What Critics Are Saying About My Sleeping Lesson (Dream)

The relative flatness of the learning curve experienced when reading my dope ass blog shouldn't be looked upon as a bad thing. After all, the joy in reading it is derived from the intrinsic understanding that "dope ass" is already a byword for genius.

Sure, your chances are greater finding streaks of brilliance jolting about during a child's sugary display of Crayola poetry during nap time, but my morning bender of a dream was a cataclysmic explosion of infinitely dense matter that begged to be blogged about.

It proves that my fragmented, damaged and imaginative world of delusion and abstract thought process (while asleep and sometimes not) is something that needs to be studied by behavior scientists and such. I'm not sure what must take place during the course of your day that results in having a dream that you are a frog and your girlfriend is a unicorn. But I'm sure this has zero implication to reality. Before I tell you more about this dream, here are some sharp reviews from dream critics who explored the profound landscape of my head. My dreams are getting rave reviews.

"JJ's dreams strike a match on your eyelid and, before using it to set the cuffs of your underpants on fire, asks you to consider the color of the flame. -- Dark and Out of Nowhere

"His dreams are fatal fiber emissions that could trigger mass panic during pillow talk, whether sleeping alone or with Mother Goose." -- Fast Food Before Sleep

"They are tender moments of detached folly, loosely strung together by the thread of resignation and departure. Much like the fleeting feeling of writing an essay with no thesis in sight." -- There's No Method To My Madness

"We rarely experience a more provocative work of sexual prowess. There's a sincere magnetism that poignantly pulls otherwise unattainable women to JJ. Scenes of festive eroticism shower the viewer with sensual bliss, in which you pray that the dream never ends." -- Jizzed In My Pants

"Walking through JJ's dreams are no different than calmly walking into your family den on Christmas morning, nonchalantly asking family members if they have seen any clothes that might belong to you, since you'd be in the nude." -- Through The Halls of My High School

"Sometimes mute, and gray, the sluggish and trite meanderings soar with warnings, fraught with vague but sinister meanings that make the heart grow faint when you realize every turn brings an old familiar face. It's scary, but soothing." -- I Get Emotional In My Dreams?

"This guy is fucked up. There is no better, more apt way to say it. Fucked up." -- I Keep It Real

After undergoing an intense Q&A with my better judgment, I decided to actually turn my alarm off on my phone after it was ringing for too long. Glued to my disheveled nest of layers of bedding, I thought about how absolutely convinced I was that my girlfriend was a unicorn and I had wiry green legs and an incredible bounce to my step.

I vividly remember sitting on a park bench, talking to said unicorn, when a I asked her why she was constantly walking but getting nowhere. Upon further review, I noticed she was on a treadmill and she was wearing a cape and I had a magic marker and was drawing festive rainbows on her white coat of hair, feeding her cotton candy, too. We then galloped to a nearby civil war reenactment, where I said, "I wish I had mutton chops."

This is all I remember. I considered the meaning of this for about 30 minutes as the sun light punched me in the face. I opened my laptop and things were a little more lucid when I randomly began listening to this song that I've included with this blog. (It's long but suitable). Who the hell dreams of being a frog? More importantly, what the hell? Strange, but not so surprising.

Italy - Akron / Family

Wow! What A Headband!

This blog will be short and painfully sweet. So sweet that your teeth will begin to rot after reading this initial sentence. So short that you will become overwhelmed with an uncontrollable desire to weep like a baby, demanding more literary indulgences.

In fusing the scientific rigor of logic with any sentence that bursts from my mouth, one will likely roll their eyes and feel compelled to correct me in fear that my grossly mistaken take on something could be potentially detrimental to the nobility of owning a college education.

Sure, a lot of the claims I make are based on flexible fact, but I assure you when I say this: The power of the headband will consume you. (And I am NOT enrolled in aerobics class).

The following excerpt is written from the perspective of someone on the outside looking in, at me, while I'm wearing a headband. Yes, this blog is in response to someone who spread vicious rumors about me attending aerobics class.

5:30 p.m., Tuesday

You attend a core workout class at the gym (thinly disguised as an aerobics class). You are accompanying JJ because he has told epic tales of being so sore the next morning that he has considered crying in the corner of a doctor's office.

Stepping into the class, you notice the instructor (who looks like Olivia Newton-John) getting vigorous to "Physical" while wearing a headband and a leotard, and she's not sweating. Why is she not sweating? To answer this question we must reverse it and ask ourselves why JJ is not wearing a headband and a leotard and why he IS sweating?

It's clear why he is sweating. He is watching the illusion of nudity, which is the leotard and the symbolism of discipline: the headband. The instructor is doing all the work for him.

Upon further review, you notice that JJ is among only a few other men in the predominantly female class, certainly the only straight one at that. You have a sneaky suspicion that he is only attending the class to gawk at the lovely collective of female ass, when he suddenly pulls out a headband and slides it over his head. You immediately understand that JJ means business. It's going to be a serious workout.

Your initial impression that it's a low-intensity step class with high spirited gayness begins to fade away as you notice JJ squatting 900 pounds and lunging forward like it were a strongman competition. Any hope of making fun of JJ for attending a class that involved Rockette-like high kicks, hip-pivots and jazz fingers were squandered since such routines were nowhere to be found.

The song "Physical" became synonymous with promise. The guarantee that you will get the shit beat out of you in a hardcore workout. There was even a bench press portion where it appeared that JJ was raising a heavy bar to an unseen God.

But then it comes. Finally. An exercise that is questionable and involves routine and rhythm. YES! This is it! I'll be able to tell everyone that JJ does aerobics! And you glance over at JJ and it's apparent he has reservations about doing the exercise.

If we got inside his head, it probably looked like this: superego asks the id, "What are you doing? Don't make me look stupid," and then the ego and id respond, "Go lift weights, meathead. I am working out like Olivia Newton-John!"

Because he actually began doing the routine. But I suspect only because in his head, he thinks it's a core workout class and not an aerobics class.

Regardless of the class, I must admit, JJ makes it work with the headband. Even the girl next to him seems to agree as she seemingly doesn't care that he keeps sneaking peeks at her ass. I was ill prepared in not bringing my headband (or leotard) and I've come to the conclusion that there's no way I can possibly make fun of JJ as long as he's wearing head accessories that catch sweat.

Yes. To all you who think it's aerobics, I maintain that it's core training class. Unless I forget my headband. Then we might have a problem.

BUT, y'all can certainly make fun of me for wearing folded bandannas. Here's a video of me wishing I was wearing a sweatband, instead of a bandanna. Flight of the Concords styles. Only half of the spontaneous performance could be posted. Apparently YouTube can't handle the full three minutes. This was sad, since the conclusion was the best part. And something tells me I didn't exactly make this blog short.

Dispatches From My Work Desk

Leveraging my status as an ambitious employee with goals is difficult to achieve since I'm more of a provocateur for handling responsibility with a sleepy conduct. To give myself some credit, I get drowsy when I'm not challenged. Don't get me wrong. I like deadlines. I also like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by, but my abject disdain for routine has forced me to enter a creative concord with my job.

It's an agreement that quietly states, "I, JJ McLaughlin, hereby promise to engage in tasks that are as preposterous as they are alluring, while at work, in order to avoid any impending slip into a profound state of sleep."

So I've chronicled my workday in crushing detail to share my penetrating ability to make flossing teeth seem more thrilling than the heavy use of recreational drugs. For all you discerning individuals who truly appreciate the elegant and visually rich format of my life and want to know more about it, this elaborate element of absurd exploration is for you.

The purpose of doing so is to prove to myself, and all of you reading this, just how rigorous and meaningful my day truly is, through a value added analysis used to measure my contribution to the workplace and society. The results are astonishing.

It's all about the details in life. I leave none of them out in this week's blog.

Starting My Morning With Spam Grammar Exercises

My day begins at 6 a.m., like clockwork. I stumble, stagger, slink and sometimes crawl into work. Communication is minimal since others are convinced I'm a zombie with the trace remnants of sleep still looming over me like a drunken man wearing the stench of booze from an all night Vegas bender. Without a heavy dose of coffee shooting through me, my grammar is a cross between peevish toddler and a drugged Yoda: "Sleepy I aaam." So I decide that I might need to wake up before I begin writing major news stories for publication.

I boil the creative juices by opening my e-mail and clicking on the Spam messages. Not only is it a real joy to the senses but it's an exercise in grammar that boosts the ego to level-20, New York Times caliber.

For example, I am able to quickly decipher the weak sentence structure of the following passive voice Spam message:

"Your balls are to be slurped by the biggest carpet munching nymphos!!!"

*It's hardly persuasive. The three exclamation points feel hollow, in an attempt by an inexperienced writer to breathe life into a desiccated construction. The active voice, however, allows you to write with straightforwardness.

I would then click on another Spam message to practice more grammar, for example, always be specific.

"In short order, you'll notice enhanced length, you stud."

The imprecision of "short order" is suspicious. Two days? One week? A year? Furthermore, avoid bankrupt modifiers such as enhanced. And stud is inaccurate. Rewrite it with exactness.

"You're exactly two days away from an 11-inch jizz stick, bitch"

Your girlfriendsd*porcupine&*!@ hot pix for <--- What does that even mean? These particular ones are hopeless exercises that I rarely spend time modifying for gain.

Playing with grammar and words takes new meaning when you edit Spam messages, however the odd exercise doesn't consume too much of my time, otherwise I might get irritable vowel syndrome and defecate incoherent sentence fragments in my work. And then ask myself, "Is my love life as good as it should be?"

I will slap myself in the face when I accidentally click on one of ads, in grave error, which will consequentially open the portal to my computer that allows extra terrestrial porn to pop up intermittently.

At about 6:30 a.m., I've typically completed that little exercise and am more awake than asleep at that point. So I open my real e-mail and look for the urban dictionary word of the day. I will scoff at it (psssh) and then unknowingly use it in conversation later.

At this point hunger will hit me so I decide I need to head down to the lunchroom for a snack in the vending machine. Of the hundreds of e-mails I receive on the hour, it's imperative to create an out of office auto reply before I leave. (No, it really isn't, but I always wanted to create one).

Unnecessary Information Revealed In An Out Of Office Auto Reply

Depending on my mood and my destination, the auto reply can vary in nature to a large degree. Since I would likely be leaving my desk for shitty vending machine food, the level of urgency might be low. I could see the auto reply read something like this:

"I will be out of the office from Dec. 8 between 6:30 a.m. to 6:35 a.m. because my youthful salary doesn't allow me the luxury of eating beyond the vending machine menu."

"I will not be available for a short period of time today but you can reach me on my mobile phone where I will screen calls aggressively and will only answer if your name is Ashley and you are prepared to apologize."

"I am out of the office handling business matters, in stall #3 of the men's room. If this is urgent, please call my assistant who might or might not be blogging about how long my bathroom visit has taken."

"From hours of 7-9 a.m., I will be too busy staring blankly at an unsharpened pencil, wondering about the existential outcome of my embittered existence as a sharp individual with dull tendencies."

"I will be out of the office for an indefinite amount of time, waiting in line at the unemployment office after encouraging a female coworker to reveal more cleavage when talking to me."

After creating an out of office reply, I head down to the first floor where I will embark on the most difficult decision I will face the entire day: Deciding what to purchase in the vending machine.

Vending Machine Executive Decision

There it stands, in all its glory. My hands, clinch the sweaty, eager quarters, preparing to make their descent into the slot of no return. I am bombarded with choices. Bullets of sweat begin shooting off my forehead. I hastily drop the money in and press F5. Yes. No. What the fuck? Do I want pop corn at this ungodly hour of the day? I dig deep from within, summoning my hunger's palate, seeking advice. The only response I receive is, "it all sounds good." Why can't I get a direct answer? I become flushed with buyer's remorse instantly after pressing F5. But thankfully, the message beeps and says $1.00 and I only entered $.75. Sigh of relief. I get fidgety and ask myself how Jesus would spend that money ... and then I postulate that home slice would probably buy shortbread and turn it into Welch's grape juice, ferment it, and then have a holiday party where everyone will love him for making the greatest snack purchase ever. I can't exactly do that. I take a step back, and examine the big picture. Twix, Butterfinger and Snickers have never disappointed me. But pastries are meant for mornings. Chips are beckoning, too. I breathe deeply because my heart is racing and my adrenal glands are on the cusp of imploding from exhaustion. In the reflection of the vending machine, I see someone walking in. I try to give the impression that I'm cool and I know exactly what I will be purchasing. I can't concentrate with someone else in the room, so I tell him the greatest lie ever to make him leave. "There's naked women upstairs ... and pizza ... and an unaccounted for $20 bill on the floor. Go get it all before it's gone," I said. Once I got rid of him I put my game face on, and realized that this is what I was hired for. I'm expected to make exceptional editorial decisions. I perform best when my back is against the wall, but why am I having a meltdown now? I turn the TV on really loud, turn the water facets on, open the fridge door, kick over the trash can, flip a table and lick other people's food in the fridge. And finally, I go with gum. Mother fucking gum.

Once I get that out of the way, I head upstairs for the editorial meeting. It's not your ordinary meeting, in my book though. I approach it like the Olympics.

Color Commentary On My Editorial Meeting Performance

Bob Costas Thirty minutes now until we see JJ McLaughlin try to medal in the elusive sport of editorial meeting commenting. First time for this event, and one that’s unfamiliar to some of our viewers. Marv, you competed briefly in this event. What should we look for?

Marv Albert Bob, this event is typically dominated by those who like to hear their own voice, or to a lesser extent, people who are prepared.

Bob Costas JJ has a unique approach to the sport. He appears, at first, almost completely ignorant of what’s happening in a meeting, often looking around with a puzzled expression.

Marv Albert It's part of his game plan. Sort of like cat-and-mouse, right?

Bob Costas No, he genuinely has no idea what is going on in the meeting.

Marv Albert He's a game changer though. Look for JJ to nudge whomever's sitting next to him and whisper something like, "What's going on?" or "Who's this Larry guy?"

Bob Costas WOW! What a clutch play by JJ! He was able to glom on to something someone said and repeat it as if it were his own thought.

Marv Albert That's what makes him so special. I talked to one of his college professors before the game who said this: "I’d never seen a student with less energy, interest, or charisma. It was almost like he was catatonic. But then, when called upon in class, he was able, at an early age, to take a fresh, cogent thought that a classmate had made moments before and restate it as if it were his own."

Bob Costas Folks, we're witnessing something historic here. It looks like JJ might be slipping into a mild slumber, and then out of nowhere he contributes to the laughter while seemingly completely missing the punchline. He does this to give the impression that he's listening and it's paying off.

Once the meeting is completed at around 9:30 a.m., I head to the bathroom, where I pontificate about the environment and how I can reduce my carbon footprint.

Bathroom Musings

Despite the large, enthusiastic strokes with which I penned my stall-door proclamation, it is debatable whether Rudy's Tacos are the best breakfast Tacos and/or whether the phone number provided will lead to a good time.

I always wonder about the literature on the hot-air-hand-dryer. The device reduces the chances of acquiring communicable diseases. It also helps save our precious trees. So, it was irresponsible of me to recommend that for more effective drying, one should instead wipe his hands on his pants. Even if this were true (a thesis refuted by industry research), the message was conveyed through large, uneven letters hurriedly written with a sharpie marker, which did nothing to suggest legitimacy. But I applaud those who think green and dry their hands on their pants.

I then look at myself in the mirror (this is done at least 50 times per day) and I remind myself that today is going to be the day that I clean up my desk.

Midday Reflections From The Fashionable Mess Of GQ Magazines On My Desk

I always look at the mess on my desk, which is a direct reflection of my life. Relax, o-harbinger-of-hastily-drawn-conclusions. My life is not a mess, at least not completely.

My desk is the unofficial portal for information relating to trends, music, style, girls and sports. So it's no surprise that it is covered with these types of magazines, periodicals and images that exemplify me, a young narcissistic individual who effortlessly persuades others to study me with a mixture of envy and desire.

Moving at a glacial pace to complete work tasks, I begin to imagine what life would be like if I parted my hair and wore nicely pressed shirts. My pillow has been my personal hair stylist for as along as I can remember. And my thrift store attire is just something that's uniquely me. I begin thumbing through some magazines. Not reading them, just thumbing them because I enjoy the feel of magazine gloss pages being sifted through by my fingers.

I always land on some pithy little article that teaches you how to dress to impress, or be the you that you want to be. I wonder if by having a more professional appearance, I might earn more money? And in case you're wondering, at this point it's lunch time, which is when I get most of my work done. The rest of the day is all down hill.

In an attempt to get more organized I make little notes and hang them on my cubicle wall, proclaiming reasons why 2009 will bring a new JJ. I run my fingers through my greasy head of unkempt hair and wonder if anyone else would ever dare wear a lilac colored hoodie on TV and get away with it. I wonder if anyone would ever want to? I wonder how important my role in the newsroom is? Would the local news world be crippled if I did not show up to work one day? Or would my coworkers throw a giant ugly sweater themed festival in honor of my absence? How do you know if you are wasting your time at a certain job? My shoe box full of business cards is collecting dust and unruly neglect. My mouse and keypad are worn and my chair has been sullied by far too many hours sitting, jockeying for that perfect position that doesn't make my legs go numb. When there is no challenge or adventure, is it the responsible thing to do to make the best of it, or is this a disservice to yourself? Considering the value added analysis is set forth initially in this blog. If it weren't for me, the vending machine would be fully stocked. The bathrooms would be free of satirical literature and phone numbers. I would not steal people's thoughts during meetings and reword them and. Society might still be able to function. I am confident in saying that much.

So what do I bring to the workplace and society?

I don't know. Like an acoustic citizen of soft strumming words and ideals with a penchant for hushed and languid tunes, I'm just gonna sit on it for a bit and let it play out in folk like harmony.

Before you make a lewd gesture (hand job motions and the like) at this little reflection, just know that I make the best of it all. You will never find me complaining about anything.

This concludes the dispatches from my work desk. I know I only went halfway into the day, but my work day ends at 3 p.m. anyways. Oh - and if by chance, one of my work superiors happen to read this, consider this posting the greatest stretch of the imagination ever told.

I was going to write an "All things considered year-in-review" this blog, but I'll write that at the end of this week. It goes without saying that it will be a super extraordinary collection of life enhancing musings that will surpass your compendium of dream-fulfilling amazements. Get ready for it.

Back to work.