April Fool's Day

This is a work of fiction inspired by actual events in my life. Names have been changed, but I'm still me.

(Love Interest: 1)
I suppose it all began—customarily enough—with a beautiful woman, and wanting to offer her the bare minimum required of a worthy boyfriend.

Amanda and I met at a bar. I was unaccustomed to meeting sweet and receptive women at such a place. She was unaccustomed to spending time in such a place whatsoever. I drew the latter conclusion after I caught her twice looking at me, pleasantly enough, and I introduced myself, confidently enough. We talked. On-stage 30 feet away, a raw yet rollicking band covered hard-rock standards. They employed a saxophone wired with pedal-effects in lieu of an electric guitar, which was a novel yet ultimately unsatisfying touch, I thought, but I didn't tell Amanda that because, hey, in due time and with all due respect, I was going to try to get laid.

During a reprieve from the racket, I let her know that although it's pointless to attempt coherent chats once the music begins to blare, I'd be happy to resume our talk after the next song. And this actually worked. Four local musicians did a raw yet rollicking and novel yet unsatisfying rendition of “The Ocean” by Led Zeppelin, and when I turned around, Amanda was still there and I really was happy to resume our talk.

We agreed that it's usually much more fun to watch others embarrass themselves on the dance-floor and comment on it than partake in such nonsense when one is not in the mood. I got bought her a rum and soda mixer and then I got her number. When she replied to my initial text two days later, I felt like a had no regrets.

A week later, we met for drinks amidst the omnipresent green and racket of St. Patrick's Day. Beneath that racket, as I inched closer to her in gradual increments, she offered that she lived on the outskirts of town, a brief commute from the college in which she pursued her masters in Nursing, mainly because her preferred option—located across the street from the campus—lacked a carbon monoxide detector.

I thought, That was the deal-breaker? Really? I've always rolled the dice on detecting carbon monoxide and I'm still breathing. Jeez—LIVE a little.

But I said, “Well, you can never be too cautious.”

When asked about which TV shows and movies she liked, she eventually relayed that she can't stand humor that is edgy, obscene, or satirical, that she is put-off and not at all entertained by shows like The Simpsons and South Park.

I thought, Sometime in the post-tonight future, I will have to show this woman the Homer tattoo on my arm , reassure her that it is both real and permanent, try to keep her sufficiently attracted to me,  and--oh, I don't know, just keep my fingers crossed.

But I said, “You probably hate that show Family Guy, right? Yeah. Me too.”

In spite of these demerits, I was still attracted to Amanda, the subtlety of her eye-popping curves, the mastery of shampoo and conditioner that she squeezed into her chestnut locks, her sweetness and unflagging willingness to study hard so that she could provide sick and injured patients with the best care possible.

She let me know ahead of time that she intended to be home before midnight, but I coaxed her to stay until 12:01. I walked Amanda to her car. When we hugged goodbye, she turned her face away from me. I obligingly refrained from forcing my tongue into her ear canal.

I thought, I must move out of my parent's house quickly in case the topic of my living situation is brought up the next time I see this woman.

I said, “Do you want to have lunch together next Saturday? Well, how about the Saturday after next? Cool. I'll see you then.”

You know what? This one has been revised so many times. You're better off getting the eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. Why in the fuck would I be shitting you about this?

It's rhetorical. See... I'm smart that way.

Offbeat Observations Not Found on Facebook

A few nights ago, I spent some time watching TV with a couple friends. During commercials, a promo for the remake of Total Recall was shown, and I quite honestly griped, "A lot of these kids today don't even know about the original Total Recall." That's right. At the age of 29, I've already begun starting sentences with the disapproving words, "A lot of these kids today..."

I was rightfully called out and kidded for saying such a thing, and I realized I had inadvertently provided myself with further motivation to delete my Facebook account. At my age, if you're going to begin a sentence in the fashion that I did, you don't belong on Facebook. You barely deserve to have an e-mail account. In light of that, I'm resigned to unleashing my grouchy nostalgia elsewhere, on a digital sovereign nation such as this blog.

On the drive home, my friend mentioned that he had read the final status I posted--which included the sentiment, "I sincerely want each and every one of you to know that I'd really like to stay in contact with half of you...tops"--and advised me not to take myself so seriously.

I replied, "Dude, that's why I'm getting off of Facebook in the first place."

What a verbal victory that was. Seriously.

Anyway, my plan is to provide some concise jokes and observation on this blog with greater regularity, and if the locals who asked to be my Facebook friend even though they don't acknowledge me in-person never happen upon these offbeat thoughts, that's better than OK: it's fantastic. I'm not going to miss that sort of maddening behavior in the real world.

But enough digital bridge-burning. Here are some jokes.

1.) In the movie Total Recall, after Arnold learns of the shocking fallacies of what he once understood as reality, he should have exclaimed, "ZEES IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE! ZEES IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE!" Then there should have been a musical montage in which he puts on a comically oversized suit, snorts some cocaine with David Byrne, and at last becomes a Psycho Killer.

2.) So-called "animal-expert" Jack Hannah is a moron! I saw just him on an afternoon talk-show, summarizing the traits of a certain kind of sloth, and Hannah mentioned how often the animal "goes to the bathroom." Sloths don't go to the bathroom, stupid; they just shit in the wilderness!

3.) One of my co-workers is incredibly difficult to understand when she speaks. She speaks in the feisty and hurried cadence of James Brown. Sometimes I find myself agreeing with incomprehensible gibberish. I'm in the process of writing a candid yet respectful note to read to her, in order to address the problem, but considering that she is in fact African-American, I might have to change the name of it. Its working title is, "The Enunciation Proclamation."

Wrote Some Dope Rhymes for Everyone

A co-worker kiddingly asked me if I had ever written rap lyrics, to which I replied that I did, actually, for a column that the college newspaper printed toward the end of a semester, when I was running low on ideas. Somehow the piece was stretched into 1,000 words or so—with help from an intro, a heavy metal number titled “Monster in the Attic,” and a conclusion, all of which have herein been omitted.

“Oh-Dawg” was my rapper-alias, which is especially nutty considering that I've never been a rapper and never will be.

OK. Bring on the embarrassing smut.

Dimples like Slater and I'm scrawny like Screech
Teeth like Zack thanks to Oral-B Reach
I'll rock your world like a 'quake from Cali
'Cause my beats is fatter (sic?) than Kirstie Alley*
So shake your ass like caffeinated maracas
I bling it prouder than B.A. Baracus
Been mackin' ladies since the age of five
Learned my ABCs between my teacher's thighs
I wore a 'stache harder than that chump Trebek
Bounce a dime off my abs 'cause I'm rockin' the Bow-Flex
Whack MCs be flies and I'm hungry as a frog
I'll sign their graves: “Courtesy of Oh-Dawg”
I got rhymes for Einsteins but theirs are for Gump

Girl, I'm the number one fan of the jiggle in your rump

Like chardonnay I'll just get better with age
I'll be snaggin' granny panties up and down the stage

*This was killer material in 2006.

Too Many Facebook Posts

The legendary Steve Martin released a book of Tweets earlier this year. It eventually occurred to me that if that iconic Jerk is OK with peddling digital fluff, amateurs like me shouldn't be deterred, either. And so I scoured through every status I've posted on the damn Facebook with the help of that overrated Timeline feature that's never going to make any of us even a little bit happier and selected the choicest jokes.

Experience has taught me that no one should ever do such a thing, but hey, amidst all the regrettable failures, disgusting self-indulgence, and idle threats to kill Lebron James, I found some keepers. For instance...

(Nick) has found that adding two simple words to pleasantries really darkens the tone of the sentence. Here's what I mean: "Have a nice day...or else." "Take care of yourself, and each other...or else." "Peace be with you...or else." It helps to smile glowingly for the first part and then narrow your eyes and scowl for the second part. Try it some time!

I dozed-off on the couch while a boring tennis match was on TV, but the players woke me up with their noisy grunting. So I turned to the screen and shouted, "Hey! Keep the racket down!"

(Nick) recalls watching Nightmare on Elm Street as a kid. I felt struck with bad vibes by that Freddy Krueger guy right away. "I don't trust that fellow with the claw-hand," I told my siblings. "Maybe I just need to give him a chance, but then again, I'm pretty sure he's up to no good." I was right, of course, and ever since then, I have considered myself a capable judge of character.

Wait. So, Titanic was based on actual events but Independence Day WASN'T? Whoa! I've had that ass-backwards for YEARS...

At a certain point in a heat wave, you're just asking to be punched in the face for asking the question, "Hot enough for ya?!"

At work today, I thought I heard a flawed and absurd weather report on the radio ...but as it turns out, 97.7 FM was just playing "It's Raining Men."

I wonder how Fred Flinstone settled on the catch-phrase, "Yabba-dabba-Doo!" Why, that's nothing but caveman gibberish, if you ask me.

In the '60s, women used to burn bras. It was an act of liberation, I guess. Far out. If I had to burn an article of clothing to make a statement of some sort, I'd set some neck-ties ablaze. They don't really serve a purpose other than fulfilling loopy social norms about formality. If a man doesn't have a vertical strip of cloth tied around his neck, all-too-often he is considered a slob. It's senseless! Someday I'd like to torch a neck-tie.

A nihilist once asked me what time it was. I replied, "What the fuck do you care?”

Earth Day. The one day a year I feel bad about dumping grease from my George Foreman grill into the neighborhood creek.

It'd be funny if, underneath every Easter Bunny costume at the local shopping mall, was a Jesus lookalike. He could hand out toys and candy to kids, then remove his bunny head and say, "And don't forget about ME!"

A flurry of snow in mid-April is almost more incomprehensible than the lyrics to "Informer" by Snow. (People stuck in 1992 are sure to like this one.)

I love it when Piggly Wiggly has a sale on bacon because their cartoon pig logo is shown grinning and presenting a package of pork. He should have a word bubble that reads, "Eat my cousins. They're delicious!"

Apparently some Christians believe it's a sin to do yoga. This means the following conversation may have taken place in Hell: "What are you in for?" "Rape, Theft, and Murder. You?" "One-Legged King Pigeon Pose.”

All the Mollys have been Flogged. All the Murphys Have Been Dropkicked. St. Patrick's Day is over, but I'm looking forward to April Fool's Day. Spoiler alert: I'm going to fake my own death.

Thanks to everybody for the birthday greetings. Did you know March 6th is also Shaq O'Neal's birthday? I only mention it because Shaq and I are starring in a buddy-cop flick together this summer. (Working title: Alley-Oops!)

Today's top story: "Would-be Sniper Pleased by Early Spring, Spares Groundhog's Life." (February 2nd, 2010. Get it?)

There is no harsher weather forecast than "Bitter Cold." I wish the weathermen acted bitter when telling us to prepare for Bitter Cold. "This is George Graphos. You're gonna have a God-awful time driving to work in the Bitter Cold of this frozen wasteland, you scum-bags. Now here's a babbling jack-ass to tell you about high school sports. Yippee!"

Weathermen name winter storms, which means that if 15 winter storms occur in the same season, we could be hit by an actual Blizzard of Oz.

I celebrated the New Year by screaming, "I'll see you in hell, 2009!"

Have you seen the new AMC series The Killing? It's about the investigation of a sordid murder mystery, and although he has yet to be introduced as a character, I'm pretty sure O.J. did it.

Whenever I cash in a massive jar of spare change at the bank in exchange for dollar bills, I say to the bank teller, "It's time to turn these caterpillars into butterflies!"

"Too weird to live, too rare to die." I think of that Hunter Thompson quote every time I spot a bald guy sporting a pony-tail.

I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button in rewind so the story was more conventional.

(Nick) goes to Wal-mart whenever he needs to feel less ugly.

(Nick) is loyal to the people he cares about as long as they don't turn into zombies. If or when that horrific transformation happens, then I'll be the first to smash your noggin with a shovel.

White supremacists must have terrible Fantasy Football teams.

Here's my impression of a morbidly obese person venting angrily on Facebook: "Dambn thease styubby fringers of mi9ne!”

Look, Smokey the Bear, I realize that forest fires are terrible, but as far as this accusation goes that we're the only ones who can prevent forest fires, I'd like to see you bears step up your game, too.

Amelia Earhart? The Wright Brothers? Sure, they've got their perks, but the only aviator to make the bold career move into peddling frozen pizzas is the Red Baron. And that's why he's my favorite pilot.

(Nick) only juggles chainsaws when no one is watching.

What ever happened to the VH1 series Where Are They Now? The conundrum is: We have no way of knowing.

King--no, wait--Queen James is never going to win a championship. My hand-grenades and I are going to make sure of that.*

(Oops. I was supposed to omit that one. Oh, well. Standards have fallen.)

Anyway, here's the last one I posted: I came into this digital world in much the same way that I'm leaving it: With zero Facebook friends.

Twist ending! Sorry, Facebook, but I'll be taking my talents to the same remote cabin in the woods that was once inhabited by the Unabomber. There I will live in seclusion, grow a beard down to my chest, and vent a scathing manifesto about modern times...on Twitter.

*Kidding. Please don't try to murder Lebron James by throwing hand-grenades at him.

Nick's Review of That European Soccer Thing

I didn't watch much of that soccer thing in Europe, but I was chagrined whenever Sportscenter covered that tedious nonsense. Aside from one instance in which I had misplaced the remote control and had to hastily search for it, I was able to change the channel quickly. That Alexi Lalas chatterbox is really starting to bother me, but thankfully, America's team failed to qualify for this summer's olympics, and so ESPN will no doubt scale back its coverage of the Soccer Menace.

Brief and accidental viewings of the European soccer thing confirmed that action, points, physicality, and hands are still frowned upon. This is mainly because the playing-field remains entirely too long and wide. The sport continues to be plagued by an overabundance of players per team--especially when one considers that so few of them ever do anything worth noting. The time-keeping and out-of-bounds policies remain a senseless mystery to me, but there's no point in learning more about the nuances of such a dismal sport.

Apologists of the sport maintain that the European soccer thing yielded some exciting moments, but they get aroused by game-play that goes absolutely nowhere for 45 minutes at a time, so who cares what they think?

Apparently Spain won; in fact, they dominated. Hopefully the rest of the world will become too dejected to challenge Spain in soccer ever again, non-Spaniards across the globe will simply give up, and the game will be relegated to but one country that hasn't been relevant since the death of Christopher Columbus in 1506.

In conclusion, at least nobody rioted over that boring crap this time.

Crisis Averted

This became a very short story during that unforgettable year of 2003 or maybe it was '04--hey, don't quote me on this--as part of my portfolio for a creative writing class.

On TV, the preacher droned on about the Seven Deadly Sins. This was not a topic of interest to the holder of the remote, who was only flirting with the other channels during an infernal commercial break in Sunday's football game. The steady rhythm of his thumb thumping on the channel-up button continued at the sight of the stern killjoy in black. The preacher's saggy jawline ground a condemnation of Sloth and he wanted no part of it.

But the batteries inside the remote had expired between clicks. Still lying belly-up on the couch, he fully extended his arm, pressing the button incessantly now, but to no avail.

The preacher cleared his gravelly throat and turned a page in the Bible and the young man thought, This is like driving through the ghetto and running out of gas!

In a fit of frustration, he spiked the remote against the carpet, but this act reminded him of a football celebration, which resulted in further trauma. The TV, he estimated, was fifteen feet away—a trek not fit for a pants-less youth unequipped with a canteen and a camel. He rubbed the blond stubble on his chin, coarse enough to grate cheese. At last, a faintly buzzing light-bulb flashed atop his disheveled hair, for he had recalled the cordless phone resting on his gut. He dialed his own phone number, hung up, and waited impatiently for his younger brother—who was playing Nintendo in the basement—to answer.

Once I did, I was ordered to hustle upstairs to change the channel back to the football game.