Bogus.

That was the first word out of my mouth this morning when I looked out the window and noticed that it was raining.  And unfortunately I was not just waking from an awesome dream in which I was hanging out with Bill and Ted.

I don’t use bogus lightly either, I usually reserve it for Times Of Great Stress, like when I found out that Horatio Sanz was getting dropped from Saturday Night Live.  Dude was awesome.

The first word you speak in the morning is an ominous one.  In my case, I’m pretty sure because I said “bogus,” my day is going to be, sadly, depressingly, bogus.

I’ll probably step in a puddle and get Wet Foot (the worst thing that can happen to you aside from dying) on my lunch hour, then have to replace the water cooler twice.  I’ll be living in hell, is what I’m saying.

If only my first word had been something more cheery and upbeat.  You know, something completely uncharacteristic of me.  Then I would have a good day, because once that first word hits the air in front of you - your day is planned out.

In a lot of ways, your first word in the morning is like your first word as a baby.

Whatever your first word was, it has a great bearing on what you’re like as an adult.

Mine was “ball.”

This sounds good, right?

No.  No it was not good.

I said ball, but what I held in my hand was an egg, which I promptly threw against the wall.

Perfect.

Now you see what I’m saying.  I said something pretty dumb and as an adult, I’ve never been confused for the brightest bulb in the pack.  I like simple things like Big Trouble in Little China, Gonzo Grape bubble gum and Coors Light.

If I had said something Brilliant And Thoughtful, like “Momma” when I saw my Mom, maybe things would’ve turned out better for me.  Maybe I’d be an engineer or that dude who invented Lunchables.

But I’m not.

I’m just a blogger and really, that’s okay with me.

As long as I don’t get Wet Foot.

I’ve often wondered what super powers I would have if I suddenly became a super hero one day.

Becoming a super hero always seems to happen by accident or some Strange Incident, so I imagine I’d be ordering a bagel and instead of giving me scallion cream cheese the dude would give me Radioactive Cream Cheese and Zap! I’d have super powers.

My first choice is always to be able to fly, because then I could irritate all my friends by flying above them and throwing fruit at their heads.  Small fruit, of course.

I’m not a total asshole.

Then I think that maybe I’d want Super Strength, so I could play in the NFL and be The Best or maybe just be able to shove people really hard when they walk too slow.

The more I think about it though, the more I realize that along with some cool super powers, I’d be destined to get some kind of lame super power, like the ability to fix staplers when the staples get all stuck in there.

Not that I wouldn’t be in demand, because I would.

Nothing is more annoying than having a stapler jam on you.  You sit there, swear under your breath, then open the thing up.  Then you have to start digging at the little crunched staple that somehow messed up the whole damn operation and you always end up pricking your finger.

With me around though, the world would be free of this annoyance.

The instant someone’s stapler jammed, I’d get this feeling that Something Is Not Right, and I’d fly off to save the day.

It’d be a kind of crappy life for a super hero, always having to read about how Superman saved some kids (who were probably brats anyway) from a fire while I was off helping Steve in HR resuscitate his Swingline Heavy Duty.

But I’d do my duty because that would be The Good Thing To Do.

With great power comes great responsibility, right?

Right.

Because two of my good friends got married over the weekend, I had to go inside a church for the first time in a very long time.

Churches have always been weird to me, going back to when I attended Catholic School from first to eighth grade.  I remember we used to have to go to confession once a week at the church on school grounds, and  my friends and I used to get together beforehand and make up sins to tell the priest.  My favorite was, “I yelled ’shit’ when I fell down.”

That one always scored me Cool Points with the boys, but somehow failed to impress the girls.

Friday night I entered the church for the rehearsal, and instantly started making fun of it.  I did that because I’m mature.

As we lined up, walked, then lined up, then walked again, I just kept thinking of more and more things that made me uncomfortable about churches.

Like pews.

They’re really uncomfortable and every time you sit down, you end up slowly sliding down into an eventual heaping blob because the back is made of slick wood.  Then the other people cast their Judging Eyes at you because they know that Jesus never slouched when he sat and you are going to hell because your pants are making that weird boner shape that they make sometimes when they get bunched up.

What they should do is have a bunch of couches.  Then everyone can be comfortable and maybe not hate every second of being there.

And what about the pictures of Jesus plastered all over churches?

Look, I know why I’m there.

I don’t need to see Jesus’ smug face everywhere I turn.  Every time I saw another picture of Jesus in the church on Friday I kept thinking he was giving me The Stink Eye, knowing all about how I mostly tried looking up the Catholic school skirts of all the girls instead of studying the bible during class.

When rehearsal was almost finished I was ready to leave, having come up with many reasons why I hate being in churches.

But then one of the groomsman noticed a big cardboard sign that changed everything.

And to think, all this time I thought churches weren’t fun.

Let’s consider that picture a public service announcement.

(I have joined in the great Testament project over at Half Deserted Streets, so if you want to read a post of mine about dating, please take a minute and check it out.)

Hello everyone! Chris is having a spa vacation, getting facials and having his eyebrows waxed and his heels exfoliated and he asked me, Melissa Lion of Recovering Californian fame, to post for him. He also asked to borrow my fluffy pink robe and some pointers on “girl talk,” both of which I gladly gave him.

Because Chris has built a whole blogging empire on describing things that drive him nuts, I thought for my guest post, I’d add my two cents. I thought I’d identify new annoying things because perhaps these things are underrepresented. Maybe there are a few blog readers who are sitting there thinking, well, I love this blog, but what about the things that make me want to throw bricks and inanimate objects? What about the things that drive me nuts? Okay, that might be just me who feels that way. And I also might have the thought that Chris should post a picture of him with his shirt off. Maybe after his spa trip, he’ll share that.

Things that drive me nuts:

Renee Zellweger

What the fuck is she so pinchy about? What is so damn wrong in her life that she always looks like she just drank a pint of cat piss, and enjoyed it the tiniest bit? I’d like to believe she looks like that all the time because the war in Iraq isn’t going quite the way she’d like, or maybe the injustice that a book as seminal as The Bridges of Madison County never reached the status of, say, the Guttenberg Bible, but I’m fairly sure her face is permanently in ass-pucker mode because she not only slept with, but married a guy in a puka shell necklace.

Physical Affection

I’m not so into the touching. Particularly when I don’t know the person. Please don’t fake-slug me in a solidarity way, like, “hey, wasn’t that funny when I said that thing about The New Yorker’s Obama cover?” Um, it would have been a lot funnier if you hadn’t touched me. I don’t want to hug after the first time I meet someone. Sure we got along great, but if I hug you, some of your cells and hair and dander might be on me. Once we know each other for several years, then perhaps a hug is in order. Like at a funeral.

Exiting Public Restrooms

I’m not a germaphobe. I wash my hands after using the restroom, but I don’t use a paper towel to open the door, and I don’t use my elbow. I press the door open in the appropriate place with my hand. For a few reasons, 1) Enough people use paper towels to open the door that I’m fairly certain it’s clean by the time I get there 2) Enough people use their elbow that I don’t need to worry about their hands. However, seeing people contort themselves to avoid a potentially germy restroom door, makes me question my own tactics. I mean if it’s important enough to look like a jackass, well, maybe I’m in the wrong. Maybe I’m the one who’s a dumbass. What can I say, I always seek out an opportunity to be self-reflective.

Inflatable things

It’s just impossible to ever get them fully inflated. Impossible. The valve must close. And then ugh, that critical teaspoon of air escapes and the thing that’s supposed to be rock solid is squishy like an overripe peach and goddamn it, there is nothing you can do.

Sitting in the passenger seat in a parked, but on, car while the driver fiddles with the heater/ air conditioning / music selection.

These things are supposed to be done while driving.

Gritty Bits in My Sheets

One day (soon) when I’m a millionaire, I’m going to be a humanitarian. I’m going to travel to a third-world country and buy an orphan and bring him back to the states and show him how democracy works. He’ll live in deluxe accommodations in the basement, kept warm by the water heater; he’ll learn to read by cooking elaborate meals from expensive, inaccessible cookbooks for me and my family (he can totally eat the leftovers); and he’ll get his exercise by carrying me around town on a Chesterfield filled with feathers and draped with gold tapestry while my admirers throw gilded lilies at my feet. He’ll also change my sheets daily because as soon as I feel the smallest, tiniest little thing in my bed, I can’t sleep. I’m up and itchy and crying because Mumsie and Dadsie NEVER let their baby girl sleep in day old sheets and WHAT HAS MY LIFE BECOME???!?? Okay, I just get annoyed and then fall asleep thinking about what I’ll name my personal third-world orphan - Hope? McKenzie? Joe?

Okay, I think that’s it. Except I also hate the commercials on commercial radio, gristly meat, when mechanics tell me to “smile,” and melons. Maybe the next time Chris goes out of town, we can cover those other things, or maybe Chris will return and do a post about them as a form of thanks for the pink kitten-heeled bedroom slippers I lent him.

When Things Go Wrong, I am usually the type of man to note it, and then promptly move on to things that don’t make me have to think or move too much.

But there is something happening in the world today that I cannot stand any longer - the downfall of Brad Pitt.

His girlfriend, Angelina Jolie (or as I like to call her, Devil Woman) has beaten and crushed the once dashing actor into a shell of a man, with the latest assault being the birth of twins.

I miss the real Brad.

I miss Fight Club Brad.  I miss Snatch Brad.  You remember him, don’t you?  He was a brilliant actor, and he still had some sort of soul behind his eyes.

Look at him - he was still alive!  That was Brad before Devil Woman stabbed his heart with her poisonous ways, snatching up babies faster than she made shitty movies, all the while somehow convincing the world that Brad was okay with this.

Trust me, he’s not.

Brad is dead inside.

Look.

Wait!

You looked into Angelina’s eyes didn’t you???  You fool!  You must break free from her spell!  Think happy thoughts - puppies, Count Chocula, anything!

Better?

Okay.

Now look at Brad and see how broken that man is.  That is not the picture of A Man Who Is Okay With Things.

Well, I’ve had enough.  It’s time to rescue Brad from the clutches of Devil Woman.  Who’s with me?

Now mind you, this is no easy task.  Devil Woman’s ways are cunning and if you get captured, she will use Extreme And Disgusting Torture, such as chaining you to a chair in front of a TV and putting Gone In Sixty Seconds on repeat for days and days.

But if you are strong and you have a sound mind, here’s the plan:  We sneak into their lair.  I grab Brad and start slapping him repeatedly to try and break the spell, while you distract Devil Woman by waving a brown baby doll in her face and telling her that, “It needs you, just look at it, all brown and little…”

Then you throw the doll in the air, and when Angelina goes to catch it, we run like hell with Brad in tow.

It’s time to do something about this travesty.

It’s time to take Brad Pitt back.

It’s time to make things right again.

(If you have some time, please check me out at Free and Flawed (a great blog), where I have a guest post today about the wonders of texting.  It’s worth your time - I promise!  Also, tomorrow I will be out of town, so I have another amazing guest post lined up for you, so please check back then and show some love.)

This weekend Ari and I will be going to West Virginia to be in the wedding of two of our best friends, and this means two things:

1) I will be drinking Too Much and yelling about sports with all the other groomsman, which means I will be Happy.

2) I will be driving us there, which means I get to showcase my Expert Driving Skills.

I like to consider myself The Best Driver In America.  

I say America because I think there might be some Europeans who can drive better than me, because Europeans smoke long, skinny cigarettes and wear tight jeans and say things like “Bollocks!” which is all very Weird Because It’s Different, so it wouldn’t surprise me if there were a couple of them who were more skilled than me.

But here in the states, I am The Best.

Some people can paint amazing portraits, some people can cook decadent meals, I can drive the fuck out of a car.

Whenever I’m behind the wheel, I laugh at the other fools on the road.

The grandma driving the speed limit?  Ha!

The young man who thinks I don’t have the time or space to make my move?  Ha!

I time my passes perfectly - effortlessly weaving between cars and their stunned drivers, who I’m sure are thinking, “Oh my!  Such grace!  Such beauty!  The finest example of driving I’ve ever witnessed!”  Either that or, “Dear god that guy almost killed us!”

I don’t even use my blinkers because I change lanes so swiftly that they are a waste of my time. 

Then, when it comes time to park, you will not find a more able parallel parker my friends.

If you happen to get the privilege of being in the car with me when I park, please note the day and the time, because it will be a moment to mark your life by.

You’ll be sitting there, still marveling how we “Made amazing time!” when suddenly we’ll be parked perfectly.  Then we’ll laugh and laugh about how great things are and maybe sing along to some Frankie Goes To Hollywood.

Driving is something I take great pride in.

Yes, since I’ve moved to New York I haven’t driven in years and years, but it is a skill I can pull out and impress others with at any time, kind of like my ability to recite The Big Lebowski quotes at dinner parties.

This weekend I get to put my skills back on the road, and even though Ari rolls her eyes every time I bring up the subject of me being The Best Driver In America, she knows the truth deep inside and it makes her happy.

I just know it.

(The winner has been announced!  Check it out on the Win Something page)

I never really got into the whole Where’s Waldo craze - and not because I don’t see the allure of the books. Mainly because I find Waldo to be kind of an asshole.

Think about what it must be like to be friends with that guy.

You’re hanging out, having a good time, you turn your back for a second and the dude is gone.

Then you spend the rest of your day asking people if they’ve seen a tall, lanky guy who tends to just stand around in one crowded-ass place with a goofy smile on his face.

And if you’re not already with him, just imagine trying to get in contact with Waldo.

Impossible.

Waldo doesn’t care about anyone but Waldo.

He’s traveling the world, having the time of his life, and you’re blowing up his cell, leaving voicemails that grow increasingly more angry as the hours pass by.

7:42 PM: “Yo, Waldo, my man - it’s Frank.  Me and some other dudes are heading out to the bars tonight, give me a call, trying to see if you wanna roll.”

9:58 PM: “Waldo.  It’s Frank.  Are you coming or not man?”

11:23 PM: “Dude - you fucking suck.  Where are you, the Great Barrier Reef or some stupid fucking place like that again?  Great. I’m not coming after you this time man - I’m not doing it!  Fuck you man.  Fuck you.”

Not only does Waldo always make you come find him - he always wears the same damn clothes.

Some jeans, a striped red and white long sleeve shirt and a red and white winter hat.

Every single day.

Even when you have to fly to Egypt to find his dumbass - there he is, wearing that outfit in the hot sun. What’s he trying to do - be funny?

I don’t think it’s funny.  Not at all.

I think he’s an annoying fucker who deserves to stay lost.

Where’s Waldo?

I don’t know - but I guarantee you he’s being a bitch.

(The contest is over - so go please check out the Win Something! page for all the great stories that I received.)

Happy Monday people - I have a post, but from now on, every 14th of the month I am being featured over with all the other great writers at Burt Reynolds’ Mustache, so please go check me out there today.  I wrote about the talent show in high school, so you should read it.  Please?  It’s just one more click of the mouse dammit!  Do it!  

I’m sorry I yelled.  Just please go read it.

Also, today is the last day to turn in your stories for my contest, so make sure you get them to me by midnight tonight.

Tomorrow I will post all the entries and then Wednesday I will announce the winner.  All of this info is on the Win Something! page, so check it for all the details.  

Alright, I’m going watch an episode of the A-Team, so have a good one.

Last night on the train ride home, I was thinking about how I love Beat It, but I can’t get fully behind a song that is essentially telling me to turn and run like a frightened little boy when faced with any sort of conflict.

I just can’t.

Then, while making a sad face On The Outside, I looked up and saw this.

This man had hair like I had never seen before, so of course I started to think about him and his life.

I wonder what his parents think?  Actually, his parents probably haven’t spoken to him for years because his father never understood The Hair even though his mother supported it.

Girlfriend?

Boyfriend?

He’s definitely in a relationship of some kind.  No doubt about it.  There is always someone out there who will see beauty in the hideous.  People still go see Mike Myers movies, right?

What was the thought process before he decided to do this to himself?

One day, while sitting on his couch, he must’ve just decided:  I am going to grow hair that upsets people.  I don’t care.  My hair will grow and grow and people will resent me for it until I die.

And the job he must have!  It must be an amazing job, something that allows him to rock hair like that without fear of termination.

In fact, he must be a Wizard.

Of course!

He must be on his way home from The Upper East Side, where magic happens all the time.  A land where people live in million dollar one bedroom apartments and there are street corners without crackheads trying to sell you a tent.

All of these thoughts happened between when I saw him get on and when I had to step off at my stop.

I wanted to ask him about being a Wizard.

I wanted to ask him to teach me a spell that would make be able to do The Robot really well.

But I didn’t get the chance to.

I stepped off the train, looked back through the window and watched as the Wizard left my life forever.

He was probably going to do Wizard Business for The Good Of The World, helping the poor and assisting the needy.

Or maybe he was just going to visit his dad and turn him into a frog.

It’s officially summer time, and that means lots of things, like going to the beach, or drinking too many beers in the hot sun and almost passing out from dehydration.  And for some people, it means going to amusement parks.

I take in the occasional trip to those Lands Of Fun, and yeah, I have some Amusement.

And if you’re lucky enough (or famous enough) to accompany me on a trip to one of these places, you will always know where to find me.

On the ground.

No roller coasters for me, thank you very much.

I’ve tried them, okay?

I’ve tried strapping myself into a tiny box of metal and being hurled through the air like some kind of fucking idiot and it turns out that it’s just not for me.

Whenever my friends and I have gone to an amusement park, I am the one standing at the bottom, holding all the women’s purses, waving to everyone and thinking to myself, “Well, I hope they don’t die because we’ve had some fun times together.”

Of course you can try to peer pressure me into getting on one, but it won’t work.  This may surprise some of you, but I tend to be a little Set In My Ways.

But don’t let me stop you from tempting the cold hand of death.  Have at it!

You go ahead and place your life in the hands of a single metal bar across your lap.  It seems very likely that it will keep you from flying to your death and making me have to call your parents.

I’m sure that pimple-faced kid with the voice that cracked whose Mom took him and his girlfriend to the movies last night is going to be completely responsible handling the controls of the coaster.

It will be great and you should really go.

While you’re climbing to your impending doom on rides that warn you not ride them with names like Phantom’s Revenge and Raging Bull, I will be safe and sound below playing Duck Pond.

Yes, you can play a duck or two after you’re done, but that’s assuming that you will live through your Ride Of Death, and I don’t think we should make those kind of assumptions.