Sunday, April 24, 2011

Look Very Closely...

Shut Up and Be Glad This is Not Your Family

You're Welcome

Well, This is Awkward...

It seems I have successfully filled my word quota... So please enjoy this series of entertaining photos culled from the vast expanses of the internet especially for you.


A Day in the Life

3:57 am-  shaken from slumber by sound of tiny paws frantically scratching (the term “scratching” is used loosely here, as the aforementioned tiny paws have been declawed. The sound more closely resembles that which would be generated by someone who is stranded on a desert island with only a pair of maracas and a desperate need to flag down a plane passing overhead)

4:02 am- as per usual, feigning ignorance did no good whatsoever and the cat is not giving up. Stumble lethargically to the door, open it just a crack, and whisper, very sternly and forcefully, “You are the most annoying cat in the whole world. GO.  AWAY.” Hover imposingly over the unfazed cat, who does somersaults and meows as loudly as tiny vocal chords will allow.

4:04 am- retreat back to bed and go back to sleep, trying to ignore cat sitting creepily at the foot of the bed and staring at me.

5:30 am- first alarm of the day sounds. I have set it early with the earnest intentions of getting up and straightening my hair. However, I once again talk myself out of the extra effort, citing excuses such as, “Today’s a half day. Not worth it.” And “It’s supposed to rain today, anyway.”Check to see if cat is still sitting there (she is) and roll over, returning to sleep.

6:20 am- having somehow managed to ignore both of the alarms I had set for between 5:30 and now, I am jolted awake by the sound of Kyle’s alarm in the adjacent room. This is when I absolutely NEED to get up, and I am often thrown into a state of panic by this sound. Sprinting to bathroom soon commences.

6:35 am- shower completed right on time; panic has subsided. I open the door to find the cat, as I do daily, sitting immediately outside the bathroom door, continuing to stare at me. She appears to accept her name- Shadow- as more of an occupation than a mere name. An occupation she takes very seriously, as she will demonstrate to me by being irritatingly omnipresent for the rest of the morning.

7:10 am- my brother and I are technically “supposed” to leave for school in ten minutes. However, this has not been executed successfully since the first day of school. Even so, I feel a great sense of urgency every morning when the clock approaches 7:20. This is what causes me to come flying down the stairs and into the kitchen to drag the dog outside for a walk (the only exercise our dog gets is two walks, roughly ten minutes in length, per day. This is seen as highly disgraceful by our retired neighbors the Grays, who walk their dog at least six times a day)

7:25- still outside with the dog, who has failed to “do her business” as of yet. I am beyond Panic and have crossed definitively over into Fury. I stomp angrily through the neighborhood, hissing a steady stream of expletives at the eight-pound dog happily waddling along beside me. Worried that my neighbors might think I am an animal abuser, I occasionally stoop to pick up the dog and give her a brief, halfhearted hug.

7:35 am- burst dramatically through the front door and begin to gather all of the things necessary for school that I have yet again failed to pack up the night before. As this takes place, my brother stands in the center of the kitchen armed with skeptically raised eyebrows and an impatiently tapping foot.

7:40 am- board Thugmuffin (our ’97 Honda Civic who we believe secretly hates us) and head off for school. We may only begin driving after Brother spends an incredibly frustrating amount of time sifting through his assorted pretentious indie CDs in order to make the three-minute drive as enjoyable as possible. When I suggest he consider labeling his CDs in order to make them identifiable without first having to play them, he shrugs and makes a pretentious grunting noise. I hate him.

7:43 am- arrive in school parking lot, where, contrary to the desperate fear Brother has expressed regarding the limited number of parking space, there is, in fact,  absolutely no shortage of places to park. Whatever.

7:44 am- our friend Dakota pulls up. He and Kyle think it’s cute to pretend to hate me. I think it’s annoying that they think it’s cute.

7:47 am- have dejectedly resorted to walking by myself. Being an exceptionally slow walker (average pace, tiny steps), I have trouble keeping up with Kyle and Dakota’s gargantuan steps. I attempt for a short while to keep up by speed-walking behind them and occasionally yelping out, “Wait! Hey, wait for me!”, but eventually fall victim to a great wave of self-consciousness and an overwhelming desire to avoid looking foolish. I slow down and try to look like I am only walking at this glacial pace because I am so absorbed in texting all 4,000 of my cool friends.

7:50 am- arrive in the band hall. Glare at Kyle and Dakota. I am menacing.

First hour (Band)- I don’t want to talk about it,

Second hour (AP Lang)- the sternest admonition we ever receive in this class is an arched brow and an exasperated utterance of the word “children”. It’sSoMuchFun.

Third Hour (AP US)- as my older brother, who took this class with the same teacher in his high school days, describes: “He [the teacher] does a stand-up routine loosely related to the subject matter, then gives you a worksheet.” It’sSlightlyLessFunThanAPLangButStillFunNonetheless.

Lunch- I return to the band hall with my lunch and experience the daily pang of shock when I see Brother’s backpack is there, but the owner is nowhere in sight. Despite the fact that he has never once been there when I’ve returned with my lunch, I still insist on looking wildly around the room and wailing, “Where’s my brother?!”, a question that is no longer dignified with a response. I choose my seat based on the content of the conversations different groups of people are having. Nine times out of ten, I will go with the group that is A) gossiping, B) making fun of someone, or C) both. Brother will eventually arrive with his lunch, occasionally armed with two lunches, in fact, and I will hastily push backpacks and trays out of the way to make room for him. I will pitifully squeak, “Hi, Kyle!” and pat the ground next to me. He will ignore me completely and I will watch, horrified, as he walks right past me and plops down next to someone who is NOT his twin. I will pout for approximately ten seconds, then grudgingly get up and shuffle over to sit with him. I was not aware that this was a daily occurrence until it was pointed out to me last week by Lunch Buddy Brian, though his version was rather abbreviated: “You save a seat for him but then he doesn’t love you and you freak out.” Indeed, Brian. Indeed.

Fourth Hour (Chem)- Our student teacher is from a town called Big Ugly. This makes it hard for 
me to take her seriously. This is class is also incredibly boring. This makes it hard for me to take it seriously. In lieu of listening/learning, I draw pictures featuring my name written in a decorative fashion. I must have an entire notebook full of pictures of my name. I could easily plant said notebook in someone else’s backpack and frame them as my stalker.  Which would be hilarious. It’sNotFun.

Fifth Hour (Alegbra)- I hate this class. Not only is it boring, but Brother is also in this class. Normally this would be cause for delight, but he is significantly better at all that mathematical jazz than I am and loves to gloat. I hate him.

Sixth Hour (Spanish)- SeƱor makes fun of people AND sells candy. SoMuchFun.

2:50pm - It is at this point in the day that I come to the grim realization that my prayers to Mother Nature have not been received yet again, and she has failed to provide rain in order to force tennis practice to be canceled. She is probably too busy pestering Serena Williams about her period. I am what you could call a Circumstantial Tennis Player. I have waivers for first and second term, but in order to avoid gym class for third term, I am required to take a sport. Hence the circumstantial tennis playing. I have technically known how to play tennis since I was eight or nine years old. I should probably be approaching pro level. However, I continue to play at a level in which celebration is called for when I successfully land the ball in the court.

4:30 pm- Tennis practice is over. I try not to look the coaches in the eye.

4:40 pm- If I rush home, I can catch the last half of Tosh.0. It’s like catching the bouquet at a wedding, only less awkward and more important.

5:15 pm- Steve (Dad) is home. Ew. Becky (Mom) doesn’t allow me to call her by her real name (to her face, at least), but Steve has no problem with it. Therefore, I end up referring to them as Mom and Steve, which she hates even more, as it makes them sound like a “Second-Marriage Couple.” I also enjoy switching it up occasionally in favor of Ma and Pa. Becky also dislikes this.

6:00 pm- Becky is home. Now the party can really start.

6:30 pm- Family dinner. Gag me.

7:00 pm- Time to watch TV with Becky. Our favorite shows include Castle (a crime show starring Nathan Fillion, who my father has clearly demonstrated is held in very high regard in geek culture), Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution (faithful viewers since the first season a few years ago, we loved Jamie before  we watched the TED Talk in AP Lang. Posers), the Middle, Modern Family, and the Mentalist. Becky also watched NCIS: Los Angeles, but she claims she doesn’t like it and only watches it because there is nothing else on. This is absolute hogwash.

8:30 pm- Time to start my homework. This is soon followed by grumbling and whining about how much homework I have, then a complete disregard for Becky’s suggestion that I start sooner. I silently denounce her credibility- she doesn’t understand how important After-School TV Time really is.

10:30 pm- I head off to bed with roughly 60% of my homework completed, figuring I’ll do it during lunch or a boring class. I’m a really excellent student.

11:05 pm- Cat’s here.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

If Only

Despite the fact that I author a blog devoted almost entirely to the cause of mocking people, I tend to suppress that sharp edge when trapped in the restricting confines of civil social interactions. In line at the store, walking through the hallways, serving customers at work… I force myself to stand idly by while idiocy occurs in spades all around me. A debilitating, ruthless remark, quip, or comment resides on the edge of my bitter tongue, but I take the high road and simply enjoy a well-deserved bout of smirking and skeptical/incredulous eyebrow movements (“Really?”). This isn’t exactly a conscious decision, but rather a decision made for me by my timidly passive nature, overwhelming fear of confrontation, and a desperate need to be liked by others. If I could only be so bold, I would relentlessly fling shame and embarrassment at those being foolish enough to deserve such; I would be a supervillain with the evilest of evilly evil powers: cutting sarcasm and a complete disregard for the self-esteem of others. However, the thought of being mean to a stranger (what if they’re going through a really rough time? What if their cat just died?) makes me feel a little dead inside, so this supervillain will remain safely, if reluctantly, contained.

Besides, I worry I even lack the capacity, the wit, the quick thinking to be a very effective supervillain. If anything, the comments I would come up with would be subpar at best, as I’ve never been much of an in-the-moment aficionado. I prefer to plan things well in advance, and any unexpected occurrence leaves me more shaken than a Polaroid picture (BOOOOM.) Any impromptu comment would most likely be nervously stammered as I blushed fervently and looked with great interest at the ground (which probably has better comedic timing than myself).
In light of the realization that this supervillain gig won’t quite work out, I’ve made a compromise. I’ve decided all I want is one Moment. One instance in which I can absolutely destroy someone with a single bazinga (Big Bang Theory, anyone?). It will have to be expertly crafted and flawlessly delivered, and I want it to be heard and widely appreciated by everyone in the vicinity.

When I imagine this taking place, it all invariably goes down, for some reason, in the checkout line at CVS. I will be casually checking my phone, perhaps reading the sacred text that is a tweet from Bo Burnham and pretending that he is texting me personally, when I hear it. When I hear what has got to be the stupidest effing thing I have ever heard in all my life. I will freeze for a 1.654 milliseconds- no more, no less- then I will slide my phone into my pocket, square my shoulders, and unleash hell. 

I look up, sporting the coolly disinterested expression finely honed over years of disdain for those around me, make eye contact with the soon-to-be victim, open my mouth and… GHSHAKHFHJSKSKS there it goes. The wittiest thing one could have possibly said in such a situation, and it emanating from the mouth of an awkward pale girl with unfortunately bushy hair. There is silence as all the air is sucked from the room, then released almost as instantaneously as it was taken in, as all who bore witness revel in the moment and laugh their posteriors off at the person who has now officially claimed the title of Dumbest Person at a CVS checkout. I will bask in the warmth of their guffaws, not even minding that the middle-aged man purchasing three six-packs of beer, a box of Honey Buns, and what looks like an industrial-size vat of kitty litter is laughing so messily that he is raining spittle down on the poor Pillow Pets. As the shame and humiliation peaks, contrasting with our jubilant condescension, I will hold a steely gaze, staring straight into the deflated soul of my victim. I raise an eyebrow slightly (the left one- my right eyebrow is codependent and won’t move by itself for love or for money), blink twice, and nonchalantly return my attention to the phone in my pocket. 

As I exit the store, I will graciously and modestly accept the praise of my now reverent fans, swearing I only said aloud what everyone else was thinking (but secretly doubting any of these commoners could be as brilliant as I). I breeze through the automatic doors, as even these portals to the world bow down at my feet, and make my way to my car. I slide into the driver’s seat, start up the engine, and begin to ironically bump some Aaron Carter jamz at full blast through my speakers. I slide sunniest of yellow hipster shades onto my face and stare defiantly at the sun, watching scramble for cover behind the clouds under the raw power of my stare. I back swiftly out of the parking spot, and as I face forward, I find myself face-to-face with my victim, still recovering from the trauma of it all. They are crossing the parking lot, and are now standing directly in the way of my front bumper. I turn my music up even more and watch as they nervously move out of the way, looking pathetic and awkward as they do. I laugh ruefully and, as I make my way out into traffic, I cement the greatest phrase I’ve ever uttered into the creases and corners of my mind.


Well, This is Awkward

Erm... looks like I've filled my 1200-word quota for the week.

So please be amused by this picture of a fat ginger cat.

If not, I can be amused by it enough for all of us.

I want one.


When discussing Twitter, most people describe it as a means of sharing unimportant, boring, and irrelevant details ABOUT ONE’S LIFE. It is disregarded as useless and stupid, catering only to those who have nothing better to do than read the minute details of the lives of their favorite celebrities and/or peers who feel their lives are important enough to share with the entire internet. What these people are forgetting is that Twitter has placed no ban on tweeting things of some intellectual value.  The public nature of Twitter allows users to share the wittiest, sharpest things they can pack into 140 characters instantaneously. This accessibility to that wide variety and high quality of finely honed humor has created a new breed of humor altogether. The following tweets are from a book I just finished reading called Twitter Wit. It is a compilation of “the most memorable and hilarious tweets to date” and it makes me wish I could be half as funny as these people.

London City airport. Where form meets function. AND THEY HAVE A FIGHT.

I get the impression that the Fat Acceptance movement is more about acceptance than it is movement.

I fell victim to a Fonzie scheme. My financial advisor kept flashing me the thumbs-up and saying “Aaaaay!” And calling me Richie.

“Did you just fart?” “Well, I didn’t *just* fart; there was pageantry and tradition.”

Dear McDonald’s: I don’t care *who* sings it, there is no such thing as “that McNuggets lovin’.” Ew ew ew ew ew.

The face-painting at the birthday party this morning was subpar. One girl asked for Tiger and got Surprised Basketball instead.

Uggs: the onomatopoeia of footwear.

Apparently “You don’t have an interview somewhere else, do you?” is the new “You look nice today.”

The three worst mistakes you can make are overpromising and underdelivering.

What’s the difference between Gary Busey and fruitcake? Fruitcake doesn’t always have rum in it.

Heading on Amtrak from Seattle to Portland. I’m looking forward to revealing to everyone soon that they are on a sing-along train.

Why aren’t martini glasses shaped so that they don’t spill so easily on the bus?

Worst-case scenario, Roomba edition: dog poo on the floor. ‘Nuf said. :-(

Swallowed a fly earlier. I know I can get it out. If only I could remember what comes after goat.

Having a tribal tattoo is like having a wallet chain that you are never, ever allowed to take off.

Family will be here in two hours. There are not nearly enough spaces to hide things in this apartment. It’s like I’m playing Shame Tetris.

Fact: every time Barbara Walters makes someone cry with her first question, she gets an extra life.

I keep a record of EVERYTHING  coworkers tell me. If I had a nickel for every time they told me to stop doing thing, I’d have exactly $12.45.

This week is so slow whoever plays it in a movie will win an Oscar.

I really wish customs agents would stop trying to punk me.
@aplusk (Ashton Kutcher)

One day, will our children turn to us and ask, “Mommy and Daddy, why was all of your hip-hop performed by braggy robots?”

I don’t believe in holidays that Google doesn’t change its logo for.

The guy who invented those small touch screens on planes will experience hell as being poked in the back of the head repeatedly by pixies.

Cranked the treadmill up to MAX for 15 minutes. When I finally took a break my roller skates were hot to the touch.

Hail making scratching sounds on the windows. I told the kids snowmen were trying to get into the house. Sleep tight, kids.

My personality test results came back. They’re negative.

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, his name is my name, too. Whenever I go out, the people always shout, “Hey… guy.”

Just explained Twitter to my friend Bill. I don’t think I did it right, as he’s excited to sign up.