Underpants On The Outside

When you think about it, this blog is basically about me reporting one of three things:

1)      Stupid things I do

2)      Misfortunes that happen to me

3)      Hilarious things I say (note: actual sayings may or may not be hilarious)

Well, this is a number 3.  In fact, it’s a holdover from last week, when I had a surplus of insignificant stuff to talk about.

As some of you may or may not know, for the past two and a half years I’ve played in a Friday-night soccer league (team name: The Asthmatic Pole-Dancing Strippers.  Bet you can’t guess who came up with that one.) That came to an end recently, when it occurred to me that cool, attractive people tend to go out on Friday nights, and they had probably been trying to call me.

Last week was my final game.  Wonder Woman (speaking of cool, attractive people) wanted to go out afterwards, but was disappointed to learn that my game was scheduled for 10:00. I sensed her frustration.  (I am TOTALLY compassionate.)  I wanted to console her, as that could increase the possibility for sex when I got home. I tried to think of something to say to her, to reassure her that soon we’d be free to spend Friday nights together for the rest of our lives, something that would probably help out later with the whole sex thing.

…suddenly it dawned on me.  Seven words, which had always expressed one of life’s essential truths, yet had never been so entirely appropriate.

“Baby,” I said, pausing for effect, “don’t hate the player; hate the game.”

Have a great weekend, everybody!

 One of the things I hate about living in New York is receiving packages.  It’s not a big problem, unless you have a doorman, or, y’know… work for living.  In that case, when you receive a delivery notice, you have three choices:

• a. Sign it, leaving your neighbors a comfortable window of time to steal your big screen TV, iPod or digital camera.
• b. Take off work the next day, only for the delivery guy to show up at a decent after-work hour for the first time in human history.
• c. Helplessly receive two more notices until the package is stored at the nearest facility, which is located in the one part of Brooklyn that was also part of the Confederacy. But while it is far, at least it’s in a really bad neighborhood. Oh yeah: there’re no subways that go there and you don’t own a car.

As an alternative, a lot of people have packages delivered to their office, as I do. But then everyone wants to know: what’s in the box, and in this day and age, when almost everything is cheaper when ordered online, this can lead to some awkward situations.  For instance, what if you were an aspiring writer who had found a niche market writing material about, I don’t know, comic books, let’s say.  And let’s say you were working on a project that-

Oh fuck it.  My She-Hulk action figure arrived today, okay?  Yes - I ordered a doll.  In fact, I ordered three: two She-Hulks sand a Superman, which will be arriving next week.  THEY ARE FOR A PROJECT.  (I swear!) And if this project works out the way I hope it does, I should have some very good news in a month or so.

But no one cares about that, do they?  No.  They just want to make their little jokes.  (As you can imagine, they’re mostly of the “Show me on the She-Hulk where the bad man touched you” and “Jesus, what kind of sick shit goes on in that balding head of yours?” variety.)

On a different subject, in a few weeks I’m going to have two She-Hulk action figures and one Superman, all in good condition, which I will be looking to get rid of.  Anyone interested?  (Note: they may be a bit sticky.)

I’ve got another Superhero Diary on the internet PHENOMENON that is Crave Online.  I really hope they get rich (and take me with them).

As some of you know, I work in the immensely gratifying profession of online ad sales. (I like to say that I ruin the Internet for everyone else.)  Sometimes this allows me to flex my creative muscles in fun and unusual ways, such as earlier today, when we were putting together a proposal for a brand of feminine hygene products.  You know, one that deals with a woman’s, um… “special time.”  We’re going to propose that they setup a profile on one of these newfangled social networks that we represent, but my co-workers and I were having difficulty figuring out how to thematically execute the profile.  This may or may not be because we have penises.   In any case, we were struggling, specifically with what to call the message board, when I was struck with what I like to call, “fucking genius.”  I looked up at my co-workers, and said…

“What about ‘The Commiseration Hole’?”  Then I laughed at my own joke.

Thank you, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your day.

It’s been a while, but the fine (and assuredly attractive to whatever gender they want to be) people at Yankee Pot Roast have published another piece of mine.  Enjoy!

 This is a fact: With the exception of girlfriends, I have never been seated next to an attractive woman on an airplane. Statistically this should be impossible, given how often I fly between Los Angeles and New York - there are always at least ten really attractive women on the flight. I know this because I watch them go by, me repeating in my head, “16d, 16d, c’mon, c’mon, please be in 16d…” But they are never in 16d.  Ever.

I mention it because on Sunday night Wonder Woman and I flew from Los Angeles to New York, and I missed my best opportunity to spend six hours next to a hot chick who, with the help of a little inclement weather, would be forced to sit next to me the whole time.  I was in seat 7E.  Her ticket said 7D.  But the gigantically fat man in seat 6D was happy to switch with her so she could sit next to her much-more-handsome-than-me boyfriend in 6E.   Motherfucker.

In truth, I have no misconceptions about what might happen.  I don’t imagine that somewhere over Omaha, Hot Blonde is going to sigh, rest her head on her hands, and say, “I really wish I could give somebody a handjob right now.”  And I also realize that I’m engaged to be married to an adorable, lovely woman, who- GODDAMNIT I WANT SOME ANONYMOUS HETEROSEXUAL ELBOW SEX!

Look, on every airplane, it’s inevitable that you and your next-seat rowmate are going to rub elbows.  And while it’s not nearly as fun as bumping uglies, that doesn’t mean it’s insignificant, as long as it’s an attractive female.  (Because when it’s a dude, you know it.  You can feel each and every arm hair.) If I had a hot woman doing the armrest fandango with me, I could easily waste two hours playing the mind game of, “Wow, that was really hot.  I mean, temperature hot.  Why is she so hot?  Or is it me… uh oh, am I sweaty?  No, I’m cool.  Did she notice when I just smelled myself there?  No. No, she’s hot because she wants me. I’m gonna touch her again… and now I’m going to go jerk off in the restroom.”  Unintentional caresses were the foundation of my sex life all through high school, and I have no problem kicking it old school for a few hours to kill time.  (It’s like looking through my dick’s yearbook.)

Maybe some people would consider my desire to be “cheating.”  I don’t care.  By getting engaged/married, I’ve essentially given up window seats on every flight for the rest of my life.  The least I deserve is some forearm fornication with an anonymous beauty.  And I would have got some too, if it hadn’t been for that considerate son of a bitch elbowblocking me.

I’m sorry, but I always thought the whole reason people purchase tickets with seat assignments is so that they sit in that actual seat.  That’s the type of lawless bullshit I’d expect from Russia, or Southwest Airlines.

Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules?

Yesterday, the beautiful people at Crave put up the latest of my Superhero Diaries.  Before you click through, though, be aware that when it comes to comic book references, this one has a high degree of difficulty. Essentially it’s about a character who is waging this secret war against aliens, pretty much by himself, from his small one-bedroom apartment. When I was reading the books, I couldn’t help but think that in real life, everyone would just assume this guy was bat-shit insane, which is the premise of the piece.   But when I was writing it, it occurred to me that while I’m proficient (like a motherfucker) at Half-witted and Obnoxious, Crazy isn’t really in my repertoire. Luckily I know a guy who doesn’t use toothpaste. 

Some of you may be familiar with friend, commenter, and extremely-large aquatic mammal OG, a.k.a. Occupational Government.  Others of you may meet him at the Wedding of Doom. (If you’re asking yourself, “who is this guy and why is he yelling at me?  More importantly, why is he yelling at me about pancakes?” you’re probably talking to OG, and he can smell your fear.)  And if there are one or two of you left, you probably don’t know me, and your lives are richer for it. (But please keep coming back to the Underpants.)

I could give no description of him that would do him justice, but here’s my favorite story about him: Among our friends, OG is notorious for his unwillingness to touch doorknobs with his hands.  He’ll hit them with his elbows, if need be.  Nor will he touch bathroom sink handles, or the levers on paper towel dispensers.  He is terrified of diseases, and because of it, watching him in a public men’s room is pretty damn funny.*  I asked him about it once, and in the process of explaining, he said, “Just wait.  We’ll see what happens when you go to take a piss right after John Q. Genital Wart got through in there.”  I almost fell out of my chair laughing.  But since that day I have not been able to use a public restroom without thinking of the name John Q. Genital Wart, and I have never again touched any surface in there with my hands (other than my junk.)

The reason I mention all this is because every time I got stuck writing this Superhero Diary, I asked myself, “What would OG say?”  Yet I would bet I didn’t come even close.  So I hereby invite anyone who knows him, as well as the phenomenon himself, to offer their opinions.

*And not gay. 

Hi readers.  Sorry for the long delay between posts - wedding planning has come to the point where the official slogan is “Y’know what?  I don’t fucking care anymore; I just want to go to sleep.”  (I actually brought up the idea that we could pretend to break up for a couple months as sort of a matrimonial “Undo.”  Wonder Woman was not into it, but let’s see how she feels by July.)

Amazingly, something happened to me this weekend that had nothing to do with a wedding: I nearly got into a fight.  And what’s really weird is that I hadn’t done anything.  No, really. (The story that is about to follow is long and not guaranteed to be interesting.  It is, however, the most exciting thing to have happened to me in some time.)

See, it’s not that unusual for people to get pissed off by the things I say.  Here’s what happens: I’m at a party and I manage to say two or three funny things in a row, then I become convinced that I’m the funniest person ever. Once I’m on a roll, I lose any self-awareness that might alert me when I no longer have something funny to say, and like Wile E. Coyote, I’m thirty feet past the cliff edge before I realize I’m in trouble.  Except with me the danger isn’t a cliff; it’s dick jokes.  (Or ethnic humor.  I’m multi-faceted.) But I always know when I’ve pissed in the punch bowl, and this time I know I didn’t say anything too bad. 

Here’s what happened.  I was at a graduation party for a friend of mine, and a woman a few seats away from me asked me about the wedding.  I start talking, and somehow get to my bit about how my vows are going to follow the theme of “Why not.”  I thought she received it well, because she offered an alternate suggestion of “I don’t have anything better to do,” which then gave me the idea of “Any other takers?”  I thought we were brainstorming, but apparently she really meant that in her opinion I was an idiot who really didn’t have anything better to do, because when I wasn’t looking she traded seats with her husband to get away with me.  For the record, I would swear on a stack of Torahs that I had not yet referred to my genetalia.

A little while later I start talking with Fran, a woman next to WW, who was probably in her fifties or sixties and had just become a grandmother a few days previous.  Naturally, I start flirting with her, because this is always a hit with the older ladies, and sure enough Fran loved it.  So I asked her if she was single, because I wanted to know what all of my options were. That’s when the first chick’s husband (to be known henceforth as “The Aggressor”, or “The Douchebag”) leans over and says, “she’s not one of your options.”   My retort: “Huh?”  I had no idea who this guy was, yet he looked very intense, and was obviously making an effort to flex his biceps under his t-shirt.   He repeated, “She’s not one of your options.  Just enjoy your meal,” so I fired back with, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” (Since then I’ve thought of much cleverer things I could have said, like, “Why don’t you enjoy YOUR meal?”)

I couldn’t get the exchange out of my head.  It seemed like he and Fran knew each other; perhaps she was his aunt, and maybe he was just really protective of her, but did he really think I was hitting on her? And did he really think she’d take me up on it? If so, why’d he have to cockblock me? Total dick move.

The scientist in me demanded that I push his buttons a bit more, so I started listening to Fran’s conversation with WW for a good opportunity to jump in.  When I heard her telling WW to steal one of the centerpieces, I puffed up my chest, deepened my voice, and with a lot of fake aggression, admonished her to stop encouraging my fiancée to commit thievery.  I was extra careful not to swear or proposition her sexually, but even still the guy leans over and tells me that for “the last time,” I need to tone it down.  I ask him what, exactly, he wants me to tone down.  Everything, he says, because no one appreciates my humor.  I beg to differ, because if that were the case, I doubt my blog would have upwards of 30 readers…

I think my favorite line was when I pointed out that I was talking to Fran, not him, and he informed me, “If you’re talking to her, you’re talking to me.” It’s such a great tough-guy thing to say when you’re talking about someone other than a post-menopausal grandmother who is eighteen sheets to the wind and disagreeing with everything you say.  He really looked like he was going to hit me, except I know that anyone who takes themselves that seriously wouldn’t sucker-punch me.  He’d invite me to fight outside, and I’d RSVP with “Regretfully, I will be unable to attend.” (As you can see, wedding planning now controls every thought in my head.)

Just as soon as it began, the Douchebag grabbed his wife and the two of them stormed out of the party.  Meanwhile, Fran and I drank espresso and Sambuca ‘til the wee hours (but nothing happened, I swear), so it’s safe to say that I won that one. Even better, the confrontation completely elevated my status in the party.  I had started out as a marginal attendee, a friend at a family gathering where I knew almost no one, but by the end of the night I’m trading Goodfellas quotes with Uncle Charlie and everyone’s calling me “Fightstarter.” 

What a great night.  (AND I got some great ideas for my wedding vows!)

In theory, when I refer to the Greatest Wedding of All Time I should be talking about my own.  It’s still possible, I guess, but it’s going to take a lot in order to top the wedding I went to last weekend.  It seems so obvious now, but I never realized before what the two elements of a perfect wedding are: a donkey and a water slide.

The wedding was in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.  It’s a great town, where the only downside is the $70 cab ride to get there, although that also keeps the tourism below the point where they would have to build a Senor Frog’s.  There are enough ex-pats and retirees so that if you get lost you know you’ll run into an English speaker sooner or later, but the town still feels like authentic Mexico. (Except for the Starbucks.  And the Dunkin Donuts.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t really “authentic”, but there were several hot dog carts where you could buy corn slathered in mayonnaise that had been sitting in the sun for days, which one girl in our party referred to as “sex in a cup.”  That’s authentic enough for me.)

The best part of town was a house on the outskirts that some friends of the bride had rented.  For $900 per week, they got a three story house with two sundecks, a pool and a waterslide.  There were four girls staying there (one hot) and whenever we went over there they were in swimsuits and (true story, I swear) the hot one was making bacon.  Plates and plates of bacon. I’ve seen heaven, and no one believes me.

What was interesting about the girls staying at the heaven house was that every night they’d get drunk and invite me and my group of friends over, but they next day it would be painfully obvious that we were not welcome anymore.  (It was similar to the beer goggle phenomenon, except applied to our personalities. I’ve decided that they listened to us through beer headphones.)   One time they even left the house right after we showed up, hoping we’d take the hint.  Their plan might have worked if they hadn’t told us how to turn the water slide on.  Oh yeah, AND LEFT A PLATE OF BACON. Surprise surprise - we were still there when they got back.

And then things got even better. Immediately following the wedding ceremony an eight piece mariachi band showed up, along with a donkey carrying a bottle of tequila.  Again: this really happened. The donkey’s name was Benito. At first I thought the donkey was total bullshit - everyone called him “Benito the Tequila Donkey” as if he had some sort of tequila-based talent.  A more appropriate title would have been “Benito the donkey with baskets on his back which could fit a variety of things such as a bottle of tequila.”

The band, the donkey and all of the wedding guests then paraded around the streets of San Miguel in our suits and tuxedos drinking tequila from small clay cups on strings that had been hung around our necks. And while Benito exhibited no additional talents other than the ability to be walked on a leash, he gave the procession an air of spectacle.  We were celebrities; there were parents with kids by the side of the road taking photos.  We weren’t just a bunch of drunken white people who hired a mariachi band and decided to go for a stroll - we were people with a donkey. Make room. 

I figure Wonder Woman and I can top it if I can somehow arrange an appearance by Roy the Beer Gorilla.  The only tricky part will be convincing WW to make room in the budget, but the way I see it, it’s not like anyone is going to be looking at the flowers when there’s a gorilla walking around with a keg strapped to his back.

I believe it’s a common experience that when people hear themselves on an answering machine/voicemail they think, “Oh my God do I really sound like that?” Well, as I watch these videos of me at the Comic-Con, I can’t help but think, “Oh my God do I really sound like that… AND look like that???” [update: make sure you click to watch all three videos - the video that initially loads is something different.]

At first I was wondering why the camera guy kept filming me from slightly below waist level, because, as you can see, it kinda makes me look fat. (Then again, so do my eating habits.) But I also realized that shooting me from above would show off my bald spot, so it’s kinda damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

I also want to take a second to add in some highlights that didn’t make the videos. In the musical intro, there’s a shot of me holding a sword, as some guy walks past and pats me on the head. First of all, I killed him in a duel minutes later; no one condescends to me. But second of all, that was a booth selling genuine samurai swords at a comic book convention. Like, real swords. With edges. This is a place where a lot of kids think they could totally be Batman, at a booth a hundred feet where they could play Quake 3 until their adrenaline is sky-high from fake killing people, and five feet from where they could play fight with light sabers. (I do this as well.) This seemed like a poor idea to me. I mean, I’m 29 and I was half-tempted to buy one and serve some justice and/or try and cut hot women’s clothes off. When I asked them what sort of measures they took to ensure people’s safety, they assured me that all of their swords were wrapped in cardboard boxes. With tape. In other words, we’re safe as long as those 18-year olds don’t have their house keys on them.

There was a booth belonging to a consumer advocacy group that defended violence in video games and other entertainment, saying it did not necessarily make kids more violent in reality. Their booth was located in direct sight of the Quake 3 trailer, directly next to the light saber seller, and right across from the guy selling swords. They didn’t feel like commenting on the irony.

Neal Adams, who appears in the intro, is a pretty famous comic book creator. I wasn’t expecting to get interviews with anybody, but in our random wanderings we started talking with his wife, who naturally controls his schedule (just as my fiancée controls mine) and told us to come back in about 45 minutes. While he was a really nice guy and talked to us for a lot longer of a time than we expected (until his wife told him to stop, naturally) the material he covered wasn’t really what Crave was looking for. But I got him to talk shit about Stan Lee*, and I can’t believe they took it out. Oh yeah - it happened.

The editors showed the really cute blonde who kept trying to get on camera. What they didn’t show was how blatantly she was hitting on me right before that. In fact, just about all of those fine fine women you see doing the promotional work (the belly dancers, the Bodog girls in vests, the two girls playing video games) were flirting with me. Needless to say, that’s never happened before, and I’m fatter and balder than ever. I wish that ten years ago someone would have told me that all I’d need to get hot women interested in me was a camera and a mic cube…Dad.

There was a booth where original transformers were on sale next to a copy of the Playboy featuring some chick from Battlestar Galactica. Someone call Disneyland and tell them they’re now the second happiest place on Earth.

I could probably go on for pages, but I’ll stop here. Needless to say, I had a blast, and I owe a gigantic thanks to the guys at Crave Online for the opportunity (you guys know where to send the check, right?)

*When I asked him what the problem was with good ol’ Stan the Man, Neal said that Stan was really bad at remembering names. When I said “talking shit”, I was using the term a bit loosely.