In Soviet Russia, blog writes you! (Ode to an Idiot: Part 3)

Well, well, well...it's been well over a year since I posted in this here blog, and what have you been doing with yourself all this time, hmmm? Masturbating, that's what! Oh, wait, that's what I've been doing with my time. How awkward.

Ok, moving on.

So, yeah. A bunch of crap has happened since the last time I posted, but none of it really matters, and no one really cares, so I'll skip all that. What everyone DOES enjoy (if enough boredom and alcohol are involved) are stories where people (i.e. me) make complete idiots of themselves. I've come to be well known for my patented stories that go nowhere, and this is yet another of those. And, of course, as the title would suggest, it's yet another story where I make an idiot out of myself. Yeah! So, let me get right to it, and tell you the amazingly funny story about my 25th birthday (if it's not funny enough for you, I'll give you your money back. Or kick you in the nuts. One or the other.)

Ok. Yeah. I turned 25 about two months ago. A quarter-century of pleasing the ladies. Ok, that's not true. It's been more like...ten years. Minutes. Never. Whatever! That's not the point of the story.

The point of the story is, I, for the first time since I was, like, ten (seriously) actually had something big planned for my birthday.

My best friend decided, probably against her better judgment, to fly out and see me out here in middle-of-fucking-nowhere Arizona. We set up plans well in advance, she got her plane ticket, I figured out how to get to the airport (gas means go!) and we were on our way to a nice, long weekend of eating cheese doodles and watching re-runs of Welcome Back, Kotter (not really.) (Ok, really.)

So, day of the trip, I get home from work. My friend calls me on my telephone, and says she's at the airport in Burbank, about ready to fly out. She'll be here in just a few hours, but in the meantime, we're killing time by talking on the phone
(god knows why she would call me, though.)

I'm on my way to Wal-Mart because I just broke my shower curtain rod (don't ask) and needed to buy a new one (an omen of things to come.)

I'm sitting in my car, talking to her, when I feel the seat snap. I say, "Wow, well, my seat just broke." Things is, I was only joking. See, my seat (much like the power locks in my car) never quite worked right: It's kind of the Ryan of seats. It does its job for awhile, but eventually decides to take a break every now and then. 'Cause being a seat is hard fucking work.

So, every once in awhile, the seat will just snap back, and I'll have to adjust it forward. No big deal. Don't know why this happens, but it's easily fixable, and the seat isn't REALLY broken, it just doesn't hold as well as I'd like.

Again, I said "My seat just broke" jokingly, and then tell her I have to get off the phone so I can go to Wal-Mart to get the shower curtain rod that I broke.

Funny thing is, I go to adjust the seat, and guess what? This time, the seat really DID break. In fact, when I reach down to where my lower back is, I can feel the metal underneath the fabric. Yup- ladies and gentlemen, less than an hour after breaking my shower curtain rod, I have broken my driver's seat.

Now, it's still usable- but it wobbles back and forth quite a bit. And if the other side breaks, I'm completely fucked.

Great. Perfect. It's not like I need my car or anything.

So that happens, and that's hilarious and all, but now it's a few hours later and time to drive to the airport.

I get to the airport relatively unscathed, and actually don't hit too much traffic. In fact, I get there early (which, it turns out, was a very good thing.)

Now, I'm hearing from people all week how easy the airport is to navigate. Oh, it's easy, they say. Easy my freakin' ass.

What I want to know from these people is this- what is YOUR fucking definition of easy? Because my definition, and the definition of, you know, most of humanity, is something that is, um, NOT difficult. That's kind of the important part.

These people who say navigating Sky Harbor airport is easy are also the same people who aced calculus and put together huge pieces of unassembled furniture in about five minutes. You people fucking suck.

So, I drive in to the airport, notice a sign that says Southwest flights arrive at terminal 4, and proceed to get in the lane for terminal 4. Easy, right?

So, I'm driving, I'm driving, I'm driving...wait a god damn second, where's the parking lot? I see signs that direct me toward the parking lot and I follow them. But...I'm not seeing the parking lot.

I'm driving, I'm driving- I see a sign that says, "Now exiting Sky Harbor Airport." Um- right. Because when I saw a sign that said "Parking this way," I should have assumed it really meant, "You're a gigantic fucking sucker and people are going to make fun of you, because this is really the exit. Thanks for coming, asshole."

Fortunately, there's a lane you can get in to go back into the airport, since Sky Harbor is essentially one giant loop. So, a few minutes later, I'm right back at the start, except this time I swear to myself that I'll find this damn parking lot. The first time was just a fluke. I mean, how hard could it be, right? I'm not that stupid, right? Right?

Ok, second time through the airport now. I'm following the signs, trying to make my way to the parking lot. This time, thankfully, I don't end up in the same place.

No, this time, kids, it's worse.

This time, I'm driving and I notice a sign that says "Now exiting airport, entering Interstate 10." WHAT?! This is worse than the last time! And there's no place to make a U-Turn!

So, now, I'm on the interstate, heading back home. Let me say that again- I have now not only successfully exited the airport, AGAIN, but am on the freeway. Going the opposite direction of the airport.

I get off at the next exit, drive through surface streets through a terrible part of town, at night, mind you, and eventually make my way back to the airport.

Ok, third time's a charm, and this time, after screaming explicitives that no human being should hear or repeat, I finally find the parking lot.

Now time to find my friend. Which shouldn't be hard, right? I mean, sure, the parking situation sucked, but THIS should be relatively painless, right?

If you're laughing right now, you're a very intuitive person.

I head to terminal 4 and realize that I'm in the departures section, not arrivals. After a few minutes of figuring out whether 'departure' meant coming or going, I started my trek to find the arrivals section.

I'm walking around, looking, not finding it. My friend calls to tell me she's off the plane already. Great. No problem, I tell her. This shouldn't take long. See you in a minute and all that.

Yet I'm still not finding it.

Finally, I ask for help. Airport employee tells me that arrivals for gate C are on the third floor. Just go straight up the stairs, you can't miss it.

So, I do just that. Still not seeing my friend.

Then I get a call: She's in baggage claim now. First floor. Can't miss it.

Ok.

So, I head down the stairs again, start looking around. No baggage claim. Very few people, in fact, which I find odd considering, you know, this is an airport.

I'm looking around, looking around, looking around some more. My stubble has now turned into a full-grown beard. I look like Jesus in a Metallica t-shirt.

Finally, it hits me- um, dude? She said baggage claim was on level ONE. You're on level TWO. You know those stairs you went down? Yeah, if you're on level THREE, then you need to go down TWO flights of stairs to get to ONE. Basic math there, buddy.

Finally, I do make it to baggage claim, and everything is in harmony. I've met up with my friend, we're heading back to my house, everything seems to be going ok. And I've had a hell of a visit so far, a bunch of crazy things have happened, there's no way anything more could happen, could it?

No, there isn't. She visited for a few days and everything worked out fine. The end.






Naw, that's not what happened. Are you fucking kidding me? You actually thought it was over? Dude, you're gullible.

No, of course the bad stuff wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The next day, my friend and I are hanging out, discussing "cool" things, like the kids do, when my mom walks up and goes, "Um...did someone steal your hubcap last night?"

To which I reply: "Whaaa?"

Yup. That's right. One of my hupcaps is missing. Because, you know, everything else that broke in the last few days wasn't enough. I still had hope that things would go ok. And any time there's hope, there's a vengeful god to come down and kick you in the ass and show you who's really in charge.

So, yeah. That happened.

The day of the celebration of my birth went relatively well. Hanging out with my best friend was, of course, awesome. Went down to see some family about 50 miles away. Had dinner. Came home and watched a bunch of DVDs. It was turning out to be a pretty damn good birthday.

The next day, I throw in some laundry. Now, embaressingly enough, I have nothing to wear. So, I'm stark naked. You know. Whatev.

Ok, not really. I had my Big Bird pajamas on. You happy? Huh? You fucking happy now that I've admitted that?! You make me sick!

Anyway, the laundry finishes, and I pull out my shorts, and they're- well, they're vibrating.

Now, this does not compute. This is one of those moments in life where something just makes absolutely, positively no sense, you know? Like if you were driving and a giant mechanical bird swooped into your car and started singing Sinatra. Yeah. That would be fucking weird. That would literally make NO sense.

My shorts. Are. Vibrating. In my hands. Shaking. Moving around of their own accord.

My brain goes completely blank.

Then it hits me: My cell phone!

Yes, kids. Yes. I left my cell phone in my shorts pocket the night before. And it ran through the wash. And it was now completely and hopelessly destroyed.

The worst part? I recalled a conversation that ran through my head the night before:


Ryan: I, uh- I can't find my cell phone.

Best Friend: Did you check your shorts pocket?

Ryan: Yeah, totally. It's not there.


*cough*

There are no words, kids. There are no words.

So, Sunday rolls around, my friend heads back home (after spending five days with me, I'm sure she was extremely grateful to be going back).

Now, the trip is over, so you'd think my bad luck would be gone, right?

No, my friends. Like the clichéd horror movie of the mid-nineties on, there always has to be one last surprise right at the end.

Monday morning. I carpooled this morning, and the person I carpool with works a few miles away, so I don't have my car. I head to the break room to eat my morning dose of Pop Tarts and vodka.

I sit down in one of the chairs. I hear a rip. I look down.

I've ripped my brand new pair of pants, that I got FOR MY BIRTHDAY, on the arm of the chair.

No, my friends, it's not just that I ripped my pants, it's where I ripped my pants: Right on the back pocket. That's right- I have a gigantic hole in the ass of my pants, and eight hours of work to go. With no way to get back home.

Sigh.

Fortunately for me, my shirt covered it up pretty well, though all day I was waiting for it to rip further, past the point that my shirt would cover up, and everyone would see my Batman underwear.

Now, let's just recap, shall we? Over the course of six days, I managed to break a shower curtain rod, break the driver's seat in my car, lose a hubcap, destroy my cell phone and rip a brand new pair of pants.

The fun never stops, I tell 'ya.

So, that's it. This'll probably be my last blog until 2012 or so. Thanks for reading.

A funny thing happened on the way to go pee [Ode to an idiot: Part 2]

So, this is another one of my patented stories that go nowhere. Don't say I didn't warn you. Again, as I mentioned in my last Ode To An Idiot installment, don't come crying to me after you read this and go, "But, but, Ryan...that story didn't go ANYWHERE!" No shit, dumbass. That's why I said, "this is one of my patented stories that go nowhere." Did the word 'patent' throw you off?

Anyway, back to the story at hand. And, no, this still isn't the story about how I nearly burned down my house, and, no, I don't think I'll ever tell it. Tough bananas.

Ok, so, as everyone knows by now [or SHOULD know by now] I'm nothing if not unemployed. So, following my normal pattern of being employed; getting caught in the company break room making wild, passionate love with an orangutan; getting fired for making love to said orangutan- I found myself unemployed once again this week.

So, I get a call this morning from my temporary agency, which, for those unfamiliar, is a company that specializes in finding losers like me temporary work, to make sure that we can keep the money rolling in and keep our chubby, greasy fingers covered in KFC chicken grease [Mmmm....grrreeasse.] So, I get this call and they tell me, "Yes, we've got a company that would be interested in hiring you, but we may need to have you come out here today to do an interview with them first. I'll call you back to let you know if they need you to come out or not."

Well, being the supremely lazy human being that I am [and that's stretching the definition of "human being,"] I was hoping against hope that they would not require my very handsome and sexual presence and would hire me based strictly on the amazing reputation I have with the ladies.

The woman from the temp. office calls me back about an hour later [interrupting a perfectly good episode of "Cops", I might add] and let's me know that they won't be needing me for an interview after all. I breathe an audible sigh of relief. Then she told me that they did need me to go down for a drug test. I was so shocked I nearly knocked over my bong! Hey-o! Thank you folks, I'll be here all week.

Seriously, though, she did tell me that I needed to make the 50 mile drive to get the drug test today, and then, because the road to hell is paved with minor inconveniences, she also said that I would need to make the same drive again on Monday, so they can fingerprint me and have THAT tested as well. By the F.B.I. No, I'm not making any of that up.

So, after one of my patented three hour showers [hee...some of you who have had to wait on me while I shower know EXACTLY what I mean] I finally made my way out of the house.

I get down to this place with almost no problems about an hour later. My tank is just about out of gas [I found out today that a little red light on your gas gauge means you're out of gas- who knew?] but other than that everything is kosher.

I fill out all the appropriate paperwork [including, unfortunately, an agreement that I will never again have sex with an orangutan again, no matter how hot she is or how much she wants it] I'm on my way to the drug test.

I look at my handy dandy list of locations and see that there is a lab right up the street from me. I also notice that there is a lab on the way back home. Hmmm...decisions, decisions. Well, being the bright guy that I am, I decided the best thing to do was catch the lab right up the street. They closed at four, and it was about twenty after three, so, you know, since it was all of TWO MILES away, I figured I should be ok. I know, I know- I'm Ryan. Things NEVER turn out ok. You'd think that after 23 years I would get the hint by now, but you'd be wrong, kids. You'd be wrong.

So, I'm starving. I literally have not had a single bite to eat all day. Hell, I haven't had anything to drink, either. Not even a sip of water.

Fine. This shouldn't take too long, right? So, I get gas and a liter of water, head over to the lab, pull up to the front door sometime around 3:40, grab my paperwork and proudly walk toward their establishment only to find...that they moved. Up the street.

Oooohhhkay. So I jump back in my car, race out of the parking lot, and it hits me: I don't know exactly where the hell I'm going. I know it's a left on Dupont, but I'm not ON Dupont- I'm on Chandler. So, is it a right or a left on Chandler?

Seeing as how I had less than half an hour left at this point, I decided to just make a left on Chandler and hope to God I was going the right way. So, I'm driving, I'm driving, I'm driving. Not seeing Dupont. Streets go by, songs play on the radio, more streets go by- not seeing Dupont. Shit. I'm going the wrong way.

So, I make a U-turn, head back the other direction, back track about two miles, drive the ADDITIONAL two miles I was supposed to drive in the first place, finally see the street and turn. I've now got a little more than ten minutes left to get to this place.

I finally see the parking lot, swing into a space, and glance at the clock. It's now 3:55. I've got five minutes to be in this place or I'm toast.

Ok, ok, no problem. I'm trying to keep calm here. I look up and see two buildings standing in front of me. But which one has their office?

I'm looking for suite 210 here. So, I walk to the first building, and the directory proudly states that their offices start at suite 211. Ok, no problem, great...this isn't the building. Through process of elimination, I must be looking for the other building. Except the other building only goes up to 205. Ok...what the FUCK is going on here?

So, there I am, bouncing back and forth between these two buildings like the ball in a game of "Pong", running desperately out of time. This makes absolutely no sense, but, since it is my life we're talking about here, it of course makes perfect sense.

I run into one building, look around desperately, thinking maybe they're just new to the building and haven't been added to the directory yet. No such luck.

I run back across to the other building, hoping for the same thing. No such luck.

Then I notice a lab. It's not the lab I'm supposed to go to, mind you, but it is a lab. I'm thinking maybe it's the same company and they just recently changed names but haven't changed their sign yet. Nope. But the helpful woman there did point me in the right direction- the really tall building across the parking lot.

So, I dash over there, hoping to throw myself at the mercy of the lab, hoping that they'll take me even though I'm getting there right at closing. As I walk up to the lab door, I see the last two employees leave for the night. Great. So, I didn't make it. Surprise, surprise, sur-fucking-prise.

Just for shits and giggles, though, and because I'm a glutton for punishment [or a "life masochist", as I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs] I decide to check the sign on the door. It says, and I quote, "Drug testing cutoff is 3:30."] Yes, that's right, folks- it was all a mute point, anyway. I never had a chance in hell of making it in the first place, and ran around from building to building, freaking out, for nothing.

I get back in my car, defeated. Then it hits me: hey, there is another location here that closes at five! It's a long shot, but I figure it's worth a try.

So, I call a friend of mine.


Me: Dude, I need your help.

Friend: Dude, I'm not helping you dress in drag again. Getting that heel on last time was a bitch.

Me: Dude, that's not what I need help with.

Friend: Is it money? 'Cause you still haven't paid me back from the last time I lent you money.

Me: No, it's not money.

Friend: Bail money?

Me: No, it's not money.

Friend: [Pause] Did you get caught banging an orangutan again?

Me: No. Listen, dude. I need to you mapquest this address for me. I need to get to this other drug-testing place.

Friend: Oh, yeah. I know that place. Yeah, I went there just earlier today.

Me: Ironic.


So, after his computer goes painfully slow, he starts to read me the directions. And then it hits me.

See, here's the thing. Life just can't ever cut you a break. And any time you start to feel even the slightest bit lucky, like life is handing you just a tiny thread of hope- God has to swoop down and kick you square in the ass to remind you of who's in charge.

You see, I have a hernia. Well, I think I have a hernia. For about the last ten years or so, I have occasionally had this very, very painful bulge pop out of my abdomen at random times. It seems to match just about all the symptoms of a hernia, and I actually talked to a nurse who said, yes, from what I had described, it definitely sounded like a hernia. Now, even if it isn't a hernia, it sure as hell is something because, trust me on this, it is EXTREMELY painful, and stops me dead in my tracks every time it happens. So, just for the sake of the story, I'm going to call it a hernia, but I'm telling you right now, that's what it is.

Ok, anyway...at the moment my friend starts to read me the directions, my hernia pops up. Badly. So badly, in fact, that I have to get out of the car, stretch, push at my stomach, trying desperately to get this pain to go away so I can get on the road. Seriously, it gets so painful that I wouldn't trust myself to drive around a parking lot while it's hitting me, let alone across town.

Of course, there's nothing like groaning in pain while you've got your buddy on the phone [and somewhere, far away, I can hear God laughing.]

Now, you've got to access the situation with me here. I'm LATE as it is. I'm barely going to make it to this other lab in time as it is, and then, out of nowhere, my fucking hernia kicks in. It hasn't popped up in months, and, suddenly, now, of all fucking times, here it is. Like the herpes outbreak you get on your wedding night. Yeah, it was just turning out to be that kind of day.

Once the pain finally subsided, I jotted down the address and was on my way. Except, this time, I was going to damn well call to make sure that I could make it by the time of their cutoff. After all, this place is fifteen miles, and THREE FREEWAYS away from where I'm at.

I pick up my phone, dial, and a few seconds later am speaking to someone who is waaay too cheerful, who informs me that their cutoff is 4:30. I look over at my clock and see that the time is....drumroll please...4:27. Yeaaaah!

So, all in all, after this nightmare of a day, I didn't end up making it to my drug test. Fortunately the temp. agency told me that I could just go in and do the drug test Monday morning instead. But, this whole incident just goes to prove the point I set out to make when I started this blog- kids, don't even try in life. If you try, you will always fail. No, no...don't get optimistic. You will ALWAYS fail.

Until next time- austa pasta, kids.

e-Anxiety.crap

So, I'm sitting here at my lovely computer one night, contemplating the "ifs" of life. My blow-up doll just punctured for the fifteenth time, I was a bit drunk and a little down and decided that I needed a girlfriend. Because this is the sort of decision one should make while they're drunk. Coherency is key to such life-altering decisions.

In my mind a magical commercial flashes. There's a gray haired old man, and a few different couples, all with wonderful stories to share of love, exhilaration and sexual fulfillment.

It goes something like this: "Hi, I'm Johnny Happy-Go-Lucky, and I met Mrs. Happy-Go-Lucky on E-Happiness. I was lonely, and looking for companionship, but I wasn't sure I'd ever find it. It just seemed like I wasn't compatible with anyone. Then I took E-Happiness's patented Personality Test, a forty-dollar value that they gave me for free and I met the love of my life. It was magical. It was like..."

"...Electricity," the wife interjects lovingly. "When we kissed for the first time, it felt like..."

"...Magic," the husband finishes.

Then this kind old man appears on screen and says, "Hi, I'm Joe Schmoe and I started E-Happiness to match couples based on two hundred and seventy two levels of compatibility. We guarantee that you'll meet the love of your life here at E-Happiness, the love that will last."

So, being the poor, sad sap that I am, I decided to try this website's "Personality Test." I figured, what the hell? So, I went on the site, burned through three hours, twelve cups of coffee, three Twix bars and two packs of cigarettes, and finally I was done. I waited with barely contained glee and anticipation as the computer loaded the next screen and I wondered, "Wow, I wonder what amazing and beautiful woman the site will find for me."

I mean, here it was. This was it. I had been waiting my entire life to find the woman of my dreams. I had sat alone at night and cried myself to sleep because no one understood my little eccentricities like gnawing at my pillowcase or cuddling on the sofa with a life-size Alf doll. All my life I had been told that there was someone out there for everyone, the perfect match that would make my life complete. I wanted that. I needed that. And now, thanks to his "Personality Test" and E-Happiness's guarantee, I was finally going to have it. This was the solution to my problems. It was right there at my chubby little fingertips. Of course this would work. I had no doubt. After all, the commercial said it would, and TV never lies!

Then it happened. The page finally started to take shape. Pictures popped up. Words began to form. Then I read it. And my heart sank.

"Here at E-Happiness we can find matches for just about everyone. Unfortunately, there is a certain segment of the population who just doesn't have a match in our system. We figure it's about ten percent. Unfortunately, you fell into that ten percent category and we couldn't find you a match. We appreciate you taking the time to check out E-Happiness, and we wish you luck in your search for love."

And there it was. In one fell swoop, the last vestige of hope that I had had been drained from me. No Alf snuggling with someone of the fairer sex. No lovemaking beneath tropical skies somewhere in the Bahamas. No watching Golden Girls re-runs while lying in each other's arms. No, I would be doomed to spend the rest of my life alone.

Then I got to thinking about the commercial. I got to thinking about life and love and all that sappy, happy crap that Hollywood tells you is going to happen. And I realized that this big, faceless corporation that ran E-Happiness duped me! That's right, folks. As hard as it is to believe, a corporation actually acted unscrupulously. They promised things that didn't come true. This was an outrage!

So, as I sat down and thought about this situation, I thought that maybe E-Happiness needed to put some truth into their advertising. Of course, they probably wouldn't score nearly as many clients. Still, it would let you know what you were getting into. I mean, could you imagine if they showed things the way they really are?

I think it would go something like this: "Hi, I'm Johnny Happy-Go-Lucky. I met my life, Mrs. Happy-Go-Lucky on E-Happiness. I took their 'I'm desperate for someone so I'm going to spend twenty worthless minutes filling out this stupid questionnaire and lie straight through my teeth but it's okay because the other person is doing the same thing' personality test on the site. Man, was it accurate! Within twenty minutes I was on a date with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and when we kissed it was..."

At this point, the wife interjects and says, "...magical," because, you know, in real life couples really do finish each other's sentences. "It was magical," the wife continues, "it felt like..."

"Electricity," the husband finishes, because he's a sexist and mustn't let the wife interfere with his manhood. "It felt like a sudden jolt of electricity. Except not the kind where you die. I mean the metaphorical kind, where I knew I was going to get laid."

Then the old man would show up, "Here at E-Happiness, we have a personality test that matches you with the person who will seem like a perfect match at first, but once you get to know them, you'll realize that they're a selfish, arrogant, nasty little prick with about three STDs and a history of psychological problems."

Then back to the happy couple.

"So, we ended up getting married, and then she told me that she had herpes."

She laughs and says, "I remember when I told him. You should have seen the look on his face. Oh, it was priceless!"

Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky continues, "So, to get back at her for being deceptive, I went and slept with my ex-fiancée and ended up getting her pregnant."

The woman, still smiling, says, "And it turned out I was pregnant too."

"So, I have to make child support payments to my ex, and I've got this old battle-axe here who won't let me leave the house because she's a needy bitch. And, of course, I can't have my friends over anymore because they're a 'bad influence' on me."

"And he's an emotionally abusive, controlling bastard who expects me to cook his every meal and clean up after him, even the streak marks in his freakin' underwear," Mrs. Happy Go Lucky cheerfully adds.

Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky says, "And I have the funny feeling that she's sleeping with my best friend, and is going to divorce me any day."

Then, of course, they say in unison, "Thanks, E-Happiness!"

And then another man pops on-screen, this one ten years younger and thirty pounds thinner than Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, and says, "I actually met Mrs. Happy-Go-Lucky here on E-Happiness, and now we're having an extra-marital affair together. Thanks, E-Happiness."

Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky shouts, "You son of a bitch!"

Mrs. Happy-Go-Lucky and her new beau ride off into the sunset on his brand new motorcycle while Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky contemplates suicide.

Then the old man shows up again and says, "That's ok. E-Happiness can help you find a new wife."

"Go fuck yourself," says Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky.

The old man flashes his fake smile and says, "So join E-Happiness today, and we guarantee you'll be paying alimony by tomorrow."

What's the lesson here, kids? Don't date. Don't ever date again. Resign yourself to a life of terrible solitude. It'll save you a lot of pain in the long run.

A funny thing happened on the way back from Wal-Mart [Ode to an idiot]

Let me preface this entry by saying that this is another of my patented stories that go nowhere. If you're a friend of mine [and you are if you're reading this blog] then you know what I'm talking about. This is me venting my frustration in a hopefully humorous way. But this isn't going to be all that exciting, so if you have a prostitute waiting in the other room, but you decided that THIS would be more fun and important, go ahead and go back to her. You can read this blog any time, but herpes, well...you can only get herpes once. It's a special moment.

So, don't say I didn't warn you. Don't come back later and say, "But, Ryan, that story had no point to it. Why did I spend my time reading it?" Look, dumbass, I warned you from the beginning so save the drama for yo mama, fool!

So, with that out of the way, back to your regularly scheduled blogging:

There are many positive attributes about me: stunning good looks, indisputable and seemingly endless charm with the ladies, expert athleticism, the ability to burp the alphabet backwards while jumping up and down on one foot and helping an elderly woman across the street while also giving Heimlich to a dwarf. Yes, there is no disputing that I am a god.

Of course, no one is perfect, and what I do lack sometimes is common sense. You might say I'm an idiot [and you might be right.] Just earlier this week, I nearly set my house on fire [don't ask.] While that might be a bit too much idiocy for one blog [maybe later] I do have a short, pointless anecdote from today that I'd like to share. I know that the idea that I have even the slightest flaw is hard to believe [I could hardly believe it myself] but trust me on this one- I do.

So, I'm a very lazy person. After about, oh, I don't know- eight months, I finally dragged my lazy ass out of bed this morning and did the unthinkable: I washed my car.

My poor car has been baking in the sun, splattered in the carcasses of dead bugs and covered in dirt. It was about time that I actually did something about it [apparently, even if you wish REALLY HARD, the car will not eventually wash itself. Wish I had known that.]

So, I did what any honest, hard-working American would do, I went out there and washed that thing front to back. Then I checked my tire pressure. Then I went in and cleared out the inside [there are only so many old McDonald's bags one car can actually hold. Apparently that number is six hundred and nineteen. Who knew?]

Finally, after all that was done, and my back was fucking killing me, I decided that I would check my oil, because I heard on Bill O'Reilly that you're supposed to do that every once in awhile [God, that Bill O'Reilly knows EVERYTHING!]

So, I checked my oil and, low and behold, the car apparently doesn't oil itself either. Seriously, it's bad enough that we don't have flying cars yet [in the year 2006, for God's sake] but we can't actually make a car that does all the maintenance itself? This is all the democrats' fault.

So being the responsible car owner I am, I decided that I would head down to my local Wal-Mart and buy some. On my way out the door, my dad made the observation, "It's almost time for an oil change anyway, isn't it? Why don't you just get an oil change?" Well, see, I was going to get my legs waxed today, and it was either that or an oil change, so I decided I'd get my legs waxed. That, and I figured it would take too much time to change my oil, and the Sock Puppet Wrestling finals were on at three. I didn't have time for things like oil changes and bowel movements.

So I headed down to Wal-Mart, picked up the oil, dabbled in the auto department for awhile [as any self-respecting MAN would do] pretending that I knew what I was doing, and started my trek back home.

It was then that I decided to make a fateful stop at a gas station. Once my car was filled with the delicious fluid, I figured, what the hell, and decided to put the oil in right there.

Now, it should be noted, and it will become apparent why I'm mentioning this later, that I actually thought to myself "Maybe I should do this at home. I have margarine in the car that will melt." And I actually thought to myself these exact words: "Well, it will only take two minutes, I'm sure it will be fine."

So I pour the oil in, I grab the cap, and proceed to drop it STRAIGHT INTO THE ENGINE.

Oh, crap. Of course. Of course, of course, of FUCKING course. So, I'm looking in my engine, trying to see the damned thing [and, of course, I didn't have a flashlight in my car] and I can't see it.

So, now I'm thinking, "Ok, I'll just pull forward a little bit and dislodge it. Maybe it will fall out." Now, my brain, whom I ignore most of the time, jumps in and says, Wait! Maybe you shouldn't turn it on and move it, it could damage the car. I say to myself, "Naw, I'm sure it'll be fine for a few feet."

Nope. Now I've got oil sprayed everywhere under the hood.

So, I do what any self-respecting 23 year old man would do in a situation like this: I called my dad.

I mean, look: I'm all out of ideas here. I can't reach the thing, can't even see it, maybe he can give me some ideas. Maybe this has happened to him [though probably not, these things ALWAYS happen to me.]

He says, "Well, if you can't find it, you'll have to just buy another cap."

Of course, I don't have any cash on me.

So, he heads down there to bail me out [as usual], and as I'm waiting for him, like a dumbass, I decide to turn my car on. Because, you know, I wasn't fucked enough. And my hood was up, so now oil has sprayed all over my windshield. You know, the windshield I just got done cleaning an hour before.

So my dad gets there and the real fun begins. Within seconds, he looks inside my engine and can see the cap, just sitting there. He says to me, "Well, maybe we can find a long stick or something to push it out."

I look around, thinking to myself, "Goooood luck finding a stick long enough," but, sure enough, there is a long, wooden post just sitting right next to the gas station. What luck! Maybe I'll actually send God a Christmas card this year. Maybe he decided to stop messing with me.

Nope. The stick post thing doesn't fit. Crap. Well, at least she's laughing somewhere.

Ok, so then we decide to jack up the car, which means that I'm now laying on the concrete inside of the gas station, sticking my hand into the engine, and I manage to push the damn cap back further. And now my hand is completely covered in grease.

So we head down to the auto parts store up the street. Of course, they don't have a replacement cap. Fortunately, there's another store a little further up the street who does have it.

Great, now I've got a replacement cap, but what of the mysterious original that is now residing deep within the asshole of my engine? Never fear, dear readers, I did eventually get it out. I had to come home, jack up the car again and I was finally able to reach it.

Then I had to rewash my windshield. All in all, this whole process took somewhere around six hours.

Alls well that ends well, I suppose, but today has taught me something about life. Something very valuable, which I am going to hold onto for the rest of my life: I am never washing another fucking car ever again. The damn thing can rust and fall apart for all I care, it's just not worth it.

The truth about Pluto

Even more proof in the news this week that science is a bogus proposition and should be halted immediately.

For those who are living on Mars [hee hee] and somehow don't know the astonishing revelations of the past week, Pluto was declassified on Thursday by the all-powerful megalomaniacs in the International Astronomical Union. They believe, apparently, that they can control the universe and just decide willy-nilly who lives and who dies, who stays and who goes. Instead of focusing on one of the big boys, they decided to pick on the weakest one in the group.

Well, I for one am sickened by this turn of events, but there's nothing I can do, short of going down to the studio and speaking to these assholes myself. So, since there's nothing that can be done to change this decision, I decided that what I could do is pay tribute to Pluto, that most wondrous of all beings, the only way I know how: through a blog on the internet that only three or four people will read.

Pluto started life humbly back in 1930, when a drunk sailor named Walt Disney decided that his animated studio needed a dog to fulfill its contractual obligation with the Iams dog food company. He first made his appearance in the cartoon The Chain Gain and soon grew in popularity as the faithful sidekick to Disney's trademark character Mike the Loveable Parasitic Tick. Unfortunately, Warner Brothers had already trademarked Mike the Loveable Parasitic Tick, or MTLPT, as the kids liked to call him, and after a huge lawsuit, Disney gave up that character and created the little known Mickey Mouse.

Pluto was discouraged but did not give up. He withstood this temporary setback and began to blossom under the loving hand of Disney. Soon his trademark face was merchandised the world over, ensuring that Disney would never again be without drink.





Around 1975, however, smack in the middle of his forties, twice divorced from two different bitches and knee-deep in cocaine, Pluto attempted suicide. Fortunately, Mickey found him just in time. He called the police and Pluto was admitted to a mental institution.

About a year later, sober now and with a new leash on life, Pluto set out for new adventures.

His life had been devoid of controversy for most of the years since until earlier this year when he revealed to the world that he is, and always has been, gay. He quickly divorced his third wife, the now past her prime Lassie, and moved in with the true love of his life: Foghorn Leghorn.




Above: Pluto always acted like a ladies' man, but we knew the truth.



Just a few weeks later, the International Astronomical Union has decided to declassify him. Coincidence? I think not, my friends. Just look at the grief that Mars was subjected to when it revealed that it wanted a sex-change operation years ago. The IAU has shown time and time again that it is closed-minded and extreme in its beliefs. This insanity must be stopped!

So, here's to you, Pluto. A toast to the pooch that had the bravery to admit that he liked Donald all along. We hope that the IAU realizes how incredibly silly this decision is and decides to let you back into the fold.

Does Hallmark have a card for that?

Call it The Passion Of The Schmuck.

I like Mel Gibson. I've liked Mel Gibson since I was fifteen years old and saw him in Lethal Weapon 4. He just emanated cool, and I've been [semi] following his career ever since. Hell, I even greatly enjoyed The Passion, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

That's why it was so utterly disappointing, strange, and, let's admit it, downright goddamn funny over the weekend when Mr. Born-Again himself, Mel Gibson, was busted for drunk driving, and, in-between resisting arrest [a crime for which he has NOT been charged, by the way] and sexually harassing a female officer, he happened to let out some interesting feelings about the Jews. Specifically that they are "responsible for all the wars in the world."

Now, this upset me greatly. Not because I'm half-Jewish, and not because it's a part of my heritage. I'm not upset because he was acting like a complete bigot, and I'm not upset that he would probably rather have Jesus come back and hawk Budweiser than see me, as a semi-Jewish person, prosper in this world. No, what upsets me the most is that he LET OUT OUR GODDAMN SECRET.

It's true. We do run the world. The funny thing is, everyone just thought we ran Hollywood. Yes, that is true too, but there is a much bigger truth. Jews have been behind so many historical events, it's not even funny. Did you know John Wilkes Booth was a Jew? No, that's not really true, but it could have been. Or, how about that second shooter in the grassy knoll? No, he wasn't a Jew, either, but it could have been. Well, despite that, we have unleashed quite a bit of evil on the world, though- just think of Barbara Streisand. And War Of The Worlds? Directed by a Jew.

But we're also part of a great secret society, sort of like Skull and Bones, but not really. We sit around on Saturday nights, eat Matzo Ball soup, listen to some Neil Diamond and discuss how we can control the world next week. You should have seen what we were up to last week:

Irving: So, what is it we're here to talk about?

Me: Oy! My soup is too hot! My mouth is burning like a schlep! Irving, what are you trying to do to me? What, are you some kind of a schlameal?

Irving: Me? No! Just blow on it and let it cool off.

Me: Let it cool off?! Are you nuts? It's only good when it's hot.

Irving: So, what do you want me to do?

Me: What do I want you do to?! Look at this guy. Can you believe this? What does he want me to do?


Ok, so it went on like that for about two hours, then we were all tired so we went home. But don't let that fool you. We were trying to figure out a way to get Adam Sandler his next movie project [not an easy task, by the way], get Star Jones her own television show and, to round it all off, start a few wars. See? We're evil geniuses. Not bad for a night's work.

But I digress. Look, Mel has been all over the press repenting his drunken sins, and I think that's terrific. I also think, though, that he's repenting for the wrong thing. Truly, what he needs to apologize to the world for is Signs, but somehow, I don't think that's going to happen.

So, I've asked myself: how should Mel Gibson make up for his grave comments? He's already been speaking with religious leaders, and says he wants to discern the "appropriate path for healing." Well, you know, when you get arrested for something minor in our society, you often have to do community service. Well, I think to replenish his tarnished image, maybe he should have to do some Hollywood community service of his own. I've come up with a list that I think would suffice. After doing the following things, which are especially brutal, he could say pretty much whatever he wants about the Jews or anyone else, and I think everyone would consider him forgiven:

1. Be the second-billed on a Rob Schneider movie. Sure it would be a blow to your ego and your career would almost be guaranteed to be over, but come on! It would go out with a bang! You could be in Deuce Biggalow 3 as Deuce's ultra-cool new pimp.

2. Become a Neil Diamond impersonator. Good times never seemed so good, did they Mel? Ah, yes, I can see it now: the shiny blue vest, the poofy black hair, the swiveling hips. I would pay a million dollars to try and see Mel belt out a verse from "Sweet Caroline".

3. Become circumcized. Yes, nothing says Jewish like cutting off a piece of your schlong. Come on, Mel, it won't be so bad. In fact, for bonus points, you could always do it the traditional way- we'll have a briss! The tabloids'll eat it up. Think about it- just you and about thirty of your closest friends and relatives as an eighty-year old rabbi with bad eyes tries to take a little piece of your sponge. Besides, I'm sure you wouldn't mind the free wine you drink before-hand.

4. Become Richard Simmons's personal assistant for a week. No, as far as I know Richard Simmons isn't Jewish, but, since Mel's such a glutton for punishment, I'm sure a few rounds with ol' Rich couldn't hurt. Besides, it would be funny for the rest of us. "Are you sweating to the oldies, Mel? Well, you're not sweating ENOUGH!" On second thought, we don't want Mel to commit suicide. Even the strongest among us probably couldn't take a week of Richard's company.

So, there you have it. Four suggestions for Mel Gibson to try and repair his image with the Jewish community. Don't worry, Mel. You'll be making hack sequels like Lethal Weapon 5 and Braveheart 2 before you know it. Just remember to apologize- and not in Aramaic, either.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got bagels and lox waiting for me in the living room. There's a Seinfeld episode on, and I'll be damned if I'm going to miss it.

Give me a stage where this bull he can rage: A movie rant by a film geek

I'd like to move my way out of the humor category for a moment [if you can even call my previous blogs "humor," after all, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit] and speak about one of my passions, hopefully igniting the flame of my two or three faithful readers to indulge in said passion as well, and we can all live happily ever after. Now, I know that I've covered this topic before. In fact, I actually covered it in my last post [and if you actually read my blog, you would know that. But you don't. That's ok, I poisoned your soup. We're even.] I feel that the subject should be explored further, however, and this time from a positive instead of a negative perspective.

I love film. There is nothing in the world like the feeling you get when a movie gives you chills, or leaves you with an overwhelming sadness or a ray of hope. I love the art of storytelling and the way in which a movie is paced. I love seeing a brilliant performance that is so good I forget entirely that I've seen this same actor before, in a million different parts, and for a couple of brief hours, they are the character, indistinguishable from the fantasy world the story weaves.

My obsession with film [specifically independent and smaller features] began a few years ago, though I'm not completly sure what started the fire. If I had to pinpoint, I would probably say it began with seeing Pulp Fiction for the first time. That film opened my eyes to what a movie truly could be, beyond the tired cliché of the Hollywood elite. It was a film that broke all of my expectations, weaving ingeniously elements of humor, suspense, drama and, finally, a moment of uplifting redemption. I will never forget Sam Jackson's speech in the coffee shop, and the words "I'm trying real hard to be the shepard" will forever be etched in my memory.

I would say the next film that really grabbed my attention, and secured my fascination with art films, was American Beauty. As soon as the words "My name is Lester Burnham. In a year, I'll be dead" were spoken, I was hooked. I literally had a chill go up and down my body and I was immediately engrossed in this character's world and struggle.

As the inevitable mortal end drew near and finally presented itself, I had been so immersed within the story that I felt a sharp sting when the infamous incident finally happened. It was an amazing feeling, and one which I've tried to replacate with every film I've seen since.

I enjoy many movies, and certainly some reach the status of "very good," but there are few movies that have left me practically speechless. There is only one film where I actually was speechless, and, I swear to you, I couldn't find the words to describe what I had just seen. That film was Raging Bull.

A friend of mine [and remember, everyone on this blog remains annonymous] invited me to a film festival at his college. We were going to catch the closing night movie, the aforementioned Scorsese masterpiece. I had rented the film before on the recommendation of a teacher, but didn't really give it a chance, and actually turned it off before the opening credits were over [they bored me.] Looking back, I'm pretty ashamed that I didn't give movies more of a chance, and I will never do such a thing again.

So, I'm sitting in this theatre with about a hundred other people, not sure what exactly to expect, when the lights go down and the music starts. A slow, somber melody that sounds like it's from the thirties while a couple of credits go by over a black screen. "A Martin Scorsese picture?" I ask myself, finding it a bit odd and interesting that he would credit himself this way instead of the usual choice of wording: "A so and so film."

A few moments later, the music kicked into high gear and the beautiful melody immediately set the emotional stage. There before me, on a fifty foot high screen, was Robert De Niro, bouncing around a boxing ring in slow motion. The entire screen is covered in black and white, and beyond the ring, behind a wall of fog, I could see the lights of camera bulbs going off one by one. I had a revelation at that exact moment- this was incredible. Before the opening credits had even finished, I was in.

The film itself did not disappoint, as I found myself connected to the characters more than I ever had in a movie before, and De Niro's anguished screams of "Why?" later in the movie will forever be the best scene I have ever had the pleasure to witness. There wasn't a single part of the film that I would change, it was as close to flawless as you're going to get in the movies.

Afterward I was completly overwhelmed with joy. No, scratch that. It was more than joy. My friends, what I felt after that movie ended was no less than euphoria. I'm not kidding. As silly as it may sound [although if you've ever been to a movie that made you feel that way, you certainly don't think it sounds silly] I felt downright euphoric, and all at once realized that that was absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best film I had ever seen [and I still feel that way to this day, about four years later.]

As my friend and I walked out from the confines of the theatre into the dark night, there was only one thing either of us could say [and I'm not making this up]: after some conversation in the lobby, once the movie was brought up, we were suddenly lost for words, and for a good couple of minutes, the only thing either of us could say was "Wow." It was actually kind of funny.

Me: Wow.

My friend: Yeah, wow.

Me: Seriously. Holy shit, seriously, wow!

My friend: Totally. Just...wow.

Me: I mean, I mean...wow, man. Wow.

We were literally speechless [and not high, you smartasses.] I think it's safe to say that neither of us had ever been so sucked into a movie, had been so transported that we felt forever changed once it was over. Movies would never be the same after that.

It's an incredible testament to art itself that film can take one out of their ordinary [or not so ordinary] lives and transport them to another world. You sit in a dark room and watch millions of tiny pictures played out fluidly before your eyes, and somehow it has the power to change perception, challenge tradition, affect emotion and induce thought. Film can make everything that's bothering you in your life disappear, if only for a few hours.

So, if anyone wonders why I'm such a film geek, that's why. When I see a film that brings me near that state of total euphoria [although nothing has topped Raging Bull for inducing that feeling, a few have come close, i.e. Memento and Adaptation] it reminds me of just how unbeilevably powerful moving pictures can be. The art, the incredible craft and attention to detail that a great artist can bring, the transportation to another world, and the deep personal connection you feel to a character or emotion the movie is trying to express are all reasons why I trudge through so many films I don't like. I'm looking for another diamond in the rough. If I can ever see another film that even comes close to the feelings that my favorite movies have given me, then all the time spent searching will be well worth it.

That is why I'm a film snob. I have no time or patience for movies that try to appeal to a mass demographic, or the lowest common denominator. I have no interest in watching the same tired story rehased and paraded in front of my eyes for the sake of making a few bucks. Why settle for McDonald's when there's a gourmet restaurant right up the street?

So, I'm going to head off and watch a film now. Maybe Raging Bull, maybe Magnolia [that scene at the end always gets me- if you've seen the movie, you know what I'm talking about, "Come back, you fucking asshole..."], perhaps an old favorite like Back To The Future. Or perhaps I'll try something new. Something that really opens my eyes to a fresh perspective. Or perhaps I'll stumble upon a tried and true formula that's actually done in a unique and creative way. Or maybe I'll just end up seeing the latest romatic comedy starring Ben Affleck and some generic actress [although I won't begrudge him Chasing Amy, that is a terrific movie.] Or maybe I'll just shut up and go to sleep.

So, here's hoping that you, dear reader [as Stephen King would say] find yourself immersed in an amazing film tonight. Here's hoping you'll spend an hour afterwards anxiously discussing the movie with friends, analyzing every last detail and relishing in the memory. Here's hoping you end up finding a new favorite, one that you will watch over and over again for the rest of your life, able to quote it beginning to end.

And, finally, here's to art, and the artists who create masterpieces.