I'm a straight man, but I have a few gay friends. It's always interesting when we hang out, because a straight man's night out is very different from a night of gay clubbing. For instance, the women who hang out with gay men are very attractive, while the women who hang out with me look hideous from years of meth abuse.

Wayne, a member of the comedy troupe I'm in, recently had a birthday party. He's gay, but he invited a considerable amount of straight friends out on the town with him for his birthday. What was intended as a fun night for him turned into a gay tour of sorts, with poor Wayne having to put up with all our ignorant questions.

Me: How come the TVs in this gay bar show nothing but music videos with scantily-clad women?

Wayne: Because gay men like boobs.

Me: But . . . I thought . . .

Wayne: We're not sexually attracted to boobs, we just find them adorable and fascinating, like you would with a puppy or baby sea otter.

Me: Ohhh, I get it.

We started the night by eating dinner at a gay hamburger place (I didn't know such things existed, but gay hamburgers are delicious!), had a few drinks at a gay bar (Disappointingly, gay beer tastes just like regular beer), and decided to end the night early instead of accepting Wayne's offer to dance very, very awkwardly at a gay club. I'm an open-minded man, but a $15 cover charge is a bit much if there's no one for me to hit on in the entire club.

This isn't the first time I've been invited to tour the gay community. When I was in college, some girls I knew got sick of being molested by drunk guys at regular clubs, so when they wanted to dance, they'd bring their entourage of friends to a gay club where they didn't have to worry about some dude their father's age grabbing their ass. My friends and I didn't go along often, but we did a few times for birthdays or other celebrations. This meant the girls still had to worry about me and my friends grabbing their asses, but the ass grabbing to dancing ratio was still greatly reduced.

Another time a few years after college, a female friend and I got drunk at the bars and accidentally crashed a gay after-party while walking home. We were used to crashing parties just for the fun of it, but we immediately noticed that this party was different. It was all guys drinking mixed drinks, and none of them seemed the slightest bit concerned that we were strangers.

One of the older men at the party, who looked to be in his early-30s, asked if I went to college in the area. I said no, and he asked how old I was. I told him I was 24, and he said, "Oh, you're young and still experimenting, seeing what you want. That's a good age." Then he walked away. "Well, that was weird," my friend said. A few minutes later, someone informed us that we were, in fact, at a gay after-bar party.

It would have been rude to bolt for the door, so we stood around for a few more minutes, telling ourselves we were really cool and modern, very liberal, to be hanging out at a gay party. Unfortunately, we quickly realized why straight people probably shouldn't hang out at exclusively gay parties: Because the people there all assume everyone else is gay. Our cue to leave was when one of the men blew in my ear, nodded towards the girl I came with, and whispered, "Who's the hag?"

Once we were outside, my friend turned to me and said, "Now you know what us girls have to put up with when we dance at normal clubs."

Needless to say, I wasn't particularly thrilled with that tour of the gay community. Fortunately, Wayne's birthday party was less eventful. We ate overpriced food, drank overpriced drinks, and went home having spent all our money. To tell you the truth, that's identical to a tour of the straight community.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Wed, 07 Feb 2007 00:35:45 -0800 feb-7-ive-been-given-a-tour-of-the-gay-communi http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/931.php   

I’m spying on Scientologists so you don’t have to

The Scientologists almost got my friend Matt once. He was working on the set of a TV show when a man offered him some voiceover work at the Scientology center in Los Angeles. My friend declined the offer, but the man was insistent on getting his phone number and address anyway. He would not take no for an answer. Finally, my friend gave him some fake information and the man cackled loudly, transformed into a bat, and flew away.

Sometimes my friend Matt makes things up.

I just moved into an apartment two blocks from the Scientology headquarters, so I’m in their territory now. I can’t say I’m a huge fan. Religion in general turns me off, but at least Christianity has some history to it. Scientology was created by a science fiction novelist 50 years ago. McDonald’s has been around for almost 70 years. Can’t I just go there on Sunday mornings instead?

Around lunchtime my new neighborhood becomes flooded with little nerds in navy ties and sportcoats. These are the Scientologists. They look exactly like you and me, except much dorkier. It’s like if the guy who wrote “Battlefield Earth” started a religion, and all his nerdy fans followed it.

Wait, the guy who wrote “Battlefield Earth” did start Scientology. Wow, that’s weird. All of this makes a lot more sense now.

The Scientologists have never hassled me before, but that’s probably because it’s painfully obvious that I have no money. My $10 hoodie sweatshirt from Target and tattered jeans are a dead giveaway. However, I am close to being debt-free, and I think they can smell it. Lately, whenever I pass L. Ron Hubbard’s nerd patrol, their eyes get less beady and their ties stick out erect, like the Dilbert comic strip character.

Scientology’s followers don’t frighten me, hence why I’m mocking them, but the Scientology headquarters itself does. The building is a giant castle in the middle of a normal neighborhood. Its exterior walls are painted different shades of light blue, likely because it’s considered a calming color. In this case, it just looks creepy. The building also has large windows everywhere, similar to the kind you see in old factory buildings. It gives the appearance that a monster lurks inside, and that if the windows were a little less murky, perhaps you’d see it staring back out at you.

The parking lot for the Scientology headquarters is comically large. No matter what day of the week or time of day it is, there are always roughly 400 empty parking spaces available. It makes me a little bitter when I’m driving around in circles for 10 minutes trying to find a spot near my apartment. What a waste. If the Scientologists gave people in the neighborhood free parking spaces, we might stop throwing our garbage and discarded furniture into their lot.

I smashed an empty Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle in their parking lot once. It was pretty awesome. I felt very clear afterwards, as if the pain from millions of years of traumatic incidents, ethical transgressions, and bad decisions were erased from my memory.

Perhaps Scientology has helped me find a way to enlightenment after all. Or maybe I’m just the reincarnation of their arch enemy Xenu, and my entire life purpose is to dirty the parking lot of their headquarters. I am, after all, quite fascinated by psychology, drugs, and very loud childbirths.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Tue, 30 Jan 2007 20:57:31 -0800 jan-31-im-spying-on-scientologists-so-you-dont http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/930.php   

George Will writes excellent haiku poetry

by Paul Ryan
Wednesday, Jan. 24, 2007

When something new is happening in a columnist's life, they tend to write about it often. For instance, years ago when Dave Barry had a child, he wrote about his baby constantly in his column, to the point where all of us wanted the child to go live with its grandparents for a few weeks so he'd write about something else.

It happens to every columnist at one point or another. Remember when George Will got a newborn puppy for Christmas, and the next 13 weeks of his columns were just haikus about its cold nose?

My sweet puppy boo
wakes me in my bedroom when
wet nose hits cankles.

It's funnier if you imagine George Will saying it.

I'm not immune to this problem either. For example, I've spent the past month looking for a new apartment, and since it's stressing me out, everything I write seems to be apartment-related. I thought I wrote a brilliant column the other night, but when I sat down to proofread it the next morning, this is all I had written:

Oh God, dear Lord no.
Those bugs look like Ann Coulter,
except they weigh more.

Is Ann Coulter too skinny? Yes, but the Reader Weekly (a Duluth alt-weekly paper I write for) already prints poetry on page two when they run out of hate letters directed at me. I'd encourage some sort of contest where all of you send in haikus for page two, but that's not something I really want you to do, it's just something I'd encourage because I like to annoy Dennis, the editor. But the tidal wave of weirdness that would infest the newspaper's mailbox would be far too cruel of a prank.

No poems for Dennis. Page two is full of boredom. The paper is read by people who don't have jobs.

Oops. That last line was 12 syllables instead of five. This is probably why I'm never featured on page two. But back to the point. As a writer, you have to ignore the impulse to obsess over the most boring parts of you life. The only readers who want to constantly hear about your kid, your new apartment, or the cruel turn your diabetes has taken is a reader who's related to you and only reads out of pity. Most readers want to be surprised every week. For instance, did you think you'd see a blatant advertisement for Hardee's in this column? Surprise!

Let's go to Hardee's.
(Carl's Jr if you're nasty)
Puke up lard on floor.

Does Hardee's advertise with this website? No? Okay.

The goal of a columnist should always be to keep readers interested. Since my readers are mainly high school and college kids, a column like this really plays well with their short attention spans. Also, haikus take up space without requiring me to write any worthwhile content, but let's keep that on the down low, reader.

Fill up column space.
No one wants their ads near me.
I'm embarrassing.

My other demographic is hobos who use this newspaper as a blanket.

Drinking keeps me warm.
Paul Ryan's ugly photo
stares at my leg. Weird.

But how should I end a novelty haiku column such as this one? Obviously it must surprise the reader by ending with two haikus, but using what topic? Since everyone's used to my profane, juvenile writer's persona, I'll stick with that.

My left buttock is
like one thousand rainbows in
a cup. So pretty!

Your mother warned you
about buttocks like this one.
Proceed with caution.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Wed, 24 Jan 2007 00:40:37 -0800 jan-24-george-will-writes-excellent-haiku-poetry http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/929.php   

MLK 2007

by Paul Ryan
Monday, Jan. 15, 2007

It's 10:58pm, Monday's column is due in an hour, and I've been drinking heavily all day. The easy ideas are all played out, reader. I actually have to write something original. All I have left in my "easy ideas arsenal" is this photo:

The Bumble. It's cute, but it has no purpose, much like my life. This isn't a normal Sunday for me. While my writer's persona paints me as a stinky old drunk who boozes so much that the toilet gets drunk when I pee, drinking on a Sunday is usually not my style. The film studio I temp for has forced me to drink by requiring me to take Martin Luther King Day off.

With all due respect to the late Dr. King, who the hell takes off MLK Day? When was the last time you heard someone say, "Hey, it's a three-day MLK weekend! Let's pack up our crap and go campin'!" I've certainly never said that phrase in my life. Have you, reader? I rest my case.

If the studio is forcing me to take Monday off with no pay, then you better believe I'm going to get drunk on Sunday. What else am I supposed to do? Nobody has MLK Day off except government workers and the douchebags at my office. My choices are to get drunk at home or go see a movie with the elderly man who delivers my mail.

The worst part is that I can't even enjoy myself while I'm drinking on a Sunday. It just feels wrong. I have a very good sense of when I shouldn't be drinking, and my radar was sounding the warning sirens when I cracked open a bottle of Pabst today.

The last time that internal alarm went off was in college. The first party my roommates and I ever threw was really lame, and nobody showed up. We planned to watch a rugby match the next morning at 9am, and since we had so much beer leftover in the keg, we transferred it to four plastic milk jugs, loaded them into the back of the car, and drove to the field to drink while we watched the game.

Drinking in that situation was not only horribly disgusting, it also felt incredibly pathetic, because it was 9am in the freaking morning. It was like punching a clown, or doing my taxes in July. It didn't fit.

You'd think drinking on MLK Day doesn't fit because it tarnishes the image of Dr. King and everything he accomplished, but it was actually just because it was a Sunday. I tarnish the image of myself and others so often that it doesn't really register anymore unless it's on a work night.

So here I am, tipsy on a Sunday evening, writing a humor column. The Patriots have beaten the Chargers, the Overrated Turds have beaten the Seahawks, and I have avoided seeing "Stomp the Yard" with my mail carrier. All is well.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Mon, 15 Jan 2007 00:56:31 -0800 jan-15-mlk-2007 http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/928.php   

Apartment searching: More painful than dying in a house fire

by Paul Ryan
Wednesday, Jan. 10, 2007

Searching for an apartment is not a sexy affair. It's not a fun time, a night at the disco, or a makeout session in the closet of your parents' house while they're gone on vacation for Martin Luther King Day. It's a lengthy, tiresome hassle that could kill you if you're not careful.

Kill you!

I've been searching for an apartment since December, when my fartbag landlord raised my rent. When I say "landlord", I actually mean the realty company that owns my building. I hate them like I hate mimes. Their office has had three secretaries in the year I've lived here, and not a single one of them speaks more than eight words of English. Every time I call with a problem, I spend 15 minutes explaining exactly what the sentence I'm saying means. I'm pretty sure that's intentional.

Soon I'll leave them behind for a new landlord, one who at least speaks Spanish as a first language instead of Mandarin Chinese. The search has been lengthy and difficult, but I've learned a few things along the way. I'd like to share my learnings with you, not because I like you, but because I crave your attention.

If the apartment is described as "Art deco style", it means it's a shithole. If it's described as "New York style", it means you'll be peeing and cooking in the same room.

If you're lucky enough to find a great apartment in your price range, then you're probably very wealthy. If you're not wealthy, then it means the apartment's in a dangerous neighborhood, has an infestation problem, or has windows that look directly into the apartments of ugly people in other buildings.

If the landlord seems senile, try to convince him that the year is 1947. He may lower your rent to twenty dollars per month.

If the building has a doorman, spit in his eye and see how he reacts. If he ignores it, then that's a great doorman who knows his place. If he gets mad, tell the manager you saw him drinking.

Brokers are not for you. If you could afford a broker, you wouldn't be reading a shitty website like this one.

Paying to search for apartments is no less pathetic than paying for sex. Craigslist is free and well-designed. Use it. If you miss the thrill of paying for outdated apartment listings stolen from the local newspaper, send your money to me. I'll search for you.

Hardwood floors look nice but are cold in the morning. Carpeted floors are sensible but harder to clean when your bastard infant who you didn't list on the lease micturates upon them.

If the lease is only six months, your rent will go up in six months. If your lease is one year, your rent will go up in one year. If your lease is two years, you're in a state penitentiary for armed robbery.

Furnished apartments are for elderly people who just want to sit around until they die.

If you find a great apartment, fend off likely competitors by punching them in the face during the open house.

Check out the neighbors before moving in. If they're ugly, keep in mind that you'll have to look at them for an entire year.

Your parents' basement does not count as an apartment, no matter how much rent they're charging you.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Tue, 09 Jan 2007 23:58:50 -0800 jan-10-apartment-searching-more-painful-than-dy http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/927.php   

First-class is the only way to fly

by Paul Ryan
Monday, Jan. 8, 2007

The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport is a good friend to drinkers. The bartender is fast, last call is flexible, and the bar sits right across from the security checkpoint, allowing those so inclined to turn their chairs around and drink while watching people get frisked. It made the two hours before takeoff seem too short.

You can't get that level of enjoyment anywhere else. The big wigs behind television shows and movies haven't yet realized that such simple things are the holy grail of entertainment. I could spend hours watching angry midwesterners getting their toothpaste confiscated, especially when the only football game on TV is some second-rate college in Michigan playing some technical school in Tennessee, with Second-Rate Michigan winning by 25 points.

The bartender in the airport was almost as tense as the people being frisked. She had been working 12 hours a day for the past two weeks, covering everyone's shifts during the holidays. Or at least that's what she claimed. It could have just been a ruse to get bigger tips. If it was, it worked on me. She played the part well. In the hour I was there - from 8:30 to 9:30pm - she could barely remember anything. Had I paid? What drink had I ordered 30 seconds earlier? Was I interested in getting another beer during last call, despite the fact that my current one was nearly full and my plane was boarding in 15 minutes?

The answer to those questions, respectively, were yes, Leinie's Honey Weiss, and hell yes. I would've lied and told her I already paid, but I was afraid airport security would find out and confiscate my liver.

But the real treat was the flight itself. First-class upgrades were only $60, and since my plane was arriving late and I had to work in the morning, it was a good way to get some sleep. I had never flown first-class before, and it was everything I dreamed it would be. My seat was leather, my legroom was adequate, and the flight attendants tended to me as if the losers in coach were just annoyances. Which they were, of course.

"Excuse me, miss? That peasant man in the coach section is snoring too loudly. Could you lock him in the toilet until we land? Thank you."

The ill-bred commoners in coach were given a cold, hard grilled cheese sandwich to eat, while I received a warm turkey and cheese sandwich, a macaroni salad of some sort, and a bag of those thick potato chips - the ones no one likes but everyone knows are fancy. After my meal, I was offered a brownie for dessert. They didn't ask and then get the brownie for me, they presented the brownie to me first, as if my decision required an inspection.

I ran back to the coach class with my brownie, spitting large mouthfuls of it at the lesser passengers while screaming crude obscenities to show them how important I was, and how depressed they should be that they weren't me. "I'm better than you!" I screamed. "Your section of the plane smells like farts! Your dinner is a stale grilled cheese sandwich and one-fourth of a can of Diet Coke! Go back to your trailers and spawn more uncouth welfare children, you hillbillies!"

Then the stewardesses escorted me back to my seat and fellated me until I fell asleep. I dreamt of unicorns, newborn puppies, and Ryan Seacrest's hair. When I awoke, the stewardesses had covered me in a blanket made from Jesus Christ's hair. After the plane landed, we got to cherry pick items from the coach passengers' luggage.

Few airlines offer a cheap first-class upgrade, and when you find one you should spring for it. I'm glad I made the most of my first and probably last first-class flight. Even if I never get to do it again, I'll still have my memories, and all the medication I stole from other people's luggage.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Sun, 07 Jan 2007 23:28:55 -0800 jan-8-firstclass-is-the-only-way-to-fly http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/926.php   

Paul Ryan is resolutin' in 2007

by Paul Ryan
Wednesday, Jan. 3, 2007

Here is my list of resolutions for the new year. Please notice how I've made a lot more of them than you have. That's because I'm much, much more flawed than you.

1. I will join a gym. I'm not an overweight man, or even a flabby man, but I'll turn 28 years old this May, so flabby time is probably on its way. I can't keep this sexy hourglass figure forever without putting some effort into it. When you see me at the gym, please note how awesome I am at everything I attempt.

2. I will not father any more children with 18-year-old seniors from your local high school. Four illegitimate kids in your area is enough for me.

3. I will not die in a fire. If I die, it'll be on the toilet, like Elvis.

4. I will not allow myself to listen to Fall Out Boy this year. I don't even own their CD, but my ears were still singed many times in 2006 by their lead singer's neutered voice. This year I will stay away from commercial radio stations and anyone under the age of 20 (This will help with resolution number two as well).

5. I will not use a credit card for items that cost less than $1. Quit scoffing. I'm not the only one. You and I both use our check cards like old people use coupons: Everywhere, even places we're not supposed to use them.

6. Get a real job. I'm 27 years old, and I'm working as a temp at Fox Studios. My parents purposely leave me out of their Christmas newsletter, and if people ask what I'm doing, they lie and say I got hit by a bus, and the temp job is only until I get full mobility back in my fingers.

7. Finish writing my book. I started writing a book of humorous, non-fictional essays two years ago. I've managed to complete about 12 pages of it, but it's the greatest 12 pages you'll ever read. The part where I ride a snowmobile through the seedier parts of Compton will excite you in ways your significant other cannot.

8. Take down everyone's Christmas lights. Sometimes you have to be responsible not only for yourself, but for others. That guy down the street who left the gigantic plastic Santa and 40 other oversized figurines in his front yard until March? I know how to drive a pickup truck, and I know the location of the city dump.

9. Eat more chili lime tortilla chips.When God rested on the seventh day of creation, he probably spent the whole day eating chili lime tortilla chips from Target. Man, those things are good. I want to pour 40 bags of them into my bathtub and sleep there.

10. Stop making new year's resolutions. Is there anything worse than starting off the new year with a big list of crap to do? Can I at least have a nice breakfast before I ambush myself with these chores? Is that too much to ask? Can "scrambled eggs and toast - take your time" be first on my list next year? Of course, the second resolution on next year’s list is to go through this list and feel shame for my lack of accomplishment.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Sun, 07 Jan 2007 23:28:11 -0800 jan-3-paul-ryan-is-resolutin-in-2007 http://www.dailyramblings.com/ramblings/925.php   

My new year's resolution: Win a marathon by cheating

by Paul Ryan
Monday, Dec. 1, 2006

It's time to make your New Year's resolutions, reader! Don't give me that sourpuss face. You're not a pussycat, you're a human being, and you need goals and structure to survive. Do you know why people always seem to die right after they retire? It's because they no longer have a duty to fulfill. If you don't choose your resolutions for the new year, you will die like a miserable schlep.

My first resolution is to stop calling people "schleps" and predicting their premature deaths.

In all seriousness, with only a few hours left before 2007, it's time to set some goals. Luckily, those forced ambitions don't have to be as difficult as you think. If you're really lazy about it, you can just do what I do and make incredibly easy resolutions like "I will not commit murder gratuitously" or "I will breathe air the majority of the time that I'm awake or asleep".

If you're really crafty, you'll spend a little extra time to think up something incredibly easy that sounds really hard. For instance, this year I'm only making one resolution: To win Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, MN. Sounds pretty difficult, doesn't it? After all, I've never run a marathon before, I haven't worked out in nearly a decade, and my last mile time - during my sophomore year of high school when my gym teacher forced me to run - was around 12 minutes.

However, you don't need speed, endurance, or proper training to win Grandma's Marathon. Just ask the female winner from the last two years, Halina Karnatsevich. She won it using steroids. I can do that!

This story has been around for a few weeks. Karnatsevich tested positive for steroids, changing the image of Duluth's famous race forever. In the past, the marathon's only bad press was when residents along the race route complained about having 6,900 people urinating in their front yard. Now that Karnatsevich has befouled our race in a figurative rather than literal sense, the bad press for Grandma's Marathon is mounting.

What can we, the common people, truly believe in anymore when the big shots start enhancing their natural talent with drugs? The next thing you know, we'll find out I'm using steroids to improve my alcohol tolerance. Wait, would that actually work?

The only upside to this whole fiasco is that lovable underachievers like myself can finally win Grandma's Marathon. Granted, I'll lose my crown after the USA Track and Field group studies my pee for six months, but I'm already hated by most people for this column, so I really don't see the downside. Cheating in that race would be six months of fame and glory that money couldn't buy. I'm sure Svetlana Nekhorosh, the runner-up (and now winner) of last year's race is probably pretty thrilled about getting an $8,000 check in the mail, but Karnatsevich got all the glory.

Next year I'm going to get all the glory. How is anybody going to stop me? By charging me with a crime, having me extradited back to Minnesota for sentencing, and then allowing an angry mob to drag me out of the courtroom and beat me in an alleyway until I learn what happens to cheaters? Or perhaps doing that to Karnatsevich so people in future races won't even think of messing with us again?

Yeah, that might work.

Mail me -

Donate -

]]> Sun, 31 Dec 2006 20:19:06 -0800 jan-1-my-new-years-resolution-win-a-marathon-b