Tiger’s Statement

February 18, 2010

Tomorrow, Tiger Woods will make a statement. What will that statement be? Well, you’ll just have to wait for the statement.

But while you’re waiting for that statement, I’d like to make a statement. And let me preface my statement with another statement: the statement that I couldn’t care less what Tiger’s statement is. And let me follow up my pre-statement statement with another statement, which still precedes my actual statement, which prefaces Tiger’s statement, and is thus a post-pre-statement pre-pre-Tiger-statement statement (I think).

Have I lost you? I’ve almost lost myself. But almost losing myself is not losing myself, and so I haven’t lost myself in discussing which of the statements in the long line of statements both I and Tiger Woods will state is the statement I’m about to state next. That statement is this: my statement will be better than Tiger’s statement.

Yes, the statement I’m about to state will thrust the world into such a frenzied combination of excitement and rage that Tiger himself might even reconsider stating his statement. Even the mere statement that my statement will trump Tiger’s statement should be enough to make Tiger take a real hard look at whether his statement is worth stating.

Tiger pondering his statement

But here’s where some problems arise. If just stating that my statement is enough for Tiger to unstate his statement even before he states it actually convinces him to unstate said statement, how would we really know that my statement is better than Tiger’s would-be statement to begin with? It would take a rather large leap of faith to believe that Tiger’s statement would be worse than my statement, despite neither of us actually stating our statements. Even if I did state my statement after stating my post-pre-statement pre-pre-Tiger-statement statement, if it prevents Tiger from delivering his statement, we still wouldn’t know which statement beats out the other statement. So while I have supreme confidence that my statement is the better of the statements, I still want Tiger to go ahead with his statement.

That stated, I’ll state my statement: I framed Tiger Woods.

Unwittingly, but still. I’ll explain:

I’ve long had a Tiger Woods costume. A very realistic, and therefore very troublesome, Tiger Woods costume. I’ve had a Tiger Woods costume since 1993, which is strange because Tiger Woods was not yet a professional golfer, not yet even in the public eye. On top of that, I was only eight years old. What kind of eight-year-old has a Tiger Woods Halloween costume three years before Tiger Woods even hit the pro ranks? No kind, that’s what kind. It wasn’t a Halloween costume. It was an Australia Day costume. Yes, in my family, every January 26, we wore costumes for Australia Day. My mom would take my sister and I around the neighborhood, and we would go up to the houses and knock on the doors and say, “Trick or treat!” And every homeowner would say the same damn things: 1). It’s not Halloween. 2). Oh, you’re celebrating Australia Day? 3). You realize we’re in the United States? 4). So then why are you celebrating Australia Day? 5). Oh, that’s pretty fucked up. 6). Oh, that’s really fucked up. 7). What is that costume, anyway? 8). There’s a tiger in the woods?? 9). Get the hell off my property!

Australia Day!

Eventually I realized I could capitalize on Tiger’s fame to get with women. It worked out for a while, but then it came to a crashing halt when the women I, as Tiger, slept with, accused Tiger of sleeping with them, and this whole thing unraveled.

And before you start sympathizing with Tiger, let clarify my statement: Just because it was me sleeping with all the women who, thinking I was him, came out against him, that doesn’t necessarily mean that Tiger did not have affairs aplenty with other women. He probably did. In fact, I’m sure he did. And I’m sure he’s very sorry. And I’m sure his statement will be along those lines. And I’m sure he didn’t expect that there was some kid out there who’s had a replica of his body for the last 17 years and was simultaneously using it to get with women, sometimes even the same woman on the same night at the same time. I’m talking about you, Janet. You really thought there were two Tiger Woodses? And that they’d hit that at the same time? God, Janet, you’re so dumb. Fucking Janet.

And Tiger, too. You’re Tiger Woods! You didn’t put two and two together over at Janet’s house? You really thought there were two Tiger Woodses?

Regardless of whether or not Tiger understands that there can’t just suddenly be two of you (unless your name is Dolly, and even then, it’s more complex than that), I can’t wait to hear Tiger’s statement. I realize this goes directly against my first of three statements, which, as you might recall, stated that I couldn’t care less about Tiger’s statement, but all this talk of statements has made me statement-giddy. I’m now excited for statements in general. Any statement whatsoever. Bring on the statements!

Except you, Janet. Stay the hell away.

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No I don’t

September 12, 2009

You ever drink bourbon out of a turban? Of course not. You don’t drink things out of other things just because they rhyme. Come on.


I mean, it’s obvious

July 15, 2009

If you’re thirsty and lost in the desert, and you’re feeling like if you don’t hydrate soon you might die, and all of a sudden through some act of divine intervention you stumble upon an oasis with a small body of water, and you drink some of the water, but it tastes more like piss, and then you notice that nearby is a guy zipping up his pants, and saying “That was the best piss of my life,” and pointing towards the water, chances are you just drank that guy’s piss.


The stork should deliver soup

June 16, 2009

I wish the stork delivered things other than babies. Like soup. Because let’s face it. We all love soup. Every last one of us. Without exception. And we crave it endlessly. Sometimes while we’re eating soup, we’ll already be craving the soup we’re going to eat two soups later. And by the time we get to that soup, we’re already craving a soup we’re not going to eat until the year 2011. That’s just the way we’re programmed. We’re basically addicted to soup. We can’t physically live a single moment during which soup is not being consumed and digested by our bodies. I’m eating soup right now. If I wasn’t, I think I’d be dead.

Given this, why wouldn’t the stork deliver soup? Only babies? Who needs a stork to deliver babies? Fucking delivers babies. Fucking does not deliver soup. The only thing that delivers soup is getting up off the couch, which we’re obviously not going to do, and walking to the supermarket to buy some soup. It’s 11:42pm right now, the supermarket isn’t even open. Well, the bodega is, and the bodega would also have soup, but this ruins my argument, so let’s pretend there isn’t a bodega literally half a block away. Or another bodega half a block past that. No bodegas. Only closed supermarkets. Where am I supposed to get soup after the supermarkets close? If I ran out of soup (which I won’t, because I have a 16-year supply), I’d really appreciate a stork knocking on my door with a new stock. I don’t even care that a stork likely can’t knock on a door, due to having wings instead of hands. There’s got to be some other way he can get my attention. I’m sorry for assuming the stork is a “he.” I’m just very sexist, and women belong in the kitchen. Making me soup.


If broken legs were contagious

June 10, 2009

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how terrible it would be if broken legs were contagious. You’re walking down the sidewalk with your buddy Micah (if you don’t have a buddy named Micah, stop reading now, you won’t be able to relate to this) and suddenly six thugs appear out of nowhere and start hitting Micah in the legs with metal rods! It doesn’t take long before his legs are completely broken, and he’s screaming out in shock and severe pain, and then you realize that you too are screaming out in shock and severe pain, because your legs are also broken! Not only that, but there are six other people (the thugs) who are screaming out in shock and severe pain, because their legs are broken, too! So there’s eight of you squirming around on the sidewalk with broken legs, screaming out in shock and severe pain! A passer-by comes over to help, but then both her legs break! Another couple passers-by also try to offer a hand, but a few seconds later a hand is the only body part they have that’s not broken! (Additionally, all other body parts excluding both legs are not broken). By this time, other passers-by in the vicinity have realized that if you go near the eleven people squirming around on the sidewalk and screaming out in shock and severe pain, both your legs will break, so nobody else dares inch closer.

Until the paramedics arrive. But not long after their arrival, all of their legs have broken! To make matters worse, in this scenario, broken legs cause a very rapidly-spreading version of leprosy! Soon the broken legs have rotted completely off, and everyone goes about their normal routines once again.

By “everyone” I mean everyone except those whose previously broken legs have rotted off. You just can’t go about your normal routines if your legs have rotted off. That’s not the way the world (and human anatomy) works. If you’re one of the people whose legs have rotted off, chances are the rest of your body will soon rot. Because you have leprosy. And leprosy doesn’t stay exclusively in the legs. So before long, you’re dead.

Sorry. I know it’s grim, but it’s gonna happen.


Ryan Zimmerman: the team

May 13, 2009

Washington National Ryan Zimmerman’s 30-game hit streak came to an end today, but at least he can take solace in the fact that his team won the game. Right?

Wrong. At 11-21, Washington is the worst team in the majors. A hitting streak by its franchise player is just about the only thing it had or will have going.

The only thing the Nationals organization can do to retain any significance and/or dignity, in my eyes, is to release everyone on the team, clone Ryan Zimmerman 23 times, and start an entire roster of Zimmermans. The 25th roster spot would be held by pitcher Jordan Zimmermann, who, although he spells his name slightly differently, is still a Zimmerman at the end of the day. And just to cement it, Jordan should be willing to legally change his name to Zimmerman. There’s not really a need for that extra ‘n’, anyway. It doesn’t add anything. It’s dead weight. Like the previous two sentences.

In this scenario, Ryan Zimmerman would occupy every spot in the lineup except for every fifth game, when Jordan would give it a go. Can you imagine eight, or possibly nine, players in your lineup who are all on 30-game hit streaks? It would be exceptional. It would more than make up for the fact that Ryan Zimmerman would be playing defensive spots like center field and catcher, in addition to pitching, both as a starter and a reliever. So what if he gives up a bunch of runs? They’ll be balanced out by all the hits.

At this point, you can no longer logically call the team the Nationals. You’d have to change the name of the team to the Ryan Zimmermans. And yes, they may play in Washington, but as far as I’m concerned, that town is Ryan Zimmerman’s and we’re all just living in it. (I don’t actually live in that town. In fact, a majority of the people on this planet don’t live in that town. But let’s go with it). So instead of calling it Washington, we’ll call it Ryan Zimmerman.

So we’ve got the Ryan Zimmerman Ryan Zimmermans, consisting of twenty-four Ryan Zimmermans and one Jordan Zimmermann, who now goes by Jordan Zimmerman.

Who should make up the managerial staff? Let’s keep Manny Acta in there, simply because I think “Manny Acta” is a cool name. If you say it really fast, it sounds like it could be a province in Spain. Maniacta. The bench coach would be Ryan Zimmerman, as would be the hitting instructor (obviously). The pitching coach would be Joe Biden. First base coach is Nelly Furtado, and the third base coach is a random guy in a Jon Arbuckle costume. The bullpen coordinator is Ryan Zimmerman.

Sounds like a formula for success!

Ryan Zimmerman

Ryan Zimmerman


The ins and outs of temping

May 12, 2009

In order to make money, because unfortunately being awesome doesn’t yet pay the bills, I’ve entered the magical world of temping. It’s only been two days, but they’ve been an extremely eventful two days. And by extremely eventful, I mean seven straight hours of entering ten-digit reference codes into a database program. While wearing shoes that are just ever so slightly too tight in the back, causing constant discomfort for said seven hours (and very pronounced blisters on my heels from walking ten blocks up and five avenues over to get to the office and back. Why don’t I take a cab, you say? Well, I’m temping for a reason. That reason is, I don’t have much money. If I had the money to be throwing around for cab rides, I’d be hailing cabs all day long, in the hopes that I manage to find the Cash Cab, answer every question correctly, and make even more money so I can continue hailing cabs to again find the Cash Cab.)

The weird thing about temping is not knowing the culture of the office. At this particular office, there are a lot of Hispanic guys joking around loudly in the mail room. I feel like I should be in there joking around with them, but a) I can barely speak Spanish and b) maybe their “joking around” is actually them plotting the assassination of a high-profile politician. Nothing is worse than plotting the assassination of a high-profile politician and some jackass who’s temping in your office comes in and tries to join in on the fun but doesn’t realize the gravity of what you’re doing and thinks you’re just joking around because he can barely speak Spanish and doesn’t understand the difference between someone gravely saying “asesinato” and jokingly saying “biblioteca”.

Another weird thing about temping is sitting at someone else’s desk. At the desk where I’m working, there is a picture a little girl drew for her daddy, presumably the guy to whom the desk belongs. It would be strange if there was a picture drawn by a little girl for her daddy hanging on the cube wall if the guy was not the little girl’s daddy. First of all, if that was the situation, where is the girl’s daddy? Second, how did this guy get his hands on the drawing? I’d have to guess that this guy is a pedophile. Pedophiles are good at two things: having sex with little kids, and finding pictures that said little kids drew for their daddies. Third, why would the pedo put the drawing up on his wall at work? Wouldn’t that make people start asking questions. Like, “Are you a pedophile?” So when I’m sitting at this guy’s desk, looking at the picture his daughter drew for him, I feel like I’m the pedophile. I feel even more like a pedophile when taking into account what the drawing is a depiction of: Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox.

A final weird thing about this temp job is that they make me work naked.

Temping is like voyeurism. You get a private look at what life is like in some random office that you never knew existed and will never step foot in again once the assignment is complete. You see what people are like in their natural habitat. Kind of like a nature program. A very dull nature program that consists of people doing paperwork instead of flying squirrels flying. Paperwork is one thing you know you’re not going to have to see if you turn on a nature program. Another thing: factories.

If the temp office is a terribly boring environment, which, aside from the Hispanic jokesters, the one I’m at is, you kind of feel bad for the people who work there. After all, you get to leave this place at the end of the week, but they have to come back day after day after day after day after day after day. After day.