Tag Archives: my girlfriend puts up with a lot

down for the count

Ever since I started boxing I’ve been – as caveman as it sounds – kind of wanting to get into a fight.  The only reason being that for the first time in my life I feel like I could actually kick some ass, instead of getting in two punches, closing my eyes and praying to the heavens that the gym teacher breaks it up soon.

The problem I keep running into is that fighting someone when you’re a thirty-year-old man is, you know, kind of frowned upon.

Plus the scope of what I would actually punch someone in the face for has dwindled significantly since I was a teenager.

Back in high school, a short list of Totally Acceptable Reasons To Punch Someone looked like this:

1) Someone took your pen.  Pens aren’t cheap!  Well, they kind of are, but that’s not the point fool!

2) Someone spilled something on your Starter.  Damn bro – you know I’m a Canes fan even though I don’t know any of the players and sports are confusing to me in general!  Stop playin’!

3) Someone looked at you.  What are you looking at?  You think this is some kind of looking party???

4) Someone beat up someone you barely knew but was popular.  Jim, I mean Gregg, I mean – whatever – he was awesome, so let’s get that dude!

5) Someone talked to the girl you might have eventually talked to but haven’t yet. We had so much in common! She has a “May the Schwartz Be With You” sticker on her binder too!

Of course I didn’t even fight in high school (the last fight I was in was in 8th grade), because I was a Class Clown-type, which we all know is that dude who can make everyone laugh but when The Shit Goes Down he is usually seen running away while wiping tears from his eyes.

And now that I’m older and those reasons don’t really apply once you graduate high school, I’m just not sure if I’ll ever get into a fight and be able to show off my abilities.

That truly does make me sad, but I guess it’s one less phone call from the police at 3:45 AM that my fiancée will have to worry about.

For now.

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let it fly at your own risk

There are lots of things that I like to make fun of, which I think is what makes me such a mature individual, but few of them give me as much pleasure as laughing at someone who is puking.

I don’t mean puking because you ate some bad chicken, because that’s not really that funny, but puking because you drank eight sake bombs and then thought four shots of Petron would be the perfect way to follow that up.

So when I stepped out of the karaoke place on Saturday night and saw a girl bent over ralphing (the best synonym for puking there is), I just had to laugh, and of course, take a picture.

You'll feel better about your outfit tomorrow.

Might want to throw those shoes out.

It’s kind of hard to make out, but that girl in the white top is puking her guts out.  Her Man Friend is coming toward me, because he incorrectly kept telling me “That’s not funny man!”

I just kept laughing and insisting it was, because of course it was!  She was puking!  I think my exact words were, “Hahaha!  She’s puking!  Puke!”  And when he kept getting angrier I just shrugged and told him that it was too late because I had it all on film.  I’m a fun drunk.

I don’t know why people get so mad.  Someone throwing up in public is about the funniest thing ever.  I’ve been made fun of for puking by others and I wouldn’t expect anything less.

If you’re puking because of too much alcohol, quite simply, you deserve to be laughed at.  You acted like an idiot and now your body is revolting and telling you that maybe it’s time to reexamine your life.

I can’t help it – if I see a Puker, I am laughing.

So if you’re ever out with me and you feel your stomach rumble and you think you’re going to hurl, better get to the bathroom so I don’t see you.  Otherwise you better believe that I’ll be pointing and laughing, and hopefully taking a picture of you for all the world to see.

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assassin

I’ve discovered something about myself that I feel compelled to share with you – I am an expert Uno player.

The best?  Perhaps.  Better than you? I would bet my first born on it.

It’s uncanny, really.  It’s like I have this sense that tells me when and how to play the perfect card, leaving my opponents shocked and awed in my wake.

I’m even better at Uno than I am at the times tables, which is

64!

See?  I’m so good at times tables that I knew you were thinking, “Well if you’re so good, what’s eight times eight?”  But I’m even better at Uno.

I know you’re stunned.  I know you’re wondering how on Earth I could have a blog and be good at Uno, but it’s true.

From now on, I’m going to have to issue a warning to all who play me, because the swiftness and ruthlessness with which I play can crush even the most skilled player.

You’ll be sitting there, admiring the blue cards being laid down, then bam!  Next thing you know I’m dropping a Wild Draw Four on your ass, changing the cards to green and asking if you want a box of tissues to wipe the tears that I know are on their way.

It’s that brutal.

And trust me, I’ve been skipped and I’ve seen reverses that would make Robocop frown.  But I remain unfazed through it all.

My eyes will pierce you with their calm during the storm, just waiting for the inevitable:  Me yelling “Uno bitches!” and someone after the game saying that they “Can’t stand playing games with Chris.  What the fuck is wrong with him?”

But this is the life I lead.  I did not choose to be skilled at this game, Uno chose me.

Come and challenge me if you feel you have the skills, but I must warn you, it will not end well for you.  I am the best Uno player that

28!

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hello

I try to be a social person as much as possible.  I mean, as much as possible for me, which isn’t very much because I tend to be cranky, cynical and maybe sometimes say things to people that hurts their feelings.

While I’m out I always have a good time, talking about this and that, until it is time to leave, because I do not like goodbyes.  Not in the “Oh parting is such sweet sorrow” kind of way, in the “I’m too lazy to say bye” kind of way.

This only really happens when I’m out with a bunch of people.  The night is going great, I’ve just killed the room with a joke about backward underwear and then suddenly it hits me – time to go home.

It’s like a switch goes off in my brain, and I have to leave at that exact moment.

Instead of acting like A Normal Person and saying a quick “see you later” to all who are with me, I simply bolt for the nearest exit, disappearing into the night like a crackhead stealing a pair of socks.

My good friends know this about me, so they are ready for it.  When I talk to them the next day, they never question why one second they were talking to me and the next second I was gone.

Because that’s what I do.

I hate saying goodbye to every single person that is with me, and my thinking is, if they’re really my friend, I’ll see them again – so what’s the point?

Goodbyes are always awkward.  You have to sit there and discuss why you’re leaving, and when you’ll get together again, and blah, blah, please don’t ever wear those pants again, blah, blah, blah.

I really can’t stand it.

So to avoid all of that, I just leave.  I have been known to yell an, “I’m out!” as I bolt for the door, and I think that is a nice thing that I do.

Now that I’ve told you that about me, don’t be surprised if we ever meet and I disappear on you.  It’s not because I wasn’t having fun or you aren’t a cool person, it’s simply because I hate saying goodbyes and I’d rather just leave than have to deal with them.

So, I guess this is the end of the post.

Alright.

Talk you later.

Yeah, sure, tomorrow I’ll be posting again, we’ll get together then.

Dammit.

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sweet dreams

Ever have one of those days when you step out of your apartment, look down at your clothes, and think to yourself, “Well.  I have made some Bad Choices in my life, but this may top them all?”

I’m having one of those days today.

There’s a very, very slight chance I might be wrong about this, but I’m pretty sure I am wearing the world’s most boring outfit.

Seriously.

If the intense, petrifying boringness of The Notebook could somehow be manifested into clothes, that would be what I’m wearing right now.

The guilty party: One pair of gray slacks, one white (!) dress shirt, one pair of black shoes and one black and grey tie.

Did I mention the white shirt?

Why didn’t I just go ahead and go into full out I Don’t Care About Myself Mode and wear a short sleeve white dress shirt?  That’s the only way it could be worse.

I would have taken a picture of myself, but I still want you to read my blog after today, so that sheer amount of boredom will have to be left up to your jobs.

I don’t know what I was thinking.

In my defense, I need to take my dry cleaning in, which is why I am currently dressed like a preacher from Wyoming, but this is just really bad.

I swear, I was walking from the gym to my office and people were falling asleep just looking at me!  Poor people didn’t stand a chance against my outfit.  They’ll be passed out on the street until at least noon.

Then I get into the office, step in the elevator and see a woman yawning.  I know people!  I understand what’s happened here and I’m sorry!

Because of my boring outfit, the rest of the day I’m going to have to be a hermit. When I go out for some lunch I’m just going to keep my head down and try not to look anyone in the eye.

After that – hey!

HEY!

Are you still reading???

Wake up dammit!

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on the road again

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)

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mano-a-mano

I think I’d like to fight Sean Connery.

For no other reason than just to see what I’m made of.

Most people like to do things like bungee jumping off a bridge, backpacking the Grand Canyon and sky diving to push themselves to their limits, but not me.

I think engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a 77-year-old man would suit me best.

Of course it would have to be bare knuckles, because I’m sure Connery doesn’t fight any other way. And that’s fine with me. I ain’t scared.

I bet you’re thinking, “Well, how exactly do you plan on getting Connery to fight you?”

That’s easy.

Connery will fight anyone for any reason at any time.

Believe it.

I’ll just catch him at a local coffee shop, tell him that only wusses eat plain bagels and it’ll be on!

And I’m sure the fight will be epic too. He’ll probably say something like (in your best Connery voice please) “You’ll never take me alive you bastard!” Then he’ll throw a chair through the window, just because it would be dramatic and Kind Of Awesome at the same time.

I think I could hold my ground though. At least for a little while.

Sure, he’d probably bloody my nose, separate my shoulder and maybe give me a mean Indian Burn, but I figure I’d get in at least three punches before I went down.

I’m going to do it.

I’m going to fight Sean Connery just because I feel the need to do it. If anyone wants to come watch the fight, just let me know.

But first you have to work on your Connery voice.

Really.

It’s pretty terrible.

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