Halloween Party

(I'm wearing an untucked collared shirt, jeans, and pretentious film school glasses)

Asshat (dressed as The Joker): So, what are you?

Me: I'm an underemployed yuppie.

Asshat: Dude, no offense, but that's a pretty lame costume idea.

Me: Costume?

Thought of the day 10/25/08

Proof that I'm a schadenfreude junkie: I take immense pleasure in purposefully dawdling in my car when I see that there's someone waiting to take my soon-to-be-vacated parking space. Any day I get to do that is a good day.

Thought of the day 10/22/08

Just one time, I want to walk out of a general practitioner's exam room screaming "Oh, I beg to differ, doctor! You're the colon polyp!" at the top of my lungs. Then, on my way out, I'd maintain eye contact with everyone in the waiting room for an uncomfortably long period of time.

Thought of the day 10/17/08

Hispanics are the only people I've ever met who will carry on conversations at full volume in the middle of a men's restroom. Is there some Spanish-speaking cultural norm of which I'm entirely unaware that values simultaneous pooping and talking? Or maybe they're just rude.

Metareference

Laird and Buford, who are still both totally 100% straight, are sitting together listening to Katy Perry's "Hot N Cold." The song reaches the chorus, which includes the lines "You're in then you're out; you're up then you're down."

Laird: I'd like to give her the old in-out.

Buford: Wait, was that a Burgess reference, a Kubrick reference, or a Coen brothers reference?

(long pause)

Laird (sighs): Man, I don't even know anymore.

Buford: Ha! The Simpsons!

Laird: We really need to get out more.

Thought of the day 10/13/08

I rarely use other people's names. When I want to begin a short exchange with someone, I usually just start talking and hope they were listening right from the get-go. I might preface it with "So..." but that's as far as I'll go. I'm generally embarrassed because I think they think I've forgotten their name, but I'm more embarrassed because that's usually true.

Mustard

As I sat eating a delicious Subway sandwich (I can has money now, Subway?) I thought to myself, "How long could a normal human being live on nothing but mustard?" The reason for my curiosity is because I apparently give off some kind of vibe that screams "I have a severe mustard deficiency! Please drown out the flavors of all my carefully selected sandwich ingredients with enough mustard to kill an infant!" I may as well have ordered a bowl of mustard and a twisty straw.

I blame the state of our economy on Subway and their mustard-happy ways. I neither want nor do I need a pound of mustard on a single sandwich. That excess mustard could be put to a thousand more practical uses, like feeding the homeless or lubricating doorways for fat people. And if I ever meet the guy who invented honey mustard, I'm gonna stab him in the uvula. The only things that go worse together are philosophy majors and gainful employment.

Mustard, as we all know, is the original fabled ambrosia, but by definition, too much of anything can ruin an otherwise well-proportioned sandwich. Just like, as Eli Roth proved, too much flesh-eating bacteria can ruin a boring weekend in a secluded cabin with that other annoying guy from "Boy Meets World." Or how Robin Williams proved that too much Robin Williams can ruin an entire career.

My point is that the Subway big-wigs (or perhaps the big cheeses) need to let their employees know that if I get one more sandwich swimming in mustard, I just might have to roll up my sleeves and do some serious raping. But to perfectly honest, I'm not sure what's more amazing: That I actually wrote this whole thing on a cell phone, or that I just subjected you to a 300-word rant about mustard.

Thought of the day 10/09/08

I can tell you how a fission bomb works. I can give basic explanations of two prominent versions of String Theory. I know the difference between "imply" and "infer." I know what started World War I. I can recite 90% of "The Princess Bride" from memory. I have the square root of 5 memorized to 9 places (don't ask). I know exactly how many times The Dude drinks a White Russian in "The Big Lebowski" and how many times the f-word is said in "Scarface." I can explain why antibiotics don't do jack for a viral infection. I can tell you the speed of light in miles per hour and the gravitational constant in feet per second and meters per second. But for the life of me, I have no idea how a zipper works. Is that weird?

Shriner

Vlad: Dude, what's with the Shriner?

Sigmund: What are you talking about?

Vlad: The Shriner. Where'd you get it?

Sigmund: I'm sorry, but I don't understand why you're asking me where I got a septuagenarian wearing a fez and driving around in a little go-cart. Your question doesn't make any sense. You might as well ask me where I got a muffin made of jealousy.

Vlad: Do you not have a massive black eye? Is it not almost swollen shut? Am I crazy for thinking that you have an unmistakable black eye and referring to it the way old-timey crooks would, as a "Shriner"?

Sigmund: I swear to God, if you didn't owe me money, I would punch you in your retarded face until you were as swollen and disfigured as Renee Zellweger. The word you're looking for, dear sir, is not "Shriner," but "shiner." You were asking where I got my SHINER. A Shriner is something completely different. And who says that nickname is exclusive to old-timey crooks?

Vlad: That's totally what they'd call it.

Sigmund: Yeah, you're right. And then they'd put on their black-and-white striped shirts and their black masks and beanies and then rob the bank of all its brown burlap sacks with large dollar signs printed on the outside. And then they'd drive back to their hideout and drink whiskey out of jugs and smoke unfiltered cigarettes.

Vlad: Wait... Are you saying... that's not gonna happen, or... What exactly are you saying?

Sigmund: I'm saying that's not going to happen. I'm saying you live in a fantasy world where everything is the way it is in movies and on bad radio drama. I'm saying that I'm genuinely surprised that you've survived 'til adulthood without drowning in a puddle of your own drool. I'm saying that in a just world, you would have been killed for your delicious meat long ago.

Vlad: You really think I'd be delicious?

Sigmund: Well, yeah. You live an entirely sedentary lifestyle, and you eat nothing but Cheetos and sausage. You've probably got more saturated fat than Kobe beef.

Vlad: Aww... Thanks, man. I'd eat you, too.

Sigmund: It makes me sad that you think that was a compliment.

Vlad: Whatevs, bro. Anyway, where'd you get the Shriner... er... whatever it's called?

Sigmund: I had an itch in my eye, and I forgot that I was holding a beer bottle.

Vlad (laughing): Dude, you smashed a beer bottle into your own eye?

Sigmund: It's not as stupid as it sounds.

Vlad: It most certainly is.

Thought of the day 10/02/08

Complete and utter apathy is remarkable in its ability to focus one's mind. I guess another way to say that is "It's hard to care about your problems when I'd rather just do nothing at all, but while you're here, check out my high score in Tetris!" Sadly, that's getting dangerously close to becoming my default attitude. But don't point out that fact to me unless you want to make me cry. As everyone knows, I can dish out criticism, but I can't take it.