No time for tiddlywinks. Your letters:
I've been dating my girlfriend for nearly two years now, and we've recently been discussing marriage. We're both all for it, except that she wants to keep her own name after we get married. This strikes me as kind of an insult. What's wrong with my last name? It's a normal name, it's not like it's a Kornheiser or Houshmandzadeh or something. She says that she likes her maiden name and wants to keep it.
Oh, gals like that are always trouble. Always wanting to be independent. Those are the kinda girls who end up making YOU, the husband, do all the housework. Because they're so LIBERATED, they can't be bothered to take out the fucking diaper pail. BULLSHIT. On the surface of it, it is kinda weird that women are the ones who have to give up their last names. That would seem to be an outdated practice in the modern world, where men and women are supposed equals. Then again, FUCK THAT SHIT. YOU WILL BE MRS. CRANBOTTOM AND YOU WILL LIKE IT, MISSY.
Sometimes, I'm down with the old, somewhat sexist traditions. Shit like taking your husband's name, or staying at home to raise the kid while the husband makes money, or wearing a white dress shirt and cutoffs and stripper heels and washing your husband's car once a week for him, at which point he can sneak up behind you and give you the business any time he pleases. Those are important rituals in our culture. No need to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
I think taking the husband's last name is the least a woman can do. Ladies, you will get EVERYTHING else from us in marriage. You'll get our money, our time, our sexy sexiness. Everything. You'll take us and beat us into a little goddamn housepet. And that's fine. But please, leave us one scrap of dignity. Take the fucking name. It's all we have left.
One thing I love to do when perusing the menu at a nice restaurant is to practice ordering that item in my head. Like I actually imagine myself saying to the waiter "I'll have the Chilean sea bass please" just to see how it sounds. If I can picture the waiter replying with, "Ahhh fine choice sir" then that meal is approved. Do you ever rehearse your orders in your head to make sure it sounds like the meal you want?
But of course. I also anxiously await my wife to ask me, "So, what are you having?" And then, only then, do I spring it on her. "Well, I'm thinking about the MUTHAPHUCKKIN HAMACHI TARTARE." Then, and this is key, she'll look at the menu again and begin scanning for the item I just mentioned. "I don't remember seeing that." Then she'll read the blurb. And then… "Oh, that looks good." BOOM. Choice validated. I love dazzling a table with my anticipated choice of entrée. Like it would never occur to them to order that too. Only I would have the foresight to order the chili burger. When I was a kid, my sister used to ask me what I was ordering, then order it for herself, and that fucking pissed me off. THE GALL OF THIS PERSON. YOU FUCKING COPYCAT! BE AN ORIGINAL!
If you're married like I am, there will come a time in your marriage when you will order correctly at a restaurant and your wife will not. And she'll take a bite of your dish and ooh and aah over it. Then she'll take a SECOND bite, or even ask to switch plates, so that she gets half of your awesome dish you get half of her piece of shit monkfish or whatever. God, that's horrible. Listen lady, I am not here to pay for YOUR mistakes. Maybe next time, you'll order more wisely.
When I order something that I know will be awesome, I get very quiet until it arrives. I never talk. This aggravates Mrs. Drew to no end. "You're thinking about your food, aren't you?" Oh, yes. Yes, I am. Where the fuck is it?
What's your take on recreational prescription narcotic use? I don't go Drugstore Cowboy or anything, and I don't buy pills on the street. But every few years or so either my wife or myself gets prescribed something like percoset for pain. And when the pain is over and there are leftovers, it's time to have fun!
My wife seems to worry that I'll wind up a pill-popping junkie, but this is every 3 years on average and the fun stops when the pills are gone. No refills, no trips to the doctor with phantom back pain. So my wife should lighten the fuck up, amirite?
I have bottle of old Vicodin sitting up in my medicine cabinet. I had it for back pain back in December but the pain is gone and, frankly, the pills just made me feel like bogged down shit. But I hate the idea of throwing them away. Those are precious drugs. I kinda want to sell them. I think it should be legal to do that. You pay all this money in insurance and shit. Shouldn't you be allowed to peddle your leftover drugs to small children so you can eat steak for the weekend? I say yes. And I definitely think you should be allowed to consume them if you feel like it. It's kinda fun to pretend you're a no-good, pill-popping drug addict for a week or two. I AM NOT YOUR PROBLEM TO SOLVE!
In December, I had to go to the nurse practitioner to ask for a Vicodin refill, because I used up my first bottle (legitimately, as I was in pain and was still in pain when it was done). The nurse practitioner was hesitant to do it, and warned me that this would be the last refill I got. If I wanted more, I had to go to see an orthopedist. And, in that moment, I totally felt like I was House. It was AWESOME. I wasn't there just to score drugs, but she totally made me feel that way. I felt so dirty. So underhanded. Now I really DO want to talk her into giving me drugs again. Just for the thrill of the score. I LOVE THE CHASE.
What the fuck is the purpose of the overtype button?
You fucking got me, brutha. It's awful because at least once a week, I will press some key accidentally, I don't even know which, and suddenly Word will go into fucking overwrite mode, and everything I write erases everything in front of it and JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHAT PURPOSE DOES THIS FUNCTION SOLVE OTHER THAN TO RUIN YOUR SHIT? Word has all sorts of fun quirks like that. Ever delete something in Word and the type above it magically changes font? That's fun. Or I'll write out some HTML code and Word will change the code to a fucking arrow automatically. You fucking cunt of a program. If I wanted a fucking arrow, I would have opened the goddamn Symbols menu. Fuck you and fuck your arrow in the goat ass. YOU AREN'T HELPING.
On any computer I use (Mac or PC), there will come a time when I will accidentally press some combination of keys that will act as a "Contra" cheat code that completely changes how the computer operates, that I cannot find a way to undo, even by restarting. One time, my kid accidentally switched our Mac to Universal Access mode, which reconfigured our computer for use for fucking blind people. Everywhere I dragged the cursor, Stephen Hawking would come on and say MOZILLA FIREFOX APPLICATION or something horrible like that. Terrifying. That's how blind people have to use computers. I'd fucking kill myself if I were blind.
While driving to work, I like to imagine I'm in a Toyota and the accelerator is stuck at, let's say, 45 m.p.h. I'm trying to find the best spot to crash without taking a steel pole to the throat.
I always worry the brakes have been cut, or Elwood Blues put glue on the bottom of the accelerator ("Strong stuff"). I have a hard time figuring out the best place to crash, since pillow factories and haystacks are never in my immediate view. One option would be to find a barrier or wall and sideswipe it with the passenger side of the car, until the wall slowed me to a stop. Or perhaps a nice soft ditch. I've always wondered, if I crashed my car into a lake, whether or not I'd be able to open the door while the car is sinking. Would the water keep me from being able to open the door? Could I escape through the sunroof? Would I have to bust the windshield and fire a retractable harpoon gun up to a rock, so it might drag me to safety?
A long time ago, I got a pair of Rollerblades as a present. I never use these things because I don't know how to fucking stop in them. One time, I took them to the Cathedral area in DC and skated around a little asphalt circle there, which was mild fun. Then I turned and started going down a hill. I had never gone down a hill in Rollerblades before, and it was becoming clear as I sped up that I was going to get my shit ruined. I tried dragging that little retard rubber brake on the back of the skate. It did jack shit. So I had to find a place to stage an emergency landing. There was a patch of grass nearby, so I turned to the grass, timed my jump so I didn't trip on the curb, and landed face first. It remains the single most retarded moment in the history of inline skating. I gave them to Goodwill a year later. Those things are DEATH.
Have you every started a hot shower, let the bathroom steam up then take a dump? It is the best way to take a dump ever.
It is? I'm sweaty enough when I dump. I don't wanna take a shit in sauna. Then you get all slip-slidy on the toilet seat. Horrible.
Reading a headline today on a sports website; apparently the "injury bug" has bitten Josh Hamilton again. You know what would be really awesome? If there was an actual bug, that could actually give you an injury by biting you. I would send a fucking colony of these bugs to the Yankees clubhouse tomorrow.
Does malaria count as an injury? Because there are bugs that can do that. I don't know of any bug that can tear your ACL, though. Except, of course, one of the bugs from Starship Troopers.
That thing could totally injure you.
Sometimes, when I go to the basement at night to get the laundry or something, I picture myself chancing upon a cockroach that's like, seven feet long. A fucking MONSTER bug, that could bite my leg off. I would shit my pants if I ever encountered a giant Starship Trooper bug. No lie. I'd shit my pants with fright and run through a wall in terror.
Don't know if you have ever used those hand dryers where you dip your hands in to palm sized air tunnels, but they are one of the coolest things out there. I've only experienced them about three times in my life so I can't explain the satisfaction of randomly encountering one. To think I was once a paper towel man.
The Dyson ones? Oh, those are luxurious. The Dyson people are smart. They know we all think hand dryers are for pussies. That's why they called it the Dyson "Air Blade". Totally makes it sound badass. I have no qualms using something with the name Air Blade. Also, it really does dry your hands completely in the span of about three seconds. It's dazzling. I pull my hands out and I'm like, "Damn. That shit is desert dry."
I still can't get over the amount of people I see wandering the streets on a regular TUESDAY without a care in the fucking world. I'm talking street clothes, walking their dogs in the park NOT GIVING TWO SHITS ABOUT ANYTHING. Having a weekday off is like seeing a whole different universe.
Do these people work?
Are they actors?
Well, they're unemployed, and unemployed people and actors are one in the same. When I worked at a New York ad agency, I sometimes used to leave the office in the middle of a slow day to go to the movies. (Fucking thrilling when you pull it off successfully.) And the people you see in a movie theater in the middle of a weekday… that's a sight. Homeless people. Winos. The unemployed. Everyone is alone. Everyone reads a newspaper right up until the trailers begin. They're so well-behaved, it's a bit unnerving.
I brought a snack pack for part of my lunch today (shut up, I'm 8 years old on the inside) and I forgot a spoon.
The café is across the street and I'm not about to remove my office drone ass from my comfy chair, so I did what any man in this situation would do; I squeezed the hell out of the bottom of the cup and then proceeded to eat it out like I was getting paid $500 an hour to do so. Shortly after I starting tongue banging my chocolate/vanilla mixed cup of pudding, an office supervisor walked up looking for someone else. SHE just sort of looked at me in horror (/intrigue) as I tried to explain I didn't have a spoon while pudding was smeared all over my face. She left before I got to the word spoon. Just another example of why I was not brought into this world to work in an office.
I also vigorously tap the bottom of the pudding cup to make sure all the goodness comes out. I do this with yogurt cups as well. I can see there's more on the bottom, but I'll be damned if I'm going to go to the effort of spooning that shit out. So I tilt it, watch it poll on one side of the bottom, and then bring up to my mouth, as the yogurt slowly rolls toward me LIKE HOT MAGMA. I'm telling you, we're not that far removed genetically from dogs. We really aren't.
In what order will your children first watch Star Wars? 1-2-3-4-5-6 feels heretical.
Four-five-six. Then I'll do everything in my power to keep the prequel trilogy from his conscience. I'll throw myself in front of any display of it when we go to Best Buy, or whatever the fuck. I'll beat the shit out of any kid at school who mentions its existence to him. Because I know damn well that if he sees them all when he's very young, he will grow up PREFERRING the prequel trilogy. Don't think it can happen? You are so, so naïve. Kids today are fucking retarded. They lap up that Jar Jar Binks shit.
My goal is to make sure he grows up adoring the original Star Wars movies. Then, once he's 23 or so, THAT is when I spring the prequels on him. No reason I should have to suffer alone. RAPED YOUR INNOCENCE, I HAVE.
And if he ever calls the first Star Wars movie, "A New Hope," I'll cut his toes off. That movie is called fucking Star Wars. They may as well have renamed it PNC Bank Movie Presented By Lowe's.
Do you ever try to poop so hard you feel like your heart is going to explode like that urban legend I've always heard about, so you stop just before you feel the heart attack about to hit?
No, but I'll keep it in mind.
When I'm sitting in my cubicle at work I often daydream about what would happen if the building was simultaneously attacked by fire breathing dragons and space aliens. In my fantasy I assemble high powered weapons out of common office supplies to shoot the UFOs out of the sky. Then I create a human shield out of ugly secretaries in my office to protect myself from the blasts of fire from the dragons. When to coast is clear, I make a mad dash to the secret bathroom in the basement of my office building to take a crap and strategize my plan of attack. While I'm taking a dump a cluster of hot girls from the HR dept suddenly burst into the bathroom seeking refuge from the deadly dragons. After banging all of these girls with the aroma of my own shit still in the air, I exit the bathroom and defeat the dragon with my bare hands. This makes me cool, right?
You know it does.
I'll be at the Mastodon show at Ram's Head Live in Baltimore tonight. If you're going, pop by and say hello. Look for the shithead.