Friday, May 27, 2011

Happiness: an alternative to misery

The difference between this blog and live television is that you can’t see what I’m doing as I create each blog post. If this were live television, you would see a 240 lbs. man slouched on his parents couch wearing his pajamas at 11 o’clock in the morning with two oversized Labradors laying on each side of him. The pajamas would be forest green with an adorable assortment of bulldogs on them. He would be cringing at a commercial for outdoor grills that featured a bunch of white people dancing with spatulas in their hands. But, what you probably wouldn’t notice is that this man-child, who’s about to embark on another day of over-eating and video games, is happy.
Dramatic, I know. This doesn’t make it any less true. Just a few months ago, a lazy day like this would be accompanied by trips to my bedroom to scribble down awful and depressing poetry until I realized just how awful it was and curled up in the fetal position to mumble pessimistic affirmations to myself. For the functional people in my small audience, allow me to explain exactly what a pessimistic affirmation is.
Everyone seems to remember the Al Franken character on Saturday Night Live where he looks in a mirror and says “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.” Imagine that, except rather than looking in the mirror, he’s in the dark. And rather than sitting in a chair, he’s laying in a bed clutching a pillow with both arms collecting his tears. And rather than a cheesy sweater and slacks, he’s wearing a t-shirt he wouldn’t wear unless he knew no one was going to see him in the light that day. If he really feels like treating himself that day, he’ll grab some of his ex-girlfriends clothes because he just misses the smell. And, of course, instead of telling himself how great he is, he’ll say “you suck, you’re fat, and you’re going to die alone.” Anyone with an “imbalance” knows what I’m talking about.
Now, I no longer eat ice cream at noon because I hate myself, I enjoy that bowl of “Raspberry Cow Tracks” because I just so happen to have a craving, and afternoon ice cream always makes a good day great. When I sneak off to my room, it’s not to write bad poetry, it’s to write jokes about boners. I’ve found that comparing premature ejaculation to the performance of Jimmy Fallon in an SNL skit is much more therapeutic than talking about “my soul’s darkest hour.”
I have a job that pays decently, even if setting up tents for bright eyed 18-year-olds at their graduation parties gets a little nauseating. I have a beautiful girlfriend (sorry, ladies) that I simply can’t get enough of at the moment. I have a career path that, although it’s hardly the “easy money” route, has me excited about my future for once.
I had a moment in the car the other day, driving home from an interview for an internship that I just nailed. It was one of those picture perfect days that only happen every so often in Minnesota. I was listening to Yonder Mountain String Band, one of my favorites. I noticed a lyric from the song “Left Me in a Hole,” that seemed to be lost on me every other time I had heard it. The song is about being left by someone and not being able to recover from it, something I’m familiar with. The line is “if your eyes are closed you can’t see the sun rise.”
Well, internet, as cliché as it sounds, my eyes are open. And the sun is shining.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

The Sequel

                Wow, I would be remiss if I didn’t say thank you for the support of my first post, even if three out of every four views were me refreshing the page to see if anyone had gotten offended by my jokes about Jews. Unfortunately, I didn’t offend anyone. For the record, I have nothing against anyone of any particular faith, but is it funny to talk as if I do? Absolutely.
                This is my second installment of this series, which means that if it’s anything like a big-time Hollywood movie, it’s going to suck.  Or, if this is like a big-time Michael Bay movie, this is going to suck, the last one sucked, and the next one will suck because there is no way to replace Megan Fox’s sideboob no matter how many obnoxious special effects I add to the blog.
                So, let’s cover the events of the last week. I typically don’t use topical or political humor for material, but I think I may be on to something here. First, we have Arnold Swarzenagger’s lovechild with some staffer that is now ten years of age. This broke up a long marriage and stained the reputation of a sitting United States governor. Divorce is hilarious.
                What I can’t get myself to understand is how people were surprised by this. Wait, you are going to tell me that a global superstar actor cheated on his wife? No way. Hang on, now you’re going to tell me that a politician had an affair with a house staffer? Now that’s just crazy talk. And I love the language the news is using to talk about this story: “Had an affair with a staffer” is just their nice way of saying “banging the nanny.”
                Of course, the other waste of news time everyone seems to be talking about is the mass extinction of the human race. That’s right, as I write these words, we are inching closer and closer to the biblical apocalypse. I feel honored that you are spending your last moments on this earth reading my dick jokes before the big guy comes down from upstairs to say “what’s up” and unleashes the wrath of God on our candy asses.
                Which brings me to my last point. No one seems to be talking about the death “Macho-Man” Randy Savage, or as I like to call him, the last bastion of hope for humanity.
Let’s start putting these pieces together. They say disasters, like celebrity deaths, happen in threes. If we are going to use this logic, and we are, the human race is screwed. Think about it, Swarzenagger’s kid is coming of age, the rapture is upon us some time this afternoon, and the “Macho-Man” drops dead out of nowhere.
Clearly what we should take from this is that Swarzenagger’s kid is the anti-christ, and Randy Savage was the only human with the proper training to destroy him and save us. Those veiny biceps and that greasy fivehead were all we had left. But now that he’s gone, I better find a confessional soon and hope some last second “my bads” get me into heaven, because there is no way I’m fighting the Terminator’s demon spawn.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Gauntlet thrown...

So, internet, here we are. Just like a couple of old west gunslingers, this only ends one of two ways: with you falling in love with this blog and becoming a lifetime fan of my catastrophically witty remarks, or me shooting you in the face… bad metaphor.
Honestly, I appreciate your coming to the site, especially if we’re not in some way related, as that makes up the majority of my fan-base at the moment. I think we’ll have some fun as long as we both understand the rules to our relationship. I’m going to say some weird, borderline awful things. And you are going to listen. It’s basically the same relationship I have with my brother’s cat. On a side note, I hope cats don’t learn to speak English, or I my brother will never want to use his shampoo again.
So let’s treat this like a first date. That may not be a great idea for me because dating has never been my strong point. But, I’ve always been told that practice makes perfect, although I would argue that practice makes a lonely person addicted to pornography.
A little bit about me: I’m 22 years old and I love to harass my 16-year-old little brother’s friends both in person and over whatever social network they decide to let their stupid faces be seen. Teenagers should be neither seen, nor heard, nor treated like real people. They’re like gingers, except teenagers may actually have a soul. I enjoy the little things in life, like a sunset, a sunrise, or the overuse of anti-Semitic slurs. I love movies. I usually watch comedies, my favorites are “Black Dynamite” and “The Diary of Anne Frank.” Alright, just one more joke about Jews and I’ve filled my quota for the day. Oh don’t be offended, internet, I’ve seen some of your work. If you’re going to judge me for a Holocaust joke I recommend you take a look at a little something called “One guy, One cup” (but seriously, I don’t recommend that). Don’t be a hypocrite.
Alright, the date thing wasn’t a great metaphor either.
Let’s be honest with each other, internet. We were bound to join forces at some point. It’s just fate. We’re like Luke and Yoda, peanut butter and jelly, or Captain Planet and those gay kids with the rings. I have a lot to say, and you have a lot of space to fill. It just makes too much sense to hold off any longer.
In all sincerity, I appreciate you, internet. I appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me, to turn all my strange thoughts into a blog for my immediate family, and possibly a few of my cousins, to read. It wasn’t until I started doing comedy that life decided to start showing its beauty to me. I know what you’re thinking, “what’s beautiful about being able to go on stage and make jokes about the reproductive organs of a duck and your possible consideration of beastiality?” I don’t claim this to be the most universal of art forms, I know there will be people out there that won’t get it. And that’s fine. I don’t do it for them. I do it for the wellbeing of my soul.
When Eminem makes a song about killing his ex-wife in cold blood, or when horse-faced Lady Gaga sings about washing the feet of Judas, there is an army of people defending this as art. But, when a comic takes people to an uncomfortable place and makes them laugh when they get there, the reaction is either that they have done so in poor taste, or “who cares, he’s just telling jokes?” The only problem I have with that last statement is the “who cares” portion. Yes, we are just telling jokes, but don’t marginalize the art of it because we’re talking about boners and not poorly playing an instrument in front of screaming teenagers.
I know, it got kind of bitter at the end, didn’t it?
Folks, I will leave you with this. I love jokes. In many ways, they’ve saved my life. I hope you realize that most of what I say and do is just to see what happens if I say it or do it. And although I’d like to think there is a greater meaning to everything I say, I just want to make you laugh. If I can accomplish that, then we’ll be good friends.
Jews are cheap, quota filled.