The Upside of Defeat

        Dead-end job. I feel a pivotal moment approaching. Sometimes I get this sudden jolt of adrenaline. It seems to come when I’m just sitting and staring—especially when I want to be anywhere but here. I picture myself standing up in an epiphanous rage, puffing out my chest, turning to the door, and running the hell out of this place. Then the realist in me says, “Hello. You can snap out of it now. You’re still sitting and staring. You’re not going anywhere. Are you? (Painfully sarcastic)”. Then in an attempt to defy my inner realist I shout, “Yes I am…going…somewhere (Painfully awkward).” I look down at my dress shoes wishing I had worn my running shoes that I coincidentally never use for running—maybe for casual Fridays, a quick run (and by run I mean drive) to pick up a gallon of milk, or maybe a brisk walk, but never for running. Then I sprint for the doorway, clumsily knocking over my trashcan which spills out crumbled up papers with doodles on them and half written plans for my future. I get ten feet and my moral compass directs me back to the trashcan where I clean it up and place it on that discolored spot on the floor next to my desk. I proceed to sprint, make it through the doorway and turn left. And there it is—the door to the outside world. It’s more than just a door (trying to be poetic). No…it’s really just a door. Like any other door, it opens and shuts. I don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Okay, fine, I hesitate for about 4.5 seconds, before I charge the door like a goat charging another goat, no…like a rhino charging some poachers. I slow down to the pace of careless mallrat to avoid an embarrassing slam my face into the door moment. Suddenly an elderly lady cuts me off and proceeds to take her time. Then, in one swift motion I cut her off and open the door for her. She eventually makes it through and says, “Thank you.” I take off running whilst shouting, “You’re welcome!” I make it like twenty feet (give or take a few size 11 footsteps) when the old lady replies, “Huh? What?” I turn around and run toward the old lady to reiterate my previous words. But, my long stride and intense look on my face scares her off. At this point I’m only 10 feet from my place of work. I stand and stare off into the distance, wipe the sweat from my forehead and exclaim, “God damn! It’s friggin’ hot out here!” Then I hear the words, “There’s always tomorrow,” echoing in my head. “Is it the realist in me giving it to me straight? Is it my moral compass steering me away from a rash storm into a rational peninsula? Or maybe it’s just my lazy conscience blowing smoke up my ass,” I whispered to an impressionable young boy. “Get the hell away from my son, creep! Get the hell out of here!” shouted the boy’s mother. As she shooed me away, I had an epiphany. “I will get the hell out of here, over-reacting angry mother,” I proclaimed. Then I started running. “Remember Benny, there isn’t always tomorrow!” I shouted. “My name’s Zack,” replied the little boy. I ran. And I ran. I ran so far away. Three blocks later I was gassed. It was at that exact moment when I realized that I had no idea where the hell I was going. Actually, I experience that moment almost every day. I guess the moral of the story is: If you’re not going anywhere, then you don’t have to run to get there. Essentially you’re running in place. So you might as well buy a treadmill. But, it looks like I’m exercising again. And that’s the upside.

I Think I Get It Now

        I think I understand pessimistic people now. Whenever they experience some type of pain, they immediately have a diagnosis for it. It’s like they want it to be worse than it could be. It’s like they’re looking forward to it. It’s like they’re just dying to be right. Whenever I experienced some kind of pain I would say, “Oh it’s probably nothing. It’ll probably go away.” In most cases I was right. I always thought it had something to do with a negative or hopeful state of mind. But, no, that’s not it. Quite recently I learned that I hate my job. Then I started experiencing pain in my right wrist. “Hmm, could this be arthritis? Ew (the excited kind of ew), maybe it’s carpal tunnel syndrome! I believe you can get surgery for that, and who knows how long I’d be out of work (hopefully forever),” I whispered. Okay, let’s pros and cons the shit out of this mother lover.

Pros & Cons of surgery on right hand and recovering on Workers’ compensation:

Pros:

-        I won’t be spending my days doing boring, monotonous work.

-        I’ll have time to work on things I’m passionate about.

-        I won’t feel like a useless zombie at the end of the day—a zombie who doesn’t want to eat brains, a zombie who especially doesn’t want to eat brains. I don’t want to eat brains.

-        Some of my soul might be restored.

-        I’ll be happier.

-        I’ll be living the proverbial dream.

Cons:

-        I’ll have to use my left hand to wipe my ass.

Hmm. The pros severely outweigh the con. Well, it looks like I’m going to have to wipe my ass with my left hand. I guess I should practice. Excuse me. I’m going to get started.

Never Hurt Anyone

I was in the checkout line at Shop Rite yesterday. An old lady in front of me complimented the bag boy by saying, "You're doing a great job." I thought to myself, "That's really nice of her. It does feel good to know that you're doing a great job." Then she said, "A little encouragement never hurt anyone." This was where I interjected with, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up."

"I beg your pardon," said the old lady.

"You can't just go around lying to people, especially the people that bag your groceries. A little encouragement never hurt anyone? That's bullshit and you know it lady. I knew this guy, his name was Stu. He was afraid of heights. Long story short, Stu found himself smashed like a Stretch Armstrong shaped pancake underneath a bridge, all because his friends encouraged him to get over his fear of heights," I replied.

"Oh my word. I'm so sorry he died."

"Oh he didn't die from that. He survived the fall. Later on, his family encouraged him to compete in the Paralympics. They suggested that he train for Wheelchair Basketball. As a part of his training Stu went to the ghetto and played hoops with some hard knocks. He came out of it victorious...and full of lead. Stu got shot up fifty times."

"Heavens to Betsy. I'm so sorry Stu got murdered."

"Oh he didn't die from the gun shots. He lived for a few more years. Then he died from a heroin overdose. It was a probably the result of all that encouragement though."

"Oh lord. That's something awful. Well, I'm sorry your friend died."

"Oh he wasn't my friend. He was strictly my customer and I was strictly his drug dealer. Hey lady, it looks like you're all bagged up. Why don't you get the hell out of here?"

Then I turned to the bag boy.

"By the way, she's right buddy. You really did do a great job. Now what did you learn today?"

"Say no to drugs?" said the bag boy.

"Yes...but...if you are looking for some, give me a call first. I would never encourage you to use drugs...but I will sell them to you. That's a guarantee. And call me if you ever need a second job. You're pretty good at bagging stuff."

Celebration

        Celebration is often found in sports. Sometimes you can celebrate too much (excessive) and get penalized for it. You can spike the ball, do some trendy dance, start humping the air, hump the football, hump the refs, hump the opponents mascot, hump your own mascot, hump yourself…
       
        It's quite different in the courtroom. If I can be frank, I don't think there's enough celebration in courtrooms. If you're found not guilty, you should be celebrating...hard. Do a crazy dance. Don’t know any crazy dances? Make one up. Who gives a shit? You’re not going to jail for the rest of your life. That's worth a hop, skip and a jig. What's that you say judge? You want to hold me in contempt? Sure, that's fine. Just let me finish this sweet ass dance move. Worth it! Do that Harlem Shake thing that everybody's been doing. Hell, do the Macarena. It’s a little outdated. But hey, people just might join in, triggering an impromptu flash mob.

(Side note, no, sort of in the center note: Be sure not to do any crazy dances if you are found guilty. Because, in prison you’ll get your ass beat (in so many ways). Big black dudes will be scoping out the new inmates. “Hmm. Who should we shank today?” Pan to the white boy who just sprained his ankle while doing the running man. “There’s our bitch.”)
       
        Back to winning cases and celebrating excessively. After you dance, celebrate some more. Spike something, perhaps the judge's gavel. Hell, bring your own gavel and spike the shit out of that. Have one of your buddies throw you a football, then a beer, then a hoagie for some reason. Shotgun the beer. Then proceed to eat the hoagie in front of everyone. Wait for someone to say, "Is he really" then finish their sentence with, "Eating a hoagie?...Yes, yes I am. Now go fetch me a soda pop and some Funyuns."

        Or, you could just voice your excitement. Start reciting the most difficult rap lyrics that you can remember. Then, start skatting. Make the court reporter work hard for her money. Then let her know that she's working hard for her money by singing Donna Summer's "She Works Hard For The Money." Finally, exit the courtroom and every other room by kicking the doors open in a Michael Jackson-like fashion.

Popular Dance

I’d like to think that most popular dances were the result of some unfortunate condition which involves a story about an underdog. Take for instance, Timmy. Let’s say Timmy went to his senior prom. He went stag, not because he chose to, but because no one and I mean no one would go with him. It’s sad, but true. He had a reputation for being a terrible dancer and being…an epileptic. But, Timmy wasn’t going to let that stop him (Well, he would try anyway). Everyone knew Timmy had epilepsy, everyone but the DJ. The DJ had his disco balls spinning, colored lights flashing, and glow sticks twirling. At some point an angry student shouted, “I’m sick of the same old dance! I wish someone would come up with a new one!” Coincidentally, Timmy was walking across the floor toward the punch bowl when he had…an epileptic seizure. Timmy began to flail frantically like Mick Jagger after eating 50 pixie sticks. This was the first time people witnessed what would later become…the Harlem shake. Like a true teen coming of age movie, everybody joined in, doing the Harlem shake—making it damn near impossible to tell if someone (Timmy) was having a seizure. The next day a Harlem rapper saw a clip of these high school students doing this crazy dance and he said, “I’ma sample that like I’ma sample some 1970s song.” Needless to say he called this dance the Harlem Shake.

        The same goes for that “brush your shoulders off” dance move. I bet some kid, we’ll call him Timmy, just had some really, really bad dandruff and was trying really hard for people not to see it on his shoulders…at a dance probably. Next thing you know, people are joining in, and a dance sensation was born. White flakes filled the room creating a confetti-like spectacle. This would have been fine if it were the Snowball Dance. However, this was the Spring Fling. And the white confetti was actually Timmy’s dandruff.

Macho Men

I love macho man talk. Not Macho Man Randy Savage talk, however when guys talk about macho things. Most notably, hot chicks. You have that one friend who groans sort of like Macho Man Randy Savage when he sees a hottie. Hmm, maybe this has to do with MMRS more than I thought. Anyway, you have that friend that says, "Ughh. I would totally hit that. Would you hit it? Let's hit it together." Easy bro. You're not going to hit that. You're not going to tap that. You're not going to score. It always comes back to sports with macho guys.

        I wish I could hear a group of dudes just be honest with themselves. For example:

"Mmm. I would like to have sexual relations with her. But, unfortunately she appears to be way out of my league."

"I'm picking up some great vibes from this one over here. I bet she's a great conversationalist. It looks like I found a new girl friend. And by girl friend, I mean a friend that's a girl. Strictly platonic."

"Aww yeah. I would give it to her... on my mother's love seat, all through a long, very long...commercial break. Then we would finish watching the Notebook."

"Mmm. I'd love to bring her back to my place, cuddle up and show her photos from my childhood. Then I would give her money for a cab because my car is broke down in the driveway. It's been there for a while now. I should probably do something about it. Public transportation is the pits. There are a lot of smelly people on buses. Hey, you know what? Let's get out of here. That girl I've been checking out is actually my aunt. If she sees me she'll want to go back to my parents' house and look at pictures from my childhood."

"I banged her last night...in my dreams."

This is for my co-worker that likes to spy on me.

HELLO JOAN!