Friday, October 31, 2008
A whole cadre of witches are casting spells at and running in fear from a young man in overalls. Their spells have no effect, however, since he is holding an Allen Wrench.
Now go look that up to get the joke...
Monday, October 27, 2008
I support homosexual marriage and consider banning it akin to banning mixed race marriages. However, a few minutes later, I drove by a billboard with a Microsoft ad on it; in that ad a boxer is receiving a blow to the face so powerful his mouth guard is knocked out. My older son saw the billboard and immediately started asking difficult questions. “Why are his teeth flying out?” “Why is the man hitting him?” “What do you mean it’s a barbaric sport that makes you wonder if we’re more evolved than monkeys?” And so on.
Suddenly, I found myself agreeing with the caller I was angry at a few moments earlier. She was right! That billboard affected my right to raise my children in a nonviolent envrionment and gay marriage affected her right to raise them in a heterosexual-only environment. Then I realized there were a lot of things I didn’t want my children to have to be exposed to, so I made a list of them all:
- Any Microsoft billboard
- Any film by Jerry Bruckheimer, Michael Bay, Kevin Smith, or Tim Burton
I don’t want my children exposed to terrible movies, immature movies, or movies whose budget is 99% special effects and .001% story.
Not just offensive lyrics, but any music at all. Sure, that seems a bit harsh, but listening to my son sing the same line of a song over and over again for an hour while completely off-key makes it hard for me to parent nonviolently.
- Trigonometry, Statistics, Honors French, and The History of Photography
If I failed at a class, I don’t want my children succeeding at it and then making fun of me.
- Season 5 of Babylon 5
It seems cruel have my children watch one of the greatest science fiction television shows of all time and then have to endure the horrible let down of its last season. They shouldn’t be exposed to Star Trek: Voyager, Lost Season 2, or any Saturday Night Live made after the 80s either.
As I have stated before, I hate Christmas (that’s a topic for another day) and don’t want my children to keep asking about Christmas trees. We have a menorah, damn it!
- The person who said to my son “God talks to little children." Whoever you are, you creep me the hell out.
- Republicans and Moderates
I don’t want my children exposed to contrary political opinions and then make me defend my thinking. Children shouldn’t make me have to think.
- Anyone else’s religious beliefs
I’m a secular Jew with an affinity for the pagan god Prometheus. Unless you are the same, you shouldn’t talk about your religion in public. For that matter, don’t talk about it in private.
- People who expose my failings as a parent
Sunday, October 26, 2008
"I'm worried about Uranus."
Rather childish, but you rarely get to make Uranus jokes. I mean, we all know that Neptune is the funny one...
Thursday, October 23, 2008
It’s October and the Christmas season is in full swing. (Don’t believe me? You must not have been to a store since early September.) Those who know me know I hate Christmas with a white hot passion that knows no bounds. I’m not going to tell you the reasons why – that’s for a later post – but I’ll tell you what isn’t a reason: commercialism. Sure, there are lots of people who complain about the marketing that has become associated with The American Holiday (I’m looking at you “Jesus is the Reason for the Season” sign posters) but greed is what makes the holiday fun for most people. In fact, the Seven Deadly Sins have made all of our holidays more fun.
To demonstrate, I present to you a quick, chronologically-ordered guide to the major American holidays and how you can enjoy them more through the lens of the Seven Deadly Sins:
- Halloween – Pride
Remember, the more elaborate your costume, the better a person you are. The more elaborate your children’s costumes are, the happier they’ll be. While you’re at it, why not dress your teenagers up like prostitutes? All their friends are doing it!
- Thanksgiving – Gluttony
What better way to give thanks than by stuffing yourself silly with piles and piles of food? As a side note, it seems God wasn’t too impressed by the Pilgrims’ prayers on the first Thanksgiving as he killed half their number a couple months later.
- Christmas – Greed
Gifts! Must buy more gifts! If you don’t have enough gifts under your enormous, garish tree it means you don’t love your family.
- New Years Eve – Envy
If you feel bad about growing older, you should make a list of the things that you envy about other people so you can work on being more like them this year.
- St. Valentines Day – Lust
Valentine, like every other Catholic saint, loved the idea of people all over the world immersing themselves in carnal lusts. I’m not going to go into details here (I can’t figure out how to change this blog’s settings to “not safe for minors”) but I’m sure you can figure something out.
- Labor Day – Sloth
You could spend this holiday thinking about the lives of the average worker and those things labor unions have done for us (5 day work weeks, 8 hour days, medical benefits, etc.), or you could sit on the couch and look for football games on your 398-channel HD Television.
- Independence Day – Wrath
How many people died in our war for independence? What were the causes and results of their sacrifices? Who cares, we killed a lot of British! That’ll teach them for invading other countries. Extra tip: hold the bottle rockets really close to your face when you light them if you want the doctors to give you the extra special meds when they do the skin grafts.
I’m sure you’re thinking “But what about all the other holidays? I want to get the full, self-indulgence out of St. Patrick’s Day, Mardi Gras, and Secretary’s Day!” Sorry, there’s only seven sins. On those holidays you are expected to act as perfect, spiritual beings.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Cast your mind back to the end of 1996. Jose Aznar became prime minister of Spain, Australia’s Northern Territory authorized euthanasia, and the last Magdalen Asylum was closed in Ireland. Don’t remember any of that? Tsk, tsk. *Sigh* The American school system has a lot to answer for.
I was living in the lower half of someone’s house (but that’s another story) in Belmont. My soon-to-be-ex-wife (also another story) was still in Wisconsin (still another story) leaving me alone in California. After a few months of neglect, I realized I desperately needed a haircut (another st- Oh, wait, that is this story).
Back then, I used what I called the “proximity method” of finding the things I needed. Later, I called it the “Yahoo Maps method” and now it’s the “GPS method.” It’s a pretty simple system, really, you just pick the place that’s closest to you. I found a lot of things that way and they’ve worked out great: my tax preparer, the store where I bought my pet, my children’s preschool, the place I dump my toxic waste, etc. So, I opened my yellow pages (remember yellow pages?) and looked for nearby barbers.
A large, square ad jumped out at me. The VIP Salon was only a few blocks away. It seemed they also did massages, manicures, and pedicures, but I figured it was just a fancy-shmancy salon. I called to make an appointment. A few minutes later, they called me back. Did I want a haircut? Yes I did. There was a pause and they confirmed they could do that. That should have been my first warning.
A few nights later, I entered the VIP Salon. It was a narrow space, with a long row of barber’s stations taking up one whole side, a wooden screen created a small entry area and there were closed doors in the back to private rooms. Boxes were stacked in the barber’s chairs; that should have been my second warning. A small African-American woman appeared wearing a shimmering red sarong, piles of gold jewelry, and enough makeup to paint a wall That should have been my third warning.
“Are you here for a massage?” she asked with a disturbing amount of enthusiasm.
I explained that I was there for a haircut. Undaunted, she told me that the stylist hadn’t arrived yet. (The stylist wasn’t hadn’t arrived yet; that’s warning four for those of you keeping track at home.) I waited while the two women busied themselves around the place. The woman who greeted me explained to the other woman, a sullen Russian, that I was “the one who wanted a hair cut.” Another client came in and was greeted as I was. He asked if he could “see who else was available” and went in one of the back rooms with the Russian.
Finally, my barber arrived, carrying a leather bag of equipment with her. She quickly set up and asked me the standard questions: how long did I want it, on or off the ears, which way did I part my hair, etc. I tried to make the standard jokes: I just want a cut that will make women love me and men fear me, can you give me horns, how much to shave it all off, etc. Unfortunately, I was thrown off my delivery by the Russian woman returning from the back and grabbing something from a nearby drawer. It was in a flat square wrapper. Okay, it could have been lotion but it looked exactly like a condom.
Suddenly, it all hit me at once. I was having my hair cut in a brothel. (I just searched through the available synonyms for “brothel” and didn’t find a better word. What do you like better? The choices are: brothel, bordello, bagnio, house of ill repute, bawdyhouse, or cat house.) My face flushed. My heart began to pound. All the blood rushed up to my ears. My stomach turned. I had a sudden desire to listen to Enya CDs. What to do? What to do? Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do, but continue to pretend that there was nothing unusual going on. Hey, people get their hair cut by prostitutes all the time, don’t they? To be fair, the stylist was probably one of the prostitutes’ friends they called in to cut my hair and not a working girl herself. Still, it kept my mind busy through the whole hour of the hair cut to think about it and not what was going on in the back room.
When it was finally over, the woman who greeted me (and whom I had decided was the madam) thanked me for coming and encouraged me to come again.
“We do massages!” she said.
“I know,” I replied, about sixteen octaves too high and thirty decibels too loud.
Needless to say, I didn’t go back. Soon after that night, I moved to a new apartment and did the proximity method again. This time I found a more reputable (but still terrible) place near a Chevy’s that I stayed with for a couple of years. The woman who cut my hair was quite definitely not a prostitute and we talked mostly about what cheeses went best on burritos (Monterey Jack). Later, my girlfriend (soon-to-be-wife-but that’s-another-story) convinced me to go to a good (expensive) place and people starting thinking I was really old.
Every now and then I would drive by the VIP Salon. I was strangely relieved when it closed down (or moved away or whatever happened).
I honestly couldn’t tell you if it was the worst hair style I ever got. It was, however, the worst hair cut I ever had.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
At one point he said he didn't really know how the nanny ran the playdate and what she did at them.
"She usually gives us all gold coins," I said.
He looked at me for a moment, taking in the idea, the entire room silent.
"She does?" a woman on the other side of the room finally asked.
"SHHHHHHH!!!!" I practically screamed. (Have you ever tried screaming a shush? It's not easy.) "I almost got him to give us all gold coins!"
It's nice to know I can pull stuff like that off with a straight face.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Anyway, if I could draw, this is what I would post:
You see a world full of iron nails. The buildings are giant nail skyscrapers. The people are walking nails with faces painted on. Nail dogs trot on nail streets. High in the sky are nail jets flying behind nail clouds.
In the middle of all this is a lone man carrying a claw hammer. The look on his face is disturbing in its eagerness.
The caption: "When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail."
Thursday, October 9, 2008
You may ask "why?"
Go ahead, ask it, I'll wait.
I chose it because it had the funniest name. A trebuchet was a medieval siege weapon. Get it? It's funny! I mean, come on, how funny is the name Courier or Roman. Come to think of it, the Romans did some pretty funny things.
Shoot, back to choosing again.
Years later, I tried to push my writing skills along and, spurred on by a late night inspiration and a regular train trip with no internet access, found myself writing a lot. The result? A couple dozen depressing, moralistic tales. Sure, my family liked them, but they all thought I'd do better if I was working on better material. In other words, write funnier stuff.
So, here I am trying to find my funny side. Once a week I will try to write something, anything funny.
Is this funny yet? No? Shoot, I'm already in trouble. Um....
Hahahahahahahahaha! That never gets old.