A Day Of Rest

Everyone has days in their life when a 90-hour workweek catches up to them and they give in to the snooze button that’s weighing down on their eyelids. 

A day when they are content with wearing nothing but sweat pants, and laying in bed with a bag of peanut butter M&M’s, catching up on the latest season of “The Big Bang Theory”.   

Days like these make the quarter mile walk home from church the only form of physical activity I will be performing whatsoever. 

And also make me not care one bit about writing a moving 900-word blogpost just to keep a smile on the faces of the handful of readers out there.   

Today is one of those days.  

This Is Why You Suck

A few days ago a dear friend of mine had a celebration on behalf of another candle being added to the birthday cake she blows out every year.  In between Olive Garden dinners, bags of chocolate, and a cheesy Wal-Mart card making jokes about her booty, I think it was an overall success for her turning the ripe old age of…

Wait, what am I doing?  That’s one of the cardinal rules of womanhood.  NEVER reveal her age. 

For full effect, download “Der Bluten Kat” by Umphrey’s McGee and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

As the birthday evening was winding down there was a knock on her apartment door, and in walked a man who could be classified as, well, let’s see, what category would I put him in, a friendboy? Yeah, I think that would work.  A guy who is more than just a friend to her, but also not someone who is worthy of a changed relationship status.  Come on, we’ve all had a few of those in our lives, haven’t we?

As he waltzed in hours after all the birthday events had ended, to wish her congratulations and join the now almost dead festivities, he said he had a sweet present for her.  The Ted Mosby inside me expected something like an overly stuffed bouquet of red roses, or an authentically signed novel by her favorite author, or a cooler full of her favorite brand of ice cream driven all the way from Texas.  But instead, he gave her the cheapest rip-off gift any pinhead friendboy could think of, a handmade coupon book. 

Cue the roar of groans and headslaps from the audience.

What is this, Mother's Day, 1991? Come on man, you're killing me! For those of you who are unfamiliar with this cheap excuse of a present, the coupon book is essentially a beggar’s way of giving a gift.  It’s a few sheets of paper decorated with acts of service as well as some of the quirks that defines one’s relationship all sketched out in crayon, and I daresay every one of us has handed out one of these things before, right along with a polyester tie and a hand-stitched batch of oven mitts.

And then we all turned seven, and stopped being useless pieces of crap to our parents. 

For the record, I would like to issue yet another formal apology to the female gender on behalf of muttonhead schmucks like this who feel a few stapled pieces of construction paper with their handwriting on it constitutes a legitimate present for you.  Actions like these are what help me understand why so many of you ladies out there settle for the “projects” that litter the dating world every single day.  If a girl ever gave me one of these, there’s no question I would begin to consider batting for the other team.

Coupon Book Project: “Can’t you see, this one says ‘Good for one 15-minute back massage’.  I would hold on to that one.”

My Dear Friend: (forced laughter) “Oh thank you.  That is so sweet.”

Coupon Book Project: “And if you’re lucky, there is more where that came from. If you know what I mean.”

Cue perverted night stalker’s laughter from his end, and a whole slew of eyes being rolled from everyone else's.  This is just wrong.  Insensitive, disgraceful, and flat out cruel to anyone who has this forced upon them, especially my dear friend who had to sit through ten minutes of this joke. Gifts like this cue Ryan Reynolds’ character talking to himself in the flick “Just Friends” and stating as the camera zooms out, “You’re not worthy of a penis.”

To the coupon book buffoon in the room next to me, neither are you.

Where's My Diaper?

Last night I went to bed before 10 pm for the first time since 8th grade.  I think something is seriously wrong with me.

For full effect, download "People My Age" by John Gorka and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Seriously though, I think Father Time is catching up to me.  And that is starting to make my undies a little bit soggy with trepidation.  THERE! I DID IT RIGHT THERE! I SAID THE WORD UNDIES! WHO SAYS UNDIES FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, JOAN RIVERS?! Who says soggy either?  That's an old person's term too.  Same with the phrase, "for crying out loud." What is happening to me?

And I'm not saying that just because my bedtime was before the sun went down yesterday that I am automatically qualified to be in the post-menopause club.  Wait, do guys have menopause too?  It has the word "men" in it, so I'm assuming they go through it as well.  But seriously, I am to the point in my life where I am actually thinking out my life scenarios, and adjusting the choices I make because of what is best "long-term" for me.  It's like I'm a walking retirement plan, or living a real Met-Life commercial.

Take for instance the other night when I got into a heated conversation with Keith Tronic about the advantages and disadvantages between having an FHA or a conventional home loan.  Those are discussions that only Ben Stein or any potential accounting majors would have, not this guy! But I had that discussion and I hashed out my reasoning for wanting a higher mortgage payment.  Listen to me, I'm saying phrases like "mortgage payment", I'm a mess!

And it's only getting worse.  My new favorite sport is golf. I fall asleep to reruns of "House Hunters" on HGTV. I began using an electric razor. Heck, I've even started to get my bowel movements to fall on a normal cycle.  That's right kids, I have come to the point in my life where I have established a regular schedule to poop. I am that old. And please, don't bother me in between 9:10-9:16 in the morning, I'll be occupied.

Vanessa: "He has a five year plan."

Big Daddy: "What is it, don't die?"

Yeah, that's me.  The one who Adam Sandler makes fun of for being geriatric.  The one who doesn't make little kid jokes about Viagra, but will probably be on a daily dosage of it instead.  The one who still thinks blogging is a cutting edge form of social media! I am at the end of my rope. Can someone out there please find me an estate planner, I think I am about to the point in my life where I need to have a legal, binding will in stock in case the man upstairs calls my number.  Either that or someone ship me to the nearest rest home, I'm ready to play bingo for six hours a day.
 
And as long as I can plan my poops, I'll be fine.

After Midnight

You'll probably be calling me a hypocrite by the time you're finished reading this, but the best part is that I don't care at all.

For full effect, download "I Love It" by Icona Pop and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

Due to the fact that it's Sunday, you may be looking for some positive/spiritually uplifting/tear-inducing post about the meaning of life and the invaluable lessons I’ve learned over the past week.  But this isn't one of those posts. This is one where I want you to imagine a slow-motion Lebron James hovering toward a basket, followed by a time-lapse scene of a broken street in Akron, Ohio, then followed by a sharp cut to black with a Nike swoosh giving you the motivation to go out and do something great in your life.

This is a post where the grumpy bear inside me slaps your ego upside the head.

I haven't seen a car on this street in 20 minutes. But then again, in a town full of Metamucil junkies who curse me out using only their gums, who says there is supposed to be any type of conscious activity when it's quarter to one in the morning?  At the same time, I don't care that I'm the only one awake enough to lace up a pair of New Balance runners. I don't care that in a normal world I should have dozed off to reruns of “Saturday Night Live” by now. I don't care that there isn’t anyone else out here with me keeping track of my pace every mile. I just flat out don’t care. 

But you?  You care a lot, don’t you?  You care about what people will think when they see that one picture your team posted after finishing the race, with the tagged line at the bottom saying you were there, you were a part of that honorable group of individuals. Or what about the hand-carved, copper-plated finisher’s medal you received with that little spinny thing in the middle that shows both sides of your accomplishment.  You care about people liking the picture you posted of that piece of rock with the caption, “Ragnar” just below it, so when they’re liking and commenting left and right you will think they have a voice in the back of their heads saying, ‘this kid is a badass.’ 

I often wonder what the real motivation is behind you signing up to be in a Spartan Race, or LOTOJA Competition, or any other one of those half-mustered group 5K’s that an obese Oompa Loompa could achieve record times in after having started training just after breakfast got over that morning.  Is it a memory you want to log in your journal later that night so you can brag to your future posterity about the athletic skill you once held?  Is it so you can feel the camaraderie with a bunch of other Associate-Degree seeking nimrods getting shocked in a mudpit by groups of hanging static wires in your faces?  Is it so you can arrogantly place a sticker on the back of your yellow mid-size SUV, so all of the lesser-qualified fairies in Dodge Calibers won’t be upset when you cut them off on the freeway, because after all, they should be amazed and owe you respect for what you accomplished.

And you wonder why the media is predicting narcissism to be a worldwide pandemic?

I come to a stop in the middle of the desert and have an unspoken moment with God that Steven Spielberg couldn’t dramatically recreate on film.  Being out here.  Alone.  After midnight. Moments like these are the real reason I keep lacing up my shoes.  Moments like these put a picture of a beach with some cheesy inspirational quote superimposed over the top of it to shame.  Moments like these are what I would consider my own personal motivation.  And no, I don’t care if you like or comment on this scene of my life on Facebook, because my self-gratification does not revolve around other people’s online pity.  

But that’s me.  My drive is not the same as yours.  And that’s fine, because really we are all wired just a tad bit differently.  My motivation is late-night runs all alone when no one else is watching that will put bags under my eyes and soreness in my joints when I’m collecting my retirement checks.  And yours may be mouse clicks on a picture that will be lost and forgotten in the archived world of Facebook in the years to come.  So what if you're a superficial prick who needs compensation by adding another Ragnar sticker to the back of your X-Terra, at least you’re doing something, right?  Whatever push you need to get off your apple fritter-coated butt and get out there and run, it doesn’t really matter.   

Just Do It.

Summer Has Lost Its Luster

Today marks the worst day of the year.

And no, this is not the Anniversary of when the Backstreet Boys released a mix album with New Kids on the Block, however that piece of music is a shame to humanity in itself.

For full effect, download “Tubthumper” by Chumbawamba and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

Today is honestly the most pathetic, most gruesome, most dull-inspired day that we are all forced to endure every single year.  Today feels worse than getting a canker on the roof of your mouth after eating nine bowls of Cap’n Crunch.  It’s the day when using sandpaper as deodorant feels better than watching what Sportscenter is airing 24 hours a day.  It’s a day when true sporting events die, and we all have to try and stomach the hot days of summer with the joke of a game known as baseball. 

Ugggh, I think I might join a quilting club to make the days pass by it’s that stale.  Can somebody please buy me some fabric?

If you have paid attention to any form of media coverage online, on your TV, or on that little device that vibrates in your pocket, you may be familiar with last night being Game 7 of the NBA Finals between the San Antonio Spurs and the opponent that shall not be named.  It was a great contest with a certain team being crowned the champion, a slew of champagne bottles being uncorked left and right, and a 6’9” 245-lb. behemoth of a creature saying that he couldn’t wait to go to Disneyland. 

But after the festivities had stopped and the elationary cigarettes had fizzled out, we all had to face the fact that we would now have baseball forced down our throats for the next three months.  And not just one boring type of baseball, all boring types of baseball.  I’m talking Major Leagues, minor leagues, NCAA championships, Pan-Am challenges, Little League World Series, everything.  Yes that’s right, we are so bored in the summer we have the number one sports broadcasting network do around the clock coverage of a team who think girls still have cooties. 

Announcer: “As you can see, Johnny Cartwright is a heck of a pitcher for the team from Hampton, Virginia. He’s got a slider you wouldn’t believe.”    

Color Commentator:  “You’re right, and Johnny just got an “A” on his spelling test and has a pet frog named Optimus Prime, this kid is a dandy.” 

And you wonder why I think the sports world has lost its luster in the summertime?

By the way, have I mentioned that as of today, June 21, 2013, the Major League Baseball season has only played 71 games?  Yeah, that’s right, 71 games.  They’ve been playing for over two months now and haven’t even reached the halfway point. True story.  Major League Baseball plays 162 games a year.  That’s nine innings of crotch-sniffing, dirt-smudging, signal-calling boredom that the American public is forced to endure every single summer.  Baseball to me is worse than being strapped down in a hair salon and forced to watch a looping Sham-Wow infomercial.  It’s a crime I tell ya.  

The sad part is that there is nothing we can do about it.  The rest of professional sports in this country have all died out, crowning champions left and right, and have all moved on with their preparations for the upcoming seasons which can’t start soon enough. Meanwhile the rest of us are obligated to deal with a bunch of grown men wearing makeshift Halloween costumes playing a game evolved from cricket.  There is nothing else in the sports world worth wasting any more time and energy on.

Wait, what’s that?  The Stanley Cup playoffs aren’t finished?  You mean the real sports year isn’t over just yet?  Never mind then.  Cancel my reservation with the quilting club

You're A Freak Of Nature!

You: “Wait a minute, you blog? Oh my gosh, who does that anymore?”

Me: “Uh…this guy, and I’m awesome at it too, so shut your yapper.”

For full effect, download “Old Grand Dad” by Fats Waller and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

Why do all of you think blogging is some form of ancient record keeping tactic that was created right after the Egyptians start chiseling out their hieroglyphic graffiti?  Give me a break people, are all of you just waking up to the digital orgy we’ve been living in since the Clinton Administration? I know, Weblogging is one of the first channels of social media, but just because I blog does not mean the first vehicle I ever owned was a pioneer handcart.  You’re throwing out way too many stereotypes here.  

You: “I’m so confused, you’re not a stay-at-home mother in her late twenties who writes posts about do-it-yourself garage sale ideas.  This doesn’t make any sense.”

You’re right, because when mulling over the terms and conditions that Blogger, or Wordpress or any other blogging site makes you agree to, the title rule says that any users of this program must have a minimum of three kids, have not put on makeup in the past six months, and have the physical and emotional ability to sync up their cycles. And yes, I lived in a household of women. I know what that phrase means. Believe it or not, there are a few male diamonds in the rough who know how to express their thoughts using a keyboard that are given full permission to blog.  And yes, I am one of those gems.     

You: “Wait, so if you’re not a woman, then do you blog to try and promote the latest fantasy/sci-fi novel/catastrophe that’s never going to be published?”

Does every single potential best-selling writer out there need to be categorized as someone with a blunder of an idea that they’re going to write the next Star Wars trilogy? No, I just like telling you the stories of my life that aren’t associated with a cosmic apocalypse.  Like the time I lied about being a schizophrenic on a blind date, or when I fooled my Grandma into believing I was gay.  These are the things that make you and me and everyone else laugh.  Just because they didn’t happen on a space station or in the not too distant future does not mean it’s a criminal offense to blog about them. 

You: “But you actually update your blog, like every other day.  Who does that?”

Umm, people who actually care about their blogs, which statistically speaking is less than 8.3% of the worldwide population.  I know that everyone else out there gets some kind of mid-life itching to accomplish something in their puny existence, which in turn leads to a rushed jumble of words with a few close-up photos of a beach scene with their husband and kids, only to be abandoned for six months when that mid-life itching starts up again and they feel the obligation to “update the old blog again”.  But hey, there are a few of us out there who know what we’re doing, are skilled at keeping you entertained for six minutes, and have more self motivation than a dehydrated camel to update our pages three times a week.  Yes, we exist. 

You: “Wait, so you’re telling me that you, a heterosexual man born in the 1980’s, who doesn’t yard sale hop in Park City every weekend, who isn’t showcasing the 19^th book in his Inspector Spacetime series, who posts on a consistent basis every other day or so, likes to blog? And you’re not piss-poor awful at it either?”

Me: “Exactly. Just don’t ask my Grandma about the gay part.”