The Worst Pants... Ever

So my leg is tearing up my pants in the back. The metal hinge is ripping a hole in all of my good pants. My cargo army camo pants? Looks like I took a piece of shrapnel while diving into a foxhole. My tear-away basketball pants? Tearing away in the back. My MC Hammer parachute pants? Ruined. All would have been more viable options than the pants I wore to work today.

I don't know where I found this awful piece of clothing, but I looks like I reached into my closet and pulled something from the early 90's. The worst khaki slacks that were ever sewn by a Malaysian sweatshop worker. They didn't fit right, so you could see my socks. And the bottoms of the legs were elastic cuffs, so they not only
restricted my ankles, but they looked like I should be wearing them in special ed class. They were so old, I think the brand is Oshkosh. In fact, I probably wore these pants to my Catholic confirmation.

I looked like I should be getting shaken down by a bully for my lunch money. My stupid slacks were a neon beige, waving in potential muggers. There should be colorful suspenders attached the top of them; with pieces of flair pinned along them. And the only shirt I could have worn to match would have been a button-down with a pocket protector hemmed into the front and a kick me sign embroidered on the
back. They suck.

And let's not forgot the giant poof in the front. Apparently these awful pants come standard with a massive bulge just below the belt, like I'm carrying a litter of three. It looks like I have a fanny pack on.

Actually, these pants are perfect for shoplifting. They're old and ridiculous, so they wouldn't match anything from a real store in the past decade. They have a pouch in the front for stuffing sweaters, candy, or 42" televisions. And the bottom is elastic, so nothing drops out when I'm strolling out the door. In fact, I bet I could steal a real pair of khakis with these pants...


I know you can't see the disaster that is my pair of pants, but feel free to add onto the ridicule. Just imagine something Steve Urkel would wear if he was still relevant.

Mark Foley is a Silly Goose

Congressman Mark Foley recently resigned from the House after allegedly having inappropriate communications with male pages. Foley was a Republican Rep. from the state of Florida, known for its old people, hurricanes, and “hanging chads.” (I’m sure there’s an innuendo joke there, but there’s plenty more where that came from.) And for those of you who don’t know what a page is, it’s basically an intern that’s underage.

Rep. Mark Foley is not to be confused with Chris Farley’s famous SNL skit, Matt Foley, who “lives in a van down by the river,” while the former Congressman, gives in a van down by the river. (See, there’s a quick and easy joke.)

After ABC posted information about emails and Internet chat conversations he had with teenage pages, he resigned on Friday, September 29. Mark Foley, ironically/hilariously, was an active opponent of the exploitation of children and internet predators. He was, however, a proponent of the local YMCA, Boy Scouts, and altar boy training programs.

News organizations spanning the globe were quick to point out that Foley was single, unlike the most recent homosexual scandal involving Governor Jim McGreevey from New Jersey, who was married with a daughter. Foley claimed to be living the bachelor life, having a good time, and cruising the local t-ball games for potential pages.

Fox News, known for its always balanced journalism, even put “who is single” in the lead. There’s no need to try to help the guy find a date, guys. He’s had a hard enough time with relationships recently without the news writing a Match.com ad for him.

“Creepy old politician enjoys long walks on the beach, watching wrestling, and inappropriate internet chats with minors. Email me a pic of you blowing out the candles at your sweet sixteen. Must love dogs.”

In recent developments, Foley has cited everything from mental illness to alcohol abuse to sexual confusion as excuses for his actions. Foley has even checked into alcohol rehabilitation saying he has “accepted the need for treatment for alcoholism and other behavioral problems.” According to his lawyer he regrets what happened and apologizes to his voters. He also wishes he wasn’t required by law to go around and tell those same voters when he’s moving into the neighborhood.

When I asked him to comment during an interview about his alleged sexual abuse of underage boys, he instinctively asked, “a/s/l?” I responded with “are oh eff el em a oh,” uncomfortably. But soon Foley made me feel right at home, tussling my hair and giving me a lolly. He asked me to call him Maf54, so I did, and before we knew it we were in our boxers discussing who was horny. Things happen. I was crazy and drunk and oh-so confused.

Foley’s department store declined to comment on the developing story, but an unnamed source did tell us that a sale had boy’s pants half off. And we laughed and laughed at that old joke. An oldie but a goodie. Like Mark Foley. J/k. J/k. Ttyl!

My Weight Loss Solution

I realized today that I’m developing a bit of a stomach. Not that I lacked one before, but I’ve noticed a distinct pooch forming where there once was a cute little tummy. I’m not exactly doing the truffle shuffle just yet, but at least I no longer look like a young Mr. Burns. I do, however, resemble an albino African child, with my bloated stomach and my feeble arms. Plus I have an American sponsor that feeds me for just pennies a day.

I ordered a delicious Frosty treat from Wendy’s the other day (don’t worry, I got a small) and figured out why Houston and its neighboring Texan cities are so fat. The instant they handed me the Frosty it started to melt in the heat. Then it was a race against the clock as my ice cream cycled through the three stages of matter right before my eyes. I didn’t know sublimation was possible for tasty treats, but it was shifting from solid to a gas faster than I could spoon it into my hole. Then I got an ice cream headache so bad I forgot where I was.

But I decided I’m going to do something about it. No, not the Frosty fiasco, I mean the extra pounds. I need to shed some of this extra weight, if only for better drag and less wind resistance... it’s simple physics. But exercising makes me sweaty. And I’m nervosa that if I start in with the anorexia I might miss Big Macs as much as I miss the guy that says, “God bless you” at the drive-thru window. And bulimia makes my throat tickle. So I’ve settled on the one and only way to help me lose weight: tapeworm.

If I could somehow get a tapeworm all my problems would be solved. I could eat whatever I want. I’d be like a proud pregnant woman who jokes, “I’m eating for two now” while I’m stuffing my face with peanut butter and deep dish pizza. I think I’d make a great host too, offering it a cornucopia of decadent foods. It would be a perfect ‘give and take’ symbiotic relationship, just my new friend and I taking it all in.

The adventures of Jeff and Tapeworm would be us two laughing it up with our mouths full of Jujubes, shopping and gossiping like a coupla gals. And Tapeworm would say something funny and I would squirt milk out my noise and it would say, “Aw damn, that woulda been tasty.” Because tapeworms are silly like that.

Bugs

I have what the Orkin man would call a bit of a bug problem. It’s not an apocalyptic apartment take over, nor is it just one bug going for a jog across my floor. It’s somewhere in the creepy-filled center.

You see, my apartment isn’t invaded by a parade of crawlers. Instead, my place has become a bug graveyard. They are migrating to my floor to die. My apartment is Florida for all things insect.

Bugs are hiding in the corner knitting and playing canasta, then struggling to the center of my room to keel over. A family of dead grasshoppers washed up my back porch seeking freedom and citizenry. When I’m gone, there’s a Bingo mixer and a swarm of geriatric fruit flies reminisce about when they were young earlier that month.

I’m not greeted by a wagging puppy when I come home from work, but a Heaven’s Gate june bug reenactment. Just a row of 234 legs in the air. I’ve fostered some kind of deplorable, yet delicate ecosystem that only I can survive. The bad news is that I now have a dedicated kitchen utensil for flinging carcasses off the porch. The good news is I save a ton on bug spray by being a disgusting human being.

A spider broke its hip by my bed and lay there helplessly until its eight eyes glazed over. I put a silver dollar over its eyes (and entire body) and wept for lil’ Charlotte. I stood there like Wilbur in my literal pig sty and mourned for a moment before I side-armed the limp speck onto the sidewalk with my spatula.

Which One Doesn't Belong

I came to a realization earlier today that I just shouldn’t go in public. I have no business schmoozing or pretending to be social unless I’m safely surrounded by the cocoon that is my comfort zone.

I left the apartment today in business casual slacks and a nice polo shirt. I’m lookin’ mighty fine and I don’t care that I wore the same thing yesterday. I just had to run a few errands and then I was going right back to slouching around the living room until Monday morning.

On my way back, I’m cruising with my windows down, music up, and hair just blowing in the wind. But it was bright out. The sun was setting and my eyes were all squinty. So I root around in my console for some sunglasses and come up with nothing but a pair of oversized blue blockers. I could have gotten pulled over at that moment and confused every cop in the city. But I don’t care because I’m cruising.

Then I stop at a stop light. Note to self, don’t ever stop when you look like Maverick from Top Gun, only gayer. Just keep on going until you’re home or there’s a pileup.

I’m rocking out in full force. The music is cranked, and I am mouthing the words and thumb-drumming. Just an absolute embarrassment, but oblivious to anything past my scrawny arm on the window ledge.

Then I look over through my gigantic brown sunglasses and a beautiful woman is staring at me. I can’t tell if she wants to laugh right in my face or if she’s stunned that someone could be this embarrassing. I wish I could tell you I did something cool like wink or peer over my sweet sunglasses at her, but instead I just shrunk in my seat along with my self-esteem. I just reminded that lovely lady why she doesn’t date nerds.

I get home and I’m trudging back to my apartment, hanging my head in shame. And there’s a pool party going on. Some nobody is working the PA system outside for a bunch of my neighbors. Of course I don’t recognize a single one, because I’m a hermit, but I seemed to remember something about a dinner. Now I know I’m not comfortable at any event where the drinks are called refreshments, but my stomach is growling for free food.

Right away I know I’m overdressed. Let’s put it this way: I’m the only one wearing a shirt. Even grandma was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and looking at me quizzically. And on top of that I’m the only person my age there. The entire party is made up of kids up to the age of maybe fourteen and adults starting at thirty-five. And I show up in a Polo, age twenty-four, and ask for a plate so I can stuff my face with free hot dogs. But I can’t just grab food and scamper home, so I stand in the corner and watch the train wreck that is the limbo contest, complete with Pee-Wee-Herman music and awful commentary. Someone tried to hand me a raffle ticket, but I declined on principle. As soon as the last little kid fell on his coccyx I bolted before the start of the Macro/Polo tournament and the conga line.

I will never go in public again.

We're Gonna Be Friends Right?

Today I met my new sales team. I won’t say which company, but that’s not really important to the story. I basically just talk on the phone all day and as we say, “book the biz.” Well, no one really says that but me. And I say it to my mirror in the morning before I stuff a Pop-tart in my face and saunter off to work.

This whole week has been a week of training calls. Calls come in, I stammer a little bit, we work up a deal, and then they let me know when they’ll get back to me. And if I’m lucky they “hollah back” and I “book the biz.”

I’ve been doing well though. So well, in fact, that my upcoming manager has been raving about me to my new team, before I even get there. “You’re letting the new guy beat you?” and all that. Fantastic. I’m the kid in the class everyone hated. I’m that kid who raises his hand and says, “Um, miss? You forgot to assign homework.”

So today I’m moving from the kindergarten playroom to the big kids’ area. The training wheels are coming off. I get a desk and everything.

I sent an email to my manager asking where I should show up on Monday. Valid question right? He sends me an email back saying, “At your desk. I’ll have Bob show you where to go.” I am a zero. Of course my desk, where did I think he wanted me to report? “Yeah, how about you head on over to building eight, third floor conference room, and sit Indian style facing the corner until someone remembers you’re alive.”

Bob is my coach. Nice guy… I think, I can’t really read him. The guy has a permanent poker face. And he’s huge. He could crush my skill just by thinking about it. Needless to say I’m intimidated even now just knowing he’s out there somewhere, waiting.

He came in and I’m still on the phone, so he stood behind me. Now I’m nervous because I know he’s listening, but now he’s perched in perfect neck-snapping position. Then he sat down and stared through me. I finally stumbled to another non-close and he motioned for me to follow him to my desk.

I walked down the hall like a lap dog, slightly behind him. I’m a five foot nothing and he’s a six two beast-man who could very well have been Nitro on American Gladiators. I had to quicken my step to keep up with his lumbering stride, as I’m holding onto his out-turned pocket like a prison bitch.

Bob points to my desk. It’s kind of odd because it’s not an empty desk on the row, but it looks like it’s occupied with personal items and such strewn about. Then he says, “This was my desk. They’re making me move.” Apparently I’m displacing Bob the Skull Crusher to another row so that I can sit in this desk. The horror of the situation kept me from saying anything. But what would I have said? “Um yeah, I’ll probably put my snow globe here, where that trophy is… And I’ll probably pin a photo of my dog up here where there’s a picture of your wife…”

Then Bob paraded me around the cubes to the rest of my team. Remember, these are all people who know nothing about me other than that I’ve been making them look bad the past week. So they’re thrilled to meet me. Each one sarcastically acknowledged me, “Oh, you’re that Jeff? Yeah, heard a lot about you; had that big sale today… Greaaaaat.” And I nervously laughed, “Hehe, um yeah I got a little lucky. Nice to uh… finally meet you and everything. We’re gonna be friends right?”

My manager is cool though. He’s me in 20 years; an awkward nerd who sometimes has no idea what to say. Plus I have to like him, since he is the only one who seems to be fond of me on the new team.

But we’ll see how it all goes. It was really only the first week and I’ve been known to exaggerate. Or maybe I’ll just get promoted in a few months and won’t have to worry about it. I’ll ask him if the whole team should come in on Saturday.

"Why Can't I Quit You?"

I think it’s time to stop the Brokeback Mountain jokes. It was six months ago. Get over it.

Sure, it was mildly humorous at the time. What’s not hilarious about a guy named Jack… and Ennis… herding sheep.

White trash mongoloids are finally shaking the shock away from their limited mental capacity and responding with a slew of bad puns and lame parodies. Bareback Mountin’ wasn’t even chuckle-worthy the first time, now it’s downright retarded. The slow people are just now jumping on the bandwagon that rolled to a halt a long time ago. You know why it stopped? Because the horse that was pulling it died a while back and has since been beaten into an Elmer’s bottle somewhere.

Like the guy on Fox news who made an incredibly tasteful and not-at-all homophobic remark about the film… yesterday. I’m glad one of the hosts of the morning show Fox & Friends is up to date on what’s happening in the world. A very timely joke there, Julian. Way to be on top of things. And way to be professional.

If you’re gonna make a dated reference, at least make it funny. Because who doesn’t love a Hootie and the Blowfish joke? [Besides maybe Darius Rucker (Hootie sans the Blowfish.)] And you see what I did there? I mentioned the Blowfish and Brokeback Mountain in the same rant and didn’t stoop to an obvious crack about gay sex. The way Hootie would have wanted it.

It’s sad that some people need a tap on the shoulder and the hand slash in front of the throat motion. “Oh, we’re not doing that anymore? Damn. What are we going to do about Scary Movie 4?”

What’s also kind of depressing is that the big controversy distracted from what was a great year in film, including Best Picture “Crash,” which happens to be a film about tolerance, go figure.

Another film that was nominated for Best Picture many years ago is a movie called “Deliverance.” This is a film that includes a very disturbing sodomy scene that is selectively forgotten by most people and replaced by “that movie with the dueling banjos.” On that note, I wonder if Brokeback will ever be known as something other than “the gay cowboy movie.” Maybe “the movie where Heath Ledger tries, but ultimately fails at pulling off a country accent.”

I’m hoping this little rant nips the Brokeback jokes in the butt... And let’s bring on the “United 93” jokes.

Goldfish, Fish Sticks, and the One That Got Away

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things on my shopping list. I had no idea that fate would also be on that list.

I wandered the isles, tossing things into my basket haphazardly and wrestling with the rogue cart with a shaky wheel. I stopped a moment to re-examine my list, crossing off "fate" and wondering how it got there. Then I looked up.

And there she was, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, standing among the cheeses. I stood there staring and holding a package of bun length ball park franks. Then our eyes met. The rest of the world seemed to melt away. Cheese melted into hot dogs, like a tasty treat for an afternoon snack or late evening meal. Stunned by her beauty, I dropped the delicious meat sticks into my cart next to the Lunchables and the Count Chocula. She smiled and turned, making her way to the Gouda. Our game of cat and incredibly attractive mouse had begun.

I paused for a moment to absorb the hilarity of her being a mouse in the cheese section.

She withdrew and I pursued. I backed away and she followed. I steered my cart into an adjacent aisle and pretended to read the instructions on a box of Pop Tarts. We caught each others glances through the Ramen noodles. I pretended to chug an entire gallon of milk and then fake throw up on myself and she laughed. And when she giggled it sounded like a bell ringing. Like the kind of bell that when it rings, an angel gets its wings. An angel like this one.

Finally I drew up close to her and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Then, after she adjusted her hearing aid, I repeated my nothings. She swung her wheelchair around to face me. Again, I was amazed by her beauty. The dim fluorescent lighting brought out her eyes among the dark circles and the wrinkled bags. I told her my name and she had a coughing fit. She looked so cute bent over, gasping for air. After a minute or so, she managed to wheeze out a response. I said, "Ethel, that’s a beautiful name. So Ethel, can I call you some time?" She muttered something about a rotary phone and shakily jotted some numbers on a box of prunes. I happily placed the box in my cart. Not the big area, but the top section, where you strap in the toddlers. You know, for extra care.

She forgot who I was after that, so I sensed the conversation was over. I steered my cart away and headed towards the checkout. But, hoping for one last look, I peered over my shoulder. She was feebly trying to maneuver her cart, but had gotten it tangled up in a display for adult diapers. Our eyes met one last time and I mouthed "I’ll call you." And she yelled, "Huh?"

I never really spoke to her again, but to this day I remember that moment. The only contact I have with her is on my birthday, because every year she sends me a dollar.

Neat

I hate the word neat. Not the neat where things are tidy and straightened, but the kind of neat where it means good or interesting. You will never hear me say THAT version of neat, ever. I might say “bad ass” or “totally rad,” but never “neat.”

If I ever say the word neat, you should beat me up immediately. Kick my ass ASAP.

In fact, I have a special set of nun chucks in the event of such a mistake. They’re labeled with the word “neat.” Not the ones on the middle shelf, those are for every day use, but the nun chucks on the top shelf are locked away for such an occasion. You’ll know them because written below it says, “In case of ‘neat,’ break glass.” Smash it. Grab em. Beat me. Especially over the head because I don’t want to remember ever uttering the word. If I happen to slip into any sort of coma, pull the plug STAT. My eulogy will read, “Died suddenly when inexplicably said the word ‘neat.’” My family will understand.

Here’s the kind of guy that would say “neat:”
He’s holding hands with his newly wed wife, and they’re strolling along in the park, smiling brightly because they just finished a duet of “I got you babe” together. And they’re frolicking among the flowers and squirrels and skipping arm and arm.
And the wife looks over at him and says, “Some day when we have kids—.”
“Timmy and Sarah,” he interrupts lovingly.
“Yes, little Timmy and Sarah. We’ll have to bring them to this park.”
And he turns to her and says, “That would be neat.”

I mean, come on, the guy needs to be nun chucked to death. Ninjas should catapult from nearby bushes and trees and other shrubbery, nun chucks flailing. Striking blow after blow, they beat the neat out of him. Even Chuck Norris shows up and kicks him a little. That would be neat.