Attention Whoring, Depressed, Pathetic, Selfish

The Heat is Making Me Look Like I’m Cleaning Vagina

I only have one pair of shorts. The pair is also nearly the only non-undergarmet article of my clothing that wasn’t previously owned. It’s a pair of athletic shorts I bought during the week and a half that I wanted to play basketball with my friends because I had nothing better going on in my life. That was a bad summer. All summers suck. I hate the heat. I get dehydrated easily. This is the furthest south I’ve lived in the summer. This is the hottest summer of my life. Fuck New York. I’ve started drinking Gatorade all the time to try to maintain a decent level of electrolytes.

Fuck New York.

New York is making my look like a douche – Wearing athletic shorts and drinking large containers of Gatorade.

There was a douche in my nerdiest math class who wore the same outfit and drank the same thing while he didn’t take notes because he was “too smart for that.” I hated him. I was usually the kid who was too smart to take notes, but this class was fucking impossible. This was Number Theory with Bressoud. Known for being one of the hardest math classes at my school. There were only 7 guys in the class and I was the least nerdy by far. Not by far. By so far that I couldn’t even see the next least nerdy person if we were lined up on the nerd spectrum. I was suddenly the stupidest person in class. My weekly Risk games made me seem cool because I had three friends to play Risk with.

One of these kids way less cool than me and way smarter than me was Jacob. Jacob also liked weightlifting. He was a douche. He would chug 24 ounces of Gatorade every class period in the midst of answering questions I was struggling with. UGH.

I wasn’t jealous of him. He had a really depressing life. He had 4 facebook friends (the true sign of coolness), and I had only ever seen him hanging out with one person: his girlfriend – who was almost as depressing as him – and they broke up at some point, so his life must have sucked. I wasn’t jealous of him. I was confused about myself when I was around him.

Socially, I’ve never considered myself a success. I’ve never cared to be one, so that’s okay. I wear clothes I find comfortable, I am mean the first time I meet people, I don’t censor my masturbation talk. I’m not a social success. What do I have over this Jacob kid though? Not my intellect. Not my athletic abilities. But I’m definitely better. I know that. So I must be better then him somehow, and social prowess is my last avenue to blame. I don’t want to only have my social abilities to rely on to prove that I’m better than somebody. I don’t care about society. Fuck society… No. Fuck him for making me embrace society.

comedy, Socialism

I Get Paid for What?

I’m gonna get on a subway, go to some woman’s house, and spend an hour with her explaining that adding negative numbers is the same as subtracting. I’m gonna walk away with $45.

I’ve spent weeks rehearsing, discussing, advertising and writing/re-writing what I think is a brilliant sketch show that analyzes sex, bodies, grossness, and me sucking tits. It’s really fucking clever and smart and every other good adjective I can come up with. I will make far less than $45.

People don’t respect comedy. No comedy movie wins at the Oscars, yet it is the hardest art to create. It is the only art where you are forced to get a reaction at the time of presenting it, otherwise you’ve failed. Nobody watches a comedy, sits stoically throughout and then goes home and says “I think I can see where they were coming from, that was really great.” If you weren’t laughing, it wasn’t succeeding. And yet, laughter can’t be the point. Good comedy means you were presenting something interesting, something relatable, something that will cause people to think, but as a side note you are forcing a guttural reaction from your audience. No other art has as hard a task, yet comedy still refuses to be acknowledged as difficult.

We’re charging $10/ticket ($7 online) and that is the most we have ever or will ever charge. Theatery plays get to charge $20-40 a ticket. An hour of me telling you that standard deviation and standard error are different costs $45. This world doesn’t understand what’s difficult. I think we still pay people to do the things that we don’t want to do. We all want to do comedy, we all want to make people laugh, so we refuse to admit that what people are doing is too hard for us. No one has any desire to discuss the normal curve or research Brechtian methods of dealing with a monologue about homosexuality in the 1950s, so we pretend that the reason we don’t do it is because it’s too hard.

It’s always been my problem with teaching math. I never feel like I’m doing anything because most of my job is just therapist – convincing the person that they can do math and that they should try. Well, I’m taking the opposite approach with comedy. You can’t do comedy, it’s really fucking hard. All those people that have been laughing at your jokes are just being polite, and weird voices are not actually funny.

I feel like I can blame this on capitalism somehow.


Betty White is Overrated

I’m a liberal. I’m also surrounded by liberals. The thing I think we are accused of that is most valid is that we love the victim. I don’t see anything wrong with that though. Rooting for the underdog is fun.

What does piss me off is when people decide they are rooting for the underdog, but don’t actually do any research as to who the good underdog is.

I like Betty White fine. She’s a funny lady. She has had this huge spike in popularity lately though because people have decided it’s cool to like old women who can be funny – as though its soooooo rare and she’s the only one. Sure, Joan Rivers has gotten some of the praise she’s deserved as part of this oldwoman fever, but where’s the love for Phyllis Diller? Bitch was fucking hilarious and she was old when she was on the Ed Sullivan show. She’s now 93 and is a constant on Comedy Central roasts being much dirtier and funnier than Betty White’s “hilariously offensive” stuff on SNL.

I don’t want to say negative things about Betty White, I just feel like this hype is undeserved and she’s become the poster girl for old women doing comedy despite the fact that she’s.. eh. Her SNL was not the best SNL of the season, Baldwin’s was. She is not the reason women were allowed into comedy, Joan Rivers is. She’s not the only old lady willing to make a joke about her twat, a lot of people are.

People think that olden times were such different times, and in a lot of ways they were. Fewer offensive things were allowed on television, and Lenny Bruce, and to a much lesser extent George Carlin helped that, but that doesn’t mean the people were that different. People still fucked. People still felt awkward about fucking. People still masturbated and felt self loathing. People were people and we forget that.

So my advice is next time you see an old person tell them a dirty joke and discuss with them the shame you felt last time you tickled your twat or played with your penis. They’ll love it. And they probably have better stories about it than you.

comedy, Depressed

Burn Victim: A Joke.!?;

The other day I burned my finger pulling a muffin out of the toaster. I only touched the muffin, but the muffin was so hot that it created a large blister of burning on my thumb. I’m not going to talk anymore about how I fingered a hot muffin because I have important other things to talk about. I thought this was the worst pain I could deal with because I am a large festering bag of unable to deal with pain.

Yesterday I went to Coney Island for the Mermaid Parade. That’s right – Mermaid Parade. I usually hate parades. This was awesome. I am now literally in the worst pain someone can be in though because I am also a festering bag of stupid unpreparedness. My face is bright red, my arms are bright red, and my dick is bright red too because I comfort myself and distract myself from pain with pleasure.

Why am I writing this? Because I wanted to give you the context under which I could make a bunch of inappropriate or stupid jokes about my situation.

1. I can’t imagine anyone who has a worse life than me. At least those people in Darfur can’t get sunburned.

2. This is the most apeeling my arms have ever been. Because I have very little muscle mass and the skin on my arms is peeling.

3. I’m in so much pain that I leave a trail of tears wherever I go – like a redskin.

4. I hated rednecks so much in high school, but now I stand in redfaced embarrassment because I am one of them. Because I’m poor.

5. Here’s a love poem. Roses are red, I’m more red, why do roses get all the credit for being red? Have you seen me lately? I’m really red! I’m way redder than roses. This is bullshit, stop talking about roses, use me in your love poems!!

Indignant, Lazy, race

Alvin Greene and his Amazing Technicolor Dreams

I feel like I should write about Alvin Greene winning the Democratic nomination in South Carolina. I really have nothing to say. I still feel like I have to say something because this is about a person who is being hated on for not campaigning the way the establishment wants him to campaign when he should really be hated on because he’s a moron who can’t answer questions without looking like he’s doing a bad Michael Cera impression talking to a girl.

Not calling him a moron isn’t a matter of political correctedness, I tend to think that there is a certain level of PC that is necessary in order to make discussions productive and not have them turn into emotional yelling matches because people were offended. This is a matter of tactfulness, and tactfulness is stupid.

Getting offended over someone being politically incorrect is somewhat valid – you are not simply defending yourself, you are defending a race, gender, group of people who identify with something that was just reduced to a stereotype. Getting offended about a lack of tact is stupid. That’s just getting defensive because someone made fun of you. Deal with it. People may not like you, but that is one person’s opinion of one person. I think Alvin Greene is an idiot. I don’t think he was planted. I don’t think that the way he campaigned shows some destruction of our political system. I think he’s stupid. Him. Alvin Greene is dumb – that has nothing to do with some larger conspiracy or with some generalization we can make about anybody. Alvin Greene is his own person, and that person is not a bright person.

People don’t want to say that. People want to say “I don’t think he’s dumb, I just think it’s confusing how he got nominated” or “It’s not that he’s a bad person, it just doesn’t make sense because this is not how things are done.” NOOOO! He’s a dumb, bad person. Maybe not a bad person. He’s dumb. That’s fine. We need dumb people to make me feel smart.

Alvin Greene makes us feel smart. If he could win the nomination, then who says I can’t be happy. I’m glad he won.

Indignant, Socialism

I Guess I’m Okay With Capitalism

First of all, you should all check out my real writing gig and like it or share it or digg it or tweet it or shirk it or jazz it or starburst it or whatever.

Secondly people hate getting made fun of. People like getting supported. People think these are in opposition. They are not. In my ideal world (aka: THE ideal world) everybody would get supported and made fun of. No, everybody would take insult as a form of support. I’ve said before that I my desire for attention does not often spill over into a desire to be liked. If people are paying attention to the fact that I’m talking/doing/being that is compliment enough and they need not show their support with facebook comments like: “YAY!!!” or “I <3 U” or “Whooo! Good! Positive!” I’m not saying that I hate that. I love hearing that people like my stuff too, I’m just saying that that isn’t the point (Except when I’m getting paid sort of based on how much people tweet/like/starburst my stuff).

Criticism is great. I love being told the flaws in what I do – sometimes it pushes me to do better, sometimes it pushes me further toward the thing that was supposedly hated, but either way it pushes me and I like to push it. Which reminds me that I am abnormally attracted to Salt-N-Pepa.

My last entry was about how I hated pretty much all of my friends because they are posers who only pretend to like the World Cup because it has the word “World” in it. Take it as a compliment because at least I’m paying attention to you. This is the one thing I like about capitalism: That buying something is your mark of support, not telling people you like it. You can buy something and pretend you hate it, but you are still supporting the creator with your purchase. Capitalism fucks over irony.


You Don’t Like the World Cup, You’re an Asshole

I get when people get excited about the Olympics despite having no knowledge of sports because it is a sport where you get to be patriotic in rooting for a team. I don’t do that, but I get it. The world cup is a soccer event. If you don’t watch or care about the MLS or any of the European soccer leagues, then you don’t get to care about the World Cup. I can maybe even understand if you get interested in all sports mildly and this is one that gets broadcast enough that you can pay attention, but don’t use the World Cup as your method of sounding tolerant of other cultures.

If you are from America the biggest sporting event is the Super Bowl. Biggest playoff season: March Madness. Not paying attention to those, but paying attention to the World Cup does not mean you are closer to international people, it means you are an asshole. You don’t care about the world cup, and that’s fine. You know who cares about the world cup in other countries – the same people who you think are dickheads who care too much about March Madness here. Soccer is not somehow a less bro-ey douchey sport than other sports. All sports weight physical abilities over intellectual ones, so those same bullies who beat you up in high school that made you hate Football players are playing Soccer and bullying around nerdy kids like you in England and Cameroon.

And you aren’t rooting for the underdog sport. You’re just joining a group of people who aren’t near you. You are identifying with people who you have no reason to identify with – you are posing. You are a poser. No. You are an asshole.

And don’t tell me that soccer is a more interesting sport. It’s not. Hockey is soccer, but faster and more interesting. Lacrosse is soccer with sticks and WAY cooler. Basketball is soccer with more strategy and cooler jumping. Half the games end in 1-1 ties in soccer. I’m not saying that you can’t find soccer fun (I used to play soccer), but I am saying that the only way you can find soccer enjoyable to watch is if you grew up in a culture where soccer was so ingrained that you watched it since you were sitting on a parent’s lap cheering because your daddy told you to. Which is the same reason anybody finds Baseball interesting – that shit is dull.

If you don’t like soccer, you don’t get to like the world cup. The Olympics are different. Nobody claims to think that track and field is interesting. People watch the coverage of the Olympics more than the games themselves and readily admit to that fact. People claim allegiance with teams from weird countries that they want to be like when it comes to the World Cup and I’m tired of it. Fuck you, you posing asshole piece of shit – you don’t like the world cup.

Lonely, Pathetic

One in a Thousand

I am going to a wedding tonight. I forgot I was going to this wedding until yesterday, and I have a guest in town. I feel … bad? I feel fine. I feel as though if I hadn’t been going to visit people, having people visit and shit I would feel guilty, but I’ve done my good deed. Hanging out is a deed.

We went to a restaurant yesterday where a teenager had booked a spot to play his guitar and sing a couple octaves higher than he could and flatter than the chests of his not yet developed groupies. There was a large crowd there to watch him play. None of them were there to see him play. They were all there because this was an excuse to hang out. This was the excuse they could give their parents to be out of the house, to see other people their age. They couldn’t just go somewhere to chill. They couldn’t just get a call from their friend and be like: “My porch 10 minutes.” They had to go see their awful friend whine into a microphone.

I don’t miss being a teenager.

There was one kid there who accidentally got invited during science class. It’s a public area and it’s a kid’s “show” so nobody can kick him out. He doesn’t really have any friends so he doesn’t know that he could just leave and no one would care. He sits awkwardly at the bar waiting until this is done and he can go home and he can think he socialized so that he can pretend he’s not as pathetic as he knows he is.

I still find myself doing that sometimes. I still find myself sitting at a bar with people I don’t know and really don’t like – forcing myself to sit through the night hoping this is the night where something interesting happens. 99.9% of the time I’m wrong and I’ve made myself more lonely than I was before, but on that .1% of the time that I have a misadventure: I have a misadventure.

This is so terribly written so far. I haven’t edited a single sentence, but I also care so little about what I’m writing that I don’t want to read it again. I feel like this is so obvious – this is an obvious way to live life: To go against my desires to sit on my couch playing NBA2K10 while eating sandwiches and chips and instead hope for the 1 out of 1000 chance that my life provides me with interesting things.

Maybe this wedding will be interesting. I doubt it. I also have to wake up at 6:00am tomorrow for work. This wedding is gonna suck, but I really have to go and play the lonely-lottery.

Lonely, My favorites

Feel My Ass

Coming back to NYC after a week away really makes you realize how much it smells like pee, and how much the smell of urine has become a smell of home.

Some middle school friend of a friend found us at a bar and demanded/exclaimed “Beyond any sexual fantasy anyone might have, feel my ass.” I want that to symbolize the trip so here’s my attempt at forcing some shitdrivel.

I sit on the subway writing this as the R train screams slowly down the tracks. Two people have been forced to plug their ears out of pain. At home a British friend who is visiting has accidentally fallen asleep on my roommates bed making me feel guilty for forcing her into our home but also for how disgusting  my bed is – therefore not making it a viable option to rest one’s head in unless that head is filled with the self obsessed ramblings  of a lazy neurotic. New York smells like urine, remember.

Charlotte was full of friends, parents who tried to force kindess on me in a way that made me so comfortable I couldn’t feel uncomfortable (that sentence is profound not stupid – you’re stupid) and it was cheap and fun.

New York has always been and still is my fantasy. Partially this is because only here can I hone my comedic skills so often and for so many people, but partially because my fantasies include the romanticized idea of filth – of the struggling artists with morals but no means. When we fantasize, sexually, we fantasize about body parts all over but one of those is typically the ass. I love a good ass. The ass is also a thing that has been referred to by my dad as “the shit factory.” The ass  is gross, but that’s part of the fantasy. We may not want to believe tat poop factors into our masturbation habits, but we like to be so sexually and emotionally connected that we are willing to get down with the dirtiest part of the person. It is beyond our sexual fantasies – feel my ass.

Lonely, My favorites

How Sports Learned me Geography, and how they’re ruining names

I collected basketball cards as a kid. I also collected baseball cards as a kid. I also had no friends as a kid. These little glossy photos became my friend substitutes – my “I can’t believe they’re not friends!” When i hung out and played games it was with Tim Hardaway, Byron Russell, Fred McGriff, and Wade Boggs. One of the games I would often play involved splitting up players and battling their statistics against each other. I would create juvenile efficiency ratings and weight positions differently in my attempts to determine which of my made up teams would win in this fantasy battle of bball. One method I used often was to split up players based on the geographic area of their team. This way I could have a team of Jason Kidd (First Mavs run), Clyde Drexler (of Houston), Jamal Mashburn, David Robinson and Hakeem Olajowon battle it out against the Northeast powerhouse of Sam Cassell (Nets), Allan Houston, Jerry Stackhouse, Antoine Walker, and Patrick Ewing. I was soon organizing the players on the imaginary map that covered my floor.

In college a friend challenged me to draw a map of the US by memory on a whiteboard. To my surprise I did it well and it was thanks to basketball cards. I also knew the cities of these states and I knew what these cities meant – who lived in these places. I knew Atlanta was full of birds of prey (Falcons, Hawks), and that Baltimore was the pussy-ass version of that (Ravens, Orioles). The middle of Texas was still the old west (Cowboys, Mavericks, Spurs, and Stars) and Phoenix was in the middle of the desert (Diamondbacks, Suns, Coyotes). Houston was where space was born (Astros, Rockets), Detroit had cars (Pistons, Red Wings), and Boston had defunct sects of humans that were anachronistically placed in modern times (Bruins, Celtics, Patriots).

Teams keep being formed, but with the explosion of the internet comes the opportunity for poorly done democracy in the naming process. This form of naming (polling internetians) kills the team owners power in forming children’s opinions of cities. This can be good or bad. I assumed that the Bay Area was a magical world of warring ancient gangs (Raiders, Warriors, Kings, Giants, Athletics) which wasn’t so far off, and I thought Chicago was either overrun by large animals or where Wall St. existed (Bulls, Bears, Cubs) which was very far off. Now branding of our cities is left to the lonely teenagers who spend too much time on the internet, and I would not have been creative at that time.

I learned that DC had lots of murders because the Bullets claimed it as their home, but in 1998 they asked the city to come up with a less violent name and the fans chose “The Wizards.” There is nothing magical about that city except for how fantastically slow it takes to pass legislation (WHOA!!!! BAM!). This isn’t fair, kids shouldn’t grow up thinking that there are magicians in our capital, or that Oklahoma is a constant lightening storm, or that massive jungle cats roam the streets of Charlotte (Bobcats, Panthers), or that Tennesseans are a race of powerful gods (Titans), or that Minnesota is full of people who confuse adjectives and nouns (Wild). Or maybe they should. Maybe this is the fun of democracy is that we still must listen to our stupidest members.

One thing is for sure, we should demand that teams change names when they change cities. I was full of misconceptions growing up thinking LA was the land of a thousand lakes (Lakers) or that Utah had any black people (Jazz).

Change is good, I guess I like it, but we can’t be satisfied with the fact that we changed once. We started renaming teams, great, we used democracy (sort of), great, let’s get better names, let’s educate our lonely teenagers so they vote for cooler names and let’s name teams after very prevalent and possibly less interesting things in each city.

New Team Names:

The Boston Drunks, New York Snobs,  The Miami Skin Cancer, The New Orleans People Who Should Move, The Dallas Secessionists, The Phoenix Racists, The Los Angeles Fake Boobs, The Philadelphia Unnecessary Anger, The Seattle People Who Miss Nirvana Because it Made Their City Seem Relevant, and The Detroit (This Name for Sale).