Reasons I'm A Bad Adult

I Hunt the Most Dangerous Game.

2010-06-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

First, I want to thank all of you for making it out to my private island here far off the coast of California. I trust that your trip out here on my luxury yacht was most comfortable.

I have called you all here because, like me, you are all very wealthy and, also like me, you are all master hunters.

Look at the walls of my well-appointed study. You will see the mounted heads of animals from every continent. I trust that your own walls in your own mansions look much like mine.

And you have all assured me you were willing to plum the depths of the human soul, willing to test the bounds of the human spirit, in order to hunt a beast you never before have.

I am glad you've said yes, but I must warn you further, gentlemen. Once you have pursued this animal and captured him, you will never be the same again. For tonight, we hunt the most dangerous game... the mouse!

Yes, that's right. Mice.

No, not ravenous vampire mice.

They're not overgrown mutants, no. They're about... average-sized, I guess.

Yeah, just regular old mice. This mansion is overrun by them.

No, they're not rabid or anything. Literally just your regular old field mouse.

Any other questions?

What are you talking about? Of course the field mouse is a dangerous. He is the most dangerous game. I just told you that. Were you even listening? There are literally dozens of them living beneath my front porch and they run into my pantry and... Oh, God, it's awful! Anyway, we better get started killing them. Before they kill us!

Now, underneath each of your seats I have placed twenty-five of what I have called “mice destroyers.” Take a look.

Mouse trap? What do you mean it looks like a mouse trap? I've never heard of such a thing as a “mouse trap.” I created this contraption myself to lure in and destroy these creatures. These diabolical creatures. I assure you it is nothing so simple as a so-called “mouse trap.”

Okay, so here's what you do. Take a little bit of cheese. Or peanut butter. I think peanut butter works too. Then you put it on your “mice destroyer” and then press back the little bar until the spring clicks. Then, and this gentlemen is where you must be very careful, you set these “mice destroyers” underneath my porch and in the pantry. To stop them before they get to us!

But beware, gentlemen, beware! I'm kind of running out of cheese and peanut butter, so only use what you think is sufficient. Sufficient to master and destroy this cunning beast!

What? How dare you impugn my honesty by claiming that I lured you out to my mansion just to take care of a minor mouse infestation. I assure you that I am doing no such thing. I thought master hunters such as yourselves would be a little more open-minded. In fact, I'm kind of disappointed in all of you. How many of you have a field mouse mounted on your walls? Their sharp claws, their menacing teeth!

No one. Just like I thought. Just like I thought.

Now, we must make haste! I have a dinner party tomorrow night and I really want to kill all these little bastards before hors d'oeuvre begin.

No, this has nothing to do with the fact it's impossible to get a decent exterminator out to one's private island. I wouldn't even know. I haven't even called one. Pinky swear.

A cat? You think an everyday housecat could kill all these vile, vicious mice? I've never thought of that. Not a bad idea, actually. Any of you have a cat on you?

No, I need a live one. Well, if I had known that a cat would've done the trick, I wouldn't have stuffed and mounted all twelve of mine. Like assholes always say, hindsight is 20/20, isn't it?

Wait. Shh. Shh! Do you hear that noise? That scurrying beneath the floorboards. Oh, no! The mice! They've found us. The horror!

Everyone remain calm. Remain silent and do not move. If we don't move, they can't see us.

That's right, dinosaurs can only detect moving objects.

Yes. Dinosaurs. What have I been saying? Mice? Ha. I must have seemed pretty silly calling mice the most dangerous game. I'm always confusing mice with dinosaurs. Allow me to clarify. I have a dinosaur infestation. What a brain fart. Sorry!

Okay. To recap. There are dozens of velociraptors, not mice, living beneath my front porch and apparently now beneath the floorboards here in my luxurious study.

Hm. No, I was not aware that velociraptors were the one kind of dinosaur actually capable of detecting still objects. Great. Awesome.

Okay, who's ready to lay some mouse traps?

I searched through a medical dictionary looking for terms that sound dirty.

2010-05-31T00:52:00.001-07:00

Bather's eruption
Caecum
Cuboid bone
Maddox rod
Wet pleurisy
Dick test
Stiff man syndrome
Eruct
Rapture of the deep

That was a large part of my Sunday.

I am not someone you want to mess with.

2010-04-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

Hey, do you know who you're talking to, buddy?

Listen, pal. You do not wanna screw with me. No sirree. Don't even try it. For your information, I am one crazy mother.

I am so crazy, I often confuse the proper uses of the words 'affect' and 'effect.' That's right. And there's no use trying to teach me, because I still forget which is which every time. So ask your self, pal, is it worth the risk?

What? What do you mean that doesn't make me crazy? What do you mean those are commonly misused words? You know what? Forget that. Forget it. I'm still crazy, though.

You don't know who you're dealing with, friend.

I'm so crazy I respond to my own personal ads I place in weekly alternative newspapers. Does that sound like someone you want to mess with? Someone who talks to themselves using disappearing, unprofitable media?

Why are you saying that's sad and not crazy? Sad how? Sad like it makes you realize how bad I'd beat you in a fight or sad like it makes you realize how pathetically dull my existence must be?

I've been crazy since birth, man. Absolutely loco. When I was a kid, I used to get my action figures and pretend to have battles between them. That's right. It was Transformers toys versus Hulk Hogan toys versus the Ninja Turtles versus God-knows-who-else. Absolute insanity. That's a crazy, crazy kid.

You did that too? Impossible! No! No. I refuse to believe that, quote, "literally every other young boy does the exact same thing."

Well, get a load of this. When I was a kid, man, I spent the night in the attic after I had a fight with some of my extended family who were staying at our house before we all went on a big Christmas vacation. But because I was in the attic, I overslept and everyone forgot about me. And you know what happened then, pal? My whole family went on vacation without me. Leaving me all by myself on Christmas.

Then a short robber and tall one tried to break into my house. Yeah, and you know what I did to them? You know what me the adorable little nine year-old did to those two guys?

How did you know I iced over the front stairs? And that I super-heated the door knob so they couldn't get in? And that I made the robbers think I was a violent criminal by playing the audio from an old gangster movie?

BUT I'VE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF HOME ALONE!

What about the time I did a similar thing to those very same robbers when I was at a hotel in New York City? Yes, the bellman at the hotel did look a lot like Rob Schneider, but I hardly see what bearing that has on any of this.

Where are you going, man? Hey, don't you walk away from me like that! I'm crazy, you know!

I let someone else write one.

2010-04-19T08:03:00.000-07:00

Last week, my friend and writing partner Nate Hinchey asked me if he could write a piece for Reasons I'm a Bad Adult.

"What a great idea," I thought. Not only is Nate funny and an all-around bad person, but I am also fresh out of ideas. A perfect storm!

Enjoy.

I Like Watching Little Kids Eat It

Tony’s not the only bad adult. There are literally thousands upon thousands of sub-par, no good, really terrible adults out there in the world. I should know. I’m one of ‘em.

Why? Oh, a lot of reasons. But the one that most readily comes to mind is the staggering level of joy I experience when I watch a kid eat it.

Yeah, eat it, kid.

Sorry, I thought some kid I saw out the window was about to eat it.

The year—2006. The place—a Comfort Suites in Skokie, Illinois. I was lounging in an undersized hot tub next to the hotel’s indoor pool, doing my best to enjoy the tepid bursts of bubbles and lamenting my choice of discount lodging. Then, all of the sudden, my fortunes changed.

A chubby little tweenie (oh, God… yes! I love watching fat kids eat it!) marched into the pool area stripped down to his trunks. I could tell by the look on this kid’s face that he made his own rules—he had probably just finished a meat-lovers Grand Slam at the Denny’s connected to the hotel, and he’d be damned if he waited a full hour before he showed this pool what for!

So it didn’t surprise me, in fact, it actively excited me, when this tubby little boy started to pick up speed as he tooled around the edge of the pool.

Let’s pause for a moment and consider—what would a GOOD adult do in this situation? First off, probably not let your 11-year old roll down to the hotel pool on his own (as I said, there are plenty of us bad adults out there.) But more pertinently, a good adult probably would’ve had warned the kid that it’s not a good idea to run around a pool.

Smash cut to—me, bad adult. If this kid gets going a little bit faster and plants his foot on just the right slippery tile in just the right way, I’m gonna get to see some serious eating.

In my defense, I did manage to restrain myself from saying, “Hey kid! I could totally run around that pool faster than you!”

Mainly because he didn’t need any encouragement. I think the thing I love most about watching a kid eat it is the look on their face right before they realize they’ve lost control—there’s a sense of absolute invincibility, a belief that they are the masters and commanders of their far side of the world.

And then they eat it.

He hit the right tile. He slipped the surly bonds of earth. He came down on his belly like a penguin coasting down a sheet of ice. It seemed like he glided across the entire pool floor before he plopped, a la Augustus Gloop, into the deep end.

I leapt to my feet. I screamed. “Yeah, kid, ohhh, it’s so good when you eat it like that!”

However, I came out of the tub a bit too fast and my swimsuit had fallen down to my ankles. And APPARENTLY, a guy can’t express some innocent satisfaction at little kids ‘eating it’ when he’s standing naked in a kiddie pool… err, hot tub.

50 hours of community service. Worth it.

-- Nate Hinchey

Nate and Tony can be found on Twitter @twoguysinspace and you can find just Nate on Twitter @natehinchey

I forgot how to put on pants.

2010-04-15T13:05:00.000-07:00

Ok. Just cool it, Tony. COOL IT! You can do this!

It's easy. You've put on pants nearly every day since you were four. Right leg goes into the-- No, that's a pocket. Maybe if I just slide my hand through that belt loop, I can-- Oh, goddammit! I can't do anything right!

This is so embarrassing. Here I am, looking like a buffoon in my shirt, tie and sportscoat, and down below I'm just as bare as the day I was born.

This will never fly at work. Unless... Unless... Maybe I can make this my "look." Yeah! I can be the guy who dresses stylishly sans pants.

Yeah, that's it! People won't look at me and think I've forgotten how to clothe my lower-half; they'll see me as a pantsless fashionista!

I'll be that guy who ushered in a new era of fashion! Pretty soon, everyone will be walking around decked out in their finest upper-body wear while naked as a jaybird from the waist down.

I can see it now...

They'll call it the "Tony!" A man and woman will walk hand in hand in public, their nether regions covered only by the bottoms of their shirts, and people will say, "Look at that couple, pulling a 'Tony'! They look so sexy!" "Pants-free is the way to be," they'll cheer.

PANTS-FREE IS THE WAY TO BE!

Right?... Right?

Oh, who am I kidding? I need to put these damn pants on. I look ridiculous. I've got such hairy legs. Damn my Sicilian blood!

Don't cry. Oh god, don't cry. Tony, if you cry now, things will only get worse. You know how your fingers swell when you get teary, and you cannot afford to lose any manual dexterity!

No. Oh, no. Here come the waterworks. Why are there so many damn clasps and buttons?! My fingers are like sausages!

How wrong all those people were who said, "I'm just like everyone else; I put my pants on one leg at a time." Well, newsflash to all those people. NOT ALL OF US PUT ON PANTS ONE LEG AT A TIME! Some of us don't know how to put pants on at all.

It makes me feel like the pants industry doesn't even care about me.

Why don't these things come with a manual? Am I supposed to fit both my legs into one side of the pants and use the other one as a backup? No. That won't work. I don't fit. Is it because that's not how it's done or is it because I'm gaining weight?

Do I go in headfirst? Let's try that. Hrgh. Hrrrak. Can't breathe. GASP. Can't breathe. GASP. Okay. That's probably not it.

I should try it one more time, though. In I go. Glargh. Help! Glurrgh. Okay, that's definitely not it.

Wait, the tag! The tag has instructions! What's that fine print say?

Oh. Silly me... They're not even meant to be worn; it says right here, "Dry Clean Only."

I fixed my computer in 20 easy steps.

2010-03-31T13:27:00.000-07:00

Grrrrr. My beautiful shiny MacBook Pro conked out on me earlier this week; it just stopped turning on! And, man, it is really hard to find good, easy-to-understand advice about how to troubleshoot computer problems.

But I finally got it all sorted out, and being the kind soul that I am, I thought I would just tell my readers what I had to learn the hard way when it comes to getting your computer fixed. Hopefully these twenty easy steps are simple enough for even the most tech-illiterate person to follow.

How to Fix Your Computer in 20 Easy Steps

1) Use your roommate Zack's computer to Google how to troubleshoot your own computer. Find nothing applicable to your situation.

2) Scour your brain for anyone you know who's good with computers.

3) Ask your roommate Zack whether he has the phone number for his former co-worker Denise. She was the one whose boyfriend worked with computer hardware, right? And didn't she tell him she thought you were cool?

4) Get Denise's phone number and ask her out to lunch just, you know, to catch up.

5) Take her to someplace inexpensive but classy. A sit-down place, for sure.

6) Notice that she looks a little... different than before. Pale and gaunt. And isn't she acting a little distant?

7) Shrug off Denise's change in appearance and proceed to make small talk. Ask, "What are you watching on TV these days? Have any trips planned? How about this weather, huh?"

8) Casually mention her boyfriend. Ask, "How's your boyfriend doing? Is he still working with computers?"

9) Be taken aback when Denise says she and... What was his name again? Richard? Be taken aback when she says that she and Richard have broken up. That must've been why she's not looking so great.

10) Ask, "So are you guys... still on good terms? Do you guys like, talk ever? About computers?"

11) Look sensitive and caring when she tells you, "No, it was a rough breakup. I'm still kinda not, like, doing that well after it."

12) Call the waiter over and order your meal. That'll cut the tension. Tell her how you've heard good things about this place.

13) When it gets really silent and awkward just before your food comes, ask, "Have you met a new special someone yet? Any new prospects who are good with technology in general or are especially good with MacBooks?"

14) Pretend not to notice as she wipes a tear away from the corner of her eye and tells you, "No, there's no one else. No one else at all."

15) Silently begin to eat your meal. She only pecks at hers, barely touching it. Ask her, "No appetite?" She'll nod silently.

15) Ask, "Were you ever, uh, attracted to any of the computer guys that Richard worked with? I'm sure you must've gotten along with some of his techie co-workers."

16) When she just shakes her head, dumbfounded and slack-jawed at your question, tell her, "Hey, I was just thinking that there's a lot of really nice guys that work at the CompuCity near my apartment. You know, that computer store? I really think you'd find a cool new guy to spend time with there. "

17) She'll say, "Tony, when you asked me out to lunch, I thought it was because you had heard I was single. I thought you were taking me out on a date."

18) Awkward. You were never that attracted to her, but you can still salvage this whole lunch. "How are you with computers?"

19) "Excellent," she'll say.

20) Finally say, "Check, please. My place or yours?"

I'm gonna take full advantage of this free health care.

2010-03-26T11:31:00.000-07:00

Oh, snap. In your face, people who hate poor people.

Obama and Pelosi just hooked us all up with free health care, so no matter how we've screwed up our bodies, no one's gonna bill us. How sweet is that?

And to celebrate my new freedom, I'm gonna make sure I take full advantage of the services now available to me.

That weird clicking noise in my ankle? I can now get it X-Rayed... FOR FREE! And now I won't have to just wait for those blinding migraines to pass overnight; I can actually get medicine for them. And the best treatment for that sharp pain in my abdomen will no longer be "Hope-It's-Just-Recurring-Crippling-Indigestion-In-A-Weird-Spot."

But I'm not content to just take care of the ailments I already have. No, no. I want to get as many new illnesses as possible to make sure I get all that's owed to me.

If anyone out there wants practice as an amateur/unlicensed tattoo artist, my skin is now your canvas, since any future tetanus or hepatitis treatment will be FREE FREE FREE!

And I'm finally going to be able to take a live cannon ball to the stomach without worrying about how much it'll cost me. Internal hemorrhaging be damned, I'm gonna live out my lifelong dream of being a circus freak.

I'm even thinking of overcoming my fear of needles so I can take up intravenous drug use.

Now, I bet some of you out there are thinking, "But, Tony, won't behavior like this put an unnecessary strain on a system that is already over-burdened by skyrocketing health costs?"

And that's a valid question. In response, I say, "I... don't know." I just drank a gallon of bleach and I'm having a hard time focusing. My lips feel funny.

Joe Biden was right when he said this is a big fucking deal. And I'm gonna be a big fucking deal when I'm at the hospital, living like a king.

I take questions.

2010-03-09T15:37:00.000-08:00

It's time once again to open up the ol' Bad Adult Mailbag. So, without further ado, here's some questions from some Bad Adult fans just like you.

Dear Tony,
Every Penis VIAgra and seealis pill CAN B yours! Nvr has a chance to B so str0ng and p0tent been availible to the pubic, & u can be 1ST! 8O9KL..- All U R need to do is forword cash to 0ur highly trained Drs and they will send to YOU the ULTImate sensationmaking expERience. All women U half EVER dreamd of will be at y0ur disp0sal and begging 4 more. need to bigger? WE Are the help y0u ha ve been praying for. Monies sent to American Products USA Inc. M0gadishu, s0malia.
--Dr. Cornelius Bloomfield, PhD

Dear Dr. Bloomfield,
My credit card number is 8765 9877 0924 exp 11/11. Do you need my social security number? Just in case, it's 908 43 5656. Mother's maiden name, Andretti. Can't wait!
--Tony

Dear Tony,
What's up, you walking shit bucket? Remember me? When you were ten, you thought I was dead and flushed me down the toilet. Joke's on you, motherfucker, cuz I ain't dead. I'm alive and well and ready to kill. For thirteen years I lived in these filthy sewers. Doing pull ups everyday. Drinking protein shakes. Growing strong in my hatred. You think your blog's so funny? It won't be so goddamn funny once I nibble your goddamn fingers off. Get ready to die, you inconsiderate bastard.
--Ninja, your old pet goldfish

Dear Ninja, my old pet goldfish,
You want some of this? You think you can take me? Come and get it, you brainless carnival-prize. If I weren't a vegetarian, I'd eat you whole, but since I won't kill an animal, I will torture you. I will torture you so bad you'll pray you were at Abu-Ghraib. Water-boarding would be a relief from what you're in for, you floating orange turd. You'll wish you were dead. Tell your family to expect the same.
--Tony

Dear Tony,
Please stop posting all that weird stuff on my website. You're creeping everyone out, which is really hard to do on my site.
--Craig Newmark, President of Craigslist

Dear Craig,
Then where else am I supposed to find a tub of rice pudding big enough for three? Riddle me that, nerd!
--Tony

Dear Tony,
FAGGOT!
--Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,
Really more of a hurled expletive than a question. But thanks for the interest!
--Tony

On that note, ladies and gentleman, I seal up the mailbag. See you next time!

I have a zombie for a roommate.

2010-02-21T22:38:00.000-08:00

So I've been having a lot of trouble with my roommate Jacob lately. When he moved in, it was great. He was funny, responsible, accommodating. Everything you could ask for in a roommate. But, lately Jacob's been a little... different.

I stopped outside his door. "Knock knock," I said. "Hey Jake. It's me."

He looked up from whatever he was reading. His face was paler than usual. And covered in blood and skullmatter. "Raawraagh! Grrowgh!"

I stepped back a bit. "You know, if this is a bad time, I can come back later."

"Nrraarr." He put down his book.

"Cool, man. Thanks for your time. Listen, this won't take too long. Just wanted to talk about a few things." I took a seat on his suede beanbag chair. I really liked it. I think he got it from the Pier 1 across the street from the apartment. "First," I told him, "you're a great roommate. You always have rent on time. The past couple months, it's been paid in bloody petty cash, as if you stole it out of a hundred peoples' pockets, but in these economic times, we take what we can get."

I could see I had made him angry. "Grrarrrrgh."

"Hey, hey, hey. I'm paycheck-to-paycheck myself. No worries."

"Hrrayygh."

I had to do my best to appease him before I got to hard part. "I really like this suede beanbag chair. You get it from the Pier 1 across the street?"

He nodded and spat up blood.

"That's great. They have really great deals there. Some of my coffee mugs are from there."

There was kind of an awkward silence. It smelled like rotten flesh in the room.

I went on. "Remember a while back when that zombie bit you? When he was going for your brains?"

That perked him up a bit. "Braaaaaaaaains!" The only thing he seems to talk about these days is brains.

"Yeah. Right. You remember. Cool. It's just, and don't take this the wrong way, okay? It's just you haven't been the same ever since then."

"Braaaaaaaains!" He gnashed his teeth and stuck out what was left of his tongue.

"See? That's it. That's exactly what I mean. It's like all you can think about anymore is brains. You used to be such a good roommate. You used to clean the kitchen after you ate, but now you leave bits of people's insides all over the place. You expect me to clean that stuff up? That's pretty disrespectful."

He looked hurt. Confused. Undead.

"I'm sorry, Jake. I might be coming off harsh, I know. But, my God, do you realize how hard it is for me to fall sleep when you're tearing one of our neighbors apart limb from limb? You know I have to wake up at six a.m every morning for work, right?"

Now he just stared at me with those black, vacant eyes.

"And speaking of work, what happened to your job? I know you said that everyone at the office was killed when the zombies swarmed around your building, but have you even sent out any resumes? You used to have ambition and goals. You used to want to start your own business. Now you just hang out with a huge mob of other zombies and attack schoolbuses and shopping malls. Didn't you used to want to start a production company?."

Jacob gargled and snarled. "Grrrhhawwwrrr!"

"Yes, you're allowed to be depressed that you're technically neither living nor dead, but you're not allowed to treat the apartment as if it were your personal zombie den. Have you even taken a look at the Apartment Chores Checklist I put on the fridge? I didn't make it for my own health, you know. I made it so I wouldn't be the only one on my hands and knees scrubbing out your bloody footprints from the carpet."

He nodded in agreement. Or maybe one of the vertebrae in his neck gave out.

"Good, I'm glad we see eye to cloudy, emotionless eye. And I don't want this to change anything between us. We're still totally fine. If you wanna have guests over, that's still cool. Just if you're gonna have somebody crash on our futon, would you give me a heads up whether it's a buddy of yours or just someone you killed and partially ate in our living room? Thanks."

Another awkward pause. I'd said all I had to say, but I wanted to let him know I still wanted to be his friend.

"Well, thanks again. And 'The Jersey Shore' will be on later if you wanna watch with me."

I know what zombies like.

I am burying 'That's what she said.'

2010-01-24T21:07:00.000-08:00

Hello, readers.

Today we come to put behind us a phrase that has hurt us too much for too long. A group of words that have caused us too much pain.

Tonight we come to bury 'that's what she said.' This phrase is not a racist or derogatory one; it does not see color or creed. It simply sees tons and tons of double entrendres.

How many times have we regretted asking our neighbor, “Please, give it to me?” for fear of someone saying, “That's what she said?” When eating McDonald's french fries, how often have we been too scared to admit we like the biggest ones best? And how many times have we overpaid for groceries, afraid to tell the butcher we wanted him to give us more meat?

But today we come here to look at the future, not at the past.

So now, come together parents and children and feel free to talk about how long and hard the work or school week was. Even if at any point you had to quote “stay up all night.” Now, whenever we are done with leg workouts at the gym, we will have no fear of saying how sore our butts are. Starting today, when we come in from the rain, we need not be afraid to describe how wet we are. And from now on, we shall no longer be scared to talk about how many of anything we can fit into our mouths. Anything at all, whether it be a dozen cocktail wienies or a pair of sweet ding dongs.

So join me, proud to laboriously detail how you'd love to spend a few hours lathering your minivan's drive shaft with hot oil. It's routine auto maintenance, people, and now we will be free to discuss it without fear.

Freedom from fear. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet.

Don't say it. Don't say, “That's what she said.”

For JS

I'm really bad at sports.

2010-01-02T15:42:00.000-08:00

My middle sister is awesome. Let's call her 'A'. She's a smart, kind, fun person. But I submit to you today that she is a thief. A thief of my athletic ability.

You see, I have absolutely, positively no sports skills whatsoever. I am god awful at any and every sport ever invented. The only sport I am even good at watching is baseball. I think if you were to hand me a football, I would spontaneously vomit.

My sister, however, is supremely talented at sports. As far as I can tell, she can play literally every known sport with supernatural ease and grace. She was blessed with the athletic ability of at least three average people.

Three people! You'll understand why I suspect she stole our skills, then, when I tell you that my one other sister is just as deplorable at athletics as I am. (But a wonderful person, nonetheless.)

'A' somehow stole our skills. She took whatever chance we had at being normal and hoarded it all for herself. She was a four-year starter on her basketball team in high school. They easily went undefeated in their league and won the state championship her senior year. And this wasn't no weak-ass state like Delaware or Nebraska. THIS WAS CALIFORNIA!

I, meanwhile, somehow managed to earn our cross-country team's 'Most Improved' award three years running. (We, by the way, were the worst team in the league.)

'A' went on to play Division I college ball, where in her Junior year the team won the Patriot League (a minor league, admittedly, but what have you ever done?).

What made 'A' such a basketball ace? Was it genetics? No. A goal-driven, competitive home life? No. Was it wizardry and magic used to drain whatever natural talent might have been bestowed on me? Probably.

I remember being on my town's CYO basketball team when I was in fourth grade. If you've ever played youth basketball, you probably recall the 'A' team and the 'B' team. The A's were stars and the B's were everybody else. But I wasn't on either of those.

Do you recall the 'C' team? Probably not, since not many towns had them. My town did. Thank God I wasn't on that one.

No, no. I was on the 'D' team. Ever heard of it? If you say yes, you're either a liar or you were one of the eight other kids on the team with me.

We were a team so definitively bad that there never was before and never will be again another 'D' team.

We were a ragtag group of shapeless, weak misfits, the kind Emilio Estevez would turn into a bunch of winners if this were a feel good family film. But we had no 'rise-to-glory' storyline; we had only weekend after weekend of crushing defeat.

We were ten boys who consistently lost to every team we faced. We regularly lost to girls team. It happened so often it eventually stopped being humiliating.

There was a retarded kid on my team. Let's call him 'M.' Now, I know fourth-graders will call anyone who's different 'retarded'. The kid who wore mismatched socks? Retarded. The kid whose parents didn't have cable? Retarded. Hell, I got called retarded for four years because I bought "Magic the Gathering" cards once.

'M,' however, was the more classical description of retarded. Learning disabilities, total lack of coordination, emotional and psychological impairment. Real 'D' team material. And we his teammates, being the horrible little snots we were, took advantage of his fragile state whenever we could.

Imagine an elementary-school gymnasium. There are the two main basketball hoops at either end of the court, but along the sides are auxiliary hoops that can be raised or lowered so more kids can practice at once. Someone (me?) convinced 'M' that those hoops were bonus hoops worth three points.

When he would shoot at them in games, believing he was a hero to our constantly-losing team, he did so with such horrible aim, such utter lack of precision and control, that it looked as though he were intentionally hurling the ball at the spectators in the stands.

If we were to get extra points every time the other team's parents were frightened that a kid with severe learning disabilities was trying to injure them, we would have made it to the playoffs. We could have gone all the way.

I write this anecdote now not to gloat about how mean someone (me?) was to a kid who obviously had it bad enough as it was, but rather to illustrate how rotten yours truly is at basketball. 'M' STARTED ABOVE ME IN THE LINEUP.

The coach would have rather endangered the crowd's welfare than put me in the game. He thought to himself 'Do I want 'M,' the kid who literally cannot tie his own shoes, or do I want Tony?' and he didn't choose me.

It was around this same time that I played my first (and only) Little League season. In one year, I did not make it to base one time. I only made playable contact at bat once; I grounded out to shortstop. Yet in that very same year I got hit in the face with a baseball... wait for it... twice. My face was hit by the ball more than my bat was.

With my limited knowledge of statistics, I could predict that every time my bat hit a ball, my face would be hit infinity times. From then on, I decided to stay home and read Shel Silverstein.

During the year all this was happening, my sister 'A' was playing and excelling on traveling soccer, softball, and basketball teams simultaneously. Coincidence? I think not.

I am a satisfied customer.

2010-01-01T19:56:00.000-08:00

Click on them to see them larger.

Too much of a good thing

Half Hour of Evil

Grrr!

A lesson learned quickly.

It prevents your blood from clotting.

Keep It Simple, Stupid

I resolve to not eat cauliflower.

2010-01-01T15:31:00.001-08:00

Ok. First, Feliz Año Nuevo! And a word of warning : Be sure to put that curly thing, that '˜' over your 'n' when you say that. Because though año means year, ano without the '˜' means 'anus.' People who speak Spanish will be offended if you wish them a happy new butthole. Unless that's what you really mean.

Now that that's over with, I want to talk about my resolution. I resolve to not eat cauliflower anymore.

This isn't really a new goal for me. Allow me to explain.

I remember being fairly young, maybe seven or eight and a teacher was talking about cauliflower. I thought, 'I've never had cauliflower... And I never will.' I decided that day to never eat cauliflower.

You see, other kids had dreams of being baseball players or astronauts or doctors. My thinking was that those are all pretty hard to achieve, but not eating cauliflower ever? Perfectly attainable. From that day on, I successfully avoided it. It was pretty easy.

Until college, when a girl peer convinced me into eating some since she had so much left over. She made cauliflower soup. It was alright.

College is a time of experimentation.

But this started me down a path of casual cauliflower eating. I just kept eating it whenever it was presented to me. I even have a bag of mixed vegetables in my freezer with cauliflower mixed in.

So as people talked to me about their resolutions these past few weeks, I thought, "Wow, exercising more or reading more books seem like really hard resolutions." I decided this morning to no longer eat cauliflower. I knew I could do that; I did it for twenty-one years.

I knew if I set my goals low, I would succeed. I encourage you to aim to underachieve just like me! You'll let yourself down far less.

Feliz Ano Nuevo!

I ended up on the moon.

2009-11-15T21:07:00.000-08:00

Alright. Very funny. You got me, I admit it.

Now will someone please come and get me off the moon?

I guess I had it coming, huh? I did get pretty drunk last night. I must have passed out and you guys pranked me by shuttling me 238,857 miles from earth and abandoning me on the moon. Good one.

Last thing I remember I was hitting on those women who kept telling me about their kids and they wouldn't give me their cell numbers and then I had another shot and now here I am close to suffocating in an atmosphere one-thousandth as dense as earth's.

Whose idea was this, anyway?

Sure, I know one of you guys might be mad at me or something if I ever messed with you in your sleep. but I really don't think I deserve being ditched in some 200º F lunar crater. And I'm totally sorry if I was ever a dick to you, but this is way worse than drawing a dick on your arm, dudes. Not cool.

How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow? I can't phone my boss up and tell him I'm stuck on the moon because everyone already calls me "The Boy Who Cried Stuck-On-The-Moon." Poor planning on my part.

But, then again, I never really imagined I'd actually get left for dead on the surface of the moon.

I know I'm supposed to be a good sport and have a good laugh at myself but I think if I sound a little P.O.ed it's because I deserve to be and it's not because I can't take a joke. I know people say I can't take a joke and maybe it's true sometimes, but damn I wish you assholes hadn't left me on the mother-effing moon.

I've got an appointment to get my cast off on Monday and if I miss that I'm gonna be so mad. And, while I'm talking about the cast, I just wanna say that being in one-eighth earth's gravity doesn't feel great on my healing hand.

It's pretty inconsiderate is all I'm saying.

Some one come pick me up. And bring some clothes. Can't find mine.

I definitely don't.

2009-11-10T18:30:00.000-08:00

You ever sit alone on a weekend night, singing along to "She Will Be Loved" on repeat?

Yeah, me neither...

I had a simple costume.

2009-11-02T12:49:00.000-08:00

You got it! Thank God, someone finally got it. I'm dressed as an AMISH person. What's so hard about that?

It's a simple costume.

Look, I've got the suspenders, the beard, the straw hat, the blue collared shirt, and the black work pants. I'm totally Amish.

I was worried that some people would see my right hand in a cast and think that the cast was part of the cosume. It's not. I'm not Amish-Dude-With-A-Cast. I happen to have a cast during Halloween and I'm dressed Amish. And you saw that in me.

I also got a more than a few curious glances at the pistol I have on my waist here. I'm sure those children were just trying to figure out how the gun played into the costume. Silly kids! The gun's not part of the costume. It's for protection! Have you seen the crazy people out in San Francisco on Halloween? A man's gotta protect himself. I keep the safety on most of the time anyway.

And the syringes sticking out of my pockets? I heard some people asking about those, too. Relax, people! No need to get so scared of the Amish guy with all the mismatched syringes hanging out of every one of his pockets! They aren't part of the costume. They're for me! To take a little bit of the edge off! Who knows what's in 'em, but they sure do wonders. Halloween can be so stressful, what with all these little kids screaming and running away from me just because I'm an Amish man with a cast, syringes, and a gun totally covered in blood.

Am I the crazy person here!? I mean, so what? Can't a guy covered head to toe in blood just be dressed as an Amish person without having every passerby pull out their cellphones to call the police as he limps by?

Nearly every last drop of blood on me is my own! I was hit by a car downtown earlier tonight. It sure is hard navigating all those confusing one-ways around Market St. when you're super high on a grab bag's worth of syringes you got from a guy named Scratcher in an abandoned warehouse. I tried to get the driver's insurance information, but once I pulled out my gun and let out a few warning shots, the guy just drove off! Can you believe it? A hit-and-run. Some people, man. Really makes you wonder.

Oh, no, don't worry. I'm feeling fine now. I've re-set most of the broken bones now myself, and I have had quite a lot to drink since then. So I feel surprisingly good for suffering such apparently-massive damage to the entire right side of my body. I myself am surprised I'm still standing.

Yeah, my doctor said I shouldn't be drinking while I'm on these pills he gave me, but thank God I ran out of them three days ago. Where's the fun of Halloween if you can't drink because you're still on your anti-psychotics? LET'S DO SOME SHOTS!

What are you supposed to be, anyway?

Zombie Michael Jackson?

Not cool, dude. Too soon.

Me and a little piggy. Before all the blood and most of the drugs.

I apologize.

2009-10-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

Loyal readers of Reasons I'm a Bad Adult (the 8 or 9 of you):

You all assuredly have heard about the personal troubles my fellow entertainer David Letterman has been having. A blackmailer caught him with his pants down, so to speak, and he decided to nip the problem in the bud by fessing up on national television. And it worked. Yes, his public admission of guilt on the Late Show was a success. It was sincere and funny, but, most importantly, it was great for ratings! Viewership shot up fivefold when the nation saw that this great comedian was vulnerable and human. In that self-centered, fame-obsessed spirit, I've got some apologies of my own to make.

First, I want to apologize for the opening sentence of that last paragraph. If you take a second look at it, you'll notice that I called Letterman "my fellow entertainer." To call him my "fellow" anything is a huge gaffe on my part, and I could not be more remorseful. To be perfectly candid, as I feel I must in such a public forum, my true "fellow" entertainers are something more akin to childrens' clowns and open-mic folk singers. Dave created The Top Ten List; in high school I used to have my classmates gather round me and have my buddy Zack kick me in the stomach. See? I'm sullying Letterman's name by just mentioning him. So I offer my humblest apologies to all those I caused pain when I insinuated that Dave Letterman and I were colleagues, including Mr. Letterman himself, his family, the whole Late Show staff (especially those he had sex with), and my loyal readers (hopefully it will be more than just the 8 or 9 of you once the news of this mea culpa spreads).

Next, I must apologize for the tardiness of this joke, the staleness of this premise. I mean, this whole Letterman thing happened, what, like two or three weeks ago? For the love of God, I wrote about the balloon boy the very same day he fake-floated away. But I decide to crack a Letterman joke almost a month after everyone else stopped talking about him? I have no one to blame but myself. Sure, I could tell you that I've been too busy, that I've been dating someone new, that I've been working on a soon-to-be-completed novel, that I recently got promoted at my job. Yes, I could tell you those things, but I would be lying. Because none of those things are true. I simply wasn't quick or smart enough to come up with a worthwhile idea for a post at the time, so here's something semi-worthwhile a few weeks down the line. That was wrong and lazy of me, and I'll be the first person to admit it.

And finally, let me apologize for taking advantage of Mr. Letterman's misfortune. What kind of vain, shallow, hateful person would use a celebrity's private pain to further his own career? Me. What kind of empty, soulless, vile husk of a man would exploit a talk show host's admirable candor in order to gain a few more readers for his middling, low-brow blog? Me. What kind of wine goes with a fine veal scallopini? Cru Beaujolais. You get the point; I'm exploiting the guy.

So, again, I'm sorry. And tell your friends.

--Tony

I have side effects.

2009-10-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

Tony Payne has proven effective in cases where one needs a totally-straight-but-somehow-still-kinda-gay friend (costume parties, dance contests, opinion on clothes you just got at Nordstrom), occasional comic relief, or someone to split a cab to the airport with. However, people who have hung out with Tony have reported several undesirable side effects.

Side effects associated with Tony include:

Being forced to read, and laugh at, his blog in front of him.
A lingering, vaguely unpleasant smell.
Thoughts of suicide.
Hearing him repeat the same damn story about "how cool" he was in college, despite the fact that you know it can't possibly be true.
Awkward silences.
Thoughts of murder.
Wet shoulders from when he cries on them because you accidentally brought up his exgirlfriends or childhood dog.
Thoughts of murder-suicide.
Making things maybe just a little bit too gay.
Diarrhea.

I launched myself in an experimental, homemade hot air balloon.

2009-10-16T12:31:00.000-07:00

Thursday, October 15 2009

OK. One bottle of water? Check. One blanket? Check. Tenuous grasp of meteorology, physics, and direction? Check.

I think I'm ready to launch myself in my experimental, homemade hot air balloon.

God, this is gonna make me really famous. Everyone down below is gonna see me and they're gonna call the news and say "There's this guy in a shoddy-looking hot air baloon up in the sky!" and the local news will alert the national news and pretty soon all of America will have its eyes on me!

Fifteen minutes of fame, here I come!

Just gotta hack away at the ropes tying me down, and we are OFF! Just me, my blanket, my radio, and my overwhelming desire to adored. Nothing's gonna stop me now. Not the precarious open flame above my head, outdated map, or lack of safety equipment. NOTHING!

Time to sit back-- Hm. Not a lot of space inside this old laundry basket I'm using as the passenger compartment. Time to just squat back, turn on the radio, and wait for the news to start talking about me.

Wow. Well, according to the radio, someone out in effing Colorado is up in the air right now. In a mother-effing homemade hot air balloon. Mother-effer!

And, gee, wow. I'm floating a little high right now, aren't I? There's no way to control that is there? I think I'm just gonna have to keep on floatin'.

Ok. What can I do? I guess I'll just have to wait until people see me and then just hope we both get famous? We can both get famous for doing the same thing on the same day, right?

Just squat back and listen to the radio.

For the love of God, he's six. The other hot air balloon has a six year-old in it. Alone. Mother-effer! I'm never gonna get famous now!

I'm just embarrassed now. Now I'm just a twenty-three year-old with too much spare time cuz I'm on worker's comp.

I wish I could just lower this balloon and forget this whole thing. But I don't know how to lower the balloon. I was hoping the police would have to shoot the balloon out of the sky. Don't think that'll be happening since there's a six year-old doing the same thing now. Dammit. The world's supposed to be watching ME!

It's getting pretty cold up here too, man. I sure wish I'd brought more than one blanket.

Oh crap! The little kid's balloon landed and it was empty! WHAT? Oh my god. If he died, people are going to HATE hot air balloons. I'm gonna look like such an idiot in one. So help me God, if that kid died I will be SO pissed.

Up here the air is... thin up here. Having a hard time... thinking straight.

I think I'm over a body of water. I can't even tell right now. Why isn't the radio talking about me? Still talking about that... stupid six year-old, how he was on "Wife Swap" and how MAYBE he died when he... MAYBE fell out of a homemade, experimental hot air balloon his dad made?

Holy... moly. They found him.... alive in his... attic. I'm gonna kill him when... I get down from here.

I was rejected.

2009-09-01T22:23:00.000-07:00

18 September 2009

Dear ANTHONY PAYNE:

Thank you for your recent attempt at hooking up with Caitlin Schlessinger. As one of the coolest , hottest girls in San Francisco, Caitlin is hit on by dozens and dozens of guys every weekend. On the night you tried to get her number, you were just one of fifteen to ask her.
We regret to inform you, however, that Caitlin is unable to offer you her phone number. In order to stay viable in today's dating market, she cannot have a conversation with just any guy who asks to buy her a drink at a bar. And offering her a Pabst tallboy didn't really help your case.
Caitlin takes a holistic view of men who approach her. Playing "Big Buck Hunter" and "Terminator 2: Pinball" by yourself in the corner of the bar for an hour did play a role in Caitlin's deliberations.
Please remember that no matter how flattering a bar's light may be, there is very little it can do for you in terms of your height. Might we suggest lifted shoes?
Best of luck in your future attempts at hooking up with girls; we are very sure there is some mousy, glasses-wearing, indie-chick out there you'd be great for.

Sincerely,

The Caitlin Schlessinger Admissions Board

P.S. Please do not post a "Missed Connection" about Caitlin; she will not respond. Girls like her don't search for themselves on Craigs List like you do.

I should apply to be a Taco Bell manager.

2009-08-23T23:36:00.000-07:00

I should apply to be a Taco Bell manager. This is how I imagine the interview going.

"Tony, over the ten days you and your friend Jeff drove cross country, how many days did you eat Taco Bell?"

"Eight."

"You've got the job.

I traveled back in time.

2009-08-06T00:11:00.000-07:00

So I ran into this girl I went to high school with. I never really knew her but she was pretty and cool and nice. And when I saw her at this bar, she told me she wished I had asked her to homecoming sophomore year. Instead, I didn't ask anyone and stayed home alone.

Coincidentally, I invented time travel. Don't ask me how. (That's a subject for another entry!). I decided to put my invention to good use; I was gonna have Sophomore Me ask this girl out!

I turned the dial aaaaaaaaaaallllll the way back to the Fall of 2001...

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Present Me: Tony, it's me! You, from the future! I invented time travel to tell you--

Sophomore Me: Aw, shit, man.

Present Me: What?

Sophomore Me: Are you kidding me?

Present Me: Huh? What's wrong?

Sophomore Me: I don't get any taller?

Present Me: What? No... Still five foot seven-ish.

Sophomore Me: Awesome. Real awesome.

Present Me: Okay. A) I don't like your tone. B) Shut up for a second. I came here to help you, dude.

Sophomore Me: How?

Present Me: You know Jessie? The girl. A year older than you? I ran into her at a bar in the future and she told me she had a crush on me in 2001. That's now! You should totally ask her to Homecoming.

Sophomore Me: Oh sweet. How old are you?

Present Me: Twenty-Three.

Sophomore Me: Uh-huh. And what do you do for a living?

Present Me: Me? I work for Enterprise. Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

Sophomore Me: Oh. Huh. You, uh, in management there? Doing marketing for them, maybe?

Present Me: No. Just renting cars. Out of SFO.

Sophomore Me: You're shitting me.

Present Tony: I shit you not.

Sophomore Me: Fuck, man. For real?

Present Me: This conversations not about me, it's about you.

Sophomore Me: I am you.

Present Me: Shut up.

Sophomore Me: And you're telling me I rent cars when I'm twenty-three.

Present Me: Will you lay off me, dude? I invented time travel.

Sophomore Me: And the best idea you could come up with was a plan to get a fifteen year-old laid?

Present Me: You make it seem creepy.

Sophomore Me: It is creepy.

Present Me: Whatever, dude. At least I've had girlfriends.

Sophomore Me: Well, you obviously don't have one now.

Present Me: Oh yeah? How are you so sure?

Sophomore Me: Dudes with girlfriends don't worry about the girls they didn't get with 8 years before.

Present Me: I think you're really missing the point here. I time traveled.

Sophomore Me: I think you missed the point. You depressed the fuck out of me.

Present Me: Come on, dude. I went to a good college. Had lots of fun. I went to law school.

Sophomore Me: You went to law school? And you rent cars?

Present Me: Well, I dropped out.

Sophomore Me: Huh.

Present Me: What? What is it?

Sophomore Me: ...Nothing.

Present Me: You can't just say, "Nothing." I know you better than that.

Sophomore Me: I'm just really bummed these are the best years of my life. I mean, getting turned down by girls all the time, being the best runner on the worst cross country team in the county, and being second-chair saxophone in the Marin Catholic band. This is as good as it gets?

Present Me: At least you're thin.

Sophomore Me: Ah, man. You're thin, too!

Present Me: You mean it? I look thin?

Sophomore Me: No, you're a fat piece of garbage. Go back to the future. You make me sick.

Present Me: I had no idea I was such a dick.

Sophomore Me: What are you gonna do about it, you quitter?

Present Me: If I kill you, will I die?

Sophomore Me: Try me.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Moral of the story, if you travel back in time and kill an earlier version of yourself because it turns out you were a huge jerk, it doesn't kill the future version of you. And there's only one set of fingerprints at the scene.

The space-time-continuum is some crazy stuff.

I am not the funniest person in the world.

2009-08-05T15:46:00.000-07:00

Michael & Michael Have Issues

Wed 10:30pm / 9:30c

Break-Up Sweatpants

www.comedycentral.com

Joke of the Day

Stand-Up Comedy

Free Online Games

I thought of "2 Girls 1 Cup" Second

2009-08-03T06:14:00.001-07:00

2 August 2009

Mr. Marco Villanova, creator of “2 Girls 1 Cup”:

I apologize upfront. When I made a nearly exact copy of "2 Girls 1 Cup," I had no idea your film existed.

I think I ought to blame my friends. They must have known about “2 Girls 1 Cup.” It seems like everyone in America was aware of it but me. Why didn't they warn me when I said, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if I got someone else and shit in a cup and had the other person eat that shit and then have both of us puke that shit into each other's mouths?” They just looked at each other knowingly. Like they wanted me to be humiliated, to be found out as a fraud, a Johnny-come-lately in the shit/cup/vomit game.

Never once did they say, “Oh, Tony, I think that's been done before,” or “Oh, like in '2 Girls 1 Cup,'” or “That idea borders on the insane.”

Perhaps, understandably, they thought I was joking. How could they have known I was serious enough about amusing my fellow man to shit into a cup, have another person eat that shit and then have both of us puke that shit into each other's mouths?

But no one even tried to stop me. Not once in the dozens and dozens of times I mentioned the fact that I was planning on doing it. Not when I said I was renting camera equipment to do it. Not when I asked anybody with a garage if I could film there on a Saturday. Not when I called and asked everybody I knew for some bleach, explaining “I'm going to be covered in shit for that video I've been telling you about for a few weeks now.”

It's like they were conspiring against me.

Imagine, Mr. Villanova, if I had gone through with an idea for a film revolving around the antics of secret-agent guinea pigs. Imagine I had acquired the technology to computer animate guinea pigs, written a hilarious script about their antics, totally financed the production, and then filmed it, all while my closest friends were well-aware of the existence of the recent box-office sensation “G-Force.”

Now, imagine that the guinea pigs are not guinea pigs but, rather, human waste. And imagine no computer graphics whatsoever. Just lots of very real human waste. That's the point I'm at now.

Or if I had had the idea to put Brendan Fraser in a 3-D joy ride into the depths of the earth, all while they knew about “Journey to the Center of the Earth 3-D.” Same deal, but instead of Brendan Fraser, it's me and someone else, and instead of going into the center of the earth, we do horrible, horrible things to one another with human waste.

I think you get the idea.

How can I ever be respected again as true humorist now that I've been made a fool of? Now that I'm second-fiddle in the shitting-into-a-cup-then-having-another-person-eat-that-shit-then-both-people-puke-that-shit-into-each-other's-mouths world?

Mr. Villanova, can you offer me any comfort at all? A kind word from a genius such as yourself could do much to warm my heart at such a dark time.

Sincerely,
Tony

P.S. It's not impossible to think that my version of the film could still have true cultural merit. A sequel of sorts. A Godfather II to your Godfather. But with far more shit, of course. Keep in touch.

I was interviewed by the police.

2009-07-26T10:39:00.000-07:00

Good Cop/ Bad Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Bullshit! We all know you did it!

Good Cop/ Bad (Incompetent) Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: ...
Cop 1: Anything to say, Al?
Cop 2: Huh? Oh, I wasn't paying attention.

Good Cop/ Good Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Okay.

Good Cop/ Nonsensically Racist Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Oh, you quarter-Italian, quarter-Irish, quarter-German, quarter-Welsh pieces of shit are all the same!

Good Cop/ Chinese Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: 我讲中文

Good Cop/ Self-loathing Cop Who Covers Up His Low Self-Esteem By Talking About All the Girls He Gets
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: I got so much goddamn pussy this weekend.
Cop 1: Al, come on, man. Focus! Is everything alright?
Cop 2: Yes.

Good Cop/ "Bad" (Michael Jackon song) Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Cha'mone!

Good Cop/ Cop Who I Have Incriminating Photos Of
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: ...Let him go.

Good Cop/ Self-loathing Cop Who Tries and Fails to Cover Up His Low Self-Esteem By Talking About All the Girls He Gets
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: I got so much goddamn pussy this weekend.
Cop 1: Al, come on, man. Focus! Is everything alright?
Cop 2: ...No.

Good Cop/ Coked-up Cop Who Is Working on a Screenplay
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: And then. And then! And then you realize that the dad, the dad, is the one who's been stealing the money from the business the whole time! It's a twist, man. It fucking ends with a twist! It's gonna be huge, man! I got lots of good shit bouncing around in my head, dude. I'm going to LA! I'm gonna do it.

I think my boss is the devil.

2009-07-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

Me: *Knocking*

Boss: Who is it?

Me: Hi, boss. It's me.

Boss: Oh, hey, Tony. Yeah, yeah. Come in, bro.

Me: You wanted to talk to me?

Boss: Yeah, Tony, yeah. Wanted to talk to you about your career.

Me: Oh, okay. What about?

Boss: Well, to be honest, Tony, your numbers really leave something to be desired.

Me: What? What numbers? I'm selling well, getting corporate account leads. I'm bringing in a lot of money here.

Boss: Tony, sometimes it's not about the money, dude. *Pause* Sometimes it's about the virgin sacrifices.

Me: Yeah, been meaning to talk to you about those...

Boss: This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, Tony.

Me: I know, I know. It's just... I'm still not really sure how I feel about sacrificing virgins.

Boss: Okay, well, how many have you got under your belt now?

Me: Um, zero, I think.

Boss: And how many did we agree you should be sacrificing each month?

Me: I think you said the corporate minimum was seven.

Boss: So... that leaves a... shortfall of... seven. Thus far.

Me: Yeah. Good math. But I was talking to some other managers and they were saying there's no company policy on virgin sacrifices.

Boss: *Booming, gravelly voice* WHO DARES DEFY ME?

Me: Brendan. From accounting.

Boss: That d-bag.

Me: But I'm doing great at my goat's-blood-drinking.

Boss: Great. How many pints a day?

Me: Four or five. At the very least.

Boss: Good, good. And the snatching-babies-from-open-windows?

Me: Two so far this month.

Boss: Excellent. Quite excellent. The dark lord is pleased.

Me: *Blushing* Thanks...

Boss: You know, Tony, if you just threw a few more bricks through church window, I see no reason why you couldn't be doing my same job in a thousand years.

Me: You really think so?

Boss: No. I'm leading you on. I am pure lies and confusion.

Me: Oh. So you didn't really like my tie last week?

Boss: That tie made you look fat.

Me: How can a tie make someone look fat?

Boss: I don't know. But you found a way with that tie last week. And gay. It made you look gay, too. Tony, all I'm saying is that you've got to really want it.

Me: Want what?

Boss: The destruction of all that is good and holy and decent.

Me: I'm beginning to think maybe this job's not for me.

Boss: You can't ever leave, Tony. Ever. EVER! Mua ha ha! Ha ha ha! *More maniacal laughter*

Me: Really? Ever?

Boss: Well, two weeks. We'd need two weeks notice.

Me: Oh, that's not so bad. Okay, so here's my two weeks notice.

Boss: And there will be exit interviews! *Self-consciously spooky voice* Exit interviews! And paperwork! Mountains and mountains of paperwork! Mua ha ha! Ha ha ha! *Still more maniacal laughter, but this time it's obvious he feels anxious that I'm undaunted* Scared yet?

Me: Um, gosh. No. No, I'm not.

Boss: And you'll have to meet with Cheryl. FROM THE FIERY DEPTHS OF HUMAN RESOURCES!

Me: I like Cheryl. Cheryl's nice. What's wrong with Cheryl?

Boss: No reason. *It's clear that he's really hiding some pain behind his coal-black eyes* No reason.

Me: It's okay. You can tell me.

Boss: The... The bitch turned me down for a date.

Me: What? You? Why? You're suave. You're a good talker. You possess mind-control.

Boss: She said I reek of sulfur.

Me: *Pause* Noooooo...

Boss: Really? You don't think I reek of sulfur?

Me: You... I hardly ever noticed.

Boss: I tried covering it up with some Old Spice. Does it work?

Me: Well, you're not using too little Old Spice. I will say that much.

Boss: Shoot, man! I can't do anything right! I drive such a nice car, I go to such hip dance clubs, I am the creator of famines and plagues. And still, I can't get a nice girl. *Wipes what appears to be a tear from the corner of his eye*

Me: Hey, listen. It's been great. I'm gonna go back to work now, alright. But my two weeks notice is in, okay? Do you want me to be the one to e-mail Cheryl?

Boss: Sure. You know what? You wanna grab a drink tonight after work?

Me: Oh. Me? I'm... I'm real busy. I've got to walk my dog and do some grocery stuff.

Boss: No prob, no prob. Just some time before you quit, alright? The two of us. Out on the town. Chasing skirts! Eat some souls? I know this great place to steal some souls.

Me: Definitely. Definitely. For sure. Chasing skirts. *Backing out the door*

Boss: Alright! You're not just leading me on, are you? We're gonna get drinks? *Really desperate, sad, and pathetic looking*

Me: Yeah, man. For sure. It's gonna be fun. *Inching closer and closer to the exit, one foot actually out the door*

Boss: You're the best! The best! Oh, this is gonna be awesome!

Me: Awesome, for sure. Hundred percent.

Boss: We're bros! Bros for life!

Me: Bye. *Out the door, closing it behind me*

Boss: It's good having a bro. *Presses play on his computer. “Birthday Sex” comes on* This my jam!

I love wine coolers.

2009-07-21T08:53:00.000-07:00

I LOVE WINECOOLERS!!!1!

i Don't eevn care who konws about it because they are sooooooo good. Im a bad adult or whatever ths stupid blog says so i can like win e coolers and pass it off like its funny and not effemnate.

kI dont wanna go to work anymore i just wanna drink wine coolers all the time.

I just had a red one& it tasted like a Juice squeeze and bfeore that i had a blue one and it tsted like a melted otter pop. Generic otter pops wer bad but the real ones were real good and the blue wine cooler tasted like teh real blue otter pop.

I went to some stupid praty today and ths girl was drnking a YELLOW wine cooler and i drank one to be funny aND NOW ICANT STOP DRINKING THEM.

aFter my 9th or 11rd this girl said 'tony stop drinking tho wine coolers and get out of m y house." broken bartles &jaymes bttles are good weapons and i cut her real good with it because she cant talk like that about wine coolers.

My shirt's all stianed yellow blue and green and purple cuz i 've been dirnking wne coolers all day and red with bloodcuz i think just killed someone for telling me t o stop.

If you try to go to a bar adn order a wine cooler theyl'l tel you they don't sreve wine coolers and theyll tell you "oh my god is that blood on your shirt? & whydo you have a broken bottle? someone call the cops!" and when he wont quiet down whn you tell him to quiet down youll have to cut him with yoyur broken bottle.

a good way to get more wine coolers without piaying for them at a liqor store is to be coveredin blood cuz the guy behind the counter wll know how much you love win ecoolers and he'll know its not worth it trying to stop you

a g]ood way to get a free cab ride is oFfEer the cabby a wine cooler for a ride and promising not to hurt him with a broken bottle if he drives you home.

I just added tonic water and paint thinner to windex and ti doesnt taste like a wine cooler or otter pop but it's ok and i'lll probbly drink more. i'm good at making Wnecoolers.

i wanna be a Professional winecooler taste tester but i dont no how much they get payed but that's ok because i think i have a good idea about how to not have to pay rent. it invloves a broken bottle.

I planned poorly for being stranded on this desert island.

2009-07-18T14:25:00.001-07:00

1. Okay. I really wish I didn't put Rumours on my list of five things I'd bring if I were stranded on a desert island. Granted, it's one of the greatest albums of all time. Definitely Fleetwood Mac's best effort. But, man, there are dozens and dozens of things I would have rather brought. And, dude, if I wanted to bring along a CD, I should have put a CD player on the list too. Then there's the issue of electricity. Or at least batteries. That's another thing I'd need to put on the list just for a Fleetwood Mac album. That would have been 60% of my list just to hear “Go Your Own Way.” “Rhiannon” and “Landslide” aren't even on Rumours, for God's sake.
God, it is hot on this desert island. It is really a desert island.
I would gladly, happily, trade out the CD for a bucket of cool, fresh water. Or the ability to purify the spring water that's been giving me debilitating diarrhea since I washed up on this god forsaken island's shores.
Or even just one of those dinky fan/mister things. You know what I'm talking about? The spray bottle with the fan? I am blistering in the daytime heat. Blistering. Some balm would be a good thing for the list. Because I am literally blistering.

2. I admit, yes, I was initially glad to have brought along For Whom the Bell Tolls. It's my favorite book. It gets my heart beating every time. The action. The drama. The romance. The fact that the paper makes excellent kindling. Sure I was only able to use it for one night of fire and sure I've been quivering and shaking in a fetal position as I try to fall asleep ever since, but how was I to have known that the temperature would drop so radically at night?

3. And at first I was happy to have brought along a lifetime supply of ChocoTacos. Yes, they're delicious. Yes, they were refreshingly cool under the hot tropical sun. Yes, I am glad to have had any sustenance on this barren sandbar 2,000 miles from land. But, again, ChocoTacos are one of those things that require other things to be of any actual use. Mainly refrigeration. Because now I have a lifetime supply of melted-ice-cream-filled mylar bags. And now they are attracting ferocious fire ants, which are very scary in light of my aforementioned blisters.
Maybe if I store the ChocoTacos on the other side of the island, the ants won't find me. Oh no, they see me. Oh, God, it's too late! They're coming right for me and they smell fear!

4. Flares? Nah. A radio set? Nope. Anything to construct some rudimentary shelter? Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just great with this Whoopee Cushion I asked for.
Oh, I am so glad to have brought along some comic relief. Just listen to it. PFFFST! Oh, the hilarity. I would laugh if my throat weren't so painfully, painfully parched.
Good news, though, everybody. At the rate I'm losing weight here, I'll be able to use the Whoopee Cushion as a flotation device in about three days.
Are there sharks out there?

5. But I am glad to have brought along Roscoe, my family dog. Sorry, Roscoe. You were delicious.

I would like to thank my low self-esteem.

2008-12-17T06:47:00.000-08:00

They say it's good to set tangible goals for yourself; if you want to be successful in life, you have to know what you're striving for.

Well, I know I like entertaining people, so I've decided to write an acceptance speech for some big award that recognizes what a great entertainer I am. I don't know exactly which award I'll be winning, but I do know who I'd like to thank. So here goes...

Wow, this is such an honor! I've won an award! This is total validation of my worth as a human being! Whoo-hoo!

Man, when I was in kindergarten and peed myself because I couldn't undo the clasps on my overalls, I never thought this was going to be happening! And I bet my classmates who were laughing at me then weren't expecting this either. But I've been trying to make people laugh ever since.

Well... wow! So many people to thank... ummm... First and foremost, I'd like to my low self-esteem! Without you, low self-esteem, I would never have the drive, the spirit, the borderline-neurotic desire to please people. I mean, if I were well-adjusted, would I have the desire to debase myself in front of complete strangers? Not at all.

God! Who else? I'd like to thank all the girls in high-school who never talked to me. It was you that made me find new ways to get attention (cuz God knows I wasn't gonna get it for my looks!).

And Mrs. Giacometti! I can't forget you! Even after all the therapy! When we had a parent-teacher conference in sixth-grade, you told my parents I would never amount to anything. I guess I proved you wrong, which has been my driving motivation since I was twelve.

I also have to thank my utter lack of sports skills. You've been a constant presence in my life, utter lack of sports skills.

And how can I even begin to talk about sports without thanking the girl I lost to in a wrestling match freshman year of high school. And all the girls teams my CYO baskteball team regularly lost to in third-grade. Man, what memories.

Okay, okay. They're telling me to wrap it up, so I just have a list of people...

All the guys at bars who girls would rather talk to than me. All the job interviewers who never called me back. All the really, really, really awkward, embarrassing things I've done that I feel I have to make up for. Gosh, the list goes on and on.

Thanks to all the people who were funnier than me in college. I've now accomplished my one goal! In your face! Proof that people like me more than you! Yay!

And last but certainly not least, I have to thank drugs and alcohol. You guys were there for me when no one else was. And I know you'll be there for me again.

Thanks everybody! And keep loving me! Please! Please?

I was in law school for two months.

2008-10-29T21:19:00.001-07:00

I've withdrawn from my law school after being a student there for two months.
To put things in perspective, here's a list of things I did longer than two months.

Thought it was cool to shave my stomach/chest.
Considered "Last Resort" by Papa Roach to be the pinnacle of musical achievement.
Ate a Philly Cheese Steak every night at my dining hall.
Enjoyed the comedy of Wayne Brady.
Was convinced "naive" was pronounced the same as "knave."
Dated a girl with the same first name as my sister.
Was angry they killed Liam Neeson in the first Star Wars prequel.
Used "I'm in law school!" as a pickup line.
Had a red beard.

Coming soon...

2008-10-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

The return of Bad Adult...

I shaved my beard.

2008-09-11T14:52:00.001-07:00

Yes, I shaved my beard.

BUT

at least I still have a sweet mustache, right?

And awesome monocle.

I got some bad news today.

2008-09-08T00:38:00.000-07:00

I got some rather unfortunate news today. I found out that one of my former high school teachers has been charged with molesting some male students. It's weird, but I never noticed anything creepy about the guy at all. And here he is, seven years later accused of taking advantage of some of his students who were in the same position I once was. That's a mind-fuck, right? It really makes you wonder... what's so bad about me?

I mean, why did this guy never once make a pass at me?

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm fully aware that it's no fun to be robbed of your innocence by someone in whom you've placed your trust. Someone who should be guiding you through already-difficult years of adolescence. But still, I can't help but wonder what it was about me that was such a turnoff for him.

And let me just say, I'm not into guys or anything. Not in the least. But would it have killed him to just once have made an inappropriate comment about, say, how he was pleased to see me growing into my body?

While I'm sure that had I been fondled by this man back in the day, I would be negatively impacted for a long, long time, at least it would cure my lingering suspicion that I'm a disgusting fatty.

It's things like this that can really scar a person. It's almost enough to make you lose faith in our education system. How can things like this happen? Of course, I'm speaking now of the abominable sexual abuse perpetrated by the teacher.

I am not speaking about his rudely having neglected to "accidentally" graze my package with an errant hand while I stayed after class. Didn't he even care about what I may have been packing? Didn't he even care about my feelings?

I use the 'Missed Connections' section on Craig's List.

2008-08-31T19:16:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you read these things, but it's worth a shot...

You were in Golden Gate Park yesterday morning. The way the early afternoon light struck your face as you talked to the pigeons... I gasped when I saw you. And it wasn't just because I was shocked at the fact that you had black trash bags on for shoes. I mean, that was part of it, but it was also how well-decorated your shopping cart was. Were those cat skulls I saw glued to the front? I wish I could have gotten a closer look.

You saw me, I think. Maybe the sun was in your eyes. Maybe you were blackout drunk from drinking from that jug of turpentine.

But you turned towards me and smiled that big semi-toothed smile at me. I hope you weren't just hallucinating that I was your abusive stepfather coming back from the dead to reconcile with you. Because I'm not.

I'm just a boy who's smitten with a homeless lady. At least I hope you're a lady (I've been wrong before).

I was wearing J.Crew chinos, loafers, and a green Polo. You threw a handful of acorns in my general direction. Why? Are you too shy for my attention?

I hope you make it to a public library soon so you can use the Internet and read this post. And so you can bathe in the restroom.

<3

I start school today!

2008-08-19T20:20:00.000-07:00

In just a few hours, my tenure at law school begins. I think it'll be over just a few hours when they realize what a complete fraud I am and how little I deserve to be there. But here's my list of what I have to pack for my big day!

(Note: My law school only provided me with a partial list of what I'll need for them, so this list right here is partially informed by my list from my time list before I entered 4th Grade at St. Vincent's Elementary School)

List:
Civil Procedure 7th Edition, Yeazell et al., Aspen Publishers, New York City, 2008.
RoseArt Crayons, 24 Pack. (Oh man, I'm gonna get made fun of, cuz everyone knows RoseArt is the cheap brand and they break if you apply any pressure to them)
Blue Dockers, White Keds, White Polo (Tucked in at all times), Blue Sweatshirt with St. Vincent's Logo.
Computer with LawExam Software installed
No POGS allowed. (That's good, cuz I don't want any of those soulless future-lawyers stealing my Slammers)
A knife with which to stab my classmates/grade-competitors in the back. (Oddly, this is on both the list for law school and grammar school)
A really bad haircut that I will be embarrassed by in 10 years.
Post-It Sticky Notes
Snap bracelets
One Hi-Liter per class
One Valentine Card per student in class (Why do I have to give one to everyone?)

Oh man, I'm sure I'm gonna forget something! Everyone's gonna laugh at me!

I have no clean clothes.

2008-08-12T11:46:00.001-07:00

A letter to myself about what a fucking idiot I am.

Dear Tony,
You're a fucking idiot. You're at work, writing your stupid goddamn blog. In dirty, old clothes that don't even fit you. Because you're a total 'tard.

All of your clothes are at the cleaners. You clearly did not think this one through. You should bring your work clothes to the cleaners before you totally fucking run out of anything to wear.

You make me sick. And not just because a sweet, meaty stench is arising from the poorly-tended clothes you managed to scrape together this morning from the bottom of your closet, but also because you are so dumb it makes me nauseous.

That pair of pants? When's the last time you wore those? Your eighth-grade graduation? Cuz they pinch you at your waist (lay off the PBR, fatty) and they are short at your ankles. By the way, your socks are navy blue, not black like you thought they were this morning. And I'm not the first person to notice. Everyone else in the office saw it. I'm embarrassed for you.

Why are your sleeves rolled up, Tony? Oh, is it because you're wearing a cheap shirt you got on sale at the Gap Outlet and its sleeves are too long, seemingly tailored for Stretch Armstrong? Not only was it at the Gap Outlet, it was on the clearance rack. Did you think the thing was gonna fit you like a dream? It was $4.99 and the cuffs go past your fingertips. And I can see your undershirt through it. And I can see your nipples through your undershirt. Fatty.

You need to take a fucking girl with you next time you shop.

Oh, I forgot, you're a bearded loser in San Francisco, a city full of bearded losers. And they all like your cool 'underground' music. (Oh you're soooooooo trendy!) But, guess what, all the other bearded losers dress better than you. So good luck finding a girl to go with you anywhere.

Sincerely,
Tony

P.S. Everyone in the office went out for drinks yesterday and you weren't invited.

RIP Isaac Hayes and Bernie Mac

2008-08-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

Two black icons died over the weekend, and the world will assuredly be a different place without them.

Bernie Mac was one of those comedians that helped shed light on the differences between black people and white people. "Black folks act like this while white folk act like this." I think the main difference is that black people thought Bernie Mac was funny. Jk Jk. Lol. That's not true, because if it were, I would be the blackest man on the planet, because I found Mr. Mac hilarious. And I, for the record, am not the blackest man on the planet.

And God bless Isaac Hayes, another very funny, iconic African American who left us this weekend. God bless him and his shaft. Er. I mean, God Bless his breakout single 'Theme to Shaft.' Between that song and his South Park-based 'Suck My Chocolate Balls,' I think the American public knows more about Mr. Hayes' genitalia than any other recording artist since (insert dated reference to R. Kelly or Michael Jackson here).

They'll both be missed.

PS. I'm really glad Morgan Freeman is gonna pull through following a serious car crash in Hollywood last week. Because who will I imagine is providing the narratorial soundtrack to my life if he dies?

Reason I'm a Good Adult #1: I have a beard

2008-08-01T12:46:00.001-07:00

From time to time I will do something that negates earlier statements as to my horribleness as an adult. I hope to document such instances in a segment I'd like to call "Reasons I'm a Good Adult."

I have a beard. An occasionally patchy and always reddish beard, but a beard nonetheless.

You know who else has a beard? Rasputin. And this guy. And celebrities at their absolute worst (here, here, and here). That's some pretty bad company.

But you know who is some good bearded company? Ernest Hemingway.

You may be saying to yourself, 'But, Tony, wasn't Hemingway a womanizing alcoholic in such a constant need of a fix that he would go so far as drinking rubbing alcohol for a fix? Wasn't he so crazy that he submitted himself to electroshock therapy? And didn't he, you know, improvise a Jackson Pollock painting using only a wall, his brain, and a shotgun?'

I agree. I mean, I like Hemingway as much the next guy. The Old Man and The Sea? Ferdinand the Bull? For Whom the Bell Tolls? All classics. But he did do some pretty crazy shit in his life.

True, true, my friends. But all that stuff is child's play (not to be confused with the 1988 horror movie of the same name) with the following mindfuck of a photo.

"Oh, hey Ernie. I didn't realize you had taken up a part-time job being understudy for an Off-Broadway production of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"

Look how obviously batshit crazy he is. And the best part is that he doesn't have a beard in this photo. That clean, beardless face that is only hiding that horrifically insane mind vindicates every bearded man in the universe because it shows that maybe MAYBE having a beard made one person at least a little less crazy.

I'm no good at working.

2008-07-28T19:34:00.001-07:00

Though the story of how I was hired and quit in one day this summer probably deserves its own post, I feel compelled to tell you that I am horrible at working.

I was hired to my new (second of the summer!) job at the end of June. Literally that night I came down with a fever that had me simultaneously hallucinating that a) I, taking it one step further than Matthew Broderick in 1983's WarGames, had instigated a global nuclear war which led to the apocalypse, and b) my bedroom walls were made of rainbow sherbet. Needless to say, I missed my first day of work. And my second.

Boy, was my boss unhappy. I thought I was gonna get fired before I'd even been to the office. Luckily I was able to have someone drop off some paperwork at my apartment so I could arrive at the office ahead of schedule on Day 3. So everything worked out.

And then less than a month later I went on a family trip for a week up in Lake Tahoe.

Now I'm fucked. I have so much work to catch up with.

This was all a long way of saying that I'm gonna actually try to do more of what my job description says over the next few days and less of bragging about how hilariously juvenile my life is.

But the term of the job ends in three weeks anyway. Ain't I a stinker?

I don't know how to interact with children.

2008-07-22T09:02:00.000-07:00

I'm spending this week up at Lake Tahoe with a lot of my extended family, who have all rented cabins within a few miles of one another.

Out of all my ten or so cousins, I am one of three without children. I'm also the youngest of the cousins, so when it comes to hanging out with people at these family gatherings, I find myself unpleasantly torn between hanging out with a forty year-old cousin who sells pharmaceuticals or his four year-old daughter who obsesses over cartoons I've never heard of.

The kids refer to me (I kid you not) as "the boy with the big orange beard." That's a confidence boost.

The other night over dinner in our backyard, one of the darling angels who calls me that said, "Hey! Hey! Hey! (She's a little hyper-active.) Hey! Hey! Do you know any jokes?! Do you know any jokes?!"

I said, "Sure. Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Smell mop."

"Smell mop who."

Please say, "Smell mop who," aloud, because that's the punchline. Yell it aloud if you're in a confined space with other people. Please.

Well, these little girls that I told it to fucking loved it. Instantly. I guess my target comedic audience is people with one year of elementary school education.

My aunts, uncles, cousins, and sister were not so happy that I taught these little girls a bathroom humor joke. Even worse, the girls were screaming "Smell mop who!" at the tops of their lungs well past dessert time.

I don't know if the adults will let the kids hang out with the boy with the orange beard anymore.

I can't find a roommate.

2008-07-18T08:40:00.000-07:00

Is it because of my Craig's List post?
...

Hi!

I'm a 22 year-old college grad about to start at law school! But don't worry about that; I'm not ready for my soul to whither just yet! And don't worry about me becoming an asshole in the next few years as I get closer to being an attorney; I'm already an asshole!
I've got a sweet two-bedroom that I need a roomie for!

Me:
Brown hair and patchy, reddish beard
Short
Pasty white skin
Vague resemblance to the Lucky Charms Leprechaun (so don't expect to see me wearing too much green!)
I'm into whatever music other hip people are into, but if too many people like them, I'll stop.
I also love watching really bad movies, listening to bad music, and reading tabloids but all with a sense of irony and superiority.
How about an out-of-context true story about me? Okay. Carlos Santana once drove over my sandwich in his Mercedes.

Don't worry! My eyes aren't really lasers!

You:
A girl (Don't worry- It's not cuz I want to get with you... I want get with your friends)
But, still, you have to be single.
You must like NPR (You must be able to name the hosts of two of the following three shows: Fresh Air, This American Life, and Car Talk)
You must not care that we are paying the same rent as one another, yet I get the one parking spot allotted to the apartment.
You must not watch bad movies, listen to bad music, or read tabloids without a sense of irony and superiority.

Oh, and I do heroin. No cats; I'm allergic!

I think poop is funny (Part the Second)

2008-07-14T16:51:00.000-07:00

That's James. With what appears to be poop around his mouth. I don't think the photo was taken on the night in question, so, even though I don't have much faith in James' everyday hygiene, I'm pretty sure the photo would test negative for the presence of feces.

Whether it is poop or is not poop, I don't know, but I do know that this picture is pretty old, probably at least five years, from when we were in high school. James is something of an adult now, or at least more adultish than he was when he shat for cash outside an abandoned house. He's still in college, but he has a girlfriend who seems waaaaaaaaay too normal/cute for the man who once farted on MY then-new girlfriend back in high school. And I'd like to think he's grown out of that phase.

But when I met his girlfriend just a few weeks ago on James' birthday, I said, "Do you know about the time James pooped all over himself... sober?" Apparently, this had never come up between the two of them, even though they've been dating for two years now. I opted not to recount the story for her right then and there, and thought I'd let James explain himself and his self-shitting ways at his own discretion.

But that brings me back to the actual self-shitting. When we last left our protagonist, he was covered in poop, literally head to toe in poop.

And we, his "friends," had a moral, philosophical, epistemological (IDK what that means) dilemma; what does one do with a dude coated in shit?

Our idea? Coin-op car wash. Just think about it a second and realize how startlingly reasonable we were to think that up. But there was a problem... the car wash was across town.

We got him in the car, the trunk of Sean's Explorer. This is where storytelling becomes difficult. I don't know how to describe just how god-awful James smelled. To say it was the worst thing I have ever smelled would be to do his poop-stench an injustice. If God had created a tenth plague to send down upon Egypt, it would have been the smell in the Explorer that night. Yahweh took it easy on the Pharaoh by holding back on the hippie poop.

It was bad.

The five us not covered in human waste had to act like dogs on a Sunday drive and stick our heads out the car window as we rode into downtown San Rafael. There were only four seats by windows in the car. The fifth man, the one sitting bitch in the backseat, had to climb over me and stretch out his body so he could get some fresh air. The smell was so bad that if one had been exposed to it for too long, he would've passed out. And then, like some sort of fecal smelling salt, he would've immediately been awoken by the very same thing that knocked me out.

As we hit the first stop light, I noticed something strange or, rather, someone noticed something strange about us. A young lady in the car next to the Explorer looked at us, perplexed. Here were five young guys craning their necks, trying to leave as little of their own body in their car as possible. I could see she was trying to formulate some question for us, but I cut her off at the pass.

"My friend pooped all over himself," I said. That's all that could be said.

And we drove on.

The Canal is the name of a notoriously dangerous part of San Rafael, a notoriously safe city. It's home to a large number of undocumented immigrants, gangs, prostitutes, and (fortunately, for the purposes of this story) the aforementioned car wash. Keep in mind that it is now long after sundown on a weekend night.

My gang of whiter-than-whiteboys rolled up to the ghetto car wash, aware that we were in the midst of a shit-filled night we would not soon forget, giddy like Catholic schoolgirls (well, we were mid-puberty Catholic schoolboys, so I guess we weren't that far off).

We stepped out of the Explorer. filled the coin slots up with our loose change, and readied the hoses. "Step up, James. It's time."

"Dude, I don't know. I-- I'm wearing all my clothes," he protested.

"Your clothes are covered in shit, man! Take 'em off!"

He acquiesced to our air-tight logic and stripped to his ratty boxer shorts. You haven't forgotten that we're in the middle of the ghetto late at night, have you?

Everybody took a turn, and we hosed the shit off of him. We hosed the shit out of him. Just like when washing a car, we first used soapy water. There is no pressure setting for 'human flesh' on the dial, and James expressed his displeasure instantly.

"Ah! Fuck! Fuck! It fuckin' hurts!" That didn't stop us. "Ah! Get it out of my ass! Don't aim it up my ass!" You know that only egged us on, especially combined with the fact that he scampered around like a little girl as he said this all.

I don't know when this next part began, whether it started right when the washing did or midway through or what, but at some point, a small crowd began to congregate not too far away.

There was a bowling alley across the street that had a bar in that catered mostly to the immigrant community of the surrounding neighborhood. It began to trickle out a few spectators. They cheered us on, literally hooting and hollering like Romans at the Coloseum; they wanted to see a naked crazy gringo get tortured by some other crazy gringos. And they got what they wanted.

Because then I used the giant foaming brush, the toothbrush of the gods. I feel bad about this part, because I was the one that personally did it, and I ended up scratching up James skin pretty bad with it. He bled a little. Hey, but at least I got all of his poop off him, right? And, always being an attention whore, I had to please my audience right?

When the wash was over, James was understandably upset. He was cold, wet, scratched up, and humiliated. But he did have eight dollars coming his way for all his troubles right?

As he angrily climbed into the car, he said, "Dudes, gimme my fucking money."

"Sorry," someone responded. "We spent it all cleaning you off."

I'm excited it's Free Slurpee Day

2008-07-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

What says 'obviously should not be allowed to live by myself' more than the fact that I can't wait to get out of work and get a free cup of semi-frozen sugar-water?

Every July 11th (7/11, get it?), 7-Eleven gives out free Slurpees. Be there, or be square. Or, rather, be there or be a responsible adult.

More to come on James' poop escapade soon.

I fart in my cubicle

2008-07-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

I work for an unnamed, fairly-important government office in Oakland. I am working in a cubicle for the first time in my life. I just got to work about fifteen minutes ago. I sat down and farted. Then a fairly-important person in this fairly-important office walked in to introduce himself to the new guy. It smelled heavily of farts.

I think poop is funny (Part the First)

2008-06-28T17:34:00.000-07:00

To me, the following clip nears the pinnacle of comic genius. Simple, yet excrement-filled...

I have this friend, Jeff, that I met in college. Whenever somebody mentions poop getting on someone's body (it comes up surprisingly frequently...), he bursts out laughing and asks, nay, DEMANDS that I tell the following story. And I always comply with great gusto.

So my high school punk band, Anti-Life (sick name, am I right?) was supposed to have this show at this old abandoned house. The walls were spray painted with our logo (with the "A" in "Anti" replaced with the Anarchy symbol, of course) and random mottos of the day like "Please Die" and "Abort Yourself." We were pretty edgy for being from Marin, the second-richest county in America.

Well, one night, as we were scoping the "venue" for our "gig" my buddy James suddenly declared, "Dude! Guys! I gotta poop. Let's go."

Now, with emphatic delivery like that, you know the poop is imminent. We, being the nice guys/good friends that we were, replied, "Fuck you, dude. Hang on."

"No. Guys. I gotta shit. It snuck up on me hella bad. I gotta shit."

I can't imagine how different my life would be if someone (I forget who, but bless his soul) had not yelled out, "Just take a shit in the road, dude."

Someone else, equally brilliant and worthy of sainthood chimed in, "Yeah, dude, we'll give you all the money we all have in our pockets if you take a dump in the middle of the road."

We counted out cash. We had eight dollars. And James, smelly hippie James who came from the town where there was the single biggest LSD bust of all time, accepted.

This abandoned house was right before a coastal county park that was kind of removed from town, but if anybody happened to be going into or out of the park, it would be via this road. And I can imagine a few reasons why people would be driving in and out of the park late at night; McNear's Beach Park has some sweet make-out spots.

So we four onlookers ascend a small hill to where we have parked our car, my buddy Sean's Explorer. We gaze down from a safe distance as already-smelly James pops a squat that straddles the center line. We await a few seconds and I see what we were all hoping we would see; approaching headlights.

Someone yells, "CAR! JAMES! CAR!"

Then I hear the most heavenly words my sixteen year-old ears had ever heard flow sweetly from James' mouth as he stands up and runs out of the road... "It's dangling! It's dangling!"

James' poop was hanging from his cheeks as he ran up the hill to us. But by the time he reached us, the situation had changed. "It's all over my legs now, guys!" Whether it had changed for the better is for you to decide.

James, as ashamed as someone who doesn't regularly shower can be, said, "Let's go. I just gotta get to a bathroom and clean up or something. It's on my pants and stuff."

We, his friends, were in such a mob mentality that we all spat back at him, "No, fucker. If you don't go down there and finish your shit, we're not giving you your eight dollars."

We knew James' love of money and apathy towards hygiene too well. He descended the hill and dropped trow in the middle of the road.

God has comedic timing, folks. I don't know what the hell James was doing at this point, but when we yelled out, "CAR! JAMES! CAR!" again, the stars must have been aligned in our favor, because as we see James running up the hill this time, he's gripping his own head (picture an exasperated accountant or a man in disbelief that he doesn't have his toupee on). What is so fortuitous about this all is that as we first see his head-gripping silhouette, we hear him yell the newly-crowned sweetest thing my sixteen year-old ear had ever heard; "IT'S ON MY HANDS! IT'S ON MY HANDS!"

For those of you not following the story thus far, let me break it down like a logic problem for y'all. James has his hands on his head. James has poop on his hands. Therefore, James has poop on his head.

Imagine four sixteen year-olds laughing so hard they feared they might die of asphyxiation and let me recap. James has poop on his butt. James has poop on his legs. James has poop in his pants. James has poop on his hands. James has poop in his hair.

And that is just the first half of the story. Stay tuned to learn about how we cleaned James off and the strangers who watched/cheered us on.

I don't know how to interact with girls

2008-06-27T13:27:00.001-07:00

The first issue I have in regards to interacting with girls is a prima facie problem; I still call them girls. Now that I'm an adult, I really need to get on the boat of calling girls by their adult names, such as "women" or "ladies." A few "women" have called me out on it and it's stopped me dead in my tracks in my path to having them let me touch them.

I went out to some bars in San Francisco last weekend. I hit it off with a girl at one of the drinking establishments I stopped by. Sorry. I hit it off with a woman. She was extra not-a-"girl" because she was four or so years older than me. Hey-Oh! Put a check in the box marked "Tony is an adult"! Four years older than me!? That surely makes me an adult! Nay, my friends, nay. I neglected to tell you that, like some depraved, over-sexed seventeen year-olds, said woman and I started making out at the bar against the wall. Go ahead and erase that check from the "Tony is an adult" box. Grab your RoseArt crayon and and childishly scrawl an X in the "Tony is a Bad Adult" bubble. And then eat the crayon. It's okay, it's non-toxic.

Okay, regardless of all that. I actually went on a date with this same woman the next day. An adult-ish date, no less. Things go surprisingly well. She's a really nice, sweet girl. Woman. She's definitely a real adult. She's got a real job in a real office and everything.

She, for some reason, finds me nice enough to invite back to her place. Fast forward a few hours and we're laying down together (don't let your dirty minds wander; it was totally chaste). I can call it cuddling, but I can't tell if that's really an adult thing to say or a childish one. But anyway, that's what we were doing. She looks at me and says, "Tony, you were in a comedy group in college. Tell me something funny."

This is where shit gets really, really un-adult. This is where someone who is good at being an adult would say something like... I don't know. I'm such a frickin' man-child that I can't even think of what a mature person would say. But let me tell you what I did say ...

"So my first job, when I was fourteen years-old, was working down at Fisherman's Wharf. I worked at a crab shack. You know, cracking crabs, boiling lobster, frying fish, selling it all to tourists. Well, at the end of every day, I would end up smelling of what I was cooking all day: seafood. I reeked of it. It oozed into and out of my pores. I would take the ferry back to the North Bay, where I lived. Now, when I got on the ferry, it was commute time. Everyone's leaving San Francisco. I would rush on and grab a seat. And, since it was such a packed ferry, all the seats around me would get taken right away. Totally wiped from a day of dishing out crab salad to German backpackers, I would fall asleep immediately. I would awaken a few minutes before we docked in Larkspur, and you wouldn't believe what I saw... All the seats around me would be empty. Yet it was standing room only. I smelled so bad that these people would rather stand up for the hour-long ferry than sit next to me and bear my stench."

Yeah. I said that to a woman in bed. I did it. But the fun didn't end there, folks. Before she could even tell me, "That is so gross," I continued...

"Now, my dad worked not too far away so some days he would drop me off in the morning and pick me up when my shift was over. I remember one of the first days after work, I stepped into his car and I smelled so bad of crab guts and sizzling clam-oil, he said, 'Oh my god. Please fart.'"

This the story I told to a nice, attractive girl as I was in her bed. And that is a reason I'm a bad adult.

Disclaimer: The girl (hehe) in this photo is not the one mentioned in this post.