The DMV

“Now serving G-101 at window number eighteen. G-101."

Oh good. I’m G-174. So only 73 people ahead of me. I might make it home in time for Conan tonight.

I approach the enormous black lady at the counter who looks like she’s got a real good attitude about life. She pretends not to see me for a full sixty seconds as she peals an old piece of scotch tape off the base of her monitor for no apparent reason. “You need a little Goo-Gone?” I hilariously ask. She doesn’t respond at all. ”…I always carry some with me….” More loud silence. “Anyway… I’m number G-174, do you have any idea about how long I’ll be here?”

Like I’m the stupidest motherfucker she’s ever met, “Oh, you gone be here for at least two hour. You shoulda made a appointment. This the DMV.”

I don’t know why she felt the need to remind me that I was in the DMV, there were signs all around me. “I tried to make an appointment but the first available time was two months from now.” I hung in there for another fifteen seconds or so until I realized our time together was over and went back to my seat.

I’ve been driving with an expired license for the past 180 days or so. Sometimes drunk, sometimes high, but always worried I’m going to get pulled over and have to wrestle the cop to the ground, steal his gun, shoot him in the face, eat some of his flesh and move down to Tijuana to ‘lay low’ for a bit.

The thing with the DMV is the place is filled to the brim with the absolute dregs of society. There’s not one attractive person at the DMV, a lot of people are missing teeth and there’s a lady standing next to me who smells like a hundred dicks. Arrogant or not, I’m 100% sure that I’m better than everybody in the building and I should be receiving VIP treatment. I don’t know, maybe the Nazis were onto something, ya know?

Oh, the DMV is an excellent place to bring both your baby who is one week old and screaming constantly along with your two year old daughter who can’t sit still and is running all over the place with mud all over her face pulling the forms out of people’s hands. I want to hurt her.

“Now serving number G-102 at window number five.”

Every time that announcement is made I check my ticket as if I’m miraculously going to be next. I know I’m G-174, I just haven’t come to terms with it. I think somewhere deep down inside I actually believe that god is going to change my number to 103 or 104 right before I look down at it. You know, because I’m such a good person and all. “If you do that god I promise I won’t tell anyone that you did it, it’ll be our little secret and also I’ll start believing in you.” And then out of nowhere, to my surprise, it happened. MY NUMBER ACTUALLY CHANGED! Oh wait, no it didn’t, because I’m at the fucking DMV in Los Angeles. At 11:30 am. On a Monday. #myreality

It’s interesting to see who’s driving on the same roads as me and wonder why I’m not dead. Every five minutes or so the same seventy-year old Korean man wearing a FILA windbreaker and a 2001 Lakers championship cap which looks like someone placed it on his head without him knowing it, comes up to me and points to a bunch of different forms in his hand while saying “Form, form, form…” I direct him over to my fat black lady friend who was so helpful to me.

After 2 hours of constantly repeating the phrase, “I can’t fucking believe this,” under my breath, my number is finally, “miraculously” called. “Now serving number G-174 at window number eleven.” Thank you, god.

I get up there, pay my thirty-one dollars and they then move me over to another line, where they explain that I’ll be taking a photo for my new license today. What the hell did you just say? NO! I look like shit right now. I don’t want to be stuck with a busted picture of myself for the next 10 years. My kids will think I was a loser. They’ll take advantage of me and they’ll be disrespectful. Plus, if I’m ever in a fire, and my face is burning off they’ll see my license and be like, “this guy’s really attractive, let’s try harder to save him than we normally would.”

“I really thought I could keep my old picture.”
“No.”
“What if I email you a recent headshot I can forward you something right now off my i-phone? Or is there a Glamour Shots nearby?”

SNAP.

“Wait I wasn’t ready.”
“NEXT!”
“No, I wasn’t ready, Miss, you didn’t say cheese.”
“We don’t say cheese, sir and we don’t retake the pictures, NEXT!
”NO!
“Go take your test.”
“Test? What test?”

THE HARDEST FUCKING TEST EVER.

At the top of the page in big bold letters it says, “3 OR FEWER ERRORS ALLOWED” (or you don’t get your license). There’s a total of 18 questions! And none of them are ‘what do you do at a red light?’ This is an actual question taken from the test:

#17. You must make a written Report of a Traffic Accident Occurring in California (SR 1) to DMV if you:
A. Fail to pay your registration fees within 90 days of receiving your renewal notice
B. Are involved in a collision and there is more than $750 in damages
C. Allow a licensed driver from another state to drive your vehicle.

I mean, ‘A’ makes the most sense to me right off the bat because they might not have your information on file if you forgot to renew it, but then ‘C’ could work too. I’ve been in a few accidents and I’ve never made one of these reports before. I should probably keep that to myself. But then again, what the fuck is an SR 1? Am I the only guy in California who doesn’t know that? And as far as ‘B’ goes, what accident DOESN’T cost more than $750? Hmmm. For ‘C’ I figure it’s gotta be THAT person’s responsibility to file a report, right? God, I wish I had my TI-82 with me, it had all the answers. I guess ‘A’ makes the most sense then. I’ll go with ‘A’

Wrong. Guess I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.

“Now serving G-175….”

Annoyatarians: A Real Conversation with A Real Meathead

Friend: Hey, Steve, thanks for inviting me to your dinner party tonight -- it’s gonna be awesome, I’m sooooo excited! By the way, just so you know -- I’m a vegetarian.
Me: Okay…. So what does that mean?
Friend: It means I don’t eat meat, you silly goose.
Me: I know what a vegetarian is you fucking idiot, I’m asking what it means in terms of dinner tonight because I was planning on cooking steaks. Steaks in a white wine, blood sauce -- I already bought the marinade.
Friend: I don’t eat steaks. Or blood sauce.
Me: Obviously. So what do I need to do here? Should I just lay out some carrots or put a little hay in a bowl for you or something? Because I don’t have a trough.
Friend: Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to go through too much trouble. Just pick something up for me while you’re at the supermarket like some Tofu or a pack of Boca Burgers, you know, something that costs extra money on top of what you’re already spending on everyone else. And then when you get home just set aside enough time to cook my meal as well as the one you’re already cooking for all the other people. That way you can cook two entirely separate meals instead of just one in order to accommodate my lifestyle that doesn’t affect you at all.
Me: Why don’t you just eat meat this one time? I promise I won’t tell anyone.
Friend: No.
Me: Why not? I’d be willing to sign something.
Friend: Because I don’t eat meat, Steve.
Me: FINE! I’ll just make chicken then.
Friend: I don’t eat that either.
Me: You don’t eat chicken? Yeah, right. Now you’re just making up stuff you don’t eat. I suppose you don’t eat chicken nuggets either?
Friend: No, nothing that was ever alive at one point.
Me: Vegetables were alive at one point.
Friend: Yeah, but they don’t have feelings.
Me: Oh, really? Don’t let Terri Schaivo or Christopher Reeves’ family hear you say that, you monster. What about eggs?
Friend: Yes, I eat eggs.
Me: Wait. You won’t eat a chicken but you’ll eat their babies? Are baby chickens considered to be vegetables? Like a legume or something?
Friend: No, they’re eggs. I eat dairy. I didn’t say I would – the egg isn’t developed into a chicken yet so…
Me: Right, so you believe in abortion and hate kids. And you’re a murderer.
Friend: No. I didn’t say th--
Me: Hey, how come you rarely come across vegetarians in countries that are starving like in Ethiopia, is that because they’re not ungrateful little pieces of crap and they eat whatever they can get their hands on?
Friend: I don’t know, maybe it’s cultural.
Me: That’s racist. Look, I don’t want to make two separate meals.
Friend: Then why don’t you just make the entire meal vegetarian for everyone? And that way you can kill two birds with one stone. Or rather, two asparaguses with one stone. That’s a vegetarian joke.
Me: Okay, first of all, that joke is retarded—it’s got me questioning whether I should have even invited you over at all or continue being friend with you, but look, I really don’t want to argue anymore. I’m done arguing. So you win, just tell me what you want me to make and I’ll just make it and let everyone know they have to suffer because of you. You’re a baby.
Friend: You’re the baby.
Me: No I’m not. I want steaks!
Friend: You can still make steak if you want, just make meatless steaks, I’ve had ‘em, they’re pretty good.
Me: What the hell are you talking about? Is that another shitty joke?
Friend: No, they make Tofu Steaks and Steak strips that taste just like steak except there’s no steak in them.
Me: Meatless steak?
Friend: Yes.
Me: Steak, with no meat.
Friend: Yep, and they’re made to look and taste just like real meat.
Me: Hold up! No, no, no, no, NO! Absolutely not! You do not get to flavor your tasteless tofu brick-matter with the essence of meat. It’s an insult to all the animals who had to actually go through the process of being murdered and having their heads chopped off so they could become delicious flavors in our mouths. I’m sorry, but if you love your vegetables so much, you have to let your food taste like them. You can’t have your Gluten-Free cake and eat it too.
Friend: AHHHH! OKAY, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU MAKE, DO WHAT YOU WANT, IF I CAN’T EAT IT I WON’T, IF I CAN I WILL.
Me: No, now I’m serving plain celery to everyone. It’s decided. That’s what’s gonna be for dinner. Everyone is going to get one stalk of celery and they’ll have you to thank for it. I’ll turn the whole world against you.
Friend: Fine Steve, you do that.
Me: And I’m telling you right now just so you know, I may or may-not touch your celery with raw pieces of chicken bones without you knowing it. (May).
Friend: Okay, thanks for the heads up.
Me: I hate you with all of my heart --- which means you can’t eat me. Because I have a heart.
Friend: Why would I eat you? I’m a vegetarian.
Me: Then I’ll make a mold out of me, made from tofu and you can eat that. But it will taste exactly like me, which will not taste good.
Friend: Ok.
Me: What about shrimp? Do you eat shrimp?

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Going to the Gym

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Shoot Me

Going on vacation with someone who just bought a brand new camera can be a real treat.

“Oh that’s interesting (snap),” “How cool is that telephone pole? (snap)” “Hey it’s been three minutes since I’ve taken a picture I should probably take another picture (snap)” I’m gonna fuckin snap (SNAP).

They say a picture’s worth a thousand words but to me it’s worth just one: “STOP!”

Why don’t you strap a video camera to your head so you can capture EVERYTHING without missing a single moment of your precious little vacation? It’s water, what are you a fuckin martian? How many goddamn pictures do you need? You’re missing the entire experience. Instead of taking twelve hundred pictures on our African safari we should have just stayed home and done a google image search of the phrase “african safari”. It’s free and you can see illicit pictures of black ladies’ boobies.

When I’m traveling in a foreign country with just my girlfriend and her camera I get to feel like a total supermodel:

“Hey babe, go stand over there by that fountain, I want to get a picture…”

“Babe, how cool is that statue? Go stand next to it…”

“Go over there babe by that wall and smile…come on….smile! Smile nice, nicer, SMILE! PLEASE JUST SMILE FOR ME? PLEASE!!!”

How bout I smash your camera into a million pieces instead? Fuck smiling. Smiling’s for pussies and liars.

I should’ve been born at the turn of the century because everyone in those old time photos looks exactly the way I feel: unhappy to be there. They’re just sitting there and waiting for the bastard photographer to get this goddamn thing over with. “Just take the picture so I can move on with my life and get back to cobbling shoes and dying from Tuberculosis.”

Here’s a valid question: how did I become responsible for holding my girlfriend’s 10-pound camera bag and carrying it around my neck in ninety degree weather all week? Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t bring a camera so I wouldn’t have to have a strap giving me an Indian sunburn the entire day. By the way honey, I’m so psyched you opted for the hubble telescope lens attachment that weighs an additional 4.3 lbs, now we don’t have to travel to Spain because we can see it from our balcony.

“What? I am being careful with it! I DIDN’T BUMP IT INTO ANYTHING!”

One of the real joys of carrying an expensive camera around with you while you’re abroad is that you get to be worried every moment of the day that someone is going to rob you. Second thing anybody says to you when they find out you’re taking a trip, no matter where you’re going, “Oh you’re gonna love it there, it’s so gorgeous¹ … be careful though, make sure you keep an eye on all your stuff at all times, the people there can be animals².” This really allows me to relax when I’m out and about town. Especially when I’m at dinner trying to cut my steak with one hand while I’m clutching the camera bag with my other using all my white-knuckled might because it’s my responsibility if anything happens and I’ll never be forgiven.

Although once in awhile during dinner I do get a chance to let go of the camera bag -- when my girlfriend decides it’s time for us to take a picture with the random couple that we’re seated next to in the restaurant who we met an hour ago. Great idea, babe, after all, we did talk to them about that delightful appetizer!

So it’s up to me to find someone to take the picture, obviously. So I stop the only waiter in the restaurant who’s carrying a full tray of food and ask him to take it. He agrees and we awkwardly shuffle over to their table to get this thing done. And that’s when I say to myself, “Hey, Steve, you’re a friendly guy, why don’t you put your arms around this nice couple here and bring a little warmth to this picture.” At about the same time I make that decision, the waiter makes it abundantly clear that he’s never heard of or seen a camera before. Cool. This is going to last a lot longer than I expected. He’s holding it backwards and upside down like Mr. Bean. “No the other way.” They should consider swapping out fractions in elementary school for teaching people how to press a button.

He begins firing away, but just can’t seem to get it right. It’s either too dark, someone was cut-off, or blurry. Each time he checks the screen to see if the picture came out, there’s a ten second gap (which feels like ten minutes) where I’m stuck standing there wondering why the fuck I have my arms around these strangers. #poorjudgement. I want to put them down, but I’m not sure if that would be considered rude, after all, they did recommend that delightful arugula salad. After I had literally been holding onto these people for over two full minutes, my armpits begin sweating onto the tops of their shoulders. We really don’t need this picture that bad, do we? I’m gonna put my arms down. He finally gets it and I’m cleared to go, until the girl from the other couple breaks out HER camera too. Of course, everybody should have their OWN picture of these exciting moment in time. “Great! Now let’s get one with the waiter…”

One of the pleasures of traveling with only one other person on a trip is that you really can’t trust someone to take a picture for you because they’ll either jack you or literally leave you hanging. So in almost all of our pictures it’s either her or me ALL ALONE. It’s creepy, I look like Jeffrey Dahmer. But it beats the alternative of asking someone to take a picture for us. I really hate it. “Excuse me, can you just put your entire life on hold for a minute, we need to capture a still frame of this moment right here, I know you’re in the middle of catching this taxi, but this will only take one minute of your life plus it’s your responsibility….”

Once the trip’s over, you bet your bottom dollar that we just can’t wait to get back to show everybody all of our great pictures! Our friends just can’t seem to get enough of this. “Oh wow! How wonderful! You went to Italy while I worked all week in a factory only to come home to my verbally abusive husband every night? Why don’t you also rub dogshit in my face while I look at these?”

“How come there are no pictures of the two of you together?”

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Weddings are Fun!

Hey, thanks for inviting me to your wedding that’s taking place on the other side of the country. I was just looking at this pile of money here and wondering what the hell I was going to do with it. But now I guess I’ll spend it on you and your precious little wedding because that’s what’s important to me, not paying my bills.

You rule Expedia.com! Only $750 for a plane ticket? If websites were people you’d be my best friend because you never try to take advantage of me. And hotel.com, you’re my other pal because you’re only charging me $500 to stay at the Embassy Suites for three days where I’ll sleep under covers that are infested with some derelict’s sperm and his girlfriend’s vagina bugs. Two hundred more of my dollars to Mr. Tux so I can look like a complete asshole on a team of assholes and I’m on my way. Oh wait, I almost forgot the gift! What am I some kind of cheap-o?

Weddings are fun.

You HAVE to get married in life, I mean, otherwise, what the hell’s the point, right? I don’t want to be alone at the end of the day without someone giving me instructions on what I should do next. Who will remind me to take the garbage out or that I’m not a good person? Also, spending TWICE the money as a single person and buying two of everything just feels right. I need 2 cars, 2 cell phone bills and 2 different kinds of shampoo because evidently “you can’t use Selson Blue on a woman’s hair.” If I wasn’t spending I’d be saving, and what good would my money be doing if it were sitting in a bank somewhere providing me with financial security? Gotta put my cash to work.

After I arrive in town for the wedding, I enjoy a complimentary car service from the Groom’s awkward cousin who won’t stop talking to me about how much he loves weed. He’s thirty-seven.

Hotel check-in time. As I approach the counter, I think about my odds as to whether or not the hotel has fucked up my room. If I had to bet, I’d say there’s a 90% chance they’ll be sticking me in a smoking room with two double beds. Okay, more like 100%. While I’m at the counter, one of my friends thinks it would be a great idea if we shared a room, considering we’re thirty and he’s the cheapest motherfucker ever. I pretend I have a cold and threaten to get him sick if we go splitsies. But he insists and it looks like we’re gonna be the two weirdos at the wedding who are “sleeping” in the same room.

Before I know it, we’re off to the wedding rehearsal. What wedding would be a success without a successful Wedding Rehearsal? This is where you practice how you’re going to walk in a straight line for twenty-five yards, stand in place for the duration of the ceremony and then walk back. Certainly nothing you could figure out on the eve of the wedding. We do it six times.

This is followed by the Rehearsal Dinner which I’m not so sure is necessary. I’ve been eating dinner since 1980 and I’ve gotten pretty good at it. You could say I’m a natural. But the best part of this event is talking to the bride and groom’s relatives for hours on end about absolutely nothing. The key to a successful conversation here is to keep bringing up how you “can’t believe they’re actually getting married.” Whenever there is a lull in the conversation, just come right back to that thesis. Neither of you will really mean it, but it will fill the void of having to awkwardly stare at each other with nothing to say.

Also, if you stumble upon a funny joke that works like “I can’t believe he’s getting married either, I thought he was gay!”, just keep using it with everyone you talk to. Most people are so clueless they’ll think it’s the first time you said it. And if not, who cares? They’re probably just happy someone’s talking to them in the first place.

Speeches are a great way to share the inner-most personal feelings you’ve had bottled up inside you for years but were previously too sober to express. It’s also an opportunity to embarrass the shit out of yourself. If you’re the best man, don’t write a speech. In fact, don’t do any preparation whatsoever. Just get wasted and wing it. Studies show that people actually prefer to hear speeches that are essentially one long run-on sentence and make absolutely no sense at all:

…Well…we are all here for this…blessed union…of holy matrimony…joining two people together…intertwined with one and other, living their lives together in love, both each other headed…for wedded…bliss….(burp)….

Way to come prepared, buddy.

The only thing better than a live band at a reception is a Wedding DJ. Wedding DJ’s are people who own iPods. They make sure your wedding is a hit, by standing around the iPod and preventing it from getting unplugged during the celebration. Not everybody knows how to plug those things back in. They’re confusing! USB, MP3, GGG, I’m old, I don’t get it!

When I was a kid, I was always told I should wait an hour after eating before going swimming. Well, this is definitely NOT the case when there’s a dance floor involved and you just finished eating a three-course meal at a wedding. After you suck down your meal and you’ve fill your stomach to the brim with rolls, cake and alcohol, get your bloated ass on the dance floor for the Electric Slide and start working off those calories. If this causes you to briefly vomit in your own mouth you’re doing it right.

People never know how much to give for a wedding gift and my opinion on this is you should give people zero. What I like to do is send them a card with a photocopy of all my expenses for the week and a pink Post-it note on top that reads, “You’re Welcome, Assholes.”

It really doesn’t matter what you give people for a gift because whatever you give them, they give you right back. It’s the Golden Rule of Weddings: “Give people the exact amount of money they gave you, not a penny more, or a penny less and please don’t ask questions about why that makes no sense.”

The other option is to “forget the gift” on the day of the actual wedding. People say you have a year to give one, but you know what else takes a year? Forgetting who gave you gifts in the first place.

I guess that means I have 359 days to go…. I hope no one brings it up….

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Cheap Ass Motherfuckers

My Nana Ruthie used to take me to the movie theater when I was a little boy and after she paid for our movie tickets using her senior citizen discount to save a dollar fifty, we would rush into the theater without a chance to do my favorite thing: stop at the concession stand.

“I brought goodies,” she would tell me, and being no more than five and a clueless fucking idiot, I believed her every time. We’d make a b-line for our seats where she would unzip her pocket book and unveil her “treats” which included dietetic candies, Werther’s Originals and her own personal stash of popcorn which she popped the night before. It was in a plastic shopping bag, the same one she would put over her head to protect her hair if she was running out and it was drizzling and she just had it done.

I remember being so embarrassed at the time but she had no qualms about it. Like ‘this is what everybody does.’ I wanted to scream out, “WE BOUGHT THE POPCORN AT THE CONCESSION STAND AND THEN SHE PUT IT IN HER PURSE TO KEEP IT WARM, EVERYONE! WE’RE RICH!” But really she was doing what she knew best: being Jewish. She called the popcorn Gucci-corn, but she was just being silly. It was clearly Knock-Off Gucci-corn, the whole theater knew that. Anyway, each time I reached for a handful, I had to be careful not to pick up a Sweet ‘n Low packet or one of the 8,000 tissues she kept in that bag.

Back then popcorn was only three bucks, Nana! What the fuck? I did the math, after all was said and done, you only saved fifteen cents. It’s not 1937, that doesn’t buy you a loaf of bread anymore, Nana.

After the “picture” (as she called it) was over, we snuck into another movie which was halfway through based solely on the mere fact that we could do it for free. She didn’t care that it was Poltergeist II, which would cause her grandson to require plastic sheets on his bed until he was twenty-five. What she cared about was that we saw one and a half movies for the price of one. Now that’s a deal!

Whenever I go food shopping, I’m usually starving, which is the worst possible time to shop because that’s when I want to eat everything. When I pass through the produce section I always grab a bag of grapes, which I enjoy while doing my shopping. But by the time I get to the checkout stand, I’ve eaten almost half the grapes. I’m not gonna pay for a half-eaten bag of grapes, that’s a fuckin rip-off. Screw that, I’d rather hide them on the side of the conveyor belt where the Reader’s Digest and Soap Opera magazines are. Along with the empty bottle of VitaWater I just drank and a Zone bar wrapper. Just saved eight bucks. Winner!

In the candy aisle of my old supermarket, they used to have the self-serve candy drawers filled with gummy worms, chocolate almonds, malt balls and pretzels. They don’t anymore because of me. I would put my head under the spout and drain that shit like I was Augustus Gloop. And I would make multiple loops back to that aisle. Other people would just look at me like I was a sick person, literally foaming at the mouth with chocolate, dripping down my chin. Gotta get that shit down before the camera catches you.

My girlfriend took me out for dinner a few weeks ago and paid for us both. After I got over the initial shock and realized she wasn’t paying for me to make up for an affair she was having behind my back, I was able to start swallowing my food. The bill came and she not-so-subtly broke out a coupon and snuck it into the bill. Or should I say a GROUPON. Groupon is a new website that has these outrageous daily deals where you get a major discount on something like a massage or in our case: a dinner for two: you spend $50 and get $100 worth of food. The only catch, which it doesn’t mention in the fine print, is you have to look like a cheap ass motherfucker and eat dinner in a restaurant with other cheap ass motherfuckers, while the chef whips up your meal, putting half the effort he normally does into it because he’s cooking for a cheap ass motherfucker, who wouldn’t normally eat here. Thanks for dinner, babe, totally worth it!

A good friend of mine who grew up nearby used to invite me to sleepover his house during the summer. Sounds fun when you’re ten years old, right? I wouldn’t realize this was actually torture until I slept there for the first time. Their house was five hundred fucking degrees inside. They wouldn’t turn the goddamn air on. They had it, but they were just too cheap to use it. It was like reliving the Jews’ experience at Bergen-Belsen. They should have made it part of the Birthright Program.

You would walk into the house with a steak and by the time you’re blood sugar dropped and you finished dry heaving, the steak could be resold as beef jerky. And the most amazing thing was that they acted like it was completely normal. Neighbors would walk through with trays of cookie dough and leave with them fully baked; some of the cookies got burnt.

Before I knew it was rude I would make comments like, “Man, it’s hot in here” or “are you guys warm?” And they would always immediately respond in unison, “We’re fine!” as if they practiced it during a secret family meeting where the topic of discussion was How to Convince Everyone Else We’re Not Being Cheap. I felt so bad for my friend, I wanted to call Social Services and have them take him away and put him in a home with A/C. Even if his new parents sexually molested him, it would have been better than risking heat stroke and more importantly my comfort when sleeping over.

I used to have a roommate who didn’t pay for food. He was the last guy to ever reach in his pocket when a bill came, he would literally wait me out to the point where I was like ‘Fuck it, dude, I gotta go, you win. Happy?’

Every single time I’d order Chinese food I would ask him if he wanted anything, and he would always tell me he wasn’t hungry.

Are you sure?
I’m good.
Positive?
Yes, definitely not hungry.
Okay, ‘cuz I am and I’ve been looking forward to this chicken & black bean sauce all day and I really don’t want to share any of it with you.
I’m really not hungry, Steve!
Right, but it won’t be here for 45 minutes…will you be hungry then? Because if you will, I’ll buy something for you. I’ll pay.
I’M. NOT. HUNGRY.
Cool. Because I was bluffing about the ‘buy something for you’ thing.

And then like clockwork, as soon as the food came, he would sit next to me like Pavlov’s dog; you could hear him salivating. Often times that made my food taste better, but other times it was annoying. I had to make sure I didn’t drop anything on the floor, because he would snatch it up before I had a chance to throw it away or spit on it. And I also had to make sure I ate every last bite. Because when I didn’t my leftover scraps would keep him alive.

You know how you see those commercials where you can feed a kid for less than seventy-five cents a day? Well, I was keeping this guy going for half of that. You don’t think that adds up, but when I sat down one afternoon in a fit of pure rage, I made an excel spreadsheet and send it off to my accountant for a huge deduction and he was like, you’re gonna get audited.

I never put my name on anything in the fridge, mainly because everything in the fridge was mine. I put my name on the fridge. If I ever had any leftovers, he would wait until I went until I went to bed and eat them. I would try to stay up later than him, but he would take NoDoz, and come 4:30 am, I had to give up. This is a kid making $150,000 a year who had his head buried IN the refrigerator, to avoid me seeing him. And he wouldn’t eat it all, he would try to make it look like nothing happened, but I would count the pieces of chicken beforehand and I knew. Chicken doesn’t just disappear. It was chicken and black bean sauce, not Chicken & David Blain sauce; you know what I’m saying?

Come on man, funk that!

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X's and Ohs....

It’s funny, you can date someone for 4 years and after you break up, and a short period of time goes by, you act like complete strangers to one another when you see each other. I mean, we used to stick our fingers inside each other’s butts for crying out loud! And now, it’s like talking to a complete stranger I just met in an elevator.

I bumped into an ex girlfriend of mine not too long ago, while she was with her new boyfriend and I was with my new girlfriend. We said hello to one another and casually bullshitted like we were at some corporate marketing convention in Banquet Room B of the Walacutta, Ohio Ramada. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just all say what we were thinking?

Steve, meet Ted, he’s the new guy that’s fucking me now.
Hey douche bag! I fuckin hate you!
Ted, Stephen’s the guy with the small penis I was telling you about.
It’s nice to finally put a face on the penis, Steve.
Thanks, Ted. So tell me, did she get that vaginal reconstructive surgery she always used to talk about or does her pussy still look like a sandwich from the Carnegie deli?
I’m so glad you brought that up, Steve, that’s not normal, is it? I feel like it should come with a side of potato salad or something!
It’s kinda why I broke up with her. You’re better looking than me by the way, Ted. Did you know that?
I did know that, Steve. I think everyone in this bar knows that. Including your new girlfriend who clearly wants to fuck me.
Oooooh! Nice one, Ted, but I’m not so sure about that.
Babe. I do. And I’m gonna fuck him for sure -- behind your back.
Sounds good. Anyway, the two of you have fun, we’re gonna walk away now and start talking shit about you guys.
Go fuck yourselves!

And why is it when I run into my ex girlfriend and I’m with my new girlfriend my ex girlfriend has to look like absolute shit. Put some fuckin makeup on, girl. And why are you fat now? You’re embarrassing me. Now I have to have this conversation with the my new girl the entire ride home:

She used to be hot.
Sure she did, babe.
She did. I’ll show you pictures when we get back home.
I don’t want to see pictures of your ex-girlfriend.
­­Well, I don’t want you not blowing me because you don’t think I can do any better either. You’re looking at the pictures. And then blowing me because you’re jealous.

I like to run into ex girlfriends when I’m doing something really cool like seeing Harry Potter & the Half Blood Prince in a movie theater alone. That way she can be really jealous of me and see how independent I am.

Oh hey Steve! This is my nephew, David, he’s six, and also really excited about seeing this movie, do you guys want to catch up for a second while I go call my new boyfriend and let him know how much of a fucking loser you are?
Sure. So…David…do you jerk off to Hermione too?

The important thing to remember when running into an ex is to always act like you’re doing way better then you actually are. I want them to think that I’m ahead of them in the game of life. So in my case that means lying.

I just won the Pulitzer. The Pulitzer Prize. I won it. What have you been up to? Did you win the Pulitzer because I did?
Congratulations Steve, that's great my husband’s an author. What’s the name of your book?
Uh-, it’s called….uh, Catcher in the Rye 2. It’s about a corned beef sandwich....

Try to think up your lies ahead of time.

After you break up with someone, one person should volunteer to leave the country and never return. You take North America and I’ll take Albania, and if you’re ever going to be in my area, let me know and I’ll just kill myself. I’d rather do that than see you again.

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inDirecTV

The following is a real conversation that took place between me & DirecTV.

Recording: Thank you for calling DirecTV. Please say or enter your 10-digit phone number followed by the pound key.
Me: 5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5 #
Recording: You entered 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, if this is correct, press or say 1.
Me: One.
Recording: You’re response was not understood. You entered 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, if this is correct, press or say 1.
Me: One.
Recording: Para Espanol oprima numero dos.
Me: What the fuck? Operator.
Recording: You’re response was not understood.
Me: OPERATOR.
Recording: You’re response was not understood.
Me: OPERATOR. OPERATOR. OP-A-FUCKING-RATOR! YOU CAN’T UNDERSTAND THAT YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT MACHINE?! GIVE ME A HUMAN! 0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0, 00000000000000!!!!”
Recording: You’re response was not understood. To speak to a live representative, say, “Representative”
Me: Representative.
Recording: Please hold while we transfer you to a live representative.
Me: Thank you!
Operator: You’re response was not understood. Kidding.

I WAS THEN ON HOLD FOR 13 MINUTES LISTENING TO THE FOLLOWING PLAYLIST:

Never Gonna Give You Up RICK ASTLEY
All That She Wants ACE OF BASE
Barely Breathing DUNCAN SHEIK

I’ve been thinking about having them DJ my 30th.

Me (singing): … but I could stand here waiting…. ooh for another day…go so far, so far, so right so far but I won’t stay-yay-yay yeah. And I’m thinking it ov -- Hello?
Live Operator: Thank you for calling DirecTV, can I have your 10-digit home or wireless phone number?
Me: Good jam. I already punched it in.
Operator: Hello, sir? Can I please have your 10-digit home or wireless phone number?
Me: Yes, It’s 555-555-5555
Operator: Okay how can I help you today, Mr. Schneider?
Me: I’m just calling to make sure that someone’s coming tomorrow to hook everything up. I called and setup an appointment 2 weeks ago and tomorrow’s the big day! You guys are pretty backed up, huh?!
Operator: Yes, Mr. Schneider, we’re really busy. You’re appointment is in fact scheduled tomorrow between the hours of 7am and 3pm.
Me: Eight hours, huh?
Operator: What’s that?
Me: An eight-hour window tomorrow? That’s the best you can do? You can’t narrow it down to seven? You know, so I don’t have to sleep by the front door?
Operator: No, sir.
Me: Okay, no big deal. I’ll just spend my entire day waiting around for them to come and install the cable. I won’t do anything tomorrow but wait around. I was gonna try to accomplish something but instead I’ll just wait.
Operator: Yes, sir.
Me: Fine. So just to make sure, they’re bringing me a DVR box tomorrow, right? So I can record my shows?
Operator: Um, actually, no. It says here that you requested a regular box.
Me: That can’t be right. I’m one million percent sure I ordered a DVR box.
Operator: It’s not showing that here. That’s an additional charge.
Me: Okay, well I still want the DVR so just bring it and charge me whatever it is.
Operator: Unfortunately, we can’t do that, sir.
Me: Why? Don’t tell me you’re out of them.
Operator: Oh, no, we have thousands of DVRs. I’m actually looking at a huge pile of them right now.
Me: Then what’s the problem?
Operator: We can’t alter any information about the appointment after it’s been set.
Me: Seriously? You can’t just bring the other box?
Operator: No.
Me: So how do I get the other box?
Operator: You have to cancel this appointment and create a new one with the DVR.
Me: Well, the appointment will still be on the same day, right?
Operator: There’s actually no way of knowing that until we setup the new appointment.
Me: Seriously? Wow. Okay, fine. So let's do this, if I can’t get the same appointment on the same day, then just forget the box. I’ll live without it. It will be awful but I’ll get a VCR or one of those Beta machines or something.
Operator: We can’t do that, sir. In order to setup a new appointment, you have to cancel your old appointment first.
Me: Wait, I have to risk losing my original appointment if I want a new one?
Operator: Yes.
Me: But won’t there be an opening in the schedule if I cancel my old appointment?
Operator: Yes.
Me: Then can’t I get that opening?
Operator: I don’t know, sir. There’s no way to tell what the system will do until I actually do it.
Me: Why do I feel like I’m in Vegas, it’s 4:30 in the morning, I’m wasted and shaking from 17 Redbull Vodkas and I’m about to play Wheel of Fortune with my last $20?
Operator: I’m not following.
Me: You're asking me to gamble my old appointment away.
Operator: I don’t gamble, sir.
Me: What’s your name?
Operator: Julie.
Me: Listen, Julie. It’s just you and me here on the phone. Forget about DirecTV for a second. And the "system." It's just you and me. You know what the right thing to do is in this situation. I’m a nice guy and you’re a nice girl. Just tell them to bring the other box and no one will ever know. I won’t tell a soul. You won’t tell a soul. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll meet up and I’ll take you out for an ice cream cone. But either way, we’ll never speak a word of this as long as we live. We’ll take this secret to our graves, what do you say? Do me a favor.
Operator: It’s against our policy, sir.
Me: Is it because this call is being recorded?
Operator: No, sir.
Me: You know, I elected to answer the survey after the call is finished.
Operator: Would you like me to schedule you a new appointment?

Me: Okay, Fine! Screw it. Just do it.
Operator: You want me to cancel this appointment and reschedule you a new one with the DVR?
Me: I don’t have any other choice, right?
Operator: Not if you want the DVR.

Me: Okay, let’s go for it. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

Operator: Okay, so I just canceled the old one, and now I’m going to try and reschedule your new appointment….I’m looking…for a new appointment for you right now. Okay…here we go…the earliest available appointment is fourteen days from now.

Me: WHAT?! ARE YOU KIDDING? How is that possible? I’m pretty sure there’s an appointment slot available on the same day I just had or did some asshole who just ordered service three seconds ago get an appointment the very next day? I want my old appointment back.
Operator: I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. The old one is gone.
Me: I can’t believe this. This is ridiculous. You can forget about that ice cream cone, Julie. You can forget about everything! Okay... I need you to transfer me to your supervisor?
Operator: You want to speak to my supervisor? She’s going to tell you the same thing.
Me: That’s okay. I'll take my chances. I've been this lucky so far....
Operator: Okay, let me see if she’s available.

FIVE MORE MINUTES ON HOLD
Song: Never Gonna Get It EN VOGUE

Oh, the irony....

Operator: Okay, sir I can transfer you to my supervisor now.

I'm thinking, yeah, right. Like her “supervisor” isn’t the fat bitch sitting right next to her who she's going to hand the phone to right after she asks her to “Talk to this asshole and pretend you’re the supervisor.”

“Come on, Tracy! Just do it!”
“I don’t want to get in trouble, Julie. I’m about to get another service star.”
“I would do it for you, Trace. I thought we were the crazy ones in the office.”
“We are the crazy ones.”
“Then be crazy and do this, girl. Please?! I’ll show you a picture of Mike’s dick from accounting.

MOMENTS LATER

“Supervisor”: Hi, this is Tracy, the Floor Supervisor, how can I help you?
Me: Hi Tracy, are you really the manager?
“Supervisor”: Yes. How can I help you today, Mr. Schneider?
Me: What was that noise in the background? It sounds like somebody’s laughing.

I explain the entire story to which she responds,

“Supervisor”: Like Julie said, there’s nothing we can do.
Me: There’s nothing you can do?
“Supervisor”: There’s nothing I can do sir, my hands are tied.
Me: How are you talking on the phone then?
“Supervisor”: What do you mean? I’m using a headset.
Me: I was kidding. Never mind. Is there someone else I can talk to whose hands aren’t tied? Like Jesus?
“Supervisor”: Nope. I’m the floor manager, sir and Jesus doesn't work here.
Me: So there’s no one else I can talk to that can help me? No one at all?
“Supervisor”: That's correct.

I wanted to scream. Tracy didn’t give a shit about me. I had no recourse, I was exhausted, angry. I was helpless. I did the only thing left I knew how to do. I asked Tracy what her full name and Employee ID was and I pretended to write it down, hoping to scare Tracy into helping me. But the reality was that both Tracy and I knew that there’s was nothing I could do with that information. Who was I gonna tell? How long was I gonna have to sit on hold to tell it. And ultimately, what was I gonna say? She was doing her job exactly the way she was instructed to do it. And after all of it was all said and done, she’d probably get another fucking service star.

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Actors: The Most Important People on the Planet

Actors are the most important human beings on the face of the earth -- everyone knows that. Not scientists or teachers. Not astronauts. Actors. Actors are the ones that are out there every day make-believing their ass off. Pretending to be ninjas and politicians so that we can watch movies about them and be entertained for an hour and a half while we eat popcorn. I mean, what else would you do while you ate popcorn? Watch a real politician? Boring! That’s why the Academy Awards are so important. It’s a chance for these heroes to finally get what they deserve for pretending the shit out of stuff, a trophy.

I love listening to actors when they talk about their “craft” and the personal challenge they faced when transforming into the main character for the critically acclaimed film Big Momma’s House 2.

Did you know there’s no test to become an actor? You just wake up one day and go, “I’m an actor now.” And then, you are. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could do that with other professions. I’m a doctor now Miss so it’s totally cool for me to put this inside you. And now I’m a cop, so do it or I’ll arrest you. I SAID PUT THIS INSIDE YOU MA’AM I’M A COP NOW!!!!

I am an actor. I act. Because one day I said so. And I think acting is the weirdest thing in the world. I enjoy pretending and dressing up in costumes and stuff. Which I just realized is the exact same thing that perverts and five year olds do.

But being a good actor is hard. I mean, how do you even know if you’re good? In basketball, if you make X out of Y shots, you’re good. But actors are not athletic at all. And acting is subjective.

Acting Teacher: Oh that was good. I really like the way you said this. But I didn’t like the way you said that. It just wasn’t believable.

Actor: But I said it.

Acting Teacher: You did say it, but it wasn’t believable. I didn’t believe you when you said it. I want to believe you when you tell Jenny that you don’t love pecan pie more than her.*

*This is an actual excerpt taken from my girlfriend’s acting class.

People don’t question whether or not you’re believable in real life because that would be weird. “I’M TIRED OF YOU CHEATING ON ME ALBERT SO I’M FUCKING LEAVING YOU!” Okay, I’m just not buying this. Could you maybe try it again but this time I want you to look me in the eyes and say it but do it while you’re walking towards the door and then throw this book at me, give me one last look and then walk away forever….

People think actors in movies are exactly like the characters they play. This is only true for Keanu Reeves and that kid who played Simon Birch. HAHAHA! I just cracked up thinking how great it would have been if those two actors switched roles and it was Simon Birch who took the green pill and fulfilled the Oracle’s prophecy.

If you meet a celebrity and tell someone about it the first thing they want to know is, "Was he nice? Was he a nice guy or was he an asshole?" And then regardless of whether you tell them he's an asshole or a nice guy, people always say, "I could see that." You could see what? You don't know this person.

When I was a kid and I was retarded I used to think that the people in commercials weren’t actors but actual employees for the product, service or restaurants they were promoting. I realize I might be blowing some of your minds right now, but when someone tells you that they can’t get an erection or they have diarrhea or genital herpes on TV they’re acting. Except for the brunette girl from the last Valtrex commercial. She actually does have herpes – I know for a fact – because I gave them to her last year. But in every other case, the ad agency hires someone who looks like they would have these issues (which is even worse in my opinion) and then says, yes, you HAVE fallen and can’t get up. Somebody get me her fuckin agent!

I didn’t know what acting was really about until I went on my first commercial audition.

I was nervous. I really wanted to impress the people in the room so they would give me the job. I walked in, said hello, the camera operator had me say my name and the audition started. Here we go. “Okay Steve, pick up that bag over there and move it over here.” Just pick up the bag from over there and move it over here. No dialogue. Just move the bag. That’s it. They had me do it three times. And that was all, I was done. I thanked them, left the room and headed to my car, my mind spinning a million miles an hour. I couldn’t believe what just happened. Did I pick up the bag the right way? I could’ve put it down smoother. I should have used my right hand, it’s stronger. I hope they liked me!

But they didn’t. My suspicions were true. Some other bag-picker-upper-and-mover guy got the part over me. And it was for a KIA commercial which paid about $10,000.00. How the fuck can they pay someone ten grand to do that? I wouldn’t have done it for less than twenty -- you know how embarrassing those cars are?

When you’re an actor you never have security. All you have is every single person in your entire family rooting for you every single time you see or talk to them or receive a card from them. ‘Oh, you’ll make it, don’t worry. You’re gonna make it, I’m not worried about you.” I'm not worried either. And make what? What the fuck are you talking about, Nana? You mean be famous like Humphrey Bogart? Because that’s not how it works. Of course my family only wants the best for me and I love them for that but it brings out the worst. I mean, I don’t tell my Uncle every time I see him to keep chiropracting, don’t worry. Just keep chiropracting and something will hit.

So why do it then? Why be an actor in the first place? Do I do it because I need attention and want people to love me? Or do I do it because I want one of those awards. I won’t answer that QuYEStion.­ To both.

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MInd over Manners - Part Too

How cute is my baby? Look at this picture and say my baby’s cute because that’s what you’re supposed to do when I show you a picture of my baby.

“You’re baby’s fucking ugly, now leave me alone.”

“What? Wait, what do you mean?

“What do you mean – what do I mean?’”

“You think my baby’s ugly?”

“Yeah. Don’t you? I mean I understand she’s your daughter, but try to look at it objectively.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, you asked me for my opinion so I gave it to you. Honesty is really important to me. I remember one time when I was a kid and I bought this hat and I asked my mom if she --

“—Wait, do you really think Sarah’s ugly or are you joking, Steve? I can’t tell.”

“Am I joking? Are you joking? You’re telling me you actually think that your baby is attractive?”

“I think she’s beautiful!

“Forget it, forget I ever said anything. She’s cute, alright? You’re baby’s gorgeous -- just like her mother.“

“No, you think she’s the most disgusting baby you’ve ever seen and –

“I never said most disgusting, I’ve seen way worse.

“Worse? Like who?”

“Like…baby Jessica, remember that girl that got pulled out of the well—“

“SHE’S A BEAUTIFUL BABY, STEVE!”

“Didn’t she come out of your womb like six weeks early -- so there’s obviously a lot of underdevelopment there.”

“You know we had a hard time with her in the hospital.”

"I know, it really shows. She looks kind of like an albino rat, what do they call those things, pygmies? I just personally don’t find pygmies beautiful.”

“DA-VID…?!”

Want a bite of this sandwich I’m about to eat, I'm starving?

I want nothing more than for you to take a bite of my sandwich so you can stop looking at it and let me enjoy it. And don’t just take a small bite; take a really big, juicy bite so I only have half the sandwich left by the time you’re done. Also, don’t waste your time biting into the crust, that’s the worst part, leave that for me. I want you to take the best bite of the sandwich, right in the middle where all the meat is. Come on,open your mouth as wide as you possibly can and wrap those sloppy lips of yours right around my sandwich.

Mmmm, wasn’t that good? Judging from that strain of saliva that’s stretching from your mouth to the middle of my sandwich as you pull it away, it’s fairly obvious. Don't worry about it, I'll just spread a little anti-bacterial gel on it and it should kill everything. It gives me such a thrill to be able to share this little piece of happiness, the only happy moment of my entire day actually, with you. Want some of my fries too you fucking asshole?


“STEPHEN SCHNEIDER, PLEASE PUT THE TOILET SEAT DOWN!”

Hey babe, I have a better idea. Why don’t I just pee outside? I could start peeing in the woods like an animal. That way your life would be perfect. And I don’t mind at all; it could be fun. I’d feel like Bear Grylls – and this would be my very own Man vs. Wild adventure. What’s that? You think I might get a rash and there are rattle snakes out there? Please! Do I look worried? Hey, babe, did you forget who you’re talking to here -- I'm 'Mr. Never-Worry-About-Snakes-Guy.’ My snake versus their snakes, that’s what I say! And while I’m at it, I might as well live out there in the woods, and fuck a bear. I’ll start fucking bears and you’ll never have to worry about seeing me or my sloppy penis again.


How Much Do I Owe?

“Well, you had a beer with your meal and I didn’t so that means you owe $19.75 and I owe – what’s $19.75 minus two dollars plus 15%, but you’re tip should be a little higher since your meal was higher....”

It’s important to be fair in life. It simply wouldn’t be right if we split the check evenly. Sure it would be convenient, but name one person who ever won an award for being convenient. Let’s do this the right way. Break out your formulas, and your graphing calculator and let's figure out who had what and what who owes. Otherwise, we won't be even. We have to be even in life. Like if I buy you a beer, you have to buy me one, immediately after. Yes, we're friends. Sure. And that's exactly why I don't want you to get screwed here. Oh, while you're tallying up the bill, make sure you incorporate the 2 dollars in gas I spent to pick you up. You weren't EXACTLY "on the way." Plus, I gave you that bite of my sandwich so….

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MInd over Manners

I always try to do the right thing in life like a good little boy. I follow all the rules and get in line like the next person, but the truth is, I hate doing it. Having good manners is annoying. It gets in the way of that thing called life.

“Go ahead, eat”

You know what would be cool? If restaurants would get their shit together and bring all the food to the table at the same time. One, two, three, bring it. Because now I have to sit here with a plate of steaming hot delicious food that’s getting colder by the second while I wait for your fucking food to arrive. And even though I tell you to your face that it’s totally fine, I don’t mind waiting, it’s no big deal – I’m lying my ass off. It's not fine. I hate you right now with all of my heart and I’m full of rage. All I want to do is devour my food that is sitting right in front of me, beneath my nose, inches away from my watering mouth but I can't do that because that would be rude!

“What the hell did you even order anyway?” Never mind. I don’t care. I’m not even capable of having a conversation with you right now. You can talk, but I can't listen. All I can do is stare at the kitchen door and pray our waiter will come out already, bring over your dish and un-pause my life. “Is that him? Nope. FUCK!’” I don’t even remember what the friggin guy looks like. Every time a waiter comes through that door towards our table a wave of relief washes over me. 'Wait...why is he walking passed us. We're over here! What the fuck? NO! THEY WERE HERE AFTER US!'

I can't handle this. Maybe I’ll just have one French Fry while I’m waiting. Just one. And the pickle. That doesn’t count as eating. It only counts if I take a bite of the hamburger, which I cant do because of YOU! Somehow I feel like you’re responsible. I mean, ?technically it’s the waiters fault, but I FUCKING HATE YOU. My fucking burger is going to be ice cold now. I’m never eating lunch with you again. WHERE IS YOUR FOOD?

“Wait, you didn’t order anything?"

“Do you want the last piece?”

Never ask. Just take it. Everyone wants the last piece. Especially the guy who offered it, he’s the one that wants it the most. This is America, you gotta grab it before someone else does, while it’s still hot. Whenever I eat dinner with my mother and there’s one piece left on the plate the conversation always goes like this (please use a thick Boston accent when doing my mom):

Mom: Take the last piece.
Me: No, you take it.
Mom: I don’t want it, I’m full.
Me: (lying) Me too. Just have it. I know you want it.
Mom: No, I don’t.
Me: Swear on my life?
Mom: I don’t do that.
Me: Yes you do. You won’t because you’re lying. You really want it.
Mom: I don’t.
Me: Swear then.
Mom: I swear.
Me: No, swear on my life.
Mom: I swear on your life.
Me: Fine. I’ll eat it.

You know what I hate? When you’re eating Chinese food with someone and they take their second helping before they finish their first. I’m scrambling to get through my first plate so I can get more before my “friend” does and this motherfucker has the audacity to refill his plate before it’s empty?! NO! NO! NO! That is bullshit. You don’t fucking do that. How many pieces of chicken did you have? That’s a new manner that needs to be taught. Put it on every takeout box: EVERYONE GETS AN EQUAL AMOUNT OF GENERAL TSAO’S CHICKEN!

“Excuse me”

Why does this get you off the hook from farting? I think everyone that farts should get punched in the arm. But if you’re a woman, you should get punched in the face – cause it’s grosser. Then if you meet someone who has a lot of bruises on their arms or a woman with a black eye, you would know immediately that they’re up to no good.

I like that in the men’s room there is no excuse for farting – cause you don’t need one! It’s nice to know there are places you can go where farting is encouraged. Next time somebody farts in a bathroom full of dudes, give ‘em a high five and say, “Isn’t this great, guys?!” That’s what I do.

“God Bless, you!”

Thank you, absolute stranger who wouldn’t cross the street for me if he knew it was the only way to save my life. You won’t say ‘hi’ to me but you have no problem shouting that from across the room freakin’ room. GOD BLESS YOU!!!! I don’t need your blessing, I need a tissue, motherfucker. Seriously, though, do have a tissue motherfucker?

And what if you don’t believe in God? What am I supposed to say then? The other day I was in an elevator with a Muslim guy who sneezed and I didn’t know what to say so I just yelled, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU HIDING BIN LADAN, YOU ARAB PIECE OF SHIT?!”

“Always hold the door for the next guy.”

I hold doors because I’m a gentleman and I’m strong. But I never know what the appropriate distance cutoff is for an approaching door user. Somebody might be five hundred feet away and I’ll feel obligated to stand there like an asshole waiting for them. I mean, god forbid I let the door go and the guy behind me has to open it himself. Then I’ll probably end up seeing him in my next meeting and he won’t want to do business with me because I’m the guy who doesn’t hold doors.

I like the people that run for the door. I appreciate that. They know I got somewhere to be and we don’t know each other. But in this instance, we’re like a two man relay team. He knows I can’t leave until he reaches the door. Oh, shit, he just dropped a bunch of his papers. Do I still have to stand here waiting or does the free me from my responsibility. FUCK! He just looked at me, now I gotta go help him pick up his papers. This sucks. I should’ve never held the door in the first place. DAMMIT!

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There's the Rub (and Tug)

Massages are one of the most intimate things you can do with another person. That’s why I think it’s kinda funny that some lady named Consuelo who I’ve never met before has no problem spreading my butt cheeks apart to the point where she can see my spleen and the inner-lining of my stomach. Funny and awesome. Best part of any massage, hands down (literally).

“Is there anywhere special you’d like me to work on?”

They always ask you this during the pre-massage consultation like you’re gonna tell them the truth. Yeah, rub my knee-caps for the next 45 minutes and then work my ankles. What the fuck do you think I want?! “I want you to rub my ass god dammit! Rub my ass until it turns to jelly.” But you can’t say that. Because that would be inappropriate. So instead I just say “Everywhere” and hope she’ll catch my drift.

Ever think you’d pay someone $60 to be the world’s worst cock tease? I got enough of that in high school for free. Sara Policow! Just touch it once, I won’t tell anybody!

You’re pretty vulnerable when you’re face down on that table. Here’s what I look like naked. This is me. Surprised?! What do you think of the pimples on my ass?

It’s ironic but I don’t find massages relaxing at all. I spend the first half of every massage wondering whether or not my masseuse is giving me a professional massage or my masseuse is a “professional” giving me a massage. ‘Wait…did she just…? That can’t be part of the….? Well that was awfully close to my…’ I better send out a little signal to test her reaction, see what’s going on here. And that’s when I’ll start moaning like a pony whenever she goes anywhere near my ass. If she tells me to put my clothes on and get the fuck out of there, I’ll recognize that I was wrong.

The other half of my massage is spent thinking about how awful the moment is going to be when she asks me to turn over and I have to reveal my boner to her. I can’t help it; it simply will not go away. Those dreaded words, “Turn over please.” And my heart stops beating. She stands behind the sheet, and I flip over with my springy boner boinging around all over the fucking place like a goddamn bobble head. I lay down sunny side up as she gently lowers the sheet back over me, leaving a mini-Klan member standing where my penis used to be.

“It’s always like that, I swear. Same thing happened to me at the dentist last week. Call Dr. Honickman. Think you can work around it?” Wish I said that. But it’s worse, I don’t say anything! It’s ridiculous. Neither of us do. And there’s no way she doesn’t see it. I try to change the subject, “So…have you been doing this long?” I can’t believe I just said LONG! “You’re doing a great job.” Yeah, no shit, Steve. You don’t think she can tell?

I feel like being a masseuse is a lot like being a clown, except instead of making people smile, you give them erections. That’s how they know if they’ve done a good job or not. They probably talk about it in the break room while they’re smoking cigarettes with rollers in their hair: “Six and a half more inches and I’m clocking out for the day, Patty. See ya tomorrow!”

Sometimes when I’m enjoying a massage, it’ll feel like pure ecstasy, like the two of us are wrapped up in some exotic love affair, and then I’ll realize only one of us is when I glance up at Consuelo and she’s staring off into space clearly thinking about what kind of groceries she needs to buy today to make her famous empanadas for her family tonight. I thought we had something special Consuelo! I like empanadas!

There’s nothing more arousing to me than a massage -- as long as it’s being done by a woman. It doesn’t really even matter what she looks like, my only criteria is that she doesn’t have a penis. I can’t be massaged by men. My brother and dad have no problem with it, but personally it makes me super uncomfortable – probably because I’m afraid I’ll enjoy it, I’ll get a boner and realize I’m gay and then I’ll have to go pierce my right ear at the mall which will be super annoying because parking at the mall is so challenging.

The truth is: the one time I agreed to have a man give me a massage was the worst day of my life.

I was a member of Equinox for a while when I lived in West Hollywood, the gay capital of the country. A friend of mine worked in the Spa there and she was friendly with all the masseuses. One day in passing I mentioned to her that I pulled my back out and the next thing I know she’s introducing me to her friend, this African masseuse who looks exactly like the main guy from The Air Up There with Kevin Beacon except he sounds like an extra from the movie Boat Trip with Cuba Gooding, Jr. She tells me that her gay friend wants to give me a massage for free.

There was nothing I could do. I had to say yes. She asked me right in front of him and I couldn’t say no. I hate when people do that. “Hey would you mind taking my friend whose standing right here in front of you while I say this to the airport? If you want to say ‘No’ you totally can, she’ll just think you’re an asshole for the rest of your life.” So I said, sure. What the heck! It’s a free massage, what could be wrong with that?

So….“Mufasa,” we’ll call him, leads me down the hallway to my massage room, which I walk in to find candles glowing, sensual music playing and a warm massage table that’s been waiting all day for me to get molested on. I should’ve known that when I saw the 4 by 4-inch washcloth that what was laying squarely on the table for me to cover myself with that this wasn’t going to be good. This couldn’t be standard. It looked like a piece of lint. A fuckin band-aid would have covered more of my ass. I started looking around for a First-Aid kit.

I begin taking my shoes and socks off extra slowly to buy him some time to leave the room so I can undress in private, but evidently he’s not going anywhere. He’d rather stay and watch. Okay, that’s a little uncommon, but whatever, we’re both guys and he’s a professional. It’s probably the same thing as having a doctor in the room. But just in case things get weird, I start running through all the possible excuses in my head to get out of there like, “Hey, what’s over there?” and then running out of the room.

I lie down and the massage starts out pretty normal. Okay, I can handle this I tell myself, just don’t fall asleep, Steve. Stay awake. You saw Nightmare On Elm Street.

After about 5 minutes he leans down and whispers something into my ear, “How’s the pressure?” Standard procedure -- no big deal. He just wants to know how it’s going and if he’s hurting me. Sure he sounded a little sensual and he whispered it an inch away from my ear and I think his tongue grazed my earlobe, but I bet you that’s because he thought I was asleep and he didn’t want to wake me up. “The pressure’s fine,” I tell him.

“You have a nice body.”

Again. Totally normal, Steve, he’s just being professional. It’s a gym where people work out there to make themselves look good. And in his African culture, that’s called being polite. “Thanks, man,” I say in the most maculating way I know how, the same way I would respond to, “Sick truck, bro.”

Neither of us spoke for the next 20 minutes.

And then something weird happened. Mufasa started working the center of my back hard, where I pulled my muscle. I could feel him squeezing my shoulders and digging his knee into my back. It felt really good. And as he’s doing this, I’m staring down through the peephole on the table at his feet. I’m looking at his feet and he’s wearing sandals, which I remember thinking was very African of him and all of a sudden, something dawns on me. How can his knee be in my back if both of his feet are on the ground? I counted his feet again, three or four times to make sure I wasn’t seeing double but each time it was exactly the same: two legs, two hands AND ONE BONER DIGGING INTO MY BACK. OH MY GOD! I froze. I didn’t know what to do. He was poking me with his pencil. And he’d been doing it for the last few minutes! And even worse, I’d been enjoying it!

I was frightened to death.

I couldn’t move. My mind started racing. What could I say to this Hunter Gatherer? If I call him out on it, he might pull some African shit on me and kill me. If he thought I was going to report him who knows what he would do? If I make any sudden moves he might misinterpret it them for a sexual advance and try to kiss me.

In the end I didn’t do anything. I just sat there and got back raped for a solid 5 minutes. When I told my friend about it, she thought I was kidding. Everyone did. I felt like one of those women who no one believes. I wanted to call Oprah and ask for her help. I thought about having the part of my back he was poking surgically removed. I was angry.

Four months later, after I suppressed the memory, Mufasa got fired from Equinox, for no joke, “Putting his erection on clients.” It was the best day of my life. I felt like justice had been served. But also felt less special, I thought I was the only one.

Anyway, it was the last time I ever had a male masseuse and the first time I learned that there’s no such thing as a “free massage.”

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