SHEED!

Thanks to the Hawk for spotting this gem:



For comedy, after you watch it try clicking at the center of the clip over and over again. The announcers go bonkers!

Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

In other news, I tried to get my glasses fixed during my lunch break and discovered that optometry shops are basically worthless. One of my ear-piece supports is about to break off, so I asked if they had a new plain black ear-stick. Zero out of three shops could help me with my request. I think if those ladies would have looked in the back or asked someone they could have done something. Am I expected to believe that they have no spare plain black things? I even told them it didn't have to match, it just has to keep my glasses from falling off of my face. But no, sorry, looks like I'll just have to get new glasses.

Another thing I realized is that along with the joy of New Phone Day comes the anxiety of having to pick a phone and a plan. Because it involves a two-year commitment my brain requires me to look at every single phone in the world before making a decision. It's slightly worse, but very similar, to the "must see every pair of shoes" problem I experience before buying shoes. But it's not nearly as bad as the "try on every pair of glasses in the world" dilemma I'll face if my current glasses break. Shoes and phones are accessories. But glasses are a part of my face. And I like the face I have on right now.

Yes! OOH! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

SOME PHRASES I LIKE.

Something you might overhear at a drinking fountain:

"Come on buddy, leave some for the fish."

A good way to ask someone if they like something:

"Does that tickle your fancy?"

I'm not sure what the origin of this phrase is, but I like it. It's probably not a very cool thing for a man to ask another man, but it's good to ask a girl. Perhaps because I can imagine what a girl's "fancy" might be and I can also imagine how I might "tickle" that "fancy."

A good word to describe something or someone crazy:

"Bonkers."

THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE UGLY.

A good movie, a somewhat obscure Kanye West track and a convenient outline for things to talk about.

THE GOOD

March Madness. Enough said.

One of the best events to occur every two years is the last official day of your contract with your cell phone service provider. I call it New Phone Day. Yesterday was that day for me. And as soon as things slow up at work I'll spend hours obsessing over which new phone to get and which new service provider to choose. The Pearl is the early leader.

Another good thing is a daily mp3 my friend Christos sends out: Christo's MP3 Of The Day. They're not all winners, but there's some great songs. Plus, they're almost all by bands I've never heard of and would never think to listen to. It’s an easy way to find new music. To be put on his list, e-mail him at christos.mp3.of.the.day@gmail.com and ask to be added.

Good use of punctuation in a statement scrawled on the wall above a urinal: Fuck you, cunt.

THE BAD

Speaking of New Phone Day, I plan on leaving Verizon. Why? Mostly because I'm not wild about their phone selection. But my decision is also based heavily on my hatred for their new commercial, which I call “The Meathead Weightlifter.” Every time I have to watch that guy talk about how the new Fallout Boy song "really pumps him up" I want to chop his head with an axe. No, seriously, I bought an axe--well, more of a hatchet--and if I see him, it's chopping time. I have to change the channel when the commercial comes on; it literally makes me hate Verizon.

THE UGLY

How about Tennessee blowing a 20-point lead to Ohio State last night? The whole second half made me want to throw up. Bruce Pearl, the human sweat factory, must be kicking himself. First, don’t blow a 20-point lead! Second, at the end of the game, with six seconds left, why not call timeout? Then you can design a play that will put the ball in your best shooter’s hands. But no, instead they settled for the wild scramble-down-the-court-and-throw-up-an-off-balance-leaping-toward-the-basket-shot, which was swatted into the stands by 40-year old Greg Oden. On top of this horrible sequence of events, I had to be sitting in a bar filled with OSU fans who were doing that awful O-H-I-O chant. I left almost immediately to avoid saying something that would have resulted in my face being punched by some shit-canned Buckeye fan. It was ugly.

That's all for now.

THIS IS WHY I'M HOT.

Mims!

Recently, I’ve been getting a lot of messages from mysterious, hot girls on MySpace. For instance, seXXie just sent me this message:

Hey there...nice myspace page.. anyways I was bored so thought Id say hi.. my M..S..N and A..I..M are on my page so chat me there..I'm trying to meet some new people (I just moved lol) . Im also new on myspace...not really use to how it works yet so if u write me back on here it may take a while for me to respond lol.. use M.S.N (my A.I.M is fucked up and freezes)... chat soon if you're interested xoxox S*a*r*a*h

Yes! S*a*r*a*h likes my MySpace page.

First, S*a*r*a*h, you’re not grammatically or punctually on my level. I actually have this strange standard where I require girls I date to not be idiots. If I send a message back, it would most likely just be correcting your whore-mouth mistakes.

Then, I get a message from CutiePiez! She sounds cuter:

H3Y BABE !!!...Cool myspace u got there.. was just browsing people who live near me and found ya..... Feel free to add me to your M~S~N or A~I~M (both are listed on my MS page..I prefer M`S`N as A'I'M freezes on me so I may not get ur messages...I jusst m0ved so try!ng to meeet sum new people.. xoxox chat soon cutie xoxoxo Sara!

Wow, she thinks my MySpace page is cool, too. I’m just rolling in the pussy. Sadly, both of their AOL chats freeze, otherwise we’d probably be having meaningful online conversations substituting numbers for letters at th1s v3ry m0ment.

Wait, her name is also Sara, but without an h? Are all porno-spam robots named Sara(h)? And if so, is there some science behind it? Are idiots more likely to think spam-porno robots are real girls if you name them Sarah? Do we all have a Sarah in our past? Maybe it’s her…

ONE-SHIRT TAX.

One of my favorite things about living in New York, nay in the world, is having someone else do my laundry. For over two years now, since I first discovered the service, I've been dropping my clothes off at the laundry mat and picking them up the next day; clean and crisply folded.

At first I thought this was a bit extravagant. Then I did the math: For one large bag of laundry (about two weeks) it costs around $15. Considering it would probably cost around $6 in quarters, not counting detergent and fabric softener, I'm only paying $9 extra. I figure that it'd take me around 2 hours to wash and fold my clothes. So basically, I pay $9 to avoid spending two hours of my life doing something I really don't enjoy? Sign me up. That's a deal I'll take every single time. And I suck at folding clothes.

But recently I've been reconsidering using this drop-off service. The problem is a new "one-shirt tax" that seems to have been implemented. Now, almost every time I drop my laundry off there's a shirt missing when I get it back. And not crappy old shirts. We're talking rotation shirts; shirts that I wear at least once a week. There were only about nine shirts that I considered rotation-worthy and TWO of those have disappeared. They're not even fancy shirts. Just shirts I like.

It's very sad, to think that I may have to give up this magnificent convenience in order to save my shirts. I really like going to the laundry mat where the woman recognizes me and thinks my name is Tim and I think hers is Jean. Or Joan. I already know the first time I'm folding a rotation shirt, I'll think of Jeannie’s smiling face and say out loud to the shirt, "I hope you appreciate this." I also hope that one day I see a little Korean man wearing my Roots t-shirt over an old long-sleeve UofM t-shirt, carrying my favorite black half-zip sweater.

What will win out: my laziness and distaste for laundering or my love for some shirts?

Eh, I can always buy more shirts.

Also, further proof that Google is awesome:



Aaaaargh! is right.

THE T-9 MISHAP.

This is a story that happened awhile ago. It starts with one friend, Homeless Joe, sending out an invitation to a party he's hosting. He sends it to everyone he knows, which happens to be about one million people. Shortly after that another friend "hijacked" the e-mail and invited everyone on the list to come to her comedy show before the party. Perhaps a bit taboo, but well-intentioned, since some of us were going to the show anyways.

Homeless Joe was a little irked that this had taken place and sent me a text message saying "that broad hijacked my e-mail." Having just seen the e-mail, I texted back "saw that," as in "I'm aware this has taken place." Only I did it using T-9, a function on your phone which allows you to type faster by guessing words from the combination of keys you punch. This time, T-9 got it wrong and I didn't notice; instead of texting "saw that," I had texted "say that," which Joe interpreted as "send an e-mail back chastising her for hijacking your e-mail list." So he sent out a fairly harsh, but very tongue-in-cheek, e-mail calling out the comic friend and jokingly telling people not to go to the show.

Several people didn’t know Joe was friends with said comic, failed to pick up on the sarcasm in his e-mail and responded that he shouldn’t be such a dick. The comic friend did not respond, nor did she ever, leading Joe to believe she was really mad. He then felt bad and sent an e-mail apologizing to everyone.

The story doesn't really have a good ending, since everyone just let it drop after that. But the one-letter mistake that set off this chain of events makes me laugh.

Saw that.
Say that.

LOSING IN THE SPEED ROUND.

In the quest for employment I've been forced to do the thing I hate second most (the first is cleaning bathrooms) in the world: cold-calling. Already being phone averse, I really don't like not knowing who I'm going to talk to. And I detest being on the self-end of a self-promoting phone call. Anyways, the good news is that most creative recruiters don't answer their phone, so I get to do one of my favorite things in the world: leave a message. It makes me feel like I've at least tried, although I think I get about a 25-percent response rate.

One of these returned phone calls was from a big agency that I had heard was hiring. At first I was excited, thinking, great, maybe I can get in here. Then the man on the other end of the phone sprang a speed-round phone interview on me that went something like this:

MAN: So tell me about what you've been doing.
ME: I was at McCann for five years and I've been freelancing for the last year.
MAN: Have you ever won any awards?
ME: No.
MAN: Ever come close to winning any awards?
ME: I don't think so. I haven't really entered anything.
MAN: Do you have a lot of packaged goods experience?
ME: No. Do cars count?
MAN: No. I think we'll pass for now, we're looking for something specific.
ME: There were some packaged goods ads in my portfolio, did you see those?
MAN: I didn't see them. I'll look and if I like it we'll give you a call back. Goodbye.
ME: (to dead phone) What the fuck?

I was left holding the phone and wondering how a one-minute conversation could be enough to convince someone that I wasn't a good candidate for a job. After the shock wore off the anger set in. Who the fuck was he? Congratulations on getting a job as the gatekeeper for your creative department jerkoff. But if that's how you evaluate talent, it's no wonder your agency has been in decline for the last...how long have you been in charge there? An award can't tell you someone's personality, potential or capacity to develop great creative. Shit, any jackass can grab onto someone's shirttails and get their name on an award. He didn't even take the time to look at any of my work before calling. Ridiculous.

Anyways, that's just me being bitter. If he had offered me a job I'd be singing a different tune, one about how I was going to work for one of the best agencies in New York.

But I'm not. Jerk.

THE MYSTERY OF THE MALE CHEERLEADER.

It's a problem that has forever plagued generations of non-male cheerleaders: why on god's green earth would you want to be a male cheerleader? In the interest of science, I've developed some hypotheses (in the form of a top ten list) as to why someone might choose this as an extra-curricular activity:

10. You were the lucky recipient of that coveted cheer scholarship.

9. It's less gay than the dance team. Or is it?

8. Your team needs you.

7. Both of your moms were cheerleaders. It's a family tradition.

6. You tried other sports, but there wasn't enough shouting through cones.

5. Pom-poms!

4. Football players love cheerleaders.

3. In the event you're straight, you get to hang out with a bunch of female cheerleaders, hold them in the air (sometimes by their bottoms), and look up their skirts.

2. Channeling all that spirit in any other way would be flat-out dangerous.

1. You're just that good at back-flips.

I guess someone has to be a male cheerleader. Or do they?

TYPE-O POSITIVE.

Here's a typo that made water shoot out of my nose when I read it. And if you know me, you'll see why I liked it so much. It's not because I like correcting grammar and spelling in peoples' e-mails. Try to read the whole thing, don't just look for the typo (which I did immediately).

It's from a new book coming out, called 'Glamour Girls,' and the authors solicited various fashion people for quotes on just what is a Glamour Girl. The following comes from such a girl and includes one of my favorite typos ever:

"A GLAMOUR Girl has a certain magic about her, when she walks down the street, or walks in a room, all heads turn, she's an eye catcher, you never forget her. She has a certain sense of style, poise and confidence, a unique way of saying and doing things that sets her apart from the rest. She's a trend setter and a trend spotter. It's hard to describe a Glamour Girl but you know it the minute you see her. She has pizzas."

Indeed she does.

JESUS ON WHEELS.

Last weekend, for a friend's birthday, we did something I haven't done since approximately fifth grade. Roller-skating. Yes, as fully-grown people we went to a club that once a week turns into a roller rink. The Roxy, an icon of New York nightlife, was right up there with Studio 54 during the heyday of disco. And they've continued on as a dance club six nights a week. But one night every week, one special night (generally Wednesdays), they shut down the dance floors and have a roller-skating party.

My initial feeling towards adult roller-skating was that it would be absurd. Every weekend they have a roller-skating dance party in Central Park. I've walked by it many times and often stop to watch this circus. Though captivating, the idea of a bunch of adults on roller-skates still seemed silly. The only thing I remember about roller-skating is that twenty years ago I loved it; but then I was also ten years old, sporting a mullet and wearing spandex shorts with a fluorescent green stripe down the side. Never trust a ten-year old's judgment.

Friday came, and not only had I agreed to go skating, but because it was asked of me, I agreed to wear a costume. So, dressed as Jesus and sure that I was going to need numerous glasses of whiskey to feel at ease, I went to the Roxy. When we got inside, we had a table right on the edge of the rink and the rest of our group was in costume, so I started to feel better. Then something surprising happened: I took a spin around the rink--and it was fun. The more the night went on, the better I got at roller-skating. And even though I was doing nothing more than going in circles, I found myself not wanting to sit down. During the whole night I only had about four beers, while I did about four hundred laps around the rink. Roller-skating Jesus was a popular figure and skating fast in such a crowded rink was good and dangerous.


Saying I had fun is not the same as saying I'm going to become a regular. First, the Roxy was closing for good the next day, so I won't ever be back there. And second, the skating culture is still a bit out of the realm of normalcy. You could tell there were regulars there. Guys who go every week and pick up girls by simply skating by and holding out their hands, like Superman offering to take Lois Lane for a quick flight around the rink. There were old women doing crazy old dances in the center of the rink. Gay guys in love. Skating breakdancers. Dangerous zoom around the rink at breakneck speeds guys. And there were also plenty of inexperienced, once every twenty years skaters.


Overall, I have to say it's the most fun I've had involving roller-skates in the last ten or fifteen years. I recommend getting a group of friends and heading to a skating rink near you.

MY MAKEUP, MY MAKEUP.

For almost twenty years now, whenever I hear the word "lines" or "makeup," my brain immediately says the words "five minutes people, five minutes," forcing my mouth to say outloud one of the following two phrases:

In a strange giraffe-voice, My lines, my lines, I can't remember my lines.

Or in a warbling, high-pitched voice, My makeup, my makeup!

The source of this madness is, of course, a commercial for the Detroit Zoo that ran constantly in the 80's.



I don't think I'll ever shake this involuntary reaction to the words "lines" and "makeup." And I'm not sure I want to.

HEAD KICK AND CAVEMEN.

As a soccer player, I've seen some gruesome injuries. I once had a guy point at me from the sideline and say "I'm going to break your leg." Then a few years later I watched a guy kick right through my lower leg, snapping both bones in half. Ouch. This one is pretty bad and doesn't involve a leg breaking. Instead, England Captain John Terry attempts a diving header and takes a boot to the face. Had to be rushed to the hospital and almost died...



In better news, on the heel of yesterday's post I read an article stating that the Geiko Cavemen might be getting their own ABC sitcom. I'm not sure 30 minutes of these guys would be as funny as 30 seconds, but they're pretty funny.

Caveman Sitcom Story

And check this out. Party at the caveman's house.

I have a feeling the caveman fad is going to burn out soon. Enjoy it while it lasts.

WAH WAH WAH. SHUT UP.

In a world that's becoming absurdly PC, it's only a matter of time before humor and fun disappear completely due to the never-ending stream of offended people. More and more, advertising has been the focus of groups looking to make their whining voices heard. In crystal clear recognition of this trend, Geiko has even released a campaign mocking the ridiculous lengths to which advertisers must go in order to avoid stirring up controversy. Their "caveman" campaign is not only funny, but disturbingly relevant.

Just in the last week there have been two examples that caught my attention.

The first was an open letter written to Volvo asking them to choose one advertising agency over another. Why? Because Arnold, the offending agency, has apparently "created ads for other clients that denigrate fathers." Huh? "National newspaper columnist and talk-show host Glenn Sacks is behind the push that started Feb. 27....Other male groups, including HusbandsandFathers.org and Fathers and Families, are supporting the effort."

(click here for the full story)

Apparently some dads are offended that commercials are making jokes about them. Wah wah wah. My question is this: when did dads become pussies? One of the sole responsibilities of being a father is to teach your kid no to be a crybaby; that there are different types of people and not everyone agrees and that sometimes you gotta take your lumps and that's okay. This ridiculous protest infuriates me as a man, as a human with a father, as a consumer and as an advertising professional.

The next example strikes at something near and dear to my heart. The Pizza Hut "Book It" program. Since I was a boy (1985, to be precise), Pizza Hut has sponsored a reading program the encourages kids to read by rewarding them with a free personal pan pizza for achieving goals. But is now facing opposition from "child-development experts who say it promotes bad eating habits and turns teachers into corporate promoters."

(click here for story)

Well boo-fucking-hoo. Guess what? Reading is important. And guess what else? Kids like pizza. They're going to eat pizza anyways, because it's delicious. And so what if Pizza Hut gets to spread a little good will? They're doing something positive for the community, they deserve a little recognition.

As a man who loves pizza and a former participant in the Book It program, I'm shocked that some fool wants to rob our youth of this glorious tradition. At our elementary school we had a giant caterpillar; every time you read a book you got to put another circle on the caterpillar. During the Book It program, this "book worm" would wind around the school. It was fun and I hope in the future my kids get to earn a free pizza for reading some books.

Would you rather have a world where kids are encouraged to read AND get to eat delicious pizza, or one where we have skinny illiterate hungry children? Would you rather see a satirical portrayal of fathers or an actual world where dads are crybaby bitches?

My message is simple: stop being so sensitive, you're ruining America.

SOMETHING NICE.

Again, I'm late on a story. Last night I was out for drinks and I overheard people talking about something that made my heart smile. Apparently, during the tsunami two years ago a family of hippopotamuses was washed out to sea. Only one hippo survived, a one year old baby hippo. When he was rescued and released into a wildlife park, he dashed to the side of a 130-year old tortoise. Now the hippo thinks the tortoise is it's mom and the tortoise doesn't seem to mind being thought of as such.



Learn more and see pictures of Owen and Mzee, a hippo and tortoise who are friends.

Boston police, idiots?

I'm a little late on this, but better late than never...

First, I have to say that I respect all officers of the law. They do a job that I don't want to do. It's dangerous and probably doesn't pay all that well. That being said, on with the show.

Two times in the last month or so, I've seen news reports on particularly retarded behavior undertaken by the police. And perhaps not coincidentally, both have taken place in the greater Boston area.

The first absurd course of action was taken when Boston police departments got reports of blinking devices around the city. These devices were, as you might know, some sort of light-bright boxes designed to promote the new Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie. Granted, not all citizens are familiar with the Moonenites and apparently, some people thought these might be BOMBS. Including the police. Now, maybe it's just me, but if I'm a terrorist and I want to bomb something, I would not put lighted characters giving the middle finger on my bomb. Seems like that might attention; you know, ruin the surprise. In the end, the Boston Police Department did what any rational person would do. They BLEW UP the devices. What? Don't you have some sort of bomb detecting dogs or monitors? Couldn't your bomb squad look at the device while putting their own explosives on it and determine "uh, yup, that's just some batteries and lights." The same devices were places in other cities, NY, LA, Dallas, Chicago, etc. and only Boston felt the need to blow them up.

So imagine my surprise when a month later I read this headline, "Police blow up foul-mouthed CD's that blared in church." Where, you ask? Why Boston, of course. Are you kidding? Apparently CD-players taped to the bottom of church pews began playing pornographic messages during mass. While this might be offensive (or funny) Boston police also felt it was a blow-uppable offense. "The bomb squad blew up two players outside and kept the third one to test for fingerprints or DNA and trace its components," said police Capt. Gary Johnson. Again my question is, can't you determine if something is a bomb without blowing it up? I mean, I know blowing shit up is cool, but you're not ten years old anymore.

I guess in the end the moral of the story is this. Do not wear or carry any sort of electronic device around Boston. If someone calls the police and says your iPod was flashing, there's a good chance the police might have to blow you up.

Good luck, Boston.

BEING A MAN.

One great thing about being a grown man is that I can go to the grocery store whenever I want, buy a box of Lucky Charms and eat them.

When I was a kid, we weren't allowed to have "sweet" cereal. Instead, we had Cheerios or Rice Crispies or Corn Flakes, which we were allowed to put sugar on. What sense does that make, forcing your kids eat healthy cereal, then allowing them to heap five scoops of sugar on? We would eat the cereal, then scrape the spoon along the bottom of the bowl and eat the mounds of sugar that didn't dissolve in the milk. Delicious.

But as a grown man, I don't have to do that. But if I want to, I will. I'll just go buy some cereal I don't really like and put tons of sugar on it. Then, if I want, I can just spoon the cereal into the trash and eat the milk-sugar.

Being a man is awesome.