Archive for April, 2008

26. Step in something unidentifiable.

April 15, 2008 at 10:26 am · Filed under Fashion

You went shoe shopping today, and boy did it feel good. You pounded five cups of coffee, hit the town, and made the rounds – Payless, Famous Footwear, and DSW. Only the highest quality for your magnificent feet!

And now you’re dancing down the street like an escaped mental patient. You have new Skechers! You’re the coolest kid on the block! You wave at strangers, cuddle stray cats, point out your kicks to anyone who unwittingly shoots a cursory glance your way. “Look!” you scream, gesturing wildly and hugging them close. “Two different colored shoelaces! I’m so offbeat!”

As you continue to prance down the road, fully expecting a ticker-tape parade to spontaneously form behind you, you remain oblivious to the dangers lurking on the surface of the street. Gum, dog crap, roadkill, bubbling pits of hot tar, mysterious powders, used syringes, glowing plutonium…in retrospect, you probably should have chosen a better venue for your celebration than Heroin and Harmful Radioactive Substances Alley, but you were too busy partying to notice the barbed wire.

And now you’re paying the price. As you blow a kiss to a confused child, you suddenly become unable to continue walking. What’s holding you back? You gaze down at your foot, only to come face to face with your biggest fear: the ruination of your brand new sneakers. “Ewwwww!” you shriek, hopping around and uselessly waggling your hands. “What is it? What IS iiiiiiit??” But no one stops to help. Your adoring fans, who were so mildly interested in the crazy person only moments before, have gone right back to their daily lives with no thought to your horrid plight. How dare they.

Devastated, you examine the carnage more closely. Gunky, stretchy, smelly, and possibly still moving, you decide that the best course of action here is to sniff it. This is a bad decision. Five minutes of retching later, you grab a nearby pine cone and begin the excavation process. This only results in a messy pile of goop, the destruction of your once resplendent footwear, plenty of sobbing, and the annihilation of a young pine’s dream to one day become a tree. All because your precious feet needed to look awesome. Well done, jerk.

So if you want to suck at life, step in something unidentifiable. Your steps will never feel the same, and neither will the bruised, withered shell of your sole.

PUNTASTIC!

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25. Fall out of bed.

April 14, 2008 at 8:00 am · Filed under Temporary Insanity

You’re having that dream again. The one where you and your third grade teacher, Mrs. Knopsider, are running through a field of posies in the style of a Clarinex commercial. You can breathe so free and easy! The congestion is gone!

Suddenly, a cliff looms up ahead. You turn back to Mrs. Knopsider, only to find a fire hydrant where she previously stood. Well, that’s just unhelpful. You glance up at the sky, filled with flying toasters. A bullhorn sounds behind you. You whip around, brandishing a catfish. It can’t be! All the people you’ve ever slept with are charging towards you, waving baguettes, sporks, and floor lamps! You must escape! The only way out is the cliff. You peek over the edge and gaze into the pale orange waters below. A pterodactyl screeches by, beckoning for you to jump and towing an ad for a sale on futons. You hold your breath, hug your childhood hamster tight, and take the plunge.

You land, for some reason, on a cold, hard floor. Huh? Now is the moment you become really confused, ironically enough. This reality makes no sense. You were just named Dictator for Life in the land of Narnia, and now you’re here? In your room? With no pants on? Something has gone horribly wrong.

Confused, groggy, and bleeding, you grope around the floor for something that might provide an explanation. Shoe? What the hell is a shoe doing in the land of Narnia?? You begin throwing random pieces of clothing across the room, hoping to defend yourself against the horde of exes whom you still believe to be surrounding you. If only you still had your catfish!

Your roommate/mother/live-in psychiatrist rushes in to determine the source of the deafening crash heard throughout the rest of the house, only to find you writhing in a state of delirium and shouting “I’m just not looking for a serious relationship right now!” at no one in particular. They attempt to rouse you from the hallucinations, but you just bite their ankle and call them a “smelly Nutter Butter”. They drape a pair of pants over your naked torso and leave, frightened. They won’t be back.

Finally, exhausted, you submit to the forces of consciousness and snap back to reality. You’re covered in dust, drool, and Oreo crumbs. Your head hurts. Your elbow is sticking out at an odd angle. And worst of all, you have to be at the office in twenty minutes. They won’t buy that pterodactyl story again. Not twice in one week.

So if you want to suck at life, fall out of bed. Lesser people would purchase bed rails to keep from flinging themselves about the room during states of deep unconsciousness, but not you. Every trip to the floor is another adventure. Plus, two more concussions and you get unlimited ER parking.

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24. Miss a doorknob.

April 11, 2008 at 8:00 am · Filed under Sports

You glance at your watch. Only a few minutes left until closing time. You pick up the pace, doing that weird little running move, the one that consists of a brisk walk punctuated by a spastic series of skips. It’s casual, but still indicates the fact that you are in a hurry. “Get out of my way!” it screams. “Or don’t! That’s also cool!”

Your backpack sags with the weight of the voluminous tomes within. You’ve never been charged a single late fee in your life, and you’re not about to start now. You’re not sure of the library’s laws, whether the cutoff time begins as soon as the doors close, or at midnight, or perhaps an arbitrary time determined by the alignment of the planets and the Dewey Decimal system, but you’re determined as hell and there’s simply no way those books are going to be overdue. Not on your watch.

You eye the door and ready your grasping hand as you approach the entrance. But something catches your eye as you glance inside. Is that a new card catalog? It is! Flo the librarian’s antiquing vacation must have paid off! What a beautiful find. But there’s plenty of time to explore it as soon as you get inside, once Crime and Punishment and Everyone Poops are safely back on their home shelves.

Still, you can’t help but stare. Look at that finely crafted oak! You reach your hand towards the doorknob just as you have a thousand times before, pawing blindly as you continue to gawk at the treasure within. But something’s wrong. Where the hell did the doorknob go?

There’s not enough time to look down, steamrolling as you are into the area that you thought would be clear once the access mechanism was properly turned. But you failed at that. And you’ve built up far too much momentum to be able to slow now. There’s simply nothing left to do but continue barreling straight into the plate glass window with gusto, and pray that Flo has a well-stocked first aid kit, or, failing that, a healthy supply of Windex.

So if you want to suck at life, miss a doorknob. Your hands may not be working properly, but if it’s any consolation, neither is your head.

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23. Congratulate a woman on her fictional baby.

April 10, 2008 at 8:00 am · Filed under Relationships

So many terrible things going on in the world. Death, war, famine, Heidi Montag. You really want to put some good out there today. You don’t usually talk to strangers out of the blue, but a strange feeling is stirring in you this morning – the need to interact with your fellow human beings in a jovial and compassionate manner.

You wonder if you might have a fever. You grab a thermometer.

You do have a fever, but that’s not going to stop you from spreading the joy in your heart, along with perhaps a few harmless (probably) germs. You set out for the day and immediately begin complimenting everyone you see. “Nice hat!” you shout to your neighbor. “Love those shoes!” you say to the mailman. “Are those new fishnets?” you ask the corner prostitute. You know your fashion.

But you’re not just a shallow, superficial mouthpiece. You move on from clothing, wriggling deeper and deeper into the psyche of humanity. “How are the kids?” you ask your grocer when you purchase a kumquat. “New hip treating you right?” you query an elderly woman as you wander into the old folks’ home. “Have you been working out?” you ask the security guard as he escorts you off the premises. You’re making so many new friends!

Once safely back on the sidewalk with a brand spanking new restraining order, you decide to spend a little time in the park. “Adorable shorts!” you shout at a nearby lad. “I love your pigtails!” you yell at a little girl. “Where are you going?” you demand of the hordes of parents dragging their kids away in alarm.

Finally, your gaze comes to rest on a rather portly woman whose tummy bump can only mean one thing: a baby’s on the way! You saunter over with a spring in your step and a gleam in your eye. Beaming from ear to ear, you tap her on the shoulder and cry, “Congratulations on the little bundle of joy!”

Why isn’t she smiling? Why is she reaching into her purse? Why won’t she — is that pepper spray?

She scowls angrily as you stare a little harder at the voluminous folds of her muumuu, and suddenly it clicks. She’s not pregnant! She’s just morbidly obese! Your mouth goes dry and you rapidly lose the power of speech, grasping for an apology that you both know will never come. You look around frantically, as if maybe someone else said what just came out of your mouth. But there’s no escaping it. You’re an idiot. You’ve just ruined this poor woman’s day, and, quite possibly, her life. Well done.

So if you want to suck at life, congratulate a woman on her fictional baby. As you flee in terror, embarrassment, and spicy excruciating pain in the ear, nose, and throat area, you once again remind yourself of the lesson learned today: never talk to anyone, ever again.

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22. Miss an actuator on the Aggro Crag.

April 9, 2008 at 8:00 am · Filed under Games, Sports

You’ve been dominating the arena all day. You rafted faster than anyone in the white water rapids challenge. You BMXed your way through the sand trap as if it were an abandoned beach. You bungeed your way to victory on the aerial deck, planting your feet firmly at the 38′ mark, a new record. And you tore your way through the elastic jungle like a wild, elbow-padded animal.

You’re in the lead. You’re won every challenge, crushing the opposition. You’ve blown past Tommy “Thunder” Lewis and Hannah “The Hammer” McCaffery with a frightening fury not seen since your Wild and Crazy Kids days. Mike O’Malley has called you a “Monsterus Extremeus” on more than one occasion. You broke Moe’s stopwatch. Nothing can stop you now. The win is yours for the taking, and the only thing standing in your way is the Aggro Crag.

Dark and foreboding, it looms over the soundstage with a quiet doom. You stand at the beginning of your identical side of the mountain and gaze up at its summit, its fake rocks and ample handholds taunting you mercilessly. You crouch down into a tiger-like stance, hungry for inevitable victory, practically tasting that gold medal. So what if it’s plastic? It’s not like you’re ever going to take it off.

The signal is given. You take off like a helmeted bat out of hell. You tear up the face of the crag, smacking the targets, barreling past storms of distracting glitter and confetti, brushing styrofoam boulders aside as if they were made out of even lighter styrofoam. You see nothing but the end. Your opponents are tiny, pathetic ants behind you, struggling and blinded by the dizzying array of lights. Your muscles burning, you pull yourself up over the final particle board obstacle, stand up triumphantly, and pound the target with a force previously unseen anywhere within the confines of Universal Studios Florida.

But…why the sudden hush settling over the crowd? Why so many shaking heads? Why is Hannah “The Hammer” so damn excited when she reaches the top? Why is your mother crying? There’s only one way to find out: go to Moe for the official results.

And that’s when you see it. The lonely, dark, unactuated actuator. Sitting there at the bottom of your identical side of the mountain, dejected and forgotten. Your entire existence crumbles in that singular moment. How could you have been so STUPID? You’ve been training for this your entire life! You’re the best damn kickball player in your entire gym class! You even installed a bungee cord in your backyard! Sure, its usage permanently injured your little brother, but such setbacks were all supposed to be worth it in the end! And now, this!

Devastated, you begrudgingly take your place upon the third place platform, tears stinging your eyes. The ONLY way for this to STATISTICALLY happen was for you to come in third on the Crag, and that’s exactly what you’ve done. You can’t even look Moe in the eye. As Hannah “The Hammer” raises her Piece Of The Rock above her head in exuberance, all you can do is hang your head in shame. You have brought nothing but disgrace to Soundstage 21. Just take your third-place BK Knights prize and go.

So if you want to suck, miss an actuator on the Aggro Crag. You may have made it onto Guts, but it turns out that you do do do do not, in fact, have it.

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21. Spit all over yourself.

April 8, 2008 at 11:19 am · Filed under Health, Sports

You’ve had this cold for what seems like months. You’re coughy. You’re phlegmy. You can’t remember the last time your nostrils were used for the purpose of breathing. You’re forgotten what food tastes like. So you can be forgiven for breaching the social faux pas of spitting in public. You’ve suffered enough, and there’s no reason all that mucus should go anywhere but into your neighbor’s hydrangea bushes.

So you hock up a really good one, all the way from the back of your throat. Its volume rivals that of the Amazon River Basin. Single-celled organisms have already begun to evolve in its primordial soup. Plus, Iits formation is also accompanied by a symphony of guttural noises that could easily be mistaken for those of a surly velociraptor. And to top off the performance, your face contorts into an arduous grimace that suggests you’ve just consumed the contents of a garbage disposal. All in all, you’re ready to spit.

You’ve never really fancied yourself an athlete, but if you were, this would be your grand slam, your touchdown, your hole-in-one, your “Connect Fooouuur!!”. You rear back, load the cannon, and release the sphere of goo into a graceful arc. It soars majestically through the air, glistening in the sun like a slimy, gelatinous zeppelin. You’d almost stand back to admire your work, if you weren’t in such a hurry. But the 2:05pm viewing of the Hannah Montana movie waits for no man.

As such, you continue walking at a brisk pace, so jazzed in anticipation of hearing the angelic voice of Miley Cyrus that you completely forget that your loogie is still in play. But it certainly hasn’t forgotten. And as luck would have it, this previously calm and wind-free day has suddenly decided to unleash gale-force gusts at the exact moment your beautiful mucus has begun its downward trajectory. It freezes mid-air, pulls a quick U-turn, and suddenly hurls itself directly at your face.

And the fun has just begun. Due to the sheer size of your oozy contribution, the surging downpour continues unabated. It drips down to your shirt, onto your shoes, even finding its way into your crotch, leaving a disconcerting stain. And the wind certainly isn’t helping matters. Its blustery surges cause the snot to spread across the entirety of your face, coating your cheeks and eventually finding a home in your hair, where it will stay for the remainder of the day. You attempt to stop all of this, of course, clawing and futilely thrashing your glutinous hands in the air, but this accomplishes nothing and only makes you further resemble a victim of the playful antics of Slimer.

So if you want to suck at life, spit all over yourself. You might no longer feel quite as endeared to your beloved loogie as you mop it out of your earlobe, but at least you now know what it feels like to be a Ghostbuster.

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20. Walk into a tree.

April 7, 2008 at 8:00 am · Filed under Nature

What a simply gorgeous day. The sun is out. The birds are chirping. The carnage from last night’s gang war has been cleaned up in a timely fashion. It’s time to go outside. Time to celebrate the arrival of spring. Time to have a picnic, ants be damned!

You pack the sandwiches. Your picnic buddy packs the drinks, snacks, and anti-seagull spray. You meet up at a predetermined statue and begin scouring the park for a suitable location. There! You hurry over to a particularly lush patch, only to find that it is verdant for a reason, covered as it is in canine fertilizer. Over here! your buddy yells, as you both hasten to a table in the shade…that upon closer inspection has been commandeered by an unfriendly race of spiders hellbent on spinning the entire table up into one giant, pulsating web. You shout towards the heavens in frustration. Is Picnicpalooza 2008 just not meant to be?

To the contrary! You see it in the distance, practically glowing: the perfect spot. Fluffy and green, right next to the pond, colorful butterflies dancing through the air, a squadron of squirrels gathering an offering of nuts to accompany your spread of wine and cheese. “Quick,” you yell to poor Picnic Buddy, wracked by now with heaving sobs, “Get it!” You both waddle towards the spot, focused and determined. If anyone wants your newfound real estate, they’re going to have to pry it from your cold, dead, mayonnaise-covered fingers.

Almost there. You can almost taste those Sour Cream and Onion Pringles on your hungry lips. So excited, you are, that you turn around to convey this enthusiasm to Picnic Buddy. “Best picnic EVER!” you gloat, even going so far as to extend a hand into the high-five position. After you realize that Picnic Buddy is too busy wiping away tears (of happiness!) to join you in celebration, you quickly turn back to once again gaze upon the beauteous spot that you are about to seize. But, sadly, you’re not quick enough.

For since the fates have decided that no mortal shall be allowed to bask in the glory of such a brilliant pinnacle of natural perfection, they have employed the services of a low-hanging branch to spear you directly in the eye. You scream and wail and flail your limbs akimbo, as if this will ward off any other demon twigs that might find their way into the vicinity of your ocular treasures. You fall to your knees and begin clawing at your eyeballs in a vain attempt to reattach the retinas that have surely been rent asunder. Picnic Buddy drops the E.L.Fudges and runs. Picnic Buddy wants no part in a venture that has so clearly been doomed from the start. You end up a quivering pile on the ground, crying and wondering just how long it takes to gain a solid grasp of Braille.

So if you want to suck at life, walk into a tree. The scratched cornea will last for a few days, but the shattered remains of a picnic gone awry will haunt you for many springtime jaunts to come.

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19. Get flattened by a bike.

April 5, 2008 at 8:00 am · Filed under Sports

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You believe in saving the environment as much as the next guy. You recycle. You use those crazy-looking light bulbs. You sold your seal-clubbing business, despite increasing profits. So it’s really no surprise that you choose to walk everywhere instead of drive. You respect Mother Nature, dammit! Cars are for evil people!

So you expect a fair bit of karma to accompany you on your jaunts into the vehicular world. You’re cautious, sure – looking both ways before crossing, using the designated pedestrian areas, patiently waiting for the little walk sign featuring the guy with, ironically, no feet. You want no beef with the motorists. You play by their rules. Your constant vigilance knows no bounds. You should be wearing a “Safety Is For Winners!” sandwich board.

No really, you should. The rigid pieces of wood might at least protect your vital organs from the relentless onslaught of pain and humiliation you’re about to suffer.

You feel it a millisecond before it happens. A slight breeze in your ear, or the smallest glimpse of a radioactively orange reflector. But by then, it’s too late. You’re on the ground, a crumpled heap, yet another victim of the Undead Legion of Bicycle Enthusiasts.

Pedestrians, like motorists, have no earthly idea how to coexist with these strange creatures. Stuck halfway between both worlds like a duck-billed platypus, the cyclist occupies all areas of the road, choosing whichever lane happens to strike his or her fancy. Should another human being happen to share that same space, the cyclist will eliminate that human being. It’s just simple math.

And you’re certainly not helping matters. When faced with an imminent crash, pedestrians do one of two things: 1) fruitlessly attempt to get out of the way in the form of a charming little pee-pee dance that features spastic limb movements and frenzied shrieks of “I’M SORRY!”, or 2) go limp and hope for the best. Sometimes a pedestrian will actually hurl themselves directly at the biker, in the off chance they might bounce off their super-shiny aerodynamic helmet and simply glide down the sidewalk to safety.

Whatever the outcome, you have failed. But wait, you may argue, how am I supposed to detect such an ultra-sneaky supersonic street demon? A Ninja of the Road, if you will? Don’t even try to defend your deficiencies, my friend. Cyclists use hand signals and wear flashing lights. Anything that uses flashing lights can’t be wrong. You wouldn’t argue with a pinball machine, would you? And where are YOUR flashing lights? Maybe if you carried around a Christmas tree at all times you never would have gotten yourself into this mess in the first place.

So if you want to suck, get flattened by a bike. All you had to do was walk with your eyes open, and you blew it. Hope you enjoy the taste of asphalt!

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18. Aid pigeons in target practice.

April 4, 2008 at 7:00 am · Filed under Nature

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Another day of rushing around the city. You’re late. You have not yet consumed the requisite amount of caffeine needed to maintain consciousness. There’s a rock in your shoe. And you’re wearing two different colored socks, though this is due mainly to the this morning’s distraction caused by your separation-anxiety cat and his wails of neediness. The point is, you don’t really need another thing to go wrong with your day.

Of course, Mother Nature has other plans.

You’re quite sure your hat does not resemble the windshield of a car, nor does it feature a bullseye design, nor was it even purchased at Target. But that doesn’t stop the hordes of flying rats from relieving themselves all over your stylish and rather expensive beret. Perhaps the pigeons just don’t like the look of your face. Perhaps they do not care for French couture. Perhaps they spent all last night pecking away at a Taco Bell Fourthmeal left in a garbage can and are currently suffering the dire consequences. Whatever the reason, you now occupy the illustrious position of having been marked by avian feces. It does not feel good.

But the dangers don’t stop there. Those sharp little beaks and manic, dead eyes have much more in store for your already ruined morning. Distracted and panicked, you immediately call up your emergency dry cleaner, Renaldo. While you fumble for a pen and paper to write down his explicit instructions for the best way to remove bird crap from Parisian silk, the sinister winged devils chart your every move. Sure, their innocent-sounding clucking and cooing may sound harmless to an outsider, but rest assured, malignant conspiracies of a most injurious nature are being unflaggingly plotted in excruciating detail, right there on the branches of a majestic elm.

You, meanwhile, remain oblivious. Which is why you never see the attack coming. One minute you’re running down the sidewalk, trying to hail a cab (though none will stop because you’re covered in excrement), the next minute you’re flailing comically, bleeding from the skull, and screaming “SAVE ME RENALDO!” at no one in particular.

What happened? All you can remember is a loud, some might say vengeful screech, followed by a literal explosion of feathers in the immediate vicinity of your head.

You frantically survey the area, attempting to identify the culprit. But whoever it was has flown back to safe obscurity in the general population of its walking-petri-dish brethren. You continue to stare blankly, unbelieving, stopping strangers to shrilly demand “DID ANYONE JUST SEE THAT?” They did, and they are laughing at you. Some are pointing. One guy even took a picture. It will be blogged and humorously captioned within the space of fifteen minutes.

So if you want to suck, aid pigeons in their target practice. You’re no ornithologist, but it doesn’t take an expert to realize that they’ve already won. Resistance is futile. Best just to abandon the world to their tyranny and pray that the countless diseases they carry will dispose of the human race in a relatively quick and painless manner.

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17. Play a tasteless April Fool’s Day prank.

April 1, 2008 at 10:30 am · Filed under Holidays

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You’ve been planning it for months. You’ve ordered the supplies. You’ve drawn up the schematics. You’ve sent away for the Bolivian Fire Ant Itching Powder. Everything is going perfectly to plan.

But timing, as they say, is everything.

You thought that a hilarious “You’ve got cancer!” card would be just the thing to give your aunt a chuckle. And it would have, had she not been diagnosed with leukemia this very morning.

And how were you supposed to know that your co-worker’s son died of a poisonous snakebite? You paid fifty damn dollars for that gigantic life-like rubber python and damned if you were going to see that money go to waste.

And you surely never would have imagined that those few ounces of cocaine you stashed in your brother’s pocket would just so happen to fall out onto the courtroom floor during his DWI hearing. So what if it’s his third offense? That’s the joke!

And it never even occurred to you that your buddy who just got home from Iraq might not have appreciated a case of firecrackers exploding in his mailbox. Lighten up, dude! Who doesn’t love a little pyrotechnics show every now and then?

What started out as a whimsical, frolicsome day has spiraled down into a mishmash of anguish, discomfort, and multiple restraining orders. And there’s no one to blame but yourself.

So if you want to suck at life, play a tasteless April Fool’s Day prank. Twenty-seven pending lawsuits can only mean one thing: the joke’s on you.

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