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….”

Wet Hot American Shower (Sex)

I love showering because it’s the one time of day I finally get to be alone with my thoughts. So what the fuck are you doing in here right now?!

Nothing good ever came out of more than one person showering at the same time. Just ask Hitler. Or one of his campers rather.

Whenever I shower with my girlfriend I end up standing there like an asshole -- shivering; hoping some of the hot water she’s enjoying will splash off her body and onto mine before I get hypothermia and have to be rushed to the hospital.

Watching someone else shower is like waiting in line at the bank. All I can think is, ‘This sucks. When’s it gonna be my fuckin turn already? How much longer do you need lady?! I’m gonna kill every mother fucking last one of you!”

I don’t know what it is, but having a naked woman in my shower turns me on. Is that normal? Shower sex sounds like a great idea. When I watch pornos and people have sex in the shower they always look so suave, confident and coordinated. It’s not like that at home.

At home it’s awkward.

I like to start the festivities with a little mutual shampoo action. You know, you wash my hair, I’ll wash yours until I get my fingers stuck and accidentally pull out your hair and you yell at me and I ruin the moment. Shampooing a woman’s hair is nothing like shampooing your own. It takes forever. The soap never comes out. And it’s pointless because she’s going to redo it afterward. Either way, I somehow always manage to get soap in both of our eyes and we have to feel around the shower like Stevie Wonder looking for a washcloth. Cue porn sting.

Sometimes if things get going and our eyes aren’t burning, a wave of passion will rush through my body and I’ll suddenly get excited and feel like I can do anything. That’s when I’ll pick her up in my arms and try pinning her against the shower wall like I saw on Cinemax. This is pretty awesome for about one minute at which point my legs start shaking and I look like I have Parkinson’s and have to put her down. “Oh, I’m sorry babe, didn’t you know? I’m a weakling. That is why I can’t hold you. I am not able to lift 100 lbs. Even though the wall is helping me – so really, more like 40 lbs. I can’t lift 40 lbs. Maybe you could lift me up? I could wrap my legs around your hips and you could do me. Or maybe you could just bend me over and you can be the guy in this relationship…how badly is all this making you want to fuck me right now?”

You know, I can never seem to find the right position in there. It’s like one big game of Tetris to me. I get all creative with my surroundings. “Alright honey, here’s what I want you to do….put your left foot on the soap ledge….now wrap your right arm over that bar and put your pinky toe on the faucet. Good. Now I’m gonna put my knee over here I want you to hold my neck so I don’t fall. Okay. Got it. Wait! I have a cramp. I HAVE A CRAMP. OW, OW, OW…!” Coitus one, Schneider nothing.

And that’s usually when I grab the curtain rod by accident and pull the whole fuckin thing down. Every time. I know I’m not supposed to touch it because it’s not drilled into the wall and yet I can’t help myself. I grab it, the whole thing comes crashing down and I slip and almost kill myself. Then I have to call a time out on sex while I put the friggin thing back together with a boner for fourteen minutes. “Just hang on baby… I got it. Water’s going everywhere. Hang on I said. The shower rings won’t go back on the thing. JUST HANG ON A GODDAMN MINUTE I SAID! I’m fucking freezing, you enjoying that hot water? I hate you right now. THERE! I GOT IT BABE! Now lift me up and fuck me against the wall.”

Ever try to eat pussy while your both standing under the shower? It’s the closest I’ve ever come to death by drowning. I wear floaties now when I do it and have a lifeguard on duty. I was thinking about picking up some scuba gear and taking a class.

Oh, I also learned recently that it’s not okay to pee in the shower anywhere near or on the person standing next to you. Especially when you have an erection. Evidently, the only person who thinks it would be cool if I pee over her shoulder from a standing position without hitting her body is me.

You know what, fuck it. I’ll pee on myself. I’m freezing anyway.

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It's Just Lunch

How many goddamn choices do we need on a menu? When I was a kid in school, there were two options in the cafeteria: shitty and shittier. And somehow I always managed to pick one and move on with my fucking life.

I went to Jerry’s Deli on Sunday and the menu was twenty pages long. TWENTY. It contained advertisements on every other page, probably so they could afford to print them. I wanted to fucking Tivo this menu and skip through the commercials so I could just watch what was for dinner.

I’m not gonna sit there and read a goddamn menu for thirty minutes. I hate reading. And you know what bothered me more? I could overhear all the assholes at the other tables making the same piss poor, corny ass jokes about the menu: “This thing needs a Table of Contents, right?!” “I wonder if the Cliff Notes are available!” “Hey, check out chapter 7: Poultry!”

Shut up. ALL OF YOU! What the hell am I gonna order? What if I don’t pick the right thing? GOD FORBID!!!! Screw it, I’m just going to randomly point to something on the menu…..and….eat…THIS.

White Fish & Sable Sandwich? NO FUCKING WAY! I’d rather eat a Mercury Sable.

What the hell is happening to us, guys? We’re filling our days with options instead of opting to fill our days. Take cereal. The classic question, “Would you want to eat the same cereal every day for the rest of your life?” I would if it were Cheerios. But Cheerios isn’t Cheerios anymore. It’s a category. Honey Nut Cheerios now has all these retarded stepbrothers and gay cousins like Fruity and Berry Burst. Let me introduce you to the “Cheerios Family”:

Apple Cinnamon Cheerios
Banana Nut Cheerios
Berry Burst Cheerios
Berry Burst Cheerios: Strawberry
Berry Burst Cheerios: Triple Berry
Chocolate Cheerios
Frosted Cheerios
Fruity Cheerios
Honey Nut Cheerios
MultiGrain Cheerios
Oat Cluster Cheerios
Crunch Team USA Cheerios: Special Edition
Yogurt Burst Cheerios - Strawberry
Yogurt Burst Cheerios - Vanilla

Frosted Cheerios are pretty dope and so are Apple Cinnamon – but if I wanted to eat those cereals I would have bought Apple Jacks or Lucky Charms and just taken the marshmallows out. We’ve gone so crazy with choices that we’re now repeating the old ones. It’s like Charlie & the Chocolate Factory. Why the fuck would you ever re-make a movie like that? Jonny Depp can lick Gene Wilder’s old Jewish balls. The ballsberries taste like ballsberries, Johnny. And I just came up with the next kind of Cheerios.

Too much of the world’s energy goes into food. Five hundred years ago it used to be just like the thing you do in order to keep your body alive. You would eat and spend your day chopping people’s heads off with swords. We were so productive then. Now there are movies and entire television networks devoted to food, where we sit on our fat asses and watch people make food that we can’t eat or taste or even smell.

The funny thing is, I’m a hypocrite. I watch a lot of HGTV and the Food Network. Fuck you, I love it. Top Chef is my favorite show. Suck my dick.

But sometimes I’ll be watching TV and the judges will be diligently analyzing the details of a contestant’s dish – and I’ll have a sudden burst of pure hatred and think to myself – what the fuck are you people talking about right now? Where the hell am I and has the whole world gone crazy?

The following is an actual conversation that took place on the show “Chopped.” You can watch the actual clip right here, it starts at 1:42… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPmAmwIY3Po

Oh...they are talking about clam soup…

JUDGE 1
But he brought broth to the table. The bacon and the clam; they work so well together.

JUDGE 2
But the bacon was limp…it was fatty.

JUDGE 1
But the bacon’s gonna be limp, it was in the soup.

JUDGE 3
(interjects)
Bacon, potato and clams? There’s no better flavor combination…WHEN IT’S USED WITH RESTRAINT.

I feel like a show like this would have been fun to screen at Auschwitz. You know, where people were eating wood to survive.

Figuring out where you and your friends want to go for dinner is harder than buying the right car. Which should never be a Mercury Sable. Hands down, the worst question ever is: ‘Where do you want to eat?’

People always ask you this question when they clearly have their minds set on where they want to go. But they can’t just say it, can they? They’d rather have you come up with a million suggestions until you name the one place they were already thinking of. These are the same people who when asked where they want to eat always say, “I don’t care, I’m easy.” Yeah, you’re easy if I can fuckin guess it on the first try.

Wanna go to Houston's?

Not really, kinda expensive, don’t you think?

Wanna go to Fudruckers?

Nah, I’m not really in the mood for a burger.

How ‘bout Chili’s?

Last time I was there I had a bad experience.

JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU WANT TO FUCKING GO!

I really don’t care!

You obviously do.

I really don’t.

I hate you. I absolutely hate you as a person. You disgust me. I never want to eat with you again.

Alright, fine! Let’s just go to Papa Johns and get a pizza.

You just named the one place I don’t want to go. Anywhere else! Seriously!

Too many options. Maybe I should just become a vegetarian. Carrots or fucking celery? Done.

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I Don't Care Anymore

When I was in the fifth grade – you know, the time in your life when all you want is for your parents to NOT embarrass you – my dad would come to my rec basketball games wearing a pair of purple Champion sweatpants with a black leather bomber jacket. His hair would be all fucked up like he just woke up from a nap and he’d have sandals on in 20-degree weather. He looked like he’d been dressed by a retarded four year old -- he might as well have had gum in his hair.

I think when you get older there’s a point you reach when you simply give up on yourself. And that point for me is now.

I caught myself in the mirror the other day before I went out for breakfast and I looked exactly like I did on my first day of kindergarten. Like a fucking loser. Except this time I didn’t have my whole life ahead of me and I wasn’t carrying a sweet-ass Thundercats lunchbox.

It’s funny how you spend so much of the early part of your life in front of a mirror – making sure you look good. Making sure each piece of hair is where you want it to be -- so somebody will like you and have sex with you and end up being your girlfriend or boyfriend if you’re one of those gay guys. Because ultimately, when that day finally comes and you get what you want, you never, ever have to worry about your appearance again. You can just let yourself go to waste.

My grandmother wears sweatshirts with unicorns and sparkles on them. Does she do this because she’s awesome? Maybe. But more so because she just doesn’t give a fuck. It’s a clean sweatshirt. I bet if you asked her, she’d have no idea that she was wearing a unicorn. Or what a unicorn looks like. Or the year.

The same thing happens when you’re in a relationship for a long time.

Before I met my girlfriend, I would brush my teeth everyday. And now I don’t even know where my toothbrush is. Oh wait, yes I do, there it is, on the floor next to the toilet with hair on it. Bonus: now I can brush and floss my teeth at the same time. Or more likely, not at all.

You know, people start relationships not being able to fart in front of one another. And by the end they’re cheering each other on to shit normal. “CRAP HENRY CRAP! CRAP HENRY CRAP!... HOORAY!!!!!!!”

The other reason I think I stopped giving a fuck is because my body is changing. For the worse. And frankly, it’s out of control.

Take my balls for example.

Remember those old guys whose balls would hang down from their assholes like a giant loogie that refuses to break? You would just stare at them and wonder how any of this is even scientifically possible? This guy's balls are defying gravity right now....if Neil Armstrong could see this....

After catching an unflattering glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day, I realized that guy is me. I’m the balls guy now. You could play a four-person game of tetherball with my love nuggets.

The other good thing I have going for me is the black hairs that have suddenly started growing out of my ears. You've seen The Fly, right? Next week I’ll be crawling across the ceiling and puking on my food in order to digest it.

Normally in a relationship, you would think you’re loved one would give you a heads up. Maybe say something like, “Hey Steve, wait. Before you go, let me just break out my tweezers for a hot minute and pull out those black hairs that you have growing out of your ears so people don't think you're a complete fuckin weirdo.” But not mine. My girlfriend just lets me walk out the front door and start conversing with people who clearly aren’t listening to a word I say because they’re so busy trying not to stare at my ears. And I don't blame them. That’s what I do when I talk to someone with a physical defect. ‘Just don’t look at it. He’s waiting for you to look at it so just DON’T! PRETEND EVERYTHING IS NORMAL!!!’

But the truth is, I really don’t care. I don’t. Go on and look at my ears or stare at my low balls. Because as I mentioned earlier, I’m old now and I simply don’t give a shit.

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I hate cats (not the musical)

I fucking hate cats. Not the musical. Unless it's about cats, then I fucking hate Cats.

Before my girlfriend moved in with me she warned me that she had a cat and sooner or later it would have to move in with us. So I said, “sure, of course, honey, whatever you need me to say right now in order for us to stop talking about this and continue having sex….” Anyway, I figured the cat or I would die, before anything ever came of it.

But I didn’t die unfortunately. And the good news is cats live to be eighteen -- which might as well be forever, because right now he’s 7.

This cat is living the dream. The three of us just moved into a house together (my girlfriend, me and yup, you guessed it, the cat). And he thinks he can just do whatever he wants. He’ll just prance around and lick his little cat balls all over my kitchen counters. Hey kitty, why don’t you try walking across this stove over here, I swear I won’t turn it on. I swear to god. Just try it once. Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t respond to ANYTHING because you’re a cat. You’re “independent.” You “do your own thing.” Fuck you, cat.

Cats don’t bathe. They’re like homeless people. They just lick themselves all day, beg you to feed them and shit into plastic boxes. Get a job!

Whenever I refer to the cat, I won’t use his name, I always call him “the cat” or “your cat” because that’s how you dehumanize something. I read that in Mein Kampf.

I know what you’re thinking right now, why are you such a pussy, Steve? Why don’t you just bury the cat AND your girlfriend while you’re at it? I thought about going all Scott Peterson on his ass, but he had a boat and I don’t. And I need it to look like an accident.

That’s why late night, after my girlfriend goes to sleep, I sneak downstairs and open all the windows and doors in the house and put a trail of mice leading down the driveway, up the street and onto the 405. But there’s so much traffic in LA, he just ends up lowly merging.

How the hell did I end up in this predicament? Oh yeah, I remember. The conversation went something like this…

Me: “I hate cats”
My girlfriend: “I like cats”
Me: “Okay, I’ll get his bags.”

Why would I care about a tiny little cat? Right? I mean, grow up, Steve, it’s just a measly little cat. NO. IT’S NOT MEASLY! It’s enormous. It’s a fucking mountain lion. It’s like 35 pounds and it belongs at the Mirage in Vegas, not my house.

And to top it all off, it isn’t even a normal cat. He has thumbs.

THUMBS. My girlfriend said it was some pterodactyl cat or some bullshit thing to make him sound special. He’s special all right. Inbred. His parents were brother and sister and those sick bastards had sex with each other. And now I’m living with their freak of a son. Their mongoloid child. He has hands. Ape-like cat hands. And every night I can’t fall asleep because I’m afraid I’m gonna wake up with them around my neck.

He just gave me the thumbs up.

The cat watches me pee. He looks at me while I’m peeing and I can’t go. I get nervous. I don’t want him to know he has a bigger dick than me. Then he’ll have all the power.

Lately, I’ve been trying to “sneeze” a lot and “cough up fake blood” when the cat’s around. I’ve hidden ketchup packets all over the house. I figure the only way I’ll be able to get rid of him is if I am allergic. Why is that? Why is that the only reasonable excuse? Can’t you be mentally allergic to something? Isn’t that enough of a reason? Because my soul is covered in hives and it’s really itchy.

Humans and cats have no relationship. Owning a cat is like owning a goldfish. And that is why cats should be kept in glass bowls filled to the brim with water. I told her I would be okay with that.

Does anybody know where I can buy an ALF?

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AWKWARD MOMENTS IN TIME

Last week I was at a music festival in San Francisco watching Ben Harper play. That’s not the awkward part. Ben Harper has a song called “With My Own Two Hands” which goes, “I can change the world with my own two hands…” It’s a great song and his band was jamming out and the crowd was going bananas. But there’s this part in the song where he starts repeating the refrain over and over again, “...with my own…two hands…two hands…two haaaaands.” And I turned around and saw this guy standing behind me who only had one hand. Not two.

And the whole crowd was singing along, “Two Hands! Two Hands!" And then the music stopped and people were just chanting "TWO HANDS" over and over again.

This man was on a date. And I could just see his thoughts, “Man, there’s just no escape is there, God? I come to this concert to forget about my missing arm for a few hours, I bring this cute girl along who I was hoping was gonna sleep with me, and now she thinks I can’t change the world -- because I don't have two hands. Was it really necessary to make a fifteen-minute song about this? You’re really fucking me up here…”

I felt so bad -- as soon as the song finished, I wanted to do something nice for the guy – so I screamed out at the top of my lungs, “YOU CAN CHANGE THE WORLD WITH ONE HAND! BY THE WAY.” And I looked over at him and with his stubby arm, he gave me the finger, well, it was actually the wrist.

**********************************************

The other day I was at Bed, Bath and Beyond buying the Magic Bullet (As Seen on TV). And I had farted -- this is important. There were no more Magic Bullets left on the display rack so I looked up and saw that there were a ton of them way high up on the very top shelf -- where they stock them. I tried to climb up the shelves to reach one, but I couldn’t. So I turned around and saw one of the employees carrying one of those Poles Hooks - lucky day. I asked the guy if I could borrow it for a sec so I could get one of those Magic Bullets down from the shelf. And he said, "Absolutely not. Insurance issue. But I can do it for you." Sure, I said, no problem. So the guy with the pole starts walking over right towards the spot where I had just farted. And it stunk. I didn't know what to do, it was like sending someone into a burning building. So I just yelled, “Stop! Don’t walk over there.” And he froze -- he just stopped right in his tracks -- and he didn’t know what to do because it was so weird. He probably thought I was crazy -- because he was just staring at me, waiting for me to explain why I made him stop. But I couldn’t come up with anything on the spot, so I just said, "I farted over there." And he sort of just smiled, and then walked right over, stood in the middle of Ground Zero and grabbed me that Magic Bullet off the shelf with his pole. I didn't tell him at the time, but I thought that was really admirable.

**********************************************

I used to jerk off to the couple that lives next door to me – they were always having really loud and raunchy sex. And I’d be up against the wall just whackin my penis. Then I found out it was two gay guys. Which made things a little awkward. Because if I had known that I would’ve jerked off way harder.

**********************************************

Whenever I try to throw something away in public – in front of people -- like literally when I try to throw something into the garbage from a few feet away, nine times out of ten I always miss. And this is embarrassing because I was obviously trying to look cool in the first place and then I fail and have to go and pick my garbage up off the ground and throw it away a second time. And sometime I miss that one too. And that is probably just the absolute worst thing that can happen to a human being in this world. I don’t fuck around like that anymore though. Now I physically place things in the garbage. I put my hand all the way down to the bottom of the barrel and bury it deep beneath the cheeseburger wrappers and pickles -- like I'm afraid it's gonna jump out. And then I say, “Did you see that? I totally made it!”

**********************************************

When I was in college, I had this professor named Ron Boothe and he taught a class called The Psychobiology of Visual Perception. The only thing I learned was how to spell ‘Psychobiology’ (sp?). Anyway, it was this ridiculously hard class -- your entire grade was based on one single test – the final. So the day before the final, everybody was freaking out because there was so much stuff to memorize and it was like absolutely impossible -- and you couldn't just write all the answers on your TI-82 and take it in with you -- because there was no calculators allowed on this test. I used to convince my English teachers during tests that I needed to use my calculator. "It's to count the words." Anyway, the day before the test, we're all freaking out until we get the luckiest email in the world. Our teacher sends us an email saying that the exam was postponed because he had to go visit his father who was in the hospital -- which was great because we needed the extra time to prepare. So, the following week we’re all in class waiting for him to come in and give us the test. And the second he walks through the door, the first thing out of my mouth was, “No offense, but thank god you had to go visit your father last week, because none of us were even close to being prepared for this test!” And he goes, “Yeah…about my father…he was murdered.”

That was awkward.

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10 things i hate (not including you)

Here is a small collection of some things I hate (not including you):

Borrowing Things
I hate when I ask someone to borrow something (like their iPod) and they say to me, “Sure, Steve. Just don’t drop it.”

I'm glad you said something because I was going to smash it on the ground the second you handed it to me. But, now that you’ve warned me there’s now way I can make that look like an accident.

Next time I’m just going to cut right to the chase and ask you if I there's something of yours I can break.

Invitations
I strongly dislike when people invite me to things but make it super-unappealing for me because they clearly don’t want me to go.

“So the reservation’s for 19 and there’s barely any room left – just one chair and it's nailed to the ceiling and it has a maximum weight capacity of 5 lbs less than you weigh but if you really want to go, I’m sure it’s no big deal. All you have to do is call the birthday girl – even though you’ve never spoken her in your life -- and she only speaks Hindi, no English -- and just ask her to put you on the list for her private birthday party – the one for friends and family only with no Steves.”

I called.

Concerts
I’m not a fan of when performers say “controversial things” at concerts just to make people like them or think they're cool. That doesn’t work in real life like when your girlfriend's about to break up with you because she just caught you cheating on her and she’s been screaming about how much she hates your guts for hours until finally she says, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

And I yell out “WEED!”

She doesn't start clapping.

Public Bathrooms
One time I was at a Mailbox Etc. and was told that the bathrooms are for customers only. And I was like, “I just got to make a pee-pee. Please!” But the woman was rude and she was like, “Sorry. Customers only.” So I said fine. ”I’d like to buy a stamp.” I paid my 37 cents, got the receipt, took a shit on the bathroom floor and returned the stamp for a full refund on my way out the door.

But later that day I had to mail something so I went back and bought another stamp. Man that place smelled like shit.

Voicemail
Can the cellphone companies just get together for a weekend and agree that pressing # after you’re done leaving a message brings you back to the main menu instead of sending it after you just finished recording a message that ended like this:

"...oh my God, I'm such a loser. I'm recording that again."

“Your message has been sent. Goodbye.”

Art Gallery
It really bothers me when people stare at a paintings at an Art Gallery for really long time s because they have now idea what to do. So here's the SECRET: What you’re SUPPOSED to do is count to 30 in your head and then move on while making a face that says, 'interesting' even though you can't wait to get the fuck out of there.

How Was Your Flight?
“Terrible! I had a layover in Atlanta for two hours. THEN right as we’re about to board they get on the loud speaker and delay us another hour… Finally, they get us all on the plane and we’re about to take off until the captain comes on and says they’re holding us for weather. I look out my window and it’s 90 degrees and sunny – so I said, ‘Maybe we should just drive the plane there!’ didn't I honey?”

Why do you think I actually care about your flight? I was just asking because we have nothing in common and I have nothing else to say to you. What I really want to know is when are you going home?

Phone Rings in the Middle of the Night in a Movie or TV Show
People in movies and TV shows always turn the light on before answering a middle-of-the-night-phonecall. WHY?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT?

I feel like it was done once and people just thinkt that’s how you’re supposed to make a ‘middle-of-the-night-phonecall' scene. It's how it's done.

If there’s one thing I know I would definitely do if the phone rang in the middle of the night (other than answer it) it would be to turn on 150 watts of blinding light two inches away from my face at three in the morning. But then again, I'm just being logical.

New Number!
Ever get this text from someone you haven't spoken to in 10 years?

"Hey! This is my new number. Just thought you‘d like to know.”

Thank you. That's one more number I'll make sure to never accidentally dial. LEAVE ME ALONE GRANDMA!

Friend Driving Me to the Airport
Whenever I'm running late to the airport and my friend agrees to drive, he all of a sudden will not break the speed limit. He goes extra slow on purpose just to try and teach me a lesson.

But ultimately it is I who teaches him the lesson because I have lied about my departure time, and we left 3 hours before we had to and I made him drive me to the wrong airport first. This way he guns it across town to the right airport because he hates me so much and he can't stand being in a car with me. There's definitely a lesson in there.

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me vs. you

I like seeing my friends do well in life, but you know what I like more? When they fail and bad shit happens to them.

The other day my old roommate came up to me and told me how bullshit he was because he just got a parking ticket. And I said all the things a real human being friend is supposed to say in a situation like that like, “Oh dude! That blows! Fuckin meter-maids! They should just get a life right? So annoying!”

But that’s not what I was really thinking. What I was really thinking was, “Hahahahahaha! Yes! I’m glad you got a ticket! You have to pay fifty dollars and I don’t! You happy now you little piece of shit?”

I hope he doesn’t realize I moved his car into that spot.

But that’s what life is all about right? Doing better than your friends.

When my buddy told me his girlfriend dumped him, I told him how sorry I was and how terrible I felt for him and that if he needed anything – anything at all – I was there for him. But that was a lie.

First of all, I wasn’t gonna do anything for that idiot. Second, it made me genuinely happy to hear that news. One of the best days of my life. Seriously. Fuck that kid! That’ll cut him right back down to size. Who the hell did he think he was? Having a girlfriend in front of me!

Why should he be happy? I didn’t have a girlfriend. Nobody was making me omelets or washing my car or whatever it is those girlfriends do. Who knows? It’s all so secretive. But now he’s got nothing. Good.

I hope he doesn’t realize I talked her into it.

Am I a bad person? Yes. But I’m trying to make a point here. Look, if I have apples and you have oranges, I hope you choke to death on your oranges. Apples suck. They’re the worst fruit in the produce section. Nobody wants an apple. You can’t trade an apple for something. That’s why they have to dip them in caramel to get you to eat them. You know what else tastes good after you dip it in caramel? My sneaker.

But you know what I hate more than apples? Success stories.

Whenever somebody comes up to me and tries to ruin my day by telling me a “success story” about some hotshot asshole they know or read about who just accomplished some amazing thing, the first thing I always do -- BEFORE shifting into my default emotion of jealous rage with a hint of depression -- is ask, “How old he is?” Then I subtract my age from the successful person’s age so I know how many years I have before I need to accomplish that same goal. As I get older, that number is growing smaller and smaller. In fact, I have to make a million dollars before I finish typing this sentence so I’m going to keep typing here and not let this end because once I do it’s over and people will – DAMMITT.

Here’s my schedule for the next 5 years:
- invent a new search engine that’s way better than google
- become a ny times best selling author
- have sex with a black girl
- win an academy award (for having sex with a black girl) – not sure if that’s a category – just thought I could kill two birds with one stone. That’s right – my dick’s a stone. It’s fucking feldspar.

I’m into asking people how much money they have. People often think that success is measured by the amount of money you have. Well, that’s correct. So whenever I ask people how much money they have, here’s what I do after they tell me – I make use of the following equation:

[(how much money they have) + one million dollars] = X

X is how much money I tell them I have.

But it’s not all about your friends failing. It’s also about you succeeding in life and rubbing it in their faces. I enjoy doing this. But you have to act like it’s no big deal.

“I have a new TV show coming out in the Fall that I’m the star of. It’s no big deal or whatever. It’s gonna be on Comedy Central – I wanted it to be on NBC – but it’s gonna be on Comedy Central this fall. It’s gonna be huge though and I’m gonna be really famous and stuff.”

Of course, it’s more effective when you don’t have to lie like I just did. But you have to. You know, sometimes people will just walk up to me and tell me that they just ate at a really fancy restaurant or whatever and they’ll try to make me feel poor. So instead, I’ll just make an awesome lie like the TV show thing so my life seems better than theirs.

I would love to continue writing this blog but I’ve got to go. I have a date with the girl who played Vicki the Robot in Small Wonder [1985-1989]. What are you doing tonight?

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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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Ikea

This is me walking through Ikea...

“Okay. Just gotta get that dresser and I’ll be on my way. Let’s see…which way are the dressers? Dressers…dressers…Ooh I like that couch. No. Dressers. Okay so living rooms are this way…that looks like dining rooms over there….I like that garbage can. Do I need a garbage can? Wait, what the fuck? Are those shelves just sticking out of the wall? How the hell do they do that? They must be magnets or something. Wait, this can't be right. It says they're seventeen bucks. That's impossible. No it's not. They're really seventeen dollars…huh. I guess I should just get one. I have nothing to put on it. Is that a fucking shoe rack? That's awesome. Stop - find the dresser. Wait where am I? Wait a second. Seriously. Where the fuck am I? I gotta get outta here. How do you get out of here? Alright, I gotta go. Does anybody work here? Okay, I'll just follow the arrows. Follow the arrows, dude and they'll obviously get you out of here. The arrows will take you to safety. Wait a minute. Where are you taking me, arrows? No, I don't want to see the kids furniture. Why are you showing me cribs? Get me outta here. Um...I'm pretty sure I already went that way, arrows. WHAT? Now I'm back at the beginning. There's that garbage can. I need my Magellan. STOP. I ALREADY SAW THE SHELVES. I'M BUYING ONE ALREADY. STOP PLAYING MIND GAMES WITH ME IKEA. I like that table. I’m gonna throw up. HELP! DOES ANYBODY WORK HERE? PLEASE IKEA. PLEASE. LET ME GO AND I WON'T TELL ANYBODY...I SWEAR. PLEASE....

ONE MONTH LATER:

Dear Ikea,

You make pieces of shit. I thought I bought a wooden dresser from you. But it’s not wood. In fact, it’s cardboard. You sold me a cardboard dresser for fifty bucks. The homeless guy on my street has a cardboard dresser -- he made it out of the box my dresser came in.

By the way, how stupid am I? I thought the dresser came with screws! I'm such a dummy! WHY THE HELL DOESN'T IT COME WITH SCREWS? Were people complaining? "Do you believe this, honey? They included screws. God dammit. Now I'm not going to have to get really angry, start drinking early and scare you with that Lord of the Rings sword I bought from SkyMall. I guess I'll just put the dresser together instead."

Or maybe you're just smarter than us, Ikea. It is possible that there are a surplus of screws in the world right now and people just don't know what to do with them. So you figured you'd create a product that could meet the demands of our modern market.

Meanwhile, I went back to get the screws, it took me an hour and a half, I had another panic attack and they ended up costing more than the fuckin dresser.

Speaking of getting screwed, I once bought a mattress from you and it was not good. I felt like Nelson Mandella for an entire year. I watched The Count of Monte Cristo and became extremely jealous of his living situation. I dug a hole through my bedroom floor and ended up in my landlord's apartment. She lives below me and was not happy. You owe her money.

I know what you’re going to say, Ikea – but what about our meatballs? Why are you starting in with the meatballs again, Ikea. Guess what, they’re gross. I don’t eat meatballs from a company who also makes toilet plungers. Although it does make sense – assuming you started making meatballs first.

Let’s talk about your hot dogs.

How the hell can a hot dog cost $0.50? Somebody needs to explain that. Because I'm pretty sure you're making a mistake. I've been running the figures in my head for months and I don't think it's correct. That price includes a hot dog, a bun, UNLIMITED mustard, ketchup and relish, napkins, the cost to heat the hot dog on those rollers – you know, the same ones you drag your luggage across at airport security, the little plate they serve it on AND the salary of the employee serving the hot dog – for fifty cents. IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. DO THE MATH. It should be way less than that. Unless it comes with screws. Then I would get it.

Please Get Back to Me,
Schneider

Also, about your pencils – shove them up your ass, Ikea. People don’t use pencils anymore. Pencils are for faggots. You're a faggot, Ikea.

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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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Voices

I’m really good at finding what's wrong with people and telling them about it. It’s not that I’m good at telling them, I’m just really good ABOUT telling them. I try to do what normal people do and ignore other people's flaws [because I have plenty of my own (this being one of them)] but eventually it ends up eating away at my patience -- making me angrier and angrier – I start looking for it, anticipating it -- actually wanting them to do it -- the thing I hate -- just so I can be right and hate them more. Until I can't take it anymore and I explode.

My ex-girlfriend does ‘voices.’ I don’t mean she works for Disney or she’s a puppeteer (because that would be cool). What I mean is she does voices -- like Robin Williams. All the time.

Me: “Hey, how are you?”
Her: (British accent) “Very Good Sir! Ow’ are you?”

I was good until you did that. Why are you doing that? You’ve never been to England. And I didn’t say anything that remotely relates to anything British.

She is an actress so I understand her inclination to “play” but still -- when you do a voice, it needs some kind of context. Here’s what I mean:

Me: “Do you want a bagel and cream cheese?”
Her: (Jamaican accent) “No mon, I don’t tink I be eaten a bagel today. Do you have any rum, mon?”
Me: (no accent) “Nope. No rum, mon.”

Now if she did a Jewish accent – I’d get it – bagel and cream cheese – not funny – but contextually, sure it makes sense. But she didn’t. She pretended to be Beanie Man.

After months of dealing with this internally. And focusing my energy on never giving her anything to play off of, I realized that it was killing me and I needed to say something. I hid all the harmful liquids in my house to prevent myself from poisoning her and invited her over to for an intervention.

Right before I spoke, I realized how weird this was gonna be. I mean who tells someone their 'voices' are a major problem? I do.

Me: “Listen…what’s with the voices.”
Her: “What do dou mean?”
Me: (slightly aggravated) “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
Her: “I really don’t.”
Me: (mocking her in a baby voice) “Hi! Wanna come over and pway?”
Beat.
Me: (continuing as a baby) “I wove you! (for effect) Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Her: “I do that with everybody. You’re the first person that seems to mind.”
Me: “I doubt it. I’m just the first person that’s ever said anything. Look, I understand why you do it -- I just want to ask you to please not do that with me. It bothers me.”
Her: “You want me to not be myself?”
Me: “Um...no. I want you to be you. That’s not you. That’s a collection of voices. I feel like I’m sleeping with Sybil.”
Her: “I don’t know what to tell you, I’ve been doing that since I was a child.”
Me: “Well you’re not a child anymore. And I think I know why you do it. I think you’re afraid of being you so you hide behind these characters that aren’t you. And that’s okay. But it comes across as an insecurity – you’re scared to be yourself. But I want to be with you – not the characters... ”
Her: “I don’t really think that’s the case. I just do it because its part of my personality.”
Me: “Maybe you have multiple personalities? If you do, put the nympho on.”
Her: “How long has this been bothering you? Why didn’t you say something earlier.”
Me: “It started bothering me about the third of fourth time you did it. And every time since, which is something around a million, and I never said anything because I thought it would go away on its own but now I feel like we need to put some Tabasco sauce on it.”
Her: “What do you mean?”
Me: “Like you know when people bite their fingernails?”
Her: (sad silence)

Me: “So…what do you hate about me?”
Her: “Nothing.”
Me: (in my head with a British accent) Yes! I rule.

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To see Stephen's videos visit www.thebsquad.com.