Call Me Old Fashioned

I'm a little hesitant to admit that I've tried online dating because some part of me feels like that's giving up and saying "I can't do this! You find someone!" Call me old fashioned, but I guess I've just always thought I'd be walking through a library with a stack of books up to my forehead, unable to see where I'm going and then I'd just bump into some lovely young lady and we'd look down and see that we had the same book and then glance up at each other all shy and embarrassed and it would be happily ever after. There are two problems with this fantasy. Firstly, the percentage of women interested in Terry Goodkind probably only has numbers to the right of a decimal point, making them very difficult to find. Secondly, no one is even getting books anymore. What do you think would happen if you "accidentally" bumped into some chick, causing her to drop her Kindle in order for you to create a "moment?" You don't get the fairy tale ending. You don't find love! You just find out via an entirely nonverbal encounter, yet since actions speak louder than words a completely merciless monologue that she's been taking steroids and Krav Maga since she was 11! No thank you!

Prescription Poker

Because of my extensive neurological history, I’m the only kid I know of who, at fourteen years old, was taking as much medication as his grandpa. It was so awkward when he came to visit, we’d both stroll into the kitchen each morning, pour our pill bottles all over the kitchen table like a couple of really educated, distinguished looking drug dealers. We'd both look down at what appeared to be the result of the most poorly chaperoned children's Halloween night ever. So began the world series of pill popping poker, the high stakes health insurance hassle health hazard hold ‘em. I’ll see your 600 milligrams of arthritis medication with 300 milligrams of seizure medication taken twice a day and raise you one gal stone dissolver. Grandpa narrows his eyes, whether out of intensity or sheer senility I don’t know. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? I match your bet with a cholesterol medication and I’m gonna throw in my memory pill to keep you honest. Alright, I’m gonna throw in my mens vitamin gramps! Grandpa's like "ok, I didn’t wanna do this, but here’s my memorymedication that needs to be taken…....."

What's Your Position?

When I was learning to drive in high school, I was taught to have my hands at ten o’clock and two o’clock. While taking Drivers Ed (which honestly, in New England I think they should just link Driver’s Ed and Anger Management together, but that’s a whole other thing) I was instructed to have my hands at 9 and 3. I was recently informed that we are all now supposed to have our hands at 8 and 4. We may be headed into some trouble for two reasons:

1.      I highly doubt that the 16 year-olds of today have even seen an analog clock in order to reference that hand position

2.      This trend means that we are two years away from having our hands at 6 and 6, which coincidentally is a number commonly associated with demonic forces , this credible thought, plus the increased difficulty I forsee of making successful turns with both hands at the bottom of the steering wheel is why I am predicting that that is the year the world will end

But based on what I have seen on the road, there are a lot of options out there and quite frankly I don’t know which one to go with because the hand positions seem to be changing quicker than the female fashion at North Shore High School after Regina George gets two holes cut in her top. These days when I am driving I now feel more out of place than an overly emotional fat chick at an all-girl meeting in the gymnasium. (Everybody good on Mean Girls references? Good) But luckily, in this “you just do you, Boo Boo” day and age we live in we can pick from a seemingly endless combination of hand positions and be absolutely fine. My goal here is to simply give you access to the information and much like I know the majority of the country spends countless hours tirelessly researching presidential candidates so that on voting day they can make an informed decision instead of just sitting on their hands and then complaining about the country going down the crapper. I am sure the DMV is hard a work putting together a pamphlet that they will get to you in an efficient and expedited manner, but just in case that doesn’t happen, here is a quick list of prudent and acceptable hand postures for the modern-day motorist:

1.      12 and cell phone

2.      12 and radio dial

3.      12 and coffee

4.      12 and shaver

5.      12 and accusatory argumentative pointer finger aimed at spouse in the passenger seat

6.      12 and cigarette (because while death is inevitable, I’d like to think that the rate and circumstances by which it happens is at least a little bit up to me)

7.      12 and fishing loose change out of cup holder as they approach a toll booth or drive-thru window

8.      12 and makeup (because if a cop is going to take your picture, you might as well look good, right?)

9.      12 and novel (Ah yes, reading and driving, a perfect example of how to look smart and stupid at the same time)

10.   12 and fast food (I’ve often been asked if I had to die a certain way, how is it that I would like to go out? And to tell you the truth, I’d die a happy man if I was holding a hamburger. And that really creates a conflict of human interest because survival is a natural instinct and both the need for nourishment and not slamming into oncoming traffic satisfy that need so at that point, much like all that preceded this final note, the choice is yours 

The Real Most Dangerous Game

I just feel fortunate to be alive really. I participated in the most dangerous sport in the world recently. And it’s not football. Listen, if that bumbling idiot scarecrow could get a new brain by walking for awhile, I’m pretty sure 10 million dollars a year could get you some pretty decent concussion coverage and a half coherent speaking ability. And let’s be honest, the NFL is getting softer and softer every year. I think we forget that at one point, there were guys playing this game in leather helmets. Man, if I were a ref, the only time I’m calling pass interference is if as a receiver, you are at the 40 yard line, and your arm is at the 45. And I know some of you are thinking cheerleading, cheerleading has the most injuries per year. But I think that maybe if half of the pyramid stopped dating the quarterback at the same time, we would see a dramatic drop in cheerleading injuries. It’s like the great pharaoh King Tut once said, “A pyramid divided against itself cannot stand.” Just one of those girls on the bottom of the pyramid is like “Oh, so Kevin the All-State quarterback dumped me for Bridget just cuz she’s a Flyer? Well he better hope that she can fly! If he loves her so much, he’ll catch her.”

 And people say hockey is the toughest sport in the world, give me a break. With all of the advancements in tooth paste and floss, hockey players are the only reason dentists are still in business. And an Olympic event where Canada repeatedly takes home the gold is not the toughest sport in the world. You want to know what the most dangerous sport in the world is? Public sledding. And here’s why, public sledding is the only activity where the only thing more dangerous than doing it, is getting back up the hill to do it again. You’re sled doesn’t come to a stop at the bottom of the hill and you’re sitting there like (sigh) Well, that was a marvelous and enjoyable ride.” No sir, you’ve got thousands of little kids with wool caps that cover their eyes hurtling toward you. You’ve got families of eleven that think it would be a good idea to link arms as they all sit on their tubes and go spinning down the hill slicing people apart like a giant humanoid battle ax. You are running up that hill with the drive and determination of a Black Friday shopper. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! You’re hurdling little nine year olds like you’re in the Pedophile Games holding your sled up like your part of the riot police in Los Angeles.

 I’ll never forget the first time in my life that I was absolutely certain I was going to die. I was in the 6^th grade, it was wintertime and I was sledding at a friend’s house. We decided to build a jump, because clearly a cheap plastic sled, icy conditions and a mentally and physically underdeveloped teenager aren’t dangers enough. Ladies and gentlemen, you know that feeling that you get that something bad is going to happen even though it hasn’t happened yet? Well, let me rephrase the question, who in here has ever been kissed by their grandmother? Ok, because if you’ve been kissed by your grandma as a little kid then you know this premonition kind of fear that I’m talking about. Just this pair of saggy lips covered in 80 years of tobacco, racism and economic collapse rushing toward you. That’s how I felt as I rocketed down my friends’ front yard. On the outside my 6^th grade self is going “Yay! Sledding!” But that one percent of the male teenage brain responsible for rational thought and logical reasoning is going “Hey, it’s me, logic! Sorry to interrupt, but do you remember that time when you were 5 years old, sitting in that pile of mud, and you kept telling yourself that the mushy brown stuff on the ground was Boston Cream Pie? So anyway, I’m shaking in this sled like an epileptic on a pogo stick. I didn’t hit the jump head on, I kinda glanced off it on this angle. And anyone who didn’t spend their time in high school Geometry leafing through Fantasy Football magazines under the cumulonimbus cloud cover of cigarette smoke permeating from the five trashy cheerleaders behind him fresh off of a smoke break in the girls bathroom will tell you that this is not a good thing. So I smack into the ice head-first. And I have a pretty high pain tolerance as long as I don’t know that I’m bleeding. And the first thing my friend says to me when he ran down to where I was was “Oh my god, you’re bleeding!” So in order to save a little face and salvage a little pride in myself, if I haven’t completely destroyed it by this point, I’m going to skip ahead a little bit to when I’m in the hospital getting the stitches. Because something that absolutely amazes me is how freely the nurses and doctors yell out to each other what they’re about to do to you and the size and sharpness of what they’re doing it with. This poor nursing assistant is being yelled at by this doctor who’s just going to town on my forehead with this mini hose thing like he’s trying to put out a Yellowstone National Park wildfire. And debris is just flying off my forehead like the Tasmanian Devil excavating an Ancient Grecian site with a jackhammer. And the doctor is yelling at this poor woman the whole time. And let me just pause here for a second and say that I sincerely believe that the medical community seriously needs to come up with little code names for the tools they are getting just to ease the tension on me a bit as blood is gushing out of my forehead. I swear, from across the office the doctor turns to the nurse as I’m lying there, not sure if my pants are covered in my own urine or water from fire chief tantrums’ spray-fest, and he yells “GET ME A 6 INCH NEEDLE AND A SCAPEL!” Ok, I know that I didn’t go to medical school, but shouldn’t there be some kind of code for that? He might as well have said “yep, send a letter to the family, this one’s not going to make it.” I mean, not only is he telling me it’s a needle, but he had the courtesy to give me the measurements too! Like I’m going to think to myself “Ok, a six inch needle is nothing to worry about. There’s only a sharp object half the size of a ruler dangerously close to my brain…..so do you enjoy your work?” But seriously, would there have been any miscommunication if he had just turned to her and went “Ya, I’m going to need a mid-size Ouchy Bar and a Grave Digger.”   

Single Person Problems

I can honestly say that the person that I’m most angry with in life, actually it’s not a person it’s a group of people. Although these people as a whole have no national holidays, no dialect of their own and no distinguishing features if you were to see them on the street so I don’t think it is racist. For me it’s that guy that’s in stores in the single person bathroom for an hour. I assume he’s in there either peeing out the Nile River, dropping a deuce the size of the Statue of David or on the phone with a long lost love. I would pray it wouldn’t be a combination of the third one with either of the first two. Because as the person waiting for the bathroom it always escalates for me the same way. First, you just stand by the door like you’re in the secret service where apparently the president needed some stuff at a gas station in New Hampshire. Then, I start pacing back and forth like the Queens’ royal guards. I think the reason why I’m irritated with single-person bathrooms is because I never bother to head toward a bathroom until it’s a Code Brown emergency. It’s just not that high up on my priority list. If I’m watching a football game and there’s a mildly funny commercial on TV, I’ll pee my pants. So every time I’m headed to the bathroom, it’s a dead sprint! I don’t know why but if I’m mid-conversation with someone I can never just be honest and say pardon me sir, but I’m feeling the early onset of the symptoms of a particularly painful bowel movement, I’ll be back in an hour. Because you can never just tell someone “I got to crap!” I’ve been hanging out with girls for years and every time they stand up and announce the fact that they are going to the bathroom it’s always “I have to pee!” And I’m not a numbers guy, but I’d say roughly 50% of the time those girls are lying. Heck, we even had to come up with code words, number one and number two. I’m convinced that those nicknames originated in the first fast food joints. Just two guys struggling with the Salmonella infested, indigestion initiating food options. Sitting on the toilet crying with their head in their heads like they just killed someone and they’re trying to figure out what to do with the body. And one guy just leans toward the edge of his stall and goes “Was it number one or number two?”     

Naked Guns

There is a topic that i feel needs to be addressed and I hope to offer new insights into this problem. The issue is the casual attitude towards long periods of nudity in the local gym locker room. Two days ago, I was rounding the corner of the Men's locker room with not but a care, but to my absolute shock, a naked old man was standing right there (Poetic Bonus!) and why is it always an old guy? Not that I would like it if it were Channing Tatum or Taylor Lautner or something, but why are the worst nude offenders always like 642 years old.  Listen, I appreciate you preserving our freedom in the War of 1812 as much as the next guy, but please put some clothes on! Mankind had its unrestricted nudity privileges removed for eating an apple and so long as places like the Cheesecake Factory stay in business, I say we count the ability to cover up a bit as a win. I think that gym members should be required to wear a censor on their pants attached at the hip that beeps anytime the pants leave the hipbone. This would do two things. Firstly, it would alert anyone near to you that you are naked and secondly, it would prevent gang members from bulking up at local gyms. Allow me to explain. Historically, gang members have struggled in three areas: 1. passing the 9^th grade 2.  Not ending a sentence with the phrase “you know what I’m sayin’?” and keeping their pants securely fastened to their hips.  

There! The gym is now safer and you get to keep your lunch down, you’re welcome!

In Entertainment News

DVD releases announced

A Rocky box-set is being released completely in Spanish which the New York Times hails as "much easier to understand than the originals"

Sybil 2: Sybil Goes To Prom (where in order to accommodate her rapidly changing personality, Sybil proactively goes to prom with 16 different young men causing nasty rumors about her dating habits to surface and ultimately force her to change schools)

Titanic 2: Rose's Bud (Jack Dawson gets hold of an old toboggan while stranded in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean after the cruise ship he was on sinks and he is left to die. He makes it to land and seeks revenge)

My 600 Pound Life Season 4 now available in extra wide screen

How It's Made: Viagra (The Extended Edition) see all of the stuff you didn't (want to) see on television

Marley & Me now available in extreme Blu-ray (shows Marley being euthanized and then cuts to the scene in Bambi when his mom dies and then rolls the opening credits to Monty Python and the Holy Grail)

A Twilight collection (including movies 1, 3 and 5 that features commentary from Leah Remini filling you in on the plot points from the other two movies that may cause something you are seeing to not make complete sense)

The Life And Times Of Bruce Jenner (now available with an alternate ending)

Skipping both a theatrical and DVD release, John Carter 2: John Carter Must Die (now available following its Straight To Trashcan release)

Steve Harvey's 2007 wedding video starring Marjorie Bridges (He accidentally grabs her fathers' hand as he is bringing her to the altar and during the vows he repeatedly refers to her as "margarine")

and on a slightly more personal note, I just got word that all of my baby tapes were recently made into DVDs so that as technological advances are made, my parents can remain steadfast in their quest to humiliate me