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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Birthdays

I never talk about my birthday ever. But I do, however, enjoy when people remind me about their upcoming birthdays -- months in advance.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be 27 in less than six months. Yep. December 17th. Can you believe it? It falls on a Friday.”

Cool, I’ll be sure to leave town that weekend. Because birthdays are annoying. Everything about them. For one, what are you talking about? This isn’t the thirteenth century. There’s really no need to celebrate surviving another year. The only people who should be excited by birthdays are old people. And when you’re old, you know what you get for your birthday? You get a fucking phone call. That’s what you get, and you’re grateful. It’s what old people live for. “Can’t wait for my birthday so I can find out if my grandchildren are still alive.”

And then there’s always the burning question of what are we going to do for your birthday. I mean, seriously, what the hell are we gonna do? We gotta figure something out. It’s your birthday for chrissakes. You are having a birthday! We can’t just do what we normally do with you when it’s not your birthday – you know, ignore you, treat you like you don’t matter and talk shit behind your back. We should go roller-skating or something!

If anyone should be celebrated on your birthday, it should be your mother. Think about your mother’s pussy right now. Do it. Think about that horrible day when her vagina ripped down the seem and her pussy and asshole united and became one so you could make your way into this disgusting world. And then take her roller-skating.

Great. Now I can’t stop thinking about my mother’s pussy. Poor thing.

Sometimes having a birthday party is unavoidable – like when your friends throw you a party. Which is the worst thing ever, because birthdays are really just contests to see how many friends you have. That’s a game I’m not very good at.

My best friends made this huge party for me and my only responsibility was to be liked enough for people to show up. Not an easy task since I’m extremely unlikeable. As soon as those invites went out, I started sweating. What if nobody came? I had to do something to make sure people attended. So I began doing charity work for everyone I know. “Hey Morgan, need a car wash? Or a dick suck? You know my birthday’s this weekend….(gulp)”

The Big Day arrives.

I get there a little late, giving everyone some extra time to get there. I can’t show up before everyone else. I’ll let a little crowd build and then they’ll applaud me when I arrive. “Yay, Steve! We love you on your birthday!” It’s gonna be great. I’ve played this scene out in my head all week long. When I arrive, my friends’ backyard is decorated beautifully. Lights everywhere, tons of alcohol laid out on long tables sprinkled with “Happy Birthday!” confetti. There are bowls of chips and salsa and Margaritas as far as the eye can see. And to top it all off, they hired a Mexican Taco Vendor who’s on standby – tortilla in hand, ready to make 500 tacos for me and all my friends.

Wait. Are my friends allergic to tacos?

Because there’s no one there. No one except the one random guy I invited three days ago after accidentally running into him at Starbucks. I can’t fuckin believe this guy came. I barely fuckin know this douche bag and here he is – gift in hand. What a fucking loser.

Me, I mean.

And then my friends who threw the party come running out shouting, “Hey, Birthday Boy!” And I want to vomit, but I hold it together. “Hey! This is so awesome! I can’t believe you got a Taco Vendor!” (Why the fuck did you do this to me?) “Do you have a phonebook?” Because I want to hire a bunch of extras right now. I’m willing to pay them scale if they’ll pretend to be my friends for the night.

Oh my god. I can’t believe my birthday’s only ten and a half months away. August 9th.

It falls on a Monday.

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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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