Most of you are probably familiar with my last fake Craig's List post. You know, the one where the LAPD tracked me down at work and accused me of baby trafficking? Well, that one set a pretty high bar that I likely won't ever clear. But this one is a good attempt! So, here's the link. Since it'll probably get taken down in like 5 minutes, I'll post the picture too (click to enlarge).
In the rare event that I do get arrested, please send all checks to 72andSunny c/o Matt Heath Bail Fund.
This website is a gift from God. Perfect for people who hate reading.
So, I thought I was super clever when I "invented" the Super Shocker (pictured above) at work the other day. It's like the regular shocker, only with way more shock (ie. fingers). After a few days of making jokes about it, I looked if up on Urban Dictionary and, sure enough, some other asshole already had the brilliant idea. So, Rob Teague and I took it to the next level...
World, I give you: The Mega Shocker!
That's fuckin' right. The Mega Shocker is just like the Super Shocker, only performed by two guys. Now, I know what you're probably thinking, "But, Matt, why do you want to perform the Mega Shocker with another guy?" Good question. The answer is: I don't. Which is why I also invented the Shock-a-Trois! (pictured below)
Yes, the Shock-a-Trois can only be performed by a male and a female. To protect the identity of the girl in this picture, I will refer to her as "Shmonica." Now I bet you're probably thinking, "But, Matt, why are you thinking of things like this while you're at work?" Good question. The answer is: My job rules and I'm drinking beer at my desk.
Well, there you have it. Perform the Shocker trilogy at your own risk. These are still in their beta phase and have yet to be tested on humans... or anything, really. But if you happen to get a chance to use one of these, make her call you Matt. God bless.
I forgot to show this when it went live. Jay and I wrote and designed it. Follow the link and check it out. Lots of fun stuff on there.
I love good ideas. And this is one I wish I'd had first.
Well, I’ve done it. I fuckin’ did it, everybody! After 29 years of unrelenting dedication and an unwavering commitment to my craft I can honestly say, without fear of sounding braggadocios, I have perfected the art of fucking up. I am the Michael Jordan, the Tiger Woods, of fucking up. When I die, a statue will be erected to commemorate my fuck up-edness with a plaque that will read:
Matt Heath: The personification of all things asshole, the patriarch of the world’s retarded masses will hereby be honored as a legend, nay, a deity in the realm of really really dumb mistake making with this fucking statue. Flock to this place of stupid sanctity and worship oh ye of imperfection. But look not unto this sacred vessel with thoughts of transcendence, for ye will surely never attain the truly dumbfounding level of failure so immortalized by this statue’s inspiration. Make donation checks payable to the Kids Who Are Constantly Asked, “WTF Were You Thinking?” Foundation in Memory of Matt Heath.
I think you get the point. I’m a pro. Fessional. And about 75% of times I do something dumb, I get away with it. But it’s that other 25%, the mistakes that bite me in the balls, that I cannot handle. What are those mistakes you ask? Those are the times I accidentally park where I'm not supposed to. And who is there to make me pay, every single time I fuck up? Yep, the mother fucking parking “police.” That’s right, if I park just a little too far into the red zone, or fail to curb my wheels at the appropriated angle, those nefarious little bitches will notice. And they will fine the shit out of me. In fact, they’ve done so two times in the past two weeks. God damn it.
Despite my prior post about the PP, I like to think that I’m a pretty objective person. I can usually separate my emotions from situations before passing judgment. But I cannot forgive the sneaky, vindictive little assholes who willingly work as Parking “Police.” They are sub-human. They are the worst of the worst. They are mean-spirited and vindictive with a splash of narcissism. I hate them. And I also hate people who are friends with them, just because I can.
And just to prove my point, I’m bringing you a Feeding Friendsy first. I went out and actually interviewed a real Parking “Policeman.” That’s right, I wanted to get to know the man behind that little ticket computer thing. The following is a transcript of my interview with the enemy.
MATT: Ok, please state your name and profession for our readers.
PP: I’m not gonna say my whole name. But my first name is Don and I’m a Parking Enforcement Officer (PFE) for LA County.
MATT: Why won’t you say your whole name, Don?
DON: We’re instructed not to by our department head.
MATT: Yeah, but why?
DON: Well… I suppose it’s out of fear of retaliation. We’re not the most loved profession.
MATT: No, you’re not. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t suppressing a wealth of welling rage right now. Are you a sneaky person outside of work, Don?
DON: What?
MATT: Were you drawn to being a Parking Nazi because you secretly like making other people miserable?
DON: Excuse me?!
MATT: Does putting the boot on a vehicle arouse you sexually? I bet it does.
DON: Does it WHAT?
MATT: Yeah, have you ever masturbated in your little cart after booting someone’s car as you fantasize about the utter anguish and frustration they’re about to feel all because you noticed their registration was a month expired?
DON: GOOD LORD!
MATT: Do you have a running tally of the tickets you’ve written scratched into the head board of the bunk beds you sleep in at your mother’s house Don?! How many? How many cars have you gotten towed? I know you know!
DON: This interview is over! Fuck you!
MATT: No, Don, FUCK YOU! You are everything that is wrong with this world! You are the purveyor of parking sadness! You are a sick little man and you stand for everything evil and petty!
Don leaves the coffee shop, knocking over a chair in his haste.
MATT: (Yelling after Don) Have a good life ruining other people’s! You suck!
Well, there you have it folks. I think my point has been proven. I think there’s only one way to do away with parking “Police,” and that is to sharpen your parking skills. If we can all just remember to double check our parking situations, there will be no need for the Parking “Police” and we’ll be free of their oppressive stranglehold on our expendable income. So, please, do it for me. Do it for you. Do it just because there’s nothing more satisfying that imagining a Parking “Policeman” getting fired because he’s failed to reach his ticket quota. Revenge is so sweet...
So, we've had a creative team from Sweden visiting 72andSunny. As I understand it, they're part of a program that sends ad students to other countries for three-week blitzkrieg internships at agencies of their choosing. And these two chose us. They kept a blog of their little party-crashing ad-venture (I fucking love puns. Suck it.) It's a cool outside look at the US ad industry, and American culture in general. Plus, they interviewed me. Check it here. (note the position of my hands in the photo... unintentionally dope.)
Does anyone who's not a total dumbass get mugged these days? It's like the baby version of getting jumped. It's almost like, if you get mugged, you kind of deserve it. When was the last time one of your friends called you up one morning...
OPEN on you sleeping in your bed. It's very early on a Sunday morning. The phone rings on your nightstand.
YOU: (groggy) Hello...?
FRIEND: (sobbing) muuhhhhhhh huh huh huh... Hello?!? guuuhhh.. hih hihh hih, it's me, Melissa.
YOU: Melissa? What's wrong with you? What time is it?
MELISSA: (talking between sobs) Oh my God...las night. I was walking back from Sigma Chi. An... I was talking to Ryan on my phone after their rush party. An I took a short cut through the alley behin Monica's house.... an I had to throw up. And I did. An... then I fell over by the dumpster... and I was laying there... cryiiing.
YOU: Fucking Christ...
MELISSA: I KNOW... but, then, I was laying there...and my arm was in my puke... and I GOT MUGGED! By a gross homeless man!
You are not surprised.
MELISSA: ... and he took my iPhone, and my purse and the keys and MY MAC eyeshadow was in my purse!!! My dad is going to kill me!
As Melissa continues to sob like a retard into the phone, you slowly hang up, turn off the ringer, and fall back asleep. Melissa is exactly the kind of idiot that WOULD get mugged. Because only assholes get mugged. And you don't care.
FADE TO BLACK
Mugging is so 1920's. If one of my friends got mugged, we'd make fun of him for being such a little bitch. Like, mugging is something that happens to 80-year-old guys. Female meth bums are muggers. And the only way you let it happen is if you're SUPER fucked up and kinda like, into her... because she's a bum vigilante... a super gross rebel...
OPEN on you leaving a bar after last call. You're drunk as shit. Stumbling home, when someone comes up behind you holding a stick with a fork taped to the end of it.
MUGGER: Hannnss up, azzhole.
YOU: (turning around) Wha...?
A female bum, dirty and drunk as fuck with a crazy look in her one open eye, holds her fork stick spear to your jugular. You're paralyzed with fear.
LADY BUM: I sayds hannns up, funny guy. Gimme yer wallet and anything elzzz you got.
YOU: Yer...yer mugging me...?
LADY BUM: Wuz it look like I'm doin. You wannza get stabbed?!
YOU: No! Please! I... I...
Just then, you and the lady bum lock eyes, the meth depraved desperation is obvious as she gnashes her gums together. You steady yourself against the '94 Ford F-150 next to you. The urge to vomit washes over you like an ocean wave.
LADY BUM: Hey! I ain got all night, ass dick. Wallet. NOW.
The brashness of her voice intermingles with her pungent cigarette and Cheeto breath. But the primal urgent need to feed her addiction reminds you of the desperation of a lioness who ambitiously attacks a rhino, risking her life so her herd can feed. You glance down, her femine figure is outlined by her dirty Jordache jean jacket and leopard print Hammer Pants. Inside you, the urge to vomit is now replaced by the urge to procreate. Your mouth opens slightly...
LADY BUM: I'ma stab you!
She lunges! You deftly perry to the left, grabbing her fork stick spear, pulling her close to you.
YOU: NO! I'ma stab you! Let's french!
LADY BUM: Make love to me!!!!
YOU: Ok!
FADE TO BLACK
You get the point. Being mugged is a hell of a way to go out. Me, I'd rather get jumped. Or jacked. That's how it should go down. Get the shit kicked out of me all Rodney King style. Hell, I'd even appreciate a non-lethal gunshot wound. Maybe in the leg or something. Yeah, or a kick to the face. Not a hard one, mind you... gotta stay not-ugly. But, like, black eye hard. The mother fucker who steals my wallet better fuckin earn that shit. I'm not gonna give it up willingly. Not with out at least a knife slice or something.
Muggers: The weaklings of the underworld. Maybe that's what happened. There aren't any more muggings because people started getting wise to the mugging ways.
MUGGER: HEY! I'm mugging you! Hand over your rich stuff!
PERSON: Eh, whatever. (keeps walking)
MUGGER: HEY! I fuck you up! I'll fight you in the face! Cough up the wallet, you poop!
PERSON: Did you just call me a poop?
MUGGER: Please give me your wallet. I want it.
PERSON: No.
MUGGER: Yes.
PERSON: No.
MUGGER: Well, you know what they say. If you cant' beat 'em, join 'em!
PERSON: Cool, let's get some fuckin sushi!
MUGGER: Tight!
And another mugging is killed by kindness. Jesus is stoked.
FADE TO BLACK
I am a little offended I haven't been jumped yet though. Maybe it's because I look like a Mexican when I'm drunk. Or maybe it's because of the air horn necklace I wear all the time. Maybe my wallet isn't slutty enough. Whatever it is, I better start getting some criminal attention, or else I might have to start taking desperate measures... like wearing a wallet costume. No one could resist a giant, drunk wallet stumbling around the streets of LA.
But, in case you don't wanna get jumped, jacked, or (if you're disabled) mugged--I give you this list of the top eight things you can do to NOT get your shit stolen...
8. Leave your gold bullion Dunks at home.
7. Stop rufying your own drinks at the bar.
6. Don't wear ironically ripped Diesel jeans. Make those rips look real, yo!
5. Don't be a little bitch.
4. Stop making sounds like a $100 bill.
3. Keep a Ziplock bag of pennies in your pocket as a decoy.
2. Run with a boombox on your shoulder instead of an iPod.
1. When you're getting jacked, point to some other poor bastard near you and say, "Sorry, but that guy already took my wallet. He also stole all my crack and porno mags." Then get your video camera out to record the hilarity that will surely ensue. Instant Youtube.com hit!
Well, you're welcome. I just saved your money's life. Just remember, if you ever get mugged, save your dignity and keep that shit to yourself. Or, punch yourself in the face a few times and fake your own jacking! Fun! OUT.
Maybe one of you can help me out with this one. Why do dog food companies insist on putting a picture of the dog food on the labels of the cans? I mean, is there a noticeable difference in the way one canned dog food looks compared to another? And if there is, why the hell would a person care? We're not eating it.
Also, in the above picture there's a banner across that nebulous brown mess that says, "New Flavor." Seriously? How does Pedigree KNOW it's a new flavor? Did they feed it to a dog and then ask him/her, "Does this dog food taste like the last dog food you just sampled?" No, someone at Pedigree has the unfortunate job of Dog Food Taster. You can't advertise a new flavor unless you have definitive, measurable proof. And the only way to do that is to put that nastiness in your mouth and critique it. Jesus. I think I can handle a few weeks without a day off as long as I'm not forced to eat dog food.
After this, you people can’t say you never learned a lesson from this blog. You’re about to read a chronicling of my downward spiral into the bowels of stupidity (or genius… I think genius, but that’s definitely arguable). I just wanted to tell the story, not because I'm proud of it, but because it's just so weird. This is the long version, for posterity’s sake. Cue the dream sequence as we go back in time to two weeks ago…
(Harp music plays…)
I should begin this true story by stating the obvious: Sometimes, I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I try not to be, but I think the two halves of my brain like playing pranks on each other, which leaves me stuck in the middle. Literally. On this particular prank occasion, I was at work late on a Sunday night; dog-tired and worn out from a weeklong forced labor work session. I decided to blow off some steam by writing and posting a fake Craig’s List ad. If you read this blog, you’ll remember this one and this one. I write these, not to intentionally dupe people, but merely for some content for this blog. Since I’m a hack and can’t come up with brilliance on my own, I went to flickr.com for some inspiration. I clicked on the random button, searching for a picture to build a story around. It didn’t take me long to find a picture of a Chinese baby, who looked like she was balding. Perfect. Below is what I wrote. I posted it the next morning. (click on the image to make it full sized)
It took all of about 20 minutes for the ad to be flagged and removed, but during that time I got about 10 scathing emails from people who didn’t get that this posting was a joke (if not a bad one). I responded to all the emails, stating that the ad was a hoax and that they needn’t worry that there was some woman in Beverly Hills trying to trade up for a better baby.
Ok, so the ad was taken down, my friends thought the post was funny. My mom didn’t. But whatever. It was just a joke… or so I thought.
Skip forward to 5:30pm that same day. I’m still at work, getting ready for a meeting, when the office manager taps me on the shoulder.
“Matt, can we talk to you for a second?”
“Sure.”
We go into the small conference room where there are two other co-workers (another office manager and our CFO) and two people, a man and a woman, who I didn’t know, sitting at the table. The following is a direct account of how the situation played out:
OPEN on Matt looking at the people seated in the conference room. He thinks this is an impromptu performance review ala Office Space with the Bobs. It is not.
MALE STRANGER: Matt, why don’t you come over here and sit next to me.
MATT: Ok. (Matt wonders why he would need to sit so closely during a performance review. Matt takes his seat.)
MALE STRANGER: Matt, is it ok for your co-workers to be in here for this?
MATT: Uhh… yeah, sure, why not.
MALE STRANGER: I’m going to ask you again, Matt. Is it ok for your co-workers to be in here? We can ask them to leave if you don’t want them to hear what we’re about to discuss.
MATT: (now confused) Why shouldn’t they be able to hear what we’re about to discuss?
MALE STRANGER: Ok, fine. They can stay. Now, Matt, do you have an email address?
MATT: (now even more confused) Yeah, I have a few, why?
MALE STRANGER: Is one of them matt2bucks@gmail.com?
MATT: (now entering a WTF moment) Yeah...?
MALE STRANGER: Matt, did you post this Craig’s List posting?
The Male Stranger reaches into a folder and pulls out a printed version of the fake Craig’s List posting that Matt had posted early in the day. Matt laughs out loud. No one else does. Matt stops laughing abruptly.
MATT: Yes. I wrote that.
The two strangers stand, pull badges out of their jackets and point them at Matt.
MALE STRANGER: Matt, I’m Detective Castillo from the Los Angeles Police Department. And this is Detective Stelter. We’re from the Internet Crimes Against Children Unit.
Matt’s jaw drops in bewilderment. It should also be noted that Detective Stelter is a super hot female cop, which makes the situation bitter sweet for Matt. But mostly sweet.
CASTILLO: Matt, do you have any children?
MATT: No.
CASTILLO: Have you ever had any children?
MATT: No.
CASTILLO: Matt, have you ever been involved in child trafficking?
MATT: WHAT?! NO!
CASTILLO: Ok, Matt, then what’s this Craig’s List post about?
MATT: Whoa, whoa, this post was a joke! Have you read it?!
CASTILLO: Yes, several times.
MATT: And you couldn’t tell it was a joke?
CASTILLO: Matt, joke or no joke, you attempted to sell a baby on the internet, and I take that very seriously.
MATT: No I didn't.
CASTILLO: Yes you did. It says here, "Serious inquiries only."
MATT: Ok, wait a minute. I have never, and would never, actually try to sell a baby. EVER! This was a fake posting. A JOKE.
CASTILLO: Oh yeah? Well where did you get the pictures of this baby? Who is Wing, Matt? WHO IS WING?
MATT: I got the pictures off of flickr.com.
CASTILLO: Is Flickr some kind of child pornography website?
MATT: WHAT?! NO! It’s a picture hosting website. No child pornography.
CASTILLO: Matt, I’m going to take your computer. What do you think about that.
MATT: Ok.
CASTILLO: Am I gonna find anything I won’t like on here? Like child pornography?
MATT: Are you fucking serious? NO! Take it!
CASTILLO: Ok Matt. I’m not going to take your computer. But I am gonna run your name though and see if there are any warrants out for your arrest. Am I gonna find any warrants?
MATT: No.
Detective Castillo runs Matt’s name and finds no warrants. He looks disappointed.
CASTILLO: Ok, Matt. I want to search your house.
MATT: For what?
CASTILLO: Babies.
MATT: Jesus Christ. Fine.
CASTILLO: We’ll follow you to your house. No funny business.
The cops follow Matt to his apartment, where Matt’s ex-girlfriend, Catherine, and Matt still live together. They had just broken up. Matt sees this as a good opportunity to freak Catherine out, so he calls her and cryptically tells her that someone is coming over and that it’s very serious and she needs to stay in the house. She sounds worried.
CUT to Matt’s house on Venice Beach. Matt and the detectives approach the front door. Matt holds out his keys to the cops.
MATT: Would you like to open the door?
Matt fantasizes about how funny it would be if Detective Castillo opened the door and an avalanche of babies spilled out of the apartment, covering him, like in a cartoon. Instead, Matt opens the door and the detectives walk in. The fear on Catherine’s face is obvious.
CASTILLO: Are you Catherine? Are you Matt’s ex-girlfriend?
CATHERINE: Yes and yes.
CASTILLO: Does he have any children?
CATHERINE: (not knowing what this is about) Umm… no?
CASTILLO: My name is Detective Castillo. Do you know about Matt’s Craig’s List posting?
Catherine breaks down into a fit of laughter.
CASTILLO: This isn’t funny.
Catherine stops laughing immediately. The detectives begin searching the house, looking all over—including in the oven, which Matt finds funny.
CASTILLO: Looks like there aren’t any babies in here.
MATT: I told you. I don’t traffic babies.
CASTILLO: I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson. I’ma make you pay for all the time it took us to deal with your little stupid joke.
MATT: Fuck.
THE END.
Well, not really the end. I wrote detective Castillo a letter asking him to let me pay my debt to society by volunteering. He obliged by letting me conduct a toy drive for the East LA Battered Women’s Center. I was stoked. I should have been doing that anyway. So, with the help of lots of friends, over $350 was raised in toy currency and donated. Special thanks to Catherine, who raised a huge portion of the toys, and Jessica and LaTanya who played Santa and delivered them to the shelter.
There are several morals to this story. 1.) Jokes about baby trafficking are NOT as funny as you might think. 2.) The cops are magic and can track you down, even if you deserve it or not. 3.) Detective Stelter is hot and I might call her when I get back to LA. 4.) It doesn’t take much to conduct a toy drive. Volunteering is the shit. 5.) Be nice to your ex-girlfriends. 6.) Jason Pollock is a fucking asshole. 7.) Making bad decisions might seem like a lot of fun, but learning from said decisions is way more fun. Plus, then you have a great story to tell your friends. 8.) As weird as this whole story is, be thankful that there are people in the world like Detectives Castillo and Stelter. They are saints dressed up like cops. And in Detective Stelter's case, she's a really hot lady saint/cop.
Here are a few of the responses I got from the angry people on Craigs List. I did respond to all of them to let them know the post was just a joke. I'm not THAT big of an asshole...:
imbringingsexyback69@yahoo.com wrote:
You are such a horrible person to try to choose a baby to your liking. I read your add and was so shock that people like you exist how could you say you dont want her and any more because of her airline. Im sorry if we are unable to choose our parents and your born perfect without any flaws. This child that you have doesnt know any better if all she does is cry . But I could tell you onething though baby can tell when they are not wanted . Your lucky your parents didnt decide to give you up because of your hair line or because one of your big toe is bigger than the other. YOu should really count your blessing and be greatful for what you have. This child needs you and the want to return the child because of her hairline. you should really be a shame of your self for even posting her picture on the web and advertising her like she some kind of rag doll, she not an accessory this is your child you should love her and may she would stop crying.
I don't know what makes me feel worse, that I wrote an insensitive Craig's List ad, or that this person is an idiot. Her airline? Christ...
Yang from China chimed in with his 2 Yuan:
God is so wise. He won't allow cruel people like you have baby. You will die alone like cat.
Dear Yang, Quit hating. You're mean. I hope YOU die alone like cat. Just kidding, I love you.
Marisela thought she was really clever. She writes:
Where are you located?
I was onto her though...
Hey there, this isn't real. It's for an experiment I'm conducting for a
foreign affairs class at UCLA. Thank you
for being a good, helpful human.
Marisela lied on:
Glad to hear that because I was hoping to get your information and report you to the police!! What kind of experiment are you conducting? I work at UCLA.
To which I responded:
A very experimental one. You wouldn't understand.
In retrospect... she probably reported me to police anyway.
UPDATE: Looks like this post was posted on this adoption website. Have a look. They love telling each other their opinions about me. Good for them.
Ok, I could go on like this for at least another three minutes. But I won't. Thanks for staying till the end. I love you. Learn from my retardation. Happy New Year.
It’s
New Year’s Resolution time, folks. Time to find something you hate
about yourself and feebly attempt to change it. Did you know that only
12% of all resolutions succeed? For every ten people, 1.2 of them will
actually fulfill their resolution. That means, the other 8.8 of us are
left feeling even worse about ourselves by February because not only
were we unable to stop eating chocolate, but now we have to admit that
we’re weak-willed and pathetic…
OPEN on a scene of a guy,
Jason, passed out on the floor of his bathroom. There are chocolate
wrappers all around him, chocolate smeared around his mouth. A half
eaten Snickers bar is melting in his hand. His wife, Katy, walks in and
screams, waking him up from his stupor.
KATY: AHHH!!! JASON! NOOO!!!!
JASON: (groggy) Wha… what happened? Where am I?
Jason sits up and looks down at the Snickers bar he’s holding. He begins to weep softly.
KATY: Jason… how could you? Your resolution… Look at you…
Jason cries harder now…
KATY:
You promised me you weren’t going to eat any more chocolate for a
month. You promised yourself… You didn’t even last three days! Why
Jason? (Katy, too, begins to cry)
JASON: (Sobbing) This is your fault, Katy! I told you not to leave the Christmas chocolates out past New Years! You set me up to fail!
KATY: Jason, I would never do that to you, I just thought you were stronger than… this… (she motions to the wrappers strewn around)
JASON: I AM strong, Katy… (defiance flashes in his red, tear-filled eyes) …but not that strong.
Jason again looks down at the Snickers bar in his hand and closes his eyes. He slowly raises the candy bar up to his mouth…
KATY: No! JASON! Don’t do it!
JASON: I’m powerless against you chocolate!
Tears
fall into Jason’s gaping mouth, he shoves the rest of the Snickers in
along with them. He chews voraciously while pulling a melted mini Three
Musketeers out of his pocket. Katy slowly backs out of the bathroom,
closing the door softly as she leaves. She laments about how sad it is
that the last sounds she'll hear from her husband before the divorce
are the sounds of chewing interspersed with maniacal fits of
crying/laughter. She grabs her purse, and leaves Jason. Forever.
Fade to black.
Don’t get me wrong, I think resolutions are great—In theory. I just think we go about them incorrectly. A New Year’s resolution is just a tradition, not a reason to actually make change in your life. You might THINK you wanna stop cussing. But you really don't. You love saying fuck. You gotta want to stop cussing deep down inside. The only times I’ve seen people make a life altering decision and stick with it, it’s been because they’ve hit some sort of rock bottom. They went to that dark place and it scared the shit out of them. So, they changed.
Sure, a resolution SOUNDS like a good idea, but we set ourselves up for disappointment. You can't just think about changing, you have to actually do something about it. So, here’s the deal. You wanna keep your resolution? Set small, attainable goals. Instead of “I’m going to stop smoking for eternity,” say, “I’m not gonna have any cigarettes today.” Then do that again the next day. And the next. The more immeasurable a goal is, the harder it is to achieve. So set that main goal, and then break it down into smaller ones. This way, you’re not just thinking about it, but taking action. Believe me, setting and achieving small goals is a lot easier than hitting rock bottom and learning from your mistake the hard way. Just ask this guy. Good luck!
PS- I did a New Years Resolution campaign for Nike last year. Click here to see some of the ads.
(Disclaimer: This is a stupid post. I wasn't gonna upload it, but I wrote it, so whatever. Anyway, just so you know.)
If you never saw He-Man as a kid, you’re probably not gonna get any of what I’m about to say. So, feel free to tune out. Anyway, most people just called the cartoon “He-Man”. But it was actually called “He-Man and the Masters of the Universe”.
So, I was sitting here in the bar, and I started thinking about how messed up it is that He-Man dubbed himself and his friends the Masters of the Universe. That’s a pretty hefty claim to make. I mean really. First of all, I think God would have a little something to say about that, and secondly, how fucking pretentious are they?
But as a kid, I took He-Man’s word for it. Had you asked me if He-Man was the Master of the Universe, I would have said, “Absolutely.” I never even questioned it. Until now.
Now, I’m just pissed because I really looked up to those characters. I had all the He-Man toys, watched every episode… shit, I even had He-Man bed sheets (which I peed in sometimes, and now I’m glad I did). And think, the whole time, all my adoration was just stroking his ego. I bet he ate that shit up. What an asshole.
Well, it’s no wonder Skeletor hated He-Man. Skeletor got it. It probably went something like this:
OPEN on He-Man, Teela, Man-at-arms, Orco, and Battlecat all having a beer at a bar. Orco is finishing a joke…
ORCO: …and she turns around and says to the guys, “Watch it. I’m a prostitute, not a pin cushion!
Everyone laughs hysterically.
HE-MAN: Fucking A, Orco, you funny as hell!
ORCO: I know, right?!
TEELA: Hey, you know who else is funny? (She pauses) All of us!
More hysterical laughing.
MAN-AT-ARMS: And not only are we funny, but we’re buff, attractive, and awesome.
ORCO: We’re the Lords of the Land.
TEELA: No, the Presidents of the Planet!
MAN-AT-ARMS: The Earls of the Earth!
BATTLECAT: ROOAAARRRR!
HE-MAN: Everyone shut up, I’m about to say something… (pause) We are the Masters of the Universe.
ALL: YES!
TEELA: I know it’s true because I pooped my outfit right when you said it!
Everyone clinks their beers together in celebration as Skeletor walks into the bar. He stops by the Masters of the Universe’s table.
SKELETOR: Hi everyone.
HE-MAN: Hey, Skeletor, have you heard what everyone is gonna start calling us?
SKELETOR: No…
HE-MAN: We’re the Masters of the Universe now.
SKELETOR: What? No you’re not.
ORCO: Bullshit! We totally are. Admit it!
Skeletor stares blankly…
HE-MAN: Fuck it. You took too long. You have to move out of our apartment. Only other Masters of the Universe can be my roommate.
SKELETOR: What?
MAN-AT-ARMS: Deal with it bitch.
SKELETOR: You know what? Fuck you guys. You’re NOT Masters of the Universe. No one can be.
HE-MAN: The fuck we aren’t! The only person here who’s not a Master of the Universe is you.
ORCO: YEAH!
SKELETOR: More like Assholes of the Universe.
The Masters all stand up abruptly. A confrontation is imminent…
HE-MAN: I think you better leave before I instigate a sword fight with you.
He-Man removes his jacket to reveal a sword strapped to his back. Skeletor, outmatched, flips them off and leaves.
HE-MAN: (Yells after Skeletor) And don’t take my panini maker with you when you move your shit out!
ORCO: Well, that’s settled.
TEELA: Yep. Hey, while you guys were arguing, I went to the bathroom and sliced open the condom dispenser with my sword. Who wants glow in the dark?
BATTLECAT: RRROOOAAARRR!
Fade to black.
And the rest is history. The Master’s of the Universe attempt to destroy Skeletor for about 5 seasons of cartoons. They never succeed. Which is another reason how I know they’re not the Masters of the Universe. A true Master of the Universe would be able to destroy another person in no time flat, let alone five seasons.
Anyway, have a good day. I’m tired of writing about this. Hey, remember when the Ducks won? I still have a boner from that game. Happy New Year!
“Love at first sight” is one of the world’s stupidest sayings. It’s a rallying cry for all the hopeless romantics. For example:
Open on a very affectionate couple sitting at a table in a coffee shop. They’re sitting next to each other, rather than across from each other.
EVA: This has been the best 23 days of my life, Chris.
CHRIS: I know, Eva. Me too. It’s like I was walking around in a daze before we met.
EVA: It’s like, I finally came alive when we both grabbed for the same cart at Target that day.
CHRIS: Just think, it if wasn’t for that cart, we never would have met.
EVA: I don’t even want to think about that.
CHRIS: Yeah, me neither.
BOTH: (simultaneously) Love at first sight!
CHRIS: OH MY GOD, we said that at the same time!
EVA: We always do that!
CHRIS: I fucking love you.
EVA: I fucking love you too.
They launch into a gratuitous three minute make out session. Chris grabs Eva’s boob. The patrons of the coffee shop throw up on their Macbooks.
Ok, I admit, at times in my life, I have been an evangelist for “love at first sight.” I thought it was possible to look at someone and fall head over heels in retard love. But I’m sorry, that’s just not how it goes. No matter how much you like the other person, it is NOT love, at first. You're in lust, buddy. Here is a super scientific chart that I’ve developed on how you tell the difference:
I just read a national survey that says that 57% of women believe in love at first sight. 48% of men believe in it, too (all of whom were probably standing next to their wives or girlfriends when responding). So roughly half of all people in the US believe that true love occurs at the precise moment you lay eyes on a person, even without exchanging so much as a “Hi, my name is Angelo.” Is it any wonder why HALF of all marriages end in divorce? I’m not one of them smart people, but if half of all adults believe in love at first sight and half of all marriages end in divorce, then… hm…
Stop trying to make love happen at first sight, people. Let it do its thing. Have a fight first. Afterward, ask yourself if you still like that person. If you don’t, then run away. If yes, then maybe you're on to something. But then again, what do I know?
One time, when I was about 5 or 6, I was in the car with my family on our way home from Grandma's house. Grandma is a devout Catholic, and the topic of conversation in the car was religion. My sister, a 4-year-old at the time, was quiet for most of the trip, until at the end she blurted out, "Jesus is a fairy tale." Fucking awesome. Little kids get it. Kind of like when I was at Sea World recently. I touched a dolphin, and when Catherine asked what it felt like I said it felt like a wet Barbie leg--not quite right. Then, later, at the dolphin show, the trainer pulled a little kid from the audience to pet the dolphin. She asked the kid what it felt like, and he responded, "A cold hotdog." Bingo. She laughed, because he was absolutely right. A dolphin feels like a cold hot dog. Jesus is a fairy tale. I like turtles.
Anyway, on the way to work this morning, I was listening to a Sunday morning AM radio show called the "Jesus Christ Show," where some theologian answers questions from callers about any and all things religion. And I started thinking about sins and how God created humans to be perpetual sinners. Now, if God is an awesome God (like they say in that really annoying song), why would he set us up to fail? God is kind of an asshole. Let's do the math.
1. God decides what a sin is. Anything from looking at a boob to recreating boobs in a petri dish makes you a sin face.
2. God designs humans so that it's impossible for them to NOT sin. (It says the Jesus is the only non-sinner to walk the earth.) We're basically little sin-bots. We can't help it. Everything we do makes God throw up in his mouth a little bit.
3. THEN, God makes a set of rules which states that the things we're designed to do are bad and that we shouldn't do them.
4. God has a son and sends him to earth, only to get the ultimate beat down by the Romans. God says that Jesus died for our sins. Jesus, I assume, is still pissed about that.
5. We are allowed to sin, as long as we recognize when we are sinners, seek forgiveness, and acknowledge that God exists. For this, we are rewarded with an all expenses paid trip to Heaven.
6. Heaven will likely resemble church, which we all know is one of the most boring places on Earth. So in the end, after living a life of guilt and anguish, we get to spend eternity not getting to do anything fun. Wait, no, we get to sing songs of praise. Forever.
So what does this tell us? God is a vindictive narcissist. Otherwise he would a.) make us incapable of sinning, or b.) change the rules on what constitutes a sin. But no. We're doomed.
So, I say, this life is all the Heaven we're going to get. Heaven and Hell sound pretty much synonymous to me, so make the most of the free will God gave you (at least he was nice enough to give us that). Go out there today and do something that feels a little bad. Something that makes you squint your eyes all sneaky like while you're doing it. It's amazing what a little naughtiness can do for your well-being.
"If it wasn't for evil there could be no good, so it must be good to be evil sometimes!" -Satan, preaching the truth.
