I’m gonna be right up front about this:
I can’t dance.
There is no certain reason for this I suppose, maybe it’s because my body has about as much rhythm as a sun dried catfish, or maybe it’s the fact that the last time I even attempted to dance I was nearly dragged from the dance floor by my nostrils. But I’m going to guess the number one reason is that I am a 38 year old white guy who spends the majority of his time as far away from the club and dance scene as possible. It all comes down to wanting to fit in and feel comfortable where ever you go, and when I’m in a club with a bunch of sweating “young people” gyrating to enough bass to level a small third-world country, I do not fit in.
Dear Mike Myers,
I always thought you seemed like a pretty nice guy. Sure, you ARE a comedian, and that means you run a high risk of actually being a truly terrible human being and any day now a massive scandal might erupt, tarnishing your name for the rest of time. But for now, right now, and until further notice, I have always thought of you as a swell guy. I think you are a good person.
Honor, stalk, creep out — whatever you want to call it, this loving activity that you can do publicly or very much in secret, with the subject being a dear friend, acquaintance, or total stranger, is a cathartic creative process. We of course know all about what to do and how to do it with a mastery of style and much enthusiasm and we would like to teach you, the whole world, how to do it too.
In my demonstration today, I will use our friend, Frant. It is his birthday and he is deserving of all of the heavy-handed, cloying, and terrifying respect that we can lob his way. The goal is to make anyone you wish to adore feel like they are drowning in it, if they were to find out. “It” could here mean “the pleasure of being worshiped” or “the fear of being trapped somehow.” Different people give rise to different scenarios, but we know that unlike cchris, Frant will enjoy this. At least HE HAD BETTER.
First came the tentacle rape.
It was the beginning in a long line of horrors that OMGJeremy has subjected me to in his articles since the very beginning in 2002. (OMGJeremy.com was the site that most of us used to write for.) But you know what they say: what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger. Well, I must be invincible by now. And not only have I seen a lot, but I’ve written about a lot too, articles that have been lost to time mostly, including a review of a site that teaches women how to rape their husbands. But in 2003, I found something that managed to combine all of those and more. It’s as if all my nightmares Go-Go-Power-Morphed into some unholy Megazord and returned to feed me my own ass.
“What is it?” you’re probably asking as you close the door and open a new browser window. Why It’s none other than Furcadia — an online game that let you take on the role of an animal and interact with others in a series of dream worlds. And not surprisingly in the least, it contains the three big staples of the internet diet: furries, cybersex, and MMORPGs.
Before actually working at a party supply store, I was unaware that there are party supplies for EVERYTHING. I had previously been under the notion that people weren’t so stupid that they would need to run out and buy a giant bull skull to complete the look of their “Tex-Mex party,” which would just end up looking like a regular party except with a giant shitty foam bull skull hanging on the wall.
While perusing the mind-numbing amount of overpriced shit for parties, I wandered upon a section, nay, an entire AISLE, just for celebrating old people’s birthdays and such. Well, let me rephrase that since it’s not entirely the truth: An entire aisle just for mocking old people’s further decline into a miserable old age and eventually to a depressing death that will most likely be filled with memories of the time their children bought them a fake jar of Viagra for their 60th birthday.
Some would call them “gag” gifts, and I suppose they are. Only I have never seen so many, and some so completely brutal, in one area before — all for simply being old. It’s as if to say “Congratulations on living for 3/4 of a century and accomplishing more than most of us ever will, now put this chicken suit on and DANCE YOU OLD SHIT.”
There are aspects of the human condition which baffle me. I mean, I have most of it all figured out, of course, but I admit some things make no sense to me. And there are things going on in our societies that seem like they are poorly thought out, and maybe even ill-advised. What is everyone thinking!
Most of us can agree that there are big things that are wrong. Big wrong things that nevertheless a lot of people partake in, such as racism, homophobia, murder, and so on. I will not speak further on those. I am here today to talk about the little things that aren’t hurting anyone but me and my brain. What are you people doing? Why!
Being a girl is one of the best things ever to happen to me. My gender allows me to live in a pink world filled with unicorns, kittens, pillows, sweets, and all manner of nice things. I get to Girl Talk, rely on boys to lift heavy objects for me, and to remove insects from my sight. Also, for a few days every month, I get to be a hyper-emotional psycho with very little in the way of consequences – whether I want to be or not! Other girls understand and allow it (unless they are also in that time of the Most Terrible of Cycles), and boys understand just enough to try to ignore it. This bittersweet reward is known as the P.M.S.
This article isn’t going to be a guide for helping boys to better cope and appease the women in their lives during this bleak moment. Every girl houses a specific, unique, terrible tapestry of physical and psychological destruction, and it changes with every month. So it is nigh impossible to write a comprehensive list on how you could meet your lady friends’ needs. It just isn’t going to happen, fellas.
All of this could have been avoided. This entire article wouldn’t have even been necessary if my parents had followed a fairly logical rule. As a parent myself, I know this rule inside and out. If you have kids, you know it too. But for those of you without children, I am about to drop a real gem on you. A piece of advice that will make your parenting days a lot easier and lessen the chances of your home experiencing a murder/suicide. You ready? Okay.
Don’t tell a child that they can’t see/do something because it is “for adults.”
There you go. I just saved you a lot of yelling and a handful of awkward visits from Child Services. Now don’t go thinking I’m one of those people who doesn’t believe in telling a kid they can’t have something or do something. I’m not saying that you should let a child get away with whatever. By all means, tell them “no” when you want them to keep their snot and dirt-encrusted hands off of something. When they ask you why, just don’t make the mistake of telling them it is for “big folks,” “adults,” “mommy and daddy,” or whatever other stupid shit you say instead of just looking them in the eye and saying, “Shut the fuck up.”
A good solid “shut the fuck up” from my folks sure would have saved me a whole lot of grief.
Parties are weird and dancing is really hard, especially when you’re still sober enough to remember how bad you are and how everyone may or may not be staring at you. Sure, you can get crunk real fast and run onstage, make friends with the DJ before security kicks you off, and dance up there. But that’s kind of crazy, Dollissa. And Webster Hall sucks.
An easier solution is to work on your fabulous wallflower dance moves. Lean up against that wall by the drink table. Relax by the corner with the least lighting. But whatever you do, don’t look like a nerd who can’t dance. Brush up on these drink-holding friendly dance moves and you’ll feel comfortable at those awkward events in no time.
Santa Claus knows how to live. He has a wonderfully cozy home in the Land of Igloos, unlimited cookie access, and Mrs. Claus makes him a Christmas Dinner almost every night. He doesn’t have to do anything that exerts him physically because he has a legion of well-paid elves to do his bidding. Unfortunately, this rich lifestyle can lead to health problems.
Santa is becoming a little “jollier than usual” if you catch my drift.