Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Exciting New Amazon.com Services

As many of you know, Amazon has been revolutionizing how we shop. From delivered groceries to drones that drop off packages in 30 minutes.

I sat down with an Amazon rep and asked him about future ventures. I think they will amaze-zon you!

Prime Wipe: This is the cutting edge of full service marketplace. You’ve just used the restroom and you don’t have time to wash your hands or deal with unpredictable toilet paper directions. Prime wipe is for you. You text Amazon and let them know when you plan on using the restroom. Amazon will send you a guaranteed wiping time and a drone will arrive just in time to give you the Executive wipe you demand. Also, there’s Prime Bidet where a drone with a squirt gun will do the job for those of you with discerning tastes.

Prime Spouse: Let’s say you’ve had it with your significant other. You’re tired of their crap and want just one day to yourself - Prime Spouse is for you. Prime Spouse will surrogate for you for however long you need to get the taste of BS out of your mouth. Amazon’s staff of spouses are trained in the areas of 1) agreeing with nonsense, 2) having bad sex, 3) explaining yourself and much, much more.

Prime Wreck Your City: Let’s say you live in a city that has been named “Most Livable” and your taxes are now through the roof. You don’t want to move, but you don’t want to live in Detroit. Prime Wreck Your City will remodel your city to lower your property taxes by a) bottlenecking traffic for 60 miles in all directions, b) taking every last bit of soul out of your city, c) CYCLISTS! CYCLISTS! CYCLISTS!

Prime Dump the Body: We’ve all been there: you’ve murdered someone and now it’s time to dispose of the body. You aren’t in the CIA or the Mafia and you know you’re over your head. Prime will send out a drone to pick up the body and dispose of it in the nearest ocean.

Prime Eat for You: If you’re like me, sometimes you just don’t feel like getting up - even to eat. Prime Eat for You works like this: you select a meal from your phone and we pay a guy to eat it for you. You can have that steak and mash potatoes and never worry about your waistline.

Prime Feather in Your Cap: You've just been promoted. You want to let everyone know, but you don't want to be "that guy". Amazon Feather in Your Cap will send a courier with a feather that says Promotion or Dating Hot Chick or Ate a Five Patty Fat Burger and put it in your hat for all to see.

Prime Stick Your Head in a Fire: You don’t know what you want. You can’t make decisions. You want to do something with your life, but you cower in your shell and hope that someone will make those decisions for you. Well, Amazon can help you. You simply log into Amazon.com and after two hours of random browsing with no discernible executions of purchases - Amazon will send a drone with a small fireplace and physically stick your head in it.

Prime Tell Your Kids the Pet is Dead: You get the idea.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

State of the Union

The State of the Union

By: Tim McGeyverson

Hello, I'm Tim McGeyverson and here's my State of the Union.

First, I just want to start off by saying the Union is fine. Everything is OK with old Tim, so no cause for alarm.

However, the year started off a little on the musty side when I ordered a Big Mac at the local McDonald's and received no special sauce. This was back in February, 2015. I remember thinking "This should have been in my State of the Union address a month ago." But it was too late. But I wrote it down so that I would remember it.

I also remember Nancy Halloway's unfortunate decision to not buy insurance from me in March. At that point, it was looking like a pretty shaky year, but things began to go the McGeyverson way around April when my wife gave birth to our little miracle Ronald McGeyverson. Nothing has brought more happiness to any of the State of the Unions before this happening.

So, at the first quarter of the year it was kindov a mixed bag - no special sauce, no insurance sale, but I got a baby. And not just any baby, this kid is fully functional. It cries and needs to be fed and doesn't always sleep and drives me nuts. So, it's kinda one of those things where at first the State of the Union was all good around April, but then it kinda started going downhill around May when this stupid baby kept crying and stuff. 

I was telling my wife about how the baby was great and then stupid and she didn't understand and then she started crying. So, this was the event for June: my wife crying. She's still probably crying. Everything is about the baby. Around July I started thinking - this baby really, really, really sucks. It reminds me of the State of the Union in 2003 when I got this great job selling insurance, but then later found out that there were quotas and stuff and if I didn't sell insurance I would lose my job. That really grinded my gears. 

But that baby wasn't going to go away. I seemed stuck with it. The only time I got to myself is when I was at work, at the bar, watching the game, gambling, or sleeping with my wife's friend.

Oh! That was a really good part of the State of the Union - my wife's friend. She's about three times more attractive than my wife and she doesn't have a stupid baby. Also, she would loan me money. 

But just like the baby, my wife's friend ended up biting me in the ass when she decided to really be my wife's friend and told my wife about our affair. So, once again something really cool ended up really sucking. Don't get me wrong, like I said the Union is good even now, but there's these ups and downs where my wife's friend or this baby seem great and then make life miserable for me.

On the international side I was sorry to see all the war and stuff and the drugs and the missing children and the poverty and stuff like that, so that's like a little bit of the State of the Union, but not a lot. Not by a long shot. There's still all these other problems that the President doesn't like to talk about. 

Like Bill Pare. Bill is a coworker who thinks he "caught" me looking at a filthy website, when in fact, I had by accidentally typed "big butt fetish plus midgets" in my web browser. Well, Bill decided to tell my boss and they checked the logs on my account and sure enough - Tim McGeyverson gets written up. 

This was in August. So, by the end of the fiscal year I was thinking "The hell with this Union - I'm moving to Canada or Utah or something." But then, another miracle came my way: I won 80 dollars in a Powerball. It wasn't the jackpot, but let's just say Tim got a free steak the next day. But just like always, turns out eating a free steak at a strip club when your wife is sick and the baby has the mumps and you are gone all night turns into yet another problem for old Tim. 

So, it's like by September when I'm thinking "Tim McGeyverson can't win at this life thing." But then I had an outstanding sales month when I figured out that if I write in bogus sales and then go back and say the buyer changed their minds and plus use Gary's password to do all this I end up being salesman of the year. It's the type of thing Tim McGeyverson deserves, what with the crying wife and baby and that special sauce thing still ticking me off.

So, by October I was like top of the world. I still had the stupid baby and wife that would never sleep with me again, but so what? I was salesman of the year. 

November rolled around and there was still war and stuff and the crying baby, but there was also this Thanksgiving fishing trip I had with my buddies for two weeks. I was so glad to get out of the house and just have a little time to myself. And guess what? The crying baby and wife were gone when I got back! I was so stoked. It seemed everything was going my way.

Until December when I realized the wife and the baby were gonna take the house and most of my money and this stupid "investigation" about my using Gary's password to falsify documents started up. Can it really be called an "investigation" if the cops aren't involved? 

That's what I asked. Then the cops got involved. 

So, I spent most of January in jail, I'm jobless now, and homeless and am using a library computer to write this year's State of the Union.

So, President Obama - here's a look at the real America! Take a good look - it's folks like me that cheat on their wife and neglect their children and break into Gary's computer that are getting screwed! Where's the relief for us???? Where's my Obamacare????

But, like I said, the Union is still fine. I'm able to use this library computer to write this and I found a soup kitchen that doesn't kick me out for cutting in line. Plus, that baby and the wife are gone. I mean, you really have to look at the State of the Union with a fresh set of eyes and you'll see that your Union is good. Maybe not as good as that Union of the Snake that Duran Duran had, but it's still OK.

God bless.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

I will bet you twenty bucks that I love to gamble

I will bet you twenty bucks that I love to gamble.

Gambling has been around since dinosaurs walked the Earth. Back then, you only had like three games: Gin Rummy, Texas Hold 'Em, and this REALLY shitty slot machine made out of a tree, some rocks, three cantaloupes and three cherries. 

Gambling slowly evolved with sport and by the time the mammals ruled the Earth, there were the first small casinos. Small rodents would gather in holes and play Pai Gow and Keno - that's how they survived the asteroid blast that killed all their dino-buddies.


"Hit me!" 


"I'll kill you!"


Kenny Rogers makes no secret of his love of gambling, as seen below in the song Lady. I have added some notes:

Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor and I love you - This is about Kenny sidling up to a slot machine. The armor is shiny like gold and yet, it's armor that protects the gold...Kenny's gold.

You have made me what I am and I am yours - This is Kenny basically admitting that he has a gambling problem.

My love, there's so many ways I want to say I love you - Kenny can't explain his love of gambling; he can only gamble - that his how he shows it.

Let me hold you in my arms forever more - This is a play on words, this is Kenny saying he's "holding": he's holding his cards, holding his bet, and holding his love for gambling.

Later, Kenny would write a song called The Gambler about botox.

Gambling has changed its face so many times. When I was a child you could buy lotto tickets or go to Las Vegas. Now, you can go to the reservations or the bar and gamble. Hell, most people gamble at work. I am in 38 different variations on fantasy football even now in the post season. In fact, I'm gambling with my other hand while I write this.

Gambling has taken control of America...and I want to salute our shiny overlord! You truly have me what I am, Gambling, and I AM forever yours.

They say life is a gamble - and they are right. Every day you gamble. Just getting out of bed opens you up to oddsmakers. Chances are you'll live - but would you bet on it? I wouldn't. Look at you.

"God doesn't play dice" - this is a quote typically attributed to Einstein, but it was actually Jesus who said this right before he pulled out a package of dominoes. Point is, even God gambles. All of them. I don't care what religion you are, your God gambles. I should know, I use a lot of drugs. 

I bring you all this information as March Madness slowly approaches. This is the time of year when I get excited about sports. Anyone can win March Madness. You can ask your buddy "What's a Manzel" as I did and still win. That's the sort of absolute lack of sporting knowledge you need to win at March Madness. The reason is there's just so many variables. I once made it to the very end based on picks given to me by a friend's four year old. It's that simple. I don't even know what basketball is; I just know I sucked at it. 

This year, I'm going. Yes. You can go to March Madness. That may seem tricky as the games are in different states and are on at the same time....but it's not. Las Vegas is essentially the closest you can come to "going to March Madness." And I will be there.

My friend who goes every year has tried to talk me out of it as he has deemed me a cooler. A cooler is a person who can ruin any luck within a half inch. They made a movie about it. I think it was called Titanic. Point is - this guy thinks he can talk me out of going to March Madness. Boy is he wrong. Little does he know I have been "cooling" him for decades. In fact, he thought he was impotent from 2005 - 2007, but it was just me hanging outside his house when he was on dates. 

I have already booked my ticket and air and I am going to "go mad". Going mad is when you gamble degenerately For instance, the year that I was at Mt. Baker and we stopped in at a casino and 10 hours later I was taking out cash from a credit card to gamble more. Or last weekend when I stopped at three different casinos losing 1200 dollars in the process. Going mad is a lot like "going clear" in Scientology. You basically remove your ego and accept that you are just going to destroy yourself. It's invigorating. Call it the Kamikaze piloting of capitalism. This is where gambling becomes a sport - and I am the Ray Charles of gambling.

I imagine my madness will begin at SeaTac airport where the mere idea of losing thousands of dollars will get my giddy and lead me to wallop a shocking 1000 dollars down at a magazine shop for lotto tickets. I'll probably forgo any scratching and proceed to just scan the tickets for winners and see just how many I can buy before my plane takes off. Then I'll think "What if I miss my plane?" Then I'll think, better make a bet! Then I'll try to bet on whether I will miss the plane with people and finally get a taker and then I'll bet that I'll miss, but then I'll make it and have to leave the plane to pay the dude, but then the plane takes off and I WIN. Point is, I WIN.

Once I gamble my way out of SeaTac, I'll arrive at McCarron International airport, named after bloated college basketball coach and chronic alcoholic, Scott McCarron. There I will play the McCarron International slot machines until I smoke 64 cigarettes, bracket style.

At this point, I will be flat broke and will need to sell my clothing and iPod for taxi fare. With the leftover money I will play a PRICE IS RIGHT slot machine until I am totally broke. Then I'll go to sleep and wake up and sell my room to gangbangers for 40 dollars and then play Roulette. By this time I will bet conservatively and make all my money back, call the cops on the gangbangers, clean up my room and then get really loaded. Then I will go back to the casino, blow the money, and wind up at square one. 

That to me, folks, is a good time.

The moral here is that gambling is good and good for you. Just ask that college basketball guy Eli Manning or tennis legend Eric Estrada. 

Sports and gambling are about as American as bombing dudes and wearing a bandanna as underwear. Just ask professional soccer player Joe Namath.

Or curling star Michael Jordan.

Wait, so the moral of the story really is I don't like sports, but gambling IS a sport, so that is the sport I like. 

If you don't believe me, ask running back Claire Danes.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Let's talk about that football conversation

How about that football conversation?

People misunderstand me when I ask this, so let me spell it out: I don't want to talk about football. I want to talk about football conversation.

What I'll typically get is something like: well, the Vikings are a favorite, because it's gonna be cold, but the Seahawks -

And then I will cut them off. "No, asshole. I want to talk about the conversation. Like when you talk about what you just talked about. Let's talk about that. Let's talk about how people are communicating football to each other."

Dumbfounded. They don't understand. It's OK.

So, for example, let's talk about how one approaches another person for football conversation. It typically starts with an exclamation, like "Hey!" or "Huskies!" or "Tony!" Let's talk about that. Here's a little list:

Hey! - There's a good chance you barely have a job. Everyone in the office secretly talks about how you are a nice guy/girl, but you really have no idea what you're doing.

Huskies! - You want to like football too much. It shows. Everyone in the office assumes you are hiding something. Every time you shout "Seahawks!" to start a conversation, everyone assumes you are really yelling "I'm a terrorist!"

Tony! - You are identifying who you are talking to across a lunch room of people. You have no shame. You like football so goddamn much that you want everyone to know that you are about to engage Tony in a conversation about it. You are a true fan.

Your next move is going to be actually acknowledging what you are going to be talking about. Again, let's work with a list:

So, how about that game? - You didn't see the game. You don't like football. You like being liked. 

Did you see my Cougz last night? - You saw the game. However, your personal property assessment on the team tells folks that you probably just got involved in liking football and probably just took a look at the score so you could talk about it. Again, you just want to be liked. But doesn't everyone? No. I don't like being liked. That's why I talk about football conversation and not football.

So, what do you think about Sunday? - This is a man who knows football. Or woman. Or terrorist. The point is, there's a human here who knows football. What's telling is that they actually want to talk about an upcoming game. In this case, they will need to know about football in order to keep a conversation up about the ups and downs of the game. This person likes football. They probably have been following it for awhile. 

From there, the conversation will lead into small snippets of what could make a team win or lose. Typically, this conversation is peppered with BUTs and WHAT IFs. No one wants to totally discount a team. That's really putting yourself out there. Because if you're wrong, that person is going to remember it and come at you in the hall and say something like "So, the Vikings will lose, huh? Didn't look like it on Sunday!" And then you have a fist fight and two terminations. 

From here you have a whole lot of trying to maneuver out of the conversation when both parties realize they could be out of their element and if something like statistics or wind chill factors being a factor in the last 45 seasons....that stuff can really nail you as someone who is not passionate about the game. You can only get so far talking about football when eventually, you have nothing left to talk about, as shown here:

"Dunno, man, there's a good chance anything can happen."


"I mean, you know, anything could happen. You know, that saying Any given day?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"I'm just saying that....any given day you can...win a thing."

"OK, I'm going upstairs now."

And that was your boss. And now you're fired because you couldn't talk about the football. You held on too long. You made about four minutes. The average football conversation is five. No one surpasses seven unless they are drinking beer or are a professional coach.

Another tragedy is the person who knows only one phrase that has anything to do with football and just keeps repeating it. This can be heartbreaking.

"I'm IN!"

"Yeah, you watching the game?"

"I'm IN!"

"Cool. Man. Where you watching it?"

"I'm IN!"

"Hey, cool down, man. You wanna let go of my arm?"

"I'm IN!"

And then you have another fired employee clutching a man's arm and spouting out a ridiculous football rally cry that eventually leads to tears. They pull the guy off and it's just a silent "I'm IN!" through tears and it all comes down to overreaching. Talk about the weather or how long it is until the weekend. Picking up football as a go-to conversation takes a little bit of homework.

Lastly, I want to warn you of the football zombie. There are people that will talk to you about football against your will. These people will grab you in the hall by the arm and shout "Go HAWKS!" and they won't let go. They will get down deep into the game with you. If you don't like football, too bad. This person will follow you up five floors and will not stop talking about football. This is usually a sign of a person who has so secluded themselves from society that the only cord to life they have is football conversation. They no longer care about their job, the wife left, the kids are in jail and they are left looking up obscure statistics on their computers and adjusting their fantasy football teams to the nth degree. The only way to get rid of them is to walk them right into a bigger football fan than you and then hoping that they take the bait. If that doesn't work: murder.

Feel free to hit me up on the football conversation. I love talking about it. Like those guys that will just shake their head at you when you start innocently talking about football like you have no idea what you are talking about and the anger this provokes. Like, hey, man, I like football too. And, no, they just shake their heads like you're stupid. 



Tuesday, January 5, 2016


It's time I started writing resolutions. 

I write today from the year 2016, and it's time to get resolute.

Today, going forward for the entire year I pledge to not add bacon. I pledge to use filters on my cigarettes. And I pledge to only drink one fifth a night.

These are small sacrifices everyone can make. People need to be realistic about their goals, and I am going to be realistic. 

For instance, I will not start giving money to homeless people. But I will start making eye contact with them. For instance, when I stop at a street light and there is a homeless person with a sign, I will look directly at them and shake my head NO, and then hold that stare until the light turns green. 

In the past I have been known to not wash my hands after using the restroom. Today, going forward, I will begin to turn on the faucet for a couple of seconds and give the brief impression that I care enough about your opinion that I will pretend to wash my hands. Make no mistake! I will not begin to wash my hands. I will only begin the illusion of washing my hands.

Listening. It's important to listen to people. I have a hard time with this as most people have nothing worth saying. Starting now, I will begin to nod when you are talking to me instead of making the talky-talky sign with my hand walking away while you are a mid-sentence. At no time will I begin to listen to, but I will give you the impression that what you said serves a purpose that requires my attention.

Beginning today I will no longer harass you, Beth Newkirk. Sure, we went out for three weeks in Junior High and, sure, that meant nothing to you as evidenced by your restraining order, but all of that is in the past. No more will I tell people that Beth Newkirk once blew a goat. Or that Beth Newkirk is a Nazi, or that Beth Newkirk eats babies. No, the truth stands for itself and there is no reason to believe or not believe my statements concerning Beth and there's no reason for me to continue to harass her. Stalking is a totally different animal. That'll continue. But no more harassment.

Today I also pledge to come in to work before noon. That means I am guaranteed to be in the office at lunch, unless I'm taking my lunch outside the office, in which case I will be in at one. But make no mistake, the clock starts at noon. The clock will continue to stop at 4:30, but the clock starts at noon. No more coming in at 4, or 3, or 2. This is a promise that I will keep.

For the rest of the year I will not walk into Fred Meyer with just boxers on while pretending to be too drunk to notice. For now on I will level with the Fred Meyer community and let them no that I was just too lazy to put clothes on. No more charade from me. The truth is out there and it's I just didn't feel like putting pants and a shirt on. I may happen to be drunk, but that has nothing to do with why I'm almost naked. And you can take that to the bank.

Looking before I pull out of a parking spot? You guess it - that's on my resolution radar. Ben Holmes, Jacob Meyers, and John Kirby know how it feels when I just basically don't look before I pull out of a parking spot and all three have sued me and won monies to help me along with this resolution. Going forward, I will crane my neck left and right and look to make sure that nothing as big as a human could be broken to death under my car wheels as I pull out. Now, this does not include pets. A car is God's way of telling you your dog or cat is too small and I will continue to not see these animals....maybe next year, Fido.

Shoplifting. No more? No way. But I will promise not to shoplift out of the homes of friends and family. This includes your drugs and jewelry, but excludes things like grapes or almonds or stuff where you're kinda on the fence about whether you can take them. Beer I will continue to shove in my pockets, but your wallet is safe. 

There are a lot of ways to better yourself if you just look. It does not take a whole lot of effort to turn a vice into a nice. That's why I challenge you to make a difference in your community. Whether it be stopping at traffic lights or picking both nostrils of your nose at the same time, there is room for growth. And isn't that what we're here for? Growth. Not all of you can be like me and stop taking tips that are left at tables, but continuing to not tip. No, maybe you need to take baby steps. Maybe you need to do things like move out of your parents house or start wiping. One man's stop eating donuts with cocaine on them is another man's stop shaving animals that happen to walk by. 

Make this a special year of growth. 

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

I wish I owned a lawn

The more I think about it, the more I wish I had a lawn.

I own a condo. Back when I was a kid I thought only porno stars owned condos. Condo just sounds like something where people go and do deviant things. But it's not. It's basically where I microwave macaroni. I guess when I was a kid it just sounded like a bungalow. And everyone knows that a bungalow is definitely where people do deviant things.

I mean, if someone invited me back to their bungalow I would assume we were going to have sex or do drugs. It's just one of those things. 

I looked bungalow up in the dictionary just now and the picture next to the definition is a woman snorting coke out of a penis.

But I wish I had a lawn. Like an area of nature that was in front of where I live so that I could get closer to nature. Imagine telling people "Hey, I'm out on my lawn." That would make me happy. 

The other thing I could do is water the lawn, so when people ask me what I did all weekend I don't freeze up, get nervous and just admit that I got drunk all weekend. No, I could say "I watered my lawn." No one asks you questions after that. Watering a lawn takes about a half hour tops. But no one ever asks "What else?" If you say "Oh, I read a book." They'll go "And what else?" Somehow watering a lawn immediately gets so much respect, people will just stop asking you questions.

But I have a condo and they don't come with lawns. They come with plants and some dude waters them or a sprinkler or something - I don't really know, I only use the outdoors to smoke. 

What I should do is start slowly planting grass where the plants are and let nature take its course. Eventually, I'd have a lawn and it would spring up so slowly that no one would notice that I was growing a lawn. Then I'd be the only condo owner with a lawn and everyone would be jealous and I would just sit on my lawn and drink lemon-aid and smile at them.

But I probably won't do that. I'll probably just get drunk again.

What might be wiser is if I were to plant a lawn somewhere out in the country and just go visit. "Gonna go out and see the lawn." I'd say as I drove out of my condo complex. Everyone would think I was crazy, but then I'd show them the pictures of the lawn and they'd be like "You aren't crazy after all!" And then I'd smile and pat them on the head.

Also, I could take people out to see the lawn. Like dates. I could meet a woman and say "Hey, wanna go see my lawn? It's about 70 miles south. It's real friendly." Then they'd go with me to my lawn and I would show them the wonders. "Every blade of grass is a miracle!" I would say. And the woman would be so blown away by my green thumb she would make love to me right there on the lawn. 

But I'd have to hire security. People have been known to steal lawns. I knew this guy back in the day, he had a big ole' lawn and he was so proud of it. It was as green as emeralds. Then one day it started disappearing. Piece by piece. It took 14 days for it to completely get ripped off. But it did. And I would say to him "How come you don't hire security or get guards?" And he would say "Because that's not the America I want to live in." Then when it was all gone, I knocked on his door and said "Hey, it's America and your lawn is gone!" 

I would have to vet the guards, though. I do not want to just hire people off the street I don't know. I also want to make sure they have a working knowledge of grass. I would test them. I would say "What does grass do?" And if they didn't say "grow", they just lost a job. It's that simple. 

But this is all make believe until I actually get around to planting that grass in that country wherever that is. I'm not for certain there's still places where you can just plant grass at will. I Googled it and I received no results. That's good news though, that means no one has thought of it. That's where I run all of my good ideas - through Google. That way I can figure out if they are as original as I thought. Like that pizza helmet I was selling. And no, it's not a helmet made out of pizza. It's a helmet to protect you from pizza. 

I guess it's possible I'll never own a lawn. I don't like to think about it, but it's looking that way. America is about dreams and I have mine. And let me tell you: if it's what gets me up in the morning, then it can't be bad. 

Like this morning when I didn't want to get up and I just thought about my fictional lawn and I was able to get out of bed and go to work. 

Then I just sat at work and Googled lawns. I looked at other people's lawns. I felt dirty. But I also felt inspired. There's a man in Topeka who owns three lawns! I said to myself "Only in America!" Then a coworker asked what I was so excited about and then I kinda hid my screen because I didn't want someone knowing that I was looking at lawns all day on my computer when I was supposed to be answering 911 calls.

Then it was just back to work. This guy called and he had been stabbed and I couldn't help it "Do you own a lawn?" he wouldn't answer me, he just kept talking about his back and how it was stabbed and how the guy was getting away and all I could hear was "I've been lawned. The lawn is getting away." And then I said something like "I'll save your lawn!" And then my manager came by and asked if I was OK. I said I was OK. Then I got back on the phone with the stab victim. But it was too late. I would never know if he owned a lawn.

After work I went out and bought lawn darts. Just to, you know, get a start at owning a lawn. It made me happy in a way that cocaine and hookers never did. I took the set home and put it in my closet and then got drunk. 

I'll probably grow out of my lawn phase. I'll probably get into something more realistic, like bulbs or something. What are bulbs? They look like petrified ballsacks and old ladies love them. I guess that makes sense. And maybe that's not what I want out of life. I don't want to die and the only the thing they say about me is that "He loved petrified ballsacks." That would be heartbreaking. 

But I'll get over it. I'm a practical man with practical needs for the most part. I am fine with never owning a lawn. But you know what I do own? The dream. That's right: the dream of the lawn. And you can't take that away from me. 

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Getting Old

The other day my Mom texted me to let me know her phone doesn’t work.

Let that sink in.

Getting old is rough.

Have you ever watched a TV show a bunch and then thought to yourself “This is getting old.” That’s what getting old is like. But you’re watching your own life. And the only commercials you get are the rare moments you black out because you’ve drank so much because you are just goddamn tired of watching yourself eat another helping of cheesesticks at Red Robin, alone on a Wednesday night.

I suppose I noticed I was getting old way back when I was a toddler and noticed that I could walk. I remember looking up at my Mom, who was ecstatic, and thinking “Man, I’m getting old.”

But it really starts to hit home when you’re thirty. All of a sudden drinking nine beers and eating a whole large pizza means you gain a pound or two. Gone are the days you could just hang out at a buffet all day and just kinda live there. Like the waiters are walking by and wondering if you’ll leave, but you’re able to shove a french fry in your mouth every few minutes just so you can claim that you are still eating.

Also, you start getting gray hair. People think it’s funny and will poke fun - “Hey, you got gray hair.” Or “Hey, you have gray hair, mister.” or “Hey, what’s with the gray hair?” or “Hey, gray beard!” But you won’t laugh. You will cry and whisper “It’s not funny; I’m dying.”

Because you are. Every last second on this Earth you are dying. Every breath you take is one step closer to death. Like you’re watching the new Star Wars movie and you think you’re enjoying it, but really you’re dying.

Other things start happening as well. You start getting ailments that old people get. Like Wright Brothers Disease or Fatty Arbuckle Syndrome. You go to the doctor and he has no idea how to treat these diseases because he’s like 29 and you’re old. So he hands you some pills and tells you have to stop drinking. But you don’t want to stop drinking. Then he says “I mean, just not in my office.” and then you throw the bottle of Jack Daniels at him and wake up in a Denny’s.

A lot of people will try to overcome age by exercising. Just stop it. Give it up. I believe in an all powerful God and when he starts making me age I follow. If you go out and jog and you get all out of breath that’s God saying STOP IT! God doesn’t like phonies, so quit acting like a phony. You’re old now. Go drink some Early Times and watch Lawrence Welk. God is watching.

Another thing that starts happening is your hair starts falling out. You’ll be walking down the street and the wind will blow and you’re bald. It happens that fast. Then everyone starts poking fun by saying things like “Hey, you’re bald.” or “Hey, you have a bald head, mister” or “Hey, what’s with the bald head?” or “Hey, bald beard!” But you won’t think it’s funny because you had some big plans for that hair. You were gonna braid it.

Some people, thinking they can cheat God, will try to go out and get plastic surgery. They’ll go in and say “Hey, Doc, can you make me look younger?” And the doctor will shake his head and say “No.” But I can turn you into a woman.” Then you’ll say “Will that make me look younger?” And he’ll shake his head. Then you do it anyway and now you’re an old lady. Good job, dipshit.

Another thing you start doing when you get old is crack cocaine.

Just joking. You don’t start doing that because you’re old, you start doing that because you are really loaded and this guy you hang out with offers it to you because he’s super weird and you wonder why you’re hanging out with him and then you remember you got really drunk with him because he was the guy who called you “bald beard” and you slugged him and then he slugged you back, but then you made up and went for a beer and then he offered you crack.

That’s another thing - your memory goes. Like, for instance, I was watching the History channel and they were talking about the Magna Carta or something and I was like “I totally don’t remember that. I don’t remember being back there in those weird clothes and signing that thing. I’M LOSING MY MIND!” But then you realize that you didn’t live back in those times and you couldn’t have remembered that. But then you think - what if I did and I just forgot. So then you call all your relatives and ask if you lived in 1215 and they all say No. But then you realize that they’re all old. Also, they’re all liars. Like Uncle Doug. That guy could lie his way out of a bed. This one time he told me that we were going to get ice cream, but he stopped at the Post Office and I was like “I thought we were going to go get ice cream.” And he said we were, he just needed to stop at the Post Office first. But going to the Post Office isn’t going for ice cream. And I explained that. Then he turned the car around and started calling me a shit and we never got ice cream because he was a liar.

What’s really sad about getting old is watching other people get old. I have this aunt, Aunt Maria. She’s old. I go over to her house every weekend and just watch her get old. She’ll sit in this rocking chair and I’ll just stare at her and cringe and say things like “Oh, man, you’re old” or “You’re really getting old today” or “Hey, old beard!”. Also, she’s not my real aunt.

Another thing that starts happening is you start liking stuff old people like. Like food. You’ll sit and talk about food. Like back in the day it was all about living life in the fast lane: women, drugs, and music. But now you’re old and you just talk about food. Like “Hey, what’s for dinner” or “Did you taste the so and so at so and so” and “Hey, food beard”. Or you’ll talk about housing prices, 401Ks, and inane TV shows. What I typically do is something like this:

Person: Hey, did you try that new gastropub on -

And I’ll cut them off and just go: CUT THE SHIT!

You have no idea how young I look when I’m telling someone to cut the shit.

Then there’s children. They’re all over the place when you get old. Everyone has a kid. They walk around and everyone thinks they’re cute, but they are just reminders of how old you are. And you sit down and you try to talk to them and you don’t even understand what language they’re speaking. Like my nephew, Joe. He’s a one year old. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t understand the music he listens to. And I’m pretty sure he drinks because he vomits every time I go over there.

And no one cares about how they look. Once I was a great looking man, and now look at me: I’m 450 pounds, have no hair, and vomit a lot. No one likes that. Thanks, God.

This getting old business is just not right. It’s the one thing God got wrong. Like polio or The Voice. They say God works in mysterious ways, so, maybe getting old is a mystery. I’m good at solving mysteries. Like this one time I woke up and someone puked all over my kitchen. I spent the day solving the mystery. Turns out it was me. Or this one dude named Tim that sold me crack. Point is: I nailed it down to two people and the investigation is ongoing.

I guess I won’t solve America’s aging problem. It would probably be easier just to move to France or some country that doesn’t make you age. But I’m old. And I’m too tired now to go hunting mysteries in France.