An Open Letter to an Ugly Girl

I received this message on Myspace:

just checkn out sum profiles and your smile caught my eye!

These are photos of the sender who’s display name happens to be KrAzY wHiTe GuRl:

I’ve decided to address the issue in the most mature manner I can muster. An open letter.

Dear KrAzY wHiTe GuRl aka Manda aka “Are you ok?!!? Oh, that’s just how you look?!?! Oh. Oh God!”:

Let’s take a journey. Let’s go to a miraculous land of imagination and wonder where I’m not an arrogant prick who enjoys making people feel bad about themselves. Let’s pretend for a moment that I still look how I look and speak how I speak but I have a completely different personality. Let’s pretend that I’m the kind of guy who will get a message from an absolute pit beast about his smile and just let it go. Even better, let’s pretend I’m the kind of guy who will get a message from a pit beast about his smile and write a polite note back saying that he appreciates that you noticed his grin. Even if I was that guy, even if I was the kind of guy who would be nice, you have to recognize that I am way, WAY out of your league.

Even if you don’t know where exactly you fall on the scale of 1 to 10, EVERYONE should at least know if they’re above or below a 5. Everyone should know if they’re better or worse looking than average. I happen to know that I’m above a 5. You are not. You are significantly below a 5. Now you know. So, if you see someone ABOVE a 5, do NOT speak to them. You don’t have a shot.

According to your profile, someone’s gotten drunk or retarded enough to knock you up on THREE separate occasions. They probably told you that you were pretty so that they could get their nut off. They lied. That’s something guys do. We lie for pussy. The fact that everyone on the planet doesn’t understand that yet is mind boggling to me. You believed them. That was the wrong choice. Please don’t ever believe that lie again. Since you’re unattractive, mildly stupid and probably poor, you’re obviously incredibly fertile. It’s what your people do. Imagine the poor bastards who jumped on the grenade for their buddy at some bar, went home with you and then get a call a month later saying you’re knocked up. I would seriously put a fucking bullet in my head if you were the mother of anything that carried my genes.

The fact that the headline on your page is “~If you were to see what this smile hides, I think that it would scare the shit outa you~” absolutely enrages me for a few reasons. Firstly, have you considered that the ACTUAL SMILE scares the shit out of me? Fuck. I can’t believe that you think the smile itself is pleasant enough to “hide” anything terrifying. Also, you spelled “outta” incorrectly. The fact that you can misspell something that although not a word is used relatively often and you’ve put this misspelled word in an incredibly conspicuous place makes me assume that you’re retarded. The other things that make me assume you’re retarded? You’re unnaturally droopy face, large teeth and gums, mildly piggish nose, coke bottle glasses and large forehead. There’s one more thing that bothers me about this headline. The tone of it is implying that you’re one of those people who thinks that there’s more to you than people realize. Let me look at your page for about 15 seconds and then I’ll tell you everything that you think you’re hiding behind your (shudder) smile. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I’m back! That actually didn’t take as long as I thought. I’m actually going to put this in a bulleted list. It just seems like the right thing to do:

1. You have a lot of comments about being strong and not wanting people to judge you. So you know that you’re subpar, even if you won’t admit it.

2. You have a super glittery ass sticker thing that says “My kids are my life.” Of course they are. You realize that no one else will ever, ever love you so you dump all of your love into the things that can’t get the fuck away from you.

3. You’re bi. Of course! How else would you get guys to sleep with you unless you were willing to do things that most girls weren’t?!?! You’re one of those instances of someone being bi because they need the attention. Also, maybe because if you just start fucking around with women, you won’t get FUCKING PREGNANT ALL THE TIME. You’re bi because you need to be. You know that you’re not ACTUALLY bi and you struggle with it.

4. You somehow have absolutely no shame. Then you wonder why people judge you. If your body type is “Some Extra Baggage” just leave that shit blank. Don’t put your income on your fucking Myspace page. That’s no one’s business. Somehow you just don’t care though. You’re not intelligent enough to understand that people use the information you give them in order to judge you. You’re too fucking retarded to draw that correlation. You keep hoping that what people see will be good enough for them, but you also know that there’s an incredibly slim fucking chance of that happening. So now you can say that you’re unloved because no one will give you a shot. You also somehow know that you’re sabotaging yourself. I would punch you in the face if I wasn’t so afraid of it somehow getting you pregnant.

5. Last one: You’re wearing a t-shirt in some picture that says “I’m out of my mind, please leave a message” So now, not only do you think that you’re different and special and dark and tortured, you’re also broadcasting it in a funny little way to everyone. See, you think that everyone will just think “Oh, that’s a hilarious $4 t shirt from Spencer’s.” But what they don’t know, what’s a super-duper little secret between you and the demons inside you is that you mean it (if you didn’t read that with an incredible amount of sarcasm applied to it, please re-read). You really do think you’re slightly crazy. You’re not. You’re completely fucking normal. That’s what you can’t deal with. You can’t deal with being exactly the fuck like everyone else on the planet.

A few other observations that I don’t want to write about in length:

1. You clearly love your daughters more than your son. That makes you a terrible mom.

2. All of your friends are ugly.

3. You’re a customer service rep? That translates to you working at a gas station. You’re probably bad at it.

That’s all I’ve got for now. One thing you can say is that you at least distracted an attractive person for a few minutes by getting him to blog about you. In summation you’re unattractive, mentally normal, an attention whoring idiot and until moments ago you were completely ignorant to these facts. Please learn what’s in your league and what isn’t. It will most likely help prevent this type of forced education in the future.

Love,

Dan

Serious Discussion

I realize that most of our blogs here at Blog of Man are kind of funny and ridiculous, but I’d like to talk about a very serious matter for one moment.  I feel that this problem is threatening our morale as well as our general way of life.  I think that if ignored for a significant amount of time, it will not disappear, it will not go away, it will only expand and increase until we are breaching a point of no return.  A point at which no matter what we do or which way we turn, we will be confronted with these issues for the next umpteen generations.  This problem was not brought up in the elections, it was not debated by Jon Stewart and the Pope didn’t speak of it during his trip to Africa. The problem is this:  words written across the asses of pants worn by fat girls.

I don’t know if everyone reading this is aware of this issue, so I would like to explain.  Overweight (fat) women have begun purchasing pants and / or shorts with words arced across the ass of them. It is usually in an obnoxious font / color and the word is typically something completely inappropriate and irrelevant to the owner of said pants.  Something like “Juicy” or “Hottie” or “Yum Yum”.  They inexplicably never have appropriate words like “Gross” or “Whoa” or “Jesus Fucking Christ”.

Basically what’s happening is the fatties buy the pants and wear them. As men, when we see something shiny (the word), we look (at the ass).  It’s because we’re idiots and have some crazy, instinctual need to look at shiny, colorful things.  Unfortunately for us, the fatties have figured this out. Next thing you know, you’re somehow staring at an ass that more closely resembles cottage cheese shoved into a Ziploc than anything “Hot” or “Juicy”. It’s a masterful trick that has yet to fail.  It’s manipulative and every time it happens, I feel worse about myself than usual.

Bottom line is that if you have a decent ass, I’m probably going to look at it. Don’t trick me into looking at your ass. I don’t like it. If you’re fat, you’re wearing pants with words across the ass and then feeling good about yourself because everyone keeps staring, stop fucking feeling good about yourself. No one wants to looks at your ass. We just want to read what it says. If someone stares for an obscene amount of time, they’re probably just waiting for some of the fat to shift so they can see the other three letters.

That’s all I’ve got for now. 

No Game

As some of you may know, I’m pretty new to the singles scene and since I have been in the same relationship since I was 19 years old, I’m having a tough time fitting back in. The thing is that I have no game. None. Zero. I am game-free. Here’s the thing though: should I really need game?

If you’re still thinking about the answer to that question, I’m going to help you out. The answer is no.  Fuck no I shouldn’t need game!  I shouldn’t have to practice for a conversation with someone or figure out how to lie to them or try to talk them into wanting to sleep with me. Everyone should want to sleep with me! 

Now I realize that everyone reading this is going to tell me that that’s not how it works. Save your breath. I know it’s not how it works. I’m just saying that’s how it should work.  I’m tall, blonde haired, blue eyed, attractive, in shape, smart and funny. Now how in the fuck am I struggling?  Because I don’t tell trashy club skanks that they’re awesome.  I don’t tell them that they’re gorgeous (they’re mostly average).  I don’t flatter them or buy them drinks because for the most part, average girls aren’t worth it. That’s how I fail. I refuse to tell someone that they’re hot when really they’re just dressed like a hooker.  I refuse to flatter someone who clearly has some daddy issues and is seeking approval from any other man.  Sorry, it’s not my thing.  I really can NOT bring myself to be that nice of a guy.  It’s just not in me. If someone actually impresses me, I’ll let them know. However, if someone actually impresses me at a club, they’re probably not the type who would sleep with me anyway. This is my downfall.

I find the whole thing ridiculous and embarrassing for both parties involved. Guys pretending they care about people. Girls pretending that they haven’t been hearing it all night from every mildly horny guy that passes them. Everyone swapping drinks, swapping spit, swapping numbers and later swapping strains of VD. I don’t get it. I’m not good at it. I don’t like it. The fact that I’m not good at it is probably what’s made me bitter. I really do refuse to change, though. I refuse to try. I refuse to get wrapped up in the game that I find so demeaning.  Or maybe I just need to get laid.  

Happy Birthday to Me!

Well, I just turned 28. I know what you’re all thinking. You’re all thinking “Oh thank God, he’s one year closer to death!” Well, you’re right, but that’s not the point of this blog at all.  The point of this is to tell you all about the evening I had and the unquestionable shithole that is Dino’s bar in Colorado Springs, CO.

Justin, Zach, Sam and two chicks whose names I don’t remember and I all went to Dino’s around 10 pm on Tuesday night.  The idea of going there on a Tuesday is that they have penny pitcher night.  You pay $8 to get into the bar, but then a pitcher of beer is only a penny. Good deal, right?  Well, since I don’t drink beer, it’s a terrible deal.  I paid $8 to get into a shitty bar and then I still paid $5 a drink.  I was really going more for the sake of hanging out, shooting some pool and drinking a bit.  I just wanted to have a kind of chill evening hanging out with my friends.

They only have 4 pool tables (which were all taken), so we ended up sitting at a bar table and bullshitting.  The DJ was terrible. The people were all either fat or horrifically disfigured enough that after 20 minutes I was wondering if there was a fucking “My Face Was Burned in a Fire” convention in town.   The guys there were all fake-ass, wannabe, Colorado Springs thugs. The type who think they’re hardcore gangstas but still lock their car doors when they drive their fucking 1986 Buick Skylark down Colfax Ave. in Denver.  Of course, they were all over the fatties and recent car accident victims. In Colorado Springs, apparently a 1 out of 10 is still better than nothing.  Silly me with my ridiculous standards.

There were maybe 3 girls who were somewhat attractive in the bar.  They were, of course, complete club skanks, but still, they were at least something.  However, when you have 100 dudes and only 3 almost decent girls, those bitches are going to get swarmed, which is exactly what happened.  Even if I wanted something skank-tastic, there was no way I was elbowing my way through groups 8 people deep to get within shouting distance.  I’m not that guy.

About an hour after we get there, Justin finds the owner, Andi (yeah, it’s a dude who spells his name with an “I.”  That would be like me going by fucking Dani) and tells him it’s my birthday.  The other owner, Dino, just had his birthday on Sunday, so we’re all great friends.  Andi brings the group a round of shots. We take the shots and I’m pretty sure it was just Kool-Aid. It tasted almost exactly like red Kool-Aid. No bite, no burn, no extra drunkenness 20 minutes later.  Andi and Dino take off. They come back 5 minutes later with an ice filled bucket, some large shot glasses and something that can only be described as carbonated bad alcohol, like if alcohol had spoiled and then been carbonated, that’s what it would taste like. Seriously, calling it piss would be a compliment. They say it’s complimentary. I’m guessing because they’ve had it sitting around for at least 2 years and they needed to get rid of it. Everyone starts drinking it and it’s terrible. I can’t even finish a full shot glass of it. This beverage is the sole purpose of me no longer drinking that night. Andi comes around not once, but twice to tell us that we can get another bottle for $30. It normally goes for $40, so that’s a good deal. The answer is no.

At some point Andi walks behind me, slaps my ass and says “What’s up queer?” hahahahaha.  Are you fucking serious? You’re THAT guy? You’re the guy who meets me for the first time, slaps my ass an hour later and says “What’s up queer?”   That’s you? Jesus fucking Christ.  This guy is definitely still really trying to be cool. He’s trying to fit in and since we did a shot and he gave us a free bottle of fucking carbonated embalming fluid, we must be ass-slapping, you’re-so-gay-joking buddies.  If you’ve met me and you think I’m socially awkward because I’m a little quiet to start off, wait until you see the social retardation  of this guy. I’m almost embarrassed for him.  Fortunately for him, he’s entirely too stupid to ever be embarrassed. 

Anyway, the night ended with me going home, Justin getting a ride and everyone going their separate ways.  It was fun just chilling with friends, but the atmosphere and retardation of the owner pretty much ruined it.  Thanks for ruining a good thing, Dino’s!  See you the next time I feel like torturing myself with ugly bitches, bad music, weak drinks and obnoxious owners!

Here I Am!

I know, I know, you were worried.  I haven’t blogged since January 15^th.  I’m OK.  Relax.  I’m here.  Here’s what’s been going on: 

1  I’ve been working like a motherfucker

2  I’ve been participating in the Funny Final Four at Comedy Works in Denver

3  I’ve been going out with long lost friends who just got back from a 15 month tour in Iraq

4  That’s it

Justin got back to The Springs and I’ve been drinking quite a bit.  Is that a good thing? Yes. Yes it is. The downside is that I’m now completely fucking broke.  So, here’s an idea, if you like these blogs and would like them to continue to be funny, send me money so I can afford to booze it up some more and then write blogs about it.  Seriously.  Start now. Email me. I’ll send you my address. 

The Night of the Return

I’m house sitting on the 12^th floor in the Arts District of Denver.   Justin calls and says he’s back from Iraq. He’s borrowed a car. He’s gonna come up and party.  It’s about to happen and it’s about to be good. Denver + Money + Booze + Sick Apartment + Club Skanks = GOOD. That’s what that equation looks like. 

Justin has no clothes besides his uniform. He’s gonna go buy pants and borrow a shirt and shoes.  He stops to buy pants in The Springs on his drive up. He gets out of the mall and what happens? The borrowed car is dead. He calls and tells me. He says it’s a sign. It’s a sign that he needs to slow down. I think “Fuck.”  He’s going to get a ride back to his new apartment and slow down a little.  He’s just going to crash and call it a night. I’m about to stay in (because I have no one to go out with) and watch American Idol.  An hour passes.  It’s 8pm. I make a judgment call.  I call Justin. He’s still at the mall trying to find a ride. I say I will drive down, pick him up drive us back to Denver, party like a rock star and drive him back to his place in the morning and go to work (back in Denver) the next morning.  At the time it seems reasonable.  It is NOT reasonable. It is a bad decision (which happens to be my favorite kind).

Justin gets a ride to his apartment from Sam (who is clearly awesome). I meet him there.  I give him a shirt and shoes. He takes a bath because he has no shower curtain yet (he moved in like 4 hours ago).  I think “Why the fuck didn’t you buy one at the mall somewhere?” It doesn’t matter. We gotta GO.  He keeps asking ridiculous questions like “Where are we going?” “What are we doing?” “Have you seen The Hulk?” to these I continually respond “I don’t care. Let’s fucking go. Hurry up.”  Justin grabs his bottle of tequila (shudder) and we go.

He wants to take a hit of tequila in the car on the way up. The bottle seems specially designed to prevent people from drinking from the bottle.  I find this hilarious.

We get to the apartment. Cut up some limes. Do a shot. Hit the door.

I called my friend Mark to find out where to go in Denver on a Wednesday. He says a club called Milk is close by. We walk in that direction. Can’t find it. Think we find it. Walk in. I say to Justin “This is a gay bar.” It’s a Gay bar. I say to the bartender “What is this place?” he says “What do you mean? It’s a bar.”  I say “we were looking for this place called Milk. I know it’s kinda fucked up to ask another bartender where it is, but…” He tells us where it is. We walk there.  Two dudes make out on some barstools.

Walk into Milk. $5 cover charge on a Wednesday. That’s bullshit. We pay. There’s maybe 12 – 15 people there. It would probably be really cool on the weekend. We both grab a drink, sit down and just bullshit with each other. We decide to go. We leave a different way than how we came in. Then we see that there’s an entire upstairs to the club. We were in the basement. Three people upstairs. We leave.

Now what? We walk to this pub that’s supposed to be cool called The Fainting Goat. We walk by. Look in the window. Two dudes sitting at the bar. That’s it. Change of plans.

I turn around. Justin asks “Where are we going?” I say “Change of plans. Time to go to LoDo. There has to be something going on there. We’ll either hit 5 Degrees or Tryst.” LoDo (Lower Downtown) is the more hip part of Denver. It’s a 20 minute walk, which is why we tried these other places in the Arts District first (it’s a zero minute walk).  I’m cold as all fuck during this walk because, well, it’s cold as fuck out. I think Justin’s pretty buzzed since alcohol hasn’t passed his lips in over 6 months, so he’s a bit warmer than me.  I’m jealous.

We get to LoDo. We see 5 Degrees.  There are people standing around outside. Across the street is Tryst. There are no people standing outside of it. 5 Degrees looks good. We get inside. Apparently Wednesday night is Ladies Night here. It’s packed.  The ambience is great. The music’s good. They have a smoking patio. The waitresses are hot. We’re in the right place.

I sold my left kidney for a double Skyy and tonic. Worth it. We smoke outside. I’m warming up.  Some chick bums a cigarette. I talk to her. She’s cool. We talk about the fact that the homeless and orphans don’t have souls, so it’s ok to kill them.  That’s one funny chick.  I think Dianne. I don’t remember. She goes inside. We go inside. Get another drink. Sell another organ. Worth it.

Here is where I get hazy. I remember talking to a waitress, Rachel. I also remember seeing some chick standing by the door and telling Justin “I’m gonna go talk to her.” I get there and she’s hideous. I introduce myself anyway I say “Hi. I’m Dan.” She says “Julie.” Then she says “I’ll get in trouble if they see me talking to you.” Then she does the little “move along now” hand wave. At the time I just left because I was drunk and happy and not wanting to spend time with an ugly girl. Now that I think about it: What the fuck? Me talking to her was probably the best thing that happened to her all night. She’s ugly. What a bitch.

I remember talking to Rachel the Waitress some more. She seems cool. Gets us drinks (because she’s a waitress). It’s last call. I don’t know how many either of us have had. Too many. Rachel tells us to come back for bottle service. I’m not spending $160 on a bottle of Captain Morgan anytime soon.

We leave. Doors are closing. Mass exodus.  We walk back to the apartment. Justin wants to pee on EVERYTHING. I say no. We get back. Justin says “Let’s do another shot of tequila.” I say “No, I’ll throw up.” He gets another shot. Hands it to me. I take it. I walk to the bathroom. I throw up.

Justin passes out on a futon. It’s 2:30 AM. I have to drive him back to Colorado Springs in two hours. I’m not sleeping. If I do, I’ll never get up. I fold some laundry. I watch some TV.  Two hours pass. I wake Justin up. It’s 4:30 AM.  I get him back to his apartment at 6. I shouldn’t have driven. I was falling asleep on the interstate. I pass out for a half an hour on Justin’s floor. Wake up at 6:30. Drive back to Denver. I feel remarkably good for only having a half hour of sleep. I shower. I brush my teeth. I walk to work. Get to work at 9. I work until 5. I get back to the apartment at 5:30. I eat a freezer pizza. I pass out until 6 AM the next day.

Nothing astonishing happened. Nothing amazing happened. Nothing life changing happened. We fucked around, got drunk, made fun of people, talked to new people, found a place to hang out on Wednesday nights in Denver and enjoyed ourselves. It was a good night. Friends sacrifice sleep, money and possibly driving license’s to hang out when they haven’t seen each other for 15 months. Worth it.

I’m a Dick

I started writing a blog about how people typically don’t think I’m a dick even though I warn them that I am.  It didn’t come out right. So, this is a simple warning / statement. I’m a dick. It’s a fact. It’ll take you awhile to figure it out, but you will and then you’ll tell me “My God, you’re a dick.” To which I’ll respond “Yeah, I told you that. Didn’t you read that blog?”

Love

-Dan

Are You There, God? It’s Me, Dan.

This is what a conversation between God and I would sound like:

 Dan:       God? Hey, dude, what’s up?

God:      Oh…heeeey…you.

Dan:       Aw…c’mon Man. You remember me, right? It’s Dan!

God:      Hmmmm…can you help me out a little?

Dan:       Fuck, dude.  Seriously? You seriously don’t remember me at all?  DAN. DAN ORLEY.

God:      Well, you know Dan Orley, there are a lot of Dan’s out there. I don’t see why you should be so much more important than the rest of them.  Can’t you just give me a little help and see what rings a bell?

Dan:       Goddammit, God. OK. I was born on March 3, 1981. Remember? I was born at like 8 or 9 lbs and 24 inches long.  Remember? My mother’s been making me feel guilty about my own birth since I was old enough to be guilted…

God:      OH! DAN!

Dan:       Yeah!

God:      So…what’s been up with you?

Dan:       Oh…um…nothing really.  I found a job that I really like…

God:      Oh. Good.

Dan:       Uh huh, mmm hmm.  My wife and I decided to split up recently.

God:      Awwww

Dan:       No, it’s cool though. We still like each other, we just know that we shouldn’t actually be married.  It’s not hostile or anything, though.

God:      Well, yeah, but I mean…come ON. You guys promised.

Dan:       Hey! I’ve got enough shit going on right now. I don’t need to fuckin’ hear it from you.

God:      Shit, OK. Relax.

Dan:       So what’s been up with you, God?

God:      Oh, you know. Watching this weird, pseudo-Holy War in the Mid-East.  What the fuck are you guys doing?

Dan:       I have no idea.  Oh! How was Jesus’ birthday this year? Good?

God:      Eh, not really. Everyone was just kind of “blah” about the whole holidays-thing this year.  I think you guys should elect a black guy as president, maybe that would help.

Dan:       Oh, we totally did that!

God:      Seriously?

Dan:       Yeah! I mean, I didn’t, but a lot of people voted for him. It was a landslide.

God:      Huh. What were the odds of that?

Dan:       Oh, shit, I have no idea.  Also, the Dolphins are fucking going to the playoffs. What a topsy-turvy world we live in.

God:      I’ll say!  A black guy is president, Dolphins are in the playoffs.  What’s next?

Dan:       I don’t know.  You could probably tell me better than I could tell you…   Well listen, I gotta run.

God:      No you don’t! What do you have planned?

Dan:       Um…I was just gonna get real drunk and watch some shitty bowl games.  You know, that’s kinda my thing.

God:      Fine. Do whatever. You’ve got some fucked-up priorities, Orley.

Dan:       Yeah, I know…but, I’m kinda OK with that.  I’ll catch you on the flip side, God.  Have a good one.

God:      Later.

2009

For those of you who know me, you’ll know that I’m not a hopeful person.  For those of you that don’t know me, let me tell you that I am not a hopeful person.  I don’t have huge aspirations or goals, I don’t aspire to be great or, really, even good.  I just like to be.  And I’m pretty good at being.  It’s kind of like a personal purgatory where you don’t want much more or much less.  You just kind of settle for what you have and you deal with it.  Although that may sound sad to some of you, I’m pretty OK with it.

                The following is a numbered list of ten things 2009 will be.  It’s not what I want it to be, not what I hope it to be and not what I think it’ll be, it’s just what it will, in fact, be.  These aren’t resolutions, they’re facts.

1.       It will be the year that I drink. A lot.

2.       It will be the year of more drunken, sport filled holidays than ever before

3.       It will be the year that I stop apologizing

4.       It will be the year that more than one person says to me “That was unnecessary”

5.       It will be the year that America finds a new martyr

6.       It will be the year of drunken debauchery

7.       It will be the year that defines my action for the next 3 years

8.       It will be the year of immaturity and finger pointing in my personal life, America and               the world.

9.       It will be the year of hurt feelings

10.   It will be the year that I don’t quit doing any of the shit that I should probably quit doing        and I don’t begin doing any of the things that I should begin.

Have a great 2009.  I’m clearly going to.

Green Peace

                Sweet mother of Jesus. Do you care about the environment? Spend one day in downtown Denver and that’ll change.  It’ll change because you’ll get hit up by at least 3 different members of the organization Green Peace between your office and lunch. I do every fucking single day.

                As if having a dirty, dreadlocked, canvas shoe wearing, stoned hippie talk to you isn’t bad enough in the first place. I now have dirty, dreadlocked, canvas shoe wearing, stoned hippies talking to me multiple times and day and asking me for things.  Are they asking me for my money? No. My advice? No. They’re asking for my time.  They’re asking for 30 seconds of my time during my sweet, precious lunch break to talk to me about some asinine shit that they don’t understand.  They just know that people are bad and Mother Earth is good.

                On my walk to lunch they say “Can you spare 30 seconds of your time to talk about the environment?” I always make eye contact, hold their gaze for about 2 seconds, say “No” and continue on my path.  On my way back to the office, who do I pass?  The exact same fucking guy. What does he ask me? You know what he asks me.  This guy’s so fucking burnt out that he doesn’t remember me tossing him a stern “No” just 20 minutes beforehand.  What a fucking idiot.

                I once had one say “Sir! It’s December 10^th and it’s 55 degrees out! Help stop this!” No. Fuck no, man! It’s 55 degrees, I’m walking around without a jacket in Colorado in December.  I’ll be long dead and gone by the time there are any real ramifications of this myth you call Global Warming*.  Fuck you. I may just go buy a case of Aqua Net and spray the cold away.  I’ve got no kids for which to save the world. Let me be comfortable. 

                I’ve been tempted to push one of them or punch one of them,  but I’ve resisted. I’ve chosen that my means of attack will be littering.  From now on, I will carry something, anything to drop on the sidewalk directly in front of these people every single time one of them asks me for my time.  Whether it’s a cigarette butt or a receipt or my left fucking sock, I will leave something for each and every one.  And you know what? They’ll pick it up. They’ll pick it up because every little bit helps and they’ve dedicated their lives to keeping the Earth clean.

                These guys are the most irritating sales people of all time. You expect to hear shit at a car lot. You expect it from the kid selling magazines to your door. You expect it from the alarm company guy. You even expect a good waiter to try to up-sell you on your wine selection.  For the love of all that’s holy, I don’t expect it every time I want to walk to Tokyo Joe’s from some dirty fucking Rastafarian wannabe.

                Maybe eventually they’ll remember me. Maybe eventually they’ll remember that I’m the guy who litters every time they ask me for my time.  Maybe they’ll get tired of picking up my garbage and they’ll just stop asking me for thing. Or maybe they’re so fucking stoned that they’ll never figure it out.  Either way, really, I win.

*That’s right. I don’t believe in Global Warming. Discuss.

Prank Call

Prank Call

                I was helping my friend Rory pick up a desk for his new apartment this evening.  After the delicious chicken flautas his wife made for us, I decided to go to the bank to deposit my paycheck through the ATM.  I was singing Sinatra at damn near the top of my lungs and looking forward to having more than 3 figures in my checking account.  It was about to be a good night.

                Then my phone rang.  It said “Private Number.” I typically don’t answer the phone for a private number, but I decided to see who it was.  I answered.

                “This is Dan.”

                “Oh.” The guy said.  It sounded like he was calling from a moving vehicle. “Hey, Dan.”

                “Hey. Who’s this?”

                “This is John Jacob.” Snicker, snicker, snicker.

                Sigh. “Who?”

                “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.” Laughter.  Not normal, acceptable laughter. The laughter of a bunch of teenagers driving in their car and making prank calls.  It was the kind of laughter where you knew you were on speaker phone and someone just “got you.” This was all unacceptable to me. 

                 I was silent for, five, ten, fifteen seconds.  During these fifteen seconds, I’m deciding what’s going to happen next.  Then the laughter slows and trickles to a stop and I hear “Hello?”

                “Oh, yeah, I’m still here.  Are you just calling me to be a fucking idiot or did you need something from me?”

                “Oh” Slight pause. “I need something from you.”

                I put on my most possible jovial voice and ask “Oh really? What’s that? What exactly do you need?”

                An entire car full of snickers and then:

                “A hug.”  Followed by fucking rollicking laughter.

                 If you know me, you have to be able to imagine the smirk on my face right at that moment.  All I could think was that this kid had made a mistake.  We all make mistakes.  But we don’t all make them at my personal benefit.

                 Still in the most superficial, jovial voice possible I said, “A hug? Really? You need a hug? How about this: How about instead of a hug, I draw you a warm bath and you can try to fucking juggle some razor blades?”

                 Now I get some nervous laughter from the car.  The caller’s snickering, but it’s now the uncertain kind of laughter as if they’re not sure if you’re funny or scary right now.  Then he and his friends stop laughing and he stutters “Wh – What?”

                 “I said I’ll draw you a warm bath, then you can slice yourself up with razor blades. It’s just like a big, warm, wet hug, but it’s fucking mixed with your own blood. How does that sound?”

                  I hear his friends laughing.  I can tell that he is not.  I’m imagining that he’s trying to think of a witty retort, but he’s probably either too stupid or too nervous because his joke just got bent over the kitchen table and raped. 

                  I picture this kid in a car with three other kids and all of them laughing while this teenaged wannabe antagonist tries to think of anything intelligent.  I actually hear the respect of his cohorts disappearing for him and I’m thrilled with it.

               After five, ten, fifteen seconds of hearing his friends laughing, I ask, “Hello?” Then I hear dead air. 

              “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask the no one on the other end of the phone. “Who the fuck makes a prank call and then hangs up on the victim?”

              There’s, of course, no answer.