A rush of blood to the ego

Internet, I think I may be sick. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, but I know for a fact something is wrong. The symptoms are strange. It was tough to narrow down, but here’s what I plugged into Web MD: smiling, waking up before my alarm, and ambition to start exercising. Web MD couldn’t come up with a diagnosis. So I tried something else, I plugged the same symptoms into Dictionary.com, and it came up with “confidence.”

                “Bullshit. Pure, and absolute bullshit,” was my first thought. I haven’t had confidence in my entire life. I’ve been so used to loathing myself that I forgot what it was like to actually have an interest in waking up and starting your day in the morning. My pessimism has been the most consistent thing in my life for as long as I can remember. I can’t start believing in myself now, right when my comedy career is just beginning to bud.

                My biggest influence as a comic is Louis CK. Louis thrives on vicious pessimism to get laughs, and I followed suit when I had first started getting on stage. And I realize the irony of my favorite comedian being a ginger considering how often I mock those freckle-faced mutants, but when you’re as funny as Louis, you get an exception, but not a soul. Negativity is a rather common trait of comedians. So many funny people have painted a bleak portrait of the world and made careers doing so.

                I must be cured. So, in an attempt to restore my perpetual eye-rolling view of the world, I will give you a list of things that have been bugging me lately. Hopefully putting them all in one place will trigger a sigh from the bottom of my heart.

-Being the only person I know without a smart phone. Sorry I didn’t get the email, I don’t have the internet in my pocket at all times. It’s not my fault my parents don’t love me enough to get me a data plan.

-Teenagers. I don’t know why, but whenever I see some scrawny kid walking around with a flat-brimmed hat with the sticker still on it and a pair of girl pants hanging past his ass despite the fact that he’s wearing a belt, I can’t help but think “why wouldn’t I swerve onto the sidewalk, I think the skater shoes make him double points.”

-Lady GaGa culture. Let me be clear on this one, I don’t necessarily have a problem with Lady GaGa herself. She seems to be a talented musician, so I won’t go there. But, these sparkly-faced wannabes that think that because some singer that wears too much makeup and has curves like a 2x4 says it’s okay to be a freak, then they can be as obnoxious as they want. Let’s try having an original personality first, then add some glitter. Okay, pumpkin?

-Anyone that wants to debate about politics, ever. Fact: this conversation will not change anything in either of our lives. In fact, we’ll probably both walk away more stuck in our beliefs than before. The only difference now is that I like you significantly less.

-While we’re on the topic, anyone that believes too strongly in anything. I used be the guy to get in arguments with people about religion and politics and whatever other social issue was bothering people at the time. The reality is that I just don’t care. But, I do know that jokes can be derived from anything and everything. Don’t tell me that a joke about abortion isn’t okay, then turn around laugh at a joke about slavery. Your morals and standards are arbitrary. And, as far as I know, the word “arbitrary” means “I don’t have to give a shit.”

                Well, that wasn’t very productive. I still feel great. This sucks. I can’t believe I waste my time like this. This is always what happens, get all excited about some idea and then everything goes downhill. I’m going to go in my room and mumble to myself.

                Wait a minute… mission accomplished.

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.

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.