When It Rains, It Pours

“Come to the light, my son.” The baritone voice beckoned me through the little hole in the clouds. “We have an open bar, free Snuggies for all, and a beer pong tournament at 4:15.”

At this point, I can’t help but think I made it. I did it. Some sort of error on the books, and all my transgressions were overlooked. That bungee jumping accident sure sucked, but I’m headed to a land of milk and honey—if by milk I mean booze, and by honey I mean the most comfortable wearable blanket in the history of mankind.

The time I dropped the neighbor’s cat off the roof to see if they really did always land on their feet (they don’t); the time I convinced Doug Becker to start smoking; spooking the cows at Old Man McCaskey’s farm; telling those kids that Santa Claus was mauled to death by polar bears; all gone, all, as they might say on “Law & Order,” stricken from the record.

I start to wonder how this could’ve happened, but then I arrive at the gates. The man standing behind the podium has an otherworldly beard, long and white and magnificent. Then he sees my beard and says, “Hey--beard-bros,” and offers me a high five. “Come on in,” he says. “Here’s your ID badge and your Segway scooter,” because Segway scooters are the preferred mode of transportation here.

Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” is pouring from unseen speakers, and I loudly exclaim that this is the best song of all time. Then I feel bad, because Jimi Hendrix is standing right there and I think, well, this is awkward. Jimi gives me a reassuring look though, because, well, Jimi’s just that kind of guy. Then, we high five.

To our right is a buffet, like Golden Corral, only the food looks good. After the beer pong tourney, I think, I’m headed straight for the taco bar.

When the beer pong tournament began, though, so did the trouble. It seems I left my shot back on earth somewhere. After my fifth miss in a row, I yell “Goddamnit!” and brace myself for some sort of punishment. Only nothing happens.

15 minutes later, I’m on the verge of madness. I’m partnered with George Wallace, who is an adroit Beirut player—and I still haven’t made a cup. “Pull it together, dick-head,” he says, and I say, “Sorry Mr. Wallace.” And I am, but that doesn’t help my beer pong game at all. We’re eliminated after a skunking courtesy of Hendrix and Frank Sinatra. Wallace shakes his head and looks me over. “You know, I’ve never been eliminated in the first round before—thanks a lot, block-head.”

Up there, the rules are different. After losing, you’re required to do a keg stand of at least 45 seconds. I’m already full of beer, though, so I spew after 30. Then Plato calls me a pussy, and I’m really embarrassed. “Stranglehold” is still blaring, and as much as I love that song, Jesus, let’s have some variety.

Then it’s dinnertime. I’m too full to eat though, and the smell emanating from the steam trays are making me nauseous. For the 106th time that day, Nugent is saying, “Come on, come on, come on, come on baby,” and I think I’d like to leave. I drive my Segway to headquarters and ask to be shown to my room. “Are you sure we wouldn’t like to eat? We’re catered by Golden Corral,” says the man at the desk, and I say no.

It was then that I noticed that this guy was red and covered in scales, and I think of course—of course! It was Golden Corral—this can’t possibly be Heaven. And the scaly guy says, “Of course not—you didn’t honestly think you were...” He starts laughing and tells me that the “Come to the light” bit was just something they like to do to fuck with the newcomers.

Then he starts laughing again and shows me to my room, which looks like something out of a seedy, small-town motel—the sort of place where impressionable teens come to get pregnant. The bed is covered in stains and the television shows nothing but “Tila Tequila’s Double Shot of Love” and “Carnie Wilson: Unstapled.” There’s a picture of a sad clown on the wall. “Stranglehold” is even louder in here. I’d just like to go to sleep, but that’s impossible in this cacophonous cell. So instead, I wrap myself in a Snuggie—which, I should add, is the absolute peak of practical comfort—and watch Tila Tequila, and I can’t help but wonder if true love is really what she’s after.

To top it all off, I look at my ID badge and notice that my name has been misspelled. Then I just have to laugh because, well, when it rains, it pours.

Musings For Misers: Warm Memories

Well you see, when I was a kid, I just loved those “Weekend At Bernie’s” films. I used to lie awake at night and wish that Bernie would come over to my house, and I could party with him. So on my birthday, sure enough, up saunters a man almost identical to my hero—right down to the two goons carrying him about. So we partied for a while, and Bernie leaned to me and said, “Happy birthday, Josh.” That’s when I knew something was amiss.

Miffed, I took the knife we had used to cut the cake, and stabbed Bernie in the chest—you know, to make sure it was really him. To my surprise, he started screaming and bleeding excessively.

To answer your question, yeah, I miss my father.

The Brash Rich Kid's Guide To Surviving A Horror Film

All right guys, here’s the situation: Our truck broke down on our way to the remote cabin. I know, drag.

Luckily, we found another remote cabin just a few miles away. We found some human limbs floating around the creek that runs behind the cabin, but it should be cool. We came here to do some carefree underage drinking and sexing, and no engine trouble is going to stop us now. Nonetheless, this smacks of a horror movie all over, so let’s get organized.

First of all, we should split up. Like the old saying goes, ‘united we fall.’ Okay, so I’ll be perpetually cocky and indignant, even when one of you is hacked to bits by some mysterious something. My function is basically to taunt fate and heckle you whenever you are frightened, no matter how justified your fear may be. Slutty girl—yeah, you—you get naked at inexplicable times, but—and this is a firm rule—T&A only. We’re still gunning for the ‘R’ rating, here people, so I don’t want to see so much as a single rogue pubic hair.

I’ll bury you in double entendre, which you’ll like, because you’re the slutty girl, and then we’ll go have sex somewhere. Sound good? Good.

Okay, you—more reserved but still kind of slutty girl. You stick with the timid but handsome guy. Eventually, I’ll need you to go off alone to some seemingly peaceful place, where timid handsome guy confesses his love for you. Shortly thereafter, your new love will be put to the test, when some sort of maniac emerges from the woods with a machete and a Richard Nixon mask. That won’t be a problem, though, because timid handsome guy is unbelievably cool under pressure.

After a few of these creepy run-ins, I’ll get fed up and grab my father’s gun that timid handsome guy didn’t want me to bring in the first place. I’ll burst forth from the cabin, screaming at whoever or whatever is tormenting us. Hell, I might even fire some shots into the air, because this symbolizes my descent into a temporary state of madness. You’ll talk me down eventually, but these taunts will have a terrible, deleterious effect on our multi-ethnic camping group.

Which brings me to you, black guy. I’m going to need you to hang out alone a lot, uttering Afro-American colloquialisms that are so out of date, they will sound as though a wealthy, white screenwriter wrote them for you. You’ll be the perfect balance between timid handsome kid and me—brash, wealthy dickhead—until, that is, you are killed, somewhere around 20 minutes into the picture.

Sadly, I’m afraid only three of us will survive—me, timid-handsome-kid and more-reserved-but-still-kind-of-slutty-girl. Through our ordeal though, you two will find true love, and I’ll find a slightly less dickish perspective on life.

Oh, and my deepest condolences to you, black guy, and you, slutty girl.

Okay, if there are no questions, let’s start wandering around these strange woods aimlessly.

Love Is Like The Sasquatch

You know, love is like the Sasquatch.
You don’t believe it exists at first because only rednecks and Canadians and Canadian rednecks ever claim to have seen it. But then you go on a camping trip in East Texas and something starts throwing large rocks at your tent. Rocks that, if they could talk, might say, “Hey, goober, why don’t you get the hell out of here.” You step outside and hear a deep guttural noise, something like a garbage disposal, only hairier. Then a disheveled biped, that probably smells like a wet gorilla, makes his way across the thicket and you say “Hey man, get my video camera.”
So then Jeff gets your video camera and the result is a shaky, 24-second clip featuring a shadowy figure that could just be one of the Allman Brothers wearing a fur coat. You try to tell your friends back home, but you get the feeling they don’t believe you.
You join the Texas Bigfoot Research Center and spend most of your nights patrolling the woods for evidence. Mostly, you just find deteriorated beer cans and porno magazines, which always makes you laugh because who goes to the woods to do that? But one day, you find a large handprint on your truck and you know he was just there, possibly trying to break in, possibly in order to steal the Corn Nuts you left on the dash. Since it’s the closest you’ve come to an encounter in a while, you share a round of high fives with your new friends. The money you were saving for that engagement ring goes instead to a motion-censor camera. Then your girlfriend’s pissed but you don’t care because it’s the weekend again, and there’s research to be done.
You find some rusted cans of Schlitz and a weatherworn copy of Amateur Asses, but you also find a suspicious looking pile of branches that may or may not be used as a mating ground for Sasquatches. That video that you sent into "Monsterquest" a few months back eventually makes it to air. This is the highlight of your life as an amateur cryptozoologist thus far. Your buddies from the TBRC have a watching party where you drink too much and accidentally piss on Chet’s wife’s cat. It was only a little bit, though, so you don’t tell anyone.
When you get home, your girlfriend’s gone. In her note, she suggests that you might have sex with a Sasquatch and you think, “Oh believe me, I would if I could find the bugger.” A week later, you’re in your tent, making love to a tube of Gogurt and, again, you hear something peculiar outside. So you stop mid-coitus, unsatisfied and kind of sticky. When you go out, nothing is there, but that doesn’t stop you from deconstructing the noises in your Bigfoot Research Lab (formerly your girlfriend’s closet). The noise returns the next night, and this time, you’re prepared. You put the Gogurt away and go out with Chet to investigate. You're disappointed to find a derelict with his pants around his ankles, beating it furiously to a half-disintegrated issue of Swank. When he notices you and Chet, he asks you for some money, so he can get home to Tucson, or maybe it was Texarkana. You and Chet each claim that you don’t carry cash, but that’s not true. The homeless guy probably smells like a wet gorilla but you're not going to get close enough to find out. You bid the homeless guy adieu, and he goes back to his tattered issue of Swank.
Yeah, love is like the Sasquatch.

Musings For Misers 3-23-10

If love is the greatest gift God has given humanity, trampolines are definitely a close second.

Musings For Misers: 3-22-10

One should never look down on homeless people. Because if you make eye contact, they’ll definitely approach your car asking for money. Better to avoid looking in their general direction altogether.

Ostrich-Sized: Musings For Misers Vol. 1

One: I find that t-shirts are the least honest of all garments. Whether it’s a morbidly obese woman cruising her Hoveround in a “2 Hot 4 U” shirt, or a crater-faced teenager wearing the “National Pimps Association” shield proudly through the mall, I find myself staring at these screen-printed lies and fighting the urge to scream "Oh, bullshit."

Two: Whenever I meet someone who says, “I’ll try anything once,” I give them instructions to kill and dismember my fictional archenemy, the noble and magnanimous Don Julio Marquez. If they balk at my command, I harangue them for their flimsy life motto.

Three: Never punch a small child, no matter how irritating they may be. Now I know this seems an obvious bit of advice, but trust me, it’s much better to push them down the stairs. Accidents will happen, after all.

Four: When I die, I’d like to be taxidermied in a menacing, upright position and put in a bear's den, for decoration.

Five: One of my hobbies is dressing up in a trench coat and hanging out around the Twilight section of Barnes & Noble with my hands in my pockets—or are they?