The Truth about Cats and Dogs

I like dogs, but it’s hard to respect them. They’re the insecure sluts of the animal kingdom.

Dogs have zero dignity, always shamelessly flaunting their furry little bodies in the hopes of receiving even an ounce of physical attention. Give a dog a shred of affection and he’ll love you forever. Abuse him, he’ll come back for more. It would be endearing if only it weren’t so sad. Also, dogs are dirty.

Cats, on the other hand, are like those abstinance-touting promise-ring girls from high school. They’re meticulously groomed, they won’t stand for any heavy petting unless they feel like you’ve earned it, and they have to be in the mood.

What we need is a hybrid: a Dat, or maybe a Cog. An animal that will surrender the lovin’ when you need it, but doesn’t go whoring himself out to every guy with a milkbone.

I don’t think this is too much to ask. I want a pet that has a sense of self respect, but isn’t too cool to sit on command. One that will play a mean game of fetch but won’t chase his tail in circles like a retard.

Once again, biotech industry, you need to get on that. I’m offering these ideas free of charge…you could be raking it in by now.

Dats and Cogs: the ultimate holiday stocking stuffers.

The Truth about Married People

Married people always get fat. It’s the majestic cycle of life: meet that special someone, exchange vows, swell up like a big sweaty blowfish.

You can determine how long two people have been married by comparing their current waistlines to the waistlines they sported in their wedding photos. Each five pounds is like a tree ring, marking another year of TV dinners, Hamburger Helper, and Chinese takeout.

Not that I blame them. What’s the incentive to stay skinny once you’re married? Who are you trying to impress?

Staying in shape is a single person’s game. And I’ll admit, it’s a legitimate pain in the ass. Maintaining a six pack is basically a full-time job…one that I intend to quit immediately if I ever submit to a ring. I’m the ultimate bait and switch. Do you really think I’ll be rocking washboard abs after a year of marriage, future wife? Please. Why bother? The moment you say “I do” you’re legally obligated to stay with me or I’ll take half your stuff. Now meet me at Mickey Dees.

Except…not so fast. Now that I think of it, divorce is a consideration. Dammit. What’s worse than being a fat married person? Being a fat divorcee. No bueno.

Foiled again.

Fine. I’ll stay in shape after marriage, but only out of spite and distrust.

The Truth about Social Etiquette

I’m all about the witty banter. Seriously, I rock that shit. I have maybe five legitimate skills in life: writing, snarking, basketball, guitar, and conversation.

Good conversation is like a sport—feel out your partner, give and take, roll with the punches. And just like a sport, there are rules. I go, then you go. Speak only in shared and agreed-upon languages (no fair busting out with random Italian phrases and Pig Latin off the cuff). Also, topics should be appropriate for the particular circumstances in which the dialogue is taking place. Sideswiping your conversational partner with an inappropriate topic is a definite foul.

Let me give you an example of a conversation gone awry. Here’s an excerpt from an actual first-date dialogue:

Me: So tell me about your craziest dating experience.
Girl: Well, this one guy started choking me during sex.
Me: Um.
Girl: We hadn’t even discussed it ahead of time. But it was sort of my fault for mentioning handcuffs.
Me: (motioning urgently to bartender) Yeah, not cool. Guys shouldn’t just go strangling people all spontaneous-like. I always give the heads-up before I choke a bitch. Ha.

Roll with the punches, baby. The weird thing is that this girl was otherwise totally normal. Our conversation to that point had included literary theory, college, work, family, and fear of spiders. The standards. But when she blindsided me with a piñata full of crazy, she derailed the flow of the conversation and blew my mojo. I was flustered. It was all downhill from there.

Keep this in mind, daters. Social etiquette exists for a reason. It’s the bedrock of civilized society. If we collectively decide to throw the conversational rulebook out the window, we might as well start drawing straws Donner Party style. Veering into inappropriate conversational territory is the first step toward the zombie apocalypse.

You’ve been warned.

Tangent: Dentist

Listen up, dentist. Quit with the guilt trips. Do you not understand basic economics?

I brush twice daily and floss at night, but if I didn’t have a weakness for Sour Skittles, you’d be out of a job. My sugar addiction is bankrolling your practice. If you were smart you’d be sending me home with hard candy and lemons instead of that cheap disposable toothbrush.

Now shut the hell up and commence with drilling.

The Truth about Karma

Karma is like God—I want to believe it exists, but there’s just too much evidence to the contrary.

Exhibit A: good people. I surround myself with folk who are sweet and friendly and kind, because hanging out with bastards gets old. And these amazing friends of mine have, almost without exception, shitty luck.

I’ve never witnessed a verifiable example of karma. Instead, I’ve watched assholes like Steve Jobs get rich and survive cancer. Whatever the opposite of karma is, that’s what I’ve seen. Anti-karma.

Michael Vick. Kim Jong il. Paris Hilton. OJ Simpson. Near as I can tell, there’s often a directly proportional relationship between how awful someone is inside and how generously they’re rewarded in life. The opposite, unfortunately, does not seem to hold true.

 

My roommate is a perfect example. Despite being a genuinely well-meaning person, the guy has rotten luck. I get nervous every time he steps outdoors. He’s like Wile E. Coyote, without the homicidal roadrunner-obsession. If anyone is ever going to die via airborne piano, my roommate is that guy.

When I first considered moving in with him, I wondered whether I was setting myself up for disaster. Could bad luck be contagious? As it turns out, nope. Which brings me to…

Exhibit B: me.

I don’t deserve approximately 90% of the good stuff in my life. (This is an optimistic figure. It may be that I actually deserve zero percent of the good stuff, but I’m generous enough to give myself the benefit of the doubt. Wait—generosity is a positive quality. See? I’m not all bad.)

Even though I have a tendency to be a right bastard, my life is peachy. I’m actually beginning to wonder if, via some horrible cosmic mixup, my bad karma is being inflicted on my roommate. Could it be that as I go bumbling through life, leaving a path of destruction in my wake, my roommate plays whipping boy to my spoiled rich kid?

Every time the universe kicks my roommate’s metaphorical ass, I think back on the last year of my life and wince. With each new car accident, broken heart, twisted ankle, pulled muscle, and unexplained medical condition he suffers, I can pinpoint a correspondingly stupid and/or terrible thing I’ve done that potentially resulted in his misplaced physical or mental anguish.

Maybe it’s just a matter of time. It could be the case that the universe achieves equilibrium only in the long term. If there’s an afterlife, I’m supremely fucked. But until then, it seems to be my destiny to keep riding this swell of undeserved luck.

And my roommate will just have to stay on the lookout for falling anvils.

The Truth about Concerts

When did musicians become so damn lazy? Every time I attend a concert I feel like I’m doing 80% of the work.

Bands these days are all about delegating the rocking and rolling. Seriously, if I wanted to sing the choruses myself, I’d karaoke. I didn’t pay hard-earned money to listen to a thousand soccer moms screeching Livin’ on A Prayer.

And it’s not just singing—the frontman will alternately instruct you to put your hands in the air, jump up and down, and at some point one of the band members will seize the mic all intense-like and shout at the crowd, “I want you to go fucking crazy out there!!”

Seems drastic. I’m hesitant to relinquish my sanity over a concert ticket. And anyway, if I’d known I was expected to go crazy I would have worn boots. Going crazy in sneakers seems ill advised.

 

 

I’m always surprised at the variety of activities expected of me at a rock show. During the last three concerts that I attended I was respectively urged to Tear this place apart, Rip this motherfucker down, and perplexingly during a rain storm, Tear the goddamn roof off.

Hmm. Meanwhile, I take it you’re just going to sing. Is that how the next couple hours will be going down? To clarify—you’ll be crooning about humping groupies while I’m going insane and attempting to pry a 20-ton steel roof off of the auditorium. Seems fair.

Sometimes the instructions don’t even make sense. Like this inquiry from a singer at the most recent concert I attended: Are you ready to rip a hole in the sky??

Um. No? Maybe? I’m not ruling it out, but more instruction will be needed. I can’t speak for everyone, but I’m figuring blueprints and rocket fuel will be required at the very least. (Actually, for a moment after this one particular singer yelled about sky-holes I considered that maybe I’d underestimated the band–was rip a hole in the sky some kind of rhetorical reference to ozone depletion? Was he going to follow up by admonishing, well it’s too late because you already did, you Freon-using bastards? But as it turned out, rip a hole in the sky was code for yell with enthusiasm. Mildly disappointing.)

So do your freakin’ job, singers. I’m not the one getting paid millions of dollars for two hours of work per day. Here’s the deal: I buy the tickets, you put on the show.

Cheers. Now that we understand each other, let’s talk about those concession stand prices…