Push That Button Like You

I told you that you should have done it.

Wha Wha Weird Wha To Forget

You guys should probably do this. It'll be fun.

So Tonight That Be Your Freezer Burn

This past Thanksgiving, we all went around the table saying the shit that we were thankful for.

Well, not really. The "around the table" bit stopped right after it was my turn. Husbands? If you're looking for a sure-fire way to make your wives hate you, just do what I did. Instead of going to the boilerplate response with the "life, family, prescription pain medication and health" thank you platter, try starting out by thanking the Goddess Sif for the bounty of food and the harvest, then wishing luck to Lord Thor in his battle against the Ice Giants at Ragnarok. Maybe it'll get the gods to smile down upon Midgard, maybe it'll get you icy stares and cold shoulders, maybe you'll get a little bit of both.


Then, when your mom asks you why you had to make a joke about the whole thing, just explain that your gods had just as much right to be present at the table as hers did and that she should be happy that they're even willing to listen. Crom, for example, cares very little about the prayers of mortal men and would rather slay us and bathe in the tears of our children than let us eat cranberry sauce while watching football. Maybe that'll smooth things over.

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You know what sucks? When you're surfing the internet for the random shit you surf for in a given day and your friend, who is equally surfing the internet as you are, decides to IM you every single interesting link he comes across. Now, not only do you have to skim and barely read your own stupid internet articles, but you have to have a separate window open to simultaneously read his shit so you can respond to his questions about whether or not the guy who wrote it is "totally queer." And, yes, I realize that's not a complaint that existed before 1998. I like to be on the cutting edge when I whine.

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And here's another tidbit that I couldn't have written more than a few years ago. (Man, I'm so hip today.)


I see a lot of people driving around and weaving in their lanes and, when I pass them, I peek over to see what their problem is. Very often, these people are texting while driving. Listen... don't do it. It's dangerous, kinda silly and never about anything important.


However, being the hypocrite I am, I can tell you from experience that it's twice as dangerous to be on your BlackBerry making fantasy football trades while driving. That's how you end up saying things like, "Whoa, I need to slow down here.... yikes, I almost dropped my top scorer... hey, I almost rear ended that guy - I need to pay more attention... yow! I almost traded my quarterback for a guy that's out with an injury - I need to pay more attention... fuck, I think I just missed my turn... fuck, I think I just traded Marshawn Lynch for Benjamin Netanyahu..."


It's not every day you get to fail on two fronts at the same time.

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I like writing posts in blocks like this because it seems like people only skim, read the last sentence and regardless of what happened before it, only comment on how it ended. Like... right now, I could say "elephant semen is my favorite flavor of ice cream" and nobody would notice because I'm about to undercut it by making fun of a car I saw in a parking lot in a few seconds. This part of the post is very meta.

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This story may sound familiar to one of you because I was on the phone with you when it happened. One of you odd blog reading people. You're all very strange. I'm not sure why I associate myself with you. You bizarre characters. With your... with your... RSS feeds and whatnot.


I was standing in a parking lot waiting for ham when I noticed a car that had a Deftones decal on the back. The Deftones aren't a terrible band by my own standards, but, for some reason, I was convinced that the person who drove this car was someone I couldn't get along with.


I imagined he had a haircut that, if you saw it in a picture, you'd know the picture was taken somewhere between 2006 and 2009 just based on the hair alone.


I imagined he's the type of person that, if you asked him to describe himself, would say he was "weird." I hate people that describe themselves as "weird." If you think you're weird, then are you weird, or just being weird so you can tell people that you're weird? Weird is something you call someone who, if you asked him to describe himself, would say he was "normal", but wasn't what anyone else would consider normal. This is a tangent.

I pictured him having pants so big and heavy that he's lost entire cheeseburgers in the pockets.

I sat in the parking lot... angry. Angry at this man for existing. I had to sit there and watch the car... wait to see who came out to the car... then I'd ask his name, and he'd say "Eryc", and I'd say "fuck you, Eric."

Then he'd say, "No, it's Eryc with a Y. I can tell you pronounced it with an I because it didn't sound edgy enough."

Then I'd say, "No, it's not, asshole. Eric has an I. Get over yourself."

Then I'd walk away angry forever at Eric. I had to wait and see him. I needed this to happen. But then my ham was ready.