time for anything, because in the months prior to this event, I was priveleged enough to watch a dear friend be reduced to little more than a dull, groveling yes-man.
While I don't know John's new bride very well, I do know that the sound of her voice gives me a nervous tic. I know that she is a slim, beautiful lady, probably because I've never once seen her eat anything. I know that she is the most witty and intelligent woman I've ever met, because she told me. And I know that she loves John very much. Why else would she spend her every waking hour ordering him around as if he were a dog that can't stop shitting on the rug?
John, you were uproariously funny. You were one of the only people who could drink me under the table. You were cool, but in an endearing self-depricating kind of way. And you might still be, but who the fuck knows? We haven't seen you in weeks.
I'll miss you, John, but I'll always have the memories. I'll never forget the time you paid me twenty dollars to go into a bar and offer sex as payment. Or the time you paid me thirty dollars to take Viagara. Or the time you paid me fifty dollars to eat a buffalo wing covered in splooge. What a minute, you're a dick! Do whatever you want, Mr. Samantha. You'll come back. They aaaaall come crawling back. [Ed. Note: If anyone can tell me where I got that quote from, I would appreciate it.]
Thank you.
6-4-02
Well, there it goes. Sexy Doctor #3 is officially a prick. Why else, I ask you, would he have me haul ass to his office after work only to close a half hour early? On Saturday he gave me this little routine skin test for some horrendous disease or other. (Not the dots, by the way, the needle. Dots are for pansies.) So, he told me to come back today so he could just check it and make sure it's negative. Fine, except the thing is, it's not negative, it's repulsive and it hurts like a big fat hairy bastard. I'm going to skip work tomorrow to find him and give him whatever I have.
It's the 4th, which means my apartment has officially not belonged to me for four days. I miss that little shithole. I'd been living alone for two years, and I'd completely forgotten how my mother is offended by everything I say. Looks like we have some work to do. She's a feminist, for one thing, but she's a dainty feminist. Also a militant anti-smoker. Also a woman who is extra-super-specially nice to everyone she meets. Needless to say, she's not very proud of the way I turned out. But the sad part is how hard I'm actually trying. You'd never know it. This is what happens when 99% of your friends are a bunch of loud Irish drunk men. [cue violin in Bb minor] I wasn't always this way. Society blah blah peer pressure blah blah blah trying to impress blah coming of age blah blah irreversible damage blah. [end of violin]
Oh, wait, I was always this way. I think the home movies from fiteen years ago of me blowing shit up with my G.I. Joes can confirm that. Heh. No wonder everyone thinks I'm gay. Oh well. Better gay than chemically imbalanced.
6-3-02
Whoops. I went for a physical on Saturday, and I forgot about the ass stamps I've collected over the past week. For some reason, these things do not wash off. Whatever, the doc thought it was funny. By the way, I am accumulating quite a lineup of sexy doctors. If you put my regular guy, my dentist, and my eye doctor all together, it looks like the cast of Friends. That's a bad analogy because I hate Friends, but I am certainly proud of myself for finding them all.
On Friday I'm going to a party way the fuck down in south Jersey. I've never scheduled my social life this far in advance before. Perhaps there'll be tea!
Regarding said party, my friend Anus said, "I guess you don't want to drive?" I said, "Anus, I care too much about you to let you let me drive." See, doesn't that sound much better than, "No, because I'll be drinking myself into oblivion and trying to seduce all your friends"?
|
|
All this crap (c) Me, even though it's just meandering, self-serving bullshit.
