Benihana, I Deserve An Apology


To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing this letter as a formal request to be readmitted to the Benihana Birthday Club.  The following is an in-depth account of the night of October 31, 2017, and the events that led me to be unfairly banished from the Benihana Restaurant chain.

I’d never been to Benihana before, but I’d recently gotten a coupon in the mail that told me I’d get $30 off my order if I ate there in my birthday month.  My birthday is in October so I went on Halloween because Halloween is fun, and my roommate told me the night before that if I ate any more of his Hot Pockets he was going to key my moped.  I don’t think he was serious, but I couldn’t take any chances that he’d scratch up my ride – it’s the reason I get most of my telephone numbers (I park it illegally, like a lot).  I couldn’t decide what I wanted to be my costume, but I ended up dressing as a Benihana chef, because I read in a book once that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery (I don’t know what that means, but the chef robes are really comfortable – ha!).  When I got to the restaurant it didn’t look like any of the other guests were in costume, but I figured they were hiding their disguises under their clothes to preserve the element of surprise.

As a newcomer to the wild world of Japanese cuisine, I asked the chef a few questions.  He told me that my food would be prepared directly in front of me on a hibachi style grill.  I consider myself a master googler, and it only took me a few minutes to discover that Hibachi is a Japanese company that used to make TVs and other electronics.  Maybe the grill was fashioned out of old television sets?  It didn’t sound very safe to me, but I decided to stick it out.  After all, Japan is responsible for a number of great things (sushi, anime video games, 10 time MLB All-Star and former American League Rookie of the Year Ichiro Suzuki), and I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.  I asked the chef if Ichiro had ever eaten there and he said no, but he probably hadn’t been there every night the restaurant had been open so how could he know for sure?  Pretty irresponsible of him to say Ichiro had never eaten there, when odds are he probably sat and ate in the same seat I was.

The chef made a tiny volcano out of an onion he was cooking, which I thought was cool until I remembered that a number of people (millions, probably) per year are killed by erupting volcanos.  What if someone at the table knew someone who died from a volcano?  Pretty insensitive of the chef to be rubbing their faces in it like that.  “Hey, do you like onions?  How about the fact that your loved ones are dead?”  Not the kind of conduct I’d expect to see from a Benihana chef.  To distract my fellow diners from this gross misconduct, I asked them to tell me what they most admired about Ichiro Suzuki.  They admittedly didn’t know much, but I could tell they were impressed when I described his MVP winning 2001 season in excruciating detail.  My new friends and I were just starting on what promised to be an engaging discussion of Ichiro’s unique batting style when the chef told me that if I mentioned Ichiro again, I would be asked to leave the restaurant.  That just proved that he wasn’t nearly as Japanese as he claimed to be, because Ichiro Suzuki is a national treasure to the Japanese people (much like Pokémon, and furry hats with animal ears on them).

My first visit to Benihana was not going as I’d hoped, but there was plenty of time to turn it around.  I got up to use the restroom, which was extremely confusing.  They had Japanese symbols on the doors, and I don’t speak or read Japanese.  Although they had the English translations directly underneath, I couldn’t trust those; they could have been planted by the extremely rude chef who was clearly trying to spoil my birthday and embarrass me in front of my new best friends.  To be safe, I opened both doors and listened, thinking that someone inside one of the bathrooms would speak and I could determine if it was a man or woman.  How was I supposed to know that instead of voices, there would be a loud and inappropriate noise erupting from one of the stalls?  The answer is that I couldn’t have known, and I shouldn’t be held responsible for that.

On my way back from the disastrous trip to the bathroom, a lady called me over to her table.  She complained that her steak was undercooked, and asked if I could throw it back on the grill for a little more.  Looking back, I should have known that she only thought I was employed by the restaurant due to my costume.  But it was Halloween!  If you go into Benihana on Halloween and assume that everyone wearing an authentic employee’s uniform is legally certified to cook your food, then who do you really have to blame?  Plus what am I going to do, say no?  Let the woman eat undercooked steak and potentially catch any number of diseases that can be transmitted by raw meat?  There’s no way Ichiro Suzuki would have let that stand, and neither did I.

I won’t go into detail over what happened next, because frankly I don’t believe it needs to be talked about.  Did some stuff catch on fire as a direct result of my involvement on the grill?  Sure, if you want to believe the “police report.”  Did I “brandish a knife in the general direction of another chef” when he asked me to move aside?  I don’t know, it was the heat of the moment and there were a lot of knives being pointed in a lot of different directions.  What I can tell you is in the end the steak was VERY well done; zero risk of getting sick.  I had the situation under control until the manager came over and made much too big of a deal about the whole fire thing.  I bet he was just jealous that I was doing a better job than his paid employees, and was worried that I was showing them up.

The manager asked me what I thought I was doing behind the grill, so I told him all about the woman asking me to help and the sort of responsibility that people like Ichiro Suzuki and myself feel for people who are being mistreated.  Then I told him that one of his chefs had been a jerk all night, and how he wouldn’t even let me talk about baseball with my best friends.  I voiced my strong opposition to the onion volcano, and the manager asked everyone at the table if they knew someone that had been killed or injured by a volcano – every single person said no.  Ten people at a table, and NOBODY knows someone that has been killed by an erupting volcano?  The numbers don’t add up, you guys.  There had to be some sort of hush money involved, and I for one am ashamed of my former best friends for playing into such a transparent corporate ruse.

I was asked to leave the restaurant by both the Benihana staff and the local sheriff’s department, who bit hook-line-and-sinker on the manager’s explanation of the whole ordeal and didn’t seem interested at all in talking about the important things (what actually happened, how I was a better chef than those hacks, Ichiro Suzuki’s unparalleled range in center field).

Ten days later I received a letter from the authorities telling me that I wasn’t allowed inside another Benihana restaurant ever again, which is why I’m writing you today.  This has all been a huge misunderstanding, and I’m sure that if one of your representatives was willing to meet with me, we could discuss both the incidents of that Halloween night and the enormous amount of respect I have for Japanese culture.  I have an Ichiro Suzuki Rookie baseball card, and while your rep can’t have it, he or she can hold it for up to 10 seconds as long as they promise not to fold the corners.

I have full confidence in the decision-making skills of the corporate team at Benihana, and I’m looking forward to receiving your reply restoring my full membership in the Benihana Birthday Club.  I will also accept an apology on behalf of the rude chef, and might I suggest looking into his criminal background; there’s no way a person of his moral character doesn’t have prior convictions.




The Time I Played Pool Basketball

I’m going to tell you guys about the time I played a 14-year-old kid in pool basketball.  As with most experiences in my life, it did not go well.  It was the summer after my Junior year of college and I had a part time internship.  As I wasn’t old enough to buy alcohol, my days consisted mostly of hanging out at the pool in my apartment complex and attempting to catch the eye of the girls that hung out at my apartment complex.

There was a pool basketball net, which was cool.  Water basketball eliminates the need for dribbling, which I’ve always found to be very cumbersome.  As someone who cannot cut food with his left hand, attempting to control a bouncing ball with said hand has always proved to be an exercise in futility.  This eliminates most of my usefulness on the court; my only existing contribution to pickup basketball games is that I am sort of tall, and nothing else.


On that fateful day, there is a pretty girl tanning at the pool that is ignoring me, as usual.  So I decide to put on a display of manliness, and take to the pool by myself.  With nobody guarding me, I put on a respectable display.  I am making just over half of the shots I attempt, mostly layups.  I am using the backboard much less than usual.  I swish one or two shots from less than 5 feet away from the hoop.  I am LeBron James.

A young man comes up to me and asks if I would like to play him one-on-one.  Normally I would say no, because playing people that are younger than you in sports is almost always a lose-lose situation; but Tanning Girl looks in my general direction as he asks.  She is adjusting to get an even tan, but I pretend she is interested.  His mother, sitting on a chair a few feet away, tells me that her son is 14 and made his high school JV basketball team as a freshman.  She says that Seth is very good.  As a 6’2” 20-year-old, I’m sure I would make at least one Varsity basketball team.  I probably would not, but I am still bigger than he is.  I will crush Seth.

I jump out to an early lead, using my height and long arms to prevent him from scoring any points at all.  Tanning Girl is largely ignoring the game until Seth inadvertently splashes her, at which point she yells, “what the hell,” and moves to a different chair further away.  I try to give her a knowing look, one that demonstrates our mutual hatred of Seth.  She ignores me.

When I am one point away from winning, Seth, desperate to make a dent in my sizable lead, splashes water into my face while I’m in the act of shooting.  This dislodges one of my contacts, and I am instantly rendered half-blind, gasping in pain.  His mother laughs as the heavily chlorinated water burns one of the most sensitive areas on my body.  I briefly consider pushing her head underwater, but feel that Tanning Girl would not be impressed.

Now with little to no depth perception, I watch as my lead shrinks.  Knowing my weakness, Seth routinely splashes my face before darting to the rim and making layups with absurd ease.  To my horror, Tanning Girl has started to take interest in the game, as have several other pool patrons.  She cheers for Seth alongside his mother.  She has betrayed me.

After a short period, we are tied with one point to go.  I am tied with a 14-year-old in a game of pool basketball, and he has possession of the ball.  I am going to lose.  In a fit of ill-timed gallantry, Seth abandons his splashing and attempts a clean game-winning shot.  I see him go up.  I meet him, and block the shot with as much force as I possess – right into his face. I vaguely register that the full force of the block has rebounded off Seth’s face, and that he might be in need of medical attention.  I do not care.  Jubilant, I grab the ball out of midair and slam the ball through the hoop.  I have done it.  I am victorious.  I am all that is man.

As I come back to reality, I realize Seth’s mother is screaming.  Turning around, I see that Seth is crying and holding his hands to his nose, which is gushing blood.  I know it sounds like exactly what happened in Meet the Parents, and that is because it is almost exactly like what happened in Meet the Parents.  Multiple people are yelling at me.  Tanning Girl is one of them.  A man who arrived in an old pickup truck is angrily pointing at me.  I wonder if he has a gun in his truck; I begin to fear for my life.  I ask loudly if Seth is okay, to which he replies, “Fuck you.”  His mother screams at me to “get out,” which I do as quickly as I possibly can.  Many people might call that cowardice.  To those people, I say this: you are right.


There have been a lot of awkward, cringe-worthy moments in my life, but this one might take the cake.  Whenever you’re confronted with situations that seem to be lose-lose, they probably are, and it’s best to just walk away.  Sure, you might win, but you never know when a display of supreme, awesome manliness could result in you being threatened by men who drive pickup trucks.

But most of all, just remember: I beat Seth fair and square.  That fucking point counted.

My name. Is Tobey.

I was bored the other day, so I started thinking (always dangerous).  I asked myself, “If I sent a letter to a foreign person claiming to be someone famous, how would they be able to tell it wasn’t actually from Jude Law?”  Answer: they couldn’t.

So, I decided to write a letter to a person or persons unknown and claim that I am, in fact, Tobey Maguire.

Now in reality, nobody would actually believe that they’d get a letter in the mail from a movie star; everybody uses email these days.  But what the hell, why not?  Worst case scenario: Francois gets some bogus letter and throws it out.  Best case scenario: Francois realizes that Tobey Maguire is, in fact, a no-talent horse’s ass.

Here it is.

Dear Fan(s),

This is Tobey Maguire.  I know; you’re probably saying, “Holy shit!  That guy’s the man!  Why is he writing to a nobody like me?”  Yes, you are a nobody.  And yes, I am a motion picture star.  I like writing to you so I can tell you just how awesome I really am.  What follows is 100% true.

  • I can drink five Smirnoff Ice’s before I get drunk, and can usually finish off the six-pack if I’m really feeling naughty.  Then I put on women’s dresses so I can feel a breeze down by my very small privates.
  • I have a cardboard cutout of Flo from the Progressive commercials in my room.  She is my perfect woman.
  • Sometimes I go downtown and verbally abuse people who have less money than I do, because I can and I enjoy it.
  • I watch my elderly neighbors change clothes.
  • I often go to Chuck-E-Cheese and refuse to leave until they let me play in the ball pit, alone.
  • I enjoy looking at pictures of scantily clad men, not because I’m homosexual but because I am a keen observer of the human experience.
  • I drive at or below the speed limit at all times; not to obey the law, but to infuriate people who might be driving behind me.
  • I pour out plastic water bottles and refuse to recycle.
  • After we finished shooting Seabiscuit, I made them put down the horse we used for all the filming.  I had him stuffed and now use him as a drying rack for my deep V-neck shirts.
  • I eat a ton of asparagus, go to the movies, and pee my pants so everyone has to smell it.
  • I once worked at a Chick-Fil-A, and I loved my job.
  • I call cough drops, “lozenges.”
  • I go to malls during the holidays and do my best to expose mall Santa’s for fakes.  Then I tell every small child within shouting distance that Santa isn’t real.
  • I make dinner reservations for large parties at very busy restaurants, make sure they set my large table up, and then neglect to show up.
  • I throw myself birthday parties.

Warm regards,

Tobey M


Everyone struggles with their New Year’s resolutions; it’s just a fact of life.  Why?  Because eating that candy bar is a lot tastier than eating a salad, sitting on the couch feels a lot better than running, and watching your neighbors undress through the window is a lot more fun than reading some stupid book.  It’s just science, people.

Lucky for you, I’m here to set you straight.  Throughout the years, I’ve developed a system to keep myself in check; and I want to spread some knowledge.  Next time you get that urge to eat that Snickers, try to remember these tips.

  1. Threaten yourself.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in movies and/or college, it’s that people respond to threats.  What’s that?  Don’t want to run that mile?  What if I told you I had your family hostage, and you had to run to keep them alive?  Don’t freak out; I don’t have your family (yet).  But if you can put yourself into that mindset; that maybe, just maybe, something really bad would happen if you didn’t run that mile, gosh darnit, I bet you run farther and faster than you ever have!  The power of the human spirit is phenomenal.
  2. Reward yourself.  After all, the point of a resolution is to become a better person!  What’s better than rewarding someone for accomplishing their goals?  I can’t think of anything, except for maybe a million dollars.  I bet if Brad Pitt could see you running that mile, he’d be so proud.  He’d probably be proud enough to give you a role in his next feature length action movie.  Wow.  See what you just did?  You just turned running a mile into a co-starring role with Brad Pitt.  I knew you could do it.
  3. Threaten other people.  This step should only be used as a last resort.  If you’ve threatened and rewarded yourself and you’re still having trouble, it’s time to pull out the big guns.  Literally.  Buy a firearm, go to your neighbor’s house, and threaten their kids.  Tell them that if they don’t make sure you run every single day, something bad is going to happen.  Guess who just got themselves a new personal trainer?!  This is a HUGE step.  Now you’ll have someone to push you further and further, until finally, you can tell them that their kids are safe, for now.  It’s amazing what we can do with the right motivation.

That’s it!  Three easy ways to make sure 2014 is the Year of You!  Feel free to share some of your success stories here!  Oh, and by the way…you’re looking slimmer already.


I’ve created a step-by-step Holiday Party Planner, to help out with any questions you or any of your family members may have!  This way, I don’t have to buy you a gift.

Is your party too quiet?  Need a way to get it started?

One easy way to kickstart the social aspect of your party is to get people arguing.  Most people love to argue, especially families.  Need a topic to debate?  Ask any girl in the room what their favorite movie is; 9 times out of 10, they’ll answer The Hunger Games.  All you have to do is loudly disagree with whatever they say, and challenge them to a race.  Any and all disagreements can be settled by a race, unless I lose (not likely).

Still looking for a way to spice up your soiree?  Tell someone that your friend Steve is going to see Grudge Match on Christmas, and tell them to spread the word.  It hasn’t even come out yet, but people already really hate that movie.  This is also an easy way to remove all Steves from your party, because nobody will want to talk to them after that.

Other argument points: gas prices, politics, Vietnam (for uncles only).

What’s next; how do I become the Holiday Host with the Most?

Popular activities often include a board game, which usually leads to a physical altercation of some kind.  Whichever friend(s) are losing will disagree with the rules approximately 8 times, and usually end up quitting “this gay fucking game.”  I recommend Catch Phrase, which is cheap, fun, and easy to play drunk, plus I always win at Catch Phrase so it works out.

White Elephant is a fun, cheap way to stick someone at the party with a really shitty gift.  All you have to do is tell everyone to bring a gift, $40 minimum, to exchange at the party.  Then buy a throw pillow or something; this will ensure that one person will end up with the throw pillow in the end.  It will also establish that person as the loser of the party, which is important to do.  Every party needs its lovable loser (unless that’s me, in which case we have to start White Elephant over).

But what party do I have?  How should my party feel?

Some of the biggest questions surrounding holiday parties deal with their ambiance.  Too often, party-throwers get torn between classiness and debauchery, which is a HUGE no-no.  Oftentimes this is encountered at company parties, when Bill takes seven tequila shooters and smacks your boss’ ass “because this is Christmas.”  Here’s some stuff to make sure the right type of butt-grabbing takes place at yours.
Classy parties:

  1. Play Josh Groban.  As the embodiment of class and talent for generations of Americans, a heavy dose of Josh will be sure to give your get-together the pomp and elegance you’ve been searching for.  Plus you can impress everyone by hitting the high notes in “You Raise Me Up.”
  2. Wear a Santa hat.  There can only be ONE Santa hat at any given party.  By wearing it, you’re establishing that you are, in fact, the King of the party, and anything you say goes.  You can also get people to sit on your lap (hopefully girls).
  3. Gift bags.  This is Christmas after all, right?  Treat your guests to a pleasant surprise by giving them each something to remember the party by.  Helpful tip: if you wait to give them out until your patrons leave, they won’t realize that their new iPads are just empty boxes until they get home.

Not-so-classy parties:

  1. Play (more) Josh Groban.  I know this is in the classy section; but there ain’t nothin’ like getting sauced with some Groban blasting in the background.  You really can’t go wrong with the Grobes.
  2. Festive drinks.  An easy way to separate your shindig from the rest of the pack is to supply ingredients for some holiday drinks.  Eggnog, a Christmas classic, and peppermint schnapps are cheap (and effective) ways to make your party the envy of St. Nick, and get that hot girl drunk enough to talk to you even though you challenged her to a race earlier.
  3. Festive drinking games.  The best way to consume festive beverages is to slam them with friends.  So throw on A Christmas Story and finish your drink every time Ralphie cries.

If all else fails, just get really drunk.  After all, there is no such thing as a bad party you can’t remember.  Also, be sure to invite me to any (all) parties you throw, because I don’t really have anything to do that night.

My Dream

I don’t have that much to do at work today, and my boss told me to “look busy” until he can find something for me.  So, I’ve decided to recreate the fantastic dream I had last night.  Here we go.

So I don’t know how many of you have seen Inception with Leo DiCaprio (Night at the Roxbury and Titanic 3D), but in it the intricacies of dreams are explored.  Leo always has a dreidel with him in the movie, and he spins it all the time to see if he’s actually dreaming or not; if it keeps spinning (thus defying Isaac Newton’s Gravity), he’s in a dream; and if it topples over, he’s not.  I bet he spins one in real life too, and when it falls over he’s thinks, “My life’s like a dream but it’s not,” and then he has sex with 2-3 women (minimum).  Do you think when Leo was drawing that naked girl in Titanic 3D he kept on screwing up the drawing so he could look at her lady-parts longer?  I bet he did.  Leo’s such a rascal.

Anyway, my dream took place in a casino.  I don’t know for sure, but I have reason to believe that it was a riverboat casino; no evidence, but I think my dream-self would like the atmosphere.  Gambling and sailing?!  Sign me up, and please start referring to me as “Captain.”  But I wasn’t gambling alone, because it’s not smart to lose money unless your friends are there to confirm how close you were to winning.  That way you can say that yes, you lost $500, but you almost won like, $1 million.  That’s the way friendship works.  I’d say 60% of being my friend involves coming up with, or supporting my telling other people that I was closer to winning than I actually was.

In my dream, I was with my friends Tim, Nate, JJ, and Dan.  We were gambling and shit, and I think Dan even made out with a couple of overweight women.  But it was a dream, so I can’t be sure.  I don’t remember the ins and outs of the dream with incredible clarity, but I do remember that we all had a little dance that we did whenever we won money.  We would all get up and say that we were members of the Pony Express, and shout “EXPRESS DELIVERY!”  Then we’d gallop around the table playing “Duck, Duck, Goose;” but we called it “Buck, Buck, Noose,” and when you lost you had to mime being hung from a noose.

Sidebar: Let me say that in the dream, Dan lost every single game of “Buck, Buck, Noose” that we played.  And we were raking in the cash, so we played a lot of games.  Dan lost every one.

Don’t ask me why we were doing this, because I don’t know.  Even in the highly unlikely event that a casino would allow such frivolity to take place on the floor, I doubt we would submit to such public humiliation.  But in dreams, there are no rules.  Everything goes.

We ran into numerous A-list celebrities, each of which congratulated us on our outstanding playing skill.  Tom Cruise came and bet the pair of Aviators that he wore throughout Top Gun, and multiple times while having sex with Katie Holmes, on a hand of blackjack.  Needless to say, JJ won those.  I asked Tom after why he wore the glasses while he was banging Holmes, to which he replied, “I did it for Goose.”

Since it was my dream, Nic Cage and the rest of the cast of the National Treasure movies showed up and played some roulette with us.  Every time the ball landed, Nic would cheer and high-five everyone, even though he never won, not even once.  After a while Tim told him he wasn’t winning, but Nic just laughed and said “I LOVE this kid!”

It was getting toward the end of the night, and we were collecting our winnings; over $10,000 for everyone, except Dan of course.  We were walking back to our respective rooms when we found this guy with four actual horses.  If you think we didn’t buy the horses from the guy on the spot you’re wrong.  Dead wrong.

We bought these horses and I named mine Herbert Hoofer (of course).  I don’t remember what Tim, Nate, or JJ named theirs, but I know Dan named his Dan.  Because it was a dream, there was an obstacle course set up right outside the casino.  We spent the remainder of my night’s sleep performing numerous technically difficult and physically dangerous maneuvers, all of which Herbert Hoofer tackled with great poise.

And that was my dream.  Hopefully my boss will come up with something for me to do, because now I’m bored.


Now Streaming: Consciousness

I haven’t written dick in a long time, and I can’t for the life of me come up with any ideas for stories.  I can, however, bore the 5 people who read my posts with a stream of consciousness deal, because that’s all I can produce right now.  Buckle up, because safety is what’s really most important.

I am a bump on a log today.  But hey, who says all bumps on logs are bad?  What if I’m the cool, hip bump on the log?  If I were a bump on a log, I’d want to be the one that gets all the turtles to come chill by it.  “What’s that turtle?  You need a place to bask in the sun?  Come right on over here, friend, I’ve got a spot for you.”  That’s what I’d say.  No, I think being a bump on a log could be an enviable position.  I mean you just chill all day, and think of the job security.  I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure they don’t get replaced.

I just ate some Peach fat-free yogurt. In doing so I made sure I reached the low part of my day early on. It can only get better from here.  Seriously though, if you haven’t had Spartan brand fat-free Peach yogurt, you’re missing out on all sorts of bad experiences.  Not that I have a problem with yogurt.  Or peaches.  I like them both.  Just not together, and especially not fat free.  It’s like hey, I like the environment, and hey, I like naked women, but both of them together would be a lot to handle.  I’m not gay; far from it (but I guess if you are that’s cool too?).  If one day while you’re walking through the woods a naked stranger charges at you and you don’t get a little freaked out, I don’t think it’d be a great idea that we hang out.  But I try not to judge, so whatever floats your boat I guess.  Scratch that, if you’re one of the afore-mentioned people, I would love to hang out with you for a day, because you’re probably pretty emotionally solid.  I mean that incident would get me thinking.  Why, on this lovely day, would a woman feel the need to run around starkers? And why is she targeting me? Serious questions that maybe you could answer.

This is stream of consciousness, and would be a great way to get to know me.  I mean you’re only getting a little snapshot of yours truly, but I think it kinda reflects my oddities and sense of humor pretty well.  I always want to spell “humour,” but it always gets spell-checked.  I like that extra “U” for some reason.  Anyway, if you’re reading this and even enjoying it a little bit, I think we can have a great Facebook relationship.  You can like my photos and maybe even start a chat once or twice.  I’m just kidding, I don’t use chat.  But I was kidding about the whole thing.  Unless you thought that was cool, in which case I was being really serious.  Friend me.

I’m supposed to be doing homework right now, but it’s for a class that’s taught by a fat woman with a mean disposition and a lisp, so I decided I’m not really going to put much effort into that at the moment.  She’s a redhead too.  Not that I don’t like redheads or anything, I’m just trying to give you all an accurate description of this woman.  Unbiased: she has a lisp, is overweight, wears red shirts once a week, and sports some really shitty Skechers Shape-Ups.  She looks like a goddamn tomato, I’m sorry, but it’s true.  And I don’t give a shit who you get to endorse your products Skechers; Jesus Christ could be doing a two-step in some Shape-Ups; I still won’t buy them.  Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want ugly space boots strapped to my feet in public (I don’t think it’s just me though).

I went over to my neighbor’s the other day with my roommates.  We tried hanging out with them at the beginning of the year but they’re honestly just weird people.  Then again, so are we.  Maybe we’re the weird people; I don’t really know.  But they mentioned something about being really loud on nights before they have to get up and work like it’s our fault.  Yes, I understand that it’s our fault for being loud, but how are we supposed to know when you work?  Maybe if you had supplemented some sort of work schedule at the beginning of the year, we could have worked around being rambunctious on those days, but it’s almost the end of the year, so good luck getting us to be quiet.

My roommate just blew his nose really loud.  I mean it sounded like a French horn.

Have you ever dreamed something and then tried it the next day only to realize your dreams lied to you?  I did that the other day.  I was dreaming about something, can’t remember what, and then all of a sudden this sandwich burst into my thoughts.  It was like an infomercial, and dammit they sold that shit.  Here are the ingredients:

Rye Bread



Cottage Cheese


Now let me say that I am not an idiot.  I know that these are gross.  But let me tell you something – in my dream, this was delicious.  I mean I was having the time of my life eating this sandwich.  I was, however, brought back to reality by the nastiness of the first bite in actual life.  It is disgusting.  Oh man, if I could do what those guys in Interception did with the dreams, I would mess with everyone.  I’d be all, “Hey, I want you to dream about how awesome a hot dog smoothie would be so you try it tomorrow.”  And then they’d try it, and BAM!  What a shitty breakfast!

If there’s one life lesson that I’ve learned from movies, it’s that painting a room with a woman will be one of the worst experiences of my life.  Not necessarily the literal painting per se, but the entire process; choosing colors, going to Home Depot, dealing with her shit, etc.  I was joking about the last part but come on, what the hell do I care that one shade of yellow is “Carnation” and the exact same one from a different company is “Sunburst?”  I really hope my life gets to a point where the most important issue is “Carnation or Sunburst,” because then my life will be really easy.  “Shit Adam, I don’t know how I’m going to pay my Water bill this month.”  “Yea I here you, the wife’s getting on my ass about choosing a color for the dining room ceiling.”

I was watching TV the other day and this kid’s name was “Antijuan.”  Okay, first, what the hell?  Second, I thought about the kind of encounters this guy might have with all the guys named “Juan” out there.  That must be awkward.  There’s probably some unwritten rule somewhere that he is morally obligated to fight anyone named “Juan” he comes across.  Then it got me thinking about the underlying messages his parents might have wanted to send.  I’m pretty sure they’re against illegal immigration.

So that was my brain for an hour, hope you enjoyed it!  Follow me on Twitter @himynameis_adam if you want to be bothered with stupid jokes!  I’d love feedback as well, because someone other than my mom needs to tell me how dumb I’m getting or I’ll keep it up, you bastards.


Wanna Get Away?

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone where you just want to leave?  We all try to be polite and come up with an excuse to leave instead of just turning and leaving, because we’re “civilized.”  Well reader, have no fear, because I have come up with a list of excuses for you.  That’s right.  Next time your friend Walter asks you to feed his cat, just say you’ve got to:

Spend time with underprivileged children.

Make soup for a kitchen. (Soup Kitchen, it works)

Adopt a puppy.

Volunteer at the local homeless shelter.

Stop excessive logging in the Northwestern United States.

Help the elderly move their groceries across the street.

Help Smokey the Bear prevent forest fires.

Befriend a single mother and help out around the house.

Save a kitten from a tree.

Break up a fight between friends who will regret it later.

Recycle, because green is good.

Play paintball with Tony Blair, former Prime Minister of Britain.

Watch a collection of Disney movies and bask in the glory of your youth.

Warn teens about the dangers of Texting While Driving.

Take local orphans on an Icelandic Fishing Trip.

Fight disease with the Volunteer Hazmat Unit of America.

Teach boy scouts how to light a campfire.

Run an “NFL: Play 60” camp with Roddy White and the Atlanta Falcons.

Help your Grandma Betsy set up her G-Mail account.

Train a litter of Seeing-Eye dogs.

Send a carrier pigeon to your friend Marcel in Madrid.

Vote for your Uncle Gary for town Mayor.

Tend to your Tamagatchi.

Walk door-to-door with your Girl Scout niece, who’s selling Thin Mints.

Emcee a rap battle down at the train station.

Save a wild moose baby that’s caught in a bear trap.

Learn a choreographed dance to “Rump Shaker” by Wrecks N Effect.

Apply for a Visa credit card so you can join those old guys in the Never Miss a SuperBowl Club.

Go on an actual Wild Goose chase, for real geese.

Watch Danny Glover in “Lethal Weapon” and pretend you’re Mel Gibson.

Meet Papa John, because “He’s in the house!”

Watch Shrek and sing “I’m A Believer” with Eddie Murphy as Donkey.

Go spelunking with Hilary Clinton.

Make a fruit smoothie for Elton John, and a damn good one at that.

Birth a unicorn foal.

Go to the zoo and fix the polar bear exhibit.

Deep-sea dive for priceless pearls with Christian Bale.

Wrangle a bull.

Study the flight patterns of Canadian geese.

Break the World Record for longest boomerang throw.

Drink Triple-Thick Milkshakes with Brendan Fraser.

Participate in a Civil War battle reenactment.


Referee a 3 legged race.

Iron your pants, they’re quite wrinkly.

Gas up your Chevrolet Aveo.

Listen to “Born in the USA” by the Boss Mr. Bruce Springsteen.

Watch a documentary on the mating habits of macaroni penguins.

Go fly-fishing for rainbow trout in a small province of Canada.

Have a staring contest with Lenny Kravitz.

Watch “The Last Mimzy” with your dog.



Alright I’m about to tell you guys about this crazy dream I had the other night.  In dreams, anything is possible; flight, time travel, pet elephants; but usually my mind decides to focus on the mundane and the ordinary.  One night I spent an hour at a glass table drinking a glass of orange juice.  I mean come on subconscious, at least make it something cool, like some sort of sweet pomegranate juice, I really don’t care, but orange juice?  So the other night I actually had a sweet dream.  You know when moms tell their kids “Sweet dreams” and other corny stuff like that, well, I had a sweet dream.  Thanks Mom.  So this dream.  I don’t remember how it started (just like in that movie Interception with Cleo DiCaprio), but the first thing I realized was that I was sitting on some high cliff overlooking a lake.  Now I’m not talking Mount Everest high, but I’d say it was a good 20-30 feet above the water (pretty freaking high).  I was with three of my friends, JJ, Hayden, and Tim.  We were in all-white suits (the classy kind), and we had lifeguard whistles and those red floatable things that most lifeguards have, not the tubes but those long stick things, which in all reality would not be able to save anyone over 50 lbs.  I’ve always wondered why the abbreviation for “pounds” is “lbs.”  No idea.  But that’s for another time.

Anyway, we were overlooking this lake, which was teeming with people.  I don’t use that word lightly; this lake probably had 200-300 people in it.  Excessive.  All of a sudden, this elderly woman started splashing around, clearly in some sort of serious peril.  Then, as if we had all practiced it a hundred times, the four of us stood up and did a little dance, nothing too fancy, just a little jig sort of deal, and this music came down from the heavens, it started playing “Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns n’ Roses.  Right as the opening riff came in, we all dove from this cliff.  In this dream I loved it.  My hair was flowing, I had a wicked tan, and we all looked good.  I mean we looked good.  We hit the water with little to no splash (quite something after dropping 30 feet) and began to swim towards this woman.  We saved her so fast it was scary.  People loved us, they were slapping us 5, chest bumping us, and one young lass was actually crying with satisfaction.  Our white suits had somehow turned into crazy swimming trunks (also white), and they apparently had some water-repelling quality to them because I wasn’t wet at all.  We went over to our car, a white convertible with red leather seats, and hopped in like they do in action movies (you know, over the side and sliding across the hood real smooth).  Apparently we always had Raspberry Lemonade after we saved someone, because it was there waiting for us, and JJ’s had extra sugar in it just like he wanted it.  I don’t know what kind it was, but kudos to whoever made that shit, it was unbelievable.

There we were, reveling in sweet victory and even sweeter lemonade, when BAM! the little red light on our dashboard goes off.  The driver, I think his name was Glenn, threw the car into gear and we shot off.  I’m pretty sure this car had magical powers, because as soon as we started going it went into light speed (like they do in Star Wars), and “Paradise City” by Guns n’ Roses started blasting out of the speakers.  We all loved it; we were doing cheers with our lemonade and high-fiving and singing as loud as we could.  Tim had a guitar and he was shredding, it was amazing.  Then we got to another lake filled with more old people, and essentially did the exact same thing.

If there was a camera or someone watching me while I slept I probably would have been doing swimming motions with my arms and legs, that’s how awesome this dream was.


I Found This Letter…

Yea so I was walking back from class the other day and decided to check the mail. We get random people’s stuff all the time, apparently the addressee can’t dictate his/her own address to the sender.  But this one was different, as you’ll see.


Dear Linda:

I’m terribly sorry that I bought you red velvet cake instead of butterscotch like you asked.  I went to Kroger fully intending to purchase said butterscotch cake, but a series of unfortunate events (none of which involve Lemony Snicket in the slightest) forced my hand.  I arrived at the store and was immediately greeted by one of those old people at the front entrance.  You know, those people who can’t perform simple physical tasks because of their age and are thus delegated to the front of the store.  A woman who I pegged to be at least 95 years old beckoned me in with a whispered “Welcome to Kroger,” which immediately cast a pall over my trip.  I’d rather not be greeted by someone who looked as if she could snuff it at any given time; can you imagine the issues that I would’ve dealt with if she had fallen over when I came in?  I’m not even CPR Certified!  I cringed at the sound of her voice and gave a weak smile as my thank you got caught in my throat.  Anyway, I made my way past the Pork Rinds and Cheese Puffs (this should show you my level of dedication to your cake, I love those things) toward the dessert aisle.  As I turned the corner into Lane 13 and gazed down the long lines of Duncan Hines, my eyes were immediately drawn to the catch phrase highlighted in yellow on every box: “So Moist.  So Delicious.  And so much more.”  I was obviously attracted to these cakes as opposed to the others.  Why wouldn’t I be?  Who in their right mind wouldn’t want a cake that was both moist and delicious?  And that’s not even starting on the “so much more.”  I wanted to find out what that “so much more” was.  However, as I scanned the shelves for the butterscotch mix, I couldn’t find one box.  Not a single one!  As it became increasingly evident that I wouldn’t find this cake mix by myself, I enlisted the help of an employee, a young lad by the name of Geoffrey.  Aside from the fact that this young man had the name of Geoffrey, which in itself is awesome, he had a very likeable quality about him.  He seemed to hate his job, which I do as well, and it was plain to me that he had tired of replacing boxes of Jujubes and Junior Mints.  So, I called him over and we started to search.  After about 5 minutes we gave up, and I asked him what he would recommend in lieu of butterscotch.  As Geoffrey was a fairly large boy (he was pretty fat), I trusted him implicitly as an authority in the world of dessert and fanciful eats.  He immediately began recounting his encounters with various pies and cakes, taking a good 7 minutes to explain to me how his Aunt Bertha once had an allergic reaction to a Funfetti mix and how he had once choked on a piece of Devil’s Food that he had attacked “with great zeal.”  I had to stifle a laugh at this point, as I thought that it was quite ironic that he had choked on “Devil’s Food.”  I disregarded most of his rant, as it contained not only unusable information regarding his own eating habits but also various family tendencies and birth dates.  Amid the endless babble, however, I noticed that he seemed to regard the “Moist Deluxe Red Velvet Cake” as his personal favorite.  Indeed, after his talk had subsided, I asked him specifically about this red velvet cake mix.  He actually told me that he wouldn’t let me leave the store without a box, “that’s how GOOD it is.”  I think he was joking, but I decided not to take the chance of incurring physical hostility with a boy who looked like he had 5 square meals a day, and I rolled the dice with the red velvet.  It was “Moist Deluxe” after all, which I was sure would contain some of that “so much more” that Duncan Hines was talking about.  I had no idea that you were allergic to red food coloring or that you despised Funfetti frosting.  I still take an issue with this; it’s wholesome and delicious.  However, I will take full responsibility for my actions and am thus apologizing to you via this letter.  I just want you to understand that my actions, while regrettable and somewhat foolish, were influenced by the clever advertising staff at Duncan Hines and boy salesman Geoffrey.  I thought you would appreciate the moist qualities with which every Duncan Hines product is imbibed, and I falsely trusted the unwavering advice of a boy 25 years my junior.

I also want you to know that I have taken further action against both of the involved parties.  I wrote an angry letter telling Kroger that Geoffrey had stolen boxes of candy and donuts from the store on several occasions and was selling them for profit to his support group at the Church.  This, of course, is completely false, but I needed to get back at that sneaky bastard.  They bought it!  He got fired!  You don’t have to thank me, which I’m sure you will, for this.  I mean I’ll take a thank you if you want to give me one.  It would be the polite thing to do after all.  Also, I want you to know that I have written several displeased emails to the people at Duncan Hines complaining about the inappropriateness of their slogan.  I have opened 17 new Yahoo! Mail accounts and sent an email from each to make it look like there are 17 angry people when there is in fact just one.  I’m pretty clever when it comes to that stuff; I got my gym teacher fired in 7th Grade when he made me run extra laps in class one day.  I just told everyone he walked in on me taking a piss and watched.  They bought it.  That’s all beside the point; I didn’t write this letter to brag about my cleverness and skill.  I can supplement that information if you want me to; I’m shopping around some book ideas, all of which deal with said skills.  I just wanted to let you know how truly sorry I am.  I just bought some tickets to see “Grizzly Man” at the theater this weekend; I would be honored if you would accompany me.  I’ve already seen it twice, but I love it too much to forgo an opportunity to see it again.  Let me know.