You're welcome, America.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
5 Crisises I Can Help You With
I'm a pretty nice guy. It may not always seem like that because I'm disguised like a son of a bitch. That was an old-timey phrase. I'm not actually a son of a bitch. Want me to prove it? Here, I took five complaints of the modern world as if they were submitted to me and answered them for you. What a nice guy, right? Right. I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch. You better listen to me, baby. That was a line from my favorite Misfits song for those of you who didn't know. Anyway, enjoy.
"Every time I wash my car, it rains."
Holy shit. You're clearly some sort of supernatural being here in our pathetic and dismal dimension. Sorry we didn't make cupcakes for your arrival. Please wait for your well-deserved hand jobs from the concubines of yore. We here on Earth aren't used to beings from another realm. How are you controlling the weather? Every time you wash you car, you say? Fascinating. When I think it's going to rain, I usually read a few reports by men and women who studied it like an actual science until they tell me that it's not an actual science when they get it wrong, which, I have to say, is quite often. Some of us here, you know, the mere mortals, just look at the sky and say, "Oh, looks like it's going to rain." We say this shit to everybody. We don't care who's even standing near us. I'd say it a strange bum-hag, just as I'd say it to my grandfather, just as I'd say it to Dallas Raines, just as I'd say it to Olivia Wilde. Well, no, I guess I'd say more to Miss Wilde. I might ask to touch her face. I don't know. I haven't really thought it through yet. But she's seen rain. I've seen rain. Apparently, Dallas Raines hasn't seen rain because he always tells me to wear a jacket on days that I end up having to explain to everyone at work why I'm wearing a jacket. But then everyone else shows me their jacket and it turns out that we've all been swindled by that goddamn con artist, Dallas Raines. But back to what you said about it raining after every time you wash your car. NO, IT FUCKING DOESN'T.
"I farted in class."
Stand up, immediately tell your fellow students that it was someone else and then run away forever. Don't even bother going home. Everyone is dead to you for the time being. Change your name. If a woman, try out "Starla B. Koosakoff. If a man, start your new life as "Chuck E. Chuckerton." Let them call you "Chunkers" for short. The nickname for your fake name will really throw people from your old life off your trail. Maybe open up a candy shop and be friends with all the local kids. Make them love you. Now, start committing gruesome murders. Wait for a copycat to take over. Come back to your old life as whoever you once were and start things off with, "Nevermind where I've been! How about those murders a few counties over? Pretty gruesome, if you ask me. A candy shop owner no less! Just grotesque." FARTING CRISIS AVERTED.
"The barber gave me a bad haircut."
Wear a fucking beanie. JESUS.
"Ryan Gosling won't bang me."
I hear this one all the time. Who do you think are? Listen up, every lady in America, that dude only has so much time in his day. And guess what? I've heard interviews with him. Dude never starts sentences off with "hey girl." It's usually all about him. Sure, you've seen pictures of him saying, "hey girl, I really like your backstage" or "hey girl, that's some nice falafel you made, my dirty Persian princess," but, to be honest, it'd probably be more like, "Hey girl, how the fuck did you get in here? I'm calling security." Also, let's be honest, if you were that adored by women universally, there is no way that normal sex would satisfy. Just as a default, you would have to start getting weird. You would just be too powerful. Do you think Zeus was thrilled with missionary? Do you think Ra was all about beds? No. Gods want things like "backdoor brimstone" and "leather mania window throws." Oh, I'm sorry, did you think that Ryan Gosling planned to spend his time on Earth taking a bath with you in rose petals and telling you how good of a restaurant manager you are and how he felt sorry for all the side work you had to do? No, of course not, because he is here to ravage. Consider yourselves lucky, ladies, that he's with Eva Mendes. Because guys want her like a gorgeously sloppy and heated New Year's Eve kiss too. She grows more and more powerful with every passing semi-nude scene she does on film. You're straight up lucky she's with him. Let's look at this scientifically. Ryan Gosling is like the black smoke from Lost and Eva Mendes is like that forcefield that nobody understood. If Ryan Gosling was single, and every girl had her way, then every girl with a Facebook would be pregnant by his seed, overpopulation would become an imminent threat to the world and all that we all hold dear would ultimately be destroyed within a generation. Oh, and this was all because you wanted him to say, "hey girl, you don't need a calculator to do those quarterly reports, because you can push my buttons?" STOP THINKING OF YOURSELF FOR ONCE.
"One of my car speakers blew out, so now I can only hear music on one side."
You're in luck. I went through that once for a few years. It turns out all those times I thought, you know, Los Lobos should really put in a guitar solo here, well, they actually did put a guitar solo there. But, alas, I couldn't hear it through the important speaker. And they threw in some bongo drums too! Los Lobos knows what they're doing. Let's just agree on that right now and move on. Do you have tape? If you have tape, you might be lucky enough to tape the cassette eject button down so that, due to faulty wiring, the music comes out the busted side here and there. Maybe use some chewing gum. But don't drop the foil wrapper into the lighter socket, if your vehicle is an older model, as this will of course, due to faulty wiring, fry your dashboard. Don't worry. This will actually impress several chicks when you have to Fonzie the dashboard with a rap of your fist, but don't make a joke about that, as girls who are that easily impressed typically didn't grow up watching Happy Days. No, they were too busy smoking cigarettes and sneaking out at night. That's all well and good at a certain age, but sixth grade isn't the recommended time for your parents to start questioning your morals. Wait until your mom cries at back to school night and accusing you of being a pothead instead. You really have to choose those special moments with your parents. Pretty soon, those moments will be gone and all you'll be left with is your parents telling you to not get (somebody) knocked up until one day they just start demanding that you get (somebody) knocked up. The world's a funny place. HEY, FIX YOUR FUCKING SPEAKERS ALREADY.
You're welcome, America.
You're welcome, America.