25 to Life

I dumped out the remnants of a grainy, lukewarm cup of coffee and marched proudly into the Men’s bathroom around 10:30am. I was 2 hours into a new job, my fourth corporate desk job since graduating college, and I couldn’t wait to take my first look at what would be my home away from home-away from home for the next few months/years/possibly decades. Upon entering this white collar latrine, my first impression was slight disappointment. The place was a little too dim for my liking, and the amenities seemed to be somewhat dated. However, I found the placement of the handicapped stall in seclusion at the back of the restroom to be quite satisfactory and quickly made my move to occupy it. There were no witnesses in the vicinity, so the excitement of what was about to happen grew even greater. I stepped through the welcoming gates of the of this spacious throne room, latched the door, unbuckled a reversible belt from Macy’s, and undid a pair of navy blue slacks from Kohls. I sat down on the debatably clean seat and released a flat out tirade on the unsuspecting porcelain bowl. There was nothing solid to this defecation, it was just a muddy milkshake laden with fragments of undigested peanuts, corn, and Cheese Nips. Nothing about it could be considered remotely healthy, it was just a ghastly hodgepodge from the previous night’s unnecessary feeding frenzy. Most of it didn’t even touch the water, it just splattered across the white basin. If Kurt Cobain was full of shit, this is what his living room wall would’ve looked like.

While I sat there blasting chocolate cake batter, I thought about how my knowledge and previous job experience was really going to help me succeed with this new company. More melted Snickers shots, and then thoughts of how I needed to make a good impression on my boss by showing off leadership qualities, and an ability to take charge of my group’s assignments right away. I spewed more Dilophosaurus spit, and thought about all of the possibilities of making a name for myself in this new company, and how this position was just another step on the way to the top of my industry.

When the rectal carnage was finally over, I was left to orchestrate a wipe down that couldn’t have been much different from that on a Gulf dwelling pelican. I made my way out of crime scene, headed over to the sink, and turned the faucet to wash a pair of soiled, 25 year old hands. In the process of doing this, I looked up into the mirror at a scruffy face that’s beginning to show signs of a little weathering. In that moment a voice in the back of my head blurted out:

“What the fuck happened to you?”

It was an odd statement for what most would consider to be a landmark day in a life, but the voice continued, “How the hell did this happen? What are you even doing here?”

I can’t be sure why that voice had to pipe up and sour my mindset like that, but it’s most likely because through out the better part of the last quarter of a century, thoughts like the ones that came out of my head on the toilet were the equivalent of what had just come out of my ass.

The yelling continued, “If I recall correctly, this wasn’t the plan! Where’s the difference maker? Where’s the innovator? Where’s the famous star? Where’s the man who was supposed to leave an impact by being something this world had never seen before? All I see is another average drone who’s just along for the ride!”

I did my best to ignore the voice, but I have to admit that it got to me a little bit. I sheepishly pulled myself away from the mirror, and walked out of the bathroom with a fraction of the pride I had walking in, as well as a fraction of the weight. I made my way back through the long, quiet hallway and found a cubicle with my name etched in the plastic plate.

“So this is your desk huh? This is where the genius works aalll of his magic. I can only imagine what a prodigy like yourself is capable of doing here. What is it that you’re working on now?”

“I’m filing reports with the FDA.” I reluctantly answered back.

“Wowiee! That’s fucking incredible! FDA! What’s that stand for? Failed to Do Anything?”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, let me know if this place has any good medication, cause you’re making me fucking sick!”

Not much later, my supervisor came over to check in on me.

“I need you to review these guidelines, and when you’re done we’ll go through our first submission together.”

“Alrighty, sounds good.” I said.

I starting reading through the immense stack of papers, but it was hard concentrate because I knew another argument was coming.

“Did you just use the word ‘alrighty’? When the fuck did that start?”

“Relax, it just slipped out that one time.”

“Jesus Christ you sound like a soccer mom taking orders at Benningan’s.”

I tried to read on but the voice just wouldn’t stop.  

“Hey remember when you were gonna be a Doctor? Yeah, you were gonna cure cancer and that whole bit. Oh, and then we were gonna be a Vet cause you can’t deal with people. Remember?”

“Not happening, too much time, money, and effort.” I thought back.

“Don’t give me those half-ass excuses! While you’re sitting here emailing video links to make the 3 friends that you have left lol, there are cats dying of AIDS! Fucking Cat AIDS! I’m telling you, Google it, it’s for real! Garfield, Felix, the short black guy from Wild ‘N Out, they all have Cat AIDS and it’s all your fault!”

I trudged through the rest of the day with my conscience waving all of these former dreams in front of me. Hockey player, Football player, Paleontologist, Physical Therapist, Zoologist, the list went on and on until it was time for me, the Regulatory Publishing Specialist, to leave. I walked through the cold November rain, and hopped into my Mazda 3 as quickly as I could.

“Didn’t think you’d be driving one of these 10 years ago, did ya?”

“Oh stop, it’s a good car.”

“Average at best.”

I put my iPod on shuffle and the first song on was “The Way I Am” by Eminem.

“Wow, speaking of 10 years ago, this song is about that old. Hey, didn’t you want to be a rapper back then?”

“No.”

“Yeah you did! I even remember some of the lines! Drop a beat for me, check this out:

            ‘I’ll take it to the pearly gates if I have to

            Forget about Luke, Mark, John and Matthew

            My word’s the real gospel, and it’s coming right atchu

            I’m holdin’ the torch just like that Liberty Sta…’

“ALRIGHT!! THAT’S ENOUGH!!! SHUT UP!!!”

The drive home was torturous. Traffic was at a stand still for miles on the Parkway, cars filled with average people who were living the same average 9-5 lifestyle as me. The day that had started out with so much promise and optimism for the years to come was laid to waste because of the realization that the last 25 didn’t exactly pan out the way I thought they would. Was this what I was sentenced to do for the rest of my life because of it? Did I miss my chance to make a real impact on this world? What exactly am I doing to a make difference in people’s lives?

After close to an hour on the Parkway, I finally made it back home.

“Oh look next door, there’s the house you grew up in! You really let those eagle wings spread, huh?”

My parents had nothing to eat, and since I had no desire to make anything, I headed down to Taco Bell. When I got there, there was a guy at the counter who looked about the same age as me. He also looked about as downcast as I was feeling; clearly working at Taco Bell was not something this man had in his plans 10 years ago. I approached the counter and in a gruff voice he asked, “How can I help you?”

“Yeah, can I have 2 chalupas?” I asked with the same enthusiasm.

“Will that be all?”

“Yeah, I did a number on the office toilet this morning, and I don’t need to go through that again.”

Obviously not the funniest thing I’ve ever said, but it was right up this guy’s alley because laughed legitimately hard at it.

“Alright man, you’re total is $4.83.” He said with a smile a completely different tone.

I grabbed my food and walked out of there feeling much better about things. Not just because I had 2 chalupas in my hand, but because I was able to make that guys day a little bit better. I guess that simple moment kind of put everything into perspective for me. I don’t need to cure cancer or cat AIDS to make an impact on the world, I don’t have to be a doctor to make people feel better, all I have to do to make a difference in someone’s life is to make them laugh. I don’t have to make a living off of it to prove that it makes an impact, and I don’t have to do it on a large scale in order to be considered a meaningful person.

Despite the characterization I may have built for myself on this blog, I’m actually an extremely empathetic individual who really cares about the well being of both people who are close to me, and people that I barely know. That’s a quality that has been with me my entire life, and always will be. Laughter has always been a major part of my life as well, as it has never taken much to make me do so. It wasn’t until about 2 years ago however that I found the power to create laughter from others. The work I’ve done in writing since then has changed my life in ways I could have never imagined, and it has led me to do things that I never thought possible. I hate that I have gotten away from doing this in the past few months, but I really have been focused on my professional career over the last half of this year, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to juggle both. Regardless of where the next 25 years take me, I want comedy, whether it be on this blog, on stage, or just hanging out with a few people, to always be a part of it. Because if there’s one thing my conscience can never criticize me for, it’s my ability to laugh at and with the world around me.

The HETC Fully Recycled

Welcome to the brand new Half-Empty Trash Can.

After another long and unnecessary hiatus, the award winning blog that has entertained millions around the globe for over a year has returned, and to celebrate, the HETC has been given an extravagant and very expensive make-over. I’m sure all 6 of my faithful readers are completely overwhelmed by the luxurious upgrades, so let me take you through each of these breathtaking new features one at a time.

Undoubtedly the first highlight you would have noticed is the beautiful, new custom-made banner at the top. This incredible work of art was designed and painted by Bob Ross, who you may know from the popular 90’s program The Joy of Painting on PBS.

A lot of strings had to be pulled in order to book Mr. Ross on this important project. Fitting into his schedule was not easy, especially when you consider the man died of lymphoma 15 years ago. I want to thank him for all of his time, effort, and steady hands.* I would also like to thank the incomparable Mel Gibson for providing a plethora of new taglines to choose from over the past few weeks. It’s been said that anger fuels comedy, and you sir have let out more fuel in a span of 3 days than BP did in 3 months.

The next feature you may have noticed is the snazzy new background. This gorgeous snake-skin design was inspired by the Southeast Asian Black Cobra and has been added to convey a bold message to readers that this blog has no legs.

The site has also been given a much sharper overall appearance as 100 gigs of pixels have been installed, along with 35 rams of lithium technology. This enhancement ensures HD compatibility with any LSD computer monitor, and sometime in the not too distant future, you will be able to view select blog entries in 3D!

Probably the most exciting new feature is the fully interactive right sidebar. In this panel, the first utility box you'll find includes links to two new pages. The first page is dedicated to my utterly uncomfortable stand-up videos, and the second page as requested by many, is home to the exclusive HETC Online Store. This page is the only place you will be able to purchase Official HETC apparel, including a stunning new clothing line created by none other than the Doggfather himself, Snoop Doggy Dogg.

With the site’s growing popularity, I’ve also been able to expand revenue through corporate advertising. Through out the right side panel you’ll notice that the HETC is now sponsored by a wide variety of prolific enterprises including Therapy Tree LLC, Bilingual Toddler DVD, and christismylife.com. Other features in the sidebar include a search engine, polls, Facebook sharing/Tweetability, Helen Keller quotes, and Sally the Virtual Sheep.

Enjoy the Fully Recycled Half-Empty Trash Can and all the new features it has to offer. Overall, I think new design is a huge improvement, God forbid the content actually followed suit.


* Rigor Mortis Joke

Elena Kagan Looks Like…

Solicitor General/ Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan looks like...

- Paul Blart Mall Cop’s homosexual sister

- A heavy-set Brendan Fraser in drag

- Something that would need to hibernate for a few months in the winter

- E. Honda from Street Fighter 2

- The warden at a women's prison

- The kind of gal that would work up a sweat while consuming a Grand Slam from Denny's


Elena Kagan looks like...

- She might have a lair in the sewers of Gotham City

- She could pass for a Fruity Pebbles spokesperson if she wore a bright orange dress with brown triangles

- The title character from Mrs. Doubtfire 2 starring John Goodman

- A notorious crime lord from the planet Tatooine

Elena Kagan looks like...

- A woman with an excessive amount of cats

- The kind of gal that would organize monthly Tupperware parties

- The kind of gal that would ring your doorbell at 8:42AM on Saturday asking for donations to the Bedford County Environmental Bureau

- The kind of gal that would be happy to take to a message for you if Dr. Swanson is not available

- A lady that really knows her way around suburban New Jersey’s Real Estate market

- The Treasurer at an Elementary School PTA meeting who turns down every idea because of budget constraints

- The woman who works in the gardening department at Wal-Mart on Route 46 and claims that the best part of her job is the employee discount

- A Veterinary technician who spends her free time doing Sudoku


Elena Kagan looks like...

- The cow that got lowered into the raptor paddock in Jurassic Park

- A former Supermarket Sweep contestant

- The first baseman on a women’s league softball team would need to leave a game early because of painful bunions and sore cankles

- A Jew

- The kind of gal that would own a parakeet

- The kind of gal that would have all 11 seasons of Fraiser on DVD

- The kind of gal that enjoys listening to Michael Bolton, Barry Manelow, and Yanni


Elena Kagan looks like…

- The kind of gal that drives a purple Saturn with Trisket crumbs embedded into the seats

- The kind of gal that would send out Christmas cards of herself and her golden retriever Charles in matching sweaters

- The kind of gal that would have a Barbra Streisand commemorative plate collection

- The kind of gal that would fill her home with paintings by Warren Kimble and Norman Rockwell

- The kind of gal that always claims to be on a diet but never seems to lose any weight

- The kind of gal that would be in a lunch time “walking group”

- The kind of gal that would have a blog dedicated to her silly anecdotes from weekend chores, and her endless struggle with chocolate addiction

Holy Shit

Probably like a lot of you, I spent this past Sunday enduring my first church visit of the year. The experience once again failed to produce any positive results, so I have a follow up appointment scheduled for late December. I’ve lived in couple different states and towns throughout my lifetime, and I’ve witnessed the Easter service at many different places of worship. Not once in any of those churches has the service been remotely unique from the others. Every year the same scriptures are read, every year the same songs are sang, every year the same candles are lit, and every year the same bastard child seizes the hour long session as an opportunity to perform Timmy’s Tantrum in E minor.

The service at my family’s current church didn’t stray far from that usual template at all last Sunday. Within the first 5 minutes upon entering the sanctuary, I was reminded 86 times that “He is Risen.” The usage of that phrase increased exponentially through out the rest of the service, and it wasn’t long before I started thinking whether the whole dying for my sins thing was really worth it.

After story time and a rousing chant of “He Lives!” it was time for the most aggravating, perplexing, and nauseating Christian ritual of all: Holy Communion. The origins of this ritual obviously stem from events at the Last Supper in which Jesus and his disciples got so wasted, that they started daring one another to eat the most disgusting combinations of food they could think of. Luke dared Peter to eat molded cheese with uncooked goat meat, Judas dared Matthew to eat a raw egg, and when Jesus’ turn came, he dared everyone to eat stale bread that was dipped in their wine glasses until it got all soggy and crumbly. Of course no one wanted to participate in this repulsive act, so Jesus guilt tripped everyone into doing it by reminding them that he was going to be crucified the next day, and they should all do it to remember what a crazy party animal he was.

Alright… that isn’t exactly how the story went in the Bible, but at least my version explains why such an important tradition has to be so gross. Regardless of what actually happened, the bottom line is Jesus really blew it when it came to devising this symbolic gesture. Just look at all the food on that God damn table:

Of all the creative recipes that could have been drawn up, Jesus, the son of God, ruler of Heaven and Earth, the man who walked on water, gave sight to the blind, and rose from the dead, selects the revolting combination of Wonder Bread soaked in Sutter Home to represent himself for consumption. His followers at the time never questioned him, and his followers 2000 years later don’t either. So now every year on Easter, Christians reluctantly line up like patients in a mental institute to receive their bitter pills, as they replay in their heads a recent conversation with the Rosenberg’s about their delicious Passover Seder.

Protestants have made the ceremony even worse by replacing the wine with unfermented purple Cool-Aid. This mysterious liquid doesn’t have a hint of grape flavoring; it tastes like melted rubber and cancer cells. Soaking month-old Shop Rite brand pita bread in this vomit-inducing elixir creates a taste that cannot be described using an English dictionary. The soggy snack doesn’t have a formal name, but I believe it’s where the phrase “Holy Shit” comes from.

It’s really unfortunate for Jesus that he made such an awful gaffe in this pivotal moment. Had he chosen a more appetizing sacramental treat, the kind of following Christianity would have today could be off the charts. If Jesus made a three course meal out of the Eucharist, I’d be in church everyday. Think about it, if he would’ve just went all out and had the Last Supper catered, preachers could be saying “this shrimp is the body of Christ and this cocktail sauce is his blood” followed by, “this prime rib is body of Christ and this Au jus is his blood” and on your way out of church, you get Oreos and a glass of milk. With a service like that, I would feel the presence of God in every bite.

After ingesting the Holy Shit, I sat back down in my seat and started licking prayer request envelopes to try and get the awful taste out of my mouth. The rest of the congregation finished up and the minister took his portion. His cheek twitched a bit and I noticed he was trying to fight back a few tears as he started his sermon. The predictable monologue was centered around the idea of tangible and intangible things being alive. It was clearly a carbon-copy of the 24 previous Easter sermons I had attended, so I was safe in knowing that it would just be him talking and I could doze off for the next 20 minutes.

Not long into the speech however, the minister threw in a monkey wrench and asked all of the wonderful children in the congregation to draw pictures of things that were alive. A few ideas that popped into my head were Socialism, meat from Taco Bell, and the brownish-green build up in my shower. Once the drawings were finished, he told the little tykes to give their drawings to someone in the crowd who looked like they needed it. I immediately realized that I would have to look interested, alert and joyful in order to avoid getting a scarlet letter from one of these hellions. I tried my best to look happy, but with the taste of the Holy Shit residue still in my mouth, I was about as convincing as Ricky Martin was in the closet. Noticing my eternal misery, one of the little imps quickly ran over to me and handed me a folded piece of paper. I slowly unfolded the gift, expecting to see a bunny rabbit or maybe a friendly koala bear. What I got was this:

This drawing is not something that would come from the blessed hands of one of God’s children. What this child drew is inhuman. It was drawn with an unsightly snot green crayon, and doesn’t resemble any living creature on planet Earth. The picture has been sitting on my desk all week, and I’ve been looking at it everyday, desperately trying figure out what it is supposed to be. Is it a mutated Dr. Suess character? An anthropomorphic stomach? I’ve had no answers.

This morning when I looked at the picture though, something told me to flip it upside-down to see if it would explain anything. To my horror, I discovered that the drawing is riddled with subliminal demonic pentagrams and 3 sixes.

I couldn’t believe it. This child is the antichrist. Eat all the Holy Shit you can find. He is Risen.

My First Stand Up Attempt

I went on another blog hiatus this month, but it wasn’t do to laziness this time. Believe it or not, I was actually working on material for my first ever stand up comedy set. The final product was unveiled last night at the Stress Factory in New Brunswick, NJ, and it was about as entertaining as watching a paraplegic trying to climb a tree.

It was very painful for me to watch this video and I was hesitant to share it with all of you, but this blog is all about my failures in life so I guess I’m obligated to post it. My true feeling on it is it obviously could’ve been better, but it could’ve been worse. The bottom line is this was something I’ve wanted to try for a while yet could never build up the courage to do it, so I don’t regret a second of it because at least I finally gave it a shot. If I ever do it again, someone in the audience should grab a pistol and give my face a shot.



Thank god the beginning of the video is cut off, I spent my first 30 seconds up there going “um, so, uh…” Eventually I got into the flow of things and the first bit went fairly well.

0:47 – It also doesn’t take any special skill or technique to remember a punchline to a joke, it was suppose to be about fat kids being the best lugers but I blew it.

1:30 – That mistake wasn’t that bad, acknowledging it made it 10 times worse.

2:00 – Only solid laugh of the set, look for more masturbation jokes from me in the future.

2:15 – I brought a note card up with me that had my set list on it in case I got stuck. This something even professional comedians do when trying out new material, so it really isn’t that pathetic. Some menopausal 54 year old woman sitting up front thought it was a fucking riot. I really wish I had the improv skills to stand up for myself, but it’s hard to stand up for yourself when you suck at stand up.

3:17 – Listen carefully to this “joke” because you will never hear me do it again.

4:30 – You might recognize this one from one of my first blog entries. That’s were it should have stayed.

6:52 – Yeah he’s cute, which basically equates to be unfunny in the world of stand up comedy.

Thanks to everyone who came out, I really appreciate the support. If you opt to stay home for the next one, I understand.

Get Lost Asshole

Tonight marks the return of the World’s Biggest Asshole:

I realize “Asshole” is an odd term to use in describing a television show, but after a lot of thought, it really seems to be the best way to explain how the aborted fetus of a threeway between Survivor, Star Trek, and Gilligan’s Island has become so popular. Assholes are unintelligent, untalented, and shallow people who happen to be very good at manipulating and persuading others into paying attention to them. By exploiting this quality, Assholes are able to come off as interesting and insightful to others, and earn loads of unwarranted respect and popularity because of it. Once an Asshole reaches the peak of their popularity, they will do everything necessary to remain at the top, no matter how detrimental it may be to their delusional followers or even to society as a whole. Of course, there are many Assholes in the world today, but to me, the show Lost fits this definition better than all of them.

Pricks have a natural disdain for Assholes, so it should come as no surprise that I have never watched a full episode of Lost. Whenever people ask me about the show, they always seem shocked, or even appalled that I am not a viewer. Someone I know once remarked, “I can’t believe you don’t watch it. With the brain you have, you would absolutely love it.” I took that statement as an insult. Let’s get one thing straight: American network television does not require a brain in order to be comprehended. Shows on CBS, ABC, and NBC are dumbed down so much in order to reach the broadest possible range of viewers that you don’t even need to be conscience in order to follow them. It’s actually been noted that Terri Schiavo was a big fan of I’m a Celebrity, Get me out of Here in the final weeks of her life. It’s all about ratings for network television, and the secret to getting the highest ratings is televising simple, non-offensive subject matter that doesn’t require much thinking. With this in mind, I find it very hard to believe that the same network that gave us Shaq's Big Challenge, Brat Camp, and Fat March is broadcasting the most intellectually stimulating piece of media that the world has ever seen. The writers of Lost are not geniuses, they’re simply Assholes who know how to design a show that the average person can’t help but pay attention to.

Now it may seem unfair that I am criticizing a show that I have never watched, but believe me, I have heard enough about Lost, and I have seen enough promos to call it the World’s Biggest Asshole. From what I gather, the show chronicles the experiences of a group of people who survived a plane crash and are stranded on a desert island. On the island there is a time machine which initially cannot be operated by the survivors because they do not have the flux capacitor. The capacitor is in the possession of a group called the Zulu Nation and is guarded by polar bears and a giant monster with emphysema. Eventually, the survivors are able to retrieve the flux capacitor because the monster took off to New York sometime during Season 3 to film Cloverfield. Over the next couple of years, the group enjoys going back and forth in time, and shooting each other at different points in the past to see how things would change. Somewhere towards the end of last season, a couple of characters got bored and decided to swim home, but when they got there they realized there was nothing worth watching on television, so they went back to the island.

Obviously there are a few gaps in the plot, but overall it’s not a terrible premise for a show. The reason I’m calling Lost an Asshole is first of all, because of the way it is presented. Each episode is structured around the use of the same exact gimmick that made those horrendous reality shows so popular: the episode-ending plot twist or cliffhanger. Many people mistake this method of writing for clever and compelling story-telling, but it’s really just a shameful tactic to increase ratings and retain viewership. It’s simply a manipulation of the viewers mind; the same thing is done on shows like 24, Prison Break, and Heroes. These shows hook you in and leave you with such an incredible mystery to figure out, that it completely occupies your mind over the following week and you can’t help but watch the next installment. I actually know a few people who really don’t even enjoy Lost, but still watch it because they have seen every episode since the beginning, and need to know what happens in order to function the next day. It’s like visually absorbed heroin.

Of course when the writers are forced to create so many different twists and turns in the plot line, and forced to introduce so many new characters, things can become a little confusing. So when ABC noticed that things were starting to get out of hand, they did something unprecedented in order to keep their show popular. They began broadcasting clip-shows that recapped all of the events from previous episodes along with commentary to explain why the fat, curly-haired man with is sobbing while performing the castration of a tortoise, and what the symbolic meanings are behind other wonderful scenes.

These clip-shows seem like a harmless aid, but let’s break this innovation down to what it essential is, and this is what brought Lost to the next level of Assholism:

Lost created televised cliffsnotes for a television show.

Please read that sentence again, and a take a moment to evaluate how far we, as a people, have sunk. We have allowed a television show to deceive us of its quality to the point where we are so delusional, we have no a problem being walked through it as if we were Third graders being presented with the works of William Shakespeare. If you are an Emmy Award winning television show and you knowingly undermine the intelligence of your audience with the sole intent of trying to keep your popularity up, you are an Asshole. Not only have you have made your audience dumber, you have destroyed the all hope for having any artistic integrity in the future of television as we know it, and you simply do not care.

The quintessential Assholes in any society have always been politicians, and traditionally, the “World’s Biggest Asshole” label always been reserved for the President of the United States. Every year, the President reserves a night in late January or early February to address the nation in his State of the Union speech. This speech is always broadcast on every channel, and takes precedence over anything else that is scheduled to be televised that night. This year, the President originally planned for his speech to take place tonight, but after White House officials realized that the speech would interrupt another Asshole that was making its big premiere, the speech was moved up to last week. I don’t think any more evidence is needed. If you are able to make yourself seem more important than a speech from the Asshole running the most powerful country in the world at one of its most critical time periods, you’ve earned the title. Tune in tonight at 8 to see the World’s Biggest Asshole.

The Chronicles of the Unemployed: Day 2

Today I woke up around noon and figured it would be in my best interest to continue lying in bed, and do absolutely nothing. I turned on the TV and couldn’t find anything that really caught my eye, so I ended up settling on FX’s 2 hour presentation of The Hot Chick starring Rob Schneider. For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of viewing this cinematic masterpiece, I’ll give you a brief synopsis of what it’s about:

Rachel McAdams plays a beautiful and popular teenage girl who wakes up one day to find herself inside the body of a mid-30’s man played by Schneider. Understandably perplexed, she relies on her best friend played by Ana Faris, and two other friends named Lulu and Keecia to help her figure out what caused this, and to help get her body back. Along her journey, she learns first-hand the pros and cons of being a man, and discovers how mean she was to the other girls in her school. Eventually, Faris falls in love with McAdams’ character who is represented by Schneider, and the two share an uncomfortable love scene.

I’ve had a lot of regrets in my life.
This particular experience would have to rank in between licking the cafeteria floor in elementary school and voluntarily drinking my own urine some years later. The film did however, give me an idea for a similar movie that I might begin writing a script for:

An enthusiastic and intelligent 18 year old boy with a chiseled physique and aspirations of becoming a doctor wakes up one day to find himself inside the body of an apathetic and unemployed mid-20s male with a spare tire around his waist and aspirations of reaching the rank of General in Call of Duty 4. Understandably perplexed, he relies on his friends to help figure out what caused this, but unfortunately they all seem to have the same problem, so nothing ever gets solved. One night he meets an unattractive woman on the wrong side of 200lbs at a bar and the two share an uncomfortable love scene.

The storyline will be equally as uninteresting, and it will be entitled
The Life Fail starring me as myself.

That self-loathing thought, plus the fear of developing bed sores motivated me enough to get up and do something active, so I threw on the same clothes I had been wearing for the past 6 days and headed to the gym. I’ve been going to this place for over a year now and not much has changed in that time. I’ve gotten used to seeing a lot of the same people there and have learned to tolerate most of them. When I entered the gym today though, something seemed different. It smelled like boiled cabbage and a month-long neglected litter box. I had no clue what it was, but I just knew something was out of place. As soon as I entered the locker room, the issue became clear. My gym had become immersed with fat people.

I had completely forgotten about this event. Every January, America’s overweight and obese embark on their annual Hajj to gyms across the country in recognition of the sacred New Years Resolution. During their pilgrimage, they are required to pool beads of gelatinous sweat upon equipment, perform unsightly leg lifts, and wear insufficient amounts of clothing. The journey lasts about a month, after which participants return to their regular place of worship on the couch and continue their everyday ritual of eating parts of a pig’s anatomy that were never intended to be consumed.

I have never understood the concept of the New Years resolution; not the resolution itself, but mainly why people seem to want to eliminate something that has hampered them, or do something to make themselves a better person only when the calendar year changes. We all have issues, I’m certainly no exception, but why is New Years the only time people seem to want to address them? Most people make their resolution plans several months before January and decide as soon as the new year begins that they will make their change. I would think that if you have identified a personal flaw that has held you back in life, then the second that realization is made, you would act on it. Delaying a diet or quitting smoking till a specified date simply gives you time for a swan song with your bad habits, and in that time you’ll end up realizing how difficult it will be to change your ways. Knowing this fact, I tell myself almost everyday that I need to drink less, and when I do that, the decision is in effect immediately. My resolution never seems to survive beyond 8 hours, but at least I’m persistent and I'm not making a change simply because it’s the popular thing to do.

So since everyone wants to spend January pretending that they’ve turned over a new leaf, I’m stuck dealing with more fat asses than the toilet seat at a Denny’s in Alabama. My first encounter with one of these creatures came in the form of a rotund man at the corner locker near where I was getting changed. He was wearing latex gloves and nothing else. The man was covered head to foot in body hair, giving him the appearance of a static charged balloon in a barbershop, and he was rubbing some kind of lotion on his body while humming what I believed to be the synthesizer breakdown part from “Do you Think I’m Sexy?” by Rod Stewart. If you can think of a more disturbing image, I’d love to hear it. I knew right then and there that this would not be an enjoyable experience. I finished changing, made my way through the hallway, and proceeded to enter the gym area.

Before I go any further, I want you to try and remember the feeling you had when you woke up on Christmas morning at the age of 6, or the time when you first laid eyes upon the love of your life…
Now think of the polar opposite of those feelings, and you’ll know exactly what went through my head as I walked into that room. Immediately, I identified the girl from Precious on a treadmill, and right next to her was the Biz Markie. I bounced through all of these new members on my way to the free weight area as if they were moguls on a ski slope. After about a five minute search, I finally found an open apparatus and jumped on it as quickly as possible. I sat down on the bench and scanned the room in attempt to examine the catastrophe that was taking place.

Now being a former High School athlete, I’ve had a lot of instruction as far as what to do when working out, so it really isn’t fair for me to criticize the techniques of someone who is just a beginner. But for Christ’s sake, I would think general common sense would be enough to at least give you an idea of what you should be doing. To the left of me, I saw a man-whale rolling a medicine ball from one hand to the other as if it were a slinky. I’m not sure what muscle that exercise was suppose to work on him, but I can tell you my jaw muscles got a good work out from clenching my teeth while watching that idiot. Not far off from him, there was another whopper leaning against a wall just swinging his leg back and forth. Then to the right of me, I witnessed a large woman flapping her arms. No dumbbells or weight of any kind in her hands, simply flapping her doughy, Michelin Man-like arms. I smiled at that though, it reminded me of Dumbo trying to fly.
I removed my focus from the freak show going on in front of me, turned up my Limp Bizkit playlist, and began my work out. Almost immediately after I finished my first set, a girl who looked like one of the Gorgs from Fraggle Rock came up to me and asked, “Do you mind if I work in with you?”
I was obviously annoyed, but she was wearing a shirt that said “Don’t be a Hater,” so I took her advice and shared the machine. She waddled right on, and before doing anything, she looked at me and asked, “How am I supposed to do this?” Annoyed again, but not wanting to be the proverbial “hater,” I instructed her. She giggled through about 2 and a half reps, and then looked at me again and asked, “So what’s your name?” I couldn’t be sure, but I got the distinct feeling that this bloated disaster was hitting on me. I didn’t have any Jameson in my system, so I had enough presence of mind to fully reject the situation. I told her my name was Yanni and pretended that I had to get a drink from the water fountain. I headed straight back to the locker room, which at this point resembled a Drew Carey look-a-like convention. I grabbed my clothes, stormed back to the car, and drove home. When I got there, I jumped back into bed and watched a special on Anorexia and Bulimia and enjoyed every minute of it.

The Chronicles of the Unemployed

As some of you may know, I was recently laid off from my job after working there for about a year and a half. Just to clear up any concern, I was not fired for comparing the brain of a mentally handicapped co-worker to that of a chimpanzee on this website, it had to do with acquisitions, mergers, and all that other white collar bullshit which has ruined so many other innocent lives.

My last day of work was Christmas Eve. I was informed that my last day of work would be Christmas Eve on December 16. If you happen to see me anytime soon, please don’t bother asking me how my Christmas was unless you are thinking about trying to turn facial contusions into a fashion statement. With no income at the moment, I’m in the process of pawning all of my presents. Unfortunately, no one seems to be interested in purchasing a set of ear muffs with NFL team logos on them, so it looks like I’ll be going on an involuntary Easy Mac diet over the next couple of weeks.

My father went through this same experience about three years ago when he got laid off from his job of 20 years. He’s been giving me a lot of advice as far as what I should be doing, and he even got me started on the path to recovery by sharing with me the link to the New Jersey Department of Labor and Workforce Development website. When you think about the landmark events in the relationship between a father and son, it’s moments like being taught how to shave, learning how to drive a stick shift, or being told about the birds and the bees that really stick out as the moments that create a strong bond between the two. A father sharing the unemployment benefits claims link with his son via email should not be one of those signature moments, but oddly enough it felt like one. It was almost like he was saying, “Now that you’ve been sodomized good and hard by corporate America, you can finally call yourself a man.” He also advised me that in today’s job market, if I hope to really make a good impression and separate myself from other candidates in an interview, I need to learn how to sell myself. I interpreted this guidance to mean that I essentially need to learn how to be a whore. I’m honestly not sure if my rectum can take much more punishment.

Being unemployed is great for about a week, but after that the boredom really starts to eat away at you. With all of this time on my hands, I figured it would be fun to give you some insight as to what someone with no job, no girlfriend, and no career ambition does in their daily life. Without further adieu, I present to you:
The Chronicles of the Unemployed

Day 1
This morning I woke up without a hang over for the first time in about a month. I took pride in this minor miracle and garnered enough motivation to get up early and look for a job. I started off by going to monster.com and figured now that I have a year of working experience under my belt, finding something that I was qualified for would be much easier than it was coming out of college. I was wrong of course. I only met the requirements for about three jobs in the area. My options were narrowed down to washing laboratory equipment, telemarketing, and doing a research project that involved injecting lab rats the gay gene. After about 5 minutes of searching, I felt like smashing my monitor, so I gave up and turned on the TV.

It had been awhile since I watched any television on a weekday, and I wasn’t sure what I should put on. I started flipping through the channels to find something, and when I came to 11, my glazed over eyes widened immediately as I found my old friend Maury (or as his African-American guests like to call him: “Murray”). Today’s episode was entitled “3 Angry Women…3 Babies…Is Harry the Father?” The storyline was unbelievably compelling. Three women named Tykeza, Monisha, and Ti’Eshia claimed that a man named Harry was the father of their three respective children: Omri (pronounced Omir), Jamaiyah, and Ta’Marion. Harry has fathered five previous children with five other different women, but has apparently gone out of his way to deny siring any of these three children.

Maury spoke to the women first about their predicaments before bringing Harry to the stage. They collectively described Harry as a raggedy, deadbeat lowlife that they used to be in love with. Maury asked the three women if they were 100% positive that Harry was the father of their children. They each declared that they were in fact 1000% positive that Harry was the father of their children. Ti’Eshia eloquently added that it was time for Harry to stop spreading his sperm all over the state of Florida, and that it was time for him to step up and start claiming all of his kids to-day.

After the opening arguments, Harry was brought out to resounding boos from the crowd and such taunts as, “Ay, Ay, Ay” and “Yeah dat’s right” from the women. Harry looks like a man that has donned an orange jumpsuit once or twice in his lifetime. He has dreadlocks, and wears them in a fashion that makes his head look like oil was just struck from it by a Loony Tunes character. He walked over to his chair, took it from its original location next to the still badgering women, moved it to the staircase by the entrance, and sat down.

Once the commotion was settled, Maury interrogated Harry as to why he did not believe to be the father of the three children. He contended that Tykeza and Monisha have both been around the block too many times, and told Maury that he could axe anyone about it. In response to Ti’Eshia he simply said, “Dat baby is bow-legged.” Maury and the women seemed perplexed by this argument, so he was asked to explain further. He lifted up his pant leg to reveal that he was not a bow-legged man, implying that it would be genetically impossible for his offspring to have curved legs.

Of course there was only one way to find out who was telling the truth: a paternity test. The crowd erupted as Maury walked over to the producer, grabbed the envelope containing the results, and held it over his head triumphantly. He sat back down in his chair with a diabolical smirk and dug into the envelope for the first result.

“When it comes to 3 year old Omri (once again, pronounced Omir), Harry… You ARE the father!”
Tykeza leaped in the air and howled at the top of her lungs. She ran over to Harry and began to flail her arms wildly in front of him, not unlike one of those Mallard Duck Whirlgigs during a hurricane. She screamed “I told you! I told you!” Then she sat back down and proclaimed, “Holla atcha girl.”
Next up was Monisha’s baby Jamaiyah. Maury’s smirk had now widened to a smile as he announced,
“When it comes to 1 and a half year old Jamaiyah, Harry... You ARE the father!”
Monisha’s celebration was more subdued and involved much less rage. She simply stood up and danced with her arms in the air while chanting, “Heeeeey! Heeeeey! Riiiiighht!”

By now I could tell Maury was on the brink of laughter.
“When it comes to 6 month old Ta’Marion, Harry... You ARE the father!”
Ti’Eshia stood up, pointed at Harry, and repeatedly inquired “What? What? What?” Tykeza even got back in on the action and asked him the same question.

Maury came over to Tykeza and asked her to sit down and curtail her excitement. The room went silent and Maury looked straight at the distraught baby-daddy and declared, “Harry, you don’t have 5 kids. You got 8.”

That was the most exciting 10 minutes of my day.

Amicably Handicapped

In recent years, I have learned that when human beings are exposed to large groups of the same individuals for any extended length of time, they have a tendency to identify certain individuals that they instinctively like, and certain individuals that they instinctively hate. If you look back at experiences from high schools, colleges, or any large office setting, you will undoubtedly recall who these people were. I’m not talking about the people that you had regular interaction with at these places, I’m talking about the people that you saw everyday but never engaged in a conversation with: The person you always passed in the hall on your way to the bathroom, the person who always seemed to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you, and the guy who sits four cubicles away you that laughs like the Count from Sesame Street. All of these familiar, yet unknown people seem to have a way about them that inexplicably made you either want to give them a hug, or body slam them into a tub of used needles.

What makes our feelings about these people so unique is the fact that we build our opinion about them through observation, much like characters in a movie or television show. We develop our impressions based on the way these people look, the way they carry and conduct themselves, and the way that they interact with others. It’s obviously narrow-minded and unfair to build these kinds of prejudgments about people we have never spoken to, but we all do it, at the very least in our own minds. It’s just human nature.

I share my place of employment with about 300 other people, and as you can probably guess, there are many individuals that I innately despise. Some of my hatred stems solely from the physical appearance of others. For example, there is a woman who walks into the building at the same time as me every morning, and there is nothing wrong with that, except she looks like one of the weasels from Roger Rabbit and I don’t like it.
There is also a woman gets her coffee at the same time I do everyday, and this would be fine too, except she looks like a pale flamingo and I don’t care for that very much either. I like women, and I like animals. When the two are mixed together it creates problems for me.

Some more misery seems to develop from the demeanor of others. People who fit into this category include the rotund woman who laughs incessantly and completes every sentence by saying “You know what I mean?” There is the man who for reasons that have never been explained, speaks with an Italian mobster accent at the beginning of all his conversations, and I have even a vendetta out for a man that I have never even seen before, much less spoken to. I have taken issue with who ever this man is because he leaves his filthily Preparation H wipes in the toilet with the wrappers littered on the floor. That shit is gross. If I ever catch this him in the act, I'll leap over the stall divider, use his head as a toilet brush, and mop the floor with his face.

My strongest animosity however, probably comes from the office cliques. One in particular that truly irks me is a group I like to call “The Corporals.” I call them this because to me, the members of this gang embody every stereotype you could ever imagine about the everyday corporate drone. They are an intolerable group of thirty-somethings who are all about 4 or 5 years into marriage, have a couple of young kids, and absolutely nothing interesting to talk about. Of course, these pricks always seem to find a table next to me in the cafeteria and I am forced to listen to discussions about their uneventful mornings, their 401Ks, and how little Jonathan shit in a pot over the weekend. In all the years of my life, I have never thought that it would be remotely possible to carry on a 45 minute conversation about razor blades, but these clowns middle-managed to do it. I sat through the entire debate, thinking about whether it would be more effective for me to put a Gillette or a Schick to my wrist if I ever became as boring as these morons.

Believe it or not, there are some people at work that I actually enjoy seeing everyday. As I mentioned before, women who look like animals bother me, but for some strange reason, old men that look like animals are heroic in my book. Every once and a while in the hallways, I’ll encounter a man who looks like a Shar Pei, and it will instantly light up my world.
In our cafeteria, there is a black fellow who prepares the majority of my meals, and everyday I ask him how he's doing. I love asking him that because I know as soon as I close my mouth, he will respond like clock-work in the same old tone and with the same head nod, "I’m Blessed.”

Our company also employs a few individuals in our mail room from a group of people that is absolutely impossible to dislike, the mentally handicapped. I think the reason it is impossible to not like these wonderful people is because of the fact that they, themselves do not have capability of hating anyone. Their mindsets are similar to those of a child, in that their innocence blinds them from all of the issues that us “normal” people seem to have, and everyone that comes into their life is considered a good person.

There is one particular sweet, older woman who has been working in the mail room 35 years. Everyone knows and loves her, and she knows and loves everyone right back. I have never really been formally introduced to her, and as far as I know, neither have the 5 other people in my department. Yet whenever we see her roaming the halls, we will all say “Good Morning Sally!” or “Have a Good Night Sally!” Even though she doesn’t know anyone in our group, she will always smile and respond with a “Good Morning!” or a “You Too!”

Except to me.

For the longest time, I have not been able to figure out why this woman, who seems to unconditionally love everyone that comes in contact with her, would for some reason, single me out and not want to associate with me. It’s not like I ever did anything wrong to her. Our conversations have never gone beyond a greeting and a good bye, but I have always been polite whenever I see her. Sometimes when I walk down the hall with one of my colleagues, we'll see her and say hello together. In this situation, I can garner a response but she will only look at the person I am walking with and not me. Thinking she may be hard of hearing, I’ve tried to speak up, but I am still unable to get her acknowledgment.

And now it has dawned on me.
Sally might have actually categorized me as someone that she hates for no legitimate reason. It really might be possible that I come off as such cold, heartless, unfriendly, spiteful, pompous, and intimidating monster, that even a Retard could actually look at me and identify me as someone that they simply have no reason to like.

When alcoholics and drug addicts finally come to realize that they have a problem, they are said to have a “Moment of Clarity.” For pricks like myself, it doesn’t get much clearer than this. When somebody with the mental capacity of a chimpanzee and the lack of motor skills to chew their food properly has actually been able to gather enough brain cells together to come to the conclusion that you are an asshole, it is time to take a look in the mirror and reevaluate your life.

To be honest, I would really love to be a nicer person, but unfortunately they don’t have a Rehab for Assholes, so the world is stuck with me.

The Felt Pig Hat Incident

That wretched holiday of Halloween is coming up this weekend, and I have once again been hoodwinked into participating. Every year the whole process of the event seems to become more and more of a hassle. It’s a waste of my time, a waste of my money, and as someone who hasn’t even bothered to add a new pair of socks to their wardrobe in the past six years, I find it a little impractical that my most expensive outfits seem to come from Party City and are worn for one night. But yet again, I’ve managed to find myself making plans to drink and play dress up with other idiots who probably see it the same way I do.

As far as costumes go this year, my friend came up with the brilliant idea of being the Swine Flu together. We’ll essentially be dressing up as pigs equipped with tissues and bottles of Robitussin, and will be going out to bars with the intention of “infecting” the eligible females. When he brought this idea up to me, I thought it was rather ironic because I already seem to have a tendency of making girls sick on any normal night at the bar. Plus towards the end of those nights, I’m usually all over the ones that have been vomiting a lot.

With our plan in place, the next step was to piece together an outfit that would at least give someone the impression that we meant to resemble pigs. It’s become customary for me to leave this portion of the Halloween experience for the very last minute, and this year was no exception. My procrastination forced me to shop for a pig costume on Wednesday night somewhere in between work, the gym, dinner at my parent’s house, and Game 1 of the World Series. I knew of a good store by my parent’s place, so going there after dinner seemed like the best option. That morning I went through my normal routine of throwing my gym clothes in the car, going to work, heading to the gym straight from there, and then to my parents house for dinner right after that. Usually when I go there for dinner, I just head right back to my place afterward wearing my gym clothes. Unfortunately this time, I had to go out and buy a god damn pig suit, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to change back into my work clothes to do it, so I just went shopping in my sweat laden gym clothes.

I went to a store called Michael’s. If you have never been there before, it’s basically an arts and crafts store that is tailored to young children, old ladies, and no one in between. When a mid-20’s male shows up to Michael’s wearing mesh shorts and a sleeveless John Deer shirt in 40 degree weather, it should undoubtedly be a cause for concern among the customers and employees. As soon as I walked through the door, a haggard, old woman stumbled over herself, and gawked at me as if I had a gun pointed to her head. I perused the store, soaking in every curious glace the 13 year old girls shot me, and made my way to the pipe cleaner and felt section. I figured could fashion together some pig ears using those materials, so I searched the aisle for the color pink. Suddenly, I was approached by a massive, elderly beast of a woman who worked there. I couldn't help taking a glance at this geriatric Shrek, which forced me to interact with her. She asked, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes, I seem to have lost my dignity, do you have any here?”
I only thought that of course. I swallowed my pride and told her that I was looking for pink material to make a pig costume. She said, “Why if you want to pretend you’re a pig, I have these wonderful, silly felt pig hats over here!” I followed the Grey-haired Goliath to the back of the store, and found this awful looking thing:

I grabbed the hat and made my way over to the cashier where I found an intolerable line that was abnormally long for that time of night, given the store’s normal consumer demographic. I dragged myself to the end and stood there in disbelief that I was about to wait in a line of about 30 people to purchase a felt pig hat. Keep in mind that I’m a Yankees fan, so I was obviously agitated enough about the possibility of missing the first pitch of the World Series because of this delay. As my usual luck would have it, a demon, imp child jumped in line behind me with her despondent mother, and I endured the following conversation over the next couple of minutes:
“Mommy…Mommy…MOMMY!!”
“What munchkin.”
“Um…um…whyyyyy…Why is there a Halloweeeeeen?”
“So you can get candy, honey.”
“But…but whyyy did it staaaart?
“Well I don’t really know, sweetheart.”
“I don’t like it, it’s too scary…”
The first thought that went through my head was, “I am going to walk out of this store without paying for this right now, because God help anyone who would find it necessary to come after a grown man who stole a felt pig hat from an arts and crafts store.” I stayed in line though. The possibility of getting caught and being labeled the Pig Hat Bandit in tomorrow’s newspaper was not worth the risk.

A few more minutes passed, and boredom led me to take a look at the tag on my purchase. It read “For ages 6+.” The second thought that went through my head was, “Seeing as I am 18 years the senior of the appropriate age for this hat, it may be possible that this piece of shit will not fit on my worthless head.” I was now in the very middle of the line and it really didn’t make sense to jump out, try the hat on in a private area, and go back to the end and wait all over again. I swallowed my pride one more time and among an appalled audience of innocent women and children, a 24 year-old-man in a sleeveless shirt proceeded to place a pink felt pig hat on his head. It seemed to fit me fine, so I quickly took it off. Immediately, I heard that little minion behind me whisper, “Mommy… why is that boy buying a pink hat?”
“Well, maybe he’s going to wear it for Halloween, dear.”
“He looks funny, hehehehehe!”
There was a set a sharp pumpkin carving knives on the clearance rack next me. You can probably guess what the third thought that went through my head was, so I won’t go into any detail.

After ten of the most awkward minutes of my life, I finally made it to the cashier. I said hello and placed my God-forsaken pig hat on the counter. She said, “I’m guessing you’ll be wearing this for Halloween?”
“No, I’m actually one of those furry fetish people, I’m about to head to a barn yard orgy with a sheep, a cow, and a chicken who calls herself 'Henny Penny'.”
That, once again, was only a thought. I explained the swine flu thing to her and she looked at me as if I had a masturbating chimp sitting on my shoulder. The total came to $8.54. Eight dollars and fifty four cents… for a pink felt pig hat. I grabbed my bag and my change, and walked away from the register without saying thank you. I headed towards the door with the cry of “Have a Happy Halloween!” being lobbed at me, and as I walked out of the store, the last thought that went through my head was:
“Um…um…WHYYYYY the FUCK is there a HALLOWEEEEEEEEN!”