Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Conversations between Me and my Brain

It’s fairly common for a person to have an inner monologue- that mental voice through which we come about our decisions and form coherent, reasonable thought. I have one of those, and it thinks I’m a fucking idiot.


Me: Hey John?

John: Yeah?

Me: You’re taking care of your niece this weekend, right?

John: Yeah , Suzy- I got to watch her while her mom’s in Vegas; Little brat driving me nuts. Why?

Me: Well, I was thinking maybe I could take care of her for you for a little while- I’m good with kids. I could give you a break.

John: [holding out Suzy] Oh man, that would be aweso- wait. You’re an asshole.

Me: Ok, that’s kinda mean. I mean, here I am offering to take care of this kid for you and-

John: No I mean you never do shit like this. Why are you offering to take care of Suzy for me?

My Brain: Ok, you got this- just lie.

Me: I’m thirty feet tall and I don’t get an erection from the movie Shrek.

John: What?

My Brain: No, god dammit; lie about the kid. Just look him in the eye, and whatever you do, don’t say the words “Baby Cannon”.

Me: I am….

My Brain: Good, keep going.

Me: Building ….

My Brain: Wait, no, stop!

Me: a…..

My Brain: Don’t you say baby cannon, you son of a bitch. We’ve worked too hard for you to fuck this up now!

Me: Baby…

My Brain: Don’t you dare.

Me: Catapult.

My: Great. Good job; no, really, that was an awesome save.

John: [pulls Suzy away] No. and you’re not allowed near our house anymore.

Me: Dammit!

My Brain: alright, be cool. You can talk your way out of this. Now, you’ve called this guy black, and to the best of your knowledge he is black, but for some reason he seems pissed about it. It’s okay. Just, say something to calm him down.

Me: I really like Morgan Freeman.

Black guy: [cold, unwavering silence]

My Brain: Well that didn’t work.

Me: And I’ve seen “Malcolm X” like, 30 times.

My Brain: is it not okay for white people to say “Black” anymore? I thought that was okay now. Are we supposed to say African American again? I thought that was only old people who had to say that. Maybe its colored- that could be it.

Me: I don’t think colored is okay. I’m pretty sure that’s horribly offensive still.

Black guy: The fuck did you just say?

My Brain: oh shit, did you say that out loud? Fuck, you have to do something. Quick compliment him- shit, he looks like he’s about to hit you. He’s flexing and everything. Oh man, he looks strong; he probably lifts, like, two hundred pounds at a time. You could compliment him on that! Or his clothes- that a really nice shirt! What is that, cotton? Do they still make cotton shirts, or did that end in colonial times? Wait, are you still not talking? Fucking say something man!

Me: You….. look like…. You could lift…. A lot of.. cotton... back in colonial times.

Black guy: [The same silence, only now with a little more “murder” in it]


My Brain: Oh my god, he’s going to kill you.

Me: I uh, really like your tattoo. Did you get it in prison?

My Brain: alright, I’m leaving before the concussion. When he hits you, try to go fetal.

Me: Okay thanks.

[I am thoroughly beaten]

My Brain: alright, Dan?

Me: yeah?

My Brain: I want you to stop for a second- can you do that? Just, put down the lighter.

Me: Okay. What’s up?

My Brain: What the hell are you doing?

Me: I’m, uh….

My Brain: Here, I’ll give you a hint; you’re in roller skates, standing at the top of a slide. At the bottom of that slide is a plastic ramp that your mom gave you when you were 9 and she thought you were going to learn how to skateboard or do something else cool like that, and after that is an old slip and slide that you’ve somehow transformed into a crude loop-de-loop. After that is what looks like a couch covered in tanks of gasoline. You’re holding a lighter, and you’ve doused yourself with lighter fluid. Is this ringing any bells Dan?

Me: um, yeah. Yeah, it is.

My Brain: Alright, good. Next question; what the fuck are you trying to accomplish?

Me: I’m pretty sure I’m doing this to impress women.

My Brain: okay, that kind of makes sense, in a retarded sort of way. Only problem is that there aren’t any women here. This is an elementary school playground.

Me: I was kinda hoping that some would see from the road or something. Do you think some of the elementary school girls will be impressed?

My Brain: Maybe, but that’s really not anything you can work with without going to prison. You realize you’re about to die in, like, 40 different ways, right?

Me: I think I’ll be okay.

My Brain: You don’t even know how to roller skate, and as far as I know, you’re not flame retardant, although that honestly wouldn’t surprise me with the amount of asbestos you eat.

Me: I stopped paying attention half way through that sentence and started thinking about Crepes'.

My Brain: Of course you did.

Me: We should-

My Brain: Shut up,we're not getting fucking crepes' after this. Why aren’t you afraid right now?

Me: Huh?

My Brain: you know, Fear; that bad feeling that’s kept you from accomplishing anything with your life or getting within 500 feet of a midget.

Me: oh that. I huffed a lot of paint before doing this.

My Brain: I figured. But I need you to pay extra special attention. Okay?

Me: Whatever.

My Brain: now, I’m not going to lie; I’ve tried to kill you a few times in the past. I thought it was the noble thing to do, seeing as I’m pretty sure you’re going to be responsible for the end of the world.

Me: of course.

My Brain: But that was before we discovered deep fried Twinkies. Now I have reason to live. I’d let you do this, shit I’d record you doing this, but were both in here. So I need you to take off the roller skates, and slowly back away from the slide.

Me: yeah, I’m not doing that. I don’t want to look like a pussy.

My Brain: In front of who? There’s no one here!
Me: Too late.

I then promptly descend my flaming one man roller coaster. I miraculously survive, but in the process set a large group of orphans on fire. Technically, no one is harmed because orphans aren’t real people.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

On getting Women

Fact: Vaginas are awesome. Also Fact: the best place to get contact with a vagina is on a woman (vaginas can also be found on cats, blow up dolls, and some men. Unfortunately, these vaginas are vastly inferior in quality.) Therefore, you must convince a woman to let you fuck her. But how is this done? Women are repulsed by your pot belly and that thing growing on your neck; how can you motivate them to take their pants off in front of you?
Fear not; your libido will soon be satisfied. It’s simply a matter of knowing the things that get a woman’s motor running (by motor I mean lady parts. Don’t worry, women don’t have engines- at least not yet).
#1: puppies.
Puppies are annoying, hyperactive little sacks of drool, piss and shit; but for some reason women go completely ape shit for them. They’re drawn to the little bastards, as if they’re some sort of uterus tractor beams. Getting yourself a cute, soft, little puppy is the first step on doing yourself a horizontal ho-down. Most people would tell you to buy a puppy from a pet store; however, as with apples, puppies are better fresh picked. Go to the park, and begin your harvest. Just find a small child walking their pet; the more they seem to love it, the better. Simply walk up, push the kid down, and take the puppy. The kid may cry, but it’s ok. I’m fairly certain children don’t have souls. Begin walking around with the little fur ball; women will be drawn to you like homeless men to a passed out teenage girl. Women love puppies, almost as much as they love:
#2: tragedy.
Have you ever been to a ski resort (skiing is for pussies, but the resorts have orgasmic bars) and seen a bunch of hot women fawning over the ugly guy in the full body cast from a horrible bobsled accident? Do you know why that happens? Because nothing tugs at the old thong-strings like tragedy.
Women love misfortune. Nothing fulfills that motherly, nurturing instinct better than fucking some guy who just got evicted.
And so, you must become tragic. Not in the way you’re already tragic (you’re a raging alcoholic, you’re unemployable, and you cry whenever sober), but in a cool way that’s not your fault. A broken or dismembered limb always works, but that would require you to suffer bodily harm.
This is where the puppy comes in handy yet again.
I’m not going to lie: breaking puppy’s legs is hard. The little fucker will struggle like you wouldn’t believe, and people keep intervening and calling you a monster. Luckily he’ll give up after the second leg, and people lose interest faster than you’d think.
If you’re worrying about a woman seeing you shattering the little pup, don’t. it would only benefit you, cementing you image as…
#3: a bad boy.
This is probably the one time that your stint in prison is going to actually benefit you. See, the only thing women love more than tragedy is danger. They’re drawn to dangerous men, lusting after that leather clad, tattoo covered motorcyclist who’ll steal their wallet and knife their parents. This is because of movies like “grease”, which promises that all rebels have a heart made of solid gold, as opposed to the much more likely heart made of solid rape.
There are many ways to capitalize on this, the best being to get a motorcycle. If you can’t afford that (you can’t) then there are several other options. The easiest is to get a tattoo. The tattoo should be something dangerous, really dangerous, and it should be in a place where people should see it at all times. I would recommend getting either a tattoo of Hitler’s face on your face or the aids virus on your torso. That’ll get the message across. Another great way is arson. Nothing’s more dangerous than arson. Just start setting things on fire (warning: do not set the puppy on fire! Despite how badass and tragic a flaming puppy might seem, it is a decided turn off for women.)
By now you’re pretty damn attractive. Theirs only one thing more that you can add to the equation:
#4: cheesecake.
Women fucking love cheesecake; more than Barbra Streisand and Sex and the City marathons combined. So, the best way to attract them is to hand it out. Be careful though; handing out baked goods will undermine you bad boy image (also your broken puppy makes walking around kinda hard). The solution is simple: throw the cheesecake at them, preferable while screaming badass things.
Let’s say, however, that against all odds, the women aren’t drawn to your heavily tattooed guy with a puppy that has broken legs that regularly sets things on fire and throws cheesecake while screaming profanity routine. This is a strong possibility; after all, you are a registered sex offender.
Luckily, I have a plan B:
Get a friend (preferably one you don't really want to keep). By putting your hands together in just the right way, you can make yourself an artificial vagina.
Now, fuck it. Really just go to town. Its going to require a little more flexibility than most sex, but on the plus side you don't have to wear a condom. Just be careful not to get it pregnant.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

On getting pulled over

It’s the same every time: you’re driving a conservative 95 mph, washing down your mid morning drink with some Doritos and a Bloody Mary. Suddenly the pigs are upon you, sounding their war trumpets and jamming the cruiser halfway up your ass. Now, it’s a given that you have weed in your car; to think otherwise is ridiculous. What you really should be worried about is the shrooms, acid, and pcp that will inevitably be littering your vehicle in the event that you’ve recently gotten a paycheck. If they find that shit, you’ll be straight executed, no trial, no jury, no mercy. The cop will feed you a bullet, right there on the spot; that’s goddamn regulation.
And so, your task is three pronged: first, escape the encounter without your drugs being discovered. Second, avoid getting a speeding ticket. And of course, you want to impress any women who may be watching.
Now, your instincts will tell you to slow down and pull over. This is psychotic, and will result in the pig tap dancing on your colon. By pulling over, you’re submitting to the cops’ authority, acknowledging his power over you. Imagine if a deer walked up to a bear, lay down and began to cover itself in zesty barbecue sauce; that is essentially what it is to pull over. As soon as you throw on your right blinker, the bastards’ mouth will begin to water and his pants will tighten.
Typical logical progression, then, would suggest that the correct move is to speed up and give chase. While the valiance is impressive, and would certainly moisten the loins of any passerby, it’s essentially suicide. For starters, you’ve probably got a fairly powerful buzz going (if you’re not smashed out of your head on paint thinner and mouth wash), and you have to consider what territory you’re in. If the cop is attempting a takedown, that means you’re on his turf. He wouldn’t be fucking with anyone if he was in the territory of the spics or the black panthers or even the hippies; the fascists know the score.
You’re in cop territory. That means roadblocks. That means snipers. That means choppers. That means a cavalry of roided up, crew cut wearing fascists, armed to the teeth with stinger missiles and assault rifles. If you run, you won’t be caught; you will be eviscerated.
No, you can neither submit nor flee. What you must do, is pull a 180. Spin your car into the left hand lane, a meet your attacker face to face. Center your car on the yellow line, and gun the speed beyond what you’re comfortable driving. Then, increase your speed your by 10 mph. every fiber of your body will urge you to not engage an armed policeman in a game of chicken; it’s at this point you tell every fiber of your body to shut the fuck up. By the time you can see the whites of the cops’ eyes, he’ll be skidding of the road.
You have just pulled over a cop.

But now is not the time to celebrate; now is the time to move in for the kill. Your opponent is stunned and wounded. Strike him down.
You’ll want to pull up behind him. If you can make the siren noise with your mouth, that’s all the better. Now it’s time to prepare for battle. Take the time to grab some of your weed, but don’t begin smoking it just yet. Don’t worry about getting caught. The cop you’re dealing with has just been emasculated at an epic scale; he couldn’t book you with the goddamn national guard backing him up.
Next, think back to your first sexual encounter, careful not to skip on the explicit detail (except when you caught her dad listening at the door. You can probably leave that part out). Also, pop any Viagra you happen to have on your person.
If you time everything right, you should have a lit joint and a raging hard on by the time you reach the pigs’ car door. Motion for him to roll down the window, and ask for his license and registration. After he gives it to you, tell him you’re going to let him off with a warning.
Last but not least, don’t forget to rip off his siren before departing. You can nail it to your door as a warning to cops that you are not to be fucked with.

Imaginary friend rejects

When I was a kid, I had a lot of imaginary friends. Now, one might assume that this was due to the fact that my tendencies towards verbal abuse and random biting made me a bit of an outcast- you’re wrong. It was because I was imaginative as hell.

Anyway, despite my Stephen King-esque level of imagination, a lot of my metaphysical companions were- let’s say inadequate, and had to be scrapped. For every Tyler Durden and Drop Dead Fred, there were a thousand boring, annoying, and sometimes downright dangerous friends who needed to be shown the door. Needless to say, I got into some pretty awkward conversations with myself. I’ve gone through the worst of them, and catalogued them so that future generations of ugly children can learn from my mistakes.

Discarded imaginary friend #1

Name: Tommy the Train.

Time of use: Kindergarten

Reason for termination: constant, forceful, and often inappropriate suggestions.

Me: hey Tommy? I think we need to talk.

Tommy: (in an exceedingly wacky voice) Hey Dan! What are we doing today?

Me: Actually-

Tommy: (hissing) you should murder your parents.

Me: (Silence) That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think I’m going to have to let you go buddy.

Tommy: you’re firing me? But what about all the good times we’ve had together?

Me: Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our fun Tommy, but honestly, you’re starting to freak me out a little man.

Tommy: what? How?

Me: well for starters-

Tommy: rape people.

Me: It’s that! Stop doing that! You keep telling me to do stuff! Weird stuff! Not only it that bossy, but ever time I listen to you I get in trouble and have to frame the retarded kid down the street!

Tommy: what stuff? I don’t tell you to do stuff? I would never tell you to do bad things Dan- I love you!

Me: You’re serious right now? Last week you told me eat a baby’s face. And two days ago you said I should finger bang Mrs. Fisher down the street. I don’t even know what that is, but I’m pretty sure it’s horrible.

Tommy: I-

Me: last Thursday you spent a half hour trying to get me to shit in a cat.

Tommy: so, this is happening. You’re actually throwing me away.

Me: I’m really sorry, but telling me to bring a chainsaw to school was the last straw.

Tommy: can we at least do cocaine one last time before I go?

Me: Yeah sure, why not.

Discarded Imaginary friend #2:

Name: Carl Johnson

Time of use: 2nd grade

Reason for termination: boring

Carl: Dan? You wanted to see me?

Me: Carl, good to see you. Please have a seat.

Carl: this is a bathroom.

Me: I trust you got my memo?

Carl: you mean that crayon drawing of a picture of a green cat throwing up?

Me: It was the Hulk fighting- you know what, that’s beside the point. You’re fired.

Carl: What? On what grounds?

Me: You’re boring Carl. You’re really boring.

Carl: Are you serious. I’m fun! I’m hip!

Me: No you’re not, and nobody under the age of 40 says “hip”.

Carl: what are you talking about? Remember yesterday when we balanced our checkbooks? That was crazy, wasn’t it?

Me: No, that was actually pretty painful. So was that time you taught me “the dangers of tanning”.

Carl: Well I’m sorry for trying to save you from skin cancer.

Me: honestly Carl, you’re lucky to have survived this long. This was pretty much a misfire from the start.

Carl: How?

Me: Well for starters, you were supposed to be black.

Carl: that’s…. that’s racist. You’re a racist.

Me: Yeah…. Get out.

Discarded Imaginary friend #3

Name: Chet Thunderburn

Time of use: 7th grade

Reason for termination: permanent damage to self esteem

Chet: (yawns) morning.

Me: it’s three in the afternoon.

Chet: Really? Man, that party last night was crazy!

Me: you went to a party?

Chet: Oh man, Trevor Mathews threw a sick kegger out in Boston. It was crazy. What did you do last night?

Me: oh you know, played ping pong. Alone. Again.

Chet: (clearly not listening) sounds great. Listen I’d love to hang out some more, but I’m going to the mall with Kayla.

Me: Kayla Moroni?

Chet: Yeah, You know her?

Me: The girl I’ve had a crush on since the third grade? Yeah, I think I’ve heard about her.

Chet: We’re really tight.

Me: You, uh, wanna bring me along?

Chet: Yeah. No.

Me: Great. Listen, this isn’t working out. I think its time we went our different ways.

Chet: OK.

Me: You’re taking this surprisingly well.

Chet: Eh, whatever. Actually I’ve been meaning to tell you: I got a new job as Jenna Keith’s sexual fantasy.

Me: Jenna Keith? The cheerleader?

Chet: Yep. I’m going to help her understand her changing body.

Me: Oh. I’m happy for you.

Chet: yeah, well…. I should probably get going. Peace! (Flies away on motorcycle that is also a gargoyle)

Me: Douche.

Discarded imaginary friend #5:

Name: Alex Trebeck

Time of use: 7th grade

Reason for termination: he was Alex Trebeck

Trebeck: (silence)

Me: (silence)

Trebeck: (Pause) This large water dwelling mammal is-

Me: I immediately regret creating you.