Have a weak and lazy crush on a girl in college. Take her out a couple times. She says: “Matt, you’re a nice guy, but I just don’t wanna date you.” Rejection. Right? It happens. We stay friendly-ish. We move on.
Maybe six years later, I meet her fiancé. Some guy whose name I can never remember. “Yeah, I’m getting married to Michelle. And she’s never been specific about the extent of your guys’ relationship back then, but she always speaks very fondly of you.”
Nice! Nice and weird! “Relationship?” You mean “friendship?” You mean, nothing but friendship. Here’s a guy who thinks I fucked his fiancé long before they met. And I’m flattered. Weird that she would speak so sweetly about me over the years, a guy she was absolutely not interested in dating back then, or so she said. Her frequency of talking about me had to be such that now her fiancé thinks she slept with me long before she met him. So you think: Do I clear this up and tell him his fiancé and I had never slept together? Or, do I leave it alone?
I leave it alone.
I don’t know shit about marriage, but knowing anything never seems to be a prerequisite for actually getting married. So lemme launch this at the wall like a load of sticky pasta: If the mere thought of your fiancé having sex with guys long before she ever met you is the kind of thought that disturbs, stresses or in other ways freaks you out to the point where you’re expressing it to the guy you think fucked your fiancé a long time before—you probably shouldn’t get married. You’re clearly afraid of shit. And you’re gonna get divorced.
As they did. Ran into him today. At an audition. Still can’t remember his name, but he always remembers mine. He was talking to his now ex-wife Michelle on his cell phone and mentioned he was sitting across from me. “She says hi,” he said, hanging up. He still thinks I fucked his ex-wife a long time ago. And every time he mentions her, I think the same thing: Do I clear this up and tell him that she and I never slept together? Or do I leave it alone?
I leave it alone.
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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I think my mail lady’s been kidnapped. This is the second day in a row I’ve gotten junk mail in my box (that’s right, I got junk in my box). Anna would never do that. Yeah, I know her name. It’s Anna. She would never in a million years put junk mail in my or in any of my neighbor’s mailboxes. That ain’t how she roll. Unless she’s just doing it for me, in which case that makes her even cooler. Anna’s not just a mail lady. She’s an immune system: systematically knocking away any and all junk mail toxins from my receptors. I always say “Thank you.” She always says “You’re welcome.” There ain’t no junk with Anna. She’s clean. She’s a goalie. She’s the Great Postal Barrier. She’s better than the Secret Service. She is so good about not letting junk mail in that I’m starting to think she’s breaking some rules. Like, aren’t you supposed to put a certain amount of junk mail in people’s mailboxes? Well, she doesn’t put any. Not one stupid offer, not one Pennysaver, not one coupon for a twin pack of game hens for eighty-nine cents. None of that shit. Just important stuff like my Arrowhead bill (in which I have to pay an oil/fuel surcharge, I just found out, and something called “rent” [I have to pay my water’s rent?]) and medical stuff that tells me my insurance maybe won’t pay for the blast of steroids I got shot into my back three months ago. Thanks, Anna.
So maybe she’s breaking the junk mail rules. Maybe she’s rattling some cages we don’t know about and has been given a stern talking to by her superiors. I hope she hasn’t been rubbed out.
Did you know you can’t give a postal worker cash as a gift? They’re not allowed to accept it. So I’ve been thinking of what kind of gift I can give her. Some maracas maybe? Perhaps one of those snugglies? Maybe a piñata? How about a five-dollar gift certificate to In-n-Out? Is the Cheesecake Factory still around?
Hey, wait a second. Eighty-nine cents for a twin pack of game hens? What a steal!
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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A bunch of jealous models starting a riot? Is there anything more likely?
If you didn’t hear: Pandemonium erupted yesterday in Manhattan outside an America’s Next Top Model casting call. Only women under five-foot seven could enter, so the turn out was even more noxious and nauseating than usual. People started cutting in line, getting told if they got out of line they couldn’t get back in, so they started peeing in cups. Crazy shit. And it did not take long for the diminutive hotties to start shoving and kicking and punching each other, causing a big dangerous riot in which six people were injured. A couple of boyfriends started beating the shit out of each other (like they’re supposed to), the police shut down the auditions and humanity was indeed a scarce commodity. Can you believe that?
“Wait a minute. Hold on. You’re telling me that a bunch of catty, backbiting, jealous models who are genetically predispositioned to hate each other anyway got into a riot outside a casting call for America’s Next Top Model? Why, I don’t believe it! Normally, good-looking girls are very sweet to one another.”
Here’s a news story you’re never gonna see: “One thousand aspiring models gathered today for an America’s Next Top Model casting call and became fast friends. There was a lot of support, hugging and exchanging of good will.”
How many Broadway musicals do you think will be inspired by this event? Think about all those flamboyantly pudgy show tune writers running to their keyboards now, filled with the fire of muse and motive, once again sparked by their most reliable idea: models behaving shitty to each other.
After the pushing and shoving and cursing started, how long do you think it took the police to figure out something unusual was going on? “Hey man! There’s a bunch of hot chicks pushing and shoving and scratching each other out there!” “Yeah. And?” I mean, how do you differentiate that from any other day in Manhattan?
Under five foot seven inches. For models? Bad idea. See, short people be pissed. Some of the angriest, most sensitive people I’ve ever known have been short. That’s just a given. And when you add to that all the drama of having to look good, cutting in line and peeing in cups, you’re gonna get some fights. Publicly peeing in a cup on Fifty-Fifth Street and still not getting on America’s Next Top Model? That’s gotta be disappointing. But they should consider their displays of desperation as an audition for future work in the “industry.”
“All right, girls. You didn’t get on TV this time. But you have shown that you’re willing to publicly pee in a cup to get a job. So, fortunately, there are plenty of other work opportunities for you out there. Step into my scummy van and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Of course, the real bad news is the number of models injured in the riot was only six. Let’s see if we can’t get that number up to about fifty next time, shall we?
Have you heard about the all-gay male model competition show? They’re gonna call it America’s Next Bottom Model.
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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1 note
Almost bought a watch at the mall yesterday. Haven’t bought a watch in a long time. Haven’t worn a watch in about ten years maybe. Last time I bought a watch in a mall was right after a break-up. Because after a break-up, you really need to know what time it is. “Hi. Just dropped this girl off at the airport and I’m never gonna see her again. You got a watch for something like that?”
Remember watches though? You bring your wrist up, do a little math and before you know it, you got the time of day, bubby! I can’t get this watch I saw outta my head. Silver band, blue face studded with these fashionable bumps, really cool second hand that looked like a mini odometer. I quite liked it and almost got it. I’m sick of digging in my pocket for my cell phone and pushing a button whenever I need to know what time it is. I use my cell phone for three things: texting, talking and the time.
But wearing that watch in the store, it was already getting caught in my wrist hair. It was promptly taking little tugs, mostly because—I thought—it wasn’t exactly the right size. “We would adjust the band to your wrist size upon purchase,” she said. “Oh, upon purchase,” I said, honestly thinking that maybe if I could get the thing fit snugly enough that maybe it wouldn’t pinch at me like that. But I would have to buy it first. And that’s how they get you! The fuckin’ Swiss! Swiss wrists must be less hairy. I asked her if the store provided wrist waxings. She laughed but never answered my question. So maybe they do! Gotta get back there!
Say “Swiss wrists” a bunch of times.
Speaking of watches, saw Watchmen. Almost walked out, but didn’t. Can barely remember a thing about it. The movie’s important in some way, right?
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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0 notes
The guy in this drawing is seriously considering it. Seriously considering getting into the infinite pool. He’s not sure though. Because once you get in, you don’t get out.
“I love swimming in pools, but there’s always an end to them. I’m sick of being boxed in when I swim. Boundaries? Edges? Not for this frogman! I need a pool that stretches forever out to the horizon, even if that’s not really what it’s doing. What I need is a pool that doesn’t stop! I need…an infinite pool!”
I think about infinite pools a lot. Some are private indoor pools for people who don’t have the room or desire for a real pool, but want the exercise. That’s fine. But I think what society needs is the public infinite pool. Down at the rec center. A place where infinite families can swim infinitely. With a lifeguard of course. A lifeguard that’s always there.
GUY: Hey man. I know you’re on duty right now, but a bunch of us are having a party tomorrow night. Wanna go?
INFINITE LIFEGUARD: Can’t. Gotta life guard here at the infinite pool.
GUY: Oh. Well, a bunch of us are getting together next week too—
INFINITE LIFEGUARD: Can’t. I’ll be at the pool.
GUY: Man. You’re here all the time, aren’t you?
INFINITE LIFEGUARD: Why, yes. Yes I am.
I wish Olympic pools were infinite. Because then Phelps would still be swimming. And swimming. Right now he’d be swimming. He wouldn’t get the chance to gloat. He’d just be swimming. He’d be infinitely swimming. Not getting infinitely high.
There’s a Silverlake band called Abandoned Infinite Pools. They’re probably still playing right now.
I knew a guy a long time ago who worked as an infinite pool boy. He still works as an infinite pool boy. He’s still a boy.
Did you know that if you swim in an infinite pool less than thirty minutes after you eat, you’ll barf forever?
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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0 notes
Money cheers me up.
Just got a check I wasn’t expecting to get. And now my leg hurts a little less. I’m looking at the amount right now and feeling better about how I was nixed from performing at this NBC showcase-type thing tomorrow night. I had been on the bill for the past few weeks and just found out today (about thirty-two hours before the show) that I’m not on the bill anymore. And I call it “showcase-type thing” because the whole thing never sounded very specific to me. People would ask me: “What is this thing you’re doing Friday?” And I wouldn’t know how to phrase it except to say a stand-up comedy showcase where NBC and Carson Daly are involved in some way. But whatever it is, I won’t be involved. Good luck to those who are though. Everyone on the bill the last time we did it was really funny. Maybe everyone will get to be on TV! Everyone in the world! (Seriously: Everyone doing the show tomorrow night is gonna be hilarious. Gardener Stages. 11:00pm. Sunset and Gardener. Go.)
But it’s shit like this where I go: “What did I do? What did I do to deserve this? What shitty thing did I say and to whom that brought this around? This is my payment for some insensitive, tactlessly creepy thing I said to someone and made the world shitty. And now, NBC doesn’t like me. NBC and, of course, God.”
I’m actually struggling to commit at least three hundred words to this topic because most of me doesn’t care and wants to finish watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind. But if I don’t care, why type anything at all? I should’ve known the minute I heard Mark’s voice say: “Well, Matt, it’s been a hell of a morning.” When someone starts out with that, you can pretty much bet the next thing they say is gonna include negative phrases like “not sure,” “doesn’t look like,” “didn’t make it,” and “go home. Just go home.”
And I will. But first the bank.
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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0 notes
I could get my hair to do that. I could get a suit like that. I could get a tie like that. I’m not above wearing mustard. Spread the word.
Last girlfriend I had: I asked her if she wanted to take a tango class sometime. She said: “Of course.” We never did.
Last date I was on: I asked her if she wanted to take a tango class sometime. She said: “Sure.” We never did.
I’m not sure these two are tango-ing. For all I know they’re not dancing at all. They just like to get together in a nougat-colored room once a week and hold hands like that, letting their weight hold them up in triangle formation, stretching things out, feeling the burn in their backs and calves whilst wearing really nice clothing. Who says those ain’t workout clothes?
(My herniated disk is starting to act up again. I’ll probably have to go in for another shot of steroids in my back. That’s right. I’ve been taking a performance-enhancing drug. “When can we look forward to your performance being enhanced, Matt?” Good question.)
If these two let go, they’re dead. Nose-first into the floor. Reflexively, they’ll try to break their falls by sticking their hands out in front of them. I hear the most common injury whilst snowboarding is the broken wrist. Because when people pitch forward, they always try to break their fall with their hands which I hear ain’t too smart. But these two flashy kids hopefully know better than that. Hopefully, if they were to release one another, they would go into synchronized diving shoulder rolls, bypassing most of the floor’s damaging impact by tucking their heads in and tumbling forward onto their shoulders, wheeling up into a standing position which would be quite a feat for her in that dress especially since she doesn’t seem to be wearing underwear.
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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0 notes
This thing better come with an application to Harvey Mudd. Because that’s what you’re gonna need to solve it. Meet the Fuck You puzzle.
Go ahead. I dare you. Get one of these things. Hold it in your hand. Feel the weight. Like Indy Jones taking that precious gold head out of that cave in the first one, know what you have, stuff it in your bag and get the hell out of there, duckin from an onslaught of poison arrows, you dodecahedron-lovin’ rascal, you! Only to have it taken from you by a rival archaeologist who’s been a thorn in your ass for years. On second thought, let him have it. Because do you really want this thing in your life?
If I ever found myself in the room with one of these puzzles, I would soon thereafter find myself not in the room with one of these puzzles. Because I would run out! I’m not gonna say good night, I’m not gonna say excuse me. I’m gonna bolt out of the room, out of the building and into the parking lot, ripping my shirt off and screaming for the cops.
When you’re at a party and some calculus-lovin’ dweeb brings this into the room, just say no. Tell him right away. “Look: I’m here to have a good time and you’re clearly not. Get that thing outta here before I call the Center for Disease Control, you killjoy.
Look at it. Whoever took this picture obviously loves it because it’s on a pillow. It better be on a pillow. Because I bet even it’s exhausted. From just being itself, right? “Wooo! I am a twelve-sided bad-ass with nine hundred and seventy-two different crannies! What do you got goin’ on in your life? How many sides do you have? I am exhausted from just being me! I’m gonna sit here for a second and rest my eyes, if that’s all right. Oh, wait. What eyes? LOL!”
And everyone knows that guy who goes: “Actually, it’s fairly simple to solve.”
I remain
Champagne
8 months ago
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1 note
Yeah? So? That’s my fridge from like two years ago. Wanna fight?
The beer and the mustard are still in there today. (Different bottle of mustard of course, but same beer. I don’t drink alone. Drinking alone is for losers. Does this look like the fridge of a loser? Huh?)
(This is the most personal thing I’ve ever posted. Ever.)
I remain
Champagne
9 months ago
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0 notes
