Texts that I will never write but would be scary yet possibly the result of a good story

I told her only if she can fit it through the drainpipe and she brought her inflatable Carl Weathers doll.	4 (30%)
We're in the back of the church, over by Lindsay Lohan and the cast of Tool Academy.	1 (7%)
What's the shelf life of airplane glue. Not for sniffing or making model airplanes. You know, for the other reason?	3 (23%)
How many calories are in cat blood?	2 (15%)
I'll only promise to if you wear oven mitts and sing "Lady of Spain" while doing it.	3 (23%)

Votes so far: 13 
Poll closed 

One of the only political statements I'll make on this blog

Al Franken tried to get a law passed saying that companies can't make people sign a contract allowing coworkers to rape them.  That's because there was a woman who worked for Halliburton that was raped by her coworkers ad thrown into a box and shipped back to the US from Iraq.  When she went to her bosses at Halliburton, they claimed her contract allowed her coworkers to do it.  

Inexplicably, Franken's bill passed 68-30. That's right! There were 30 pro-rape senators who voted against it.   (All of this is completely true, by the way.)

Maybe that's why I don't fit in with the Washington culture.  I thought raping someone was bad and you didn't need a law like that let alone have 30 people who voted against it represent us.  Maybe I need to start being pro-rape, then either I'll meet someone (her choice or not) or be elected to the senate.  Etiher way, at least it would get me out of the house.

Halloween Costume Ideas, Part 2

Target recently had to pull an illegal alien costume from its website.  It was an alien mask (like th Roswell kind) and an orange jumpsuit that said "illegal alien" on the front.  It also comes with a green card.  So, they managed to insult two groups: foreign nationals and actual aliens.  So, to try and help out, here's some more suggestions.  (I wrote some last year.  Check them out, they're on the blog.)

IDEA #1

A racist depiction of a transformer 

This is particularly good if you're Michael Bay, because you've already spent a lot of money making a CGI version of this - a transforming robot that speaks in Ebonics, wears gold teeth, and can't read.

Plus side:  You can get film executives to give you a lot of treats or at least fork over large amounts of cash.

Down side: Racist and also offensive to robots and aliens (see Target). 

IDEA #2

Jay Leno

Jay Leno is a good costume idea because he is on television every night and everyone knows him.  It's just nobody watches him.

Items needed:  A prosthetic chin and the least funny joke every uttered by a human being. Also a clear plastic shield to block the eggs.

IDEA #3

An exit strategy from Afghanistan

This would be a good strategy except that noone (particularly if you are trick or treating in DC) has any clue what you look like.

IDEA #4

John and Kate Plus 8

This would seem like a difficult one, but you can either go as John or Kate and bring a large box that says "This restraining order prevents the other party from entering this box.  The plus eight are also in here with me. "  

Downside:  See Jay Leno

If you could live one day as a condiment, which would it be?

Gulden's Spicy Brown Mustard	3 (33%)
Morton's Iodized Salt (I know it's a seasoning not a condiment)	3 (33%)
The pimento in a Spanish olive	1 (11%)
Hellman's Squeezable Mayonnaise	2 (22%)
That gross peanut butter and jelly mixed together in the same container	0 (0%)

Plans for a smarter gene pool

i've been trying to put up with them, but I think Mike Judge was right in Idiocracy - if we don't do something, stupid people are going to take over the earth. On a recent trip to San Francisco, I walked by Ghirardelli Square, where I heard the following conversation between a 40 year old man and his mother.

40 year old idiot: "Do you think Ghirardelli Square was named after the chocolate company?"
Idiot's mother (also an idiot): "No! Absoutely not! I'm sure it's just a coincidence." (This was not said sarcastically).

What made this comment horrible is not the stupid observation that was made, which we are all prone to making, but the even dumber response from one of his chromosome suppliers. I heard this one in New York City this weekend.

Girl in baseball cap: "Do you know what I don't get? Girls who wear baseball caps."

She had to put on the basebal cap and wear it outside!!! I think I just sort of had a small aneurism just thinking about that one again.

So, I've been thinking about possible solutions to the problem and here's what I've com up with:

1. Needle Brigade

We give needles to people who don't think Chicago is a state, that windmills "steal" your wind, and don't know who Joe Biden is, but know who won "Tool Academy" on VH1.

When someone says something stupid, the member of the needle brigade waits for the response.  If it is also stupid, the person responding to a stupid question covertly is injected with a needle to be sent off to a preserve where stupid idiots live in their natural habitat, where they are forced to watch "Are you Smarter than a Fifth grader?" over and over on a big screen until they learn something.

2. Idiot Plague

Many of our top scientists spend a lot of time on reinventing the same drug.  Is Xyzal really that different from Claritin-D?  Why not invent a plague that kills idiots.  It doesn't even have to be airborne.  They could just get a bee to say to ask your doctor to prescribe it, then describe the side effects:  It will kill you if you're an idiot.  People will still take it, because after all animated bees know a lot about prescription drugs.

3. Genetically engineer a super-predator that feeds off the brains of people who are stupid.  

Animals can sense fear in humans - why not stupidity?  Scientist could even engineer a pack of mutated wolves if a big nuclear irradiated monster is not feasible.  A word in advance to Tokyo:  if this is the option we go with, move.

Insomnia: Why Take Hallucinogens?

Hi everyone,

It is now 1am. I have to get up in five hours because I have a meeting at work at 8:15. It normally takes me a little over an hour to make it in so 6am is probably about the right time to set my alarm for. I'm not sure if I will get to sleep or not. There's a lot of stuff I sort of want to write that is true and honest, but a. someone will read this and fire me and b. after already only sleeping 4 hours last night, I'm worried that the continued lack of sleep will start making me say stuff like, "If only we could elect Raisin Bran president, it would do a much better job leading or troops in Afghanistan." or "You know why I'm thankful that John Lennon was born? He wore pants." Eventually, I'm guessing I'll start to hallucinate. That might actually not be such a bad thing, unless like the guy in A Beautiful Mind, the hallucinated characters start to be CIA guys portrayed by Ed Harris.

It's actually 1:11 now. I've successfully wasted 11 minutes of my life writing that last part. That could have been the 11 minutes where I thought of a cure for cancer. More likely, though, it's the 11 minutes I would have spent either watching another rerun of Entourage on HBO or designing custom sneakers on the Reebok website that I will never actually buy. And now there are probably only two or three of you reading this. I'm sorry I'm wasting so many of your brains cells with my mindless rambling. If it were actually productive and I could put something informative like, "Since John Adams was sworn in as Vice President a few days before George Washington, according to the Constitution, because there was no president, John Adams was actually the first president of the U.S.", but that really doesn't give you any valuable information other than to impress some person at a party in DC. You really don't want to talk to those people anyway.

So I hope I don't do anything too ridiculous during the next few days. I already almost dropped a microwave on my head. (I'm guessing the curse of the pigeon has started to take effect.) If I walk into traffic or accidentally invent a new breath mint, you'l know what was going on. Me + no sleep = punchy and moderately delusional.

Which of these will Kanye West do next?

Interrupt Patrick Swayze's funeral to say that Michael Jackson was the greatest entertainer to die this year. (66%)
Because of Barack Obama's comment, start wearing a jacket that says "Jackass in Chief" on the back. (16%)
In order to try and change his image, change his name to Kanye East. (16%)

My Last Will and Testament

So, this weekend, while I was at work (a sad fact that three of my weekends the month will be spent at work), my friend Will was installing a tile floor in my house. (I wasn't abusing my friendship. I paid him.)

He left the back door open to bring tiles in the house and walked to the front of the house to get something from his truck. I was in the front and walked in the door to find a pigeon sitting on my sofa in the living room. "Will," I shouted over ad over, not quite sure what to do. Will waked in the door. "I've seen this before," he said, which impressed me and puzzled me at the same time. The bird just eyed us, as collected as could be.

I got a sheet for Will to cover the bird but it escaped a flew to the top of the fridge, temporarily in the living room, while Will layed down the tile. With my Swiffer and a flower print sheet, Will looked like a modern day Gladiator, hoping to snag the bird in my grandmother's sheet. Eventually he got the bird out the front door. It stayed at the front door, for almost an hour trying to get back in.

When I told that story to one of my friends, she said that it was an omen. Someone in the house was going to die. Rather than take any chances, I just thought I'd be prepared:

I, the Chronic Nice Guy, being of sound mind and body that girls don't like in that way, hereby make my last will and testament. Since I am trying to keep m identity a secret, I can't be too specific about what I'm leaving to who, but if I'm leavinign something to you, I hope you figure it out.

To William Joseph Jason Raynovich, I leave my strength to stop the wars, lower the price of bread, and make tulips grow in my garden. (It's better if you know the piece of music it comes from.) Don't give up. Eventually, people will wise up and go to MAVerick Ensemble concerts (www.maverickensemble.com). If not, the world is coming to an end in 2012. Ask Jerry Bruckheimer, I saw the poster today. (BTW, Jerry Bruckheimer, if the world really was coming to an end, why would I want to spend two of my last hours watching another one of your movies?)

To Matt and Matt, I leave you my permission to prank call people as the zombie version of me, not that you need it. You do it anyway. Well. at least for a few prank phone calls you can say, "It was his dying wish that we cal you" and not take the blame for it.

To Slippy, I leave you my desire to make your music videos so you can be famous and stop working as a waiter at Cactus Cantina. I know it is fun to party, but if you actually worked hard and put together a music video, imagine what it would be like to actually party and have real money. (There's a "Making it Rain" joke here that I'm not going even get close to touching)

To the girl I would like to leave something. I would like to leave you something, but then everyone reading this would know I'm leaving something for you and I'd hear all about it. Even if you're not good at receiving gifts like I am, maybe now that I'm fictitiously dead, you'll take whatever it is I would give you. (It's not socks.) You may not even know why I would leave something to you, but in the note it would be clear. It's too bad that I would have to die for you to get that note, but that sort of sums up my life. Also, I would write the note on the back of a Bed Bath and Beyond coupon so you could save 20% on one item.

To Yana (who probably doesn't like this blog entry because I'm talking about being dead and now I've mentioned her in this entry. Well, it's too late! I'm dead!), I leave you my ability to write long and pointless blog entries that really don't accomplish anything other than to waste people's time. Now you're probably thinking to yourself, that's not true. I'm enjoying reading this, or this entry is so infuriating, but you can't really argue that it stopped any wars. I already gave that ability away anyway.

Well, I've gotten to the end of this entry and I'm still not dead. I did have to stop for someone trying to sell me new windows, which is sort of close. Actually, it's more like purgatory.

Six month anniversary ideas

About six months ago (sorry I'm late with this), a friend of mine asked me for advice about what to get for her six month anniversary for her boyfriend. I've been thinking about it and here's what I've been able to come up with so far:

1. The six-month break up t-shirt.

If things are on the rocks nothing says it's over like a t-shirt with the following on it:

I dated (name of person) for six months and all I got was this crappy t-shirt

and on the back...

and a bad case of herpes

or

and a restraining order because somehow I think that calling someone thirty seven times in one night is acceptable

You could also turn it around and put something positive on the back, but nothing says our six months is over like something you could find at one of the souvenir shops at South of the Border.

2. The six month anniversary commemorative plate from the Franklin Mint.

This would probably be somewhat expensive to commission, but nothing says forever like a commemorative plate. Plus it would go well next to the Barack Obama and Dale Earnhardt Jr. plates in your significant other's collection.

3. A six month supply of Brillo pads

Who doesn't need a six month supply of Brillo pads, unless of course you've been stockpilin and hording Brillo pads and keeping them from your significant other. Who knows what other deep dark secrets they've been hiding. Do you really know their favorite breakfast cereal? Or did they just say that to lull you into a false sense of security until one day all of your Boo-berry is missing and now it's Wednesday morning, you're late for work, and because you didn't get that high fructose corn syrup rush, you miss the boss's question and as a result, you lose your job.

4. Shoes

5. A knife collection

If you really love your significant other (and really trust them) and they are into knives, this could be a great gift. Unfortunately, it could also turn on you rather quickly. Items not to buy with this gift: balloon sculptures, life size dolls of yourself

6. Prosthetic limb

This is a good gift, particularly if that special someone is missing an arm or leg. This would also be a good companion gift with a power tool, just in case.

A 3am nonsense post

It is 3:09am. I'm not entirely sure what I am going to write about, but I figured that since it's 3, there is the potential for this to be a really great or really horrible blog entry. This afternoon I thought about writing a blog entry about what positions prominent women world leader would play if they were fantasy football players, but all I sort of figured out was that Margaret Thatcher would be a linebacker and Hillary Clinton would be a halfback. Not real enough to have a fully fleshed out blog entry. (I know, I left that whole "fleshed out" thing just dangling. Go for it, somebody!)

Now I'm sort of feeling the pressure to somehow make this more funny. I started this out thinking that since it's 3, funny situations would naturally come to me, but the truth is that right now, I'm not feeling particularly funny. I sort of feel like Ringo often looks in Beatles pictures, just sort of there without a real clue of what to do or say next. Thankfully, I'm not going to sing any songs about primary colored ocean going vessels, unless someone were to make a kickass song called Blue Aircraft Carrier.

Facebook Protocol

I used to enjoy when someone I hadn't heard from in a long time contact me as a friend on Facebook. "Wow, I haven't see them for a while," I'd think to myself. No, however, I'm getting into the murky area of not friends and strangers who contact me on facebook. Yesterday, someone who I've never met contacted me to be a "friend." I looked at his other "friends" and realized I didn't know any of them. That made me think that someone should probably spell out facebook protocol to people:

1. Before you friend someone on Facebook, you should actually meet them in real life. If you are a bot looking to use my information for telemarketing or identity theft, do it the old fashion way. Get people drunk and get the info out of them that way.

2. Status updates should be interesting, informative, and/or entertaining. They should not consist of: Going to the store. That tells me nothing. Much better: Going to the store after I go into a fight with my wife over anchovies and how we ran out and even though I think that they're gross I'm going out to get them anyway because I'd much rather sleep in bed than on the couch. Also buying bread.

3. You should not ask someone to be in Mafia Wars unless you pay them in real life. Now, I'm not necessarily opposed to Mafia Wars, but I receive about thirty requests a day to take a bribe from a cop, perform a hit, or shake someone down. If the mob was really that desperate that they had to contact me to do that kind of stuff, they'd be in real trouble.

4. The email feature in Facebook should not be used. It doesn't allow you to interface with other email programs. If you are going to email someone you should use their regular email. Otherwise, ou should not necessarily expect an email response. (This one is more of an excuse as to why don't respond to emails via Facebook, but I still think it's valid.

If you have any others feel free to add them. Just don't add people you don't know as friends.

Some sad, depressing thoughts...

If you're like me and it's 1:00 am and you're a chronic nice guy - in bed wide awake and alone, here are some sad, depressing thoughts for you to cry yourself to sleep with...

Although girls claim they like nice guys, funny guys, and smart guys, the number of girls who have been with Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawkins, Don Rickles, and Thomas Aquinas probably equals the number of girls who have been with either of those idiot guys from Saved by the Bell (not Screech).

Screech has probably been with more girls than those guys combined, mostly because he's Screech.

Being a nice guy didn't work out too well for Ghandi, Martin Luther King, or Jesus. Not the same though for Mother Teresa. Lesson - If you're a nice guy, most likely you will be killed by some idiot who can't stand that you are a nice guy (but who girls l will still like more than you). If you're a nice woman, you can live to a nice, old age.

Guys on death row receive letters from women who want to marry them and have sex with them. (Most likely after, the guy on death row would want to chop off their head and put it on their wall like a trophy ala Predator). Nice guys never receive notes from women, and they haven't killed anyone. I other words, the only way for some nice guys to get the interest of a woman is to kill someone (or at least slash their tires).

Hitler had a girl who was willing to follow him to a bunker and kill herself for him ... and he was Hitler!

Which will be the next assertion of people from the "birther" movement who claim Barack Obama wasn't born in the US?

That Cap'n Crunch didn't actually ever serve in the military. His title, bestowed on him by Count Chocula, isn't even a legitimate military rank and he should be removed from cereal boxes. (20%)
The government's health care plan has a provision in it to kill old people. (Wait a minute, I think they already believe this...) (60%)
Transformers 2 was, in fact, a great movie and deserving of an Oscar. (20%)

Buying a House, Part 2

(For those of you waiting to see how my story ends, sorry I have been keeping you waiting this long. I've been dealing with stuff at work and travelled to San Francisco, Las Vegas and Philadelphia in the past month.)

So, when I last wrote, the house was awaiting inspection. For those of you who don't know how a home inspection works, you pay a guy about $500 to show up to the house you made an offer on and poke around, find stuff wrong, and shatter your dreams. I knew the kitchen needed work already when I looked at the home, but then there was the furnace, and the circuit breaker box, and the possible termite damage, and the low levels of toxic Radon in the house. Every time I mentioned these to people, they would say, "Welcome to homeownership." I now sort of understood what it felt like to be a rookie quarterback who was sacked by a 290 pound defensive lineman, who says, "welcome to the NFL," as you are lying on the ground. Then he throws your house on you.

The other thing wrong with the house was the color selection for the rooms. I'm not a fashion guru or have a great sense of style. (I'm a guy.) I was able to see that there were some poor color choices in the rooms. The living room was sea green. The office was turquoise, the second upstairs bedroom was powder blue. The master bedroom was LAVENDER. The downstairs main room was peach. The one downstairs "bedroom" was mustard and the other one was the color of green screens. I sort of liked that aspect of that room. If I decided to buy the house, I could CGI myself into photos in all sorts of places that were now unaffordable to me. The home inspector gave me the inspection binder. (It was over an inch thick.) Yeah. "You've got a fixer upper," he said. "It's a good one though. I'd probably buy it myself."

It took another week of thinking about it before I finally bought the place. It then took about another month to close, which means five different people keep sending legal documents to each other until everyone has lost their own paperwork or just gives up caring. Then they stick you in a room and make you sign about four hundred pages of information, not really explaining any of it to you except that lead paint is bad. I finally owned the house.

Once I closed on the house, I had to travel up to Philadelphia for a meeting. I made it just at the tail end, as it was wrapping up. A few days later, my brother and I went back down to move into the house. That afternoon, we moved in a few items from the storage place. At 9:30pm, the gate wouldn't open at the place anymore. We sort of assessed the situation, we weren't going to be able to get everything before he had to go back home. We ran to Target, where we looked at inflatable mattresses. "This one looks like its the best," my brother said. "and it's cheaper than the other ones." I looked at the mattress. It definitely was the biggest, with not only a faux mattress, but a faux inflatable box spring, too. Presumably the illusion of a box spring gave added support. "Okay," I said let's go."

My brother dropped me off at the house. After pulling the rest of the stuff out of his car and grabbing some food, it was 11pm. "I'm going to back to Philly tonight," he said. I've got a lot of work to do." He backed out of the driveway and left me alone, in the fixer upper with the lavender master bedroom.

I looked on the cover of the inflatable mattress box again. There was a couple lounging on it having a great time (or I would presume so, after all, they were just lounging on an inflatable mattress, but they were smiling. When I lounge on an inflatable mattress it's not fun enough to make me smile, but then again maybe I expect too much out of life). I pulled out the contents of the box. The mattress was big alright. It was going to take a long time to inflate with the electric pump. Only - there was no electric pump, the reason the mattress was so cheap. I looked at the clock on my phone 11:28 - too late for Target. Too late to call my friends and ask them if hey had an inflatable mattress pump. Well, I thought, let's see how far I can get trying to inflate this thing....

Four one and a half hours I attempted to manually bring the mattress to life. I felt like I was taking CPR training and even though the patient with a pattern that give the consumer the feeling that they were sleeping on an actual mattress with coils had flatlined, I kept going for another 87 minutes. I started becoming giddy from inhaling to much latex smell. I looked at the clock - 1:00am and I was making little progress. I laid the inflatable mattress on the floor and tried climbing on it. I was surrounded by billowy pockets of rubber, but beneath me, I still felt the hardwood floor against my back. This was going to be like sleeping on a deflated Macy's parade balloon. My one unpacked light reflected the lavender off the walls to give everything in the room a pale, sickly hue. Well, I thought, at least my bedroom will look good for Easter.

Finish this pick up line: You're so hott (notice the double tt for extra hotness)...

you're responsible for global warming. (42%)
you should be measured in kelvin. (31%)
I'd have to wear SPF90 if we made out. (15%)
there should be four chili peppers after your name if you were an item at TGI Friday's. (10%)

Buying a new house

This past Christmas, I got a call from a friend of mine. "The economy is going to get really bad," he said. "You should invest in gold ... and buy some water and a bag of rice just in case. Don't tell anybody that you have rice, either." Was it really going to be that bad? Were bottled water and rice really going to be a valuable commodity? If I hoarded enough, if Jesus came back, I could be like all three magi, bringing him gold, rice, and bottled water.

His phone call did get me thinking - how much worse could the economy get? I couldn't imagine things getting much worse and my job was pretty stable, barring some unforeseen disaster, probably involving an M1 Garand rifle, someone using the term "meat puppets", and a 32 ounce slab of lime jello. Every time I turned on the television, the news shows were all playing 24 hour coverage of the housing crisis and how we had hit rock bottom. Not that I was rolling in money, but I thought, "Well, this time is as good as any other to buy a house, and if I can't aford it now, I'll never be able to afford it."Another friend gave me the name of his real estate agent (not the one suggesting I buy bottled water). I gave her a call and we set up an appointment to start looking at houses.

Because I live in the Washington, DC area, there were basically three choices: find a 200 square foot condo which was actually only 150 square feet, because it counted the parking space which you couldn't afford but they would rent to you for $1000 a month, a house in West Virginia which would be so bad except it was two hours away and I would have to live next to West Virginians, or a bank foreclosure or short sale. A bank foreclosure is when the people who live in the house can't afford to make payments on the house anymore And the bank takes control of the property and sells it off. The former owner is forced to pay the difference. A short sale is sort of a bank foreclosure that's about to happen, but hasn't quite happened yet, so the bank hasn't set a price or thrown the family who is living there out of the house. That means that as a potential buyer, you have the great fortune of meeting the people you are about to evict.

I sort of had a feeling about what the experience was going to be like when I met my real estate agent Christine at the first house we were scheduled to visit. Within walking distance of my house, I decided to meet her there on foot. About halfway there, the skies opened up and it started to our. Luckily, I had actually looked at the forecast, a rare occurrence for me, and brought my black women's umbrella. (When I bought it at CVS, it showed up on the cash register as a woman's umbrella. Given that it was black, I assumed it was unisex. I made a comment about this to the CVS clerk who did not appreciate the irony. Since then I have always been somewhat self conscious of my umbrella, but not enough to replace it with a black men's umbrella). As I waked toward the house, I realized I was not alone. About twenty other people had parked cars within walking distance and were headed to the same house. I saw a pregnant woman I assumed was Christine sitting in her car. (i had been told that she was pregnant, so unless pregnant women had decided to stalk this hispanic family that was about to be evicted from their house, I assumed it was her. ) She motioned for me to approach her. I walked up to the car. "get in," she said. At this point, I really hoped it was Christine. Either that or I was really good at picking up beautiful forty year old pregnant women outside of short sale houses.

"The other real estate agent told me that it was okay to show the house today, but it 's pretty apparent that they are having their Easter party a day early." Now I really felt bad. Not only was I assisting in evicting them from their house, but I was doing it on their day of celebrating Jesus, and I hadn't brought any gold, rice, or bottled water. "Let's skip this one and go to the next one," I said.

The next house said that it had some slight mold damage. "That happens when the basement floods," Christine said. "After the bank takes over the property, they shut off the power to the sump pump and the basement floods." We waked in the house and encountered a musty smell. The smell continued to get stronger until we reached the basement stairs. We walked down to the basement and turned on the light. The basement had indeed flooded. There was so much mold damage that large chunks of drywall had fallen off the wall. I felt my lungs getting furrier from the mold with each breath. We quickly exited. "That one's selling for $265,000," Christine said. I have no idea how they ever expect to get that."

For the next four weeks, Christine and I would meet on Tuesdays and look at houses. Some were okay, but there was a reason that most houses were selling for $250,000 or under in DC. Among my favorites were: the condemned house that had a note to anyone entering the house written by the tenant in Spanish about how he had lost his love and now the house and because of the creepiness of the note, the house should now be considered for a new Wes Craven horror movie; the house where a family was placing mysterious substances in vials and stopped cold wen we walked in (I'm sure it was all perfectly legal) and one of the little girl's bedrooms was completely black from all of the mold growing on it; and the house with strange built in stalker areas (little alcoves in the bathroom) having apparently no function whatsoever other than to precipitate a horrendous crime.

None of them went through. Either I was outbid or the offers just sat on the desk of some banker somewhere who was waiting to concerned with receiving his AIG sized bonus to actually process any paperwork. Each offer required me to sign a sixty page contract that stated that I knew lead paint was bad for me and I knew that the house didn't come with a microwave. After the fifth time, one of my offers was finally accepted - a five bedroom, two bathroom house that sold for $450,000 three years ago. Even though my offer was only $255,000 and lower than the other bids, the bank liked mine the best because I had sent them more financial information than anyone else. I actually owned a house (pending the home inspection). Now all I needed was for the house to pass the inspection and I could begin stockpiling my rice and bottled water.

Jury Duty

Well, today I had jury duty. For those of you who have never had jury duty, the county sends you a piece of paper saying that you have to come on a certain date, etc. to which you reply that you can't make it. They then find another day in the middle of summer when you're on vacation and you have to move your whole life around to show up at 8:15 in the morning.

When I walked in, the security guard looked at me and said, "Put your keys and cell phone on the X-ray machine!" I started looking for a bucket to put them in so they wouldn't fall into some unseen part of this multimillion dollar machine. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my keys, cell phone, and change to place in the bucket, tray, or whatever it is that was supposed to keep everything from falling into this machine that probably cost every local taxpayer over five hundred and seventy two dollars. "Um, where is the bucket?" I timidly inquired. "There's no bucket!" He barked. I accidentally dropped some coins on the conveyor belt. They started too move toward the machine, presumably about to break some of the expensive components inside. "Sir! DO NOT PUT YOUR MONEY THROUGH THE MACHINE!" the officer snapped. "I know," I said. "I was looking for the bucket and..." "SIR! I TOLD YOU THERE WAS NO BUCKET!"

I slowly felt myself moving up America's most wanted list. If I dropped any more coins, more than likely it would result in a felony. At the very least, I would be in contempt of court and spend the night in jail with all of the local rapist, murderers, and other people who dropped change onto the metal detector conveyor belt.

Finally, I was able to retrieve my change and put my keys and phone through the machine. Miraculously, they were not bombs and I merely returned to being an annoyance instead of a threat to national security. "Where do I go?" I asked, but he was done paying attention to me. The sixty year old Jewish woman behind me hadn't taken her keys and phone out of her purse and put them all on the conveyor belt separately. One more deviation from the rules, and Michael Vick's empty cell would soon be filled.

After making it through the hallways, I found the jury room. For those of you who haven't ever served on jury duty, I encourage you to watch the movie "Red Dawn" from the 1980s, particularly the scene where they are making people sit in an indoctrination camp watching government propaganda together, but unlike the movie Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen don't crash through the camp with machine guns screaming, "WOLVERINES!" For those of you who are unfortunate enough to have seen Red Dawn, imagine you are in that camp WATCHING Red Dawn, and that's more or less what it's like.

Instead of propaganda films or Red Dawn, the court clerks play a government film from 1980 about what it's like to be a juror and how United States has the greatest judicial system in the world. They then switched on the coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral and I reflected on why everyone was mourning the loss of this 1980's icon, but noone mourned the loss of the guy that made this corporate video. Things were a little better in the world. Charlies Sheen may bust in the room with a machine gun yet.

After about ten minutes, one of the county workers walked up to the front of the room. She began calling out juror numbers. I'm 922, I thought. That's too high. I'm never going to be called. "922," the woman said, and off I went to the court room.

We were led into the court room and each given a golf pencil followed by a ten page questionnaire. On the paper were questions like "Is there any reason you can't serve the amount of time required by this case?; Have you ever had an injury to your back?; and Do you know any of the people who are going to testify in this case?." I looked at the clock. It was 9:30.

"We started filling the jury for this case yesterday so we're down to the last two jurors," the judge said. "The case is a civil case - an auto accident. All you are doing is deciding the amount of damages. The case is probably going to run through Friday." I looked around. There were forty other people. I thought my chances were pretty good.

I quickly scanned the questionnaire for possible ways to get out of this case. I have to be at a work meeting on Thursday, I thought. I think there should be limit placed on damages given to plaintiffs. The court reporter called the first person.

"Tell us a little about yourself" the judge said after she took the stand. "What do you mean?," she said. "You know - your educational background, your job, your family, your favorite TV show, and what the bumper sticker on your car says." I wondered if I had wandered into a game show for jury contestants. Where was Judge Judy? The woman gave her answers. She obviously was adversarial to the judge. He looked at her. "Ma'am, you can be excused. Please return your pencil and place the questionnaire on the table on your way out." Our tax dollars at work. Spending money on a seven page questionnaire noone will ever read, but harassing jurors over a golf pencil.

The next person took the stand. They had a back condition. The next one had lost a similar case. The next one was a police officer. Each time the plaintiff's lawyer asked that they be removed. The process was repeated over and over. "Tell me about yourself," the Judge would say. I began to feel sorry for him. He must b pretty lonely. Maybe this is his answer to eHarmony. He was just waiting to say, "You have a bumper sicker that says Carcasonne RULES? Me too!!" I looked over the jury pool, it was getting pretty small. We were at twenty and it was 11;30. After a ten minute recess, one of the other potential jurors sat in the box. "I can't be on the jury. I'm in a community theater and we have a matinee performance tomorrow." "Okay," the judge said. "I'll excuse you." Suddenly, I wasn't worried about my excuse anymore.

After an hour more of questioning, the two lawyers and judge found two more people they thought were acceptable. They sent us back down to the jury room where they dismissed us for lunch. After having a mystery hot dog and fruit punch from a street vendor, I went back to the jury room. This time I was ready for the metal detector.

The Michael Jackson memorial was in full swing. Jennifer Hudson was singing the theme to "Free Willy" surrounded by a group of backup dancers who held hands and skipped around her in a circle like she was part of a ritual sacrifice. At the end of her performance (which I thought was just mediocre), five or six of the jurors still in the room clapped. Who are they clapping for? I thought. I considered saying "Thank you. I'm glad you're all willing to admit Michael Jackson stole that song from me." I decided against it because a. there was no use getting into an argument with anyone who would clap for a television, b. I didn't want to claim ownership of that bad performance, and c. sarcasm was probably not the best choice for a response to their action.

Time seemed to drag on and on. Queen Latifah spoke, then John Mayer performed, followed by Kobe Bryant and Magic Johnson, then Brooke Shields. Jermaine Jackson sang "Smile" by Charlie Chaplin. I was now starting to get sucked in. Who would they bring out next? Phyllis Diller? Emmanuel Lewis? The severed head of Walt Disney? One of the county clerks walked up to the front of the room. "The cases have all been filled for today. You can go home."

I was a bit disappointed that there was no free coffee, doughnuts, or bumper stickers. (Considering how much the judge was talking about them, I was expecting at least that.) I bought some on the way home, though,(doughnuts, not bumper stickers) and turned on the news. Michael Jackson was still dead and they weren't looking for anyone who almost broke a metal detector. Safe for another day.

About me (well sort of...)

I posted this on a website in the about me section yesterday...

I just thought that I'd preface this by saying that I'm writing this on National Fried Chicken Day, not that I'm a fan of fried chicken. I'm not particularly opposed to it either, but I didn't realize there was a National Fried Chicken Day until yesterday. It sort of made me wonder what other kinds of holidays I'm missing out on and how much time some congressman wasted making sure that National Fried Chicken Day was passed into law.

Anyway, I'm not really sure how to summarize myself. I sort of now feel like I went down this path about fried chicken and now I don't know how to get out of it. I sort of wish I didn't start my intro about me this way. Now you don't really know anything about me (or fried chicken for that matter). All you know is that I wrote this on National Fried Chicken Day. I haven't even said what day I'm writing this, so I'm not even providing you with any valuable information. Now I'm just sort of wasting your time. Sorry. I'll stop.

Which of these professions do you wish you could write on your tax return for real this year?

Telephone pole lumberjack. (23%)
Director of Supper time theater troupe. In tonight's performance of Death of a salesman, Biff will be portrayed by a pork chop, Willy Loman will be portrayed by mashed potatoes and gravy, and the extras will all be played by peas. (15%)
Assassin of AIG executives who didn't return their bonuses. (46%)
Celery heart transplant surgeon (0%)
Runway model at the Beekeeper Uniform Fashion Expo (15%)

Second Date Ideas

One of my friends posted a status update on Facebook asking what she should do on a second date, so I've been thinking a lot about that for the past few weeks. Here's some of the ideas I've come up with:

1. Interrogation session #2

If your first "date" happened at Camp X-Ray or an umdisclosed location, this would be the perfect thing to do on your second date. Since you've already seen your date naked and know if they are into bondage, escalating things physically may be a bit tricky. For dating tips in this direction, check out the CIA documents released by the Obama administration. Since it became physical so quickly, I would tend to focus on getting to know the person. What's their favorite Disney movie? Do they own a cat? How do they feel about infidel/non-infidel relationships?

2. Cutting out pictures of your date from Olympic gymnastic magazines

Although you aren't doing this in the same room, your date is clearly sending you signals from the magical rays eminating from the television set. This also accomplishes two things, getting to know your date's body by studying pictures of her in her leotard and building your shrine to her per the instructions of Count Chocula. Date #3: Getting past her security and scaling the fence outside her house.

3. Wiring your $10,000 to your future fiancée in Nigeria

After your first three hour online chat, your date "who is really pretty lady who like sunset and really enjoy have good time with middle aged man/woman," all she needs is to get to you after being stiffed by the lawyer from the Russian modelling agency where she works. This date will initially make you feel good, but eventually will result in a second mortgage on your home. Similar date #2: investing in AIG circa July 2008.

Well, that's the best I can come up with while at a non-date, listening to historically accurate Viking metal. If I think of any more, I'll post them later.

A letter to my potential girlfriend

Dear potential girlfriend,

You probably have no idea this letter is to you because I haven't asked you out. I'm think about letting you know that I'm interested which would raise your status to prospective. If you say yes and we go out on a few dates, I would have to define your status as my almost girlfreind. After a few weeks of dating, I guess the relationship will have achieved girlfriend status, but it's hard to say.

Well, maybe I'll think more seriously about really asking you out. I'm sure at the moment, you don't have any idea. Well, maybe you have some idea, but probably not, because in general I'm not good at the whole asking out thing. More often than not, it usually goes something like this:

CHRONIC NICE GUY: Potential girlfriend, I think you are really pretty and ...
POTENTIAL GIRLFRIEND: Aw, that's why you're such a great friend.
CHRONIC NICE GUY: If you'll excuse me, I'll be consuming large amounts of Mallomars and listening to my Air Supply CD.

Well, more than likely, that will sum up our exchange, but for the record you are pretty and I would like to go out with you. If you are planning on saying yes, please let me know. I'm not sure what we would do on our first date, but I'm making plans in an upcoming blog for a second one.

Yours,

The Chronic Nice Guy

The Judgemental Pizza Delivery Man

I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico at a boring conference this week. It's something I sort of have to do for my job. The thing about Santa Fe is, while it's pretty, it's about an hour from anywhere, including the airport in Albequerque. So when I booked my flight at 7:30 am I knew I was going to be in for a rough day. I was hoping that I could sleep on the shuttle or maybe on the airplane.

The shuttle picked me up at 4:40. Well, before I tell you about my journey back, let me say that the hotel clerk was not the best to say the least. Earlier during my trip, I asked or directions and was told, "Just go out of our driveway and make a left." If I would have gone straight or right, I would have wound up closer to my destination, the St. Francis Auditorium. After wandering the streets of Santa Fe for 45 minutes and locating the New Mexico School for the Deaf, the historic train yard, and the Santa Fe Department of Corrections facility, I asked a policeman where the St. Francis Auditorium was. "I never heard of it," he said and walked away. I wandered up and down the street in downtown Santa Fe, past the spas, turquoise jewelry, and Native American art galleries, looking for a store that was open on a Friday morning (curiously many were closed). I finally found an open high end women's clothing store. Upon entering the saleswomen looked at me with befuddlement and utter disdain. How dare I enter her overpriced clothing boutique! "Can I help you?" she asked. I explained that I was looking for the St. Francis Auditorium. "Oh," she said. "That's inside the Museum of Fine Art" Something never explained by the conference host and obviously never visited by the policeman or anyone at the Department of Corrections. Eventually, I found my the conference, but the desk clerk already was not off to a good start.

The next two days, including the one where I was supposed to leave at 4;40, I asked for wakeup calls that never happened. I made it to the front desk at 4:30 and checked out. Stopping at the lobby computer, I went to check my email, before pausing to read the big sign. "Do not visit any appropriate sites." I clicked on the browser and typed the address to my email's website. I noticed there were already three windows minimized, to PORNORAMA and other related sites. I clicked my email window closed, trying to avoid touching the keys as little as possible.

Eventually, the van arrived. Finally I would be rid of the directionally challenged, call forgetting, porn surfing desk clerk! I entered the van and an 80 year old couple was sitting in the front seat. "Hello," the woman said and paused waiting for my response. I gave a pleasant reply, which was followed by a brief silence. That was the only ten seconds he didn't say anything to her husband on the 75 minute trip. The whole time I suffered listening to the woman's assessment of the jewelry shops and restaurants and cute little adobe houses, all I could think was how lucky I was. This poor bastard in the front row has had to live with this for fifty years. She never waited for a response. She just kept talking. When I bolted from the van, she was still talking and probably still is to this day.

Walking up to the check in, I figured, "Great. At least I can use the self check in how can that get screwed up?" While three of us waited in line, though, an sixty year old woman continually moved her bags between three stations. She didn't know how to use the self check in and was following the woman behind the counter as she moved from station to station. When the Asian man in front of me tried to sneak on to one of the stations she was patrolling, she snapped, "I'm using that." Leaving a bag in front of each station, she then had a fifteen minute conversation with the woman at the ticket counter. The two people in front of me were afraid to try and use one of the unoccupied station after her last confrontation.

After I checked in, I made it to the security lane. Here, the were testing the new improved security device, the new system which is going to replace the metal detector. It sort of looks like the transporter on Star Trek. When you go in, you raise your hands above your head and two metal bars sweep around you. With this new and improved technology, though, you have to take off your shoes, your belt, your hat ... oh and take out your wallet, and your can't have your boarding pass, or tissues in your pocket. Needless to say, the whole process slowed everything down. Even after I went through, a TSA guy patted me down. Great improvement in technology, huh?

After I boarded the plane, I thought, finally. Some sleep. About ten minutes into the fight, though, the flight attendants started the movie, Marley and Me. For those of you who haven;t seen it, I won't spoil it much. I'll just say there was a lot of "awww" ing and crying during the movie. So, much, that the woman sitting next to me hid her face because she didn't want anyone seeing her crying as much as she was. The four hour flight landed and after making it to Super Shuttle, I was ready for the ride home. The Super Shuttle guy decided he was going to put on his favorite CD, a guy singing Island music in French accompanied by a Casio keyboard. Every song during the 90 minute ride was exactly the same. I finally got home at around 1pm and although it was a nice day, I just wanted something to eat and to grab a little sleep.

I ordered a pizza from Domino's. I figured it won't be the best, but at least it won't be slow. 25 minutes passed, 35 minutes passed, 45 minutes. I called the store. "He left a while ago," They said. "He should be there any minute. Finally about ten minutes later, the pizza delivery man showed up at my door. A fifty year old Asian man, he looked me up and down as he gave me my order. "What are you doing ordering pizza? It's a nice day! You should be outside! What kind of person orders pizza?" I just blankly stared at him, too tired to say anything.

But after I shut the door, I thought to myself. "Shut up, Pizza man! After avoiding a desk clerk's porn, listening to an old woman babble for an hour, watching a plane full of people cry for three hours, and listening to possibly the worst CD ever recorded by man, I have to listen to advice from someone who's after fifty years on this earth delivering pizzas and you're judging me? It's my business if I want to stay inside on a nice day. I could be allergic to sunlight. How do you know why I'm staying inside? Maybe you just personally insulted me!"

Well, if I ever see him again, I'm going to ask him, "Why are you delivering pizzas? You have the brain capacity to work at a much better position in the food service industry, like Fuddruckers."

The Opening Monologue to the Chronic Nice Guy Movie

I've been thinking about the voiceover I would write to the opening motage of a movie about me. Here's what I've come up with so far...

Well, I guess it had to happen eventually - someone had to make a movie about a blogger. It';s probably not going to be very good. I mean, a blogger just sits around all the time. If I were you, I'd leave right now and go up to the manager and demand my money back. And I'm the guy the movie is about. Imagine if I wasn't me writing this. Think about how bad the movie must really be.

You know what would be better? A scratch and sniff blogger movie. There's a certain age where it's not cool to scratch and sniff anymore though. I don't really know when that is. One more thing they took away from us. Probably sniffing that stuff the scratch and sniff stickers are made of gives you cancer. It's also the same people who caused the recession. Also, what kind of scents would you get to sniff in this movie anyways? It's not like I go to the beach or rose gardens all the time. Ink toner and old books aren't usually on the the top of people's lists.

Well, if you've stayed this long, then probably you didn't ask for your money back or you are making out in the back of the theater. Well, I'm glad this movie is at least good for something that way. Bringing two people closer together. I get to sit here alone and type this introduction and not make out with anyone, although if Natalie Portman wanted to come over and make out, I wouldn't be opposed to it. I probably even would stop typing this monologue. As you can see, since I'm still typing this, she's not here. So I guess we should start the movie by showing credits or something. Unless they already happened. Those film executives don't tell me anything.

Where I've been...

Hi everyone,

Sorry I have written a blog entry for a long time. Things at work have become very busy, surreal, hectic, and chocolaty. (All of that is true except the chocolaty.) I have actually written some new material for the blog, but it's at home and I'm in Chicago, not that that's a bad place to be, unless you're Rod Blagoyevich.

I'm actually at my friend Jason's apartment as I'm typing this. He's from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (He always make sure he says "Pennsylvania" in case someone assumes that he means Pittsburgh, Kansas) and went to Syracuse University (which he always say instead of just "Syracuse" because when someone asks him where he went to school and he replies "Syracuse." I'm guessing he most likely assumes that they think he meant DeVry Institute in Syracuse. Not that there's anything wrong with that. DeVry is a fine institution, but I would think that if someone went there they would say "DeVry" instead of "Syracuse" if the branch of DeVry Institute was in Syracuse. Maybe Jason feels that "University" validates the Syracuse part, as if to say Syracuse UNIVERSITY! as opposed to DeVry institute and since he knows Syracuse is a university, it proves he's not lying.)

I actually have a lot of good Jason stories. So many, in fact, that I wrote a draft of a script about Jason and all the stuff that happened to him with my friend Josh. When people reviewed it for us, all the stuff that happened with Jason was the stuff people said was unbelievable. All the fake stuff that we used to tie everything together was the stuff they said was the best because it was so realistic. At some point, I'll get back to work on it. Maybe sometime soon. It's probably too much for a movie, it's more of a TV series. David Cross can play me. (People say I look like him. See my manifesto on bald guys if you want a longer discussion about it.)

Well, I should get back to doing stuff in Chicago. I promise I'll start writing again. Maybe it will even be funny. And with any luck, someone will read this and want to hire me to write blog entries or be a faucet tester or a professional clapper. I hear they make big money.

Later,
The Chronic Nice Guy

What script idea should I be thinking about pitching to the major studios?

Lunch Meat Pirates 2: The Reckoning (25%)
The Turn Signal Kid (12%)
Alien vs. Predator vs. Copyright Infringement Attorneys (12%)
Young Benjamin Franklin: Private Eye/Ladies Man (50%)
The Life and Times of Jackpot Jones (0%)

10 Things I like about Tegan

Tegan's birthday was February 10th and I included her in my blog, but she was not satisfied with that way in which I included her,, because it was not personal enough. I just put her name in a fill in the blank type thing. She is not actually afraid of Leprechauns, nor has she ever seen the movie Leprechaun. (I don't recommend it.)

So, to make it up to her, here are 10 Things I like about Tegan.

1. Tegan's name is Tegan Mahford. Most people think this is a typo and her name is Megan Tahford. (It's not.) Although she's dealt with this countless times, she doesn't really get upset about it.


2. When people talk about food, invariably someone brings up the fact that if Tegan was a vegetarian, she could be known as Tegan the Vegan. Despite hearing it way too much (more than once is too much), I have never her let it bother her.

3. I have never really seen anything get Tegan really upset. She is always very calm and able to deal with people who probably annoy her, like me.

4. Tegan's "Mattresses" is the best jingle ever written about bedroom furniture.

5. Tegan's voice is very melodic when she talks. Most people don't pay attention to this, but I do. She hangs onto words and says them with varying pitch. It's almost half singing. (Now she is going to get all self conscious about it, and the next time I talk to her, her voice will be all monotone, like one of those cheesy 1960's robots.)

6. Tegan likes movies, making movies, talking about movies, talking about making movies, and making movies about people talking.

7. Only Tegan could get Matt to beatbox and sing about her left butt cheek. Also, this song is the best one ever written about riding on the metro and left butt cheeks.

8. Tegan had a car named Lola.

9. Tegan plays saxophone, guitar, and piano, and tolerates everyone who likes talking about audio.

10. I don't know what else I should write here, I should probably write either a. something sappy or b. something incredibly funny. Now I'm thinking that I'll just keep writing and round out the list with this non-item and people will get bored with reading this until they realize that I haven't said anything about Tegan yet, but now I've gone on for a whole paragraph and nothing. Now you're probably thinking to yourself, "Why am I wasting my time with this last one? He's never going to say anything about Tegan anyway. He's just stalling and trying to get me to quit reading so he won't have to say anything." Well, you're probably right, but I like that Tegan doesn't let me get away with stuff like not really writing something about her in the 25 Additional Things you don't know about me.

25 Additional Things You Didn't Know About Me

Although I did the 16 things you don't know about me from my sister. So many people sent me the 25 things that I sort of feel obligated to write another 25 things. The earlier 16 things are on my blog and are equally hilarious.

So, here goes...

1. I have seriously been considering buying a car, but the only one that I'm really interested in is the Batmobile.

2. For about 38 minutes this weekend, I seriously contemplated giving up my cell phone and using semifore (those flags they use on sailboats) to communicate.

3. I am allergic to dogs, cats, mice, cockroaches, hamsters, oat grass, wormwood, and dust. I've been getting a shot every Tuesday. I'm secretly hoping they give me the wrong shot by mistake and I end up with some awesome superpower.

4. Like Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, and George H. W. Bush, I am left handed. George W. Bush is right handed. (I guess being left handed should be a qualification for being president, or at least the ability to swallow a pretzel without choking.)

5. Of the five Spice Girls, I think Posh would travel farthest if thrown from a catapult.

6. My favorite brand of flaxseed oil is Barlean's, with extra lignans.

7. Although I'm from Philadelphia, my first baseball cap was a Pittsburgh Pirates hat. (Don't blame me. I was two.). On that subject, Pittsburgh's sports team owners are the best, particularly when deciding team colors. All three teams are black and yellow. That way fans can save money on buying clothes to wear at sporting events. Red pinstripe with orange and green if you're Flava Flav. I guess Philadelphia owners didn't think of that.

8. I don't like the idea of pickup lines because I think they are disingenuous. I guess that's why I'm not very good with them. They sort of feel like lying to me, which makes me feel uncomfortable.

9. I lie constantly. (This is not true.)

10. For my doctorate, I had to write two dissertation "articles" (about 75 pages each) and a piece of music. After I got my doctorate, I threw away the articles.

11. I am the recipient of a prank phone call once every few weeks from one of the two Matts. It's usually about how something has gone wrong at work. Since so much goes wrong, I usually buy it. They are always disappointed with my reaction.

12. For Halloween one year in high school, I dressed as Lee Iacocca's (the CEO of Chrysler) grandson. I made a sign and everything. Most people didn't think it was funny.

13. I once spent about ten minutes in the bathroom at Kuma's (a sushi place in DC) because they had two toilets facing each other with no divider between them. I flushed them each about half a dozen times because I didn't want to accidentally go in the bidet. Inexplicably, though, they were both toilets.

14. My maternal grandfather was part Moorish, which makes me part African American (probably 1/32 or less). My maternal grandmother denied this fact her whole life.

15. I've been thinking that someone should write a movie about a vigilante who goes around killing bank and Fortune 500 CEOs and gives the money to poor people, sort of a modern day Robin Hood. Oh, and also Dick Cheney.

16. The only celebrities I've seen in Washington, DC ate Jimmy Carter (in a room with 200 other people), Tim Russert at Chef Geoff's (his cranium was huge), and the back of Chris Matthews' head at El Guapo's.

17. I think the greatest living actor is Tom Cruise. (I don't actually believe this, but now my friend Yana is getting all upset because she hates Tom Cruise.) Probably my favorite actors are Sean Penn, Daniel Day-Lewis, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Denzel Washington, Morgan Freeman, Robert Duvall, Johnny Depp, and Viggo Mortensen.

18. If I got a dog, it would be a beagle, but I probably won't ever get one. I'd also consider a black lab or a cocker spaniel. I wouldn't get a springer spaniel or Jack Russell terrier because I wouldn't want to consider whether my dog can figure out how to get to the Hungry Jack Pancake Mix I've hidden and when I get home, his nose would be all dusted like a cocaine addict and he'd be all wired and ornery until I made him coffee, scrambled eggs, and Bob Evans maple flavored sausage links.

19. I am really frustrated with the fact that I can remember Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941 and homered in his last at bat in 1960, but I can't remember where I left my car keys. (Also, Ted Williams' body is cryogenically frozen, but they had to decapitate him because he wouldn't fit in the storage device.)

20. I have never ice skated. For this reason, I don't think I'd make a good hockey player unless they changed the rules and falling down became an important part of the game. Also, I don't have a good hockey name like Guy LaFleur.

21.Until last year I had never tasted beer. Finally, after months of coaxing from the Matts and Cathy, I finally broke down at Brew at the Zoo. The first beer I tried was Dogfish Pumpkin Spice Ale. I was not impressed.

22. I think we should make serial killers go on dangerous suicide missions for the military, because a. they already have on the job training (they'd have to spend a lot of time to get me to hate someone enough to kill them), b. they already enjoy what they do - they kill people for fun, and c. it wouldn't cost very much in supplies. (Jeffrey Dahmer wouldn't need rations, for example. Just drop him behind enemy lines with a knife an fork.) If they were killed, no big loss. I mean, they kill people for fun!

23. If I had to choose four directors to make a Mt. Rushmore of filmmakers, I wouldn't do it because constructing it would be a lot of work. If somebody put a gun to my head and forced me to do it, the craftmanship would be extremely subpar, because my movements would be restricted and I would be worried the person was going to kill me. (I mean, what kind of person puts a gun to someone's head and orders them to make a sculpture from a mountain?!!) If someone gave me one billion dollars to build a Mt. Rushmore of filmmakers. I would subcontract the work to better craftsmen and keep the remaining percentage.

Why do people pose this hypothetical anyway? It's probably the dumbest analogy anyone ever makes. Who's on your Mt. Rushmore of ______? Noone is going to care enough about anything to make another sculpture like Mt. Rushmore. By the way, the four most important filmmakers probably are: Kurosawa, John Ford, Kubrick, and Hitchcock, although I'm probably not thinking about somebody. Also, what if thee was a Mt. Rushmore or mountains? What would that look like?

24. I actually write stuff like this out while I'm in bed trying to sleep. Sometimes, I'll almost be asleep then I think of something funny, then I have to turn on the light and write it down before I forget. I hen take it with me on the subway and type it on my iPhone on my way to school to make better use of my time. Otherwise, I read my horoscope in the free newspaper or think of other uses for strawberry Twizzlers.

25. I'm never really sure if anyone reads anything I write online, except for people gathering intel at the NSA on subversive bloggers who girls only seem to like as a friend.

(Dear single female NSA internet spy,

I know that you must be pretty smart to be in the NSA, but if you're funny and attractive too, please feel free to wiretap me, make obscene phone calls, and keep me under house arrest. Also, I am willing to be coerced in a physical (but non-painful) way to give up m friends' secrets: Jason's ordeal with beef stew, Matt's unplanned stop at a Georgetown park, and Tegan's secret fear of leprechauns. (Not true, but I felt I should include her birthday was yesterday. By the way, have you ever seen the movie Leprechaun with Jennifer Aniston? It's terrible!)

And now, a commercial interruption

We'll be right back to the Chronic Nice Guy, but first a word from one of our sponsors...

Do you have overactive sweat glands? STOP PIT
Can't get rid of the underarm sweat rings? STOP PIT

I don't really have much more than that to this entry, but I thought it was a great name for a deodorant. Now that Billy Mays is dead, though, I can't imagine who would scream the pitch into the camera effectively.

The Friendzone: Why women don't like me THAT way, using a football sounding term in celebration of the Steelers winning their 6th Superbowl

"You're a really nice guy, but I don't like you THAT way."

I hear that a lot. Most of the time, in fact. Most women actually say that they like me, but it is almost always followed by the inevitable , "but I don't like you that way." I've been thinking a lot about it lately and I think I have it narrowed down to the four possible reasons that women don't like me THAT way.

1. I am not attractive (I guess, transitively, this would make David Cross not attractive. Sorry, man.)
2. Women like guys who treat them badly, are inconsiderate of them, or take advantage of them. I was told never to do any of these things, yet guys who yell at women, borrow money from them, and/or do any number of illegal or immoral things never seem to have any difficulty getting women to like them or even marry them.
3. I am not really looking for the right women.
4. Maybe there's some WHOLE NEW AWESOME WAY that women like me that I'm just not catching onto.

I've come up with ways to deal with each of these reasons, which may or may not be practical:

1. I am not attractive

Solution A. Major Reconstructive Surgery.
Solution B. Kill everyone more attractive than me.
Solution C. Find aliens in nearby star system to date.

2. Women like guys who treat them badly, are inconsiderate of them, or take advantage of them. I was told never to do any of these things, yet guys who yell at women, borrow money from them, and/or do any number of illegal or immoral things never seem to have any difficulty getting women to like them or even marry them.

Solution A. Start treating women badly.
Solution B. Steal their money.
Solution C. Eat all of their food.
Solution D. Borrow their phone and change their message.
Solution E. Time travel back into the mid 1980s and join one of the following bands: Motley Crue, Poison, Ratt, Whitesnake, or The Alan Parson Project. Have penicillin ready.

3. I am not really looking for the right women.

Solution A. Find better places to meet single women. Possible locations: coffee houses, bookstores, museums, and singles meetup group. Places to eliminate from list: my apartment, hanging out with Dick Cheney, elementary school playgrounds (I don't do this Chris Hansen, so don't look for me to come to one of those "To Catch a Predator" things. By the way, do you think that when Chris Hansen has people over his house or his annual Christmas, he has them take a seat party, he asks them to take a seat in his kitchen and interrogates them for half an hour about why they sent a card with Santa instead of Jesus on it?)
Solution B. Join an online dating site. (I already know the formula. See my earlier blog.)
Solution C. Construct a device like Cerebro in the X-Men movies that would enable me to find al the women who like me. Another advantage: It can also be used to kill all the guys more attractive than me. (Watch X-Men 2 if you don't believe me.)

4. Maybe there's some WHOLE NEW AWESOME WAY that women like me that I'm just not catching onto.

Solution A: Start researching the ways in which women have had relationships with men throughout history other than ... who am I kidding, this is too much work.
Solution B. Is this a way that involves other women and an optional video camera? NOT OKAY: Farm animals. Guys, too.
Solution C. If it involves a rubber jumpsuit, a velvet Elvis painting, red licorice, and whistling the Andy Griffith theme, count me in.

That's sort of the best I could come up with. If you have any other solutions or if you're a woman who doesn't like me in THAT way (most of you), just imagine that I've stolen your money and changed your cell phone message. No wait, I wouldn't want you to think I'm a bad guy. Just imagine I've killed everyone more attractive than me.

What new year's resolution should I adopt?

Less Viking movies, more Salmon (8%)
Learn how to say, "I only speak Polish" in 47 languages and "I don't speak Polish" in Polish. (41%)
Start growing brussel sprouts in order to start my conquest to corner the market on vegetables that resemble smaller versions of other vegetables. (Next up, those small ears of corn.) (25%)
Two words: hot pants (16%)
Negotiate world peace (0%)
Increase my comic book collection to 4 (8%)
Start working on reversing the trend of the comb-over with a new hairstyle, the comb-under. (0%)

A Letter to Ghosts

Dear Ghosts,

BOO!! There! How does it feel to have it done to you?! Not so nice, huh? I'm sure you think it's funny to sneak up on living people and scare them. Well, it's not!

Maybe I'm being too hard on you. Maybe you're just lonely and you don't have anyone tovtalk to. I can relate to that, but if you were disemboweled when you were alive, do I really have to see your ghost intestines? Can't you cover that up? I heard you can create makeshift bandages with bedsheets and duct tape. Since you're a ghost, you've already got the sheets.

By the way, since you have ghost intestines, do you have ghost food? Do they have the same numbers for the extra value meals at the ghost McDonald's? If not, memorizing a whole new set of numbers must be pretty frustrating, but then again, you've got time on your hands, I guess. I would tell you to avoid ghost fast food, but it's not like it's going to kill you.

Best wishes,
The Chronic Nice Guy

The Random Info Game

My sister Maria sent this to me so I guess that means I'm sort of obligated to do it...

Here are the instructions:
Once you’ve been tagged, you have to write a note with 16 random things, shortcomings, facts, habits or goals about you. At the end choose 16 people to be tagged, listing their names and why you chose them. You have to tag the person who tagged you.

1. When I first heard about those parents who named their kid, Adolph Hitler, the first thing I thought was, "That's terrible." The second thing I thought was, "You got his birthday cake from Wal-mart where they employ undocumented illegal immigrant workers? Aren't you racist?" The third thing I thought was, "That's an awful lot of pressure to put on the kid to accomplish something (albeit something horrifying) - i.e. 'The other Adolph Hitler exterminated 6 million Jews and you can't even clean up your room.'They should have picked a lesser racist."

2. I have always been disturbed by Froot Loops because there is obviously no fruit in it and the people who run Kellogg's see no problem using a word the looks more like foot than fruit on their product.

3. My favorite colors are black, maroon, and cadet blue, but I don't like them in and combinations.

4. If I was allergic to water, I would live in the desert, but would make sure that it was near a Target or at least a Linens n' Things, not foor the linens, just for the n' things.

5. I think "Jolly Rancher" is a dumb name for that candy. What does it have to do with owning cattle? Nothing! eating one doesn't make me feel jolly. They should just call it what it really is - hard candy that sticks too your teeth and lasts too long until you will do anything to get the flavor of sour apple out of your mouth.

6.I'm not a fan of milk because I don't trust opaque liquids. For this reason, I'm also not a fan of orange juice. Also suspect, anything with pulp.

7. I own 16 dress shirts: four black, four maroon, four white, and four blue. I used to own an olive green one that I recently gave away. I sort of feel like people only think I own four shirts which makes me regret my selection choices. Yet, when I go shopping, I invariably will pick another black, maroon, white, or blue dress shirt.

8. I wish I had a super power - anything, even if it's perfectly slicing carrots. I'd even settle for radishes.

9. My least favorite Monkees song is "I'm not our stepping stone"

10. All but one of the following facts about me are false: I know all of the words to the "Green Acres" TV show theme by heart, my least favorite peach flavored thing is peaches, I once complained about the two guys in front of me at Starbucks in LA - they turned out to be Doc from the Love Boat and Paulie from the Rocky movies, and own 63 different iron on patches of Guy Smiley from Sesame Street. (The third one is true.)

11. My dream job is to write music for movies. My secret dream job is to write screenplays, except I can't really write.

12. If there was a government that outlawed quiche, I would move to that country for the sole purpose of overthrowing the government, not because I'm a fan or quiche, but because I hate bureaucracies that make up stupid rules.

13. If someone named Bob was at a Halloween party and I heard that he was bobbing for apples, I would assume one of two equally likely scenarios: one, he was dunking his head in a buck of water to obtain apples or two: he was using his idiosyncracies to lobby for said apples.

14. My sisters complain that I am the hardest person to shop for. Maybe that's why I can never find stuff I want to buy.

15. I have secretly replaced fact #15 with Folgers crystals. Let's see if anyone notices.

16. I am posting all of this on my awesome blog www.thechronicniceguy.com. I am hoping eventually that people will think I'm so hilarious that I'll just be able to blog instead of actually work. Right now, it's not working out that well.

17. BONUS FACT: I wrote a song with Matt Weiner for one of my students, Slippy, is going to be played on HOT99.5 in Washington DC in the next few weeks called, ""(I just want to sleep at the) Foot of your Bed"

My 16 people I'm sending this to:
Maria - Now I guess you have to send me 16 more facts about yourself. I'm particularly interested in any secrets you have including grapefruit, the Magna Carta, or Brillo pads.

Margaret - I'm just hoping to get an email from you that isn't about airfares.

Yana - I am sending this to you because you are the ambassador of sunshine, and you will yell at me if I don't.

Molly - I'm sending this to you because I thought you might like to know 16 things about me. I guess I'll have to send you that email if I ever write it.

Lisa - I sent this to you because this seemed like a thing that girls send to all their friends and I thought you might want to do it because you're a girl.

Ethan - I sent this to you because this seemed like a thing that girls send to all their friends and I thought you might want to do it because you're a girl.

Stone - I'm sure that whatever you write will be great, and I'm hoping that some of this will make you laugh. Even though I can't hear it, I'm imagining that it still makes a sound.

Divo - Sorry I didn't put any Road House references in 16 facts you didn't know about me. I'm building up to it.

Michelle - I know it's not as good as Silica Gel, but maybe some of it's okay.

Kristof - I'm not sure if I'm crazy about this list. I think I would only give it one sleeve up.

Chip - I'm hoping you'll tell me how many articles of non-black clothing you own.

Matt Boerum - Maybe you can use this as a vehicle to promote Wait Til Friday or you can forward this to Cathy so that she'll never want to speak to me again.

Matt Weiner - Just make Manny fill this out for you.

Steph - I'm hoping you'll give me the recipes for all of your cupcakes.

Laura - This is what I do what I do when I'm bored. The sad life of a composer. You can show this to Marty (See how I put two people in one spot. Conserving my resources. Smart!)

Sherri - I know you sent me your 25 list and I'm sort of cheating and lazy, but this is the best I could come up with. I'm not exactly complex. (Well, maybe I'm complex, but I don't have enough time for 25 of these. I'm about to start throwing in Smurf and Nelson Mandela references, so I can tell I'm near the end of my creative rope.)

People I didn't send this to:

Josh - I didn't send you this email because I know that if I did, that you would feel pressured to do it and it would be one more deadline you have to meet. Also, I don't know if I want to know 16 facts about you I don't know since I know a lot already.

Mich - You do not have time to read this. I doubt you have even gotten this far. Probably one of your kids is late for a soccer game or you are on your way to class or a shoot or something. I am leading the lonely desperate life of the single guy, which gives me all sorts of time to do nothing but sit and wax poetic in a blog entry.

Greg - I didn't send this to you because Maria already did. I didn't know if that meant you would have to do 16 more of these or not. I'm just trying to keep you from having to do any more work. (Notice that I'm subverting this email by sending this to you.)

David Ramos - I was going to put you in my sixteen, but then I figured that Josh would complain about it. Why did I include you and not him? Then when I put him in, he would complain about having to fill this out. Then Mich would complain that you had time for this and not to play the online game. I figured it was better not to start any arguments, so noone from 806.

Almost a movie review: Beverly Hills Chihuahua

I have tried watching this movie three times in order to write a review, but I can't even make it past the first five minutes without beginning to dry heave. Well, this is my movie review based on the first ten minutes and the preview, which I unfortunately saw more than once.

If you want to know who has a severe cocaine addiction in Hollywood, just see who wrote, directed, and starred in the movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua. I mean, why else would they agree to make this piece of garbage? I think somewhere in the Book of Revelation, there is a verse about armageddon being preceded by a movie that starts with a montage of a Chihuahua trying on outfits to the dance track "Wow wow wow." If it's not, St. John got it wrong. This opening scene accomplishes two things, it provides Al Qaeda more evidence that American culture is ruining humanity, and creates the rules of the world in which these dogs ad humans live. Th humans are too stupid to understand what the dogs are saying to each other, yet the dogs are able to understand the humans an themselves. Jamie Lee Curtis plays the main dog's owner, and despite she is an extremely wealthy business woman, her only concerns seems to be taking her dog to a dog clothing shop in Beverly Hills (please tell me this doesn't exist) and getting Piper Perabo to dog sit for her. (By the way, Piper. Please come over and dog sit for me. I don't have a dog, but I'm sure we can think of something to do together. I can pay you in cocaine (not true, police who are reading this))

This movie is also one of the most racist children's movies I have ever seen (and unlike Song of the South, this has no good animation scenes or catchy songs). The main character is a WHITE Chihuahua (voiced by Drew Barrymore). Her love interest is a BROWN Chihuahua (voiced by George Lopez) who WORKS AS A GARDENER. This is as far as I've been able to get without either throwing a brick through my television set, clawing my eyes out like a modern day Oedipus (without the whole gross incest stuff), or starting to draw up plans to firebomb the houses of every executive who greenlit this film. What I can discern happens in the rest of the movie, however, is:

1. There are is a LOT of ripping off of Lady and the Tramp. The rich girl dog running away with the dogs "from the wrong side of the tracks." (Unlike Lady and the Tramp, the right side of the tracks seem to be white and wrong side seems to be hispanic.)

2. There are a lot of jokes about the way hispanic people speak, the stereotype that they have a lot of children, and other racist stereotypes that are perfect for implanting the seeds of hatred in our youth.

3. There is a LOT of crappy dance music in this movie. So much, that it is unwatchable. In the tn minutes I saw I think there were four songs. I'm not entirely sure because I was about to drill a hole in my eardrum so I wouldn't have to hear the movie anymore.

All in all, of all of the thousands of movies I have seen, this is BY FAR the worst. (I haven't seen The Love Guru, yet though.) But as far as racist Chihuahua movies go, I'd have to put it in the top three,