First off, thanks to everybody who read, commented on and shared the letters, ramblings and stories I put up on this thing all year. I know there's a few people who have read everything I put on here, and I really, really appreciate it. I love sitting around and writing this little blog. If I could, I'd move way up into the mountains (no specific mountain range, just "the mountains"), grow a really long, straggly beard and spend my days posting on here and making bathtub gin. Sure, I'd have to occasionally make the two-day trek into town to get my provisions at the general store -- and maybe I'd pick up a stand-up gigs at a random Elks Club or an American Legion from time to time. But mostly it would be the blogging and the gin.
Anyway, I've got some big plans for our slutty little Vickie in 2012. First, I want to design this blog so at least it looks semi-professional and presentable. Then I want to expand the reach of this vehicle of absurdity to as many people as possible. Finally, I'm going to try to post at least once per week; no more of this once-a-month bullshit. If anyone has any advice or ideas on how I can do these things, I'm all ears.
Ok, based on pageviews, here are the five most-popular Valiums of 2011:
5. The Cat's Out of The Bag: A Father's Day Story -- This is a true story about the most creative present my sister and I ever gave our dad, complete with a comparison of my former cat, Hilary, to a random homeless guy.
4. A Romantic Comedy That Doesn't Suck Really ... -- Because I'm a giant pussy, I often find myself saying things like, "No, no, babe. 27 Dresses sounds like a great movie ... let's just get that one." Of course, the upside of seeing scores and scores of mindless romantic comedies is that I'm now officially an expert on the genre. This post is about the romantic comedy I would make if I made romantic comedies.
3. Dear Richard Dreyfuss -- A letter I wrote to the acclaimed American actor (and well-known Taiwanese sex symbol) Richard Dreyfuss about how I let him down when I was a sixteen-year-old prick.
2. My 6 Most Overused Words -- A 677-word explanation of why I use the words Ridiculous, Fuck, Amazing, Jesus Christ, Shit and Nice so often.
1. Dear God Hates Fags -- An actual letter I sent to the morons over at the Westboro Baptist Church in which I asked for their help with a very sensitive family matter. This one was my favorite, too.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
'The Christ out of Christmas': A Ubiquitous Holiday Conversation
Some variation of this uncomfortable conversation took place in many, many homes this past Holiday Season:
A scruffy man in his late 20s or early 30s is sitting on a living room sofa, holding a paper plate piled high with assorted appetizers and staring at an ornately decorated Christmas Tree. To his right is a scowling older woman (in her late 60s or early 70s) who is sipping a 7&7 and to his left is a corpulent man in his 50s with a plate of cookies and a bottled beer.
Man in his 20s/30s (Clears his throat): Is that an artificial tree? Wow, it looks so real.
Woman in her 60s/70s: It sure is. That's the thing about the artificial ones they make nowadays. You can't even tell the difference. That's what I don't get about these people who go through all that trouble year after year with the real ones. Tying up the tree on the car and lugging it into the house and watering it all the time. And these people always say the same thing, "But I just love the smell of the real trees?" The smell of it. (Shakes her head) People are so damn screwy these days.
Man in his 50s: Got an artificial tree five years back, and I can't figure out why the hell I didn't do it sooner. I'm never going back. Sure, you pay a little bit upfront. But you make up for it. Boy, do you make up for it. You figure you pay $25/$30 every year for a real one, in a few years with the fake one, you go ahead and recoup that investment. Best decision I ever made ... get an artificial tree.
Women in her 60s/70s: $25 is you're lucky. It's outrageous what they want you to pay for a Christmas tree today. I was at the Home Depot with my nephew and I said, let me just see what they asking for the trees this year, and I couldn't believe my eyes. $50 dollars! I nearly spit.
Man in his 50s: Highway robbery is what it is ... with these goddamn prices today, and the economy being in the toilet and all that. How are people supposed to afford that? Tell me that (Shakes his head and sips his beer).
Man in his 20s/30s: Yeah, I guess artificial is the way to go.
For two full minutes, there's an uncomfortable silence in the room.
Woman in her 60s/70s: And they start earlier and earlier each year with the decorations and the music and all. This year our Sears had their Christmas stuff out the first week of November. First week of November! Used to be, the Christmas stuff went out after Thanksgiving. That's the way it should be. What the hell do you need it out there for months and months. Next thing you know they'll be putting it out before the kids go back to school. And for what? It's all over so quick, anyway (Shakes her head and takes a long, loud swig of her 7&7).
Man in his 20s/30s: It didn't seem any earlier ....
Man in his 50s: It's a scam is what it is. The longer they have you looking at all this goddamn stuff, the more stuff you end up buying. Even when they can't afford it .... they just put it on a damn credit card. No wonder this country is in the shape it's in. I was over at the Wal-Mart a few weeks ago, and these fools are pushing around these giant carts that are just filled to the brim with lots and lots of junk. That's what it is ... useless junk. Oh, and don't get me started on what these corporations are trying to do to our Christmas. I was walking out of the store, and the man at the door stopped me and said, "Happy Holidays to you, Sir!" I says, "Happy Holidays yourself, pal! This is Christmas. You hear me? Merry Christmas is what you say to folks around here. I don't care what those suits tell you ... Christmas is what we're celebrating here and don't forget it." Then I stormed right outta there (Shakes his head and takes a long drink from his beer).
Woman in her 60s/70s: (Tilts her head in the direction of the man in his 20s/30s) It's your folks over in Washington that are doing it, you know? So damn worried about offending people, our government is. Don't get me wrong, I have a girlfriend that's Jewish, and we got some of those folks who wear the things over their faces ... what they do they call themselves?
Man in his 20s/30s: Muslims?
Man in his 50s: Terrorists is what those people are.
Woman in her 60s/70s: Right, Muslims. Why do I always forget that. Anyway, my point is ... they're so damn worried about making sure no one gets offended, they're gonna take the Christ right out of Christmas. You mark my words. It's gonna happen. I just hope I'm dead and buried before they ever do, though, I tell you that (Shakes her head and takes another long, loud swig of her 7&7).
Another uncomfortable lull in the conversation takes place.
Woman in her 60s/70s: (pointing toward the direction of the kitchen) Who's that colored fella over there?
Man in his 20s/30s: I don't think you're supposed to call people col...
Man in his 50s: That guy. That's Lisa's daughter's "friend." Word is, Lisa's daughter's been known to run around with all types.
Woman in her 60s/70s: I guess it must be how she was raised.
Man in his 50s: Hmm (Shakes his head and takes a long sip from his beer).
Woman in her 60s/70s: Hmm (Shakes her head and takes a long, loud swig of her 7&7).
Man in his 20s/30s: Excuse me, I'm gonna go get a drink.
A scruffy man in his late 20s or early 30s is sitting on a living room sofa, holding a paper plate piled high with assorted appetizers and staring at an ornately decorated Christmas Tree. To his right is a scowling older woman (in her late 60s or early 70s) who is sipping a 7&7 and to his left is a corpulent man in his 50s with a plate of cookies and a bottled beer.
Man in his 20s/30s (Clears his throat): Is that an artificial tree? Wow, it looks so real.
Woman in her 60s/70s: It sure is. That's the thing about the artificial ones they make nowadays. You can't even tell the difference. That's what I don't get about these people who go through all that trouble year after year with the real ones. Tying up the tree on the car and lugging it into the house and watering it all the time. And these people always say the same thing, "But I just love the smell of the real trees?" The smell of it. (Shakes her head) People are so damn screwy these days.
Man in his 50s: Got an artificial tree five years back, and I can't figure out why the hell I didn't do it sooner. I'm never going back. Sure, you pay a little bit upfront. But you make up for it. Boy, do you make up for it. You figure you pay $25/$30 every year for a real one, in a few years with the fake one, you go ahead and recoup that investment. Best decision I ever made ... get an artificial tree.
Women in her 60s/70s: $25 is you're lucky. It's outrageous what they want you to pay for a Christmas tree today. I was at the Home Depot with my nephew and I said, let me just see what they asking for the trees this year, and I couldn't believe my eyes. $50 dollars! I nearly spit.
Man in his 50s: Highway robbery is what it is ... with these goddamn prices today, and the economy being in the toilet and all that. How are people supposed to afford that? Tell me that (Shakes his head and sips his beer).
Man in his 20s/30s: Yeah, I guess artificial is the way to go.
For two full minutes, there's an uncomfortable silence in the room.
Woman in her 60s/70s: And they start earlier and earlier each year with the decorations and the music and all. This year our Sears had their Christmas stuff out the first week of November. First week of November! Used to be, the Christmas stuff went out after Thanksgiving. That's the way it should be. What the hell do you need it out there for months and months. Next thing you know they'll be putting it out before the kids go back to school. And for what? It's all over so quick, anyway (Shakes her head and takes a long, loud swig of her 7&7).
Man in his 20s/30s: It didn't seem any earlier ....
Man in his 50s: It's a scam is what it is. The longer they have you looking at all this goddamn stuff, the more stuff you end up buying. Even when they can't afford it .... they just put it on a damn credit card. No wonder this country is in the shape it's in. I was over at the Wal-Mart a few weeks ago, and these fools are pushing around these giant carts that are just filled to the brim with lots and lots of junk. That's what it is ... useless junk. Oh, and don't get me started on what these corporations are trying to do to our Christmas. I was walking out of the store, and the man at the door stopped me and said, "Happy Holidays to you, Sir!" I says, "Happy Holidays yourself, pal! This is Christmas. You hear me? Merry Christmas is what you say to folks around here. I don't care what those suits tell you ... Christmas is what we're celebrating here and don't forget it." Then I stormed right outta there (Shakes his head and takes a long drink from his beer).
Woman in her 60s/70s: (Tilts her head in the direction of the man in his 20s/30s) It's your folks over in Washington that are doing it, you know? So damn worried about offending people, our government is. Don't get me wrong, I have a girlfriend that's Jewish, and we got some of those folks who wear the things over their faces ... what they do they call themselves?
Man in his 20s/30s: Muslims?
Man in his 50s: Terrorists is what those people are.
Woman in her 60s/70s: Right, Muslims. Why do I always forget that. Anyway, my point is ... they're so damn worried about making sure no one gets offended, they're gonna take the Christ right out of Christmas. You mark my words. It's gonna happen. I just hope I'm dead and buried before they ever do, though, I tell you that (Shakes her head and takes another long, loud swig of her 7&7).
Another uncomfortable lull in the conversation takes place.
Woman in her 60s/70s: (pointing toward the direction of the kitchen) Who's that colored fella over there?
Man in his 20s/30s: I don't think you're supposed to call people col...
Man in his 50s: That guy. That's Lisa's daughter's "friend." Word is, Lisa's daughter's been known to run around with all types.
Woman in her 60s/70s: I guess it must be how she was raised.
Man in his 50s: Hmm (Shakes his head and takes a long sip from his beer).
Woman in her 60s/70s: Hmm (Shakes her head and takes a long, loud swig of her 7&7).
Man in his 20s/30s: Excuse me, I'm gonna go get a drink.
Thursday, December 01, 2011
The Cat's Out of the Bag: A Father's Day Story
When my parents got divorced, they did it the
American way* -- my dad moved out, and my mom stayed in the house and kept the
animals: Maddie, a 120-lb. Rottweiler; and Hilary, a gray and white stray cat from the SPCA. It was a strange trade-off because my mom was never much of an animal
person. I mean, she didn’t support dog-fighting rings or anything, but I don’t
think she really understood why otherwise normal people became so obsessed with
their pets.
To be fair, eventually my mom learned to love Maddie, so much so that she frequently took her to McDonald’s for hamburgers and ice cream. She even made Maddie homemade Lasagna the night before we had to put her to sleep because, well, “it was Maddie’s favorite.” Hilary, however, was a different story. I think my mom thought of Hilary the way people think about that homeless guy they pass on their way in to work every morning: They don’t dislike the guy, but they don’t necessarily feel the need to feed him every day, either. Much like the homeless population of America, I believe Hilary fell through the cracks of the Scrimalli (name changed from Bilski after the divorce) household.
Then, one Father’s Day as my sister and I were getting ready to stop over our dad’s place, we felt our gift selection – a tie, a Stargate DVD and a card – just wouldn’t suffice. Our dad needed something better this year. So my sister stuffed our already elderly cat into her ample purse, and we set off to give our dad a Father’s Day present he'd never be able to claim was unoriginal.
We knew he was happy with his new/old gift because he never said, “You need to take this cat back right now,” or “Are you guys out of your goddamn minds?” Instead, he burst out laughing, and it took several moments before he composed himself enough to mutter, “You know, your mother would kill me if she ever found out?” But, we argued, how would she ever find out?
As it turned out, mom noticed the missing cat right away -- not four to six months down the road like my sister and I had anticipated. Not only did she notice, she was also very upset about Hilary's disappearance. She actually sat Jess and me down and said: "Kids, Hilary must've gotten out and, well, it's been a few days now, so I think we may have to accept the fact that she's not coming back. I'm going to keep praying, but ..." And just like that, Hilary got a new home. Of course, my sister and I told everybody what really happened to the wayward pet. But somehow no one ever let the cat out of the bag (horrible, horrible pun absolutely intended).
Hilary thrived in her new environment. She went from being a skinny, skittish creature that hid out in my mom's basement to avoid running into the giant Rottweiler that held dominion over the house to a morbidly obese diva that acted like every object in my dad's townhouse was her own personal possession. Meanwhile, my sister and I pretended to have faith that one day Hilary would magically appear on my mom's doorstep. Each Christmas, I made it a point to hold up Hilary's ornament and say: "Hilary, wherever you are, I hope you're safe and warm and happy -- and I pray when your adventure is finally over, you'll find your way back to your family, because we miss you, and we love you."
Then, years go by, and it seems like Hilary has been my dad's cat all along. One night, I'm out to dinner with my mom and she starts complaining about the dog's skin problems: "Hon, Maddie's fur is just so knotty and that dandruff is disgusting ... it's hard to even pet her when she's like this."
"You should get this stuff dad uses on Hilary, it's ...."
"Wait, did you just say Hilary. Like my Hilary."
"No, no, no. I don't know why I said that. Dad got a cat, and it's got all these crazy skin problems and ..."
"What's its name?"
"Otis."
"What color is it?"
"Gray, it's gray ... with a little bit of white on the belly and ..."
Before I can finish convincing my mom that Otis is real, I lose it and I'm laughing in the same uninhibited way my dad did when we offered him Hilary as a Father's Day present.
Then, I steady myself and tell her the truth: "Jess and I gave Hilary to dad years ago. I can't believe you didn't find out until just now. Everybody knew about it -- my friends, Jess's friends, even your own sister, mom."
Luckily, my mom has a great sense of humor, and she actually found it funny that we gave the cat she inherited in her divorce to the man she got divorced from -- and let her believe for years that the creature had actually gone missing. But even if she was pissed or hurt or both, it wouldn't have mattered too much. I know that cat ended up in the right place. My dad loved that thing more than most people love their immediate family. When Hilary's health took a turn and even an ardent PETA member would've said enough is enough, my dad shelled out thousands of dollars to put the damn cat through dialysis -- just so she could enjoy the good life a little longer. In the end, Hilary lived to be 24, which is like 142 in people years. By that time, our Rottweiler was also dead, so we had no old pets to offer my dad to fill the void left by Hilary's death.
* I say the "American Way" in reference to my parent's divorce because in certain Middle Eastern countries the men take everything, and the women are lucky if they are allowed to keep their clitoris's.
To be fair, eventually my mom learned to love Maddie, so much so that she frequently took her to McDonald’s for hamburgers and ice cream. She even made Maddie homemade Lasagna the night before we had to put her to sleep because, well, “it was Maddie’s favorite.” Hilary, however, was a different story. I think my mom thought of Hilary the way people think about that homeless guy they pass on their way in to work every morning: They don’t dislike the guy, but they don’t necessarily feel the need to feed him every day, either. Much like the homeless population of America, I believe Hilary fell through the cracks of the Scrimalli (name changed from Bilski after the divorce) household.
Then, one Father’s Day as my sister and I were getting ready to stop over our dad’s place, we felt our gift selection – a tie, a Stargate DVD and a card – just wouldn’t suffice. Our dad needed something better this year. So my sister stuffed our already elderly cat into her ample purse, and we set off to give our dad a Father’s Day present he'd never be able to claim was unoriginal.
We knew he was happy with his new/old gift because he never said, “You need to take this cat back right now,” or “Are you guys out of your goddamn minds?” Instead, he burst out laughing, and it took several moments before he composed himself enough to mutter, “You know, your mother would kill me if she ever found out?” But, we argued, how would she ever find out?
As it turned out, mom noticed the missing cat right away -- not four to six months down the road like my sister and I had anticipated. Not only did she notice, she was also very upset about Hilary's disappearance. She actually sat Jess and me down and said: "Kids, Hilary must've gotten out and, well, it's been a few days now, so I think we may have to accept the fact that she's not coming back. I'm going to keep praying, but ..." And just like that, Hilary got a new home. Of course, my sister and I told everybody what really happened to the wayward pet. But somehow no one ever let the cat out of the bag (horrible, horrible pun absolutely intended).
Hilary thrived in her new environment. She went from being a skinny, skittish creature that hid out in my mom's basement to avoid running into the giant Rottweiler that held dominion over the house to a morbidly obese diva that acted like every object in my dad's townhouse was her own personal possession. Meanwhile, my sister and I pretended to have faith that one day Hilary would magically appear on my mom's doorstep. Each Christmas, I made it a point to hold up Hilary's ornament and say: "Hilary, wherever you are, I hope you're safe and warm and happy -- and I pray when your adventure is finally over, you'll find your way back to your family, because we miss you, and we love you."
Then, years go by, and it seems like Hilary has been my dad's cat all along. One night, I'm out to dinner with my mom and she starts complaining about the dog's skin problems: "Hon, Maddie's fur is just so knotty and that dandruff is disgusting ... it's hard to even pet her when she's like this."
"You should get this stuff dad uses on Hilary, it's ...."
"Wait, did you just say Hilary. Like my Hilary."
"No, no, no. I don't know why I said that. Dad got a cat, and it's got all these crazy skin problems and ..."
"What's its name?"
"Otis."
"What color is it?"
"Gray, it's gray ... with a little bit of white on the belly and ..."
Before I can finish convincing my mom that Otis is real, I lose it and I'm laughing in the same uninhibited way my dad did when we offered him Hilary as a Father's Day present.
Then, I steady myself and tell her the truth: "Jess and I gave Hilary to dad years ago. I can't believe you didn't find out until just now. Everybody knew about it -- my friends, Jess's friends, even your own sister, mom."
Luckily, my mom has a great sense of humor, and she actually found it funny that we gave the cat she inherited in her divorce to the man she got divorced from -- and let her believe for years that the creature had actually gone missing. But even if she was pissed or hurt or both, it wouldn't have mattered too much. I know that cat ended up in the right place. My dad loved that thing more than most people love their immediate family. When Hilary's health took a turn and even an ardent PETA member would've said enough is enough, my dad shelled out thousands of dollars to put the damn cat through dialysis -- just so she could enjoy the good life a little longer. In the end, Hilary lived to be 24, which is like 142 in people years. By that time, our Rottweiler was also dead, so we had no old pets to offer my dad to fill the void left by Hilary's death.
* I say the "American Way" in reference to my parent's divorce because in certain Middle Eastern countries the men take everything, and the women are lucky if they are allowed to keep their clitoris's.
Friday, November 25, 2011
The Ramada: A Shining Example of Customer Service
I stay in a lot of hotels, and most of the time I don't bother to complete the obligatory "Satisfaction Survey" the hotels send me following the stay. But after spending the night at Ramada in Cockeysville, Md., I decided to fill out the follow-up survey. For the most part, I gave the Ramada very high marks, with scores in the 8 to 10 range for virtually all aspects of my stay. However, I did offer a few unusual comments. Here are those comments, word for word:
Please share your comments here:
I can only assume that the walls separating your hotel rooms are very, very thin, which can result in some very uncomfortable situations for guests. I say this because for several hours during the night of my stay, I had to listen to my elderly neighbor loudly finger-banging who I can only pray was his wife. How do I know he was finger-banging this woman? Because, several times during the couple's loud expression of passion, the gentlemen yelled out:
"I'm finger-banging my wife so good, right now. You like that? You like that? God, I'm finger-banging the shit out of you, honey!"
And how do I know the gentlemen was, in fact, elderly? Again, he said it himself. I distinctly remember this gentleman screaming:
"You're getting finger-banged so good right now, baby. And I promise you, if I wasn't so goddamn old, I'd be banging you for real (coughing sound) ... you know I would sweetie, right?"
As fate would have it, the couple ended up exiting their room at the exact same time I did. We both opted for the continental breakfast that morning and, while I have no complaints about the food or the serviceof at the breakfast hall, it was difficult to enjoy my meal because the couple sat directly across from me. Instead of savoring my bowl of Lucky Charms and pastry, I kept visualizing this elderly man (I'd estimate his age to be around 74) finger-banging the woman he dined with (late 40s by my estimation).
Please respond to let me know if I'm correct about the walls' thickness. If I'm wrong, I apologize. Perhaps the couple was just inordinately loud.
Sincerely,
Jared Bilski
Of course, I wasn't really expecting any kind of response from this. I mean, what could they say? Mr. Bilski, I can assure you the thickness of our walls is more than sufficient, so this gentleman really must've been doing a number on his wife with the whole finger-banging thing. Please accept our most sincere apologies ... we value your .... If there's anything .... blah, blah, blah. To my surprise, they did respond and, even though they didn't reference the finger-banging incident specifically, they seemed genuinely concerned. Here's the email I received:
Dear Jared,
Thank you for taking the time to bring your concern to our attention and
allowing us the opportunity to address your needs. We are sincerely
sorry to hear we did not provide you with an excellent Ramada
experience. You can count on our team to help resolve your concerns.
To assist you in reaching a resolution, I've informed the Ramada
Cockeysville's general manager of the situation. The general manager
will contact you by 11/04/2011. As a company, we're committed to
delivering a great experience every time you stay with us, and I
sincerely apologize this did not happen in this case.
Jared, please know that we truly appreciate your feedback and the
opportunity to respond to your concerns.
Count on me,
Name Withheld
Internet Specialist
Wyndham Hotel Group
Phone 800-828-6644
Fax 888-565-7707
www.wyndhamworldwide.com
What's more, as the email indicated, the general manager did contact me. After listening to two voice mails in which the GM apologized profusely, I called him back. During our call, the manager said he was sorry at least four times, even though he admitted that he didn't really understand my comments. So I explained that I wasn't really being serious, that it was ridiculous to expect a hotel to be responsible for an elderly man's finger-banging prowess and that I was simply testing the Ramada's dedication to customer service -- a test, I informed the GM that both he and the organization passed with flying colors. He laughed nervously, but I get the impression he thought I was out of my mind. But that's besides the point. The point is this: No compliant is too minor -- or too bat-shit crazy -- for the Ramada, a member of the Wyndham Hotel Group, to tackle. Bravo, Ramada! In an industry dominated by lackluster customer service, you're a shining example of the way things should be.
A Lifelong Ramada Customer,
Rev. Jared Bilski
Please share your comments here:
I can only assume that the walls separating your hotel rooms are very, very thin, which can result in some very uncomfortable situations for guests. I say this because for several hours during the night of my stay, I had to listen to my elderly neighbor loudly finger-banging who I can only pray was his wife. How do I know he was finger-banging this woman? Because, several times during the couple's loud expression of passion, the gentlemen yelled out:
"I'm finger-banging my wife so good, right now. You like that? You like that? God, I'm finger-banging the shit out of you, honey!"
And how do I know the gentlemen was, in fact, elderly? Again, he said it himself. I distinctly remember this gentleman screaming:
"You're getting finger-banged so good right now, baby. And I promise you, if I wasn't so goddamn old, I'd be banging you for real (coughing sound) ... you know I would sweetie, right?"
As fate would have it, the couple ended up exiting their room at the exact same time I did. We both opted for the continental breakfast that morning and, while I have no complaints about the food or the service
Please respond to let me know if I'm correct about the walls' thickness. If I'm wrong, I apologize. Perhaps the couple was just inordinately loud.
Sincerely,
Jared Bilski
Of course, I wasn't really expecting any kind of response from this. I mean, what could they say? Mr. Bilski, I can assure you the thickness of our walls is more than sufficient, so this gentleman really must've been doing a number on his wife with the whole finger-banging thing. Please accept our most sincere apologies ... we value your .... If there's anything .... blah, blah, blah. To my surprise, they did respond and, even though they didn't reference the finger-banging incident specifically, they seemed genuinely concerned. Here's the email I received:
Dear Jared,
Thank you for taking the time to bring your concern to our attention and
allowing us the opportunity to address your needs. We are sincerely
sorry to hear we did not provide you with an excellent Ramada
experience. You can count on our team to help resolve your concerns.
To assist you in reaching a resolution, I've informed the Ramada
Cockeysville's general manager of the situation. The general manager
will contact you by 11/04/2011. As a company, we're committed to
delivering a great experience every time you stay with us, and I
sincerely apologize this did not happen in this case.
opportunity to respond to your concerns.
Count on me,
Name Withheld
Internet Specialist
Wyndham Hotel Group
Phone 800-828-6644
Fax 888-565-7707
www.wyndhamworldwide.com
A Lifelong Ramada Customer,
Rev. Jared Bilski
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Man up! Grab a Miller Lite You F$ckin Pussy
Miller Lite is best known for being a tasteless, semi-alcoholic beer that's usually on special (sold for a few bucks cheaper than real beers) at sports bars, stadiums, clubs and places where cover bands regularly perform. Not exactly the best reputation for a distinguished "triple hops brewed" beer. Maybe that's why the company decided to give its image a makeover recently. Miller Lite's new image: The only true light beer for men. The company put out a bunch of commercials that always show some poor guy getting his balls busted by his friends for making "unmanly" choices -- like screaming when he gets touched by a fish, riding around in a scooter and, of course, choosing a light beer that's not Miller Lite. Here's one of them.
Brilliant. Miller somehow found a way to make its shitty, watered-down beer seem appealing to a demographic other than young women who are concerned with their figures but still need to drink enough of something alcoholic to justify their poor decisions. I'm not sure how they did it, but I picture the genesis of the Man Up campaign going something like this:
(Setting: Five, sharply dressed marketing professionals are sitting around a over-sized conference table staring disconsolately at a single bottle of Miller Lite.)
Marketing man #1: How are we supposed to make this shit more appealing to men? I mean all Miller Lite has going for it is that it's cheap, it's not terrible and you can drink a ton of it. Alright, think: What is most powerful way to get a group of men to do something?
Marketing man #2: (Sarcastically) Tell them they're gay if they don't do it.
(The remaining marketing professionals break into a chorus of nervous laughter.)
Marketing man #1: Goddammit, you're right! We'll create a series of witty commercials with a simple message: If you don't drink Miller Lite, you're no man at all. If you don't drink Miller Lite, well, then you're a gay. I think I have a catch phrase already: Man up, grab a Miller Lite and quit being such a queer.
Miller knows it's not going to get all men with such a message. But I don't think it's targeting all men. I think Miller is mainly going after guys who work as IT specialists or financial analysts, guys who frequent happy hours, are in nine different fantasy football leagues and who use words like "Broseph."
Of course, Miller Lite isn't the only brewer that's come up with a solid way to entice men to switch over to light beer. Keystone Light knows there's an entire country of ignorant, white trash, no good, pieces of shit out there, and the company wants them all to enjoy the fruits of its labor while they're enjoying the view from their double-wide trailers. That's why Keystone created Keith Stone, a redneck superhero who's perfectly willing to believe she "really is 19" even though he met her at a high school football game. Keith Stone looks like a hybrid of Wayne Campbell, Mathew McConaughey's character in "Dazed and Confused" and Jack Black.
Brilliant. Miller somehow found a way to make its shitty, watered-down beer seem appealing to a demographic other than young women who are concerned with their figures but still need to drink enough of something alcoholic to justify their poor decisions. I'm not sure how they did it, but I picture the genesis of the Man Up campaign going something like this:
(Setting: Five, sharply dressed marketing professionals are sitting around a over-sized conference table staring disconsolately at a single bottle of Miller Lite.)
Marketing man #1: How are we supposed to make this shit more appealing to men? I mean all Miller Lite has going for it is that it's cheap, it's not terrible and you can drink a ton of it. Alright, think: What is most powerful way to get a group of men to do something?
Marketing man #2: (Sarcastically) Tell them they're gay if they don't do it.
(The remaining marketing professionals break into a chorus of nervous laughter.)
Marketing man #1: Goddammit, you're right! We'll create a series of witty commercials with a simple message: If you don't drink Miller Lite, you're no man at all. If you don't drink Miller Lite, well, then you're a gay. I think I have a catch phrase already: Man up, grab a Miller Lite and quit being such a queer.
Miller knows it's not going to get all men with such a message. But I don't think it's targeting all men. I think Miller is mainly going after guys who work as IT specialists or financial analysts, guys who frequent happy hours, are in nine different fantasy football leagues and who use words like "Broseph."
Of course, Miller Lite isn't the only brewer that's come up with a solid way to entice men to switch over to light beer. Keystone Light knows there's an entire country of ignorant, white trash, no good, pieces of shit out there, and the company wants them all to enjoy the fruits of its labor while they're enjoying the view from their double-wide trailers. That's why Keystone created Keith Stone, a redneck superhero who's perfectly willing to believe she "really is 19" even though he met her at a high school football game. Keith Stone looks like a hybrid of Wayne Campbell, Mathew McConaughey's character in "Dazed and Confused" and Jack Black.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Dear God Hates Fags
This is an actual letter I sent to the fine folks of the Westboro Baptist Church -- a.k.a. the God Hates Fags people. For the record, I despise this group of ignorant, pathetic assholes. However, I really want to see just how far they're willing to go for this for this insane cause. It's worth noting that I wrote this letter at a Starbucks in Cockeysville, Maryland.
Dear God Hates Fags:
A situation involving my
family has occurred recently, and I could use the help of your organization. My
wife and I are the proud parents of two God-fearing heterosexual children:
Warren, 7; and Wesley, 5. We also owned two hamsters, Zippers and Mr. Brutus. The
other day I was feeding the boys – the hamsters, not my actual children – when
Zippers started exhibiting some extremely odd behavior. It took me a few
moments before I realized Zippers was attempting to sodomize Mr. Brutus. Not
sharing Zippers’s mental affliction, Mr. Brutus valiantly fought his assailant
off before I separated the two. Being a responsible Christian man, I quickly
ended Zippers’s life. The next morning, I calmly told my children about Zippers’s
behavior and explained that the heinous creature had passed away in its sleep,
a sure sign of God’s hatred for homosexuals.
The unfortunate event only
made Warren, my
oldest, more steadfast in his faith – and strengthened his belief that God
does, in fact, abhor homosexuality in any form and in any creature. However, my
wife and Wesley, my youngest, are a different story altogether. Even after my
explanation, Wesley threw a tantrum and begged us to have a proper funeral for
Zippers. Pure of heart but weak of will, my wife agreed and promised Wesley
that Zippers would have a dignified memorial service. Despite my protests, my
wife plans to go ahead with Zippers’s funeral.
That’s why I need your help
God Hates Fags. I’ve always admired the work you do at the funerals of prominent
human homosexuals, and I’d like to enlist your services at the memorial of my
disgraced hamster. I understand the request is a bit unusual. But I
wholeheartedly believe that your presence at this event is what it takes to
show my impressionable son (not to mention my confused wife) that Zippers was a
sinner of the worst variety and that, in the end, he got what he deserved.
Further, I’m fully confident that once my Wesley sees the power of your
organization, you’ll gain a new servant who will work tirelessly to do the
Lord’s bidding.
Obviously, your organization
will be compensated handsomely for your presence (I can promise you at least
double your going rate). Also, being a prominent man in my community, I can
virtually guarantee the presence of our local press – both newspaper and
television – at the event. Please respond ASAP, as my wife plans to hold the
service this weekend.
A concerned Christian father
who is just trying to do the right thing,
Francis “Frank” Pipkin
Thursday, October 06, 2011
A romantic comedy that doesn't suck ... really
If you're anything like me, your stomach turns every time you see a preview for a new romantic comedy. I can spend the rest of this post chronicling exactly what's wrong with these movies. But it's easy for me to sit here and criticize an entire genre of movies. Do I really think I could do any better? Absolutely. Here's the romantic comedy I would make:
Pro-Love starring Jennifer Aniston and Aston Kutcher.* Claire Hasselbeck (Aniston) is a gorgeous, high-powered Manhattan attorney who's in total control of everything in her world ... except for her love life. Try and she might, Hasselbeck just can't seem to find herself a good man. One night, after prematurely ending a particularly unsatisfying Internet date, Hasselbeck decides to get herself good and drunk. After several shots of tequila -- not to mention some hysterical shouted dialogue over a hip techno soundtrack -- Hasselbeck ends up stumbling home with the adorable and charming Kyle Gavin (Kutcher). The following morning Hasselbeck is awakened by a phone call from her pedantic and overbearing boss (played by Tommy Lee Jones), who is wondering why he's explaining to her "goddamn clients" why she's late. Horrified to find herself in a strange place with a pounding headache and no recollection of the previous night's events, Hasselbeck slips out while Gavin shaves his chest in the bathroom.
Two months later, Hasselbeck discovers she's pregnant. Determined not to make the same mistake as her own mother -- a failed avant-garde actress who blames the unexpected birth of her daughter for her lack of commercial success -- Hasselbeck makes an appointment to terminate the pregnancy. At the clinic, just as Hasselbeck convinces herself she's making the right decision, she's introduced to the doctor, who turns out to be Gavin, the man whose baby she's carrying! What follows is a scene of such hilarity that Rulon Mekerbaum of Polygamist Weekly calls it, "Punch-your-third-wife-in-the-face funny." Hasselbeck, still dressed in a patient's gown, bolts from the clinic and starts sprinting down a crowded New York City street with Gavin in hot pursuit. During the chase, Hasselbeck's shoe gets wedged in a sewer grate and, just as a Taxi's about to slam into her lithe figure, Gavin jumps into the frame and saves her life. After some witty banter, Gavin reveals he's been trying to find her since she snuck out of his apartment and begs Hassellbeck to let him buy her a cup of coffee. Hasselbeck declines the offer. However, she does return to the clinic on several occasions. Even though Hasselbeck has good intentions on each of these trips, she always ends up leaving the clinic with her baby bump intact. Soon, she's visiting Gavin so late in her pregnancy that the clinic won't be able to end the pregnancy even if she did "work up the nerve."
During one of these visits, Gavin implores Hasselbeck to "open her heart to what fate is telling her," and to "let me into your life so we can raise this baby together." Hasselbeck, of course, acquiesces and the couple makes tender love on the clinic floor while Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved" plays in the background. Pro Love doesn't end right there, however. In a stunning twist, Hasselbeck decides to give her biological baby up for adoption so the couple can "start fresh" and instead opts to adopt a child of her own from Africa.
Most memorable scene: In a tribute to one of the great romantic comedies of the twentieth century, Gavin leads the entire abortion clinic waiting room in a rousing rendition of " I Say A Little Prayer."
*Actors subject to change based on market value.
Pro-Love starring Jennifer Aniston and Aston Kutcher.* Claire Hasselbeck (Aniston) is a gorgeous, high-powered Manhattan attorney who's in total control of everything in her world ... except for her love life. Try and she might, Hasselbeck just can't seem to find herself a good man. One night, after prematurely ending a particularly unsatisfying Internet date, Hasselbeck decides to get herself good and drunk. After several shots of tequila -- not to mention some hysterical shouted dialogue over a hip techno soundtrack -- Hasselbeck ends up stumbling home with the adorable and charming Kyle Gavin (Kutcher). The following morning Hasselbeck is awakened by a phone call from her pedantic and overbearing boss (played by Tommy Lee Jones), who is wondering why he's explaining to her "goddamn clients" why she's late. Horrified to find herself in a strange place with a pounding headache and no recollection of the previous night's events, Hasselbeck slips out while Gavin shaves his chest in the bathroom.
Two months later, Hasselbeck discovers she's pregnant. Determined not to make the same mistake as her own mother -- a failed avant-garde actress who blames the unexpected birth of her daughter for her lack of commercial success -- Hasselbeck makes an appointment to terminate the pregnancy. At the clinic, just as Hasselbeck convinces herself she's making the right decision, she's introduced to the doctor, who turns out to be Gavin, the man whose baby she's carrying! What follows is a scene of such hilarity that Rulon Mekerbaum of Polygamist Weekly calls it, "Punch-your-third-wife-in-the-face funny." Hasselbeck, still dressed in a patient's gown, bolts from the clinic and starts sprinting down a crowded New York City street with Gavin in hot pursuit. During the chase, Hasselbeck's shoe gets wedged in a sewer grate and, just as a Taxi's about to slam into her lithe figure, Gavin jumps into the frame and saves her life. After some witty banter, Gavin reveals he's been trying to find her since she snuck out of his apartment and begs Hassellbeck to let him buy her a cup of coffee. Hasselbeck declines the offer. However, she does return to the clinic on several occasions. Even though Hasselbeck has good intentions on each of these trips, she always ends up leaving the clinic with her baby bump intact. Soon, she's visiting Gavin so late in her pregnancy that the clinic won't be able to end the pregnancy even if she did "work up the nerve."
During one of these visits, Gavin implores Hasselbeck to "open her heart to what fate is telling her," and to "let me into your life so we can raise this baby together." Hasselbeck, of course, acquiesces and the couple makes tender love on the clinic floor while Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved" plays in the background. Pro Love doesn't end right there, however. In a stunning twist, Hasselbeck decides to give her biological baby up for adoption so the couple can "start fresh" and instead opts to adopt a child of her own from Africa.
Most memorable scene: In a tribute to one of the great romantic comedies of the twentieth century, Gavin leads the entire abortion clinic waiting room in a rousing rendition of " I Say A Little Prayer."
*Actors subject to change based on market value.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
An Interview with Luna, My (Technically Liz's) Boston Terrier: Part I
Luna has been living with my girlfriend and me -- rent free -- for nearly four years.
Me: Luna, you had a fairly inauspicious start. We purchased you from an Amish family who lived on a farm and gave us their word you weren't the product of a puppy mill. Despite your seemingly healthy appearance, we were given a $25 discount on your total price because you didn't have all of your shots. Do you ever feel self-conscious about your background?
Luna: That's an interesting question, Mr. Jared. If you're asking me whether I ever feel less worthy as a pet because I don't have a prestigious American Kennel Club registration number, then absolutely not. I know who I am, and I'm proud of it, goddamn it. I think the question you really should be asking, Mr. Jared, is, "How do you feel about the people who adopted you, and are you happy with your current home?"
Me: Fair enough, Luna. How do you feel about Liz and me, and are you happy with your current living situation?
Luna: To be honest with you, Mr. Jared, I still harbor some resentment about the way in which you and Ms. Liz went about adopting Buna*. Being ripped away from the warmth of my mother Nancy and my brothers and sisters in the middle of the night without warning no doubt left me with some deep-seated psychological issues. Those issues have manifested themselves in a number of ways, such as: following you two everywhere you go (including the bathroom), occasionally snacking on the contents of the cats' litter box, collapsing my crate as a puppy and Buna's blatant aversion of all people with brown skin. However, given your limited means and poor planning, I do believe you and Ms. Liz are doing the best you can. Besides, any time I start to feel angry about my situation, I wait until you take me outside. Then, when I'm done my business, I wait til you bend down to pick up that steaming pile of Buna shit, and I kick grass right in your face.
Me: OK, I'm not sure how being adopted at night made you a racist, but we'll just move on. So is it safe to say that the overall adoption process is the number one thing you hold against Liz and me?
Luna: Oh no, Mr. Jared, that doesn't even come close to the anger I have about my surgery. I mean you took my ovaries out without even asking me. How do you know I didn't want to have babies? Did you ever think to ask Buna about such a permanent decision? Goddammit, fuck you, Mr. Jared! And fuck Bob Barker, too.
Me: Wait a minute, why Bob Barker?
Luna: Because as much as I love "The Price is Right," that asshole had a lot of nerve going around telling everybody to get their pets neutered and sprayed. If it wasn't for that pervert, there's no way that sadistic, medieval practice would be nearly as popular today, and Buna would probably have a liter of pups suckling on my teat right now. Get your pets neutered and spayed ... fuck that. It's the humans that need to be neutered and spayed. Have you ever been to the Midwest, Mr. Jared?
Me: Well, I once had a long layover at the Minneapolis airport, and it was quite lovely. Anyway, Liz seems to think that you love going to "school" at Karen's K-9, but I'm not so sure. Every time I pick you up, you smell like piss and sleep for day's on end. What goes on over there?
Luna: Oh yeah, well, I think Ms. Liz means well, I really do. But here's the thing: It's very difficult for humans to understand what goes on over at Karen's. Much like prison, there's a unspoken but clearly defined hierarchy, and a complex network of allegiances among the different breeds. When Buna first showed up at Karen's, there were very few Bostons, so things were very difficult form me. I had to give the Retrievers my treats in exchange for protection from the Rottweilers, the Labs my dries to keep me safe from the German Shepherd contingent, and the Pit bulls everything else because, well, because they're Pit bulls. It was very traumatic for a young and impressionable, Buna. I mean, imagine what was going through my head when, on my second day of "school," a Bull Mastiff cornered me in the yard and said: "You have two choices, little dog: You can suck my dick ... or you can suck my sick and like it. What's it gonna be?"
Me: My God, Luna. What did you do? Never mind, don't answer that. Do you want us to find you a new daycare?
Luna: It wouldn't matter, Mr. Jared. Once you spend a day at Karen's, you're never the same again.
*Note: Throughout the course of the interview, Luna alternated between answering questions in the first person and referring to herself as Buna.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Dear Richard Dreyfuss
(Note: Below is the actual text of a letter I sent to the famous American actor Richard Stephen Dreyfuss.)
Dear Mr. Dreyfuss:
I'm a big fan of your work -- particularly your performance in What About Bob? and your guest-starring role on the show Weeds -- but that's not what this shit is about. When I was around 16 years old, I was involved in a very strange incident. At this point, Mr. Dreyfuss, you may be asking yourself, "Why should I care about something that happened to some lunatic who just so happens to enjoy the diversity of my acting range?" Because you were involved in this incident as well, Mr. Dreyfus ... albeit indirectly. With this letter, I hope to bring closure to something that's been weighing heavily on my conscience for years. I'll try to keep this as brief as possible and only include most vital information because I'm sure you're a very busy man.
Here's the setting: Dorney Park and Wildwater Kingdom, a glorious amusement park located in the otherwise unremarkable Allentown, PA.
Here's the back-story: A few friends and I are waiting in line for the Enterprise. That's the ride where a series of cars hang from a large horizontal wheel -- picture a Ferris Wheel that's parallel with the ground. When the ride begins, the wheel spins like a bastard in a clockwise direction. As if that isn't enough, during the ride, this giant hydraulic arm that's attached to the wheel's spoke starts extending the wheel vertically to create this Ferris-Wheel-on-crack experience and, for the rest of the ride, you're not only spinning like a bastard, but you're also upside down. Or maybe it was the swings we were waiting for. But that's not important.
While in line, I spot a man off in the waiting area who's a dead ringer for none other than Richard Stephen Dreyfuss. So, of course, the first thing I do is blurt out, "Holy shit, it's Richard Dreyfuss!" Then my friends see him, and it's all over. For the next ten minutes, we're spouting off line after line of memorable Richard Dreyfuss quotes: "You think he's gone? He's not gone. That's the whole point! He's never gone!" and "This was no boat accident!" and "Well, they're not moon burns, goddammit." Now, this is where shit gets weird, Mr. Dreyfuss. After the laughter and quote fest dies down a bit, I hear a distinct sound of a someone crying hysterically. I turn around and, a few places behind me in line, there's this preteen girl bawling dramatically while a few of her friends try to console her. She eventually makes eye contact with me, points in my direction and screams, "You're soooo mean!" This lunatic continues to alternate between screaming at me and weeping pathetically until a worker notices and decides to come over to see what's going on. The worker, a teenage boy with some type of Eastern European accent, asks what the problem is. That's when this blubbering freak explains reveals the crime that I've committed: "That guy (pointing at me) called my dad Richard Dreyfuss!" Then the waterworks start up again. Unsure what to do about my transgression, the foreign teen goes to "talk to his boss." After a few moments, the worker returns with a slightly older (bad, wispy mustache), slightly less foreign version of himself who tells my friends and I we aren't allowed to ride the Enterprise and that, "if we don't leave right now, we'll be kicked out of the entire park."
Do I think it's insane that a paying customer was kicked off of a ride for pointing out the obvious fact that some guy bore an uncanny resemblance to the Great American Actor, Richard Dreyfuss? You're goddamn right I do. But, Mr. Dreyfuss, what bothers me the most is how I handled the situation. I can't even count the number of times I've yearned to go back in time to the fateful moment I was asked to leave the Enterprise. Rather than quietly acquiescing to the wispy-stached worker's demand, I would've went over to that insolent, sniveling little bitch and set her straight by saying:
"Jaws, American Graffiti, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Tin Men, What About Bob?, Mr. Holland's Opus. Should I keep going, princess? How dare you act like I insulted your father by pointing out the resemblance he bears to an American Icon. The only thing your father has going for him is his physical likeness to Richard Dreyfuss, a man whose otherworldly talent allowed him to flat out transform himself into Dick Cheney in W. You have no reason to weep, you foolish little girl. Each and every time your mother spreads her legs for your father, I'm sure she fantasizes he's the real Richard Dreyfuss -- not some forgettable impostor. The next time anyone says your father looks like Richard Dreyfuss, the only response you should have is: 'I wish my father was Richard Dreyfuss.'"
Instead I walked away and allowed that misinformed child to go on believing that comparing someone to Richard Dreyfuss is a grave insult rather than a distinguished honor. For that, Mr. Dreyfuss, I will never forgive myself. I hope after reading this letter, Mr. Dreyfuss, you will somehow find it in your heart to forgive me. However, I will completely understand if you never want me to watch any of your movies ever again ... just let me know.
A fan seeking closure,
Jared Bilski
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Meditations from an unknown comic on a long drive home after a successful show
I fucking killed! I fucking destroyed. Never gonna have to send 15 emails just to get booked again. That asshole is going to be begging me to come back there now. God, I needed that. Those last couple shows have been so shitty. Just gotta keep doing more shows. More shows will turn into bigger shows and some more money and then who knows? Who knows, what? What are you even talking about? I don't know, I just know I needed that. If I don't stop, I can be home in two hours and still make it to the bar for a few drinks. God I wish I had some coke. Oh well. Probably better, I have a bunch of shit to do tomorrow anyway. It's always something. Just once, there was a weekend where I didn't have anything to do. I had those fuckers in the palm of my hand. I could've gotten them to laugh at anything ... except that guy in the front. What was his problem anyway? Didn't crack a smile all night long. You're at a comedy show asshole ... you're supposed to laugh. Nice, I love this song. They never play this anymore. They never play anything good anymore. Can barely even stand to listen to the radio anyone. All that new shit is awful. God, I sound like an asshole. I sound ... I sound old. That's what you say when you're getting old. You say all the new shit sucks. But that's not true. In high school I was really young, and I listened to Zeppelin and The Beatles. But I guess I listened to alternative stuff, too. And that was new. What the fuck is alternative, anyway? And what was that guy's problem? Not one laugh the entire night. Maybe, I should've went right at him. Then he would've seen how ridiculous he was acting. Even that lady he brought was cracking up. He looked so annoyed the whole show. Maybe he was having an affair with that lady and didn't want to draw any attention to himself. That's it. Probably wanted to sit somewhere in the back and of course that lady just had to sit right up front and cackle like a psycho. Probably wanted him to get busted, too. Fuckin typical. Of course he wasn't laughing. I wouldn't be laughing either if I was trying to avoid getting caught cheating on my wife. What a bitch. But what if it was me? What if it didn't really go as well as I thought? I messed up a bunch of stuff in the middle, and most of these people would've were so drunk they would've laughed at anything. God, they even laughed at that douche with his hacky Lorena Bobbit jokes. Jesus Christ, what if I'm delusional? What if I really, really suck?
Monday, July 11, 2011
Working with Chris Rock
The other night I had privilege of working with Chris Rock. Yes, that Chris Rock -- the hugely successful, disgustingly rich and undeniably hysterical comedian whose debut HBO special "Bring the Pain" is the sole reason I became interested in stand-up. Granted, our collaboration took place in a dream I had. But goddammit my subconscious is so much more powerful than my waking conscious, so I should probably add "worked with Chris Rock" to my intro, an intro that currently consists of bullshit like, "regularly performs at clubs and colleges all up and down the east coast."
Anyway, in the dream, I'm at a Wisecrackers Comedy Club -- only it's not really a Wisecrackers, it's more of a VFW-type hall. I'm in a back room with the other comics, when a giant black woman enters and informs us -- in a very emotional way -- that Chris Rock has just died. I assume the woman must be Chris Rock's mom because apparently in my dreams kind of a I'm racist, and the thought never occurs to me that non-related black women could be emotionally affected by Chris's death. I approach the woman who, as it turns out, is Chris Rock's mom and attempt to console her. I put my arms around her and ask if there's anything I can do to help. Turns out there is. Chris's mom asks if it would be OK if she brought her son's body into the show. In the background, I notice the other comics emphatically shaking their heads, as I say to Mrs. Rock, "If it will make you feel better, of course you can."
In the showroom, there's a makeshift Chris Rock shrine that includes a beautiful coffin filled the body of the legendary comic, a cardboard cutout of Chris circa the "Bigger and Blacker" era and a couple of huge bodyguards. The booming voice of an announcer informs the room that "We're in the presence of greatness, ladies and gentleman. Nine-time Emmy winner Chris Rock is in attendance tonight." (Note: I found the nine-time Emmy thing to be the most unusual part of the dream.) A spotlight then lights up the Chris Rock memorial viewing area for the audience. Once the spotlight dims, I notice Chris's corpse begins to stir. At first it seems like the involuntary type of post-mortem movement I've heard stories about. But then I see that the movement is voluntary. Chris Rock isn't dead at all, in fact, he's cracking up over the spectacle of his staged memorial. Before the rest of the audience catches on, Rock leaps out of his coffin and takes the stage. He opens with a killer joke about old, dirty panties, but he's soon interrupted by a group of rowdy, Mongolian hecklers. Unfazed, Rock responds with a series of perfectly timed retorts about Genghis Khan and Mongolian stereotypes that shuts up the historically misplaced hecklers.
Before I can talk talk to my favorite comic about his performance, my subconscious yanks me out of the Wisecrackers/VFW and dumps me in a field that's reminiscent of the pumpkin field in "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." Cocoa, my neighbor's black lab, is trailing a safe distance behind me. I tell Cocoa to go home, and then I'm awake. I haven't worked with Chris Rock since.
Anyway, in the dream, I'm at a Wisecrackers Comedy Club -- only it's not really a Wisecrackers, it's more of a VFW-type hall. I'm in a back room with the other comics, when a giant black woman enters and informs us -- in a very emotional way -- that Chris Rock has just died. I assume the woman must be Chris Rock's mom because apparently in my dreams kind of a I'm racist, and the thought never occurs to me that non-related black women could be emotionally affected by Chris's death. I approach the woman who, as it turns out, is Chris Rock's mom and attempt to console her. I put my arms around her and ask if there's anything I can do to help. Turns out there is. Chris's mom asks if it would be OK if she brought her son's body into the show. In the background, I notice the other comics emphatically shaking their heads, as I say to Mrs. Rock, "If it will make you feel better, of course you can."
In the showroom, there's a makeshift Chris Rock shrine that includes a beautiful coffin filled the body of the legendary comic, a cardboard cutout of Chris circa the "Bigger and Blacker" era and a couple of huge bodyguards. The booming voice of an announcer informs the room that "We're in the presence of greatness, ladies and gentleman. Nine-time Emmy winner Chris Rock is in attendance tonight." (Note: I found the nine-time Emmy thing to be the most unusual part of the dream.) A spotlight then lights up the Chris Rock memorial viewing area for the audience. Once the spotlight dims, I notice Chris's corpse begins to stir. At first it seems like the involuntary type of post-mortem movement I've heard stories about. But then I see that the movement is voluntary. Chris Rock isn't dead at all, in fact, he's cracking up over the spectacle of his staged memorial. Before the rest of the audience catches on, Rock leaps out of his coffin and takes the stage. He opens with a killer joke about old, dirty panties, but he's soon interrupted by a group of rowdy, Mongolian hecklers. Unfazed, Rock responds with a series of perfectly timed retorts about Genghis Khan and Mongolian stereotypes that shuts up the historically misplaced hecklers.
Before I can talk talk to my favorite comic about his performance, my subconscious yanks me out of the Wisecrackers/VFW and dumps me in a field that's reminiscent of the pumpkin field in "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." Cocoa, my neighbor's black lab, is trailing a safe distance behind me. I tell Cocoa to go home, and then I'm awake. I haven't worked with Chris Rock since.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Smart Car Couple
I used to belong to Snap Fitness. The only unique feature about this gym was that it stayed open 24 hours a day, which is great for all those nights you wake up in a cold sweat at 3 a.m. and remember, "Shit, I forgot to do abs." Of course, people rarely worked out during the third shift hours, which weren't staffed with an actual gym employees. But I heard from a Snap worker that one guy was caught tape lifting weights and staring intensely at himself in the mirror during unstaffed hours. What's so weird about that? He was stark naked while he was doing it.
Snap's clientele seemed to consist of all the people you'd never see at a regular gym. There was the Indian guy who only worked out in business casual attire, the dude with horrible BO who always wore the same Knicks jersey and hydrated with a two-liter bottle of Coke and the pack of women who moved faster getting into and out of their cars than they ever did while they were monopolizing the entire treadmill section and talking loudly for an hour and a half.
My favorite characters, however, were the Smart Car couple. These two portly lovers would expend an inordinate amount of energy struggling to get out of their ridiculous car before they ever even set foot in the gym. Why these two opted for such a tiny ride, I have no idea. But I do know this: It was entertaining as hell to watch them maneuver their giant carcasses out of it. Everybody stopped what they were doing to take in the scene. Even the smelly guy in the Knicks Jersey would put down his two-liter for a few minutes and enjoy the show. It was like watching people fighting to escape from a mangled, pulverized car wreck -- only with a lot more jiggling and a lot less blood and guts. Once they got of their comedic automobile, the Smart Car couple were all business. He'd head over to bikes, while she took her spot on an open treadmill. After about an hour, they'd switch. Day in and day out, these two would sweat it out at Drexel Hill's only 24-hour fitness establishment. They'd always spend at least an hour and a half in the gym -- not counting the 25-minutes of cardio they did getting out their car.
During this time, I stopped going to Snap for a pretty long stretch. When I finally dragged my sorry ass back there, I was miserable -- and sadly out of shape. I remember thinking the only thing that could make me feel better about myself would be watching my corpulent friends toiling to escape from their electric-powered death trap. And just then my favorite little Smart Car pulled into the parking lot. I stopped my half-hearted workout and settled in to enjoy the show. But there was no show to be had. The couple popped right out of their vehicle. No longer amorphous and blob-like, the Smart Car couple were now svelte and healthy -- each member at least 40 pounds lighter than I remembered. Why would two enormous human beings choose a micro-machine as their primary means of transportation? Because it forced them to think about how disgustingly big they'd allowed themselves to get each and every time they got into their car. Either find a way to get your fat ass to shed a few pounds or admit defeat and sell your tiny car to a buyer who will likely look at you like, "How the fuck did you fit into this thing?" The Smart Car couple: Founders of unorthodox, but highly effective Smart Car Diet.
Snap's clientele seemed to consist of all the people you'd never see at a regular gym. There was the Indian guy who only worked out in business casual attire, the dude with horrible BO who always wore the same Knicks jersey and hydrated with a two-liter bottle of Coke and the pack of women who moved faster getting into and out of their cars than they ever did while they were monopolizing the entire treadmill section and talking loudly for an hour and a half.
My favorite characters, however, were the Smart Car couple. These two portly lovers would expend an inordinate amount of energy struggling to get out of their ridiculous car before they ever even set foot in the gym. Why these two opted for such a tiny ride, I have no idea. But I do know this: It was entertaining as hell to watch them maneuver their giant carcasses out of it. Everybody stopped what they were doing to take in the scene. Even the smelly guy in the Knicks Jersey would put down his two-liter for a few minutes and enjoy the show. It was like watching people fighting to escape from a mangled, pulverized car wreck -- only with a lot more jiggling and a lot less blood and guts. Once they got of their comedic automobile, the Smart Car couple were all business. He'd head over to bikes, while she took her spot on an open treadmill. After about an hour, they'd switch. Day in and day out, these two would sweat it out at Drexel Hill's only 24-hour fitness establishment. They'd always spend at least an hour and a half in the gym -- not counting the 25-minutes of cardio they did getting out their car.
During this time, I stopped going to Snap for a pretty long stretch. When I finally dragged my sorry ass back there, I was miserable -- and sadly out of shape. I remember thinking the only thing that could make me feel better about myself would be watching my corpulent friends toiling to escape from their electric-powered death trap. And just then my favorite little Smart Car pulled into the parking lot. I stopped my half-hearted workout and settled in to enjoy the show. But there was no show to be had. The couple popped right out of their vehicle. No longer amorphous and blob-like, the Smart Car couple were now svelte and healthy -- each member at least 40 pounds lighter than I remembered. Why would two enormous human beings choose a micro-machine as their primary means of transportation? Because it forced them to think about how disgustingly big they'd allowed themselves to get each and every time they got into their car. Either find a way to get your fat ass to shed a few pounds or admit defeat and sell your tiny car to a buyer who will likely look at you like, "How the fuck did you fit into this thing?" The Smart Car couple: Founders of unorthodox, but highly effective Smart Car Diet.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
DJ wanted for a 'Nontraditional Event'
Say you're a disc jockey and out of the blue you receive a request to work an event that is not only downright bizarre, in many ways, it's also morally reprehensible. Do you simply ignore the freak's requests? Or do you say to yourself, "A gig is gig; Who am I to judge" and accept?
That's what I set out to determine with this little experiment. What follows is a series of emails I exchanged with a professional DJ. The names have been changed because, well ... I think that's what your supposed to do in these situations.
On Fri, March 1, 2011 at 4:13 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
Hi Kent
I have a fairly unique event coming up, and I need a very professional, reliable DJ for about three hours. We're very flexible on the date and price, but I just wanted to see if you'd be interested in a less-traditional event.
Sincerely,
Simon Lyons
Date: Fri, 1 March 2011 23:14:29 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Hi Simon,
Kent
On Mon, March 4, 2011 at 2:19 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
My pleasure, Kent.
My organization is called CHANGE, an acronym for Challenging Homosexuals to Accept a Non-Gay Existence. Basically, CHANGE believes that gay, lesbian and bisexual behavior is an illness (not unlike chicken pox, or even alcoholism), that can be, no pun intended, "changed" through proper faith-based counseling. That's the basis for our organization.
Well, Kent, we need a DJ for our first annual "Finding the Right Fit" CHANGE rally. In addition to a barrage of pro-hetero presentations, we need a DJ to play around three hours of music -- the majority of which must be highly romantic in nature and must demonstrate the awesomeness of a physical union between a man and a woman (most of our members are effeminate, if not completely flamboyant, teenage boys).
Please let me know, Kent, if you have any interest in the offer and then we can move forward with discussions on price, availability, etc.
Sincerely,
Simon Lyons, Founder
CHANGE
Date: Mon, 4 March 2011 14:36:22 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Hi Simon,
Kent
On Wed, March 6, 2011 at 9:07 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
Kent,
Thanks much for the prompt reply. Please let me know that you've received this, as I've been having some email trouble.
It really should be a great event ... and so much more! We truly believe that we can change lives and prevent these troubled, confused youths from ending up like the moral miscreants that pollute our society. With every fabric of my being, I honestly believe that a little faith-based counseling in a fun, festive environment can work wonders. But I digress. We were hoping to hold the event on the Saturday closest to the Fourth (our organization is also very Patriotic -- Buy American-Made!) -- I think the actual date is July 2nd. However, we're open to any Saturdays in July. What's your schedule like in July, Kent?
Simon
Date: Thu, 7 March 2011 00:05:35 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Hi Simon,
On Fri, March 8, 2011 at 7:57 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
Kent,
My apologies for the delay; I've been traveling the past few days. And I apologize for the barrage of emails earlier -- I had some email problems where my messages weren't being received.
That's excellent news about July 2nd! One quick question: Would you feel comfortable making a few specific announcements during the rally? Something to the effect of, "It's not unusual to feel certain urges from time to time -- I've even felt them myself. But that's just hormones running rampant or your mind playing tricks on you. All human beings are beautiful. However, God's word is clear: Two men lying together is not only unnatural, it's downright silly." Or something like that.
Let me know your thoughts, and have a nice weekend!
Date: Sun, 10 March 2011 15:23:18 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Simon,
Kent,
That's an understandable policy. And, after some thought, we're going to scrap some of our original initiatives -- such as the "Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve" team-building sessions -- and stick to a less rigid schedule during the rally. Looks like we're just about set to push forward to with this. I'm meeting with the board tomorrow to tell them that I found somebody.
Sincerely,
Simon
Kent,
Unfortunately, we've run into some problems with the Rally planning. One of our esteemed board members believes having all of these troubled individuals in the same room with music and dancing will undoubtedly result in the type of outcomes our organization is working so hard, so damned hard, to prevent. I'm sorry to say at this time the "Finding the Right Fit" CHANGE rally has been postponed indefinitely. Please accept my most sincere apologies and feel free to entertain other offers for July 2.
With great regret,
Simon
That's what I set out to determine with this little experiment. What follows is a series of emails I exchanged with a professional DJ. The names have been changed because, well ... I think that's what your supposed to do in these situations.
On Fri, March 1, 2011 at 4:13 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
Hi Kent
I have a fairly unique event coming up, and I need a very professional, reliable DJ for about three hours. We're very flexible on the date and price, but I just wanted to see if you'd be interested in a less-traditional event.
Sincerely,
Simon Lyons
Date: Fri, 1 March 2011 23:14:29 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Hi Simon,
Absolutely - we've provided entertainment for all events. Can you tell me a little about yours? How can I help?
On Mon, March 4, 2011 at 2:19 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
My pleasure, Kent.
My organization is called CHANGE, an acronym for Challenging Homosexuals to Accept a Non-Gay Existence. Basically, CHANGE believes that gay, lesbian and bisexual behavior is an illness (not unlike chicken pox, or even alcoholism), that can be, no pun intended, "changed" through proper faith-based counseling. That's the basis for our organization.
Well, Kent, we need a DJ for our first annual "Finding the Right Fit" CHANGE rally. In addition to a barrage of pro-hetero presentations, we need a DJ to play around three hours of music -- the majority of which must be highly romantic in nature and must demonstrate the awesomeness of a physical union between a man and a woman (most of our members are effeminate, if not completely flamboyant, teenage boys).
Please let me know, Kent, if you have any interest in the offer and then we can move forward with discussions on price, availability, etc.
Sincerely,
Simon Lyons, Founder
CHANGE
Date: Mon, 4 March 2011 14:36:22 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Hi Simon,
Sounds like a great event. What is the date that you're looking to host it on?
On Wed, March 6, 2011 at 9:07 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
Kent,
Thanks much for the prompt reply. Please let me know that you've received this, as I've been having some email trouble.
It really should be a great event ... and so much more! We truly believe that we can change lives and prevent these troubled, confused youths from ending up like the moral miscreants that pollute our society. With every fabric of my being, I honestly believe that a little faith-based counseling in a fun, festive environment can work wonders. But I digress. We were hoping to hold the event on the Saturday closest to the Fourth (our organization is also very Patriotic -- Buy American-Made!) -- I think the actual date is July 2nd. However, we're open to any Saturdays in July. What's your schedule like in July, Kent?
Simon
Date: Thu, 7 March 2011 00:05:35 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Hi Simon,
Sorry, I've been out of the office today and yesterday doing on-site venue visits and running production on this weekend's events.
July 2nd is actually available for us. If you would like to push forward with that date, it works well for me.
Kent
FoxyKent EntertainmentOn Fri, March 8, 2011 at 7:57 PM, Simon Lyons;CHANGE1@zoho.com; wrote:
Kent,
My apologies for the delay; I've been traveling the past few days. And I apologize for the barrage of emails earlier -- I had some email problems where my messages weren't being received.
That's excellent news about July 2nd! One quick question: Would you feel comfortable making a few specific announcements during the rally? Something to the effect of, "It's not unusual to feel certain urges from time to time -- I've even felt them myself. But that's just hormones running rampant or your mind playing tricks on you. All human beings are beautiful. However, God's word is clear: Two men lying together is not only unnatural, it's downright silly." Or something like that.
Let me know your thoughts, and have a nice weekend!
Date: Sun, 10 March 2011 15:23:18 -0400
Subject: Re: DJ Needed for Unique Event
From: info@foxykentdj.com
To: CHANGE1@zoho.com
Simon,
No worries. I have no problems making announcements, but only in a logistical manner (ie., "Welcome everyone...," "Please help me in welcoming...," "Food is now served...," etc.)
As a policy, I don't get involved politically or religiously at the events that I am contracted on. I recommend using "true life" accounts of people who are part of the organization to speak and convey your message.
Kent
| From: | Simon Lyons (CHANGE1@zoho.com) |
| Sent: | Mon 4/11/11 11:15 PM |
| To: | info@foxykentdj.com |
Kent,
That's an understandable policy. And, after some thought, we're going to scrap some of our original initiatives -- such as the "Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve" team-building sessions -- and stick to a less rigid schedule during the rally. Looks like we're just about set to push forward to with this. I'm meeting with the board tomorrow to tell them that I found somebody.
Sincerely,
Simon
| From: | Simon Lyons (CHANGE1@zoho.com) |
| Sent: | Sun 4/17/11 7:49 PM |
| To: | info@foxykentdj.com |
Kent,
Unfortunately, we've run into some problems with the Rally planning. One of our esteemed board members believes having all of these troubled individuals in the same room with music and dancing will undoubtedly result in the type of outcomes our organization is working so hard, so damned hard, to prevent. I'm sorry to say at this time the "Finding the Right Fit" CHANGE rally has been postponed indefinitely. Please accept my most sincere apologies and feel free to entertain other offers for July 2.
With great regret,
Simon
Saturday, April 30, 2011
My 6 Most Overused Words
Every morning I get a Word-of-the-Day email from the fine folks over at Merriam-Webster. Lame, I know. But I'm trying to expand my vocabulary, and it's even working a little bit ... at least when it comes to writing. Conversation is a different animal altogether. No matter how many new nouns, verbs and adjectives I commit to memory, I pretty much use the same combination of words I've been using since I was in high school. Senior year of college I was in my room with my roommate, Jim Beahm (real name), and Jim suddenly started laughing.
"What?" I asked.
"You're an English major (pause for laughter) ... a fucking English major, and you talk like a retarded dock worker." Jim answered.
He was 100-percent right. I guess it's a combination of being afraid I'll pronounce something wrong (I once pronounced "Beatlesque" as "Beatle-S-Q") and not wanting to sound like a Douche. Whatever the reason, when my conversational vocabulary hit a plateau -- oh, say, 15 years ago -- I began saying the same shit over and over and over again. So, after some careful self-assessment, I've narrowed down my six most overused words. (Note: If you're one of the seven people reading this, you should give this a shot. It's a lot of fun.)
1. Ridiculous. It's ridiculous how often I use the word ridiculous. The only four-syllable word in my repertoire is less impressive than Brett Favre's penis. And here's the proof I use the word wrong: I find very few things absurd, but I find nearly everything ridiculous.
2. Fuck. I vividly remember the first time I used this powerful, powerful word. It was in response to my friend Jim's request that I "curse more." I thought Jim was right. So one day I picked my opening and, with a bunch of my friends around to bear witness, asked my dad, "Hey, do you mind if I fuck this game out?" We were playing Nintendo at the time and to this day, I still have no idea what "fuck this game out" means. But my dad's anger was so intense and so immediate that I knew I'd discovered a word that would play a very pivotal role in my life. That's the day my love affair with "fuck" and "fucking" and "motherfucker" and every other variation of the only true four-letter word began. And it continues to this day. Fuck is like the bacon of the English language. Add it to any sentence, and the sentence improves.
3. Amazing. Whether it's a girl's ass, a specialty sushi roll, or a paranoid schizophrenic's rant, amazing is my go-to descriptor. Rarely do the things I describe as amazing actually "fill me with wonder," but I can never seem to find a more-fitting word.
4. Jesus Christ. This one's more of a reaction -- usually as the result of a Sixer turnover or what I consider someone else's driving mistake. The Sixers play 82 games a year and average over ten and a half turnovers, so even without the driving reactions, you can see how this one ended up on the list. One thing I've always wondered about this word: Do other religions scream the full name or their god/gods when they stub their toes or get cut off in traffic?
5. Shit. I use this one primarily as a substitute for words like "stuff" and "things." To me, "Working and shit" is a much better response to "What have you been up to lately?" than "Working and stuff." It's interesting that with all of the use this word gets by me, I rarely use shit in a scatological sense.
6. Nice. Probably my least favorite of the overused words. This is my stock response whenever I'm not quite sure how to respond but feel I ought to say something: "I'm thinking about getting my Masters" ... "Nice"; or "I got a DUI last night" ... "N-i-c-e." I feel awful each time I say it but, like a true addict, I can't seem to kick the habit.
"What?" I asked.
"You're an English major (pause for laughter) ... a fucking English major, and you talk like a retarded dock worker." Jim answered.
He was 100-percent right. I guess it's a combination of being afraid I'll pronounce something wrong (I once pronounced "Beatlesque" as "Beatle-S-Q") and not wanting to sound like a Douche. Whatever the reason, when my conversational vocabulary hit a plateau -- oh, say, 15 years ago -- I began saying the same shit over and over and over again. So, after some careful self-assessment, I've narrowed down my six most overused words. (Note: If you're one of the seven people reading this, you should give this a shot. It's a lot of fun.)
1. Ridiculous. It's ridiculous how often I use the word ridiculous. The only four-syllable word in my repertoire is less impressive than Brett Favre's penis. And here's the proof I use the word wrong: I find very few things absurd, but I find nearly everything ridiculous.
2. Fuck. I vividly remember the first time I used this powerful, powerful word. It was in response to my friend Jim's request that I "curse more." I thought Jim was right. So one day I picked my opening and, with a bunch of my friends around to bear witness, asked my dad, "Hey, do you mind if I fuck this game out?" We were playing Nintendo at the time and to this day, I still have no idea what "fuck this game out" means. But my dad's anger was so intense and so immediate that I knew I'd discovered a word that would play a very pivotal role in my life. That's the day my love affair with "fuck" and "fucking" and "motherfucker" and every other variation of the only true four-letter word began. And it continues to this day. Fuck is like the bacon of the English language. Add it to any sentence, and the sentence improves.
3. Amazing. Whether it's a girl's ass, a specialty sushi roll, or a paranoid schizophrenic's rant, amazing is my go-to descriptor. Rarely do the things I describe as amazing actually "fill me with wonder," but I can never seem to find a more-fitting word.
4. Jesus Christ. This one's more of a reaction -- usually as the result of a Sixer turnover or what I consider someone else's driving mistake. The Sixers play 82 games a year and average over ten and a half turnovers, so even without the driving reactions, you can see how this one ended up on the list. One thing I've always wondered about this word: Do other religions scream the full name or their god/gods when they stub their toes or get cut off in traffic?
5. Shit. I use this one primarily as a substitute for words like "stuff" and "things." To me, "Working and shit" is a much better response to "What have you been up to lately?" than "Working and stuff." It's interesting that with all of the use this word gets by me, I rarely use shit in a scatological sense.
6. Nice. Probably my least favorite of the overused words. This is my stock response whenever I'm not quite sure how to respond but feel I ought to say something: "I'm thinking about getting my Masters" ... "Nice"; or "I got a DUI last night" ... "N-i-c-e." I feel awful each time I say it but, like a true addict, I can't seem to kick the habit.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
The Redbox Experiment
I get a lot of movies from Redbox -- that conspicuous little machine in the of lobby of most grocery stores, where cheap people can rent movies for just one dollar. I used to wonder how that company made any money at all. But after renting from Redboxes in a variety of socioeconomic neighborhoods, I honestly don't think that company gives a shit about making money.
I think Redbox is a social experiment to see how much people are willing to endure to get something for one dollar. And people are willing to endure a lot. When someone's up at the box taking his or her good old time to pick out some shitty romantic comedy and the line starts to build up, the electricity in the air is as palpable as the moment right before the sky opens up and a summer storm unleashes itself. Only the storm never comes. Sure, people make a few audible sighs and groans, but situation always plays out without incident. There have been plenty of times when I've been waiting in line at a Redbox and the person selecting the movie actually seems to be testing the people in line, and I'll think, "Alright, this is it. Shit's about to go down. These people are gonna riot." And nothing ever happens ... yet. But it's only a matter of time until you turn on the news and hear, "It started out as family movie night and ended in cold-blooded murder. What happened at this Norristown Redbox will shock you."
The worst I've seen it was this winter. I'm standing in the Redbox line -- a line that's around 10 deep -- just trying to keep warm in the unheated lobby of Drexel Hill's Fresh Grocer. A heavyset, white trash woman in spandex is up at the box. While she carefully studies all of the available selections, her two dirty, obnoxious kids run around the lobby unsupervised like a couple of rabid squirrels. Not satisfied that she can make the big decision on her own, this woman gets on her phone and starts reading off the descriptions to the person on the other line.
White Trash Lady: "Eat, Pray, Love ... whatta ya think? What's it about? Let's see, it says here that 'Liz Gilbert' ... that's Julia Roberts' name in the movie. Umm, it says, this Liz Gilbert 'is a modern woman on a quest to marvel at and travel the world while rediscovering and reconnecting with her true inner self.'"
This women read off full descriptions of movies, while we froze our asses of waiting in line, and no one did shit. But if someone did end up doing something, I guarantee there would be an eyewitness on the news that night saying, "That was horrible what happened to that woman ... but she kinda had it coming."
I think Redbox is a social experiment to see how much people are willing to endure to get something for one dollar. And people are willing to endure a lot. When someone's up at the box taking his or her good old time to pick out some shitty romantic comedy and the line starts to build up, the electricity in the air is as palpable as the moment right before the sky opens up and a summer storm unleashes itself. Only the storm never comes. Sure, people make a few audible sighs and groans, but situation always plays out without incident. There have been plenty of times when I've been waiting in line at a Redbox and the person selecting the movie actually seems to be testing the people in line, and I'll think, "Alright, this is it. Shit's about to go down. These people are gonna riot." And nothing ever happens ... yet. But it's only a matter of time until you turn on the news and hear, "It started out as family movie night and ended in cold-blooded murder. What happened at this Norristown Redbox will shock you."
The worst I've seen it was this winter. I'm standing in the Redbox line -- a line that's around 10 deep -- just trying to keep warm in the unheated lobby of Drexel Hill's Fresh Grocer. A heavyset, white trash woman in spandex is up at the box. While she carefully studies all of the available selections, her two dirty, obnoxious kids run around the lobby unsupervised like a couple of rabid squirrels. Not satisfied that she can make the big decision on her own, this woman gets on her phone and starts reading off the descriptions to the person on the other line.
White Trash Lady: "Eat, Pray, Love ... whatta ya think? What's it about? Let's see, it says here that 'Liz Gilbert' ... that's Julia Roberts' name in the movie. Umm, it says, this Liz Gilbert 'is a modern woman on a quest to marvel at and travel the world while rediscovering and reconnecting with her true inner self.'"
This women read off full descriptions of movies, while we froze our asses of waiting in line, and no one did shit. But if someone did end up doing something, I guarantee there would be an eyewitness on the news that night saying, "That was horrible what happened to that woman ... but she kinda had it coming."
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Common Interests
Whenever people think about the Catholic Church, the whole scandal thing is likely to run through their minds. And I'm always fascinated by people's thoughts on the subject. Some people are shocked by the magnitude of the whole thing. I've actually heard people say, "Can you believe so many pedophiles become priests?" Yes. Yes, I can. Scumbags are likely to go where they're treated best, and no one treats scumbags better than the Catholic Church.
Plus, the testimonials from other priests probably don't hurt, either. I figure priests have to talk to other people from time to time about the things they love -- especially if they get the sense that these other people share common interests with them. Kind of like me and horror movies. I love horror movies. And because I love horror movies, I make it a point to talk to other people who love horror movies about horror movies. I don't know too much about pedophiles, but I'm guessing they tend to talk other pedophiles about pedophile things. So I'm pretty sure a lot of careful conversations of this variety took place:
Confused Man: Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been about six months since my last confession.
Enlightened Priest: Very good, my son. What are you here to confess today?
CM: Well, you see father, I've been having all of these terrible thoughts about people I shouldn't be having thoughts about ... um, younger people.
EP: I see. And have you acted on these impure thoughts, my son?
CM: That's the thing father. I'm sure I would if it were easier, and there were opportunities that wouldn't arouse suspicion. But, lucky for me, it's hard for someone like me to meet ... um ... other people. Do you know what I mean?
EP: I know exactly what you mean. Let me ask you something: Have you ever thought about becoming a priest?
CM: A priest, father? I don't mean to rude father, but, no ... absolutely not. I can honestly say I've never thought about becoming a priest. I have no interest in spending valuable years of my life holed up in some lonely seminary poring over a bunch of archaic texts day and night -- just so I can understand the finer points of Catholicism enough to say morning mass for the next 40 years of my life. No thanks, father. I don't think that's for me.
EP: Well, those are some valid points my son. But I'm afraid you're focusing too heavily on the negative aspects of my profession. As a parish priest, the entire community looks to me for for guidance. Parents look to me to help turn their children into good, practicing Catholic and trust unconditionally in my methods ... however strange and unusual they may seem.
CM: But with all that trust comes even greater responsibility, right? I don't even want to think what would happen if people found out you were doing what I think you're talking about doing. They'd probably string you up and hang you from the steeple of your own Church. That's just seems way to risky to be worth it.
EP: That's the best part. When you get caught, they simply move you to another Church in another town with a whole new group of ... um ... people. Getting caught isn't a punishment -- it's a reward. I shouldn't be telling you this, but sometimes when I need a change of scenery, I'll just let myself get caught. Now say five Hail Mary's and two Our Father's and meet me at the rectory on Thursday at eight. A few of the local seminarians are doing a presentation on the vocation of the priesthood.
And thus another social deviant decided to become a priest.
Plus, the testimonials from other priests probably don't hurt, either. I figure priests have to talk to other people from time to time about the things they love -- especially if they get the sense that these other people share common interests with them. Kind of like me and horror movies. I love horror movies. And because I love horror movies, I make it a point to talk to other people who love horror movies about horror movies. I don't know too much about pedophiles, but I'm guessing they tend to talk other pedophiles about pedophile things. So I'm pretty sure a lot of careful conversations of this variety took place:
Confused Man: Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been about six months since my last confession.
Enlightened Priest: Very good, my son. What are you here to confess today?
CM: Well, you see father, I've been having all of these terrible thoughts about people I shouldn't be having thoughts about ... um, younger people.
EP: I see. And have you acted on these impure thoughts, my son?
CM: That's the thing father. I'm sure I would if it were easier, and there were opportunities that wouldn't arouse suspicion. But, lucky for me, it's hard for someone like me to meet ... um ... other people. Do you know what I mean?
EP: I know exactly what you mean. Let me ask you something: Have you ever thought about becoming a priest?
CM: A priest, father? I don't mean to rude father, but, no ... absolutely not. I can honestly say I've never thought about becoming a priest. I have no interest in spending valuable years of my life holed up in some lonely seminary poring over a bunch of archaic texts day and night -- just so I can understand the finer points of Catholicism enough to say morning mass for the next 40 years of my life. No thanks, father. I don't think that's for me.
EP: Well, those are some valid points my son. But I'm afraid you're focusing too heavily on the negative aspects of my profession. As a parish priest, the entire community looks to me for for guidance. Parents look to me to help turn their children into good, practicing Catholic and trust unconditionally in my methods ... however strange and unusual they may seem.
CM: But with all that trust comes even greater responsibility, right? I don't even want to think what would happen if people found out you were doing what I think you're talking about doing. They'd probably string you up and hang you from the steeple of your own Church. That's just seems way to risky to be worth it.
EP: That's the best part. When you get caught, they simply move you to another Church in another town with a whole new group of ... um ... people. Getting caught isn't a punishment -- it's a reward. I shouldn't be telling you this, but sometimes when I need a change of scenery, I'll just let myself get caught. Now say five Hail Mary's and two Our Father's and meet me at the rectory on Thursday at eight. A few of the local seminarians are doing a presentation on the vocation of the priesthood.
And thus another social deviant decided to become a priest.
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