I Dare You To Have A Worse Day

I may have told several people about my worst day ever, but I don't think I've ever actually taken the time to write it down. (If I did, then tell me. It's hard to keep track of what post ideas I've actually written and what ideas have just been buried in my voice recorder for six months.) It was a couple summers ago, and as usual, I didn't have a summer job. My good friend John was kind enough to recommend that I apply at a place he had previously worked. It was a courier service called Trip Savers, and it was run by John's former... something like his former Boy Scout troop leader, I think. Anyway, I applied and got the job, because, well, it's freakin' driving around and handing people envelopes; I know monkeys that would've gotten that job. Or so I thought.

My first day on the job was fine. I drove around, dropping off inter-office memos and pay stubs all around the city. I even thought it was kinda fun, since most of the job was just sitting in the car, trying to read a map of the city. My second day of work is where it got a little hairy. I was at Woodmen and I-25, and I made pretty much the only mistake a courier can make: I locked myself out of my car. I called Gary, the Trip Savers owner, and told him what happened. He was less than amused. My dad's office wasn't that far from where I was, so I called him, knowing he had an extra key to the car. About twenty minutes later, my dad showed up, and I was back in the car.

I continued to make my rounds back and forth across the city. It wasn't really that bad a day so far, so I wasn't in too bad a mood. It was about four in the afternoon, probably five or six hours after I'd called my dad and asked him to bail me out. That's when I locked myself out of my car for a second time. And this wasn't any place where my dad could just drive over and open up the car. He was in Monument, and I was at the far south end of Colorado Springs. As in, somewhere along Highway 115. For those of you who are unfamiliar with our fair city, that's gonna be nearly a full hour-long drive. Once again, I called Gary, and once again, he was less than amused. I also called my dad again, since my mom was busy or unreachable or something like that. While he was understandably pissed at having to unlock the same car door twice in one day for his brain-dead son, I noticed a hint of glee in his voice over the phone. You know how you can tell when someone is smiling as they're speaking to you on the phone? That's how he sounded. Apparently, he thought it was pretty darn funny.

The rest of my day was pretty much ruined, because I'd had to give up about half my stuff during the two times when I was trapped in parking lots waiting for my dad to unlock the car door. I went into the Trip Savers office planning on quitting. And no, it wasn't just because I'd made a fool of myself in front of these people twice in a single day. I'd realized that I just plain hated that job. What's more I hated Gary too. He wasn't exactly the kind of guy you'd call, "clean" or "personable" or "not scary to children" or "nice in any way at all." He had a look to him that just made me want to cry. Or punch him in the nose.

Anyway, I had this whole excuse worked out before I got there. I clearly wasn't the best candidate for this job. I mean, look at what I did today. I locked myself out of my car twice. And plus (I can't believe I actually said this to him, but hey, I was desperate for an excuse), I wasn't really aware of exactly how much wear and tear I was going to put on my car. And I knew I couldn't work at this job during the school year anyway because of the worse-than-crappy hours. Gary actually tried to convince me to stay by saying that it was "taking the easy way out" to just quit before learning how to properly do a job. Uh huh. Really, Gary? How 'bout maybe you tell me something that I don't already know? You can't shame me into doing anything. I tell jokes about kids with Down Syndrome. I have no shame.

But it still feels really really bad to have to convince someone that you're going to quit your job. That was just the final straw for me. I went out for ice cream with my friend, Joy, to try and dull the pain with some Cold Stone double chocolate with Kit Kats. I think you ladies are onto something. Ice cream really does help...

I Only Gain Weight On One Side

I was watching some show about fat people on the Learning Channel a few days ago. This one woman had all the fat that should have been spread out over her entire body (or ideally, not in her body at all) in one of her legs. She literally had to lift up some of her skin flaps when she was walking so she wouldn't get a rash or rugburn on the part of her calf that hung below her foot. It was the sickest thing ever. Well, except for the next guy they showed. He'd been really working out for a couple weeks, and lost about half a pound. He was feelin' lean and mean. He said, and this is an actual quote, "I still can't get my left shoe tied, but I can get the right one done!" as if that was supposed to impress all the doctors and nurses around him who actually cared enough about themselves not to ever weigh 900 pounds in the first place. And why only one shoe? Had he only been working out on the right side of his body? Or maybe it was because he'd been laying down on one side for so long, all the fat just migrated down to the lower part of his body. Either way, people like that should be put out of my misery. That's right, MY misery. It makes me furious to know that they're collecting disability because they're too lazy and too selfish to get up off their ass or just to stop shoving Twinkies down their throats.

We All Have Our Strengths

I was sitting in class the other day, and as usual, my mind was wandering. I started thinking about how people from different departments (in the university) might appraoch a word problem. We all have different things we focus on. That's why we're not all planning on being high school teachers. Or engineers. Or chefs. Or veterinarians. Come to think of it, if word problems were given as completely open-ended puzzles instead of JUST math problems, we'd get a myriad of solutions. And a myriad of questions, as well. I jotted down a few ideas as to how people with various majors would approach the same word problem: "If a blue car is traveling at 45 mph, and a red car is traveling in the opposite direction at 30 mph, and they are currently 200 feet apart, when will they cross paths?"

Pre-Law: "Are we measuring from the front of the cars or the drivers' bodies? Are they at an intersection? Define 'cross paths.' Are they going to hit each other, or pass beside one another?"

Math: "OK, then. The answer is... Oh, and by the way, yes, I do realize that this degree is meaningless, and I'll probably end up the night manager of an office furniture store."

Fine Arts: "Who cares? How are the cars decorated? And why red and blue? Those colors are so boring."

Political Science: "Are the cars American-made or foreign?"

Women's Studies: "Who cares? Let's get down to the REAL issue. The ONLY issue that matters in the whole world. This is a sexist question. It assumes that men are driving both cars. I am boycotting this question until women are equally represented in it."

Economics: "Do they own or lease the cars? What is the socio-economic status of the drivers?"

Anthropology: "This is a racist question. Some cultures don't have cars. Down with the white man."

Music: "What were the drivers listening to? Oh really? They suck."

Philosophy: "Forget this question. Do cars even exist? What does the word 'exist' even mean? What if they're not moving at all, and the Earth is actually rotating underneath them? Whoa..."

Film: "OK, is this all in one long shot, like P.T. Anderson or Martin Scorsese? Or is it more like a really quick Darren Aronofsky style hip-hop montage?"

Geology: "Huh? What was the question? I was busy looking at rocks all day and being so cool."

The Winter Olympics

I don't think it's physically possible for me to care any less about the Winter Olympics. Honestly, I'd rather watch the Special Olympics. At least there's something self-satisfying about cheering for a retard. No such satisfaction in seeing a bunch of Canuck fags brushing the ice in front of a 40-pound disc of concrete. I just don't get the appeal. Hockey su-ucks big time, the bobsled blows, figure skating is boring, and snowboarding is probably less exciting than reading the tax code. The only fun thing to watch during the Winter Olympics is the speed skating. I love watching men and women glide around a track in skin-tight rubber suits while wearing a razor-sharp 10-inch-long blade on each foot. The possibility of a whipeout is too exciting to ignore. If, just once, I could witness an eight-skater pile up in which someone loses a finger, I'm happy for the next four years. But otherwise, what's so special about the Winter Games? Is there something truly athletic about staying on a sled for the whole trip down a mountain? Or chucking a slightly-rounded cinderblock down a 20-yard stretch of ice? Because if so, I have truly missed my calling. Curling makes being a professional paint-drying-watcher-guy seem positively mesmerizing. I've seen pro curlers actually go into a coma in the middle of a throw...

You Might Need Just A Few More Rehearsals

At church today, the worship team apparently decided to do something a little different. They had a whole choir. Well, I use the term "choir" loosely. There was a group of people standing on risers and singing... almost together. One of them looked about 9 years old. Another one looked like Kenny Rogers. The bass player looked exactly like Kevin Nealon. I think I've mentioned before that I tend to see celebrities in common, everyday places. Church is no exception. Anyway, I got to see probably the funniest thing I'll see all week. This being Sunday, I know that's a bold statement. One guy looked like Frankenstein's monster on a double dose of Ritalin. NO EMOTION WHATSOEVER. All that emoting seemed to be saved for our next lucky contestant: the only white guy I've ever seen try to "raise the roof" in the middle of a church service. The best part is the fact that he was busier trying to figure out what to do with his hands than he was trying to keep up with the songs. He looked sideways at the words on the screen more often than I did, and I'd never heard half the songs before. He seemed fascinated by something that was happening in the back of the auditorium, though for the life of me, I could swear there was nothing there. I literally started laughing out loud. My sister thought I was having a seizure. Some of the Pentocostals in the congregation probably thought I was "laughing in the Spirit." Those crazy Jesus hippies. And that wasn't even the best part. The choir director looked like she was auditioning as a backup dancer for a J-Lo video. I didn't know church choir directors could drop it like it's hot. You go, girl! I only wish my favorite worship team member was playing this week: a chick who looks exactly like Keith Richards! I kid you not. All she's really missing is about four pounds of cocaine in her bloodstream...

Reasons I'm Better Than Your Boyfriend

(OK men, let me spell it out just in case the title didn't explain it clearly enough. This post isn't for you. Feel free to read it, but know that you're not going to get anything from it.) Valentine's Day is nearly upon us, and that means I've got something to say. I'm not going to bash on it this time (you can read my column for this week in the Scribe for that). Instead, I'm just going to delve deep, DEEP into Andrew. Maybe I'll pull out some things the ladies love. Or maybe they'll just like them. Who knows? OK, let's go down the rabbit hole together. Take my hand...

1. I can fit like six whole Oreos in my mouth. Seriously. And not those sissy regular ones. I'm talking Double Stuf here.

2. I have a really high tolerance for pain. I can take a punch to the shin and BARELY FEEL IT. I can hold my hand over a semi-hot stovetop for like nine seconds. Your boyfriend's a bitch compared to me.

3. I'm smart. I got into the freakin' University of Colorado. That's like the third most prestigious university in the county. Or maybe city.

4. I'm a natural brunette. Blonde guys are gay. And that's a scientific fact.

5. I can lift a whole suitcase right over my head WITHOUT EVEN THINKING ABOUT IT.

6. I can speak one and a half languages. Counting English.

7. I have an awesome hot air balloon collection. I bet it's way better than your boyfriend's. Oh wait. He doesn't have one.

8. I can see in a room lit by only like eight lumens. That's way dark.

9. I went to an intensive college preparatory school where we got the in-depth, personalized attention we deserved. And plus, we got to color pretty maps in Honors World History. Can your stupid, whiney, emo jackass boyfriend color? I'll color circles around him with his tight women's pants and Payless black-and-white checkered shoes.

10. I have the lung capacity of an Olympic archer.

11. I can put together puzzles really quickly.

12. I once ran a mile WITHOUT STOPPING.

I think I proved my point.

Sometimes, Technology Is A Bad Thing

Boy, am I glad that I can finally hear the sound a person's mouth makes when they're slightly dehydrated every time I watch Desperate Housewives or Grey's Anatomy. With the newest wave of technological advancements, there also came an increased ability to hear that disgusting, lip-smacking saliva sound every time a character on those two TV shows speaks. I don't want to hear that. I'd rather hear static than the inside of Eva Longoria's mouth. It's like somebody's standing next to me and chewing on the same bite of banana for about ten minutes. It makes me envy deaf people. Please, ABC, could you consider getting some out-of-date microphones or something? I can't take it any more. I'm about to start punching babies.

That's All I Can Stands, I Can't Stands No More

I'm so sick of hearing people refer to rap and hip-hop as "music." That's like calling a pile of drywall a "house." That's not to say I don't listen to rap. But I'm more than willing to admit it's not music. Would you call a guy punching the air in front of his mirror "boxing?" Would you refer to a pile of unused canvas as "art?" Would a box of matches be considered a "forest fire?" Is a bag of marshmallows sitting on a shelf just another name for "smores?" Of course not. Sure, the foundation is there, but it takes more than a beat to make music. First, it takes white people. Second, it takes white instruments. Third, it takes an ability to perform live on those instruments without the aid of a DJ. And fourth, it requires at least a mediocre grasp of proper language. And words that aren't made up because they rhyme. Calling rap a powerful form of music is the most naive and self-defacing statement a person can make in the presence of thinking individuals. And that includes "I am a baseball fan", "I voluntarily listen to NPR", "John Mayer is great", and "Hi, I would like to join the Church of Scientology."

Superbore

I just got finished watching the superbowl. God, am I glad it's over. I was so bored, I nearly vomited. The only exciting part of the entire game was that bullsh*t call for the Steelers' first "touchdown." Congratulations, Steelers fans. Maybe the "terrible idea," er, I mean "terrible towel" will catch on at the Olympics this year. Then again, "maybe" I'll suddenly sprout wings, learn I have ESP, and win the lottery all at once. At least the new episode of Grey's Anatomy was a good one. That made up for the most boring superbowl in years. Actually, it's not like it's been really good in a while anyway. The last interesting game was the Titans/Rams superbowl where the Titans came within one yard of winning on the last play of the game. I've seen curling tournaments that ellicited more thrills than today's game. The most intriguing part for me was the ever-present possibility that that long-haired Samoan ape was going to trip on his own ratty locks. Nice do, fagtard. Apparently, I stumbled into a time machine and got transported back to 1988, when a head of hair like that was no more than one metal video away on MTV. Come to think of it, he seemed more comfortable than most in his nylon pants...

Guess What: No One Cares

Isn't it just horrible that Bush and his cronies are tapping our conversations? I mean, I could be in the middle of a very personal call, and it might be recorded and then played back for the president himself! And then, if the gossip is juicy enough, he'll probably read a transcript of the conversation live on his weekly radio address to the nation. It's definitely possible. I could be bearing my soul to someone in a really intimate phone convo (because I prefer to do stuff like that over the phone instead of in person, anyway), and it might get out for the whole world to know about.

Yeah, that's what the government's tapping phone lines for. Guess what, hippies: no one cares that you spend your Friday nights calling 900 numbers. Believe it or not, the government actually has more to concern itself with than who at your high school likes whom. If you're worried that the government is going to tap your phone line, then you SHOULD be. If you actually deal day-to-day in matters that threaten our homeland security, then not only should your phone line be tapped, but you should be required to clean the streets of Las Vegas with your tongue. Surprise, surprise. You aren't the center of the universe. Deal with it. And get a job.