Oh, Haircut Lady

I have hair again, so I, unfortunately, have to get my hair cut. I go to a Sports Clips by my work. I’m not sure if it’s a national chain or not, but essentially, it’s a place that specializes in mens haircuts and has televisions that show ESPN. I don’t go there because I’m a manly man who needs to get his hair cut in the most masculine atmosphere possible; I go there because it’s close to work and it’s modestly priced. I’ve been going there for 2 months now, and I’ve had the same lady every time. As you can imagine from reading my previous posts about my anti-social behavior, I hate the chit chat. The conversation problem is exacerbated because she doesn’t ever remember me, which I guess hurts my pride or self-esteem. What is it about me that’s not memorable, dammit? Back to the point, I have the same lady every time and she asks the same questions. I’m sure she has tons of customers, but it’s like she’s never seen me before – every time. I come from swim practice so I’m usually wearing the same thing: gym shorts and a t-shirt that says in big block letters SCHOOL NAME Aquatics. When I come in, I look exactly the same, yet she doesn’t do the detective work to figure out even the most obvious details. She asks me which school I work at without fail, after asking me what I do, of course. 

Well, I’m going to get her to remember who I am if it’s the last thing I do. Here is how our conversation will go next time.

Her: How’s your day going?

Me: Fine – just wanted to get cleaned up for my proctology exam later. You know, look good for the doctor.

Her: Are you just getting off work?

Me: No. I’m still supposed to be there.

Her: Where do you work?

Me: The DPS. I just put the “Next Window” sign up and slipped right out of there. I hate all of the cockroaches that come in there so much. I just want them to pay for my miserable life. Anyways, I figure if they fire me, things will be okay because I’d rather just collect unemployment. 

Her: Oh, the DPS…

Me [Interrupting and staring at her intensely through the reflection of the mirror]: Do you ever feel lost and in need of guidance? When you finish with me, I can go out to my van and get some information for you that could really make a difference in your life. We could even take a drive to the Scientology center and take the personality test. I feel like you’ll score as “attention desirable.” I think we can sort through your personality issues and maybe give you a real shot at life.

Her: Uh…

Me [gripping the arms of the barber chair tightly]: We will assimilate you.

Her:…

Me: Now… wash my hair.

I think she’ll remember for the next time, and more importantly, she probably won’t talk to me either.

Weight Control Problem VI

I have a recurring problem that keeps me up almost every night: my boxers are too tight around my legs. Now, literally every article of clothing I wear squeezes me. I’m not normally claustrophobic, but I’m starting develop a case of it. I could be in an open field and feel closed in because of my stupid, tight clothes. To make matters worse, I roll around quite a bit when I sleep which creates even tighter boxers. I have to reemphasize that they are tight around my legs and not my belly because I’m sure you’re probably thinking, why doesn’t he just buy bigger undies? The problem with bigger boxers is they wouldn’t fit and would dip down below my waist. That would be a whole new can of worms. I could imagine going through my day and feeling my boxers inch down my body. I would constantly be tugging at them to keep them up, and eventually, I would need underwear suspenders. Then it’s like, what the hell am I doing? 

For the past 3 weeks, I’ve been cutting a 2 inch or so slit on the sides of my boxers before bed. It gives me a ton of more room to maneuver in my sleep. My comfort level has gone up 10 fold! I feel free and easy, and more importantly for the rest of you, I don’t feel like running amuck through the streets of downtown Houston, climbing buildings, and knocking machine gun shooting biplanes to the ground. Boxers with a slit in the side are my gorilla tranquillizer. 

A problem has occurred with this once viable solution. When I drop my keys or something and squat down to pick them up, I hear a riiiiip. Work legs at the gym. Riiiiip. Do a karate kick. Riiiiip. Do a broad jump over the hot dog wiener juice I spilled on the ground. Riiiiip. All of my boxers have turned into loincloths! Almost every pair is torn up to the elastic waist on both sides. Is this where things have gotten to in my life? The only way for me to be comfortable is to wear a loincloth for underwear. No, I mustn’t get down; I need to stay positive. Loincloths are cool. I’m freakin’ Shaka Zulu! *After reading about him on Wikipedia, it appears he wore more of a mini-skirt. I’m freakin’ Tarzan, maybe. I don’t know.

Seriously, let’s think about it. What is the point of underwear for men? Obviously, so your wiener doesn’t get caught in the zipper. Like, that’s the number one reason to wear underwear. Also, sometimes there is an errant drip that just doesn’t want to come out at the proper time (By the way, I’m sorry women: this happens. It’s a tad gross but it’s true. If you’re a dude and you’re reading this thinking, Oh my word! That never happens to me – you’re a liar). Anyways, undies wave their finger at that lone droplet and say, “Uh-uh! You ain’t getting on these pants.” Regardless, my loincloth serves those purposes plus isn’t a hindrance to the range of motion of my legs. The loincloth is superior!

 So if I ever get to a point where I’m running for office and a youth asks me the infamous boxers or briefs question a la Bill Clinton, I can look that young American in the eye and say, “Loincloth,” and then beat my chest like Tarzan or Shaka Zulu or a Sumo wrestler or whatever.

*Update: My brother came up with a better idea in my comments section. Check out his link.

Things My Wife Won’t Let Me Do V/Christmas Post II – COMBO PLATTER!!!

This story begins back when I was in high school and I had long hair. It wasn’t too long – only 3 inches or so pass my chin. It was the same length as Kurt Cobain’s hair, but I was a pretty boy so it was clean and shiny like Gwyneth Paltrow’s. I point this out only because I had to use a brush to fix it (100 strokes before bed!), and I’ve used a brush out of habit ever since. I use a brush now even though my hair’s pretty short; it’s just the way I roll.

Well, I had the same brush for about 12 years. I actually found it when I was in high school. I noticed it in the vacant athletic locker next to mine. Over the entire season, it just sat there by itself beckoning me to embrace it and use it. It was kind of a sword in the stone situation sans the rock or dignity or anything. I eventually took the brush and it stayed with me through high school, college, and my first years as a teacher. Sadly, two years ago it fell apart, and despite my attempts at fixing it, it was gone. To me, the next logical step is to use my wife’s brush. Her brush is fancy to say the least – much fancier than the brush I stole out of an empty locker. She actually paid good money for it as I imagine quite a few women do.

Here is the problem: she doesn’t want me to use her brush. I have a high and tight haircut (maybe 3 inches long on the top), so it’s not like I’m leaving long strands in the brush. Consequently, she actually went out and bought me a new brush. This brush feels like it was fashioned out of Legos – just pieces of plastic digging into my scalp. As you can imagine, I complain about it to her every time I use it. She’s a tough cookie and still won’t let me use her brush. She’s somehow learned how to tune out my incessant whining over the years we’ve been together. I can’t even use it when she’s not around because she’ll know. Oh, she’ll know.

I think there are two reasons why she won’t let me use it. The first reason is that she has a younger sister, and I bet they fought about that kind of stuff all the time when they were kids. She probably has a strict sense of ownership when it comes to girly things. She probably won’t let me borrow any of her tops either! The second reason is that she’s really OCD. The brush needs to go back to the drawer from whence it came. We have two countertops that are separated by a wall, and I bet she’s worried that after I’m finished, it won’t find its way back. This is a valid point. I’m horrible at putting things back. 

Here is the happy medium – a call to action if you will. Any woman in my life, please buy me a new brush for Christmas that doesn’t feel like I’m using a metal pine cone to fix my hair. I don’t know where the brush store is because the brush I had magically appeared. There is no way I could possibly figure this out on my own. Please help.

Wedding: The Process of Removing Weeds

My wife and I went to a wedding on Saturday. It was a lovely affair. It was an outside wedding and the weather was absolutely perfect. I noticed this about weddings; the trend used to be to throw rice as a farewell to the bride and groom. Well, apparently, rice kills pigeons, so it’s politically correct to blow bubbles or use sparklers or whatever for the walking-out-to-the-car-for-honeymoon-part. This is strange anyway because don’t people hate pigeons? I thought people wanted pigeons dead. I guess the proprietors at these wedding venues don’t want to pick up pigeon carcasses after every wedding. They should just leave them on the ground and let nature take its course. When the next wedding party walks out, the property owners can just tell them, “It was God’s plan for those pigeons. They needed to die for that previous wedding to be a success – a modern day holy sacrifice if you will. Soon more pigeons will sacrifice themselves for you.”

I’ve been to at least 10 weddings in the last year and a half, and if memory serves me, a majority went with the sparkler thing. This wedding in Austin attempted to do the same thing. They were going to get sparklers and have everyone line up on the walk way out. Well, when they went to open up the box of sparklers, there were just strings of Black Cats! This wedding was planned down to the smallest detail and this element had gone under the radar. The people in charge were not going to let anyone down, so we just used the Black Cats. We were instructed to throw them at the bride and groom’s feet. Everyone got lighters and started untwisting the fireworks in preparation for this joyous moment.

When they finally came out and started walking down the path, it was a flurry of popping and flinching. The fireworks were going off everywhere: at the couple’s feet, in throwers’ hands, and random spots in the air. When they finally made it to the end, it was as if they made it through a war-zone. Moans of agony were heard in the background as soot covered faces looked on in relief that it was over.

Well, this didn’t actually happen. This is what went on through my head as I softly and gently waved my sparkler in a figure eight as they calmly and peaceful walked out of the venue. 

Here is a picture that summarizes what I just wrote - in case you don't like to read. 

Is that Me?

Do people ever watch movies or television, see a character that strongly resembles them, and have some sort of epiphany? Watch this video of Anne Hathaway on Saturday Night Live. If you don’t have the time to watch the whole thing, skip to the 1:08 mark and just get the image.

The character is in line at Wal-Mart on Black Friday hopped up on Four Loco (that’s malt liquor mixed with energy drink to you alcohol neophytes) with fried hair and in need of getting her roots fixed.

I wonder if there if someone at home, mouth agape thinking, Hey! I look like that; they’re making fun of me. All of this person’s friends see the episode too, and, likewise, have put the connection together. She starts getting texts and people at work ask her about it. “Do you know Anne Hathaway? She did a dead on impression of you. Y’all must have spent some time together.”

The woman then goes on to reevaluate her life. Are they making fun of me? How are they making fun of me? Why are they making fun of me? At this point, there are a few logical and semi-logical paths she can go down. A logical path would be to tone down these quirks. The most likely path, the semi-logical one, would be to blame the stupid, liberal media for making fun of normal Americans. Who do they think they are? Where they at? Well, I’ma represent! Where’s my American flag jean jacket at?

This woman either goes on to straighten out her life or takes it as a compliment and kicks it up a few notches. Either way, society is better off.

Blooper Reel Part 1

You might wonder, does this guy just post anything that he thinks of with complete disregard to whether or not it’s actually funny. Yes – most of time. While I do have quite a few posts that miss the humor mark, I have written some entries and not posted them for some reason or another. This week will be a salute to my posts that were gross, morbid, too serious, or just not funny. I’ll post one every day and we can all share in the eye rolling. 

This one is toilet humor (pun intended), so if you think you’ll think less of me for writing posts about going to the restroom, STOP reading now. I think it’s funny though.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that the last movie I saw was Paranormal Activity 2. Go to youtube to watch if you don't know anything about it. I don't want to have to look at even one more image of that bastard!

Paranormal Activity 2 – deleted scene (Date written: 10/31. Spooky)

Father hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, sitting on the toilet. He is blankly staring at the floor focused on what he’s doing. The shower curtain is closed and 3 feet in front of him. Footage coming from a camera located near the ceiling to his right side and slightly behind him. The camera is set on him for 30 seconds or so.

The curtain jerks a little as if someone jabbed it with a finger from the inside of the shower.

Father doesn’t notice.

The curtain jerks again but twice this time.

Father lifts his head from hearing the noise but isn’t startled yet.

The curtain jerks frantically.

The father begins to panic, reaches for the toilet paper, and tears some off. 

The curtain is moving all over the place even moving out horizontally.

Obviously scared, the father’s first cleaning attempt is successful but incomplete.

Things begin flying around the room. A shampoo bottle hits his head.

Annoyed, the second cleaning attempt is again incomplete.

Something invisible begins pulling on his leg.

Frightened yet relieved, the third cleaning attempt completes the process.

The father gets up and pulls his pants up while blood begins dripping from the ceiling and Satan appears in the mirror holding a pitchfork saying menacing phrases in an indecipherable language. 

Father quickly yet thoroughly begins washing his hands.

A vortex opens in the bath and begins sucking loose objects into it while pain induced moans fill the room.

Father dries off his hands and runs hysterically from the bathroom.

Anti-Social Me!

An Open Letter to the Strangers at the Gym-

I will go to any length not to talk to you. It’s not that I think I’m better than you; I just don’t want to foster a friendship with you. I have nothing to add to the relationship. I promise. I don’t want to know how much you bench or your recipes for huge protein boosts. In fact, sometimes my mp3 player runs out of batteries and I leave my headphones in my ear to pretend that I’m still listening to music. I’ll mouth some words or maybe even tap my fingers to imaginary songs to give the illusion that I’m listening to something and act so in to it that you bothering me might get me out of this magical groove – a mental Shangri-La where lifting weights and music converge and exist as one. There are many aspects of life where I have zero patience, but this is not one of them. If the batteries run out, I’ll leave the ear buds in and tap and mouth to nothing for an hour and a half if need be. I’m that hardcore about not chatting. 

I will also do whatever it takes not to make eye contact with you. I’m an extremely secure guy, so don’t confuse my looking at the floor for shyness. I’m doing it not to talk to you. I can feel you looking at me in the mirror. You’re waiting. The moment our eyes meet, you’ll pounce. “How much weight ya got there?” Alas, this shall not happen. My eyes will stay ever transfixed on the floor – focused as if there is something going on down there. Unfortunately, there is nothing – unless you can imagine my desire to not talk to you as a tangible thing; in that case, there is something infinitely big: a Behemoth made of anti-social willpower. 

Once, I was so intent on keeping my eyes down that when I swung around to get a plate to put on the barbell I clocked my forehead on the next barbell over. I had a circular bruise on my forehead for two days. That circular bruise was a symbol of my need to not chit-chat.

Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m a nice guy and maybe if we were somewhere else, I would chat. Probably not though. I’d probably walk the long way to avoid you.

Sincerely,

Guy with a Turned Off Shuffle, Staring at the Ground, Rambling Non-Sense to Himself