I Want to Buy an Electric Car
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The Boy's Club for Men
You read right. I’m a paid comedian. Actually, I won twenty dollars in a comedy contest last night at Old Chicago’s Comedy on the Rocks contest. I was in the zone. I brought the energy up in the room so high that they had to scrape it off the ceiling with a broom, or so they said. I did a few stories. I told a pun. I had the benefit of having my lovely wife and several compatriots attend the show also. I pretty much ran the gamut and pulled out all the stops. I plan to do it again. Here, have a listen: Feb 24 Standup by wolsamnoraa
Feb 252010
I’m currently pursuing my lifelong dream of being a comedian. After six weeks of nerve racking open mic performances, I have risen from the amateur rank of not-another-douche-bag-that-thinks-he’s-funny to the slightly more revered not-this-unfunny-douche-again. But, I’m learning. The availability of an amateur stage is essential to the development of every performer. Stage presence, telling a joke or singing a song, holding a microphone properly and captivating an audience’s attention are seemingly fundamental lessons for entertainers. But these things mean little if there isn’t any substance behind the act.
In rare fashion, I caught myself watching the hit television show, American Idol. American Idol is a talent contest designed to springboard an amateur singer into fame and fortune. Initial rounds of auditions before a panel of judges are followed by audience voting which determines a winner.
Take away the glitz and glamour of the competition, and the performers on American Idol are no different from me. Just like me, the majority of contestants lack essential performance skills. Because of this, the contestants are undeserving of the show’s bounty. Sure, these kids might be able to sing, but that’s not the goal of the contest. American Idol is out to cash in on an accomplished entertainer. The end result is a skewed vision of what talent is. They want a performer first and a singer second.
My concern is just how accurately the show’s formula reflects how “show business” works. Industry producers and executives rely so heavily on an entertainer’s ability to perform, that talent can sometimes fall by the wayside. Because of these operations, the “artist” the public is exposed to is a salesman for the music industry; in most cases he’s a talentless, organ grinder’s monkey dancing on a street corner as part of a marketing campaign. Think of any pop culture icons you’ve ever heard of and you get the idea.
It’s sad that many people who dream of becoming part of show business are forced to split time developing their talent while also working an audience. Performers who cannot accomplish both of these requisites are left out of the limelight. Unfortunately for fans of music and the arts in general, we miss out on a ton of talent.
I’m very thankful that there are opportunities for new artists to find a stage. Open mics and other amateur shows allow people to show off their talents without the pressure of pleasing anyone. It’s a showcase of raw talent. And, actually, it’s a lot of fun to watch and perform.
Stage presence is one of the most important skills a performer can have, but it is not the most important. The ability to act, sing, dance, tell a joke, throw a baton, etc. is essential. In most cases, however, we’re not exposed to that. Somewhere along the lines we exchanged intrinsic value for the pocket-lining monetary value. In most cases, it’s just not all that pleasing to listen to.
Feb 242010
That soap just cleaned itself
There’s a little secret that God hasn’t told you about. That’s right, you’re just s’posed to figure it out for yourself. Soap, my friend, is a self cleaning miracle device.
You wash your hands; the soap stays clean. You wash your face; the soap stays clean. I washed my butt; your face and hands are clean. It’s anti-bacterial by nature, the way your good lord intended. Haven’t you heard “reeks to high Heaven”? God smelled you and reevaluated the situation. Boom! Soap, hallelujah.
He didn’t stop there, however. Ladies, have you ever had one of those not so fresh days? I’m talking about ladies’ troubles right in and around the fourth week. That’s right! God smelled you, too. He took a sniff and decided to build in the self cleansing feature you’re familiar with today. Ta da!
The new and improved vagina is self cleaning and roomy enough to store an assortment of latex-covered, battery-operated machines. Much better than the old model all covered in hair. You know how many pieces of chewed gum I’ve lost in the tangles? Several. I should have my mouth washed with soap for talking like that.
Feb 222010
I was in the thirteenth year of my first life when Mother borrowed a chunk of skrill for an auto loan. She bought a midnight blue Subaru Legacy with zero upgrades. That’s right. No seat warmers, no spoiler, no window tint, no CD changer/player, no seat belts or headlights (just stickers). Bare bones. Mother thought that it would increase gas mileage and it did. She could drive thirty American miles on a single gallon of petrol.
We were so proud. She was so proud. It was the first car that she’d bought all by herself since women were allowed to own property in the late eighties. She cruised town in it. She carted the family around. She sold her body for sex to make the payments. It was the car I learned to drive with. I passed my driver’s license test while it was parked outside the DMV in the parking lot.
Eventually, Mother paid off the loan and the Blubaru became hers. After several years of precise maintenance and tune-ups, she parted with the vehicle and gifted it to me unofficially. I started driving it in college to see my girlfriend in the next town over at the all-girl middle school. I’d buy her cigarettes and beer in that car. It got so beat up in a hail storm that it was totaled due to cosmetic damage (you should’ve seen the other guy).
Mother finally signed the title over to me in 2008. I finalized the transfer of ownership just last week. That’s because the Blubaru was in an accident last week and totaled for the second time. This time, indefinitely. Luckily no one was hurt…just my fifteen-year-old junker. I signed the title over to car recyclers and collected a hefty sum of $150. Not a bad racket considering the faded memories the Blubaru gave me.
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Grrroowwlll. I went to the Lion’s Lair on Monday Night which is a bar…the Lion’s Lair not Monday Night. I did some stand up comedy. I pretty much brought the house down with some information that was given to me by the late, great Tyler Hate Fuck Davis (not pictured). Let me just say that Avatar was a movie.
Thanks to Steve Biernacki and Ryan Blum and Alex Nelson for coming out to see the whole thing. I am indebted to you men for all time or until this coupon expires in April, 2010. But seriously; thanks. And thanks, Steve, for the beers…you’re the guy…that got me beers for a dollar a piece
!
Feb 202010
My mother is a big, hairy gorilla. That’s right, stay with me. She’s an ape.
If you ask her about it, she claims to be of a young evolutionary age. Her name is Simeon. She was born in a jungle, she fishes ants out of logs with sticks and she has a hairy back like all the other gorillas.
She talks to me using the monkey sign language that she learned at the institute.
You’re probably wondering where I came from and why I don’t look much like a baby gorilla. First of all, you haven’t seen my hairy back and secondly, my father was a run of the mill banana salesman. Mom was his best customer and paid in full with premium primate lovin’.
Come 'ere, Gorilla Baby...mmmuuah
Thankfully, I only got Dad’s good looks and not his lust for monkey meat.
Dad died when I was just a boy of ape. During one of her sh&t fits, mom accidentally suffocated him with poop. I tried to figure out why she was so mad I got confused when she tried to use her monkey sign language while hurling feces.
I found out later that Dad was cheating on mom with some overgrown chimp named Buttons. After that they sent her to sit behind bars at the zoo.
The zoo keepers try to get her to mate by putting male gorillas in her cage. She mates, but I can’t bear to watch. I can see the pain in her eyes when she’s getting aped from behind.
She told me that she misses Dad and that no other gorilla can take his place. I said, “What about another man?”
A switch flipped. She got so excited that the zoo keepers tazed her. I went to the only place I know to find an ape loving man…the “Miscellaneous Romance” section on Craigslist.
I found my gorilla mom a human man. He is ironically named Evolution. He and my mother, Simeon, have fallen in love. She is going to remarry. I am happy for my monkey mom, but I’m disturbed by Evolution’s motives. It’s a sick thing for a man to lust for a gorilla.
I’m not going to their wedding. My mother went ape shit when she heard this and sent Evolution to come talk to me.
Evolution said to me, “Marriage of man and ape is the natural progression.” To which I replied, “Evolution, you can take your love a step farther, but I won’t have you as a step father.”
Feb 162010
These guys give douche bags a bad name
I know it’s a little late to comment on the decay of America’s social fabric but I’m going to anyway. I was tuning into some syndicated episodes of my favorite teeny-bopper television programming on a channel called MTV, when I noticed a show I hadn’t seen before. It’s called “Jersey Shore”.
For those of you who don’t know (i.e. anyone over the age of 24), “Jersey Shore” showcases the lives of several twenty-something New Jerseyans or New Jerseyites or douche bags or whatever living in a beach house in New Jersey. These kids are young and sexy and trendy and are always looking to score some tail or coke. Their nicknames and dialects are as revolting and annoying as those of the characters in the movie, “Good Will Hunting”.
From what I can tell, the men on the show gather strength for sun tanning and misogyny by slamming down Jaeger Bombs in hot tubs and smoking menthol cigarettes. The girls in the cast use the power of Bump-its, push-up bras and brash diction to get punched in the face. Watching “Jersey Shore” is like watching a bunch of retards play together. Everyone just makes up his own rules and throws a tantrum whenever he’s expected to share.
Their days are spent wandering around looking for sex and whining about how difficult their lives are. So far as I can tell, it reflects the general attitude of young Americans. The people in the cast are egocentric and insist that the world owes them something for nothing. No work and all play is the Jersey Shore way of life. The characters show a complete disregard for personal responsibility. It saddens me to think that this is what we view as normal behavior.
Regardless, “Jersey Shore” is a great show. I can’t turn away when these freaks get to jabber-jawing. From what I’ve heard, a lot of people like it, too. MTV has decided to bring the cast back for a second season. I guess we’ll just have to wait for another sultry New Jerseyan summer and “Grease” sequel before we can get another taste of this delectable dish.
Feb 082010
100 blogs are like 100 mL of kitten in that people eat them up so quickly no one is really counting
This article ranks as my 100th blog post. Yippee! I’m excited in a fun kind of way. I never thought I could do anything more than once, but here I am sitting atop a mound of progress.
I’ve found that blogging is stimulating, relaxing and stressful all at the same time. While I try to maintain regularity in my posting schedule, I avoid posting filler material. I specifically design each article to stimulate and excite my readership (that’s right…you’re gonna get tickled!). If I feel a post is sub par or lacks creativity and humor, I won’t post it. ”Forget the schedule!” I scream through the flow of tears. I find that blogging is as fulfilling as any dream job or sex act. I encourage all interested parties to start blogging. Here, then, are 10 reasons that you should blog:
10. Bloggers do it for twelve hours a day. Now that’s Tantric!
9. It’s free and will only cost you your time and money.
8. You’ll make people feel better about themselves when you reveal your incompetence and insecurities.
7. It’s a great way to expel a lifetime of knitting knowledge without pissing off your last remaining friends.
6. There is more money to be made on the Internet than you could ever imagine…I’ve heard.
5. Blogging is guaranteed to make you a social media marketing expert over night and, also, I insist.
4. Blogging is a great way to look busy while avoiding real work.
3. Some people may or may not like you no better nor worse.
2. Fame and fortune will instantly greet you within your first five-thousand posts, give or take.
-and, finally-
1. If I can do it, surely, you can do it much better.
Thanks for reading along for all this time. I appreciate your feedback. I especially like hearing you express what you like and dislike. My wife and mother did not like a post I wrote that explained the timely process of shaving my genitals. Other people thank me for giving them a good laugh every so often. As nice as it is, I’d like to thank you again for entertaining yourself with these foolish antics. I plan to continue forever and always or until something better pops up. In case you’ve missed it, here is a short list of my favorite posts in no particular order…
Misleading Wikipedia Information Or “Duh” For Short
New Tattoo For You Plus Two A.K.A The Jackalope
You Kissed Your Step-Brother’s Sister
If these or any other posts strike your fancy, tell your friends. Thanks for having me.
Feb 072010
Every once in a long while, the animosity you bare for your fellow earthlings falls by the wayside. You learn to live and let live and even love and get head. I am convinced the formula for such change heavily relies on one’s ability to share.
I recently acquired an animal pet. Her name is Tippi Nunu but I call her Nu for short. She is black and white and pees in the sink. I really like her and the story of how we found her is amazing. As much as I like this cat, my old cat, Tookie or Grandpa for short, hates her. Or at least that’s how it’s seemed since I brought her home.
For the first two months, they have been fighting and mangling each other in only the way cats can; loudly and with the removal of fur. The points of contention are usually related to food or territory or fiscal responsibility. Tippi says, “My space” and Tookie says, “I’ll claw your eyeballs out! Facebook, bitch!” And a kitty quarrel ensues.
The other day I awoke to the frisky felines contending over the warm spot between my legs (the place where my sleep-farts live). At first it seemed like they were actually sharing the spot until I realized a thousand small incisions covering my shins. Apparently, I was a victim of circumstance in their battle royal.
Today I saw Tookie and Tippi in one of the special cat beds I bought for them. This is a scene I’ve seen before and, like those times before, I feared there may be blood. Something unusual happened, though. Instead of fighting for the small island nation of Catbedonia, the cats were sharing. In fact, Tookie, my old, large, white sour-puss was licking Tippi, the smaller, blacker cat.
I was astonished so I took a video on my phone. It was short lived, however, when Tippi made a sudden move that spooked ol’ Tookus. He went from licking to biting in a matter of milliseconds. I assume Tookie has marinating agent in his saliva that enables his fangs to sink more easily into skin. I took video of that as well. Completely amazing. Regardless of the circumstances, they are making huge strides in sharing and love. See for yourself…
The calamity that ensued…
Feb 052010
You can give the dog tacos if he does his trick
Part of the new diet that I started last week is to get my flabby, smelly self to the gym at least every once and a while. While seemingly good, this strategy faces a mogul. Herein lies the problem; at the heart of every diet there is a monster lurking waiting to rear its ugly head. Since I have limited my work-outs to binge eating and seldom vomiting (great for your abs but not your self-esteem), it has been much more difficult to move around efficiently.
I liken it to one of those gym commercials on TV. In the commercial, every body’s fit and looking good. The price in the ad suggests you could afford a membership to the gym, and maybe that’s true. However, since you lack any sort of physique (let alone a healthy one) and risk judgment from other members, you permanently fix yourself to the sofa. You essentially decide that in order to fit in at the commercial’s gym, you’d first have to join a less reputable gym filled with ugly people that you feel comfortable around until you developed into a worthy specimen. In other words, there’s a lot of work involved just to start the work that’s involved. Clearly, not worth it.
And that’s me. I decided that getting old, fat me up and off the couch is a work-out in itself. It’s such a heavy burden to bear, in fact, that such work usually deserves a salty/sugary/fat laden snack or two, or three, or just gimme the whole box, dammit!
The cycle will continue until one day, I look out from the body of an enormous gastropod only to see that TLC is filming in my living room. Yes, the TV that I ignored for so long will find me out once again, thus, showing me what a waste I’ve become. I imagine that the producers of “House Whale” will try convincing me of some exotic and new gastric bypass surgery that, in the event it doesn’t kill me, will take me down a size or two, or three, or just gimme…
Unfortunately, after some initial excitement, I imagine the brochures that the producers show me to sell their fancy surgery are riddled with svelte recovering fat freaks. I will again hold that I could only accept the exotic bypass procedure if first I incurred a smaller surgery at a less reputable clinic. The producers will discuss the issue and ultimately reject my claim. I will wither away into a fifteen hundred pound puddle of tears and nothing more.
No matter how hard I work-out, there is no way I will ever lose the ugly head.
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