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 8-17-02 GAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
My friend's wedding is tomorrow, and like the responsible, organized adult that I am, I forgot. I guess I should be grateful that I've been left out of the chaotic blur for the past few months, but damnit John, you know me! Call, email, something!
Hey, you know what I love? More than anything in the world? Not going to weddings. The only thing I love more than not going to weddings is not going to post-wedding receptions. But as my uncle would say, "EEEEEEEEErelevant!" Here I am, standing in front of my mirror, trying on and discarding various ensembles just like Sarah Jessica fucking Parker. Here I am trying to decide if I should make that dreaded speech. (Final decision: No. I have nothing to say that won't bring Samantha to tears, or get John arrested, or both.) And yes, here I am writing a bloody check because I don't feel like finding out where they're registered. The whole process is literally making me gag. I sincerely hope the groom forgets to keep an eye on his alcohol intake. I'll be damned if I'm passing up an opportunity for him to spend his wedding night with "SCROTUM" written on his forehead in permanent marker. Mean, immature, and infinitely satisfying.
Thought I'd regale you with tales of the Rockies? No, no time for that. Instead, I have a few suggestions that, if implemented, will make the flying experience more pleasant for all involved.
1. To the pilots: Listen, I know you guys have a lot of information to absorb in Plane School, but that doesn't excuse you from nailing the takeoff. If you can't keep the plane from bouncing up and down like it's on a goddamn bungee cord during takeoff, then hit the books a little harder next time. I don't want to hear about wind resistance and air pockets. I want to hear the five-year-old girl behind me sleeping, as opposed to wailing at the top of her lungs "WE'RE CRASHING!!"
2. To the passengers: If your child is prone to motion sickness, don't. Bring. Him. On a Fucking. Plane. Got it? Giving you the benefit of the doubt, maybe you didn't notice that there are other people on planes. Or maybe you did, but you didn't realize that the other people would rather not be trapped in a four-hour vomitorium. Either stuff the kid with Valium until he's comatose, or take a road trip so that he can befoul your own damn car.
3. And finally, to the steward(esse)s: Here are a few examples of foods ... Hamburgers. Nachos. Pizza. Under the right circumstances, beer. A 2-oz bag of carrot sticks is not a food, unless you're serving it with buffalo wings and a glob of blue cheese dressing. You were not. Shame on you.
I'll check up on you guys in a few months to see how you're doing. Have a lovely flight. Buh-bye now.
Well, sort of. More accurate description: Five horrific, despicable, awful, repulsive days in Colorado for some reason. See you soon.
One of the women in my office filed a sexual harrassment suit against one of the bosses (ironically, not Horny Bob) who al-leg-ed-LY places his hand on her shoulder when he passes her in the hall. And she's suing him. I'm not going to get into all of the reasons why I find that irritating, but it did remind me of an experience I had, and I thought I'd spin y'all a little yarn. Gather round, children, and pay attention. I'll only tell this once.
Once upon a time, there was a little bartender named Je -- uh, Figgety. Every day at work, Figgety would meet a patron named Wesley. Wesley was seventy-eight years young, weighing approximately 350 pounds, and he always smelled like cheese. Wesley worked in advertising, but in his free time, he attended an oil painting class. Oh, also his teeth were black. I don't know either. It was probably just an accumulation of plaque, but I'm not a dentist. I could never be a dentist. One time my dentist had to cut a big hole just above my front teeth and scrape out some muscle with a pick. That's disgusting.
...
Painting class. Okay. So, Wesley's class needed live models to stand in front of the room for two hours and get paid. He lamented the dilemma, then shyly invited Figgety to participate. Figgety was broke, and gratefully accepted. That evening, she modeled for the class, received an extravagant amount of money for it, and genuinely had a good time. I'd just like to point out at this time that Figgety hadn't had an opportunity to observe any of the paintings of her. (<-- FORESHADOWING!) When Wesley returned to the bar the following week and invited her back, Figgety was more than happy to agree.
Later that night, Figgety received a phone call at 3:15 a.m. Assuming it was either a death in the family or a booty call, she answered. To her surprise, it was Wesley.
"You're young," he said, "so I figured you'd be awake. Were you?"
She was not.
"Oh. Sorry. Listen, I was --"
Where, Figgety wanted to know, did Wesley obtain her phone number?
"Oh. Right. That application you filled out when you got to the class. I just happened to glance over your shoulder and I saw where you wrote it down. And then I just ... remembered it."
Uh-huh. And what did he want?
"Well, you were really great in that class. I mean, you were really great. Yeah, because, uh ... we've had some untalented models, you know, moving around and stuff like that, and you were just great. And I was wondering if you wanted to go out and ... chat sometime. For coffee. I'd love to go out and chat with you."
Figgety swallowed an onslaught of vomit and politely refused. Wesley grunted something and hung up.
Figgety then decided it would be best if she cut her modeling career short. Before it took off, that is.
Wesley began appearing at the bar more and more often, panting and leering and generally being a pain in Figgety's ass. This sort of attention is creepy in any circumstance, but just as a reminder, I'd like you all to refer to the above description of Wesley, particularly the part about his smell. Figgety put up with it for a few weeks, then quit her job.
But the story doesn't end there, oh no! Months later, Figgety returned to the bar to visit her old co-workers, and who should walk in but Wesley? His eyes widened upon seeing Figgety, and he leaned way too far into her personal space and said, "I have something for you."
Wesley waddled out to his car, then waddled back in with his painting of her. Never mind the fact that he'd apparently been carting this thing around in his trunk for six months. He was now forcing upon Figgety a painting that would have been flattering had she been a professional stripper. The Figgety in the painting was about twenty pounds lighter than the real Figgety, but had a rack like ... well, I can only accurately describe it by saying it looked like an ass. A huge, round, bulbous ass. It was more than mildly disturbing. Not sure what else to say, Figgety thanked him.
"Would you like me to help you carry it to your car?"
She certainly would not like that.
"Okay, then, um ... you know where I work if you want to chat with me, right?"
She did know were he worked. She was not sure that she would be chatting with him.
"Well, okay, but ... call me anytime you want."
Yep. You betcha.
Figgety took the painting home and let loose on it with a kitchen knife and some kerosene. Then she placed it in her parking lot, set it on fire, and invited her neighbors downstairs to roast marshmallows over it. The moral of this story: When life gives you a disgusting marhsmallow-shaped pervert, make marshmallows!
THE END.
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Wasn't I supposed to have this report typed by three? Oh, fuck.
I'm back, I'm back. Sorry for the lack of update. Could just have been a work-related slump. More likely I'm still coming off a high from the Dave Attell incident of yesterweek. Yeah, that's probably it. God, I stink.
Oh, for fuck's sake ... Horny Bob is floating around the office right now. (That's my boss, by the way.) I'll be back after he slithers back into his protective lair. Hang on, chickadees.
Okay, if you know me in real life, you know I'm not predisposed to crushes, but for a few years I've had a mild to spicy lust for a certain comedian. Tonight after a show, I met this aforementioned comedian, upon which he performed all of the following actions:
1. inquired as to my marital status
2. smacked my ass (pretty damn hard)
3. invited me to "hang out," which I'm having trouble perceiving as being without impure intentions
See, this is the kind of situation that could force me to believe in God.
I also got my tattoo this morning, but WHO CARES?? This, my friends, is a wonderful, wonderful night.
I'd like to share with you a few excerpts from a two-page memo I found posted in the office restroom:
"The instructions we have left in the bathroom stalls are simple, but I'll repeat them yet again for those of you who still do not understand. I'll be blunt since tiptoeing around any 'offensive' words seems not to have worked: when you need to do more than urinate, and need to use a substantial amount of toilet paper, please flush as you go so as not to clog the toilets."
But here's the kicker:
"Today I plunged a toilet that contained a huge amount of toilet paper and a large piece of wrapped candy."
What?! As far as I know, there are no five-year-olds or mental patients employed in this building, so who, in the name of all this at holy, is flushing a candy bar down the toilet? And I can't think of a single situation in which that might have been an accident. Because in order to visualize a woman accidentally dropping the candy in the bowl, you have to begin with the premise that she was eating it on the toilet, and that image makes me want to wash my eyes with Clorox.
Okay, that's all I wanted to say about that. But you know what? Nothing's wrecking my good mood today, because I'm getting my first (and only) tattoo tomorrow night, and I'm excited to the point of imminent seizures. I'll have pictures up tomorrow, before it gets scaly and flaky (yum). Finally, I can join the ranks of the metalheads and the white trash. Represent, yo!*
*That's right, I said "represent." Next time you see me, you may punch me in the face. I deserve it.
Why, you ask? Because I'm addicted to this game. If you're too lazy to click (I sympathize), it's a little cartoon role-playing game wherein you portray an adorable little snack named Jake. It's divided up into thirty-three levels, and you win each one after you get Jake laid. With each episode, it gets more and more complicated for you to get your freak on. It's tasteless and raunchy and the sex scenes are more graphic than low-grade porn. And I physically can't stop myself from playing. There should be a twelve-step program for these things. "Hi, I'm Jessica C., and I've gone three weeks without seeing cartoon tits."
And here's my smooth segue into the next topic ... So there's this radio commercial that I've heard approximately forty thousand times in the past few weeks, and it just doesn't make any sense. Here it is:
Kid #1: "Wow, new 7-11 Cafe Coolers!"
Kid #2: "They look good!"
Kid #1: "Look how cool and frosty they are."
Kid #2: "Mom, can we have one?"
Mom: "Oh, all right."
Kid #2: [sip] [disgusted spitting] "Ew, it's coffee!"
Mom: [surprised] "Coffee?" [sip] "Hey, that's really good." [sip] "Delicious."
If you're an adult, and it doesn't occur to you that a beverage called a Cafe Cooler contains fucking coffee, then you shouldn't be allowed to procreate.
You know, on second thought, I'm reading too much into this. Fuck it. It's past my naptime.
I just got back from Beantown, and I have brought back a wicked sunburn, a deep and unwavering hatred for the Red Sox, and a new apartment in Brighton. Three bedrooms, one bath, huge living room with a fireplace, and a deck. Right off of Commonwealth Ave, laundry in the basement, thirty second walk from the subway. $1875 a month. Not too shabby! I'm also in possession of two cute li'l roommates, Stephanie and Meghan. All I know about them is that they swear and smoke just as much as I do. And really, what else is there?
So tomorrow begins my wrap-up tour of New York, trying to squeeze in everything I never bothered to see while I lived here. Tomorrow, it's the Bronx Zoo (oh, shut up) and then the Comedy Cellar. Hopefully somebody will piss me off and I'll have something interesting to say. As of right now, I'm feeling bloody fabulous. So fabulous, in fact, that I gave ten bucks to a homeless guy in the T station. That young man is now well on his way to a bright new bottle of Old Granddad.
I am not a feminist. I will never be a feminist.
I don't dislike women; I think they're ducky. I believe in equal wages for men and women. I believe women can perform any job just as effectively as a man (Except professional boxing. Or sperm donorship.) And I believe anyone who feels differently should be shoved into a small cardboard box and duct-taped in place. HOWEVER, I will never be a feminist. There are two groups -- actually, one group and one individual -- who have severely and irreparably shaken my faith in womankind, and if feminism means supporting them, then I'm out. I offer a polite and apologetic refusal, but I'm out.
1. Female comedians. There are some of them that are very, very good. Sue Costello, Judy Gold, Sabrina Matthews, and Wanda Sykes come to mind. But I've noticed that, among female comics, the hack-to-talent ratio is horribly skewed. The hacks fall into three categories: the Cutey Cutertons ...
"Hee hee hee. Do you like my outfit? I got it at this store, called 35% Off." [incessant giggling]
the Angry Comics (where angry = self-righteous, snotty, and desperate for approval) ...
"Men like to have sex. The ladies know what I'm talking about. Men like to have sex, and women like to talk. That's because we're smarter. Yesterday my boyfriend said to me, 'I like you shirt.' Ladies, you know what he really meant. 'I want to have sex with you.' Am I right?"
and finally, the Innovators. This genre includes such gems as mimes, ventriloquists, and people who write song parodies. Some members of this group are funny. Most of them make me want to euthanize myself.
And I'm not being sexist; I'm not saying women aren't funny. Many of them crack me up on a regular basis. But ... you know that poem about the girl who had a little curl "right in the middle of her forehead / And when she was good, she was very very good / And when she was bad she was horrid"? Right.
2. Martha Stewart. I have vicious door-slamming, object-throwing arguments with my mother about Martha Stewart. She loves her. I think she's the antichrist. (Well, if it's not her, it's definitely my dentist.) I have conceded that Martha is very good at cooking, decorating, and making tchotchkes. But I'm not entirely convinced that she's even human. No amount of money, business sense, or tchotchke-making talent excuses her attitude. She treats her guests like slug shit, after having plastered on that goddamn smile that gives me a nervous tic. But my mother's behind her 100%, because she's a woman who has done well for herself in the business world. My mother, by the way, is a feminist. She thinks I should hold Martha Stewart up as a role model. I would rather eat tree fungus.
[Oh, crap, my boss just walked in. Crap crap crap. CRAP! Okay, he didn't notice. Back on track.]
"IvebrrreckinmoregfuckingallrightmrckgebflackRickyMartinjebrejkorbrnnfckkSHARON!"
That's it. From now on, if there is a camcorder present at a social event, I'm leaving. I'm with me twenty-four hours I day; I know how I am. Having hard evidence of it floating around in the world, well, fuck. Not necessary.
I was under the impression that there's only one video documentary of our New Orleans trip in existence. Apparently, there are three. Why, you ask, would anyone piss away seven hours of videotape on a five-day vacation? Because they're Bad People. Because if they didn't, we wouldn't have the opportunity to sit around a thirty-six-inch TV with a year's supply of nachos and slowly realize that -- wuh?! -- we kind of, in a word, suck.
I'm used to ranting about how annoying other people are, but I'm no hypocrite, so. Here is a condensed list of why some of you are lucky not to know me:
1. I talk too much. I mentioned this the first time I watched one of these things, so I'm not going to explain it again. But I really, really, really do. Doesn't matter what it's about either. "Goddamnit, there's no gas in the car. Why do rental cars need more gas than regular cars? Oh, they do too. I rented a car once and I swear you had to fill it up every ten miles and then one of the tires had a blowout and the spare was almost flat and we had to wait for a tow truck and it was 95 degrees and the AC smelled like cat pee ..."
2. I talk to strangers. And not in the polite "Looks like it might rain" kind of way, but in an incredibly obnoxious "Hey sexy, I'm sharing your coaster" kind of way. Of course, that's usually a direct result of number 3 ...
3. I drink too much. Well, duh. But to be fair, I'm Irish, and we were in New Orleans.
4. I'm unimaginative. Why would one travel two thousand miles to loiter in a sports bar and play foosball? That's a rhetorical tree-falling-in-the-woods question.
5. I eat in bed. Okay, so I already knew this one before watching the video. Still. That's gross.
6. Sometimes I dress like a homeless crack addict. Not all the time. On this particular trip, I did.
7. I eat muffins with a spoon. Already knew this one too. However, I didn't know it was actually a topic of conversation until I saw the footage. Thanks, guys, but I really don't think it's that disturbing.
8. I bring up Sex & the City more than is healthy. Seriously. Yes, it's bad, but it's not so bad that it deserves an hourly rant. There are far more worthy topics out there. Maybe, I don't know, Jehovah's witnesses. Or my landlord.
9. I buy things I don't even want. Zippy the Pinhead rubber mask, anyone?
10. I'm a slob. Good lord. I lived in that hotel room for four nights, and the floor was rendered unusable due to an apparent blizzard of dirty clothes. Pizza boxes everywhere. Bottles everywhere. Ashtray unemptied and spilled. Important papers, like credit card receipts, thrown onto same pile as empty French fry bags from Burger King. I should have left a trophy for whatever poor maid had to make that room look like a room again. I felt so guilty, I didn't eat my complimentary chocolate. I saved it for the car.
There you have it. Hence, my two pieces of advice for vacations with friends: 1) Always remember where you parked, because they won't, and 2) If you see a camera, fling heavy objects at it and run.
So here's the thing about me. I'm not exactly the best "sport" you'll ever meet. No, it's true, I'm not. I complain quite a bit. If any of you have read How to Be Good by Nick Hornby, I'm the immature cranky husband. But I can keep it under wraps for short periods of time, as I did this week, and voila: I have an office. On Monday my poorly-organized department hired a temp, despite the fact that there was physically nowhere to put her. What to do, what to do? Shuffle her around from cube to cube until an empty one magically appears? No, no, that wouldn't be fair. Obviously the only possible solution is to pluck Jess out of her cubicle and shuffle her around until she quits. Yeah, well, just as there was no room to situate the temp, so too was there no room for any shuffling. Thus, for three days, my new cubicle was the kitchen. The kitchen. The kitchen! But did I throw an ill-advised tantrum and walk out? I did not. And this morning, one of the department managers was fired, leaving an enormous empty office complete with stereo, fax machine, and mini-fridge. I'm sure I'm probably the only person in the building who didn't deserve that office. But I also happened to be the only person keeping her paperwork in the microwave. So here I am. Maybe god doesn't hate me after all.
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All this crap (c) Me, even though it's just meandering, self-serving bullshit.
