With hopes of becoming an oil rig worker dimming, I decide it is necessary to look for other work in Houston. My reasons for moving on include, but are not limited to:
+ I learn that becoming a grunt on an oil rig is about as feasible at this juncture as becoming a rock star, horse jockey, or nuclear physicist.
+ I decide any job could lead to good stories as long as I was paying attention to my surroundings and making stupid decisions (always a guarantee for good stories).
+ I check my bank account.
Now, I don't mean to be melodramatic, but the list of people with better financial portfolios than I have includes MC Hammer, Ed McMahon, and that guy you just gave a dollar to at the freeway on-ramp because you liked the cardboard sign he was holding up. My point is, beggars can't be choosers, so when I arrive to Houston, I decide to increase my options to any job that will take me.
That involves searching for work on the internet. Unfortunately, Monster.com provides me primarily with job listings that fit into one of three categories: 1) completely out of my league due to lack of experience, 2) an obvious scam, and 3) a really crappy sounding job that may or may not be a scam.
I decide to wade through the listings in category three. Almost immediately, I stumble across an ad looking for people to get into "event marketing." It sounds both professional and interesting, yet is considered entry-level and is open to all college graduates regardless of major. I call the number listed and am set up with an appointment the next day.
"Make sure to bring two copies of your resume," the woman on the phone tells me. "Oh, and the dress is business professional."
Business professional. Very classy.
I'm going to have to park the van far away from the office.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Student
You will do great things.
Of this you are certain.
You will do great things not because they are expected of you
Not because they are required of you
But because they are familiar.
At the gate of opportunity
Or the precipice of disaster
You are calm.
Empowered by the knowledge
That no matter what has come before you
Or what will come in the future
You are ready.
A true test of character has never scared you.
You have seen selflessness firsthand and you are stronger for it.
You know what it is to be loved.
To love.
You are your mother's son.
And for that
You shall never want.
This poem is dedicated to a constant source of unconditional love and unwavering support in my life; a confidant and a friend. Thank you for always being there for me...even when "there" happens to be paradise.
Happy Mother's Day and Aloha!
Of this you are certain.
You will do great things not because they are expected of you
Not because they are required of you
But because they are familiar.
At the gate of opportunity
Or the precipice of disaster
You are calm.
Empowered by the knowledge
That no matter what has come before you
Or what will come in the future
You are ready.
A true test of character has never scared you.
You have seen selflessness firsthand and you are stronger for it.
You know what it is to be loved.
To love.
You are your mother's son.
And for that
You shall never want.
This poem is dedicated to a constant source of unconditional love and unwavering support in my life; a confidant and a friend. Thank you for always being there for me...even when "there" happens to be paradise.
Happy Mother's Day and Aloha!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
To Boldly Go Where Many Have Gone Before
Ultimately, the goal of this blog, project, and eventual resulting book (look for it in participating stores whenever stores start deciding to participate) is to find the meaning of life.
Obviously, my method to attack that goal is not always conventional nor is it consistent, partially because I'm a big fan of variety, partially because I think meaning is often found in unexpected places, and partially because sometimes I just like to write something fun for the Hell of it. So, in the spirit of switching this blog up every once in a while, I am introducing a new running theme..."Top Eleven Lists."
One of my favorite books growing up was a compilation of "Top Ten Lists" from David Letterman's show. It provided me hours of entertainment and proved to be far more entertaining than Jay Leno's compilation book, "1001 Mildly Humorous and Delightfully Inoffensive Topical Jokes."
Had I taken to Leno, you'd have to poise yourself for a query regarding the current temperature outside. Fortunately, I preferred Letterman, so instead you can sit back and enjoy the first installment of Project Meaning's "Top Eleven List." Incidentally, I make the lists go to eleven instead of ten in honor of a) avoiding copyright infringement, b) my overwhelming urge to go above and beyond for the millions and millions of people who read this blog and c) my favorite scene from This is Spinal Tap.
So without further ado, I bring you The Top Eleven Signs That Star Trek is Cool Again:
11. Women start showing up to the conventions.
Notice the "e" in women.
10. Burger King does commercials involving their creepy mascot, an alien race from the series, and an inexcusably bad pun. People continue to eat Whoppers anyway.
9. Scientology is outdone by a new religion citing Gene Roddenberry as their Lord and Savior. None of the founding members are given wedgies by the Catholics.
8. Somewhere in rural Indiana, a man effectively utilizes his Star Trek memorabilia collection to get laid.
7. Two words: Shatner. Fever.
6. Barack Obama starts ending his speeches with the "live long and prosper" hand sign. It soon becomes synonymous with "hope."
5. The Bloods and the Crypts are overtaken by a new street gang calling themselves "The Borg." Using an eerily interconnected approach, they recruit a staggering amount of disenfranchised albinos and lead them into a life of violent crime. Resistance to the gang's tactics is, of course, futile.
4. In high schools across America, the Klingon language is used to mock the less popular kids.
3. Teenage girls tear down their posters of Zac Efron, the Jonas Brothers, and the Twilight vampire and replace them with calendars of Leonard Nimoy in provocative poses.
2. In honor of Spock, cold calculated logic becomes a hip new trend, immediately rendering Snuggies, Chicago Cubs fans, and Fergie's singing career obsolete.
And the number one sign that Star Trek is cool again...
1. Trekkie groupies.
If you enjoyed this list, feel free to send me suggestions for future lists. If you didn't enjoy this list, please refrain from suggesting "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Lists Are Gay," "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Your Blog is Gay," and "The Top Eleven Reasons Why You Suck."
Obviously, my method to attack that goal is not always conventional nor is it consistent, partially because I'm a big fan of variety, partially because I think meaning is often found in unexpected places, and partially because sometimes I just like to write something fun for the Hell of it. So, in the spirit of switching this blog up every once in a while, I am introducing a new running theme..."Top Eleven Lists."
One of my favorite books growing up was a compilation of "Top Ten Lists" from David Letterman's show. It provided me hours of entertainment and proved to be far more entertaining than Jay Leno's compilation book, "1001 Mildly Humorous and Delightfully Inoffensive Topical Jokes."Had I taken to Leno, you'd have to poise yourself for a query regarding the current temperature outside. Fortunately, I preferred Letterman, so instead you can sit back and enjoy the first installment of Project Meaning's "Top Eleven List." Incidentally, I make the lists go to eleven instead of ten in honor of a) avoiding copyright infringement, b) my overwhelming urge to go above and beyond for the millions and millions of people who read this blog and c) my favorite scene from This is Spinal Tap.
So without further ado, I bring you The Top Eleven Signs That Star Trek is Cool Again:
11. Women start showing up to the conventions.
Notice the "e" in women.
10. Burger King does commercials involving their creepy mascot, an alien race from the series, and an inexcusably bad pun. People continue to eat Whoppers anyway.9. Scientology is outdone by a new religion citing Gene Roddenberry as their Lord and Savior. None of the founding members are given wedgies by the Catholics.
8. Somewhere in rural Indiana, a man effectively utilizes his Star Trek memorabilia collection to get laid.7. Two words: Shatner. Fever.
6. Barack Obama starts ending his speeches with the "live long and prosper" hand sign. It soon becomes synonymous with "hope."
5. The Bloods and the Crypts are overtaken by a new street gang calling themselves "The Borg." Using an eerily interconnected approach, they recruit a staggering amount of disenfranchised albinos and lead them into a life of violent crime. Resistance to the gang's tactics is, of course, futile.
4. In high schools across America, the Klingon language is used to mock the less popular kids.
3. Teenage girls tear down their posters of Zac Efron, the Jonas Brothers, and the Twilight vampire and replace them with calendars of Leonard Nimoy in provocative poses.2. In honor of Spock, cold calculated logic becomes a hip new trend, immediately rendering Snuggies, Chicago Cubs fans, and Fergie's singing career obsolete.
And the number one sign that Star Trek is cool again...
1. Trekkie groupies.
If you enjoyed this list, feel free to send me suggestions for future lists. If you didn't enjoy this list, please refrain from suggesting "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Lists Are Gay," "The Top Eleven Reasons Why Your Blog is Gay," and "The Top Eleven Reasons Why You Suck."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
My Neck Remains Soft
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
You can quote me on that. In fact, someone ought to write a book about that.
I really do want to work on an oil rig. Unfortunately, the more research I do, the less likely a possibility that seems. I buy a subscription to a web site advertising oil job listings for both experienced oil workers and entry level applicants. Unfortunately, it soon becomes clear that the site will be about as effective in getting a job in the oil industry as Monster.com or Craigslist.
Even more disconcerting are the message boards I come across. Apparently, I am not the only one with the brilliant idea of becoming on oil rig grunt. Plenty of aspiring grunts post frequently on various boards asking the best way to get work. In each thread, the response is similar: There is no work to be had, and if there were, you would almost certainly need rock solid connections in the industry to gain you favor.
Actually, most threads devolve quite quickly from advice into an impromptu search for jobs. The message boards are littered with guys who have years, sometimes even decades, of experience working on oil rigs who just got laid off from one rig and are desperately looking for another to no avail.
The economy has not helped my cause. The oil site I joined claims that the number of people seeking jobs on oil rigs is not enough to keep up with the demand, but this is clearly written a while ago. All other research indicates that while demand for workers in a struggling oil market goes down, the supply is increasing.
The life of a roughneck is difficult and the work taxing. If American Idol is to be believed (and it is not the type of show to utilize hyperbole and propaganda, in the same way that I'm not the type of writer to use sarcasm and pop-culture references) then oil rig roughnecks have the fifth most dangerous job in the world.
Before an economic crisis, that's enough to keep most people away, but roughnecks also make over twenty dollars an hour. In this climate, that makes it a hard job to come by, and with my savings dwindling by the minute, it looks like I might not have the luxury of pursuing an in-demand job.
So when I get to Houston, I cancel my subscription to the oil site, and pull up Monster.com instead.
Time to make some even better laid plans.
Editor's Note: For those interested, the four jobs considered more dangerous than roughneck on an oil rig are as follows:
4. P. Diddy's Personal Assistant.
3. Customer Complaint Rep for Time Warner Cable.
2. CEO for an American Automobile Manufacturer.
1. Professional Shark Humper.
Cue NBC's "The More You Know" graphic, and I'm out.
You can quote me on that. In fact, someone ought to write a book about that.
I really do want to work on an oil rig. Unfortunately, the more research I do, the less likely a possibility that seems. I buy a subscription to a web site advertising oil job listings for both experienced oil workers and entry level applicants. Unfortunately, it soon becomes clear that the site will be about as effective in getting a job in the oil industry as Monster.com or Craigslist.
Even more disconcerting are the message boards I come across. Apparently, I am not the only one with the brilliant idea of becoming on oil rig grunt. Plenty of aspiring grunts post frequently on various boards asking the best way to get work. In each thread, the response is similar: There is no work to be had, and if there were, you would almost certainly need rock solid connections in the industry to gain you favor.
Actually, most threads devolve quite quickly from advice into an impromptu search for jobs. The message boards are littered with guys who have years, sometimes even decades, of experience working on oil rigs who just got laid off from one rig and are desperately looking for another to no avail.
The economy has not helped my cause. The oil site I joined claims that the number of people seeking jobs on oil rigs is not enough to keep up with the demand, but this is clearly written a while ago. All other research indicates that while demand for workers in a struggling oil market goes down, the supply is increasing.
The life of a roughneck is difficult and the work taxing. If American Idol is to be believed (and it is not the type of show to utilize hyperbole and propaganda, in the same way that I'm not the type of writer to use sarcasm and pop-culture references) then oil rig roughnecks have the fifth most dangerous job in the world.
Before an economic crisis, that's enough to keep most people away, but roughnecks also make over twenty dollars an hour. In this climate, that makes it a hard job to come by, and with my savings dwindling by the minute, it looks like I might not have the luxury of pursuing an in-demand job.
So when I get to Houston, I cancel my subscription to the oil site, and pull up Monster.com instead.
Time to make some even better laid plans.
Editor's Note: For those interested, the four jobs considered more dangerous than roughneck on an oil rig are as follows:
4. P. Diddy's Personal Assistant.
3. Customer Complaint Rep for Time Warner Cable.
2. CEO for an American Automobile Manufacturer.
1. Professional Shark Humper.
Cue NBC's "The More You Know" graphic, and I'm out.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Will There Be Blood?
Driving through Northern Texas, I can't help but notice the fields of oil derricks dotting the landscape. Really, it's impossible not to notice them, because that's pretty much all there is in Northern Texas.
Oil derricks. Okay, oil derricks and pregnant teenagers. But I digress.
Every time I pass another derrick, I can't help but smile. I am, after all, on my way to being an oil man myself. I'm convinced that the best job to get in order to fund the rest of Project Meaning is as a grunt on an oil rig.
According to my research, oil grunts make up to $25 an hour due to the physical demands and inherent dangers of the work involved. Even better, workers on offshore oil rigs tend to work in shifts, with a demanding two weeks at sea followed by two weeks of rest and relaxation time at home. This would work perfectly for my project.
So I mentally prepare myself for the challenge. I watch a documentary about life on an oil rig. I become a member of a web site promising inside information on the oil industry and links to the best oil jobs around. I even get weirded out when an oil rig grunt makes it into the later stages of American Idol.
But there's just one problem.
In order to be a grunt on an oil rig, you have to be hired to be a grunt on an oil rig.
Oil derricks. Okay, oil derricks and pregnant teenagers. But I digress.
Every time I pass another derrick, I can't help but smile. I am, after all, on my way to being an oil man myself. I'm convinced that the best job to get in order to fund the rest of Project Meaning is as a grunt on an oil rig.
According to my research, oil grunts make up to $25 an hour due to the physical demands and inherent dangers of the work involved. Even better, workers on offshore oil rigs tend to work in shifts, with a demanding two weeks at sea followed by two weeks of rest and relaxation time at home. This would work perfectly for my project.
So I mentally prepare myself for the challenge. I watch a documentary about life on an oil rig. I become a member of a web site promising inside information on the oil industry and links to the best oil jobs around. I even get weirded out when an oil rig grunt makes it into the later stages of American Idol.
But there's just one problem.
In order to be a grunt on an oil rig, you have to be hired to be a grunt on an oil rig.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Unenlightened and Unemployed: My Search for Meaning Becomes My Search for Work
It turns out existential philosophy saturated with pop-culture references is not the get-rich-quick scheme Bernie Madoff promised me it would be.
This project is financed primarily through my savings from working on "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" and some greatly appreciated support from family, so it was never a secret that I would eventually run out of money at some point on the road.
To avoid losing the "purposeful" aspect of my homelessness, I devise a plan to get work in the middle of the project. Of course, speaking as a man with enough stupidity/naivete/we'll go with moxie to head off in search of the meaning of life, getting a regular job is not in the plans.
No, my goal is to find a job that will not only sustain the project economically, but also provide it with a great deal of interesting stories, and perhaps if I'm lucky, even an undercover expose on a potentially corrupt industry. I'm thinking a modern adaptation of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.
After some careful consideration and planning in my hometown of Phoenix, I decide to take Project Meaning through Texas. In search of an interesting job to write about, I look for the following attributes:
+ Decent pay. I don't need to make a fortune, but it would be nice to make more than the kid working the grease trap at Burger King.
+ An interesting environment. The more exotic the job, the more interesting characters, and the better the chance at unearthing a real story.
+ A little danger. As a product of the MTV generation, I've always felt that dangerous somehow translates to cool and interesting, no matter how stupid that actually sounds as I type this sentence. Plus, I'm a big believer in finding a way to significantly test yourself every once in a while in order to grow as a person.
After considering my qualifications, I came across the perfect job.
"Guess what?" I find myself asking anyone and everyone who will listen, to which most of them feign interest, even going so far as to provide me with an obligatory, "What?"
"I'm going to be a grunt on an oil rig."
And so my search for work (which, as it turns out has very little to do with oil yet does involve a considerable amount of grunting) begins.
This project is financed primarily through my savings from working on "Gene Simmons Family Jewels" and some greatly appreciated support from family, so it was never a secret that I would eventually run out of money at some point on the road.
To avoid losing the "purposeful" aspect of my homelessness, I devise a plan to get work in the middle of the project. Of course, speaking as a man with enough stupidity/naivete/we'll go with moxie to head off in search of the meaning of life, getting a regular job is not in the plans.
No, my goal is to find a job that will not only sustain the project economically, but also provide it with a great deal of interesting stories, and perhaps if I'm lucky, even an undercover expose on a potentially corrupt industry. I'm thinking a modern adaptation of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.
After some careful consideration and planning in my hometown of Phoenix, I decide to take Project Meaning through Texas. In search of an interesting job to write about, I look for the following attributes:
+ Decent pay. I don't need to make a fortune, but it would be nice to make more than the kid working the grease trap at Burger King.
+ An interesting environment. The more exotic the job, the more interesting characters, and the better the chance at unearthing a real story.
+ A little danger. As a product of the MTV generation, I've always felt that dangerous somehow translates to cool and interesting, no matter how stupid that actually sounds as I type this sentence. Plus, I'm a big believer in finding a way to significantly test yourself every once in a while in order to grow as a person.
After considering my qualifications, I came across the perfect job.
"Guess what?" I find myself asking anyone and everyone who will listen, to which most of them feign interest, even going so far as to provide me with an obligatory, "What?"
"I'm going to be a grunt on an oil rig."
And so my search for work (which, as it turns out has very little to do with oil yet does involve a considerable amount of grunting) begins.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
How the Hell Did That Happen Again?
I got injured again the other day, which is good news for you, because it's time to play your favorite game you almost certainly don't remember! That's right, it's "How the Hell Did That Happen?" the game where I present three equally plausible scenarios for how I got injured, and you have to guess which one is the truth.
As always, guessing correctly will win you a fabulous prize* and guessing incorrectly will be punishable by death. **
* There is no prize. That was just a joke.
** I'm probably joking here too, but why risk it by guessing wrong?
The injury this time is a dislocated ring finger, resulting in a bulky splint that makes typing this blog about as much fun as a manual colonoscopy administered by an angry Rosie O'Donnell while she is sporting a similar splint.
Okay. Now that you've got that image in your mind, let's get to the game.
Scenario #1: The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. But you know what? I didn't get involved in underground fighting to follow a bunch of rules.
It's a Friday night and I'm completely plastered. I love the adrenaline I get from street racing (I go fast AND furious) but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it sober. Unfortunately, the guy I just beat to the finish line brought a posse that would make Diddy jealous, and those Tokyo Drifters don't mess around.
As I take the deed to his souped up Prius (just because you're a street racer it doesn't mean you can't be green) one of his lackeys charges.
Before he can do anything, I deftly grab a nearby bottle of Sapporo and smash the goon over the head. I'm not sure what knocked him out first, the blunt force or the irony.
Before I can admire my handiwork, the Drifters converge on me like a school of starving piranhas. The next thing I know, I'm in an abandoned subway terminal, surrounded by a crowd of screaming madmen.
"This," the head Drifter explains with pride, "is Fight Club." I don't know why he is so proud though. Dude carries himself like he's Brad Pitt when he is clearly more of an everyman Ed Norton type. "We brought you here because your skills are impressive. Also because you have the deed to my car and it's my only way of getting to and from work."
He continues to explain that they've been holding unsanctioned fist fights down here for the past few years and that once you're invited to join fight Club, the only way to leave is to fight your way out.
"Also," he adds, "if you do happen to make it out of here alive, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write a sarcastic blog entry about tonight's events."
Before I can finish reciting the "right to peaceably assemble" in my pretentious diatribe about the first amendment, I am matched up against my first opponent, a giant hulking man named Tiny. (His mother apparently also appreciated irony.)
Tiny looks like the Incredible Hulk after he gets mad, and I know this only because he is pretty mad when I kick him in the balls and sprint for the nearest exit. Two more crotch shots to two more behemoths later (I told you I didn't do underground fighting to follow rules), and I've reached daylight.
Holding a deed to a brand new car in my hand, and with a renewed appreciation for my health, I celebrate the only way I know how...by going to the nearest dollar store and loading up on Chinese finger traps. Ten minutes and three more Sapporos later, one of the finger traps proves to be a far more worthy adversary than Tiny, and I find myself in the emergency room with a dislocated finger.
Scenario #2: I don't really want to do the reality television dating show that NBC has been pushing on me for months, but when they tell me it was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher," how could I resist.
I know trouble is coming when the executives and I immediately disagree on the name of the show. I clearly support "The Irresistible," but they insist on going with "Who Wants to Date a Guy Living in His Van?"
As it turns out, the answer to that question is "all of the people VH1 turned down for Brett Michaels' 'Rock of Love' because they weren't classy enough and/or didn't have enough teeth."
Still, I agree to do the show, so when taping comes around, I sell true romance to the camera. After nine weeks filled with lap dance competitions, romantic dialogue stolen directly from old "Dawson's Creek" scripts, and numerous trips to the free clinic for STD tests, I narrow the field down to two people I am reasonably assured are women.
The first finalist is Samantha. She's smart, funny, and has an amazing figure. She's also "The Bearded Lady" for a traveling circus and I'm just not sure if she's on the show for "the right reasons," or if she's only interested in promoting her circus' newest addition, Dumbo 2, the elephant with no legs.
The other finalist is named Tiny. She is known as the "world's largest little person." Sure, she's three feet tall and weighs over five hundred pounds, but it's what's on the inside that really matters.
At least that's what I say when the cameras are rolling. There's no better way to endear yourself to American women than by putting your heart on the line for the homely girl with the pleasant personality, only to have things fall apart off camera due to "irreconcilable (and conveniently vague) differences."
Unfortunately, when I propose to Tiny on the season finale, she thinks I'm being literal, and when the cameras turn off, it turns out her personality is considerably less than pleasant.
There's nothing quite so humbling as getting your ass kicked by an obese midget. and boy, did I get my ass kicked by an obese midget. The finger she dislocated by forcibly shoving her engagement ring on it is actually the only injury I sustained that the lawyers were able to photograph without throwing up.
Scenario #3: I am playing pick-up basketball. As I go for a rebound in traffic, my finger bends back unnaturally. It doesn't hurt much, but it is twisted in an odd direction and I can't move it. I decide to get it checked out at a nearby hospital, but not before taking poorly lit pictures of it for my blog.
So there you have it. One dislocated finger, 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 hand-modeling career.
As always, guessing correctly will win you a fabulous prize* and guessing incorrectly will be punishable by death. **
* There is no prize. That was just a joke.
** I'm probably joking here too, but why risk it by guessing wrong?
The injury this time is a dislocated ring finger, resulting in a bulky splint that makes typing this blog about as much fun as a manual colonoscopy administered by an angry Rosie O'Donnell while she is sporting a similar splint.
Okay. Now that you've got that image in your mind, let's get to the game.
Scenario #1: The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. But you know what? I didn't get involved in underground fighting to follow a bunch of rules.
It's a Friday night and I'm completely plastered. I love the adrenaline I get from street racing (I go fast AND furious) but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it sober. Unfortunately, the guy I just beat to the finish line brought a posse that would make Diddy jealous, and those Tokyo Drifters don't mess around.
As I take the deed to his souped up Prius (just because you're a street racer it doesn't mean you can't be green) one of his lackeys charges.
Before he can do anything, I deftly grab a nearby bottle of Sapporo and smash the goon over the head. I'm not sure what knocked him out first, the blunt force or the irony.
Before I can admire my handiwork, the Drifters converge on me like a school of starving piranhas. The next thing I know, I'm in an abandoned subway terminal, surrounded by a crowd of screaming madmen.
"This," the head Drifter explains with pride, "is Fight Club." I don't know why he is so proud though. Dude carries himself like he's Brad Pitt when he is clearly more of an everyman Ed Norton type. "We brought you here because your skills are impressive. Also because you have the deed to my car and it's my only way of getting to and from work."
He continues to explain that they've been holding unsanctioned fist fights down here for the past few years and that once you're invited to join fight Club, the only way to leave is to fight your way out.
"Also," he adds, "if you do happen to make it out of here alive, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write a sarcastic blog entry about tonight's events."
Before I can finish reciting the "right to peaceably assemble" in my pretentious diatribe about the first amendment, I am matched up against my first opponent, a giant hulking man named Tiny. (His mother apparently also appreciated irony.)
Tiny looks like the Incredible Hulk after he gets mad, and I know this only because he is pretty mad when I kick him in the balls and sprint for the nearest exit. Two more crotch shots to two more behemoths later (I told you I didn't do underground fighting to follow rules), and I've reached daylight.
Holding a deed to a brand new car in my hand, and with a renewed appreciation for my health, I celebrate the only way I know how...by going to the nearest dollar store and loading up on Chinese finger traps. Ten minutes and three more Sapporos later, one of the finger traps proves to be a far more worthy adversary than Tiny, and I find myself in the emergency room with a dislocated finger.
Scenario #2: I don't really want to do the reality television dating show that NBC has been pushing on me for months, but when they tell me it was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher," how could I resist.I know trouble is coming when the executives and I immediately disagree on the name of the show. I clearly support "The Irresistible," but they insist on going with "Who Wants to Date a Guy Living in His Van?"
As it turns out, the answer to that question is "all of the people VH1 turned down for Brett Michaels' 'Rock of Love' because they weren't classy enough and/or didn't have enough teeth."
Still, I agree to do the show, so when taping comes around, I sell true romance to the camera. After nine weeks filled with lap dance competitions, romantic dialogue stolen directly from old "Dawson's Creek" scripts, and numerous trips to the free clinic for STD tests, I narrow the field down to two people I am reasonably assured are women.
The first finalist is Samantha. She's smart, funny, and has an amazing figure. She's also "The Bearded Lady" for a traveling circus and I'm just not sure if she's on the show for "the right reasons," or if she's only interested in promoting her circus' newest addition, Dumbo 2, the elephant with no legs.
The other finalist is named Tiny. She is known as the "world's largest little person." Sure, she's three feet tall and weighs over five hundred pounds, but it's what's on the inside that really matters.
At least that's what I say when the cameras are rolling. There's no better way to endear yourself to American women than by putting your heart on the line for the homely girl with the pleasant personality, only to have things fall apart off camera due to "irreconcilable (and conveniently vague) differences."
Unfortunately, when I propose to Tiny on the season finale, she thinks I'm being literal, and when the cameras turn off, it turns out her personality is considerably less than pleasant.
There's nothing quite so humbling as getting your ass kicked by an obese midget. and boy, did I get my ass kicked by an obese midget. The finger she dislocated by forcibly shoving her engagement ring on it is actually the only injury I sustained that the lawyers were able to photograph without throwing up.
Scenario #3: I am playing pick-up basketball. As I go for a rebound in traffic, my finger bends back unnaturally. It doesn't hurt much, but it is twisted in an odd direction and I can't move it. I decide to get it checked out at a nearby hospital, but not before taking poorly lit pictures of it for my blog.
So there you have it. One dislocated finger, 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 hand-modeling career.
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