Date Night, Cutlery and You

Hi, my name is Marcus WellIllBeDarnedSheActuallySaidYes. If there are two areas of study in this world that I have acquired a great wealth of knowledge that I now feel obliged to pass on to my fellow man, it is Digimon cards and dating.

We haven’t much time and I have far more important things to discuss, but I’d like to quickly dispel the fallacy of the two biggest concerns on date night, clothing and hygiene. Does your wardrobe consist exclusively of outfits worn onstage by Lady Gaga during her most recent world tour? No? Good. Then just use your best judgment. Moving on. Are you familiar with the grammatical and physical application of words like soap, shampoo, deodorant and baby powder? Good. Are you not an Australian rugby player who sweats by the gallon? Of course you’re not! Australian men have no need for this advice! They have built-in, the most potent anatomical aphrodisiac of all-time, an Australian accent. According to an article I strongly believe should be on WebMD, the almost magically hypnotic sound of the male Australian accent is the leading contributor to weakness in the knees of 99% of women. The only ones immune to the Australian mans’ charm are the miniscule population of elderly females who are hard of hearing:

Now, when life on Earth first began, the menu consisted of one thing, Wooly Mammoth. After a while, the commonality of this rendered the age-old question of “What’s for dinner?” pretty much useless and human communication disintegrated to your basic frustrated grunt and growl sounds. After some time,   place settings grew to consist of a single fork, knife and spoon. But thanks to the ever-increasing gluttonous nature of this country of ours, made apparent by the Big Gulp, the All You Can Eat Buffet and the Cheeseburger pizza, when you take a seat at almost any eatery, you are now greeted on either side by an armory of silverware. This is the leading cause of stress and anxiety that already accompany the customary first date jitters. I am going to walk you through piece by piece, the purpose and proper use of each utensil. 

The first fork on your left was used by King Triton to try to get Ariel to cover up before she went out for the night. But because parents nowadays are so weak in their stance, within a few minutes he hands the fork to her and she uses it later on to comb her hair at the dinner table for some reason. But let’s cut her some slack because she did change into a different species and teach  herself to walk in a matter of 92 minutes and quite frankly, I saw far worse behavior from members of the varsity football team at the dinner during my prom and these fellas have supposedly been human their whole lives.

The next fork on the same side allows you the option to stab away the hand of an overly anxious waiter who fails to acknowledge your existence for the half hour following your initial meal selection, but is readily hovering over you as you’re still picking at scraps.

If there is a third fork, please notify your waiter or waitresses immediately as this is exclusively to be used by Tom Hanks to catch fish in order to survive after his plane crash-lands on a deserted island

The first big circular spoon on the right is used to dig yourself out of the conversational crater that is The First Date Awkward Silence. If there is a moment where you’re both staring into each other’s eyes that doesn’t involve the dreamy telepathic planning of your future wedding just do what I do, ask her what she thinks of jelly beans.  

The spoon parallel to the first allows you the option to catapult peas, partially chewed meat, scalding hot water or whatever you desire at the Pre-K Pavarotti three tables over who feels as though he’s matured well beyond the confines of the high security high chair where he is being held against his will. And he has quite logically chosen to communicate this discovery by screaming his head off.

The knife on your right is to be used as a pointer when talking about the various interesting newspaper articles or paintings on the restaurant walls. This knife is specifically for people who use their hands a lot when they talk in order to make the people around them feel as though there is just one heated recollection and passionate retelling of the argument with mom separating them from death.

Next to that there is a slightly smaller knife that you probably thought was used to spread butter. Wrong. This knife is for male use only and is essentially a first date safety net in case you accidently nick yourself a bit while shaving. Here’s what you do in order to recover from this first date folly: Pick up the knife and because the young lady sitting across from you has probably been sketched out from the get-go, simply stare somewhat psychotically into her eyes for a brief moment and then alternate your gaze between her and the knife and then say “You look nervous. Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got ‘em?  

And listen, with regards to the drinking glass, when your trying to get every last drop, maneuvering between the ice cubes like some kind of thirst-driven game of tetras, you’re not a person saving money, you’re a rude and you sound like a broken humidifier, OK?  

Well, here she comes, good luck champ! I know what you’re thinking, but Marcus, we haven’t even talked about how to conduct myself or what to say to her all night. All we’ve talked about is the apparently mythological origins of the forks at Chili’s. Yes, and there’s good reason for that. Look at her. Now, look at yourself. You see, this is what we in high society refer to as a pity date. I mean, you made HER pick YOU up for Pete’s sake! She feels bad so she’s selflessly agreed to subject herself to the judgment of being seen out in public with you this one time. Your only hope with a young woman like this is to ask intellectual, thought-provoking questions like “If a florist works with flowers, what do you call the guy who put in the linoleum down in your kitchen? Now, if you don’t mind, while writing this script I’ve spent the past few days off of Facebook, not answering my phone, in my room with the lights off making sure I don’t subject myself to figuring out what happens in the Game Of Thrones season finale before I get the chance to watch it. I hear it’s to die for………….HA!

A Sure Sign I'm Getting Old

A sure sign that I am getting old is the fact that, in the morning, I now prefer talk radio to music. While I’d like to believe that this newly developed preference is simply because I want to stay abreast of what’s going on in the world around me, I have also come to the sad realization that a key element factoring in to my decision is people like Jason Derulo are able to have studio sessions where, based on the finished product, I can only assume they have an overly tired big rig truck driver repetitiously back up over their foot just as they open their mouths and make noises. This is then recorded and advertised to the world as music and for reasons unknown to me, is absolutely eaten up by the general public. 

Morning radio also oftentimes has an entertainment segment to keep us up to date on the most current struggles and hardships that have befallen the poor dear celebrities of today. For example, I recently heard a story that while on a hike, Taylor Swift had to walk down a mountain backwards in an effort to avoid getting her picture taken with some giddy passerby. Forget ticket sales, I think the new measuring stick for whether you’ve “made it” or not is that your perspective of leisure activities is forcibly and totally altered. I love writing, but speaking as someone who was born without and will never have depth perception a day in his life, if my writing ever hit Nicholas Sparks status and I had to start walking down mountains backwards, I’m out!

One particular morning, conversation on the radio centered on the history and recent eradication of was once known as the corporate lunch hour. This was the name given to a sixty minute period of time in which coworkers would assist each other in jimmying off their ankle bracelets, leave their places of employment and venture out to see the sights, sounds and general sense of spaciousness that the outside world had to offer. A group would head over to their favorite eatery making small talk with the very person they had been badmouthing to someone in the break room over by the coffeemaker not five minutes prior. However, in todays’ productivity driven world, this sacred time has metamorphosed itself into what is now a twelve second window of opportunity in which employees are encouraged to back away from their computers and ingest a corporate supplied pipette full of krill that has been pre-chewed by a penguin and then return to work.

One huge exception in my partiality to talk radio over music: David Allen Boucher on Bedtime Magic. If you haven’t taken the proper precautions by either A.) Sleeping for 20 hours beforehand to ensure that you are well rested or B.) Drinking twelve Red Bulls, nine Rockstar energy drinks and three cans of amp, I promise you that the smooth sexiness that results from David Allen Boucher vibrating his vocal chords, you will be absolutely soothed out of your mind and put to sleep quicker than a UFC fighter in a guillotine choke as your vehicle goes careening into a guardrail. And just to be clear, this isn’t meant to be anti-Magic 106.7 as much as it is pro-you staying alive. Because you have now been informed of this, if it were to occur, it would be entirely on your shoulders (and neck and back and possibly dashboard) as someone who knew the facts but went ahead and did what they wanted anyway. You know what that means? It means Barry Feinstein can’t help you because he only helps people who are injured through no fault of their own. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my 22 years on this green land havin’, blue water flowin’ and Arianna Grande inhabited land mass of ours it is this, if a man who concludes his commercials with a Mr. Clean style folded arms pose and a stern look which simultaneously conveys “Don’t worry, I gotchu” and “Don’t EVER mess with me!” can’t do anything to help you, you’re screwed…….What were we talking about again……  

Courtship: Then And Now

Technology has caused a lot of problems. It’s mad warfare more catastrophic, it’s caused face to face conversation to become a lost art and its opened a lot of doors for faulty info to get out. However, it also has made it much easier to answer the fundamental question on every guys mind while he’s talking to a girl, is she single? And I think that almost any guy would be willing to become a tour guide that leads Mexicans into the United States in exchange for that information. Nowadays, you meet a girl, “Your name is Hermione Granger.” Go home, shoot Hermione a friend request on facebook and be like “Ok, ok let’s see…..It’s Complicated with Brutus I’llkickyourbuttis Ifyoutalktothisgirlagainis, ok nope. Back in the day (and by that I mean pre-facebook) you had to try to pry that information out of them by asking them 50,000 questions, each one getting more direct than the last. “So, do you have any pets? You do, you have a bird, how nice. Any reptiles in your house? No reptiles ever since your brother threw a rubber toy snake in the shower when you were seven, fascinating. Any fish swimming around at your house? Your dad has a talking bass on the wall? No kidding! So…..um, any mammals crawling, hopping or I don’t know ummm….walking around in your life? And after listening to 237 stories about this girls’ inability to keep 14 fish, 2 dogs and a male lizard she named Lizzie because she thought it was female alive, guys finally snap. LISTEN! ARE YOU SINGLE OR NOT??!! THAT’S ALL I WANNA KNOW! AND THAT’S ALL THAT THE 46 GUYS THAT TALKED TO YOU BEFORE ME WANTED TO KNOW! BUT YA KNOW WHAT??? YOU’RE GONNA END UP ALONE CUZ YOU JUST RAMBLE ON ABOUT YOUR CATS, YOUR DOGS, THAT FLIPPING MONKEY THAT YOU HAVE THAT’S INDIGENOUS TO MADAGASCAR! I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO BE INDIRECT ALL NIGHT, BUT I AM GOING TO BE DIRECT NOW, I AM GOING TO FINISH MY STEAK, WHICH I HOPE USED TO BE ONE OF YOUR PETS BY THE WAY, AND I AM GOING TO STAB THIS STEAK KNIFE DIRECTLY INTO MY EAR!!!

Chivalry is Dead.......And So Am I

I hate the dudes in movies that are like "Babe, I'll never let anything happen to you." Cuz either the girl or the guy always end up dying. So I make it a point to be truthful and realistic with my date. Here are a few things you can expect Mark Woonton to say during or after a date:
1. "I just wanted to let you know in case we get mugged in this Chilis parking lot at 2 p.m. in this bad area of New Hampshire, when I was in high school I ran a 5:36 mile so you better be at 5:35 or under if you expect me to keep an eye on you during the getaway."
2. "So um, not to address the elephant in the room, but how long have you had a moustache? Oh, don't cry. Its cute. You kind of look like Gimli from Lord Of The Rings, no one will bother us now."
3. "I'm sorry, but that man with the gun in the ski mask is going to have to take your purse. I have a 3 nice things per date limit. And as I recall I held the door, pulled out your chair for you and paid for the whole shabang. Plus, it took a lot of courage for this man to come out here wearing a ski mask in May, he deserves the purse." 4. (at the end of the meal when she goes to say bye) "You had the fish for dinner, right? And two pieces of garlic bread? I'm going to have to take a rain check on the goodnight kiss." 5. (I'm holding a stop watch) "Annnddd time, yeah it's been 5 minutes so that's enough of that Dance Moms stuff. So anyway, my fantasy football team has a tough week coming up...." Now that all of that's out in the open, any ladies available for lunch this week?"

Wasp War One

I haven’t gotten stung by a wasp since I was like 6 when I was playing with a toy gorilla in my family room and since I had no other weapon, I smashed the wasp with the toy gorilla. But yesterday morning I was taking out my trash and I noticed a wasp, I kept an eye on him (or her. Yeah, I’m pretty sure the wasp was a she cuz I could faintly hear the wasp buzzing along to Love Story) as I threw out my trash. But little did I know, the wasp must have been rehearsing this maneuver for months because this was just a decoy wasp, while I kept my eye on that wasp, a second wasp in the dumpster began constructing a large wooden horse and climbed up insi…...sorry, wrong story. Anyway, the second wasp executed a stealthy barrel roll (at least that’s what I imagined it doing) and flew right into my shirt. It remained still there due to my (optimist) glorious six pack (pessimist) odor of not showering in two days. So right as I crossed into my room I felt a sensation that was as close to pain as someone such as myself who doesn’t feel pain could feel in my upper chest. I grabbed at my shirt and the wasp flew out onto my desk. Sadly, I did not have a large toy gorilla. But I did have an insanely large Philosophy textbook. And by the power vested in myself, Aristotle, Plato and Confucius, ended the wasps’ life. And because I got so caught up in the moment I glared angrily at the wasps’ dead body and yelled “FREEEEEEDOM!” Which in hindsight, made no sense at all given my particular set of circumstances. Let this be a message to all wasps that you have woken a sleeping giant. Prepare to have the fight brought to your dumpsterstep.

Parmesan Cheese

Well, back from the Cayman Islands. Among the items to come back with us were some shells, a few souvenir T-shirts and several unused food items. Among these remaining food stuffs is a bottle of parmesan cheese. Now, to say that this is just a bottle of parmesan cheese is to say that a sumo wrestler is a regulation sized man. I know this to be true for several reasons:

1.       Following the serving size in the bottom left hand corner of the label, there are four exclamation points

2.       At the conclusion of this weeks’ address to the nation, which centered on the importance of childhood education, Obama also stated that if anything should happen to the torch held by the Statue of Liberty on Ellis Island, this particular bottle of parmesan cheese would serve as a viable replacement  

3.       On the bottle where it says Ingredients, instead of listing out the contents, it’s just a paragraph about how the food company put this together as a joke and that you, as a supposedly conscious consumer, should strongly reevaluate the difference between “needs” and “wants” in your life

My family has implemented the following strategy in an attempt to deplete the excessive amount of parmesan cheese we now possess

Breakfast: Cereal and milk topped with parmesan cheese

Lunch: Peanut Butter & Jelly and parmesan cheese sandwich (I’m looking for suggests as to what to call this creation because my thoughts are that there will be great confusion and concern as to the ingredients of a PCPB & J sandwich)

Dinner:  Pasta with meatballs and parmesan cheese

Dessert: Ice cream topped with parmesan cheese

Another thought that I’ve had is to do a Flat Stanley sort of thing, get this bottle traveling around the world and have people journal about their experiences with it:

“Here’s Parchy and I at Niagara Falls”

“Here’s Parchy and I trekking through the Amazon”

“Here’s Parchy and I being detained in Venice because apparently they get super uptight about people bringing in outside parmesan cheese”

Anyway, if this sounds like something you’d like to get in on, please email me what role parmesan cheese has played in your life along with your credit card information, Social Security number and I’d really appreciate an attached video of the Butt Fumble, and we can get this thing going

Wrong Number

When you get a call from a number you don't recognize, but you pick up anyway and the person on the other end is like "Hello, is this (insert name not commonly associated with the ethnicity, generation or gender you belong to) and you're like "no" and they apologize because apparently the person they are trying to get in contact with is just the coolest kid on the block and they feel sorry for the fact that you don't happen to be this awesome individual. So you hang up and 5 seconds later your phone rings again showing an incoming call......from the same number

If anyone has a quick French tutorial for dummies, I have to be Elisa, the spoiled rich exchange student from Limoges and heiress to the French Fry fortune in two minutes and tell this guy off