communication is key

There are a lot of theories as to why the dinosaurs became extinct before I could ride one to work and finally have the rich guys in BMW’s envious of me, but yesterday afternoon while I was talking with another blogger, I had an epiphany about this subject.

Sure there might have been a meteor or whatever, but the real reason dinosaurs went extinct is because the guy dinosaurs kept trying to figure out what the lady dinosaurs were thinking, and eventually their tiny brains exploded.

This is really the best theory out of all of them, because if you ask any man now what women think he will 1) scrunch his face and look Thoughtful then 2) give some sort of vague answer and finally 3) punch himself in the face out of the frustration that comes with knowing that he does not know a damn thing.

And this is a man who is supposed to be evolved!

Imagine how hard this was for the guy dino, with his tiny little brain.

Dude T-Rex: [Notices his woman friend is in a bad mood] “You alright?  You’ve barely touched your caveman stew.  Too much pepper?”

Foxy Stegosaurus: [Looks up from her soup, with eyebrows raised] “Everything is fine.”

Dude T-Rex: “Oh, okay great – man you should have seen the look on Steve’s face when I threw that rock at his tail, he was–”

Foxy Stegosaurus: [Getting up abruptly from the dinner table] “You don’t even know who I am anymore!”

[Dude T-Rex watches Foxy Stegosuarus storms out of the cave, and as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened, his brain explodes and he dies]

This is probably what happened to the guy dinosaurs, and with no guys around to procreate with the ladies, the species eventually died off.

With this knowledge in hand, maybe next time a guy says, “So, what do you want to do tonight?” you women should actually tell us, instead of saying “Oh I don’t know” and then when we suggest something, you say “That’s a dumb idea.”

Either that or we all die.

Think about it.

thirty is the new thirty

Somehow, early this past November, I turned 30 years old.

I know! To some of you, this is a shock. You’ve seen the picture on the “yes, me” page and you’re thinking, “How??? How is this possible?? Your silky smooth skin! Your long, flowing locks! I am a fool!”

But fret not, my boyish good looks have deceived many people.  You were not the first, and sadly, you will not be the last.

For some reason, people think that turning 30 means that it is time to Mature and Stop Being Irresponsible, but I have made a decision that this will not be the case with me.

No, I’ve decided that I will wait until my forties to become an Adult, therefore I am now staring right into the face of ten more years of acting exactly like I do now.

Yes, that’s right – I am granting myself another ten years of yelling at people that I’ve just met about trivial things and all the other behaviors that make up The Adventure Of Knowing Chris.

I figure, why stop quoting Seinfeld at every possible chance now that I’m 30?  I’d be robbing everyone I know of something that brings pure joy to their lives (no one has ever actually said this to me, but I can tell, I’m a Joy Bringer).

And when that day comes that I finally turn 40, look out!

You want to see Responsibility?  You want to see Acting Appropriately?  I am going to be on fire! People will probably start painting pictures of me, because that’s what happens when you’re an Adult.  People paint your picture.

Until then, though, what you see/read now is what you get for the next ten years. So come on over, grab a beer and let’s act stupid, because that’s what being a thirty-something is all about.

no time to waste

To all of my Malawi, Africa readers: RUN.

Word is out that Madonna is coming back to take more brown babies, whether you like it or not.  There is nothing you can do – in fact – it might be too late already.

So RUN DAMMIT!  Oh, and in case you can’t read English, here are some pictures to illustrate the horror that is coming for you.

Good luck, and may god save us all.

ready, set, go

I’m not a pack rat by any stretch of the imagination.  When something has served its time, I get rid of it quickly.  Greeting cards last about ten minutes, unless Ari intervenes.  Once I read it and swear under my breath about there being no money in it, what’s the point of keeping it around?  Into the trash it goes!

However, yesterday when I went and bought a new pair of shoes because I never had a dad and material goods fill the hole in my heart (right now you’re thinking, “I don’t know whether to laugh or to hold him”), I discovered that for some reason, I do keep shoe boxes.

I decided to stuff my new shoes in my gym bag so I wouldn’t have to carry two bags home, but instead of trashing the box, I kept it.  It’s jammed up under my desk right now, where it will probably be until the end of time.

Then, when I went home last night and counted, there must’ve been at least 23 shoe boxes under my bed, counting Ari’s too, because evidently she has a problem with this as well.

I think I have this issue because for some reason I worry that I might have to move at any moment, and there is absolutely no way to transport shoes without boxes for them.

Everything else in the apartment?  Fine.  But shoes?  I have to tell you, if you’re looking to transport those without their ship, it’s going to be one messy situation.

You’re sitting there, picking up one and looking for the match, then oops!  You dropped one!  And the next thing you know, you’re drowning your sadness with a bottle of Jack while listening to “Goodbye to You” by Michelle Branch and it’s not even a Tuesday night.

But with boxes – you don’t have this problem.  Put those shoes in a box and you are ready to move swiftly and easily.

I don’t really understand why I think I’ll get a call and have to move so quickly (with shoe boxes in tow).  I mean I’m not Jason Bourne.

Or am I???

witness

This morning while I was at the gym, something very significant happened to me.

The Event occurred when I was doing some sort of exercise that I’m pretty sure made my biceps especially intimidating, which is something that is Very Important for reasons I really don’t know.

I was listening to some Wu-Tang and thinking about how they could probably solve the economic crisis if they wanted to because in high school whenever shit would go wrong I’d smoke tons of weed and listen to them and magically my problems would disappear, when I saw Sassy Old Woman out of the corner of my eye.

Some background on Sassy: she is there everyday at the same time as me, just like The Singer and Grandpa. She is somewhere between 85 and 457 years old, and she wears sports bras and tight workout pants.

Now that you have a mental picture, let me continue.  I turned and saw her sitting down, and lo and behold there it was: Sassy Old Woman’s butt was hanging out.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am a Butt Man, and I’m sure back in 1734 she was probably pretty hot, but this was not something I enjoyed seeing.

Sassy Old Woman was leaning forward, and her iPod, which she hooks into her pants, was dragging down the back of her pants, so the entire gym – and I – got a glimpse of her butt and her ancient crack, all in one amazing display.

Maybe if Sassy wore clothes like any normal woman at they gym does, this would not have happened.  But it did, and now my eyes and mind are forever scarred.

I cannot unsee what I have seen.

In fact, right now, as I type these words, all I see is Sassy’s butt crack.  I wish I could continue this post, but as you can tell, I have a very serious issue here.  I think I might need to go home sick.

veggie or die

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Ever since I became a vegetarian nine years ago, I’ve had to defend my Manhood.  When people found out that I didn’t eat meat, their faces would scrunch, they’d laugh a little, and I’d be forced to declare something to balance things out, like “But I love sports, big butts and drinking beer! Sometimes all at once!”

But no more.

Today, a study was released. It reports that people who eat meat are 30% more likely to die prematurely (from cancer or heart disease) than those who don’t.

That’s all I ever needed as a rebuttal, wrapped up in a perfect little package, like maybe a Hot Dog Full Of Death that you meat eaters enjoy.

From now on, my problems with The Diet Conversation are solved.

When a guy jokes with me that I must be some kind of wuss for not eating steak, I’ll just calmly reply, “That’s funny.  Hope you have fun dying tomorrow.”

When I attend a barbecue at a friend’s place, and the eyes of the party inevitably focus on me as I lay my veggie burger upon the grill, I will take a gulp of my Coors Light, crinkle the can in my hand (unless it hurts to do that) and proclaim, “Sorry, I’m not eating meat. I have this thing with not dying.”

It’s beautiful.

Today I do not shun my Tofurkey.  Today I hold my head up high.  Today I say, “I am Man!  And I eat Veggie Dogs!”

Well, at least I say that to those of you who are still alive.

viva la revolution or something!

A couple of months ago, Ari and I, being the proud parents that we are, submitted a picture of our dog Jack for a calendar of local dogs.

Of course Jack was selected because he’s fucking cute and if you don’t know him, you wouldn’t realize that he’s completely insane. We were very excited about him getting picked, until we saw the picture.

Here is the month, which is dominated by a huge picture of some idiot named Otis, while Jack’s picture is tiny in comparison.

Weak.

First of all, Jack is not Otis’ friend.  I’m sure Otis wishes he was Jack’s friend, but Jack is very popular among the dogs of Clinton Hill, Brooklyn who don’t mind being humped.  He must be selective.

And seriously, how is Jack’s picture not the center piece here?

Sears Glamour Shot.

Right?  Much better than Otis’ picture.

So Ari and I were all “What the hell?” and “Guess we’re gonna have to cut some bitches” about the situation.  Then as we scanned through the calender we noticed something: the dogs that were featured with big photos belonged to a neighborhood dog association!

Talk about dirty politics.

Since Jack isn’t a member, he got shunned!  Is this not America??? Do we not have equal opportunity for all dogs???

Sure Jack has lunged at more little kids than Micheal Jackson at a playground, but does he not deserve his chance in the spotlight like the rest of these Elitist Pups?

Well Ari, Jack and I have decided we won’t stand for this injustice.  I know right now you’re saying, “Uh dude, I’m not buying it, mainly because it’s March and you’re just now bitching about this.  Honestly, it sounds like you’ve been drinking.” And maybe you’d be right – but that doesn’t change the fact that we are going to stand up for what we perceive as a wrong!

Right after I finish this beer.

this post is kind of about the weather so I apologize in advance

Today is the first day of Spring, so I should be happy, but right now, as I look out onto 32nd street, it is snowing.  But it’s not the snow that’s bothering me really, it’s the fact that I didn’t know about the snow before it happened.

That’s because the weather said nothing about snow when I went to bed last night.  Nothing.  But that’s what makes being a meteorologist the best job in the world: you can do whatever the fuck you want.

When I was growing up, I wish I would have had the damn sense to want to become a meteorologist.  No.  Instead I wanted to do something that involved being around pretty girls and Being Awesome, which of course is why I ended up at a job with no pretty girls and lots of time spent Being Lame.

If a Weather Man tells the people in TV Land that it is going to snow tomorrow, and it doesn’t, all he has to do is shrug his shoulders and say, “That Mother Nature sure is crazy!”

Weather, in essence, is completely unpredictable, so all a meteorologist has to do is say some Words, then call it a night. It’s one of the few jobs out there where you can basically say a bunch of complete bullshit, and people will listen to it and think, “This guy knows what he’s talking about.”

Okay, other than what Bill O’Reilly does.

I don’t know why meteorologists even bother with the act.  They should just roll into the studio, wasted and still clutching a bottle of OE, then scream at everyone “IT SNOW MIGHT RAIN OR SOME SUN 40% PARTLY CLOUDY WINDS!”

That pretty much covers it all.

sorted out

I’d like to have a word with the guy who made this poster for the upcoming (sure to be a hit) movie The Haunting in Connecticut.

The only scary things in Connecticut are the vast amounts of white people who think wearing sweaters over their shoulders is okay.

If you can’t read my fine subway photography, the tagline for the film is “Some things cannot be explained.”  But here’s the thing: I think I can explain what’s happening here pretty well.

It’s called vomiting.

a.k.a. ralphing, spewing, losing your lunch, blowing chunks, puking and my personal favorite: buying the buick.

The kid is fucking puking.  And… I’m done!  I explained it. Little Sammy probably didn’t listen to his dad when he told him that he better eat his broccoli and when Sammy copped an attitude dad had to shove the veggie down poor Sammy’s throat causing him to ralph which never would have happened if he had just listened to dad in the first place.

Or maybe the kid just found out that Flo Rida has the number one song in America right now.

Either way, it’s pretty easy to explain what’s happening here.

I don’t know much about designing movie posters, but hopefully we can try a little harder next time. You know, put some thought into it dammit.  Like this blog post, I thought about this for like 17 minutes straight.

It’s called Leading By Example.

man love

I am in love with Chuck Klosterman.

Yes, today I am coming out and proclaiming that. He’s my favorite writer, and every time I read one of his books or essays, I sit there and think to myself, “Perhaps you should look into becoming a plumber.”

If you don’t know who Klosterman is, first punch yourself in the face for being an idiot, then read this, which he wrote during his review of Guns n Roses’s long awaited Chinese Democracy album:

Reviewing Chinese Democracy is not like reviewing music. It’s more like reviewing a unicorn. Should I primarily be blown away that it exists at all? Am I supposed to compare it to conventional horses? To a rhinoceros? Does its pre-existing mythology impact its actual value, or must it be examined inside a cultural vacuum, as if this creature is no more (or less) special than the remainder of the animal kingdom? I’ve been thinking about this record for 15 years; during that span, I’ve thought about this record more than I’ve thought about China, and maybe as much as I’ve thought about the principles of democracy. This is a little like when that grizzly bear finally ate Timothy Treadwell: Intellectually, he always knew it was coming. He had to. His very existence was built around that conclusion. But you still can’t psychologically prepare for the bear who eats you alive, particularly if the bear wears cornrows.

Okay?

Do I really need to say anything more to prove to you how much of a fucking genius this guy is?

I am nowhere near his level.

It’s like he’s Superman and I’m Green Lantern.  No, no – I’m not even Green Lantern – I’m some guy who lives in the apartment next to Green Lantern who sometimes cooks fish, which Green Lantern can’t stand because it stinks up the entire building.  That’s who I am.

I shouldn’t complain too much though, because there is really little else that brings me more joy than reading something written by Klosterman.

And if I’m going to be honest with you, I really just wrote this post in hopes that he Googles himself, sees it, and decides he wants to meet me and guest blog for me and then probably get a beer.

I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t crossing my fingers.