Archive for Adventure

51. Abandon your blog for two weeks to whimsically gallivant around Ireland.

You’ve had enough of the internet. ENOUGH. Insipid Facebook statuses make you want to throw your computer out the window. LOLcats are yowling their way into your increasingly poor-grammared dreams. YouTube is torture. Accuweather is never correct anymore. Google is…well okay, Google’s cool. But if you have to listen to one more Nickelback song blasting out of a MySpace page while pink ducklings dance about a fluorescent orange background, you’re going to set fire to the nearest Apple Store, provided it’s not equipped with a spring-loaded, fire-extinguisher-wielding Steve Jobs. You’re not quite sure how humanity has gotten this far, but you’re almost positive it involves a hell of a lot of dumb luck.

So you’re packing up. Time to blow this popsicle stand. Time for a journey to a land of shamrocks, potatoes, and Colin Farrell. Time to frolic about in the rain and dangle headfirst off a cliff for no good reason. Time to get drunk on Guinness and pass out on top of a sheep.

Time to go to Ireland.

But wait! Won’t that be expensive? Isn’t this a terrible time to travel, what with the economy sucking the way it does? How are you going to make next month’s rent if you’ve stopped working for two weeks? And where in the hell did you last put your passport??

It doesn’t matter! Now is no time for common sense! Pack your bags, kidnap your favorite sibling, fashion a rudimentary but passable government-issued ID, and get on the friggin’ plane! Oh, don’t give a second thought to your precious blog. Pay it no mind as it sits there, withered and dejected, wasting away to nothing while you full-on make out with the Blarney Stone. It’ll be right here when you get back, tumbleweeds blustering through, cobwebs gunking up the dashboard, blog stats plummeting to Mariana Trench levels. That’s just fine. No, you go have your fun. Say hi to the leprechauns. Bring back a goat or two. Punch Bono in the face.

So if you want to suck at life, abandon your blog for two weeks to whimsically gallivant around Ireland. Think of it as research. There are plenty of ways to suck at life in another country, and you’re damn well going to test out and report back on each and every one of them.


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50. Knock over a store display.

You just need to run into the store for, like, five seconds. All you have to buy is a jar of pickles. Your BBQ bash has almost been ruined by the absence of the little hamburger fixings that your hot-dog-addled brain neglected to remember. Now there is a surly mob of hungry picnickers back at your house, and if you don’t hurry back you’re going to get a salad tong to the eye.

So you dash into the supermarket, yelling “Pickles!” at the poor, hapless cashier. She directs you to Aisle 3, where you snatch some Vlassics off the shelf, tuck them under your arm like a football, and set your sights on the ten items or less line. There it is, gleaming like a shiny beacon of expediency. And there’s nothing preventing you from becoming a part of it — except for a massive display of soda cans, which you deftly crash to the ground.

If points were scored for supermarket bowling, you would have just banged out a strike. Cans fly everywhere – soaring up into the air, bouncing off other customers, whizzing down the aisle like little rocket-propelled grenades of deliciousness. You do a little dance of futility, as if hopping around in an embarrassed fashion might somehow re-form the meticulously constructed pyramid. The Vlassic pickle stork looks up at you with a mix of disapproval and pity.

The floor is also now drenched in a deep soda flood, surging forth in a tidal wave of stickiness. Other shoppers prance away with grace and style and a few choked screams, but you remain still, steadfast in the face of adversity and carbonation. The manager – a balding, puffy fellow – waddles over and stares at the mess you’ve made. “Sorry,” you say in a meek voice, pathetically picking up a single can and, after vainly attempting to put it back in the display and not knowing what else to do with it, hand it to him with a weak smile. You are asked never to return.

So if you want to suck, knock over a store display. Not only will you gain fame and recognition within the confines of the produce section, but random items will also stick to you for the rest of the day. Hey, free stuff!

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43. Run into a plate glass window.

You’re in the kitchen, frying up some bacon – as you are wont to do at 3pm on any given day of the week – when a bloodcurdling scream is heard emanating from the bowels of your backyard. You stiltedly lunge for the window, spraying yourself with copious amounts of grease in the process, and glance outside. You see nothing. Reaching for some ointment to soothe the third-degree burns you’ve just sustained, you hear another shout of panic. You throw open the curtains to reveal your buddy in the backyard, holding a large bone and shouting “I found a femur!”

Screw the bacon! There’s a femur in your backyard! You throw on some shoes, tear off your “I *heart* Rachel Ray” apron, and bolt for the door, grabbing your video camera on the way out. Nothing can get in the way of this perfect moment. Nothing.

Except for a giant sheet of glass. You slam into it with the force of a thousand elephants, which is appropriate, as the sound you are now making is equivalent to that of a wounded pachyderm. You writhe around on the floor, blindly groping for some sort of explanation as to why you are not in the backyard yet. What is this mysterious force field? Why is it surrounding your house? And why does it now feature a smudgy imprint of your sweaty body, complete with limbs akimbo?

As you slowly regain both your consciousness and your ability to reason, you eye a suspicious-looking bottle of Windex perched ever so precariously on a nearby table. “Damn you, incredibly effective cleaning product!” you scream, choking its plastic neck. Your buddy, meanwhile, is now surrounded by a camera crew and talking to Larry King via satellite, already having secured a number of book and movie deals.

So if you want to suck at life, run into a plate glass window. You now possess both a broken nose and a broken spirit, but don’t worry – you won’t feel the pane.


***Thanks to paperdreamer for the suggestion, and to my family for finding a femur in the backyard.

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39. Attempt a journey up the down escalator.

So you’re at the mall, gabbing away to your friend Sal. And you’re talking about miniature porcelain figurines of children doing adorable things, which is one of your favorite topics. “Did you see ‘Jimmy Breaks The Cookie Jar’?” you exclaim in joy. “I simply can’t wait to get my hot little hands on that priceless treasure!”

You drag Sal over to the mall directory, squealing in delight as you realize that the third floor contains a Hallmark Store. “Precious Moments music box!” you shriek, not feeling the need to put a verb in that sentence. You make a beeline for the escalator, giving nary a thought to people in your way, Sal’s wrist as you practically rip it off, or whatever direction you may be headed.

Which turns out to be quite the mistake, as you and Sal are now barreling towards none other than the down escalator from the floor above. You want to go up, but this particular device does nothing but bring an endless string of pedestrians down to your level, where a sale on discontinued Christmas-scented Yankee Candles is luring hordes of people who sadly possess no olfactory receptors.

But you notice none of this. Sal is screaming for you to stop, but you don’t listen, mostly because you’re still not quite sure whether Sal is a guy or a girl. You drop its wrist and continue prancing towards the mass of steel and rubber handrails, fully prepared to glide on up to your heavenly destination. But that’s not what happens. The moment you set your foot upon the grooved step, you know something is wrong. It’s not whisking you forward in a flurry of momentum and anticipatory-music-box-arm-flailing. It’s stopping you dead in your tracks, refusing to accept you, as if employing some sort of bouncer-like mechanism.

By now you’ve realized your mistake, but your equilibrium doesn’t catch on as quickly. You tilt and wobble and fall over yourself several times, attempting to catch your balance but failing each and every time you take a step – useless steps that only whisk your foot closer to the razor-sharp escalator teeth that your mother always scared you shitless about. They wait there, glowing green, chomping at the bit to devour your helpless feet in a bloody mess of carnage and shoe destruction. You finally dance away to safety, gasping for breath and trying desperately to ignore the shoppers laughing at you as they exit the escalators that only they know how to properly use. Sal’s laughing too. That bitch/dickwad.

So if you want to suck at life, attempt a journey up the down escalator. You may be participating in the mall equivalent of running head first into traffic, but at least the only thing you’ll end up with is a bruised ego. And a plethora of rubber burns.

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