Incredibly Soft: The Sensitive & Touchy Edition

After reading the subject title and jeering at the image above, one might draw crippling conclusions. The kind that could undermine the venerable achievements I've made while celebrating my manhood in this blog. Therefore, it is with critical care that I preface this entry by saying you are impossibly wrong.

Any presumptuous declarations made about me becoming a sensitive man should be treated not unlike a vicious rumor that involves playing leap frog with a mythical Unicorn pet. Reputations become deflated for life after people learn of such tendencies.

Irony has more resonance than reason, therefore I'm embracing my sensitive side for this blog, on this one occasion only. It's been promised by a female collective that opening myself up and broadcasting my vulnerabilities to the world-wide-web will create a gleam of disbelief that will ooze with incredible joy for readers from afar. This promise also maintains that I will acquire instant accreditation as a premier authority in heterosexual comfort. I wish I could paint this blog pink and decorate the interface in such a way to go all out in being sensitive. I'm so painfully, profoundly self-aware (some may say narcissistic, but that's neither here nor there) that I can't even express emotion without being self-deprecating. But I will try.

With that said, I will address central themes of emasculating tenderness that I have sidestepped with emotionally inept grace for the majority of my adult life.

These topics of discussion include what happens to me emotionally and physically when I pick up a puppy, love letters written to old tacos, my journal entry if I were a 14-year-old girl, music heard while rainbow watching, NBA Jam poetry (the arcade edition), a guide to being a gentlemen around wild beasts, and the anatomy of a romantic walk.

The high quantity of mojo that typically bulges from this blog, like a rippling bicep, will be reduced this week. But for good measure. I'm about to explore my feelings like an adventurous Magellan navigating his adolescent youth, touching himself while dancing between earnestness and satire. Let's Go! (*Note There really won't be any touching, other than hearts and souls. Zing!)

A Love Letter Written To A Two Day Old Taco, Now Gone

I was told it would never last. People advised me you had expired, too old for my years, but you, spicy supreme taco, are my Demi Moore. Your seasoned age and beef reminds me that everything is better with thyme. After all, it is the spice of life.

When I first met you, I was younger, (two days younger) and more naive, sure. I figured everything not fresh tasted bad. I was wrong. I tried you on a whim. You didn't seem like anything special. But you were available, and I was hungry. So I picked you up, oblivious to the delight you would bring to my inexperienced mouth.

The second your stale tortilla met my lips, I knew there was no turning back. People scoffed when they saw me holding you next to my mouth, ravaging you in a public display of affection. I overheard, "That's sick" and "He's desperate and really hungry" but I paid no attention to it. I didn't see them with a taco in their hands, so they were simply jealous.

The limp lettuce and blackened avocado spilled from your folded glory, but that just reminded me that you've been around the block (or on the counter) and are full of wisdom and experience. I admire that. Some say because you have been left unattended for far too long, that you are damaged goods, and that you no longer have that youthful crease that tightly holds everything together. I love bohemian messes though, and you remind me of wryly disaffected, sloppy art.

It was a short lived affair, but I loved it while it lasted. Sure, I can go out and get another cheap taco, late at night from Taco Bell in some dark, shady area of town, paying next to nothing for instant pleasure, but I'm not exactly into that. I am not morally derelict. I have standards and I'm afraid what I might catch, eating something from the East side that's not fresh. No telling what happens to old food from there. Ebola, SARS, or venereal diseases abound. But you satisfied me in my rage of hunger and desperation. Don't let anyone tell you differently. You tasted just fine and you rekindled a flame in allowing me to eat to my heart's content.

-- signed, Two Day Rule

Walking You Through My Romantic Walk

Considering I've never taken one, I was wondering how far one's testicles would have to ascend in order to achieve moving from point A to Point B, romantically on foot. I'm sure if I were to experience a romantic walk it would involve a crisp fall morning, with cobalt blue skies rolling in like a Pacific tide crashing gently. The sun would swell over the horizon as the mild air fills with newborn baby joy. Birds would be crooning and rabbits would be procreating openly. A Polaroid perfect setting so lovely (fuck yes I said lovely!) that I will be inspired to write Chuck Norris erotica, but I won't. (I would want to, badly though).

Then I'll look at the crook of my arm (you know, the bending nook between the bicep and forearm muscles) and ask the rhetorical question, "Why the hell would anyone wanna be anywhere else other than in my arm?" If the back of girls' necks were made of metal, the crook of my arm arguably had more magnetic pull than gravity.

I would extend my arm and begin said walk, with the lucky girl through the park, (only because the beach was not available) and I'd begin with a slow steady pace, paying close attention to nothing but what's locked in the crook of my arm. Girls seeking a romantic walk appreciate subtle details of life, like the endearing mispronunciation of words, sand between their toes, and intoxicating rose scents. I will bring none of these to the table. Working to not bring up the weird thoughts that bounce around my head is challenging enough. It's key to repress my thoughts because they would squander any romantic mood, instantly.

I would try to think about romantic things, like French mustaches, French wine, French kisses, French vocabulary, French horns, and triumphant lyrics stolen from Cold Play but alas, all I will be able to think about is an episode of MTV's "Best Week Ever" and the events from the night before that involve ping-pong thunder shorts and doing cartwheels in them. This will inevitably prevent me from experiencing a romantic walk.

It would prove to be a futile effort after she complains about my arm creating a lot of sweat and discomfort on the back of her neck. As a result, I will get slightly embarrassed, but more amused, and feel compelled to place her in a headlock and begin a moderate power walk, thus ending any hope of being romantic. Days later, I will remind myself that I actually tried to experience a romantic walk. I will then be flushed with shame and remorse. This secret would then be blogged about on my own accord, haphazardly, because I have no shame.

When Obsessive Behaviors Demonstrated Towards Your Emotions Get Creepy

Calling your common sense and hanging up, repeatedly.
Driving by your sense-of-humor's house at 2 a.m.
Leaving unsigned notes on your grief's car while it is at work.
Following your bliss home, late at night.
Writing long 'I-hate-you' letters to your anger, then tearing them up.
Spreading rumors about your sympathy.
"Bumping into" your compassion at the store and getting a cheap feel.
Calling the police and reporting your curiosity for animal abuse.

My Secrets Revealed, Minus the Details
I've sat through an upholstery class.
I've asked myself before "What would Martha Stewart do?" to escape a baking debacle.
Girls need to challenge me. In Checkers. Or riveting thumb wars. Or trivial pursuit.
My goal in life is to climb a mountain - not Everest - without the slightest urge to write a book about it.
I've watched scrambled porn for longer than 15 mins. before.
I've sacrificed a goat and summoned Satan with a cowbell (joking).
I'm slightly less threatening than a Care Bear, thus I have never been challenged in a fist fight. But that doesn't mean I'm not intimidating in other ways.
I monitor my heart rate for reasons not relating to health.
There's something endearing about awkward moments.
I know more about the plot to MTV's the Hills than I should.

Effects of Picking Up A Puppy

The most jarring sign that my sensitive posturing has interfered with my masculinity was evident when I said the word 'cute' which was followed by ridiculous baby talk. It was a puppy that caused me to do it, too.

Furthermore, the reactions I experience when coming within a five-feet radius to puppies is debilitating. Puppies can turn a grown man into an irrational wheezing wimp. I'm allergic to dogs and swell and scratch more than a DJ without Benadryl when they lick me, too. I also don't openly profess my emotions.

So when I picked up a puppy recently, I died. Yes. Died. Keeled over, physically. Gasping for air. That was after I felt an overwhelming desire to thumb through a Crate & Barrel catalog and point out "fantabulous" and "adorable" home furnishings. Using suspect vocabulary I've never been able to incorporate into any sentence before, I felt like giving everyone hugs and licking their faces, much like the way a puppy might. Damn puppies!

I've made the most diminutive gestures of compassion towards puppies in an attempt to breathe normally and stave off my asthma. Not to mention not get all mooshy when I hold one. I maintain this to be ironclad when I say puppies bring out the worst in me.


Taming the Beast: A How-To Seduction Guide, Told From the Perspective of A Gentleman

Fellas, we all have that inner beast that tends to get out of control at times. You know, you let your emotions get the best of you in a fit of rage, or a display of inappropriate behavior around the ladies, or perhaps you simply look like a beast. Well, this is something you might be interested in then.

The goal of this excerpt is to remind everyone that I am a distinguished gentleman of refined character and manners, and not a pig. But if I were a wild boar, pig, warthog, or any other type of swine that wallows in its own feces and says the wrong things to court girls, then this might be a guide on how to correct everything.

When situations permit, and you are at a bar full of wild animals, stop and ask yourself what it would require to not come across as a pig. For example, the Bengal tiger sitting with its legs crossed is not suggesting anything to you. Sure it will be alone, not talking to anyone, surveying the scene coyly like the predator it might be , but refrain from accidentally brushing your arm against its fury leg when you walk by. Simply say hi instead. Do not mention you are tired of relationships and only want to share moments. Do not ask if the tiger needs a ride home, no matter how attractive her striped coat might be. You're a gentlemen, not a pig, remember?

Or the panther across the room. You don't need to be discreet, but don't gawk either. Buy the panther a drink, not to lower its inhibitions, but to talk. Flaunt your comfort with commitment and your desire to be fiscally stable by offering another drink. Spark a conversation about the inaccurate portrayals of panthers in Disney cartoons like the Jungle Book. But then say you need to leave soon after its tail rubs your leg. Tell it that it was a pleasure talking. Do not mention what you've heard about panthers being known as experimental and borderline degrading in the bedroom. You pig. Don't do it.

Then there's the African elephant taking up the entire bar. The fact that you approach it speaks volumes that you're making giant strides in not being a pig. Get an elephant smiling and you've got it loving you. Feel free to compliment its three exquisite toes on its hind legs. They like that. Also, mention how an elephant never forgets a friend, and that its just made one more.

Finally, the lemur. Its been following you the entire night. Its had its eyes on you. They are incredibly shy. You will have to do all the talking. Just be a gentleman and write a poem on a napkin. It might reach for it slowly with its tiny paws and stick it in its mouth. Don't embarrass it by laughing. Instead pet it with your index finger. All the lemur wants to do is snuggle. Give a sigh of contentment and take the lemur out for lunch sometime.

And there you have it. Fellas, being a pig gets you nowhere. Unless you want to put yourself in the "smokes more than one pack a day" subgroup. Have sex in public. Tell the doctor you don't need your liver. Buy a motorcycle. Get married in a chapel on the outskirts of Reno. That is the life of a pig. You're better than that.

My Music Play list If I Were An Unused Broken Crayola

Since this is a blog pertaining to my feelings, I have selected various songs that reflect colorful walks down Lolly Pop Lane and everything you would expect to find on a more sensitive guy's play list. But the music is still dope shit, so don't even trip.

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NBA Jam Poetry Expressed In A Break Up (The Arcade Edition

Not sure how to end a relationship when I was 15, I took an ex to an arcade because it was the most reasonable thing to do. I dropped my quarters into the machine. I removed my jacket and pulled out a rose when my ex-girlfriend looked at me in terror and disbelief. She saw it coming. I challenged her to NBA Jam.

"Razzle-dazzle," to thine own heart of exaggerated hoops be true,
"He's on fire", with unlimited turbo and 360 head-over-heals slam dunks,
"Boom-Shaka-Laka", tossing flaming balls, impossible to miss, I bid you adeu,
"At the buzzer", the first half ends, your heart still jumps,
"Is it the Shoes?" begs the question of my greatness, in our affair of two-on-two,
"Nail in the coffin", our love is done, with no refs or fouls, I steal your heart,
Fade away jumper, "nothing but net" and sadly we part,
Seconds are waning, I ascend for a "Monster Jam", buzzer sounds and I freeze in mid air
Get thine self a rebound or two, get over me, I dare

Excerpts From My Journal If I Were A 14-Year-Old Girl

Dear Diary,

I like chocolate. I feel fat. I'm like so sad, and maybe a little fat. Why is homeroom class so boring? I think I have cankles but so does my BFF Sarah. I think she's fatter than me. And more pimply. She totally has cankles too. I hate her. She smells like a humpback whale. I think I'm going to spread rumors about her having an eating disorder. I can't wait to get my braces off. Maybe the 9th grade boys will notice me. Maybe I'll get a boyfriend then. I'm pretty, and in shape, why aren't guys checking me out? Rugby practice was so fun today. I think I can leg press more than some of the guys now. Coach asked why I shaved my head and I was like, "fuck off". But I was so awesome at practice, that Julie kept butt slapping me. I've never had a guy's hand touch my ass before, but girls are kinda cool. I wonder if she's having anther sleep over this weekend. I wish I had boobs. I'm so emo.

Love,

Gertrude

Thanks For Comin' Out!

So there it is people. The longest blog ever, and you can no longer say I'm an emotional rock. My sensitivity and masculine sides were drawn together like darkness to a single, flickering candle flame that's lit by lightning flashes of humor. Yup. Not everyone can pull that shit off either.

Few things belong together like peanut butter and jelly, which, when placed face to face, meld like an almost sexual union of opposites. Sticky and sweet no longer compete, but instead congeal into a mortar that warms the roof of the mouth while plugging the gaps in the heart's levee. The snack sandwich a giggling brother and sister share after Mom has cut off the crusts. That, my friend, is essentially what this blog entry is ... peanut butter and jelly ... emotional and masculine fornication. WORD!

Dope ass shit, at its finest. Look for another blog to be written this Wednesday. Oh and if you're wondering, my pet unicorn's name is mythdemeanor. It's a tough-guy unicorn.

The Hype: A Conclusive Guide

Why is this blog so dope? It would be mad foolish of you to chide this question by rolling your eyes, since the pleasure of habitually returning here lies in my exuberant refusal to give a damn. I know that sounds self-absorbed and bent with attitude, but I feel I have established a grand reputation of boisterous bravado that can not reasonably be matched.

It's a characteristic that affords me the luxury of not having to answer such mindless questions that birth obvious answers pertaining to why this blog is strikingly dope. In case you were wondering though, the dial-tone you hear when reading this blog is just a reminder that it's off-the-hook. But if you are genuinely seeking an answer to the posed question, let me redirect you to an in-depth explanation to the hype that surrounds this blog, as follows.

You already know this, but I'm equal parts brash ego, miscalculated intellect and mild self-deprecation, congealed into a form of intoxicating sophistication that exudes triumphantly. Like a waft of sample cologne lifted from the pages of GQ magazine during a glorious session of joyous bowel music played while sitting on the toilet. (Crucial and clutch, more than a welcome reprieve, too).

Yes, I smell good. And I deliver punchlines faster than FedEx but more importantly, unlike other blogs, I don't blow hot air like an A/C with no freon. I'm a rich source when it comes to recognizing original items of interest and sharing bizarre thoughts in great detail. In short, I am here to help you enjoy life by inviting you to spend several unfiltered minutes with me because you won't get this shit anywhere else.

Since this is the hype issue, I'm writing this afternoon to detail recommendations about things, from film, music, hairstyles, food, zombie strippers, activities and other fucking rad (don't hate, I like the word) things to help provide material to talk about when standing around at a party. The astronomical capabilities that these recommendations of wicked wit and abstract rumination have will devastate you. I simply ask that you discard your perfunctory desire to stimulate yawns. This is the hype entry, so get excited!

When it comes to hype, or the next big thing, I'm going to assume that you are inconceivably clueless. Continuing that thought, it's safe to say a lot of people rely on me when things aren't exactly fruitful, lively, or wildly ridiculous. My hunch is they're too busy getting inhaled face first by the mammoth monotony associated with the dull duties of everyday life, which takes you to a place of boredom. Pardon the unexpected element of offensive charm that just slapped you but you can't deny it all either. You want what's real, what's hip and what's edgy.

Here's a complete guide to my own recommendations to things. Again, I'm operating off the theory that your interests are about as exciting as long division. Do the math, it's a formula for basking in Napoleonic splendor if you heed to my recommendations.

The Girls Will Flock

If you're a barista, the girls will hunt you down. I highly suggest picking up a second job at a coffee shop, where your time will be well spent growing massively pretentious and incredibly nonchalant to issues not relating to bikes. Girls love bike-sexuals, and by working as a barista you will join the bike-sexual ranks which teeters on the brink of gayness but doesn't quite fall in. Your skinny pants dreams, ironic T-shirt acceptance and inner 'litster' (hipster + literature nerd) will be realized.

Just imagine, sitting in epiphany chairs, writing poetry and reflecting to the dripping sound of coffee and art rock music. And if the mood strikes, you can juggle stale scones and make ostrich sounds for no good reason, too. Girls dig the guy who serves specialized premium imported coffee that contains Arctic seal tears and goat sweat because it makes them Indie as fuck. Girls also love a guy who can make a mean prune punch that purges sin and a soy sock-it-to-me estrogen extravaganza that will polish your aura.

A girl's level of attraction sky rockets when she finds out that you have grand ideas that will never materialize or that you won't even remotely come close to an attempt at achieving them. And she will literally be eating out of your hand, like a perched bird of song, exposing colorful plumage when she finds out that you are a talentless writer or musician.

And I know you're flattered that your picture is posted here, but that's my soaring bird camera pose and I would like it back, please. Were you aware you have a giant coffee ring on your shirt? Jokes.

Urban Slang

At the corner of childish 'your mom' jokes and clever 'that's what she said' commentary sits a pensive library of urban slang that I have created and its gaining heavy rotation among gangster rap circles. The coinage 'That's what your G said' is a response to a female who is acting 'bootchy' (bitch + scary jock itch). G refers to a Gynecologist. Here is an example illustrating how an expression is used in everyday conversation as well as cautionary note for crude, inflammatory, or taboo expression.

Hoodrat: "Daaauym, Oh-no-you-DID'UNT white boy! You stepped on my Pumas. It's about to get ugly up in this bitch!"
Non-hoodrat: "That's what your G said."

Refrain from using this expression when an incident like such actually happens. Because she will actually go and get her G to kick your ass.

Another term that will earn you points in conversation is 'Kumquat glory', which refers to a man shoving oblong shaped vegetables with weird names down his pants in an effort to subdue excitement that may have developed after a graphic joke about forbidden fruit. It's the new ice water down the pants.

I'm not a fan of rinsed out sayings or terms that are sanitized, like 'frack' therefore I fostered a tendency to say 'fuck yes' in celebratory fashion. That term speaks volumes.

The next time you feel compelled to hang out with morbidly obese, gay rappers don't hesitate to toss around the word 'flabulous' like a hot tater tot. And spell it out in song, too. This term needs no explanation.

And remember to always make a fashion statement when in the presence of rappers. Rock a midriff (belly exposed like whoa) knitted, sleeveless sweater with patterns of kittens playing with yarn balls on them.

Fashion

Fashion trends come and go, but here's a trend hasn't come yet and once it arrives, it won't leave. This trend stands alone, conspicuously, yet unaware of itself, like the owner of an ambitious comb over trying to sneak under the radar.

Keeping in mind that I fuse together the right amount of raw eccentricity and self-awareness, I'm projecting that a big trend in men's attire this year will be actually wearing men's attire, instead of raiding your little sister's closet for apparel. Just kidding. Dudes will still shop with revolting homosexual tendencies. I submit to you that wearing decorative pantyhose for men is the next big thing. It's called eMANcipate, if you will, and I hear truckers from afarare calling it the most badass accessory since their hats were featured as hot items of the moment. Truckers say they wear pantyhose during long drives because it feels good, but c'mon, it's for style.

When it comes to hairstyles, shiiiiit, I haven't cut my hair for a sick minute but the cool thing to do these days is to have an erroneous conversation with your hairdresser when explaining to them the style of cut you want. For example, when people pay more than $50 for a haircut at some snooty designer place, they are secretly saying, "If you could make it hard for me to appear in public, that'd be great!" or they genuinely want to look like a clown's apprentice. Art haircuts are awesome! Don't you love it when you ask for a simple cut and hairdressers interpret that to mean you want the style that would emerge if you combined feces and shorbet ice cream. I suggest you get an art hair cut by some girl who sees everything in abstract and prefers to work in the dark.

Recreation

Stoked by sheer pluck, determination and the magical properties of my wayward imagination, I have crestfallen ass first into a new sport that involves grabbing my crotch upon victory and requesting opponents to suck the nether region, while flipping heavy desks, and barking out an offensive play calling cadence that says "I-Quit-42, Blue 42" SET-I-QUIT!" It's called 'Desk Rage' and it's quite fun and exciting to play, though you can only compete while at work.

Another activity I find myself doing that's gaining ground among the kids these days is losing personal belongings like phones, wallets, ID and money, and organizing the largest search and rescue mission possible, only to reach a bitter and disappointing end when you discover that it was lurking in your back pocket the whole time. The neglected back pocket on your left butt cheek. This activity is most often enjoyed when swilling massive amounts of alcohol. Fun little drinking game that's ironically more fun when you suspect your ID is being couched by zombie strippers at da' club. No comment.

Finally, I offer to you the entertaining activity of listening to me. This form of entertainment has its pros and cons, but it's important to note that my sartorial infractions squander the negative eminence. Want to talk about Obama and how a black man has just received the nation's worst job? Great! How about you listen to me explain the super string theory about no-strings attached relationships? Or maybe we can talk about other geometrical shape love relationships that don't include triangles. You love candy corn too? What the fuck's up with their new album?

What can I say? People listen to me. I can tell you to wear a kangaroo jump suit to work and stuff your Joey pouch with marsupial feces and you'd do it, if it were written in this blog, at least I hope so. There is no limits to my demands. I mean, I once ended a relationship by hand picking a guy for her to date, and she did. Word!

By now everyone is familiar with the hype cycle. You know the drill: the ginned-up enthusiasm of publicists combines with word of mouth (and blog) to create something not unlike a baby

Articles appear, posing one of three questions. For the new artist: Is this the next big thing? For the established artist: Will stratospheric expectations be met? For the figure whose stock is down: Can a comeback be staged?

As for my music. I'm listening to too much, that I don't even know where to begin. I'll add that shit later today. The next blog will be up in a few days. Yes, really this time. I will post again this weekend. By popular demand, I'm not even joking about that. Shit, someone even asked to contribute to this blog. My own contributor! So to answer the question, fuck yes this blog is dope!

Time to go eat, the newest flavor of food that you've never had:

Czech-Mex
Thai-Bo-hemian
Bavariasian
Indian-a
Ukrainian Fusion
Turkish-Baath

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.

The New Me Will Still Run in the Rain

People generally respond to about 70 percent of what I do with a stern inquiry. They ask me, "What were you thinking?" in a tone that contains a host of further questions.

And more often than not, I respond with an overreaction rife with sarcastic disdain accompanied by raised eyebrows which invites the question, what were YOOOOOUUUUUU thinking ... in bed?"

It's a tacit rhetorical assumption that extends the scope of confusion and invites parallel comparisons of me to mules with heehawing futility. So effectively, I answer their question with another question.

You are invited to imagine what it would be like to walk in my shoes and make zero sense regularly, but it's difficult. I submit to you that you have no idea at all where to begin the leisure expedition to becoming an all-nonsense person.

With age, comes wisdom, so they say. This is why I picked up a book recently and analyzed its cover intensely when some jackass told me "It's a real page turner." Thanks for the tip, but I know how books work.

But I got older earlier this month and the natural order of things would suggest that I abandon these tricky childish ways of mine.

In a grotesquely limited way, I am good at impressing people with this ability to celebrate nonsense. Need more evidence you say?

I purchased a yacht from my high interest savings account. Yes. I don't live in Cape Cod, nor do I own boat shoes or rock neatly tied sweaters around Ivy League T-shirts. I suspect that I will have zero use for this water traipsing piece of decadence.

Having ripened to a new grizzled age of over-the-hill twenty-something earlier this month, I've noticed some changes that likely explain this purchase. So sit down, sip on your fat free whatever latte and get to know the new me.

Growing older is a tamped-down variant of suckyness that points to responsibility with manic zingers, and to some it's more depressing than a Zoloft commercial played upside down. You'll have to forfeit your affinity for Lucky Charms, and you will begin to see truths. For example, saying Lucky Charms has 10 vitamins and minerals is like saying there are inflatable bouncy castles in hell. You realize your aspirations to get neck tattoos will effectively render you unemployable and you will ultimately acquire a taste for money, and reasonable solutions.

This was challenging, but under a high powered microscope I can now study my growing inclination to settle down and become a yuppie. I hear yuppies are fun to emulate, mainly because they enjoy activities like building a stronger vocabulary and critiquing the shit out of everything. They are also ultra conscientious about their lifestyle.

I rarely drive now. I take my road bike everywhere, and embrace alternative transportation like a newborn baby who makes rainbows with every hug. I'm considering ziplining my way to work, actually.

I envision a new job with high-rise office spaces, Yoga ball chairs, gourmet chefs, expense accounts, and nubile interns who will polish my shiny shoes. I will entertain myself in social circles that discuss the New Yorker magazine, upside-down mortgages and refer to everything in golf metaphors.

Having such goals means I can no longer achieve the high score in Ms. Pacman and then remove my shirt and walk around downtown pretending I was a member of the U.S. Olympic Swim Team, because grown-ups don't participate in such antics.

Growing older also narrows my hopes of falling ass first into huge piles of dough if I'm still working at News 8, so I'm thinking with ferociously imaginative power which triggers chortling snort fests, how to get rich quick. I've heard it all, too. Click here to see me in all my News 8 glory, lackthereof.

"J.J., write a book"
"Dude, swallow some intense hallucinogens and then a dictionary and write"
"You should strip for old women at nursing homes"
"Become a post-college graduate-post modern dropout and bottle your inspiration in the form of perspiration and sell it to abstract artists for oil paintings"
"Sell a kidney, having two is a little excessive anyways"
"Find a rich girlfriend and dump her when she gives you everything"

I will channel my creative gusto as an entrepreneur with patented products to market, like a stay young forever drink. It will be a life-prolonging serum of refined alien ore and minotaur semen. I will make millions. It'll be tight! Like Sher's face.

Living downtown Austin has made me think this way. I even caught myself saying "Hey there, chief" in lieu of the typical "whaddup, bitch." Even my wardrobe is slowly being manipulated by yuppie tendencies, with high quality, swanky threads that are reserved for GQ cover shoots.

There's a fine line between yuppie and douchebag, and I'm walking the tightrope, poised to spill to my doom as a full blown adult looking back at the old me who was only snobby when it comes to music and whose mom I chose to fornicate with.

I've been hovering in the pretentious stratosphere of music snobbery ever since I can remember, but you wouldn't know what that feels like because gravity has rendered you incapable of attaining such heights of splendor to even recognize it. I breathe the good air up here, (great for my asthma) but you intensely inhale the exhaust of petroleum vapidity through a straw, sucking at the very notion of attaining higher sensibility in aural pleasure. (Douchebag assertion).

Therefore, I sometimes plummet to your earthly level to prove that I am not a douchebag through acts of generosity. This is performed by bestowing gems of awesome music for you to enjoy. Not today though, since I'm too busy playing my hand in investing stock options as a newbie yuppie. Perhaps next blog, I'll send some new music your way. But this is the yuppie blog.

I also wanted to nform you that in my last week alone I attended the Ratatat show and hung out with them too, saw White Denim shred the Mohawk and am gearing up for FOUR amazing days at ACL. Typical week for music.

Continuing this yupster theme, it's safe to say I have taken twenty dollar bills and left them in places you've never dreamed, like trashcans, paper shredders, Zaire, or the front shirt pocket of a fast food cashier. But you, ... you manage to take said twenty dollar bill to far reaching places that I will never venture to ... like seven days worth of meals with the remaining money being stashed under your pillow. So consider my purchase of a yacht a precursor to what is to come.

Picture it now: Donald Trump and Bill Gates made love, and sprouted this beautiful embryo, then gave it to Prince to store in his multi-billion dollar Armani velvet coat pocket, nestled and incubated it, and when it hatched the result is a stylish time piece from the future that deposits $1 trillion dollars into a mutual fund bearing my name on it with every tick and tock, because time is money and money is what we're here for! Zing.

But yesterday I was co-mingling (because yuppies don't hang out) and I postulated an even deeper truth about the new me. I reminded myself that I'm a modest dude, despite what this dope ass blog dictates, but even my own laurels have been jaded by old age and refined goals, which brings me to the second part of this blog that will beg the question, "What were you thinking?"

I bought a cardigan sweater, which doesn't completely negate my previous claim that I don't tie sweaters around my torso. But that's when I knew I had crossed the line. Or was it that I am truly growing up and thinking about my future now? I doubt a cardigan sweater points to either - but it says, "Hey, slow down JJ, open a book, kick back and and make dinner dates with your girl friend and others." I do enjoy living the lavish life, but I don't think it's quite me. I go to music shows, tirelessly work to grow a maniac mustache and maintain authenticity under the street guise of keeping it real.

So how can I possibly be a yuppie? I am not. And that's why I'm totally joking about the yacht. Fuck that shit. I could care less about money. I've learned that much and realized that with my new old age. And I don't think I had ANYONE fooled about me being a yuppie either. I'm back on track with things and will start blogging twice a week. Get ready to scoff at me twice a week.

Here's me after the marathon relay being all nonsensical.

Unnatural Thoughts on Keeping It Organic

As any well informed, modern thinking man of wit and style who pens original thought as often as he fathers nonsensical free flowing bullshit will tell you, there's a market for fortune cookie writers at Whole Foods (gluten free, of course).



I know this because I once scribbled two sentences on a Whole Foods napkin and pasted it to a wall and it yielded astonishing results.

A few people read it. They showed it to others. Others began reading it. Soon, they noticed changes: They felt younger, more alive. Their warts and blemishes disappeared. Their reproductive organs swelled with lustful fury. Their hearts were filled with song and they limped from painful laughter. They reclaimed their wayward palates and found chiseled six-pack abs bursting from beneath their T-shirts.

Rumors surfaced that relief organizations got a copy of what I wrote and stopped shipping food, and began simply dropping copies of the napkin on hunger-stricken villages, which miraculously revived the area.

What can I say? I have an uncanny knack for writing nuggets of fecal repose that not only belong atop urinal cakes to reflect upon, but in your pocket during times of duress as well. That my friend, is called wisdom!!!!!!! I think.

But my wisdom is the kind you find in unnatural places, so this brings me to the inspiration driving today's blog, which of course has an unknown destination, but comes in the form of organic, freshly picked thoughts that occurred while shopping at Whole Foods.


Yes, it has been suggested among highly refined circles that I am a magnet for finely crafted laughs, both good and bad. If those laughs were physically manifested as iron filings, they would fly to me. They would cluster on my body, perhaps in the shape of a handlebar mustache, actually.

While I was standing at the produce section today I began to delve into some super deep thought about truths and myths of what's real, and natural, both in Whole Foods and in my head.

As I stabbed a diced pineapple with a toothpick (free sample, bitch) and picked up some bananas I let some wicked thoughts flow out in unruly tangles and watched a sordid revolution unfold in my head.

I'm a healthy mutha' 'ucka who prefers freshness, but when it comes to bananas, I'm impatient and prefer not to wait for the green ones to ripen. Therefore I opt for sullied, bruised and wise ones on the brink of becoming charred and black from time.

If we consider the produce food shopping experience to be akin to picking up women, then I was standing at the intersection of epiphany and fantasy. And then I looked around.

I thought to myself: "Why is that cougar rubbing eggplants and looking at me like I've set her hormones in a tizzy?"

I was appalled. No, I do not want some shimmying soccer mom with lonely housewife agendas staring at me. Maybe a little ...

There comes a time in every man’s life when he reaches a sacred right of passage, and the lessons he has learned congeal into a thick grease of responsibility and maturity. That said, sure, I've always wanted to hit up the organic produce section and ironically pick up more than just apples ... i.e. numbers, staggering cougars, fallen expectations and dignity, but no more.

If I were a Whole Foods fortune cookie writer, I would say:

"How do you like them apples? Beware, the only unnatural things are the highly coiffed blonds who shop here."

Zing.

I then made my way over to the meat market section. I wanted to find the finest quality barbecue and burgers. Instead, I postulated who the butcher reminded me of ... and instantly, I figured it out!

That stupid fucking Microsoft Office paper clip. Yes. He wouldn't let me decide on my own what I wanted to eat, treating me like some incompetent vegetarian who enjoys having his hand held at all times. The paper clip guy never lets me write on my own.

That annoying paper clip talked to me once while I was writing a letter.

Paper Clip: Let me help you with that. Oh, come on. I don't want anything. I just want to lend a helping hand.

Me: Fuck off you little shit. [Click]

Paper Clip: Look at me, I have eyebrows! I need attention. But that is all I need. Feed me attention and I will solve all your problems. It looks like you're writing a letter. I love writing letters. I love reading letters. I just finished reading The Collected Letters of Van Gogh in three volumes. That man could write a letter. Plus, he could paint. But you, look at you. You can't spell. I have to AutoCorrect most of your words. Don't be mad, I have eyebrows!

Me: WTF? Go away you little krud.

Paper Clip: It looks like you're writing a BORING letter. Let me spice it up with quotes. Did you notice that below my eyebrows are actual eyes? These eyes of mine have seen many things but nothing more pathetic than your attempts to write a letter. Click F10 and I'll replace that uninteresting, grammatically weak, lexically poor sentence with one that will— Please don't, I have more suggestions. I can change shapes! Look, I can—

(CLICK. CLICK.CLICK. ... Vanishes.) Never saw him again. And I never wanna see that annoying butcher again either.

From that, I give you a fortune cookie gem of wisdom:

"Avoid meat eating uncertainty by surrounding yourself with vegetarians and watch your testicles ascend into your stomach region."

After the meat market, I moseyed on over to the candy section. I gawked at the flowing chocolate fountain and began thinking very inappropriate things, like how it might feel to rub the chocolate over my bare nipples while the girl behind the counter fed me strawberries, topless.

The illicit illusion lasted approximately two-and-a-half seconds, after which my powers of imagination failed and I fought back an overwhelming desire to weep, because I might have been enjoying that moment of imagination a little too much.

Fortune cookie says:

Following the edict of never playing with your food is nonsense. Play with that shit like you're retarded."

I was forced to leave that insular community of sweet insanity due to the sideway stares and I picked up sushi of all things to eat. With no hesitation. I walked over to the checkout line. The checkers are for the most part, really chill and cool. Not on this particular day though.



My checker was a robot (really, a robot) and said some scripted joke to me which won a blank stare from me. I began to wonder what it must be like if an actual robot were performing stand up comedy. He would totally get a lackluster response like the one I gave the checker.

In the spirit of robot awesome shit, hit this track featuring HEALTH.

Crystal Castles - "Crimewave (Crystal Castles vs HEALTH)"
It would likely go like this:

Robot: What level is everyone's excitement currently at?

Crowd: ...

Robot: I'm sorry. I cannot hear you. Would you please repeat your excitement, preferably at a louder volume? Thank you. I am also excited.

Crowd: ...

Robot: I'm sorry; I did not hear your response. Could you please repeat that?

Crowd: Go fuck yourself!

Robot: You said you were from "Go Fuck Yourself." Is this correct?

Crowd: Fuck yea!

Robot: You have collectively said, "Yes." I am not familiar with Go Fuck Yourself. The closest location I could find is Bastrop, Texas. Is this the location you mean?

Fortune cookie:

"Your brainstorming leads to a genius bumper sticker: I'd rather be calibrating."

Call it a raw complexity but I sometimes heed to stereotypes. After I checked out and walked to the dining area to eat, I saw the token black guy who works at Whole Foods. You know exactly who I'm talking about. Nice guy, smart and well-spoken ... but every time I see him I think of what it must be like to listen to rap lyrics from his perspective.

It's like a gentrification of rap lyrics and it likely goes something like this:

Actual lyrics: I spend more money than a fat bitch at a McDees."

Translation: My expenditures this fiscal year are of such magnitude they are best expressed as a metaphor involving a corpulent female at a processed food establishment.

Actual lyrics: I smoke fools by busting a cap in 'em/Then I smoke again.

My enemies and narcotics are similarly compressed into a fine powder, which I regularly ingest to achieve intoxication that is akin to Native American warriors eating their enemies.

Actual lyrics: Sippin' on some Syrup ... S-S-S--S-S-ippin on some sizzer

Translation: I'm swilling copious amounts of medicinal and alcoholic adult beverage combined, causing a slippery tongue which fortifies my ability to stutter and enunciate the letter 'Z' in speech.

Fortune cookie wisdom says:

"Remember your dictionary and cough syrup for your next visit with Dr. Dre."

On my way out, I looked at my receipt and concluded that the price had an inverse correlation to the amount of food I bought. I crumpled the receipt and grew intense with a juggernaut level of passive-aggressive energy.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even own a bank account if I never monitor the amount that enters and leaves it. How the hell did I graduate middle school?

In my fit of passive-aggressive thunder, I went back inside, stuck my hands in my pockets and flicked everyone off, in my pockets. I tried to make a lewd gesture in my pockets as I walked by the "$6.99 per pound" sign by the food bar, but there wasn't enough room in my pockets. I then walked outside, balled my fist and promised not to shop there again. Curses to you Whole Foods. Curses!

Fortune cookie nugget:

"You'll regret the anvil of wisdom I've dropped on your head. Only a fool would turn to a cookie for wisdom."

SNAP!