Monday, August 30, 2010

Damage Control: a How to Guide

As a man being digested by a death-spiral of alcoholism and poor life choices, I’ve woken up to some bizarre circumstances, often with little to no memory of how I arrived at them. And they’re not always pleasant- for every time I’ve awoken to find a prepaid masseuse or a certificate naming me a justice of the peace, there have been several where I’ve discovered myself a Jehovah witness or my dick firmly lodged in a magic 8 ball.

Years of dealing with these bizarre situations have made me something of an expert. Do you know how to get a kidnapped rabbi out of your home without him telling on you to his vengeful Jew-god? I do. And now I’m here to help. Here are a few of the most common hangover companions I’ve had to deal with, and not only will I tell you solutions to them, I’m going to teach you how to turn them to your advantage.

Number One: Orphans.

Whenever I go out people always say to me “Dan, I got really drunk last night and adopted 3 orphaned children in an ill advised attempt to impress women. What should I do?”After I finish wondering how these people keep finding me, I always tell them the same thing: the problem isn’t that you have too many orphans, it’s that you don’t have enough. If anything, you should march back to that orphanage and adopt seven more of the little buggers. Try to get British ones if you can- they are the Cadillac of forsaken children.

For each orphan you own, the government pays you a hundred dollars a week- they’re like little walking piggy banks (only not really. Do not turn your orphan upside down and try to shake money out of his back. That is largely frowned upon.) The only obstacle in your way is that orphans require food, clothing, and love- a common misconception that brings down most orphan owners. Your orphans can be clothed with little more than an old t- shirt and a plastic bag (not the see through kind- you don’t want to get arrested), and require shockingly small amounts of love. Their monthly affection minimum can be achieved by a bi-weekly march through the stuffed animal section of a Toys R Us. And did you know that the average orphan can go weeks-if not months-without food? You probably didn’t because I made that up, but it sounds true, right? Just tell them that- maybe the placebo effect works on starvation.

When it does eventually come time to feed your orphans, you can help them build character by making them work for it. If Oliver Twist taught us anything, it’s that orphan’s make adorable little pickpockets. They can be trained to steal anything: money, jewelry, food, and if they get caught, a pair of dead parents makes an excellent get out of jail free card. And when your little child slaves finish earning their keep and you’ve properly skimmed off the top, they have yet another practical application: warfare!

The average orphan is a treasure trove of unexploited combat potential. Their tiny stature makes them ideal for infiltration and quick maneuvering, and the average orphan hand is one of mankind’s most underused weapons. Their long, unkempt, disease riddled finger nails are ideal for gouging an enemies eyes out, and years of desperately seeking parental approval and fearing nuns has given them a vicious pack mentality. When orphans attack in numbers, there’s nary a foe they can’t topple. With just a megaphone, some light military training, and the attitude of an oppressive totalitarian dictatorship, you can shape your adopted family into a tiny strike force to be reckoned with, then turn them against your enemies.

I myself have an entire regiment off tiny assassins stored in my basement for the sole purpose of defeating my next door neighbor Gary Sanderson, who’s apparently doing sooooo great at law school- well you know who else is doing great Gary? ME, BECAUSE I’M NOT HAVING MY EYES GOUGED OUT BY LITTLE ORPHAN CLAWS! MAYBE YOU CAN USE THAT LAW DEGREE TO SUE ME- OH WAIT, YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU’RE BLIND AND YOUR DEGREE’S IN COPYRIGHT LAW! MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE FILED A PATENT ON NOT BEING A DISFIGURED FREAK!

And remember, when you’re done with your orphan, recycle them properly- the planet is all of our responsibility.

Number two: Dead Body

Death happens. It’s one of the little poetries of the universe that one of life’s most important moments in when life has ceased to exist, and it’s something that everybody has to deal with in their own way. In just so happens that you have to deal with it immediately, because death is lying face down in your living room in a pool of what you pray to god is just vomit.

The first step is to calm down and evaluate your new post mortality companion (aka rotting meat friend). Is this a family member? A colleague or lover? A hooker? It’s a hooker, isn’t it? It totally is.

That’s okay; I’m not going to judge. The modern hookin’ industry simply does not build streetwalkers like they used to, and as a result, today’s call girl is rather lacking in terms of durability. All it takes is a single strike to the head or the most meager of O.D.s for you to find yourself the evening companion of particularly poorly dressed corpse.

Okay, gameplan- have you ever seen Weekend at Bernies? Yeah, that doesn’t work. Turns out people are really good at spotting dead bodies even if you put on sunglasses. Conventional knowledge would suggest chopping them up or dissolving them in acid, but those things are difficult and expensive. Something as simple as a dead body shouldn’t mean you have to be uncomfortable.

Okay, how do you feel about cannibal- no? You sure? I mean, that would be a good way to save on grocery bills- jesus, fine, I’ll drop it! You’re not making this easy though. Alright, I guess if you’re not willing to get down off you’re “I don’t eat people” pedestal, there are other ways to do this.

Do you hate your neighbors? Of course you do: neighbors suck. Constantly investigating, “smells”, and “odors”, and “horrible, gut wrenching stenches, the likes of which still rouse me from my bed in a cold sweat begging for mercy”. Fuck them. Maybe if they hadn’t created such an atmosphere of suspicion and hostility, Saphire or Crystale or whatever your hooker was named would still be alive! This is as much their dead hooker as it is yours!(Don’t actually think about this, just get pissed off).

In fact, why isn’t this dead body in their apartment? I can’t think of a good reason, and assuming you’re trying as little as I am, neither can you! Lets correct that.

When transporting your dead body, respect is key. This isn’t just any dead body- this is whats her face: a proud, Puerto Rican-ish lady of the night! Use only the absolute finest of burlap sacks in transporting her. While your planting the body, get creative. Smear some of her blood, vomit and inevitable feces around the cellar you dump her in. Don’t just smear a pentagram or write “murder” in big garish letters; you want the people finding this body to believe one of their loved ones is a horrific serial killer- subtlety is the key here. Maybe write a poem in bodily fluids, or arrange the body like it’s in the middle of a romantic dinner. Really, y’know, sell it. Hell, with enough time and hookers, you might even be able to convince them the house is haunted.

Number Three: Japanese man in the fridge

I honestly don’t know how this keeps happening. Maybe it’s some weird drunken misfire between being hungry for Chinese food and missing my grandfather, but for whatever reason, I keep waking up to an elderly Japanese man stuffed in between the milk and my crisper. I can only naturally assume that this is a common occurrence for everyone else as well.

Now, while the Japanese are a very patient, polite people, that inherent kindness has a statue of limitations, and there’s a fairly strong chance that they’ll have a pair of nun chucks on them. Therefore, it’s your first duty to calm this man down and explain to him what exactly is going on in a manner that he can clearly understand- tell him he’s on a game show.

The Japanese love game shows, almost as they love sushi, overpopulation, and hypothetical pedophilia: to the point of being kinda scary. And the terms of these contests are so bizarre and without logic that literally any scenario you could possibly dream up would be not only be readily accepted, but considered fairly dull. The typical Japanese primetime show involves self mutilation, graphic nudity, at least 2 comodo dragons, and will go on for anywhere between 3 hours and 6 days.

Now that your wrinkled far eastern friend believes he’s on camera and is properly afraid of dishonoring his ancestors, you can get him do to anything you want as long as you tell him it could win him 10,000 yen in the lightning round (10,000 yen figures out to something around 20 bucks, so you should be fine). Want him to clean your apartment? Not only will he do it, he’ll do so pretending he’s a school bus. He will drive you to work while singing the entire plot of the 1986 action movie Face Off. He will hold up a liquor store for you while dressed as both Sonny and Cher simultaneously. He’ll even cook you a delicious plate of Lo-mien using only noodles, sesame oil, and your dickweed neighbors missing cat; all you have to do is hold up a stop watch and scream gibberish at him.

Number Four: New Jersey

Listen, I’m not a miracle worker. If you wake up in New Jersey, you’re most likely already dead or insane. If you do keep yourself intact long enough to get your bearings, the rules to survive are the same as those for a zombie apocalypse: avoid major population centers, stay off the main roads, be constantly wary of those around you, and run until you don’t smell rotting flesh anymore. God help you.

Monday, August 23, 2010


In my youth, I was trained in the martial arts. Through karate, my tiny doughy body was transformed into an engine of angsty destruction, and my ADD riddled mind was honed into a harmonious aura of calm and understanding (that was riddled with ADD). Or at least it would have been, had I gone to a real karate instructor. Sadly, I went to what’s known as a “Mcdojo”, or more accurately known as “a studio run by a fucking white guy”. So while all my friends were dodging ninja stars, doing bicycle kicks and beating the shit out of Ralph Machio, I was learning how to punch and block. A lot. In various orders and patterns. For 5 goddamn years.

At the time, I thought I was a living weapon; in retrospect, I could have gotten my ass kicked by a dead cat. In fact, there’s only one scenario in which my training would have been even remotely useful:

Bully #1: Alright, today’s the day we attack that kid.

Bully #2: Awesome. I can’t wait to punch the crap out of that kids face.

Bully #1: I know! There’s only one problem- I am horrifically ill. A combination of asthma and muscular dystrophy has ravaged my young body. If this boy resists our attacks with so much as a single well choreographed punch, I would shatter me.

Bully #2: That is horrific timing, because I just came down with polio. I can’t manage anything but the slowest of movements.

Bully #1: Luckily, I don’t expect this guy to fight back at all. Not even a little. And even if he does, I’ve convinced four other bullies to help us.

Other Bullies: Hey.

Bully #2: That is awesome! And they’re all strong, right?

Bully #1: Not really. Three of them have fetal alcohol syndrome; it’s as if their bodies were comprised of pipe cleaners and Elmers glue. The fourth is okay, but he has a crippling phobia of people who go “Yaaa” when they punch. And two of them have OCD, so they insist me mount our attack in a single file fashion, only assaulting him one at a time. They were very insistent on that.

Bully #2: That sound pretty horrible, but I’m nonetheless optimistic! What’s our strategy?

Bully #1: first, we attack from the front, then stop within arm’s length, and take the proper amount of time to get our fists ready to punch him. If he survives that, then you approach him from the left and grab him by the wrists.

Bully #2: but what if he’s able to turn left? And then break my hold with some sort of mystical spinning of the arm?

Bully #1: Impossible! No man can turn left and escape the grabbing of the wrist! It’s been proven by science! And even if he does, he’ll never expect me to attack from his right!

Bully #2: (Gasps) My god, you’re like a tiny Napoleon wrapped in a Digimon t-shirt!

Bully #1: And even if he does manage to foresee my attack and discover my secret weak spot-

Bully #2: -You mean your entire torso?

Bully #1: -Yes, my weak, gnarled torso- then I’ve brought this to shield myself with: a sheet of balsa wood!

Bully #2: Brilliant! Let us begin our attack! (Begins walking) But what if he has learned some sort of martial art that allows him to punch through your balsa wood?

Bully #1: then god help us all.

Other Bullies: why are we doing this again?

Bully #1: I’m not sure. I think it’s that stupid “Gi” he always wears. I fucking hate that thing.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Taking a moral inventory

Jim: Hey Bill?

Bill: Yeah? What’s up?

Jim: Well, we’ve all been talking and we’ve kinda come to the conclusion that-

Karen: We think you’re a bad person Bill.

Bill: Oh……. Is this because I’m producing a Porno about Dr. Martin Luther King?

Off in the distance: -And I say that you will not discriminate on it, not based on its size or its girth, or even its color…….. for it will rock your world just the same!

Jim: That…. May have been a factor.

Martin Luther Fking: Yes, I have a dream- a dream about busting all over those-

Bill: Okay, you guys may have a point.