The French Love Sweaty People

Is it just me or do French people absolutely love sweaty people? Let me explain...I was watching the French Open this morning. Andy Roddick was beating the crap out of some guy and every so often he would call over the towel boy. For those of you who aren't tennis enthusiasts, the towel boy is the kid who runs over to the player with a towel. The player then wipes his sweat all over the towel and throws it back to the kid. The kid then stands back against the wall and waits until the player summons him once more.

Can you imagine the interview process for the job of towel boy? "Hi, thanks for your interest in the towel boy job. Now as you probably know, the job pretty much only entails holding a very sweaty towel. The towel will get progressively more sweaty as the day goes on, but you must still hold on to it. Do you accept the job?" The towel boy says, "Oui."

What a horrible job. I know, I know, you get to be within feet of the world's best tennis players, but at what cost? What I observed most about the Roddick match was that Andy was the sweatiest person in France since Lance Armstrong pedaled his way down the Champs Elysees. After Lance finished the race, mobs of Frenchies hugged him and high fived him. See what I mean? The French love sweaty people.

If I had the misfortune of being the towel boy, I'd insist that either a new towel was used every time the player wanted to deposit sweat, or I was a towel boy for, say, the French Chess Championship, or the French Spelling Bee, or the French Sitting Around Watching French Television Competition of France.

Oh, Chicago

Oh, Chicago, with your winds blustery and bold,
Oh, Chicago, with your winters so god damn cold,
Oh, Chicago, but your summer with its sun,
Oh, Chicago, if the Cubs could win just one,
Oh, Chicago, remember MJ? oh, could he leap,
Oh, Chicago, the city that does, indeed, sleep,
Oh, Chicago, I live in your belly,
Oh, Chicago, it's getting a little smelly,
Oh, Chicago, I think you about daily,
Oh, Chicago, no, not you, Mayor Daley.
Oh, Chicago, the lake is to the East,
Oh, Chicago, people here just love to feast,
Oh, Chicago, the hope and soul of the Midwest,
Oh, Chicago, Milwaukee thinks it's best.
But it's not.

If I Were A Toaster, The Bread Would Be Ready.

So I'm chillin on a park bench last week when a woman comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, have you got the time?" "Yeah, it's 9:30," I replied. "Thank you," she said. Later on as I was strolling through the park, the same lady comes up to me again and says, "Excuse me, have you got the time?" I gave her a WTF look and said, "Yeah, it's 9:45." "Thank you," she said. Maybe this lady had Alzheimer's or some kind of memory deficiency so I didn't think much of it.

About 5 minutes after that as I was coming out of the lake in slow motion with only a speedo on and my long silky hair was blowing in the wind even though it was wet, and the same goddamn lady comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, have you got the time?" "Are you serious?" I said, "I just told you 5 minutes ago and then 15 minutes before that. Do you really not know what time it is or are you trying to drive me nuts?" "I'll take the nuts, I'm hungry, cashews please," she replied. "So what time is it? Have you got the time?" If I was a toaster, the bread would be ready. "It's 9:52." "In the morning?" she asked.

Now was my chance. (Editor's Note: "Now was my chance" is such a strange phrase. "Now" indicates that we're in the present, while "was" is indicative of the past. How can we be both in the present and in the past? Where's Daniel Faraday when you need him?) I told the woman that it was, indeed, nighttime and that the world was in total chaos causing the sunlight to be brightest at night. The woman looked at me and said, "What? Are you insane? I know it's the morning. I was just testing you. I'm calling the police." She took out her iPhone and called 9-1-1. "Is that the new iPhone?" I asked. "Yeah, it's super sweet. I just got the new app that lets you see what time it is. It's very helpful."

Engaged to Megan Fox

People are so skeptical, ya know? Think about it - if you tell someone you met Tiger Woods, their first response is always, "No way, buttercup, I don't believe you." Or if you say your cousin's grandmother's dog sitter is engaged to Megan Fox, the response is, "Shut the hell up, Mr. Liar Pants." Even less impressive things such as getting a new job in this rough economy - the response is, "Really? You did?"

I think it's because people are inherently jealous. If you have something that they don't have, or know someone that they don't know, they don't believe you. How can Jimmy know Dave Matthews? I love Dave Matthews and I don't know him, therefore Jimmy is a dirty liar. Or Hank won second place in a beauty contest and won 10 dollars. But Hank is ugly, so how could he win a beauty contest? What they don't know is that the beauty contest Hank won was for naked mole rats. Of course Hank would win. Idiots.

People need to grow up. It's a matter of maturity. C'mon people, pull it together. Alright, I have to go have lunch with Paris Hilton, Dave Grohl, and Andy Roddick. Peace out.
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"Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet." - Bob Dylan

Yo Yo Cupcake

Want to hear something that you can do that will really kick your socks off? Of course you don't. Here's what you do: You walk down the street with your girlfriend and go up to some dweeby looking dude and say, "Yo Yo Cupcake, can I ask you somethin?" The guy says, "yes" and then you say, "Do you think my girlfriend is hot?"

The guy has 3 options. 1) Says yes and then you say "Watch it, amigo. Then give him the Robert DeNiro finger eyes thing from Meet the Parents. 2) Says no and insults your girlfriend. 3) Says nothing which you can take either way and then repeat either steps 1 or 2.

It's pretty fun. Unless your girlfriend is ugly, in which case I wouldn't recommend doing this at all.
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"If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it." - Beyonce

Rudy the Basil Plant

My girlfriend recently bought a basil plant. We named it Rudy - after Rutherford B. Hayes (true). This is my first bout with parenthood. Like a child, Rudy needs constant nourishing. He needs attention on a daily basis, needs to be fed when he's hungry, and turns brown from time to time.

I think about Rudy constantly. When I'm sleeping, I dream of Rudy. When I'm walking I walk with Rudy. When I'm on the phone - it's Rudy. "Hi Rudy, how are you? What's that? You need water? Why? I fed you this morning. Rudy? Are you there? Why aren't you answering? Rudy? RUDY? RUDY! Where are you? Are you OK? Oh Jesus no. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO"

I raced home. Rudy was fine. He's a plant.
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"People tell me that Senator Edwards got picked for his good looks, his sex appeal, and his great hair. I say to them, How do you think I got the job?" - Dick Cheney

The President at Notre Dame

I'm about to head to Notre Dame for their graduation ceremonies. In case you haven't read the news in the past week, President Obama is speaking. But that's hardly the most newsworthy part of this weekend. There are lots and lots and lots of protesters. They claim that President Obama is anti-Catholic because of his stance on abortion. All politics aside, I have a plan. Here's how it's going to go...

Me: What do you want from me?
Protester: I want you to join the boycott of President Obama
Me: Why?
Protester: He is pro-choice.
Me: But this is graduation, not a pro-abortion rally. Shouldn't we be celebrating the graduates?
Protester: Yeah, but by bringing him here, Notre Dame is agreeing with his policies. And that makes me upset as an American.
Me: Well, I'm going to hear the President of the United States while you stare at pictures of dead unborn people. Have fun with that.
Protester: K, Bye.
Me: Bye.

Really Rubbery

I have a serious dilemma on my hands. I have a pair of Converse All Stars - black and white. Real slick, real trendy. I enjoy wearing them...it makes me feel like I'm Ben Folds or the guy from Weezer or Pee Wee Herman.

What's the dilemma? They smell like rubber. I mean rubber rubber. Really rubbery. When I'm not wearing them, I have to wrap them in a plastic Kohls bag and stuff it in the back of my closet by the bike I never ride.

It's a hard decision to make. Do I throw them away and rid myself and my apartment of the rubber factory stink or be cool? I was taught as a young boy to always put looking awesome over anything else. When I was 6 I got a tattoo of Michael Jackson on my back. When I was 12 I got a tattoo of Donnie Wahlberg on my chest.

Yeah, I think I'll throw away the shoes.

Maple Syrup Marmalade

You know the drill. You've all been to a restaurant. You sit down and get your water, you get your menus, look it over for a bit and the waiter/tress comes over to you. They ask if you want a cocktail or beverage of any type and then begin to tell you the specials for that day. This is where the metaphoric shit hits the metaphoric fan.

It's one of the most awkward positions to be in. It's like wearing a banana suit on bandanna day. It's like being a 14 year old boy with a full beard and a forest in your pants the size of the Amazon. It's just a situation you don't want to be in. Here's why -

What do you do? Do you keep staring at the waiter while he reads to you? Then it's just a stare-off. You know the waiter won't break eye contact with you and you don't want to be rude. The waiter knows you don't want to stare, hell he doesn't want to stare. But it's ingrained in us. You just stare. So as Francisco (the waiter) tells you about the duck confit with a maple syrup marmalade and the shaved oregano salad with mango chutney and the Hamburger Helper special, you have a decision to make. Do you care if the waiter thinks you're rude? Uh, does the pope wear a funny hat? Being rude to people to deal with your food is like being rude to your acupuncturist.

So I think you just stare back and smile. Even if it's for a while.

Supple Like My Thighs

I went to Ft. Wayne, IN yesterday (true.) The place is magical. They have unicorns flying over buildings, free street cars that play whimsical melodies leisurely strolling through the thoroughfares, and children everywhere! The air is supple - like my thighs. The sun is always shining. The cows produce such great milk that it really does do your body good. The trees are tall and the ladies are sexy. The grass is green(ish) and there's not a cloud in the sky. Everyone is in peak physical condition.

I hear they are thinking about holding the 2020 World's Fair in Ft. Wayne. It wouldn't be a bad idea.

Rip Rip One Two

Editor's Note: Before I start, I want to make something clear - I usually don't make fun of people or complain and I usually don't tell true stories. The story you are about to enjoy involves all three: truth, making fun of someone and complaints. If you are the guy referenced in this post - GRRRRRRR.
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I went to the Cubs game this afternoon. By myself. I had nothing else to do and I live so close to Wrigley Field, it was really a no-brainer. Just a quick walk. I was sitting in section 206 behind the Cubs bullpen in left field. (I just wanted to give you all a reference point.) There was this guy sitting behind me who was either really drunk or really dumb. I was leaning toward dumb because I didn't see him imbibe anything other than Diet Coke. He was wearing over sized aviator glasses (it was very cloudy), a plaid shirt with snap buttons open to his hairy chest, skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. He was about 24-25 years old. Oh and he had a Budweiser trucker hat on.

Every time a girl walked in front of him, he would start on this bizarre baseball lingo that I'm pretty sure he made up. It went something like this: "Come on baby baby, little rip rip one two rip rip you got it rip rip baby baby oh baby one two." Then the girl would pass and he would go back to his other rants that went like this: "Let's go Cubs, you got this! We can do this!" It didn't matter at all what was happening on the field. The grounds crew could have been out sweeping the infield and he would say, "COME ON BABY WE GOT THIS! ONE TWO ONE TWO RIP RIP RIP."

As the game went on and the Cubs looked like they were going to lose, he turns to his friend and says, "I am so drunk, dude." So I guess he was drunk and I was wrong. But I'd rather be wrong than be that guy. Rip Rip Rip One Two One Two Rip One Two Rip Rip Here We Go Baby Baby Oh Baby Rip Rip Rip.

Fighting an Ex-Marine

I decided to join the ranks of professional boxing. After watching the Hatton vs. Pacquiao fight, I was so impressed that I thought I needed to be a part of it. I spent a full week dancing around my apartment on my toes, cloaked in loose boxer shorts and stripper boots. My man boobs were flying around, it made me feel fierce, determined, and oddly turned on.

My first task was to choose a nickname. All the greats have a nickname: Cassius "Muhammad Ali" Clay, George "The Griller" Foreman, Mike "Captain Insane-o" Tyson, etc. I came up with Gabe "Harry Truman" Culberg.

I hired a promoter/trainer, Jackie Garabond, some Jewish guy from Naples, Florida. He promised me a world of hurt and glory and he just wanted 40% of my profit. It sounded like a good deal. He arranged a fight with Gary "The Ex-Marine" Anderson. I guess he was in the military. The ding-ding sounded and I got a good look at my opponent. He was a huge mofo. He had tattoos all over his arms and neck. He was foaming at the mouth. I was peeing in my pants. I was so scared. Immediately I knew this was the wrong choice. I should have never quit my job as a ice cream salesman. I was KO'd in the first round, in the first 10 seconds to be exact. I now have 4 teeth left and a broken collar bone. Was it worth it? Hell no.

As for Jackie Garabond...well, as soon as the ding-ding sounded, he grabbed my wallet and ran out of the building. What a sucker - there was nothing in my wallet except for a coupon to Mel's ice cream parlor. Jackie Garabond is lactose intolerant.