All In A Day's Work

YOU: So, how was life at the office today?

ME: Peachy. I walked around downtown Cleveland in full scuba gear, passing out blank pieces of paper to random strangers.

YOU: Blank pieces of paper?

ME: Yea, they thought it was weird too.

YOU: Wasn't it hot in the suit?

ME: A tad. I guess they're designed to be used for swimming in cold water, not for taking a stroll downtown in 80-degree heat. In this case, the term "wetsuit" applied to the inside of the suit, particularly in the ass area.

YOU: Do you do this kind of crazy shit all the time?

ME: Sure. Why, last week they had me dress as an Eskimo and walk around nursing homes while handing out paperclips.

YOU: Really?

ME: No.

YOU: So...have you found a boyfriend yet?

ME: Nope. Weird, huh?

P.S. Here is me at the conclusion of my aquatic walk of shame.

(Happy Labor Day, everyone! Catch you next Tuesday!)

2008 Swimwear Preview

Summer is winding down, but swimwear designers are already getting "the next big thing" ready for the runways. Being from Cleveland, you know I have my finger on the pulse of high fashion (when I'm not using it to dig the last bit of cheese dust out of the Doritos bag.) Anyway, behold my pick for the next movement in swimwear: Swim-Eeze disposable swimsuits.

Ladies, imagine you're at a killer party when someone suggests a moonlight swim. Problem: all you have under your clothes is that $90 Victoria Secret matching bra and panty set (which no one has seen since the day you purchased it, unless you count that evil old bitch in your building that takes all of your wet laundry and throws it on the floor because she doesn't have time to sit around and wait for you to empty the washer when she could be doing better things like watching Matlock and trying not to die in her sleep.) Why wear those unbelievably expensive, sexy undergarments that were clearly not meant to be viewed by anyone when you can wear Swim-Eeze disposable swimsuits?

Note the "elastic arm and neck openings for a comfort fit." And better yet, the "attractive 'O' cut in the back," designed to allow pool water to enter the suit and fill up the baggy, bunchy area right around the ass. There are five sizes for the perfect fit, which should perfectly hug your nipples, flow around your midsection like a garbage bag around a Christmas ham and then taper in for an elegant camel-toe.

According to the website, Swim-Eeze are made from high-quality DuPont Tyvek fabric so you can reuse them many times. And they are guaranteed to prevent skinny-dipping. Huzzah! Take it from me: Swim-Eeze will be the IT item on the 2008 summer party scene. Who would want to be seen swimming in lacy, cleavage-enhancing undergarments (or worse, in the nude) when you could be wearing an enormous shower cap with leg holes?

The demand is gonna be enormous, so I suggest you preorder yours today at www.swimeeze.com.

I Know Why One Fifth Of Americans Can't Find The U.S. On A Map

Simply put, one fifth of Americans are stupid as hell. Blame the education system all you want (clearly it failed Miss South Carolina) but if somewhere along the way you didn't figure out where the U.S. is on a map, it's your own friggin' fault. You can pick up this kind of information from the Weather Channel, for Christ's sake.

Speaking of education, it's back-to-school time again. While I've been out of school for a handful of years, I always know that classes are ready to resume when my mom starts mumbling to herself and carving pentagrams into her forearms.

Mom teaches remedial English at community college, which I imagine is about as simple as teaching the parallel parking course at Henrietta's Driving School for Blind Quadriplegics. This aside, she is very fond of her students and works tirelessly to help them succeed (success in this case is being able to write a complete, coherent paragraph. Just sayin'.)

To get a sense of what she's up against, my mom first asks each student to write a paragraph introducing themselves to her. Judging from this little gem (which my mom does not know that I have taken and posted--she is going to be pissed), methinks it's going to be a long semester.

Note: This is completely genuine. I have not added any details. A small part was deleted to protect the stupi--err, innocent.



"As you where to travel along the southern edge of [my town], you could find a place i call my own. It is the headquarters of my life. Its where i report to at the beginning of the day, and deport from in the evening hours. It is also home to a veraity of people, many in which are all knowledgeable beyond their time. However it is not a place for all, most visiters are not welcomed but yet find their way to the headquarters of my life. But bewarned if for some reason you find yourself near, make sure you watch to see who has you in their sights first."



I could break this down sentence by sentence and critique it, but I think it's kinda beautiful, just the way it is. One question, though: did he just threaten to shoot my mom if she ever came near his meth la--err, the headquarters of his life?

Anywhoozle, I wonder if the people who are "knowledgeable beyond their time" could locate the U.S. on a world map.

Open Letter To The Guy In The White SUV

Dear Sir,

I have been a licensed driver for a full decade. In that time, I have seen a bevy of driving no-no’s. Eating hard tacos while merging onto the freeway, for one. Spanking children (who should really be in the backseat, a-thank you) while changing lanes. Why, I’ve even seen someone take both hands off the wheel in order to pop a zit on their forehead while careening through a school zone.

But you, operator of the white midsize SUV and presumed resident of the western suburbs—you showed me that I have only begun to understand just how lightly people take the responsibility of driving. After watching you slowly drift in and out of my lane for the fourth time, I decided I should bravely motor through your blind spot and determine whether or not you were experiencing some sort of narcoleptic attack. I’m guessing you missed my expression of horror as I sped by. Why? Because you were too busy SHUCKING CORN!

Explain to me, sir, the kind of side dish emergency that would have you shucking ears of sweet corn (okay, I don’t really know what kind of corn it was—I was paying attention to the damn road) while driving through a congested suburban roadway teeming with family cars, bikes, expectant mothers and little blind kittens. Did the missus threaten you with divorce if you didn’t deliver that golden goodness, cleaned and buttered, by six o’clock? Your corn shucking while driving was essentially a big middle finger to everyone around you, letting us know that the preservation of human life ranks slightly lower than vegetable preparation in your book.

I have to ask—do you always engage in such hazardous multi-tasking? I mean, do you burp your baby while trimming hedges? Do electrical work while giving your dog a bath? Sharpen knives while making love to your wife? Do you?!?

Guy in the white SUV, your day is coming. Not long from now, you’ll be on the freeway, slicing up okra for that night’s chicken gumbo. WHAMMO! You drive right into the back of a semi-truck! People will rush to the scene until they spot the vegetable knife resting in your trembling hands. Disgusted to learn that this tragedy could’ve been averted had you not been balancing a cutting board on the steering wheel, they will abandon you and your smoldering SUV. Eventually, your corpse will be discovered, half-eaten by blind kittens.

Regards,
Steph

Tips For Picking Up A Younger Woman

So you’re thinking about dating a younger woman. Good for you! It may have been awhile since you’ve tried to pick up a “total hottie,” so here are a few tips to help you achieve complete cradle-robbing success.

Wear a Hawaiian shirt.

While the loud, floral print says “I know how to party”, the collar tells her that you are career-minded and ambitious. Be sure to leave a few buttons undone so she can see your crucifix necklace—young girls are so spiritual these days.

Give out lots of high-fives.

Show her how tight you are with your older bros by high-fiving them whenever appropriate. Asking her to “bump fists” is also highly encouraged, as it makes her feel like she is part of your “posse.” There are many great opportunities in which to use the high-five, like after you ask your buddies “How hot is this broad?” or after you do the math and determine how old you were when she was born. “Dude, I was like twelve when your parents did it.” High-five. Awesome.

Put her on the spot.

Sure, you’ve only know her for three and a half minutes. But you need to know if this girl is “for real.” Ask her questions like “Do you think I’m attractive?” and “What is your favorite thing about me?” If you’re not satisfied with her answer, loudly tell your friend that you don’t think she likes you very much. That way she’ll feel bad and start properly complimenting you.

Pay her a compliment. Over and over again.

Younger women are very self-conscious and need constant reassurance. Choose a compliment you think she’ll appreciate, and then repeat it as often as you can. “You’re neat” is a solid compliment. Every time she speaks, throw back your head in a fit of uncontrollable laughter and then tell her that she’s neat. Then elbow your friend and tell him how neat she is.

Leave all the child seats in the car when you go out.

From the moment they meet you, young women are constantly evaluating you as a potential husband and the father of their unborn children. Show off your parental aptitude by giving her a lift home in a car filled with child safety seats. Don’t bother telling her about your preexisting brood earlier in the evening—she’ll put it all together as she climbs over a menagerie of Thomas the Tank Engine books and a pile of Pampers.

By now, she should be putty in your older hands. Invite her to your “pad” for a nightcap. Unless, of course, it’s your weekend with the kids.

In completely unrelated news, I’m still single. How was your weekend?

Back Where I Come From

Most people are unfamiliar with the small Ohio town I spawned from. To those people, I would happily narrate my picturesque upbringing in a place where children could run rampant through the neighborhood long after dusk without any fear sexual predators or serial murderers. Where every mom had lemonade at the ready, and where neighbors even gave kids permission to TP their house because it kept them busy and out of any real danger. Lush green lawns and perfectly manicured hedges, streets as smooth as silk where bicycles, tricycles and scooters outnumbered any motor vehicle 9 to 1. That's where I come from.

This week, record flooding has devastated many areas of my hometown and wreaked indescribable havoc. After making several national newscasts and monopolizing statewide coverage, my hometown was on the map. For the first time ever, my friends and coworkers knew all about the quaint and now waterlogged little place I called home. And after a collective outpouring of care and support, they all had one thing to say:

"So dude--you are totally white trash!"

Wha?? That's absurd. Take note of this Lacoste polo, guy. I'll even pop the collar for you, if you like, because I am so clearly the antithesis of white trash. If the vending machines sold Pellegrino here, I'd jam a fifty dollar bill in the thing and chug one right here in front of you and God and everyone. Because I am NOT white trash.


That's when my friends started sending me pictures from the news. The perfect little hedges, the shiny scooters, the lemonade-pushing mothers were nowhere to be found. Instead, there was this:





Oh...Sweet...Jesus.

Okay, first things first. I feel terrible about the flooding. Many of my favorite restaurants, bars, bookstores and hangouts will never be the same. The flood affected people rich and poor, black and white, thin and...well, you know where I'm going with this. And my heart goes out to all of them.

But here's the thing. Everybody knows that nothing puts a town on the map like a disaster. And the only thing that descended on my hometown faster than the flood water was the damn photographers. Look, I know that bailing water out of homes requires a relaxed dress code. But if you're just sitting around for the world and the flippin' Associated Press to see, how about a little decorum?

Like, if it was me, for example, I'd immediately don a bandana, baby-doll t-shirt and some old jeans, and get down and dirty to show the Associated Press that I was committed to restoring the place to its original charm. My kids (completely hypothetical, don't have any of those little bastards yet), on the other hand, would be on the front porch wearing crisp school uniforms and reading Keats, pausing only to offer the boats full of rescue workers--you got it--ice cold lemonade.

It's about appearances, people. All of the stories of my childhood have been laid to waste, thanks to the press. Now my friends think I was raised by a couple of derelict spam-eaters in a hovel filled with garbage and second-hand smoke. No amount of pique polos and Pellegrino can repair this kind of damage.

I'm just saying--things aren't always what they seem. A mile in the other direction and you'd see a slightly different story. Children filling sandbags. Families donating food and dry goods. People with shirts on. And maybe, just maybe, someone with some God-damned lemonade.

With that, I'm done. I'll be writing my next post from the special part of Hell reserved for utterly vain, soulless bitches who still talk about "popping collars." Tootaloo!