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Archives: Aug 2010

Tips for impressionable schoolchildren

The new school year started this week. I haven’t been in school since 2001, but I know it started because all the 17-year-old girls I usually hit on at the mall were gone today. In their place were elderly people power walking. I would hit on them, but I’m too out of shape to keep up. Also, I’ve never seen an elderly woman’s vagina before, and frankly, the thought of encountering one terrifies me.

Regardless, this is the time of year when this newspaper forces me to give students tips to help them achieve their best in life. Since I’m a 31-year-old temp who has to buy his own health insurance and hasn’t contributed to a 401k in nearly six years, I’m obviously quite the expert on maxing out one’s potential. But I’m currently the only writer for this publication who isn’t mentally ill or living off state disability payments, so I guess I’m a “winner” by their standards.

So here are my helpful tips. Be sure to come back in future weeks when I give tips on other things I know absolutely nothing about, like menopause, country western line dancing, and waking up before 3pm.

Black Beauty: The taming of a young boy

When I was a small boy, my parents would often drive me to the decaying ghettos of North Minneapolis, throw me out of their moving car, and leave me to my wits. “We’ll be back in three days, son,” they’d shout. “If you can survive, we’ll deem you worthy of our love!”

Determined to succeed, I hid in a dumpster behind a mattress store, emerging twice a day to attempt to urinate without being shot. I was successful roughly half the time. Around 4am each morning, after all the gangbangers had drank themselves to sleep, I would surface again to fist-fight raccoons, defeating them and hungrily devouring their corpses. The meat had the texture of a baseball mitt, and made me viciously ill.

My parents finally came to pick me up, two days later than they had promised. I was covered in vomit, excrement, and raccoon bites. Three bullets were lodged in my left leg, which had turned a dark shade of green. When I complained about my condition, my father said, “You’re seven years old. You should be covered in vomit, excrement, and raccoon scars. That’s what kids do.”

Bluesfest, Boozefest, Floozefest

Bayfront Blues Festival ended last weekend, and readers like myself who are extremely religious and old-fashioned may be wondering how to explain to their children some of the things that occurred at the event. Rest assured, I’m here to help. God bless you all with, um, Jesus and stuff.

– All those people passed out in their lawn chairs weren’t drunk. They just got really sleepy all of a sudden.

– My brother wasn’t passed out in his lawn chair either. And the only reason his chair was soaked in urine was because it had been a long day and he was tired. It can happen to anyone.

– Many people say Bluesfest is just about getting drunk in a lawn chair in the daytime. I’m sure they’re completely wrong and someday someone will correct that statement.

– That weird smell wafting from the portable bathrooms was not marijuana. It was me burning sage for purification and protection purposes. I do this in all portable restrooms.

Dinner at The Cheesecake Factory with my parents

Dad: How long have we been waiting for a table? Thirty minutes? Jesus Christ!

Paul: What is this thing they gave me? A vibrating disc? I’m supposed to lug this thing around? For crying out loud!

Mom: Look at this restaurant! It’s lovely.

The vibrating disc comes alive, vibrating and flashing its lights.

Hostess: It’s flashing? Okay, great! Just stand over here and we’ll find a table for you.

Dad: What is this, another line? Jesus Christ!

Paul: We were waiting in line just to wait in a second line? Is this a restaurant or a doctor’s office? For crying out loud!

How to write a column

People often ask me questions about this column. I’ve written it for eight years – over 400 columns in all, with an additional 600 from when I used to write daily columns on my website – and the question people ask most is how I think up new ideas each week. Well, the short answer is that I don’t. I’ve actually been rotating the same two years worth of columns since 2002. No one has noticed.

I’m kidding, of course. I’ve never run the same column twice. The real answer to how I think up so many ideas is that I drink a lot. A lot. Every Sunday morning I wake up, drink three quarts of gin, and then blackout for the rest of the day. When I wake up Monday morning an hour late for work, I’ll usually find a finished column scribbled on the back of a Denny’s placemat, or carved into the leg of a dead hooker.

I’ll spend my first hour at work typing the column and e-mailing it to my editor, and my second hour at work discreetly transporting the dead hooker from my car to a dumpster behind my workplace, where she will eventually be eaten by hobos. I’ll then spend the remaining five hours at work e-mailing obscene sexual comments to Chelsea Clinton, as I have done for five hours every weekday since 1996.