The Big Picture

After finally finishing a painting I’d been working on for weeks, I proudly displayed my handy-work to my wife. “Well,” I said, “Wife, what do you think?”

Wife looked over said painting for all of two seconds before she decided, unequivocally, she was unimpressed. “Eh,” she said.

I was shocked. How could she not like it? My hard work and ingenuity created it. It is me. I am it. We are one. If she didn’t like it, then she didn’t like me. And if she didn’t like me, who would? She’s supposed to be my biggest fan and all. Right?

“Maybe I don’t have to like it.” Said Wife, rationally, like it didn’t matter in the slightest. Then she went back to doing whatever it is she does and I painted over my painting with thick black paint.

Of course I disagreed with her at the time, as my instincts usually tell me to, but after six weeks of deliberating, I’ve decided that actually, against all odds, I’m wrong, and she’s right: she doesn’t have to like the painting.

Because, as shocking as this is to swallow, not everything I try is going to be great. It can’t be. There’s only so much greatness in the world, and if everything is great, then nothing can really be all that great. This is a very liberating lesson to learn, because if everything doesn’t have to be great, then I’m much more free to try everything.

No, she doesn’t have to love every little thing I do. She doesn’t have to love every meal I attempt to cook. She doesn’t have to love my Supercuts’ haircut. She doesn’t have to love the way I rearranged the furniture. And she doesn’t have to love every picture I paint. Just the big picture.

Appropriate Adpock?

AdPock spent hours on end, trying to put himself in Binky’s shoes. But Binky didn’t wear shoes.

AdPock Thought...

The Rivalry

My wife and I play tennis. It’s our thing. If you don’t have a thing with your wife, I highly recommend you get one, otherwise you may find yourself without a wife. And I don’t know about you, but that would seriously disrupt how well I eat.

Anywho, I really enjoy this tennis thing for a number of reasons, foremost being because I get to compete with my wife. But while competition is a healthy part of any marriage, I don’t believe it can be the main part. Most of marriage should be about teamwork.

If you can’t get your competition out on the tennis court, odds are it will come out in a battle for space. Or more appropriately, for boundaries – the walls which protect our space.  

I used to let my wife win a game or two, to help with her self-confidence. Then, one day when I was particularly hungover, she took advantage and won four games! She pushed it to a series of deuces at 4-4 before I finally resorted to hitting nothing but drop shots, which her bad ankles don’t let her properly defend, at least not without a great deal of pain.

But it wasn’t that she had me on the ropes that had me so concerned. No, that was fine. I think I actually liked that because it made me play my best to win, which is the most fun you can have on a tennis court. No, it was that after she took those four games, she got all flippin’ mouthy. Just yap yap yapping away to all our friends: “Did AdPock tell you I almost beat him at tennis the other day?” “Did AdPock tell you I took four games?”

No, AdPock failed to mention that. And I haven’t given her a game since. She’s earned a few, which is what’s so great about our “rivalry”, but she hasn’t come close to winning since.

Now it’s personal. No more points where I let up a bit just to make sure she’s enjoying herself. No more wimpy first serves. Nothing easy.

See, I can’t let up. Or she will beat me. Because I know, in my Jewish athlete’s heart, that she’s good enough to beat me. Especially if she learns how to take advantage of my gentle psyche and starts talking a little trash. 

But if she does beat me, then that’ll probably spell the end of not just our tennis, but our marriage. My ego just couldn’t take it.

Or at least I keep telling her that, just to give her something to think about, in case it’s ever her match point.

AdPock Thought...

Love and Sandwiches

I love everyone. And I love that I love everyone. I pride myself on my open-mindedness almost as much as my ability to slap da bass in a dirty-song band.

When my fraternity brother came out of the closet about ten years ago, I reacted by hugging him and telling him, “Mazel Tov!” Though I found out a moment later that’s not really something he considered congrats-worthy, I was still pretty impressed with how easily I accepted the news. It was a true test of my homophobia, and I passed with rainbow colors.

I guess it’s one of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles in the first place: to be in a wonderfully diverse community. I live here because I love everyone, and because most everyone here seems to love me. We feed off that love to create a more beautiful world. 

But when you throw around a word like love as easily as I do, you’re liable to get yourself in trouble. Because I also love Chic-fil-A. And apparently, from what I read in the New York Times, Chic-fil-A doesn’t love gays.

Again, I’m not just throwing that word around. I fucking love Chic-fil-A. Like when I go there, I don’t take anything to read, as I normally would, because I like to look at my food and ponder its glory as I chew.

Sometimes, on days it’s prepared just right, I’ll even have a little love talk with my sandwich. I’ll say, “How’d you get to be so good?” And she’ll say nothing at all. Looking plump and tender and moist.

And I’ll say, “You know, you make me want to be a better man.” And she’ll just sit there, steaming. And for a minute, I’ll believe there may be such a thing as a Mormon higher power.

Then I’ll give her a look that says, “Let’s go.” And I’ll chew my bite, nice n’ slow.

So you see, it’s a bit of a love affair. It’s one of my longest-standing relationships. And here I am, caught in a vicious love triangle. Because, I also love gays. So does my love for Chic-fil-A prevent me from truly loving my gay friends? Do I really have to choose? 

Sold Out

Never talk to the Girl Scouts. Nothing good can come of it. You either get fat or you’re a jerk.

Is it my fault they sold out of Thin Mints? I understand they’re trying to make a buck for a good cause, but don’t the laws of supply and demand still hold? If you’re out, you’re out. I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty because I don’t like your Tagalongs with the same sort of worth-the-calories abandon that I feel for the mints.

It’s your fault. Not mine, Girl Scout. So back off with your over-salesmanship, and give me some goddamned consumer space!

AdPock Thought...

Sure, AdPock was a bit saddened that his therapist chose to let him go. But in a way, it was mutual; she was looking for someone to agree with her, and he was looking for someone much more enabling.

Cherubic Mike

Check out day 24 of my main man Mike Krum’s effort to record and post one video a day during the month of February:

To hear Mikey sing is to love him. Honestly, I have no idea what his lyrics are ever actually talking about, except I know he makes really good, groovy sense.

His songs are scary and glorious, all at once. There are a million ways to really hear him. He’s mad. He’s channeling the universal. He’s breaking down. He’s totally correct. He’s misled. He’s wayward. He’s ideal. However you hear him, the results are different each time. But emotional payoff is always insured.

It’s one of the reason’s I love Mikey’s songs. There’s so very much to him. There’s so much that makes no sense, and yet, at the end of each song, you’re sure he’s onto something. Something vital. Something necessarily human. Something so good. 

The Outsider

I was a Nugget’s fan first. A Syracuse Orange man second. I remain a Carmelo Anthony fan.

Watching Carmelo guide my lowly Orange to Championship Land was as good as basketball gets for a 5’4” whiteboy who can’t dunk a Nerf.

And Carmelo almost did the same thing for the Nugs two years ago. It was the most relevant the Nuggets have been since the 80’s.

And even though the Nugs were terribly disappointing last season, I was still proud of Melo’s efforts. In the playoffs, as we were getting unceremoniously trounced by a lesser team, the only player who didn’t suck was Melo.

It’s hard for me to bag on the guy, since he’s always been so fun to watch, and since he remains the ultimate Orangeman. Unfortunately, now I won’t be watching him as a fan. He jumped ship. He’s playing for the other team now. I’ll be forced to admire him from afar.

As a nearly-native son, I wish Melo liked Denver better. But I get it. It’s Denver. It’s a cow town. At heart, it always will be. And cow towns can be unsettling places for outsiders. Unfortunately, that’s what Melo is to me now. 

Hot Shot

Check out the following YouTube clip of a frat boy doing a flaming shot for the camera:

He’s obviously reached the point of the night where if he drinks another shot he’ll likely die. But he's got a shot in front of him, so what choice does he have? 

Not only does he give it the 'ol college try, he lights it on fire first. But since he's super-saturated, he does what any good frat guy would do in that situation: he pours it all over his face -- like a man.

Unfortunately, he forgot to blow out the drink first. Yeah. He burns. It’s hilarious. His face catches fire, and then, as he’s trying to pat it out, the rest of him goes up like The Human Torch.

Hilarious.

But what’s even better is that’s the last of this guy’s 15 seconds of fame. He used it all up. And believe me girls and boys, you don’t get 15 minutes these days. Not no more. What with the interweb and all this text messaging and what have you. People just don't have long enough attention spans.

So I guess the lesson here is to make sure, when it’s your time to go viral, you’re doing something as awesome as this guy.  

Too Much?

I feel like my wife loves me a bit too much. She’s totally supportive and believes in me 100 percent, when perhaps, only 75 percent is really merited.

Support is great; I’d certainly fall without it. But she shouldn’t tell me I’d be a great professional poker player, just because I tell her I’m thinking about it. Sure she’s being positive and supportive, but helpful? Probably not.

Of course, she’s in a tough boat. I don’t like to be told what to do. But I’m also at a place where I don’t know what to do. So what should she do?

I guess I’d rather have a girl who believes I can do anything. Now I just have to figure out how to prove her right.

plant

I just repotted this plant I’ve had for at least five years now. When I bought her, in Chinatown, she was a real beaut, her one thick green sprout sprouting all about like it did. Five years is a personal record for me as far as plant maintenance goes. I’m pretty proud of myself, but I’m really proud of my plant. So I decided to reward her with a repotting. (An occasion both of us were previously foreign to.)

Upon initial purchase, my plant was just a wee one. But after five years, three rooms, and countless neglect, she has done nothing but blossom. Where once there was one wee sprout, now there are four hearty stalks. And the new pot is really sleek. With all the newfound space, there’s something about the re-arrangement that has all the makings of an allegory, though I’m not quite sure what it is.

The longest of the sprouts is the leanest. He’s also got the best view, though his space is certainly being crouched upon. I assume he’s also the oldest, though I lost track during that one year I can’t remember. I like to call him Godfather. Sometimes I’ll talk to him like a wiseguy. He usually likes that. I’ll say, “Hey Godfather, how’s it growing?”

The strongest stalk is the fattest. He is the most naturally greedy. He is the fittest. I call him Hardy Sprout. If you look closely, you can see that Hardy Sprout is the baddest man in the pot. He’s the bat swinging alpha male who sees his environment as his resource. And he’s got the sweet core, the peacock feathers of foliage, and the erect posture to prove he’s at least somewhat right. (I even try to water away from him, but he’s too crafty.)

The next healthiest and second thickest stalk is also the shortest. He reminds me a bit of myself: not a lot of flash but good longevity. He’s definitely gonna be with me for the next five years bar some sort of invasion. His name is The Short Guy. He’s my choice if I have to pluck one out of the ground in a hurry in order to replant him as the last ditch opportunity to save his species from extinction.

There’s also one other guy who looks like he’s been there nearly as long as the Godfather, but I can’t think of him as having any Allegorical value.

I do know this about the plant. Where once stood one stalk, which could be sold as a plant (granted there are no size requirements as to what makes a sellable plant in Chinatown), now stand four equally commercially viable sprouts. Sure it ain’t Jack’s beanstock, but this progress is quantifiable. We’re dealing with real numbers, not imaginary computer blips, here. This is as quantifiable a production as anything else in these five years.

The State of Like in America

Two days ago was my best day yet. Or at least it was my blog’s best day.

A buddy of mine put me in touch with this guy, Ed, who works with some other guys over at this website called Neatorama. And they were nice enough to put the link to my blog on their Facebook page. 

Because of that, I had almost 300 hits! About 280 more than I’m used to having on any given Tuesday. Which is a pretty darn good increase, percentage-wise, but by no means viral. Or really even enough to make a penny on. I’m serious: not even one penny.

But still, I was so thankful to Ed for the cyber love. Like really thankful. Like exclamation points thankful! I actually can’t remember a better day since my wedding. (It has only been 5 months, and I have a really poor memory.)

Watching that stat tracker spike! Then trying to figure out where the traffic was coming from with the intensity of a movie hacker. Then finding the source to be Neatorama’s Facebook page and the 6,000 people who Like it. What a great way to spend a Tuesday!

And just like that, I understood social networking. It’s all about the love. Well, more like the Like. That’s how an audience grows. You link. I link. You Like. I Like. A quid pro quo Gazpacho. All these minds. All these ideas. Tangled up in this web. And whoever’s Liked the most, wins.

But me liking Ed isn’t nearly as important as him liking me. Because he’s more popular. And I want to be popular.

Since Ed liked my cartoons, and thought they were worth liking, he also offered to link me up to a bigger site he has some hooks in.

While I was ever thankful to Ed for such great news, I knew my site wasn’t ready for the big time just yet. So I spent several hours trying to get a Facebook Page made specifically for my cartoon blog. And then I spent several more hours trying to send that Page to all my “Friends” – friends I’ve basically been spamming regularly for the past three months.

I stayed up way too late getting the blog just right. I even did another cartoon, which I finished at exactly 3:30 in the morning, an hour which often gives me a false sense of quality.

Anyway, I went to bed hopeful. Ready to wake up and be presented to the world. My artistic cotillion!

Unfortunately, I woke up this morning to find the cyber-love had run dry. Ed said the link would have to wait till Monday. And out of my 576 Facebook friends, only 10 Like my Page, and that includes me and my wife.

On my Facebook Wall, I saw my latest post, a link to my latest cartoon – a cartoon I spent the better part of four hours creating. The cartoon which is currently leaving me sleep-deprived and neck-pained. The one that not one person Liked.

And then I looked at the post above my own. It was from a “Friend” of mine who had stayed up all night and successfully completed a really difficult stage of World of Warcraft. A feat which four people currently Like. A feat which currently makes me question the state of Like in America.

That's Why Yellow Makes Me Sad-AdPock

AdPock needed a therapist after his latest therapy session.

George Full of Threes

Last night, George had a triumph. And it wasn’t like his life was full of those.
    George had been playing online poker again. It was about midnight by the time he had lost his fifth hand in a row, all in pitiful fashion. He wasn’t good. He had to face that. Maybe not perpetually bad, but recently bad, for sure. 
    At such a low, George faced a choice. If he wanted a chance at financial redemption, he would have to put more money in his online poker account. Again. 
    In spite of his predicament, George surprised himself by his own assertiveness. Like a movie hacker, blind with focus, George swiftly and courageously dragged the online poker application into the trash! George raised his hands to the heavens. In triumph, perhaps? Perhaps supplication? 
    Next morning, George stared at his computer for a long time. His glory waning fast. Finally, he made himself a deal. George opened his computer, dragged his mouse to the trash, and as fate would have it, the online poker application was still there! George had miraculously forgotten to empty his trash. 
    It was the sign George was looking for. Without hesitation, George put $22 into his account, changed his avatar, and anted up. 

FUCKING TRUCKS!

Just Ducky

.

Deborah had all her ducks in a row. Except for that pesky Jew duck.

Discover Card Don

Don loved using his Cash Back Rewards Card because it made him feel like he actually had an income.

The Couch

“Goddamit! It’s my couch. I had it made. I saw it in a catalog, went to the goddamn furniture maker and had it made. I’m sorry if you thought it was yours, but it’s not! You obviously didn’t hear me correctly. It’s mine and I want it back! Okay?”

“No.”

“Yes, Goddamit!”

“No. You gave it to us. You said if I helped you move the other couch -- the couch that you really wanted, the one-tonner which gave me a hernia -- that you’d give us this couch. Give. Not loan.”

“Gimme my couch!”

“You sound like a petulant child.”

“It’s mine! And you… you… you’re getting married! And have a great girl who loves you and I don’t even have a date, or a prospect of a date other than a 24-year-old intern who I mistakenly… Goddamit! You have my couch!”

Abe was surprised when Mary showed up at his place for the couch the next day. He thought it was just one of her outbreaks, which would pass like a spring storm. He was even more surprised she'd actually talked the intern into moving it for her.

The problem was, Abe had genuinely grown to like the couch. It had been his first bit of decorating genius to use half the couch as a booth at the dining table, and leave the rest behind in the family room, thus connecting the two rooms with the symmetry of shared school-bus yellow benches. It was perfect.

The other problem: Abe was all too used to Mary’s shit.

“So you’re going to pay my insurance bill for the hernia surgery right?”

“Shut up. Are you going to help or not?”

“No. I can’t on principle alone. Sorry… what was your name again?”

“Gavin.”

“Right, no offense Gavin, but I can’t help you out here. It’s my couch. You’re basically stealing from me right now.”

“Uh…”

“Just move the couch, Gavin,” said Mary.

“Don’t mark up any walls or the HOA will fine you. I can’t begin to stop them; they’re too powerful.”

Gavin struggled mightily with the couch, as Mary, per usual, was no help at all, and basically just in the way. Abe couldn’t stop with the bitterness, though. 

“You know, I got a bad feeling about that couch being moved. It’s bad karma. Something terrible is going to happen to that couch.” 

“You’re so predictably annoying.” 

“Maybe your dog will eat it?”

Gavin doesn’t say anything. He bears it valiantly, a young Adonis carrying the weight of Mary’s world.

“Maybe you’ll light it on fire when you fall asleep with a cigarette in your mouth some un-monitored drunken night. Then poof. No more couch. Oh the irony.”

Mary even has to smile at that one. Until she sees Gavin pushing a little too hard trying to make the couch fit in the truck. “Whoa. Whoa! Easy.” Gavin dutifully obeys.

Gavin finishes up the job. He got a good sweat going.

AdPock likes his stoic way. He offers him his hand. “Good to meet you, Gavin.”

Gavin just looks at Abe. He looks down at the hand with trepidation. Timidity.

“What? You don’t want to shake my hand?” Abe’s not used to being disliked. At least not at first impression.

Gavin is unsure of himself, but he won’t give Abe his hand.

Abe’s eyes search Gavin’s. He isn’t quite mad. He’s not quite offended.

Gavin's decision solidifies. “No. No I don’t think I will. I think you’re being mean. To you.” He says this to Mary and walks away quietly. He gets into the truck and waits for her.

Abe just looks at Mary, who has a growing smile. The two have exchanged much in their days.

“I hope nothing happens to your couch,” Abe says reluctantly.

After a hug and a kiss, Mary gets in the truck with Gavin. They drive off, taking the couch to a new home.

Repeat Pete

After a good twenty minutes, Pete finally realized he was caught in the midst of a vicious rinse/repeat cycle. That's when Pete knew he had to stop smoking weed before showering.

One Less Thing

I just read a headline that said, “Study Shows People Who Drink 6 Daily Cups of Coffee Live Just as Long as People Who Don't”. As I suspected, drinking coffee is no more beneficial, or detrimental, as not drinking coffee.

I didn’t read beyond the headline, of course, because my phone isn’t really set up for full articles. But neither am I really; I’m definitely more of a big picture guy than a specific fine print type.

So as far as I’m concerned, this golden nugget of information about caffeine needs no further substantiation. I’ve weaned what I need from the headline alone: I need not worry about how much caffeine I drink. Case closed. One less thing. I will go on drinking coffee with the same sort of needy dependence as ever.

What up, G?

It’s been a while since I last wrote for GLiving. Apparently, they’ve changed their style a bit. Formerly, as an eco-blogger there, my task was to take any old green story or product and simply rattle off my witty feelings about it.

But now, having been invited to write for them yet again, I find that Gliving has shifted towards a more lifestyle-oriented approach. I’ve been asked to get personal. To pick something “G”, that I am passionate about, and to actually write what I know for once, instead of just what I feel.

Which I think is groovy. I love the new direction. I love that the people who write there really know what they are talking about.

Unfortunately, I don’t know if I fit into this category. Sure, I know about what I feel, but what do I know about what I actually do? “G” speaking, of course.  Beyond my politics, what exactly makes me green?

As I started to think about my own “G” lifestyle, specifically the parts worth writing about, nothing really came to mind.

I recycle. Sure. What kind of evil bloodsucker doesn’t? But while I may be a bit more obsessive about it then most, I still wouldn’t consider it a lifestyle choice. Heck, with how much I rinse my recyclables, I probably waste more water than I save landfill space.

I guess I don’t drive much; that’s “G”, right? But that’s more a result of having no place to go.

I choose draught tolerant plants, but that’s only because I can’t keep any other kind alive.

I shop at Trader Joes, for the most part. I even use my own grocery bags. But I refuse to buy their dishwasher soap. I’m sorry, but the world will end a lot sooner if I have water spots. And mostly I just like cheap wine.

I rescued a dog, but that’s only because when I looked into his eyes Chicago’s “You’re The Inspiration” started playing down from the heavens.

Maybe I’m just not cut out to be “G”? Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like the green movement is too much like my Jewish mother. Kvetch! Kvetch! Kvetch! Nothing but grief. 

And I’m just not motivated by guilt, cause I know, I can never be good enough.

But unlike Mother Pockross, Mother Earth will not love me unconditionally.

Bipartisan Bill

Bill was beginning to wonder at what point the president’s emails should become spam.

Julio

I want to be my own man.
To be free.
But media,
Pop culture,
Society,
Past,
Present,
Future,
always the fucking future,
Influence us at our most dependent times.
But rebelliousness and independence are two flips of the same coin.

Nesting Nick

Nick was super psyched to be in a relationship. He just didn’t have the energy to trick any more girls into sleeping with him.

Glory Days Glenn

Glenn was totally happy for his team, no doubt. But a wispy, melancholy part of him wished he had his own playoffs to prepare for.

Country Mike

Mike was really enjoying country music lately, it was great to run to. But he did worry about becoming a republican.

PLEASE-Pass-The-Wine Pam

Jerry used to be a really great listener. Then he got married.

Leftover Larry

Sure, Larry was worried what his wife might say if she found nothing but the one half-eaten piece of pizza left in the box, but he was much more worried about her throwing it out.

Edward & the Magic Eight Ball

Edward: So I’m the one in charge?

Eight Ball: As I see it, yes.

Edward: But you have all the answers?

Eight Ball: Ask again later.

Edward: You at least have some of the answers, right?

Eight Ball: Better not tell you now.

Edward: Like is now a good time to buy Cysco stock?

Eight Ball: Cannot predict now.

Edward: Okay, how about … will a six foot supermodel love me?

Eight Ball: Concentrate and ask again.

Edward: Will a six foot supermodel love me?

Eight Ball: Don't count on it.

Edward: Will someone love me?

Eight Ball: It is certain.

Edward: Will it hurt?

Eight Ball: It is decidedly so.

Edward: Will it be worth it?

Eight Ball: Most likely.

Edward: What if it’s not.

Eight Ball: My reply is no.

Edward: No what? No it's not likely or no it's not worth it?

Eight Ball: My sources say no.

Edward: No what?

Eight Ball: Outlook not so good.

Edward: Not so good to not be worth it? Or worth it?

Eight Ball: Outlook good.

Edward: Good for me?

Eight Ball: Reply hazy, try again.

Edward: Good for me?

Eight Ball: Signs point to yes.

Edward: Like, rah rah, “good for me!” yes? Or, like, “good for me” like you’re being sarcastic, yes?

Eight Ball: Very doubtful.

Edward: So it’s not good for me?

Eight Ball: Without a doubt.

Edward: Without a doubt, it is not good for me?

Eight Ball: Yes. Yes--definitely.

Edward: Definitely not good?

Eight Ball: Outlook good.

Back-of-His-Hand Brad

Brad thought he was starting to understand a thing or two about a thing or two. But then one day, as he was washing up before dinner, he found a mysterious blemish on the back of his hand. Suddenly, Brad wondered if he’d ever really known anything at all.

Artist Art

Now that Art's Pop 2000 cattle prod had arrived, he was finally ready to shock the world.

Freedom

Yesterday, by all accounts, had all the makings of a beautiful day. My wife finally had a Sunday off. The weather was supposed to be perfect. And the most happening street fair, The Abbot Kinney Festival, was taking place one town over.

Alas, it was a Sunday. And not only were the Denver Broncos playing, but the Colorado Rockies were facing a must win.

I had been greatly disappointed by both teams in the past. And I have struggled with my fanatical allegiance to Denver sports as the most silly and uncontrollable of my addictions. But, I had become fed up living for the hopes and dreams of other, stronger men.

So on Thursday, after the Broncos lost another running back to a pulled hamstring, I agreed to skip watching the game to go to the fair with said wife. 

However, when it came time to getting off the couch and foraging into the sunlight, I could not shake the fact that my teams needed me. How could I expect them to fight, if I was not there in the trenches with them?

Fortunately, my wife's needs are more immediately pressing than my teams’. So, I reluctantly got ready. I grumbled my way through my shower. I grumbled my way out the door. I grumbled all the way to the fair. I grumbled even more as we paid $20 for parking.

But as I walked through the crowd, I got swept up. It took me exactly one lunch truck to get over myself. There was energy and vibrance and art in the air. There were good friends to talk to. Beautiful freaks to look at. And beers to drink in the sunshine.

And, yes, both my teams lost. But while I still blame myself for those losses, I have a tan face, a full belly, and a happy wife to assuage my guilt.

Nervous Ned

Ned looked in the mirror and flinched. Again, he thought he was getting pulled over. That was when Ned decided to shave his mustache.

Tuned-in Cam

As Cameron watched his third football game of the day, he began to feel a bit lethargic. But then he remembered how very important all the games were.

Joey Bag-a-Salted-Almonds

Joey Bags had okay hair all his life. Then one day, he up and died! At his funeral, the lady in charge of making Joey presentable accidentally parted his hair on the wrong side. Everyone thought Joey looked much better.

one cool cat

One chick, two chick
Black chick, Jew chick
That one looks good in a car
That one looks good from a far
That one’s got some funky hair
That one’s skin is freckled fair
I like em when they pump their gas
I like em when they shake their ass
I like em when they jam on bass
I like em when they’re in your face
Three chick four chick
Good chick, whore chick
That one jiggles when she runs
That one seems a slave to sun

But five chick six chick
I start to learn
Of the good chicks I dig
For whom I yearn
For whom I live
For whom I give.
And then comes seven-chick. Turns out she's the one.

Fancy Pants Frank

Frank wasn’t particularly pleased with his new shampoo/conditioner; it just didn't give his hair the proper texture. But though he knew it would be a long, unsatisfying road, Frank pledged to use up the whole tube before he bought a more luxury brand.

Bad-Aim Brad

As he mopped the floor, Brad wondered if he would rather sneeze while driving or peeing.