PDA-Holes

I hate PDAs. Plain and simple. And if you're awesome like me, you hate them too. I refer, of course, to "Public Displays of Affection" and not "Personal Digital Assistants," "the Parenteral Drug Association," or even "Pakistan Domestic Airlines" (though all three can be irritating given the right circumstances).

Public Displays of Affection. That phrase shouldn't even exist, because people shouldn't be so arrogant to do that shit in public. Like they're the only ones that exist in that moment. Look, I realize that you're in love and that you want the world to know it. But this isn't some romantic comedy where I'm gonna look at you and be like "THAT IS ADORABLE." This is real life and the only reaction you'll get from me is a gag reflex. That, and you might see me fight the overwhelming urge to push your heads together.

I understand hand holding. That's fine. People that aren't even in love hold hands from time to time. It's nice. And it's not disgusting. From a distance it can be written off as two people swinging their arms in unison, or if you so desire you can even ignore it completely. But when two people are necking one or two feet from my head, all I can think about is putting one or two of my feet up their ass. It's gross people. Really. Don't do it.

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You've just never been in love enough to know what it's like to be so into someone that nothing else exists." First of all, fuck you. Don't presume to know me. And don't ever say something as gross as that to me again. I know exactly what it's like. I also know what it's like to respect other people out in public and to not subject them to something like that. That's like saying that if you're focused on something that intently, that it's okay to just do it. But here's the thing, I've had to crap really badly before while out in public, and I can GUARANTEE that under no circumstance would my need to do that override my need to not make people around me throw up all over themselves.

You wanna know the strange part? The thing that set off this whole topic in my mind was something that happened at the airport like a week and a half ago. It was a quarter to fucking early and I was sitting there minding my own business imagining a fight scene between myself and Wilmer Valderama when suddenly I heard baby talk and kissing sounds. Granted, it wasn't two people making out. It was a mother and her baby. She somehow chose to sit right behind me. Out of TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY TWO seats, she picks the one directly behind my head. Awesome.

Look, you can sit there in your tower and think that I'm an asshole for being irritated at a mother and child, but I argue the following:
A kissing sound is still a kissing sound regardless of the age of the people involved. Whether it's two adults mouth to mouth or whether it's a mother lovingly kissing the top of her baby's head matters not. It still makes me want to start blindly throwing punches. It's a lot like Pavlov's test. Only instead of the bell causing dogs to drool, It's kissing sounds and baby talk causing vicious punch combinations. And I don't rightly care if you think that a mother kissing her baby is adorable. It's still annoying. If you love it so much, you could always imagine it. That way I don't have to see it and we'd both be spared the awful noises.

And if you're of the mindset that PDAs are okay, then what about if I were to have a PDA with myself? Hmm? What then? Just shoved my hand down the front of my pants. How adorable would that be? That's my point. It wouldn't.

That's why the next time I'm out in public and I see two complete strangers speed bagging each others' uvulas I'm gonna have my own personal PDA while staring intently at them and muttering creepy shit to myself.

So think about it. We can call a truce right now. The choice is yours. Choose wisely.

- The Bean

Let Me Tell You About a Proud Uncle

He is I and I am him (slim with the tilted brim). I'm sorry. I stole that line from Snoop Dogg but I thought it was such a horrifyingly good opening that I couldn't pass it up. Also I'm unoriginal, which is why the blog I'm writing is actually just a story I heard yesterday that I'm now passing off as my own. So listen up douchebags.

So, I have this nephew who lives in Washington. And in actuality, he's really like my step second cousin or some wordy shit like that. However, after reading this story, you will see why I claim him as my own.

So apparently Doc, as I call him, is of an age where he is able to speak. Not only that, but he's in the wonderfully innocent phase of embarassing his parents in public. This, in itself, is pretty funny, but not the reason I'm bragging about him. It's the way in which he chose to embarrass his parents.

They were in a shopping establishment (we'll say Target, just so it's more relatable) when Doc saunters up to some other young boy that he's never met and asks him the following:

"Do you have a penis?"

I know, right? Just let that sink in (hehe, seriously, think about it). How wonderful a sight that must have been! If you didn't know better, you'd think I was feeding him lines via a child-sized ear piece. And although he's not my blood, I feel closer to him now more than ever. How brilliant is this child going to turn out to be!? He's already learned to cut through all the bullshit and get to the meat (pun absolutely intended) of the situation.

"Look, I don't know you. I don't know your name. And I don't care. I don't care where you came from or what you're even here to buy. Just tell me one thing good sir. Do you have a penis? Yes or no! Let's not mince words here. I need the info and then I'll be on my merry way."

And here's the thing. I'm almost certain that were his capacity for speech up to par with mine, that's exactly what he would have said. Either that, or he would have gone the other way and been even more direct.

"Penis? Yes or no?"

Of course, that question can be taken so many ways (that pun totally just wrote itself), so I fully understand and support his decision to use the full sentence.

Doc, I love you. And to answer your question before you have to ask it, yes, yes I do. And it's the reason that your dear old uncle has back problems.

- The Bean

All Growns Up

It occurred to me two days ago that I may now officially be an adult. Other than having turned 28 a week ago which some people might consider to be a pretty sizable step into adulthood, the moment came to me a few days later. It was the day that I brought my last big box of junk to the Salvation Army donation center in the parking lot of a Fred Meyer. The contents of said box? Well, let's see. An old cordless phone that I knew I'd never use again, some baseballs (for whatever reason), and like 10 pairs of nunchuks (no joke). Yes, it would be every 13 year old's dream to stumble upon that box of crap because of how much cool shit was in there.

The thing about it is, it was hard for me to finally get rid of that stuff (mostly the nunchuks). Some might say that the contents had sentimental value or some such thing. But that's not it. The thing about it is I still really think nunchuks and cassette tapes of cartoon rapping cats (if you know who I'm talking about, I love you) are actually pretty awesome. Does that make me immature? Because if it does, then does the fact that I just finally gave all that stuff away make me a grown up?

Okay, what about if I immediately came home and watched Disney's Robin Hood? What does that mean? And what about the next morning when I watched part of the 3 Ninja's on HBO? Actually, I think the full title was "3 Ninjas: Wasting My Time." I didn't actually watch that one because I used to like it or anything. I was actually using it as motivation for my own writing. It's pretty common practice for me. It gives me hope when I see something super shitty, that it really must not be that hard to write things that don't suck. And really, to see a movie where Hulk Hogan dressed up like a faux He-Man was considered a major plot point only gives me that much more hope.

I don't really even know what I'm driving at here. I think I used to be worried that being 28 and not feeling mature was a big deal. Like I'd somehow think of myself as a bad person or like I didn't fit in or something like that. The truth is, I only want to embrace it more. I still enjoy laughing when people fart, or when I can share in the delight of a movie titled "The GingerDead Man" (thank you Carrie).

I don't want to go to dinner parties or business meetings, or make small talk and pretend that I'm all grown up. I want to be able to laugh when people run into stationary objects or when it stinks in an elevator and everyone pretends they don't smell it.

Ultimately, I guess I want to maintain my immaturity and childlike outlook on life. So I think I will.

In closing, I'd like to say 'poop' because I think it's a funny word.

Poop.

- The Bean

Ranking My Nuts

Okay, so I realize that the title may seem a little misleading. What I'm actually referring to is how dumb a person's own personal ranking system is, and not the numeric placement of my testicles as I see them. Although, if I had to do the latter, I'd have to say that Rambo (my left ball) would be first, with Dozer (my right) coming in a close second. Allow me to clarify. Try reading the title to yourself several times with different accentuation for each of the words. They shouldn't all be read with the same tone. They should be read with slight sarcasm. Or maybe I should have written "Ranking" My Nuts! Anyway, I'm getting off track.

I've never understood a person's personal ranking system. We'll go ahead and use movies as an example. Now, if a person has selected a movie as their number one favorite movie of all time, that's fine. I understand it. I don't really care all that much (because unless it's Varsity Blues, I don't even want to talk to you), but I understand it. But where the confusion and, therefore, hatred lies for me is in placing a movie (or whatever it may be) in your top whatever.

Allow me to make my point through a made up conversation

You: How do your arms not burst through your sleeves? Also, I would have to place Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai in my top five favorite movies of all time.

Me: . . . So . . . you mean . . . it's your fifth favorite movie of all time.

You: No, well I mean, it's in my top five.

Me: Listen dumbass, if it's "in your top five" then it can't be number one because you would have said "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is my favorite movie of all time." If it was your second or third favorite, you would have said "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is in my top three favorite movies of all time." which is still dumb, but I'd be able to see your point. If it was your fourth favorite, you would have said "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is in my top four of all time." Now, you can try to argue that four is an uncommon 'benchmark' number to use when ranking things, but I say why not? We're not fucking idiots here. You can take your 'benchmark' numbers (like 3, 5, 10, 20, and 100) and stick them sideways up your ass. If you say "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is in my top ___ favorite movies of all time" then I'm going to assume that whatever number you've put in the blank is the number that you're ranking that particular movie. If it wasn't, you would have said a different number. Now get out of here before I start thumping me some crotch!

Now, clearly this is a made up scenario because no one but my roommate would ever put Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai in their top anything, ever. Unless it was a list of things that sit there like a lump and do nothing. In which case, it would come in third.

Right after my nuts.

- The Bean

An Open Letter to Whoever Slashed My Tires Last Night

Dearest Whoever Slashed My Tires Last Night,

Fuck you.

Sincerely,
The Bean

No people, seriously, who does this kind of shit anymore? Apparently the same perpetrator hit more than forty cars around my neighborhood last night. It actually even made the news, which would have been cool if they had actually done any of those "man on the street" interviews. See, I always thought it would be funny to try to do a serious interview, but to also pretend like I had tourrets. That way, I could be speaking seriously about the state of our neighborhood crisis and then suddenly shout the word "balls." I mean, granted, I could do this anyway in any real life situation. I actually tend to do this at work a lot when helping customers, which would be funnier if I actually currently had a job.

Yeah, see, that's the other sad part of my saga. My temporary position was up at the beginning of this month. So now I'm supposed to be all adult about things and look for a real job. The downside to the whole thing, and the reason that I'm so against it is because I can just tell that it's going to require some type of effort on my part. And, people, I'm not down. Until then, I'm just gonna sell random shit on ebay because, really, who wouldn't want a half-used Pink Pearl eraser that I still have from seventh grade? I even drew boobs on it! Actually, I just drew the boobs like three days ago, but the buyer doesn't need to know that. Which means that I can use the word "vintage" in my online auction. Rad.

In closing, I'd like to say that the best part of my day was in talking to a friend from Boston. She informed me that her cat, who had NO previous training or experience, 'successfully' pooped in their bathroom toilet last night. I feel it necessary to put half quotes around the word "successfully" because apparently, there was a slight bit of cleanup involved, I assume on the seat (though she didn't go into detail). But it's a cat, people! Give it a little bit of wiggle room.

After hearing that story, I gagged a little bit. But after the gagging, I gained a little bit of hope for this world. Because if a cat of all things can teach itself to use a toilet, then maybe the dumbshits that slashed a neighborhood's worth of tires last night can learn to just eat shit and die.

I weep for the future.

- The Bean

A Puncher's Chance

So lately Ive been watching a lot of UFC DVDs. If you arent familiar with the Ultimate Fighting Championship, I suggest you get on that right away, because its simply amazing. They throw two dudes inside an eight-sided cage (an octagon, if you will) and allow them to beat the holy hell out of one another. They do this until one of them either quits or is unable to intelligently defend himself, which I think loosely translates to "shits himself as his eyes roll into the back of his skull. " If you think youre not into violence and youre prepared to defend your point of view using intelligent facts and other various bullet points, let me save you a lot of trouble. YOU'RE WRONG. The UFC kicks ass.

Now, I dont know what it is lately that makes me want to watch such a violent (albeit very strategic/intelligent) sport. Call it whatever you want. I didnt get enough attention as a child, my mother didnt hug me enough (though I suggest you dont talk about my mother as youll be quick to catch a size 10 enema), maybe I was picked on a lot growing up and now I must live out the twisted fantasies of payback through others whose profession it is to punch things very hard. The fact remains that I enjoy it very much. My thought is that its because Im not a violent person by nature and, therefore, the only way for me to get my own aggression out is to watch other people do it for me. Personally, I think its healthier than actually fighting WITH someone.

The other cool thing about this particular organization is the nicknames they come up with. If you know anything about me, you know that I have the highest regard for coming up with nicknames. Truly, there is nothing cooler than a good nickname. And the UFC has them in spades (which I think means a lot but Im not sure because Ive never actually successfully used that phrase before). For example, Chuck "The Iceman" Liddell, Randy "The Natural" Couture, "Ruthless" Robbie Lawler, Andrei "The Pitbull" Arlovski, "The Phenom" Vitor Belfort, Chris "The Crippler" Leben, etc. The list goes on and on. And I think that the only real reason that I, myself, am not an 'ultimate fighter' (other than the fact that I cried during the movie Little Giants) is because I dont have a cool nickname. It would seem that the only nicknames that prove fitting for me arent really all that cool or badass. For some reason "The Crier," "Mr. Sensitive," "The Tulip," "The Hemophiliac," "Captain Whanny," and "The Heavy Bag," just dont strike fear in the hearts of men..or I guess even children for that matter.

So for now, Ill just have to bide my time until a great nickname is either thrust upon me, or I find a way to not get a little misty whenever I scratch a mosquito bite for too long. Until then, the UFC will have to quench my insatiable thirst for what I refer to as 'intelligent violence.'

- The Bean

What-Eating Grin!?

So I was at work today when a little thought wandered into my head from afar. For whatever reason, I caught myself smiling what could only be described as a "shit-eating grin." And then I thought to myself, I don't really even know what that means. For the next half hour, I pondered what the hell that could possibly mean while simultaneously setting a record for the amount of times the word "shit" could be thought in a half hours worth of time.

If you look at the phrase itself, it makes absolutely zero sense. None. Think about it. If you were to have just eaten some shit (consumed poo, if you will) what would be the farthest facial expression from your mind? A smile, right? Or at least, that's what I would think (or hope). I don't know what kind of sick bastard would put excrement in their mouth and then smile really big, but I guarantee they would probably be from Germany.

Seriously though, what the hell? A shit-eating grin? Really? Usually that phrase is reserved for people that have just done something impolite to someone else and are so proud of themselves that all they can do is smile. But shit eating? How could that possibly make you smile? Usually I'll make a disgusted face if there are even trace amounts of it in the air. Most people will. Their face will go all sour and they'll either hold their breath or leave the room. I don't even think it would be possible to force like a half smile in that situation. It would just be wrong. No one smiles in the bathroom. Not for that anyway.

The only possible way that I can make sense of that saying is that maybe you were tricked into putting poo on, near, or in your mouth, and the person that tricked you is now smiling if not laughing hysterically at you. But could that really be considered a "shit-eating grin?" Wouldn't that be more of a "Tricked you into eating shit grin?" Though I suppose that's far too lengthy to be a good phrase.

So I propose that we do one of the following: 1) Change the phrase to mean something else. Maybe change it to "Shit-eating frown" or "Shit eating repetitive gag." 2) Change the phrase so that it's actually correct. Example: "Candy eating grin" or maybe "Tater tot eating grin." Those at least make sense.

Shit's just gross.

Disclaimer: If you are offended by the word "shit" or shit itself or picturing someone actually eating shit, then you probably shouldn't have read this. However, since I didn't think to write this paragraph at the beginning, you'll take what I give you. Hindsight is 20/20 people. Plus I'm lazy. Deal with it.

-The Bean

Why Does it Hurt So Bad?

So I hit my knee on a table at work today. After my initial reaction of wishing the world would just implode in on itself, I began to wonder what the hell would make something so seemingly insignificant hurt so garsh darn bad.

Now, I'm not a medical doctor but I kinda figure I'm basically as smart as one. Whatever I may lack in book smarts, I more than make up for with an eagerness to make a fool of myself and a monumental set of balls. Seriously, sometimes they barely fit in my underpants. I feel the need to qualify that last statement with "sometimes" only because I don't always wear underpants (ladies?)

However, ridiculous intelligence and grapefruit sized cajones (which I'm told is spanish for "brains") aside, I should get back to the matter at hand . . . . or knee if you wanna be that jackass that thinks it's funny to take everything too literally. Choke on something already.

So I get home and bust out Wikipedia and my old Milton Bradley Operation game. After conducting some extensive research (I never made his nose light up ONCE! (I found that it helps to take out the batteries)) I discovered that all naked, red nosed fat people have a bucket of water beneath their knee! Who knew!? After finding out this nearly unbelievable medical fact, my detective-like instincts kicked in. I quickly did a Wikipedia search for "bucket" and was brought fact to face with the following search results:

" . . . Bucket? . . . Seriously? . . . You typed 'bucket' into our search engine? Really? Do you even have opposable thumbs? Don't answer. We hope . . . no, we PRAY that your retarded sloth of a cat somehow climbed onto your desktop and accidentally mashed out the word 'bucket' on your keyboard. Because, so help us, if it was really you that did a search for the word 'bucket' of all the stupid ass words in the world, we will see to it that you never reproduce or ever achieve true happiness. Good day sir."

And I'm gonna be honest with you. It hurt. Emotionally. It hurt about as much as being hit in the fucking knee. So then I thought, maybe when you bump your knee, the hurt you're actually feeling is more of an emotional hurt as a response to you even beginning to ponder why hitting your knee could possibly hurt so much that it could make you want to drop kick a chinchilla. I don't rightly know because, as I said before, I'm not a doctor. I'm just unreasonably smart. So much so, in fact, that if you were to paint a picture as a metaphor to represent my intellect, it might resemble something along the lines of a ninja pimp magician jump kicking a planet into smaller more manageable pieces.

What does that even mean, you ask? I don't have any idea. My knee still really hurts and I think I may be delirious. Good day to you sirs.

- The Bean

I Thought it Was Funny But it's Snot

For me personally, I think that one of the greatest accomplishments in the world is being able to make someone laugh. Regular laughter amongst friends is great. A good belly laugh also has its place, as does the kind where you laugh til your face hurts or your stomach hurts or some combination thereof.

However, by and large the absolute best compliment in laughter that you can possibly achieve is causing someone to snot. For all intents and purposes in this blog, I have turned the word snot into a verb as I think thats how it best serves its purpose here.

To make someone snot, for me, is the absolute best thing you can do comedically for a number of reasons. The first and simplest reason is that it means they're laughing, which is great. The second reason (and the reason why I find it to be such a complement) is that it means you have caught this person so totally and completely off guard with humor that they don't even have time to open their mouth to complete a full laugh. They react so incredibly quickly to whatever it is that you said that the only place for their laugh to exit is through their nose.

If their sinuses are clear, well then I submit that it's not as satisfying because it ends up sounding more like a scoff. However, if they've got even a little bit of built up nastiness, then it's all worthwhile. And as soon as the snotting occurs, theres that instant moment of social awkwardness that both parties must deal with immediately (the only real minor downfall in my opinion). When this happens, there are a few different paths you can take to overcome this minor obstacle. The person doing the snotting (the snotter if you will) will have an automatic reaction of covering up their nose with either hand as their initial look of joy will quickly be replaced with one of 'Oh fuck.' I clearly just blew my nose in mid air in very plain sight and now I have to try and play it off. To put that phrase in simpler words, I might choose panic with a side of horror. Now that they have leapt from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other within a matter of milliseconds, it is up to you as the slightly amused, somewhat disgusted onlooker (and really, the cause of this whole thing) to do one of two things. You can either a) quickly look away as if to pretend that nothing happened while simultaneously attempting to continue the conversation without gagging, or b) fully embrace the events that have just transpired. In my experience, the best way to accomplish this is to raise one fist triumphantly in the air while shouting YES! and then pointing at the person while declaring 'THAT is awesome!' I'm a pretty firm believer in the latter for two important reasons. It helps to make the moment that much funnier for both parties, and gives the other person an opportunity to laugh at themselves instead of simply feeling embarrassed.

A side bonus of the whole snotting effect is that the person, from the time that it happens to the time that you're both finished with the conversation, will continue to brush the back of their hand across their nose like a coke fiend to check for any possible dangling stragglers. This, to me, is a somewhat endearing act as you've now accidentally made the person feel extremely self conscious. Also, if you do not address the situation as soon as it happens, you'll find that there is no possible way you can actually look this person in the eye for the duration of your interaction. Mostly because you will now have this mental image of them blowing their nose onto themselves, but also because you know that looking at them even for a split second will make them even more self conscious. That is yet another reason to fully embrace the phlegmy expulsion.

As another added bonus, if this person has a cold, you have just helped them clear their sinuses, proving the old adage that laughter truly is the best medicine. Of course, the people who believe that have clearly never tried codeine. That stuff is the shit.

Make A Stupid Statement, Alaska Stupid Question

Not long ago I worked in a customer service type environment, and as such, I dealt with a wide variety of people. The thing that I came to realize about people as a whole is that they are generally stupid and for the most part helpless. However, no one group of people, in my experience, has been as helpless as those lovely people from Alaska.

Never in all my time on this planet have I encountered a group of people that were more willing to use their geographic location as a crutch for their lack of knowledge and performing simple tasks. Now, don't get me wrong, I know a few people from Alaska, and they all seem to be pretty clever people. For example, I've got a buddy from college that thinks of all kinds of different inventions. His first was something he called razor paper which he was convinced was the most brilliant idea in the world. It was paper that had a razor sharp edge and you could use it to cut . . . stuff. Another invention that he was extraordinarily proud of was something he dubbed 'hissors,' which from as near as I can tell were to be heated scissors for cutting things that were . . . cold, I suppose. Hey, I never said these were brilliant inventions. I just said they were clever. He's a creative dude. But Im getting off track.

The point I'm trying to make is that, on numerous occasions, people from Alaska have used that little factoid as an excuse for laziness and sometimes incompetence. For example, a few months back a woman came into the museum to have a look around. She wandered to the back of the front desk (the opposite side of where all the important information is printed) and got my attention.

"Excuse me, but could you explain what there is here for me to do? I'm from Alaska."

What the fuck? She didn't need to throw in that last little bit. If you've never been to the museum, just ask me what there is to do, or approach the front of the desk where there are signs with information and prices on them. There was absolutely no need to qualify the first part by adding where she was from. Look, ma'am, I understand that you're not used to seeing our running water and fancy blinking lights, but why volunteer that information to me? Did she mention it so that I might take pity on her and talk slower or start explaining modern technology to her? Of course, I didn't actually say any of this to her. I simply did what any other excellent customer service representative would do. I pawned her off to someone on our staff that I knew was from Alaska.

"Oh, you're from Alaska!? So's she! You guys should hang out! "

And then like a phantom I disappear.

On another occasion a few weeks ago, this woman and her family came up to the membership window to say they were late for a Planetarium show. The show had already started and they KNEW they were already 10 minutes late. We don't let people in late for the shows. So they approach the window:

"Uh, yeah, we missed our Planetarium show and we need to get in to see it. We have a movie to go see after it (an OMNIMAX movie that we also show where I work at the museum) and were from Alaska. "

Uh . . . what . . . . the . . . . hell? How is one supposed to take that? Shall I take pity on you, or are you telling me this info as though you're bragging about it and I should let you in so that, in the future, I can tell all my friends about the time that I let these late Alaskans into the Planetarium show. I'm just not sure of the response. We don't let people in late. Period. Where you're from has no bearing on the matter, and you're dumb for even thinking that it might. I mean, honestly, do things not start on time in Alaska? Are they unfamiliar with scheduling different events to begin at certain times, or with the fact that you can't open a locked door? It just boggles the mind.

What I really want to know is how often they fall back on that excuse, and more importantly, how often does it actually work? Shit, if I was from there, I'd abuse that fact all the time.

"What? You want me to pay for my meal? No no, its cool. I'm from Alaska."

"Look officer, I know I was doing 90 in a school zone and accidentally clipped the retarded little stop sign flag boy, but heres the thing: I'm from Alaska. So no worries."

"What? Why was I watching you shower through your bathroom window? Doy! I'm from Alaska!"

You get the picture. And, again, I don't have anything against the wonderful people from our 49^th state. I just find it quite funny that in numerous instances, people have used it as an excuse for so many things. It makes me laugh.

Anyway, I'm gonna put on my cheap gold jewelry and sell bags of oranges by the side of the highway. It's cool though. I'm from Mexico.

A Walk in the Park

The following is based on true events.

So I just got back from a walk in the park, and let me start by saying it was anything BUT that. The weather was unbelievably nice, so I headed outside to the park across the street from my home. I found a nice shady tree and walked there on my hands while simultaneously doing vertical push-ups. When I got there, I was a little tuckered since, as I'm sure you all know that even with my peak level of fitness, vertical push-ups ain't easy.

I take shelter from the sun underneath a nearby tree and begin constructing a makeshift palm tree using bark, grass clippings, and fallen leaves from other nearby trees. I decide to do this because a) I've never gotten to take shelter under a nearby palm tree, and b) I've always wanted to say that I had. So I took shelter under a nearby palm tree.

No sooner did I start thinking of ways to save the rainforest, than I was approached by a homeless man with a thirst for blood. He threatened me with what appeared to be a trident. I didn't even know you could get those things anymore. Not like it did him even a little bit of good because, as he ran in to attack me, I back-flipped off a nearby tree and spin-kicked him at the base of his brain stem. I think, as he was coming at me, he was trying to say something along the lines of "Do you have any spare change?" but I was so quick that it came out more like "BLARG!" So he drops like a sack of batteries and I'm thinking it's time to call it a day. Suddenly his attack monkey, which I hadn't seen initially, came leaping forth from behind the brush (as they have a way of doing) and bit me in my arm. I quickly tied it's tail to a nearby branch as opposed to just killing it because, hey, I'm not an asshole.

Which brings me to my next point. What the hell does "based on true events" really even mean? The only part of that story that's true is that I went to the park today. That plus the monkey thing. But how little of a story has to actually be true for people to need to say that? They abuse it in movies all the time. Can you tell whatever kind of bullshit lies you want as long as you preface it with "The following is based on true events?" I mean, technically could you say that Superman was based on true events because there probably was once this guy whose name really was "Clark" and one time he wore the color combination of blue and red? I don't know. I say why the hell not.

You know what? I think I'm going to start using that phrase before every story I tell. I'll be at a party or a box social or giving a statement at the police station and before I start I'll say "The following is based on true events." Holy crap, I just realized how bulletproof that is! You could say anything you wanted after that as long as what you start with actually happened! Then, whoever you're telling the story to would have to decide for themselves. And ladies love mystery in a man. Especially in a man that was attacked by a monkey.

- The Bean

What Would You Do For A Friend?

The title sounds cheesy, right? Well, just read on and I can assure you that the scenario I am about to propose will test your resolve both mentally and physically. So don't be such a jerk. Jerk.

Having gone to three different weddings so far this summer, I started thinking about friendship. A common question that people ask themselves is what they would be willing to do for a friend? Now, the most widely known and cliché question people tend to think about true friendship is: Would you take a bullet for a friend?

I submit the following. A more bullshit question could not exist. No one in their right mind would take a bullet for anyone! Are you kidding me? That's a bullet! And you're a target. In a situation where a gun is pulled out, you've got two choices. This is referred to as the 'fight or flight response' and is present in all of us. When you see a gun, your options become narrowed down for you. You run. You run because what else are you gonna do? Stay around and try to fight the bullet? I repeat, THAT'S A FUCKING BULLET. The smart thing for everyone to do in that scenario is run and leave the slowest behind. It's like when you were kids and you used to race each other. "Loser gets a wet willie!" Well, it's the same thing here, except the loser gets fatal blood loss. So don't be a loser McFly.

The other dumb thing about that question is that it usually involves a scenario where people just have to react. There's no time to think or see the bullet coming and then make an informed decision about exactly how you should leap in front of it so as to minimize damage. And in what scenario would someone just fire one bullet at someone standing next to you? No no no, this is all wrong. It's a crap question.

I propose a better, more realistic question for you. It's one that I've put a lot of thought into, and it's one that you can think about and fully appreciate, especially if something like this ever happens to you. Here it is:

If your friend was being mauled by a bear, would you or would you not stick your thumb up that bears ass to stop the attack? Take some time and mull it over.

Now, the first question you're probably asking is "What kind of a sick fucking question is that?" What's wrong, are you afraid of how you might answer? Remember, this is your friend, and they're being mauled by an angry bear. You might also be thinking "This is a completely unrealistic scenario and there's no way to know for sure whether that tactic (however brilliant it might be) would actually work." Oh, you foolish mortals. It would absolutely work. And while I've never tried it personally, I can assure you that once I give you my reasoning, you might actually crap your pants in the face of it's magnificence.

Think about it. You sit down for a nice meal. You take a bite. You think everything is going swimmingly. Suddenly, a thumb is plunged knuckle deep into your pooper. What's your first thought? I can't say for sure, but I'm almost positive that it has nothing to do with hunger. A nice hearty meal is probably the last thing on your mind. Thus, your attention has successfully been turned to the perpetrator (or 'poopetrator' if you like shitty puns (I'll allow you a moment to soak in that awesome pun within a pun)).

Here's a list of FAQs that often accompany the whole bear/thumb/ass topic:
Q: What the fuck?
A: Just think about it. And don't be jealous because you didn't come up with it.

Q: What makes this the "perfect" scenario as you suggest?
A: Well, with the mauling bear/thumb in the ass scenario, you've really got some quality time to think about what this particular friendship means to you. Do I really like this person enough to insert my thumb into this bear's ass? Is there a scenario that exists where I would actually truly be okay with this? Plus, unlike with the bullet scenario, there's a possibility you don't die. And there's a 100% chance that you don't get hit with a bullet which is aces in my book!

Q: Why the thumb?
A: I'm glad you asked. The thumb is the only digit on your hand that's entrance into the bear's brown starfish would be unimpeded by any of your other fingers. It's what I like to call 'The Lone Enforcer.' Easy in, easy out my friends. It's that simple.

Q: How did you get so handsome?
A: I'm actually getting a little tired of this question. It's a combination of things really. Genetics, work ethic, my ability to eat whole bags of candy, etc. Just accept it.

So that's pretty much that. The next time you're hanging out with someone wondering if they're a true friend, just take the test. Ask yourself "Would I stick my thumb up a bear's ass to save this person?"

Friendship. It's got my thumbs up.

- The Bean

McDonald's My Ass

Okay, so this is actually an old old joke I wrote, but it was erased long ago. I figured I'd post it again so that you new few could have a chance to taste a bit of your own bile.

A long time ago, I had decided that if I were to ever become a stand up comic, this would be my first joke. It's the first full bit I ever came up with completely on my own, and it's a true story. It's slightly disgusting, even for me, so give yourself a moment to understand that before you decide to read any further. And we're off:

One day about a year and a half ago, I was driving home from work in the bug, rocking out to the Bee gees or Dan Fogelberg or Little River Band or some shit, and I was feeling a might gassy. So being that I'm alone, and a big fan of personal comfort, I decide to let one go. Instantly, I'm both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time (don't read to far into this yet, I didn't shart!). I'm comfortable because, well, because my gas is no longer taking up empty space inside me. I'm uncomfortable because, well, heat rises.

The first thing I notice is that it smells. However, the second and more interesting thing that I notice is that the smell kind of reminds me of Mcdonald's french fries. Hang with me people, it gets worse. Immediately after that, my next thought is that I'm now kind of hungry for Mcdonald's. . . Okay, allow yourself a moment to go ahead let this sink in. Gag if you must. Light a scented candle to get the smelly thought out of your head. Or maybe go buy some Mcdonald's if that's what suits you......fucking sicko.

After having said all that, I would like to pose the following question to you: Am I disgusting for getting a craving for Mickey D's after smelling my own gas?

I understand that your initial gut reaction will be "Yes. Hell yes! Absolutely." However, I must follow it up with another question. What's more disgusting? The fact that I got hungry after smelling my own foul stench, or the fact that every last one of you have all eaten french fries that taste like the inside of my ass?

I rest my case.

My Dinner With Stan Lee

I should correct myself. When I say "My dinner with Stan Lee" what I really mean is "The other day at work, I saw an old man from a distance of about 30 yards who had the side profile of famous comic book genius Stan Lee." That title wouldn't have drawn you in as much, so I went with the other.

Since the museum where I work is "in transition," there are no customers and it is therefore EXTREMELY BORING. We were looking for entertainment in any form, and in walks Stan Lee's body double (from the side). I don't know who his body double from the front is, but this guy definitely had the right side profile down. I then spent the next half hour pointing this out to all fellow employees that would listen. My excitement was often met with "Wait, who are you?"

I know what you're thinking too. You don't believe me. This story seems far too good to actually have happened. Rene sort of almost saw Stan freakin' Lee! But here's the thing . . . I've got pictures to prove it!! Well . . . more like picture. I've got picture to prove it. I've got a single picture, leave me alone.

I took it with my camera phone to ensure the best possible quality. It's got 2 megapixels, which I'm told is more than 1. I was pretty proud of how I took the picture as well. After I lowered myself down from the ceiling Mission Impossible style, I popped up from behind the front desk and, get this, PRETENDED to be on my phone. What I was really doing was taking an incognito photograph of my "mark" (which is what we spies call our . . . marks, I guess). I tell you people, I'm crafty. Call the Academy and tell them to come watch me pretend to be on my phone. It was THAT convincing.

Anyway, without any further suspense, here is a side by side comparison of my picture and an actual photo of the man himself:



As you can tell by my photo (not that you need to ask, but the one on the left), there were a lot of other photographers in the museum that day. Compare it to the photo of the real Stan Lee (on the right) at the, um . . . we'll say at the Parthenon, and you can clearly see the similarities. I'll give you some time to bask.

And to be honest with you people, I lied. The pictures are both very real, but I'm actually responsible for the one on the right. Whatever jerks! It's still good and I might be able to sell it to the Enquirer or something. Anyway, I've included another picture with the photos subtly labeled with the real Stan Lee and the fake Stan Lee that just turned out to be an old man looking for his wife and grandchildren. Please see below.



Life never ceases to amaze, no? Oh, and I'm sorry for lying.

- The Bean

Tater Mitts

Before I begin, I'm gonna ask you to do yourself a favor and head over to www.tatermitts.com for a quick demo video. No no, go ahead. I'll wait . . .

. . . Did you watch it? Awesome right? Here's the thing. They don't look like anything groundbreaking, but I have to admit that I can totally get next to any product with "tater" in the name. Tater tots? Yes, please. Tater Mitts? Let's get to peeling some Idaho Russets. Tater-ade? Gotta love me some starchy electrolytes. Master-Tater? Where did Rene run off to so quickly and why does his room always smell like baked potatoes?

Okay, so I admit I don't even know what that last one was. I just thought it sounded funny.

You know, my only beef with any and every infomercial are the people that they have perform the most common, menial tasks. These people can never seem to figure out how to use basic tools. I swear, the woman in the Tater Mitts commercial must have had some mild form of palsy. It was as though she had never seen a potato or a knife and the producer was like "Here, take these and do whatever it is that you do." After a few takes where she first bashes the knife repeatedly with the potato and then goes after the camera man, she finally gets it right. It's terrible. But at least she's getting work.

Anyway, I don't have much more to say about them.

Tater Mitts. Buy 'em.

-The Bean

Give Me Dry Socks or Give Me Death

So about a month and a half ago, I was in Canada for a bachelor party. This was my first venture into the famed country that just seems to kind of be there. It was nice. Lovely city, the people seemed nice enough, and I was with a group of guys that just wanted to have a good time. However, there was one thing that managed to prevent it from being the perfect weekend. . . . wet socks. I repeat . . . . WET . . . SOCKS.

I fucking HATE wet socks. More than anything else in this world. For the Canada trip there was rain pretty much every day. Now see, rain I don't have a problem with. It rains in Portland all the time and I generally welcome it. I've been wet before. But having wet socks is an entirely different story. My shoes had holes near the toe area, so I'm partially to blame for the fiasco, but that's no excuse. My toes were still wet.

I would rather die than have wet socks. And when I say "wet socks" I'm referring to socks with even just a little bit of water on them. I could be walking down death row, staring into the face of the most painful death anyone could possibly imagine and I'd probably be all right. Now, add into that equation a pair of socks where just the little toe is has been dabbed with water and I would try to end my own life before I finished my walk.

What is it about moist foot coverings (another name for "wet socks." Lame, I know, but I got tired of using the phrase. Get over it) that makes me want to kill a puppy? And why oh why do they never seem to dry while still on your feet?! That's an anomaly to me. I could have stepped in a puddle a day ago and then spent the next twenty four hours with my foot directly in front of a fire and I'd still feel the moisture. If it wasn't man made, it would be like nature's own water retainer. Like a cactus, or a camel, or a pregnant woman. They're all pretty similar.

Example:
Man: What's wrong honey?
Woman: I'm retaining water and I feel really shitty.
Man: Are you sure it's not just the pair of wet socks that you're wearing?
Woman: Sweet Jesus, you're brilliant. Do me now.
Man: Take off the socks first, then we'll talk.

You see?

But why not just take off the horrid foot covers of death you say? To you I reply "shut up asshole. And what the hell is a 'horrid foot cover of death?' Are you trying to say 'wet sock' creatively? Well, you're an idiot."

We have the technology in this country to make a set of gloves that will peel a potato in just 8 seconds, but we can't keep my toes dry? I call shenanigans.

- The Bean

Judge Booty

Okay, so while were on the subject of the brown starfish, I may as well dig us deeper into the hole (no pun intended) of vulgarity. Now, Im sure that at some point, the vast majority of us have worked in some type of customer service position. In my case, I still am. Now, during the tenure of your work experience, I am also sure that everyone has judged a customer in one way or another. What I mean by this is that, as soon as the unsuspecting jackass steps away from your register or till or counter or wherever it is that you work, you and your coworkers just go to town on this person. Well, I would think that working the cash register in a grocery store would be the most difficult not to question/judge the people that come through there on a daily basis, since all you have to base your judgment on are the items they buy.

For example, the other day I found myself to be a little hungry. The specific item I required was an entire bag of Salsa Verde Doritos (which I should add are beyond delicious). I hadnt had chips for a while, and the only way to possibly quell that desire was for me to eat the entire bag. But I'm getting off track.

As I was at the store grabbing the bag of scrumptiousness (which, if you havent gone out to buy yet, you should have at least jotted it down on like a cocktail napkin next to you or some shit), I remembered that my apartment was almost completely out of toilet paper. Being that this is somewhat of an important commodity, I figured I should get a huge bag of that as well.

Since I could not think of anything else that I may have needed at that current moment, I decided to begin my exit with said items. Now, I dont know if youve ever only bought just two things before, but I guarantee you that no matter what it is, it ALWAYS looks weird. Unless, of course, were talking about like peanut butter and jelly. However, I felt for some reason that on this particular excursion, the combination that I had selected, must have looked especially weird. I say this because of the odd look I received from the cashier. As I allowed my wit to quietly work its magic, I found that all I could come up with was an awkward silence and the sentence "Umm . . . looks like I'm set for the night, huh?" Yeah I know, brilliant, right?

On a completely separate occasion, I had an even more embarrassing adventure to the supermarket, and not a single word was said. The item in question? A box of Imodium AD. For those of you who dont know exactly what that is, I suggest you find out. The stuff is seriously a miracle cure. Not to get too terribly graphic on you, but suffice it to say the box uses the words "loose stools." Enough said. When youre purchasing an item of that nature, and only that item, there is absolutely NOTHING you can say to save yourself. You can try to be like "Umm . . . my girlfriend . . . err she doesnt feel . . . stomach..hurts." Yeah, uh, bullshit. You have diarrhea and both you and the store clerk know it.

I mean, you can try to throw other things in your basket to make it seem less embarrassing. Such as some garbage bags, paper towels, a gallon of milk, some highlighters, toenail clippers, or some cheez-its, but I guarantee that's gonna make matters ten times worse. Because now, not only does the cashier think you have "the rear" as I call it, but now he thinks that you've already made such a mess that at this point you need paper towels and garbage bags to clean it up. Then, while youre battling your next bout of what my step dad likes to call "the trots," youre gonna be drinking some milk while highlighting some light homework reading, while snacking on cheez-its and clipping your toenails. Now youre just next-level disgusting.

The only thing you can honestly do is just completely fess up. As you slide the box over to him, as proudly as you possibly can, exclaim "I have diarrhea, and I am purchasing this box of pharmaceuticals to combat its symptoms!" Because otherwise, you're a fucking liar.

My thought on the matter is this: If you're gonna purchase an embarrassing item, you may as well just go the whole way and buy every possible embarrassing thing you can think of. This way, the check out person wont know what to react to. It'll be a sensory overload and they'll just have to shut up. It doesnt even matter what you grab. Some suppositories, maxi pads, a copy of Dr. Phils latest book, tampons (they work wonders for nose bleeds), rubbers, a copy of the movie Cool Runnings (which you kinda liked but dont want to admit to your friends), and really whatever else you can think of. At least this way, if you ever need to buy any of that stuff in the future, youll already have it stockpiled. And then youre set for life.

Don't say I never taught you anything. Now go out with your new found knowledge and abuse the hell out of it.

- The Bean

What Am I?

Okay, so I know I haven't posted in almost a month, and this one doesn't even really count as a post. But it's something for you to chew on for a bit.

It's a skit by a comedy group called Those Lil Rabbits, and while it might seem a little obnoxious at first, it's really quite brilliant. So if you can make it through the whole thing, you'll be a better person for it.

Seriously, it's funny.



- The Bean

Porn on Television

The following is a commercial that actually aired more than a year ago on television. Please watch it in it's entirety and try not to either laugh or throw up a little bit into your own lap.

Yeah, I know, I know. A friend showed me this clip a while back, and it never gets any easier to watch. It's horrifying, right? No commercial for a children's toy should ever involve a money shot. Period.

What could the marketing department at Super Soaker have possibly been thinking? I'm sure you're wondering too. Well, some people put together a video on YouTube of what they thought it might have gone like. Unfortunately though, given gold to work with, the video falls short of the mark. They even go so far as to call it the "Splooginator." Tell you what, drop the "L" and then we'll talk about what's funny. Good effort though.

Getting back to the marketing meeting, how the hell could you not have seen criticism coming?! They made the substance WHITE for Christ's sake! You're not fooling anyone. At least make it yellow or purple or green so kids think they're shooting alien guts or something at each other. But white? The only way it could be worse is if it smelled like bleach.

I want to know the thought process behind actually creating this gun. "Hey, I know! Let's make a toy for children that you have to pump down at waist level until enough pressure has built up, and then have it aimed and released (or "ejaculated" if I'm not pulling any punches) onto another person's chest and face. Even the guys at NAMBLA were like "Yeah, this is a bit much."

I have no qualms about the overall objective of the gun. You're trying to shoot slime at someone that doesn't want slime on them. That's inherently funny. Always has been. It's like when you were young and you used to throw mud at girls. Or like when you were 12 and you used to EJACULATE ON YOUR BEST FRIEND'S CHEST. Good lord, what were these people thinking!?! I know I've asked that already, but it just continues to defy any type of logic.

I haven't done any further research, but I would assume that this toy has been pulled off of store shelves in an effort not to sully childrens' minds. Save that nightmare for summer camp. It looks like it's back to the drawing board for Super Soaker. I'm not even sure I want to speculate what could possibly be next. All I can say is that it better not shoot warm mud and be shaped like an ass, because seriously people. Seriously.

-The Bean

Did You Drop a Jellybean?

As odd as it may seem, this question evokes a sense of happiness in me. I reminds me of a carefree time in my life where I really had no purpose (not like now, where I'm a very successful CEO). It reminds me of high school to be quite honest with you.
As far as I know, the question was initially coined by my good friend Travis as we would drive around the wonderful city of Idaho Falls constantly complaining that there was nothing to do.

Upon initial examination, the question seems quite simple and straightforward. Did you drop a jellybean? Seems like a simple yes or no answer would suffice, right? The actual meaning goes much deeper than that, quite literally. In order for the question to acheive it's maximum humor potential, you must know the right moment to ask it.

The question in question has nothing to do with an actual jellybean (though it can). Allow me to explain. Have you ever been riding around in the passenger seat of a vehicle and developed an itch? Not an itch on your face or neck or arm, but deeper. Lower. More central. Past the grundle, beyond the taint, to a place of indescribable darkness and sometimes minor irritation. Your undercarriage, if you will. Are we all on the same page here? I think I heard somebody gag, so we must be.

Anyway, the question came from just such an occasion. I "went in" for an itch, and while I had my hand down there, digging away, Travis turned to me and said "Dude, what did you drop a jellybean?" And so it was. From that point on, that became the perfect question for that scenario.

Now, I don't know if any of you have actually ever dropped a piece of hard candy while driving/riding in a car, but where's the first place it goes? That's right. It somehow immediately finds it's way to that cavernous little bird's nest between your seat and your meat. And it always seems like the harder you try to dig around for it, the farther back it makes it's way, to the point where you've pretty much just wiped your ass with a piece of candy. And, let's be honest people, 95% of you will still eat it.

I'm not saying I'm above the law here. I do it too. And really, a jellybean is the only type of food you can do that with and get away with. Chocolate covered candies might melt, cookies or crackers might crumble. You wouldn't smear a half a pint of Haagen Das on your crotch and then try to eat it, would you? Something about the chemical makeup of a jellybean makes that horrid act just slightly less horrid.

The point of this whole story is not to gross you out (though that's like a bonus for me if it did), but to bring back the question. I don't know if you've ever heard it before or if Travis independantly conceived it, or even if he heard it from someone else. But I move that we should bring it back.

Who's with me?

-The Bean

Help the Police!

Okay, so this is more for Russ than for anyone else, but it's hilarious. Evidently, it's from a British sketch comedy show called "Rush Hour." Enjoy it.



- The Bean

Cockfighting

So recently I got the chance to watch some cockfighting videos. After that, I returned them to the video store, paid my late fees, and watched clips of this crazy sport where they breed roosters, attach razors to their feet, and watch them kill each other.

Did you see what I did there?

Anyway, I learned two things from the clips:
1. Jokes about gay porn are ALWAYS funny.
2. Actual cockfighting is ridiculous . . . especially if the other guy is bigger than you are (Seriously, did you really think I could pass up another opportunity for a cheap laugh? If you did, please see number 1 above).

- The Bean

Fred Meyer is better than Safeway

and here's the single reason why:
u-scan self check out.

before you disagree and decide to send me a strongly worded letter (which i probably wouldn't read anyway), allow me to explain my reasoning. now, i've never done drugs in my life (save for the whole wisdom teeth fiasco) and that's something that i'm very proud of. but i swear, whenever i go to the grocery store on a whim, i have the eating habits and random cravings of a pothead.
take tonight for example. i got back from the store not too long ago with an odwalla citrus monster smoothie, a box of snackwell's cookie cakes, and a 20 oz diet A&W root beer.
i know, right?

but what i hate about safeway is that you've actually got to go through a real human person in order to make it out the front door with your delicious impulse buys. and that's the part that sucks. because despite every checkout person's facade of "i hate my life and all things that are a part of it" you know that they silently judge every person that comes through their line. it's one of the perks of the job. i think they even advertise it in their benefits package.

but i don't want people judging me. sure it's fine if i'm on a healthy kick and i actually want people to see me walking up to the checkout line with my lean chicken and frozen veggies and my flax seed and supplements and organic fruits. hell, i'll even make it a point to actively see that people notice my health conscious choices. leaning next to the person behind me and asking "hey, have you ever tried these?" only to be met with "dude, those are almonds. who hasn't tried almonds?" "i don't know. maybe you've got a food allergy or something. anyway, they're pretty awesome. a little protein, good source of omega 3s. gotta watch my carbs." this time only to be met with awkward silence and the eventual " . . . please stop talking to me."

of course, the other 96% of the time when i've decided to forgo a healthy diet "just for tonight," the last thing i want is judgement. especially if i a) don't have a safeway club card (i don't need you or your damn exclusive club) and b) they're assuming something about me that is absolutely untrue.

let me paint for you a picture if i may. i went into safeway sometime last week because it's two blocks from my house. i was hungry. and it was the kind of hungry that demands immediate satisfaction. so i proceed to gather the following items: a digiorno's frozen pizza (cheese stuffed crust), a 20 oz soda (i think diet pepsi jazz or some other totally manly flavor like that, a box of safeway cookies (which i might add are pretty much required if you frequent safeway), a bag of chips, and a pack of gum.
but the one thing that i didn't get? a lighter. why not? well, because even though i needed one (no seriously, it's for this new magic trick i learned. i swear. i'll show it to you if we ever meet), i thought that this particular item would have put me over the top as far as judgement goes in the eyes of the checkout woman. a woman who would have eventually mangled my last name anyway. i just couldn't do it.

anyway, needless to say, i'm like the king of the freddy's u-scan check out world. i'm not like those jack asses that come up with a cartload of stuff (it says 15 items or less asshole) and then decide that it's best if i pay in loose change and coupons. i got my crappy food, my debit card, and my oven already pre-heating at home. now scan your shit, pack your bags, and shove off. i'm hungry.

short lines, no judgement, amen.

- The Bean