Thursday, May 28, 2009

Witz DOESN'T Pick: Involuntary Bulimia and Shaking Like A Polaroid Picture

Tuesday's post was described by some of my readers as "Confusing," by others as, "not your best," and by one avid fan as, "Awful." I admit that my Memorial Day post was weak at best, but rather than take full responsibility for choosing to write about a story where I DON'T get pulled over by the police, I'd like to defer some blame to my stomach. You see, my stomach must have thought it needed to squeeze into a dress for the prom, because starting at 9am Tuesday, I became the world's most dedicated involuntary bulimic.

The problem with waking up and feeling sick in your stomach is that you don't know if you're sick or just hungry. So you start talking to it like it's a small child and feed it things in the hopes of feeling better:

WITZ: Do you like cereal? (eat cereal)
STOMACH: No, go away.
WITZ: Do you like toast and peanut butter?
STOMACH: I said no, stop it.
WITZ: Do you like Triscuits and cheese?
STOMACH: I will kill you.
WITZ: Do you like Lemon-Lime Gatorade?
STOMACH: That's it, let's do this thing.

Ya ever simultaneously throw up and feel like you pulled multiple chest and back muscles from doing so? I'm like the David Copperfield of poor health. Also, when people say Jesus is inside each and every one of us, do they mean he's in our stomachs performing miracles? Because how else am I able to eat THREE triscuits and moments later have what must be an entire box of woven grains powering back out the old mouth hatch? Chanukkah Part 2.

At night, my stomach decided to take a break and gave my body the opportunity to play a game called, "Let's Pretend You Just Quit Heroin Cold Turkey." If you want a quick way to workout your back and abs, but can't afford that little electric belt thing, just try to SHIVER UNCONTROLLABLY for a while. My friends Nitro and Diep Dish came by to drop off Gatorade ("So naturally, we called it Gator-Ade." Two things: 1) I guarantee a sick Jew huddled around a toilet shivering was not the initial target demographic of Gatorade and 2) Then why didn't you name it "Gator-AID??" I guess to be fair, they probably dodged a bullet given that once AIDS got huge, it would be more than a little awkward to ask a buddy to get some "Gator-AIDS" if he has the chance. The real winner though is Powerade. Nobody wants to get "Poweraids.") and as I left my bed to meet them, dressed from head to toe in gray sweat-gear (special thanks to K-Mitch for the sweatshirt that is extremely comfortable and will now haunt my memories), I felt as though I had just jumped naked into a snowbank. We tried to make conversation, but it was probably clear I wasn't up for it, and here's why: You know in movies when someone is touched by a ghost and suddenly gets really really cold? THAT'S HOW I FELT ALL THE TIME. Nobody wants to be the last person to see you before you die, so the two hurried along and I hustled back into bed.

My body then began repeating the same question in a less than subtle manner. It asked me, in very clear and precise terms, if I would rather live in THE ARCTIC CIRCLE...or...THE SAHARA DESERT?? Which one, Witz? ARCTIC? SAHARA? ARCTIC? SAHARA? My answer, incidentally, is The Arctic Circle. You can only get so naked before you're just a sweaty naked guy with no more options, but you can always throw on another baby seal coat. Anyway, there's only so much a guy can take before he calls him Mom to blame her for everything.


Witz's Mom: Hello?
Witz: Remember yesterday when you asked if I was feeling OK, and I said yes, I actually haven't been sick in a while?
Witz's Mom: Yeah?
Witz: Way to jinx it. I have a fever and my stomach is putting the Bellagio Fountain to shame.
Witz's Mom: Oh no! Well, you probably have swine flu.
Witz: What!?
Witz's Mom: I told you you'd get swine flu!
Witz: You TOLD me?? I'm not even Mexican!
Witz's Mom: Yep. (pause) I bet you didn't shower with salt did you?
Witz: No, I didn't shower with salt! Why were you jinxing me with swine flu?? Haven't you read The Secret???
Witz's Mom: If you'd used salt like I told you...
Witz: Right. This is my fault. Because I didn't bring a shaker of Morton's into the tub with me.
Witz's Mom: I'm just saying.


When your own mom assumes you're going to get swine flu it's time to re-evaluate your life. I pounded some Nyquil and waited for sleep to have its way with me. Since my body was already taken care of, sleep decided to destroy me mentally. Throughout the night, I had no fewer than three major stressful things in my life resolve themselves positively. What a nice, nice, relaxing sleep. THEN I WOKE UP. Boom. How's reality, motherfucker? Woot. Shattered. As my brain and body high fived, and I leaned into the business end of a Safeway Paper Bag*, I had one single thought that gave me hope:

At Least I'll Have Something To Post About,

*Now imagine that a Safeway Paper Bag has thoughts and lives only to serve its noble purpose of temporarily storing and transporting groceries. Now imagine it being used as an emergency vomit receptacle. (In a high pitched voice) "Light at last! I am ready deserving shopper! I await the bounty that you have purchased! Good good, place in me now your-- OH DEAR GOD!!!! WHAT IS HAPPENING!? AHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Witz Pickz: Memorial Day Miracle

As everybody knows, it is nearly impossible to honor anybody appropriately without grilling meats and drinking beers-- especially those who fought for our country. Memorial Day is practically synonymous with "BBQ" and it makes sense to me. Much like the eucharist in church (Yep, I know your secrets), the grilled meat represents the delicious flesh of those who served and the beer represents the blood of those brave men and women...with roughly a 5.4% alcohol content. Drink enough beers and eat enough grilled meat and you too can experience just a little bit of the physical and emotional pain of war.

My friends and I, therefore, understood that it was our duty as Americans (and I've been feeling more and more American the closer I get to collecting unemployment) to grill meats and drink beers last night, despite the cold, dank weather. In the face of this adversity, we all piled into my Humvee-- er-- station wagon-- and headed to the civilian supply depot...called Safeway. There were six of us in my five person vehicle, because you know what's not scaring off America's enemies? The phrase, "Click it or Ticket." We made it to the store without incident, deployed to the appropriate aisles, and rallied back to the vehicle ready to go. We had acquired beer, steaks, burger meat, Clausen pickles*, kabobs (because one of my friends is a terrorist) and a pack of pizza Lunchables (which was weird and unrelated).

The drive back began smoothly and without incident. We were mere minutes from the house when we came around a bend in the road and saw the ambush. Cops. A car had been pulled over on the side of the road and on the opposite side, waiting for us to drive past, was another car, officer still inside. We needed only to get by the two cops to the stop signs and we'd be home free. It was still daylight out and at least one of my passengers sitting on another's lap was not click-it-ed. I did not want to be ticketed.

Keeping my calm, I made a flagrantly guilty right turn and proceeded to the far end of the street, to where a sign stated "Right Turn Only." I made a left and we proceeded beyond the parking lot and back up another street to approach the stop signs from the opposite side, avoiding the police. From our vantage point, we could see the cops, and as we approached, we watched as the cop car pulled forward, through the intersection to intercept us. We were effed. As our car approached the stop sign where the cop had setup perpendicular to us (so when we passed them, they would be behind us), we all had basically the same imagined dialogue:

COPS: So it appears that you all went DRAMATICALLY out of your way to avoid us, including going down a street where you HAD to have made an illegal left turn to end up where you are right that an asian girl in your lap or are you just happy to see me?

Why can't it ever be both?! As we got to the cop car, the driver stuck his hand out and waved us by him-- a motion I took to mean, "We don't have all day to ticket you, so hurry up, this is inevitable." We rolled by the cop and got to our four way stop sign. Stop. Signal. Edge out. Turn. We waited and looked back, but nothing happened. When the cop was out of sight I sped up the hill and back to the house. We had made it. We had gone completely out of our way only to be tracked down by the cop car and then waved on by him without incident. It was a Memorial Day Miracle (and also just a really poorly done job by the police).

Good Thing They Didn't See the Kabobs,

*Clausen Kosher Dill Pickles are goddamn amazing. It also feels like the Germans trying way too hard to make up for WWII:

GERMAN 1: How are we going to make up for these atrocities?
GERMAN 2: What if we made reparations by way of delicious pickles?
GERMAN 1: Hm, I like it. Sweet gerkins?
GERMAN 2: No no, they have to be kosher.
GERMAN 1: Oh, right.
GERMAN 2: We'll make delicious Kosher Dill pickles. The Jews will love us!
GERMAN 1: Excellent! And we'll place them in the refrigerated section away from all the other pickles!
GERMAN 2: Wait, why?
GERMAN 1: No apparent reason!....c'mon, give me this one man, you turned down the sweet gerkins idea...
GERMAN 2: Fine-- deal!

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Witz Pickz: Where My Head's At (Back On the Pickin' Wagon)

There's a pretty good explanation for why I'm writing this post naked, but I don't feel like it's necessary to get into it. Suffice it to say I just got back from a long run, respect west coast work hours, and don't need clothes because I am pretty much living the dream. In case that doesn't let you know where I'm at today, here are some more things that are on my mind:

I'm almost twenty-seven years old and I'm still scared to open yogurt because I know it's gonna spit at me.

I'm considering taking yoga at my gym because I have the time to do it and figure it might help me avoid some soccer injuries. My hesitation, of course, is that I would suddenly become "9am On A Monday Yoga Guy." Unless I wear clothing made of money stitched together, people are going to know I don't have a job (and even then, it probably would come off a bit desperate, or be like the time I dressed up like a Mummy for Halloween and then it rained. The only thing worse than 9am On A Monday Yoga Guy is Naked 9am On A Monday Yoga Guy). It'll just be jobless me and a bunch of stay at home moms. Incidentally, all of those moms are terrible at their one task of STAYING AT HOME!

This from CNN the othe day:
Bill Clinton: But I do hope he gets some more target practice before he goes out again...
Wolf Blitzer: What do you make of that? I guess it's the implication of the shooting incident where he (Cheney) went hunting a few years ago and shot his friend in the face.

I definitely laughed while on the treadmill at that, which is always very weird for both me and everyone around me. Yes, Wolf, I would say that is probably what he was referring to.

I bought a pack of Euro-Mentos called Aqua Kiss in Paris. I bought them because Aqua Kiss is a gross name for a product, and sounds like something they'd use on you at the dentist's office-- like that thing that sucks all the water out of your mouth-- THAT should be the Aqua Kiss. "Aqua Kiss" shouldn't be something you put in your mouth to improve breath in case of an actual kiss. An "Aqua Kiss" sounds like a sloppy, overactive salivary gland problem that scares people off. "Ugh, he totally aqua-kissed me. It was like kissing a Smart Water." And you know what? When I ate one-- my mouth had a lot more saliva! Maybe that really is what it's supposed to do?

Paris also has condom dispensers in the Metro, which is both presumptuous and problematic. It's presumptuous because it's like the french are saying, "We know, we know, Paris is romantic, so much so that we must place condoms in our least romantic location." I rarely buy condoms WHILE smelling urine. It's problematic because the Metro is the LEAST friendly place in the city. The rule is not to make eye-contact with anyone, so it's very unlikely you're going to meet someone ON THE METRO and immediately be like, "Let's do this thing-- oh no, I don't have a-- OH WAIT, I can get one on the way out so there's no time for us to think better of this." Why might you think better of it? Oh, because anyone you meet on the metro who plans to buy a condom AT the metro has a previous criminal record AND is a virtual choose your own adventure book of STDs. It's also weird, because putting condoms in the Metro is like advertising, "The Metro: You Can Fuck Here.**" My biggest concern, however, is simply WHO BUYS METRO DISPENSER CONDOMS?? I wouldn't buy winter gloves in the subway, but people are willing to trust Metro Condoms??

"Honey, did you pick up some condoms?"
"Why, yes dear, I grabbed them at the Metro just today."
"I knew you wanted children!"

One STD Free Person + One STD Free Person + 1 Metro Condom = Two People With STDs

Somebody showed me these online:

Now try and picture somebody UNDER 300 pounds wearing them. Can't do it, can you?

As the Presidio Crew and I were discussing, M&M's melt in your hand exactly as easily as Reese's Pieces do, despite their claims. I think it's alright though, because it's basically portion control. "Hey fatty, maybe try and eat them slower next time, huh? Try taking three out of the bag at once. Oh, you're sharing the bag at the movies? Well, see your chocolatey palm? Yeah-- that means you're a dick."

I don't find pizza bagels to be anywhere near as good as either pizza or bagels, which are two of my favorite things in the world. They say "when pizza's on a bagel, you can eat pizza anytime!" which makes me think that if you eat pizza bagels for dinner, you're not taking full advantage of the offer. You know what else I can eat anytime? Pizza. And bagels. Because I'm a goddamn adult. Also, in that equation, the bagel seems to represent "Anytime," right? Like, it could be described mathematically as "X + Bagel = Appropriate All the Time." So, really, I can put whatever the hell I want on a bagel and eat it whenever the hell I want. "When burritos are on a bagel, you can eat burritos anytime!"

Witz: When a bottle of beer is on a bagel, you can have a bottle of beer anytime!
Person: But you drank that beer and didn't even touch your bagel!
Witz: Shhhhut up.

Orange has to be the least hip-hop word ever. Nothing rhymes with it. Least hip hop words and phrases:

5) Poland Springs
4) Quinoa
3) upper-middle class
2) hysterectomy
1) Orange

Any of These Jokes Landing?,

**Which would actually be ripping off the marketing of The Days Inn.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Witz Pickz: Customs

Welp, against all odds I made it back to America. Not before I could have this little tete-a-tete with the barely english speaking Prague-ian guy sitting next to me:

Pilot: Coming up on the left of the plane, you'll see the famous San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge...(the guy leans to look out the window)
Me: That's not it-- it's directly under the wing.
Guy: Oh...
Me: That's the Bay Bridge.
Guy: Ah...
Me: Which I guess is still a pretty cool bridge.
Guy: Mm...
Me: It's supposed to be the world's biggest suspension bridge or something.
Guy: Ahh...
Me: Are you interested in bridges?
Guy: No, not really.

See what happens when I'm silent for 11 hours? After the flight, I had a couple of fun little encounters with the good people at customs. The first of which took place with the actual customs agent:

Customs Lady: And did you bring back any food items?
Witz: No. Well, I did-- but I ate them on the was two croissants...**
Customs Lady: (Awkward silent stare) You can go ahead.

This was immediately followed by this exchange with the customs security woman while she looked at my passport:

Witz: Hi, how are you? (Terrorists wouldn't ask that, right?)
Her: (mimicking my deep voice) Good. You a DJ or something?
Witz: (I paused for a second, only making it more awkward when I replied) Yes, actually, at Stanford.
Her: Hm. (Looking up and scoping me out) Alright, go ahead.

Could I possibly have sounded like more of a terrorist sneaking into the United States for the first time and trying too hard to sound American?? "Yes, I am a radio disc jockey at Stanford University, which is, of course in Palo Alto, and is home to the Stanford Cardinal. How is the weather today? Is it of the seasonal average 65 degrees? I hope there are no droughts or earthquakes, as those are two of California's most problematic natural disasters! Mmm, do I smell hot dogs?"

Finally, I think we are all a little surprised that I've seemingly made it back into the country without the swine flu. Maybe it's because the swine flu is the most flagrantly racist flu ever. "Oh, you're American-- sorry, I'll stay away-- I only kill Mexicans..."

While I might be back in the US, I need to address two cultural issues that I noticed while in France.

The Over-Abundance of Cripples:
The fact that I was seeing people with EUROPEAN CRUTCHES (like ski poles that remind the person just how incapable of skiing they are) distracted me enough that it took me a while to realize HOW MANY people I was seeing with crutches. They were EVERYWHERE! France must give out crutches the way we give out A.D.D. medication (or school nurses give out cough drops), because I simply do not see that many people on crutches here in America. "Broken leg? Crutches! Twisted ankle? Crutches! Foot fell asleep? Crutches! Poor? Crutches!"

Blind People:
I don't know what it is, but the french are TERRIBLE at being blind! At first, I thought I'd witnessed an isolated incident; a guy wandering down the sidewalk, running into every patio chair that was in the way. Every few feet, someone walking by him would turn him in the right direction and off he'd go, careening to the side and slamming into the next outdoor table that came along (which was just as funny to watch as you'd think). It was actually a lot like this video that Euro-Trip told me about:

Only, it wasn't an isolated incident.

As I started paying more attention, I saw numerous blind people just doing an awful awful job of being without sight. One guy was stumped by an alcove and needed the help of a passing woman to get him back on track. Another blind guy (I swear) clipped his shoulder on a passing street sign and barely managed not to tumble to the ground. The champion of all blind people (and I promise these weren't just drunks with sunglasses) was caught in the phenomenal predicament of being stuck between the bumpers of two cars-- unable to figure out the direction he needed to move to set himself free from the hell he had stumbled into. Thankfully, a construction worker guided him back to the sidewalk, to the chagrin of patio tables everywhere.

Now I know you're wondering why I didn't help any of these blind people out, but here's the thing-- I don't speak french. So to go over and try talking to these blind people seemed like a bad idea. It seemed like I might be saying, "Hey, not only are you blind and trapped between two cars, but not even your heightened sense of hearing is gonna help you out with the fact that I'm speaking English." Besides, it seems to me that everybody helping these blind people might be the very reason they are so entirely disastrous at being blind.

"Maybe That Translates Funnier In French...",

**Possibly the shortest distance between Witz and a cavity search.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Witz Pickz: Grave Decisions

You are not going to believe this shit:

Yup. Child molestation is back on in Paris. I don't know who lobbied for the change or what happened, but the sign doesn't lie. I suppose Paris could be split into molestation legal and molestation illegal zones, I dunno-- it's all very confusing. This does present the United States with a great opportunity though. We should start marketing France's laissez-faire molestation laws (hahaha...god, I'm clever) all over the place in an attempt to get our molesters to move to Paris. It will a) get rid of some molesters and b) make it super awkward for non-molesters to travel to Paris (at which point I will start the site and camp out at the airport with a camera...and then go to jail).

Incidentally, in the off chance that I'm wrong and the sign is not related to child molestation, what does it possibly mean? Nobody I've asked, including some french citizens, have any idea. My best guess is, "It is now okay to let your children run free in traffic" or "It is not okay for you to let your children run free in traffic," and frankly, my first theory seems way more reasonable.

Speaking of which, here's something I learned today: Even if you are about to eat Le Petit Ecolier cookies, it is never okay to say, "There's a little schoolboy with my name on it," out loud.

I found something else unusual as I was walking through a famous cemetery (I say "famous" not to be pretentious, but strictly because the other option is simply to say, "as I was walking through a cemetery" which seems like I have a lot more explaining to do. "Oh, it was a FAMOUS cemetery? Nevermind then, that makes perfect sense!"). I noticed that a number of the graves had multiple families' names on them, which seems a) kinda cheap and b) an awkward conversation. I mean how do you bring that up? How long do you need to know someone before it's appropriate to bring up going halvies on your eternal resting place?

"Listen...I know we just met...and maybe this is a little premature, you-- do you want to share a tomb?"

I mean, I'll like someone on Monday and won't be able to stand them by Friday. I make best friends ordering turkey at the supermarket! I'm not in any kind of position to be asking anyone to share a grave with me!

I have good friends that I can't even share an order of Thai food with because they always order the weird shit-- how do you decide that you're able to split a grave? Even if you say "No crosses!" or "Don't do anything weird!" you're both saying, "Deal," but really thinking, "Whatever you say-- you're gonna die first and then I'll do whatever the hell I want-- and I want a grave shaped like a racecar." Then you die first and get to spend eternity with this statue keeping you company:

You get to the afterlife:

Witz: Dude, what the hell was that??
BFF: What?
Witz: Uhh, the small naked child statue??
BFF: I thought it was poetic!
Witz: We look like child molesters!
BFF: That would explain why we're in hell...
Witz: Well...maybe-- it could also have a lot to do with my extensive joking about rape, the deaf, the mentally challenged, the physically challenged, various ethnicities, and a fairly prominent disregard for the seriousness of child molestation...*

Which brings up another point-- is sharing a grave anything like marrying for a green card? Like, if I'm a cusper, but my grave-mate is going to Hell, do I get dragged down too? Is the opposite true? If so, that makes the decision even more difficult. "Well, Nitro hasn't done anything awful YET, but I could see him doing some really heinous shit when he gets to be eighty plus."

Retirement Home Police: How could you sexually assault that extremely old woman??
Elderly Nitro: What?! Sexually assault her?? She was DROOLING!

But say you do find someone you think you could split permanent rent with. Even if you find someone with the same decor preferences; even if you somehow work out the financial side of things (Ok, I make more, so I'll pay a little more, but I get the "Ring in-case I'm not actually dead bell" on my side of the grave**); even if you are 100% certain that you want to share a grave with someone-- the names become an issue. I'm not talking about whose name goes first-- I'm simply talking about space. Berkowitz and Pomoloupolos don't work. You can obviously rule out all hyphenated last names. It's just too dangerous. "Dude, calm down! I'm positive both our names will fit."

Yeah, Poisson got fucked.

I just don't see how you could find a grave-mate. Then again, having said that, if anyone is interested in splitting a simple, yet cozy plot, with the tomb in the shape of the phone booth from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, please send me an email. Bonus points if your last name is Pickz and double points if it's Pickz-Dot-Com as a result of a series of failed marriages. Let's make this magic happen.

Ce N'est Pas Grave,

*Here's how the rest of that conversation goes:

BFF: Where'd you do all that?
Witz: On my blog.
BFF: Pff-- you have a blog?
Witz: Yes.
BFF: Ha!
Witz: Great-- now I'm not just "Naked child on his grave child molester guy" I'm also, "the naked child on his grave child molester guy WITH A BLOG." I'm never gonna get laid.

**If I paid more, I would definitely demand to be buried on my left side with my right leg sticking out across the other person-- JUST in case death really is an eternal sleep. I don't care if it's a dude, I just want to be comfortable.