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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Random Things about Steve Schneider

Here are some random facts about Stephen Schneider. I know you're interested....




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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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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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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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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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