You came into the bathroom as I was exiting the stall. You smiled kindly at me as you wiped down the counter with a paper towel. I tried to give you a dollar but you refused it in your polite, broken English. Upon exiting, I realized you were not a bathroom attendant but just a tourist. Sorry if that was weird and racist.
I was drunk. You were not the person I thought you were. I knew that because I got into the wrong cab. Your cab. Which was not the cab the rest of my friends got in. Anyway, thanks for letting me ride to your house with you. That brownstone you live in looks dope as hell. Well, nice enough for you to have paid the $11 fare that got us there at least. But don’t worry about it, I said - you can pay next time! As I watched you climb your cobblestone steps, I thought about how we’d be new best friends if this had happened in the midwest and suddenly, for no reason at all, I missed you. Then I threw up out the window.
I was walking down the brick street, focusing on my step because you never know when a puddle will turn out to be a pool and swallow you whole. I was going against the city people traffic; the less popular commuter direction for a Friday evening. As I approached the station, I looked up to identify the entrance and we made eye contact for a second too long. Your eyes had all the energy of a recent prison escapee. But your posture said that you were out on good behavior - a limited time adventure from your life as a robot husband and father to 2.5 children in some suburban New England town that probably has “water” or “ford” in its name. Your gelled hair and freshly trimmed side burns suggested an attention to detail that can only come from consistent boredom and fleeting hope. Your jeans said that your wife did most of your shopping for you as if she thought the right denim might make you less yourself. Your fleece jacket said that 311 was probably the most recently played artist in your iTunes library. And your casual limp told me you had a bad knee that you claimed was an old baseball injury but really it’s just joint pain from being out of shape and over 30. You stared at me too. I had enough time to figure out your whole life and wonder what you were thinking about me. You held the door almost like a gentleman, but your bros were watching so you did that thing that tall dudes do where they hold the door open and force people to walk under their arm like it’s a toll.
As I walked under your shorter than average arm toll it seemed like you were expecting something from me so I gave you a closed mouth, flat line smile. I felt you consider your options and abandon whatever your first thought was. I looked into the pilled armpit of your jacket as you said, “Go Sox!” It felt more like a threat than a rally cry. “Sure,” I said.
We got off at the same stop. Your oversized pleather jacket brushed my shoulder as you turned your shoulders to squeeze ahead of the crowd. You were in such a hurry to get on the escalator and stand still. As you were slowly riding up, you turned and spit a loogie into the air that somehow landed like a soft, wet bullet on the tracks. It was such a big loogie that for a moment I thought it splashed me but I told myself it was probably just rainwater leaking from the ceiling because that’s a thing, right? You didn’t acknowledge the olympian force of your loogie. You didn’t admire the distance. You didn’t even watch to make sure it didn’t land on a person. You just kept riding up as if that loogie didn’t deserve better. I liked the way the back pockets of your jeans had sparkly horseshoe designs and how you were talking on a flip phone because I didn’t even know you could get a flip phone anymore.
In October 2013, my husband and I moved from Kansas City to Boston.
It’s been an odd transition full of snow, emotional eating and uncomfortable encounters with strangers. But because I’m a very generous person with very little dignity to protect, I’ve started documenting some of my more interesting interactions - all for your entertainment, of course.
What you’ll find in the posts to follow are true stories based on lies.
First, admit that you suck at drawing hearts. Your hearts are broken even when they are whole. They are lopsided, too skinny, too fat, too ugly, too shaky. Your hearts are so bad they aren’t even suitable for toilet paper much less the doodle margins of your legal pad.
Understand? If so, you’re ready to begin.
Get a piece of paper and a drawing utensil. I would recommend a pencil with a solid eraser because, as we’ve discussed, you are a complete failure when it comes to hearts. But if you’re confident in your ability to succeed, which can only be because you’re a delusional narcissist, then by all means, get a Sharpie or, why not a tattoo needle?
Next, pick a point on the page and draw something that looks kind of like an upside down, slanty ‘J’.
Done? Great. That was a really good try! You’re getting there.
I’m kidding. Whatever you just did is obviously crap. What do you think this is? Some slutty heart you dot your ‘i’s with? No, this is a mother fucking Valentine’s Day heart! And your ability to draw a good one is directly related to whether or not you’re worthy of love, so really focus because there’s a lot riding on this.
Once you can do an upside down, slanty ‘J’ that’s not the worst thing ever committed to paper, go ahead and do another one right next to it. Then, connect the ends.
Now there’s literally no way you didn’t fuck this up. Are your upside down ‘J’s even? Doubt it. Do your points meet? Probably not. Is it centered and equal on each side? Maybe, TO A BLIND PERSON!
Get it together. You’re not a five year old. If you can’t draw a beautiful metaphorical interpretation of the body’s major organ, then maybe you don’t deserve to have a valentine. Ever think of that? Of course not because it probably never occurred to you that all of your problems stem from the fact that you’ve spent your whole life littering the world with the most depressing, repulsive hearts ever.
If it helps, pretend you’re forgiven for that. Then immediately start over. And this time, try to be less of a piece of shit. Years from now when you don’t end up dying alone, you’ll thank me for this timely overdose of tough love. I promise.
Just think of Destiny’s Child and rephrase your answer seven times, preferably in a yelling, sing-song tone as this will be the most powerful way to get your point across.
1. I’m a survivor
2. I’m not gon give up
3. I’m not gon stop
4. I’m gon work harder
5. I’m a survivor
6. I will survive
7. Keep on survivn’
Are you socially awkward, shy or just plain ugly? Don’t worry. Here are 5 tips that will help you overcome your disabilities and decrease your chances of dying alone!
1. Paint the word “FLIRT” on your nails. Hands can be very sexy as long as they aren’t old or carny-like. You can use this valuable real estate to say something about yourself that’s also a command to others. This is also a great way to demonstrate your minimal intelligence, which is a major turn on for most men.
2. Eat a donut in a low-cut shirt. You want to draw attention to your most feminine areas, which are your mouth and tits. So eat a donut (which is comes in a conveniently suggestive shape) and as the crumbs drop into your chestbutt crevasse, pick them out one by one and eat them, sexily.
3.If a cute guy caught your eye, the best way to get him to notice you is to create a situation that requires physical contact. Of course, this physical contact should be as sexual as possible so your best bet is to pretend to choke. If the guy is worth it, he will give you the heimlich maneuver and guess what? That’s basically second base which means you’re almost accidentally pregnant and that much closer to locking him down forever!
4. Obsessively lick your lips. This is how all sex was initiated in the 90s. And let’s be honest, your lips are probably super chapped and kind of gross. Licking them will make them worse, but in the moment it will seem like the most deliberately hot thing you’ve ever done.
5. Have your period in your pants and try to make the stain resemble a heart. This will distract from your horrifying pear-shaped figure and confuse the guy into thinking of you in terms of other, sexier shapes.
Note: If you are a lesbian, this very concise and pragmatic list does not apply to you. Flirting with a woman is a completely different story. All you have to do is compliment her and then ask her a question about herself. If done correctly, you should only have to repeat this once before her clothes just fall off.
YOU: I love your hair!
YOU: Are your pubes ombre style too?
(She’s naked now.)
If you feel it coming on, or out, just shove that little monster back up the shoot and clench for the next 8 hours.
That kid will thank you for your pain after you’re dead.
You’re at a nice restaurant.
The waiter comes to your side and whispers into your face.
You order the filet and remember the ‘t’ is silent. (Good job.)
The waiter asks, “How would you like it done?”
This part is crucial. You glance around the table. Everyone is looking at you to give your answer before resuming conversation. You hold the power.
You slam your menu closed. “I want it done right now,” you say. The waiter blinks and attempts to clarify his question. You don’t have time for that shit.
"I said, I want it done RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW." You look around at the table and smile like a pageant queen on acid.
"So, John, you were telling us about your summer home in Tahoe…" you say. The waiter exits with a dismissive wave of your hand as John nervously goes on about granite countertops and indoor waterfall hot tubs.
"Are all the bathroom floors heated?” you ask John.
The waiter reappears with your steak before anyone else’s food.
You eat, and allow everyone to watch.
"It’s not rude. It’s modern," you say.
They all laugh like they understand.
It’s hard to know what to do when something tragic happens. Especially when it happens so far away yet feels so close to home. Words seem useless. I feel both obligated to speak and moved to silence. What’s normal now? How do we go back to a daily routine of fart jokes and pictures of cats? What can I offer that won’t seem disrespectful or ignorant to the situation at hand?
There are times when laughter can help move the world forward in the face of tragedy. We’ve seen it happen before. But the line is blurry and fine. As a comedian, how do you know where to contribute? What’s appropriate? Do you side with silence? Or do you carry on, not without acknowledgement of the horrible events that transpired, but in the spirit of helping people readjust and refeel?
Many comics were chastised yesterday for tweeting jokes as news was breaking about the Boston Marathon bombings. Some of them, like me, quickly read the news and deleted their tweet in a panic. Others soldiered on. They weren’t making crass or disrespectful jokes about the situation, they were simply pushing forward in spite of it, offering up a laugh to anyone capable of having it. I don’t see anything wrong with that. In fact, I admire those comedians and writers for their bravery and for understanding that this might be when the world needs their voice the most.
Still, it’s hard to know what to say. It’s hard to feel like joking when just yesterday a darkness took over as humanity’s evil side was once again revealed. But with that darkness comes a goodness (even if it’s in the form of a few cheap laughs), bravely trying to bring some light back into the world. As I click refresh on Witstream.com every few minutes, I notice there are fewer posts than usual - perhaps it’s a purposeful silence or perhaps some of us just haven’t figured out how to solidier on yet. But I also notice the site has not glorified the event with a category title, and to that I say - thanks for encouraging what’s right and making me proud to be a part of you.
As I watched CNN last night I realized I was hanging on every word Anderson Cooper pried out of his vulnerable witnesses. It was when Cooper started interviewing someone in Newtown, CT on how they felt about this tragedy that I snapped out of my daze and, drunk on grief, angrily changed the channel. I want to be informed by the news, not accidentally “entertained.” I could go on forever about sensationalized media coverage and the damage infotainment has done to the American psyche, but that’s not really what this is about.
This is about limits. Knowing when and how to speak is the same as knowing when to change the channel. We all hunger for entertainment. We don’t need to fall into the hands of a news station hopped up on ratings to get it. We don’t need to feel guilty for turning our attention to something else. We don’t need to be uncomfortable when we laugh at something that’s funny.
So as we come together and begin to pick up the pieces left behind in the aftermath of this tragic event, let’s try to do so with open hearts, less judgement and more understanding because shit is dark enough. And should you find yourself hungry, know that there’s a never-ending feed of people who want nothing more than to entertain you, lovingly distract you, and make you laugh because they are fighting for the good side.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fart to tweet about…
Only sing Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” when you do karaoke. Also, start chain smoking. People respect women who appear determined to die young.
The old way says to dress for the job you want. But the modern way is to say what you want on a t-shirt and wear that because pant suits are fucking stupid. At the end of the day, you don’t want to just tell your boss and coworkers that you demand respect, you want to show them, preferably in a message stretched across your tits.
Start small. Try to earn the respect of a house plant by not killing it immediately. Then try to earn the respect of your pet* by hosting a tea party in its honor or buying it a sassy accessory, such as a pair of shoes or a hat.
Once you’ve earned the respect of plants and pets, you’re ready to move on to real people.
So if it’s your roommate’s respect you desire, try leaving only your nicest bras and underwear laying around the house so they realize that there’s more to respect than what’s on the surface. Also, hang a tampon on the door handle of your room when it’s that time of the month because strong communication is a key to respect.
When it comes to earning the respect of your significant other, try withholding sex to make up for that time you slept with him on the first date. But if that doesn’t work, offer up a threesome with someone who is much hotter than you. In general, you’ll want to completely stop pooping, farting, crying, eating, talking, feeling and/or doing anything human around him because that’s super unattractive and unattractive is just another word for unrespectable.
Lastly, If you want your children to respect you, never explain how babies are made so they won’t know you’re a silly slutty slut who had unprotected sex on the first date. If it’s too late for that, remember: children are stupid and you can just buy their respect/love or put them up for adoption.
*Cats are the exception to this advice due to centuries of hard data proving they are evil assholes who want to murder you in your sleep.
1. Demand a 28% markdown on everything you buy to compensate for the 72% you make compared to your male counterparts. If the merchant refuses your requests, show him your tits.
2. Buy “international” lady friends via a mail order bride site.
3. Say “Yay!” a lot.
4. Have your period.
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