A bad day is good enough for me

We all have bad days. It's science. Things go awry, your schedule is interrupted and inevitably destroyed, and the plan you had is, by 10:00 in the morning, nothing more than a pile of ideas that once had meaning. I recently had one such day.

It was the kind of day that I woke up, but didn't feel like leaving the bed. So I lay there. When after some minutes I convinced myself that the day was mine for the taking. So I got up - eyes still groggy from the 3 hours of sleep I got. I went into the kitchen and started some coffee. Went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. What's that? New toothpaste? Oh, no, my bad. That wasn't toothpaste. That was Desitin. A man-size heap of diaper rash ointment all up in my grill.

After 3 minutes of dry-heaving and an uncomfortable washcloth scrub-down, I rinsed my mouth out with Listerine. And repeated. And rinsed, and repeated again.

By this time my taste buds had been wiped out in the oral genocide I had just survived, so I couldn't taste my eggs or oatmeal. Coffee, the only real reason I wake up every morning, had just finished brewing. So I grabbed a glass and sat down to my tasteless food. But I tasted the coffee.

Decaf. Shenanigans. In my haphazard sobriety I had grabbed the wrong beans. For reference, there is a taste difference. I hate decaf.

Eventually I made it to work. This is one of those jobs where nobody is able to think for themselves. Literally. It's like I am praised for having more than two firing neurons. So I walk in and attempt to be cheery - nobody needs to hear my sorrow stories. I stare blankly at my computer screen for about 15 minutes and in the middle of a forgettable daydream it hits me. If the worst of the day hadn't yet happened, I was genuinely curious to see what it had to bring. So I fantasized the next couple hours what unbearable things could happen. All sorts of complex situations and equations -- some involving people I had never met, and were actually probably not even real. I began taking bets with and against myself.

And then the worst came.

The worst thing about that day, was that everything else throughout the day went according to plan and schedule. It was the most fluid remainder of a day I have experienced in years. And that depressed the hell out of me. But boy was it a wild ride. Always in anticipation - expecting, hoping, waiting. Then nothing.

All I could do was laugh about it. It's funny; sometimes the worst days can be the most enjoyable. As long as the voices in my head tell me it's gonna be okay.

Immaturity seems to get the best of me

Some things, no matter my age, will always be funny. I am talking about things like midgets, boy bands and social security. Though, other things capture my interest.

Call me an immature asshole with nothing better to do (I have been called worse), but every time I hear the term "wiener," I can't help but to giggle.

Wiener.

Who came up with such a stupid name for a man's piece? And who's bright idea was it to create ballpark franks of somewhat similar size and color? and also to refer to them as wieners?

"Yeah, I'd like a wiener, please."

I hope this is only said at a hot dog stand. If it is in your local watering hole, there may well be a problem with this. Who is saying it? If it is a woman, she is laying it on much too thick. If it is a man, well, he just may scare every other man around him, except the guy in the corner wearing a pink bandanna and flailing his arms while he karaokes "Footloose." I've seen it all. Throw in a pair of cutoff denims and a round of pina coladas, and your diva self will be sure to make an entrance. And I digress.

But seriously, don't play with your wiener.

How do you not laugh?

I also got to thinking about fire, and why it is so funny. Sure, people often lose their homes, their memories. But there is often humor surrounding the situation. Disaster is nature's secret medicine. Terrible things happen, and all you can do is laugh hysterically. Like when you see a squirrel with a burned tail.

Yeah, I'm sure it probably hurt. But why was the squirrel waiting around so long? Squirrels don't hibernate, so I know the little fella was awake. Maybe he was stashing some food.

Or, what I think really happens, maybe the little squirrel young'ns ran off and Mr. and the Mrs. finally had a little time to themselves. You know, maybe they got to tail-locking the good old-fashioned way, up in a tree somewhere. Things started to get hot. Oh yeah, they were hot. And then WHAMMY!

They wanted to continue but the flames wouldn't allow it. Time to grab some nuts for the road? Nope. Where did the kids go? Well, I hope they met up with Aunt Millie in the big Oak on the other side of the park.

"Well," the man squirrel said. "Looks like our exhibitionist days are just beginning."

The Mrs. Squirrel only smiled...her vocal chords were destroyed by the superheated air, which tickled the Mr's fancy. And nobody knows if they ever found their squirrel children...

Frivolous lawsuits lead to stupid citizens, especially on airplanes

I like flying. Not that it is sooo much fun, but it is convenient. Granted, people always talk about how bad the waits are and how slow the security checkpoint is. You might also hear when there is a whiteout blizzard in Wisconsin and your flight had to be redirected, one of the flight's 300-something passengers, who always seem to think the airline is picking on them, start screaming at the terminal attendant.

But I don't mind it. I kind of enjoy being around a bunch of people I don't know. Because in my day-to-day life, there is never really a chance for me to be alone and just think about me. I know, I know, you are all depressed on my behalf. But fear not. Because I enjoy a little alone time. And where better than in a sea of unfamiliar faces? If my flight is delayed, I simply make a phone call, pretending to the person on the other line that I am really annoyed and sad I won't be wherever it is I am going on time. Then I go to the bar.

I have a drink. What's that? Still more time? I have [many] another drink[s]. And that is cool.

I usually end up talking to some guy who claims to have been working alongside the founder of Yahoo! or Sony (I have truly met multiple persons who claim such fame) and get to bullshit about bullshit for a while. As you might have seen in other posts about (often family) vacations - namely Disneyland, or as I might be inclined to call it, Satan's Crotch - my vacations consist of crowded schedules and little time to really vacate. That's why this, this precious time alone amongst total strangers, is my time to escape.

Then you get on the plane.

It's the same drill. People sitting in the waiting area of their gate, all seats taken except the two surrounding the old guy in the corner that looks like he could molest anybody who crosses his path, and the cheery, often Asian, terminal attendant gets on the speakerphone.

"Thank you passengers of --- Airlines, flight --- to ---. We will now begin boarding for our premier passengers, rows 1-6."

So you see people start to get up and move. But out of a blue sky, like a streaker running through a packed football stadium, EVERYBODY jumps up and rushes to be in line. But to no avail. It doesn't matter. Most airlines have assigned seating, and for a good flippin' reason. So this kind of chaos doesn't exist. But still, at the sound of the peppy attendant's voice, people grab their bags, children and whatever newspaper they found on the seat next to them and jump in line. Reminds me of cattle obediently following the desire of the horseback-mounted man snapping a whip. Moo, motherf'ers. Moo.

Then, some 23 minutes later your row is called to board. So you walk down the creepy E.T.-esque hallway, waiting to be taken by men in white bubbly suits. But instead you wait in line. Then, even though you look like an adult and a reasonable person should reasonably assume you know how to count, the flight attendant takes your ticket and points you in the only direction available other than First Class. "Oh, really? seat 64DD is down this way? Who knew?" So you make your way down the rows, everybody watching you. Some people would be embarrassed to find out their zippers were down. Not me. I would give them something to appreciate (laugh at).

So you sit down in-between the stereotypical white-haired cocky, asshole 65 year-old "gentle"man and the 30-something guy, often wearing a baseball cap, trying to make funnies with the flight attendants, who are never impressed. Then the torture begins.

The five minute spiel about the same, dim-witted shit you always hear. For crimany sakes, they have an attendant SHOW you how to buckle a god-blessed buckle! Natural selection, dummies. If you can't figure it out, it's one less body I'll have to think about when we touch ground, in any capacity. They also mention that "The cabin is pressurized for your convenience and safety." Really? Convenience and safety? I don't think it is so much convenience. They try to riddle our minds with their supposed 'good intentions'. Because when the plane reaches 37,000 feet in elevation, ain't nobody in that mother gonna be breathing without a pressurized cabin. But it would be cool though...because you could have one beer and be completely tossed. But you would also be dead. So don't try it. And they try to fool you by having flight attendants with ultra-sexy voices. Every red-blooded man has a fantasy somewhere in his libido about a hot stewardess. The commies at the FAA realized this and screened applicants based on voice-sexiness. Because when dudes get horny, they listen. Then there are the pictures.

I mean, blinking lights are cool, when under the influence of psychedelic mushrooms, but not when they blink and 'beep' every 5 freaking minutes. "Well, we just reached our destination altitude, so the lights are off." ...five minutes later...""Well, we have encountered some turbulence so please remain seated, and buckled." My thought: if this mother crashes, there is no way I am surviving. So I'm going down in comfort.

And let's be COMPLETELY real, does ANYBODY really think that it is OK to smoke in a plane? Anybody? I mean, honestly. Turn off those stupid lights. If I honestly saw somebody lighting up on a plane, I couldn't even be mad. That would be the ballsiest person I would have ever met. And I would have enjoyed it. And while on the subject, if even mentally-disabled persons know not to smoke on the plane, then why would anybody think it is OK to smoke in the BATHROOM? Are those signs necessary? I want to know how many times airlines have been sued for people getting hurt because when they crashed their seatbelt wasn't on, and it was the airline's fault they weren't wearing it. I would also like to know how many times (in the past 30 years) people have smoked on airplanes, and more so, in the bathrooms?

These signs are here because of people suing simply for money, not for the sake of there being something wrong. Like the lady who sued McDonald's for $1 million because she burned herself on coffee, which, as a reasonable person would see it, is hot. It's hot! These stupid signs, not only on airplanes but everywhere (a simple Google search will verify this) are making citizens stupider. The less we think the better off we'll be, right? No, dumbasses. Well, actually there are a lot of dumb people in this world. But can't the semi-intelligent ones get a special pass or something? Like a membership card to the local Blockbuster?

I blame frivolous lawsuits and the pansy airline executives who give into this horse turd for the perpetuating stupidity of citizens. Shame on you. You make the dumb dumber, and the not-so-dumb, marginally less not-so-dumb marginally dumber. What? Exactly. This is your spoonful of shut up.

Children and cow bells

Children can be cute. Children can be demonic. Children are as much a pleasure as they are a nuisance. For some people the joys of children outweigh the trouble. For others, there are child leashes.

Just to clarify, I don't have children. One day I would like to, just not right now. Financially speaking, it's just not a good time for me. I don't want to have to join any government-sponsored programs just to get by with Huggies and Pedialyte. No way. If by chance I did have a child, the little attention monger would be using week-old newspaper and be suckling on breasts for nutrition (because we all know it will be way too long before they get to do it again). People always complain about having to wake up in the middle of the night to nurse a crying infant back to sleep, sacrificing their own sanity. Not me. I say, give the little fella a teaspoon (tablespoon for oversize babies) of Jack Daniels. It'll put hair on his (or her) chest. God knows it doesn't have any on its head, poor little bugger.

Even then, I feel I am being somewhat presumptuous. Aside from the financial burden rearing a child brings, I would have to find somebody willing to copulate with yours truly - an event that seems to only happen when Jupiter's 60-something moons align, and even then it has to be a leap year. But don't feel bad for me. No. No. Because that is Jack Daniels' second use, persuasion of the female mind. I would like to be married to the person who one day bears my child, but God knows it's hard enough getting her in the sack. So I guess I'll take what I can get.

But let's just assume that the moons do align and my seed comes to fruition. And I am on a welfare-esque program. I know I will be a good father. I will teach them things I was never taught. I will have tea parties (hopefully only if it's a girl) and teach the boy how to throw a baseball. But before I can do those things to really connect to the little lad or lassie, when they are in that stage where they just run around and scream for no reason, they will be on a leash. On an evening walk, have Fido in the left hand and Junior in the right. My recent trip to Disneyland gave substantial validity to this thought process. There are those little hellians that run a muck with their little mouse-ear hats, you know, the ones who are always reported kidnapped. Then there are the well-behaved ones, those that when they get a little rowdy you just give a quick tug and let them know who's boss.

But heed this warning. It is very possible that this will create a level of codependency that many find uncomfortable. Eventually it could lead to a separation anxiety. And this is bad. Why? I'll tell you. Say you and the Mrs. want to have your biannual adult time. You are both enjoying yourselves (or so she makes you think) when, mid-thrust, out of your peripheral you see your child standing in the doorway. Jaw dropped, with a look of confusion and fear, watching his parents do the proverbial it.

This is why in addition to leashes, your children should also wear cowbells. That way, when you are trying to conquer a move you saw in your latest XXX rental, you can hear the walking contraceptive coming down the hall. This is the perfect opportunity to train your children by granting them responsibility. Simply yell, "Go make some macaroni and cheese!" or something adult-like, maybe start the barbecue or sharpening the kitchen knives.

This is sure to build the foundation of a trusting, healthy relationship with your child, even though you weren't ready to have one in the first place.

Pappy McSlappy is not a licensed therapist, nor does he have any children. He has always imagined himself to be more a "cool uncle" than influential father. He does however stand 6'2", have washboard abs and a six-figure salary. No, that was a lie. He has none of the above.

I'm deaf and my brother is retarded

So I was having dinner with my family tonight. It was a nice dinner, nothing too far from ordinary I guess. But tonight I was reminded of my childhood, which made me laugh.

First off, I was never officially diagnosed with ADD. My family has never really believed in therapy. "They'll brand you as a retard and it will stick with you forever!" they would say. That being said...

I went to a Catholic school from kindergarten through 7th grade. It was an OK time...and by that I mean I hated it. My kindergarten teacher, Ms. Troll, was really a nice lady. She was very sweet and genuine, though now, knowing what I know about children and their whiny, sadistic behavioral ways, I don't doubt that she went home every night and beat her dog. I know I would have. Anyhow, I was never a kid who teachers ranted and raved about. I was never told that I was gifted or talented more so than my classmates - like my brother was, but more on that in a minute. I was just your average, overweight little kid who hated going to school. Because of this resentment I often daydreamed; a trait I remain loyal to this very day. I would sit in class, with my stupid navy blue pants and tucked in polo thinking of sword fighting with bad guys, and me always the victor. I also thought a lot of ninjas, sneaking through the woods to assassinate evil-doers without ever being seen. While this brought me great, unrequited joy, my teachers felt otherwise. My grades were okay, usually a B average. But I rarely participated in class. When called upon, I never really new the answer, not because I didn't know the answer, but because I hadn't been listening to the question. Ninjas are way cooler than state capitols.

In the 2nd grade I remember my teacher calling a parent-teacher conference, I wasn't sure why. I had to wait outside the classroom while my parents went in for the talk, so I amused myself by judo kicking the teatherball and sharpening knives out of sticks I found on the ground. On the way home, my parents turned down the radio to ask me a question. I wasn't paying much attention so my mother screamed, "Joshua! Can you hear me!"

Of course I can hear you. You just yelled at me.

"Well," she said, "all of your teachers think you are deaf. Are you deaf?"

Though I heard the question, I didn't answer. By that time I was already back to thinking of being on a ship defending the princess from swashbuckling pirates. Turns out, the school had scheduled the annual hearing test much earlier than usual, just to see how bad my hearing loss was. I surprised them when I could hear just fine. "Well if you can hear perfectly well," my teacher said, "why don't you ever answer when you are called on?" I looked at her to give the typical childish response of, "I don't know," but in the process became distracted because I envisioned her face turning into a dragon.

Perhaps the scariest moment of my life. As time went on, the teachers recognized I wasn't deaf, or stupid, but simply disinterested.

My brother had a similar story. His teachers (the same ones I had, and it wasn't a big school, so they knew my family already) thought that he was mentally disabled. At lunch, the yard duty lady would always hound him and his friends, because they would start digging up the soccer field. "What are you doing?" she would yell. They would sit there, stupidly, "we are digging for fossils." He was even busted when he would ask to go to the bathroom, and after not returning for 15 minutes come back to class with dirt-stained knees. "Where were you?"

He was digging for fossils.

Much to their surprise, when he went to a public school, where his and mine reputations weren't already tainted, he was placed in advanced classes and a SMART program for gifted children. He is now going to Cal Poly for a degree in physics. And me, well, I still don't really pay attention.

A List of My Dislikes: Part 4

1. The term diva. Primarily used by gay men and under-20-something girls, the term has gained unexpected adaptation, and has thus lead to severe overuse.

Just like when the local [crappy] radio stations get their hands on the new top hit [which was released in real cities months earlier] and play it on every station until you know the words by heart, and then despise yourself for knowing the words, such an effect has been brought about by diva.

According to Wikipedia, which is one of my most favoritist websites in the history of the sentient beings, it is derived from the Italian word "diva", meaning "goddess". In the relatively recent vernacular, it was used to describe some female of outstanding vocal artistry. But now is used to describe, pretty much any girl, who can speak her mind, while embracing a wardrobe that is classified by its users as "good fashion". For example, when I recently asked a gay friend of mine, "Hey, how is [insert name] doing?" He responded, "Well, you know...she's just a diva. You can't stop a girl like that." What in God's green earth does that mean?

2.SpaghettiO's. I want to meet the redneck bastard who ever concocted such a foul, uninviting entree. Eating SpaghettiO's is like eating Hot Pockets. The last time I had these formidable little O's of thrice-processed floor scum, I felt like much less of a man. Sadly, that feeling has yet to wear off. Whoever this genius was, though, is much richer than I probably ever will be. Redneck son of a bitch. He's probably the same guy who came up with the slogan "Save a cow. Eat a vegetarian." Which brings me to my next dislike.

3.Stupid bumper stickers. Unless your car is at least a decade old, don't litter it with other people's wisdom, or lack of common sense. Driving down the road the other day, I saw one of the most unforgettable bumper stickers my eyes have ever seen. On the left side was a large pair of breasts, barely covered by a low-cut top. On the right was an infant curled up in the fetal position flashing the peace sign. In the middle was the text: "Back off. I let my babies choose for themselves. Vote 'pro'."

Now, just fancy me, what the hell does that mean? I can see the direct reference to the baby (baby, babies) but the boobs? Ok, boobs are often referred to as "babies" in a low-ball way, but how do boobs correlate with [literal] babies? And how can unborn fetuses choose for themselves? What the hell is going on here? Who exactly is the target audience? What message are they trying to convey? Now, you can call me a stereotyping asshole, but the sticker was on a 2004 Kia Sportage, which also had a license plate cover telling me to, "Back the fuck up!". I didn't find that very polite. There were two children in the back, and a golden retriever barking incessantly out the window. The woman driving was smoking a cigarette and was wearing an NRA trucker hat. The guy in the passenger seat, weighing 50 or so pounds less than the driver, had a flat-billed hat tilted slightly to the side and was smoking a tipped cigar. They were bumping some Master P when the gentleman passenger started moving his hand like a conductor and lip-syncing the words to the [terrible] song.

My heart sank.

Relationships are like Disneyland

No, sadly its not as optimistic and fantastical as you may well be imagining. The sad truth is, relationships are, in fact, just like a visit to Disneyland.

Relationships are tricky little conceptual entities that can tinker with the hearts and minds of even the strong-willed and implant a seed of jealousy deep into the core of the soul. Just like the fantasy that is Disneyland.

Disney uses those under-the-belt commercials - you know, the ones with the happy, cute little kids, the father that is [presumably] an insurance salesman, the mother that is [presumably] a stay-at-home mom, in the ginormous house that stays immaculate - and these commercials show the family's dreams of children wearing Mickey Mouse hats, taking pictures with Tinkerbell and the dad, who [presumably] hates his insurance job but is free to run and play as a kid when he is in this land of wonder. This is similar to the feelings relationships exude to us bachelors of the world. We see two people; two happy people. Even when they aren't happy, at least they have each other to be unhappy with. I imagine picnics in the park, romantic getaways, sharing the most intimate parts of oneself over a glass of wine and a gourmet dinner.

Then you get to Disneyland.

After the long obnoxious flight (or in the case of my childhood, a 14 hour caravan drive with two other families) you are greeted with absurd happiness. "This can't be real," you think to yourself. "Everything is so...so splendidly fabulous!" Then you pay $60 to $80 per person, just to get in for the day.

A slight pucker of the sphincter.

Then, after security screenings that make the airport look like a proverbial "Disneyland", you enter the gates to be welcomed by swarms of children wearing bright colored clothing, some on child leashes. Parents clothed in their vacationers best; Hawaiian shirts for the dads and "Proud to be a Disneyland Mom" tees for the moms, and both sexes have their shirts tucked in, for reasons still unknown to me. They talk on walkie-talkies in grand attempts to locate each other, though they are no more than 30 feet from one-another. But who can tell in a population dominated by corn dog vendors and suited characters - speaking of which, I didn't know Peter Pan was Asian... Your toes are repeatedly annihilated by the running over of stollers and their naive navigators, little children with stupid big-eared hate spill frozen lemonade all over your leg. You look at the little smart-ass who is now laughing at you and you want to smack that hat right off his head, maybe say something to the tune of: "Hey man. You're not a mouse. You don't need those big ears. Stop lying, be true to yourself. Stop living your life behind a mask. Because if you were a mouse, I'd set some cheese in the corner and when you got it, SNAP! would go the child-size mousetrap. You like cheese motherfucker?"

But then you find a ride you think you will enjoy. And you wait in line for two and a half hours. But the gurus of Disney have mastered the psychology of those lines. They weave and wind through hallways and duck and cross and go into rooms then back out into the open. They do it to tease you. So just when you think you are getting close, BAM, another hallway. Then you ride the ride for 36 seconds, all the while sitting next to a portly gentleman who reeks of Polish sausage and pipe tobacco. Then you find your family, who is exhausted from walking the endless grounds and riding Dumbo five times, so you go eat a $6 hot dog and a $4 cola. Each. And this continues. It's just about then you ask yourself, "Why in God's holy name did we buy a 4 day Park Hopper pass?" By two o'clock in the first afternoon, you are ready to return home. But, in reality, it is only just beginning.

By now you can probably see how this transfers to relationships. You see something that somebody makes look real nice. Like it will make you happy. You want to be happy. So you get one. You get into a relationship.But it's not that easy. First, you have to initiate the conversation. Get out of your comfort zone, make the girl laugh, maybe buy her a drink (if you're a sucker), and get her number. After a few days, sometimes weeks, of playing phone-tag and unofficial dates. You move on to a real dinner. Cha-ching. If you're lucky, she'll at least attempt to eat the steak and lobster she ordered.

Another pucker of the sphincter.

Next thing you know, you have none of that spending money you once had; her various problems have somehow become your own; you have deserted your friends to wait in line for that unfathomable ride, and after the all-too-brief period of ecstasy you get as your reward for such hard work, you just don't want to do it anymore.

A few long, drawn-out weeks later after the bickering has begun, she mentions the thought of having kids.

Your jealousy that was once so strong for the company of another has suddenly shifted directions. You now envy your buddies who told you to stay single all along. You watch them, longingly, as they go to a football game, or to the bar together. Your only thought; "You like cheese, motherfucker?"