Witz Pickz: The Road to Hell...Is Paved With Well-Intentioned Blog Posts*

I have a new favorite town and it's in New Jersey. Nope-- not Atlantic City. Cheesequake, New Jersey. In case it's not obvious, here's why:

1) It sounds like the cutest kid in the world telling someone what they want for dessert.

2) It sounds like the most delicious natural disaster possible. "Sorry, I'm going to be late, I got caught in a cheesequake on the way home! Don't wait for me to eat-- I'm full now."

3) It sounds like what they would name a rollercoaster in Wisconsin.

4) It sounds like a good way to sum up my eating habits and physical form when I was in Paris. I ate pounds of brie, camembert, and chevre in a nine day span. "Whew, that guy looks like he went on a cheesequake if I've ever seen one."

On the way to New Jersey, I was able to enjoy the severe awkwardness of a New Jersey gas station. They don't allow people in Jersey to pump their own gas because apparently the state of New Jersey trusts its residents with gasoline about as much as I trust a Flock of Retarded Asians to mail my Netflix movies. Since I only get gas in NJ during long car trips, I inevitably get out of the car to stretch my legs and am told that I'm not allowed to pump my own gas. I then have to tell the attendant that I know, but I wanted to stretch my legs, which then leads to me standing awkwardly by the attendant who is pumping my gas while I do overly flagrant calisthenics and yogic maneuvers to prove that I needed to stretch and did not simply think I could pump my own gas. Because then I might look stupid. Another subtle, but affective bitch slap courtesy of Life.


(This wasn't the most relevant gas pumping photo I could find, but it's a fairly convincing argument in favor of letting people pump their own gas...probably while drunk driving)

While on the train from NYC to CT today, I enjoyed the dulcet tones of a middle-aged hispanic woman YELLING INTO HER PHONE FOR NINETY-MINUTES STRAIGHT! She sat down directly behind me on the train because I attract crazies the way Denny's attracts budweiser hats. In fact, this was the second time in two days that luck had placed the gems of humanity in the seat behind me. While going to see Year One**, with the theater half-empty, Two Girls Who Are American And Who's Ancestors Might Have Come From Africa sat down behind us and put in a solid ninety-minutes of fulfilling preconceived notions and stereotypes. Oh, and guess what, white people? Teenage black girls are saying "tight," which is totally baffling because I thought "tight" was a word that white people already stole from black people, like, ten years ago! Did they steal it BACK*** or is this like how 80's music is making a comeback?? God, I can't wait to say "butter" again.

ANYWAY! This lady was on the train behind me, yelling in spanish into her phone, which was jarring, because spanish is a beautiful language that can rhythmically lull me to sleep, especially if I'm on a train, but YELLING in spanish can sound a whole lot like angry bees-- and this wasn't just yelling-- it was yelling at speed. The whole thing made me feel like I was in an SAT question: If Esperanza is on a train going 60mph and is talking on the phone at 80mph in the opposite direction, how fast are her words moving?? The answer is, "It doesn't matter because white guys in polo shirts don't get to turn around and tell perturbed elderly women that 'You're at an 8...and I really need you at about a 2, ok?'" Checkmate.



A large part of me (insert penis joke here...yes, that was a way for me to make a penis joke without ACTUALLY lowering myself to making a penis joke) wanted to take out my cell phone and start yelling at full volume about inane things:

"HI MOM IT'S ME AND YES I DO WANT TRISCUITS AND CHEESE WHEN I GET HOME, BUT IF YOU BUY THEM AT THE SUPERMARKET BUY THE SMALLER BOX NOT THE FAMILY SIZE BECAUSE A) EVEN IF YOU BUY THE FAMILY SIZE YOU AIN'T GETTIN' ANY AND B) FOR SOME REASON THE SMALLER BOX TASTES BETTER AND THE FAMILY SIZE TENDS TO TASTE OVERWHELMINGLY LIKE THEIR RETARDED COUSIN AT TRADER JOE'S, 'WOVEN WHEATS.' I DON'T KNOW HOW I KNOW, BUT I KNOW AND THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT HAUNT ME AT NIGHT-- THESE ARE THE TYPES OF PROBLEMS I'M DEALING WITH THESE DAYS. I GOTTA GO, I THINK I'M ABOUT TO GET MY ASS KICKED." (that was the first time in my life I utilized caps lock)

So, much like Charlie Chaplin or the thousands of Germans who were around in 1942 and recently got all worked up when Tom Cruise made the movie Valkyrie, I said nothing.

If Witz's Train To Hell Is Travelling At 70mph, and Witz Types at 90wpm, How Many More Posts Can You Realistically Expect Before He Is Smitten (Not In the Good Way), Assuming the Existence of a Reasonable God?,
Witz

*Anyone else getting the "Victims of Sexual Abuse" ad on the page? I wonder which one of my posts queued up that downer...also it says, "Justice for Victims of Child Abuse, Molestation In Delaware." How incredibly specific, Google Ads! "Justice...yes!...for Victims of Child Abuse...go on!...Molestation...good!..in-- Delaware? Shit. This link is useless to me."

**Judd Apatow's "Gigli"-- Michael Cera was mildly amusing, but the two tween girls walking out in front of me summed it up best with this exchange: "This was your fault. You made me see Year One. Those are two hours I will never have back," the first girl declared. "I am so sorry," came the reply. I left during the credit sequence outtakes-- and I'm a sucker for outtakes. In other news, Kung Fu Panda was the shit.

***I could make a mean "Charter Oak" joke here for all you Connecticut folks out there, but I'll restrain myself. Just know that it was possible.

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Connecticut Credentials

I've been in Connecticut for the last couple of weeks, I grew up here for twenty-two years, and I've driven Subaru station wagons since I was sixteen years old, but it was at exactly 3:57 p.m. this afternoon that I was officially invited to be a member of this state. J. Crew emailed me today and invited me to their "PRIVATE SALE" with the additional subject of "(it's super top-secret)."** Apparently, the only Connecticut credentials I had been lacking were the two polo shirts that I bought last week. Now that my wardrobe is fully stocked with poppable collars, I'm ready for membership.

First of all, really? Is it "super top-secret?" because you sent it to my google mail account and I, for one, don't feel I've earned your trust. I wanna meet the person who says, "Well fuck me, I better see what's inside this email!" What's inside the email is this: "Shhhhhhhh" reads the first line-- "PRIVATE SALE." I'm sorry, but did you just email shush me? Did I sign some sort of non-disclosure agreement when I signed for my credit card? (This actually gives me a great idea-- next time you buy something with your credit card and they ask you to "please sign here," say, "Sorry, I'm going to need a minute to look this over before I sign anything," and then make a series of, "Mm-hm," sounds before you finally announce, "Well, this agreement appears adequate," and sign the receipt.) Am I really supposed to be wooed by the promise of this "private" sale? Who's the douchebag who DOESN'T tell their friends about it??

Friend: Hey Witz, what's this I hear about a sale at J. Crew online?
Witz: ...I don't know what you're talking about...

When I asked E-Funk All-Star (also an invitee because she boats) who the email was marketed towards she replied, "Everyone that has an email address." Touche, but if that's the case, then I have to assume J. Crew thinks we're all huge gossips who can't keep a secret, because THEY'RE A BUSINESS and they want AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE TO BUY THEIR PRODUCT. I would be mildly offended by this, but I quickly realized the coupon was not meant for me:

"Enjoy 20% off purchases of $175 or more."

Oh, poor, misled J. Crew-- I don't have $175 to spend on your clothes! I looked in the Sunday paper for coupons to get a coffee coolatta for less than the regular price of $1.99. "If I'm paying 2 dollars, I better be getting a free donut or something!" That's the kind of enjoyment I'm looking for-- cheap and caloric.

I do hope other companies start this kind of marketing, but with a little bit more intensity. I want to get invited to the "Shut the Fuck Up About It" sale at Sports Authority and the "Don't Invite Your Weird Friend Brian-- That Kid Sucks" sale at Banana Republic.

So, unfortunately, it looks like I won't be joining the handpicked elite of Connecticut any time soon, but that's ok, because I live in San Francisco and am only four burritos away from the five-thousand required on my proof of residency card. And that's good enough for me right now.

The Secret Code Is "SECRET" By the Way...Because They Respect Us That Little,
Witz


**They even used that extraneous hyphen to lure me in. Speaking of hyphens, I learned recently that someone my friend knows is named Ladasha...only it's spelled "La-a" (guess if she's white or not). Aside from the fact that the girl is going to be called "La ah," her entire life, wouldn't it actually be "Lahyphena?" Obviously I'm excited for the possibilities this opens up. "This is my daughter Kate; spelled like it sounds-- with an 8." "Please meet my slutty daughter Tr&." Endless possibilities-- I predict a celebrity utilizes this for their child within the next 10 months.

Witz Pickz: Laughing Matters and Knäckebrödsdansen

I got flown by NWA. That's the coolest I'm ever gonna sound-- unfortunately, I wasn't assaulted by an iconic hip hop group, I just flew back to Connecticut on Northwest Airlines...though I was hit by the drink cart once by a flight attendant who looked kinda black.

While on board, I made the mistake of trying to pass the time by listening to Mike Birbiglia's stand up album "Two Drink Mike." I figured I'd already heard most of his jokes, so I wouldn't laugh, which I think says something about me, because who listens to a comedy album they DON'T expect to laugh at? As it turns out, there were a bunch of jokes I hadn't heard and ended up laughing hysterically, which was enjoyable for me as well as all kinds of uncomfortable for the older woman in the seat next to me at fifty-thousand feet. As I sat there laughing and shaking, I had to keep looking at my iPod just to demonstrate for people that I wasn't completely insane. "Oh, iPod! You're hilarious!" The whole thing was made more awkward by the fact that they were showing a documentary about like, saving villages in Africa, so my audible laughter almost definitely appeared to be directed at impoverished African villagers and their culture. Wonderful.

The plane laughter got me thinking about a conversation I had the other day with E-Funk All-Star. We somehow ended up talking about different kinds of laughter and giggling came up. There is a very small window for appropriate giggling and this became abundantly clear on my flight. Too little giggling and you're an emotionless sack of sad that's incapable of expressing excited or surprised enjoyment, and too much giggling and you're absolutely insane. In my world, giggling generally occurs when you try and hold in laughter, so there was probably some plane giggling and, let's be honest, there's been some giggling at the gym, which is awesome, because no matter how much weight you're benching, the moment you GIGGLE, your gym cred is gone.

The other kind of "surprise laughter" is the guffaw. The guffaw is rarely implemented, but when it is, look out. There is a very thin line between "a guffaw" and "throwing up."

Witz: I'm so tired of hearing those models say, "I was just trying to guffaw and..."
E-Funk All-Star: My friend is so funny that I lost 15 pounds!

How awesome would it be if weight was indicative of humor? I'd walk around with a really skinny girl all the time and people would whisper, "Wow, he must be SO funny!" Suddenly, people would be staging interventions for rail thin guys: "Tommy, we know you like it there, but you can't be going down to the comedy clubs every night. You're going to die." Almanacs would come out with facts like, "World's Funniest Nations As Evidenced By Weight," which would suddenly make Ethiopia the funniest country on the planet.

Anyway, here's something E-Funk All-Star introduced me to that you can giggle at: naket knäckebröd dansen. Apparently, the Swedish language consists almost entirely of cognates and poser cognates (words that dress and act like they're cognates, but aren't), but I will translate for you. "Naket" means naked. "Dansen" means dancing. "Brod" means bread. Knacke means FUCKING INSAAAAANE. Check it out:



ABBA: No Longer Sweden's Gayest Export. These guys are like the Swedish Red Hot Chili Peppers (Röd Het Chilli Peppars). As you might have guessed, knackebrod is actually large pieces of crispy circular bread with a whole in the middle-- or, as us Jews call them, bagel chips*. While most people see bagel chips and think, "I'm going to eat these with a sandwich," these guys saw bagel chips and thought, "I bet that would cover my dick." They then followed that thought up with,

"Let's all dance naket together on national television."
"Can there be a part where we all look like we're banging each other?"
"Almost exclusively."
"Sold. Girls are gonna love this!"

If these guys didn't go to boarding school, I don't know who did. If you missed the one guy losing his knackebrod (which sounds like a euphamism), go back and watch again, it's pretty amusing. As for me, now that I'm home, I'm gonna go raid the cupboard and get my "Ritz Crackerbrodsdansen" on.

Dansen Maskin,
Witz