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
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Threat of Death! (but not death threats yet...I'm not that well known...)
I had turkey chili in a bread bowl last night, so I apologize if I come off a little cocky today. Also last night, I learned that my dreams are only getting less creative.
After watching Lost, I was chased around by John Locke for approximately ALL OF THE GOOD HOURS OF SLEEP. At first I thought maybe he was chasing me because he wanted me to be the recipient of a monetary reward or because we were playing a game of Rock N' Jock Tag (First of all, does anyone remember Rock N' Jock sports on MTV? Why was the Burger King spokesman of the time always involved?? Secondly, I'm not sure why I'd be involved in this game of tag, although I suppose being in a local band does constitute some mild rocking). As it turned out, he didn't want to do either of those things-- he wanted to kill me (really creative, brain). I wasn't sure if he wanted to kill me right up until the point where he declared, "I'm going to kill you," and I guess I appreciated his honesty. Apparently, he was planning on using his bare hands, so I grabbed a knife and stabbed him a few times, but check this out: in dreams, Witz can't even grab a quality knife-- I stabbed him with a serrated bread knife, which did little to no harm, but certainly gave him the idea of producing a LARGER non-bread themed knife with which to murder me. I took this as my cue to run upstairs to my parents room and hide behind the door.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen any movies ever, but running upstairs and hiding behind the door rarely works. It didn't even work when I was a kid playing real hide and seek, so I'm not sure why I would think "John Locke: Dream Murderer" would be foiled. He wasn't foiled and right before I got stabbed repeatedly, my brain decided it would be a good time to wake up and realize it was exactly 1 minute before my morning alarm was set to go off. Fantastic. "Well, you're not murdered-- now get up and go to work." The scales remain balanced.
Back to real life. It has recently come to my attention that a man in Turbo's office has started wearing a surgical mask to work. Turbo is not a doctor, nor does he work in a hospital. He is in film production. Context is important in situations like these, so let's back up. If this man had previously learned that his lungs were fragile and he needed to avoid as many germs as possible, the mask would be ok. If the man was considering a career change to construction, but wasn't sure he could handle the facial constraints on a daily basis and wanted to try it out for a bit before quitting his current job, that would be ok. If the man drew different faces on the surgical mask each day as hilarious jokes to pass the dreary routine of the work week-- that would be ok. But none of these things are the case. The case is that about a month ago, this man went apeshit in the office (like, Take Your Face apeshit), destroyed his cubicle and went off on one of his co-workers.
Somehow, because of his talent, he wasn't fired. This means that if ever asked "How good are you at your job?" he can reply, "Well, I pulled a Chris Brown on my cubicle, physically threatened my office neighbor with company property that I then destroyed, and still work here..." To which the only possible reply is, "I didn't know you could sing." After a brief departure, he returned and for the last week, he has sported the surgical mask look. There are only two options left: the man IS Asian, and therefore, through simple facts, it is possible that he has reached that time in his life when he inexplicably dons a surgical mask in public. It's a lot like what I understand The Happening to have been about-- only this mask thing would probably get better reviews. So MAYBE that's the case. But since we all know that's NOT the case, let's just state the obvious-- Turbo is about to have a front row seat for biological warfare. "Everyone in the first three rows WILL get skin lesions," type stuff. This raises an interesting question: Can Turbo ask for paid time off given the fact that a dude in his office is clearly planning something?
Turbo: I'd like to not come in for a while.
Boss: And why is that?
Turbo: Well, uh, exhibit A is the batshit crazy tech guy wearing a goddamn surgical mask to work.
Boss: Hm. Do you have any reason to believe he's dangerous?
Turbo: ...I mean, there was that incident where he picked up an "Anatomy of a Human" statue and beat it repeatedly against his cuble wall until it broke into a thousand pieces.
Boss: Goo...and how long did that take to do?
Turbo: An awkwardly long time!
Boss: That does sound violent.
Turbo: It was terrifying!
Boss: And now he's--
Turbo: --wearing a surgical mask to work, yes.
Boss: Is there ANY chance he's considering becoming a construction worker and wants to test out the facial restraints before getting into a life of heavy sanding?
Turbo: It's possible, yes. But I don't--
Boss: --Alright. Well. Let's go with that for now...aaaaand...let me know if he shows up wearing any air-tight suits, k? This is my home phone number-- you can reach me there if he does.
Turbo: What? You're leaving?
Boss: Hell yeah, I'm leaving, are you kidding me? The guy's wearing a surgical mask in the office-- I'm not dying for a Michael Bay film!
I say it's more than valid to get out of the office-- "If you see something, say something," the NYC Subway says, and in this case, Turbo has definitely seen something. Otherwise, what I think Turbo needs to do is take the offensive. Start wearing OTHER crazy shit to the office and make sure he sees you. Borrow my, "Gun Control Is Being Able to Hit Your Target" t-shirt. Watch The Rock really loudly and keep repeating the, "Paper or plastic!" scene to get him thinking about the consequences of his actions. Put on TWO surgical masks and say, "Gotta double bag it, bro." Get in his head. And in the off-chance that the guy reads Witz Pickz and uses this as a reason to speed up his attack-- my bad!
I'm DEFINITELY Wearing A Surgical Mask to Work,
Witz
After watching Lost, I was chased around by John Locke for approximately ALL OF THE GOOD HOURS OF SLEEP. At first I thought maybe he was chasing me because he wanted me to be the recipient of a monetary reward or because we were playing a game of Rock N' Jock Tag (First of all, does anyone remember Rock N' Jock sports on MTV? Why was the Burger King spokesman of the time always involved?? Secondly, I'm not sure why I'd be involved in this game of tag, although I suppose being in a local band does constitute some mild rocking). As it turned out, he didn't want to do either of those things-- he wanted to kill me (really creative, brain). I wasn't sure if he wanted to kill me right up until the point where he declared, "I'm going to kill you," and I guess I appreciated his honesty. Apparently, he was planning on using his bare hands, so I grabbed a knife and stabbed him a few times, but check this out: in dreams, Witz can't even grab a quality knife-- I stabbed him with a serrated bread knife, which did little to no harm, but certainly gave him the idea of producing a LARGER non-bread themed knife with which to murder me. I took this as my cue to run upstairs to my parents room and hide behind the door.
Now, I don't know if you've ever seen any movies ever, but running upstairs and hiding behind the door rarely works. It didn't even work when I was a kid playing real hide and seek, so I'm not sure why I would think "John Locke: Dream Murderer" would be foiled. He wasn't foiled and right before I got stabbed repeatedly, my brain decided it would be a good time to wake up and realize it was exactly 1 minute before my morning alarm was set to go off. Fantastic. "Well, you're not murdered-- now get up and go to work." The scales remain balanced.
Back to real life. It has recently come to my attention that a man in Turbo's office has started wearing a surgical mask to work. Turbo is not a doctor, nor does he work in a hospital. He is in film production. Context is important in situations like these, so let's back up. If this man had previously learned that his lungs were fragile and he needed to avoid as many germs as possible, the mask would be ok. If the man was considering a career change to construction, but wasn't sure he could handle the facial constraints on a daily basis and wanted to try it out for a bit before quitting his current job, that would be ok. If the man drew different faces on the surgical mask each day as hilarious jokes to pass the dreary routine of the work week-- that would be ok. But none of these things are the case. The case is that about a month ago, this man went apeshit in the office (like, Take Your Face apeshit), destroyed his cubicle and went off on one of his co-workers.
Somehow, because of his talent, he wasn't fired. This means that if ever asked "How good are you at your job?" he can reply, "Well, I pulled a Chris Brown on my cubicle, physically threatened my office neighbor with company property that I then destroyed, and still work here..." To which the only possible reply is, "I didn't know you could sing." After a brief departure, he returned and for the last week, he has sported the surgical mask look. There are only two options left: the man IS Asian, and therefore, through simple facts, it is possible that he has reached that time in his life when he inexplicably dons a surgical mask in public. It's a lot like what I understand The Happening to have been about-- only this mask thing would probably get better reviews. So MAYBE that's the case. But since we all know that's NOT the case, let's just state the obvious-- Turbo is about to have a front row seat for biological warfare. "Everyone in the first three rows WILL get skin lesions," type stuff. This raises an interesting question: Can Turbo ask for paid time off given the fact that a dude in his office is clearly planning something?
Turbo: I'd like to not come in for a while.
Boss: And why is that?
Turbo: Well, uh, exhibit A is the batshit crazy tech guy wearing a goddamn surgical mask to work.
Boss: Hm. Do you have any reason to believe he's dangerous?
Turbo: ...I mean, there was that incident where he picked up an "Anatomy of a Human" statue and beat it repeatedly against his cuble wall until it broke into a thousand pieces.
Boss: Goo...and how long did that take to do?
Turbo: An awkwardly long time!
Boss: That does sound violent.
Turbo: It was terrifying!
Boss: And now he's--
Turbo: --wearing a surgical mask to work, yes.
Boss: Is there ANY chance he's considering becoming a construction worker and wants to test out the facial restraints before getting into a life of heavy sanding?
Turbo: It's possible, yes. But I don't--
Boss: --Alright. Well. Let's go with that for now...aaaaand...let me know if he shows up wearing any air-tight suits, k? This is my home phone number-- you can reach me there if he does.
Turbo: What? You're leaving?
Boss: Hell yeah, I'm leaving, are you kidding me? The guy's wearing a surgical mask in the office-- I'm not dying for a Michael Bay film!
I say it's more than valid to get out of the office-- "If you see something, say something," the NYC Subway says, and in this case, Turbo has definitely seen something. Otherwise, what I think Turbo needs to do is take the offensive. Start wearing OTHER crazy shit to the office and make sure he sees you. Borrow my, "Gun Control Is Being Able to Hit Your Target" t-shirt. Watch The Rock really loudly and keep repeating the, "Paper or plastic!" scene to get him thinking about the consequences of his actions. Put on TWO surgical masks and say, "Gotta double bag it, bro." Get in his head. And in the off-chance that the guy reads Witz Pickz and uses this as a reason to speed up his attack-- my bad!
I'm DEFINITELY Wearing A Surgical Mask to Work,
Witz
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Witz Pickz: Tuesday Grab Bag
To prove to you all that I'm not thinking clearly these days, I need to tell you that Pepperidge Farms Sausalito Cookies were on sale for two dollars a bag last week and I only bought two bags. Let me say that again: Delicious cookies chock full of macadamia nuts and chocolate chunks were being sold for 25 cents each and I only bough two packages of them. I SHOULD BE SLEEPING IN BEDS OF COOKIES! I should be exfoliating with the crumbs of sugary goodness. "Witz, your skin looks amazing, what are you using?" COOKIES! My car should be overflowing with bags of desserts, with the windows down, so as I go over bumps, bags of glory fly out the windows like a package of Jiffy Pop. People should be saying, "There goes Witz, he really knows how to live," but instead they're saying, "There goes Witz, his car sounds like two cow-bells boning. So clearly I am not thinking correctly, and can't be held accountable for my lack of posting
National Pancake Day:
Today is National Pancake Day which means that PANCAKES have the exact same number of holidays per year as black people! Sorry, Martin Luther King, Jr., but you affected people just as much as bisquick mix. Now, I understand that MLK Day is a NATIONAL holiday and that some people get the day off, but some people don't get the day off. On National Pancake Day, EVERYONE gets a free short stack of pancakes at IHOP, and that's even more of a bonding experience because then everyone who got the free pancakes can feel massive indigestion together. The only way MLK, Jr. Day brings people together is by making all white people super awkward and have to pretend they're way more into African Dance Exhibitions than they actually are.
Ordering Pizza:
The pizza server girl at Whole Foods screwed me over last night. She took one look at me and seemingly decided, "I hate this human being." How come when I get slices of pizza, I don't feel like it's socially acceptable for me to say, "I want THAT piece!" like I'm still five years old? MOREOVER, how come people don't look at me and KNOW that "He wants that piece!" when they grab a slice for me. I obviously want the huge, "Oops, we cut the pizza into fourths" slice for my three dollars instead of what Mitch Hedberg deemed the "Donate it to charity" percentage slice (% of people who if they won the lottery would donate the money to charity). Is it just a power trip? Do the pizza slingers do it just to taunt me and show that they hold some level of control over my life? I mean, I would feel a certain sense of SHAME giving someone the tiny slice and charging the same amount as the huge slice. Is this their way of calling me fat? I mean, I might be one pizza encounter away from being nicknamed, "Big Slice Witz" but I'm kind of ok with that. Big Slice is kind of a dope nickname. I'm prooobably gonna start calling someone I know Big Slice as soon as possible, and it's not necessarily because they're large. So maybe it's time we took a stand and started telling them exactly which slice we want. Maybe we need to get aggressive about it. "Nope, not that slice you fucking moron, the good one. What are you, retarded?" Everyone knows which slice, "the good slice" is. So let's start acting like it.
This Was An "How Much Do You Love Work" Slice of Comedy,
Witz
P.S. A special farewell to The Big Ho (self-titled) who is off to join the Peace Corps in Honduras today and will inevitably suffer a painful death at the hands of the chupacabra. Never underestimate the chupacabra my friends, for that is when they are at their most dangerous. Until the inevitable, though, stay safe.
National Pancake Day:
Today is National Pancake Day which means that PANCAKES have the exact same number of holidays per year as black people! Sorry, Martin Luther King, Jr., but you affected people just as much as bisquick mix. Now, I understand that MLK Day is a NATIONAL holiday and that some people get the day off, but some people don't get the day off. On National Pancake Day, EVERYONE gets a free short stack of pancakes at IHOP, and that's even more of a bonding experience because then everyone who got the free pancakes can feel massive indigestion together. The only way MLK, Jr. Day brings people together is by making all white people super awkward and have to pretend they're way more into African Dance Exhibitions than they actually are.
Ordering Pizza:
The pizza server girl at Whole Foods screwed me over last night. She took one look at me and seemingly decided, "I hate this human being." How come when I get slices of pizza, I don't feel like it's socially acceptable for me to say, "I want THAT piece!" like I'm still five years old? MOREOVER, how come people don't look at me and KNOW that "He wants that piece!" when they grab a slice for me. I obviously want the huge, "Oops, we cut the pizza into fourths" slice for my three dollars instead of what Mitch Hedberg deemed the "Donate it to charity" percentage slice (% of people who if they won the lottery would donate the money to charity). Is it just a power trip? Do the pizza slingers do it just to taunt me and show that they hold some level of control over my life? I mean, I would feel a certain sense of SHAME giving someone the tiny slice and charging the same amount as the huge slice. Is this their way of calling me fat? I mean, I might be one pizza encounter away from being nicknamed, "Big Slice Witz" but I'm kind of ok with that. Big Slice is kind of a dope nickname. I'm prooobably gonna start calling someone I know Big Slice as soon as possible, and it's not necessarily because they're large. So maybe it's time we took a stand and started telling them exactly which slice we want. Maybe we need to get aggressive about it. "Nope, not that slice you fucking moron, the good one. What are you, retarded?" Everyone knows which slice, "the good slice" is. So let's start acting like it.
This Was An "How Much Do You Love Work" Slice of Comedy,
Witz
P.S. A special farewell to The Big Ho (self-titled) who is off to join the Peace Corps in Honduras today and will inevitably suffer a painful death at the hands of the chupacabra. Never underestimate the chupacabra my friends, for that is when they are at their most dangerous. Until the inevitable, though, stay safe.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: "Only the Good News"
KJR-FM thinks you're an idiot (but thinks your friend is cute!). I have been recently informed by Sparks Gal that 95.7 FM in Seattle is featuring "Only the Good News" on their station. This means that they are avoiding all negative headlines and simply giving the listeners some positive views of the world. As I've stated before with "Just the Bunches cereal," we don't live in a "Just the Bunches" world and we don't live in an "Only the Good News" world. Moreover, just like how the best books have tragic endings, USEFUL news is usually the bad stuff. I don't need to know that 3 orca whales had babies in Puget Sound (though I bet they are cute as helllllll and might eat me), but I might want to know that a plane crashed in Buffalo. I can't imagine this conversation going in my intellectual favor:
Person: Did you hear about the down-swing in the Asian markets that could potentially cause millions of people in the US to lose their jobs?
Witz: No, but did you hear about how baby seals are adorable?
Person: ...You're an idiot.
Witz: True.
Beyond that, how do you have "Only the Good News" on a radio station. What about the fact that TRAFFIC exists?? "For those of you taking 405...take this time to think about all the people that love you! For those of you NOT taking 405, realllly good decision-- we can't say why." Or maybe just, "There's absolutely no traffic on Quarry Road today!" If it's raining outside, do they just skip over weather? How do they judge if that's good news or not-- maybe there's a drought or someone wanting to watch a movie and not feel guilty for staying indoors? "It's a great day to not have to go outside!"
You know who listens to the station with "Only the Good News?" Everyone who's going to die in the event of an emergency. I'll be hearing about the Earthquake or the Tornado or the Alien Invasion and packing my things and getting out of town while Good News Gary gargles a tsunami.
But hey, let's give them the benefit of the doubt. Let's take a closer look at some of their Good News:
Country at 93% Employment! GREAT! Ohhhh wait, that means we're at 7% unemployment, which is actually considered quite high! Thanks for manipulating statistics-- that's not good news, that's just you thinking I'm dumb.
Walmart Posting Record Sales! Phew! I was worried the large mass corporation that treats their employees the worst and sells primarily to poorer people would go under! That sounds great for Walmart, but I'm not exactly sure how it helps anyone else. Luckily, they're posting record sales, which means more people feel they have to shop at Walmart in order to afford their lives, which means more people are getting poorer. That's one step above saying, "Food Stamp demand at all time high!"
As Sparks Gal says, "How does their announcement that they are hosting a Rod Stewart show at Quilceda Creek Casino constitute 'good' news? And how will they report a serial killer on the loose? Maybe in terms of 'the victims have all been unpopular, thus far'??"
If 95.7 was being remotely facetious, I could understand, but they mean it and that worries me. Are people that dumb? That fragile? If so, I plan to rob them. Again and again.
"Who's breaking into my house? Who's there??"
"It's ME-- the tanking U.S. economy!"
"The who? I've never heard of you...are you sure you're not conjoined monkey twins that can juggle?" (Note: All monkeys look like twins to me. I also believe all monkeys can and ought to be able to juggle. Furthermore, identical twins would be so much easier to tell apart if they were conjoined. "I can never tell which one's Ricky! Oh-- yes I can-- he's the one always on the left.")
Not Only the Good Posts,
Witz
Person: Did you hear about the down-swing in the Asian markets that could potentially cause millions of people in the US to lose their jobs?
Witz: No, but did you hear about how baby seals are adorable?
Person: ...You're an idiot.
Witz: True.
Beyond that, how do you have "Only the Good News" on a radio station. What about the fact that TRAFFIC exists?? "For those of you taking 405...take this time to think about all the people that love you! For those of you NOT taking 405, realllly good decision-- we can't say why." Or maybe just, "There's absolutely no traffic on Quarry Road today!" If it's raining outside, do they just skip over weather? How do they judge if that's good news or not-- maybe there's a drought or someone wanting to watch a movie and not feel guilty for staying indoors? "It's a great day to not have to go outside!"
You know who listens to the station with "Only the Good News?" Everyone who's going to die in the event of an emergency. I'll be hearing about the Earthquake or the Tornado or the Alien Invasion and packing my things and getting out of town while Good News Gary gargles a tsunami.
But hey, let's give them the benefit of the doubt. Let's take a closer look at some of their Good News:
Country at 93% Employment! GREAT! Ohhhh wait, that means we're at 7% unemployment, which is actually considered quite high! Thanks for manipulating statistics-- that's not good news, that's just you thinking I'm dumb.
Walmart Posting Record Sales! Phew! I was worried the large mass corporation that treats their employees the worst and sells primarily to poorer people would go under! That sounds great for Walmart, but I'm not exactly sure how it helps anyone else. Luckily, they're posting record sales, which means more people feel they have to shop at Walmart in order to afford their lives, which means more people are getting poorer. That's one step above saying, "Food Stamp demand at all time high!"
As Sparks Gal says, "How does their announcement that they are hosting a Rod Stewart show at Quilceda Creek Casino constitute 'good' news? And how will they report a serial killer on the loose? Maybe in terms of 'the victims have all been unpopular, thus far'??"
If 95.7 was being remotely facetious, I could understand, but they mean it and that worries me. Are people that dumb? That fragile? If so, I plan to rob them. Again and again.
"Who's breaking into my house? Who's there??"
"It's ME-- the tanking U.S. economy!"
"The who? I've never heard of you...are you sure you're not conjoined monkey twins that can juggle?" (Note: All monkeys look like twins to me. I also believe all monkeys can and ought to be able to juggle. Furthermore, identical twins would be so much easier to tell apart if they were conjoined. "I can never tell which one's Ricky! Oh-- yes I can-- he's the one always on the left.")
Not Only the Good Posts,
Witz
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Restaurants Making Me Sound Like A Tool
Maybe I haven't posted since last week, but YOU haven't either, so think about THAT! Now...let's talk about how restaurants feel the need to make us sound like complete assholes.
I want to know exactly when it was that restaurants decided to be "wacky." When did the first person say, "You know what this hamburger place needs? Deep Sea Diving equipment on the walls." When did somebody first think that putting crazy crap on the walls of a place would make me want to eat there. I'm not saying it hasn't worked, I'm a sucker for Applebee's, Ruby Tuesday's, Friendly's, and Chili's (at least before they reduced their fry portions, which was literally the smallest change they could have made that generated such a huge reaction out of me), but I have to assume that the "wacky" aspect of restaurants came from somewhere, and it feels American. I have a hard time believing that some German place said, "Zou know vut zis place needs? Snow shoes and tennis rackets on zee walls!" Then again, Germany and "flair" haven't worked out so well in the past. Probably not a lotta "Stars and moon" themed birthday parties-- "What if we just have moons, honey?"
So let's assume this is an American thing. A "we have so much stuff, we're putting our stuff on walls where we eat just for the fuck of it" type thing. Nobody's gonna fire a nuke at us when we have spare guns, nets, and fishing spears strung up on the walls of Red Robin. HOWEVER, America took it too far. The crazy shit on the walls evolved into crazy stuff on the menu-- not cuisine, but names of dishes. Red Robin is a good place to start. I feel slightly foolish ordering the Honky Tonk BBQ Pork Sandwich. Unless I'm getting kick-backs from them, I don't feel the need to say that I want the WHISKEY RIVER BBQ Burger-- I'll just take the BBQ Burger. That's tame, though, compared to some places where you have to say things like, "I'd like two Al Pacinos, one Chick-quille O'Neil, and a Sly Stallone please (also, I'm either ordering for several people or am ridiculously fat in this scenario)." Sandwiches probably started this trend, with delis giving their eats clever names after people they know or geographic locations. Historically, I don't think ancient peoples had this. "Gimme two King Ramses II's, one What Sphinx In Here, aaand three Incest In the Mornings...thanks."
I blame America, and things have gotten out of control. Fine, I'll order a "Robin Williams" in SF if you have some sandwich that's "totally off the wall and enough meat to put hair on your chest." I'll order a "Jerry Seinfeld" in NY if I want to know, "What's the deeeeeal with turkey bacon!? Is it turkey? Is it bacon? Is it just a way for Jews to wink at God and say, 'Gotcha!?' Who cares! This sandwich is delicious!!" BUT I WILL NOT sit there, looking a waiter/waitress in the eye, and say something that we are both aware makes me sound like a complete tool. Case and point, here is the worst menu I have ever seen in my entire life: CAFE GRATITUDE IN SF...if you read the menu and don't want to stab someone's eyes out, then you aren't literate. I understand it's a healthy lifestyle type place, but wouldn't you then want to make it MORE accessible to the average person? For those of you not perusing the menu, well, first of all, that's really lazy and you probably have the time to do so, and second of all, take this one example off the kid's menu:
I Am A Hero: Noodles and Sauce (Spiral-sliced vegetable “noodles” in marinara sauce with Brazil nut parmesan).
Who would order that? No children are ordering that for themselves. Moreover, do you order it as, "I Am A Hero" or "He/She Is A Hero" when ordering for a child? The menu only gets worse as you run into "I Am Dazzling" which apparently means you're gonna have wicked bad garlic breath, or "I Am Eating At Cafe Gratitude" which means, "I'm really effing rich, because these mediocre, condescending, barely food dishes are expensive." What you really mean to say is, "I Am Vegan" or "I Am Lactose Intolerant" or "Gluten-Intolerant" or "A Really Good Friend of One of the Aforementioned People."
As My Friend Formerly With A Pool said,
"I wouldn't say a single one of those things. I would say "give me the noodles with sauce" or just "give me directions to another restaurant, because you have awful names and also noodles in sauce sounds like something you might get in jail"
So please stop making us sound like idiots. Nobody says, "Hey, let's go to Bobby's for lunch! They make you say, "I'd like to order the I'm Easily Amused and Borderline Retarded Burger!" Just make good food and if you really feel the need, tack something up to your walls that doesn't belong there. It'll be so wacky we'll practically throw our money at you.*
I Like Restaurants That's Walls Reflect My Inner Emotions...Full of Ski Poles,
Witz
Photo comedy magic performed by Nitro
*Note: I actually DO pay waiters by balling up and throwing my money at them. It's really really condescending and demeaning and it not only makes me feel better about myself, but it makes them feel worse about themselves, possibly leading to them killing themselves-- and with the current economy, if I get laid off, those open jobs will be warm and cozy cribs for me to sleep in. Literally.
I want to know exactly when it was that restaurants decided to be "wacky." When did the first person say, "You know what this hamburger place needs? Deep Sea Diving equipment on the walls." When did somebody first think that putting crazy crap on the walls of a place would make me want to eat there. I'm not saying it hasn't worked, I'm a sucker for Applebee's, Ruby Tuesday's, Friendly's, and Chili's (at least before they reduced their fry portions, which was literally the smallest change they could have made that generated such a huge reaction out of me), but I have to assume that the "wacky" aspect of restaurants came from somewhere, and it feels American. I have a hard time believing that some German place said, "Zou know vut zis place needs? Snow shoes and tennis rackets on zee walls!" Then again, Germany and "flair" haven't worked out so well in the past. Probably not a lotta "Stars and moon" themed birthday parties-- "What if we just have moons, honey?"
So let's assume this is an American thing. A "we have so much stuff, we're putting our stuff on walls where we eat just for the fuck of it" type thing. Nobody's gonna fire a nuke at us when we have spare guns, nets, and fishing spears strung up on the walls of Red Robin. HOWEVER, America took it too far. The crazy shit on the walls evolved into crazy stuff on the menu-- not cuisine, but names of dishes. Red Robin is a good place to start. I feel slightly foolish ordering the Honky Tonk BBQ Pork Sandwich. Unless I'm getting kick-backs from them, I don't feel the need to say that I want the WHISKEY RIVER BBQ Burger-- I'll just take the BBQ Burger. That's tame, though, compared to some places where you have to say things like, "I'd like two Al Pacinos, one Chick-quille O'Neil, and a Sly Stallone please (also, I'm either ordering for several people or am ridiculously fat in this scenario)." Sandwiches probably started this trend, with delis giving their eats clever names after people they know or geographic locations. Historically, I don't think ancient peoples had this. "Gimme two King Ramses II's, one What Sphinx In Here, aaand three Incest In the Mornings...thanks."
I blame America, and things have gotten out of control. Fine, I'll order a "Robin Williams" in SF if you have some sandwich that's "totally off the wall and enough meat to put hair on your chest." I'll order a "Jerry Seinfeld" in NY if I want to know, "What's the deeeeeal with turkey bacon!? Is it turkey? Is it bacon? Is it just a way for Jews to wink at God and say, 'Gotcha!?' Who cares! This sandwich is delicious!!" BUT I WILL NOT sit there, looking a waiter/waitress in the eye, and say something that we are both aware makes me sound like a complete tool. Case and point, here is the worst menu I have ever seen in my entire life: CAFE GRATITUDE IN SF...if you read the menu and don't want to stab someone's eyes out, then you aren't literate. I understand it's a healthy lifestyle type place, but wouldn't you then want to make it MORE accessible to the average person? For those of you not perusing the menu, well, first of all, that's really lazy and you probably have the time to do so, and second of all, take this one example off the kid's menu:
I Am A Hero: Noodles and Sauce (Spiral-sliced vegetable “noodles” in marinara sauce with Brazil nut parmesan).
Who would order that? No children are ordering that for themselves. Moreover, do you order it as, "I Am A Hero" or "He/She Is A Hero" when ordering for a child? The menu only gets worse as you run into "I Am Dazzling" which apparently means you're gonna have wicked bad garlic breath, or "I Am Eating At Cafe Gratitude" which means, "I'm really effing rich, because these mediocre, condescending, barely food dishes are expensive." What you really mean to say is, "I Am Vegan" or "I Am Lactose Intolerant" or "Gluten-Intolerant" or "A Really Good Friend of One of the Aforementioned People."
As My Friend Formerly With A Pool said,
"I wouldn't say a single one of those things. I would say "give me the noodles with sauce" or just "give me directions to another restaurant, because you have awful names and also noodles in sauce sounds like something you might get in jail"
So please stop making us sound like idiots. Nobody says, "Hey, let's go to Bobby's for lunch! They make you say, "I'd like to order the I'm Easily Amused and Borderline Retarded Burger!" Just make good food and if you really feel the need, tack something up to your walls that doesn't belong there. It'll be so wacky we'll practically throw our money at you.*
I Like Restaurants That's Walls Reflect My Inner Emotions...Full of Ski Poles,
Witz
Photo comedy magic performed by Nitro
*Note: I actually DO pay waiters by balling up and throwing my money at them. It's really really condescending and demeaning and it not only makes me feel better about myself, but it makes them feel worse about themselves, possibly leading to them killing themselves-- and with the current economy, if I get laid off, those open jobs will be warm and cozy cribs for me to sleep in. Literally.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: McDonald's Commercials, Bathroom Etiquette, Facebook Philanthropy
McDonald's Radio Ad:
The second ad featured a sassy black woman (not a stereotype-- McDonald's has spent millions of dollars cornering the Sassy Black Woman demographic) getting aggravated because, "Oh no you di'in't just cut in front of me in line! I know you saw me there!" Fortunately for the offending party, "I'm getting a McGriddle for breakfast, so I'll let it go this time!" Translation: I'm a sassy black female stereotype who comes here a lot and am VERY familiar with the McDonald's menu, ordering process, and feeling of temporary joy that I experience from endorphins that are released after consuming McDonald's breakfast products. In addition, while I don't appreciate your complete disrespect for the line and myself, I understand that my sass can get a little out of control, especially when I'm hungry, and will let you off the hook this time, especially since I am morbidly obese, and couldn't possibly do much more than make a lot of noise and fulfil the role that McDonald's has seemingly assigned to me in their world. Besides, you'll get yours after breakfast, when you are forced to call in sick to work because you're shitting your brains out and don't think you will ever experience anything else ever again.
Formerly A Good Person,
P.S. What's with the ubiquitous "Two Rules to a Flat Stomach" internet ad with the before and after shot of the "flat stomach?" It's everywhere and makes even safe, work friendly pages seem like gross awkward porn. Since when did "photos that make you want to throw up" become good marketing?
I heard an ad on the radio this morning for McDonald's breakfast and couldn't ignore it. It was one of those two part ads, where they do one scene and then follow it up with another quick scene of the same idea. The first one is a guy calling into work and telling them that he woke up with a bout of optimism and after having a McDonald's breakfast doesn't think he's going to be coming in because he's enjoying life too much and having too good a time now that he's eaten his McGriddle sandwich. It was supposed to be ironic and witty, but here's the actual translation: I woke up early, ate breakfast at McDonald's, and am now shitting my brains out and don't think it's going to end within the 9 hour window we call the work day. In addition, he says, "I feel like I was hit with a ton of teddy bears," which is supposed to be the opposite of "hit by a ton of bricks" I imagine. Only, as IQ test takers know, a TON of teddy bears is the SAME as a TON of bricks. That dude felt like he was hit by a TON of weight-- now you try and tell me it's not from the McGriddle.
The second ad featured a sassy black woman (not a stereotype-- McDonald's has spent millions of dollars cornering the Sassy Black Woman demographic) getting aggravated because, "Oh no you di'in't just cut in front of me in line! I know you saw me there!" Fortunately for the offending party, "I'm getting a McGriddle for breakfast, so I'll let it go this time!" Translation: I'm a sassy black female stereotype who comes here a lot and am VERY familiar with the McDonald's menu, ordering process, and feeling of temporary joy that I experience from endorphins that are released after consuming McDonald's breakfast products. In addition, while I don't appreciate your complete disrespect for the line and myself, I understand that my sass can get a little out of control, especially when I'm hungry, and will let you off the hook this time, especially since I am morbidly obese, and couldn't possibly do much more than make a lot of noise and fulfil the role that McDonald's has seemingly assigned to me in their world. Besides, you'll get yours after breakfast, when you are forced to call in sick to work because you're shitting your brains out and don't think you will ever experience anything else ever again.
Bathroom Etiquette:
While we're on the subject, I might as well throw this in: WHO THINKS IT'S COOL TO TALK ON THE PHONE IN THE BATHROOM??? That wasn't cool 10 years ago, and it's still not now. Whenever anyone does it, I make a point to flush every urinal and stall in the place, just so the person on the phone hears. Sometimes multi-tasking isn't the answer.
Also, who decided that the gym bathroom is a sound booth where you can make whatever noises you feel like? I go to wash my hands and I hear all the worst parts of the Bible coming out of stall three. Another time I walk in and it sounds like some dude is watching his daughter perform a gymnastics floor routine from the bleachers: "Eeeeeeesh, ohhhhhh, wheeeeeew, ugggggh, phewwww, alllright, hmmmmm, stick the landing, yesssss, ahhhhhh, exhale." Awful. The worst is when there's a someone makin' a lot of noise from the handicapped stall and I don't know if they're just making sound effects or if they fell and are struggling to get back into their wheelchair. And it's not like I can give a peek under the stall because the last thing I want to do is make eye contact with some paraplegic lying pantsless on the floor of a public restroom-- I don't want to see his shame and more so, it'll make it even more awkward when I turn and walk away.
Facebook Philanthropy:
I'm sick of all the "causes" and "petitions" that people send me on facebook. I get twenty of these things a week, and end up feeling like a major douchebag and terrible human because I just click ignore on them. Meanwhile, it takes someone about 30 seconds and minimal effort to invite everyone they know to join this cause they are interested in, and somehow they're supposed to come off as good people. They don't actually care if I join their cause, they just want everyone to know that they care about stuff. Of course I care about major issues and global/national problems, but who is going to take me seriously when I have 50 causes that I'm for and 500 petitions that I've signed? So what am I supposed to do with these things?? Yeah, I'm not pro-global warming, but do I really need to accept your "Fight Against Global Warming" cause invitation?? It doesn't sound like a problem, but do I really support a White House Victory Garden Re-planting enough to "sign" a PETITION?? No! If you're my friend on facebook, then you PROBABLY aren't the type of person that supports Neo-Nazi Movements, Ethnic Cleansing, or Extreme Poverty. I don't need you to advertise that you want to help people in Darfur or are in favor of working towards more balanced wealth distribution in our nation and others. Just because I don't join your cause against seal clubbing, doesn't mean I go out on weekends and club seals, nor do I support seal clubbing organizations (other than organizations that are in favor of physically clubbing the singer Seal).
So stop. Please. We know you're good people. Or we know you're not good people. AND we know if WE are good people or not. You don't need to lead us in one direction or another.
Formerly A Good Person,
Witz
P.S. What's with the ubiquitous "Two Rules to a Flat Stomach" internet ad with the before and after shot of the "flat stomach?" It's everywhere and makes even safe, work friendly pages seem like gross awkward porn. Since when did "photos that make you want to throw up" become good marketing?
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Witz Pickz: State IOU's
California is being forced to issue IOU's instead of state tax refunds to millions of residents. At first, I was concerned. You know there's something wrong when you trust your state government less than you'd trust a homeless guy when they say, "I'll pay you back later!" Sure you will, State of California-- you prooobably just casually decided to go the direction of IOU's-- it's proooobably not a sign of a major economic collapse that will haunt the state for years...
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Really puts the whole Prop 8 thing in perspective-- "As your state, we say that you can't get married because you're gay! Also, as your state, we're broke as shit, dude! Spot me some g's?" I'm sorry, but I don't let broke people tell me what to do. If you owe me fifty bucks and tell me not to borrow your Forgetting Sarah Marshall DVD-- I'm gonna go ahead and borrow it, thanks. If you owe me money and ask for a ride to the store, guess who's not paying for gas. I don't think we should let broke-ass California have control over us anymore. If you wanna get gay married, go for it. If you wanna confine your chickens before you slaughter them-- you do that. If you don't like stop signs-- then let your roads be stop sign free. And this is exactly why I'm way in favor of State IOU's.
Getting an IOU from your state is like having them say, "Don't worry about speeding anymore!" Because when that cop pulls me over, I'm gonna be waving my tax return form at them. Parking tickets? Nope. Paying for public transit? Put it on my tab. Any public works or utilities item should suddenly be available with my new Municipal Gift Card. It's like we all suddenly became celebrities and have political sway to get away with stuff.
Having the state use IOU's opens the door for a ridiculous IOU economy (oh wait, we do that already).
Police: Sir, you just drove your car at 160mph (which is really impressive for your Subaru station wagon) off the highway, through the city, barrelling over hills and eventually crashing into Fiddler's Green-- we need you to come with us.
Witz: Sorry, sirs, but no dice-- lemme just get out my IOU book and write you one for "8 years jail time served." Also, I hate Fiddler's Green.
Boss: So are you planning on coming in this month...because we've been paying you for the last three and you haven't been here?
Witz: Uhp, my bad-- I totally meant to write you an IOU for the 3rd quarter, but I thought maybe I was just getting severance! Here you go, 640 hours, that should cover it. Now, I'm gonna need you to wait until 2010 before you cash this.
Finally, where in the Constitution does it say you can issue IOU's??? Was Ben Franklin like,
BEN FRANKLIN: Also, add a part in there where if the country becomes obscenely broke, it can cover all expenses and commitments to its citizens via a slip of paper with the letter's I-O-U scrawled on it.
THOMAS JEFFERSON: What?
BEN: You know, like, just in case.
THOMAS: Dude, are you hiiiiigh?? We can't do that!
BEN: Whyyyyy not? We're writing the CONSTITUTION!
GEORGE WASHINGTON: Thomas, stop being such a pussy and just do it.
BEN: Are you kidding me? IOU's??
GEORGE: It'll be hilarious!
THOMAS: It's not like it's gonna happen, just do it!
JOHN HANCOCK: Haaaaaancock!
BEN: Fine. Douchebags.
IOU More Jokes,
Witz
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Really puts the whole Prop 8 thing in perspective-- "As your state, we say that you can't get married because you're gay! Also, as your state, we're broke as shit, dude! Spot me some g's?" I'm sorry, but I don't let broke people tell me what to do. If you owe me fifty bucks and tell me not to borrow your Forgetting Sarah Marshall DVD-- I'm gonna go ahead and borrow it, thanks. If you owe me money and ask for a ride to the store, guess who's not paying for gas. I don't think we should let broke-ass California have control over us anymore. If you wanna get gay married, go for it. If you wanna confine your chickens before you slaughter them-- you do that. If you don't like stop signs-- then let your roads be stop sign free. And this is exactly why I'm way in favor of State IOU's.
Getting an IOU from your state is like having them say, "Don't worry about speeding anymore!" Because when that cop pulls me over, I'm gonna be waving my tax return form at them. Parking tickets? Nope. Paying for public transit? Put it on my tab. Any public works or utilities item should suddenly be available with my new Municipal Gift Card. It's like we all suddenly became celebrities and have political sway to get away with stuff.
Having the state use IOU's opens the door for a ridiculous IOU economy (oh wait, we do that already).
Police: Sir, you just drove your car at 160mph (which is really impressive for your Subaru station wagon) off the highway, through the city, barrelling over hills and eventually crashing into Fiddler's Green-- we need you to come with us.
Witz: Sorry, sirs, but no dice-- lemme just get out my IOU book and write you one for "8 years jail time served." Also, I hate Fiddler's Green.
Boss: So are you planning on coming in this month...because we've been paying you for the last three and you haven't been here?
Witz: Uhp, my bad-- I totally meant to write you an IOU for the 3rd quarter, but I thought maybe I was just getting severance! Here you go, 640 hours, that should cover it. Now, I'm gonna need you to wait until 2010 before you cash this.
Finally, where in the Constitution does it say you can issue IOU's??? Was Ben Franklin like,
BEN FRANKLIN: Also, add a part in there where if the country becomes obscenely broke, it can cover all expenses and commitments to its citizens via a slip of paper with the letter's I-O-U scrawled on it.
THOMAS JEFFERSON: What?
BEN: You know, like, just in case.
THOMAS: Dude, are you hiiiiigh?? We can't do that!
BEN: Whyyyyy not? We're writing the CONSTITUTION!
GEORGE WASHINGTON: Thomas, stop being such a pussy and just do it.
BEN: Are you kidding me? IOU's??
GEORGE: It'll be hilarious!
THOMAS: It's not like it's gonna happen, just do it!
JOHN HANCOCK: Haaaaaancock!
BEN: Fine. Douchebags.
IOU More Jokes,
Witz
Monday, February 02, 2009
Witz DOESN'T Pick: Racist Lights
My room back home hasn't been updated since I was five years old. This means that all my furniture, my bed (which is actually larger than the bed I currently sleep in), my walls, my rug, are all the same as they were over twenty years ago. And apparently, twenty years ago, a gay five year old lived in my room. Every piece of furniture is rainbow colored-- meaning the outline is blue, but each drawer, shelf, etc. was a different color of the rainbow. Super ironically, I'm partially color-blind, so every time I walk in my room, it's as if my room is welcoming me with a big "Fuck You!"
One item in my room, however, drew my attention when I was home in December. In the middle of my ceiling, there is a light, and I realized this time around, that it is, through no fault of its own, an extremely racist light. As you can see in the picture below, my light depicts a number of athletes in sports poses-- only, to allow for the most light possible, they are all extremely white. The whole thing plays out like a "People about to lose" montage. Let me explain:
Boxer: As far as I know, tiny white boxers haven't dominated the sport (or underwear culture) since the thirties. This guy is about to get his ass handed to him by Oscar de la Hoya.
Basketball Player: Whoah, whoah whoah-- whatcha doin' buddy? That's a funny lookin' pass! Our boy in red is seconds away from getting that ball smacked back into his face reminding him that John Stockton was the last of his kind and even Steve Nash doesn't think he's as good as people say.
Skiier: Alright, that's legit, but it's amusing that they made the guy doing the whitest sport all bundled up in color except for his face and hair. He looks like the bad guy brothers in Die Hard.
Baseball Player: Nothin' much to say other than the fact that this guy looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE.
Tennis Player: Again, nothin' much to say about the super white tennis player, other than the fact that he looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE!!! Also, some South American white guy would kick the crap out of this guy.
Hockey Player: So there are only like, three black people in the entire NHL, and hockey players wear badass gear and are rough dudes, but this light STILL made this guy look nerdy and white-- feels like they're compensating.
Nascar: Let me explain how this is racist. Having NASCAR on my light makes it so that any black person walking in my room would take one look at my light and say, "Oh-- I'd better go..." He'd also probably add, "But for what it's worth, I think there's a gay five year old living somewhere in your room." It's a slippery slope-- first you get the Nascar light, then you get the swastika face tattoo.
Football Player: Do a little research and get back to me on how many white running backs there are in the league. Either this light is racist, or we're supposed to believe that this guy's team just blocked a punt and the offensive lineman picked up the ball on his long trudge down towards the end zone. You be the judge.
Oh yeah, and just in case the rainbow furniture and racist light weren't enough, I have a print by an apparently famous Native American painter of a small topless boy being stalked by a guardian bare-chested spirit in the clouds. I guess it was painted during the awkward, "The Gods Might Touch You There" movement of the 80's. The weirdest part is that when I was really little and scared to go to sleep, my Dad would say, "Don't worry, just look at your painting of the guardian spirit," which was like saying, "Don't worry, there's a creepy Indian looming over you just outside your sight."
Two Words: Night Shirt,
Witz
Oh hey, just a nude Indian on a ghost horse, nothin' to worry about here...
One item in my room, however, drew my attention when I was home in December. In the middle of my ceiling, there is a light, and I realized this time around, that it is, through no fault of its own, an extremely racist light. As you can see in the picture below, my light depicts a number of athletes in sports poses-- only, to allow for the most light possible, they are all extremely white. The whole thing plays out like a "People about to lose" montage. Let me explain:
Boxer: As far as I know, tiny white boxers haven't dominated the sport (or underwear culture) since the thirties. This guy is about to get his ass handed to him by Oscar de la Hoya.
Basketball Player: Whoah, whoah whoah-- whatcha doin' buddy? That's a funny lookin' pass! Our boy in red is seconds away from getting that ball smacked back into his face reminding him that John Stockton was the last of his kind and even Steve Nash doesn't think he's as good as people say.
Skiier: Alright, that's legit, but it's amusing that they made the guy doing the whitest sport all bundled up in color except for his face and hair. He looks like the bad guy brothers in Die Hard.
Baseball Player: Nothin' much to say other than the fact that this guy looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE.
Tennis Player: Again, nothin' much to say about the super white tennis player, other than the fact that he looks EXACTLY LIKE SAN DIEGO PADRES INFIELDER, KHALIL GREENE!!! Also, some South American white guy would kick the crap out of this guy.Hockey Player: So there are only like, three black people in the entire NHL, and hockey players wear badass gear and are rough dudes, but this light STILL made this guy look nerdy and white-- feels like they're compensating.
Nascar: Let me explain how this is racist. Having NASCAR on my light makes it so that any black person walking in my room would take one look at my light and say, "Oh-- I'd better go..." He'd also probably add, "But for what it's worth, I think there's a gay five year old living somewhere in your room." It's a slippery slope-- first you get the Nascar light, then you get the swastika face tattoo.
Football Player: Do a little research and get back to me on how many white running backs there are in the league. Either this light is racist, or we're supposed to believe that this guy's team just blocked a punt and the offensive lineman picked up the ball on his long trudge down towards the end zone. You be the judge.
Oh yeah, and just in case the rainbow furniture and racist light weren't enough, I have a print by an apparently famous Native American painter of a small topless boy being stalked by a guardian bare-chested spirit in the clouds. I guess it was painted during the awkward, "The Gods Might Touch You There" movement of the 80's. The weirdest part is that when I was really little and scared to go to sleep, my Dad would say, "Don't worry, just look at your painting of the guardian spirit," which was like saying, "Don't worry, there's a creepy Indian looming over you just outside your sight."
Two Words: Night Shirt,
Witz
Oh hey, just a nude Indian on a ghost horse, nothin' to worry about here...
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