Underpants On The Outside

When you think about it, this blog is basically about me reporting one of three things:

1)      Stupid things I do

2)      Misfortunes that happen to me

3)      Hilarious things I say (note: actual sayings may or may not be hilarious)

Well, this is a number 3.  In fact, it’s a holdover from last week, when I had a surplus of insignificant stuff to talk about.

As some of you may or may not know, for the past two and a half years I’ve played in a Friday-night soccer league (team name: The Asthmatic Pole-Dancing Strippers.  Bet you can’t guess who came up with that one.) That came to an end recently, when it occurred to me that cool, attractive people tend to go out on Friday nights, and they had probably been trying to call me.

Last week was my final game.  Wonder Woman (speaking of cool, attractive people) wanted to go out afterwards, but was disappointed to learn that my game was scheduled for 10:00. I sensed her frustration.  (I am TOTALLY compassionate.)  I wanted to console her, as that could increase the possibility for sex when I got home. I tried to think of something to say to her, to reassure her that soon we’d be free to spend Friday nights together for the rest of our lives, something that would probably help out later with the whole sex thing.

…suddenly it dawned on me.  Seven words, which had always expressed one of life’s essential truths, yet had never been so entirely appropriate.

“Baby,” I said, pausing for effect, “don’t hate the player; hate the game.”

Have a great weekend, everybody!

 One of the things I hate about living in New York is receiving packages.  It’s not a big problem, unless you have a doorman, or, y’know… work for living.  In that case, when you receive a delivery notice, you have three choices:

• a. Sign it, leaving your neighbors a comfortable window of time to steal your big screen TV, iPod or digital camera.
• b. Take off work the next day, only for the delivery guy to show up at a decent after-work hour for the first time in human history.
• c. Helplessly receive two more notices until the package is stored at the nearest facility, which is located in the one part of Brooklyn that was also part of the Confederacy. But while it is far, at least it’s in a really bad neighborhood. Oh yeah: there’re no subways that go there and you don’t own a car.

As an alternative, a lot of people have packages delivered to their office, as I do. But then everyone wants to know: what’s in the box, and in this day and age, when almost everything is cheaper when ordered online, this can lead to some awkward situations.  For instance, what if you were an aspiring writer who had found a niche market writing material about, I don’t know, comic books, let’s say.  And let’s say you were working on a project that-

Oh fuck it.  My She-Hulk action figure arrived today, okay?  Yes – I ordered a doll.  In fact, I ordered three: two She-Hulks sand a Superman, which will be arriving next week.  THEY ARE FOR A PROJECT.  (I swear!) And if this project works out the way I hope it does, I should have some very good news in a month or so.

But no one cares about that, do they?  No.  They just want to make their little jokes.  (As you can imagine, they’re mostly of the “Show me on the She-Hulk where the bad man touched you” and “Jesus, what kind of sick shit goes on in that balding head of yours?” variety.)

On a different subject, in a few weeks I’m going to have two She-Hulk action figures and one Superman, all in good condition, which I will be looking to get rid of.  Anyone interested?  (Note: they may be a bit sticky.)

I’ve got another Superhero Diary on the internet PHENOMENON that is Crave Online.  I really hope they get rich (and take me with them).

As some of you know, I work in the immensely gratifying profession of online ad sales. (I like to say that I ruin the Internet for everyone else.)  Sometimes this allows me to flex my creative muscles in fun and unusual ways, such as earlier today, when we were putting together a proposal for a brand of feminine hygene products.  You know, one that deals with a woman’s, um… “special time.”  We’re going to propose that they setup a profile on one of these newfangled social networks that we represent, but my co-workers and I were having difficulty figuring out how to thematically execute the profile.  This may or may not be because we have penises.   In any case, we were struggling, specifically with what to call the message board, when I was struck with what I like to call, “fucking genius.”  I looked up at my co-workers, and said…

“What about ‘The Commiseration Hole’?”  Then I laughed at my own joke.

Thank you, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your day.

It’s been a while, but the fine (and assuredly attractive to whatever gender they want to be) people at Yankee Pot Roast have published another piece of mine.  Enjoy!

 This is a fact: With the exception of girlfriends, I have never been seated next to an attractive woman on an airplane. Statistically this should be impossible, given how often I fly between Los Angeles and New York – there are always at least ten really attractive women on the flight. I know this because I watch them go by, me repeating in my head, “16d, 16d, c’mon, c’mon, please be in 16d…” But they are never in 16d.  Ever.

I mention it because on Sunday night Wonder Woman and I flew from Los Angeles to New York, and I missed my best opportunity to spend six hours next to a hot chick who, with the help of a little inclement weather, would be forced to sit next to me the whole time.  I was in seat 7E.  Her ticket said 7D.  But the gigantically fat man in seat 6D was happy to switch with her so she could sit next to her much-more-handsome-than-me boyfriend in 6E.   Motherfucker.

In truth, I have no misconceptions about what might happen.  I don’t imagine that somewhere over Omaha, Hot Blonde is going to sigh, rest her head on her hands, and say, “I really wish I could give somebody a handjob right now.”  And I also realize that I’m engaged to be married to an adorable, lovely woman, who- GODDAMNIT I WANT SOME ANONYMOUS HETEROSEXUAL ELBOW SEX!

Look, on every airplane, it’s inevitable that you and your next-seat rowmate are going to rub elbows.  And while it’s not nearly as fun as bumping uglies, that doesn’t mean it’s insignificant, as long as it’s an attractive female.  (Because when it’s a dude, you know it.  You can feel each and every arm hair.) If I had a hot woman doing the armrest fandango with me, I could easily waste two hours playing the mind game of, “Wow, that was really hot.  I mean, temperature hot.  Why is she so hot?  Or is it me… uh oh, am I sweaty?  No, I’m cool.  Did she notice when I just smelled myself there?  No. No, she’s hot because she wants me. I’m gonna touch her again… and now I’m going to go jerk off in the restroom.”  Unintentional caresses were the foundation of my sex life all through high school, and I have no problem kicking it old school for a few hours to kill time.  (It’s like looking through my dick’s yearbook.)

Maybe some people would consider my desire to be “cheating.”  I don’t care.  By getting engaged/married, I’ve essentially given up window seats on every flight for the rest of my life.  The least I deserve is some forearm fornication with an anonymous beauty.  And I would have got some too, if it hadn’t been for that considerate son of a bitch elbowblocking me.

I’m sorry, but I always thought the whole reason people purchase tickets with seat assignments is so that they sit in that actual seat.  That’s the type of lawless bullshit I’d expect from Russia, or Southwest Airlines.

Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules?