Hallway
I only had a millisecond to duck. Fortunately, my acute hearing was especially adept at detecting projectiles in mid flight. In this particular instance, the whizzing sound flying directly at my visage was a soft foam dart with a suction cup at the end.
I knew the rocket would leave a welt. I had to act fast. I hurled myself across the hallway into the adjacent room. I heard a distinctive thwack as the dart hit the mirror at the end of the corridor. I was safe. For now.
My heart beating rapidly, I knew I had to retaliate. Grabbing my Nerf firearm, I plunged onto the pine, going commando style down the alley like a newly trained private in his first fox hole. I set up for the kill.
I unleashed my fiery. The shot rang true, hitting my target with the velocity of an arrow fired from a bow by Hercules himself. I would live to fight another day. And Joey would be slightly annoyed for the rest of the afternoon.
Three Seasons Room
Andy stared across the table from me with his cold steel eyes. It was impossible to tell what two cards he was holding his hand.
I look down at the cards in front of me. There’s a queen of diamonds at the end of the pile. I want that. Unfortunately, a hodge podge of singular cards and suites precedes it. Still, a feeling in my gut tells me I’ll draw another queen on the next round and thus complete my three of a kind with the other femme fatale in my hand, the elusive queen of spades. I proceed with the bold gesture, ensuring spectacular victory or crushing defeat.
Andy calmly picked up the top from the card the deck and laid down the remainder of his hand into a small straight. The smirk on his face shames me to this day. I shall never again play another round of cards with Andy “Rummy 500” Copely.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Snakes on a Plane
Hollywood, you’ve outdone yourself again.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the greatest film of all time has been made and all before it has even been released. Casablanca, Citizen Kane, and Godfather II will be just passing memories when Snakes on a Plane gets released on August 18th.
If you haven’t heard about this marvel of movie-making, the film stars Samuel L. Jackson as Neville Flynn, the tough as nails FBI agent that has to escort a mob boss that is going to testify against his brethren. The high concept here, is that someone aboard the plane releases crates upon crates of deadly snakes to silence the witness once and for all. Hysteria ensues.
I, for one, cannot wait for the premiere of this film. I can already sense that Sam Jackson is going to deliver some of the greatest one-liners of all time. I am willing to bet twenty dollars that at the very least, the following quote will be in the movie:
“I’ll TELL you what I think about them snakes. I HATE the mothafuckas!”
Oh my god, I can’t wait for this movie. Snakes on a Plane. This is the reason I chose marketing as a major.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the greatest film of all time has been made and all before it has even been released. Casablanca, Citizen Kane, and Godfather II will be just passing memories when Snakes on a Plane gets released on August 18th.
If you haven’t heard about this marvel of movie-making, the film stars Samuel L. Jackson as Neville Flynn, the tough as nails FBI agent that has to escort a mob boss that is going to testify against his brethren. The high concept here, is that someone aboard the plane releases crates upon crates of deadly snakes to silence the witness once and for all. Hysteria ensues.
I, for one, cannot wait for the premiere of this film. I can already sense that Sam Jackson is going to deliver some of the greatest one-liners of all time. I am willing to bet twenty dollars that at the very least, the following quote will be in the movie:
“I’ll TELL you what I think about them snakes. I HATE the mothafuckas!”
Oh my god, I can’t wait for this movie. Snakes on a Plane. This is the reason I chose marketing as a major.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
My Genius Marketing Idea: Part II
Main Bathroom
The primary bathroom was once a Spartan marvel of utility and simplicity. That is, until the Siren known as Abbey girl took sole possession of it.
Upon proclaiming the kingdom as her own, she immediately set out to fill every nook and cranny with her cosmetic treasures. Little hand towels and delectable soaps occupied once dormant spaces. It appeared that she had a different hair curler for every day of the week, along with a few extra as spares. Exotic fragrances filled the air, tickling the senses and stimulating the passions of the heart.
Frustration set in, however, when my toiletries were misplaced from their rightful spot. Digging around the shower landscape, I spot my bar of soap and bottle of hair cleanser behind a mountain of feminine lotions and oils that would have made Helen of Troy envious.
Reaching for my bottle of Head & Shoulders, I inadvertently knock over the army of products, spilling their contents along the basin of the tub.
“By the God of Zeus! How much crap do you really need in here, Abbey!?”, I thunder to the Heavens.
The most peculiar, women are, when it comes to bathrooms.
Dining Room
The rain ceaselessly pounded the sides of the house for hours on end. Bored to tears, the fellows and I congregated to assemble a jigsaw puzzle, 500 pieces of mayhem from the classic film, The Empire Strikes Back.
Assembling the cast of motley rebels, the task was all too easy. Luke, Leia, Solo, they all seemed to come alive with each interlocking work of art. Even the nefarious Sith Lord, Darth Vader, with his menacing mask brooding in the backdrop, came together with ease.
But the filler was a different story altogether. The infinite abyss of space and the hulking AT-ST’s in the background created a collage of black and grays that were completely indiscernible from each other. Every remaining fragment of the puzzle seemed to meld together.
We judiciously latched random pieces together. As more and more pieces were assembled, the chore became a rally. We would be triumphant in our goal as order was restored to the galaxy.
But Alas! All hope was lost. Like a bounty hunter trapped in a Sarlac pit, the last piece of the puzzle was gone, never to return.
The wookie would never be complete.
The primary bathroom was once a Spartan marvel of utility and simplicity. That is, until the Siren known as Abbey girl took sole possession of it.
Upon proclaiming the kingdom as her own, she immediately set out to fill every nook and cranny with her cosmetic treasures. Little hand towels and delectable soaps occupied once dormant spaces. It appeared that she had a different hair curler for every day of the week, along with a few extra as spares. Exotic fragrances filled the air, tickling the senses and stimulating the passions of the heart.
Frustration set in, however, when my toiletries were misplaced from their rightful spot. Digging around the shower landscape, I spot my bar of soap and bottle of hair cleanser behind a mountain of feminine lotions and oils that would have made Helen of Troy envious.
Reaching for my bottle of Head & Shoulders, I inadvertently knock over the army of products, spilling their contents along the basin of the tub.
“By the God of Zeus! How much crap do you really need in here, Abbey!?”, I thunder to the Heavens.
The most peculiar, women are, when it comes to bathrooms.
Dining Room
The rain ceaselessly pounded the sides of the house for hours on end. Bored to tears, the fellows and I congregated to assemble a jigsaw puzzle, 500 pieces of mayhem from the classic film, The Empire Strikes Back.
Assembling the cast of motley rebels, the task was all too easy. Luke, Leia, Solo, they all seemed to come alive with each interlocking work of art. Even the nefarious Sith Lord, Darth Vader, with his menacing mask brooding in the backdrop, came together with ease.
But the filler was a different story altogether. The infinite abyss of space and the hulking AT-ST’s in the background created a collage of black and grays that were completely indiscernible from each other. Every remaining fragment of the puzzle seemed to meld together.
We judiciously latched random pieces together. As more and more pieces were assembled, the chore became a rally. We would be triumphant in our goal as order was restored to the galaxy.
But Alas! All hope was lost. Like a bounty hunter trapped in a Sarlac pit, the last piece of the puzzle was gone, never to return.
The wookie would never be complete.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
My Genius Marketing Idea
I am planning on putting up my house for sale in the next couple of weeks and I was brainstorming of ways to make my castle more marketable compared to all the other boring shacks out there.
Here's my plan: I'd definately going the For Sale By Owner route, however, I am going to set up another blog similar to this one, loaded with pictures and other data. Where I am really going to stick out, is that I am going to go J. Peterman style expose for every room in the house.
Not only is he is a beloved character from Seinfeld, but the man can move product like none other. In order to keep me motivated on this arduous task, I'm going to post one or two stories every day in the trademark J.Peterman style. It was the Yam Yam.
The Kitchen
One balmy Sunday, late in the summer harvest, my chums and I decided to go and view the latest avant-garde at the local Cineplex.
Unbeknownst to me, I forgot to turn off the stove where I was cooking a nourishing snack of boiled eggs.
You can imagine our horror when we returned to our domicile later that evening. Plumes of smoke had insinuated every crevice of our abode. Bits of shell and egg debris fired out of the pot like the lava and crag from the volcanoes of Mauna Loa Island.
We managed to extinguish the mighty belch of Satan and the smell of petrified albumen and yolk eventually dissipated. But the boiling pot would never be the same again.
Bathroom #2
Joe was a blue collar man, exchanging sweat for currency to pay for his higher education.
Sometimes gone for weeks at a time, working in the trenches was tiring and lonesome for the young patriot.
One fateful evening in July, after an extended bout of grueling labor, Joe returned home with a burning desire to quench his thirst at our favorite brew pub. The first sip of his spirit sent him spiraling off into his adventures of traversing the bogs and marshes of upstate New York. The night was filled with intrigue and suspense as we drank rich whiskey while Joe regaled us with other tales of yester yore.
In the wee hours of that morning, Joe made for the lavatory and never returned. Not a heave was ever heard, but his fall resonated throughout the entire house. Neither prodding nor poking could awake the slumbering fool camped on the bathroom floor.
Joe would arise unperturbed the next morning. His recollection from the previous night was gone. No one would ever know if it was exhaustion or the cocktails that rendered him unconscious.
Here's my plan: I'd definately going the For Sale By Owner route, however, I am going to set up another blog similar to this one, loaded with pictures and other data. Where I am really going to stick out, is that I am going to go J. Peterman style expose for every room in the house.
Not only is he is a beloved character from Seinfeld, but the man can move product like none other. In order to keep me motivated on this arduous task, I'm going to post one or two stories every day in the trademark J.Peterman style. It was the Yam Yam.
The Kitchen
One balmy Sunday, late in the summer harvest, my chums and I decided to go and view the latest avant-garde at the local Cineplex.
Unbeknownst to me, I forgot to turn off the stove where I was cooking a nourishing snack of boiled eggs.
You can imagine our horror when we returned to our domicile later that evening. Plumes of smoke had insinuated every crevice of our abode. Bits of shell and egg debris fired out of the pot like the lava and crag from the volcanoes of Mauna Loa Island.
We managed to extinguish the mighty belch of Satan and the smell of petrified albumen and yolk eventually dissipated. But the boiling pot would never be the same again.
Bathroom #2
Joe was a blue collar man, exchanging sweat for currency to pay for his higher education.
Sometimes gone for weeks at a time, working in the trenches was tiring and lonesome for the young patriot.
One fateful evening in July, after an extended bout of grueling labor, Joe returned home with a burning desire to quench his thirst at our favorite brew pub. The first sip of his spirit sent him spiraling off into his adventures of traversing the bogs and marshes of upstate New York. The night was filled with intrigue and suspense as we drank rich whiskey while Joe regaled us with other tales of yester yore.
In the wee hours of that morning, Joe made for the lavatory and never returned. Not a heave was ever heard, but his fall resonated throughout the entire house. Neither prodding nor poking could awake the slumbering fool camped on the bathroom floor.
Joe would arise unperturbed the next morning. His recollection from the previous night was gone. No one would ever know if it was exhaustion or the cocktails that rendered him unconscious.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Penn State, You Broke My Heart
A funny thing happened to me while I was writing that post about the French chick. All those thoughts and feelings I conjured up to write that memoir made me think of the other girl I met on that Paris trip. If you don’t remember, it was the girl that lost the opportunity to date me because of my faulty cell phone plan. Going forward, we’ll refer to this girl as Penn State because that’s how I remember her even though she really went to some small school in Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of before.
Anyways, Penn State facebooked me (I absolutely loathe that verb, but goddamn if it doesn’t explain all) when we got home from France and she’s been one of the hundreds of my closest friends ever since. I haven’t communicated with her since our minor falling out, so I had the bright idea of rekindling the flame by leaving an insanely clever piece of wit on her facebook wall. After all, there’s no time like the random. To my dismay, she was gone from my list.
Penn State dropped me as her facebook friend!
Can you believe the nerve of this girl? Talk about the ultimate insult. This feels worse than the time my shitty roommate stole this girl I was seeing away from me while we were on Spring Break a few years back. That happenstance felt like puppy dogs and ice cream compared to this incident.
I just wish there some kind of warning. Or at the very least, a notification so you can reflect on why you were so lame. I can already see my inbox: You have a message from Penn State. She would like to sever all ties with you and completely disavow your entire existence. Do you accept? Yes or No.
Hell NO! Penn State, we’ve been through some rough patches before but I know in my heart we can make it though this mess. It was all my fault that I was too cheap to call you on my own shitty phone. But I’m a changed man. I have nationwide calling now. Just give me another chance! We can make it, baby! We can make it!
Something tells me I’ll never hear from my miscellaneous friend again. Call it a hunch.
But it does raise a very interesting question: Will breaking up with somebody ever be acceptable via facebook? Can ending a meaningful relationship be as simple as delisting that person from relationship status?
I guess, I’m cool with that, I only pray that I don’t ever get dumped by someone leaving a message on my wall. That would only force me to retaliate by forming some kind of club against her…
Anyways, Penn State facebooked me (I absolutely loathe that verb, but goddamn if it doesn’t explain all) when we got home from France and she’s been one of the hundreds of my closest friends ever since. I haven’t communicated with her since our minor falling out, so I had the bright idea of rekindling the flame by leaving an insanely clever piece of wit on her facebook wall. After all, there’s no time like the random. To my dismay, she was gone from my list.
Penn State dropped me as her facebook friend!
Can you believe the nerve of this girl? Talk about the ultimate insult. This feels worse than the time my shitty roommate stole this girl I was seeing away from me while we were on Spring Break a few years back. That happenstance felt like puppy dogs and ice cream compared to this incident.
I just wish there some kind of warning. Or at the very least, a notification so you can reflect on why you were so lame. I can already see my inbox: You have a message from Penn State. She would like to sever all ties with you and completely disavow your entire existence. Do you accept? Yes or No.
Hell NO! Penn State, we’ve been through some rough patches before but I know in my heart we can make it though this mess. It was all my fault that I was too cheap to call you on my own shitty phone. But I’m a changed man. I have nationwide calling now. Just give me another chance! We can make it, baby! We can make it!
Something tells me I’ll never hear from my miscellaneous friend again. Call it a hunch.
But it does raise a very interesting question: Will breaking up with somebody ever be acceptable via facebook? Can ending a meaningful relationship be as simple as delisting that person from relationship status?
I guess, I’m cool with that, I only pray that I don’t ever get dumped by someone leaving a message on my wall. That would only force me to retaliate by forming some kind of club against her…
Monday, March 20, 2006
B for Bendetta: Part III of Not Picking Up Foreign Chicks
The message was from “Cat”. Apparently, we we’re now on some kind of informal nickname basis.
I was extremely excited by this playful turn of events. Even though the e-mail was simple and succinct due to her lack of English skills, my imagination started to run wild. Only I could interpret “How was your trip? I hope you had good time” into the underpinnings of some of kind of epic romance with international intrigue.
Our correspondence went back and forth about every other day. We would send a couple of pictures with each message along with the story behind the picture in order to get to know each other a little bit better. It was a great system and things got flirtier and flirtier as time progressed. Her initial e-mails concluded with Yours, Cat but that evolved to Kisses, Cat and at the height of our relationship, A Thousand Kisses, Cat. You can’t make this stuff up.
Everything was going great until we hit our first snag. She wanted me to learn French so she started writing to me exclusively in French, thus forcing me to learn their crazy language. I said I would but the closest I got was checking out a few French dictionaries at the library. My first idea to avoid this task was to enlist the help of one of my French speaking real estate professors, who thought the whole situation very amusing. That worked for awhile, but I knew the solution was only temporary.
Just when I thought the letters we’re going to have to end, I discovered a web site that does free instant translating for any language. Eureka! My problems were solved. I just wrote what I wanted to say in English, copied and pasted it into this site, and Voila! I was instantly a cunning linguist in the most romantic language in the world. But rather than lead this girl into thinking I was some kind of prodigy, I instead, took the translation, deleted a word here, switched a few letters there, and liberally sprinkled random apostrophes all over the place.
It was a grammatical nightmare. Any respectable Frenchmen would have been disgusted with what I did to their beautiful language. However, Catherine thought it was adorable so they can all kiss my ass.
By now you’re probably thinking, Ben, you’re on a gravy train with biscuit wheels, how did you manage to biff this one?
Well, I thought Catherine had a sense of humor well enough to understand the genius behind everyone’s favorite periodical, The Onion. She didn’t. I found an extremely poignant article that related to how we first met. The title of the report was U.S. Foreign Policy Hurting American Students’ Chances of Getting Laid Abroad. The title pretty much explains itself but there was one particular line that went along the lines of, “I was dancing with this Italian girl and I swear to God I on was on the cusp of a handjob until she heard my American accent. Then she wanted to argue why we didn’t sign the Kyoto Treaty.” I’m sorry, but that’s just great writing, I don’t care who you are.
Apparently, Catherine just didn’t get it. I even explained to her that I was just kidding about the whole article and that The Onion isn’t even a real newspaper. It’s all fake news and satire. Still, she never wrote to me again after I sent that article.
I’m glad the relationship ended the way it did though because it really had no chance of going anywhere. I really didn’t look forward to the prospect of frog blood running through the veins of my kin. The last thing I need is a bunch of unemployed socialists running around my house. I already live with one right now and it’s hard enough as it is. Sacre’ Bleu!
What was the whole point of this long-winded post? Oh yeah, socialism doesn’t work. God Bless America.
Will somebody PLEASE give this guy a job? God!
I was extremely excited by this playful turn of events. Even though the e-mail was simple and succinct due to her lack of English skills, my imagination started to run wild. Only I could interpret “How was your trip? I hope you had good time” into the underpinnings of some of kind of epic romance with international intrigue.
Our correspondence went back and forth about every other day. We would send a couple of pictures with each message along with the story behind the picture in order to get to know each other a little bit better. It was a great system and things got flirtier and flirtier as time progressed. Her initial e-mails concluded with Yours, Cat but that evolved to Kisses, Cat and at the height of our relationship, A Thousand Kisses, Cat. You can’t make this stuff up.
Everything was going great until we hit our first snag. She wanted me to learn French so she started writing to me exclusively in French, thus forcing me to learn their crazy language. I said I would but the closest I got was checking out a few French dictionaries at the library. My first idea to avoid this task was to enlist the help of one of my French speaking real estate professors, who thought the whole situation very amusing. That worked for awhile, but I knew the solution was only temporary.
Just when I thought the letters we’re going to have to end, I discovered a web site that does free instant translating for any language. Eureka! My problems were solved. I just wrote what I wanted to say in English, copied and pasted it into this site, and Voila! I was instantly a cunning linguist in the most romantic language in the world. But rather than lead this girl into thinking I was some kind of prodigy, I instead, took the translation, deleted a word here, switched a few letters there, and liberally sprinkled random apostrophes all over the place.
It was a grammatical nightmare. Any respectable Frenchmen would have been disgusted with what I did to their beautiful language. However, Catherine thought it was adorable so they can all kiss my ass.
By now you’re probably thinking, Ben, you’re on a gravy train with biscuit wheels, how did you manage to biff this one?
Well, I thought Catherine had a sense of humor well enough to understand the genius behind everyone’s favorite periodical, The Onion. She didn’t. I found an extremely poignant article that related to how we first met. The title of the report was U.S. Foreign Policy Hurting American Students’ Chances of Getting Laid Abroad. The title pretty much explains itself but there was one particular line that went along the lines of, “I was dancing with this Italian girl and I swear to God I on was on the cusp of a handjob until she heard my American accent. Then she wanted to argue why we didn’t sign the Kyoto Treaty.” I’m sorry, but that’s just great writing, I don’t care who you are.
Apparently, Catherine just didn’t get it. I even explained to her that I was just kidding about the whole article and that The Onion isn’t even a real newspaper. It’s all fake news and satire. Still, she never wrote to me again after I sent that article.
I’m glad the relationship ended the way it did though because it really had no chance of going anywhere. I really didn’t look forward to the prospect of frog blood running through the veins of my kin. The last thing I need is a bunch of unemployed socialists running around my house. I already live with one right now and it’s hard enough as it is. Sacre’ Bleu!
What was the whole point of this long-winded post? Oh yeah, socialism doesn’t work. God Bless America.
Will somebody PLEASE give this guy a job? God!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
How NOT to pick up Foreign Chicks - Part II
So when the Doctor told me I didn’t have worms any more, that was the best summer ever!
Whoops, wrong story. Back to my torrid love affair with the very fair Catherine of Marseille.
I was trying to gain the attention of the bartender for another Fosters (which was the only beer on tap at the Australian themed club) when these two cute girls tried to get the drop on me for their drinks. This was unacceptable. Cuteness aside, no one gets between me and my thirst in a crowded bar when beer comes sparingly. I promptly boxed them out, Dennis Rodman style. Then the girls started gibbering at me in a foreign language. I’m pretty sure it was French.
I didn’t apologize. In fact, I rubbed it in their faces and bet them a Euro that I could get a drink before they could. One of the girls spoke English and she agreed to the wager. I somehow got my drink first so I made the talky one pay up. That’s when I found out her name was Catherine, she was 25, and she was visiting Paris from Marseille, the second biggest city in France. She learned to speak English studying abroad in Australia.
Catherine is very tall, and very slender, and very French looking. She was a classic beauty and once I started talking to her, I immediately regretted acting like the stereotypical jackass American that I am. I tried to gain back some ground by swearing my allegiance to Canada but my cover was blown when I correctly pronounced the word about instead of aboot.
So I did the next obvious maneuver, I played the I Hate Bush card. This trick is just like the fragrance Sex Panther. 60% of the time, it works, aaaaaaaaall the time. In this case, it worked extremely well, because I ended up chatting it up with her friends, grinding with her, and eventually doing a little necking on the dance floor. It was sweet.
My friends, also known as my “union buddies” as my Australian friends that I met that night referred to them as, were impressed. Unfortunately, my plane was leaving the next day so I knew my time with Catherine would be short. At the end of the night, we said our good-byes and I gave her my e-mail address out of courtesy. I never really expected to hear from her again.
But when I got back home to the states, my inbox had a very peculiar message in it…Oh the suspense!
Whoops, wrong story. Back to my torrid love affair with the very fair Catherine of Marseille.
I was trying to gain the attention of the bartender for another Fosters (which was the only beer on tap at the Australian themed club) when these two cute girls tried to get the drop on me for their drinks. This was unacceptable. Cuteness aside, no one gets between me and my thirst in a crowded bar when beer comes sparingly. I promptly boxed them out, Dennis Rodman style. Then the girls started gibbering at me in a foreign language. I’m pretty sure it was French.
I didn’t apologize. In fact, I rubbed it in their faces and bet them a Euro that I could get a drink before they could. One of the girls spoke English and she agreed to the wager. I somehow got my drink first so I made the talky one pay up. That’s when I found out her name was Catherine, she was 25, and she was visiting Paris from Marseille, the second biggest city in France. She learned to speak English studying abroad in Australia.
Catherine is very tall, and very slender, and very French looking. She was a classic beauty and once I started talking to her, I immediately regretted acting like the stereotypical jackass American that I am. I tried to gain back some ground by swearing my allegiance to Canada but my cover was blown when I correctly pronounced the word about instead of aboot.
So I did the next obvious maneuver, I played the I Hate Bush card. This trick is just like the fragrance Sex Panther. 60% of the time, it works, aaaaaaaaall the time. In this case, it worked extremely well, because I ended up chatting it up with her friends, grinding with her, and eventually doing a little necking on the dance floor. It was sweet.
My friends, also known as my “union buddies” as my Australian friends that I met that night referred to them as, were impressed. Unfortunately, my plane was leaving the next day so I knew my time with Catherine would be short. At the end of the night, we said our good-byes and I gave her my e-mail address out of courtesy. I never really expected to hear from her again.
But when I got back home to the states, my inbox had a very peculiar message in it…Oh the suspense!
Monday, March 13, 2006
How NOT to pick up Foreign Chicks - Part I
Wow, what a boring week. I can honestly say that nothing eventful in the slightest degree happened to me since my last post.
I did learn a very valuable lesson though. NEVER provide roommates with ammunition to easily annoy you. In my case, I learned that lesson the hard way with my rant on pennies. At first I thought it was kind of funny when my friends started leaving all of their dirty old pennies all over my room, and I even laughed a bit when I realized I had a penny in my shoe at work last Friday, but I had to draw the line when I rolled over in my sleep last night and got three cold pennies embedded in my back. It’s like they think my bed is a goddamn wishing well or something.
Next time I’m ranting about quarters. I could’ve accumulated enough change to have a pretty fun afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese by now.
I also realize that I haven’t offered any valuable insight on the male perspective in awhile and I know many of you out there are craving some deeply guided knowledge from the guru of relationships himself so I will offer up some juicy advice on how to NOT impress women from foreign lands.
The foreign land in question here is France. Surely, if you have been reading this blog for any period of time, then you know by now that I am by no means a “pick up artist” but I did manage to seduce a beautiful French girl in one of the most hostile hook up environments the world has ever known. Well, for Americans at least.
And by seduce, I mean, made out a little bit, but still, it was pretty awesome.
Anyways, I was on this Paris trip for a Real Estate class and the last night there, I and my friends pulled out all of the stops. We didn’t let language barriers or our complete lack of culture get in the way of hitting on every girl we saw at the club that night. Things we’re looking grim between the three of us until I met Catherine.
You know, I really hate to write over two pages in one sitting so I am going to leave you all in suspense before I finish my tale of overseas woe.
To be continued…
A good analogy for this post would be: Ben is to the women of France as David Hasselhoff is to the frauleins of Germany. Wow, can that man croon!
I did learn a very valuable lesson though. NEVER provide roommates with ammunition to easily annoy you. In my case, I learned that lesson the hard way with my rant on pennies. At first I thought it was kind of funny when my friends started leaving all of their dirty old pennies all over my room, and I even laughed a bit when I realized I had a penny in my shoe at work last Friday, but I had to draw the line when I rolled over in my sleep last night and got three cold pennies embedded in my back. It’s like they think my bed is a goddamn wishing well or something.
Next time I’m ranting about quarters. I could’ve accumulated enough change to have a pretty fun afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese by now.
I also realize that I haven’t offered any valuable insight on the male perspective in awhile and I know many of you out there are craving some deeply guided knowledge from the guru of relationships himself so I will offer up some juicy advice on how to NOT impress women from foreign lands.
The foreign land in question here is France. Surely, if you have been reading this blog for any period of time, then you know by now that I am by no means a “pick up artist” but I did manage to seduce a beautiful French girl in one of the most hostile hook up environments the world has ever known. Well, for Americans at least.
And by seduce, I mean, made out a little bit, but still, it was pretty awesome.
Anyways, I was on this Paris trip for a Real Estate class and the last night there, I and my friends pulled out all of the stops. We didn’t let language barriers or our complete lack of culture get in the way of hitting on every girl we saw at the club that night. Things we’re looking grim between the three of us until I met Catherine.
You know, I really hate to write over two pages in one sitting so I am going to leave you all in suspense before I finish my tale of overseas woe.
To be continued…
A good analogy for this post would be: Ben is to the women of France as David Hasselhoff is to the frauleins of Germany. Wow, can that man croon!
Monday, March 06, 2006
I Hate Pennies Because They Are Stupid
Let me reiterate: I HATE pennies.
There are so many reasons to abolish the penny but I want to focus on three main points:
1. Pennies cost more to produce than what they’re worth
2. Pennies are a pain in the ass
3. Pennies are gross
First, I realize that pennies aren’t made out of the valuable commodity copper anymore but I can’t imagine zinc being any cheaper to mine and mold for one goddamn cent. Imagine how meaningless your life would be working for a manufacturer that produces a product that is essentially worthless by the time it gets into the hands of consumers. When the penny is abolished, we’ll shut down all the penny factories and convert them to nickel and dime factories, essentially diverting precious time and resources to currencies that actually have value.
Second, I am more than willing to let the government have a one time sales tax increase to round up transactions to the nearest five cent increment in order to never have to look at another stupid penny for the rest of my life. The windfall from such a tax could halt our skyrocketing deficit from growing for at least a couple of hours and more importantly; I’ll never have to deal with dirty looks from cashiers when I try to dump my change on them for a soda or a bag of chips or whatever.
You know that dirty look I’m talking about, that look of contempt for wasting 2 seconds of their time to count and sort the change into the right bin. I am actually more discouraged by the half ass sympathy smile that follows the transaction that just says, hey dude, maybe some day things will turn around for you so that you’ll be able to purchase goods and services using REAL currency like dollar bills and credit cards. Seriously, who wants to deal with that when they have a snack attack?
Third, pennies are disgusting and they stink something fierce. Think of the smelliest, most disease infested areas you can imagine and I’ll bet you there will be at least three pennies on the sticky ground of that place. I actually get nauseous when I see a grime covered penny sitting on the bottom of a urinal (this is where pennies congregate when they’re not gathering dust in piggy banks) because I know someday that cocksucker is going to end up right back in my hands along with my order the next time I go to McDonalds. Excuse me, I didn’t order diphtheria with my double cheeseburger, I don’t care if I only paid a buck for it.
The world is going to be a better and cleaner place when the penny is gone. As the leading champion of this movement, may I suggest that we take all of the left over pennies from circulation and melt them down to create a monument in my honor. If it was my choice, the monument would be a giant statue of me knocking out Abraham Lincoln. Your days are numbered, penny, mark my words!
And I was kidding about Honest Abe, he’s easily in my top five favorite presidents of all time, right between Millard Fillmore and Ronald Reagan. I’m also a huge fan of the five spot and have no intention of declaring war on that monetary unit. Yet…
There are 200,035,318,672 pennies in circulation today. That's 200,035,318,672 reasons not to get out of bed each morning.
There are so many reasons to abolish the penny but I want to focus on three main points:
1. Pennies cost more to produce than what they’re worth
2. Pennies are a pain in the ass
3. Pennies are gross
First, I realize that pennies aren’t made out of the valuable commodity copper anymore but I can’t imagine zinc being any cheaper to mine and mold for one goddamn cent. Imagine how meaningless your life would be working for a manufacturer that produces a product that is essentially worthless by the time it gets into the hands of consumers. When the penny is abolished, we’ll shut down all the penny factories and convert them to nickel and dime factories, essentially diverting precious time and resources to currencies that actually have value.
Second, I am more than willing to let the government have a one time sales tax increase to round up transactions to the nearest five cent increment in order to never have to look at another stupid penny for the rest of my life. The windfall from such a tax could halt our skyrocketing deficit from growing for at least a couple of hours and more importantly; I’ll never have to deal with dirty looks from cashiers when I try to dump my change on them for a soda or a bag of chips or whatever.
You know that dirty look I’m talking about, that look of contempt for wasting 2 seconds of their time to count and sort the change into the right bin. I am actually more discouraged by the half ass sympathy smile that follows the transaction that just says, hey dude, maybe some day things will turn around for you so that you’ll be able to purchase goods and services using REAL currency like dollar bills and credit cards. Seriously, who wants to deal with that when they have a snack attack?
Third, pennies are disgusting and they stink something fierce. Think of the smelliest, most disease infested areas you can imagine and I’ll bet you there will be at least three pennies on the sticky ground of that place. I actually get nauseous when I see a grime covered penny sitting on the bottom of a urinal (this is where pennies congregate when they’re not gathering dust in piggy banks) because I know someday that cocksucker is going to end up right back in my hands along with my order the next time I go to McDonalds. Excuse me, I didn’t order diphtheria with my double cheeseburger, I don’t care if I only paid a buck for it.
The world is going to be a better and cleaner place when the penny is gone. As the leading champion of this movement, may I suggest that we take all of the left over pennies from circulation and melt them down to create a monument in my honor. If it was my choice, the monument would be a giant statue of me knocking out Abraham Lincoln. Your days are numbered, penny, mark my words!
And I was kidding about Honest Abe, he’s easily in my top five favorite presidents of all time, right between Millard Fillmore and Ronald Reagan. I’m also a huge fan of the five spot and have no intention of declaring war on that monetary unit. Yet…
There are 200,035,318,672 pennies in circulation today. That's 200,035,318,672 reasons not to get out of bed each morning.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Sex in the Zombie World...um...sort of
I just got back from another session at Barnes & Noble and I’m pretty happy about it. I polished off two books tonight, both incredibly unrelated to each other.
The first book I read was the Unhooked Generation by Jillian Straus, which I read because I wanted to figure out why I was single. It turns out it’s because I’m immature. I was really pissed when I was finished with the book because I already knew that. I probably could have saved myself a few hours if I just would have read the synopsis on Amazon.com instead. Live and learn, I guess.
The second book I read was Cell by Stephen King. It was about, you guessed it, zombies. I find zombie origin stories incredibly interesting. In this case, mankind was doomed by a pulse sent by a terrorist hacker that turned people into crazy zombies through cell phones. I thoroughly enjoyed that aspect of the book. I really can’t explain my utterly hypnotic fascination with zombiism.
God only knows how many conversations I’ve had with my roommate Joe going over what-if scenarios given certain zombie predicaments. Questions range from the most obvious, Who would you try to save during the first hours of a zombie attack? to the slightly more thought provoking, Do you think nine millimeter bullets would be an effective deterrent against a bull rush attack from three zombies? to the positively hypothetical, What would you rather have in zombie world, a double barrel shotgun with infinity ammo or have Chuck Norris as your companion?
Now that I think about it, that last question has a pretty obvious answer. Irregardless of the questions asked, it’s the topic itself that is generally an effective way to clear tables around you at Starbucks. I just think it’s sad that people are afraid to talk about zombie attacks in public. I know for a fact that I am not the only one losing sleep over these matters. Pity.
Cell kind of let me down in the end though because around half way through the book, the zombies starting gaining telepathy and levitating skills which is NOT cool. Although I feel I have a fairly active imagination, the idea of zombies having any kind of intelligence or finely tuned motor skills is just too much of a stretch for me.
I actually think that’s why I feel the idea of zombies is so intriguing. It’s such a simple concept but so many people manage to screw it up. People die. They come back to life. They’re hungry. They like brains. It’s not rocket science, people. But the difference between a great movie like Dawn of the Dead and a shitty movie like Resident Evil 2 is honestly light years.
You would think that the zombie genre wouldn’t translate from the big screen to books since zombies are so visually engaging, but I think J.K. Rowling dispelled that myth when she wrote Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. When the zombies came out of the water to attack Harry and Dumbledore in that crazy cave, I remember thinking, Wow. This is it. This is the end of literature. Nothing is going to top this. I’m glad it only took a children’s novelist to finally capture the true terror that the undead are notorious for.
You know it’s funny; my original intention of this post was to write a humorous satire utilizing knowledge I gained from that dumb relationship book to give advice to love stricken individuals in zombie world. It was going to be my bizarro version of Sex in the City. Well, realistically, if it’s me we’re talking about here, a more appropriate column title would be Not Getting Laid In A College Town. I’ll save that idea for a rainy day.
Why can’t I just meet a nice girl who can appreciate a good zombie movie? It probably goes to back to that immaturity thing I was harping about before…
The man, Chuck Norris, our greatest weapon in the war on zombies. Hopefully the same force that resurrects dead humans can also resurrect his career.
The first book I read was the Unhooked Generation by Jillian Straus, which I read because I wanted to figure out why I was single. It turns out it’s because I’m immature. I was really pissed when I was finished with the book because I already knew that. I probably could have saved myself a few hours if I just would have read the synopsis on Amazon.com instead. Live and learn, I guess.
The second book I read was Cell by Stephen King. It was about, you guessed it, zombies. I find zombie origin stories incredibly interesting. In this case, mankind was doomed by a pulse sent by a terrorist hacker that turned people into crazy zombies through cell phones. I thoroughly enjoyed that aspect of the book. I really can’t explain my utterly hypnotic fascination with zombiism.
God only knows how many conversations I’ve had with my roommate Joe going over what-if scenarios given certain zombie predicaments. Questions range from the most obvious, Who would you try to save during the first hours of a zombie attack? to the slightly more thought provoking, Do you think nine millimeter bullets would be an effective deterrent against a bull rush attack from three zombies? to the positively hypothetical, What would you rather have in zombie world, a double barrel shotgun with infinity ammo or have Chuck Norris as your companion?
Now that I think about it, that last question has a pretty obvious answer. Irregardless of the questions asked, it’s the topic itself that is generally an effective way to clear tables around you at Starbucks. I just think it’s sad that people are afraid to talk about zombie attacks in public. I know for a fact that I am not the only one losing sleep over these matters. Pity.
Cell kind of let me down in the end though because around half way through the book, the zombies starting gaining telepathy and levitating skills which is NOT cool. Although I feel I have a fairly active imagination, the idea of zombies having any kind of intelligence or finely tuned motor skills is just too much of a stretch for me.
I actually think that’s why I feel the idea of zombies is so intriguing. It’s such a simple concept but so many people manage to screw it up. People die. They come back to life. They’re hungry. They like brains. It’s not rocket science, people. But the difference between a great movie like Dawn of the Dead and a shitty movie like Resident Evil 2 is honestly light years.
You would think that the zombie genre wouldn’t translate from the big screen to books since zombies are so visually engaging, but I think J.K. Rowling dispelled that myth when she wrote Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. When the zombies came out of the water to attack Harry and Dumbledore in that crazy cave, I remember thinking, Wow. This is it. This is the end of literature. Nothing is going to top this. I’m glad it only took a children’s novelist to finally capture the true terror that the undead are notorious for.
You know it’s funny; my original intention of this post was to write a humorous satire utilizing knowledge I gained from that dumb relationship book to give advice to love stricken individuals in zombie world. It was going to be my bizarro version of Sex in the City. Well, realistically, if it’s me we’re talking about here, a more appropriate column title would be Not Getting Laid In A College Town. I’ll save that idea for a rainy day.
Why can’t I just meet a nice girl who can appreciate a good zombie movie? It probably goes to back to that immaturity thing I was harping about before…
The man, Chuck Norris, our greatest weapon in the war on zombies. Hopefully the same force that resurrects dead humans can also resurrect his career.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)