I Write Kids' Books, Crying Increases Tenfold

I’ve often thought about attempting to write a book. I figure it beats having a real job, and it’s one of the only professions that wholly supports alcoholism. Look at some of the world’s best writers: Hemmingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Bukowski, anyone who’s Russian… They wrote some of their best novels while facedown in a bar, smearing ink onto cocktail napkins with an eloquence only brought on by dementia.

Sadly, my tangential mind only allows me to chase particular thoughts for short amounts of time, so I’m just not sure I could ever string together enough pages to form a cohesive story. Thankfully, one of my friends suggested that I write children’s books; that way, I can churn out 20 pages of pointless drivel, slap on a few pictures, add some trite moral to the story and call it a day.

What follows are some premises for children’s books that I’m thinking about producing.

#1 - Wendy is sad because her parents are always fighting. The counselors at her school tell her it isn’t her fault, and that sometimes grownups need to verbalize their feelings loudly. Wendy feels better about the situation, but then one day her parents get divorced and she knows it’s all her fault. This is confirmed when her father tells her, “Your mom’s been a frigid bitch ever since you were born” before he storms out of the house, never to be heard from again.
Working title: Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

#2 - Little Timmy knows he isn’t supposed to go into Daddy’s tool shed by himself, but sometimes he’s just overrun with curiosity. Just a little peak won’t hurt anybody. But this notion is quickly foiled when Timmy accidentally turns on the circular saw and severs his hand from his arm. Though faint from loss of blood, Timmy now knows better than to ever repeat such a folly.
Working Title: Power Tools and Children: A Love Story

#3 - John has begun hanging out with a new crowd at school. Sometimes he feels pressured into doing things he knows aren’t right, like stealing or vandalizing cars. After a feeble attempt to impress his new companions, John becomes overwhelmed with guilt and tells on his friends. They all get in trouble, and, more importantly, they beat John’s ass. John learns the importance of loyalty the hard way and is confined to a wheelchair and liquids for six months.
Working Title: The Boy Who Tattled And Got His Jaw Wired Shut


I can see literacy rates spiking all over the country. What do you think? Would you read my books to your kids?

A Modest Proposal

I’ve always wondered why babies are such a big deal. Inexplicably, people tend to speak of babies in high regard. I just don’t get it…

By law, they can’t even work. How’s my child going to support me if he can’t even work in a factory or at least man the counter of the local liquor store? I’ve never really wanted to move to Laos, but I may be forced to in order to combat these ridiculous child labor laws.

What? Babies are cute? They shit themselves! And then they don’t even have the decency to clean it up. That’s just lazy. A child of mine would clean himself up just as soon as he’s done dusting the ceiling fans while standing on that precariously rickety old ladder. And remember, the ingested asbestos makes him tough.

People these days are too easy on their kids. If your kid has not cleaned the house, cooked you dinner, made you money, and is not waiting for you at the door with a rent check in his hand that he owes as payment for your generousity in allowing him to live in your house, you should lose your right to breed.

Jonathan Swift had it right in his 1729 essay; we should eat children for nourishment. They’d no longer be a burden to their parents, and the unrest in overcrowded cities would be quelled. Never mind actually contesting the underlying issues that lead to recent rioting in Parisian ghettos and elsewhere. Eat them. Besides, they’re delicious.

When Life Gets Too Hard, Just Stop Living!

I think if I were ever to work for a suicide hotline, the population would shrink in size quite rapidly. I just don’t think I’d be real persuasive while convincing someone not to end their life.


Wait, what? You’re wife cheated on you? Holy shit man, that is the single worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone ever! Jesus, I don’t know what I’d do. . . God, I bet you just want to impale yourself on a rusty spike just so you can’t feel pain anymore. I bet you…
Hello? Hello? Oh shit. . .


You lost your job? Wait, for the third time this year? Hahaha, oh man, that’s pathetic. And I use the term “man” loosely because no real man would ever get fired from a job three times in one year while his pregnant wife and three children are starving and using the kitchen chairs for firewood since you can’t pay the heat bill. Oh crap, I’ve got someone on the other line, I’d better go…


So you’re depressed, huh? You haven’t been out of bed in two weeks? Wow, that’s bad; I bet it’s all you can do to keep from smothering yourself with your pillow. I’m sure at a time like this they just seem so inviting, a pleasant escape from this crazy world which offers us no control, no solace in time of need, no comfort when the walls are caving in all around you. Well, if your mind’s made up there’s no use in trying to change it… Good luck!


What? Oh, you dialed the wrong number? Wow, do you really lack the dexterity to properly type digits into a phone? If I were you I'd probably have already strangled myself with the phone cord...


Give me a call sometime. I’m here for you.

Jaywalking: 25 to Life

The Constitution protects Americans from “cruel and unusual punishment,” and I think that is a damn shame. I was born at a relatively young age, and I’ve always known the possible consequences to my actions. As a child, if I misbehaved I might be spanked or grounded. If I rob a bank tomorrow, I’ll go to jail. But therein lies the flaw, predictability; if the only promise of punishment is fickle irregularity sadistically doled out on a judge’s whim, man would be less likely to commit crimes. Let’s discuss…

Grand Theft (robbing a bank or stealing a car)
-One day the punishment for this common crime is jail time, but the next, the punishment consists of you and three large men locked in a room, broomsticks, icy hot and a cheese grater. The sheer possibilities are endless, though definitely not painless. Let’s see if you ever steal anything again.

Homicide
-Punishment for this crime can vary between significant jail time, death by lethal injection, death by paper cuts or mandatory conversion and inculcation into the Mormon faith where you spend the rest of your days wearing a white shirt and a tie and riding your bicycle door to door handing out inane materials to unwilling strangers who subsequently buy a new door complete with peep hole and two deadbolts.

Drug Possession
-You will be elected to the United States Congress, unless, of course, you are a poor minority.

White Collar Crimes (embezzlement, for example)
-Forget the minimum security country clubs complete with tennis courts and conjugal visits. You, creative accountant, will be given season tickets to the WNBA and forced to attend. Or, perhaps you’ll be locked in a room with seven people over age 65 who will repeatedly tell you the same stories over and over again until you break.

Jay Walking
-A small fine or community service is a possibility. So is the new job of Professional Sponge Bath Giver at the retirement home down the street. Let’s see how often you cross outside the crosswalk now, asshole.

Those are just a few examples of punishments not being consistent with their corresponding crime and being better because of it. Basically, I want to be a judge.

Feel free to comment with some possible ideas of your own.

Drinking Impairs Judgment Not Actually a Myth

11pm: Second bar of the night, the bartender happily pours us shots of whiskey and 151, and we greedily down them with gusto. As time and booze fly, so does our decision making. Right out the window.

12am: New location, not really sure how we got there. Somehow we’re talking to a group of girls who aren’t really girls so much as they’re old women. Two of them take a liking to Matt and me, and in our drunken haze, we failed to see their walkers and oxygen tanks.

1:00am: By this point, in attempt to eradicate the age discrepancy, Matt is 29 and, when asked, says his birthday was “a loooong time ago.” Well done, my friend; you really handled that one well. I think I was a 28 year old “crime fighter.” I realized later they probably thought I was a policeman or something, but at the time, I was convinced they knew I was a superhero.

2:00am: The bar is closing, and the two women, inexplicably enamored with us, want us to accompany them to their homes. We mention needing to use the facilities before we depart, and we go hide in the back of the bar, hoping they’ll forget about us and leave. The bar manager finds us huddled closely behind a pillar and mentions that this bar isn’t a “haven for couples attempting a quickie.” Awkward... We’re promptly escorted to the door, where we find our female companions patiently waiting.

2:15am: Too intoxicated to run away, we walk them to their car, a 350Z.
Matt: “Man, these chicks have money. I could use a sugar mama.”
Me: “Well, it’s easy to have money when you were around to invest in Microsoft.”
Matt: “It’s also easy to have a disease when you were around for the Black Plague, so be careful.”
Me: “I think the formaldehyde they’ve been preserved in reduces the risk of disease.”

2:30am: Staving off rape, we finally freed ourselves and headed back in the direction of our car. We proceed to urinate on a minivan. The owner of the van happens to be inside the vehicle. Strangely, he doesn’t see the humor in the situation… We run off and stumble upon some kid eating a burrito, and I ask him if he got it from Wendy’s. I was completely serious. Last night, I would have sworn to anybody that Wendy’s makes the best damn burritos in town, and I was ready to fight anyone who disagreed.

That’s pretty much my last memory of the night. After rehashing as many memories as possible, I learned a valuable lesson from all this: Matt and I really shouldn’t be allowed to go out without chaperones.

But I Don't Want to Graduate

Today I registered for college classes for the last time. Ever. I cannot believe that it’s all coming to an end. After I graduate in May, I will be thrust into employment, something I approach with severe reluctance. If college and previous work experience is prophetic of things to come, then I think I just may make the worst employee in history. Here’s why:

1. I am perennially late to anything beginning before 11am, noon if I’ve been drinking. I guess I’d better just scrap 11 and keep it at noon…

2. I can’t sit still for more than 10 minutes, unless I’m asleep at my desk. At my last job, I took a lap around the office every few minutes, usually stopping off to harass other coworkers. If I can’t concentrate, why should they?

3. I’ve been known to be “that guy” at office functions, usually eschewing all restraint and class and just making sure that I have an alcohol-fueled good time.

4. I’m an idiot savant who can recall sports history and statistics with disturbing accuracy, but I can’t send a fax or figure out the phones of any job I’ve ever had. This may also be a good time to point out that I don’t listen when people talk to me.

5. I have the attention span of a Hey! Look at that squirrel!

I think my new plan will be to fail all my classes in my last semester so I have to stay in college awhile. Perhaps the workforce will be ready for me and I’ll be ready for it when I’m 30.

Forget Prosthetics, Bring Back the Peg Leg

I was at a restaurant the other night, and I saw a man with a prosthetic leg. He was wearing shorts, which seems pretty adventurous to me. I was beginning to feel a pang of pity, as I could not imagine what it would be like to lose an appendage, especially a leg. But then, I was inundated with images of pirates and peg legs. Seriously, how cool were they? Pirates walked about with a wooden leg, and no one dared give them shit for it. Hell, a wooden leg was a sign of respect in the pirate world. Though it was difficult to sneak up on anyone, seafarers knew better than to mess with these guys.

I think pirates were the preeminent display of evolution; we’ve merely been regressing ever since. Pirates were such men that they almost died out from scurvy because their diets consisted of grog, sharks and human children. No sissy vitamin C for those guys.

So, the next time you see someone with a prosthetic limb, kindly suggest that he scrap the plastic and opt for wood, nature’s finest tribute to our friends, the pirates.

Unwitting Comparison Nearly Leaves me Castrated

The other day the term “ubersexual” was used on a major morning show. (I wasn’t watching that sensationalist trash, I just heard about it from others). Apparently, they defined “ubersexual” as a man who is manly but is still cultural and enjoys things like fine wines and cigars. I was thinking, ‘hell, I’m a man, but I do love wine and cigars, so perhaps I’m an ubersexual.’ Then I read J. Walter Thompson’s list of the ten leading ubersexuals in America, and I nearly castrated myself with a syphilitic saw blade for even considering this.

Bono? Are they serious? Bono, the same self-righteous asshole who wears stupid blue glasses while performing cookie cutter music and promoting environmental conservation while flying around in his fuel-guzzling, nature-raping private jet was number one on JWT’s list? I want to fight someone.

And, as if “metrosexual” were not enough of a hot coal to my crotch, now “ubersexual” has taken hold and is gathering acceptance in the mainstream media. I searched for it online and found an alarming number of instances of its use. I’m nearly homicidal just thinking about this. Regardless, I’d like to push a replacement term into everyone’s vernacular. You’ve most likely heard it before. The term is “gay.” The only problem is that I don’t want to unfairly group gay people into the realm of revulsion occupied by “metrosexuals.”

Suggestions are welcome. Blunt objects to Bono’s face are appreciated.

I Visit the Nation's Capital, Leave it Tainted

I visited Washington, DC this past weekend. It got off to a rather dubious start, as I was stopped, harassed and searched because I had a corkscrew in my shaving bag. What’s the big deal? I never know when I’m going to need that valuable resource; however, it led to the National Security Threat Level being raised to red upon me setting foot in DC. Typical…

I stayed with a friend of mine and went out drinking with him and a few girls. Somewhere after double digits, I proclaimed that I would vomit later that evening. My “one last drink” was a red bull and vodka. It was served to me in a pint glass. 8oz of Red Bull, about 6oz of vodka, and ice. Only $5 for that heart stopping monstrosity of heavenly goodness. I’ll pause while you all rush to buy a plane ticket to DC…

In usual fashion, my prophesy came true and I vomited all over these girl’s bathroom. I had been introduced to them 3 hours prior. I never was one for good first impressions.

The next day while doing some sight seeing, I noted that the Washington Monument is probably the largest phallic representation anywhere. God Bless America. Minutes later, I fell headlong into the 10th anniversary of the Million Man March. Wow. It was powerful stuff, and I was honored to be there, regardless of the fact that my dumb self stumbled unknowingly into its midst. Several people glared at us, the only white people in a crowd estimated at 300,000. We were even interviewed by some progressive think-tank organization. What follows is a transcript of the interview.

Her: So… What brings you folks here? Hell, do you even know where you are?
Me: Yeah, we’re participating in an important movement for the African American community and for people as a whole.
Her: You do realize you are white?
Me: …I guess that explains why I can’t dance.
Her: Usually when you see three white people in a crowd of blacks it’s called apartheid.
Me: We gotta go.

Oh well, I was happy to be there.

That night we went to Bricksellers, a bar boasting over 900 different beers. After consuming several delightful draughts, I became disappointed at the messy, hazy typing on the beer menu. It’s odd I hadn’t noticed it earlier in the evening.

All in all, DC is a great place, and I had a great trip. It’s just unfortunate that all my vacations lead to me needing a vacation. And organ replacement surgery. And a lawyer.

A Day in the Life

I hear my alarm sound in the morning, and with a pang of self pity, I realize this is the best moment of my next 10 hours. It's not best in the sense that I enjoy waking up to start my day; it's merely the best moment available since work is looming in the near future. And let's face it, work sucks.

Often, as I wobble with fatigue and, quite possibly, delirium tremens after a hard night, I decide a short nap in the shower is a good idea. I then wake up under a deluge of cold water as I realize I've been asleep for 30 minutes and I'll be late for work.

I usually skip shaving before work because I can't trust myself to hold a razor that close to my jugular at 7am, knowing my day will be filled with 9 hours of me trying to feign working as papers pile up around my half sleeping form.

The subway ride to work is peppered with an assortment of people most likely dredged from the bottom of the Hudson River. If I'm feeling nice, I might appease an old woman by giving up my seat, but I usually just offer to fight her for it. Old people go down really easily if you just kick their canes, causing loss of balance and hilarity for all onlookers.

The first hour of work is usually a struggle to stay asleep amidst the cacophony of people bustling to and fro. "Morning people" should be shot in the face with a tranquilizer dart so they understand what it feels like to be the rest of us.

The rest of the day is all about anticipation. At 10am I start to get excited about lunch. By 10:30, I think about handing in my two-weeks notice because it's only 10:30. By 2:00, I'm satisfied after a decent lunch and really just want to take a nap. I'd fit in great in Mexico, where siestas are encouraged. I also look fabulous in a sombrero.

4:00 to 6:00 is the longest two hour stretch of the day. Seriously, time just stands still as my mind longs for the sweet serenity of my peaceful home. Either that or I crave a drink so badly I begin to syphon toner from the copy machine, killing enough brain cells to where I'm no longer aware of my captivity.

As 6:00 sluggishly rolls around, my heart skips a beat with joy. Or maybe because of the toner.. But regardless, I head home and attempt to forget everything that happened that day. Sadly, the vicious cycle that it is, I have to do it all over again tomorrow. But in accordance with my mind's wishes, I do everything I can at night to forget the loathsome sound that will soon alert me that it's morning, and another day awaits.