Open Letter to My Dignity On the Milk Carton

Dear Dignity,

It became clear to me and everyone else in attendance that you were nowhere to be found when I shored up enough drunken glazed over acumen to destroy reputations made of steel.

Your vicious and abrupt departure over the weekend made me think I did something wrong to you. I understand that you and my sense of humor never really saw eye-to-eye but that's no excuse for you to completely abandon me the ENTIRE day. As a result I've become highly susceptible to the sharp and painful feeling that stems from the consciousness of something ridiculously stupid.

I feel like you're never there when I need you the most. And I read your note you left on my face (next to the penis someone drew in sharpie marker) that you'll always be there for me no matter what, but I'm fairly certain that's not true. All I ever wanted from you was companionship and you leave me at the worst possible time just before I toss judgment, logic and decency out the window without thinking twice.

Deciding to wear a teabag costume was just the beginning of it all, too. The moment I put the costume on I noticed you walking away, and that was an indication of what was to come. The more drinks I guzzled, the more you began to fade. The more fearless I grew, the less I knew you had my back.

It's typically not my style to not focus all my energy into you but you weren't paying any attention to me, and humiliation was all about me. Humiliation is only fun in doses though, and is a lot like Saran wrap. Far too clingy.

Fuck, Dignity, I thought we had something truly special that could withstand the test of shame.

I'm sure you've heard the news by now, among your moral and upright circle of virtuous friends. Since you left me, it's safe to say I kinda let myself go. After spending the whole day tailgating, getting heavily sauced, sloshed, and pummeled by rigorous drinking efforts, I was rewarded with the title of 'Out of Control' and this made me incredibly entertaining, nonetheless, the gadonkadonk of all jokes.

If I wasn't getting scoffed at for my indecent conduct and behavior, I was watching myself unfold as a poorly assembled work of irony, straight from IKEA. All general inquiries about the night provided some sort of recap that involved the words "JJ" and "insane" and "hilarious". This is not the sort of recognition I seek.

Because you are no longer in my life, Dignity, I was able to freely approach girls with no regret, shame or tact and purposefully ask them why they are checking out my package, when indeed, they were not.

And again, your void has made it all possible for me to follow a girls confused inquiry with complete and utter nonsense. For example, when a girl said she had no idea what I was talking about, I felt obliged to remove my pants completely, toss them into a bush, dance incredibly sexy Patrick Swayzee circles around her and ask if she had any biscuits.

Tossing my pants into a bush is the ultimate signifier that you truly aren't ever there when I need you, Dignity. That would have been a good time for you to come back and cuddle. That's when it all went downhill however.

During some point - likely between talking to Sarah Palin and the slutty water hose girl - I decided it was time to stop the party and command everyone's attention to inform them about the terribly tight tights I was wearing. You not being in my life anymore, Dignity means I'm of the attention whore persuasion now.

Someone suggested that I put my pants back on and I instinctively said, "Only if you promise to come to my tea party dumb-dumb." Dignity, you never allow me to say such horrendous and effeminately gay retorts which are about as funny as a bank statement showing depleted funds.

The camera came out, and since I have an overwhelming desire to capture my legendary moments that are anything but dope, I embrace the opportunity to be tagged all over Facebook as if it were my job to court embarrassing, slipshod and atrocious poses that act as evidence that I was not OK. I only embrace these moments because you are no longer with me, Dignity.

It used to be fairly simple. I leave my house with you and I always returned with you. Now I wrestle with an unabashed sense of deplorable folly every time I pick up a phone. I shudder to think about the high amount of 'oops' texts I've had to compose the following morning, not to mention the face-to-face explanations as to why I called someone at 5 a.m. to discuss fantasy football and candy corn with someone who has zero interest in participating in the conversation.

When I asked for a ride home over the weekend, and discovered that I had lost my keys and my roommate was not home, I had the wherewithal to say, 'I'm screwed' but reaching all-time lows comes with the territory I suspect. After being told I can fend for myself at 5 a.m. outside of my apartment, I knew there was only one thing to do: Retire to the ground, still in my teabag costume. I stumbled, staggered, slouched and then collapsed slowly to the ground, working relentlessly to find the most comfortable position a teabag affords.

And then the bright sun hit me in the face and I hear loud cackling. I open my eyes and see neighbors laughing, saying, 'It's a drunken teabag' and I couldn't even muster up the energy to smile. I was a human wreck and I had to be at work at 10 a.m., but of course I didn't have my car.

Dignity, you totally would have given me a ride, to someone's couch, to work or even to a hotel room. But sadly, you were nowhere to be found. Missing.

Because of the nature of the situation, I had to appear to work still in my costume and I had to explain in great detail my amazing level of stupidness. And to add insult to injury, since my bike was at work, and it was my only way back, I had to ride it home with my costume on. The honks from drivers confirmed that I was not discreet either.

Look, Dignity, I miss you and I care about you. I want you back in my life because I feel like without you I will create far too much fodder for people to talk about. I will be tagged on Facebook with such force that my children will find it difficult to get a job.

I don't want to stalk you in that creepy, you broke-my-heart-now-I'm-going-to-break-your-face kind of way. I have never been on this side of the street since usually I'm always the one that decides when it's over. I'm begging you though, Dignity, consider what we've been through and I feel you owe it to me to at least call or hang out with me every once in a while. Remind me what it feels like to stand tall and oversee everyone else with a slight superior complex.

You're not picking up my calls and I've left countless messages, but I just want you to know one thing, Dignity, I've put a lot of time and effort into our relationship. I don't want to see it end like this. I'm sorry for anything I may have done that I'm not aware of, but come back. My reputation, self-esteem and membership to being a cunning individual is at jeopardy.

Think about it. Call me.

Sincerely,

-- Teabag tendencies

Submissions for Refrigerator Door

Building on to my incomparable template of profoundly colossal, wildly entertaining work of staggering penmanship in this blog can be a challenging task.

Constantly outdoing myself is not easy, but I've taken this entry to town like a first date. I've wined and dined it, complimented it, made myself appear mysteriously intriguing while putting my most awkward foot forward, extending my clammy hands as I flirt with mind-numbing abstract interpretations and observations that will effectively eliminate any hopes of a second date. Yes, this blog is that off the mark. And no I can't explain why the pandas are shooting technicolor beams from their mouths, but for this weird blog's sake, let's assume they've developed a penchant for Skittles.

It's been said that reading my dope ass blog while wearing no pants is akin to jumping aboard a prehistoric pterodactyl that swoops through your head like an abstract thought attracting conversational tangents and cave women who want to party like it's 1099 B.C. Leap into my blog.

How can the content get any better you ask? It just did, bitch. No need to REALLY remove your pants, but I'm sure your inner freak won't feel entirely opposed to the idea.

I will attempt to deftly contribute to this portal of otherworldly musings in an alternative manner via the use of what I'd like to call, method writing. Similar to method acting, method writing takes 'intense' to an entirely new level. It's the kind of dedication that smacks with syrupy southern drawls at a NASCAR event. It's something different that shoots up your ass like a jet-stream of water in a French toilet, which is both shocking and refreshing in an unspecified way.

And just when you thought the bar couldn't be raised any higher (or maybe lower) I do it again. Prepare to achieve the sensation of being hit by a hip, humorous train coming straight from the mouth of madness.

All the words and thoughts I type here have been processed through a conveyor, manufactured like so: I experience it, recall the memory in as much detail as possible, adjust accordingly to my imagination's desire, dip into premium bullshit, market the language with floral design and deliver it with the most convincing karate kick to your face.

The following stories involve me experiencing something and chronicling in detail what it's like, but with a twist. If you haven't realized by now, yes, I have quite the outrageous imagination.

Becoming a force of nature, not to be reckoned with
I was my own rolling intellectual earthquake, telling her things like, "I got a lot of C's in college" and "I can create allegory in a bowl of Campbell's alphabet soup."

But I was failing to make an impact. That's when it hit me. I needed to become a force of nature in conversation, not to be reckoned with. That was the goal. To become a storm. A tornado. A rain cloud or some shit. And I had not done my homework in becoming grossly apt at embracing climatic terror.

I assumed the role of an actual rod of lightning and jolted my way to her, wasting little time and hitting her with super-charged abruptness.

"Baby got BACK!" I said.

She may have vomited a little. She was appalled. I knew this because her eyes were rolling with intensity. It was hardly a surprise that I found myself getting bounced out of a short lived conversation, thanks to her lightning rod, which was her fat and bitter friend who warned me, "she doesn't want to talk to you."

I had to pull out the big guns. So I then assumed the role of mother nature and put on my robe. You can't fuck with mother nature, right? I regrouped and glided back over to her (because that seems like something mother nature would do) and I extended my hand, when all of a sudden doves shot out at her profusely. I opened my mouth to talk, and dolphin sounds were emitted. I lifted my robe and the bar floor riddled with urine and beer was replaced by lush greenery and wild animals.

She then tossed her beer cap on the floor. This enraged me, naturally, due to the newly acquired occupation I shouldered as a magnanimous entity.

So in keeping tune with the 'baby got back' theme, I posed a question this time, but rephrased it in a more eco-friendly manner, hoping that she would feel horrible about tossing aside the beer cap in front of me. I also wanted to remind her that I was a force of nature not to be reckoned with.

"What you gon' do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk?"

She replied with a blank stare, completely dumbfounded that someone would comment on her large ass. But I offered suggestions.

"Recycle it ... no, Make a collage. Donate it to Goodwill? You can always sell it on eBay. I don't know. Do you even want it? Consolidate it into a smaller trunk. Preserve it so that your grandchildren may have a meaningful connection to their heritage. Open up an amusement park on the 40th parallel of your ass. Post it in the free section of Craigslist."

She picked up the bottle cap and signed up for a spin class at the gym. And that's when it became obvious that I am a force not to be reckoned with.

Becoming a Beard Maker
I'm enjoying the freedom of old-youth, exulting in the richness of my time and place, and it's evident to everyone. I say this confidently because I was approached by a group of documentary filmmakers at the Mohawk several weeks back at a White Denim show who asked to interview me for their film, because I "seem to be in my element" and "enjoying Austin." No joke.

How they reached this conclusion is beyond me. But if I were a betting man, I would suspect it's because of the rave reviews they read about my beard. Here are some excerpts.

**** Must-see beard!!!
Reviewer: Jamie Slunkadunk from Austin, TX This is the best beard I've seen all year. It's one of those beards where you just never want it to end. If you get a chance, CHECK OUT THIS BEARD. You won't be sorry. I guarantee it.

***** AMAZING!!!
Reviewer: Skylar Jafar from Brooklyn, NY Oh my God this is an incredible beard!!! I saw a small part of JJ's beard on the Internet and I just had to go see the whole thing. I was blown away. It's a hilarious beard, but it's also sad and touching. This girl beside me was crying because the beard was so emotional. I can't do it justice. Just do yourself a favor and see this beard. It's an instant classic, and I know you'll love it as much as I did.

**** A first look at an up-and-coming beard
Reviewer: Dallas, TX Even though Mr. JJ won't let you touch his beard, his beard will touch you!! See it TODAY!!!!

* pathetic
Reviewer: Jennifer K. from Austin, TX I just can't believe what passes for a good beard these days. I teach junior high English, and I've seen better beards on my eighth-graders. Don't waste your time. I'll take Hemingway's beard every time over today's beards.

Diary of a Ninja Shoe Salesman
First Day on the job:
I'm adjusting quite nicely. I didn't even have the urge to engage in hand-to-hand combat with anyone today. My superiors in the sales ranks reported that I need to work on intra-communication. They are trying to test me. It's part of my sales strategy not to talk, and to never show my face and always stand in a crouching tiger stance, prepared to back flip my way to the sock room if needed. The females find this a little odd and my sales might suffer as a result. Everyone keeps playing pranks on me, too. I was not amused when I was told American Ninja was Oscar worthy. I am not fond of the song "Everybody was Kung-Fu Fighting" being played over the intercom either. You dance like a stupid idiot asshole Bob, in sales. Everyone also keeps comparing me to something called camel toe and moose knuckle. These people have no idea how dangerous my ninja boot really is.

Make sure you watch the end of this video.


Being That Guy
In the elusive sport of clogging, cramping and overall messing up your style, I decided to embark on a perilous voyage into the disparaging territory of all that is lame.

I did everything one is not supposed to do when working to make a good impression at a social gathering. I found myself doing embarassing things like showing up to unknown house parties empty handed, consuming everyone's beverages and starting unnecessary debates about abortion. I was taking over the DJ's laptop, playing songs like "Who Let the Dogs Out" on repeat and really enjoying it, too.

Before 11 p.m., I was already slurring and stuttering multiple words into one and my general attentiveness was absent. I picked up a Rubick's cube to pretend I had my shit together mentally, but in reality I just wanted to read a book about astronomy because astronomy was the farthest-away thing imaginable from what I was doing, which was getting everyone to question who the fuck invited this guy?

I was approaching people, making bold, blanket statements like, "You're drinking a very gay drink, dude ... is that beer called 'Almost Stout of the Closet?'"

And then I worked to maintain the persona of a magician. I walked up to girls, asking them if they wanted to see me perform magic. Mysteriously, I thought I could make their seemingly dull time disappear by offering to draw mustaches on them.

I won dirty looks from my peers when I decided to remove my T-shirt and pretend I was a maniac, with spirit feet chopping away and hands moving in circular motions like some '80s flatlining social outcast.

Ultimately, I sat down at the computer, quite bedazzled and began to write a personal ad on Craigslist, but for nonpersons. For example:

"Toyota Prius seeks irritating pseudoenvironmentalist for smug attitude and poorly informed dinner-party rant on Middle Eastern oil politics."

"Surprisingly explicit and seemingly unending movie sex scene seeks family for very uncomfortable viewing moment."

I worked hard to stand up at that point. But I was unsuccessful. My eyes sealed shut, and I woke up the next morning with a plethora of obscenities scrawled all over me. That means I was the heart of the party people!

The Secret Life of a Squirrel
6 a.m. – I wake up disoriented, with a funny taste in my mouth and then shift away from the sun and discover a chipmunk, fast asleep about two inches from my protruding belly. I whimper, curse, and then remind myself (again) not to go on any more blind dates. Fermented chestnuts will make anyone look good.

6:40 a.m. – I attempt to sneak away, despite my weakened constitution and stumble off a branch that cracks. The one-night-stand chipmunk is startled and the branch she is sleeping on breaks. She tumbles and spills 10 feet, hitting every branch of the hideous tree on her way down. I fall too, but somehow miss every branch of said ugly tree. I fall to the pavement and lose my breath and dry-heave. There aren't many pedestrians on the street, and I decide that my clumsy tumble, not to mention one night stand has gone unnoticed. Hopefully no one saw me with her. The chipmunk still appears to be in a daze and got snagged on a branch. I look up and make eye contact with the wee chippy. I blink once and then scurry.

6:42 a.m. – I gnaw leisurely on a chestnut and hobble, hop and prance across the street as I gather food. My nut sack drags on the ground (actual sack containing acorns). I realize I'm gathering rotten nuts. I am a stupid squirrel! I curse and bite my sharp front teeth into the flesh of my hairy chin. This self-abuse will get me nowhere. I realize that this is bad karma generated from the chipmunk incident. I breathe deeply and run in all sorts of directions, aimlessly. Then I stop and get up on my hind legs as a person stops to look at me. This person thinks I'm looking at him, but in the far distance I see a hot albino squirrel. I drop everything and dart to her as if my life depended on it. I remind myself that it's my world, and everyone else is just a squirrel trying to get a nut.

This picture of headphones means, it's time to let you know what I'm listening to these days.

Boneless "Panda Bear Remix" - MP3
Banjo or Freak Out "All I Need" - MP3
Salem "Brustreet" - MP3

Dent May & His Ukelel "Meet me in the Garden" - MP3

I blogged about this band back in the day. But here's the video.


I will tell you about things I believe are likely to happen at some point in the future. No guarantees or warranties are explicitly or implicitly implied, nor should any be inferred. I PROMISE there will be consistency with this blog. It will happen! Twice a week is the goal.