2009 Is Going to Be a Struggle

My New Year's resolution this year was going to be to get in better shape, but that's such a cliche that if there were a school full of cliches, all of the other cliches would make fun of that cliche for being such a cliched cliche, to the point that that cliche would lose self confidence, gain weight, and spend every New Year's resolving to get in better shape.

So I'm definitely planning on getting in better shape next year, but I'm not calling it my New Year's resolution. Instead, I'm making a list of eleven resolutions I will be making for the next year.

So in 2009, I resolve to:

1. Get no more than 3 DUIs. (This one should be easy, because after two, I'm pretty sure they take your license away.)

2. Physically assault fewer midgets than I did in 2008.

3. Quit referring to little people as midgets.

4. Take at least seven showers, three of which will include washing my hair, and one of which will include conditioner.


5. Stop practicing voodoo on patients at nearby children's hospitals.

6. Avoid writing threatening letters to Cat Fancy magazine for not publishing my stories.

7. Write a quality apology to the Locks of Love charity for sending them three garbage bags filled with my back hair and demanding a king's ransom in return.

8. Make more reasonable demands to the police when taking hostages.

9. Sell significantly less heroin, crack, and PCP to members of the clergy.

10. Write an end-of-the-year blog that does not involve New Year's resolutions.

11. Find the meaning of life.

Super Exciting Amazing Internet Time Waster

I'm unveiling a new type of blog today, one that I'm certain will change the face of the internet as you know it. This is the first in a series I like to call "Super Exciting Amazing Internet Time Wasters."

I will be constructing little games designed to pass the time. These are for those days when you're sitting in your cubicle with nothing to distract you from the overwhelming certainty that you hate your job. Because, let's face it, you can only play so much minesweeper before you want to fall on a mine yourself.

As a writer, I have a slightly unhealthy appreciation for words and phrases, and I love coming up with a poetic turn of words that blends the rare combination of artistic flair, insight, and originality. This is generally a consideration when creating titles for these blogs.

So I developed a system to measure a phrase's AFIO rating.

Here's how it works:

For a given phrase, points are awarded on a scale of 1-10 for artistic flair (could it pass as a line from a Robert Frost poem, or does it sound like it came from an athlete's post game interview?) as well as insight (does it challenge common assertions or enforce wise principles, or does it work better as a theme for a reality tv show?). The best possible score is 20, while the worst score is 2. This part is admittedly subjective.

Now for the originality aspect. Take the phrase and enter it (in quotation marks) into a Google search. Take the number of entries found by Google and subtract that number from the score you got in the first part of the exercise and you have your AFIO rating. Entries to your own work aren't included in this number.

So Paris Hilton's "That's hot" would score a 4 for artistic flair, a 1 for insight, and brings up 798,000 results on Google, giving it a dismal AFIO rating of -797,995.

I recently titled a blog "Optimism in the Face of Reality," a phrase I was rather fond of. I believe it deserves a 7 for artistic flair and an 8 for insight, and it brings up 332 results in Google for a respectable AFIO score of -317.

Anything higher than zero is considered a quality effort.

The AFIO Rating Hall of Fame (comprised entirely of projectmeaning.com blog titles) currently includes:

Title, AFIO Rating

Chicks Dig Venn Diagrams, 16

The Megalomaniac Always Gets the Girl, 15

My Soul Eats Alone, 14

Thoughts Over Laundry, 12

Extra Rules:

1. Any phrase over seven words in length is disqualified from consideration.

2. Any phrase that scores lower than a 4 on artistic flair and insight combined is automatically docked one million points. If you can come up with a five point phrase nobody has used before, then it's legit.

3. All words in the phrase must be found in the dictionary.

4. Under no circumstances may puns be used in an AFIO rated phrase. Use of a pun will result in disqualification and my personal disdain for you as a human being. I realize this makes me a hypocrite, but it is for the good of society.

If you find yourself bored, try out the AFIO rating game and see how high you can score. Send me some of your best at Logan@projectmeaning.com.

The readers that send in the three best phrases will receive a free subscription to my exciting new magazine entitled, This Magazine Does Not Exist Digest and my favorite phrase will be used as the title of an upcoming blog.

No phrase can do that prize package justice.

So This is Christmas

Away in a manger,
No crib for His bed
The little Lord Jesus
Laid down His sweet head

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay

The cattle are lowing
The poor Baby wakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes

I love Thee, Lord Jesus
Look down from the sky
And stay by my side,
'Til morning is nigh.

Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray

Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there

Because Christ is the meaning of life for so many people, I thought it would be fitting to commemorate this year's Christmas with a classic poem and pictures from a nativity scene I recently attended.

Incidentally, Mary and Joseph are my good friends Abbey and Alex and Baby Jesus is Ava, the three-month old daughter of my friends Karen and Michael.

Alex grew that beard for months just so he could look like Joseph. Well, at least like the kind of Joseph Norman Rockwell could have appreciated.

Ava, for her part, needed no extra preparation to steal the show as Jesus.

The War on Christmas is Decisively More Festive Than the War on Drugs

Sorry for the dearth of recent blogs. I know that virtually all of my millions and millions of readers rely on these blogs to keep them going through these difficult financial times. Unfortunately, I've had some extenuating circumstances that have prevented me from writing the past few days.

Fear not, for I am back. You know, until I'm not. Which might be the case for part of this week as well. It is the Holidays, after all.

Read this next sentence only if you're Christian:

I say "the Holidays" so as not to preclude any particular religion from the season's celebrations, but I'm pretty sure you all know what I really mean is Christmas.

Read this next sentence only if you're Jewish:

I say "the Holidays" so as not to preclude any particular religion from the season's celebrations, but I'm pretty sure you all know what I really mean is Hanukkah.

Read this next sentence only if you're African:

I say "the Holidays" so as not to preclude any particular group from the season's celebrations, but I'm pretty sure you all know what I really mean is Kwanzaa.

Okay, that should cover me with everyone except practicing atheists, Jehovah's Witnesses, and radical opponents of commercialization. And let's face it, they're not gonna be happy anyway.

Anyway, when I'm not playing white elephant with my family or drinking too much eggnog and waking up among complete strangers, I should be writing about the following:

+ My crisis response unit ride-along in Phoenix (which will come only after I get approval from the department to post it).

+ Why I called 911 in Los Angeles.

+ The time I met baby Jesus.

+ How having children changes your perspective on life.

+ Ten reasons why Tijuana is a bad place to do drugs, even though they're really easy to score there.

+ Why betting on a bowl game in Vegas is a bad idea.

+ Two run-ins with the cops in one day.

+ And, of course, how I got a tranny for Christmas.

Admit it. You missed me.

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

The meaning of life.
What could it possibly be?
Perhaps a haiku.

How the Hell Did That Happen?

It's time to play everybody's favorite game..."How the Hell Did That Happen?"

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, here's how it works:

I show you a picture of an injury/scar/bruise and then present you with three scenarios. Your job is to guess which scenario is the truth and which two are transparent lies meant to sensationalize the situation. Guess correctly, and you could win a new car!* Guess incorrectly, and you will die exactly seven days from the time you read this blog.**

* You probably won't, and if you do, it won't come from me.

** The Ring 3 anyone? If a producer is out here reading this, here's your chance. I'm picturing Ben Affleck and Britney Spears in the lead roles.


Scenario #1: It is a dark and stormy night. I've just left the pub and, though I've had more shots than 50 Cent before he was famous, I've got a hankering for some Jack Daniels.

Jack and I go way back. We fought in 'Nam together, Jack and I. Though he wasn't much help when I had to steer the tank, if you get my drift. On this lonely night, I need an old friend like Jack to confide in.

But on my way to the drive-in liquor store, I am pulled over by a "copper." A "copper" is how I refer to a police officer, because I have absolutely no respect for authority. I've also seen a few too many movies featuring gangsters from the 1920s. Jack loves those movies.

As the "copper" heads towards the van, I slowly inch my hand toward my trusty 12 gauge Beretta, whom I affectionately refer to as "Eleanor." Jack and Eleanor once had an affair when I wasn't around. But I forgave them. I'm not here to judge.

I am here to shoot me a "copper." So when he asks for my license, I give him Eleanor instead.

"Here's a Christmas present, Copper," I say in my best John McClane voice as the bullet barrels through his temple. "Sorry I forget to wrap it."

Before I even finish the line, I know it is perfect for this movie script I'm working on. It's a real Holiday blockbuster. Think of it as The Untouchables meets The Goonies. Anyway, I'm so excited that I immediately turn back to grab my notepad and promptly hit my head on my cup holder, giving me an unfortunate black eye.

I am so clumsy!


Scenario #2: Did I ever tell you that I have super powers? No? It's weird that I haven't mentioned that yet in this blog.

So yeah. I have super powers. By day, I'm a mild-mannered blogger who travels the continent in his 1992 GMC Vandura. But by night...I am Owlman.

Yeah, I know it's not very catchy, but all the good superhero names are taken and my only powers are flying, turning my head around 360 degrees, and hunting small rodents...so I was pretty much stuck with Owlman.

So I'm not really big on this whole crime-fighting thing, but I figure if you've got super powers, you have to do something with them, right? So I spend most nights flying around, trying to find my place in the superhero world.

Once, I saw this kid with glasses who kind of looked like Harry Potter, and I thought, "Perfect! I could totally be his owl and deliver important messages between Hogwarts and this world of muggles!" But it turns out, he was just a normal kid with glasses.

Actually, he was pretty creeped out by the whole thing. You'd think, "man in an owl costume flying" would be a more interesting conversation to a kid with glasses than "why I am in his room," but you'd think wrong. It's embarrassing being a superhero with a restraining order.

So last night, I came up with a totally awesome way to utilize my powers. I would be the perfect complement to Santa Claus. Think about it. That can't be easy delivering presents to all the kids in the world in one night. Well, all the kids who aren't poor at least. And who else can fly? I mean it's pretty much just me. Plus, I can get rid of all those pesky rats if they try to eat the cookies children leave for Santa.

So I go down to the mall to offer Santa my services, but when I get there, he's got this surly, righteous, holier-than-thou attitude. I'm trying to offer this guy my services, and all he can say is "Leave me alone. I'm on my lunch break."

The next thing I know, Santa and I are fighting right there in the middle of the food court. I got some good shots in, but when I get temporarily distracted by a bunny rabbit in the pet store, he catches me with a good right cross, giving me a black eye.

Boy am I lucky Santa's got limited power in his right hand. If he'd hit me any harder, my head would've spun all the way around, right there in front of all those people.

Now that would've been embarrassing!


Scenario #3: I am playing in a pick-up game of basketball. As I go up for a rebound, an opponent accidentally hits me in the eye with his elbow. He immediately apologizes and all is forgotten.


So there you have it. One black eye, three equally outlandish scenarios. It's your job to determine "How the Hell it Happened." Good luck; you're going to need it.

In the meantime, I'll be off working on my Plan B. This could do irreparable harm to my modeling career.

More Annoying Than Your Average Mother-in-Law

In my dogged pursuit of the meaning of life, I've begun compiling a list of things that are undoubtedly not the answer to life's biggest question. It's time for another addition to that list.

This one is special, because unlike the first few additions to this list, I have genuine animosity towards the subject at hand. Sure, the others are devoid of higher meaning, but that doesn't mean I have a problem with them.

Pogs. How could someone possibly have angst towards pogs?

The movie Gigli. I look at it more like a starving puppy than anything else. It's a pathetic, sad commentary on life and you can't eat for two days after seeing it, but anger is entirely the wrong sentiment to express your distaste for it.

Limericks and cow tipping? Definitely not the meaning of life, but also not the worst recipe for a slow Saturday night after a few too many drinks.

But this next addition is different. I not only have one hundred percent certainty that it is not the meaning of life, but I also find it to be truly sinister, malicious, and unspeakably tacky; a total blight on humanity.

I am speaking, of course, about the car alarm.

Yes, the car alarm. That incessant, ubiquitous blaring sound that follows you into every city, every suburb, every bastion of so-called freedom in these here United States of America and beyond.

The car alarm. Mankind's technological counter to the howler monkey.

In theory, the car alarm is not evil. But in theory, Communism is not evil. That doesn't mean I'm inviting Mao Zedong, Joe Stalin, and Karl Marx over to dinner anytime soon.

Originally designed to protect our automobiles from theft, the car alarm has since turned into an ineffectual nuisance that helps no one, yet refuses to go away. The last time a car alarm successfully prevented theft was 1976, and the guy who was stealing the car was blind, deaf, and dumb...And not dumb as in silent; dumb as in "I'm too stupid to pull off a car theft because the car has an alarm."

Any thief who is capable of stealing a car is capable of stealing a car with an alarm. In fact, the only chance the alarm has in stopping him is by annoying him to death before he can disable it and get away with your vehicle.

Because the stone cold matter of fact is that car alarms are now universally ignored. They are set off far too easily and frequently. I set off my van's alarm multiple times a week. Maybe I accidentally sat on my keys and pressed the button. Or I brushed against the side of the van while passing by. Or I sighed a little too hard.

Car alarms have hair triggers. The British guards outside royal palaces never move or talk unless absolutely necessary for a reason. Because loudmouthed, hair trigger security never, ever works.

Car alarms are like the boy who cried wolf, only if there were millions of boys crying wolf every day, and those boys all happened to have incredibly shrill, loud, annoying voices and wouldn't shut up until a specific person, who is NEVER around at the right time, pushes a button to shut the shrieking boy up.

One in ten of you are enjoying this blog a little too much, because as you are reading it, an annoying car alarm is blaring in the distance. They're that frequent, like a plague of locusts sweeping over the land, only instead of ruining crops, they are slowly destroying your peace of mind.

Hell is not a Devil with pitch forks. Hell is one big parking lot which lost souls are forced to circle, with every car's alarm sounding and no keys to turn them off. Ever.

Car alarms are not the meaning of life. No. Car alarms are the meaning of bullshit.