Tag Archives: life

On attractiveness and fanciness

Looking good is fun. Like, dressing up, wearing jewels and makeup and, I don’t know, barrettes? It’s fun. Makes you feel good. Makes you feel attractive and fancy, and that’s what life is about, ain’t it?

No, WRONG-O, life is not about those things. I’m not sure what life is about, but it’s not about looking good and being fancy. It’s probably about other things, like reproduction and survival.

Oh, looking good is what gets you a mate? And fanciness, as a display of wealth, is proportional to your ability to survive in the industrialized world? P’shaw. I heartily reject that baloney.

Imagine you meet someone. For sake of this argument, this someone is a man and a babe. He’s wearing a well-tailored suit and has an expensive hairstyle. He smells good. Nice, straight teeth. Muscled shoulders. You think, “One day, I’mma marry that man.”

One day, you do. And boy, he looks fly in those wedding pictures.

Chances are, you just got TOOKED. Any asshole can trick you into marrying them. That handsome man, he might suck. So many people suck, and the people who care the most about looking good are probably the ones who suck the hardest. This handsome man won’t want to chill with you, he’ll be busy getting his suits tailored and beauty snoozing while wearing his retainer. And when he’s not doing those things, he’s probably strutting around town, primping and preening and seeking admiration from others.

That’s not say all handsome men are scoundrels, nor all beautiful women. But definitely some are. Don’t let their looks sway you, and don’t let your looks sway others. You should aim to be as unattractive as possible. Got a chiseled jaw? Cover that up with scraggle beard. Got a neat butt? Wear puffy poodle skirts so no one can see. Then, when you meet someone and decide they’re worthy of your love, you can shave your beard and show off your donk. It’ll be a wonderful surprise for all parties involved.

As for fanciness being a symbol of your ability to survive, that’s bull, too. If you’re wearing diamonds and going on extravagant vacations to show the world how rich you are, you’re actually threatening your survival. Bad people gonna wanna kill you for all those riches, and the Earth gonna wanna kill you for your big ass carbon footprint. Motherfunk that frivolous display of wealth. Instead, show us aggressive saving habits and a frugal lifestyle. That’s how we’ll really know you got money in the bank to pay for our homes and medical bills.

A note: I wrote this because I looked stupid today and am soon to be unemployed. There’s a decent chance life is about looking good and being fancy. IDK.

(I used italics to emphasize “is” back there. Cool, wasn’t it? We got to bring italics back.)

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I like poop stories. If you don’t, maybe don’t read this

Whenever I travel outside of New England, my body forgets how to poop. It sucks, of course, but it wouldn’t suck nearly as much if — when I finally do remember  — my body didn’t then forget to do this other thing, too. This way more important other thing.

Two summers ago my cousin Petey and I visited our friend Will and his family at their condo in a resort in Puerto Rico. There are a few things you should know.

1. I’d never met Will’s parents before.

2. Will’s parents were adults.

3. I’d only met Will’s girlfriend once.

4. Will’s girlfriend was a real hip art student.

5. Other than meeting strangers, the things that make me most nervous/weird/mute are adults and hip art students and my obvious inferiority t0 them.

The resort this group of superior humans and I stayed at was redinky donky. It had the amenities you’d expect, like beaches and restaurants and pools, and the amenities you might not expect, like a casino and a golf course and a water park. The only thing missing was a pooping conducive crapper.

Actually, dat ain’t true. The condo had three perfectly functioning toilets; one for Will’s parents, one for Will and Petey, and one for Will’s boo and me. I, on the other hand, didn’t even have one perfectly functioning shiz system. In fact, my shiz system wouldn’t function at all.

That charming belly is 50% chub and 50% constipation (that's me in the gray wife beater sitting on the left, by the way)

I went three days with no number twos. On the fourth day, I knew I had to take action. Although I’d never really had issues with pooping before, I was familiar with the latest crap-coaxing technologies. I needed to drink water, eat fruits and vegetables, exercise, and stay away from binding foods like cheese. I got to it (secretly — I didn’t want all those cool strangers to know I had a backed-up booty).

After five days of babying my bowels, I finally managed a turd or two. I don’t know if I got distracted by my success or I was too physically exhausted to be bothered or I was subconsciously showing off. I just know I forgot to flush.

My turd or two sat in that toilet for a couple of hours.

Now, I already mentioned that Will’s lady and I shared our own bathroom. What I didn’t mention, though, was that ours was the only one that wasn’t totally private; it was connected to the rest of the house, too. I like to believe no one else saw it — mostly because when I went back later for a run-of-the-mill pee, it was still bobbing around like dook do. I also like to believe no one smelled it, but since the bathroom was right next to the kitchen, someone probably did.

At least they didn’t think I had a backed-up booty.

I’ve gone dumb

I’ve spent most of the summer hanging out with dogs and babies. In particular, my pup dawg Chico and my niece Heidi.

They both super bomb. Chico is cute and funny and sweet; Heidi is crazy adorable and crazy happy and crazy fun and my favorite new human. You know what neither of them are, though? Smart.

Actually, as far as dogs and babies go, they’re geniuses. Chico can manipulate my mom to do anything — he fakes anorexia to get spoon fed and he fakes a limp to get carried on long walks. He’s a sicko bastard, but he’s clever. Still, since he’s a dog, I can’t do anything with him except make weird noises and throw squeaky toys and beg him to poop.

I can also get crunked with him

Likewise, Heidi is wicked smart for a baby. She babbles with the best of them and knows the facial expression for every word in the English dictionary. I’m sure she’ll be a bookworming math wizard in a few years, but for now, all I do when we chill is make gooftastic faces and blow raspberries and beg her to poop (I also smile a lot).

"This blanket is tasty and my face is the effing best"

The lack of normal social interaction is starting to have an effect on me. I’m going dumb real quickly like.

For example:

1. I went surfing the other day and chatted with a middle-aged, Australian, sleeveless-wetsuit-wearing man. After talking for a minute or two about weather n whatnot, he paddled out far, I posted up on da inside, and the chittychat ended.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Australian Man caught a wave. As he rode the wave in, he passed right by me. He was kind of crouching down and had his left hand sticking straight up and his right hand sticking out to the side. It looked to me like he wanted a high five.

When I stuck my hand out and he ignored it, however, it no longer looked like he wanted a high five.

(P.S. He later told me about his 12-month-old son. Thinking he said 12-year-old, I asked if his son surfed much. You should have seen the look he gave me!)

2. While taking Chico for a walk, I made homies with an old man. He asked me a few questions about myself, and then asked me what da mutt’s name was.

Old man: What da mutt’s name is?

Me: Chico. It means “boy” in Spanish. Funny, huh?

Old man: Oh helllooo there Chico!

Chico responded by lifting his leg on a telephone pole and dripping a pizz. The old man laughed and said to him, “And helllooooo to you too!”

For some reason, even though we’d already said hello and chatted for a few minutes, I looked old man right in his old face and said back, “Hello.”

I really don’t know how I mixed that one up.

3. The back tire on my bike blew this morning when I was about 4 miles away from home. On the walk back I found some grapes on the side of the road, noted they looked delicious, and ate a few. Then my lips got tingly and I thought I was having an allergic reaction. Then I remembered my chapstick had tingle-inducing ingredients in it.

Then I decided I should probably stick to dogs and babies.