You need to buy a hammer

A real hammer in action.

I don’t like to make assumptions about people, but I tend to assume that readers of my blog are a lot like me. By assuming such, I already know that you’re a real go-getter, you have chiseled abs, you eat five meals a day – two of which include corn dogs – and you’re completely freaked out by mirrors. (Editor’s note: Seriously, is that a whole other world in there completely opposite of the one I live in? Creepy.)

These assumptions, of course, also allow me countless marketing opportunities. For example, I know most of my readership is probably in the market for some kind of mirror-smashing utensil – perhaps a hammer – so I’m able to craft the following letter to the good people at Black & Decker:

Dear Black & Decker,

I have this blog and it has people who read it who are totally freaked out by mirrors because, seriously, that’s like an exact replica of my bathroom in that thing and how does that guy who looks like me know that I’m about to move my left arm like that? And should I tell him about that disgusting mole that looks suspiciously like a third nipple? Gross.

But I digress.

My readers are freaked out by mirrors and they want to smash them. I’ve tried lots of things to smash mirrors. Rocks. Baseballs. Bricks. My cat. I even dragged my sleeping ex-girlfriend (or, as prosecutors insist, my unconscious ex-girlfriend) into the bathroom and tossed her against the mirror. It didn’t work. You know what did work, though? A hammer. (Editor’s note: For breaking the mirror and making my ex-girlfriend unconscious – allegedly.)

That’s why I’m extending this opportunity to you to sell hammers to my readers. I’ve got some ad space on the blog I could sell you, and I even have my own creative department to come up with something really sweet. I’m thinking maybe a picture of a hammer with the words ‘Buy a Hammer’ next to it. Except instead of a picture of a hammer, it would be a picture of a really famous actress, preferably naked. If we can’t get one to pose for us, it’s no problem because I have about 1,000 screen grabs on my computer we can choose from.

I really think that would make people want to buy a hammer from you. What do you think?

Sincerely,
Bill
Director of Marketing
The Life and Times of William J. Legarm

I still haven’t heard back from them, but I figure they’re a pretty big company and the letter has to go through a whole bunch of people for approval. Plus, I haven’t actually sent the letter yet.

It has been too long

A lot of people have been asking me lately if I’m going to start blogging again. And by a lot of people I mean my cat asked me in a dream the other night. Then before I could answer he turned into a bear and ran down to the river to catch a salmon, except the salmon was actually a freshly-microwaved Applebee’s steak that had learned to speak and was about to tell the bear that was actually my cat the meaning of life but then I woke up. (Editor’s note: I’ve still got it!)

Anyway, my posts have been few and far between in the year 2010 and I have some pretty solid reasons for this. First, I got a little confused on that whole Mayan calendar thing and thought the world was supposed to end on May 17, 2010. Turns out the card on my refrigerator with that date on it was actually for a dentist’s appointment that I ended up missing. Needless to say, I woke up the morning of May 18 feeling pretty stupid, especially considering I woke up shirtless in a dumpster next to a hobo that I vaguely remember telling of our impending doom and then accepting his offer to enjoy some of his tasty Jack Daniel’s. (Editor’s note: I asked if he wanted to get some breakfast but he said he really had to get going and would call me. … Which he hasn’t.)

Second, I’ve been on a little book tour for my yet-to-be-published and still untitled teen masterpiece about vampires and werewolves. (Editor’s note: Team Legarm!) It seems odd, I know, to do a book tour for an untitled book that isn’t finished. (Editor’s note: I’m officially 8 1/2 paragraphs in.) But I consider it a bit of a preemptive book tour. Rule No. 1 of proper promotion is to whet the consumer’s appetite. (Rule No. 2: Release topless photos.) I figure if I show up to various bookstores across the country it’s going to get people buzzing about my book which I hope to have released by the end of the world – a deadline that seems much easier in hindsight. After my tour is over I plan on starting a huge social media blitz, as well, whatever the hell that means.

If you want to come to one of my book tour stops, you’re more than welcome. We’ll be at Borders next weekend. Once you park, go around to the back of the building by the dumpsters and look for the folding table. I may or may not be sitting there – depends on if I want a smoothie or not because I hear there’s a really great smoothie place across the street. Either way, try to keep it down a little bit because we’re not really supposed to be there and my friend Barry is going to be keeping a lookout for someone taking out the trash and when he gives the signal we all need to get down really low behind the dumpster so nobody sees us. Also, if anyone has a pen they could bring along, I’d really appreciate it. I’ll sign anything. And by anything I mean boobs. (Editor’s note: I won’t sign wangs.)

So I think you’ll forgive me for not posting, what with the book tour and the whole end-of-the-world confusion, but I promise that I may or may not start posting regularly again. I can tell you that I’ve put completing my book on hold for another project that I’m guessing you’ll be seeing right here soon. It’s going to be pretty badass. (Editor’s note: It might not be pretty badass.)

My quest for an Oscar continues

The Academy Awards were last Sunday night and that’s always a bittersweet night for me. Bitter because it’s the perfect excuse to wear that strapless black dress that’s both daring in its subtlety and pushes the boundaries of fashion with its “I’m special because I don’t need to stand out” vibe and unfortunately I have yet to be invited to the Academy Awards despite my on-again off-again relationship with Julianne Moore. (Editor’s note: It’s mostly off-again. … And made-up.)

It’s a sweet night, however, because it allows me to close my eyes and imagine myself up there accepting my own Academy Award. To be honest, I’d take any of the awards, except for Best Soundmixing. That award is for nerds. (Editor’s note: And weirdos.)

I actually dabble a bit in filmmaking myself. And by “dabble” I mean I “think about it night and day.” And by “I think about it night and day” I mean “I’m not entirely sure what filmmaking is but I think I might like it.” So it’s only natural that I get a little misty-eyed whenever I hear someone’s name get called and see them run up on stage and give their acceptance speech because I know one day it’s going to be me.

You see, I’m currently in the brainstorming stages of a little documentary called Yes I Can: The Story of One Man’s Dream to Tear Down the Walls of Sexual Discrimination and Play in the WNBA. Some of you may know that this isn’t the first documentary I’ve undertaken. My first film, Alex Trebek: Game Show Host or Puppy Massacrer won critical acclaim at the third annual Legarm Film Festival and walked away with awards for Best Documentary, Best Soundmixing (though I refused to accept) and Most Accurate Portrayal of a Canadian Asshole Gameshow Host Who Won’t Let Me Compete On His Show During Kids Week Just Because I’m Not a Kid. (Editor’s Note: That award is actually three trophies because all of that won’t fit on one trophy.) To quote the film festival’s resident critic, my friend Barry, the film:

“… served as a reminder to us all the blatant age discrimination displayed by the formerly mustachioed gameshow host in his never-ending quest to belittle Americans and murder puppies. While the documentary was preachy at times, it made it clear that Mr. Trebek not only finds great pleasure in creating death and destruction everywhere he goes, but also murders puppies. I can only shake my head in disgust when the narrator makes this final, damning point: We’d never let Pat Sajak get away with this. And he’s right. We wouldn’t. Especially the part where he murders puppies.”

I’d post the documentary here for you to see, but it’s currently in the possession of the courts due to Mr. Trebek’s lawsuit against me and my lawyers say it would be a bad idea to share it with anyone else since they still think there’s a chance they can make it appear the documentary was not made by me despite my name appearing over 42 times in the closing credits and my outbursts in the courtroom demanding recognition for such a powerful film. I also demanded we order out for Chinese during the next recess, but I don’t think the judge heard me since I’d already been escorted out of the room and was being held for contempt of court. (Editor’s note: I loves me some sweet and sour chicken.)

But back to Yes I Can: The Story of One Man’s Dream to Tear Down the Walls of Sexual Discrimination and Play in the WNBA. It involves all the things people love in movies including but not limited to:

• Underdog stories
• Gun fights
• Boobs
• Explosions
• Basketball
• Nicholas Cage
• John Travolta
• John Travolta stealing Nicholas Cage’s face
• Full frontal nudity
• Kittens

Take the following scene for instance. I’m and underdog at the local gym trying to hone my skills. A coach who happens to be a woman and refuses to wear a shirt sees me and thinks maybe I’d make a good protege. Unfortunately, another basketball coach, none other than Nicholas Cage, notices my skills at the same time and decides he’d like to coach me. Their argument over me bursts into a gun fight and Nicholas Cage guns down my would-be coach and wins the right to coach me. But it turns out it’s not actually Nicholas Cage. It’s John Travolta wearing Nicholas Cage’s face. Travolta tells me that there’s a bomb somewhere in the gym but Nicholas Cage’s brother is the only person who knows where the bomb is. But Nicholas’ brother won’t talk to anyone but Nicholas who happens to be in a coma so Travolta stole Nicholas’ face so he could talk to his brother but it turns out Nicholas doesn’t actually have a brother. So we don’t know where the bomb is and the whole gym ends up blowing up. I’m the only one who survives, but the blast ripped all my clothes off, so I arise out of the rubble completely naked with my arms raised skyward screaming, “Damn you Nicholas Cage!” And so I try to make the WNBA in John Travolta’s honor. I also buy a kitten in his honor.

Is it better than Alex Trebek: Game Show Host or Puppy Massacrer? I don’t know. But I do know it’s going to be a hit. And hopefully give me an excuse to wear that dress.

I’m facing a bit of a dilemma

So I know I haven’t posted anything in a while, but to be fair it’s been a tough few weeks. It all starts with this:

I’m building a robot.

For the record, this has nothing to do with the time machine I’m working on, though there was a time when I thought maybe I’d build the robot to drive the time machine. But that just doesn’t make sense.

I’m actually building my robot for a number of tasks, not the least of which are landscaping, dentistry and the occasional reorganization of my filing cabinets. To answer the question I know you’re asking, I have at least four filing cabinets (that I know of) and they are all at least a quarter full of non-alphabetized recipes, diary entries and robot blueprints (which would really come in handy right about now if only I could find them in my completely disorganized filing cabinets).

In a perfect world, my robot would also be used for companionship, but I think a robot is awfully high maintenance as it is and robot sex seems awkward … and a bit creepy. (Editor’s note: By “creepy” I mean “awesome.”)

So anyway, I was working on my robot and I decided to head over to the local fabric store in search of some buttons I could use as eyes. I was going to use gum drops for eyes but realized those might melt or get eaten by the small children my robot kidnaps. (Editor’s note: My robot is also for kidnapping small children.) So I decided on buttons and I think it will ultimately be a good decision.

If you don’t know, the fabric store is a horrible place. It’s nothing but scented decorative items and old people. I’m not a fan of old people. Not because they scare me, but because I find it unnatural to live past the age of 40 and I plan on not doing it. If things go my way, I’ll die at age 39 in a fiery skiing accident and leave all my worldly possessions to my robot.

So I grabbed a couple of buttons out of one of the button drawers and I was standing in line and this old lady behind me asked me why I was buying so many buttons. Not wanting to divulge too much information, I told her it’s for a project and she asked what the project was and I told her it’s top-secret and she just shrugged and went back to waiting in line and I told her it’s for a robot I was building and I probably just told her too much and from there one thing led to another and I ended up kidnapping her and tying her up in my mom’s basement.

Needless to say, I’m now in a bit of a pickle. My mom rarely goes down to the basement, but the next time she decides to mop the kitchen floor (which could be soon since I just spilled two gallons of Juicy Juice everywhere and I’m sure as hell not going to mop it up) she’s going to need to go down there and she’s going to find that old lady and I’m going to be screwed. If my robot were done, I’d set him to evil for a few minutes and, I would assume, during his tirade of destruction he’d eventually kill the old lady and I’d be pretty much guilt-free because I wasn’t the one that stabbed her in the neck with a fork, but that’s not a reliable option. I also could hope that nature will run its course and she’ll die of old age in the next day or two, but my friend Barry came over and checked her out and he said she’s perfectly healthy. Barry’s not a doctor but he has every John Stamos season of ER on DVD, so he knows his stuff.

So I told my mom not to go in the basement for a little while because I needed to sleep down there because it was too hot up on the roof of the garage, which makes no sense because it’s the middle of winter so I set the garage on fire so my excuse would make sense. But that’s only going to keep her from getting suspicious for so long because I’m not really supposed to be in the house at all and the aforementioned Juicy Juice incident will only expedite her inevitable trip downstairs.

As a last-ditch effort, I offered the old lady a job helping me with my robot. You’d think that in this economy she’d be more grateful for the opportunity, but she just spit on me and told me her husband was a World War II veteran and he would kill me once he found out I kidnapped her. So now I not only have to figure out how to keep my mom out of the basement but I have to study up on trench warfare and buy some barbed wire, too, because I’ll have a crazed World War II veteran coming after me. (Editor’s note: Is there any other kind of World War II veteran?)

Barry and I decided it was time to call an emergency meeting. He invited a friend of his named Dale. He’s a bow-hunter and I guess he applied for a job with the CIA, but they turned him down because he’s a little too dangerous for them.

Dale told me he could take care of the old lady for me, which sounded good until I realized what he meant by taking care of her. (Editor’s note: He didn’t mean feed her, bathe her and take her for walks.) He also wanted $5,000 to do it. I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life, but I’ve never had anyone assassinated and I wasn’t about to start now. Plus, I don’t have that kind of money to spend on assassinations, at least not in cash form. I asked if he took Discover, but he didn’t, which is good since I don’t have a Discover card anyway.

Meanwhile, the old lady’s getting mad (and starting to smell a little) because she’s apparently hungry and needs to use the restroom and she’s still kind of upset about the whole being tied up in my basement thing, though I think she’s kind of warming up to the idea. I looked up Alzheimer’s disease on WebMD, but it seems unlikely for that to just set in and bail me out because she suddenly can’t remember who I am, where she is or that the cardigan I’m wearing actually belongs to her.

So that’s what I have going for me right now and it’s really putting me behind schedule when it comes to finishing up my robot that I haven’t even started and it doesn’t help that when my mom goes to the basement she’s going to have me arrested.

The moral to this story: Don’t go the fabric store. It’s an awful place.

A little dating advice for the lonely

I’m certainly no dating expert, but I know the following two things about women:

1.) They like hairy men.

2.) They’re easily seduced by alcohol and the sweet fragrances of the Axe line of products.

These are indisputable scientific facts and as a personal rule I always start all my dating classes with those two pieces of information. If you’re interested, I’m currently teaching classes every other Saturday, and there are plenty of seats available as my only students right now are my two cats and my friend Barry. This is actually Barry’s third time taking the class, so he’s becoming a bit of an expert in the field of “The Ladies.” The cost of the classes is a mere $49.95 per class, or you can just make out with me a little and I’ll give you a 10% discount. (Offer not valid for dudes.)

Here’s just a sampling of the lessons you’ll learn in my all-encompassing dating courses.

Lesson No. 1: Dating is a competition

The biggest mistake people make about the dating scene is that they are always trying to flatter the other person. They want to get them flowers and tell them how pretty they are and all that nonsense. That’s all backwards.

Dating is a battle between two concepts. It’s “I want to go out with that girl so bad” vs. “That man repulses me and I never want to be seen in public with him and why isn’t he wearing a shirt?” As men, we’re naturally programmed to want to date as many bone-able girls as possible. Women, I’ve learned, are naturally programmed to ignore us when we talk to them and request restraining orders when we try to show the slightest amount of affection. (In case you’re wondering, no restraining order is going to ever prevent me from bleaching my true feelings into someone’s front lawn.)

So stop approaching dating like it’s some kind of “partnership” or “fun time.” It’s not. It’s a cut throat competition between getting what you want and the bitch that won’t return your calls and might have gotten an unlisted number.

Lesson No. 2: Flowers are for girls

You know who likes flowers, guys? Girls.

That’s why flowers are dumb. And that’s why you shouldn’t ever get them for a girl. I can almost guarantee that every relationship that has ever failed at some point has involved a guy getting a girl flowers.

Giving girls flowers gives the impression that you’re some kind of weakling and that you have a vagina (like Dave Matthews). A girl wants a man to be strong enough to defend her honor. She wants a man that can drink a 6-pack of Busch beer in an hour. (I’m up to 1 1/2, although sometimes it takes me two hours to drink that much.) She wants a man who gets in fights outside of strip clubs and knows how to bow-hunt. These are things girls want, and when you show up at her door with flowers, she might act excited and say things that sound nice, but somewhere in her subconscious is buried the revelation that she’s dating a man with a vagina. And that’s a bad thing. (Unless you’re dating a lesbian, in which case you’ll probably be all right.)

Lesson No. 3: Make sure she can pass a math test

Originally, I thought this was just me – a fetish, if you will – but over time I’ve learned that it’s best to recommend men make their dates pass a math test when they go out. It’s just a standard, fill-in-the-bubble test of basic math questions with room to show work in the test booklet, but it really helps me judge whether a girl is dateable or not. My slogan: If you don’t know fractions, you ain’t gettin’ actions.

Lesson No. 4: Establish your street cred

One of the things women like – besides bare-chested, middle-aged men out on jogs through their city streets – is a guy that knows his way around those city streets. A woman needs to feel safe and wants to know that you’ll do anything to protect her (see Lesson No. 2). That’s why the first thing I do on every date is kill a hobo.

The key is to do it completely unannounced. I try to time it so it’s right in the midst of me making a deep, conversational point. Take this scene for example of my ideal situation:

Me: That’s why I believe we should be focusing our national security efforts more on … could you roll down your window for me real quick? …

(Shoot hobo)

Me: …Now, where was I? Oh, right. Social justice.

This brings up another key point. Don’t acknowledge the killing. First off, it’s a nightmare from a legal standpoint if you do. Secondly, it makes you seem less cold-blooded, and you want your date to realize that even in the midst of a deep sociopolitical discussion (and I assure you I have no idea what I just wrote) she’s safe from hobo/drifter attacks.

(Editor’s note: No hobos were harmed in the writing of this post. … Except for the one I shot. He’s dead. But no other hobos got hurt.)

Lesson No. 5: Camping is not a good first date

Lesson No. 6: It’s important to display your authority over her

Women like to know their place. It’s a strange need they have. That’s why you need to take some opportunity over the course of the night to assert your dominance over her in some type of competition.

I’ve always found that drinking competitions work best. The last date I went on was very successful mostly because I completely outdrank said date and I’m almost certain I’d have gotten some play that night if those bastards at the Olive Garden hadn’t ruined the mood and kicked us out.

Lesson No. 7: Don’t wear a costume on the first date

If that's not a convincing costume, I don't know what is.

I know what you’re thinking, and I agree. It is crazy talk to think that a woman wouldn’t appreciate you going to the effort to not only spend weeks scouring the Internet but then hours beforehand to put together the perfect Captain Kirk costume for her sister’s wedding that she grudgingly invited you to because she didn’t want to be the only bridesmaid that was there alone. In fact, I’d seriously question the long-term prospects of a woman who found this not only strange but also grounds for stiffing me on my ride to the reception and making me call my mom to come and give me a ride home.

But what I’ve found is that, no matter the costume – be it the above-mentioned Captain Kirk costume or the kinky maid costume I wore on my last date – women don’t appreciate it. Why? I don’t know. Anybody can throw on a tank top and jean shorts. It takes careful planning to pull together all the pieces needed to be an authentic-looking Frankenstein’s monster.

But women are crazy and they don’t want their men wearing costumes on dates. So I suggest you put the Luke Skywalker on hold until you’ve reached the point where she’s not allowed to end the relationship without going through a lengthy court process.

Lesson No. 8: When things start going badly, propose

This lesson is also called the nuclear option. We’ve all been on them – the dates where you’re going on and on about your sweet basketball card collection you had when you were a kid (I swear that Kurt Rambis card will be worth $5 some day!) and she’s clearly drifting off into the nether reaches of her mind and ignoring you.

When you see this sign, you need to begin initiating the launch sequence (and I don’t mean the sexual innuendo kind), because there’s a good chance things could escalate to the point where she excuses herself to go to the restroom and doesn’t return. It’s then that you have only one option to save this thing: Pull out the ring and ask for the fair maiden’s hand in marriage.

Women love being proposed to. In fact, every woman’s favorite things list starts with these two items:

1.) Scrap booking.

2.) Being proposed to.

That’s why I bought an engagement ring at a pawn shop a few years ago and I take it with me on every date. Even if it’s not successful, everyone around will be watching and she won’t want to make a big scene, so she’ll just quietly sit down and decide it best to suck it up and get through the night without any other embarrassments. This should also give you a chance to regroup and move on to your next topic of discussion: That sweet bike you just scored at a garage sale that doesn’t have a chain and is pretty rusty but you should be able to get it running right, especially since your date’s dad just happens to be a bike mechanic.

I’m going to save TV

Throughout human history, there have been but two absolute truths. The first is that jean shorts will never go out of style. The second is that television reached its peak on November 19, 1982, when Knight Rider introduced us to the character of K.A.R.R.

There is a third thing that I’m almost 100% certain should be added to this list, and it’s my assertion that Dave Matthews has a vagina. I’m still working to confirm this, however, and it’s been a struggle to do so since I am failing miserably at posing as a groupie at one of his concerts because I find it deplorable to be within 500 feet of him and I look just awful in go-go boots. So I’ve gone the route of becoming a licensed plumber, at which point I will wait anxiously for his shower to break and hope that he finds my ad on page 379 of the phone book. I also hope that he attempts to take a shower while I’m fixing it. So confirmation should be forthcoming soon.

But back to television. Anyone that knows me can tell you that I am a full-blown Knight Rider junkie. I’m sure the pitch for the show went something like this:

TV EXECUTIVE: I’m highly cynical of everything and doubt your proposal will amount to anything, but go ahead.

SHOW CREATOR: This show stars David Hasselhoff and is about a talking car and a guy who got shot in the face.

TV EXECUTIVE: That sounds nothing short of awesome!

And that TV executive was right. The only thing he got wrong was just how awesome the show would become. (Editor’s Note: It was super-awesome.)

Who can forget the aforementioned K.A.R.R., reminding us all just how close we are to evil machines taking over the world. Or better yet, Garth Knight, played masterfully by David Hasselhoff with facial hair. Rumor has it that Mr. Hasselhoff didn’t have time to grow said facial hair properly for the role so he ripped off his chest hairs on set and glued them to his face. I actually made that rumor up just now, but I assure you it comes from a very credible source, that source being the lock of David Hasselhoff’s chest hair I purchased on eBay for the ridiculously low bid of $6.99. (I wanted to bid $300 but I didn’t have it in my checking account and nobody would extend me that much credit.)

(Editor’s note: I can’t confirm if it was one of the chest hairs he glued to his face.)

But there hasn’t been a TV show like Knight Rider ever since. Oh, people have tried. Baywatch was a noble effort. Baywatch Nights was equally interesting. And Saved by the Bell taught me many valuable life lessons, most notably that even nerds can grow up and make sex tapes one day. But no one else has gotten the formula down for great TV.

That is, until now.

See, I wrote a pilot episode for a little situational comedy I think you’ll enjoy called Mermen and a Baby. It’s about these two guys named Mitch and Corey and they live together, and they seem like normal guys, except they both have this birth defect where they got gills instead of lungs, so they have to live underwater. Mitch is an insurance adjuster and Corey works in banking and they both have special offices filled with water and their escapades on dry land lead to sometimes heartwarming and always entertaining results. Also, they both bone a ton of mermaids, which is hot.

Here’s the thing, though. In the pilot episode, Mitch is totally boning this mermaid when there’s a knock on the door and it’s this girl he met in college who he also totally boned. But she’s got this baby and it’s his and she’s going to study abroad next semester so Mitch needs to take care of the baby. And Corey’s a cool dude, so he says he’ll help and so these two guys that have to live underwater have to raise a kid on their own that’s an air-breather. (That’s what they call us normal folks.)

So that’s my sitcom and it’s really funny and I made sure to include a lot of gay jokes because that’s what people laugh at nowadays. And at some point I’m going to have them meet a fisherman named Tyrelle, and he’ll be their black friend and he’ll try to teach them how to rap and be cool and he’ll make fun of how they dance.

Problem is, the networks are too stuck on their stupid show ideas to give mine a shot.

Same with my test script I wrote for Law & Order: Dogs. It would be like regular Law & Order, except with talking dogs. The big twist: They’d keep running into the stupid cat judge. And everyone knows that cats are soft on crime. I also don’t understand how these TV executives fail to see the spinoff potential. The wheels in my head are already spinning on Law & Order Dogs: SVU and Law & Order Dogs: Who Stole my Chew Toy?

Living your life is easy as 1, 2, 3

As 2009 comes to a close, I’m realizing just how much I have on my plate. I’m building a time machine. I’m trying as hard as I can to get accepted into the community college. I’m dealing with my always tenuous living situation. And I haven’t even mentioned my whole freelance architecture business.

(Editor’s note: Until now.)

But that didn’t stop me from putting an ad in the local alternative weekly for a new service I’ll be starting. I figure life coaching is right up my alley. I know that in sports teams are always looking for coaches with experience and I’ve got plenty of life experience.

For those of you that don’t know, a life coach meets with people that aren’t very good at life and gives them advice on either how to get things turned around or the most effective way to kill themselves. I’m pretty sure a life coach is one of the only people allowed to kill somebody else. We’re really the only people qualified to determine who should live and who should die.

(Editor’s note: We’re like God if God were a life coach.)

Normally I charge $75 per hour for my services plus an extra $10 if you want to make out a little at the end of our session. But it’s resolution time and if nothing else I view this blog as a public service. So I’m going to help you make your life better with this free life advice.

Tip No. 1: Life is really long

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that this whole living thing takes a long time. In fact, if somebody would have told me beforehand that this was going to take somewhere in the neighborhood of 70-90 years to finish, I’d probably have just passed to begin with.

But here I am with no real choice in the matter (because as a highly-qualified life coach I’ve deemed myself worthy of continuing to live) just kind of counting down the years because I’ve accomplished most of what I wanted to in life. All that stuff I mentioned earlier isn’t really important. I’m just trying to do it all because I’m bored.

Here is my list of things I hope to accomplish before I die that I made in high school. I’ve put an * next to all of the things I’ve accomplished.

• Wear jean shorts.*
• Trick someone into thinking DiGiorno pizza was actually delivery.*
• Learn to swear in casual conversation.*
• Fly a kite.
• Kick a midget.*
• Be on Knight Rider. (Note: This will be completed once my time machine is finished.)
• Bone a mermaid.
• Drive a Big Wheel.*
• Kiss Matt Damon.*
• Kill a hobo.*
• Eat at at least four different Applebee’s.
• Meet Pat Sajak and mistakenly think he’s the host of Jeopardy and repeatedly tell him throughout our evening together that Jeopardy is way better than that crapfest Wheel of Fortune and that surely Hell could be nothing more than sitting in a room full of old people watching constant reruns of Wheel of Fortune only to realize too late that Pat Sajak is in fact the host of Wheel of Fortune and not Jeopardy and I can’t backtrack because I’ve already presented him with a notarized certificate stating how much better Jeopardy is than that crapfest Wheel of Fortune and things just go downhill from there and he eventually stops returning my calls and we end up not talking again until we run into each other one day on a bus and there are a few moments of awkward conversation and staring blankly off into the distance and we realize that we’ve grown so far apart that we can never have what we did before but we both agree that this bittersweet moment has brought us closure on this whole ugly incident.*

So that’s something like 8 out of 12, which is 75%, and Michael Jordan shot under 50% for his career so I think that if I finish my life at 75%, that’s cool.

You should make a list, too. Sit down and think of everything you want to do before you die and then set out to complete 75% of them.

(Editor’s note: It’s easier if 75% of your list is comprised of things you’ve already done.)

Tip No. 2: Everyone is out to get you

The biggest obstacle you’ll encounter in your life is other people. For some reason our society teaches us to value others and be nice and to share. That’s all well and good except for the fact that everyone wants to see you fail. And I don’t mean “you” generically. I mean “you,” the person reading this. Everyone on Earth hates you and is conspiring against you.

If you take that attitude towards life, you’ll see instant improvement. Your relationships will improve dramatically because you’ll now understand them better and realize that your girlfriend is only dating you so that she can find the right time to rip your heart out and step all over it. Sure, she could do it now, but you’re in a good mood so there wouldn’t be much point. She’s just waiting until you get laid off, your house is about to be foreclosed on and there’s this funny looking teenager at your door claiming he’s your son. Then she’ll sit you down and tell you that it’s just not working out and she’d like to see other people.

Same with your coworkers. They’re only being nice to you because they want your job. It may not seem like it because you’re the janitor and that guy in the fancy suit is the human resources manager, but believe me, that thank you he said to you when you cleaned up that coffee spill in his office was just his way of saying, “I could have your job if I wanted it and I’ll take it if you get the least bit complacent.”

In my perfect society, you’d be allowed to punch people like this in the face. But in our current, broken society punching someone in the face is given a silly, corporate buzzword name like assault and battery.

So you need to approach all these bastards (and by “all these bastards” I mean everyone) with the knowledge that they would give anything to see you dead. And if doing so makes you a little bit paranoid in the process, all the more worthwhile.

Tip No. 3: Change your name to something awesome

Fact: Your name sucks.

Fact: If your name was Craig T. Nelson, your name would not suck.

The bottom line is Craig T. Nelson is one of the greatest actors of this or any generation, but the totally sweet star of Coach would have never gotten the gig if his name were David Smith. Why? Because that name sucks.

If you want your life to improve, you need to change your name to something that will make people want to be in awe of you. Craig T. Nelson is the perfect example. Not only does it throw off the shackles of the first name-last name system, but it also includes a mysterious middle initial that could stand for anything. (Craig Tits Nelson?)

But you don’t have to follow Craig T.’s lead. In fact, I don’t think you can handle it. Don’t worry. Since I’m trying to come up with my own cool name, I will now share my list with you and you can choose one of your own:

• Gunnar
• Hairy Frank
• Bone City Johnson
• Fast Mikey
• Tiny Mo
• Jim Lehrer
• Hoss
• Willie “Fancy Walkin’” Jackson
• Jesus of Nazareth
• Wild Wendell and his Hillbilly-Rockin’ Band
• Doc Bologna
• Top Gun

Mind you, these are not nicknames. You’ll have to go down to the local courthouse and apply to have your name legally changed to the above choice. And just so you know before you pick it, you’ll have to use Wild Wendell and his Hillbilly-Rockin’ Band in its entirety every time you write it, say it or think it. It’s impossible to shorten awesome.

Matthew Broderick thinks he’s so much cooler than me

Have you ever seen the movie War Games? If so, consider yourself lucky to have gotten a glimpse into what my life is like.

Not so much the part where Matthew Broderick (played masterfully by Ferris Bueller) almost starts World War III. Or the part where he has a girl in his room. Those are two things I’ve never done. But the parts where he’s sitting around playing video games on his computer – that’s about right.

As an aside, on the subject of how awesome my life is, this video is also a lot like what my life is like:

Or, at least, that will always be the dream: to open up my own auto repair shop complete with singing, dancing and men wearing cut-off shirts. Though no way am I riding off on a motorcycle with my uptown girl. I’m deathly afraid of motorcycles.

(Editor’s note: I’m hoping my uptown girl is a mermaid.)

Regardless, you’re right, my life is pretty sweet, but my friend Barry seems convinced that Matthew Broderick is way cooler than I’ll ever be. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve already started laying the groundwork to marry one of the actresses from Sex in the City and as soon as the “Please stop sending me mail” letters from Kim Cattrall turn into “I’d love to meet you for coffee some time” letters, Broderick and I will be on even footing.

Barry also doesn’t realize I had originally planned on running into Matthew Broderick in the street and having the following conversation with him:

ME: Hello. Shall we play a game?
BRODERICK: Love to. How about Global Thermonuclear War?

And while that conversation makes no sense whatsoever, I would have proceeded to beat him thoroughly at said game and, thus, I would have then been greater than Matthew Broderick, moving me up to 138th on the list of coolest people in the world.

(Editor’s note: Vin Diesel is at the top of the list.)

It hasn’t happened, though, and when I wake up every morning and look in the mirror, all I see looking back at me is a guy who’s still ranked behind Matthew Broderick on the list of coolest people in the world.

(Editor’s note: Sometimes I like to pretend my nipples are eyes.)

And I think that’s bullshit (the rankings, not the nipple eyes), because Matthew Broderick is married to someone from Sex in the City and that is so 2001.

(Editor’s note: If Kim Cattrall is reading this, you’re not so 2001. We can still get married. Also, are you a mermaid?)

And even though Matthew Broderick is a famous actor with millions of dollars (and a horse) and all I have is my failed mango farm and a high school diploma that may or may not actually belong to Gerald Lawson and I may or may not have run across the stage at graduation to punch him in the face and steal his diploma to roaring applause (and by “roaring applause” I mean “the horrified screams of his mother”) doesn’t mean a thing.

(Editor’s note: If you are currently a member of a jury of my peers sitting on my trial for assault, you should probably not have read that last paragraph.)

So I challenge Matthew Broderick to a contest. We shall bare knuckle box shirtless, preferably in a room with metal spikes on the walls, but if we can’t find a room with metal spikes on the walls I can settle for some broken beer bottles scattered about or if we can’t find a room with broken beer bottles scattered about maybe I can smash my watch on the floor before we fight because all the little gears and parts are pretty sharp and could hurt if you fall on them just right. Of course, it’s a digital watch, so there aren’t any gears, but when the alarm beeps, it gets kind of annoying and it hurts your ears a little, so maybe we can figure something out with that.

But I digress, Broderick. All you need to do is set a date, time and place. Though I’m not allowed to cross state lines at the moment, so keep that in mind. And I have a doctor’s appointment next Tuesday. So nothing before 3:30. I’ll tell you what, how about you just e-mail me your schedule and I’ll send you mine back and we’ll set up a time for our people to negotiate a time for us to fight.

(Editor’s note: I don’t have people. Also, I don’t know how to fight.)

Spam is a dish best served cold – Comment Friday

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Finding religion: Comment Friday

My hobbies are vast and numerous and include stamp collecting (or at least thinking about stamp collecting) and sending myself e-mails. Lo and behold, I went to check my e-mail today and came across the following e-mail from myself:

Dear Bill,

Do you endorse any particular religion?

-Bill.

Bill,

Thanks for the e-mail. I actually don’t endorse any one particular religion. I thought about being Catholic in high school, but then I found out that only girls get to wear those cool dresses, so that idea was a no-go.

Now that I think about it, though, it seems like nowadays anyone can have their own religion. Trust me, I went to college with Buddha and if that guy can have his own religion, anybody can.

(Editor’s note: Bill didn’t actually go to college.)

I guess where I’m going with this is I’m going to start my own religion. You really only need a few things to start a religion. A creation story, a savior and the ability to be judgmental. (It also doesn’t hurt to ax a few of your followers, but all in good time, friends…all in good time.) I only have two of those things, but I suppose I could learn to be judgmental. How’s this: Dave Matthews is a terrible person who owns a blender for the sole purpose of grinding up puppies.

I’m not sure if that’s being judgmental or just libelous. I suppose learning the difference is all just part of the spiritual growth process.

But first my creation story:

“Long ago, the universe was darkness. There existed just one being in the darkness and that was Keanu Reeves. Nobody knew who Keanu Reeves was, though, because a.) he was the only person alive and b.) Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey hadn’t been released in theaters yet.

“Keanu Reeves looked upon the darkness and loneliness and decided that it was stupid that no one could see how talented of an actor he was, so he created popsicles. He ate all the popsicles and made little popsicle stick people out of them and put on little plays for all his popsicle stick people.

“But lo, the popsicle stick people eventually got tired of Keanu Reeves’ plays because most of them were just poorly done Matrix sequels. (Is there any other kind of Matrix sequel?) So the popsicle stick people stopped watching Keanu Reeves’ plays and started putting on their own little plays. But Keanu Reeves was a wrathful actor and he set all the popsicle stick people on fire and the fire eventually expanded and started the Big Bang or something like that and life was created.

“No one really knows what happened to Keanu Reeves. To this day the search continues. Sometimes, they say, when the wind blows on a clear day, you can hear the soft sounds of Keanu Reeves saying ‘Whoa.’”

I defy you to write a more awesome creation story than that.

Now that that’s out of the way, my religion needs a name. As a steadfast proponent of capitalism and the American way, I find it only logical that I sell the naming rights to my religion. I don’t want to go overboard here and make some sort of official announcement, but the people in my Church will officially be called the McDonald’s Followers of the Faith of the Big Mac. Two All-Christ Patties, Special Sauce, Lettuce, Cheese.

Like I said, this is far from official, but we’re currently in talks. And by “in talks” I mean I have yet to have my lawyers contact the representatives of the McDonald’s corporation. And by “I have yet to have my lawyers contact the representatives of the McDonald’s corporation” I mean I haven’t hired a lawyer. (Thanks to the miracles of copy and paste, that joke can just keep going and going.) But don’t you judge me. I believe it was the almighty Keanu Reeves who said in 1 Judgmentations 7:21, “Let he who has no sin throw the first stone.” (Go ahead Bible writers, sue me for plagiarism. I dare you. Oh wait. You can’t. You’re dead.)