tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334952362024-02-08T11:51:05.428-08:00Turn Your Head and CoughLife is short. Laugh or Die.The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-42170970805150180322010-06-08T23:36:00.000-07:002010-06-09T00:21:11.426-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>My Eating Disorder</b></span><div><br /></div><div>Relax people, it's not as serious as all that. What I'm trying to say is that, despite my 29 years of experience in chewing food, I still can't seem to get it right. I'll bite my lip a few times a month, and the inside of my cheek even more frequently. Of course that only exacerbates things and causes me to continue to pepper my every bite of food with another layer of cheek flesh, which is no one's favorite. But that's not even my main problem. Everyone does those things pretty regularly and will likely continue to do so because we're a nation of rushed eaters. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I'm talking about is even more embarrassing than that nonsense. What I'm talking about is knowingly eating something that's going to fire up the inside of my mouth and not having the patience to wait for it to cool. The item in this example was a fish sandwich. A fish sandwich that was breaded and therefore needed to be fried. In oil. Oil that was hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock full of lava. So what this breading did was to effectively cause a pocket of hot oil to be trapped in between itself and the other fishy layer of deliciousness. I knew this going in. And yet I still was somehow able to convince my stupid brain that the 4 seconds the sandwich had spent on my plate was enough to cool it sufficiently. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I then did what any other retarded manchild might have done in that situation. I bit into it with reckless abandon. That Goddamn fish sandwich filled my mouth with liquid agony so quickly that my next seven generations of taste buds were flash fried instantaneously. My eyes watered up and all I could see from that point on was hatred.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not really that mad about it anymore. I got what I deserved. All I'm really trying to say is that you should let your food cool before you eat it. And if you just can't be bothered to wait, give me a call. Because I'll gladly jam that first bite blindly into my food hole. </div><div><br /></div><div>...Don't judge me.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-989609850126836042010-01-26T01:36:00.000-08:002010-01-26T02:01:13.863-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Liar Liar, Arm's On Fire</b></span><div><br /></div><div>Hey, you there! Have you ever caught fire? Have you ever not realized it right away? Well, if there was a competition for it, I'd likely be at least one up on you.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other day I wanted to light a candle. Don't judge. I'm a sophisticated dude with a smelly apartment. Being that I had no lighter and nary a match, I did what any sophisticated man would do. I took apart a clothespin, lit it on the gas stovetop and used that to light the candle. Take a moment to revel in the brilliance of that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, now that you're done basking in my genius, prepare yourself for the dumb. So the candle is lit and is trying desperately to do a near impossible task (of making my apartment not smell like cheese and disappointment). I'm trying to enjoy it, appreciate it. While doing this, I'm also running my fingers through the hair on my arm (well how do YOU get to sleep?!) when I notice that it's all clumpy and crusty. "Asay Whaaaat?" I thought to myself (I often think to myself in the voice of a '70s pimp). I go in for a closer look and notice that almost all the hair on the underside of my right forearm is singed. </div><div><br /></div><div>...I lit myself on fire and didn't even notice. I'm an adult. I live by myself. I'm in serious trouble.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, it took me a solid 15 minutes of precise pruning to effectively manscape my arm back into what might pass for normal. Let me ask you this. Have you ever had to do a combover on your arm? Yeah, uh, me neither.</div><div><br /></div><div>Please just leave it alone.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-80418140652747285972009-09-26T23:57:00.000-07:002010-06-09T00:24:57.451-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Down a Peg</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Let's talk a little bit about embarrassment. Now normally you would think that, in order to be embarrassed, you would need to do something embarrassing in front of other people to feel like a true dipshit. If you trip. And people are watching. And you know this. Bam! A little nugget of embarrassment wells up within you and quickly snowballs into you wanting to throw up. You try not to though since that would be embarrassing and you're already using your one broken paddle to navigate shit creek. </div><div><br /></div><div>So then, it stands to reason that it would be impossible to become embarrassed when you are alone and you do something dumb, right? I discovered a few months back that this is not the case. I was in New Mexico and staying at a friend's apartment. A married couple actually. We had to get up early so they could get me to the airport for a flight scheduled for a quarter to fucking early. Anyway, so I wake up and I'm groggy. That's pretty standard for most. I can generally navigate my way through physical space when I'm tired, even in a place I've never explored before.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well I head to the shower and disrobe like a normal person (by that I mean I rip my pajama bottoms off like an NBA all star), and I fire up the shower. I notice it's a pretty powerful beam of water and it's just tagging the back wall. Now, I don't know how often you've taken a shower in a place you're generally unfamiliar with, but you always have to plan out your method of attack in order to get in there. If the stream isn't very powerful, you sneak around the back so you can take your time getting used to the temperature. If the water pressure it too high though, you've got to sneak through the front and duck down like some kind of butt ass naked ninja and hope that the water's just right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well I don't remember why, but even though the water pressure was nailing the back wall, I remember thinking that the only way to get in there was to go through the back. I had to do it quickly though because the longer it took me, the more water would end up on the floor, which I hate. Well, in my retarded non ninja like quickness I failed to notice that they had a shower mat, I think probably because it was the size of a playing card. So I plant my foot in the shower back and at an angle. Dumb. In an act of defiance, it shot out from under me like I was on fucking roller skates. I proceed to karate kick the mat out from under me and in my still-waking-up haze, I thought it was a squid or something that was touching my foot (stupid little suction cups). I also manage to simultaneously hit my knee on their toilet, ram my elbow into the wall, nearly rack myself on the edge of the bathtub, and pull down part of the shower curtain.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no possible situation in life that will embarrass you more when you're by yourself than falling down naked in the shower. Picture that scene from Tommy Boy with the deer tearing the car apart. Okay, now couple that with the scene from Ace Ventura 2 when he's coming out of the rhino's ass. That's what I imagine I looked and sounded like. Just terrible.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm trying to fix everything as fast as possible while water is still shooting out like I popped open a fire hydrant, and I'm thinking that it can't get much more embarrassing. And then I thought "How did they not hear all that?" And then I remember thinking "Oh shit. Please oh please oh please don't let them have heard that." Silence. ...And then the last possible phrase you want to hear in that situation. "Is everything okay in there?" Ugh. What do you say to that? "Yeah, I'm good. As good as a person can be who just racked himself on your bathtub." No! You lie. You lie your ass off. "I'm good. The shampoo just fell." Yeah, your 200 pound bottle of shampoo just fell and managed to somehow tear your shower curtain down. You guys should stop buying shampoo from Costco.</div><div><br /></div><div>The strange thing is that I'm not nearly as embarrassed telling any of you people about this after the fact as I was when it happened. So, please, learn from my experiences. If you're ever in a new bathroom, showering for the first time, and you see a bath mat, it's there for a reason. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so that's just one way you can bring yourself down a peg ...almost literally.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-73011397665888734902009-09-14T00:14:00.000-07:002009-09-14T01:01:50.731-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-size:18px;">Post Office, You So Crazy!<br /></span><div><br /></div><div>I was at the post office yesterday mailing some crack rock and a bomb when I was accosted with an odd inquiry. It's not like it was even something new, but it's the first time I really paid attention to the question. It doesn't matter what you're there to purchase or ship at the post office. You always get asked the same question before you pay.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Would you like to buy any stamps today?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Seems harmless enough, right? Wrong, idiot! Come with me as I spin you a tale of why this is the dumbest fucking question they could possibly ask you. You ready? Here we go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's say you're at the grocery store. Let's say you've picked up the items that you require and you head to the checkout counter. You're standing there as the elderly lady in front of you is, for whatever reason, trying to pay by check. You figure you've got some time so you start to browse the impulse items. Nail clippers, breath mints, gum, candy, random tiny toiletries, etc. "Oh," you say to yourself, "I forgot that I was almost out of gum." So you grab a pack and check out. Boom, you're done. It makes sense. You went to a store that carries a large variety of merchandise, forgot something you needed while checking out, and were reminded of it before you left. That's nice.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at the post office? EVERY SINGLE PERSON that's visiting that building is there with a specific purpose in mind. They're either mailing a package, picking up a package, picking up their mail, buying boxes, or buying stamps. That's FIVE things. If you need to do two of them on the same trip, I'm guessing you can probably keep that stored in your memory bank for the duration of your visit. It's not like you're gonna get to the front of the line and be like:</div><div>"Damn. Now I know there were two reasons I came here today. Let's see... I'm holding this package, so I'm most likely here to send it somewhere. Fortunately I've already written the address out in full. But the second reason... The second reason escapes me. Let me run through the list of things I could possibly do inside this building, of which there are only five... ...Nope, no idea." </div><div>"Would you like to buy some stamps?" the clerk asks.</div><div> "Holy shit, you've done it!" you exclaim. "Can you dive back into your crystal ball and tell me how to now exit these premises? ...What's that you say? The same door I came in? What kinda wizard...?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess my main point is that I think it's unnecessary for them to ask you. They've surrounded their little work area with piles of stamps which should be enough of a reminder. And if that visual subtlety doesn't key your brain into your checklist of post office needs, you probably shouldn't be mailing things to people. Seriously, someone's gonna get hurt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thinking more about it, I'd be willing to bet they ask you that as more of a retaliation than anything else. Think about it. How many times in a given day do you think someone walks in there, hands them a package, and says something to the effect of "Yeah, uh, I'd like to mail this." as though the clerk is unaware of what their own job is?</div><div><br /></div><div> ...Come to think of it, that's exactly what I did yesterday. ...Dammit. It would appear as though I've brought this upon myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Touché post office lady. Touché.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-55222636224813802652009-09-04T20:52:00.000-07:002009-09-04T21:19:02.748-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">I Have the Ability to Make Grown Men Cry</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, this includes myself. Allow me to explain. About a month and a half ago, I got to do one of the cooler things I've ever done in my life. I had the opportunity to be a surprise guest at the wedding of a close friend. If you get the chance, I highly recommend it.</div><div><br /></div><div>His bride-to-be sent me an email about a month before asking if there was any way I could make it since there was potential for some of his key friends to not be able to make it. I had already told him I couldn't twice in the past year since I knew I would be busy with school, so he was already sold. However, a request from the bride seldom goes ungranted. So I immediately bought a plane ticket and worked out my housing and car situations with some friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>The plan was for me to show up at the rehearsal covertly and then, when they were practicing the vows, I was to make my big entrance during the whole "If anybody has any objections..." part. So I did, and it was amazing. He looked shocked and all the other groomsmen got all choked up. I got choked up, but avoided actually speaking so I could dodge the whole shaky voice syndrome. It was pretty great. The wedding itself the next day was also great. Easily one of the best ceremonies I've ever seen. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know this entry isn't necessarily funny, but I just had to get it out there because whenever I think about it I smile.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I found out that there is no way I could ever be a ninja or a spy. As I was waiting in hiding, I was giddier than a kid cracked out on caffeine on Christmas Eve. I couldn't stop giggling. When most people see a strange grown man giggling to himself hiding under a desk in their own home, they'd probably call the cops. Thank God I got the right house. Also, there was a moment when I almost got caught, but narrowly avoided it by diving to the ground (with ape-like agility) and doing a marine crawl into the next room. I then locked myself in the bathroom. The things we do for friendship. Then I tittered some more. </div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't imagine being an assassin of some type. I'd be hiding in the closet ready to hit someone with a brainstem shot and then I'd chortle or guffaw or emit some other kind of equally retarded laugh, effectively giving away my position. I'd be useless.</div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, Jamie and Jami, thank you for letting me a part of your day. You two are great.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-61101200094725742912009-08-19T00:09:00.000-07:002009-08-20T19:38:31.388-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">B</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">reakfast for Dinner</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Does that phrase get you as excited as it does me? If so, I'll allow you a few moments to go and change your underthings. I know I just peed a little, so I can only imagine what you did ...sicko.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, and we're back. So, few things in life get me as excited as the simple string of words "Hey, we're having breakfast for dinner." ("Free pizza!" comes to mind as well as "What are you doing in my apartment?" but both to a much lesser degree). I don't know if it's because it feels like you're breaking some type of implicit rule of the universe, or what. It's very name suggests that there's only one time of day you should be eating it and that anything else is just pure insanity! But no, we cannot be limited, universe.</div><div><br /></div><div>So like some type of chubby vigilante, I eat whatever type of meal I want regardless of the time of day it's name implies. Hell, I'll create new mealtime names just to make it right. And I'm not talking about "Brunch" or "Linner" or anything cute like that. I'm talking about creating something new altogether. Something bad ass. Something like "Dreakfunch." ...Actually wait, no, nevermind that sounds kind of gross. I'm a little less hungry than when I started writing this. </div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, I still refuse to obey the meal name/meal time law. Actually, I also refuse to obey the law of gravity from time to time. It's true. I'm that impressive. It's like crouching tiger style ...but a tiger that's crouching because he's about to pounce, and not because he's about to poo. That would be far less bad ass.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I'm gonna go have a waffle. It's okay. Jealousy is a normal reaction in a situation such as this.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-71209953665694926842009-06-23T20:16:00.000-07:002009-08-20T05:55:22.086-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">To Be Young Again</span></span><br /><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure you all remember the oh-so-clever 'riddle' we used to ask each other as kids titled "Pete and Repeat." If you're not clear on it, the comedy gold went something like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>Pete and Repeat were in a boat. Pete fell out. Who was left? </div><div><br /></div><div>You would answer "Repeat" which was the correct answer but, because of the incredibly clever naming of the characters, your 'friend' would intentionally misunderstand and the game would go on and on. And you'd laugh and laugh and then go eat bugs or sour patch kids or whatever you did as a kid. Maybe play with your pogs or slap bracelets (as you cleverly put one over your eyes so you looked like that blind guy from Star Trek. You know the one. The guy from Reading Rainbow? Yeah, him.).</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing I always wondered is why were we so concerned about the guy still in the boat? Pete's fucking drowning and we're worried about who's already safe? Where are our priorities people? More to the point, what kind of assbag friend must Repeat have been to just let his buddy flail around in murky, crocodile-infested waters? (I'm assuming the worst) I'll bet you to add insult to injury, he used his name to shirk any real responsibility for the situation. While Pete was fighting for his life, Repeat probably continually shouted "Are you okay?" and would then giddily wait for Pete to shout his name back before repeating the same question a dozen times until poor Pete lost his battle with buoyancy (and those damn crocodiles). All the while Repeat was probably giggling to himself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Between his father, Saywhat, and his mother, Comeagain, they probably had a blast at the deposition.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate that entire family.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-48403007327499275782009-06-19T00:28:00.000-07:002009-06-19T01:00:47.713-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Huzzah for Bragging</span></span><div><br /></div><div>So in the past year or so, every once in a while I've submitted a little one or two line joke to the College Humor website. They have an article called "105%" where each week they pick what they think are the best submissions and post them for all the world (or the few hundred or so people that frequent their site) to see. You don't get anything for being picked other than whatever satisfaction you feel comes with it. For me, it's a lot. So here's all the stuff I've submitted that has made it, in no particular order.</div><div><br /></div><div>- They say knowledge is power, but what if you know you're a pussy?</div><div>- They say chicks dig scars, but try telling that to the last six women I've stabbed.</div><div>- Every camera is disposable if you're apathetic enough.</div><div>- Life must suck for people legitimately selling tickets to gun shows.</div><div>- Words to Live By:</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> Neighbor<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> Street<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> Cul-de-sac<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> Other houses<br /></div><div>- I dropped acid for the first time last week. It wouldn't have been so bad had it not been on my lab partner's foot, and had I not been so high on mushrooms.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think that's all of them. Some are more inspired than others, and most are inappropriate because, hey, that's what makes me laugh. I'll just keep plugging away because every little bit of self esteem helps. </div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-15196272203465470702009-05-06T22:43:00.000-07:002009-05-06T22:44:56.988-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tree Huggers Take Note</span></span><div><br /></div><div>If money grew on trees, the rainforests could save themselves.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-75863955407428890322009-05-05T22:30:00.000-07:002009-05-05T22:48:42.617-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Childhood Memories</span></span><div><br /></div><div>When I was six years old my brother convinced me that our dryer was a time machine. What he failed to mention was that the future involved third degree burns and shit everywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm only kidding. I was four.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kidding again, he's never actually done anything that mean to me. Sadly I can't say the same for myself. When I was five I was a big fan of Popeye, so much so that I actually made my mom buy me a can of spinach. Let me just say this. Spinach or no, there are few seven year olds in this world that can withstand taking a pair of knees to the stomach while lying on the couch trying to watch Fraggle Rock. Mom threw away the rest of the spinach and I came away with the realization that you can do anything if you put your mind to it...especially if the person you're doing it to isn't paying attention.</div><div><br /></div><div>Inspirational words, I know.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-47378160177940010722009-01-24T21:00:00.001-08:002009-01-24T21:07:45.604-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A Word About Conducting Yourself in Public</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Hey there! You with the headphones. Yeah, um, just because you're wearing those headphones and therefore can't hear yourself fart on the subway escalator doesn't mean the rest of us aren't listening. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hate you.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-49678197176716231112009-01-05T19:39:00.000-08:002009-05-10T01:20:21.432-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Crazy Legs</span></span><div><br /></div><div>So caffeine and I don't have the greatest relationship in the world. I think it dates back to when I was a kid and first discovered Mountain Dew. From square one that stuff was making me do stuff I didn't want to do: throw stuff at pretty girls, slam my head down on my desk to get a laugh from the class. It was in complete control of me, and I loved it. There came a point in high school, however, where I realized that I had consumed enough caffeine in such a short period of time that it no longer had an effect on me. Happy days! Now I could rot my teeth in peace, with no ill side effects. </div><div><br /></div><div>So here's the problem. After many years of consuming soda without consequence, I think it's finally caught up with me again. And I'm not even drinking the hard stuff. Like an old, fat soccer dad, I'm drinking diet. I can't drink the regular stuff as it hurts my teeth. Also my left knee starts acting up whenever there's a storm a'comin'. Okay, that last part isn't true, but I feel like an old fat sack complaining about pop.</div><div><br /></div><div>The killer is that I can't drink any soda before bed because, come sleepin' time, I get the old mexican crazy legs. It doesn't even matter how tired I am. I could have just run a marathon (not that I ever would, because I'm super lazy. Seriously, I got tired just typing about the marathon) and I could be exhausted, but if I have even the tiniest bit of caffeine before bed, my legs will let me know about it. My body will seriously be at odds with itself. My legs are all full of crazy energy and my toes won't stop frickin' wiggling. It's like they're having an argument over which of them should get stubbed next, and then they all just end up trying to stay as far away from each other as they possibly can. </div><div><br /></div><div>At it's worst, one of my crazy legs will develop an itch. But here's the kicker: I CAN NEVER FIND IT. I spent a half an hour last night trying to find the part of my leg that was itching. Once I realized the spot was probably nowhere near the leg that actually itched, I set off on a journey to find it. I scratched everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE people. And other than getting caught up just south of the border, I had no luck finding the itch. My leg just kept itching, my toes kept dancing away into the night, and I silently prayed for death. </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess the moral of the story is for me to lay off the caffeine, which is admittedly the dumbest moral to a story ever. But here's the shitty part: I already don't drink coffee, and I gave up regular soda, so why can't I just have this one thing? I'll tell you why. It's because if I could, then life would be fair, and that's just not in the cards. </div><div><br /></div><div>Damn crazy legs</div><div>... and stupid psycho toes.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-83877217764420652752008-11-28T09:23:00.000-08:002008-11-28T09:32:19.470-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A Hypothetical</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Let's say you own an ipod shuffle. Let's also say that you've got a hoodie with a very saggy front pocket. Now let's imagine you're in an airport, sitting across from numerous people. Let's say you decide to listen to your ipod shuffle and therefore place it in your front pocket for convenience sake. Now, let's say you're listening to a song that you don't wish to be listening to any more. What if, because you assume it will be more effective, you try to locate the "forward" button on your ipod shuffle through the outside of your saggy pocket using your index finger? How might that go? What might that look like?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll tell you what it looks like. It looks like you're rubbing your crotch as though you were petting a new born baby duck. And evidently that looks weird. At least that's my assumption based on the looks I was getting. Why it took me longer than five seconds to realize this, I'll never know.</div><div><br /></div><div>...Also, don't stick your tongue out to the side at any point. </div><div>...Hypothetically speaking of course. </div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-8184892449739298382008-11-25T16:43:00.000-08:002008-11-25T17:08:49.365-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The City is Angry Today</span></span><div><br /></div><div>My face is all puffy. Initially I thought that maybe I was allergic to handsome, but if that were the case, my body would have exploded a long time ago. I'm hoping it's because I'm sick and not because I'm pregnant, which I thought I took care of months ago. Everyone at school has been getting sick for a while now and I've only just finally given in and become sick myself. My thinking is that it's due to my incredibly strong and efficient immune system. Seriously, my immune system is so strong that I think sometimes it's capable of physically lifting objects. "How is that possible?" you might ask. To that I would respond with "Shut up and let me dream." </div><div><br /></div><div>On another note, it rained the tiniest bit today in the city of Los Angeles. It wasn't even bad and wasn't really even noticeable to me. In Portland, it's what we would call "shorts weather." However, this not being Portland, the city as a whole had an entirely different opinion. As I was walking home from school, the general public was in misery. They seriously looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. People were stumbling around confused and horrified. It would have been kind of amusing if it hadn't been so scary. There was an old man shouting at security outside a Borders bookstore, people were more pushy on the sidewalk than they normally are, and there were people in cars wanting to physically assault each other at a stoplight near my home. It's sad when the smallest, simplest thing can make people seem so ugly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and on a lighter note, if you're ever wondering how it might be possible to make your existence a little more bad ass, do the following: get yourself some business cards! Holy shit, if you don't already have one, GET ONE. I don't even care what you do for a living because you can make that little rectangle of paper say whatever you want it to! For example, I'm still in film school and have officially accomplished nothing in my professional life. However, my new business card still says my name and underneath that it says "Screenwriter." How incredibly awesome is that? I mean, it's pretty cool if the place that you work for gives you some business cards with your name on it, but it's a completely different level when you get to choose what goes on there yourself. I think I'm going to have several made up just in case I run into a scenario where I need people to know that I'm a "Professional Clown Puncher" or a "Human Push-up Machine." Regardless of what you put on there, I think you should get some. And then I think you should give one to me because, honestly, I'm all about networking.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-52968970654916898652008-11-21T18:19:00.000-08:002008-11-21T20:00:00.665-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">My Life is Complete</span></span><div><br /></div><div>So I was coming back from lunch with Russ when we saw it. I think I may have even peed a little bit. That's how excited I was. Ever since I was a kid, if there was one vehicle from a major motion picture that I absolutely needed to see close up, it was this:</div><div><br /></div><img src="http://www.newlaunches.com/entry_images/0108/28/back-to-the-future-car-dolorean.jpg" /><br /><br /><div>Russ saw it a few car lengths ahead, so we sped up to try to get a closer look to see if our eyes deceived us. But it was real. Probably just some super fan of the movie that tricked out his car, but it looked so fucking cool you can't even believe it. We pulled up behind it, then we pulled up along side of it, and then we got in front of it. Here's what I saw in the rearview mirror:</div><div><br /><img src="http://cache.gizmodo.com/assets/resources/2007/08/delorean_motor_company.jpg" /></div><div><br /></div><div>How frickin' badass is that!? I wanted to scream like a little girl. Honestly people. As far as I'm concerned, this is as good as it gets.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, for those of you that maybe assumed/hoped I was dead, I'm still alive and kicking. Film school has been pretty non-stop and today was the first day I've actually had free, so I thought I'd try to fill you in.</div><div><br /></div><div>So for starters, here is where I go to school:</div><div><br /></div><img src="http://media.fullsail.com/spindle4/media/2007/lbscoutlafslg02_6120.jpg" /><div><br /></div><div>It's called the Los Angeles Film School and it's located on Sunset Blvd (which is Hollywood terminology for "Boulevard." Actually, it's just English terminology, but whatever.) Before 1999, the building was an RCA recording studio for a long time. Artists like Elvis, the Monkees, The Rolling Stones, John Williams, Eartha Kitt (the OG Catwoman), Jefferson Airplane, and others recorded there. So it's got a pretty neat history.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, basically each month at the school we have two completely intense classes. This first month was Film Theory (both a lecture and a lab) and Behavioral Science (or psychology if I'm not trying to dress it up). There is a TON of hands on experience in the lab, which is the best part in my opinion. We've learned how to operate a pretty simple camera, we've learned the basic 3-point lighting, we've learned how to line a script and how to set up coverage. There's so much stuff! It's awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div>So far, we've had three filming assignments. If I wasn't embarrassed by them (mostly because I appear in them), I'd totally post them up. The first was a project titled "Lost & Found." It had to be a single shot (no editing) about someone that loses something and then finds it again. Also it had to be between 30 seconds to a minute. It was basically to teach us how to tell a really basic story. The second assignment was a group project titled "Painting" where we had to pick a painting with people in it and basically recreate it with a ten second static shot. The goal was to recreate the lighting and get as close to the original painting as we could. To give you an idea of how difficult this project was, for our final ten second shot, it took us a good four hours to get the lighting right. I have a whole new respect for the gaffer at the end of the movie now. The third project was titled "Working" and was all about subtext. Again, it was a single, continuous shot. We had to select a monologue from a book called "Working" by a dude named Studs Terkel (greatest. name. ever.) and then turn that monologue (about that person's specific job) into a dialogue that had a deeper meaning for the protagonist. It was pretty tough, but good experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>So that's that. Our first set of classes is now over, which explains this freed up weekend I've got. But, again, in case you were concerned over my well being, I'm better than I've ever been. I'm having a great time and finally understanding what it can be like when you actually enjoy school.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll try to be funny next time I post, but I just wanted to give a quick update. Hope you all are doing well!</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-87371680377332776772008-10-20T21:46:00.000-07:002008-10-20T22:35:17.041-07:00<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Wanna Feel Embarrassed for Me?</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Have any of you ever wondered what it would feel like to be a disgrace to your heritage? You have? Well let's pretend you said "no" so I can explain to you what that's like. Here in what I like to call "Mexico Jr." I have several "biggest fears." I know what you're thinking (you're so predictable). You're thinking "you can't have more than one 'biggest fear' as the word 'biggest' implies singularity." First of all, don't tell me what I can or can't have. Second, you don't have to use big words to make me think you're smart. I love you just the way you are. Third, please let me finish my story before you try to interrupt me again. Okay?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, one of my big fears is that a native Spanish speaker will come up to me assuming I have a complete grasp of the language and try to start a conversation with me. I, of course, remember bits and pieces of Spanish that I learned in high school. My reaction is usually the same every time. It's like this. Imagine what it must be like to be a baby, completely new to the world, and have a complete stranger come up to you and start speaking sounds you've never heard before. Yeah, that's what it feels like for me. And I generally react the same way a baby would. I'll stare at them for a few seconds, blink a couple of times, make a cute spitting sound, and then I poop a little bit.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know what it is that even makes me seem so approachable. Whenever I'm out in public, I try to look tough or at least act like I don't want to be talked to. And it NEVER works. I think they see the glasses and the gut and immediately think "Yeah, this guy's harmless. Unless I come at him looking like a bag of candy, I'm probably gonna be okay." It's crap people. I like to avoid public interaction as much as possible. This is not to say that I won't help you if you ask me for it. I'm just not a fan of the attention.</div><div><br /></div><div>The scenario today occurred as I was buying a ticket for the subway. The moment that I stepped up to the machine, I felt this presence over my right shoulder. Someone just standing there, staring. It made me more uncomfortable when I realized there were at least three other open ticket terminals. I was even more frightened when, as I reached down to grab my ticket, someone tapped my shoulder and started speaking Spanish. I even had my headphones in! Come on. I call foul. I pretended I didn't feel anything but he persisted. So I popped one of the ear buds out and he starts talking at me a mile a minute. I pick up the word "ticket" and notice he's holding a coin that looks like a peso. "Great," I'm thinking "he wants to give me a peso for some real change." After closer inspection I realize that it's a subway token. So I ask him if it's one way. He says "yes." I show him how to pay for his ticket. He says "thanks" and I wave and walk away because I can't even say "de nada" without feeling like an asshole.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't get how that works. I helped someone today and I still end up feeling like a jerk. Weird. Anyway, seeing as how I'm going to be taking the train a lot more frequently, I foresee this sort of thing happening somewhat regularly. I've either got to learn to look tougher, or learn how to fake a seizure. Somehow I think that last one would cause more problems. Oh well. </div><div><br /></div><div>A Mexican looking guy that doesn't speak Spanish. This is my curse.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-72232710634790010602008-10-19T23:40:00.000-07:002008-10-19T23:50:22.893-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Welcome Home!</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Or, I guess, welcome to MY home I should say. I made another vlog. I never thought I'd use that word, so you have my permission to punch me in the neck the next time you see me. You should only watch this video if you've got like an hour and a half to kill, because it's long. Seriously, it's like a movie. I only had a 1.3 million dollar budget to work with though, so it's nothing special really.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kidding, of course. My budget was $0 and the movie is closer to 9 minutes long, which is still pretty lengthy, especially if you find it boring. Though I don't know why you're always complaining about stuff. Geez, just watch it. I'm trying to give you something to help you kill time at work. Be appreciative. </div><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TVM1sDDQT7s&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TVM1sDDQT7s&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><div>I start school next week, so we'll see how regular I can be with the updates and whatnot. Thanks for taking an interest. Or, at the very least, thanks for somehow stumbling upon this page and accidentally clicking play.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-6977380694735569672008-10-14T22:27:00.001-07:002008-10-14T22:39:32.595-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Rene Goes to Hollywood</span></span><div><br /></div><div>No, seriously. I moved there. It wasn't all just a bunch of talk like that time I said I'd kill myself if I ever moved to Los Angeles. I left on Friday October 9th and got here October 10th. Below I've actually included a small video blog of the trip. It's pretty dumb and boring but, then again, so are you. So I don't see what the big deal is. The trip left me a little beat up. Oh, and the pill you'll hear me refer to a couple of times in the video is actually something called "ProVigil" which is totally legal (in Mexico). So here you go:</div><div><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gDu1csOjnSw&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gDu1csOjnSw&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>When I get all settled in, I plan on giving a video tour of the new place. But be forewarned, my relationship to this apartment is like a kid wearing his dad's suit. I don't fit quite yet, but I might before too long.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I realize this entry isn't necessarily funny, but as I actually start attending film school, I figure I'll just turn it into a documentation of my experiences. My guess is that it's gonna last about a week. Anyway, here's the video.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-1817984996422187532008-08-17T01:19:00.000-07:002008-08-17T01:47:53.484-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Let's Have a Lazy Contest!</span></span><div><br /></div><div>Okay, so I was thinking earlier today about scenarios in my life that might make me feel as lazy and useless as is humanly possible. Actually, I wasn't even actively pursuing this thought process. I realized it as it was happening. It involved the following:</div><div><br /></div><div>Me watching Olympic Judo while eating a "S'mores" flavored Pop-Tart. Hang with me for a second as I explain the full reality of the situation. Me, an unpolished lump of a man, watching humans at the pinnacle of their athletic prowess competing with one another to prove that they are the best in the world. Them: holding the hopes and dreams of a nation on their shoulders. Me: holding a Pop-Tart.</div><div><br /></div><div>And to stretch that extreme a little further, I didn't even toast the Pop-Tart. Reasons include the following: 1) I don't have that kind of time and 2) the toaster was all the way downstairs. I wasn't about to pull a hammy over it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I later noticed that my delicious breakfast treat (that I was enjoying around 2:00 in the afternoon) came with a temporary tattoo! I almost pooped! But then I hit a snag. As most of you well know, temporary tattoos involve a small amount of water and some type of washcloth to apply them with. The dream was over. I wasn't about to get out of my chair and walk three or maybe even four steps outside of my bedroom door and into my bathroom. I was already situated people! But lo and behold, I devised a plan. I grabbed my water bottle and an old napkin I found on my desk. The dream was back alive! </div><div><br /></div><div>So now I sit alone in my room with a tattoo that looks as dumb as you might imagine. It says "Pop-tarts" and has a picture of a girl hiding behind a toaster that says "fitting rooms" on it. She's waiting for the unsuspecting anthropomorphic toaster pastry (also pictured) to hop on in. Sick bitch.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that pretty much sums up my existence to this point. If you're skeptical of my actual laziness, allow me to present the following. In writing this blog I've actually been somewhat annoyed that I've had to both capitalize and hyphenate the word "Pop-Tart," so much so that I even paused once to try to think of a different word to use. Before I started I even contemplated not writing this blog at all. My fingers are weak and tired. I'm going to bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-70204907639807609142008-07-28T00:51:00.001-07:002008-07-31T23:56:12.524-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Scars</span></span><div><br /></div><div>They say chicks dig scars, but I'll bet you any woman that's ever had a C-section would disagree.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Update 7/31:</span> This quip was actually featured today on College Humor's '105%' article on their website. I actually modified it a little bit as I knew they'd be looking for an "edgy" or "twisted" submission. Sure, mine was among many others featured, but I'll take a small victory wherever I can get it.</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-88135142998002034832008-07-24T16:37:00.001-07:002008-07-24T16:38:20.610-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Double Standard<br /></span></span><br />Why is it okay for a baby to stare at someone it doesn't know for as long as it wants, but when I do it, it's considered creepy? It's like some kind of crazy societal double standard. Is it because I'm wearing a diaper? I only do that because it seems to work pretty well for the baby. Is it the excessive body hair? Because that can't be helped. It's my curse, but it's also a bit of a blessing as it constantly reminds me of how manly I am. I suppose it could also have something to do with the location or the time. Maybe outside your bedroom window at dusk isn't as good of an idea as I originally thought. I always just figured it was kind of flattering.<br /><br />Anyway, if you happen to notice a dude in a diaper outside your bedroom window tonight, just go about your business. It's only me and, like a baby, I'm just curious.<br /><br />- The BeanThe Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-38748551544051623442008-07-19T15:00:00.000-07:002008-07-19T15:04:21.379-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Smurfs Visit the Museum of Modern Art</span></span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Papa Smurf:</span> (elbowing Handy Smurf) Wow, look how much Picasso accomplished during HIS blue period.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Smurfette:</span> Fuck you.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-55948474658047086722008-07-16T23:23:00.000-07:002008-07-16T23:41:13.116-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Guy That Doesn't Understand Common Sayings</span></span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> I just broke up with my girlfriend dude.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Friend:</span> Well, you know what they say. There's plenty of fish in the sea.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> I'm sorry, are you suggesting I have sex with a fish?</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Friend:</span> What? No! I'm saying there are a lot of other women...</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> Because it sounds like you're condoning beastiality. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Friend:</span> Gross. Why would you ever even think...</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> Though I am a little lonely I have to admit.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Friend:</span> Dude, listen to yourself...</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> Hey, do you think the pet store is still open?</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Friend:</span> You sicken me.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-62433508646544689672008-07-15T19:05:00.000-07:002008-07-16T23:42:44.731-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Guy That Doesn't Know How to Use Sayings</span></span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> Wow, so you're a cancer survivor, huh?</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Lady:</span> Yup, tomorrow will be 5 years in remission.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> Well, you know what they say, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Lady:</span> I'm sorry?</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> I mean cancer makes the heart grow tumors.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Lady:</span> What?</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Guy:</span> Abscess makes the heart grow pustules!!</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Lady:</span> Please leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean</div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33495236.post-2832585250632063462008-04-21T11:51:00.000-07:002008-05-29T23:16:42.075-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Oh My God I Suck at Life</span></span><div><br /></div><div>So I went to a job interview about a month ago. It was pretty standard and went fine. The woman wasn't really listening to any of my answers, so I felt good about that. But as I'm leaving, after receiving the weakest handshake of my adult life, I turn to walk out the front door followed by three random people. Two dudes that appeared to be good friends, and a woman with a two year old that was doing her own thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm turning to leave and start to hold the door for these people. While doing this I catch a glimpse of one of the guys who throws me a polite smile as he's chatting with his buddy, and I'm pretty positive I recognize him as a guy I used to work with that I probably haven't seen in a year. So my brain starts working overtime arguing against itself that this is in fact someone I know, but then again, no it's totally not. It looks exactly like him, plus the smile and the cock-back of the head as if to say slyly "What's up man? Long time no see" are dead giveaways. The rational part of my brain says "You didn't really get a good enough look at this guy to be positive, plus you know FOR A FACT that this person is currently not living in this state and hasn't been for almost a year. Also, what's the harm in waiting to make sure it's really him?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, the part of my brain that thinks it's funny to be awkward in public gave a big "fuck you" to being rational. As we're all out the door, I turn again and give a good look this time, just to make sure it's him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Brain: Yeah, that's totally him. Without question. I feel almost dumb that I had to check twice. Hey, mouth, go ahead and start talking. Oh, and arm, hand, and finger, go ahead and start pointing at this guy like you recognize him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: (with the biggest, dumbest, goofiest smile you could possibly imagine) WHAT'S UP MAN!?!</div><div><br /></div><div>Guy: (pauses to take in the moment. Smiles in the way you might smile at a retarded person approaching you suddenly to show you how strong they are)</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: (pausing, now with a half smile, I realize this is not the person I wish it was. I'm still pointing) You look exactly like a guy...(I trail off wanting to stop talking, but I can't). I thought you we're someone else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Guy: (being polite and trying not to laugh) Oh, no problem man. </div><div><br /></div><div>Brain: Sweet, we're doing good everybody. Arm, hand, and finger, go ahead and slowly drop to his side. Mouth keep talking. Eyes, keep staring. You're all doing great!</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Yeah, I turned and I thought you said 'Hey'...</div><div><br /></div><div>Guy: (giving me an opportunity to save face) No worries. (He and his friend turn and start walking ahead of me silently shaking with laughter)</div><div><br /></div><div>Brain: Okay, I know he's not even looking at you, but keep talking, we can make this weirder. And voice, be louder. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: ...And then I thought I recognized you. Aaaaand I'm still talking. That was really awkward. I apologize.</div><div><br /></div><div>Guy: (still chuckling) It's okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>I finally let them go ahead and build distance in front of me in a hallway that felt like it was no less than a mile in length. I even contemplated ducking into a women's bathroom just to get away, but I thought better of it. I just dawdled hoping that they would simply vanish.</div><div><br /></div><div>Looking back on the day, I don't think I could have made that situation more awkward for all parties involved. The woman with the baby sped up just to get away from the whole thing. Even her fucking two year old was like "Seriously man, what was that? I don't even fully understand the feeling of embarrassment since I'm only 2, but that was fucking embarrassing....I feel embarrassed for you."</div><div><br /></div><div>I just laughed, because that's really all I know how to do. It was between that or crying. And even though my brain thinks public awkwardness is hysterical, it understands that there are boundaries. Fucking brain.</div><div><br /></div><div>- The Bean <br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>The Cunning Linguisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05900600723557581023noreply@blogger.com0