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
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
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.
RING RING
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.
CLICK
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,
Witz
*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!"
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.
RING RING
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.
CLICK
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,
Witz
*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 now...sooo...is 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,
Witz
*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!
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 now...sooo...is 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,
Witz
*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?,
Witz
**Which would actually be ripping off the marketing of The Days Inn.
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?,
Witz
**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 plane...it 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...",
Witz
**Possibly the shortest distance between Witz and a cavity search.
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 plane...it 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...",
Witz
**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 pedophileORfrancophile.com 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, but...do 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,
Witz
*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.
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 pedophileORfrancophile.com 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, but...do 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,
Witz
*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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Witz Pickz: Ambiguously Gay Paris: Discoveries In the First Two Days
They say that travel teaches you not only about other cultures, but about yourself as well. So far, I've learned a little about each.
Last night, fueled by jet-lag instead of red bull for a change, I was up until 4am drinking wine and hanging out with my sister, some of her friends, her bulgarian roommate, and her bulgarian roommate's parents-- all of whom spent the night. With limited sleeping space, but plentiful drinks, my double-bed sized air mattress suddenly became a bed for two, and thanks to the powers of Awkwardness, that meant that I'd be sharing it with one of my sister and my mutual friends-- we'll call him Euro-Trip. We slept head to toe (because we don't like to look at each other when our groins touch), which did help us avoid some discomfort, but since we both fell asleep on our sides, also led to us waking up with our clothed asses forming a yin-yang*, which, while very zen, was also very weird.
Later, we played this fun game called "Heart Attack" where we eat a steady supply of bread, cheese, pancakes, pastries, crepes, and wine, and then walk around as much as possible. We got lunch at a small cafe, and Euro-Trip went ahead and ordered the "tartare de boeuf" which he thought was steak. I saw the waiter laugh as he passed the order to the chef, which should have been a hint, but I assumed he was just laughing at how awesome we were at ordering in french. As we finished eating some pattee, which tastes like Slim Jim Cream Cheese, our food arrived. The french must be the best energy conservationists in the world because here's what he got:
Now, I know what you're thinking-- you're thinking, "Why does that look so familiar?" Well, it's because that is actually Meatwad from Adult Swim's Aqua Teen Hunger Force!
and to a lesser extent, Mickey Rourke:
TARTARE DE BOEUF IS: RAW! FUCKING! BEEF! I understand that different cultures have different forms of "acceptable cuisine," but when a guy orders "the raw meat wad" with an American accent, and he hasn't been repeatedly raping your entire family in front of you, you need to let a dude know what's up. Like, if I were a waiter in America and somebody walked in and ordered sheep's cock, I would feel a moral obligation to say, "Alright, cool, just wanna go ahead and check to make sure you know that sheep's cock is actually a sheep's COCK, ok?" I know it must have been amusing that someone finally ordered the beef wad, but come on! How is that a necessary menu item? Who is going around saying, "You know, I'd like to go out to dinner with my friends, but there's a package of raw beef in my refrigerator that I've been dying to rip into..." There is also the chance the they were completely fucking with us:
Chef: Yo, see if he'll eat raw beef.
Waiter: No way, that's gross!
Chef: Oh c'mon man, they're American-- they eat Jack In the Box, Taco Bell, and Waffle House! They'll eat it!
Waiter: I wouldn't feel right...
Chef: They're responsible for Ashton Kutcher AND Howie Mandel.
Waiter: Fine, I'll do it.
Either to his credit or early disease and worm ridden demise, Euro-Trip ate about half of the dish along with all of his and my fries, in the hopes that they would form a metaphorical and physical box around the meat in his stomach, hide it away, and never speak or think of it again.
Finally, I discovered something about France: No child molesters allowed!
It's such a basic idea, really, but a simple sign reminds people that the whole pedaphilia/kidnapping is, in fact, not ok. Maybe this is just the event planner in me, but there's an important message here-- good signage goes a long way.
In A World of Pain et Fromage,
Witz
*aka an Ass Puzzle aka a homoerotic Barrel of Monkeys
Last night, fueled by jet-lag instead of red bull for a change, I was up until 4am drinking wine and hanging out with my sister, some of her friends, her bulgarian roommate, and her bulgarian roommate's parents-- all of whom spent the night. With limited sleeping space, but plentiful drinks, my double-bed sized air mattress suddenly became a bed for two, and thanks to the powers of Awkwardness, that meant that I'd be sharing it with one of my sister and my mutual friends-- we'll call him Euro-Trip. We slept head to toe (because we don't like to look at each other when our groins touch), which did help us avoid some discomfort, but since we both fell asleep on our sides, also led to us waking up with our clothed asses forming a yin-yang*, which, while very zen, was also very weird.
Later, we played this fun game called "Heart Attack" where we eat a steady supply of bread, cheese, pancakes, pastries, crepes, and wine, and then walk around as much as possible. We got lunch at a small cafe, and Euro-Trip went ahead and ordered the "tartare de boeuf" which he thought was steak. I saw the waiter laugh as he passed the order to the chef, which should have been a hint, but I assumed he was just laughing at how awesome we were at ordering in french. As we finished eating some pattee, which tastes like Slim Jim Cream Cheese, our food arrived. The french must be the best energy conservationists in the world because here's what he got:
Now, I know what you're thinking-- you're thinking, "Why does that look so familiar?" Well, it's because that is actually Meatwad from Adult Swim's Aqua Teen Hunger Force!
and to a lesser extent, Mickey Rourke:
TARTARE DE BOEUF IS: RAW! FUCKING! BEEF! I understand that different cultures have different forms of "acceptable cuisine," but when a guy orders "the raw meat wad" with an American accent, and he hasn't been repeatedly raping your entire family in front of you, you need to let a dude know what's up. Like, if I were a waiter in America and somebody walked in and ordered sheep's cock, I would feel a moral obligation to say, "Alright, cool, just wanna go ahead and check to make sure you know that sheep's cock is actually a sheep's COCK, ok?" I know it must have been amusing that someone finally ordered the beef wad, but come on! How is that a necessary menu item? Who is going around saying, "You know, I'd like to go out to dinner with my friends, but there's a package of raw beef in my refrigerator that I've been dying to rip into..." There is also the chance the they were completely fucking with us:
Chef: Yo, see if he'll eat raw beef.
Waiter: No way, that's gross!
Chef: Oh c'mon man, they're American-- they eat Jack In the Box, Taco Bell, and Waffle House! They'll eat it!
Waiter: I wouldn't feel right...
Chef: They're responsible for Ashton Kutcher AND Howie Mandel.
Waiter: Fine, I'll do it.
Either to his credit or early disease and worm ridden demise, Euro-Trip ate about half of the dish along with all of his and my fries, in the hopes that they would form a metaphorical and physical box around the meat in his stomach, hide it away, and never speak or think of it again.
Finally, I discovered something about France: No child molesters allowed!
It's such a basic idea, really, but a simple sign reminds people that the whole pedaphilia/kidnapping is, in fact, not ok. Maybe this is just the event planner in me, but there's an important message here-- good signage goes a long way.
In A World of Pain et Fromage,
Witz
*aka an Ass Puzzle aka a homoerotic Barrel of Monkeys
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Witz Pickz: French Adventure -- The Flight Response
I literally just sat on my ass for eleven hours. I got up twice for no more than thirty seconds to stretch, but was otherwise ass to seat for almost half a day. Let me tell you that it's not as easy as parents would have you believe when they say things like, "Are you just going to sit around on your ass all day??" The answer ought to be, "No way, I don't have that kind of dedication and endurance." Sitting on your ass all day is like an Olympic* sport-- and I just won the silver medal. There was one guy who was REALLY good at it, which is why I only got silver, but I'm pretty sure that's because he had cerebral palsy-- like he didn't get up once and his parents kept feeding him and at point had to take off his glasses and dab at his eyes with a napkin (I can only assume he was shedding tears of joy at besting me).
The flight was made bearable (meaning able to be accomplished by TV personality Bear Grylls) by the older American couple who sat next to me and conversed plentifully throughout the flight. This also goes to prove my theory, lately, that strangers love talking to me. Let me explain: I was in the library on Saturday, when a random lady turns to me from a couple shelves over and says, "You want to laugh? Read this book-- it's about a vacuum salesman in Cuba in the 1960's and he gets mistaken for a CIA agent and instead of correcting them, draws diagrams of vacuums to solve problems!".....Apparently, I look like the type of guy who would enjoy a book involving mistaken identity and vacuum sales. "Lady, why the fuck would I read that book?" No, what I really said was, "Interesting, I'll check it out (yeah, that was a spontaneous library pun)," and I did.
On Sunday, I was at the track, which is a whole other post, really, and was approached by a large hispanic man while I was waiting by the restrooms. "Bathroom?" he aggressively questioned? Confused, I asked him to repeat the question and glanced at the Men's room that he was pointing to. "Bathroom?!" he demanded of me, who it needs to be pointed out was just A DUDE standing by the bathrooms. "Yes. That IS a bathroom," I responded, once again feeling like I'm really excelling at everyday life. The man nodded his head approvingly and marched off into the bathroom.
Back on the plane, we were five minutes into conversation when the man told me, "You'd do great in entertainment, it's obvious you like people," which is mostly true because there are people I like, even if I think most people are miserable human beings. I also detected an asterisk in his statement that went something like, "You know, except for bad drivers, slow pedestrians, bikers, frat guys, the deaf, the barely deaf, people who say 'guy' as part of an introduction, people who oppose gay marriage legally and not just by opinion, everyone in the film Religulous including Bill Maher, people who low five, Tucker Max, anyone associated with Stuff White People Like, anyone over 6' 2'' that can't make a simple lay-up, Chris Kattan, people using checks at the supermarket, and anyone who ever referred to Charles Schwab as 'Chuck.'"
As it turned out, I did like this couple, because he said things like, "German airplanes are always on time. We flew Lufthansa to Berlin and it was great-- except when we flew over London and they bombed it," and she said things like, "Mendecino is a very romantic town, you have to go-- and the best part is that there's NOTHING going on past 8pm, so whether she's feeling like it or not, you know what the two of you are gonna be doing at night!" Awesome.
The flight itself was made rough by two key factors: the movies and the meals. The movies were Marley & Me and Madagascar 2-- both of which basically big middle fingers to America for the entertainment we export. I didn't watch either because a) Marley & Me needs to be experienced on blu-ray to be fully appreciated and b) I didn't think I'd understand Madagascar 2 having not seen the original.
The meals, which I dub Pain Plates, were the most baffling convergence of food I have ever seen. It's like they purposefully wanted my insides to try and become my outsides. They put things together that I would NEVER eat with each other under normal circumstance. "Witz, what do you want for dinner? How about all the parts of the chicken we don't talk about plated with some mashed potatoes-- oh and some cous cous with raw salmon on top-- you end most meals with rice pudding, too, right? Hey, what do you want for breakfast? Two slices of ham with some american cheese flopped on top? Done." Only, you don't have any options, so you eat it all and let the Gastrointestinal World War II Re-enactment play out.
On the other hand, I was on the plane for a reason. Did I mention that as I write this, I am sitting at a desk in a Parisian apartment, eating fresh baguette with goat cheese and a bottle of Bordeaux? Did I mention the pain au chocolat that I consumed in roughly .051 seconds because it was the most delicious pastry I've had since I was last here? "Dear Skinny Witz, gone to Paris to purchase a fat suit-- back soon." So far, so good...
I Moved At 600mph Today, What the Hell Did You Do?,
Witz
The flight was made bearable (meaning able to be accomplished by TV personality Bear Grylls) by the older American couple who sat next to me and conversed plentifully throughout the flight. This also goes to prove my theory, lately, that strangers love talking to me. Let me explain: I was in the library on Saturday, when a random lady turns to me from a couple shelves over and says, "You want to laugh? Read this book-- it's about a vacuum salesman in Cuba in the 1960's and he gets mistaken for a CIA agent and instead of correcting them, draws diagrams of vacuums to solve problems!".....Apparently, I look like the type of guy who would enjoy a book involving mistaken identity and vacuum sales. "Lady, why the fuck would I read that book?" No, what I really said was, "Interesting, I'll check it out (yeah, that was a spontaneous library pun)," and I did.
On Sunday, I was at the track, which is a whole other post, really, and was approached by a large hispanic man while I was waiting by the restrooms. "Bathroom?" he aggressively questioned? Confused, I asked him to repeat the question and glanced at the Men's room that he was pointing to. "Bathroom?!" he demanded of me, who it needs to be pointed out was just A DUDE standing by the bathrooms. "Yes. That IS a bathroom," I responded, once again feeling like I'm really excelling at everyday life. The man nodded his head approvingly and marched off into the bathroom.
Back on the plane, we were five minutes into conversation when the man told me, "You'd do great in entertainment, it's obvious you like people," which is mostly true because there are people I like, even if I think most people are miserable human beings. I also detected an asterisk in his statement that went something like, "You know, except for bad drivers, slow pedestrians, bikers, frat guys, the deaf, the barely deaf, people who say 'guy' as part of an introduction, people who oppose gay marriage legally and not just by opinion, everyone in the film Religulous including Bill Maher, people who low five, Tucker Max, anyone associated with Stuff White People Like, anyone over 6' 2'' that can't make a simple lay-up, Chris Kattan, people using checks at the supermarket, and anyone who ever referred to Charles Schwab as 'Chuck.'"
As it turned out, I did like this couple, because he said things like, "German airplanes are always on time. We flew Lufthansa to Berlin and it was great-- except when we flew over London and they bombed it," and she said things like, "Mendecino is a very romantic town, you have to go-- and the best part is that there's NOTHING going on past 8pm, so whether she's feeling like it or not, you know what the two of you are gonna be doing at night!" Awesome.
The flight itself was made rough by two key factors: the movies and the meals. The movies were Marley & Me and Madagascar 2-- both of which basically big middle fingers to America for the entertainment we export. I didn't watch either because a) Marley & Me needs to be experienced on blu-ray to be fully appreciated and b) I didn't think I'd understand Madagascar 2 having not seen the original.
The meals, which I dub Pain Plates, were the most baffling convergence of food I have ever seen. It's like they purposefully wanted my insides to try and become my outsides. They put things together that I would NEVER eat with each other under normal circumstance. "Witz, what do you want for dinner? How about all the parts of the chicken we don't talk about plated with some mashed potatoes-- oh and some cous cous with raw salmon on top-- you end most meals with rice pudding, too, right? Hey, what do you want for breakfast? Two slices of ham with some american cheese flopped on top? Done." Only, you don't have any options, so you eat it all and let the Gastrointestinal World War II Re-enactment play out.
On the other hand, I was on the plane for a reason. Did I mention that as I write this, I am sitting at a desk in a Parisian apartment, eating fresh baguette with goat cheese and a bottle of Bordeaux? Did I mention the pain au chocolat that I consumed in roughly .051 seconds because it was the most delicious pastry I've had since I was last here? "Dear Skinny Witz, gone to Paris to purchase a fat suit-- back soon." So far, so good...
I Moved At 600mph Today, What the Hell Did You Do?,
Witz
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Witz Pickz: iPhone Baby Shakin' Application
Everyone has been up in arms about the new Baby Shaker Application for the iphone (but not Shaker Babies, because the Shakers didn't believe in sex and that's why there aren't anymore Shakers, just their furniture, which, not surprisingly, is rigid, joyless, and creaky...) and I think it's ridiculous. I have to give Ash Good As It Gets(formerly Titan AE) credit for bringing this to my attention, but since then, I have heard the story on CNN, Facebook, and most of my friends. Steve Jobs (who should also change his name because he sounds like a porn star) pulled the application and publicly apologized for ever having it, which seems very extreme to me.
I guess I just thought this was America. Shaking babies is as American as a British Nanny-- wait, that's not quite right. Regardless, one woman was heard above everyone else because she had a baby that was shaken and died? What about all their other games??* What about "Pirate Treasure Hunt?" Isnt' that a bit touchy right now? Or how about fucking HANGMAN???
Player: Um, is there a g?
Game: Nope. Now you get hung. Just like when your best friend Tommy killed himself.
There's a much greater chance of people knowing someone who hung themself (or are considering it themselves) than of people knowing a baby that was shaken to death. There's an entire series of tower defense games where you shoot down planes-- what about those? "My husband was shot down in a balloon by an arrow tower!" Or what about sports games? "My life was ruined when I broke my back playing football! I find this DEEPLY offensive!"
That's what the spokeswoman for Apple told people. She said, "This application was deeply offensive and should not have been approved for distribution on the App Store." TO WHOM IS IT OFFENSIVE?? People who shook their babies?? I'm not entirely sure we should be concerned with their feelings! Is it offensive to babies?? It shouldn't be-- the more people shaking iphones, the fewer people out shaking babies. Nobody's shaking their iphone and saying, "Hey, this is pretty fun, but it just makes me want to try the real thing!" And if someone IS saying that, then they were ALREADY going to be a problem.
Which brings me to my next point-- it's educational. Parents don't shake their babies because they want to kill them, they shake their babies to shut them up. If nothing else, the baby shaking application can show them why that's not a good idea. Shake, shake, shake, dead baby. Shake, shake, shake, dead baby. Shake, shake, shake, dead baby. Hm. I can't shut this kid up without killing it-- maybe I'll rethink my strategy for quietting my child (which is why I not only endorse the baby shaking application, but also think it's important that we come up with a "Baby Plastic Bag Helmet Application" and a "Sim Dumpster" game). Educational tools have been disguised as games for years, and not all education is pretty-- just take all the STD pictures they showed us in school. Nobody's running around saying, "Schindler's List went WAY overboard!"
Besides, have you even seen the game?
It's boring as hell! I can't imagine anyone spending more than 2 minutes using it before it just becomes super annoying. In fact, it would probably deter people from shaking real babies: "Man, I thought shaking babies would be fun and satisfying, but it's actually just really really boring and annoying....I'm gonna go stab some pets." ("Want to stab some pets? There's an app for that.") Ultimately, while the baby shaking app might have been in poor taste, it's not offensive-- it's just a shock value product for 99 cents. If you want to spend 99 cents and be truly offended, buy something at Taco Bell.
I Like My Babies Like My Martinis: Shaken,
Witz
*There's also an app called "Quickjack" which just for the name amuses 12 year old me
I guess I just thought this was America. Shaking babies is as American as a British Nanny-- wait, that's not quite right. Regardless, one woman was heard above everyone else because she had a baby that was shaken and died? What about all their other games??* What about "Pirate Treasure Hunt?" Isnt' that a bit touchy right now? Or how about fucking HANGMAN???
Player: Um, is there a g?
Game: Nope. Now you get hung. Just like when your best friend Tommy killed himself.
There's a much greater chance of people knowing someone who hung themself (or are considering it themselves) than of people knowing a baby that was shaken to death. There's an entire series of tower defense games where you shoot down planes-- what about those? "My husband was shot down in a balloon by an arrow tower!" Or what about sports games? "My life was ruined when I broke my back playing football! I find this DEEPLY offensive!"
That's what the spokeswoman for Apple told people. She said, "This application was deeply offensive and should not have been approved for distribution on the App Store." TO WHOM IS IT OFFENSIVE?? People who shook their babies?? I'm not entirely sure we should be concerned with their feelings! Is it offensive to babies?? It shouldn't be-- the more people shaking iphones, the fewer people out shaking babies. Nobody's shaking their iphone and saying, "Hey, this is pretty fun, but it just makes me want to try the real thing!" And if someone IS saying that, then they were ALREADY going to be a problem.
Which brings me to my next point-- it's educational. Parents don't shake their babies because they want to kill them, they shake their babies to shut them up. If nothing else, the baby shaking application can show them why that's not a good idea. Shake, shake, shake, dead baby. Shake, shake, shake, dead baby. Shake, shake, shake, dead baby. Hm. I can't shut this kid up without killing it-- maybe I'll rethink my strategy for quietting my child (which is why I not only endorse the baby shaking application, but also think it's important that we come up with a "Baby Plastic Bag Helmet Application" and a "Sim Dumpster" game). Educational tools have been disguised as games for years, and not all education is pretty-- just take all the STD pictures they showed us in school. Nobody's running around saying, "Schindler's List went WAY overboard!"
Besides, have you even seen the game?
It's boring as hell! I can't imagine anyone spending more than 2 minutes using it before it just becomes super annoying. In fact, it would probably deter people from shaking real babies: "Man, I thought shaking babies would be fun and satisfying, but it's actually just really really boring and annoying....I'm gonna go stab some pets." ("Want to stab some pets? There's an app for that.") Ultimately, while the baby shaking app might have been in poor taste, it's not offensive-- it's just a shock value product for 99 cents. If you want to spend 99 cents and be truly offended, buy something at Taco Bell.
I Like My Babies Like My Martinis: Shaken,
Witz
*There's also an app called "Quickjack" which just for the name amuses 12 year old me
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Witz Pickz: Hate Mail!!
I MADE IT! I GOT HATE MAIL! I am proud to announce that Witz Pickz has received its first legitimate hate mail-- well, hate comments, really. The most shocking thing about the angry comment is that it DIDN'T come from any of the more recent and obscenely offensive posts! It came from back when I touched on The Deaf Olympics and ignited a flurry of anti-Deaflympic sentiment. While the post certainly had some over-the-line jokes (that keep you coming back for more), I probably apologized for them more than I ever have in a post and made it very clear I was kidding. I won't do that here. Checkout the comment:
Anonymous said...
Ill be honest asshole! become Deaf and see how it works out for you. And the funny thing is I am not Deaf but I do have a lot of Deaf friends and the things they have to go through that they otherwise wouldnt if they were hearing. So when you learn about Deaf Culture, Post another blog and pull your head out of your ass! Have a wonderful day =)
First of all, if you're going to get all up in arms about something, use a name-- or at least a pseudonym, like I do every time I write something that brings me closer to hell. Second of all, I appreciate that you're being honest, but this is a classic case of telling instead of showing. If you want me to believe you're honest, sell me on your emotions-- in fact, the first step towards honesty is proper punctuation and writing more than one level above spam grammar.
"become Deaf and see how it works out for you?" Absolutely I won't do that. Although, if it makes you feel any worse, my doctor told me I'm probably going deaf in my left ear, which means I'm well on my way towards being The Barely Deaf and winning a couple of gold medals in the Deaflypics (where I will definitely sing, "The Barely Deaf, we have a bobsled team..."-- too bad no one will hear the reference...).
"And the funny thing is I am not Deaf but I do have a lot of Deaf friends and the things they have to go through that they otherwise wouldnt if they were hearing." Really?? IS that the funny thing?? And who has A LOT of deaf friends, anyway? I can see you having a maximum of three deaf friends-- and that's pushing it. Any more than three deaf friends and you're either up to something or the world's worst conversationalist. You're already on thin ice for capitalizing a state of being. What do your deaf friends think of you for having so many deaf friends? If I asked them if you were really their friend would they be like:
If I asked if they considered your social and communication skills a greater disability than their lack of hearing, would they be all:
Can we chalk up the latter half of your sentence as "a good try" because I can't make much of it. I assume you mean that you witness many tough struggles for your inordinate number of deaf friends, which I completely believe is the case, but don't see what it has to do with anything. I didn't claim that being deaf was easy, I just said that you can probably be deaf and run 400 yards in a straight line with equal opportunity.
"So when you learn about Deaf Culture, Post another blog and pull your head out of your ass! Have a wonderful day =)" For starters, sometimes I don't eat breakfast because it seems like a hassle to go downstairs and wait for a piece of bread to toast*, so I don't exactly see myself studying up on deaf culture. Even if I did, I don't see myself changing my opinion that it's possible to overcome great odds to achieve success, or is part of deaf culture "Giving up when things get tough and creating more achievable scenarios in which success is the only option?" I'd like to hear what your plethora of deaf buddies think of that.
"Have a wonderful day =)" Ooph, emoticon burn...
Abbott and Deaf Costello!
Abbott: You're aurally challenged!
Deaf Costello: Orally challenged?
Abbott: Aural.
Deaf Costello: Oral.
Abbott: That too.
Deaf Costello: What?
Abbott: Exactly.
Putting the ASL back in Asshole,
Witz
*It's mostly because of those stupid little "Neck brace" clips that come with loaves of bread. They specificaly use technology that asks, "Do you like your bread kiiind of fresh?" I spin the bread all tight and then put the clip on and it immediately comes undone. Useless.
Anonymous said...
Ill be honest asshole! become Deaf and see how it works out for you. And the funny thing is I am not Deaf but I do have a lot of Deaf friends and the things they have to go through that they otherwise wouldnt if they were hearing. So when you learn about Deaf Culture, Post another blog and pull your head out of your ass! Have a wonderful day =)
First of all, if you're going to get all up in arms about something, use a name-- or at least a pseudonym, like I do every time I write something that brings me closer to hell. Second of all, I appreciate that you're being honest, but this is a classic case of telling instead of showing. If you want me to believe you're honest, sell me on your emotions-- in fact, the first step towards honesty is proper punctuation and writing more than one level above spam grammar.
"become Deaf and see how it works out for you?" Absolutely I won't do that. Although, if it makes you feel any worse, my doctor told me I'm probably going deaf in my left ear, which means I'm well on my way towards being The Barely Deaf and winning a couple of gold medals in the Deaflypics (where I will definitely sing, "The Barely Deaf, we have a bobsled team..."-- too bad no one will hear the reference...).
"And the funny thing is I am not Deaf but I do have a lot of Deaf friends and the things they have to go through that they otherwise wouldnt if they were hearing." Really?? IS that the funny thing?? And who has A LOT of deaf friends, anyway? I can see you having a maximum of three deaf friends-- and that's pushing it. Any more than three deaf friends and you're either up to something or the world's worst conversationalist. You're already on thin ice for capitalizing a state of being. What do your deaf friends think of you for having so many deaf friends? If I asked them if you were really their friend would they be like:
If I asked if they considered your social and communication skills a greater disability than their lack of hearing, would they be all:
Can we chalk up the latter half of your sentence as "a good try" because I can't make much of it. I assume you mean that you witness many tough struggles for your inordinate number of deaf friends, which I completely believe is the case, but don't see what it has to do with anything. I didn't claim that being deaf was easy, I just said that you can probably be deaf and run 400 yards in a straight line with equal opportunity.
"So when you learn about Deaf Culture, Post another blog and pull your head out of your ass! Have a wonderful day =)" For starters, sometimes I don't eat breakfast because it seems like a hassle to go downstairs and wait for a piece of bread to toast*, so I don't exactly see myself studying up on deaf culture. Even if I did, I don't see myself changing my opinion that it's possible to overcome great odds to achieve success, or is part of deaf culture "Giving up when things get tough and creating more achievable scenarios in which success is the only option?" I'd like to hear what your plethora of deaf buddies think of that.
"Have a wonderful day =)" Ooph, emoticon burn...
Abbott and Deaf Costello!
Abbott: You're aurally challenged!
Deaf Costello: Orally challenged?
Abbott: Aural.
Deaf Costello: Oral.
Abbott: That too.
Deaf Costello: What?
Abbott: Exactly.
Putting the ASL back in Asshole,
Witz
*It's mostly because of those stupid little "Neck brace" clips that come with loaves of bread. They specificaly use technology that asks, "Do you like your bread kiiind of fresh?" I spin the bread all tight and then put the clip on and it immediately comes undone. Useless.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: The Opposite of Road Rage, Supermarket A-Holes, and Hippie Hill
I've upgraded my Netflix from 2 DVD's to 3. I don't know if that means I'm coming to terms with my situation and making good decisions or if it's just one more step towards completely giving up, but I don't care, because I've got Religulous, Milk, and Jim Gaffigan's stand up arriving to distract me any minute now. While the weekdays are for solitary confinement, the weekends are for people-- and boy did I see some gems of the human race this weekend.
Thursday night, I was driving home at 2am on near empty streets (because that's how I roll now) when I passed a slow, beat up sedan which was going 25-30mph in the left hand lane. I was going 35-40mph and I hit four or five green lights in a row and eventually came to a light just as it turned red. After about 2 minutes of waiting, the sedan pulled up next to me, which meant that they got to see my one man show that I call, "Singing Full Volume To The Gaslight Anthem While Drumming On the Stearing Wheel Because Nobody's Supposed to See Me Driving At Two In the Goddamn Morning!" It took me a few seconds to realize that one of the kids in the car was standing up through the sunroof and trying to talk to me.
Kid: Hey!
Witz: What's up?
Kid: We caught up to you!
Witz: What?
Kid: We caught up to you!
Witz: Ok?
Kid: Don't drive so fast-- you're wasting gas!
Witz: Actually, I was only going 35 miles per hour, while the optimal cruising speed for gas efficiency in most vehicles, including my own, is 55 miles per hour, which is why many highway speed limits that were updated in the '70's during the last gas crisis are 55 miles per hour. Ironically, if I had been driving at 55 miles per hour, not only would I have been more efficient, but I would have made the light that caused me to stop and allowed you to catch up and we wouldn't even be having this conversation.
....
Ok, that's not what I said. What I actually said was:
Witz: I was only going 35 miles per hour, but I appreciate it, man.
Kid: I mean it!
Witz: Good lookin' out.
The light then proceeded to turn green, which presented an awkward moment as I had to decide whether or not to gun the engine and tear away from the sedan. I decided to drive exactly how I had been before, but suddenly realized that I quickly needed to be in the left hand lane in front of the other car for an upcoming turn. Gunning it, I pressed on the accelerator and pulled in front of the other car just in time for a tight curve, which meant I swung too quickly around the curve with my tires screeching as if I had been driving 90mph. Realizing I had just given a proverbial "Fuck You" to the sedan, I slammed on the pedal and accelerated quickly through the upcoming yellow light to avoid another awkward "The More You Know" moment with a couple of 16 year olds. Subaru Outback, biotch.
Saturday included fun at the supermarket. I'm waiting in line to buy a sandwich and this is what I hear (almost verbatim) from the guy dressed like Tony Little in front of me, who is speaking AT the asian girl making his sandwich:
Guy: Just the meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomato. That's it. Ha! You can't believe it, can you?
Girl: ...
Guy: You can't believe that's all I want on my sandwich-- that's because we Americans always want everything on there, don't we? You people don't understand us, do you?
Girl: ...
Guy: Mayonaisse, mustard, fat, fat, fat-- that's why America's so obese. We want everything.
Girl: ...
Guy: Super-size it, right?? Can you super-size that? Aha-ha-ha. Can you super-size that?
Girl: ...
Guy: You don't need everything on there. Meat, cheese, some veggies-- that's healthy. Americans, we don't get that. (the girl hands him his sandwich which he accepts without a thank you and leaves. I step up to the counter)
Girl: What an asshole (definitely born and raised in California).
My weekend concluded with a day at Golden Gate Park on Sunday. We specifically went to a part of the park called "Hippie Hill" because when we go to a park, we like to feel like we're in our own backyard...that happens to be full of completely insane people and includes the constant threat of stepping on a hypodermic needle. I've been a few times, and the experience never fails to amaze me.
Let me set the scene for you. A hill crowded with people smoking weed, shaking from meth or heroin, and dancing. On the field below, people throwing frisbees, dancing, twitching, dealing-- or playing with baseballs, footballs, soccer balls, or in our case, the nerf whistler football, which is still just as unnecessary as it ever was. One patch of grass is occupied by a midget sized tee-pee which looks like the last bit of land that we relegated to the Native Americans and then said, "Buildings cannot exceed three feet in height." Jugglers, hula-hoopers, stick twirlers, and the everpresent drum circle; a veritable circus of extraneous mediocrity. I watched two stick twirling men and wondered how many hours of practice they put in at home before deciding to take their act to the park to be seen "casually enjoying themselves." How did they even meet?
Twirler 1: Nice to meet you, Damian, how do you know Katharine?
Twirler 2: Well, Eben, I know Katharine from college. We were on the ultimate frisbee team together...
Twirler 1: Oh, so you like throwing a frisbee?
Twirler 2: I do! I also enjoy fishing, knitting, camping, stick twirling--
Twirler 1: --Whoah whoah whoah! I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there, Damian, did you say stick twirling?
Twirler 2: Of course I did.
Twirler 1: I myself am a stick twirler.
Twirler 2: What a coincidence! Perhaps we should hangout for a series of stick twirling and non-stick twirling activities, ultimately spending Sunday afternoons at Golden Gate Park showcasing our skills non-chalantly.
Twirler 3: What about me!?
Twirler 1: What do you do?
Twirler 3: I slide oversized spindles between two sticks with string attached!
Twirlers: We're gonna be such good friends.
What gets me isn't the things people do, but what must be going through their head in order to do them:
"I'm gonna go down to the park by the drum circle and play 'Summertime' on my saxophone! It's not important that I don't really know how."
"Should I look for a job today orrrrrr spend eight hours playing a drum?"
"Crack crack crack crack crack crack crack crack...."
"I'm the guy who brought a trumpet to the drum circle. They're gonna LOVE ME!"
"Devil sticks ARE NOT dead and I will prove that to the world."
"Which came first, the hula hoop or the ecstasy?"
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You're just upset because all of the shirtless heroin addicts make you look overweight." Fair enough. But ultimately, I just want to pick out different people doing different things to fight each other using their "talents." Stick guy, fight yoga guy! Rhythmic Gymnastics girl, fight hula hoop girl! Meth guy, fight heroin gu-- oh, you already have that covered. Good.
So that's how my weekend went, which made me wonder how important human contact really is. Let the agorophobia begin.
Good Thing I Can Judge Other People Since I'm Being So Productive...,
Witz
Thursday night, I was driving home at 2am on near empty streets (because that's how I roll now) when I passed a slow, beat up sedan which was going 25-30mph in the left hand lane. I was going 35-40mph and I hit four or five green lights in a row and eventually came to a light just as it turned red. After about 2 minutes of waiting, the sedan pulled up next to me, which meant that they got to see my one man show that I call, "Singing Full Volume To The Gaslight Anthem While Drumming On the Stearing Wheel Because Nobody's Supposed to See Me Driving At Two In the Goddamn Morning!" It took me a few seconds to realize that one of the kids in the car was standing up through the sunroof and trying to talk to me.
Kid: Hey!
Witz: What's up?
Kid: We caught up to you!
Witz: What?
Kid: We caught up to you!
Witz: Ok?
Kid: Don't drive so fast-- you're wasting gas!
Witz: Actually, I was only going 35 miles per hour, while the optimal cruising speed for gas efficiency in most vehicles, including my own, is 55 miles per hour, which is why many highway speed limits that were updated in the '70's during the last gas crisis are 55 miles per hour. Ironically, if I had been driving at 55 miles per hour, not only would I have been more efficient, but I would have made the light that caused me to stop and allowed you to catch up and we wouldn't even be having this conversation.
....
Ok, that's not what I said. What I actually said was:
Witz: I was only going 35 miles per hour, but I appreciate it, man.
Kid: I mean it!
Witz: Good lookin' out.
The light then proceeded to turn green, which presented an awkward moment as I had to decide whether or not to gun the engine and tear away from the sedan. I decided to drive exactly how I had been before, but suddenly realized that I quickly needed to be in the left hand lane in front of the other car for an upcoming turn. Gunning it, I pressed on the accelerator and pulled in front of the other car just in time for a tight curve, which meant I swung too quickly around the curve with my tires screeching as if I had been driving 90mph. Realizing I had just given a proverbial "Fuck You" to the sedan, I slammed on the pedal and accelerated quickly through the upcoming yellow light to avoid another awkward "The More You Know" moment with a couple of 16 year olds. Subaru Outback, biotch.
Saturday included fun at the supermarket. I'm waiting in line to buy a sandwich and this is what I hear (almost verbatim) from the guy dressed like Tony Little in front of me, who is speaking AT the asian girl making his sandwich:
Guy: Just the meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomato. That's it. Ha! You can't believe it, can you?
Girl: ...
Guy: You can't believe that's all I want on my sandwich-- that's because we Americans always want everything on there, don't we? You people don't understand us, do you?
Girl: ...
Guy: Mayonaisse, mustard, fat, fat, fat-- that's why America's so obese. We want everything.
Girl: ...
Guy: Super-size it, right?? Can you super-size that? Aha-ha-ha. Can you super-size that?
Girl: ...
Guy: You don't need everything on there. Meat, cheese, some veggies-- that's healthy. Americans, we don't get that. (the girl hands him his sandwich which he accepts without a thank you and leaves. I step up to the counter)
Girl: What an asshole (definitely born and raised in California).
My weekend concluded with a day at Golden Gate Park on Sunday. We specifically went to a part of the park called "Hippie Hill" because when we go to a park, we like to feel like we're in our own backyard...that happens to be full of completely insane people and includes the constant threat of stepping on a hypodermic needle. I've been a few times, and the experience never fails to amaze me.
Let me set the scene for you. A hill crowded with people smoking weed, shaking from meth or heroin, and dancing. On the field below, people throwing frisbees, dancing, twitching, dealing-- or playing with baseballs, footballs, soccer balls, or in our case, the nerf whistler football, which is still just as unnecessary as it ever was. One patch of grass is occupied by a midget sized tee-pee which looks like the last bit of land that we relegated to the Native Americans and then said, "Buildings cannot exceed three feet in height." Jugglers, hula-hoopers, stick twirlers, and the everpresent drum circle; a veritable circus of extraneous mediocrity. I watched two stick twirling men and wondered how many hours of practice they put in at home before deciding to take their act to the park to be seen "casually enjoying themselves." How did they even meet?
Twirler 1: Nice to meet you, Damian, how do you know Katharine?
Twirler 2: Well, Eben, I know Katharine from college. We were on the ultimate frisbee team together...
Twirler 1: Oh, so you like throwing a frisbee?
Twirler 2: I do! I also enjoy fishing, knitting, camping, stick twirling--
Twirler 1: --Whoah whoah whoah! I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there, Damian, did you say stick twirling?
Twirler 2: Of course I did.
Twirler 1: I myself am a stick twirler.
Twirler 2: What a coincidence! Perhaps we should hangout for a series of stick twirling and non-stick twirling activities, ultimately spending Sunday afternoons at Golden Gate Park showcasing our skills non-chalantly.
Twirler 3: What about me!?
Twirler 1: What do you do?
Twirler 3: I slide oversized spindles between two sticks with string attached!
Twirlers: We're gonna be such good friends.
What gets me isn't the things people do, but what must be going through their head in order to do them:
"I'm gonna go down to the park by the drum circle and play 'Summertime' on my saxophone! It's not important that I don't really know how."
"Should I look for a job today orrrrrr spend eight hours playing a drum?"
"Crack crack crack crack crack crack crack crack...."
"I'm the guy who brought a trumpet to the drum circle. They're gonna LOVE ME!"
"Devil sticks ARE NOT dead and I will prove that to the world."
"Which came first, the hula hoop or the ecstasy?"
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You're just upset because all of the shirtless heroin addicts make you look overweight." Fair enough. But ultimately, I just want to pick out different people doing different things to fight each other using their "talents." Stick guy, fight yoga guy! Rhythmic Gymnastics girl, fight hula hoop girl! Meth guy, fight heroin gu-- oh, you already have that covered. Good.
So that's how my weekend went, which made me wonder how important human contact really is. Let the agorophobia begin.
Good Thing I Can Judge Other People Since I'm Being So Productive...,
Witz
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: The Vicious Hair Cycle
Yeah yeah, I know you have to deal with things like jobs, and kids, and bills, but listen to what I'm dealing with right now: my hair when I don't shower. Let me tell you that unemployment is no field day (although I do sometimes carry eggs on spoons)-- it's not all lying around the house with no concerns. Sometimes the lying around with no concerns only raises more concerns. Case and point: The Vicious Hair Cycle.
The Vicious Hair Cycle isn't specific to unemployment, as it can be a problem during long weekends, school vacations, and ill-advised Lent sacrifices-- but it is certainly more prevalent during an extended absence from office exposure. You see, without commitments or places to be, showers aren't as necessary as they once were. I can run to Walgreens unshowered to buy some Post-Easter candy on sale-- it might even help because I won't be asked by the homeless person out front for some money.* Unfortunately, when my hair gets too long, my unshowered head becomes "socially unacceptable" and "terrifying to babies." When I see a cute girl at the gym, I have to switch from "flirtatious" to "damage control," meaning "if this girl stops looking at me and doesn't think I'm a serial killer, then I've done alright." Do you know the facial expressions you have to manipulate to convey that you are NOT a serial killer? I'll tell you that they are very similar to the facial expressions of someone who IS DEFINITELY A SERIAL KILLER. So the hair is a problem.
The dilemma, therefore, is that my unshowered hair must be presentable in order for it to go unshowered. I need to think far enough ahead to get a haircut that I can utilize when I'm spontaneously lazy, which ruins the whole thing really. That's the type of shit I'm dealing with right now. So, with all due respect to your mortgage payments, credit card debt, student loans, and unexpected third children-- my life's tough too.
ON THE PLUS SIDE, when you have the amount of free time to not shower all day, you also tend to stay up late enough to watch infomercials like the Mr T Flavor Wave Oven Turbo. The Mr T Flavor Wave Oven (Turbo) has one thing going for it-- Mr T. Mr T is the celebrity spokesman for the oven, and engages in amazingly bad acting opposite the non-celebrity spokewoman, Darla Haun. I'm just going to post this video and have you experience it for yourself, but let me say that the best part about the whole thing is the way Darla constantly condescends to Mr. T by ending everything she directs at him with, "Mr. T." I dare you to say, "Now look at these vegetables, Mr. T," without sounding like a complete patronizing asshole.
I promise this isn't a sketch.
Darla: I have a surprise for you!
Mr. T: It's not my birfday!
Darla: It had to be your birthday sometime this year!
Mr. T: You're not mistaken about that, Darla! (blows/spits out candles)
"There's nothing worse than reheatin' pizza in the microwave!" I guarantee there is something worse than reheatin' pizza in the microwave, Mr. T. I imagine whatever horrifyingly sad life you go home to at night might put soggy pizza in perspective for you. God help whoever's back home waiting in bed for Mr. T when his day of selling the Flavor Wave and shaming himself is over.
My favorite part of the infomerical is when they have a "cooking things montage" and show time lapse photography of meats becoming smaller and cooked, which looks just as much like a "broiling fetuses montage" as you'd expect**. Also, is there a single one of you who just watched that video and ISN'T convinced that The Mr. T Flavor Wave causes cancer? That's what I thought.***
I Pity the Fool Who Becomes A Caricature of Himself and Sells A Product That Sounds Like It's the Nickname of a Douchey Guy You Knew In College,
Witz
*Speaking of which, here's something I learned in Seattle a few weekends ago. If you're wandering down the street, with the wind whipping your hair into a frenzy, and you have two pieces of wheeled luggage in tow...you won't be asked for money by the homeless. They're pretty sure you're one of them.
**Also starring Mr. T.
***Did I just sneak "broiling fetuses" AND "cancer" into one paragraph, Mr. T? I'm really getting good at this...
The Vicious Hair Cycle isn't specific to unemployment, as it can be a problem during long weekends, school vacations, and ill-advised Lent sacrifices-- but it is certainly more prevalent during an extended absence from office exposure. You see, without commitments or places to be, showers aren't as necessary as they once were. I can run to Walgreens unshowered to buy some Post-Easter candy on sale-- it might even help because I won't be asked by the homeless person out front for some money.* Unfortunately, when my hair gets too long, my unshowered head becomes "socially unacceptable" and "terrifying to babies." When I see a cute girl at the gym, I have to switch from "flirtatious" to "damage control," meaning "if this girl stops looking at me and doesn't think I'm a serial killer, then I've done alright." Do you know the facial expressions you have to manipulate to convey that you are NOT a serial killer? I'll tell you that they are very similar to the facial expressions of someone who IS DEFINITELY A SERIAL KILLER. So the hair is a problem.
The dilemma, therefore, is that my unshowered hair must be presentable in order for it to go unshowered. I need to think far enough ahead to get a haircut that I can utilize when I'm spontaneously lazy, which ruins the whole thing really. That's the type of shit I'm dealing with right now. So, with all due respect to your mortgage payments, credit card debt, student loans, and unexpected third children-- my life's tough too.
ON THE PLUS SIDE, when you have the amount of free time to not shower all day, you also tend to stay up late enough to watch infomercials like the Mr T Flavor Wave Oven Turbo. The Mr T Flavor Wave Oven (Turbo) has one thing going for it-- Mr T. Mr T is the celebrity spokesman for the oven, and engages in amazingly bad acting opposite the non-celebrity spokewoman, Darla Haun. I'm just going to post this video and have you experience it for yourself, but let me say that the best part about the whole thing is the way Darla constantly condescends to Mr. T by ending everything she directs at him with, "Mr. T." I dare you to say, "Now look at these vegetables, Mr. T," without sounding like a complete patronizing asshole.
I promise this isn't a sketch.
Darla: I have a surprise for you!
Mr. T: It's not my birfday!
Darla: It had to be your birthday sometime this year!
Mr. T: You're not mistaken about that, Darla! (blows/spits out candles)
"There's nothing worse than reheatin' pizza in the microwave!" I guarantee there is something worse than reheatin' pizza in the microwave, Mr. T. I imagine whatever horrifyingly sad life you go home to at night might put soggy pizza in perspective for you. God help whoever's back home waiting in bed for Mr. T when his day of selling the Flavor Wave and shaming himself is over.
My favorite part of the infomerical is when they have a "cooking things montage" and show time lapse photography of meats becoming smaller and cooked, which looks just as much like a "broiling fetuses montage" as you'd expect**. Also, is there a single one of you who just watched that video and ISN'T convinced that The Mr. T Flavor Wave causes cancer? That's what I thought.***
I Pity the Fool Who Becomes A Caricature of Himself and Sells A Product That Sounds Like It's the Nickname of a Douchey Guy You Knew In College,
Witz
*Speaking of which, here's something I learned in Seattle a few weekends ago. If you're wandering down the street, with the wind whipping your hair into a frenzy, and you have two pieces of wheeled luggage in tow...you won't be asked for money by the homeless. They're pretty sure you're one of them.
**Also starring Mr. T.
***Did I just sneak "broiling fetuses" AND "cancer" into one paragraph, Mr. T? I'm really getting good at this...
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Witz Pickz: Home Office Edition!
I've been dealing with a lot of changes the past couple of weeks; job, life, hair where there wasn't hair before; and I apologize for the lack of posting. The long and short of it is that I was laid off and am therefore in the midst of what amounts to an awesome extended vacation with an all inclusive stress package. It's like, "You're going to Spring Break!!!...BUT you're pregnant." Either way, I'm drinking.
Week one of unemployment went like this: Wake up early, healthy breakfast, gym, healthy lunch, something creative, dinner, maul anyone I know for social contact after a long day without any. Repeat. Not bad overall.
Here's week two: "I COULD have wheat toast for breakfast orrrr....PIZZA AND COOKIES!" Yep. I've reached the "pizza and cookies breakfast" phase of unemployment. It's the phase where I realize I can do whatever I want and the only repercussion is my complete inability to fall asleep at night as I am haunted by the vast purposelessness of my days and, by extension, life-- which isn't the worst trade off ever (the worst trade off ever was when the Native Americans traded All of America for Diseased Blankets. This is followed closely by any time someone traded first time sex for herpes and/or a baby.) So you see where I'm at.
You'll, therefore, understand if some of my posts in the next few weeks are less about grand adventure and more about things that are currently big deals in my life...like saaay...
My New Goddamn Overachieving Toothbrush:
Yeah, so I bought a new toothbrush because mine started to taste a lot like the floor. This is because, in fact, I had dropped it on the floor a few times...you try and wash it, but it's never quite the same. So I went to the store and perused the toothbrush section as if I had a friggen clue what I was looking for. It's impossible to shop for a new toothbrush as if you know what you're looking for-- because you're just looking for a toothbrush. You didn't do any pre-store research. The only thing I've learned about toothbrushes over the years is that the softness labels are like Starbucks sizes-- soft means hard, medium means severe pain, and hard means Saw VI. Which left me and some other guy looking at the toothbrush display together, both knowing we didn't know what we needed, but acting like we were buying a new car. In the end, we both picked the same brush-- you know which one? The one that was on sale for $2.50.
As I checked out, I noticed the brush was called "the 360" or something like that, and said something about a tongue and cheek cleaner, but I attributed that to desperate salesmanship and not insane technology. Later that night, I took it out for a test drive, and boy did I learn something. My new goddamn overachieving toothbrush has a scrubbing patch on the opposite side of the brush. So every time I brush my teeth, the opposite side is sandpaper scraping something else. Not only don't you have a choice in the matter, but the scrubber side was apparently invented to file down wolves teeth, not human mouth tissue. You ever exfoliate the inside of your cheeks? Less than fun. And yes, while you're able to use the other side PURPOSEFULLY to scrape your tongue, it's a permamnent fixture for all other brushing moments. Like all things, however, I've started to become used to it-- used to the pain, used to the struggle-- and I've almost begun to enjoy it. After all, in this world of pizza and cookie breakfasts, sometimes it's good to feel something real-- even if it's the mild pain of a toothbrush on the inside of your cheek.
I'm Not Unemployed, I'm A Writer...Oh, Wait...Yeah, I'm Unemployed...,
Witz
Week one of unemployment went like this: Wake up early, healthy breakfast, gym, healthy lunch, something creative, dinner, maul anyone I know for social contact after a long day without any. Repeat. Not bad overall.
Here's week two: "I COULD have wheat toast for breakfast orrrr....PIZZA AND COOKIES!" Yep. I've reached the "pizza and cookies breakfast" phase of unemployment. It's the phase where I realize I can do whatever I want and the only repercussion is my complete inability to fall asleep at night as I am haunted by the vast purposelessness of my days and, by extension, life-- which isn't the worst trade off ever (the worst trade off ever was when the Native Americans traded All of America for Diseased Blankets. This is followed closely by any time someone traded first time sex for herpes and/or a baby.) So you see where I'm at.
You'll, therefore, understand if some of my posts in the next few weeks are less about grand adventure and more about things that are currently big deals in my life...like saaay...
My New Goddamn Overachieving Toothbrush:
Yeah, so I bought a new toothbrush because mine started to taste a lot like the floor. This is because, in fact, I had dropped it on the floor a few times...you try and wash it, but it's never quite the same. So I went to the store and perused the toothbrush section as if I had a friggen clue what I was looking for. It's impossible to shop for a new toothbrush as if you know what you're looking for-- because you're just looking for a toothbrush. You didn't do any pre-store research. The only thing I've learned about toothbrushes over the years is that the softness labels are like Starbucks sizes-- soft means hard, medium means severe pain, and hard means Saw VI. Which left me and some other guy looking at the toothbrush display together, both knowing we didn't know what we needed, but acting like we were buying a new car. In the end, we both picked the same brush-- you know which one? The one that was on sale for $2.50.
As I checked out, I noticed the brush was called "the 360" or something like that, and said something about a tongue and cheek cleaner, but I attributed that to desperate salesmanship and not insane technology. Later that night, I took it out for a test drive, and boy did I learn something. My new goddamn overachieving toothbrush has a scrubbing patch on the opposite side of the brush. So every time I brush my teeth, the opposite side is sandpaper scraping something else. Not only don't you have a choice in the matter, but the scrubber side was apparently invented to file down wolves teeth, not human mouth tissue. You ever exfoliate the inside of your cheeks? Less than fun. And yes, while you're able to use the other side PURPOSEFULLY to scrape your tongue, it's a permamnent fixture for all other brushing moments. Like all things, however, I've started to become used to it-- used to the pain, used to the struggle-- and I've almost begun to enjoy it. After all, in this world of pizza and cookie breakfasts, sometimes it's good to feel something real-- even if it's the mild pain of a toothbrush on the inside of your cheek.
I'm Not Unemployed, I'm A Writer...Oh, Wait...Yeah, I'm Unemployed...,
Witz
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Stretching In Public
I didn't expect to be stretch-molested on the train this morning, but then again, I rarely do. Today, I was riding into work on the train, minding my own business as the only person in a block of four seats, listening to music, and reading a book. All of a sudden, a tall, manic looking hipster slides into the seat next to me. Keep in mind that I'm sitting in the inside window seat of a four seat block. Unspoken train etiquette clearly (but silently) states that you don't sit DIRECTLY next to a person on the train if a diagonal seat is available. If you do, you shouldn't be surprised if you are pick-pocketed, knifed, or tickled (a fun creepy prank you should try is tickling someone while glaring at them with a look of complete hatred on your face). It's odd to sit next to someone and take their arm space and it's odd to sit directly across from them and take their leg space. This is a universal truth, like don't drink water in Mexico and if you call yourself Grizzly Man, you're going to die by Grizzlies.*
So I was more than a little surprised when this guy plunked down in the seat next to me. I was then MORE surprised when he started stretching-- for an extended period of time. Stretching is like peeing-- it's acceptable for a short period of time, but after a minute or two it becomes awkward and uncomfortable. Only two types of people have the social leeway to stretch in public-- white women clearly dressed for yoga, and elderly asian people dressed primarily in sweat-gear. White, shaggy hipsters are not on the list. The guy proceeded to stretch his legs, his sides, and his arms, which was a lot like he was playing a game called, "How close can my arm inadvertently come to your face without my noticing or you saying anything?" He then flipped himself forward and grabbed his knees, which was exactly as awkward as it sounds. Fortunately, his next move was to shake. Just like, in general. Just shake. Naturally, this drew some attention, and naturally I was partially subject to this attention, which meant I had to first ignore the looks, then give the "Fuckin' nuts, right?" look back, and then go back to ignoring them when I realized that THEY were giving looks of concern, not judgement. Go figure.
This is not the first time stretching has been out of context in my life. I'm cool talking with you in the gym, but not if your groin is, in any way, being manipulated. In fact, let's just assume I'm generally willing to talk to people as long as they aren't mid-stretch. Because when we're talking AND stretching, we're not having a conversation, we're playing a game called, "Continue Making Eye Contact At All Costs So It's Not Weird." When someone's legs are above their head, it's an elephant in the room-- and it's damn near impossible not to eventually look at that elephant's crotch. Fact of life.
DiscoSoup.Com -- Happy Birthday to The ATX! Even if you don't live in Austin, you should checkout his new website/company www.discosoup.com because it'll be coming to a city near you soon (well, hopefully the ACTUAL city you are in). Get live wait times for restaurants so you don't waste your lunch hour, get all psyched up for nothing, or not have any time to get your hot date drinking before your table is ready.
This Post Was A Stretch,
Witz
*Crocodile Hunter being an obvious exception to this rule. Who saw sting-ray comin?? NOBODY! (too soon?)
So I was more than a little surprised when this guy plunked down in the seat next to me. I was then MORE surprised when he started stretching-- for an extended period of time. Stretching is like peeing-- it's acceptable for a short period of time, but after a minute or two it becomes awkward and uncomfortable. Only two types of people have the social leeway to stretch in public-- white women clearly dressed for yoga, and elderly asian people dressed primarily in sweat-gear. White, shaggy hipsters are not on the list. The guy proceeded to stretch his legs, his sides, and his arms, which was a lot like he was playing a game called, "How close can my arm inadvertently come to your face without my noticing or you saying anything?" He then flipped himself forward and grabbed his knees, which was exactly as awkward as it sounds. Fortunately, his next move was to shake. Just like, in general. Just shake. Naturally, this drew some attention, and naturally I was partially subject to this attention, which meant I had to first ignore the looks, then give the "Fuckin' nuts, right?" look back, and then go back to ignoring them when I realized that THEY were giving looks of concern, not judgement. Go figure.
This is not the first time stretching has been out of context in my life. I'm cool talking with you in the gym, but not if your groin is, in any way, being manipulated. In fact, let's just assume I'm generally willing to talk to people as long as they aren't mid-stretch. Because when we're talking AND stretching, we're not having a conversation, we're playing a game called, "Continue Making Eye Contact At All Costs So It's Not Weird." When someone's legs are above their head, it's an elephant in the room-- and it's damn near impossible not to eventually look at that elephant's crotch. Fact of life.
DiscoSoup.Com -- Happy Birthday to The ATX! Even if you don't live in Austin, you should checkout his new website/company www.discosoup.com because it'll be coming to a city near you soon (well, hopefully the ACTUAL city you are in). Get live wait times for restaurants so you don't waste your lunch hour, get all psyched up for nothing, or not have any time to get your hot date drinking before your table is ready.
This Post Was A Stretch,
Witz
*Crocodile Hunter being an obvious exception to this rule. Who saw sting-ray comin?? NOBODY! (too soon?)
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: My Saturday -- A Tale of Dry Cleaner Timetables, Stephen Hawking Impersonations, and Sharks.
It's come to this-- My Saturday
After taking it easy Friday night, and watching "Sex Drive" with my friends, I was ready for a big Saturday. While the movie was far funnier than we expected and had some great one liners, visual gags, and cameos, my Saturday took an immediate turn for the worse.
I woke up, got out of bed feeling great, and promptly threw out my back. How did I do this? Oh, it was while I was completing the incredibly active task of LOOKING DOWN. Yep. Lookin' down. Try it now-- if you can look back up to keep reading, you bested me. Much like how I threw out my entire back in December while DRYING OFF MY HAIR, I managed to render the upper half of my back and neck useless by looking down at my goddamn keyboard. I considered the fact that I might be similar to Benjamin Button: I LOOK young, but I actually have the immune system and body integrity of a 90 year old man. Following this logic, I should be looking forward to when I'm 90 and have the immune system and bodily virility of a 26 year old-- which means having more retirement home STDs than vitamins I am currently taking. But as Titan AE pointed out, "Great. Then you'll be old, healthy, and alone-- because everyone you know will be dead." Maybe then I'll finally have some time to lay back and watch The Wire.
The upside of this injury, of course, was that I knew I'd be able to do a kickass robot impression the rest of the weekend as my head, neck, and shoulders were a team now and only capable of moving in unison. I thought maybe I'd go down to a park and do some street performing for quick cash, but I was all out of silver paint and even if I had some, I'm still not ready to be the guy who "Died from asphyxiation while pretending to be a robot in the park." The downside of the injury was that MY ENTIRE WEEKEND WAS RUINED.
While my fun might have slipped the proverbial spinal disc, Saturday was meant to be a day to get things done, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Looking Down ruin my ability to check off "Deposit Check" and "Go to Dry Cleaners" from my to do list. So, doing my best Christopher Reeves impression, I slid into my car and drove to the bank. It only took me a minute to realize that switching lanes was going to be a problem as I couldn't turn to see the other lanes or the mirrors very well, so I decided to let fate dictate my day some more and just drive like old people or most asian women (This isn't racist. While I don't think that all asian women are bad drivers, more often than not, when I encounter an oblivious driver, it turns out to be an asian woman. The more this happens, the less surprised I am) and switch lanes whenever I felt like without checking to see if a car was already there. I can only assume people were honking at me to alert me of my success as I switched between lanes and eventually parked at the bank.
The Bank is not an interesting part of this story other than the fact that I was an unshowered, unshaven, poofy haired, paralysis impersonating robot AND STILL wasn't the most homeless looking person in the bank (95% chance there was an actual homeless person). I got a double take from the teller who probably assumed my check was fake, but banks aren't exactly in a position to be turning away money, so I was set. The check was, in fact, the "found money" check that was excrutiatingly frustrating to acquire. No part was more painful or amusing, than the hold music for the CT Unclaimed Property Division. Instead of your typical upbeat or classical music, they have the most depressing music I have ever heard. It is essentially sad guitar or piano with a guy woefully telling you his problems in more of a list format than a narrative. "She's gone forever. I'm all alone. I can't afford rent. My dog died. I can't sleep. And also I'm feeling sick. I wrecked my car," and so on. It feels like an overwhelmingly last ditch effort to get whoever is on hold ot kill themselves so they don't ever claim their property and the state can hang onto it.
My next stop was the Dry Cleaner. I'd never been to the Dry Cleaner before to drop off my own clothes, but after depositing my check, I felt cocky and determined to make other people do things that I didn't want to do. I dropped off some shirts and some pants that I haven't worn in months because they were "dry clean only" ("These pants are dry-clean only, which means...they're dirty!" -Mitch Hedberg). The girl asked me when I wanted them ready, which I thought was odd, and so I told her, "Well, as soon as possible, I suppose..." to which she replied, "We typically take 3-4 days," to which I replied, "Ok then," to which she bafflingly added, "Unless you need them sooner, in which case we can put a rush on them for you," to which I had to ask, "How much is that?" to which she had to reply honestly, "The same price."
..........
..........
THEN I WANT THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY. Of course I do! Each and every time. I promise that I will always want my clothes as quickly as possible for the price that I am paying. I'm never gonna say, "You know what, fuck it, why don't you hang on to these for a while so you can potentially lose them and they can be useless to me."
CUT TO POTENTIALLY RELEVANT CONVERSATION LAST NIGHT:
Jeremy: How'd you throw out your back?
Witz: Looking down.
Jeremy: Ah. Are you really stressed?
Witz: Not really.
CUT BACK TO DRY CLEANER:
Girl: (knowing full well I have no idea) Would you like your shirts starched?
Witz: (feeling like I was 7 and a friend asked if I'd seen a movie I hadn't, but didn't want to sound stupid) A little.
Girl: A little?
Witz: Yeah, some places...use too much (basing this assumption on the logic that because my mom used to say to me, "You shouldn't eat too much starch," then you shouldn't over-starch your shirts.)
Girl: That's true, some people like them so they stand on their own.
Witz: (exhale). Whew.
These are the reasons why looking down causes me problems.
My last menial task of the day was to vaccuum out my car. My roommate had recently bought a mini-vac to use on her car, so I went to use it. It's badass because it's called THE SHARK! and much like a shark, it's POWERFUL and is mostly concerned with CLEANING THINGS. As it turns out, sharks aren't vaccuums for a reason. While I kneeled on the ground, extending my ruined back out across the seats, I watched as the "head" of the shark (hammer head shark I guess) failed again and again to pick up any crumbs, sand, or leaves that had accumulated in my car (I have no idea how these are the things that accumulate. I mean, sure, there was that brief stint in the Fall when I was picking up children from playgrounds and feeding them cookies to shut them up, but on advice of counsel, I've had my car cleaned since then).
At different points in life, we realize that we are stuck-- either physically or metaphorically. As I lay there across my seat, kneeling on the pavement, unable to raise my upper body, while gripping The Shark vaccuum in one hand and a bag of trash in the other, I realized I was both. Stuck with dealing with the stress (or DOESN'T Picks, if you will) of the world, and physically stuck in the "station wagon fluffer" position. After a few minutes of wondering how I ended up at that point in my life, I crawled my way out of the car and went back inside to enjoy the weekend.
Somewhere In the World A Bubble Is Missing Its Boy,
Witz
After taking it easy Friday night, and watching "Sex Drive" with my friends, I was ready for a big Saturday. While the movie was far funnier than we expected and had some great one liners, visual gags, and cameos, my Saturday took an immediate turn for the worse.
I woke up, got out of bed feeling great, and promptly threw out my back. How did I do this? Oh, it was while I was completing the incredibly active task of LOOKING DOWN. Yep. Lookin' down. Try it now-- if you can look back up to keep reading, you bested me. Much like how I threw out my entire back in December while DRYING OFF MY HAIR, I managed to render the upper half of my back and neck useless by looking down at my goddamn keyboard. I considered the fact that I might be similar to Benjamin Button: I LOOK young, but I actually have the immune system and body integrity of a 90 year old man. Following this logic, I should be looking forward to when I'm 90 and have the immune system and bodily virility of a 26 year old-- which means having more retirement home STDs than vitamins I am currently taking. But as Titan AE pointed out, "Great. Then you'll be old, healthy, and alone-- because everyone you know will be dead." Maybe then I'll finally have some time to lay back and watch The Wire.
The upside of this injury, of course, was that I knew I'd be able to do a kickass robot impression the rest of the weekend as my head, neck, and shoulders were a team now and only capable of moving in unison. I thought maybe I'd go down to a park and do some street performing for quick cash, but I was all out of silver paint and even if I had some, I'm still not ready to be the guy who "Died from asphyxiation while pretending to be a robot in the park." The downside of the injury was that MY ENTIRE WEEKEND WAS RUINED.
While my fun might have slipped the proverbial spinal disc, Saturday was meant to be a day to get things done, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Looking Down ruin my ability to check off "Deposit Check" and "Go to Dry Cleaners" from my to do list. So, doing my best Christopher Reeves impression, I slid into my car and drove to the bank. It only took me a minute to realize that switching lanes was going to be a problem as I couldn't turn to see the other lanes or the mirrors very well, so I decided to let fate dictate my day some more and just drive like old people or most asian women (This isn't racist. While I don't think that all asian women are bad drivers, more often than not, when I encounter an oblivious driver, it turns out to be an asian woman. The more this happens, the less surprised I am) and switch lanes whenever I felt like without checking to see if a car was already there. I can only assume people were honking at me to alert me of my success as I switched between lanes and eventually parked at the bank.
The Bank is not an interesting part of this story other than the fact that I was an unshowered, unshaven, poofy haired, paralysis impersonating robot AND STILL wasn't the most homeless looking person in the bank (95% chance there was an actual homeless person). I got a double take from the teller who probably assumed my check was fake, but banks aren't exactly in a position to be turning away money, so I was set. The check was, in fact, the "found money" check that was excrutiatingly frustrating to acquire. No part was more painful or amusing, than the hold music for the CT Unclaimed Property Division. Instead of your typical upbeat or classical music, they have the most depressing music I have ever heard. It is essentially sad guitar or piano with a guy woefully telling you his problems in more of a list format than a narrative. "She's gone forever. I'm all alone. I can't afford rent. My dog died. I can't sleep. And also I'm feeling sick. I wrecked my car," and so on. It feels like an overwhelmingly last ditch effort to get whoever is on hold ot kill themselves so they don't ever claim their property and the state can hang onto it.
My next stop was the Dry Cleaner. I'd never been to the Dry Cleaner before to drop off my own clothes, but after depositing my check, I felt cocky and determined to make other people do things that I didn't want to do. I dropped off some shirts and some pants that I haven't worn in months because they were "dry clean only" ("These pants are dry-clean only, which means...they're dirty!" -Mitch Hedberg). The girl asked me when I wanted them ready, which I thought was odd, and so I told her, "Well, as soon as possible, I suppose..." to which she replied, "We typically take 3-4 days," to which I replied, "Ok then," to which she bafflingly added, "Unless you need them sooner, in which case we can put a rush on them for you," to which I had to ask, "How much is that?" to which she had to reply honestly, "The same price."
..........
..........
THEN I WANT THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY. Of course I do! Each and every time. I promise that I will always want my clothes as quickly as possible for the price that I am paying. I'm never gonna say, "You know what, fuck it, why don't you hang on to these for a while so you can potentially lose them and they can be useless to me."
CUT TO POTENTIALLY RELEVANT CONVERSATION LAST NIGHT:
Jeremy: How'd you throw out your back?
Witz: Looking down.
Jeremy: Ah. Are you really stressed?
Witz: Not really.
CUT BACK TO DRY CLEANER:
Girl: (knowing full well I have no idea) Would you like your shirts starched?
Witz: (feeling like I was 7 and a friend asked if I'd seen a movie I hadn't, but didn't want to sound stupid) A little.
Girl: A little?
Witz: Yeah, some places...use too much (basing this assumption on the logic that because my mom used to say to me, "You shouldn't eat too much starch," then you shouldn't over-starch your shirts.)
Girl: That's true, some people like them so they stand on their own.
Witz: (exhale). Whew.
These are the reasons why looking down causes me problems.
My last menial task of the day was to vaccuum out my car. My roommate had recently bought a mini-vac to use on her car, so I went to use it. It's badass because it's called THE SHARK! and much like a shark, it's POWERFUL and is mostly concerned with CLEANING THINGS. As it turns out, sharks aren't vaccuums for a reason. While I kneeled on the ground, extending my ruined back out across the seats, I watched as the "head" of the shark (hammer head shark I guess) failed again and again to pick up any crumbs, sand, or leaves that had accumulated in my car (I have no idea how these are the things that accumulate. I mean, sure, there was that brief stint in the Fall when I was picking up children from playgrounds and feeding them cookies to shut them up, but on advice of counsel, I've had my car cleaned since then).
At different points in life, we realize that we are stuck-- either physically or metaphorically. As I lay there across my seat, kneeling on the pavement, unable to raise my upper body, while gripping The Shark vaccuum in one hand and a bag of trash in the other, I realized I was both. Stuck with dealing with the stress (or DOESN'T Picks, if you will) of the world, and physically stuck in the "station wagon fluffer" position. After a few minutes of wondering how I ended up at that point in my life, I crawled my way out of the car and went back inside to enjoy the weekend.
Somewhere In the World A Bubble Is Missing Its Boy,
Witz
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Witz Pickz: Supermarket Best Friends & Costco Sized Philanthropy
The Safeway grocery store by my house is known as the Safeway where single people go to be seen...theoretically seen buying toilet paper, frozen pizzas, and anti-itch cream, but seen all the same. I'm not sure if any couples have ever emerged from the Marina Safeway scene, but I do know that, in classic Witz fashion, I now have a super best friend.
The other night, I was standing by the deli, waiting to buy some turkey, when the guy in front of me ordered, "1/2 a pound of turkey..." and then said the six words that let him into my heart: "...and can you slice that thin?"
For some reason, the west coast serves up deli meats unlike anywhere I have been before. Instead of taking your order and slicing what you want, they have displays of different meats, pre-cut and haphazardly thrown in a heap. It's the "abusive husband" way of displaying meat. It's as if they're saying, "No matter how poorly we treat you, you're gonna keep coming back because we're all you've got." And they're right. So what I have started doing is asking for them to slice the turkey at a different thickness so I know my turkey is fresh (and I like thin sliced turkey as opposed to the GD thanksgiving portions slices they have pre-cut). This usually results in me getting a glare from the woman behind the counter, an awkward piece of test turkey (awesome), and generally fresher turkey than I would have gotten.
So when I heard those six words come out of my mystery friend's mouth, I knew I'd found somebody special. I got cocky, like, "This guy is gonna get so psyched when he hears me order..." and started getting anxious, hoping I wasn't going to freak out and say, "and thin can turkey slice?" After some hapless woman ordered roast beef straight from the display it was my turn.
"I'd actually like the turkey too, please."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah-- and could I actually have that thin-sliced too, please?" Boom. These are the moments we analyze and agonize over-- or is that just me? And then--
"Hey, alright, man-- thin sliced!"
"Yep!"
"They slice it so thick!"
"And the heap of meat is gross!"
"Right??"
"I'm just glad I'm not the only one."
And there you have it. Nobody wants to be alone in this world. Everyone is just looking for someone else to order thin-sliced meat with-- or something like that. The rest of this conversation is not entirely accurate:
"Can we be Super Best Supermarket Friends?"
"But not in a gay way?"
"I don't even know how that'd be possible."
"Well, restroom hand jobs."
"Oh. Right. Then no."
"Cool, then I'm for it."
"I'm for it, too, Guy Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care To Know."
And from that moment, we became Super Best Supermarket Friends. What does this mean? It means that if we ever run into each other at the deli again, we'll remember and probably be like, "What's up, man?" or "Hell yeah, thin sliced turkey." And if we run into each other in OTHER parts of the store, we'll probably be like "..." and not talk, because "where do I know that dude, from?" And that is the most anyone could EVER expect out of a supermarket friendship-- which is why we are Super Best Supermarket Friends.
Costco-Sized Philanthropy:
I had the best idea ever yesterday. I inexplicably have some random found money coming to me (no, not from the King of Uzbekistan), which is not only proof that the world is illogical, but also that my entire, "Eh, things will work out for me somehow" world view is absolutely correct-- because there is no reason in hell why I should be the recipient of found money. For this reason, I decided that I need to use at least a small portion of the money to help someone. I also recently learned that I still have an active Costco membership, which led me to a brilliant conclusion.
I am going to take at least 100 dollars of my found money and buy bulk Costco food to give to homeless people. Not LOTS of homeless people, but several homeless people. I want each individual homeless person to receive an inordinate amount of ONE THING. "Hey, Homeless Guy, are you hungry? Because here are FORTY FIVE CROISSANTS!" This idea is brilliant because it involves so many aspects:
1) Philanthropy - Feeding the Homeless. Simple.
2) Comedy - Feeding the Homeless obscene amounts of food. The joke potential is huge, and the best part is, the joke isn't on the homeless person, it's simply in the act itself-- like manatees sex. "Hey homeless guy, would you like a dollar...AND FORTY-THOUSAND GOLDFISH CRACKERS!?"
3) Exercise - It would be naive to think we aren't going to have to run away from a lot of people-- homeless and otherwise.
4) Element of Danger - Partially covered by Exercise, this is not necessarily a GOOD philanthropical idea. While we're helping people, we also might be assaulted, knifed, shot, chased, and potentially impregnated. Zen question of the day: If you get pregnant from a homeless person, can you theoretically leave that child anywhere and say "It's living with its father?"
5) Documentary Potential - Absolutely ripe for youtube. A comedic adventure into the true soul of America's streets. Learn who these people are as we give them hilariously oversized, but nourishing goods.
6) Tax Write-Off - Maybe?
7) Feel Good About Myself - Most importantly, I imagine I'm going to feel great about myself after this-- and you should feel great about me too. After all, what's the point of doing something like this, if you aren't going to BLOG ABOUT IT AND TELL EVERYONE??
Here are some more of the things I'm excited to say:
"Hello, do you like ham and turkey, because HERE'S AN EIGHT FOOT PARTY SUB! And here's a twelve gallon tub of mustard because we didn't know if you wanted any on there or not!"
"You should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because WE BOUGHT YOU FORTY GALLONS OF PB&J AND TWELVE LOAVES OF WHOLE WHEAT BREAD!"
"Hey, symbiotic homeless couple-- why don't you have a romantic dinner? Here are some candles, garlic bread, and NINETY POUNDS OF FETTUCCINI ALFREDO!!!"
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.
Medium-Sliced,
Witz
The other night, I was standing by the deli, waiting to buy some turkey, when the guy in front of me ordered, "1/2 a pound of turkey..." and then said the six words that let him into my heart: "...and can you slice that thin?"
For some reason, the west coast serves up deli meats unlike anywhere I have been before. Instead of taking your order and slicing what you want, they have displays of different meats, pre-cut and haphazardly thrown in a heap. It's the "abusive husband" way of displaying meat. It's as if they're saying, "No matter how poorly we treat you, you're gonna keep coming back because we're all you've got." And they're right. So what I have started doing is asking for them to slice the turkey at a different thickness so I know my turkey is fresh (and I like thin sliced turkey as opposed to the GD thanksgiving portions slices they have pre-cut). This usually results in me getting a glare from the woman behind the counter, an awkward piece of test turkey (awesome), and generally fresher turkey than I would have gotten.
So when I heard those six words come out of my mystery friend's mouth, I knew I'd found somebody special. I got cocky, like, "This guy is gonna get so psyched when he hears me order..." and started getting anxious, hoping I wasn't going to freak out and say, "and thin can turkey slice?" After some hapless woman ordered roast beef straight from the display it was my turn.
"I'd actually like the turkey too, please."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah-- and could I actually have that thin-sliced too, please?" Boom. These are the moments we analyze and agonize over-- or is that just me? And then--
"Hey, alright, man-- thin sliced!"
"Yep!"
"They slice it so thick!"
"And the heap of meat is gross!"
"Right??"
"I'm just glad I'm not the only one."
And there you have it. Nobody wants to be alone in this world. Everyone is just looking for someone else to order thin-sliced meat with-- or something like that. The rest of this conversation is not entirely accurate:
"Can we be Super Best Supermarket Friends?"
"But not in a gay way?"
"I don't even know how that'd be possible."
"Well, restroom hand jobs."
"Oh. Right. Then no."
"Cool, then I'm for it."
"I'm for it, too, Guy Whose Name I Don't Know and Don't Care To Know."
And from that moment, we became Super Best Supermarket Friends. What does this mean? It means that if we ever run into each other at the deli again, we'll remember and probably be like, "What's up, man?" or "Hell yeah, thin sliced turkey." And if we run into each other in OTHER parts of the store, we'll probably be like "..." and not talk, because "where do I know that dude, from?" And that is the most anyone could EVER expect out of a supermarket friendship-- which is why we are Super Best Supermarket Friends.
Costco-Sized Philanthropy:
I had the best idea ever yesterday. I inexplicably have some random found money coming to me (no, not from the King of Uzbekistan), which is not only proof that the world is illogical, but also that my entire, "Eh, things will work out for me somehow" world view is absolutely correct-- because there is no reason in hell why I should be the recipient of found money. For this reason, I decided that I need to use at least a small portion of the money to help someone. I also recently learned that I still have an active Costco membership, which led me to a brilliant conclusion.
I am going to take at least 100 dollars of my found money and buy bulk Costco food to give to homeless people. Not LOTS of homeless people, but several homeless people. I want each individual homeless person to receive an inordinate amount of ONE THING. "Hey, Homeless Guy, are you hungry? Because here are FORTY FIVE CROISSANTS!" This idea is brilliant because it involves so many aspects:
1) Philanthropy - Feeding the Homeless. Simple.
2) Comedy - Feeding the Homeless obscene amounts of food. The joke potential is huge, and the best part is, the joke isn't on the homeless person, it's simply in the act itself-- like manatees sex. "Hey homeless guy, would you like a dollar...AND FORTY-THOUSAND GOLDFISH CRACKERS!?"
3) Exercise - It would be naive to think we aren't going to have to run away from a lot of people-- homeless and otherwise.
4) Element of Danger - Partially covered by Exercise, this is not necessarily a GOOD philanthropical idea. While we're helping people, we also might be assaulted, knifed, shot, chased, and potentially impregnated. Zen question of the day: If you get pregnant from a homeless person, can you theoretically leave that child anywhere and say "It's living with its father?"
5) Documentary Potential - Absolutely ripe for youtube. A comedic adventure into the true soul of America's streets. Learn who these people are as we give them hilariously oversized, but nourishing goods.
6) Tax Write-Off - Maybe?
7) Feel Good About Myself - Most importantly, I imagine I'm going to feel great about myself after this-- and you should feel great about me too. After all, what's the point of doing something like this, if you aren't going to BLOG ABOUT IT AND TELL EVERYONE??
Here are some more of the things I'm excited to say:
"Hello, do you like ham and turkey, because HERE'S AN EIGHT FOOT PARTY SUB! And here's a twelve gallon tub of mustard because we didn't know if you wanted any on there or not!"
"You should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because WE BOUGHT YOU FORTY GALLONS OF PB&J AND TWELVE LOAVES OF WHOLE WHEAT BREAD!"
"Hey, symbiotic homeless couple-- why don't you have a romantic dinner? Here are some candles, garlic bread, and NINETY POUNDS OF FETTUCCINI ALFREDO!!!"
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.
Medium-Sliced,
Witz
Friday, March 06, 2009
Witz Pickz: 300th Post
This is my 300th post here on Witz Pickz. To be fair, it probably should have arrived sooner, but after the movie "300" came out, I had to delay the release of this pick to avoid any confusion:
"Want to see 300?"
"Wait, the movie or the witz pickz post??"
See. Chaos. So after some months, the 300th post has finally arrived, and it seems only appropriate after these last 299 posts that I am sick. After all, what is Witz Pickz if not a venue for me to passive-aggressively express my woes and cry for help? My immune system has been a top theme here, and so, in a way, I'm glad it has let me down one more time for this post.
There's some kind of mutant cold going around that people all over the country are coming down with. Here's how my mom was able to enlighten me:
MOM: Oh! You have that flu-cold!
ME: Flu-cold?
MOM: Yep-- it's like part flu part cold (part man-bear-pig).
ME: Hm-- my limited medical knowledge tells me that's impossible.
MOM: Nono, it's true-- it's like a flu that shows up as a cold.
ME: A flu that's actually a cold?
MOM: Or a cold that has flu symptoms.
ME: But those are two separate things. Wait, my cold has the flu?
MOM: I'm just telling you what I know! It's gonna get worse.
ME: Wow, thanks Mom.
Which is why I found myself in the waiting room of the doctor's office at 10am this morning, just in case I was about to enter the weekend without meds that I could have used.
I love my doctor's office because it is predominantly asian-- and when I say predominantly, I mean that I am the only white person in a sea of asians. If the waiting room were a can of mixed nuts it'd go, "peanut, peanut, peanut, cashew, almond, cashew, peanut, cashew, FILBERT???" I'm the Filbert. Nobody knows why I'm there or where I came from, and while they shouldn't be frightened of me, my shear size makes them wary. Having said that, it's kind of nice.
The waiting room is a little less depressing and a little more interesting. Why does that guy have a "Quarantine Matters" hat on? Oh well, he's prooobably not massively contagious. Just this morning, a woman next to me was talking on her cell phone loudly. She had cupped her hand around the phone and her mouth to theoretically mask the noise, but it ended up just making her sound like a megaphone-- and because she was speaking another language, she also ended up sounding EXACTLY like the phone voice in Charlie Brown. I like that I can't understand most of the conversations going on, and therefore, don't know what diseases are just around the corner, waiting for me to walk into their wake-- although I have learned that some cognates exist-- "japanese japanese japanese Bronchitis japanese japanese." I like how when the R.N. comes out to call me in, she has absolutely no idea how to pronounce my name. I like that she has to check my sheet to make sure I'm saying the same name she has written down. I like how she takes my blood pressure and weight, but then asks, "How tall?" and nods, impressed, when I say five-ten. "Yep, five-ten, I'm of complete average height."
I didn't expect much out of my visit this morning, and didn't get much. After a quick visit, the doctor informed me that I didn't have an ear infection, but I felt ok because I'd essentially paid 20 bucks to get my accurate weight and blood pressure taken, and to confirm that I wasn't sicker than I thought I was. Worth it. I briefly considered asking for some candy (after all, I'd thought I might have an EAR INFECTION, so since I'm apparently five years old, I might as well make a stab for some treats), but then remembered that I'd most likely get some kind of asian candy, which I'd already had some experience with. Here's how:
While working an event in Los Angeles, my friend Drea and I were given "Strawberry Pocky" as a thank you for helping a couple of Japanese women get registered for the event after the RSVP deadline. I'll save you the trip to the wikipedia and just tell you that Pocky was introduced in 1966 and was a hit amongst Japanese teenagers. It consists of biscuit sticks covered in chocolate and is named "pocky" because it is onomanopoetic for the sound pocky makes when you eat it (awesome). Strawberry Pocky was invented in 1977 (it took them ELEVEN YEARS to make that leap). SO, these women giving us pocky was like me giving someone malt balls as a thank you (Pocky briefly tried to sell their product in malt ball form under the name "Pock-Marks"-- the product was quickly removed from stores). The gift was appreciated, but I wasn't interested in more Japanese candy, this time from the doctor's office.
Which leaves me now, back home, sick, once again telling you about my immunal woes. When I told my boss that I was going to be out again today, she told me with motherly concern, "No partying this weekend!! We'll see you on Monday." I appreciate the sentiment, but this time around I don't think partying had anything to do with it. To the contrary, I wanted to reply that, "I'll also avoid standing out in the freezing cold for 3 hours driving old people in golf carts," which is the real culprit for catching this sucker, and is very much work related.
So here is my plight: My Netflix has left me in this state with only Zak and Miri Make A Porno, which I don't want to waste by watching alone, and Appaloosa, which is one of those movies that sounded like a good idea, RIGHT up until I got it in the mail. I'm out of snacks, but live in a goddamn forest, so I'm going to have to either take a drive to the store or start hunting rabbits (which I was good at in The Oregon Trail). Going out is only a problem insomuch as I haven't shaved in two days, look like late night with Joaquin Phoenix, and am hosting a game of Body Temperature Tag between Arctic Chills and Hot Savannah Nights. I'm also dressed suspiciously like Dexter's "killing suit," but that's not really the dealbreaker. So I'm house-bound. Either the cuddle-crazed cat or a misplaced midget has been pawing at my door for the last hour, so I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I'm all out of House, Lost, and Entourage episodes to watch online. And I'm about ready to start rooting through the trash for that pocky.
So where am I after 300 posts? Not very far from where I was on post #1. Sure, I have a lot less shame and sure, we've had some good times. I'm PROBABLY more recognizably racist, and certainly lack some morals that we all thought I had. All the same, thanks for readin these last 300 (or the last 100 and then complaining that there aren't more posts for you to read even though you could go back and read the 200 that you missed out on the first time around), and if I survive this round of mutant flu that has a cold that's pregnant with anemia, I hope you stick around for more.
"I Liked the Movie Better,"
Witz
And now, here's a sketch based on in inexplicable scene I saw in which I have to assume two rapists discuss their van purchase:
LARRY: Frank, what the hell is this!
FRANK: What are you talkin' about, you told me to buy a rape van!
LARRY: Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no-- Frank, this is a Dodge Stratus!
FRANK: And?
LARRY: Are you kidding me? And this isn't a rape van!
FRANK: Well not YET it isn't!
LARRY: No, Frank, it never will be! EVERYONE knows that a rape van is a WHITE van with tinted windows. You bought us a-- a FAMILY van!
FRANK: What??
LARRY: Oh come on!
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Seriously??
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Great. Just great. What the hell do we do now-- we look like idiots.
FRANK: Well...At least we don't look like rapists!
LARRY: But we ARE rapists, Frank, we ARE rapists...
FRANK: Yeah...you're right.
LARRY: Now we just look like a gay couple struggling with the adoption process.
The hot new comedy, Frank N' Larry: Serial Offenders, coming soon on Fox.
"Want to see 300?"
"Wait, the movie or the witz pickz post??"
See. Chaos. So after some months, the 300th post has finally arrived, and it seems only appropriate after these last 299 posts that I am sick. After all, what is Witz Pickz if not a venue for me to passive-aggressively express my woes and cry for help? My immune system has been a top theme here, and so, in a way, I'm glad it has let me down one more time for this post.
There's some kind of mutant cold going around that people all over the country are coming down with. Here's how my mom was able to enlighten me:
MOM: Oh! You have that flu-cold!
ME: Flu-cold?
MOM: Yep-- it's like part flu part cold (part man-bear-pig).
ME: Hm-- my limited medical knowledge tells me that's impossible.
MOM: Nono, it's true-- it's like a flu that shows up as a cold.
ME: A flu that's actually a cold?
MOM: Or a cold that has flu symptoms.
ME: But those are two separate things. Wait, my cold has the flu?
MOM: I'm just telling you what I know! It's gonna get worse.
ME: Wow, thanks Mom.
Which is why I found myself in the waiting room of the doctor's office at 10am this morning, just in case I was about to enter the weekend without meds that I could have used.
I love my doctor's office because it is predominantly asian-- and when I say predominantly, I mean that I am the only white person in a sea of asians. If the waiting room were a can of mixed nuts it'd go, "peanut, peanut, peanut, cashew, almond, cashew, peanut, cashew, FILBERT???" I'm the Filbert. Nobody knows why I'm there or where I came from, and while they shouldn't be frightened of me, my shear size makes them wary. Having said that, it's kind of nice.
The waiting room is a little less depressing and a little more interesting. Why does that guy have a "Quarantine Matters" hat on? Oh well, he's prooobably not massively contagious. Just this morning, a woman next to me was talking on her cell phone loudly. She had cupped her hand around the phone and her mouth to theoretically mask the noise, but it ended up just making her sound like a megaphone-- and because she was speaking another language, she also ended up sounding EXACTLY like the phone voice in Charlie Brown. I like that I can't understand most of the conversations going on, and therefore, don't know what diseases are just around the corner, waiting for me to walk into their wake-- although I have learned that some cognates exist-- "japanese japanese japanese Bronchitis japanese japanese." I like how when the R.N. comes out to call me in, she has absolutely no idea how to pronounce my name. I like that she has to check my sheet to make sure I'm saying the same name she has written down. I like how she takes my blood pressure and weight, but then asks, "How tall?" and nods, impressed, when I say five-ten. "Yep, five-ten, I'm of complete average height."
I didn't expect much out of my visit this morning, and didn't get much. After a quick visit, the doctor informed me that I didn't have an ear infection, but I felt ok because I'd essentially paid 20 bucks to get my accurate weight and blood pressure taken, and to confirm that I wasn't sicker than I thought I was. Worth it. I briefly considered asking for some candy (after all, I'd thought I might have an EAR INFECTION, so since I'm apparently five years old, I might as well make a stab for some treats), but then remembered that I'd most likely get some kind of asian candy, which I'd already had some experience with. Here's how:
While working an event in Los Angeles, my friend Drea and I were given "Strawberry Pocky" as a thank you for helping a couple of Japanese women get registered for the event after the RSVP deadline. I'll save you the trip to the wikipedia and just tell you that Pocky was introduced in 1966 and was a hit amongst Japanese teenagers. It consists of biscuit sticks covered in chocolate and is named "pocky" because it is onomanopoetic for the sound pocky makes when you eat it (awesome). Strawberry Pocky was invented in 1977 (it took them ELEVEN YEARS to make that leap). SO, these women giving us pocky was like me giving someone malt balls as a thank you (Pocky briefly tried to sell their product in malt ball form under the name "Pock-Marks"-- the product was quickly removed from stores). The gift was appreciated, but I wasn't interested in more Japanese candy, this time from the doctor's office.
Which leaves me now, back home, sick, once again telling you about my immunal woes. When I told my boss that I was going to be out again today, she told me with motherly concern, "No partying this weekend!! We'll see you on Monday." I appreciate the sentiment, but this time around I don't think partying had anything to do with it. To the contrary, I wanted to reply that, "I'll also avoid standing out in the freezing cold for 3 hours driving old people in golf carts," which is the real culprit for catching this sucker, and is very much work related.
So here is my plight: My Netflix has left me in this state with only Zak and Miri Make A Porno, which I don't want to waste by watching alone, and Appaloosa, which is one of those movies that sounded like a good idea, RIGHT up until I got it in the mail. I'm out of snacks, but live in a goddamn forest, so I'm going to have to either take a drive to the store or start hunting rabbits (which I was good at in The Oregon Trail). Going out is only a problem insomuch as I haven't shaved in two days, look like late night with Joaquin Phoenix, and am hosting a game of Body Temperature Tag between Arctic Chills and Hot Savannah Nights. I'm also dressed suspiciously like Dexter's "killing suit," but that's not really the dealbreaker. So I'm house-bound. Either the cuddle-crazed cat or a misplaced midget has been pawing at my door for the last hour, so I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. I'm all out of House, Lost, and Entourage episodes to watch online. And I'm about ready to start rooting through the trash for that pocky.
So where am I after 300 posts? Not very far from where I was on post #1. Sure, I have a lot less shame and sure, we've had some good times. I'm PROBABLY more recognizably racist, and certainly lack some morals that we all thought I had. All the same, thanks for readin these last 300 (or the last 100 and then complaining that there aren't more posts for you to read even though you could go back and read the 200 that you missed out on the first time around), and if I survive this round of mutant flu that has a cold that's pregnant with anemia, I hope you stick around for more.
"I Liked the Movie Better,"
Witz
And now, here's a sketch based on in inexplicable scene I saw in which I have to assume two rapists discuss their van purchase:
LARRY: Frank, what the hell is this!
FRANK: What are you talkin' about, you told me to buy a rape van!
LARRY: Ohhh, no, no, no, no, no-- Frank, this is a Dodge Stratus!
FRANK: And?
LARRY: Are you kidding me? And this isn't a rape van!
FRANK: Well not YET it isn't!
LARRY: No, Frank, it never will be! EVERYONE knows that a rape van is a WHITE van with tinted windows. You bought us a-- a FAMILY van!
FRANK: What??
LARRY: Oh come on!
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Seriously??
FRANK: I did not know that.
LARRY: Great. Just great. What the hell do we do now-- we look like idiots.
FRANK: Well...At least we don't look like rapists!
LARRY: But we ARE rapists, Frank, we ARE rapists...
FRANK: Yeah...you're right.
LARRY: Now we just look like a gay couple struggling with the adoption process.
The hot new comedy, Frank N' Larry: Serial Offenders, coming soon on Fox.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Witz Pickz: Ever Onward-- Wednesday
Here's where I'm at today-- I'm potentially getting the cold that everyone else has (either that or I sleep-swam last night and woke up at 4am covered in pool water and super parched from all my hard work), and have had a song stuck in my head the whole day-- which song? Oh, just a little gem known as "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." WTF?? Fortunately, I only know the good parts, so here's a little window into my brain:
"Oh come all ye faithful.................................Chriiist the Lord!"
Dutch Crunch Bread:San Francisco has an indigenous* bread! Ever since I've been in California, and on the west coast in general, I've seen an overwhelming prevalence of DUTCH CRUNCH BREAD-- rolls to be more precise. I'd never seen this bread before, and started wondering how this phenomenon occurred...WHO is making NEW BREADS??? The answer is NOBODY. Nobody says, "I like sourdough BUT--" they just eat sourdough bread. Chances are, whatever bread you desire has already been made, which is why the next great bread idea turned out to be slicing (and, to a lesser extent, croutons).
SO WHERE DID DUTCH CRUNCH COME FROM, WITZ? Well, reader, it's been around for years, the name is just specific to the San Francisco Bay Area. This explains why, back east, I had the following conversation with my dad while he was on his cell phone at Stop & Shop:
NoPaullution**: What kind of rolls would you like me to get you?
Witz: Dutch crunch if they have it...
NoPaullution: Do you mean a KAISER Roll?
Witz: No, I mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution: Do you mean a CIABATTA Roll?
Witz: No, I really mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution:...Do you mean a BAGUETTE?
Witz: No, I really mean a Dutch Crunch roll.
NoPaullution: Forget it! You'll get what I bring you!
He had never heard of the Dutch Crunch Roll, and therefore, like many, was both frightened and confused by the unknown.
The bread's ACTUAL name is "Tiger Bread" which, as far as I know, is the most badass name of any bread, and is so named for it's cracked pattern. I'm not sure why SF delis took the name and decided to change it to "Dutch" -- a word that is most closely associated with wooden clogs, splitting cost, or a tree disease (although the exterior does look like bark-- sweet, delicious bark), but they did. It has quickly become dear to my heart, and while it does sometimes cut the roof of my mouth mercilessly, I know that, much like tigers, you must take the good with the bad (the good being how cool tigers are-- the bad being a brutal mauling death at the hands of a tiger).
A brief update on Nitro's work-situation: He is alive, but his supervisor went over to the guy and said, "So Kenji...WHAT is WITH the SURGICAL MASK??" Apparently, either Kenji or other people are sick. Nitro's screwed.
Weight Watcher's Mug:
I was just in the work kitchen and there is a Weight Watchers mug. Who, in their right mind, would possibly tote around a mug with "Weight Watchers" on it? Either you used to be fat and now you're skinny and don't want people to know about it, or else EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE FAT. No need to draw attention to it with a logo mug. Plus, the mug was huge which was weird. Like, I'm not sure if it was for tea, a lunch shake, or a bucket of fried chicken. Is it a mug or a burrito koozie? Even weirder, the mug was in the "feel free to use my stuff" area-- like somebody NOT on Weight Watchers is going to pick it up and advertise for the day. That's like wearing a "Race for the Cure" shirt that you found at Salvation Army. Participation is mandatory for these types of things.
Emphatic Diseases:
I realized earlier today that AIDS is one of the most emphatic diseases out there. Like, it is impossible to type AIDS without it looking like you are emphasizing the word.
Person 1: What do you have?
Person 2: AIDS.
Person 1: SHIT!
Person 1: Hey, hope you don't have AIDS! (that'd make a great t-shirt)
AIDS demands the exclamation point-- which is totally fair. It's that visual onomonapoeia that I was talking about a while back. I mean, DAMN, it's AIDS!
I'm Like A Germs Koozie,
Witz
*No matter how you look at it, this is not the proper use of indigenous.
**My dad is an energy consultant named Paul.
"Oh come all ye faithful.................................Chriiist the Lord!"
Dutch Crunch Bread:San Francisco has an indigenous* bread! Ever since I've been in California, and on the west coast in general, I've seen an overwhelming prevalence of DUTCH CRUNCH BREAD-- rolls to be more precise. I'd never seen this bread before, and started wondering how this phenomenon occurred...WHO is making NEW BREADS??? The answer is NOBODY. Nobody says, "I like sourdough BUT--" they just eat sourdough bread. Chances are, whatever bread you desire has already been made, which is why the next great bread idea turned out to be slicing (and, to a lesser extent, croutons).
SO WHERE DID DUTCH CRUNCH COME FROM, WITZ? Well, reader, it's been around for years, the name is just specific to the San Francisco Bay Area. This explains why, back east, I had the following conversation with my dad while he was on his cell phone at Stop & Shop:
NoPaullution**: What kind of rolls would you like me to get you?
Witz: Dutch crunch if they have it...
NoPaullution: Do you mean a KAISER Roll?
Witz: No, I mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution: Do you mean a CIABATTA Roll?
Witz: No, I really mean Dutch Crunch.
NoPaullution:...Do you mean a BAGUETTE?
Witz: No, I really mean a Dutch Crunch roll.
NoPaullution: Forget it! You'll get what I bring you!
He had never heard of the Dutch Crunch Roll, and therefore, like many, was both frightened and confused by the unknown.
The bread's ACTUAL name is "Tiger Bread" which, as far as I know, is the most badass name of any bread, and is so named for it's cracked pattern. I'm not sure why SF delis took the name and decided to change it to "Dutch" -- a word that is most closely associated with wooden clogs, splitting cost, or a tree disease (although the exterior does look like bark-- sweet, delicious bark), but they did. It has quickly become dear to my heart, and while it does sometimes cut the roof of my mouth mercilessly, I know that, much like tigers, you must take the good with the bad (the good being how cool tigers are-- the bad being a brutal mauling death at the hands of a tiger).
A brief update on Nitro's work-situation: He is alive, but his supervisor went over to the guy and said, "So Kenji...WHAT is WITH the SURGICAL MASK??" Apparently, either Kenji or other people are sick. Nitro's screwed.
Weight Watcher's Mug:
I was just in the work kitchen and there is a Weight Watchers mug. Who, in their right mind, would possibly tote around a mug with "Weight Watchers" on it? Either you used to be fat and now you're skinny and don't want people to know about it, or else EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS YOU'RE FAT. No need to draw attention to it with a logo mug. Plus, the mug was huge which was weird. Like, I'm not sure if it was for tea, a lunch shake, or a bucket of fried chicken. Is it a mug or a burrito koozie? Even weirder, the mug was in the "feel free to use my stuff" area-- like somebody NOT on Weight Watchers is going to pick it up and advertise for the day. That's like wearing a "Race for the Cure" shirt that you found at Salvation Army. Participation is mandatory for these types of things.
Emphatic Diseases:
I realized earlier today that AIDS is one of the most emphatic diseases out there. Like, it is impossible to type AIDS without it looking like you are emphasizing the word.
Person 1: What do you have?
Person 2: AIDS.
Person 1: SHIT!
Person 1: Hey, hope you don't have AIDS! (that'd make a great t-shirt)
AIDS demands the exclamation point-- which is totally fair. It's that visual onomonapoeia that I was talking about a while back. I mean, DAMN, it's AIDS!
I'm Like A Germs Koozie,
Witz
*No matter how you look at it, this is not the proper use of indigenous.
**My dad is an energy consultant named Paul.
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