Vanity Plates on Children’s Bikes

Who the hell do some kids think they are? Not one kid in history has come even remotely close to earning this magnificent privilege. I know what you’re thinking–Webster–and you’re absolutely correct I forget about Webster. That's my bad. Besides Webster, no kid has done what it takes to rock a sweet, personalized identifier on their bike. And the ones that do have the balls, nay, the audacity to try to pull it off aren't even creative. It's always something super self-indulgent like “Kenneth” or “Amy” or “Dave.” I’m sorry Kenneth, when was it that you were knocking out 100-hour workweeks on Wall Street again? Oh that’s right, NEVER. I didn’t know you were a doctor, Amy. What med school did you go to? One that teaches you how to make crappy art with uncooked pasta and pennies? Never heard of that one. Where’d you do your residency? St. Bieber? Get out of my face. Let me throw a little hypothetical at you, Dr. Amy. My Gam Gam and I are walking down the street when she feels a little pain in her chest. She falls to the ground and you roll by in your little pink Dora the Explorer bike. Thank god, I think to myself, a vanity plate. I run over and ask you to save my sweet Nana and what do you do? You just stare at me like a dumbutt while MeeMaw dies before she’s gotten a chance to tell grandpa she’s been sleeping with the pool man for the past 40 years. So, not only do you kill Bubbe, you send her to hell. Awesome. Thanks. Listen, do us all a favor and lose the pretense until you’ve earned it. That’s all I’m saying. I don't think many of these plates are even registered with their local governments, but let's not get into that.

My Dentist

Sure it’s easy to say you hate dentists. Nobody likes them. They drill holes in your teeth. They’re total assholes. But mine is a particular type of asshole and let me tell you why. Because he doesn’t speak to me. Instead, he relays information by talking to his hygienist, Margaret, while I’m in the room. “Looks like this fella hasn't been flossing as much as we asked him to, hey Margaret? I think he may have lost that floss we gave him. Hmmm, you'd think he’d want to keep his teeth his whole life. Sure would look pretty silly without them.” Margaret nods her head and says stuff like “looks that way,” but I don’t blame her. She’s just trying to earn a paycheck. I think she hates him too. All I can do is focus on the wise advice from the cat hanging from the tree limb in the poster on the ceiling and hang in there.

My Boss

Here's a breakdown of what makes for a good boss and why mine fails on every single point:

1. Praise in public. Chastise in private.
Good bosses know that praising and encouraging staff members is the key to creating a positive work atmosphere. If a correction needs to be made, it's never a good idea to call someone out in front of the group. Well, this one day I decided to play a goof on my coworker Donald. I gave him an epic atomic wedgie and made him think I was gonna dip his nards in the deep fryer. My boss saw me and completely freaked out right in front of my fellow employees! It's not like any customers saw me so I told him to chillax. I mean, earlier that week I refilled the napkins without even being asked to. Did I get so much as a thank you or a raise? Hell no.

2. Always make team spirit a priority.
In any organization, maintaining good team spirit is critical for better overall employee performance. Everybody knows that. So, during the Monday morning staff meeting I suggested we all take our clothes off and hit this righteous bag of peyote I had. My boss instantly shut me down in a very loud and hurtful manner. See point #1.

3. Share experiences and insights.
Sharing personal anecdotes can be an effective way for a boss to teach valuable lessons in a non-confrontational way. My boss told me about how this one time he ran out of cat food for his ten cats. And there was a blizzard outside, so he killed one of his cats and fed it to the other cats. He said sometimes you need to think on your feet and kill a cat to save nine cats. I'm just kidding, he didn't say any of that, but how awesome would that be if he did! I'm sure he does have a butt-load of cats, though.

4. Be open-minded and an effective listener.
Someone in the team may come up with a new and different way of looking at a problem. For instance, my boss told me to go mop the bathroom and I told him to shove the mop up his ass. Obviously, he doesn't have a very open mind about the best thing to do with the mop.

5. Don't play favorites.
It's obvious to all of us that Dale is the golden child. My boss makes very little effort to hide that fact. He got moved to the register in like two weeks and I don't remember the last time he scrubbed a toilet. Becky told me they went bowling together! Did I get an invite? No. Why don't they just go marry each other or something. Whatever. Like I care. Those guys are losers. I hope they both get herpes.

Game. Set. And match.

AARON NEVILLE'S MOLE

Kevin Jonas

Is it just me or is Kevin Jonas really phoning it in these days? This hurts to say, but he seems more concerned with collecting checks and walking down red carpets than being the true musical craftsman he was born to be. No one expects him to return to such heights as Mandy from the Zoey 101: Spring Break-Up soundtrack. Nor can we hope for a duplication of the vortex-bending riffs found on DisneyMania 4’s Yo Ho (A Pirates Life For Me), but we at least deserve to know he’s trying. Perhaps the rumor mill is right. Perhaps he’s no longer interested in pushing himself creatively.

Until this recent period of uncertainty, Kevin had never been one to shy away from austerity (the poignant Lovebug, the retro-futuristic Year 3000 and the provocative masterworks of Camp Rock2: The Final Jam). These classics provided a much-needed counterbalance to more raucous rave-ups like Set This Party Off and That’s Just The Way We Roll. Whereas 2008’s Burnin’ Up exuded the playful existentialism that planted roots in our collective unconscious, their most recent effort – LA Baby (Where Dreams Are Made) – lacks the compositional tension between innocence and impudence that has always distinguished The Jonas Brothers from their rock counterparts.

And I blame Kevin.

Pitch-perfect Nick Jonas remains at the top of his game and Joe hasn’t skipped a beat with his consistently ferocious and always uncompromising percussive attack. So, the question remains. Where is Kevin and when is he coming back? Maybe the answer lies in the second verse of Year 3000:

He took me to the future in the flux thing, and I saw everything
Boy bands, and another one and another one...and another one!
And girls there with blonde hair, like in Star Wars, they floated up on the floor.

Well, Kevin. The world is waiting for you to float again. Just like in Star Wars.

Complaining about how many emails you get

I have a theory that the more you complain about emails, the more you freakin’ love it. And by theory I mean stone-cold fact. “Argh, today is nuts. I have like 600 unread emails sitting in my inbox and it’s only 10:30.” Translation: “I am goddamn amazing. I am wanted. I am a big deal. There’s not enough of me to go around. They should clone me so ten of me could each clone me so there would be umm…many many more of me. It would be a me-posse of pure domination. If I had spare time, which I don’t, I’d turn on my webcam and stare into my eyes to try to learn something. I get so many emails I have to check them during meetings and on elevators and toilets. I am sexually irresistible. And my parents were richer than yours.”

Autoflow being removed on gas pumps

It makes you want to do this:

Jim Grey

I want Jim Grey to lie down on my lawn so I can run him over with a dull push mower. Who is more to blame for this world-class abomination in a skinsuit, the man himself or his boss for putting him in front of the camera all these years? Neither. His mother is to blame. She did not provide the necessary love and positive reinforcement required to raise a stable and kind individual. She was a very bad mother. For those who don’t know who Jim Grey is, he's that jackhole who always interviews the losing team after big games like the Superbowl. He’s amazingly astute at squeezing all the sadness he can out of his target. He has evil, wee-beady eyes and a hateful voice. If my computer weren’t running out of juice I’d track down his top five most uncomfortable interviews. Too bad, but shame on you Jim Grey. And shame on you, Jim Grey’s mother.

Jeanette Cazden’s Emails

I’m starting to think Jeanette isn’t shooting me straight. The last thing I want to be is cynical and I’m certainly no private investigator, but my instincts are pointing towards foul play. I'm afraid the poor girl has gotten herself mixed up in some sort of spam consortium. My first clue was from taking a good look at the subject line in one of her emails: Don'TbbeStupiiddToMissTheChanceTooBuuyBestEerectetileDyssfunctionDrruggAttHhalfPricc.
I don’t want to be stupid, I love great deals and I have a friend who suffers from that particular ailment. It wouldn’t be for me. The candy is dandy down there if you catch my drift and I think you do. Needless to say, I wanted to believe in this young go-getter from Bloomington, Illinois or wherever she’s from. Sure, she’s not great with spelling or punctuation, but she had spunk. And sometimes that’s all that matters. But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she’s just a common web grifter looking to turn a quick buck. I don’t think I’m going to give this one a shot. That link she sent will have to go unclicked. As the saying goes, fool me six times…

Seat Heat

There’s not much worse than sitting in a bus seat and feeling the warmth of the stranger before you. It’s not just body heat, it’s booty heat. You can almost taste the heebie-jeebies. It doesn’t matter if the source is a hobo or a real person, it’s a big can of crummy either way. I’d even argue there’s a metaphysical angle to all this. It’s the emanation from all the person’s crushed hopes and dreams and daily frustrations. And who has those more than bus people? Perhaps the worst part is, when you get in really close, it smells like sadness.

Rolling computer bags

You best be going somewhere on a plane if there’s a bag rolling behind you, that’s all I’m saying. Actually, that’s not all I’m saying. I’m a big fan of laziness, but this is taking it too far. Strap that thing on your shoulder and get your ass to that meeting. You have a carefully thought-out and flawlessly executed PowerPoint presentation to walk people through. This is the Mt. Everest of laziness. If laziness were a no-nonsense, chain-smoking xenobotanist with a heart of gold, rolling computer bags would be Dr. Grace Augustine. If laziness were quintessential jazz recordings, they would be A Love Supreme by John Coltrane. If laziness were gratuitous jazz references, they would be that last sentence. If laziness were amazing analogists, rolling computer bags would be me. Just because you have hot legs and know a magic pathway into the sea of love is no excuse. Stop being a douche-bag. Wait, that’s it. The rolling computer bag is literally a douche-bag. Perfect. Pass it on.

Native American views on picture taking

Selfish, selfish, selfish. They are a beautiful people. But very selfish. I have a special spot in my loft that’s screaming for a little Navajo mojo. Do you know how much chicks would eat that up? Not to mention the nook in my bathroom that's in desperate need of a 10x10 black and white of someone deep, brooding and in touch with the natural world. There’s something about an intense stare the really helps me rock out a deuce. It’s about focusing and letting go at the same time. That, and respect. It’s mostly about respect. And bran muffins. It’s about focusing, letting go, respect and bran muffins. Listen, photos don’t steal your soul just like dream catchers don’t catch your dreams. I found that out long ago when I dreamed of getting adopted by a decent family. Looks like that one slipped through the net, hey? Well who needs you, Native Americans? Not me. Who just got a 2003 Mazda 6 all by himself? I did. That's right. I don’t need anyone. All I really need right now is a moment to collect myself.

"It's all good"

Because it's not. Incest, tsunamis, Pearl Jam’s new stuff, warts, prune juice. That’s a quick hit of five not all good things right there. I’d buy it more if the expression were "It’s All Bad," but that’s not half-full thinking which isn’t my style. It’s an especially bitter pill to swallow when anyone over 40 uses it. “Do you have a Malbec? No? It’s all good, I’ll just have the Cab…” I will fight you, bro. The exception here would be if your weed dealer says it after you tell her you only have $43. Then it’s kinda nice. Yeah, my weed dealer is a lady. Don’t assume anything in this life. I’m all for trying to stay relevant, but this expression is not the answer. Toss on a seersucker suit and walk around saying stuff like, “now that’s the gravy boat.” Keep the kids guessing. They’re dumb. They’ll eat it up.

Hipster Smediums

When did they decide to make large t-shirts fit like wet suits? Nothing’s ever right with these things. That innocent PBR pooch ceases to be your little secret and the sleeves generate an instant, horrifying pit swamp. You have to basically stop wearing nipple rings. Not only that, the designs are always huge and stupid and ironically off-center. The whole scenario is starting to cramp my strict policy of not working out. So, in the spirit of brotherhood, I’ve created this conversion chart. S = Toy Dogs. M = Newborns. L = Kindergartners. XL = Crackheads. XXL = Normal folks. XXXL = Slightly chubby. XXXXL = Small football players.

Telling me about your favorite architect

99% of time someone refers to their favorite architect they’re talking about the one architect they know about. And they’ve only known about this person for two days. This always leads to some other blowbag bringing up that socialist Ayn Rand. From there, the monsoon of bullshit flows so hard you have to hotfoot it over to a monster truck rally just to recalibrate. We all want to know more about architecture. It’s the crown jewel of party conversation, but get over it. You’ve got passwords, Angry Birds, phone numbers, account numbers and Hermione’s rapidly developing body to think about. It’s okay. You’re smart. Really. You are. By the way, my favorite architect is Jean Nouvel. His unconventional buildings suggest the flamboyance of a painter. He takes cues from the environment with a particular emphasis on light and shadow. To me, his works demonstrates persistence, imagination, exuberance, and above all, an insatiable urge for creative experimentation.