Things That Scared Me When I was Little: Vampire from Are You Afraid of the Dark?

I’m assuming most people reading this are familiar with this classic show from the 90s. But in case you were home schooled or your family couldn’t afford cable, Are You Afraid of the Dark? was a show on Nickelodeon that featured a group of racially diverse and socially awkward teenagers who sat around a camp fire every Saturday night after Ren & Stimpy telling ghost stories. Many of them were pretty corny and even laughable, but every once and a while, an episode came out that would scare the living shit out of you. One episode in particular called “The Tale of the Midnight Madness” kept me up at night for at least 3 years. When I finally got over it around fifth grade, I watched a syndicated replay and was fucked for another 2 years.

The basic premise of this episode centers around the attempt of two teens to save a failing movie theater. They end up showing the old silent film Nosferatu to audiences, and everything goes to shit:

For the sake of nostalgia, it’s definitely worth watching the whole episode (here’s Part One) but for those of you with lives, the real fun begins 5:30 into Part 2:

First off, Fuck Dr. Vink. I don’t know why this prick felt it was necessary to dedicate his life to traumatizing kids fresh out of puberty. Given his title, he apparently earned a PhD somehow. I don’t know how any institution of higher learning would have ever allowed that to happen. He never seems to have a formal means of income (I think he was a cook in another show), yet at the end of this episode he ends up buying the theater. I’m sure Citigroup really did their research before approving a loan for him.

Anyway, my nightmare begins around 6:05, where the most disturbing fucking vampire you will ever see in your entire goddamn life comes to life. The way that thing creeps up to the screen made me piss myself so much, my parents had to start buying Huggies again.

7:25: Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society: Another unnecessary interracial relationship on Nickelodeon.

8:00: Sure, the 19^th century, uneducated dead guy figured out how to disconnect the phone line.

9:07: The main reason I could not sleep at night. I always imagined those creepy long fingers wrapping around my closet door followed by the scene starting at 0:15 of Part 3. It’s a good thing for those kids this vampire has ADHD.

1:51: Looks like me on Monday morning.

3:04: Yeah laugh it up you fat fuck, see how funny it is when that deed is worth shit come 2008.

When I found this episode on YouTube, I was honestly a little hesitant to watch it again because of how mortifying it was to me years before. This time around I was at least able to keep my eyes open and my pants dry. When it was over, I realized how ridiculous my fear of this corny episode was and had no problem falling asleep later. But low and behold when I did fall asleep, that fucker poked his pasty long fingers into my dream once again, and I haven’t been able to sleep since. Just another reason for me to seek therapy.

How to Look Like a Jackass through Facebook

Now that everyone and their mother has a Facebook account (literally, membership among women over 55 has increased 550% over the past six months, the largest of any demographic), the social networking site has become a monster that simply won’t rest until all human brains become programmed to “tag” every image that is projected onto our retinas. Since my freshman year of college, I’ve watched Facebook evolve from a convenient website for keeping in touch with friends, into a full-on cyber circus featuring a cluster-fuck of clowns who make it quite clear on a daily basis that they are completely out of touch with reality. With so many people online, Facebook has become a great way to completely embarrass yourself on a grand stage, and here’s you can do it:


Use your Middle Name or “Clever” Nickname
Sorry Amanda Lynn Cunting, your life really isn’t that interesting.
Hey Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgundy, how about a little more effort in the alias department. While you’re at it, please develop an original sense of humor and stop quoting Will Ferrell’s stale and unoriginal movies.


Post those Ridiculous Quizzes
I really don’t care what Missy Elliot song describes your life, what brand of laxatives represents you best, or what Sex and the City/Desperate House Wives slut you are. If knowing these things makes you feel any better about yourself, I would suggest taking the Quiz: “How many people will miss me when I do my best David Carradine impression?”


The Cell Phone Event


So you dropped your phone in the toilet and were too drunk to realize that you were shitting on it, what do you do now? Host an event starring you of course, and make sure you give it a snappy title like “Kyle Blacked Out and his Phone Totally didn’t Survive! But Daddy Bought me a New One, So Now I Need Your Digits Maaaan!”. I’m sorry your intelligence level is slightly below average Kyle, but don’t give me a fucking chore to do. If you happen to find yourself in this situation, don’t announce to the world that you’re a complete moron. All you have to do is post your new number on your profile, and if I feel like associating with you, I’ll give you a call. That will be highly unlikely though, because anyone dumb enough to drop their phone in a toilet really can’t have that much to offer in my book.


Label your Event as an Erotic Party
Alright, we get it. There’s a silly theme option on the event set up thing and you found it, hardy-fucking-har. Enough already, this thing is so goddamn overused. Unless you’re an HIV-positive bisexual, you have never hosted or been to an erotic party, so just stop embarrassing yourselves. Nothing about Henry and Mildred’s 50th Anniversary party sounds orgasmic to me.


Post Self-Taken Photos
Any time you see an outstretched arm in a photo, you can make at least one of the following assumptions about the subject in it:
1) They could have an ego bigger than Louie Anderson’s appetite.
2) They may not very photogenic and need take matters into their own hands to find that diamond in the rough shot.
3) Their favorite musical acts probably include Panic at the Disco, The Killers, and The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.
4) They’re social life is completely lacking, and they simply have no friends to take pictures with.
5) They have become so enamored with themselves, that they are completely oblivious to the outside world and have no regard for what is going on in their surroundings:


Post a Mysterious, Emotionally-Charged Status,
Wait to See if Anyone Cares enough to Question it,
Then Pour your Aching, Suburban Cracker Heart Out
For example:

Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: Feels like the walls are closing in. The world can be so dark and cold sometimes.
Amanda Lynn Cunting: Oh dear! What’s the matter Kevin?
Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: Well I wanted to go see Land of the Lost today, but the local theater isn’t showing it. I asked the manager why, and he told me, “Because that movie is so horrendous, it makes The Adventures of Pluto Nash look like Caddyshack.”
Amanda Lynn Cunting: How dare they diss Will!
Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: I know! So I said, “Well how many times did you watch it? Will Ferrel movies are always better the second time!”
And he says, “Zero, I’m purely making an educated guess. Now go home you simple minded fuck.”
Amanda Lynn Cunting: Awww I’m so sorry!
Ron “Shake N Bake” Burgandy: On top of that, I’m all out of peanut butter, so my dog no longer has any interest in me :(


Update your Status more than Twice a Day
This whole status thing is beyond comprehension for me. I’ll never understand why anyone would find it necessary to document their meaningless life on a social networking site.
I know right! You blogging hypocrite bitch.
Anyway, I’ve taken shits that were more interesting then some of the things you people post:
“Making cookies with my baby! I love him soooo much"
“Just flew back into Jersey, boy are my arms tired!”
“It’s so beautiful out! Maybe I’ll go enjoy it after 5 more hours on Facebook.”
“Watching a video of a three-toed sloth masturbate to drying paint! Check it out: slothsgetoff.com”
I even saw someone post that they was stuck in traffic on the Turnpike one time. Well thanks for contributing to the problem, asshole. If I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw this person twittering away, I wouldn’t just brake-check them, I’d throw it in reverse and take responsibility for the accident just to make sure they came away with some kind of injury.
Now for those of you who share so much with us, I’m just curious, what’s stopping you from giving us the whole insight? Why not post something like, “I’ll be on the toilet for a while, I have a bad case of Taco Bell diarrhea”, or “My flow is heavy, gotta go grab more tampons from Rite Aid”, or “I really hope this lump on my genitals is just an ingrown hair”. If you need to keep us updated on everything going on in your life, at least be brutally honest.


If you find your online behaviors falling under any of the above categories, I would advise you adjust your practices accordingly. Otherwise, I will have you physically removed from “Drew’s Friends”. And don’t think I won’t do it, I’ve already removed a chubby girl who posted an entire album of self-taken photos, and another girl who wouldn’t shut up about her zit-faced boyfriend or her cat’s crazy high jinx. So think before you post, or else you will lose the privilege of viewing my profile, and the chance to see pictures like this:

Things that Scared Me When I was Little: Train Robberies featuring Billy the Kid

Way back in the late 80s, my parents used to take me to this Wild West theme park in upstate New York called Frontier Town. I don’t recall too much about my experiences at this the place, either because I was too young, or because it’s become a repressed memory due to trauma. All I can really remember is that upon entering the park, there was a train ride that would take you into the town. On my first visit, I boarded the train with small bag of cheese cubes to eat. I sat down next to mom and the ride began. Everything was fine until about five minutes into the ride when I heard gun shots going off to the side of the train. All of the sudden, some douchebag with a bandana over his face, supposedly playing Billy the Kid, pulled up to the train on horseback.


The conductor conveniently stopped the train, and this pathetic college drop-out boarded. He started yelling at the passengers, but I couldn’t hear what he was yelling because I was screaming like a little bitch. Realizing that I was the weak, diseased wildebeest at the back of this herd, he came over to me and demanded that I give him everything in my pockets. I feebly told him I had nothing. Dad was snapping black mail photos, Mom was laughing her ass off, and then Billy noticed the cheese.
“HAND OVER THAT CHEESE BOOOYY!”
I was utterly petrified. My response sounded like Nancy Kerrigan after she got beat with a club.


Without hesitation, he took the bag of cheese.
The inbred, hick, fuck took…from a helpless 3 year old boy…a bag of cheese.

Despite my complaints to the incompetent Sheriff, the cheese was never returned to me, nor was my self-esteem or dignity. Because of my cowardly act, I was immediately stripped of my honorary sheriff badge by my father. In future visits to Frontier Town, I sheepishly hid under the seats of the train right before the inevitable robberies.

Fortunately for me, Frontier Town shut down in 2004. I’m guessing they closed because the new Billy upgraded his criminal activity from petty theft to child molestation. I would imagine the prick who stole my cheese is now a 40 year old alcoholic sitting in shack pleasuring himself to all of the treasures he’s taken and saved from innocent children over the years. If I ever see him again I’ll shove a block of Cabot Extra Sharp down his throat, jam 2 sticks of Polly-O string cheese up his nostrils, and leave him to slowly suffocate. Then I’d take back my bag of 20 year old rotted cheese, and finish eating what’s left.

Training Daze

Last week at work, I spent 18 hours in a training seminar for reasons that are still unknown to me. The class took place behind closed doors in a tiny, crowded room with no windows. As luck would have it, I sat directly under a ventilation system that was incessantly blowing out cold, stagnant air. This convenience gave me the privilege of dealing with a sore throat and cough after both lectures. The whole experience was sort of like being stuck in a faulty gas chamber for 2 straight days.

Apparently, the goal of this mental boot camp was to become familiar with a new pharmaceutical database that really isn’t much different from the one that we currently use. An esteemed colleague of mine felt that attending this seminar would be a step in the right direction for our careers, telling me, “It’s just one more rung in the corporate ladder”.
Bullshit. She seems to be forgetting that we’re contractors with this company, so we’re not even on the fucking ladder to begin with. We’re basically standing on the ground trying to hold the thing steady, while the people at the top drop buckets of shit on us.

I can’t complain too much about the guy who ran the training, I have to give him a lot of credit for filibustering in front of a completely disinterested audience. Unfortunately for him and everyone else in the room, Satan’s mother was attending the seminar. I know it was Satan’s mother because when this woman walked into the room, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and all of the Catholics in the room jumped up on tables and started hissing. She sat down in the chair behind me and immediately recited Psalm 23 in reverse. I was frozen.

The lecture began, and it quickly became obvious that this woman had not had any kind of clitoral stimulation in quite some time. The instructor was scrolling through a list of presentations on the screen, looking for the introductory slide show, and just to kill the awkward silence he said, “I almost have it.”
“No you don’t, you just passed the K’s,” replied the vile shrew.

For the remainder of the seminar, this woman (who by the way looked like the first member of Whoville’s 250lbs club) proceeded to play backseat lecturer. She corrected the speaker at least 17 times per lesson, and anytime someone had a question, she would field it. ‘Field it’ is actually a polite way of putting it; she more or less swallowed people whole and spit out the undigested bones and hair in pellet form. Her condescending remarks were so nauseating that I had serious thoughts of strangling her with an Ethernet cord, then bashing her face in beyond recognition with her laptop.

As if that weren’t enough to deal with, I also had the wonderful experience of sitting next to an old Asian woman who did not understand a single word coming out of the lecturer’s mouth. Every 10 seconds she would raise her hand and say, “Hi, I have kestion.” (Yes, she said “Hi” every time she raised her hand to ask a kestion.) This woman did, however, provide the only decent form of entertainment during the 2 day torture session. Towards the end of the first day, the speaker was going through a section on something called the RIM (Regulatory Information Management) project. He went on and on about the importance of this project, but I wasn’t really paying attention because I was too busy wondering if it would be less painful for me sit through another day of this, or to stick my scrotum through a meat grinder. Suddenly, I was awoken by the woman next to me who uttered the following statement:
“Hi I have kestion. When will we begin working on RIM job?”

Fuck the Gym

If I had to guess what Hell is like, I would say it’s probably similar to Bally’s Total Fitness in Wayne, NJ. Everyone in that gym wishes they were in a better place, it’s hot, sweaty, cramped, and overcrowded with Mexicans… or Italians, I honestly can’t tell the difference sometimes. The card-swiping minions that work there have no personalities or souls, and they blare ear piercing techno music while the damned grunt and groan in eternal agony. Every time I go there, my hope for humanity declines more and more.

Going to any gym in the first place is never enjoyable though, and my disdain for gyms is not limited to this particular one. The worst part about going to the gym is having to deal with some of the world’s most annoying people. I’ve hated the general population of every gym I’ve ever been to, and I’ve noticed the same cast of characters seem to pop up at each one. The following gym goers instill more rage within me than any steroid ever could:

The Hisser

Instead of breathing like a normal human being, this individual feels compelled to exhale through his teeth while lifting weight, usually in a prolonged, obnoxious fashion. Let me point something out to you Serpentor, when meat-heads talk about working on their pythons, they don’t mean it literally. Actually I take that back. You should continue trying to emulate a snake, in fact when you’re done working out, why don’t go home and peel off all of your skin, then try to swallow a capybara whole?

The Naked Old Man

I know this one is cliché since everyone has either witnessed the uncomfortable actions of the naked old man, or heard about them from at least 57 different comedians, but just let me explain my issue:
I could care less about 80 year old, wrinkled dicks flopping around, it really doesn’t bother me that much, but I had to draw the line with the naked old man after a recent, disturbing incident. Last week, I walked into the locker room to get changed while an old man was on his way out. It was crowded, and the only empty locker seemed to be the one he just vacated, so I went over and threw my bag on the white, plastic bench next to it. When I put my foot up on the bench to untie my shoe, I noticed a circular, brown stain next to my bag. It took a second or two to process the gravity of the situation, but once I did, my inner-monolog went into panic mode and starting chaotically yelling:
THAT’S SHIT!
THAT IS HUMAN SHIT FROM AN ASS!
THAT OLD MAN JUST WIPED HUMAN ASS-SHIT ON THE FUCKING BENCH!
Even though this alarm was going off, I was able to remain calm on the outside. I slowly moved my things to the next locker and had no intention of telling the next person who came in that there was shit on the bench.

The “Hey can I get a spot, bro?” Guy

No.

Mr. Notepad

I can only imagine what these fuck-stains are writing in their little journals:

Dear Gym Diary,

Today I came to the gym by myself around 5:30. I tried talking to the cute girl at the front desk but she just gave me a blank stare and scanned my card. :(
Some good news though, I added another half-pound weight block to the Ab-roller since I last wrote you! I also finally decided to give the treadmill a whirl today, but I only lasted about 5 minutes because my stomach felt funny. Must have been those Ramen Noodles and onion rings I had for lunch LOL!
Overall I think it was a pretty good work out! Not much else going on for me today, I think I’ll go home and ruin it by drinking a 6-pack of Milwaukee’s Best and eating an entire family-sized bag of Smartfood Popcorn.

Your Pal,
Drew

The Meandering Douche

This asshole conveniently spreads his gym accessories (water bottle, sweat-stained towel, notepad, etc.) across 3 machines and aimlessly wonders around them either thinking about which one to use, or how else he can ruin other people’s workouts. This guy is a nuisance because he forces you into awkwardly asking him if you can use the machine he is indecisively hovering over. It’s especially annoying when you’re listening to a death metal playlist on your ipod and are forced to turn it down because you have to interact with this prick. All I want is to be able to use the Butt Buster while Jonathan Davis tells me to slit my wrists without interruption, is that so much to ask you inconsiderate shitbag?

The Epileptic Chicken

A member of the Guido Genera, the epileptic chicken can be identified by its minimal body hair and child-sized tank top. His name derives from the peculiar head-bobbing dance that he does in between sets. Previously used by his ancestors as a courtship ritual, the chicken’s dance still serves a similar purpose today as it is intended to gain the attention of those surrounding it. The dance is usually set to a techno or hip-hop beat, and may include lip syncing, air drumming, and even minor fist pumping. The chicken’s music is played through headphones which, unbeknownst to him, prevent others from hearing what he is listening to. This makes for a very embarrassing situation, as the chicken is completely unaware that he appears to be dancing to the Mily Cyrus song that is being played on the gym radio. When his sets are done, the chicken struts over to the water fountain to fill up his 12 gallon jug and invests no concern in the line that begins forming behind him. When finished, he moves to his next apparatus, taking great pride in not being the one to move out of the way when someone walks into his path.

What is This Shit?

If somebody had told me a year ago that I would be writing a blog today, I would not have a response for them. I simply would have gone home and hung myself to avoid any possibility of that ever happening. I’ve had a long standing belief that people who write blogs are ignorant attention-whores that are completely full of themselves, and that most of them probably look like this:


Not only is having a blog extremely hypocritical on my part, it’s just a very strange venture for someone with my personality to undertake. I don’t exactly fit the mold of a stereotypical blogger, at least in my mind. I’m certainly not the type of person who craves the spotlight, and modesty is probably one of my few positive qualities as a human being. In fact I’m so humble; I have almost zero self-respect and spend most of my time verbally assaulting the bathroom mirror. Other reasons for me not to have a blog include my horrible grammar and spelling (I just spelled grammar with an e and had to be corrected by Microsoft Word), and the fact that I type with 3 fingers at max.

However, I am similar to most bloggers in that it is my worst qualities that have pulled me into this world of self-promotion. These flaws would be, without question, my temper and my impatience with the everyday hassles of modern society. I’ve spent my entire life with a perception that would make a half-empty glass seem like a good thing, and as I get older, my patience seems to be wearing thinner right along with my hairline. In order to delay the inevitable aneurism that I will eventually succumb to, I figured I should try to turn all these negative qualities into something positive before I go to work one day and pull one of these:



So I’ve decided to vent my frustrations through writing.

The majority of what you will see on this site will indeed be the diarrhea that my mind excretes from being fed so much intolerable garbage everyday, but it won’t all be querulous rants resulting from my contempt of reality. I’ll also be sharing stories from my awkward childhood and adolescence, my adventures and questionable behavior from young-adulthood, commentary on this generation’s sorry excuse for a pop culture, and anything else that I find funny or absurd, and feel that other people can relate to.

My plan is to write solely for entertainment purposes, and I’ll try to keep from be preachy or political, but I can’t make any promises. After 4 years of education at a school full of hippies and environmentalists, the seeds of liberal douchehood have been planted in my head. Those seeds were waterboarded thoroughly by the Bush administration, and now that I’ve spent close to a year experiencing the horrors of corporate life, those seeds are seriously beginning to sprout. But if I ever do end up going overboard with social commentary, take it with a grain of salt, because I really don’t know shit about politics.

I’m sure a lot of you are asking, “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Honestly, no I don’t. I’ve been out of school for a year now, and since alcohol has dissolved every ounce of athleticism I once had, I really needed to find some kind of hobby to at least salvage what’s left of my brain. Now before you call me a nerd for wasting my time writing worthless tirades, think about how many hours you logged on X-Box or how many times you updated that self-absorbed Facebook status today. Like anyone gives a shit you just got back from a hard days work at Macy’s and have to take Mittens to the vet because he ate a used tampon out of the garbage, go twitter yourself.

I’m not doing this to promote myself in any way; quite frankly I’ll probably be doing the exact opposite. Writing is just something I enjoy doing, and a decent amount of people seem to enjoy reading my crap, so I started this as a way to make it available to them. My goal with this is to make people laugh. Whether you’re laughing with me or at me I don’t care, as long as you find it entertaining. I think the real reason I decided to do this is that writing seems to have a therapeutic effect on me. Believe or not, I’ve actually found that I’m a happier person since starting this method of catharsis. Unfortunately, I think people find me funnier when I’m completely miserable. I can’t ever fucking win.