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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Dictures

I almost got into a huge car accident the other day.

I was flying down the 405 texting on my phone and I floated into the next lane, cutting off this huge bus to next to me who swerved at the last minute and spared my life.

I pulled over and sat in my car for a minute – frozen, my heart pounding away in my chest. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. There was one thing on my mind. The only thing I could think about: What the hell happens to my cell phone when I die?

Because I have sixty pictures of my cock on there right now.

Pictures of my boner in the bathroom, in my living room on my couch, at Epcott with Nana Ruthie….

They’re from text sex. Sextual Intercourse. (Well, the one with Nana isn't).

The only way I can get a girl to send me a naked picture of herself is if I send one of me first. As collateral.

Okay. Here you go. Here’s my dick. Don’t care.

Then she makes me promise – swear -- I won’t show anyone the dirty pics she's about to send me. So I swear to God. Swear to Jesus, Mohammad, on everyone's life that I will not show a single soul a single nipple. She sends. And then the first chance I get -- I break out my phone at the bar and show everyone the pics. “How cool am I?! I have a naked girl on my phone! Look, Bartender! Look!”

And then it gets awkward when she becomes your girlfriend. Because half the city knows what her pussy looks like. (I’m talking about my last girlfriend, Kim. Not you.)

It’s really tough to get a good shot of your penis, isn’t it? You have to figure out the right angle to make it look bigger than it really is. I find shooting down the side, not head on, so to speak, works better. I also purchased a “Miniature Lighter” which I hold next to it for scale. And then when I send the picture I say in my text, “By the way, that’s not one of those miniature lighters.” Even though it is.

I don’t really consider myself a dick photographer. It’s more like a hobby. But I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I'm thinking about offering classes. Maybe some online stuff for seniors, I don’t know. My real dream is to one day open up my own dick studio. The Academy of Fine Dick.

So where were we? Oh, yeah. Talking about getting caught with pictures of my penis on my phone when I die.

“Mrs. Schneider, we’re terribly sorry about your son. All that we could salvage from the burning rubble was his cell phone. This is all you’ll have to remember him by. This and whatever’s on it. Which is ironic, considering he got into the accident while he was texting on his phone. Would you like to see the last text he sent?”

“Sure….”

“It seems to be a picture of some kind….”

“Oh God. Are you sure that’s my son? That’s bigger than I --”

“-- It’s the angle ma’am. He shot it down the side, not head on. That's a miniature lighter. He says in the text that it's not one, but it definitely is. Look, here’s some of the other pics he took where it doesn’t look as big, see?”

“You’re right. That is my son! So gorgeous!”

I need to get a contingency plan in place. If I go down, who’s got my back? Or my front, rather. Who’s gonna erase my fucking pictures? Can we all just agree right now, right here that no matter what happens or how little we know one another or how much we hate each other, that we all promise to do each other this one final favor?

Wait a second. Nevermind. I just found out there’s an app for that.

Gotta go get an iPhone.

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dating

All of my friends have girlfriends. It’s so gay.

Alright I’m only saying that because I’m jealous. I feel like such a loser when I go on a double date and I show up with a puppet and my friends are like, “Hey Steve, nice puppet!” And I’m like, “Shut the fuck up! This isn’t a puppet. She’s a real person and you better start treating her with a little respect.” And they’re like, “That’s definitely a puppet. You’re moving her mouth with your hand and her hair is made of yarn.” And I’m like, “Dude you’re wrong – just drop it.”

I’m sick of lying. I want a real girlfriend. And not just some crappy one either. I want a good one that can do cool things like cartwheels and back handsprings and the balance beam. Or one that will suck my dick.

But it’s impossible to meet girls nowadays.

I try approaching them at bars but I’m really bad at small talk. Other than micro-machines and mini-bananas I don’t know what else to say that's small.

It’s tough. After you’ve slept with everyone you know in your social circle and recognize that they’re not “right for you” because they have some sort of physical defect like backne or Spina Bifida, (which they never seem to be up front about), where are you supposed to turn to next?

If you said, Online Dating Services ask the person next to you to give you a high five. You missed – I saw that.

Online dating services make finding your soul mate cheap and easy. For less than $12/mo. you can join a network of thousands of people who share your inability to make human connections in the real world. I mean -- that’s exactly what I’m looking for. Someone who no one else is interested in but also likes tennis.

I’m tired of dating people in real life anyways. All those intimate conversations where we connect on a deep level while making exciting discoveries about one another over a couple mojitos on the perfect sunny day at an awesome restaurant that serves the best spinach & artichoke dip in the world.

Who the hell wants that? I’d much rather make an instantaneous decision about whether or not I would date someone based on a one inch picture of their face and a list of 8-10 generic things they like. It's way easier. Meeting people in real life and getting to know them is so 1990. Who am I MC Hammer? Plus it’s expensive! (2 mojitos + Spinach Dip at Macaroni Grill is $29.95).

Also, it’s nice that online dating is segregated. That way we can all keep to our own like God intended. Although I am a little skeptical about J-Date. It does scare me a little bit. I mean, how do I know that J-Date isn’t just one big global oven? And I’m not speaking metaphorically. Is it possible that your computer can start cooking you?

If so, I can think of a few jews that would be delicious.

But I know what you're thinking. That’s not the only thing that's sketchy about online dating. You’re about to say…”The problem with online dating is that no one ever looks like the pictures they post.” First of all, don’t ever fucking interrupt me again while I'm in the middle of something. Second, you’re right - it's a good point. Sometimes people will get their profile picture done at Glamour Shots and they look totally extravagant with one of those pink feather scarfs wrapped around their neck. But Glamour Shots can be deceiving.

I met up with this girl once after going back and forth with her a million times over email until my fingertips disappeared and I was typing with my wrists. I spent a lot of time trying to trick her into thinking we had a lot in common. I told her I thought Dane Cook was funny. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Anyway, when she finally agreed that I wasn’t going to have sex with her cat like the last guy, we decided to meet up. When I saw her, I almost fainted! Because she didn't look anything like her picture. Attached to her head was something I was not expecting at all. Something that wasn't in any of her pictures.

She had a body.

Here I was just expecting a head and she has the audacity to show up with a body too? Sorry but I'm not into three ways. Where the hell was just the head I had been emailing for weeks - it was the head I was in love with. How could she do this to me? She didn’t think to mention the fact that she had a fucking body?!

I went right up to that cunt and I spit in her face. I called her “a lying piece of dog shit” and I told her that “I don’t really like Dane Cook. I hate him. I lied to you about that, head. I lied. You’re a piece of shit, head, you hear me? A piece of shit!

She had no idea what I was talking about. I’m not even sure that she was the same girl I had been emailing from the dating service - it was dark. But whoever it was, she got the message.

Meeting your date always complicates things. That is why I have come up with a better online dating service (one that let’s you avoid all those awkward encounters) by never meeting up.

You never meet each other. But you do get married. The company assigns you a wife or husband based on a questionnaire you fill out. But not one of those annoying ones – this one will only have like three or four questions in it so it doesn’t take all day. And after they give you someone you just email them your sperm (you will be able to do this very soon) and you start a family. And you instant message the kids and stuff on their birthdays or send them e-cards. And you can pay for their college through PayPal.

And when you get tired of it all, you just get a new computer that’s younger and not fat. So who wants to marry me?

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names

"Say my name, say my name..." - Destiny's Child

"I don't know it." - Me

I can’t remember people’s names and it makes me feel like an asshole. And it’s not because I’m worried people will think I don’t care about them -- because I don’t. That’s no secret. It’s for practical reasons -- like when I’m sitting next to someone and I need them to ‘pass me that thing over there.’ If I knew their name I wouldn’t have to stare at them for four straight minutes like a psychopath until they finally look up at me. "Can I borrow a pen?”

When I run into someone on the street whose name I can’t remember, I don’t listen to a goddamn word they say. I just stare at their heads for the entire conversation and run through the alphabet. Fuck the alphabet.

What I really love is when I’m talking to one person whose name I don’t know and another person whose name I don’t know comes over to say hi. So happy to see you! And now I’m like fuckin Friendster and I'm supposed to introduce these idiots.

I usually just say, “HEY! You know…” and then HOPE TO GOD one of them will cut me off before I finish speaking and fill in the blank with their name. Then I act surprised, apologize and pretend that I thought they knew each other even though we all know I'm completely full of shit.

But this time that didn’t happen. Instead, after about three beats of intense awkward silence, I had to finish my sentence. So I just made up a name. I went with “An-ge-la.”

She goes, “Who the FUCK is Angela? I'm Michelle. And why the fuck are you introducing me to the guy I live with? He’s my boyfriend, you idiot.”

I wish people wore name tags. Would that be so bad? The janitors do it and they’re the dumbest people on the planet. People are more responsive when you know their names. Instead of saying, “Hey, YOU, get on your goddamn hands and knees and clean up that puke right now.” The principal can say, “Carl, get on your goddamn hands and knees...etc.” What do you think Carl is more likely to respond to? If you said both, you’re right because Carl’s not gonna risk violating his parole again with another one of his angry outbursts. He knows if he does he’s going right back to the hole.

I like the people who have the balls to call you on it:

“Whatup, Steve? You remember me?”
“Yeah. (lie) Of I course I do!”
“What’s my name?”

Motherfucker. I have no idea. I had no other choice but to use my secret weapon - ‘reverse psychology’ – people used to use it on me all the time when I was one.

“Hey everyone, this guy doesn’t know his own name!”
“Haha, funny - what's my name?”

Seriously? Why are you doing this to me? Please stop. But at the same time, why can’t I just get myself to admit that I don’t know it? If I could do that this would all be over. BUT I CAN’T! Finally he told me. So I go, "I know, dude." Another lie.

The best feeling in the world though is KNOWING someone’s name. When I know someone’s name I use the shit out of it. “Hey JAY! How’s it going JAY? This is Jay everybody! Oh, JAY that’s a funny story. Do you know Jay? Jay, Jay, Jay!”

But that doesn’t happen very often. There are so many places I go to on a regular basis where I should know people’s names but definitely don’t. I’ve been going to the same gym for years and - even though I've talked to tons of people - I don’t know anyone. Now I wear headphones from the moment I get out of my car to the moment I get back in it. I’m constantly wearing headphones. Even when my ipod’s dead. I listen to nothing. And if somebody starts walking towards me I bob my head like I'm jamming out. Jamming out to nothing. Sometimes people come up to me to tell that my headphones aren’t connected to anything – and then they show me the cord. I usually have no response to that.

I go to the same Starbucks everyday. The girl who works at the counter always remembers my name (which makes me feel good – like I’m the president of my own company) but I have no clue what her name is (which makes her feel bad – like she works at Starbucks). I’ve never even bothered to ask her. I guess it’s because she’s just a stupid machine to me.

There's a woman that’s been living above me for over two years who’s super loud. It sounds like she has hooves. She’s like a Minotaur or something. She loves to dance and blow on that wood flute thing while she weaves wild tales about Dionysus or whatever. Anyway about once a week when she gets too loud I bang my broomstick against the ceiling and shout, “SHUT THE FUCK UP MINOTAUR!” And she does. The following morning we'll say ‘hello’ to each other as if nothing ever happened. I wish I knew her name. Minotaur is such a long word to shout.

Does anybody know who my mailman is? How about my dry cleaner whose been scrubbing the cum stains off my pants for the last 5 years?

So what do we do, other than study Facebook everyday before you leave the house? I'm glad you asked. I’ve developed a foolproof way to figure out someone’s name no matter where you are.

As the person you don't remember approaches you call your best friend. Once the person gets there just hand them your phone. Chances are your best friend on the phone will be like, “Who the hell is this?” and the person standing in front of you will answer, “Naaaame…who’s this?” They won’t know each other so at that point 'Name' will just hand you back your phone. NOTE: If you forget 'Name's' name from the time 'Name' says it to the time 'Name' hands you back the phone just call somebody else.

DISCLAIMER: Due to the nature of this story all characters in it will remain nameless at the present time.

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couch time

When I was a kid I always used to say if I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house. But now that I’m older and I’ve come to terms with how disgusting that would actually be, I can honestly say, if I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house.

Ever since I was little, I was always a horny kid.

I remember being like twelve years old and masturbating every 15 minutes. That’s how my family kept time. We didn’t have any clocks. “What time’s dinner?”

"As soon as Stephen's finished jerking off."

I masturbated everyday, everywhere -- in every room -- even in the attic and on the roof. If you held a black light over my house chances are you’d be able to see it from outer space. “Hey, look it's New York!”

“No. That’s Steve Schneider’s house. It’s covered in cum.”

I think the most exciting part of my adolescence was when I began exploring other ways to get off. (Have an orgasm). At some point plain masturbation became sort of boring. I wanted to feel what it really felt like to have sex with a woman. So I began taking on sexual partners that were known around my house for being inanimate objects.

Things started to disappearing. “Stephen! Where’s that Cantaloupe I just bought? I was gonna cut it up for dessert.”

“I have no idea, Mom.” Meanwhile, my balls are covered with seeds and I'm walking through my front yard, sprinkling them out through the cuffs of my pants like I'm in Shawshank.

I wasn’t the only weirdo, though. My friends would brag to me all about the red-hot affairs they were having with their remote control or lunch meat. We were total players. One friend once told me he fucked a birdhouse. I don't even understand that. What did the neighbors think? "Honey, what the hell is Jimmy doing over there? Those poor birds."

I would NEVER stick my penis in a birdhouse. I'd be afraid the bird would take off with it and feed it to it’s young. But I did have sex with other stuff. Once (when I was really desperate) I screwed a pair of flip-flops.

But the weirdest thing I ever had sex with by far was my brother. I’m kidding. It was my couch. Like that’s any better. Well, actually it is.

My parents had this couch in the living room that was fucking gorgeous. Italian leather with soft buttery skin. The back of the couch had these two supple cushions that met to form a small crack that you could stick you penis into. I know what you're thinking- awesome, right?

The only problem (other than it being a couch) was that it was right up against a mirrored wall so you had to watch yourself face to face as you performed this heinous act. "Squeal couchy! Squeal!"

But other than that, it was pure beauty, man. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

I even went down on it once. But I quickly realized this was a terrible idea when I came up with a mouth full of coins and popcorn kernels stuck to my face. Made like three bucks though.

One time right as I was climaxing, I heard my mom’s bedroom door open. I must’ve been too loud. Because the couch never made any noise. I pulled out -- but it was too late. I already came. There was a mess everywhere – all over the couch, all over me and my mom was already on her way down the stairs. I quickly pulled boxer shorts up and stuck my back against the crack, which was...gross.

My mom came down in her nightgown and was like, “What’re ya doin, honey?”

“I'm just fucking the shit out of this couch, ma. You wanna get in on this action?"

Yeah right. I wish I said that. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her. She would never accept me for who I was. I had to keep it a secret. I played it off, “Nothing. Just watching TV.” She came over to me and my heart dropped. I thought ‘what are you doing?’ ‘Stay back.’ But she kept approaching. I was sure she was gonna notice and then tell my father and then my father would punish me by sending the couch away.

But what happened was way worse. While I was sitting there – covered in my own semen, cum dripping down my back -- she leaned down and gave me a kiss – ON THE MOUTH and she told me SHE LOVES ME…and I told her I LOVE HER TOO! Ahhhhhhhh! Incest. I basically had sex with my mother. My Dad was gonna kill me. I needed to go to jail. I wanted help. But instead, she just walked back off to bed and I sat there staring into the endless abyss of my dismal future and thought to myself, 'I think I'm ready to go again.'

Eventually, I went away to college and started having sex with humans which was different. I still think about the couch every now and then. Whenever there's a furniture commercial on or a Pottery Barn magazine gets delivered, I'll get hard. What? It's a good magazine.

Through all the awkwardness and after everything is said and done, I have my couch to thank for helping me understand the true meaning of what it is to “sit down and take a load off.”

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i heart airplanes

Every time I get on an airplane I always have the same fantasy – I think some hot girl’s come sit down right next to me -- we’ll end up talking about her family and eventually fucking in the bathroom…but it never happens. I always end up getting stuck next to the fat guy on the plane and we end up fucking in the bathroom.

I can’t stand sitting next to people on planes. The second I board, I always put my shit down on the middle seat to make it look like someone’s sitting there (as if the person who’s assigned to that seat is gonna get there and go, “Oh, dammit. Someone else is sitting in my seat! I guess I’ll just get off the plane and let this guy have the middle sit empty.”) I’m an idiot. Still. Why am I always stuck next to the worst people?

SIT STILL MAN. PLEASE. Fuckin Chinese guy sitting next to me once on an overnight flight from LA to Boston wouldn’t stop moving. He's got a magazine draped over his head which keeps sliding off his face and landing on my leg every five seconds. Dude, it doesn’t work! I wanted to grab it from him and whack him over the head. Instead I just exhaled loudly many times. I showed him.

KIDS SHOULD BE IN THE CARGO WITH THE ANIMALS. I once got this little fuckin weasel behind me that wouldn't stop kicking my chair the second I sat down. WHY ISN’T THE MOTHER DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THIS? I try to turn around as if I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with my seat so the mother can see but she’s NAPPING. So instead I turn back around and wait patiently for the moment the plane hits cruising altitude so I can slam my seat back to try and SMASH him in the face hard hoping to knock him out. But in the end, his face isn't there and I miss. And now my seat is that much closer to his dainty little legs so he can kick me harder with more leverage.

After doing my sighing routine, I try shaking my head in an exaggerated way, hoping his mom will catch my drift and stop pretending to ignore me. She doesn't. I finally say something. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you but your son keeps kicking my chair – you’ve got a little Van Damme back there!” To which she offers, “Oh, I'm sorry - I had no idea." Bullshit. The kid’s doing the fucking river dance.

It stops for a minute and then starts all over again. So I wait for his mom to fall back asleep and then I peak through the crack of my seat and get his attention. (Whispered) “Hey, faggot. Are you fucking retarded? Are you? No, you're not. Right so unless you want me to get behind your chair and kick you in the back and kill your mom, cut the shit.

That doesn’t work because he's not old enough to speak and now the lady next to me is looking at me like I’m a psychopath. Fuck you lady. You sit here. Guess what, I'm farting now. I was gonna try to hold it in. But fuck it. Me and you can just sit in my farts for the rest of the flight while I pretend I can't smell them. If somebody looks over here - I'm blaming it on you. I'm like a fuckin pig on the plane. I'd don't give a shit. I just blow ass -- you can't hear 'em -- so fuck it. If it gets really bad I'll pop my head up like a prairie dog and be like 'what the fuck is going on?' (my butt's going on. and on.)

I get anxious when I board a plane. I always try to get to my seat before anybody else in my row so I can get my arm on that goddamm arm rest before the other guy. Otherwise you’re screwed. And you gotta get as many pillows as you can so you can build a fortress around you.

What the fuck are those pillows? That's like something I'd put in my hamster's cage - rest your little head on this, Hammy. Those aren’t human pillows. And I’m still trying to figure out what the pillow covers are made of – I know I’ve seen that material somewhere else – oh, yeah -- it’s the same stuff they use to make piss mats for dogs. What’d you say? Bring your own pillow? Fuck you. I shouldn’t have to. I once was stupid enough to buy one of those u-neck pillows – those don’t work. First of all, I looked like an asshole carrying it. And I couldn’t figure out which way it goes for it to be comfortable. I ended up putting it on my head like it was a pair of headphones. “Shh. I can’t hear the movie…”

In order to board the plane before everyone else I usually just pretend I’m handicapped. This works pretty flawlessly - the only downside is that sometimes you have to keep up the lie for a long time. I once skipped Christmas security lines by telling them I was a cripple. You gotta say “cripple” – that’s when they know you’re not fucking around. But once I started limping up to security, I quickly realized that I couldn't stop - I had to keep up the act - they were watching. So I limped to the gate. And then all the people who were on my flight saw me limp passed them through security so I had to limp onto the plane and off it when it landed, and then through the baggage claim and out to the cab. And just to be safe, I’m still limping.

It’s funny when you tell people you’re handicapped because they immediately either grow accommodating/patronizing or extremely skeptical. “This guy isn’t handicapped.” You gotta be on you’re A-game. That’s not something you can fuck around with. All I’m gonna say is remember which leg you were limping on, dude. Remember which leg.

Here's a good rule of conduct: don’t ever ask somebody with a better seat than yours to switch with you. Somebody once had the balls to ask me if I would mind switching with them from an AISLE seat in an EXIT row to the LAST MIDDLE seat on a plane flying from Israel to LA for fourteen hours. SURE. No problem. Are you out of your fucking mind? Get a fuckin grip. I'll just take the middle seat because I’m a nice guy. “What’s that? She’s pregnant? Yeah right, I’ve used that one before. Nice try. We'll see if she's pregnant when we get to baggage claim.

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Shit Story

I recently ate a bag of SUGAR FREE Salt Water Taffy. "Sugar Free" is actually just another way of saying "This will make your ass bleed." At the time I didn't have a thesaurus with me.

I was at an airport and they were selling it right next to the regular Taffy. We immediately fell in love. I was like, "Holy Shit! I can just eat you like you're vegetables. Screw, you, regular Taffy. What am I gonna feel all guilty and shit? I don't think so."

I ate that non-sugary goodness like a fat kid whose abusive parents were upstairs sleeping. Strawberry. Mint Chocolate Chip. Buttered Popcorn. White ones. They were all fun and chewy. By the time I got down to my gate, all I had left was a pocket full of wax paper and the normal emptiness that even real candy won't fill. I thought about licking the wrappers but I knew that people would judge me.

Instead, I sat down and checked out some of the girls on my flight. All busted and in their sixties. And then out of nowhere, I had to rip one. But there were two people sitting on both sides of me. I did the lean -- like I’m looking at the monitor to check out the departure time, but really -- I’m stretching my butt cheeks open to fart without making a sound. Pfffffff. Got it out. And then I just sat there and waited for the smell to envelope me and my neighbors. Once it did, I reacted like, ‘Uch. Who’s the fucking pig?’ scrunching up my face in disgust and slightly shaking my head. They knew it was me. I'm just glad they didn't vote.

Almost immediately there was another one lined up. My stomach kept directing traffic toward the exit. But every time a fart would head down my tunnel, I’d turn it around and send it back up to the rotary. “Couple more times around, boys.” After about ten minutes, there was a pile up. I got up and walked around.

My stomach felt like it was filled with boiling hot shit soup. There was so much pressure -- my anus felt like the nozzle of a Super Soaker that was pumped a million times. The second I pull that trigger...I might launch off the airport floor and smash through the ceiling. And then people would think I was a terrorist. And no one would ever be allowed to bring diarrhea through airport security again.

Fuck You, Taffy, you fucking taffy. I ran to the bathroom. I hate public bathrooms. It’s gross. Fucking animals (like me) piss all over the seats and people don't flush their shit. They just leave their shit there. "Bye, shit. Have a good one. Do me a favor and gross out the next guy that walks in here for me."

I built the nest. Settled in. And got ready to lay some eggs.

I leaned over my knees and looked under the stalls to see if I was alone. I wasn’t. There was a guy taking a piss at the urinal in front of me. Dammit. I held it in with muscles I didn't know I had waited for him to finish. I wasn't about to do this in front of anybody.

He finishes. Walks out. And another guy walks in obviously. And at this point I just say fuck it. I can’t hold it any longer. I'll just let a little bit of it it out slowly.

Yeah, right. The second I make the decision, the LOUDEST most EMBARRASSING EXPLOSION launches right out of my ass. And I just let it. The noises were so gross and not-even-real that the guy pissing at the urinal starts cracking up. A grown man -- who I don't know -- was standing there -- holding his penis -- and just having the best time of his life at my expense.

And after I finished and he stopped laughing, I had nothing to say. All my life I’ve had a comeback for everything. Never been speechless. But this time, I just sat there – me and my broken ass. I was ashamed. Disgusted. I thought about killing that guy. I didn't want him to take this story out of the stall. But I didn't. I did nothing. I just waited there for an extra 20 minutes, hoping the man got on his flight and the paparazzi I imagined were waiting outside the bathroom to snap my picture had all gotten bored and moved on to another shitty story.

I cleaned up and walked back to the terminal. I walked over to this little café near my gate to buy some rice to patch up my walls. I was on the phone with a friend of mine, telling the above story, and as I’m paying for the rice, I hear somebody behind me making farting noises with their mouth. I froze.

“I think the guy behind me at this café is taunting me.”

I quickly turned around and saw this grey-haired man in his sixties, giggling next to his wife. They were both looking at me. I glanced down at my shoes. I was wearing a pair of Air Max ‘90s -- pink and recognizable. I thought if that old man is fun of me, I’m gonna have to fight him and his wife.

But I came to my senses and made a face at him like I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I paid for my rice and flew back home and never felt like a human again. Shit.

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Reading Sucks

I just started reading a new book. It’s a thousand pages long. It’s called the torah. It’s not the torah, it’s the kuran. Alright it’s the torah. (It’s not the torah). Anyway, I’m halfway through reading it and I hate it. But I gotta keep going. I need to finish the book so I can put it on my shelf so that when people come over and they walk by my shelf they can say things like, “Hey, did you read that?” And I can be like, “Yeah.” And then they will say, “How was it?” And I’ll be like, “Pretty good. It was long.” And then they’ll think I’m smart or something.

Half the time I’m reading, I’m actually not paying any attention. Oh I read every word so it still counts, but I don’t always (ever) know what’s going on. I think about what page number I’m on a lot. And how many pages are left. And how bad my life is and stuff.

Sometimes I come across words that I’m pretty sure are make-believe. Like factotum. That’s not real. You’re thinking of the word ‘totem pole,’ Author. You need to do a better job proofreading. Also, totem pole doesn’t even make sense in that sentence – you should consider reworking that part altogether or change the book so it’s about Indians. I like the Sioux.

My friend said the only way to truly know whether or not a word is real is to look it up in the dicwtionwary. But what the hell’s the point of doing that? You want me to do more reading? For what? I already have the dictionary on my bookshelf – I wouldn’t be gaining anything. It’s my Free Space. That’s what my Bingo friends call it. They’re ridiculous. I’m actually reading a book on Bingo right now, but it’s about the dog, Bingo, and actually his name is “Benji,” not Bingo. It is a book though.

Books are okay sometimes I guess, like when spiders are crawling around and you need to smash their lights out with something or you when you need to lift your stereo speaker off the ground so you can get better sound quality and for fire. But overall, it just seems like something to do when you can’t sleep and you have a huge erection.

I just think you can learn everything you need to know from watching television. I read that somewhere.

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Yo, Your Breath Stinks

I keep making up excuses for why I haven't been returning this girl's calls. But the truth is her breath stinks – always. It’s so bad that my breath has begun stinking just from kissing her. When we’re alone out at dinner, I prefer texting her instead of talking to her. I told her I have unlimited texts. I don't even think that exists.

How can she not know? It’s right under her nose. Literally – every time she speaks. Does she think that’s just the way the world smells? Well, wake up (brush your teeth) and smell the roses, girlfriend.

I don’t want to be trivial. And I understand that we all have our things – our defaults. Like I know I have a huge dick and that must be annoying for her, always having to cum and stuff all the time. But I recognize that -- I’ve warned her about my dick. She never mentioned her breath.

I don’t think she knows. And here’s why…

When we we’re face to face she would talk directly to my nose. I would always turn my head, offering my ear. Talk to my ear -- it can't smell you. But she would always turn me back forcing me to face the winds head on. I would have to block my nose which caused me to sound like Droopy Dog, which she thought was funny. But it wasn't really, it was dangerous. I wasn’t breathing and I narrowly escaped death by asphyxiation several times. Shitty way to go, huh?

The best was when I tried to give her a mint.

Altoid?
“No thanks.”
TicTac?
“Nah. Too much sugar.”
Sugar-Free Listerine Breath Strip?
“No thanks. You have so many different kinds of mints.”

I know. I love mints.

I had to be smooth about it. So I slipped a lifesaver in my mouth, kissed her and forced it in her mouth. Suck it. But that only made her breath smell like peppermint shit. And last time I checked, they stopped making Candy Canes in that flavor. Because people thought they smelled like shit.

I had to do some research – I was curious. Why does her mouth smell like someone went to the bathroom in it? What causes bad breath? Did they make a urinal cake that would fit in her mouth? I made an appointment with my online doctor – WebMD.

What I found out was not awesome:
“Bad breath is caused by odor-producing bacteria that grow in the mouth. When you don't brush and floss regularly, bacteria accumulate on the bits of food left in your mouth and between your teeth. The sulfur compounds released by these bacteria make your breath smell.”

I learned a few things. I learned that I was smelling the Lunchables she ate in 1994 and that those bits of rotten turkey and cracker may have contain information regarding the O.J. Simpson trial. I learned that there was nothing I could do. Ojay was already a free man.

I also didn't think I could just tell her.

Mainly because it would have involved her responding and therefore - me smelling more of her breath which is what I wanted to avoid in the first place.

And secondly, you’re not allowed to tell someone that. Because you’re not. It would hurt their feelings too much. You just have to not talk to them again and put it in a blog.

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Manager/Mother

People outside of LA have no clue how things work in the entertainment business. And by people, I mean my mother.

This is the phone call I get – every day -- from my manager/mother, Wendy.

(When reading this, give her a wicked hahd Boston accent.)

Wendy: Hiiiiii!

Me: Hi ma.

What are you doing?

Nothing. How you doing?

Good. Did you get my message? I called you before.

Yup. I listened to your voicemail telling me to call you. And I got your text about checking my voicemail. That’s why I’m calling you back.

What’s the attitude for?

No attitude.

Guess who I saw today…Janet Picheny. You’re never gonna believe who her daughter’s working for – Steven Spielberg.

Do I know who that is?

Yeah. Very funny, Stephen. The director, shmiz. He made the Schindlers list.

No. The girl, Ma. Do I know who the girl is?

I don’t think so. But what's the difference? You should call her – she might be able to do something for you. Do you want her number?

“Hey. How you doing? Guess who ran into your mother today at the nail salon. Do you give up? My mother! No, you’ve never met or heard of either of us -- but still, my mom said you might be able to do me a favor and tell Steven Spielberg to put me in a movie. Also, I won’t work for less than a million. Hello? Hello?"

I got a dial tone, Ma--

Don’t be a wise guy, Stephen. You never know. Tell her you’re Jewish.

Are you in-fucking-sane? That’s not how it works.

Then don’t call her.

I won’t.

(long pause)

What about writing a letter to Oprah. Asking her to help. She helps people.

Dear Oprah, I’m a rich Jew living in LA doing everything in my power to become famous. But I just can’t seem to get anywhere L. Would you stop wasting your time building schools for poor Africans for a second and help me?

Sincerely,
Stephen

P.S. - I used be friends with a black guy. (Hope it helps).

Stephen, be serious. I was looking through the magazine – People Magazine you know – and I saw pictures of Mandy Moore hanging out at the Ivy. You should go there. Maybe she’ll think you’re gorgeous and you’ll fall in love.

Right. I’m on my way….

How‘bout being the bachelor? It’s an easy way to become famous. Meet all those girls and all of a sudden you’re a superstar overnight.

Ma!

I know. I know. (mocking me) That’s not how I want to do it, Ma. I want to make it on my own. I don’t need anybody’s help, Ma.

That was a pretty good impersonation of me, Mom.

Oy, Stephen. It’s very hard what you’re doing. But you’re gonna do it. It just takes time. Have faith.

Are you trying to convince me or are you trying to convince yourself there, Ma?

I’m not convincing anyone. You'll be fine.

Yeah, I know…. Alright, what else?

What else? Did you watch American Idol last night?

Yes.

It was great wasn’t it?

Yeah.

What about trying to get on a show like that?

Ma, what the fuck are you talking about? I don’t sing. I gotta go. I love you.

Alright. I love you too. Call that girl.

Alright I will. I gotta go – I just pulled up to the Ivy.

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