Picture a 1-foot by 1.5-foot rectangle on the ground, and picture someone standing on it. Now picture a lot of these rectangles blocked together on a flat surface, each with one person standing on it. Nobody would be touching anyone else-- the larger people might take up a bit more space, but the smaller people would take up a bit less, and the given space would be more than enough, on average.
If you drew a square mile on the ground and filled it with these rectangles, and put a person on each, you could fit over 18 million people in one square mile, with no one touching anyone else.
There are about 280,000,000 people in America, so you'd need about 15 square miles, or a 4-mile by 4-mile square, to accommodate the whole nation.
And of course, I'm not going to stop there.
There are about 7 billion people in the world. Since each square mile can fit about 18 million people, you'd need about 375 square miles to fit everyone. A 20-mile by 20-mile square would easily suffice. Let's be efficient, though. What if you took each of these 375 square miles and stacked them on top of one another. On average, you'd need a bit under 6 feet per stack (again, taller people would be in higher stacks, shorter people would be in shorter ones, and it would average out), so all the stacks together would be about 2,300 feet high. Stacking these square miles would form a building with a square mile base, about 2,300 feet high. The world's tallest skyscraper, in Taipei, is just under 1,700 feet. So our building would be just a bit taller than the biggest skyscrapers.
You could fit the whole world in that building, without anyone touching anyone else.
I'm not sure what point I'm making here-- that people are little, or that it's a small world, or that 7 billion is a relatively small number of people, or that 7 billion is a huge amount of people but people are damn little, or that "overpopulation" is funny, or that a square mile by 2,300 feet is a shitload of space to work with, or that the building would smell horrific.
Either way, chew on that for awhile.
Hakuna Matata
No one here knows I'm in LA. Almost everyone in LA, other than my roommate, thinks I'm in Florida. So without any students or parents or unimportant directors trying to reach me, and without any phone calls from the dozens of anxious women that typically beat down my door come Friday, life has been unusually simple and carefree this weekend. I spent much of the day today pacing casually around Santa Monica. The unequivocal highlight of the excursion occurred when two policeman, both riding bicycles, passed by me in a busy plaza. One accidentally nipped the other's back tire, which led to both of them wiping out. If there's anything more wonderful than two big policeman toppling off their bicycles in front of a crowd of people (and having no sense of humor about it), I have yet to experience it.
A Costly Error
A couple months back I booked a ticket to Florida for Thursday, February 23 at 1:00am. Yes, I had it all figured out. I'd hop on that Thursday night red-eye and arrive in Florida Friday morning. I would be met there by the grandest of all paternal grandparents, who would be nervous and concerned that I didn't bring a jacket, and then my grandmother would tell me to go to law school. It was a perfect plan.
Except, of course, that Thursday at 1:00am is on Wednesday night, not Thursday night. So it was two days ago that I received my confirmation email from Cheaptickets.com (the Charles Barkley to Orbitz, Expedia, and Travelocity's Jordan, Magic and Bird). I glanced over it to see my exact departure time, and I noticed that it had me arriving on Thursday morning, not Friday morning. An understandable, yet undeniably idiotic misstep on my part.
"No problem!" I thought. I'll just call Cheaptickets.com, and they'll move me to 24 hours later. After enduring 45 minutes of Pachelbel's Canon interspersed with Cheaptickets promotions, a young woman picked up. It went something like this:
Young Woman: Thank you for calling Cheaptickets.com, the Charles Barkley of internet travel agencies.
Me: Hi. So I did something dumb. I--
Young Woman: Sir I'll just need your phone number.
Me: [wondering why they always want my phone number] 310 587 0796
Young Woman: And I'll need your Cheaptickets record locator.
Me: DHC8BTT
Young Woman: G as in giraffe, is that right?
Me: Um, no. D as in duck.
Young Woman: So that's DHD8BTT
Me: No! It's--
And with the phone clutched tightly between my ear and shoulder, I accidentally hung up. If someone was nearby my apartment at that moment they would have assumed I was watching Aladdin and that they had heard Jafar's reaction when he realized that Abu had stolen the lamp. Yes, the two reactions were basically identical. Something like, "NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!". I even pointed my face up to the sky and extended my arms in anguish, just like Jafar. There hasn't been a noise that loud coming from my apartment since my computer froze after I had spent 8 hours inputting notes into a 60 page composition that was being performed the next day and I lost all but the first 4 pages.
After 5 minutes of meditation, I called back. After 45 fresh minutes of the Pachelbel-Cheaptickets.com collaboration, a young woman picked up:
Young Woman: Thank you for calling--
Me: 310 587 0796
Young Woman: Uh...right...and I'll need--
Me: Duck-Hat-Cat-Eight-Bubble-TickTack.
Young Woman: Okay...and what's the problem today?
I went on to explain the problem, and she cheerfully offered to switch me to a later flight-- for $1,100. After my inevitably rude reaction, she suggested that I try flying standby.
So tonight I did. And I'd prefer not to detail the hideous 3 hour fiasco that took place at the airport. Let's just say that a) I certainly didn't make any friends there, and b) I'm still in LA.
Sometimes, you get the bear. And sometimes, you watch TiVo'd figure skating.
Except, of course, that Thursday at 1:00am is on Wednesday night, not Thursday night. So it was two days ago that I received my confirmation email from Cheaptickets.com (the Charles Barkley to Orbitz, Expedia, and Travelocity's Jordan, Magic and Bird). I glanced over it to see my exact departure time, and I noticed that it had me arriving on Thursday morning, not Friday morning. An understandable, yet undeniably idiotic misstep on my part.
"No problem!" I thought. I'll just call Cheaptickets.com, and they'll move me to 24 hours later. After enduring 45 minutes of Pachelbel's Canon interspersed with Cheaptickets promotions, a young woman picked up. It went something like this:
Young Woman: Thank you for calling Cheaptickets.com, the Charles Barkley of internet travel agencies.
Me: Hi. So I did something dumb. I--
Young Woman: Sir I'll just need your phone number.
Me: [wondering why they always want my phone number] 310 587 0796
Young Woman: And I'll need your Cheaptickets record locator.
Me: DHC8BTT
Young Woman: G as in giraffe, is that right?
Me: Um, no. D as in duck.
Young Woman: So that's DHD8BTT
Me: No! It's--
And with the phone clutched tightly between my ear and shoulder, I accidentally hung up. If someone was nearby my apartment at that moment they would have assumed I was watching Aladdin and that they had heard Jafar's reaction when he realized that Abu had stolen the lamp. Yes, the two reactions were basically identical. Something like, "NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!". I even pointed my face up to the sky and extended my arms in anguish, just like Jafar. There hasn't been a noise that loud coming from my apartment since my computer froze after I had spent 8 hours inputting notes into a 60 page composition that was being performed the next day and I lost all but the first 4 pages.
After 5 minutes of meditation, I called back. After 45 fresh minutes of the Pachelbel-Cheaptickets.com collaboration, a young woman picked up:
Young Woman: Thank you for calling--
Me: 310 587 0796
Young Woman: Uh...right...and I'll need--
Me: Duck-Hat-Cat-Eight-Bubble-TickTack.
Young Woman: Okay...and what's the problem today?
I went on to explain the problem, and she cheerfully offered to switch me to a later flight-- for $1,100. After my inevitably rude reaction, she suggested that I try flying standby.
So tonight I did. And I'd prefer not to detail the hideous 3 hour fiasco that took place at the airport. Let's just say that a) I certainly didn't make any friends there, and b) I'm still in LA.
Sometimes, you get the bear. And sometimes, you watch TiVo'd figure skating.
Beyond Me
I was just sitting here when the phone rang. I had music on, so I reached over and turned the volume down on my speaker before I picked up the phone. After I hung up I turned the volume back up. Then I looked at the speaker for a few seconds, and then turned it back down, until it was silent in the room. I stared at the speaker intently, for about 40 seconds. I couldn't figure it out.
If you turn the volume all the way down on the speaker while a song is going, is the speaker still playing the song?
If you turn the volume all the way down on the speaker while a song is going, is the speaker still playing the song?
The Blame Games
The winter Olympics are very aesthetically satisfying to watch. I know none of the subtleties of most of the sports, but I find them extremely physically pleasing to watch. Especially speed skating. I have no idea what makes a speed skater great at passing or sprinting, but I find it damn pleasant to watch them go. Even Bob Costas is satisfying to look at. I would trust that guy with my life.
The athletes, though, I tend to hate. I've never heard pro athletes whine and blame and make excuses this often. And the thing that really pisses me off is the constant insistence by 4th place or lower finishers that they don't care about the medals. That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. Of course you care about the medals. You care immensely about the medals. Who the hell do you think you're fooling? Imagine if Tiger Woods came in fifth in the Masters and afterwards explained to the press that he was there because of his passion for the sport, not to win, and that he was very pleased with his fifth place finish. That's what Bode Miller said, after being hyped and self-hyped as the best skier in the world. What if after being up 6-0 in the tie-breaker of the fifth set of the Wimbledon finals, Roger Federer double faulted in 4 consecutive serves to lose 8-6 and went on to claim that he was just thrilled to have made the finals. That's what Lindsay Jacobellis did (cute as she may be). And then Johnny Weir, the prima of all donnas, blamed the f'ing busride and arrival time for his choke.
I just ranted about a skier, a female snowboarder, and a male figure skater. This is what happens when baseball and football are out of season at the same time.
The athletes, though, I tend to hate. I've never heard pro athletes whine and blame and make excuses this often. And the thing that really pisses me off is the constant insistence by 4th place or lower finishers that they don't care about the medals. That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. Of course you care about the medals. You care immensely about the medals. Who the hell do you think you're fooling? Imagine if Tiger Woods came in fifth in the Masters and afterwards explained to the press that he was there because of his passion for the sport, not to win, and that he was very pleased with his fifth place finish. That's what Bode Miller said, after being hyped and self-hyped as the best skier in the world. What if after being up 6-0 in the tie-breaker of the fifth set of the Wimbledon finals, Roger Federer double faulted in 4 consecutive serves to lose 8-6 and went on to claim that he was just thrilled to have made the finals. That's what Lindsay Jacobellis did (cute as she may be). And then Johnny Weir, the prima of all donnas, blamed the f'ing busride and arrival time for his choke.
I just ranted about a skier, a female snowboarder, and a male figure skater. This is what happens when baseball and football are out of season at the same time.
Thirsty? -- Responses
Last week I announced a contest whereby people would submit potential ways for me to respond to the grocery store cashier's quip, "thirsty?" which happens every time I buy water. As shocking as it is, 10 people actually responded, with a total of 22 water responses (I also received three teary-eyed anti-bottled water protests). Here are the potential responses, in appropriate categories:
Not Funny At All:
-Hey, baby. I'll show you who's thirsty.
-Totally!
-The end of the world is tomorrow!
Mildly Funny:
-As only a rugged man can be.
-Hungry?
-H double O rocks!
-Tap water is totally gay. Totally.
-I know where you live. [stare menacingly]
Pretty Funny:
-You should be more concerned about the homeless man sleeping in aisle 9.
-You're missing the point.
-The foot doctor said no tap water.
-It's my nana...old dog never gets sick of the dern stuff!
-Only for your hackneyed love.
-The chemicals in tap water react badly with my AIDS medication.
-As a whore.
Really Funny:
-The maid's water broke.
-You know those big tubs of colored plastic balls that kids play in? I'm going to put all these bottles in a tub and make something like that.
-The buffalos are coming.
-No, just rich.
-Listen, if you see a short, rustic man with a shock of red hair, DON'T tell him you saw me here.
-I got sick of milking the cows.
-If you're so funny why are you not a standup comic, but instead a poorly-paid cashier at a Santa Monica grocery store? When you can answer that, I'll tell you whether or not I'm thirsty. Bitch.
Every response in this final category made me laugh outloud when I read it. Most of them make no sense, but they make no sense in a very funny way. I narrowed it down to my three favorites:
-The maid's water broke. --This makes zero sense in the context. But it's incredibly funny.
-Listen, if you see a short, rustic man with a shock of red hair, DON'T tell him you saw me here. --This is already extremely funny, but the word "rustic" puts it over the top.
-I got sick of milking the cows. --God that's funny.
In choosing the winner, I imagined saying all of these to the cashier (all with a straight face and a dead-serious tone, of course), and I had no choice but to go with the one about the cows. It's funny for so many reasons. And yet so simple. Congrats, anonymous (I've never seen this person's email address before so I don't know who they are). No one can ever take this one away from you.
Not Funny At All:
-Hey, baby. I'll show you who's thirsty.
-Totally!
-The end of the world is tomorrow!
Mildly Funny:
-As only a rugged man can be.
-Hungry?
-H double O rocks!
-Tap water is totally gay. Totally.
-I know where you live. [stare menacingly]
Pretty Funny:
-You should be more concerned about the homeless man sleeping in aisle 9.
-You're missing the point.
-The foot doctor said no tap water.
-It's my nana...old dog never gets sick of the dern stuff!
-Only for your hackneyed love.
-The chemicals in tap water react badly with my AIDS medication.
-As a whore.
Really Funny:
-The maid's water broke.
-You know those big tubs of colored plastic balls that kids play in? I'm going to put all these bottles in a tub and make something like that.
-The buffalos are coming.
-No, just rich.
-Listen, if you see a short, rustic man with a shock of red hair, DON'T tell him you saw me here.
-I got sick of milking the cows.
-If you're so funny why are you not a standup comic, but instead a poorly-paid cashier at a Santa Monica grocery store? When you can answer that, I'll tell you whether or not I'm thirsty. Bitch.
Every response in this final category made me laugh outloud when I read it. Most of them make no sense, but they make no sense in a very funny way. I narrowed it down to my three favorites:
-The maid's water broke. --This makes zero sense in the context. But it's incredibly funny.
-Listen, if you see a short, rustic man with a shock of red hair, DON'T tell him you saw me here. --This is already extremely funny, but the word "rustic" puts it over the top.
-I got sick of milking the cows. --God that's funny.
In choosing the winner, I imagined saying all of these to the cashier (all with a straight face and a dead-serious tone, of course), and I had no choice but to go with the one about the cows. It's funny for so many reasons. And yet so simple. Congrats, anonymous (I've never seen this person's email address before so I don't know who they are). No one can ever take this one away from you.
Speechless
Last night I received a $114 ticket for jaywalking.
And that is the full extent to which I want to discuss this.
And that is the full extent to which I want to discuss this.
The Early Bird Gets Shot
My roommate made a phone call to a deaf person this morning at 8am. I know nothing about the person he called, other than that they can't hear. They're deaf. They must have been, since he was talking at the loudest volume at which a person can talk, and woke me up.
"8?" you say. "8? That doesn't seem so early." Well, Buccaneer, when you're in a solid 2:30-10:30 rhythm, 8 is mad fucking early. So I lay in bed this morning for 45 minutes, but had no chance of falling back asleep, since I was seething the whole time. This is a very unique state, and one I've been in hundreds of times in my life.
It's always the same experience-- it hits me that I'm awake purely because this person couldn't adjust their behavior to take into account that I was sleeping. And because this person needed to-- at full volume-- laugh, or argue, or talk on the phone, or cook, or listen to their horrible fucking music, or slam the door, I will spend the next 16 hours tired. Instead of living the coming day, I will be simply trying to get through it, because of them. And this very thought infuriates me to such a point that it's completely impossible for me to fall back asleep.
Then, lying there overwhelmed by hatred, the dilemma emerges. Do I get up and storm out of the room and unleash a screaming tirade? Doing so would leave me completely awake and destroy any remaining chance I might have had to fall back asleep. But in not doing so, the culprit will continue to make noise, and worse, will get off the hook without having to endure a shrieking, rumbling tirade. I tend to go with the tirade-- which is always way over-the-top because in the seconds I spend storming from the bed to the door it hits me that this now is 100% ensuring that I won't fall back asleep, and every step pounds more loathing into my soul, and by the time I see them, standing there with their hideous head, my reaction is so overblown that I generally end up apologizing later in the day.
These inconsiderate fucks tend to fall into a few common categories:
-The roommate
-The kid ("MAMA! IS DIS, IS DIS, IS DIS, DA TEDDY BEAW??! MAMA MAMA MAMA, IS DIS DA TEDDY BEAW??")
-The housekeeper at the hotel
-The sibling (my blood is boiling right now)
-The dog (it's a good thing I don't own a gun, because I would absolutely have killed a neighbor's dog in my day)
-The guy doing construction
On the topic of this last one, I recently ran outside in my underwear and began the tirade on a guy hammering something on a balcony of my building. During my tirade, I first realized it was 9:30am and I didn't have any ground on which to be reasonably angry, and then it suddenly hit me that I was in my underwear, and I stopped mid-tirade and then mumbled to myself as I backed quickly away and into my apartment.
Anyway, let me last mention one instance that has occurred a dozen or so times in my life, that is so heinous and maddening I will refrain from elaborating on it, only saying that this is when I have given my tirade, and then miraculously have fallen back asleep, only to have the culprit wake me...a second time. The thoughts I have had on these occasions should not and will not be printed.
"8?" you say. "8? That doesn't seem so early." Well, Buccaneer, when you're in a solid 2:30-10:30 rhythm, 8 is mad fucking early. So I lay in bed this morning for 45 minutes, but had no chance of falling back asleep, since I was seething the whole time. This is a very unique state, and one I've been in hundreds of times in my life.
It's always the same experience-- it hits me that I'm awake purely because this person couldn't adjust their behavior to take into account that I was sleeping. And because this person needed to-- at full volume-- laugh, or argue, or talk on the phone, or cook, or listen to their horrible fucking music, or slam the door, I will spend the next 16 hours tired. Instead of living the coming day, I will be simply trying to get through it, because of them. And this very thought infuriates me to such a point that it's completely impossible for me to fall back asleep.
Then, lying there overwhelmed by hatred, the dilemma emerges. Do I get up and storm out of the room and unleash a screaming tirade? Doing so would leave me completely awake and destroy any remaining chance I might have had to fall back asleep. But in not doing so, the culprit will continue to make noise, and worse, will get off the hook without having to endure a shrieking, rumbling tirade. I tend to go with the tirade-- which is always way over-the-top because in the seconds I spend storming from the bed to the door it hits me that this now is 100% ensuring that I won't fall back asleep, and every step pounds more loathing into my soul, and by the time I see them, standing there with their hideous head, my reaction is so overblown that I generally end up apologizing later in the day.
These inconsiderate fucks tend to fall into a few common categories:
-The roommate
-The kid ("MAMA! IS DIS, IS DIS, IS DIS, DA TEDDY BEAW??! MAMA MAMA MAMA, IS DIS DA TEDDY BEAW??")
-The housekeeper at the hotel
-The sibling (my blood is boiling right now)
-The dog (it's a good thing I don't own a gun, because I would absolutely have killed a neighbor's dog in my day)
-The guy doing construction
On the topic of this last one, I recently ran outside in my underwear and began the tirade on a guy hammering something on a balcony of my building. During my tirade, I first realized it was 9:30am and I didn't have any ground on which to be reasonably angry, and then it suddenly hit me that I was in my underwear, and I stopped mid-tirade and then mumbled to myself as I backed quickly away and into my apartment.
Anyway, let me last mention one instance that has occurred a dozen or so times in my life, that is so heinous and maddening I will refrain from elaborating on it, only saying that this is when I have given my tirade, and then miraculously have fallen back asleep, only to have the culprit wake me...a second time. The thoughts I have had on these occasions should not and will not be printed.
A Remarkably Uninteresting Turn of Events
My turtle keeps trying to eat wood. He has a little wooden cave in his terrarium,* where he sleeps when tired, and hides, when hiding is in order. Recently, he's been trying to eat his wooden cave. He puts his thimble-head up to the outer edge, and bites onto a chunk of bark and then his teeth lose grip and his head snaps back into his shell.
The pinhead's trying to eat his house.
*You heard me right. Terrarium.
The pinhead's trying to eat his house.
*You heard me right. Terrarium.
Deep Thoughts
I spent 24 hours in Las Vegas, from Sunday morning to Monday morning. In that time I placed hundreds of dollars on 30 different Super Bowl bets, played a long poker session, and some blackjack. After being way down, and then way up, and then down again, I ended up with $2 less than I started with. I can't tell if I'm happy about this or not.
Either way, Vegas seems to have taken something out of me. Four pieces of evidence:
Our trip home included 20 minutes of me searching for my car in the parking lot (although this happens to me all the time, not just today. One of the most consistent experiences I have).
Later today I had an interaction where a guy said, "hey, what's up?" and I said "good" by accident, and only minutes later I had another interaction with another guy, in which I said, "how's it going?" and the guy replied "nothing." Feeling his pain, I said "cool" and pretended everything was alright. But we both knew it wasn't.
I then continued on to the trash chute on my floor with a pile of trash in one hand and two bills, all set to be mailed out, in my other hand. I proceeded to throw the bills down the trash chute and found myself standing there holding a pile of trash. Normally I would have cursed and kicked the wall, but today I was too stupid to do even that. I just stood there, kind of staring at the trash chute, thinking about simple things.
Finally, I'm incredibly unsure if I've spelled "chute" correctly. I'm pretty sure it's not "shoot," and I tried typing "shute" and it looked hideous, so I guess "chute" is the least of three evils. But looking at the word right now, it just looks ridiculous, even weirder than "know" looked the other day.
Either way, Vegas seems to have taken something out of me. Four pieces of evidence:
Our trip home included 20 minutes of me searching for my car in the parking lot (although this happens to me all the time, not just today. One of the most consistent experiences I have).
Later today I had an interaction where a guy said, "hey, what's up?" and I said "good" by accident, and only minutes later I had another interaction with another guy, in which I said, "how's it going?" and the guy replied "nothing." Feeling his pain, I said "cool" and pretended everything was alright. But we both knew it wasn't.
I then continued on to the trash chute on my floor with a pile of trash in one hand and two bills, all set to be mailed out, in my other hand. I proceeded to throw the bills down the trash chute and found myself standing there holding a pile of trash. Normally I would have cursed and kicked the wall, but today I was too stupid to do even that. I just stood there, kind of staring at the trash chute, thinking about simple things.
Finally, I'm incredibly unsure if I've spelled "chute" correctly. I'm pretty sure it's not "shoot," and I tried typing "shute" and it looked hideous, so I guess "chute" is the least of three evils. But looking at the word right now, it just looks ridiculous, even weirder than "know" looked the other day.
Thirsty?
I regularly purchase bottled water. I like having it around. Next to the bed, in the car, at the gym. I also buy a shitload of bottled water for my office, for students to drink. Those dry-mouthed fucking kids.
So every month or so, I go to the grocery store and buy about 8 24-packs of water bottles. And every time-- every single time-- the cashier says, "thirsty?" I've made this purchase about 15 times since living in LA, and 15 out of 15 times, that day's cashier has joked, "thirsty?"
Usually I just say, "yes," but once I said, "it's for the cat," and then stared the cashier down without breaking a smile. Another time I said, matter-of-factly, "for the bathtub." I've also responded with, "as hell." Today, I said, in a very serious tone, "it's not even time yet." You know what, fuck it. I'm having a contest. I will accept emails over the next week with suggestions for my next response, and I will choose my favorite and recite it the next time I buy water. No more than 3 emails per person (you're thinking, "Ha! I'll write more than three by writing from different email addresses!"). Email the water responses to timurban800@yahoo.com. I'll sort through the thousands of emails all week, and I'll announce the winner next Friday.*
*You're trying to give me the benefit of the doubt and assume I'm kidding about the contest. Spend a little less time giving me the benefit of the doubt and a little more time thinking of water responses.**
**Now you have a new problem. After finishing reading this entry, while you sit there hating yourself for continually reading this blog, completely shocked that I had the nerve to hold this absurd contest, something happens-- you think of a somewhat funny water response. Emailing it would just validate the contest that you were scoffing at seconds earlier. But a part of you knows that you have a chance-- however slim-- of emerging as the winner. My advice is this: Go for it. Have the balls to go for it. What if Mandela hadn't gone for it? What the fuck would have happened it Mandela hadn't gone for it?? This is your Mandela moment. And you know it. Follow the dream.
So every month or so, I go to the grocery store and buy about 8 24-packs of water bottles. And every time-- every single time-- the cashier says, "thirsty?" I've made this purchase about 15 times since living in LA, and 15 out of 15 times, that day's cashier has joked, "thirsty?"
Usually I just say, "yes," but once I said, "it's for the cat," and then stared the cashier down without breaking a smile. Another time I said, matter-of-factly, "for the bathtub." I've also responded with, "as hell." Today, I said, in a very serious tone, "it's not even time yet." You know what, fuck it. I'm having a contest. I will accept emails over the next week with suggestions for my next response, and I will choose my favorite and recite it the next time I buy water. No more than 3 emails per person (you're thinking, "Ha! I'll write more than three by writing from different email addresses!"). Email the water responses to timurban800@yahoo.com. I'll sort through the thousands of emails all week, and I'll announce the winner next Friday.*
*You're trying to give me the benefit of the doubt and assume I'm kidding about the contest. Spend a little less time giving me the benefit of the doubt and a little more time thinking of water responses.**
**Now you have a new problem. After finishing reading this entry, while you sit there hating yourself for continually reading this blog, completely shocked that I had the nerve to hold this absurd contest, something happens-- you think of a somewhat funny water response. Emailing it would just validate the contest that you were scoffing at seconds earlier. But a part of you knows that you have a chance-- however slim-- of emerging as the winner. My advice is this: Go for it. Have the balls to go for it. What if Mandela hadn't gone for it? What the fuck would have happened it Mandela hadn't gone for it?? This is your Mandela moment. And you know it. Follow the dream.
Dogs Part II
I love dogs. But as a dog lover, I feel no obligation to love all dogs. Because truth be told, a lot of dogs suck. You know which ones I'm talking about. There's a pretty consistent set of criteria for dogs that suck-- they're not that cute, they bark, and bark, and bark their ugly heads off, they jump on guests, and they smell like shit. We all know these dogs. We all know people that have these dogs. Dog lovers must accept that some dogs suck.
That said, no dog sucks like the big poodle.
A little poodle I can handle. I even like them a lot of the time. But the big poodle-- the big poodle is a different story. The big poodle sucks.
I tutor weekly at a house, among whose members is a big poodle. And every week, the same thing happens. I walk in the house, and immediately the big fucking poodle gallops over to me and launches upright and puts his paws on my shoulder and humps me violently. Of course, the family acts surprised every time and pulls him off and apologizes.
Let's look at this logically. There is what I can only call a beast living with them in their house. Upon my weekly arrival, this beast runs over to me, and, suddenly standing 6 feet tall on his hind legs, physically assaults me by trying to have upright missionary sex with me in the middle of the living room in front of everyone. And this happens every week.
Do people whose dogs suck know that their dogs suck? I'm pretty sure they don't. People whose spouses suck don't know their spouses suck. People whose kids suck definitely don't know their kids suck. So why would people know that their dog sucks. It would be much easier for me, and everyone else, if people whose dogs sucked knew that their dogs sucked. Then, I could come into their house, and they could say, "Hey Tim" and I'd say, "Hey. What's the deal with the dog?" and they could say, "He sucks." And I'd say, "Oh."
One time, I went to my friend's cousin's house, and this guy had an impressive display-- his spouse sucked, his kids sucked, his dog sucked, and the guy's face sucked. I distinctly remember thinking, "that guy's face really sucks."
On a related note, I saw Chloe from 24 the other day on the street walking a tiny poodle who was wearing a sweater. Jack would be disappointed.
That said, no dog sucks like the big poodle.
A little poodle I can handle. I even like them a lot of the time. But the big poodle-- the big poodle is a different story. The big poodle sucks.
I tutor weekly at a house, among whose members is a big poodle. And every week, the same thing happens. I walk in the house, and immediately the big fucking poodle gallops over to me and launches upright and puts his paws on my shoulder and humps me violently. Of course, the family acts surprised every time and pulls him off and apologizes.
Let's look at this logically. There is what I can only call a beast living with them in their house. Upon my weekly arrival, this beast runs over to me, and, suddenly standing 6 feet tall on his hind legs, physically assaults me by trying to have upright missionary sex with me in the middle of the living room in front of everyone. And this happens every week.
Do people whose dogs suck know that their dogs suck? I'm pretty sure they don't. People whose spouses suck don't know their spouses suck. People whose kids suck definitely don't know their kids suck. So why would people know that their dog sucks. It would be much easier for me, and everyone else, if people whose dogs sucked knew that their dogs sucked. Then, I could come into their house, and they could say, "Hey Tim" and I'd say, "Hey. What's the deal with the dog?" and they could say, "He sucks." And I'd say, "Oh."
One time, I went to my friend's cousin's house, and this guy had an impressive display-- his spouse sucked, his kids sucked, his dog sucked, and the guy's face sucked. I distinctly remember thinking, "that guy's face really sucks."
On a related note, I saw Chloe from 24 the other day on the street walking a tiny poodle who was wearing a sweater. Jack would be disappointed.
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