Skip to content

Archives: Feb 2010

Everything you love is boring

The Olympics are boring. There, I said it.

Throughout my life, I have found only two things that will put me to sleep within 10 seconds. One is documentaries on Native American culture that I was forced to watch in grade school, and the other is NBC’s coverage of the Olympic games.

Don’t get me wrong. That 40 seconds of Shaun White winning the gold in snowboarding, and the full 104 seconds of Lindsey Vonn winning her gold, were spectacular and exciting. However, the other 120 hours of coverage – 115 hours of which were painfully dull interviews and tearjerker stories stretched to the limit of believability – made my comfy couch feel like a hostage situation.

“Just show the damn competitions!” I screamed fruitlessly at the TV. Bob Costas smiled into the camera, his already tight face stretching just a little bit tighter than I’m comfortable seeing, and said, “We’ll be right back after this commercial break, and sometime in the next four hours we’ll actually show the sport you want to see. We won’t tell you when, though, and neither will TV Guide. Keep watching!”

See? Hostage situation. I can’t afford Tivo and Bob Costas is a bastard.

A new social networking site for us to ruin!

If there’s one thing we old people love to do, it’s intrude on things meant for the young. Whether it’s trendy music, hip lingo, or the latest social networking site, we will eventually find it, oversaturate it with our uncoolness, and invite a tidal wave of even older, lamer people to secure its utter destruction.

Don’t believe me? Look at MySpace. All that’s left of that social networking site is a mountain of turds that even the remaining locals won’t pick up. Littered amongst the empty homesteads are the final words of its long-gone inhabitants: “This place is lame. I don’t update my profile here anymore. I’ve moved to Facebook.”

I’m only 30 and don’t really qualify as an “old person”, but I’m still part of this devious band of ruffians pooping all over the online clubhouses of young people. People like me are the first wave of lameness that infects trendy things. We’re the scouts who convince other old people to partake. Nightclubs have bouncers to keep losers like me out, but pop culture has no such defenses.

Manly tips for Valentine’s Day

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

Valentine’s Day is almost here, and being someone who is perpetually single with absolutely no prospects or social ambition whatsoever, I’m extremely qualified to give love advice to complete strangers whom I’ve never met. So here are some tips for how to make this holiday the best sappy barf fest ever.

– This year, when your lady comes home to the romantic candlelit dinner you’ve prepared for her, try to wait until after the meal is finished before taking out your penis.

– Nothing says “You’re not fat” like buying her a box of chocolates that will make her fat. But if you’re on a budget, try just buying her a card and writing “You’re not fat” in it.

– Instead of taking her to see Avatar in 3D, take her to see one of those shitty movies that girls like.

– Valentine’s Day is the one holiday where she’s legally obligated to have sex with you. If she refuses, call the police.

Dancing at a funeral

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

I once had a dream that I was at a funeral, and my job was to encourage people to dance. The bereaved walked up to me and said, “Well, everyone’s had a good look at him by now. I suppose it’s time to get the dance floor going.”

It was my responsibility to usher people into the section of the church with the lighted floor and disco ball, but this wasn’t an easy task. First, people didn’t feel like dancing. Second, the bereaved was standing near the coffin sobbing, so people didn’t really believe me when I said it was his suggestion.

I eventually got everyone into the room, but it ended up much like a junior high school snowflake dance, where everyone stands to the side and constantly checks their watch to see how much longer they have to put up with this crap. I tried to help by demonstrating “the sprinkler” and various other “moves” I’d seen on reruns of Soul Train, but it just made things more awkward.

I can’t quite remember when I woke up, but it was somewhere around the time the bereaved overcame his grief and angrily demanded to know why no one was dancing. He then accused me of hating dead people. After a dream that strange, you’d think my first thought upon waking would have been something like, “That was weird.” But my actual first thought was, “No one danced because that funeral was a sausage party.”