Yesterday I almost shit myself.

After forgoing the option to take the subway home in favor of a 2 mile walk back home, I found myself running the last six blocks like a penguin on meth as I forced my sphincter closed. Having only eaten ramen and cereal all day, I knew my toilet expedition would be sloppy, and I wasn’t excited about the possibility of that sloppiness happening in my pants.

Using one hand to manipulate the keys needed to open my apartment door and the other to hold my buttcheeks shut, I frantically danced the dance of distraction to try to trick my mind into forgetting that I had liquid poo attempting to fall out of my ass. I swung open the four doors needed to get to the bathroom leaving keys and clothes on the floor in my wake and found shit falling out as I began my descent to the toilet. I had made it!

As I sat, letting waste drain out of my body, hoping that no intruders would take this opportunity to walk into my apartment as all the doors were still wide open, I thought what would have happened if one of my roommates had been taking a shower or had their own waste removal process happening at that time.

This blog entry would be a lot more interesting, that’s for sure.

Attention Whoring

The Wrong Attention

I have an enormous pimple on my neck that looks like a red button that when undone opens a secret passage to my windpipe. I also went to get a haircut today. I replied to a free haircut ad in craigslist so that I didn’t have to spend the money I didn’t have.

Out of the subway, I found myself forced to walk through a sudden and long-lasting downpour. My eyebrows pursed to keep out the rain, and suddenly I looked like the saddest person in New York City. As the only one on the street without a hat or umbrella, I had long rivers of water running down my face where my hair that was too long connected with my face. This just happened to be exactly where tears would also run if I were to be crying my way through the streets of Manhattan. The crunched face and confused look of being lost, only served to make me look more depressed.

I finally found the hairdresser with my hair looking like a drowned spider sitting atop my head. The house music, stylish hairstyles and lime green tables told me I was in the wrong place, but the address told me I was in the right place. My hair stylist took me to a back room so that I could get dried off and change into a haircutting gown. I sat waiting, staring at myself in the mirror not realizing that I was supposed to find my stylist once I was done drying my hair. Why a changing room was necessary, I still don’t know.

As I looked around me, I realized I was the only person there not from Williamsburg or Upper West Side. I was also the only one whose clothes weren’t worth at least a weeks worth of salary. I was also the only one whose clothes were wrinkled and dirty because I had forgotten to do laundry the day before. I was also the only one who had an enormous pimple extruding from my neck.

I had spent that morning squeezing my pimple and wiping out the juices it left behind with a tissue paper. It had only served to make the area around redder and more noticeable. I chose the other route and pretended I didn’t exist, and neither did my pimple as I sat patiently watching a student grimace as he chopped my hair. My mind turned to the future. In the future I would have to know whether or not to tip this man who was giving me a free haircut. I desperately searched for people finishing up their hair services to see if they were exchanging money. I found two souls just conversing after their curly adventure into head enlarging. They seemed ready to go and I stared at the customer’s hands as they moved around in her pockets. I’m sure she thought I was just creepily surveying her crotch. Finally the customer was ready to depart and the the two hugged and then she left. Hugged? They must be friends. Friends don’t need to tip, they’re on a totally different level than me. Or she’s not a friend, and you’re supposed to hug after a haircut here. I’m fine with that, but if that’s not the policy and I go in for a hug instead of a tip things could get awkward.

I turned my attention back to the present and began playing with my hands underneath my full body bib. I silently laughed at what others might perceive as me playing with myself while a tattooed man plays with my hair. My laughs turned audible when I scratched my knee and I had to stop.

As I left, I assumed everyone was staring at me, waiting for my next screw up to come. Was it going to be a fashion faux-pa or an uncomfortable social exit, or was it simply going to be my gross pimple oozing as I left the building. As much as I like attention, pimple-attention is no fun.

Indignant, Media, My favorites, Socialism

A Defense of Self Deprecation

I was in a bar in Seattle when I turned 22. This was a half art museum – half bar setup. My fellow bar mates were an eclectic group of hostel goers from around the world, most of whom had no idea that it was my birthday. Sipping on my local lager, I approached one of the few members of our group I had yet to talk to. The Australian hipster with the short hair to match her short skirt seemed in a daze staring forward at one of the museum’s attractions. It was a samurai sword instruction video with the sound turned off and remixed to include slower and faster motion views of metal slicing through pig carcasses.

I followed her gaze for a minute then turned to her with what I thought was a really brilliant joke: “You have these videos at home?”

Her response was “No” and a look that questioned my sanity.

There may have been a cultural/language barrier, but I tend to think all Australians are stupid because of this girl. This is not an assumption I can make about our other English speaking friends across the pond. My entire west coast trip was spent with the less dentally inclined people of our world. That is to say that while I wasn’t pulling and British birds, my flat would have been full of fierce fannies. I think. I’m not really sure what I just said.

The female former empire-ers were my only friends in the multi-cultural world of hostel jumping and there was reason. The female part was because I frighten easily at demands to chug and find myself attempting to change the subject when asked to brag about the last lady I snogged. The Brit part is because their sensibilities toward humor are more like mine (aka: objectively better). This is a fact I have rediscovered through constant television research.

With the outside planning on getting colder, I’ve been figuring out ways to make my bed a place I never need to leave. So, crackers and cream cheese becomes a meal and I’ve found new ways to stream television on my computer. My success at finding humorous half hours of life has been impressive. Beyond the well known adventures of Ricky Gervais, the Brits have been churning out hit after hit after hit without accolades from us American swine.

Where am I going with this?

If you skip ahead to 2:42 you hear that Beck’s true fear is of our television becoming similar to Britain’s. And O’Reilly’s fears are that we turn into Sweden. (Go to 2:45)

I’d love to move up the quality of life index, the human development index, life expectancy, and in humor.

This all stems from the overall fear of self deprecation. The one thing that capitalism undeniably puts a halt to is admitting failure. Capitalism is a system that feeds the need to prove yourself bigger, better, and stronger than the competition, and in this case the competition has become other countries like Britain, Sweden, Canada, and France. Our stubbornness in assuming we are the best and changing would admit weakness has left us weaker than these countries in technology, living, and, most importantly,  humor. This is something I will not stand. Let us admit our faults – self-deprecation can go a long way, maybe even lead to universal health care.

Horny, Indignant, Selfish

Two Female Fantasies I Wrote on the LIRR


I’ve always been sort of turned on by the idea of banging/dating a female basketball player. It’s not because I’m sexually fascinated by the concept of screwing someone taller – it is in no way related to a shallow sexual fantasy. Female basketball players are people who are socially competent (they have to be as basketball is a team sport that involves communication), but for some reason, typically height, were relegated to the unglamorous side of the social bubble. Cheerleaders are popular, soccer players are sexy, even the drama queen could be a man killer, but shooting free throws never got you to score. It’s not that I want to pummel my cock into a tight virgin pussy, quite the opposite, but the idea of someone who didn’t get laid when they wanted to is attractive to me for egotistical reasons, and basketball players are never the subject of heterosexual male fantasy even though they are not typically unattractive.

Secondly, I like the feel of athletic shorts and a girl in a basketball jersey is very attractive. No other uniform is quite this sexy. A softball uniform is the least flattering, skin-covering, dull colored outfit in the world, while the basketball jersey is like a n invitation with its ease of access of all parts, all just being below an elastic band. Unsurprisingly, I enjoy the idea of less physical work leading to more physical pleasure.

Lastly, the relationship fantasies that go along with basketball are fun for me. It’s one of the few sports that you can play one on one in. Golf, I suck at, and is very slow and quiet. Tennis, I’m also pretty bad at and all talking is separated by 50 feet and a net, it also tends to be competitive. Basketball is a sport I am halfway decent at, to the point that it would be somewhat competitive if I played basketball with a girl who stopped playing once they reached college or senior year of high school or something. The game can also be uncompetitive as it is easy to forget the score, and there is a lot of physical contact and trash talking. The romantic implications of rejecting her shot only to have her turn around a drain a three in my face as I taunt her about what I would like to do to her mother, to which I respond; “okay, but I do really want to meet your mother” are hornifying. So, if I could meet a girl in athletic shorts who has similar uncomfortable awkwardness about her height and what it made her do, and is willing to have a non-competitive game of trashtalking one-on-one, I think I’d propose.

Probably I’d just think of a reason why she would find me gross to sexually fantasize about.


White girls are given archetypes to follow: Zooey Deschanel, Pam Beasley, Carrie Bradshaw, Tina Fey, Paris Hilton, and Eliot Reed are all white. Girls “relate” to these characters (and by relate, I mean force themselves to be like) because they are women and they define themselves through their womanhood. This is not unusual. We typically relate strongest to the group of people we are a part of that is ost oppressed because we all want to be victims. Barack Obama is half-black yet he identifies as African-American. I identify as Jewish all the time, even though I wasn’t even bar mitzvahed. Most of your friends have referred to themselves as whatever minority they can claim. So devoid of oppressed minorities to identify with, white women identify as women.

I want to be clear that I don’t think this practice of victimization through self-identification is an unhealthy practice. It allows us analyze our actions in order to justify our pitying of ourselves. I always think self-analysis is a positive.

White women copy the formulas for how to lead their lives that are based on male script writers’ sexual fantasies. Women who are of a different race, look to our representations of their race in our culture because it is a more obviously oppressed part of their being., and because non-white races are rarely represented in our media and when they are, they are done so through a strongly patriarchal lens, there are few minority women archetypes. Therefore non-white women are the closest to being unburdened with societal expectations forming their personality. That seems like the right person to be around – one who is who they are.

It’s a good thing black people are good at basketball.

Attention Whoring, My favorites, Selfish

A Simple List of Demands

I have always dreamed about my wedding. Not because I’m excited to sign away my right to make independent decisions, but because everybody has to pay attention to me (us). I think this is why I look for people who remind me of myself when I go out on my search for sexual/romantic partners – I worry that if somebody is too different than me that they won’t agree to all of my wedding demands. Here are some of those demands:

1. Everybody will walk down the aisle in order to get to their seat.

2. They will walk down in some format that shows their personality (I had this idea way before that stupid youtube wedding dance video that was terribly choreographed).

3. People will be paired up based on who I/we think is the parallel group member in each other’s friend clique.

4. Vows may take longer than an hour.

5. Toasts will take longer than 3 hours.

6. This is because every member of the wedding will have to make a toast in story form.

7. I/we will have multiple outfits for different parts of the wedding.

8. There will be stunt doubles.

9. There may be a fake location that turns into a scavenger hunt to find where the wedding is.

10. There will be an easter egg hunt.

11. No wedding cake – Wedding pie. Multiple layers = multiple flavors.

12. There will be a slideshow with cheesy music displaying pictures from our lives that will then turn into a prediction slide show with snapshots from the wedding included and then snapshots from the future that will first show the demise of our marriage and then edge over into the realm of science fiction with snapshots of the failure of our dystopian governmental system with the arrival of our alien overlords. Also there will be clips of famous oscar winning movies spliced in.

13. I/we will stage a divorce.

14. I would like a pool to be involved.

15. Somebody should be on mescaline.

16. There will be an awards ceremony at the end of the wedding where I/we will give out awards to our wedding enjoyers for best gift, best toast, best dress, best date, best faux-paux, best fake accent, best dance, best hair, creepiest flirt attempt, horniest, most awkward person to show up, person who didn’t get that their invite was just an extension of an olive branch and not actually an invitation, etc.

17. The bride’s friends/family and my friends/family will have to compete in a series of competitions including, but not limited to trivia, 3-on-3 basketball, shuffleboard, ping-pong, fort-building, drinking games, badminton, and a lengthy obstacle course.

18. An Indian/Mexican buffet.

19. One bathroom for the bride and groom, and one bathroom for the rest of the attendants.

20. The bride will be somebody I paid to help me complete this dream and there will be no legally binding marriage occurring that day.

Anybody know someone down for these ideas? Once I/we have the money, I’ll let them propose to me.

Lazy, My favorites

Busy, Busy

I sit here on my toilet while I type up a new blog entry. Why have I decided to combine these activities? Efficiency. That, and I like the character strings that occur when my fingers clench to provide the equal and opposite reaction to my bowels pushing out a poopy.

I also am looking at Michael Ian Black’s twitter page even though I don’t have a twitter account myself. Why don’t I just sign up so that I can get fed these engrossing two sentence joke/ideas without having to search? I don’t have time to set up an account. That, and if I kept up with MIB everyday than this couldn’t be a more than 1 minute activity, whereas now I can spend nearly ten minutes reading through backlogs of thoughts like: “I really feel like somebody else needs to die for my sins. Just to be safe.”

A lot of you are probably saying, “H2$, you do nothing with your life. You work 6 hrs a week and have no friends, how can you possibly be too busy for anything?” To you I say: “Why are you talking out loud? You realize that this is a blog, and does not provide the opportunity for audible call and response, right? You should probably make sure you are not in a public area because your outburst of harsh criticism of a Scandinavian gnome that lives in your computer might make you look like a crazy person.”


I’m finished pooping.

Attention Whoring

Self Obsession (Pt. final)


Grade: C

This sketch has some hilarious lines and is based on the funny premise of taking the bringing something back idea in SexyBack as some sort of necromancer activity. It was playing on a song just old enough at the time to not be timely or retro funny, which is a strong reason why I think the parody was a surprise (aka funny). Also the choreography was surprisingly tight and interesting. So, why do I give this the mediocre grade of C? Because of why people laughed and liked this sketch. With 10k fully packed with adoring, probably intoxicated college students the actual lyrics of this sketch that tread on history and absurdism in a really interesting and clever way were not heard. Instead people were simply excited that we were singing and dancing, a skill thought, incorrectly, to be tantamount to comedy.

We spent one night fully choreographing and rehearsing that dance number and it took barely any creative energy to do so. The sketch was written during one or two listenings to the song Sexyback. Writing lyrics that sort of fit to the pacing of a somewhat popular song that is a little old is not hard. Moving in an organized fashion repeatedly is not hard. Being funny is hard. As someone who has watched a lot of open mic nights and seen some shitty sketch comedy, it is not an easy skill. The one part of this sketch that was interesting: the devolution of Lincoln becoming not just a freer of slaves but also a power hungry zombie obsessed with sci-fi fantasy movies of the 90s, which becomes interestingly meta as the Abraham Lincoln goes from the person we know from the penny to an absurdist comedian to a stand in for the author and his love of nerdy 90s pop culture, was completely overlooked. People were too busy cheering because they recognized a song that they liked to hear to realize the genius of a zombie Lincoln demanding that there be “waffles every day.”

This sketch would have done better as a video where the lyrics could have been more clear and there could have been visual clues to supplement lines like “harness the wind” and “breed tiger-man.” Instead the visual stimulus was Rhett’s intense dancing power, which is fine and dandy, but I used to see it every party I went to.

Best Actor: The absolute best part of this video is after the sketch ends and the lights go down and come back up. Rhett feels it his duty to bow for a job well done, then realizes the awkwardness of him bowing as though he was the star of a show he was only really featured in the last sketch of and tries to make up for it by bowing with everybody hard core. Just because he thought he was the sole reason for the standing ovation for a split second, I’m going to give this award to Rhett, he obviously thinks he deserves it. Best Line: “Why aren’t there dinosaurs yet?”