Got a Little Overconfident with the Twist Ties

Last night I was forced to switch my last twist tie from a bag of spinach to a bag of roasted unsalted almonds. I figure, the spinach is already being refrigerated. The almonds need the twist tie more.

This is what happens when you think you have an abundance of twist ties but only have one left.

How did this happen? How did I lose all my other twist ties?

I can remember a time when I had tons of twist ties. I had so many twist ties that I would twist tie my finger until it turned purple, just for kicks. I’d think nothing of tossing a twist tie or two in the garbage whenever the mood struck.

And now… only one remains. This one last twist tie has to do the job of ten twist ties. Is it man enough? Are you man enough?

I wish twist ties would regenerate like starfish.

Starfish are such strange creatures. Sometimes they get eaten by birds. That seems unfair.

Dental Floss

Why do they even make unwaxed dental floss? Is there anyone who prefers it to waxed?

I just flossed my choppers, and man, do I feel good.

Aside from the fact that I have backwards insomnia, where I can easily fall asleep, but then I wake up at 4:30 in the morning. Not good.

I will eat oatmeal and drink green tea.

They say you should floss everyday, but I prefer to do it every three days, because then the plaque builds up a bit and you get more satisfaction.

Army looks fun.

They should make edible dental floss, so you could eat the floss after you floss, instead of trying to throw it in the garbage but it sticks to your fingers, then you shake your hand and it falls on the floor, you have to squint to see it on the ground, you pick it up and there’s hair and dust on it and it gets on your hands.

Fuck that.

Pepperoni and Olives

Friday night, an amazing thing happened at swanky Williamsburg bar/restaurant Dressler. I was with my friends Nicholas and Rebecca. Bartender/friend Jim was serving beverages.

We were talking about pizza, just talking pizza, and Rebecca was asked to name her favorite two-topping combination. Before she could respond, I boldly claimed Nicholas and I could guess what it is.

We each got to ask one question about the combination.

I went first: “Is it a classic combination?” Rebecca stated that while not a classic combo in the classic sense of the word, it’s not unknown, either.

Nicholas wasn’t sure what to ask. “You could ask anything,” Rebecca said. “For example, you could ask, ‘Is one of the toppings meat?’”

“Is one of the toppings meat?” Nicholas asked.

“Yes.”

Now, there are many little details to this story. Give me a call if you need all the _________ filled in.

The important thing is, Nicholas and I knew what was at stake: if we got it right on the first shot, it would be amazing. Second try would be respectable, but not amazing. If we missed the mark entirely, we would not be legends, we would not transcend time, we would be forgotten, we would be losers with no skills.

Nicholas and I brainstormed and discussed the matter in great detail for about a half hour, at which point Rebecca began to grow anxious.

After stepping out for a solo smoke, she cut to the chase: “What’s your first guess?”

“Pepperoni and olives!” Nicholas proclaimed.

A smile spread across Rebecca’s face as she whispered, amazed, “That’s right.”

Shittttt, sonnnnnnnnn.

Before I knew what was happening, my arms were up in the air like Robert Horry after he hit the game-winning three against Sacramento in the 2002 Western Conference Finals.

It was amazing. What were the odds?

All I could do was shout (repeatedly), “That was amazing!” Nicholas was laughing joyously. Rebecca was properly impressed. It was so amazing. Everyone knew it was amazing.

The greatest part was, Nicholas and I had just done something amazing, and we knew it, right then and there. We weren’t looking back on a moment and reminiscing, “Remember that? That was amazing.” No. We knew it’d be amazing if we succeeded, and then we succeeded, and it was amazing.

I felt like a champion. I felt like a mixture of Jordan, Duncan, Gretzky, and Big Papi.

Dirt Off Your Shoulder should’ve immediately blared over the speakers. It played in my mind.

And we didn’t even need the second guess. Second guess? What second guess? Oh, did we get two guesses? I guess we didn’t realize, because we only needed one.

It was a walk-off homer. Game over. Bottom of the ninth, down by one, man on base, home run, game fucking over. Like Kirk Gibson in 1988. Walk-off. Time to trot around the bases.

My only regret is not taking a victory lap around Dressler.

I thought Jim was going to give us drinks on the house. I’m not sure why that didn’t happen. Probably an oversight amidst the cacophony.

It was amazing. Truly amazing.

How many two topping combos with at least one meat are there? What are the odds of guessing the exact right combo?

And we did it.

Amazing.

Oh Lord

Supposably, today is Good Friday.

Let me tell you something: every Friday is Good Friday when you’re livin’ large.

Yeahhhh, son!

Unfortunately, I’m not livin’ large.

I’m livin’ so small you need a microscope to see my house. I’m livin’ so small I sleep inside a pitted olive. I’m livin’ so small I need a magnifying glass to find my magnifying glass.

Shit, I am livin’ small.

I’m livin’ so small I use a toothpick for a hammer and a blade of grass for a nail.

I don’t have anything to hang up, anyways.

Hey, hey, don’t offer me any help. I’m just rappin’ to you about some things. So just relax, have a cup of green tea, put a warm wet cloth on your forehead, and read something new. I just read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and it’s really fucking good.

Nothing Like a Good Old Fashioned Catapult

But how will anyone know how big the catapult is? Let’s get this small child to stand next to it for comparison’s sake.

Okay, good idea, fellas, but I have no clue how big this kid is. For all I know he could be like 6′5″.

This catapult is bullshit:

Too fresh, too clean. Catapults are supposed to be rickety; you should have no idea if the object will be launched 5 millimeters or 100,000 miles.

And there aren’t even any soldiers near that catapult.

That’s better.

And what about this baby?

Now, that’s what I call a ‘pult.

I call a catapult a ‘pult.

I call a caterpillar a ‘pillar, I call a pillar a ‘lar.

I am the baron of ‘pults. The ‘Pult Baron.

Here is a quote from a news article in which I was quoted: “Resident ‘Pult Baron ‘Ron Milan stated…”

See?

Hey, check this out, a pumpkin ‘pult.

Yep, nothing like a good old fashioned catapult.

TV Show Idea

Here’s a pitch for a new TV show: Lost meets the episode of Saved By the Bell where Zack Morris gets stuck in an elevator with a pregnant lady and has to deliver the baby.

It’s called Stuck.

The main characters are:

• Gina, the pregnant lady.
• Rick, the chain smoking hot shot kid.
• Vernon, the cool bad ass medical school student whose hands are unfortunately trapped in the elevator doors.
• Shawna, the slutty girl who’s sort of hot if you look at her from the right angle.
• Jermaine, the nerdy scientist.
• Tom, the soccer aficionado who keeps throwing a soccer ball at people’s faces.

New characters will be introduced, like the rescue team, who then also get stuck in the elevator; the crazy janitor who may or may not be a ghost; and the people who live in the elevator shaft and crawl into the elevator at night.

The cast will forage for food in the elevator carpet and eat the crumbs they find. They will also find a box full of canned food and potato chips in the corner, right next to the microwave.

Cell phones don’t work, because it’s an elevator. They do find a short wave radio, though. But it’s broken. Maybe Jermaine can fix it, with help from an unlikely source: Shawna. Will sparks fly as they work on this project late into the night?

The show basically writes itself.

Stuck.

You Can’t Stop Me From Doing My Laundry!!!

Did my laundry this morning, bitch. No issues.

Even brought in a sweater for dry cleaning.

The lady behind the counter was like, “You really know what you’re doing.”

I was like, “I even know that.”

The only issue I had was when I was putting money in the dryer, and one of the quarters wouldn’t fit. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a quarter, but ten pence! From 19 freaking 92!

Whaaaaaaaaaatatat?!?!?!?

Made me look like a fool. Trying to jam a coin into the machine, looking around, being all like, “What the fuck’s up with this machine?! Does it accept quarters or what the shit??!”

Sure, I played it off smooth, but still, I looked like a damned fool.

How the eff did ten pence get into my quarter jar???

Must’ve been dropped in there by an Englishman.

Suspects: one.

The only Englishman I know…

Stiggers.