The Red Solo Cup Blues

Have you ever heard someone with an accent so thick that it sounded like that person was choking on English?

I got on the bus recently.  Three minutes later, an evil odor tapped me on the shoulder.  Not good.  There was a man who smelled like human excrement, and another man who was throwing up on the bus.  Feces Fella was in the back, Vomit Guy was in the front, and the rest of us were caught in the middle.  It hurt.

Someone long ago decided for the rest of us that leather is supposed to make us look tough.  We see it all the time in movies depicting 1950s street gangs, and there’s always someone pushing a motorcycle while sportin’ a leather jacket.  Just once, I’d like to see someone on a chopper wearing flannel pajamas or a chinchilla mascot costume, flicking people off while flying through rush hour traffic on the Friday just before a holiday weekend.  Now that’s tough.

I saw a dumpster that had a sign on its rim, which read, “Maximum Loading Level.”  I guess it would be since anything over that amount would fall out.  Sort of redundant.  Imagine an 8-oz. glass with that same label on it.  Now imagine pouring 16 ounces of orange juice into it.  Hmmm.  Just an observation.

I’ve come to learn that any product that says it’s for oily skin is probably making a bogus claim.  They usually can’t do jack for my skin.  My face should be the litmus test for these products and involved in politics.  My face is so oily that Republicans are planning to do some offshore drilling off the coast of my nose.

There’s a brand of cigarettes called American Spirits.  Now, I’m not sure what its overall sales numbers are like, but it seems that giving your company a name that is even remotely resemblant of the afterlife when you’re already in an industry that’s constantly on the defense against an image/reputation of being responsible for millions of deaths would be a bad idea.  It’s obvious that the name American Spirits is supposed to conjure up mental imagery of Native Americans, but it just seems to fall short.  Parliament sounds regal.  Marlboro sounds rugged and adventurous.  Kool sounds…umm…cool.  Anything with “Spirits” in its title just sounds like death and morgues.  Damn.  I need a cigarette.

At the end of last month, I was caught behind someone in a Hummer who was attempting to parallel park.  I’m still waiting.

Not too long ago, I was hanging out at a friend’s party.  Everything was good.  The air was as crisp as the sound of the music thumping throughout the house.  Guffaws and chuckles mingled with the intoxicating scents of red wine and spanakopita.  I placed my drink down while rapping with my boy on the balcony about politics, movies, and snooty, snotty womenfolk.  I went inside the house for a few minutes.  Upon my return, I snatched my beverage and proceeded to imbibe it–only to quickly spit it back into the red Solo cup.  Apparently, I had confused my cup with the cup that was serving as the local watery ashtray.  Cigarette butt juice, for those who’re wondering, tastes exactly like it sounds.  The pairing of the words “butt” and “juice” alone should be enough to scare you stupid.  At the moment, my taste buds still aren’t speaking to me.  I think that relationship is done.  I’ll start looking for some new ones on Craigslist in the morning.

Once I saw a tow truck towing a tow truck.  Now, if I can just see a cop car with a boot on it, then life will be complete.

To date, every wedding that I’ve attended has resulted in either a divorce or a separation for each couple.  Apparently, the common denominator in all of these weddings is me.  Therefore, you might want to save an invitation.  And if you do, that’s fine.  But I have been known to crash a reception or two, especially if you’re serving food I like.  I’ll be the guy leading the toast–“Here’s to your marriage!”  I should start charging for my happy marriage-wrecking services.

Easter egg hunts were fun back in the day.  Running around trying to find artificially colored samples of Nature’s galline incubators was just too much fun for a little kid to contain.  But as that rugrat gets older, he/she realizes the necessity for some things to change with the times.  Never had that been more clear than the day I saw a 5- or 6-year-old boy, with no neck and probably outweighing me by 20 pounds, order his mom to buy him some “can’ny” (spoiled kid-speak for “candy”).  His mom tried to resist, but when her son commanded her again, she caved in.  Therefore, I propose that, from this moment on, spoiled, obese, mean children shall participate in no more Easter egg hunts, but shall partake in Easter Bunny/Rabbit hunts and/or Easter chicken hunts.  Forget looking for stationary, motionless eggs; it’s time these kids chase after something that moves–fast!  Rabbits and chickens are fitting since they’re both associated with the Easter season.  Rabbits and chickens are quick, have low centers of gravity, and can’t run in a straight line to save their lives, the last of which could develop a punk-ass kid’s dexterity and lateral movement.  Maybe even tie some sweets around Bugs Bunny’s ears or Foghorn Leghorn’s neck, and let the kids run until they pass out or suffer heatstrokes, whichever causes them to fall asleep first.  Hey, ya little varmints, you want some “can’ny”?  Well, you’re going to have to work for it.  Stop crying.  Suck it up like you do that Hi-C.

Two friends of mine, a Muslim and an atheist, have been known to, in times of high stress and adversity, yell out, “Jesus Christ!”  Yeah, I’m confused too.

I am thoroughly persuaded that gay men are the fastest walkers in the world.  By nature, I’m a slow walker.  I’ve been outwalked by the legless, people walking on their hands, and folks walking backwards in the opposite direction.  But over time, I have improved.  Constantly coming up with new ways to challenge myself and break my walking land speed records.  My most recent training activity is to race completely oblivious strangers at crosswalks, and I am proud to announce that, since November 2006, I am undefeated on the intersections of Wilshire and Normandie, and Third and Fairfax, along with some side streets in the San Fernando Valley and the South Bay.  Presently, there are only 2 types of individuals that can beat me: gay men and people that cheat and run across the street while the rest of us pedestrians walk, or my favorite self-coined verb, “pedest.”  Not exactly sure what it is, but a gay man will leave you in the dust like Usain Bolt tied to a rocket.  I’ve tried to just KEEP UP with one and failed miserably, while pulling both hamstrings in the process, getting shin splints, and igniting a fierce but containable fire between my thighs caused by the intense friction of both pant legs rubbing together.  I don’t care what you think or who you are; there is nothing  that can beat a gay man in a 100-meter walk dash.
 
When I was young, the first time I saw a Chinese restaurant advertising Hunan chicken, I had my glasses off and thought it said human chicken.  I was wrong.

For some reason, most of my life, I’ve been confused with some fellow named Derrick.  Or Derek.  Or Derrek.  People think that my name is Derrick.  I’m not sure what the problem is, but I’m not him.  I always get the whole “you look like a Derrick” thing.  Doesn’t matter where I am.  Work.  School.  Church.  Bathtub.  Inside.  Outside.  West Coast.  South.  Costco.  Oval Office.  Grand Ole Opry.  Brothel.  Wherever.  Does not matter.  I’m going to make it a lot easier for all of you.  Since everyone thinks my name is Derrick and, as of this month, there are almost 6.8 billion of you in the world versus one of me, I’ll just do the simple, reasonable thing and have my name legally changed…to Michael Jordan.  There’s a nice, quiet, and unassuming name.