Monkeys Wearing Pants (5 page)

Front Desk: For what?

Me: Never mind. So this clock is broken. Can
I get another one?

Front Desk: Is it plugged in?

Me: Sweet Jesus! I thought it was powered by
hydrogen. Let me check. Yes, it is plugged in.

Front Desk: Did you dim it?

Me: I may have tried to Dim sum it. Not
great. Tasted like chicken.

Front Desk: Chicken?

Me: No, I didn’t dim it.

Front Desk: Oh, OK. So, do you want another
one?

Me: I’m pretty sure that’s why I called.

Front Desk: OK, I’ll have someone from
housekeeping bring you one in about 10 minutes.

Me: Man, if only I could determine the
passing of time to know when 10 minutes have expired.

Front Desk: Sorry?

Me: Me too. Thanks.

So, I'm driving down the freeway today with
the windows half open (my A/C stopped working the other day) when I
look over and see a wasp the size of a cocktail wiener doing the
Macarena on the inside of the passenger side window. No worries, I
think as I push the button to lower the window. He'll just fly out
when it's all the way down, right? Wrong. Somehow the physics got
all wonky and the man-killing wasp was propelled like a rocket to
the right side of my neck. After screaming like a little girl, I
grabbed the first thing I could find to defend myself. It happened
to be my Kindle, which was charging on the passenger seat. Anyone
driving by me at this point would have looked over and seen a guy
in a panic, screaming obscenities while beating himself senseless
about the head and neck with a Kindle. I finally landed a lethal
blow, and the demon wasp landed on the passenger seat, feet up and
motionless. With a great sense of relief, I continued down the
highway, hoping my underwear was slightly damp as a result of
sweating in the heat and not as a result of the much less desirable
alternative. Suddenly, in the tradition of every slasher movie ever
made, the seemingly dead wasp rose up and starting buzzing around
the car again. What the hell? WHAT THE HELL? This time, I pulled
off the freeway and went mano-a-mano with the little bastard until
it was pulp. DIE, WASP, DIE!!! After a quick victory dance, I was
back in the car and on my way with all the windows up.

A postal worker in
Florida got busted for running in numerous marathons after going on
worker’s comp for a back injury. Ironically, her race times
actually improved after she went out on her fake claim. Not so
ironically, it still takes me 45 minutes at the post office to mail
a couple of things and buy a book of stamps.

I'm not big on leftover refried beans or, as
I call them, re-refried beans.

I’m sorry, but your password must contain an
uppercase letter, a number, a symbol, a rare blood type, a haiku, a
roman numeral and the name of your first pet in Esperanto.

I want to get a dog and name it Karma. That
way, when it does something it shouldn't, I can say, "Bad
Karma!"

Do you think a rat ever started eating
something and then thought, "Whoa! Studies have proven this stuff
kills humans!"

Sometimes, I have this dream that I'm a big
league baseball player, and when I come up to bat, the PA system
plays “Muskrat Love” (Captain and Tennille version) as my song.
What can that possibly mean?

Twenty-one people at an event hosted by
motivational speaker Tony Robbins suffered second and third degree
burns while walking across hot coals, and three of the injured were
treated at hospitals. I am now HIGHLY MOTIVATED to never try a
stupid stunt like that.

For the first time playing Wii baseball, I
hit a Grand Slam AND an out-of-the-park home run in the same game.
Sadly, shortly thereafter I was traded for a nunchuk and a Mii to
be named later.

We bought a new fridge today. It’s not big
enough to hide a body or anything, but I can see a tuna casserole
getting lost in the back for 3 or 4 weeks.

It's official. I now have more flash drives
than toes.

I saw a great bumper sticker today when I
was driving. I looked over and saw a stunningly good-looking blonde
driving past me in a brand new, red convertible with the top down.
As she passed, I saw the bumper sticker which simply read: "You
wish." Classic.

Instructions? Instructions? I'm a guy. We
don't need any instructions. I like to assemble Ikea furniture in a
dark room with butter knife, a tuning fork, a roll of double-sided
tape and that wrapper from the chalupa I had for lunch.

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to try
even harder to pretend I like cats. I just like dogs better, even
though I totally don’t understand people who get really small dogs.
What’s the point? When your dog looks like a hamster on performance
enhancing drugs, that’s just sad (for you and the dog). If you
carry around a tiny dog and people mistake it for a keychain, your
dog is just too damn small. If you lose your dog in the bottom of
your purse between the (curiously strong) tin of Altoids and a pile
of Target coupons, then you have a perrito muy chiquito that needs
to chow down and bulk up. The only thing that a really small dog is
good for is this…you spray them with Pledge furniture polish and
slide them under the furniture to collect dust bunnies, OR you buy
them a tiny saddle and teach a mouse to ride.

I used to think that Chinese torture methods
consisted of slowly dripping water onto a person's forehead,
eventually driving the restrained victim insane. But now, I know
the truth. The worst form of Chinese torture is untangling miles of
made-in-China Christmas lights, spending hours hanging them all up
and then finding that one has burned out, making the whole strand
useless. TORTURE!

When did disposable razors become so
expensive? Granted, I use the one with eight blades that vibrates
and plays peaceful mood music as I shave, but it seems a shame that
my kids are going to have to go to community college on a
scholarship because Daddy doesn't want to grow a Unabomber
beard.

Five things we’re going to do with our
“massive” tax refund:

1. Kids! New shoe laces for everyone!

2. No more discounted three-day-old sushi
for a while.

3. Family trip to the mall for a hot dog on
a stick and unlimited escalator rides.

4. Inching ever closer to having enough
money to make a down payment on a 1987 Yugo.

5. Massive used underwear purchase at the
local Goodwill.

Well, my ‘must-do’ list for today is shot to
hell:

1. I did not use the word “dollop” in a
charming or urbane way.

2. I did not have a chance to break the
record of the World’s Longest Piece of Toilet Paper Stuck to My
Shoe event.

3. Finally, I never got
around to translating that last chapter of
War and Peace
into one, simple haiku
poem. Bummer!

So, what's weird is that a lot of places
that take your credit card now just swipe it and hand you a
receipt. Quick and easy. But when you use your debit card, you have
to navigate through the banking equivalent of the Spanish
Inquisition. Is this the correct amount? Do you want it all on one
card? Would you like cash back? Would you like to donate $1 to the
Save the Snail Darter Foundation? If you could be any kind of a
tree...

I know that I should stick up for the home
team (that would be men), but I’m sorry – we are pigs. Thousands of
public restrooms attest to this. What is so challenging about
directing a stream of urine into a urinal the size of a pygmy
elephant from eight inches away without doing the Harlem Shuffle at
the same time and swabbing the deck for the next unlucky pee-er?
The guy at the state fair, who can flawlessly squirt water into a
clown’s mouth with laser-like focus, popping his balloon in mere
seconds to win a stuffed animal that makes him the envy of every
6-year-old he just beat, is the same guy that pees into a urinal
like he’s trying to spell his name in the snow. What is the
problem, guys? Your penis is not a swizzle stick, and unless it
dog-legs like the sixth hole at Augusta, this should be a fairly
straightforward operation. I’m sorry, but there is nothing worse
than having to mention over the partition to the pee partner on
your left that you and he don’t have the kind of special
relationship that makes it OK for him to splatter your shoes. I
don’t know what the answer is. Some places have actually put little
‘bulls-eye’ decals strategically on the inside of urinal. That
seems to help. Maybe it’s the innate competitive nature of guys
that makes many of them channel their inner Robin Hood and attack
those bulls-eyes like they are shooting an apple off some restroom
attendant’s head. Maybe if we could use our strategically placed
urine to play Halo or Call of Duty (there’s a bad pun there) or
Madden, we would never misfire again and hit the floor, the wall or
some guy from Madison, Wisconsin. Oh, and don’t even get me started
on airplane toilets.

Why are people (mostly men) so uptight about
the word “vagina?” From the time most guys are about fourteen, the
vagina is the holy grail of their existence. Men do incredibly
stupid things if they think it will get them just a little bit
closer to the magical, mystical, big V. Yet many find the actual
word – VAGINA – to be offensive to say. I am going to help the
cause. From now on, when saying goodbye to any male friends (OK,
not any since I have some friends who are not motivated by any part
of the female anatomy), I'm going to say, “See you later! Have a
great VAGINA day!” If I don't hear someone clearly, I'm going to
say, "I'm sorry...did you say VAGINA?” When I play board games, as
soon as someone starts to ask the trivia question like, in the year
1876, who...., I will shout out, "VAGINA!" If I go to a restaurant,
I will ask the male server, "So, how's the VAGINA today?" I'm going
to start saying to people, “Hey, is that a VAGINA in your pocket or
are you just happy to see me?" And on Facebook, I'm going to start
asking, "Hey! Where can I click to show that I 'like' that
vagina?"

One of the top young Scrabble players in the
country has been kicked out of the game's national championship
tournament in Florida after he was caught hiding blank letter
tiles, organizers said Tuesday. Cheating at a Scrabble tournament?
Now, this guy is going to be an outcast to the entire nerd
community, shunned by the thick glasses and pocket protector crowd
forever, relegated to playing Chutes and Ladders in his mom's
basement. Oh, the shame!

After decades of existence, the United
Nations has failed to come up with a universal popcorn setting for
microwave ovens. What are they doing over there?

Listen, I do think your girlfriend is hot.
But it's a dry heat.

These are punch lines. I don’t have the
actual joke yet, but hey, the hard part is done!

1. Sure, but then you end up with a parrot
and a bad haircut!

2. Only once, but in fairness, she didn’t
see the chandelier.

3. What? I thought you said watermelon on
the grass!

4. So, if anything happens to me, buy that
damn monkey a hat!

5. You remembered the Great Dane! You
remembered the chandelier! But now you have to go back for the
instruction manual?

6. Yes, a monkey in a nice suit with a solar
calculator did this…twice!

7. That’s odd because I asked for all the
money in the world AND a rotisserie.

8. No big deal? It was hell to get that
gecko out in one piece!

Lamborghini, for its 50th anniversary, has
created a $4 million car that will be assembled for only three
buyers who've already put down their deposits. I tried to put down
my deposit, but I was too late. I did, however, manage to reserve
the custom keychain that comes with the car, and they gave me
7-year financing so, you know, pretty good deal...

The definition of insanity as it relates to
underwear: when you continue to wear the same old, ratty,
devoid-of-any-remaining-elasticity underwear, even though every
time that you do, it inevitably does its best to migrate south,
causing you the public shame and humiliation of having to reach
into your own pants to give yourself a self-inflicted atomic
wedgie.

I know I’m not helping the worldwide
diplomatic process, but I just kicked some guy’s ass from Pakistan
in online backgammon three times in a row.

Three things I said that DID NOT get me out
of jury duty yesterday:

1. “Convicted felons could be reformed if
they just had more musical theater in their lives.”

2. “I’m not prejudiced, but I hate Smurfs
and believe that they are generally up to no good.”

3. “Sure, I’ll be on the jury as long as I
can bring my Kindle, balloon animals and large bag of White Castle
burgers every day.”

What is wrong with people? Seriously, why
can't a consenting adult legally marry someone from another galaxy?
A Centauri and a woman can't marry and start popping out little
multi-galactic brats like everybody else? A Logopolitan can't fall
in love with the earthling of her dreams? Oh, and for the love of
God, whatever you do, don't get down with a Medusoid and have
children! They may turn out to be hairy jellyfish with claws,
teeth, and a leg? (OK...I can kinda get that one). I just can’t
understand why, having come so far, we can't allow two people of
age who love each other to form a recognized and legal bond and
walk hand in tentacle, or claw or gelatinous appendage, down the
aisle like anybody else? Somebody help me out here…

AAA, the American Automobile Association,
and the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration have said to
forget putting your hands at the traditional 10 o’clock and 2
o’clock on the steering wheel (cue Driver Ed flashback). They now
saw that having them at 9 and 3 is safer and will help keep your
hands from being amputated when the air bag deploys. What the hell?
I’m going to stick with the knee at 6 o’clock sharp or one hand at
‘it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.’