Let’s make some resolutions

Patch Adams combines all the fun of clowns with cancer.

Here’s the life update you’ve been waiting for: The idea for my new comic book series didn’t take off quite like I expected it to.

Long story short, I spent months meticulously drawing my comic book, holed up in my room, taking breaks only to eat, drink, and play 16 hours of video games a day. Once I was done writing the first issue, I sent it to every major publisher I know. (Editor’s note: I sent it to 1 publisher.) I was sure to include the following pitch:

The Douchebag League follows the adventures of four douchebags as they travel the world and save it from every threat, including monsters, supervillains, and dudes who play World of Warcraft. When they’re not saving the world, they bang freshman girls. I’ve enclosed a drawing of one of the scenes in which Captain Affliction Shirt woos and subsequently bangs a freshman girl. You can keep it.

Sounds like a pretty compelling pitch, right? It took me a long time to write that pitch. I watched Dead Poets Society five times before I even started, just to make sure I was inspired. (Editor’s note: Bonus inspiration – that movie is full of douchebags.) I even had my friend Barry proofread it. He never got back to me, though. He just took the drawing and went home and I haven’t seen him since.

But still, soundly rejected and the proud recipient of multiple cease and desist letters.

The way I see it, 2013 is a new year. (Editor’s note: That is 100% true.) Now I’ve never been one to make resolutions, mostly because I’m a free spirit and I can’t be tied down by some commitment I made a few days ago just because the calendar changed. Yeah, I said I’d eat healthy, but that was before I knew my mom was making chocolate chip cookies. (Editor’s note: Resolve to have Mom make more chocolate chip cookies.) But 2013 is a big deal because we weren’t even supposed to be here for it. (Editor’s note: In your face, Mayans.)

Barry said I should resolve to move out of my Mom’s house this year. That seems noble, but I can’t afford to live by myself and Barry won’t let me move in with him because he says I can’t afford to pay rent and there’s this girl next door he really likes and he just thinks I’d probably get in the way. I told him it’s not a problem and wondered if maybe she has some friends or something that wouldn’t mind if I hit it and quit it and he hung up on me. And since Barry’s really the only other person I know who isn’t homeless, I figure I’ll just chill at my mom’s for a little while longer until I meet the woman of my dreams. (Editor’s note: The woman of my dreams is a mermaid with a house I can live in.)

Anyway, here’s my working list of resolutions:

1. Watch Dead Poets Society
2. Become best friends with Robin Williams
3. Convince Robin Williams to star in my sequel to “Patch Adams”
4. Have Robin Williams write, produce and direct my sequel to “Patch Adams”
5. See if Robin Williams knows Anne Hathaway
6. Have Robin Williams convince Anne Hathaway to go on a date with the guy who got Robin Williams to write, produce, direct and star in the sequel to “Patch Adams” and she doesn’t have to commit to going back to my place later or anything but maybe we can have a nice dinner and go mini-golfing and just kind of see where the night takes us. (Editor’s note: It takes us back to my place.)
7. Learn to make pizza from scratch

So, cool, I have 1 of 7 done already and the year just started. At this pace, I’ll be done by mid-February and can just spend the rest of the year chilling out.

Taking applications for a new best friend

It's all this lady's fault.

If you follow me on Twitter, (Editor’s note: You don’t.) you probably noticed that last week’s Funday Monday festivities were, at worst, pretty solid and, at most, the things we’ll be telling our grandkids about:

#fundaymonday was pretty cool. Barry met some girl and I had some mozzarella sticks. Can’t wait until next week.

Sounds good, right? Until a week later I call Barry on Sunday night to decide if we’ll be starting this week’s Funday Monday at Chuck E. Cheese’s or back behind McDonald’s where we hang out with all the employees on their smoke break. That’s when Barry asks me if it’s cool if Donna, the girl he met, comes along.

I have nothing against Donna. She’s a lovely woman who worked as a riveter during World War II and I think she makes Barry really happy. But Funday Monday isn’t about inclusion. It’s about Barry and me painting the town red and maybe seeing some boobs.

So I told Barry you have to choose between me or Donna and he chose Donna. So I was left sitting alone on the funnest day of the week while Barry and Donna went out and painted the town red and probably saw all kinds of boobs.

Now I’m left with a few choices:

1. Hope that Barry and Donna break up between now and next Monday.
2. Hope that Donna dies between now and next Monday.
3. Hope that World War III starts between now and next Monday and Donna has to return to her work as a riveter.
4. Get a girlfriend of my own. But the local community college won’t let me on campus anymore and I won’t date anyone over the age of 20.
5. Go it alone on Funday Monday, but then who will be there to hear my jokes?
6. Find a new best friend.

So unless No. 1 or No. 2 happens between now and next Monday, it looks like I’m probably in the market for a new best friend. I don’t know if I can replace Barry’s entrepenurial spirit and his hair that always smells like strawberries, but I don’t really have a choice.

Anyway, here’s the job description if you’re interested or if you know anyone else in the market for a best friend.

My New Best Friend

Looking for someone who can not only be a sounding board for some pretty intense and amazing ideas and who can help run my presidential campaign and is free on Mondays for some really good times.

Essential Responsibilities

• Various best friends things including listening, talking, eating with me, and hooking me up with your hot friends. (Editor’s note: No dude friends – unless you’re friends with Brad Pitt.)
• Letting me borrow money sometimes because I might have busted a window over at Mr. Johnson’s house because I’m still mad he called the cops on me when I decided to try and make a little extra cash by letting people park on his front lawn for the Fourth of July parade last year, but he knows my mom’s yard has too many trees to park cars on and I wasn’t going to allow any heavy vehicles to park in his yard but what was I supposed to do because that bus was already committed to parking in that spot and there was no way the driver could have turned around without causing some kind of massive pile-up and at $5 an axle I was really set to cash in and if he’d have just let me explain I’d have told him that I was going to cut him in at 1% of the profits minus my 10% cut for being the middle man in the transaction.
• Coming over and holding my hand at night when I have that dream about the bear eating Michael Knight.
• Transcribing my thoughts that I scribble on Wendy’s napkins in to blog posts that generate tens of page views.
• Distracting my mom while I try and get her nice couch out of the living room because I might have accidentally posted it on CraigsList for sale and now there’s no turning back since the guy who bought it has pretty much told me to produce the couch or he’s going to kill me.
• Making sure my mom doesn’t find out I traded her couch for Applebee’s gift cards.

Required Skills and Experience

• Drive a really fast car.
• Demonstrated ability to let your best friend borrow your really fast car for driving and for boning in.
• Making mozzarella sticks, either from scratch for from those T.G.I. Friday’s frozen ones you buy at the grocery store.
• A recent bank statement showing enough available funds to buy some kind of rocket ship. I’d like a new one, but I’d settle for one of those Russian ones they used to use all the time as long as the dead space monkey isn’t still in it.
• Connections in the radio, television, and film industries as well as some decent mafia connections, just in case.
• Refusal to accept February 29th as a real day and act accordingly. In other words, anything that happened on February 29th, didn’t actually happen, and I’m fairly certain a jury of my peers would agree. (Editor’s note: Fingers crossed.)
• Knowing some mermaids would be a really big plus. As long as they aren’t fat mermaids. Or dude mermaids.

It’s pretty easy work. You probably won’t get paid for it, but I did find this kind of cool investment opportunity and all I have to do is get 10 of my friends to invest and once they get 10 of their friends to invest and those friends get 10 of their friends to invest this thing should really bring in a lot of money, so then maybe I’d pay you a little bit. But probably not.

The newest, greatest super heroes

I’ve got some pretty good ideas. It’s why I’m running for President, actually. One of my ideas is to let homeless dudes fix our roads. That’s a good idea because we could pay them in nickels and my campaign’s internal studies show there’s only a 75% probability they’d run off with the paving materials.

I’ve had other good ideas, too, like the one about a new national anthem, my soon-to-be-hit show Mermen and a Baby, and, of course, my foray into teen literature.

Those are all things that I can really work on once I win the election, considering the President is not only Commander-in-Chief but also runs the recording, film, and publishing industries. So once I’ve provided the homeless with road-paving equipment and declared war on Greenland, the other three things will just fall in to place.

But some things just can’t wait because the creative process isn’t about patience and diligence, it’s about doing things right now and throwing caution to the wind. That’s why I’m releasing the cover to the first ever comic book I’m writing:

This must have been how it felt when the dude that made Superman put the cover of the first issue on his blog.

It’s just a concept at this point, but The Douchebag League is a collection of the crime-fightin’-est, freshman-girl-bonin’-est super heroes around. If I were a freshman girl tied to some railroad tracks, there aren’t four heroes I’d rather have save me and subsequently bone me. (Editor’s note: Spoiler alert.)

Here are the four members of The Douchebag League:

Sideways Hat Guy

Alter ego: Chet, a cell phone salesman.
Powers: Was transformed one day when he was walking down the street and tripped. Upon landing, his hat was turned sideways and, through a combination of rays from the sun and some kind of black hole or something, he got the ability to shoot lasers out of his hat, which is pretty sweet.
Weaknesses: Curved hat brims; pockets of poor cell phone service.

Vert Stripes Dude

Alter ego: Brett, bartender at a trendy night club downtown and driver of a Camaro.
Powers: Blinds you with the power of his shirt and it’s alternating color scheme. His powers were acquired the first time he stepped into a GAP.
Weaknesses: Shopping at Old Navy; 18 and over clubs.

Middle Part Man

Don't eat this stuff. And don't ask how I know that.

Alter ego: Blake, a bank teller with dreams of becoming an investment banker; former high school basketball star.
Powers: Hair is extremely flammable and became as such when he first discovered the hold provided by mass amounts of gel. Also has the ability to rescue baby birds by allowing them to nest on top of his head.
Weaknesses: Showering at night; getting caught up in conversations about how the team could have won states his senior season if the coach weren’t such a jerk and let him take the last shot; democrats.

Captain Affliction Shirt

Alter Ego: Vin, a guy between jobs and just waiting around and working out until something breaks his way.
Powers: Announces his arrival by blasting Creed/Nickelback and has incredible upper body strength. Always ready to pick a fight and usually does so by ripping his shirt off and screaming, “Let’s go!”
Weaknesses: Shirts that don’t show off the barbed wire tattoo on his bicep; not having a spotter.

Issue 1 is going to be all about how The Douchebag League goes up against the Axis of Hipsters in the first of many battles. They win, but little do they know the hipsters are working on this sweet iPhone app that’s going to allow them to rule the world. Your move, Douchebag League.

It’s Funday Monday!

What a douche.

A few years ago, my friend Barry and I saw this great movie called “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” Seeing this movie resulted in two things:

1. It started my own personal cold war with Matthew Broderick. It would have been a real war, but the stupid government wouldn’t let me get a gun because my background check wasn’t up to snuff. Apparently if you accidentally point a realistic looking toy gun at a flight attendant demanding peanuts “now or everyone on board’s going to get it!” one time, it sticks with you forever.
2. It made Barry and me realize that we weren’t really maximizing our potential and living life to its fullest. In fact, while Ferris was faking sick to stay away from school, we were doing everything we could to be at the school because nobody serves hotter, cheaper lunches this side of the soup kitchen, and neither of us likes soup.

So we decided we needed to do something to make our lives a little more fun. Not that Barry transcribing my thoughts that I’ve written on Wendy’s napkins in to blog posts isn’t fun, but sometimes you need a break from the daily grind and sometimes Wendy’s gets tired of you sitting in their dining room for six and a half hours a day without ordering anything.

That’s why we instituted Funday Monday. We were going to go with Monday Funday, but Barry’s brother, a disbarred attorney, told us he thought the senior center in town used that for their Monday bus trips to the fabric store and he didn’t want us to get sued for copyright infringement. We also thought about maybe having Fondue Friday, but that’s probably a bit much to take on until Funday Monday gets off the ground and I think we were both hoping that the other would actually know what Fondue is. I guessed that it was some kind of foreign car and Barry thinks it might be a type of tree.

So Funday Monday is our day of fun and living.

We decided that, from the minute we wake up until the minute the sun goes down, we would maximize every second of the day. That’s roughly 90 minutes, so we have to pack a lot in. Activities vary, but our favorites include:

• Cross-checking my spreadsheet of Bob Barker’s tie color with DVR’d episodes of The Price is Right.
• Running up and down the street alongside the neighborhood cats.
• Finding every book in the library about chickens and telling the lady at the check-out that we’re doing extensive research on cocks.
• Bare-knuckle boxing with homeless dudes over behind the liquor store.
• Taking bus trips to the fabric store with the local seniors.
• Playing a little game we like to call “See it, eat it” where we walk up and down the sidewalk and have to eat anything we see on the ground. (Editor’s note: Barry cheats because he walks with his eyes closed.)
• Head over to the lake and look for beached mermaids so we can bone them.
• Paying kids at the high school money in exchange for their tater tots, because Monday’s tater tots are the best.

I can’t tell you everything we do because “the man” is probably reading this, but I promised Barry my run for President wouldn’t interfere with Funday Monday, even if I got elected. I figure the President is pretty powerful and can take three-day weekends whenever he wants.

The blog is back and I’m running for President

I think this little fella' is running for President.

I was sitting outside my ex-girlfriend’s house yesterday, lurking in the bushes, and she had CNN on. I’ve never really watched or heard of CNN, but apparently there’s some kind of election going on this year and apparently there are a lot of people who want anyone but some dude named Mitt Romney to win. And apparently there are a lot of other people who want anyone but some Irish dude named Barack O’Bama to win. I think there’s also a newt running, but I’m not sure how that works.

(Editor’s note: I Googled one of the other candidates and the library revoked my Internet access again.)

As I sat there and stared at my ex-girlfriend unkowingly lounging on her couch, I came to the realization that I’m totally anyone but those guys. And considering I have experience running for President already thanks to my unsuccessful run in 2002 that was derailed by, among other things, misleading ads by my opponent, voter apathy, and the fact that there wasn’t a Presidential election in 2002, I’m more than qualified to run again in 2012.

So it’s decided. I’m throwing my hat in the ring. I think that’s what people say when they run for President. My friend Barry is on board, too, though he’s ruled out jumping on my ticket as Vice President. First off, he’s still trying to get his start-up electronics business off the ground and he doesn’t have the time to dedicate to being Vice President. He’s really close to getting his first 3D TV built. He just needs to finish making a bunch of those paper glasses with the red and blue lenses and also figure out how to make a 3D TV . Second, he’s part of a local citizens’ group that “wants to reverse the result of the Revolutionary War and go back to a time when the King of England was still the king and we got tea by the boatload.” That probably wouldn’t go over well for a Vice Presidential candidate. So far the group consists of just Barry and a drifter named StarFly, but he said he’s been getting some emails from people who want to join. There was a third guy in the group, but they kicked him out because they found out the only reason he joined was to “kill some Injuns and maybe beat up some French guys.”

But Barry’s cool with managing my campaign which is good because his start-up electronics business has given him a chance to learn how to make some sweet-looking pamphlets in Microsoft Word and he’s got a bunch of old cardboard boxes that we can make yard signs out of. I think he’s cool with being the campaign treasurer too, but I haven’t asked him. I’m just going to start giving him the money from donations and hope he doesn’t say anything about not being the treasurer. If he does start to complain, it’s probably nothing a good punch in the neck couldn’t fix.

As far as my platform goes, I’m pretty much just a man of the people – basic stuff like the right to have guns and money and bone lots of mermaids. And I’m willing to bend on the guns and money thing.

I don’t know if they’ll let me in to the debates, but I sent that Barack guy a letter telling him to meet me in my mom’s basement some time and some of our neighbors will probably come over and we’ll have refreshments (BYOB) and we’ll talk about stuff like how to make America more awesome and how to get those jerks in Canada to stop looking at us funny. So far I haven’t heard back, but one day these two guys in an unmarked van showed up outside my mom’s house and they follow me everywhere I go, so I figure he’s just doing some advance scouting. By the way, if anyone has a couple of lecterns I could borrow and some connections with Wolf Blitzer, I’d really appreciate it.

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.