Underpants On The Outside

SPECIAL EDITION! 

I firmly believe that 24 is the best show on television, if only because I’m impressed by how much Jack Bauer manages to squeeze into a day. To illustrate, I’m going to compare each hour of Jack’s day to the corresponding hour in my own day. 

Jack Bauer’s day, 7-10 pm:

Won Emmys for Best Actor in a Drama and Best Dramatic Series.

Zach’s day, 7-10 pm:

Made pico de gallo.  Realized I forgot to buy garlic and tortilla chips.  Refrigerated pico de gallo.  Watched Emmys.

Damn it, Bauer, you win again!

By the by, while everybody may look happy now, I guarantee that one of those statues is dead and the other is bleeding in the back of a van, en route to CTU for further interrogation.

The scene: Me, Wonder Woman and my roommate Mary, who seriously needs a nickname.  We’re watching Entourage.  Wonder Woman, who lived under a rock while she was in law school, notes the credits at the end and says, “Wait, Mark WAHLBERG is the executive producer??”

I say yeah, he’s the producer; the show is based on him.  At this point, WW’s eyes roll so far back in her head I think she’s having a seizure.  I’m a half-second from jamming my wallet in her mouth so she won’t swallow her tongue when her eyes roll back down and I realize she’s not having a seizure; she just thinks I’m an idiot, full of it, or both.  

Luckily, Mary was there to confirm that I was right, so I went into my Victory Dance, a mixture of rump-shakin’, pantomimed ass-slappin’ and heavy amounts of white man overbitin’.  It felt terrific.  And then came one of those rare moments of inspiration; a moment when my wit and intellect…like…um…shit.  Where I say something fucking clever:

“Y’know why my dick hangs to the left?  BECAUSE THE REST OF ME IS ALWAYS RIGHT!”

Boom. 

I slammed the door, giving Wonder Woman and Mary some time to discuss my genius, but alone in my room the Victory Dance was danced yet again.  Oh yes.  It was danced.

I don’t know if they were, but I’d like to think that people were doing this kind of stuff long before there was an internet to put it on.

Saturday night, a couple friends and I were ramping up preparations for a long night of Xboxing.  Normally this type of thing requires beer, but in a last minute audible somebody suggested a couple bottles of wine instead, which seemed like an interesting change of pace.

We went to a local wine store, which was empty except for a couple of late-twenties females doing some shopping.  (Since me and my friends were filling our stereotypical requirements of playing sports-related video games all night, I’m going to presume the ladies were just picking up supplies before watching a Grey’s Anatomy DVD.) 

We did our thing and they did theirs, resulting in the usual liquor/book store interaction of wandering through the narrow aisles, barely muttering “excuse me” and trying to look like we were knowledgeable about wines and not just picking the cheapest bottle with a cool label.  Then my buddy joked, “hey, we should probably start with a red and then switch to a white for Madden…” and to our surprise the ladies laughed harder than we did.  Not only did they get the joke; they loved it.  

I’m not saying they were down to go back to the apartment to bump controller pads, but I’d be lying if it didn’t seem like there was a spark of interest.  Not in us; good god, no. But it was as if they had suddenly realized that plasma rifling your best friend in Halo and a pleasant glass of Shiraz weren’t mutually exclusive. 

I’d say that there was hope for us all, but later my friend’s sister picked up a controller during a game of Tiger Woods PGA Tour 2005 and proceeded to score a double eagle and a hole-in-one on consecutive shots.  So we stopped playing.  Fuck if we’re gonna let some girl beat us.

(For the record, I watch Grey’s Anatomy.  Give me a break; I live with two women.  But the difference between it and video games is that there’s no amount of wine that can make that show comprehensible.  The confident hot girl who cooks gets the least action, but the girl who is insecure, indecisive and completely irrational has to make the tough choice between Patrick Dempsey and Chris O’Donnell.  Keep living the dream, ladies.  Meanwhile, I’m going to be over here soaking in a tub of Axe body spray and waiting for my threesomes.)

My fantasy football league is just gearing up right now (draft postion: #2), and as anyone who has played fantasy football can tell you, the game is all about extensive research conducted during work hours.  I on the other hand spent all my time last year thinking of funny posts for the bulletin board.  Consequently, my first round pick performed so badly I was actually glad when he suffered a season ending knee injury. 

Since I don’t expect to perform any better in the standings I might as well start working on the funny, and that means coming up with a good name for the team.  (Last year’s team name: The Sodomy All-Stars) Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:

• Unconventional Foreplay
• The Perpetual Lotion Machine
• The Orphans (you might beat us, but you won’t feel good about it)
• The New York Knicks

I’m looking forward to comments and suggestions, if only because you guys have been quiet lately.  GQ can’t do it all, people!

During my junior year in college I experienced a sexual dry-spell of several months.  On the suggestion of some friends, I went out and spent more money than I could afford on a very nice mattress in the sentiment of ”If you build it, they will come (and more importantly so will you).”  All of a sudden I had a brand new feather-top queen-size mattress when everybody else had university-issued cots tainted with a majority of the Hepatitis alphabet; within weeks I was hosting sleepovers of a very adult nature.

To this day that bed has worked like a charm, and I think my girlfriend would agree except after reading this she’ll probably be setting fire to it.  But just because I’m doin’ the dew like clockwork doesn’t mean things couldn’t get even better, so if anybody wants to get me a levitating bed that costs a million and a half dollars, I’ve got the perfect place to put it.  Eight nights of Chanukah could ensure a lifetime of humping. 

I work in an office where most of our business deals with women’s magazines. Today, I had a little free time and was flipping through Glamour magazine, which has a feature called “Ask Jake”, where women write in with questions to get the guy’s perspective. But his answers are like most chick-flicks: bland and predictable with only a slight resemblance to reality. Compare my answers to his…

If a guy doesn’t call or email for a few days after a great first date, does that mean he’s lost interest, or is he trying to play it cool? Should I just call him?

Jake’s answer: Relax. Wait a week, then call him and invite him out with your friends.

Z’s answer: There are god-know’s how many women’s magazines, that have been published TWELVE TIMES A YEAR for DECADES. Nora Ephron has written ten movies. There were six seasons of Sex and the City. Are you telling me that women still aren’t clear on this?

Here’s my prediction. A year from now they’ll be out on a date, and she’ll think it’s time to bring it up. She’ll say “y’know, when we first started dating, you didn’t call me for days. I was so worried you weren’t that into me.” And y’know what he’s going to say? “I’m pretty sure I was busy putting up shelves that weekend. Mike also came over to play Halo. I remember because every time I killed him I’d yell ‘I just nailed you like that girl last night!’”

In other words, he’s probably not calling you because he’s doing something else. Or he’s been involved in a terrible car accident, so you should probably call him and tell him how worried you were. We used to love it when our moms did that. I swear.

Now can someone please tell me why women always date guys who are assholes?

Read more…

A unfinished list of “things that suck when your bathroom lightbulb burns out at 10pm”:

1) Whose toothbrush was that?

2) I just washed my nether regions with conditioner…and I think I liked it.

3) Sitting down to pee.

If only I didn’t live with girls I could have gone with the tried and true Sonar Method:

Step 1: Pee. 

Step 2: Turn in a circle. 

Step 3: When it sounds like you’ve hit water, stop. 

Now, it may have been the shock of returning from vacation, but I found something out the other night: it’s surreal and incredibly disorienting when a friend of yours calls you up at 3am to ask you if you know where he can get some weed. Maybe it was getting yanked from my sleep, maybe it was the fever-dream inducing heat; all I know is I spent the rest of the night trying to remember where my class was the next morning and if I’d finished my comp sci lab. For the record, it was a Saturday night. And I graduated four years ago.

Also, I have no idea where to buy weed or how much it costs. I wouldn’t even feel comfortable asking anyone about it because I don’t know if it’s outdated to call it weed. I always thought it sounded so stupid when my dad insisted on calling it grass.

Getting old sucks.

So me and Wonder Woman are hanging out in Turks and Caicos.  I never knew where T&C was located before, but if you’re curious, here’s a hint: it’s directly in the the way of Tropical Storm Chris. 

Currently, conditions are bright and clear, but that’s because Chris is just a Tropical Storm, which is kind of like the yellow belt of weather patterns.  But between now and our flight out on Friday, Chris might get his first name legally changed to ‘Hurricane’.  And then things get fun.

Just in case, me and WW went to the grocery store today to get some emergency provisions.  Here’s what we got:

• Bread, Peanut Butter (Chunky Style) and Strawberry Jelly.  I originally picked up Grape, but while beggars can’t be choosers, apparently people preparing for a hurricane can.  Now you get back to aisle six and find us some Strawberry, Z, and those Sun Chips had damn well better be French Onion.
• Sun Chips (French Onion)
• Crackers and jalapeno jack cheese (just because it’s a hurricane doesn’t mean we can’t party)
• A lot of water
• Six pack of Coronas and two limes (see crackers and jalapeno cheese)
• Water shoes for WW, just in case we get to go on our kayaking trip tomorrow.  It’s important to note that while we had thirty minutes in the grocery store with significantly long lines, WW spent at least five of those minutes picking out these shoes. They’re pink.

So, I’m now in my first official Hurricane Watch, but it’s really turning out to be more like a “Weather Channel Watch”.  If anybody could provide anecdotal evidence of the Old Wife variety that could convince WW that girl-on-girl-on-me threesomes have been known to prevent hurricanes, I’d really appreciate it.