Archive | July, 2011

That’s what I’m missing…

21 Jul

Dear Daytime TV Marketers,

You inspire me!

I’m pretty sure I would make a stellar Harley Davidson mechanic. Obviously, you feel it too, otherwise I’m sure you wouldn’t have wasted your time and money by showing me this commercial for their specialized training program 70 times in the last hour.

I’m not sure how you (and the Universe) sensed this about me. I mean, I am watching a Teen Mom rerun at 11:00 a.m., but how did you know I was currently without meaningful occupation?

And in case the Harley thing doesn’t work out, you’ve been good enough to give me a plan B…

All I have to do is duplicate your goofy turtle drawing, and the fame and fortune of the art world await me! I already have stars in my eyes. (Which, unfortunately, may be interfering with my ability to copy your masterpiece.)

But you’re not just good for general life direction, you’re also good at life-saving. Before you, Marketers, it never occurred to me that I could be minding my business in the kitchen–and WHAM–I could fall and spend the next 12 hours whimpering pathetically on the floor.

That is why from now on I will be accessorizing every outfit with a versatile Life Alert necklace. (Why am I carrying this clunky, old iPhone, anyway?) While I’m at it, maybe I’ll throw in a Bumpit! My hair is looking a little flat, now that you mention it.

I feel like a better person already. But don’t worry. I’ll remember how much you helped me when I’m rich and famous. Maybe you can even put me in your commercial.

I’ll just pencil you in… Right between Keeping Up with the Kardashians and CSI reruns.

Sincerely,
RJ

Insanity Plea

15 Jul

Spiders!

You win. We both have flaws.

You are freaky and disgusting, and I’m not the peaceful Earth Mother who celebrates your place in the Circle of Life.

I would love to “live and let live”–to calmly scoop you up and set you free in the backyard. (After which, I would twirl and skip through a field of flowers.) But for that to happen, I’d have to overcome my primal instinct to scream like a little girl and beat you with my shoe.

Don’t act like you don’t have it coming, though. I think you enjoy antagonizing me. You seem to detect the person in the room who dislikes you the most, and then you decide to make them your BFF. You’re like tiny, horrifying cats–with all the contrariness, but none of the cute.

Yes. I confess. I am guilty of horrible, violent acts of insecticide. But I plead insanity. I was driven over the edge by your plump, hairy bodies and your ungodly number of spindly little legs. Not to mention your perverse tendency to surprise me just as I step into the shower.

Can I really be blamed for losing my mind a little?

But I don’t enjoy being a heartless killer. So here’s a suggestion:

You have eight legs. Run away.

Sincerely,
RJ

TMI at 35,000 feet

4 Jul

Dear Fellow Airline Passenger,

There is a Golden Rule for air travelers: Don’t be crazy. (Followed closely by the Silver Rule: Don’t be stinky.)

Unless you want to disembark in Wichita handcuffed by the Air Marshall, keep your psychosis under wraps.

Of course, there’s lighting the fuse on the bomb in your underwear, and then there’s run of the mill crazy. Neither one is optimal at 35,000 feet.

I am thankful that your kind of crazy tends toward the non-homicidal. So that makes one lucky star for me. (I’m counting.) The rest of my stars are clearly crossed. That is the only way to explain our adjacent seat assignment.

You seem like a perfectly nice–if eccentric–man. Perhaps if we’d met somewhere other than this airborne petri dish of social awkwardness… But alas… All I can do is offer a piece of advice.

There is a way to tell a story that will enthrall your seatmates. And then there’s your approach:

You: [Fidgeting] All this week I have a boil on my back, and it itches. It itches! I say to my wife, “Pop it. Pop it!” But she says, “No.”

Me: Ummm…

You had me until “boil.” After that, I’m counting the hours to Phoenix.

Never let it be said, however, that I can’t fight fire with fire. You definitely have me out-foxed in the verbal diarrhea category. But I’m developing a little condition of my own: faux-narcolepsy.

What’s that you say? Faking a serious medical problem is crazy? Oh well… At least I smell like roses. One out of two ain’t bad.

Sincerely,
RJ