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Archives: Aug 2008

Reasons why I dont have a girlfriend

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I’ve lived in Los Angeles for nearly three years now, and while I’m obviously obscenely handsome and devastatingly interesting, I don’t have a girlfriend. My friends have asked why, my co-workers have asked why, and my parents call me once every two weeks to inquire as to whether I’m gay, and if I am, as to exactly how gay I might be.

“It’s okay if you are,” my mom will sometimes say to me over the phone, completely out of the blue. This will be followed by the sound of my father in the background, shouting “No it’s not!”

For the record, I’m not gay. Sorry mom. You should have known when I refused to go to Hugh Grant movies with you throughout the 1990s. The truth is, I don’t have a girlfriend because I just don’t get along with Los Angeles women. They live in a city full of models and actors, so most of them want a successful knight in shining armor who then removes that armor to reveal magnificent abs. I have only adequate abs, and my definition of success is having enough money in my bank account to call in sick to work and drink scotch all morning.

I may be an idiot, but at least I’m entertaining

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I was on my way to a friend’s wedding last weekend when I stopped at a Wendy’s restaurant for lunch. As I stood in line to order a burger, I noticed an old man staring at me. He looked at me as if I had just plunged a flag into the ground and claimed the restaurant in the name of England.

I had done no such thing, so his manner perplexed me. “What’s his problem?” I wondered, unsure of what faux pas I could have committed. I looked at the ground to avoid his glare, and it was then that I noticed my outfit. The man was staring at me because I was standing in a Wendy’s restaurant wearing a full tuxedo.

Sadly, this story is not an example of a rare scatterbrained moment. Things like this happen to me daily. I write today’s column not to celebrate my absent-minded nature, but to warn friends and family that the weird things I do are not necessarily my fault. It takes roughly five seconds of daydreaming for me to completely forget what I’m wearing, the location where I’m standing, and pretty much every detail about my surroundings. It’s a genuine miracle that I can actually hold down a steady job or maintain any sort of meaningful human relations.

I won a gold medal in heaving

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I know it’s very common for people to get Olympic fever, but is it supposed to involve vomiting? My Olympic fever last weekend involved vomiting.

It took a long time before I realized my illness was in fact legitimate, and not just Olympic fever. The first two times I vomited, I thought I was just extremely patriotic, but the fourth time I tossed cookies, I knew this was way more patriotism than I was capable of displaying. “I don’t like the Olympics that much,” I thought to myself. As it turns out, I was actually sick.

As Michael Phelps readied himself at the starting line of the 400-meter individual medley, my stomach began to turn. “Oh, that’s just nerves,” I thought. “I must be nervous for Michael Phelps. That’s quite patriotic of me.” As the race started, I felt genuinely ill, like a young boy who has been tricked into chugging a gallon of milk by his cruel friends. As Phelps won the gold, I literally clung to my toilet with both hands, begging God to tell me what I had done to anger Him.

Everyone in the Olympics is a bastard

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
There are few things I hate more in this world than people who are better than me. This is why I have limited patience for the Olympics. It’s also why I have limited patience for doctors, firefighters, hip-hop dancers, John Mayer, and other newspaper columnists. As someone who hates seeing others excel, and is unwilling to put in the effort to excel himself, all these things are extremely painful for me to watch.

With the exception of John Mayer, the Olympics are by far the hardest to endure. Watching people younger than me, more athletic than me, and usually better looking than me run around accomplishing things is not my idea of a great TV viewing experience. I prefer to watch people fail, because it increases my self esteem without requiring me to work hard or improve myself.

The Olympics aren’t capable of providing hilarious failures, because everyone there is already the best in the world. Even if I watch while obnoxiously drunk – which is the only reasonable way to view the Summer Olympics – the inspiring triumphs of mankind both simultaneously annoy and bore the living crap out of me.

For instance, I’ve never attempted to compete in women’s gymnastics, but the fact that Shawn Johnson can get a near perfect score on the floor exercise really irks me. Who the hell does she think she is, sharing her gifts with the world and shit? What a smug bastard.