April 8, 2014
How to Watch Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am

My family, like many families, enjoys a television family plan. My parents pay for Netflix, my brother pays for HBO GO, and I supply Hulu Plus. It’s a great deal. More television than I can keep up with for $7.99/month.

But there is a downside. And that downside becomes very apparent when you want to watch Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am.  

For those unfamiliar with the film, it’s a beautiful story of a high school girl discovering her sexual identity, then entering a passionate relationship with another woman. If you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s great. The actresses are amazing, the dialogue is great, and the story feels real. There’s also an intense, six-minute lesbian scene that would make a porn star blush, which is why I feel obliged to share these simple instructions of how to watch Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am without anyone in your family plan knowing that you watched Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am.

As you probably know, there’s a Recently Watched section in your Netflix account. What you may not realize, is that you can’t deleted anything from this section. Once it’s in there, it’s in there. So if you recently watched Blue is the Warmest Color, everyone in your family plan will know that you recently watched Blue is the Warmest Color. Sure, you can casually bring it up next time you see your sister. You can tell her how real the love story felt, how great the actresses were, but what she’s really thinking when she sees the Recently Watched section of her Netflix family plan is, “Jesus Christ, my brother recently watched Blue is the Warmest Color.

Fortunately, you can avoid this situation. And I’m going to tell you how.

When you open Netflix, click on the settings tab in the top right corner of the home page. Once open, click “Manage Profiles,” then “Add Profile.” Create a new profile, watch Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am, then delete that profile. And it’s gone along with all with all the Recently Watched history associated with it.

Now I know what you thinking. “What if I’m watching Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am and someone in my Family Plan opens Netflix, notices that someone is currently watching something, clicks on my profile, and sees that I’m watching Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am?”

Good question. When you setup your profile, name it “Guest.” That way you can then tell the other members of your family plan that you gave your friend a guest pass in exchange for his Aereo.com login, but I think we should change the password because I have a feeling that guy is watching Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am.

In the end, your sister won’t think you’re creepy because who would really put so much time and thought into watching Blue is the Warmest Color at 3:13am?

 

April 1, 2014
24D

I made my way to the back of the plane bumping shoulders with my backpack and elbows with my duffle. When I finally arrived at my seat I found a middle-aged man with a faint mustache standing over it.

24D? he asked.

Yup.

Hey so my mom is sitting here in 24E and she doesn’t like flying much so I was wondering if I could trade seats with you so I could sit next to her. I’m in the middle sitting seat across the aisle.

You know I really appreciate it. Means a lot for us to be able to sit together.

Yes, thank you, sir, his elderly mother said.

So you’re OK sitting in my seat? he asked as he sat down in my seat.

No.

Oh I thought you just said…

I’m sorry, it’s just not a fair trade.

What’s going on? Are we not able to sit together Walter?

He stared up at me. So did his mother. So did the man across the aisle, the man waiting behind me, and the woman in the window seat. I stared back at him. I felt the line behind me grow restless.

Oh well um…

I backed up to clear the path back out of my seat. He hesitated then shuffled out.

I took my backpack off and put it on my seat. I then looked up at the storage compartment. It was full. There was a little room left in the compartment across the aisle so I stuffed my duffle up there. Then the man stood up with his bag. He looked in his compartment. It was now full. He then looked at me.

Sorry man. I put mine there first.

March 25, 2014
Reclaiming Sloppy Second

There was a time when “Sloppy Second” meant something great. It wasn’t an act to be ashamed of nor was it ever the punch line to an insult. It didn’t mean hand-me-downs, getting the scraps or going somewhere where one man had very recently gone before. It didn’t equal disgrace and it certainly wasn’t something you denied.

Sloppy Second was a badge of honor.

It was something you told every last one of your friends about. Sloppy Second was quickly added to your resume pushing French Kiss down a level for you had done something that you had only seen in the movie that you borrowed from Liam Corcoran and watched while your parents were out and you were absolutely certain they are not coming back anytime soon.

You kissed some boobs. And it was amazing.

Ahh…Sloppy Second.

Do you remember your first time? I bet you do. The time when you crossed the threshold from a French Kiss at a CYO dance or an over the shirt squeeze during Titanic and into a more intimate realm. An adventure that necessitated some privacy.    

The degradation of the phrase comes from the “s” that’s been added to the end. Sloppy Second versus sloppy seconds. That little “s” on the last word carries a lot of weight. Now don’t get me wrong, “sloppy seconds” is a clever phrase. “Seconds” implies going back for more and “sloppy,” well, that means you did it in poor fashion. Perfectly applicable for the situation that it’s describing.

Unfortunately, sloppy seconds is so much more scandalous than the beautiful act of Sloppy Second that the sheer magnitude of the events that warrant this label have simply overshadowed the simpler, softer, caressing embrace of Sloppy Second. That, and the fact that this phrase is applicable in a greater variety of scenarios. For instance, He got sloppy seconds on Sloppy Second.  

Ahh such a shame, such a shame. I disappoint myself just writing that sentence. It’s necessary to prove a point yet I proved a larger one: that I’m part of the problem.

I’m part of a herd that has forgotten the nearly tangible awe and excitement that used to radiate from the phrase Sloppy Second. I’ve forgotten that I once ventured into a basement closet at a boy-girl party as a boy, and came out six minutes later as an awkward boy who couldn’t wait to get on IM and tell his friends about the most amazing things that’s had ever happened holy shit man.

And that is why I am on a crusade to rid the stigma. I want to live in a world where our sons can proudly say, “Dude, I got to Sloppy Second. It was awesome. Kind of awkward because I wasn’t sure how long I was supposed to do it for, but dude, it was awesome.” And then get the high five that they deserve. I believe this dream is not too far away. The days of shameful sloppy seconds are coming to an end, and together we can reclaim Sloppy Second.

March 6, 2014
Apartment Warfare

I recently moved in with my girlfriend but that’s not what this is about. It’s about the woman who lives above us. My enemy.

Her name is Vanessa. She’s a middle-aged Hispanic woman with two daughters around 12 and 14 years old. We rarely see them and they rarely see us. We don’t bother them and they don’t bother us. Except when they bother us. Then I bother the fuck out of them.

A little about me: I believe it’s important to be considerate to those around you. Don’t talk on your cell phone in a room with others; don’t chew with your mouth open; and don’t talk, text or even look at your phone during a movie or I’m going to say, Psst. Hey would you mind not looking at Instagram right now? Your screen is distracting in this dark theater.

I find it’s important to detail the offense. It makes the person feel smaller and therefore less likely to do it again. Am I a dick? No. I’m considerate of those around me.

Vanessa, on the other hand, is not considerate to those around her. Vanessa is a cunt.

And I declared was on that bitch last Sunday night while watching Friday Night Lights.

Her shitty dog had been barking for five hours straight. Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap like a shitty dog. Nonstop. Five hours. I banged on the door after the first hour. Then again after the second. Then again after the third. Jane and I left and came back and that fucker was still barking. The fourth time I went up I sat down next to the door. Psst. Psst. Treat. Treat. Didn’t work. Vanessa’s shitty dog doesn’t like sleeping pills.

Half hour I heard their door open and the yapping finally stopped. I turned on Friday Night Lights. I was halfway through an episode when an explosion erupted from up above. Then gun shots rained and voices shrieked.

You gotta be fucking kidding me.  

I went up stairs and knocked on their door. One of Vanessa’s daughters opened the door and machine gun fire poured over me.

Hey, can you turn down your TV?

Moooooom! she casually called over her shoulder then walked back inside. I stood at the open door.

Vanessa appeared. She looked at me, shook her head, then stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

Hey, would you mind turning your TV down?

This ain’t the first time you asked me to turn my TV down.

Yeah I know. It’s really -  

-Ya know, I spoke to the super about you.

Oh yeah?

Yea. I been living here thirty years and you just move in and now you telling me to turn my TV down?

Actually my girlfriend’s lived here for three years.

I don’t care how long she been here.

It’s just that we can hear your TV perfectly and we can’t watch-

Well I have a surround sound system. Our TV’s gonna be loud. Ya know what, come inside and see it.

I don’t need to see it.

Nah come inside. I want to show you.

I’d rather not-

Come on. Come inside.

I followed Vanessa inside. Her children were sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. From the TV I heard “Get the fucking gun! The fucking gun! Get it!” I followed Vanessa into her family room as her shitty dog yapped at me.

Vanessa started again:

See this surround sound system? It gets loud. Here listen. [She turned the music up louder] What am I supposed to do? And see this speaker here? [She pointed at a two-foot subwoofer.] Ya know I used to have two of em. And I used to have all sorts of parties. You’re lucky I got rid of one. But I’mma still have a party every once in a while. I’ll turn it down just this once, but you can’t keep coming up here.

Her cuntiness left me speechless.

She walked me back to the door, her dog yapping the entire way. When Vanessa wasn’t looking I quickly flicked the heel of my boot to try to catch it in the nose, ear, throat - anywhere - but missed. That fucker was lucky. I was wearing my shitkickers.

In the hall, outside her door, I declare war on Vanessa. Back inside my apartment I surveyed my arsonal: two stereo speakers, two computer speakers, one iPod dock and one alarm clock. My war chest is weak compared to Vanessa’s. I knew couldn’t out-noise her. The question then became, ‘can I be as big of a dick as she is a cunt?’

Vanessa lives in a two-bedroom apartment like Jane and me. Figuring her daughters shared the larger room, I duck-taped every noise making device to the ceiling below their room. Two stereo speakers, two computer speakers, and one iPod dock duck-taped four feet below her children’s beds. I spread them out to make sure there was at least one speaker under every child’s pillow.

Then I waited.

Till 3am.

That’s when I turned on Bulls on Parade. Remember that one?

Rise and shine motherfuckers.

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Ahhhh mom! MOOOOOM! The man downstairs is blaring his music. Mom make him STOOOOOP. SHUT UP! SHUT. UP. MOOOOOM!

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

I heard someone jump down from a bunk bed. Then more yells. Shut up! I hate you and you’re stupid and ugly SHUT UP.

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Then the tears started. Tears of frustration. Tears of anger. Tears of exhaustion.

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Ignore him! He’s just tryin to PISS us off. Just ignore him – shut up your damn music! SHUT UP!

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Mom make him stop - PLEASE! Stop. PLEASE!

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

PLEEEEEEEEEEEASE!!!!!!

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Then the front door slammed. Then steps down the stairs.

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Then a knock at the door.

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

I opened it with a smile. Rage poured over shoulders.

[“Rally around your family / With a pocket full of shells.”]

Are you fucking seriously? Are you out your goddamn mind? It’s the middle of the night. I got my girls screaming-

I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me.

I’m sorry, what were you saying?

Turn down your goddamn music. My kids are sleeping.

Oh, I don’t have kids.

Well I -

I tell you what I do have though. I got these speakers. You know what? Come inside and see them. No c’mon, it’s fine. Come inside.

We walked through the apartment [“Rally around your family] into the room below her children’s room. [With a pocket full of shells.”]

You see, I have these two speakers, an iPhone dock, those computer speakers over there - see how they’re all ducked taped to my ceiling? What am I supposed to do with them? See this alarm clock here? I ran out of extension cords so I couldn’t tape it to the ceiling. You’re lucky.

I’ll turn them down just this once, but you can’t keep coming down here.

March 4, 2014
The Blind Bitch

She did it again.

Did what? You’re not talking about-

That blind bitch. Look, there she is.

Matt, she’s blind.

That doesn’t mean she can’t clean up her dog shit.

She can’t see. That’s her seeing eye dog.

Well, it’s shitting on our lawn.

Babe, you can’t get mad at her. She can’t pick it up. She’s blind.

She can feel around for it.

That’s gross! She’d have to touch it every time.

Just put a plastic bag over your hand. That’s what everyone does. Picking up shit sucks whether you can see it or not - it’s picking up shit! Actually, not being able to see it might be better.

Babe, you can’t expect a blind person to pick up their seeing eye dog shit.

Wha - I can’t believe you’re fine with her dog shitting on our lawn.

                                                 .    .    .

You gotta be fucking - Jane! Jane there’s two more dogs with her. Look. What the fuck?

You didn’t see her Facebook posts? She’s a seeing eye dog walker.

What?

A seeing eye dog walker. She walks neighborhood dogs. That’s her job. I think it’s great. Good for her.

Does she clean up their shit?

Oooh my god, still? How could she clean up their shit? She’s blind.

So she’s walking around the neighborhood taking dog shits everywhere? Great. Fucking dog-shit great.

Babe -

Her dog can’t even see colors but it knows when there’s a green light. And it can’t even point her in the direction of its own shit?

You’re not being fair.

How is she even posting on Facebook?

May 30, 2013

May 30, 2013
"I was thinking about…"

When were you thinking about that? While you were opening gmail again or scrolling down Instagram? Or was it while you were drooling down your newsfeed and clicking “play next episode”?

If you need to think about something then allot time to think about it. Set aside time to think about that thing and only that thing. No music, no texts - no electronics. Your brain can’t compete with them. They’re more interesting. That is, until you think back to what you were just thinking about and realize that you weren’t thinking about anything. You were staring without absorbing. Hearing without listening. Enjoying without processing. You were hypnotized. And you were in that trance for a long time. An hour. Five hours. The past five years. Now you have to think about something and you’ve forgotten how to think. You’ve been asked to find an original thought so you quickly flip through your website rolodex. They always have interesting thoughts. But they’re not your thoughts. They’re the things you stare at. You close your screen because three hours have somehow passed and you have nothing to show. You just have the pull to reopen your laptop so you can feel the warmth of your glowing screen.

If only you knew that the idea is hiding. It’s in Laurelhurst Park. On that bench next to waterlogged horseshoe pit. In that exact area where you can’t get reception.

May 29, 2013
The Annunciation

The Angel Gabriel appears to the Virgin Mary and tells her that she’s pregnant with the Jesus.


Mary: AHHHHH! GHOST!!!! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Gabriel: Mary! Mary, calm down. It’s OK. I’m not a ghost, I’m an angel. My name’s Gabriel. God sent me.

Mary: Wh-what do you want?

Gabriel: I’m here to tell you that you are pregnant with the savior of the world.

Mary: I’m what?

Gabriel: You’re pregnant.

Mary: Wait. How?

Gabriel: God has chosen you to carry his only begotten son.

Mary: No, I mean, how can I be pregnant? I’m not preggers. I’m a virgin.

Gabriel: Anything is possible through the power of our Lord.

Mary: FUCK. God got me pregnant? How do you even protect yourself against that?

Gabriel: Again, anything is possible through the power of the Lord. There was nothing you could do.

Mary: But I didn’t want to be pregnant.

Gabriel: God chose you.

Mary: So God wanted me pregnant so he just did it without asking?

Gabriel: Well…yes.

Mary: I mean, I would have said yes - wait. Wait. What am I going to tell my boyfriend?

Gabriel: Tell him the truth.

Mary: Tell him I’m pregnant with God’s kid? But don’t worry honey, I’m still a virgin.

Gabriel: Yeah…well…we’ll send him an angel if doesn’t buy it.

Mary: Man…this sucks. Joseph’s gonna kill me.

Gabriel: The Lord will protect you.

Mary: The Lord’s done enough for now. Give me some time to think. Are there any perks? Is there anything especially difficult about giving birth to God’s kid?

Gabriel: Well it has to take place in a barn.

Mary: I have to give birth in a barn?! WHAT? Is this a joke?

Gabriel: The Lord God doesn’t joke.

Mary: Man, well. I don’t know where to start. What will I name him…

Gabriel: Oh we’ve already decided on the name. It’s Jesus.

Mary: Jesus? Really? Nah, I know too many Jesuses. And I went to grade school with a Jesus that used to pee in his pants. No, it can’t be Jesus. I’ll call him Joseph. That will help me smooth things over with my boyfriend.

Gabriel: No, his name has to be Jesus.

Mary: That can’t be his middle name?

Gabriel: No, it’s gotta be Jesus.

Mary: My boyfriend’s going to kill me.

May 28, 2013
For Your Own Good

Agents Lampard and Alekna were outside the enemy compound. Lampard knew it was a suicide mission and wanted to go forward alone. He wanted to save Alekna’s life.

Lampard: Now if I can just pick this lock…

Suddenly Lampard swung his fist up, connecting with Alekna’s nose. Alekna dropped to the ground.

Alekna: OUCH! Ouch man! What the fuck? Why’d you do that?

Lampard: I’m saving your life.

Alekna: Awwww man. Awww…that really hurt! Fuck man! Oh look. Great. My nose is bleeding.

Lampard: You’ll thank me later.

Alekna: Thank you later? I think you broke my nose.

Lampard: Let me take a look at that.

Alekna: Does it look crooked?

Lampard: Move your hands. I can’t see.

Alekna dropped his hands and Lampard punched again as hard as he could. Alekna fell to the ground.

Alekna: DUDE! FUUUUUCK! God damnit that hurt. What the fuck man? That’s going to be a black eye. Stop hitting me!

Lampard: You want me to stop saving your life?

Alekna: Saving my life? Dude, we have baracks pictures next week. Now my face is going to be all swollen.

Lampard: At least you’ll have a face.

Alekna: What are you talking about? Do you have any ice packs?

Lampard: Let me check.

Lampard began looking through his backpack.

Lampard: I think I see some at the bottom. Can you hold this while I reach down?

Alekna: Sure.

As Alekna held the bag Lampard swung his head forward, landing his forehead on Alekna’s nose.

Alekna: FUUUUUCK! OWWWWW! Ow. I’m going to kick your fucking ass Lampard! Why’d you do that?

Lampard: Do what? This?

Lampard swung his boot, landing the steel tip on Alekna’s shin.

Alekna: Awwww! Damnit. Right in the shin bone! God damnit!

Lampard: Sorry. I meant to kick you in the crotch.

Alekna: You tried to kick my crotch? Why? Aww man. I gotta walk this off.

Alekna began limping away from the wall. Lampard followed him.

Lampard: I’ve realized that I don’t know how to deliver a knockout punch, so I’m trying to make you pass out from the pain. I figured a kick in the groin-

Alekna: Ow…this is going to be a big bruise…

Lampard: It’s for your own good.

Alekna: What is?

Lampard: This!

Lampard swung again and landed his fist on Alekna’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. He then jumped on top of him and held his fingers over his mouth and nose while leaning on his chest. He was trying to simulate a trick he and his friends used to do in grade school to make each other pass out.  

Alekna twisted and squirmed to try to get out from under him.

Lampard: Don’t fight it! Don’t fight it…just slip into unconsciousness. This is for your own good. You’re going to thank me when I don’t return.

May 12, 2013

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