The Bad Touch
I have a friend who maintains–and as ridiculous as this claim may sound, if you knew the guy, you’d understand why I believe it–that he’s tried masturbation only once. He says he didn’t like it.
I told him he was doing it wrong.
Mark David Chapman–We Need You Now!
When I was a kid I had a copy of the Bee Gees’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, which I mistakenly believed was the Bee Gees’ original work. One day, while listening to the album and making fun of it, my friend’s mom burst into the room and said, “That’s BEATLES music!” She looked at me with an expression of stone-cold horror and said, “One day you’ll be sorry you made fun of the Beatles!” For a while I was weirded-out by that, waiting for the regret-shoe to drop.
I’m still not sorry, Mrs. Martinez, but I hope you’re well.
Only Losers Ride The Bus
When I can, I prefer to travel by train. Air travel is unpleasant enough, thanks to my fear of flying (I don’t fear terrorists; I fear that the massive metal tube in which I am travelling will, like Wile E. Coyote after he has dashed off the side of a cliff, suddenly realize that it has heretofore been denying a fundamental principle of physics and plummet abruptly earthward, accompanied all the while by the soundtrack of my girlish screams) and the myriad inconveniences attendant with the ‘airline experience.’
Amtrak personnel–if you’ll pardon a rare excursion into vulgarity–don’t give two shits. With one notable exception, they don’t care what you do as long as you’re not so blatant about it that you force their hand. The one rule I’ve seen Amtrak enforce–with a vengeance–is a prohibition against smoking tobacco. Get caught smoking and they will throw your ass off at the next stop. No foolin.’ As I don’t smoke cigarettes, I can enjoy the refreshingly anachronistic freedom the train offers.
A great example of this is from a recent trip I took. For privacy reasons, I make it a point to ask the attendant not to make up my room, usually with the explanation that I work late into the evening (which is true). However, at one point, I hadn’t realized that a new attendant had come on duty, and while I was at dinner, he made up my room. I was chagrined when I arrived back at my room to find several items I would very much NOT like discovered stacked neatly beside the freshly made bed. Nothing more was ever said, however, and of course the attendant got a nice tip.
I’ve always maintained that train travel is for degenerate stoners and the elderly. I’ll let you know right now, folks–I’m not that old.
Sometimes Tardsie Wants To Punch Himself In The Face
I walked into work one day and saw that one of my coworkers, a girl named Kelly, was dressed to the nines.
“Hey, Kelly,” I said, “You look great! Who died?”
“My grandma,” she said.
What Not To Say To A Cop
I lived in Washington State for a while, where having California license plates is considered a capital crime. So one day this cop in Mt. Lake Terrace pulls me over for speeding and starts giving me shit about being from California, “We have speed limits here, son!”
Apparently the little fellow was irritated when I broke eye contact with him to look for my insurance paperwork. He said, “If you don’t want to listen, I can just give you the ticket right now.”
A little pissed myself, I said, “I’m listening, dude, I’m just looking for my paperwork.”
“Hey!” He said, “Don’t call me that. I’m not a dude, all right?”
If I’d had another second to think about it, I would have chosen a different path. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am–you looked so masculine.”
He didn’t care for that one bit.