This is a field piece where I interviewed an actual Border Patrol Auxiliary Agent to discuss the Alien problem at our borders. This was produced by Ashton Kutcher and Jason Goldberg, Directed by Mark Herwick, and Written by Mark and myself. Enjoy.

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“Now serving G-101 at window number eighteen. G-101.”

Oh good. I’m G-174. So only 73 people ahead of me. I might make it home in time for Conan tonight.

I approach the enormous black lady at the counter who looks like she’s got a real good attitude about life. She pretends not to see me for a full sixty seconds as she peals an old piece of scotch tape off the base of her monitor for no apparent reason. “You need a little Goo-Gone?”  I hilariously ask. She doesn’t respond at all. ”…I always carry some with me….” More loud silence. “Anyway… I’m number G-174, do you have any idea about how long I’ll be here?”

Like I’m the stupidest motherfucker she’s ever met, “Oh, you gone be here for at least two hour. You shoulda made a appointment. This the DMV.”

I don’t know why she felt the need to remind me that I was in the DMV, there were signs all around me. “I tried to make an appointment but the first available time was two months from now.”  I hung in there for another fifteen seconds or so until I realized she won, our time together was over and so I went back to my seat.

I’ve been driving with an expired license for the past 180 days or so. Sometimes drunk, sometimes high, but always worried I’m going to get pulled over and have to wrestle the cop to the ground, steal his gun, shoot him in the face, eat some of his flesh and move down to Tijuana to ‘lay low’ for a bit.

The thing with the DMV is the place is filled to the brim with the absolute dregs of society. There’s not one attractive person at the DMV, a lot of people are missing teeth and there’s a lady standing next to me who smells like a hundred dicks. Arrogant or not, I’m 100% sure that I’m better than everybody in the building and I should be receiving VIP treatment. I don’t know, maybe the Nazis were onto something, ya know?

Oh, the DMV is an excellent place to bring both your baby who is one week old and screaming constantly along with your two year old daughter who can’t sit still and is running all over the place with mud all over her face pulling the forms out of people’s hands. I want to hurt her.

“Now serving number G-102 at window number five.”

Every time that announcement is made I check my ticket as if I’m miraculously going to be next. I know I’m G-174, I just haven’t come to terms with it. I think somewhere deep down inside I actually believe that god is going to change my number to 103 or 104 right before I look down at it. You know, because I’m such a good person and all. “If you do that god I promise I won’t tell anyone that you did it, it’ll be our little secret and also I’ll start believing in you.” And then out of nowhere, to my surprise, it happened. MY NUMBER ACTUALLY CHANGED! Oh wait, no it didn’t, because I’m at the fucking DMV in Los Angeles. At 11:30 am. On a Monday. #myreality

It’s interesting to see who’s driving on the same roads as me and wonder why I’m not dead.  Every five minutes or so the same seventy-year old Korean man wearing a FILA windbreaker and a 2001 Lakers championship cap which looks like someone placed it on his head without him knowing it, comes up to me and points to a bunch of different forms in his hand while saying “Form, form, form…”  I direct him over to my fat black lady friend who was so helpful to me.

After 2 hours of constantly repeating the phrase, “I can’t fucking believe this,” under my breath, my number is finally, “miraculously” called. “Now serving number G-174 at window number eleven.” Thank you, god.

I get up there, pay my thirty-one dollars and they then move me over to another line, where they explain that I’ll be taking a photo for my new license today. What the hell did you just say? NO! I look like shit right now. I don’t want to be stuck with a busted picture of myself for the next 10 years. My kids will think I was a loser. They’ll take advantage of me and they’ll be disrespectful. Plus, if I’m ever in a fire, and my face is burning off they’ll see my license and be like, “this guy’s really attractive, let’s try harder to save him than we normally would.”

“I really thought I could keep my old picture.”
“What if I email you a recent headshot I can forward you something right now off my iphone? Or is there a Glamour Shots nearby?”


“Wait I wasn’t ready.”
“No, I wasn’t ready, Miss, you didn’t say cheese.”
“We don’t say cheese, sir and we don’t retake the pictures, NEXT!
“Go take your test.”
“Test? What test?”


At the top of the page in big bold letters it says, “3 OR FEWER ERRORS ALLOWED” (or you don’t get your license).  There’s a total of 18 questions! And none of them are ‘what do you do at a red light?’ This is an actual question taken from the test:

#17.  You must make a written Report of a Traffic Accident Occurring in California (SR 1) to DMV if you:
A.     Fail to pay your registration fees within 90 days of receiving your renewal notice
B.     Are involved in a collision and there is more than $750 in damages
C.     Allow a licensed driver from another state to drive your vehicle.

I mean, ‘A’ makes the most sense to me right off the bat because they might not have your information on file if you forgot to renew it, but then ‘C’ could work too. I’ve been in a few accidents and I’ve never made one of these reports before. I should probably keep that to myself. But then again, what the fuck is an SR 1? Am I the only guy in California who doesn’t know that? And as far as ‘B’ goes, what accident DOESN’T cost more than $750? Hmmm.  For ‘C’ I figure it’s gotta be THAT person’s responsibility to file a report, right? God, I wish I had my TI-82 with me, it had all the answers. I guess ‘A’ makes the most sense then. I’ll go with ‘A’

Wrong. Guess I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.

“Now serving G-175….”

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Annoyatarians: A Real Conversation with a Real Meathead

Friend: Hey, Steve, thanks for inviting me to your dinner party tonight — it’s gonna be awesome, I’m sooooo excited! By the way, just so you know — I’m a vegetarian.
Me: Okay…. So what does that mean?
Friend: It means I don’t eat meat, you silly goose.
Me: I know what a vegetarian is you fucking idiot, I’m asking what it means in terms of dinner tonight because I was planning on cooking steaks. Steaks in a white wine, blood sauce — I already bought the marinade.
Friend: I don’t eat steaks. Or blood sauce.
Me: Obviously. So what do I need to do here? Should I just lay out some carrots or put a little hay in a bowl for you or something? Because I don’t have a trough.
Friend: Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to go through too much trouble. Just pick something up for me while you’re at the supermarket like some Tofu or a pack of Boca Burgers, you know, something that costs extra money on top of what you’re already spending on everyone else. And then when you get home just set aside enough time to cook my meal as well as the one you’re already cooking for all the other people. That way you can cook two entirely separate meals instead of just one in order to accommodate my lifestyle that doesn’t affect you at all.
Me: Why don’t you just eat meat this one time? I promise I won’t tell anyone.
Friend: No.
Me: Why not? I’d be willing to sign something.
Friend: Because I don’t eat meat, Steve.
Me: FINE! I’ll just make chicken then.
Friend: I don’t eat that either.
Me: You don’t eat chicken? Yeah, right. Now you’re just making up stuff you don’t eat. I suppose you don’t eat chicken nuggets either?
Friend: No, nothing that was ever alive at one point.
Me: Vegetables were alive at one point.
Friend: Yeah, but they don’t have feelings.
Me: Oh, really? Don’t let Terri Schaivo or Christopher Reeves’ family hear you say that, you monster. What about eggs?
Friend: Yes, I eat eggs.
Me: Wait. You won’t eat a chicken but you’ll eat their babies? Are baby chickens considered to be vegetables? Like a legume or something?
Friend: No, they’re eggs. I eat dairy. I didn’t say I would – the egg isn’t developed into a chicken yet so…
Me: Right, so you believe in abortion and hate kids. And you’re a murderer.
Friend: No. I didn’t say th–
Me: Hey, how come you rarely come across vegetarians in countries that are starving like in Ethiopia, is that because they’re not ungrateful little pieces of crap and they eat whatever they can get their hands on?
Friend: I don’t know, maybe it’s cultural.
Me: That’s racist. Look, I don’t want to make two separate meals.
Friend: Then why don’t you just make the entire meal vegetarian for everyone? And that way you can kill two birds with one stone. Or rather, two asparaguses with one stone. That’s a vegetarian joke.
Me: Okay, first of all, that joke is retarded—it’s got me questioning whether I should have even invited you over at all or continue being friend with you, but look, I really don’t want to argue anymore. I’m done arguing. So you win, just tell me what you want me to make and I’ll just make it and let everyone know they have to suffer because of you. You’re a baby.
Friend: You’re the baby.
Me: No I’m not. I want steaks!
Friend: You can still make steak if you want, just make meatless steaks, I’ve had ‘em, they’re pretty good.
Me: What the hell are you talking about? Is that another shitty joke?
Friend: No, they make Tofu Steaks and Steak strips that taste just like steak except there’s no steak in them.
Me: Meatless steak?
Friend: Yes.
Me: Steak, with no meat.
Friend: Yep, and they’re made to look and taste just like real meat.
Me: Hold up! No, no, no, no, NO! Absolutely not! You do not get to flavor your tasteless tofu brick-matter with the essence of meat. It’s an insult to all the animals who had to actually go through the process of being murdered and having their heads chopped off so they could become delicious flavors in our mouths. I’m sorry, but if you love your vegetables so much, you have to let your food taste like them. You can’t have your Gluten-Free cake and eat it too.
Me: No, now I’m serving plain celery to everyone. It’s decided. That’s what’s gonna be for dinner. Everyone is going to get one stalk of celery and they’ll have you to thank for it. I’ll turn the whole world against you.
Friend: Fine Steve, you do that.
Me: And I’m telling you right now just so you know, I may or may-not touch your celery with raw pieces of chicken bones without you knowing it. (May).
Friend: Okay, thanks for the heads up.
Me: I hate you with all of my heart — which means you can’t eat me. Because I have a heart.
Friend: Why would I eat you? I’m a vegetarian.
Me: Then I’ll make a mold out of me, made from tofu and you can eat that. But it will taste exactly like me, which will not taste good.
Friend: Ok.
Me: What about shrimp? Do you eat shrimp?

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Going to the Gym

I hate every single moment of going to the gym, except for the very last, when I’m leaving, because that’s when I know I am the farthest moment in time away I can possibly be from having to come back there.

I don’t really understand working out. When I’m in there, all I can think is, what the fuck am I doing right now? What are any of us doing here? Are we training to be Spartans? Are we preparing for the next 300 battle? SOMEBODY ANSWER ME AND LEND ME A SWORD! SPAAAAAAARTAAAAAAA!

I was never really trained how to work out, so I usually just go in there, lift a bunch of weights up and down over my head a few times like a good monkey and then I do a little cardio. You gotta do a little cardio, that’s what everyone says. You tell someone you work out, they ask you, “Do you do any cardio?” And I say, “Yeah, I do a little cardio.”

I’m the asshole who uses the Ellipses or NordicTrack, whatever the fuck you call it. Let me tell you something, when I get going on that thing, the synchronized arm and leg movement makes every woman in the room simultaneously want to fuck me. But can you blame them? Minus the snow, I look exactly like an Olympic skier.

Gotta love the women who can read full novels while they’re on those machines. That’s how you know you’re getting a good workout in, when you’re going 1 mph on a treadmill and you’ve burned through fifteen magazines, while you’re sucking down a Java Chiller Frappuccino from Starbucks. These ladies would burn more calories by simply lying down.

I’ll jump on a treadmill every once in awhile. It’s a great way to meditate, a way to forget about everything else that’s going on in my life – all the stress, whatever’s bothering me – and focus my mind on one simple idea that I just keep repeating to myself over and over again, which is ‘when the fuck is this going to end?’

‘I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. Why am I doing this?’ And why the hell is this goddamn timer moving so slowly? Move faster! Andalé! Every second feels like a minute. This machine’s gotta be broken. Maybe I should just cover the screen with a towel, if I can’t see the timer I won’t focus on it. Great idea. I cover it up and keep moving. After a short while, I realize that I have lost all sense of time and being. My entire concept of time has gone out the window.  I have no idea if I’ve been running for five minutes or five hours. Did I have a beard when I got on this thing?

I decide to take a peak under the towel, see how much time I have left. I could be finished for all I know. But then again, I could have just begun…I don’t know, should I do it? It’ll kill me if I have a lot of time left. Fuck it, I’ll compromise — I’m checking thirty seconds.

And that’s when I reveal my worst nightmare. NOOOOOooooooo! I lifted too early! I made the cardinal mistake. And now I want to die.


Four minutes, thirty-one seconds. That’s how long I’ve been running, not what I have left. I convinced myself to do ten minutes. But I can’t quit now, this is bigger than you, Steve, this is bigger than the gym. If you quit here, it means you’ll quit out there, in the real world. Push it! You can do it buddy. You can do it! Okay, it’s been a little while, let’s check again….


It’s only been a minute! Ahhhhh! I’m now crying in public.

The gym I work out at in Hollywood smells like one giant set of man balls. So whenever I don’t feel like going, I just put my underwear over my head and run a bunch of laps around my house. But the coolest thing about LA Fitness, centered in the music capitol of the world, is definitely the house DJ, whoever picks the music. That 49-year old spinster is totally tapped into what’s hot right now. Here are three tracks that were actually played (in a row) at my gym on a Saturday during the busiest time of day:

“Believe” Cher
“We’ve Got it Goin On” The Backstreet Boys
“Shake Your Bon Bon” Ricky Martin

Bet you feel like pumpin’ some iron right now, huh? So glad my iPod was broken that day.

After people workout for a few months, suddenly they’re experts on what you should be doing. Love when people come up to me in the gym to give me pointers:

“Hey, you know, you shouldn’t arch your back like that when you’re pulling the bars down.”
“Oh, really? Because my last trainer told me that you shouldn’t open your fuckin mouth to people who don’t give a shit about how they’re doing it in the first place because maybe they’re just trying to get the fuck out of here as fast as they can so they can get back to their real life.”

And then I pull my back out.

Exercising is for gay people. Literally gay people love working out. I mean that in the straightest way possible. It’s kind of tough to tell who’s gay at the gym though and whose not, so I usually just assume that everyone is. And that’s why I make no eye contact with people and walk with a limp and have people spread rumors about me that I’m HIV positive. “Rumors.”

One way to tell for sure though is if you are using the steam room alone, standing there on the first step naked minding your own business and another guy comes in and sits down right next to you so that his face is 12 inches away from your penis which is 4 inches away from your body and he decides to start exhaling directly onto your penis. That’s how you can tell. When a guy starts blowing on your penis, it’s safe for you to assume that he’s gay. And that you just received a blowjob from him in the steam room.

Another way to tell is if two guys are jerking each other off in an open shower in the men’s locker room screaming, “We’re gay guys!” Equinox was just awarded gym of the year by the way.

Sometimes I think about changing gyms, but I don’t know. I guess the only thing stopping me is I don’t want to pay that bullshit initiation fee or go on another one of those mandatory fuckin tours after signing up. Why do they make you do that? Like I’m some fuckin Sioux Indian who’s never been to a gym before:

“That right there is a bench press and those are free weights….”

Two last things:

1.)  You know those people who wear those Bluetooth things in their ears while they’re working out? I want to drop a 45-pound dumbbell on their heads. When the hell are those things going to go out of style / give everyone using them cancer?

2.)  Here is a video I made which explains my feeling about gym trainers:

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Shoot Me

Stephen Schneider on the steps of St. Peter's Basilica, waiting to be shot

Going on vacation with someone who just bought a brand new camera can be a real treat.

“Oh that’s interesting (snap),” “How cool is that telephone pole? (snap)”
“Hey it’s been three minutes since I’ve taken a picture I should probably take another picture (snap)”
I’m gonna fuckin snap (SNAP).

They say a picture’s worth a thousand words but to me it’s worth just one: “STOP!”

Why don’t you strap a video camera to your head so you can capture EVERYTHING without missing a single moment of your precious little vacation? It’s water, what are you a fuckin martian? How many goddamn pictures do you need? You’re missing the entire experience. Instead of taking twelve hundred pictures on our African safari we should have just stayed home and done a google image search of the phrase “african safari”. It’s free and you can see illicit pictures of black ladies’ boobies.

African Boobies in Africa

When I’m traveling in a foreign country with just my girlfriend and her camera I get to feel like a total supermodel:

“Hey babe, go stand over there by that fountain, I want to get a picture…”
“Babe, how cool is that statue? Go stand next to it…”
“Go over there babe by that wall and smile…come on….smile! Smile nice, nicer, SMILE! PLEASE JUST SMILE FOR ME? PLEASE!!!”

How bout I smash your camera into a million pieces instead? Fuck smiling. Smiling’s for pussies and liars.

I should’ve been born at the turn of the century because everyone in those old time photos looks exactly the way I feel: unhappy to be there. They’re just sitting there and waiting for the bastard photographer to get this goddamn thing over with. “Just take the picture so I can move on with my life and get back to cobbling shoes and dying from Tuberculosis.”

Here’s a valid question: how did I become responsible for holding my girlfriend’s 10-pound camera bag and carrying it around my neck in ninety degree weather all week? Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t bring a camera so I wouldn’t have to have a strap giving me an Indian sunburn the entire day. By the way honey, I’m so psyched you opted for the hubble telescope lens attachment that weighs an additional 4.3 lbs, now we don’t have to travel to Spain because we can see it from our balcony.

“What? I am being careful with it! I DIDN’T BUMP IT INTO ANYTHING!”

One of the real joys of carrying an expensive camera around with you while you’re abroad is that you get to be worried every moment of the day that someone is going to rob you. Second thing anybody says to you when they find out you’re taking a trip, no matter where you’re going, “Oh you’re gonna love it there, it’s so gorgeous1 … be careful though, make sure you keep an eye on all your stuff at all times, the people there can be animals2.” This really allows me to relax when I’m out and about town. Especially when I’m at dinner trying to cut my steak with one hand while I’m clutching the camera bag with my other using all my white-knuckled might because it’s my responsibility if anything happens and I’ll never be forgiven.

Although once in awhile during dinner I do get a chance to let go of the camera bag — when my girlfriend decides it’s time for us to take a picture with the random couple that we’re seated next to in the restaurant who we met an hour ago. Great idea, babe, after all, we did talk to them about that delightful appetizer!

So it’s up to me to find someone to take the picture, obviously. So I stop the only waiter in the restaurant who’s carrying a full tray of food and ask him to take it. He agrees and we awkwardly shuffle over to their table to get this thing done. And that’s when I say to myself, “Hey, Steve, you’re a friendly guy, why don’t you put your arms around this nice couple here and bring a little warmth to this picture.” At about the same time I make that decision, the waiter makes it abundantly clear that he’s never heard of or seen a camera before. Cool. This is going to last a lot longer than I expected. He’s holding it backwards and upside down like Mr. Bean. “No the other way.” They should consider swapping out fractions in elementary school for teaching people how to press a button.

He begins firing away, but just can’t seem to get it right. It’s either too dark, someone was cut-off, or blurry. Each time he checks the screen to see if the picture came out, there’s a ten second gap (which feels like ten minutes) where I’m stuck standing there wondering why the fuck I have my arms around these strangers. #poorjudgement. I want to put them down, but I’m not sure if that would be considered rude, after all, they did recommend that delightful arugula salad. After I had literally been holding onto these people for over two full minutes, my armpits begin sweating onto the tops of their shoulders. We really don’t need this picture that bad, do we? I’m gonna put my arms down. He finally gets it and I’m cleared to go, until the girl from the other couple breaks out HER camera too. Of course, everybody should have their OWN picture of these exciting moment in time. “Great! Now let’s get one with the waiter…”

One of the pleasures of traveling with only one other person on a trip is that you really can’t trust someone to take a picture for you because they’ll either jack you or literally leave you hanging. So in almost all of our pictures it’s either her or me ALL ALONE. It’s creepy, I look like Jeffrey Dahmer. But it beats the alternative of asking someone to take a picture for us. I really hate it. “Excuse me, can you just put your entire life on hold for a minute, we need to capture a still frame of this moment right here, I know you’re in the middle of catching this taxi, but this will only take one minute of your life plus it’s your responsibility….”

Once the trip’s over, you bet your bottom dollar that we just can’t wait to get back to show everybody all of our great pictures! Our friends just can’t seem to get enough of this. “Oh wow! How wonderful! You went to Italy while I worked all week in a factory only to come home to my verbally abusive husband every night? Why don’t you also rub dogshit in my face while I look at these? Hey, how come there are no pictures of the two of you together?”


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Weddings Are Fun!

Hey, thanks for inviting me to your wedding that’s taking place on the other side of the country. I was just looking at this pile of money here and wondering what the hell I was going to do with it. But now I guess I’ll spend it on your wedding because that’s what’s important to me, not paying my bills.

You rule! Only $750 for a plane ticket? If websites were people you’d be my best friend because you never try to take advantage of me. And, you’re my other pal because you’re only charging me $500 to stay at the Embassy Suites for three days where I’ll sleep under covers that are infested with some derelict’s sperm and his girlfriend’s vagina bugs. Two hundred more of my dollars to Mr. Tux so I can look like a complete asshole on a team of assholes and I’m on my way. Oh wait, I almost forgot the gift! What am I some kind of cheap-o?

Weddings are fun.

You HAVE to get married in life, I mean, otherwise, what the hell’s the point, right? I don’t want to be alone at the end of the day without someone giving me instructions on what I should do next. Who will remind me to take the garbage out or that I’m not a good person? Also, spending TWICE the money as a single person and buying two of everything just feels right. I need 2 cars, 2 cell phone bills and 2 different kinds of shampoo because evidently “you can’t use Pert Plus on a woman’s hair.” If I wasn’t spending I’d be saving, and what good would my money be doing if it were sitting in a bank somewhere providing me with financial security? Gotta put my cash to work.

After I arrive in town for the wedding, I enjoy a complimentary car service from the Groom’s awkward cousin who won’t stop talking to me about how much he loves weed. He’s thirty-seven.

Hotel check-in time. As I approach the counter, I think about my odds as to whether or not the hotel has fucked up my room. If I had to bet, I’d say there’s a 90% chance they’ll be sticking me in a smoking room with two double beds. Okay, more like 100%. While I’m at the counter, one of my friends thinks it would be a great idea if we shared a room, considering we’re thirty and he’s the cheapest motherfucker ever. I pretend I have a cold and threaten to get him sick if we go splitsies. But he insists and it looks like we’re gonna be the two weirdos at the wedding who are “sleeping” in the same room.

Before I know it, we’re off to the wedding rehearsal. What wedding would be a success without a successful Wedding Rehearsal? This is where you practice how you’re going to walk in a straight line for twenty-five yards, stand in place for the duration of the ceremony and then walk back. Certainly nothing you could figure out on the eve of the wedding. We do it six times.

This is followed by the Rehearsal Dinner which I’m not so sure is necessary. I’ve been eating dinner since 1980 and I’ve gotten pretty good at it. You could say I’m a natural. But the best part of this event is talking to the bride and groom’s relatives for hours on end about absolutely nothing. The key to a successful conversation here is to keep bringing up how you “can’t believe they’re actually getting married.” Whenever there is a lull in the conversation, just come right back to that thesis. Neither of you will really mean it, but it will fill the void of having to awkwardly stare at each other with nothing to say.

Also, if you stumble upon a funny joke that works like “I can’t believe he’s getting married either, I thought he was gay!”, just keep using it with everyone you talk to. Most people are so clueless they’ll think it’s the first time you said it. And if not, who cares? They’re probably just happy someone’s talking to them in the first place.

Speeches are a great way to share the inner-most personal feelings you’ve had bottled up inside you for years but were previously too sober to express. It’s also an opportunity to embarrass the shit out of yourself. If you’re the best man, don’t write a speech. In fact, don’t do any preparation whatsoever. Just get wasted and wing it. Studies show that people actually prefer to hear speeches that are essentially one long run-on sentence and make absolutely no sense at all:

…Well…we are all here for this…blessed union…of holy matrimony…joining two people together…intertwined with one and other, living their lives together in love, both each other headed…for wedded…bliss….(burp)….

Way to come prepared, buddy.

The only thing better than a live band at a reception is a Wedding DJ. Wedding DJ’s are people who own iPods. They make sure your wedding is a hit, by standing around the iPod and preventing it from getting unplugged during the celebration. Not everybody knows how to plug those things back in. They’re confusing! USB, MP3, GGG, I’m old, I don’t get it!

When I was a kid, I was always told I should wait an hour after eating before going swimming. Well, this is definitely NOT the case when there’s a dance floor involved and you just finished eating a three-course meal at a wedding. After you suck down your meal and you’ve fill your stomach to the brim with rolls, cake and alcohol, get your bloated ass on the dance floor for the Electric Slide and start working off those calories. If this causes you to briefly vomit in your own mouth you’re doing it right.

People never know how much to give for a wedding gift and my opinion on this is you should give people zero. What I like to do is send them a card with a photocopy of all my expenses for the week and a pink Post-it note on top that reads, “You’re Welcome, Assholes.”

It really doesn’t matter what you give people for a gift because whatever you give them, they give you right back. It’s the Golden Rule of Weddings: “Give people the exact amount of money they gave you, not a penny more, or a penny less and please don’t ask questions about why that makes no sense.”

The other option is to “forget the gift” on the day of the actual wedding. People say you have a year to give one, but you know what else takes a year? Forgetting who gave you gifts in the first place.

I guess that means I have 359 days to go…. I hope no one brings it up….


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Cheap Ass Motherfuckers

My Nana Ruthie used to take me to the movie theater when I was a little boy and after she paid for our movie tickets using her senior citizen discount to save a dollar fifty, we would rush into the theater without a chance to do my favorite thing: stop at the concession stand.

“I brought goodies,” she would tell me, and being no more than five and a clueless fucking idiot, I believed her every time. We’d make a b-line for our seats where she would unzip her pocket book and unveil her “treats” which included dietetic candies, Werther’s Originals and her own personal stash of popcorn which she popped the night before. It was in a plastic shopping bag, the same one she would put over her head to protect her hair if she was running out and it was drizzling and she just had it done.

I remember being so embarrassed at the time but she had no qualms about it. Like ‘this is what everybody does.’ I wanted to scream out, “WE BOUGHT THE POPCORN AT THE CONCESSION STAND AND THEN SHE PUT IT IN HER PURSE TO KEEP IT WARM, EVERYONE! WE’RE RICH!” But really she was doing what she knew best: being Jewish. She called the popcorn Gucci-corn, but she was just being silly. It was clearly Knock-Off Gucci-corn, the whole theater knew that. Anyway, each time I reached for a handful, I had to be careful not to pick up a Sweet ‘n Low packet or one of the 8,000 tissues she kept in that bag.

Back then popcorn was only three bucks, Nana! What the fuck? I did the math, after all was said and done, you only saved fifteen cents. It’s not 1937, that doesn’t buy you a loaf of bread anymore, Nana.

After the “picture” (as she called it) was over, we snuck into another movie which was halfway through based solely on the mere fact that we could do it for free. She didn’t care that it was Poltergeist II, which would cause her grandson to require plastic sheets on his bed until he was twenty-five. What she cared about was that we saw one and a half movies for the price of one. Now that’s a deal!

Whenever I go food shopping, I’m usually starving, which is the worst possible time to shop because that’s when I want to eat everything. When I pass through the produce section I always grab a bag of grapes, which I enjoy while doing my shopping. But by the time I get to the checkout stand, I’ve eaten almost half the grapes. I’m not gonna pay for a half-eaten bag of grapes, that’s a fuckin rip-off. Screw that, I’d rather hide them on the side of the conveyor belt where the Reader’s Digest and Soap Opera magazines are. Along with the empty bottle of VitaWater I just drank and a Zone bar wrapper. Just saved eight bucks. Winner!

In the candy aisle of my old supermarket, they used to have the self-serve candy drawers filled with gummy worms, chocolate almonds, malt balls and pretzels. They don’t anymore because of me. I would put my head under the spout and drain that shit like I was Augustus Gloop. And I would make multiple loops back to that aisle. Other people would just look at me like I was a sick person, literally foaming at the mouth with chocolate, dripping down my chin. Gotta get that shit down before the camera catches you.

My girlfriend took me out for dinner a few weeks ago and paid for us both. After I got over the initial shock and realized she wasn’t paying for me to make up for an affair she was having behind my back, I was able to start swallowing my food. The bill came and she not-so-subtly broke out a coupon and snuck it into the bill. Or should I say a GROUPON. Groupon is a new website that has these outrageous daily deals where you get a major discount on something like a massage or in our case: a dinner for two: you spend $50 and get $100 worth of food. The only catch, which it doesn’t mention in the fine print, is you have to look like a cheap ass motherfucker and eat dinner in a restaurant with other cheap ass motherfuckers, while the chef whips up your meal, putting half the effort he normally does into it because he’s cooking for a cheap ass motherfucker, who wouldn’t normally eat here. Thanks for dinner, babe, totally worth it!

A good friend of mine who grew up nearby used to invite me to sleepover his house during the summer. Sounds fun when you’re ten years old, right? I wouldn’t realize this was actually torture until I slept there for the first time. Their house was five hundred fucking degrees inside. They wouldn’t turn the goddamn air on. They had it, but they were just too cheap to use it. It was like reliving the Jews’ experience at Bergen-Belsen. They should have made it part of the Birthright Program.

You would walk into the house with a steak and by the time you’re blood sugar dropped and you finished dry heaving, the steak could be resold as beef jerky. And the most amazing thing was that they acted like it was completely normal. Neighbors would walk through with trays of cookie dough and leave with them fully baked; some of the cookies got burnt.

Before I knew it was rude I would make comments like, “Man, it’s hot in here” or “are you guys warm?” And they would always immediately respond in unison, “We’re fine!” as if they practiced it during a secret family meeting where the topic of discussion was How to Convince Everyone Else We’re Not Being Cheap. I felt so bad for my friend, I wanted to call Social Services and have them take him away and put him in a home with A/C. Even if his new parents sexually molested him, it would have been better than risking heat stroke and more importantly my comfort when sleeping over.

I used to have a roommate who didn’t pay for food. He was the last guy to ever reach in his pocket when a bill came, he would literally wait me out to the point where I was like ‘Fuck it, dude, I gotta go, you win. Happy?’

Every single time I’d order Chinese food I would ask him if he wanted anything, and he would always tell me he wasn’t hungry.

Are you sure?
I’m good.
Yes, definitely not hungry.
Okay, ‘cuz I am and I’ve been looking forward to this chicken & black bean sauce all day and I really don’t want to share any of it with you.
I’m really not hungry, Steve!
Right, but it won’t be here for 45 minutes…will you be hungry then? Because if you will, I’ll buy something for you. I’ll pay.
Cool. Because I was bluffing about the ‘buy something for you’ thing.

And then like clockwork, as soon as the food came, he would sit next to me like Pavlov’s dog; you could hear him salivating. Often times that made my food taste better, but other times it was annoying. I had to make sure I didn’t drop anything on the floor, because he would snatch it up before I had a chance to throw it away or spit on it. And I also had to make sure I ate every last bite. Because when I didn’t my leftover scraps would keep him alive.

You know how you see those commercials where you can feed a kid for less than seventy-five cents a day? Well, I was keeping this guy going for half of that. You don’t think that adds up, but when I sat down one afternoon in a fit of pure rage, I made an excel spreadsheet and send it off to my accountant for a huge deduction and he was like, you’re gonna get audited.

I never put my name on anything in the fridge, mainly because everything in the fridge was mine. I put my name on the fridge. If I ever had any leftovers, he would wait until I went until I went to bed and eat them. I would try to stay up later than him, but he would take NoDoz, and come 4:30 am, I had to give up. This is a kid making $150,000 a year who had his head buried IN the refrigerator, to avoid me seeing him. And he wouldn’t eat it all, he would try to make it look like nothing happened, but I would count the pieces of chicken beforehand and I knew. Chicken doesn’t just disappear. It was chicken and black bean sauce, not Chicken & David Blain sauce; you know what I’m saying?

Come on man, funk that!


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X’s and Ohs…

It’s funny, you can date someone for 4 years and after you break up, and a short period of time goes by, you act like complete strangers to one another when you see each other. I mean, we used to stick our fingers inside each other’s butts for crying out loud! And now, it’s like talking to a complete stranger I just met in an elevator.

I bumped into an ex girlfriend of mine not too long ago, while she was with her new boyfriend and I was with my new girlfriend. We said hello to one another and casually bullshitted like we were at some corporate marketing convention in Banquet Room B of the Walacutta, Ohio Ramada. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just all say what we were thinking?

Steve, meet Ted, he’s the new guy that’s fucking me now.
Hey douche bag! I fuckin hate you!

Ted, Stephen’s the guy with the small penis I was telling you about.

It’s nice to finally put a face on the penis, Steve.
Thanks, Ted. So tell me, did she get that vaginal reconstructive surgery she always used to talk about or does her pussy still look like a sandwich from the Carnegie deli?I’m so glad you brought that up, Steve, that’s not normal, is it? I feel like it should come with a side of potato salad or something!
It’s kinda why I broke up with her. You’re better looking than me by the way, Ted. Did you know that?

I did know that, Steve. I think everyone in this bar knows that. Including your new girlfriend who clearly wants to fuck me.
Oooooh! Nice one, Ted, but I’m not so sure about that.
Babe. I do. And I’m gonna fuck him for sure — behind your back.

Sounds good. Anyway, the two of you have fun, we’re gonna walk away now and start talking shit about you guys.

Go fuck yourselves!

And why is it when I run into my ex girlfriend and I’m with my new girlfriend my ex girlfriend has to look like absolute shit. Put some fuckin makeup on, girl. And why are you fat now? You’re embarrassing me. Now I have to have this conversation with the my new girl the entire ride home:

She used to be hot.
Sure she did, babe.
She did. I’ll show you pictures when we get back home.
I don’t want to see pictures of your ex-girlfriend.
Well, I don’t want you not blowing me because you don’t think I can do any better either. You’re looking at the pictures. And then blowing me because you’re jealous.

I like to run into ex girlfriends when I’m doing something really cool like seeing Harry Potter & the Half Blood Prince in a movie theater alone. That way she can be really jealous of me and see how independent I am.

Oh hey Steve! This is my nephew, David, he’s six, and also really excited about seeing this movie, do you guys want to catch up for a second while I go call my new boyfriend and let him know how much of a fucking loser you are?
Sure. So…David…do you jerk off to Hermione too?

The important thing to remember when running into an ex is to always act like you’re doing way better then you actually are. I want them to think that I’m ahead of them in the game of life. So in my case that means lying.

I just won the Pulitzer. The Pulitzer Prize. I won it. What have you been up to? Did you win the Pulitzer because I did?Congratulations Steve, that’s great my husband’s an author. What’s the name of your book?
Uh-, it’s called….uh, Catcher in the Rye 2. It’s about a corned beef sandwich….

Try to think up your lies ahead of time.

After you break up with someone, one person should volunteer to leave the country and never return. You take North America and I’ll take Albania, and if you’re ever going to be in my area, let me know and I’ll just kill myself. I’d rather do that than see you again.


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The following is a real conversation that took place between me & DirecTV.

Recording: Thank you for calling DirecTV. Please say or enter your 10-digit phone number followed by the pound key.
Me: 5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5 #
Recording: You entered 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, if this is correct, press or say 1.
Me: One.
Recording: You’re response was not understood. You entered 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, if this is correct, press or say 1.
Me: One.
Recording: Para Espanol oprima numero dos.
Me: What the fuck? Operator.
Recording: You’re response was not understood.
Recording: You’re response was not understood.
Recording: You’re response was not understood. To speak to a live representative, say, “Representative”
Me: Representative.
Recording: Please hold while we transfer you to a live representative.
Me: Thank you!
Operator: You’re response was not understood. Kidding.


Never Gonna Give You Up RICK ASTLEY
All That She Wants ACE OF BASE
Barely Breathing DUNCAN SHEIK

I’ve been thinking about having them DJ my 30th.

Me (singing): … but I could stand here waiting…. ooh for another day…go so far, so far, so right so far but I won’t stay-yay-yay yeah. And I’m thinking it ov — Hello?
Live Operator: Thank you for calling DirecTV, can I have your 10-digit home or wireless phone number?
Me: Good jam. I already punched it in.
Operator: Hello, sir? Can I please have your 10-digit home or wireless phone number?
Me: Yes, It’s 555-555-5555
Operator: Okay how can I help you today, Mr. Schneider?
Me: I’m just calling to make sure that someone’s coming tomorrow to hook everything up. I called and setup an appointment 2 weeks ago and tomorrow’s the big day! You guys are pretty backed up, huh?!
Operator: Yes, Mr. Schneider, we’re really busy. You’re appointment is in fact scheduled tomorrow between the hours of 7am and 3pm.
Me: Eight hours, huh?
Operator: What’s that?
Me: An eight-hour window tomorrow? That’s the best you can do? You can’t narrow it down to seven? You know, so I don’t have to sleep by the front door?
Operator: No, sir.
Me: Okay, no big deal. I’ll just spend my entire day waiting around for them to come and install the cable. I won’t do anything tomorrow but wait around. I was gonna try to accomplish something but instead I’ll just wait.
Operator: Yes, sir.
Me: Fine. So just to make sure, they’re bringing me a DVR box tomorrow, right? So I can record my shows?
Operator: Um, actually, no. It says here that you requested a regular box.
Me: That can’t be right. I’m one million percent sure I ordered a DVR box.
Operator: It’s not showing that here. That’s an additional charge.
Me: Okay, well I still want the DVR so just bring it and charge me whatever it is.
Operator: Unfortunately, we can’t do that, sir.
Me: Why? Don’t tell me you’re out of them.
Operator: Oh, no, we have thousands of DVRs. I’m actually looking at a huge pile of them right now.
Me: Then what’s the problem?
Operator: We can’t alter any information about the appointment after it’s been set.
Me: Seriously? You can’t just bring the other box?
Operator: No.
Me: So how do I get the other box?
Operator: You have to cancel this appointment and create a new one with the DVR.
Me: Well, the appointment will still be on the same day, right?
Operator: There’s actually no way of knowing that until we setup the new appointment.
Me: Seriously? Wow. Okay, fine. So let’s do this, if I can’t get the same appointment on the same day, then just forget the box. I’ll live without it. It will be awful but I’ll get a VCR or one of those Beta machines or something.
Operator: We can’t do that, sir. In order to setup a new appointment, you have to cancel your old appointment first.
Me: Wait, I have to risk losing my original appointment if I want a new one?
Operator: Yes.
Me: But won’t there be an opening in the schedule if I cancel my old appointment?
Operator: Yes.
Me: Then can’t I get that opening?
Operator: I don’t know, sir. There’s no way to tell what the system will do until I actually do it.
Me: Why do I feel like I’m in Vegas, it’s 4:30 in the morning, I’m wasted and shaking from 17 Redbull Vodkas and I’m about to play Wheel of Fortune with my last $20?
Operator: I’m not following.
Me: You’re asking me to gamble my old appointment away.
Operator: I don’t gamble, sir.
Me: What’s your name?
Operator: Julie.
Me: Listen, Julie. It’s just you and me here on the phone. Forget about DirecTV for a second. And the “system.” It’s just you and me. You know what the right thing to do is in this situation. I’m a nice guy and you’re a nice girl. Just tell them to bring the other box and no one will ever know. I won’t tell a soul. You won’t tell a soul. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll meet up and I’ll take you out for an ice cream cone. But either way, we’ll never speak a word of this as long as we live. We’ll take this secret to our graves, what do you say? Do me a favor.
Operator: It’s against our policy, sir.
Me: Is it because this call is being recorded?
Operator: No, sir.
Me: You know, I elected to answer the survey after the call is finished.
Operator: Would you like me to schedule you a new appointment?

Me: Okay, Fine! Screw it. Just do it.
Operator: You want me to cancel this appointment and reschedule you a new one with the DVR?
Me: I don’t have any other choice, right?
Operator: Not if you want the DVR.

Me: Okay, let’s go for it. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

Operator: Okay, so I just canceled the old one, and now I’m going to try and reschedule your new appointment….I’m looking…for a new appointment for you right now. Okay…here we go…the earliest available appointment is fourteen days from now.

Me: WHAT?! ARE YOU KIDDING? How is that possible? I’m pretty sure there’s an appointment slot available on the same day I just had or did some asshole who just ordered service three seconds ago get an appointment the very next day? I want my old appointment back.
Operator: I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. The old one is gone.
Me: I can’t believe this. This is ridiculous. You can forget about that ice cream cone, Julie. You can forget about everything! Okay… I need you to transfer me to your supervisor?
Operator: You want to speak to my supervisor? She’s going to tell you the same thing.
Me: That’s okay. I’ll take my chances. I’ve been this lucky so far….
Operator: Okay, let me see if she’s available.

Song: Never Gonna Get It EN VOGUE

Oh, the irony….

Operator: Okay, sir I can transfer you to my supervisor now.

I’m thinking, yeah, right. Like her “supervisor” isn’t the fat bitch sitting right next to her who she’s going to hand the phone to right after she asks her to “Talk to this asshole and pretend you’re the supervisor.”

“Come on, Tracy! Just do it!”
“I don’t want to get in trouble, Julie. I’m about to get another service star.”
“I would do it for you, Trace. I thought we were the crazy ones in the office.”
“We are the crazy ones.”
“Then be crazy and do this, girl. Please?! I’ll show you a picture of Mike’s dick from accounting.


“Supervisor”: Hi, this is Tracy, the Floor Supervisor, how can I help you?
Me: Hi Tracy, are you really the manager?
“Supervisor”: Yes. How can I help you today, Mr. Schneider?
Me: What was that noise in the background? It sounds like somebody’s laughing.

I explain the entire story to which she responds,

“Supervisor”: Like Julie said, there’s nothing we can do.
Me: There’s nothing you can do?
“Supervisor”: There’s nothing I can do sir, my hands are tied.
Me: How are you talking on the phone then?
“Supervisor”: What do you mean? I’m using a headset.
Me: I was kidding. Never mind. Is there someone else I can talk to whose hands aren’t tied? Like Jesus?
“Supervisor”: Nope. I’m the floor manager, sir and Jesus doesn’t work here.
Me: So there’s no one else I can talk to that can help me? No one at all?
“Supervisor”: That’s correct.

I wanted to scream. Tracy didn’t give a shit about me. I had no recourse, I was exhausted, angry. I was helpless. I did the only thing left I knew how to do. I asked Tracy what her full name and Employee ID was and I pretended to write it down, hoping to scare Tracy into helping me. But the reality was that both Tracy and I knew that there’s was nothing I could do with that information. Who was I gonna tell? How long was I gonna have to sit on hold to tell it. And ultimately, what was I gonna say? She was doing her job exactly the way she was instructed to do it. And after all of it was all said and done, she’d probably get another fucking service star.


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Actors: The Most Important People on the Planet

Actors are the most important human beings on the face of the earth — everyone knows that. Not scientists or teachers. Not astronauts. Actors. Actors are the ones that are out there every day make-believing their ass off. Pretending to be ninjas and politicians so that we can watch movies about them and be entertained for an hour and a half while we eat popcorn. I mean, what else would you do while you ate popcorn? Watch a real politician? Boring! That’s why the Academy Awards are so important. It’s a chance for these heroes to finally get what they deserve for pretending the shit out of stuff, a trophy.

I love listening to actors when they talk about their “craft” and the personal challenge they faced when transforming into the main character for the critically acclaimed film Big Momma’s House 2.

Did you know there’s no test to become an actor? You just wake up one day and go, “I’m an actor now.” And then, you are. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could do that with other professions. I’m a doctor now Miss so it’s totally cool for me to put this inside you. And now I’m a cop, so do it or I’ll arrest you. I SAID PUT THIS INSIDE YOU MA’AM I’M A COP NOW!!!!

I am an actor. I act. Because one day I said so. And I think acting is the weirdest thing in the world. I enjoy pretending and dressing up in costumes and stuff. Which I just realized is the exact same thing that perverts and five year olds do.

But being a good actor is hard. I mean, how do you even know if you’re good? In basketball, if you make X out of Y shots, you’re good. But actors are not athletic at all. And acting is subjective.

Acting Teacher: Oh that was good. I really like the way you said this. But I didn’t like the way you said that. It just wasn’t believable.

Actor: But I said it.

Acting Teacher: You did say it, but it wasn’t believable. I didn’t believe you when you said it. I want to believe you when you tell Jenny that you don’t love pecan pie more than her.*

*This is an actual excerpt taken from my girlfriend’s acting class.

People don’t question whether or not you’re believable in real life because that would be weird. “I’M TIRED OF YOU CHEATING ON ME ALBERT SO I’M FUCKING LEAVING YOU!” Okay, I’m just not buying this. Could you maybe try it again but this time I want you to look me in the eyes and say it but do it while you’re walking towards the door and then throw this book at me, give me one last look and then walk away forever….

People think actors in movies are exactly like the characters they play. This is only true for Keanu Reeves and that kid who played Simon Birch. HAHAHA! I just cracked up thinking how great it would have been if those two actors switched roles and it was Simon Birch who took the green pill and fulfilled the Oracle’s prophecy.

If you meet a celebrity and tell someone about it the first thing they want to know is, “Was he nice? Was he a nice guy or was he an asshole?” And then regardless of whether you tell them he’s an asshole or a nice guy, people always say, “I could see that.” You could see what? You don’t know this person.

When I was a kid and I was retarded I used to think that the people in commercials weren’t actors but actual employees for the product, service or restaurants they were promoting. I realize I might be blowing some of your minds right now, but when someone tells you that they can’t get an erection or they have diarrhea or genital herpes on TV they’re acting. Except for the brunette girl from the last Valtrex commercial. She actually does have herpes – I know for a fact – because I gave them to her last year. But in every other case, the ad agency hires someone who looks like they would have these issues (which is even worse in my opinion) and then says, yes, you HAVE fallen and can’t get up. Somebody get me her fuckin agent!

I didn’t know what acting was really about until I went on my first commercial audition.

I was nervous. I really wanted to impress the people in the room so they would give me the job. I walked in, said hello, the camera operator had me say my name and the audition started. Here we go. “Okay Steve, pick up that bag over there and move it over here.” Just pick up the bag from over there and move it over here. No dialogue. Just move the bag. That’s it. They had me do it three times. And that was all, I was done. I thanked them, left the room and headed to my car, my mind spinning a million miles an hour. I couldn’t believe what just happened. Did I pick up the bag the right way? I could’ve put it down smoother. I should have used my right hand, it’s stronger. I hope they liked me!

But they didn’t. My suspicions were true. Some other bag-picker-upper-and-mover guy got the part over me. And it was for a KIA commercial which paid about $10,000.00. How the fuck can they pay someone ten grand to do that? I wouldn’t have done it for less than twenty — you know how embarrassing those cars are?

When you’re an actor you never have security. All you have is every single person in your entire family rooting for you every single time you see or talk to them or receive a card from them. ‘Oh, you’ll make it, don’t worry. You’re gonna make it, I’m not worried about you.” I’m not worried either. And make what? What the fuck are you talking about, Nana? You mean be famous like Humphrey Bogart? Because that’s not how it works. Of course my family only wants the best for me and I love them for that but it brings out the worst. I mean, I don’t tell my Uncle every time I see him to keep chiropracting, don’t worry. Just keep chiropracting and something will hit.

So why do it then? Why be an actor in the first place? Do I do it because I need attention and want people to love me? Or do I do it because I want one of those awards. I won’t answer that QuYEStion.­ To both.


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Mind Over Manners — Part Too

How cute is my baby? Look at this picture and say my baby’s cute because that’s what you’re supposed to do when I show you a picture of my baby.

“You’re baby’s fucking ugly, now leave me alone.”

“What? Wait, what do you mean?

“What do you mean – what do I mean?’”

“You think my baby’s ugly?”

“Yeah. Don’t you? I mean I understand she’s your daughter, but try to look at it objectively.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, you asked me for my opinion so I gave it to you. Honesty is really important to me. I remember one time when I was a kid and I bought this hat and I asked my mom if she —

“—Wait, do you really think Sarah’s ugly or are you joking, Steve? I can’t tell.”

“Am I joking? Are you joking? You’re telling me you actually think that your baby is attractive?”

“I think she’s beautiful!

“Forget it, forget I ever said anything. She’s cute, alright? You’re baby’s gorgeous — just like her mother.“

“No, you think she’s the most disgusting baby you’ve ever seen and –

“I never said most disgusting, I’ve seen way worse.

“Worse? Like who?”

“Like…baby Jessica, remember that girl that got pulled out of the well—“


“Didn’t she come out of your womb like six weeks early — so there’s obviously a lot of underdevelopment there.”

“You know we had a hard time with her in the hospital.”

“I know, it really shows. She looks kind of like an albino rat, what do they call those things, pygmies? I just personally don’t find pygmies beautiful.”


Want a bite of this sandwich I’m about to eat, I’m starving?

I want nothing more than for you to take a bite of my sandwich so you can stop looking at it and let me enjoy it. And don’t just take a small bite; take a really big, juicy bite so I only have half the sandwich left by the time you’re done. Also, don’t waste your time biting into the crust, that’s the worst part, leave that for me. I want you to take the best bite of the sandwich, right in the middle where all the meat is. Come on,open your mouth as wide as you possibly can and wrap those sloppy lips of yours right around my sandwich.

Mmmm, wasn’t that good? Judging from that strain of saliva that’s stretching from your mouth to the middle of my sandwich as you pull it away, it’s fairly obvious. Don’t worry about it, I’ll just spread a little anti-bacterial gel on it and it should kill everything. It gives me such a thrill to be able to share this little piece of happiness, the only happy moment of my entire day actually, with you. Want some of my fries too you fucking asshole?


Hey babe, I have a better idea. Why don’t I just pee outside? I could start peeing in the woods like an animal. That way your life would be perfect. And I don’t mind at all; it could be fun. I’d feel like Bear Grylls – and this would be my very own Man vs. Wild adventure. What’s that? You think I might get a rash and there are rattle snakes out there? Please! Do I look worried? Hey, babe, did you forget who you’re talking to here — I’m ‘Mr. Never-Worry-About-Snakes-Guy.’ My snake versus their snakes, that’s what I say! And while I’m at it, I might as well live out there in the woods, and fuck a bear. I’ll start fucking bears and you’ll never have to worry about seeing me or my sloppy penis again.

How Much Do I Owe?

“Well, you had a beer with your meal and I didn’t so that means you owe $19.75 and I owe – what’s $19.75 minus two dollars plus 15%, but you’re tip should be a little higher since your meal was higher….”

It’s important to be fair in life. It simply wouldn’t be right if we split the check evenly. Sure it would be convenient, but name one person who ever won an award for being convenient. Let’s do this the right way. Break out your formulas, and your graphing calculator and let’s figure out who had what and what who owes. Otherwise, we won’t be even. We have to be even in life. Like if I buy you a beer, you have to buy me one, immediately after. Yes, we’re friends. Sure. And that’s exactly why I don’t want you to get screwed here. Oh, while you’re tallying up the bill, make sure you incorporate the 2 dollars in gas I spent to pick you up. You weren’t EXACTLY “on the way.” Plus, I gave you that bite of my sandwich so…


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Mind Over Manners

I always try to do the right thing in life like a good little boy. I follow all the rules and get in line like the next person, but the truth is, I hate doing it. Having good manners is annoying. It gets in the way of that thing called life.

“Go ahead, eat”

You know what would be cool? If restaurants would get their shit together and bring all the food to the table at the same time. One, two, three, bring it. Because now I have to sit here with a plate of steaming hot delicious food that’s getting colder by the second while I wait for your fucking food to arrive. And even though I tell you to your face that it’s totally fine, I don’t mind waiting, it’s no big deal – I’m lying my ass off. It’s not fine. I hate you right now with all of my heart and I’m full of rage. All I want to do is devour my food that is sitting right in front of me, beneath my nose, inches away from my watering mouth but I can’t do that because that would be rude!

“What the hell did you even order anyway?” Never mind. I don’t care. I’m not even capable of having a conversation with you right now. You can talk, but I can’t listen. All I can do is stare at the kitchen door and pray our waiter will come out already, bring over your dish and un-pause my life. “Is that him? Nope. FUCK!’” I don’t even remember what the friggin guy looks like. Every time a waiter comes through that door towards our table a wave of relief washes over me. ‘Wait…why is he walking passed us. We’re over here! What the fuck? NO! THEY WERE HERE AFTER US!’

I can’t handle this. Maybe I’ll just have one French Fry while I’m waiting. Just one. And the pickle. That doesn’t count as eating. It only counts if I take a bite of the hamburger, which I cant do because of YOU! Somehow I feel like you’re responsible. I mean, ?technically it’s the waiters fault, but I FUCKING HATE YOU. My fucking burger is going to be ice cold now. I’m never eating lunch with you again. WHERE IS YOUR FOOD?

“Wait, you didn’t order anything?”

“Do you want the last piece?”

Never ask. Just take it. Everyone wants the last piece. Especially the guy who offered it, he’s the one that wants it the most. This is America, you gotta grab it before someone else does, while it’s still hot. Whenever I eat dinner with my mother and there’s one piece left on the plate the conversation always goes like this (please use a thick Boston accent when doing my mom):

Mom: Take the last piece.
Me: No, you take it.
Mom: I don’t want it, I’m full.
Me: (lying) Me too. Just have it. I know you want it.
Mom: No, I don’t.
Me: Swear on my life?
Mom: I don’t do that.
Me: Yes you do. You won’t because you’re lying. You really want it.
Mom: I don’t.
Me: Swear then.
Mom: I swear.
Me: No, swear on my life.
Mom: I swear on your life.
Me: Fine. I’ll eat it.

You know what I hate? When you’re eating Chinese food with someone and they take their second helping before they finish their first. I’m scrambling to get through my first plate so I can get more before my “friend” does and this motherfucker has the audacity to refill his plate before it’s empty?! NO! NO! NO! That is bullshit. You don’t fucking do that. How many pieces of chicken did you have? That’s a new manner that needs to be taught. Put it on every takeout box: EVERYONE GETS AN EQUAL AMOUNT OF GENERAL TSAO’S CHICKEN!

“Excuse me”

Why does this get you off the hook from farting? I think everyone that farts should get punched in the arm. But if you’re a woman, you should get punched in the face – cause it’s grosser. Then if you meet someone who has a lot of bruises on their arms or a woman with a black eye, you would know immediately that they’re up to no good.

I like that in the men’s room there is no excuse for farting – cause you don’t need one! It’s nice to know there are places you can go where farting is encouraged. Next time somebody farts in a bathroom full of dudes, give ‘em a high five and say, “Isn’t this great, guys?!” That’s what I do.

“God Bless, you!”

Thank you, absolute stranger who wouldn’t cross the street for me if he knew it was the only way to save my life. You won’t say ‘hi’ to me but you have no problem shouting that from across the room freakin’ room. GOD BLESS YOU!!!! I don’t need your blessing, I need a tissue, motherfucker. Seriously, though, do have a tissue motherfucker?

And what if you don’t believe in God? What am I supposed to say then? The other day I was in an elevator with a Muslim guy who sneezed and I didn’t know what to say so I just yelled, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU HIDING BIN LADAN, YOU ARAB PIECE OF SHIT?!”

“Always hold the door for the next guy.”

I hold doors because I’m a gentleman and I’m strong. But I never know what the appropriate distance cutoff is for an approaching door user. Somebody might be five hundred feet away and I’ll feel obligated to stand there like an asshole waiting for them. I mean, god forbid I let the door go and the guy behind me has to open it himself. Then I’ll probably end up seeing him in my next meeting and he won’t want to do business with me because I’m the guy who doesn’t hold doors.

I like the people that run for the door. I appreciate that. They know I got somewhere to be and we don’t know each other. But in this instance, we’re like a two man relay team. He knows I can’t leave until he reaches the door. Oh, shit, he just dropped a bunch of his papers. Do I still have to stand here waiting or does the free me from my responsibility. FUCK! He just looked at me, now I gotta go help him pick up his papers. This sucks. I should’ve never held the door in the first place. DAMMIT!


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There’s the Rub (and Tug)

Massages are one of the most intimate things you can do with another person. That’s why I think it’s kinda funny that some lady named Consuelo who I’ve never met before has no problem spreading my butt cheeks apart to the point where she can see my spleen and the inner-lining of my stomach. Funny and awesome. Best part of any massage, hands down (literally).

“Is there anywhere special you’d like me to work on?”

They always ask you this during the pre-massage consultation like you’re gonna tell them the truth. Yeah, rub my knee-caps for the next 45 minutes and then work my ankles. What the fuck do you think I want?! “I want you to rub my ass god dammit! Rub my ass until it turns to jelly.” But you can’t say that. Because that would be inappropriate. So instead I just say “Everywhere” and hope she’ll catch my drift.

Ever think you’d pay someone $60 to be the world’s worst cock tease? I got enough of that in high school for free. Sara Policow! Just touch it once, I won’t tell anybody!

You’re pretty vulnerable when you’re face down on that table. Here’s what I look like naked. This is me. Surprised?! What do you think of the pimples on my ass?

It’s ironic but I don’t find massages relaxing at all. I spend the first half of every massage wondering whether or not my masseuse is giving me a professional massage or my masseuse is a “professional” giving me a massage. ‘Wait…did she just…? That can’t be part of the….? Well that was awfully close to my…’ I better send out a little signal to test her reaction, see what’s going on here. And that’s when I’ll start moaning like a pony whenever she goes anywhere near my ass. If she tells me to put my clothes on and get the fuck out of there, I’ll recognize that I was wrong.

The other half of my massage is spent thinking about how awful the moment is going to be when she asks me to turn over and I have to reveal my boner to her. I can’t help it; it simply will not go away. Those dreaded words, “Turn over please.” And my heart stops beating. She stands behind the sheet, and I flip over with my springy boner boinging around all over the fucking place like a goddamn bobble head. I lay down sunny side up as she gently lowers the sheet back over me, leaving a mini-Klan member standing where my penis used to be.

“It’s always like that, I swear. Same thing happened to me at the dentist last week. Call Dr. Honickman. Think you can work around it?” Wish I said that. But it’s worse, I don’t say anything! It’s ridiculous. Neither of us do. And there’s no way she doesn’t see it. I try to change the subject, “So…have you been doing this long?” I can’t believe I just said LONG! “You’re doing a great job.” Yeah, no shit, Steve. You don’t think she can tell?

I feel like being a masseuse is a lot like being a clown, except instead of making people smile, you give them erections. That’s how they know if they’ve done a good job or not. They probably talk about it in the break room while they’re smoking cigarettes with rollers in their hair: “Six and a half more inches and I’m clocking out for the day, Patty. See ya tomorrow!”

Sometimes when I’m enjoying a massage, it’ll feel like pure ecstasy, like the two of us are wrapped up in some exotic love affair, and then I’ll realize only one of us is when I glance up at Consuelo and she’s staring off into space clearly thinking about what kind of groceries she needs to buy today to make her famous empanadas for her family tonight. I thought we had something special Consuelo! I like empanadas!

There’s nothing more arousing to me than a massage — as long as it’s being done by a woman. It doesn’t really even matter what she looks like, my only criteria is that she doesn’t have a penis. I can’t be massaged by men. My brother and dad have no problem with it, but personally it makes me super uncomfortable – probably because I’m afraid I’ll enjoy it, I’ll get a boner and realize I’m gay and then I’ll have to go pierce my right ear at the mall which will be super annoying because parking at the mall is so challenging.

The truth is: the one time I agreed to have a man give me a massage was the worst day of my life.

I was a member of Equinox for a while when I lived in West Hollywood, the gay capital of the country. A friend of mine worked in the Spa there and she was friendly with all the masseuses. One day in passing I mentioned to her that I pulled my back out and the next thing I know she’s introducing me to her friend, this African masseuse who looks exactly like the main guy from The Air Up There with Kevin Beacon except he sounds like an extra from the movie Boat Trip with Cuba Gooding, Jr. She tells me that her gay friend wants to give me a massage for free.

There was nothing I could do. I had to say yes. She asked me right in front of him and I couldn’t say no. I hate when people do that. “Hey would you mind taking my friend whose standing right here in front of you while I say this to the airport? If you want to say ‘No’ you totally can, she’ll just think you’re an asshole for the rest of your life.” So I said, sure. What the heck! It’s a free massage, what could be wrong with that?

So….“Mufasa,” we’ll call him, leads me down the hallway to my massage room, which I walk in to find candles glowing, sensual music playing and a warm massage table that’s been waiting all day for me to get molested on. I should’ve known that when I saw the 4 by 4-inch washcloth that what was laying squarely on the table for me to cover myself with that this wasn’t going to be good. This couldn’t be standard. It looked like a piece of lint. A fuckin band-aid would have covered more of my ass. I started looking around for a First-Aid kit.

I begin taking my shoes and socks off extra slowly to buy him some time to leave the room so I can undress in private, but evidently he’s not going anywhere. He’d rather stay and watch. Okay, that’s a little uncommon, but whatever, we’re both guys and he’s a professional. It’s probably the same thing as having a doctor in the room. But just in case things get weird, I start running through all the possible excuses in my head to get out of there like, “Hey, what’s over there?” and then running out of the room.

I lie down and the massage starts out pretty normal. Okay, I can handle this I tell myself, just don’t fall asleep, Steve. Stay awake. You saw Nightmare On Elm Street.

After about 5 minutes he leans down and whispers something into my ear, “How’s the pressure?” Standard procedure — no big deal. He just wants to know how it’s going and if he’s hurting me. Sure he sounded a little sensual and he whispered it an inch away from my ear and I think his tongue grazed my earlobe, but I bet you that’s because he thought I was asleep and he didn’t want to wake me up. “The pressure’s fine,” I tell him.

“You have a nice body.”

Again. Totally normal, Steve, he’s just being professional. It’s a gym where people work out there to make themselves look good. And in his African culture, that’s called being polite. “Thanks, man,” I say in the most maculating way I know how, the same way I would respond to, “Sick truck, bro.”

Neither of us spoke for the next 20 minutes.

And then something weird happened. Mufasa started working the center of my back hard, where I pulled my muscle. I could feel him squeezing my shoulders and digging his knee into my back. It felt really good. And as he’s doing this, I’m staring down through the peephole on the table at his feet. I’m looking at his feet and he’s wearing sandals, which I remember thinking was very African of him and all of a sudden, something dawns on me. How can his knee be in my back if both of his feet are on the ground? I counted his feet again, three or four times to make sure I wasn’t seeing double but each time it was exactly the same: two legs, two hands AND ONE BONER DIGGING INTO MY BACK. OH MY GOD! I froze. I didn’t know what to do. He was poking me with his pencil. And he’d been doing it for the last few minutes! And even worse, I’d been enjoying it!

I was frightened to death.

I couldn’t move. My mind started racing. What could I say to this Hunter Gatherer? If I call him out on it, he might pull some African shit on me and kill me. If he thought I was going to report him who knows what he would do? If I make any sudden moves he might misinterpret it them for a sexual advance and try to kiss me.

In the end I didn’t do anything. I just sat there and got back raped for a solid 5 minutes. When I told my friend about it, she thought I was kidding. Everyone did. I felt like one of those women who no one believes. I wanted to call Oprah and ask for her help. I thought about having the part of my back he was poking surgically removed. I was angry.

Four months later, after I suppressed the memory, Mufasa got fired from Equinox, for no joke, “Putting his erection on clients.” It was the best day of my life. I felt like justice had been served. But also felt less special, I thought I was the only one.

Anyway, it was the last time I ever had a male masseuse and the first time I learned that there’s no such thing as a “free massage.”


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Wet Hot American Shower (Sex)

I love showering because it’s the one time of day I finally get to be alone with my thoughts. So what the fuck are you doing in here right now?!

Nothing good ever came out of more than one person showering at the same time. Just ask Hitler. Or one of his campers rather.

Whenever I shower with my girlfriend I end up standing there like an asshole — shivering; hoping some of the hot water she’s enjoying will splash off her body and onto mine before I get hypothermia and have to be rushed to the hospital.

Watching someone else shower is like waiting in line at the bank. All I can think is, ‘This sucks. When’s it gonna be my fuckin turn already? How much longer do you need lady?! I’m gonna kill every mother fucking last one of you!”

I don’t know what it is, but having a naked woman in my shower turns me on. Is that normal? Shower sex sounds like a great idea. When I watch pornos and people have sex in the shower they always look so suave, confident and coordinated. It’s not like that at home.

At home it’s awkward.

I like to start the festivities with a little mutual shampoo action. You know, you wash my hair, I’ll wash yours until I get my fingers stuck and accidentally pull out your hair and you yell at me and I ruin the moment. Shampooing a woman’s hair is nothing like shampooing your own. It takes forever. The soap never comes out. And it’s pointless because she’s going to redo it afterward. Either way, I somehow always manage to get soap in both of our eyes and we have to feel around the shower like Stevie Wonder looking for a washcloth. Cue porn sting.

Sometimes if things get going and our eyes aren’t burning, a wave of passion will rush through my body and I’ll suddenly get excited and feel like I can do anything. That’s when I’ll pick her up in my arms and try pinning her against the shower wall like I saw on Cinemax. This is pretty awesome for about one minute at which point my legs start shaking and I look like I have Parkinson’s and have to put her down. “Oh, I’m sorry babe, didn’t you know? I’m a weakling. That is why I can’t hold you. I am not able to lift 100 lbs. Even though the wall is helping me – so really, more like 40 lbs. I can’t lift 40 lbs. Maybe you could lift me up? I could wrap my legs around your hips and you could do me. Or maybe you could just bend me over and you can be the guy in this relationship…how badly is all this making you want to fuck me right now?”

You know, I can never seem to find the right position in there. It’s like one big game of Tetris to me. I get all creative with my surroundings. “Alright honey, here’s what I want you to do….put your left foot on the soap ledge….now wrap your right arm over that bar and put your pinky toe on the faucet. Good. Now I’m gonna put my knee over here I want you to hold my neck so I don’t fall. Okay. Got it. Wait! I have a cramp. I HAVE A CRAMP. OW, OW, OW…!” Coitus one, Schneider nothing.

And that’s usually when I grab the curtain rod by accident and pull the whole fuckin thing down. Every time. I know I’m not supposed to touch it because it’s not drilled into the wall and yet I can’t help myself. I grab it, the whole thing comes crashing down and I slip and almost kill myself. Then I have to call a time out on sex while I put the friggin thing back together with a boner for fourteen minutes. “Just hang on baby… I got it. Water’s going everywhere. Hang on I said. The shower rings won’t go back on the thing. JUST HANG ON A GODDAMN MINUTE I SAID! I’m fucking freezing, you enjoying that hot water? I hate you right now. THERE! I GOT IT BABE! Now lift me up and fuck me against the wall.”

Ever try to eat pussy while your both standing under the shower? It’s the closest I’ve ever come to death by drowning. I wear floaties now when I do it and have a lifeguard on duty. I was thinking about picking up some scuba gear and taking a class.

Oh, I also learned recently that it’s not okay to pee in the shower anywhere near or on the person standing next to you. Especially when you have an erection. Evidently, the only person who thinks it would be cool if I pee over her shoulder from a standing position without hitting her body is me.

You know what, fuck it. I’ll pee on myself. I’m freezing anyway.


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It’s Just Lunch

How many goddamn choices do we need on a menu? When I was a kid in school, there were two options in the cafeteria: shitty and shittier. And somehow I always managed to pick one and move on with my fucking life.

I went to Jerry’s Deli on Sunday and the menu was twenty pages long. TWENTY. It contained advertisements on every other page, probably so they could afford to print them. I wanted to fucking Tivo this menu and skip through the commercials so I could just watch what was for dinner.

I’m not gonna sit there and read a goddamn menu for thirty minutes. I hate reading. And you know what bothered me more? I could overhear all the assholes at the other tables making the same piss poor, corny ass jokes about the menu: “This thing needs a Table of Contents, right?!” “I wonder if the Cliff Notes are available!” “Hey, check out chapter 7: Poultry!”

Shut up. ALL OF YOU! What the hell am I gonna order? What if I don’t pick the right thing? GOD FORBID!!!! Screw it, I’m just going to randomly point to something on the menu…..and….eat…THIS.

White Fish & Sable Sandwich? NO FUCKING WAY! I’d rather eat a Mercury Sable.

What the hell is happening to us, guys? We’re filling our days with options instead of opting to fill our days. Take cereal. The classic question, “Would you want to eat the same cereal every day for the rest of your life?” I would if it were Cheerios. But Cheerios isn’t Cheerios anymore. It’s a category. Honey Nut Cheerios now has all these retarded stepbrothers and gay cousins like Fruity and Berry Burst. Let me introduce you to the “Cheerios Family”:

Apple Cinnamon Cheerios
Banana Nut Cheerios
Berry Burst Cheerios
Berry Burst Cheerios: Strawberry
Berry Burst Cheerios: Triple Berry
Chocolate Cheerios
Frosted Cheerios
Fruity Cheerios
Honey Nut Cheerios
MultiGrain Cheerios
Oat Cluster Cheerios
Team USA Cheerios: Special Edition
Yogurt Burst Cheerios – Strawberry
Yogurt Burst Cheerios – Vanilla

Frosted Cheerios are pretty dope and so are Apple Cinnamon – but if I wanted to eat those cereals I would have bought Apple Jacks or Lucky Charms and just taken the marshmallows out. We’ve gone so crazy with choices that we’re now repeating the old ones. It’s like Charlie & the Chocolate Factory. Why the fuck would you ever re-make a movie like that? Jonny Depp can lick Gene Wilder’s old Jewish balls. The ballsberries taste like ballsberries, Johnny. And I just came up with the next kind of Cheerios.

Too much of the world’s energy goes into food. Five hundred years ago it used to be just like the thing you do in order to keep your body alive. You would eat and spend your day chopping people’s heads off with swords. We were so productive then. Now there are movies and entire television networks devoted to food, where we sit on our fat asses and watch people make food that we can’t eat or taste or even smell.

The funny thing is, I’m a hypocrite. I watch a lot of HGTV and the Food Network. Fuck you, I love it. Top Chef is my favorite show. Suck my dick.

But sometimes I’ll be watching TV and the judges will be diligently analyzing the details of a contestant’s dish – and I’ll have a sudden burst of pure hatred and think to myself – what the fuck are you people talking about right now? Where the hell am I and has the whole world gone crazy?

The following is an actual conversation that took place on the show “Chopped.” You can watch the actual clip right here, it starts at 1:42…

Oh…they are talking about clam soup…

But he brought broth to the table. The bacon and the clam; they work so well together.

But the bacon was limp…it was fatty.

But the bacon’s gonna be limp, it was in the soup.

Bacon, potato and clams? There’s no better flavor combination…WHEN IT’S USED WITH RESTRAINT.

I feel like a show like this would have been fun to screen at Auschwitz. You know, where people were eating wood to survive.

Figuring out where you and your friends want to go for dinner is harder than buying the right car. Which should never be a Mercury Sable. Hands down, the worst question ever is: ‘Where do you want to eat?’

People always ask you this question when they clearly have their minds set on where they want to go. But they can’t just say it, can they? They’d rather have you come up with a million suggestions until you name the one place they were already thinking of. These are the same people who when asked where they want to eat always say, “I don’t care, I’m easy.” Yeah, you’re easy if I can fuckin guess it on the first try.

Wanna go to Houston’s?

Not really, kinda expensive, don’t you think?

Wanna go to Fudruckers?

Nah, I’m not really in the mood for a burger.

How ‘bout Chili’s?

Last time I was there I had a bad experience.


I really don’t care!

You obviously do.

I really don’t.

I hate you. I absolutely hate you as a person. You disgust me. I never want to eat with you again.

Alright, fine! Let’s just go to Papa Johns and get a pizza.

You just named the one place I don’t want to go. Anywhere else! Seriously!

Too many options. Maybe I should just become a vegetarian. Carrots or fucking celery? Done.


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I Don’t Care Anymore

When I was in the fifth grade – you know, the time in your life when all you want is for your parents to NOT embarrass you – my dad would come to my rec basketball games wearing a pair of purple Champion sweatpants with a black leather bomber jacket. His hair would be all fucked up like he just woke up from a nap and he’d have sandals on in 20-degree weather. He looked like he’d been dressed by a retarded four year old — he might as well have had gum in his hair.

I think when you get older there’s a point you reach when you simply give up on yourself. And that point for me is now.

I caught myself in the mirror the other day before I went out for breakfast and I looked exactly like I did on my first day of kindergarten. Like a fucking loser. Except this time I didn’t have my whole life ahead of me and I wasn’t carrying a sweet-ass Thundercats lunchbox.

It’s funny how you spend so much of the early part of your life in front of a mirror – making sure you look good. Making sure each piece of hair is where you want it to be — so somebody will like you and have sex with you and end up being your girlfriend or boyfriend if you’re one of those gay guys. Because ultimately, when that day finally comes and you get what you want, you never, ever have to worry about your appearance again. You can just let yourself go to waste.

My grandmother wears sweatshirts with unicorns and sparkles on them. Does she do this because she’s awesome? Maybe. But more so because she just doesn’t give a fuck. It’s a clean sweatshirt. I bet if you asked her, she’d have no idea that she was wearing a unicorn. Or what a unicorn looks like. Or the year.

The same thing happens when you’re in a relationship for a long time.

Before I met my girlfriend, I would brush my teeth everyday. And now I don’t even know where my toothbrush is. Oh wait, yes I do, there it is, on the floor next to the toilet with hair on it. Bonus: now I can brush and floss my teeth at the same time. Or more likely, not at all.

You know, people start relationships not being able to fart in front of one another. And by the end they’re cheering each other on to shit normal. “CRAP HENRY CRAP! CRAP HENRY CRAP!… HOORAY!!!!!!!”

The other reason I think I stopped giving a fuck is because my body is changing. For the worse. And frankly, it’s out of control.

Take my balls for example.

Remember those old guys whose balls would hang down from their assholes like a giant loogie that refuses to break? You would just stare at them and wonder how any of this is even scientifically possible? This guy’s balls are defying gravity right now….if Neil Armstrong could see this….

After catching an unflattering glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day, I realized that guy is me. I’m the balls guy now. You could play a four-person game of tetherball with my love nuggets.

The other good thing I have going for me is the black hairs that have suddenly started growing out of my ears. You’ve seen The Fly, right? Next week I’ll be crawling across the ceiling and puking on my food in order to digest it.

Normally in a relationship, you would think you’re loved one would give you a heads up. Maybe say something like, “Hey Steve, wait. Before you go, let me just break out my tweezers for a hot minute and pull out those black hairs that you have growing out of your ears so people don’t think you’re a complete fuckin weirdo.” But not mine. My girlfriend just lets me walk out the front door and start conversing with people who clearly aren’t listening to a word I say because they’re so busy trying not to stare at my ears. And I don’t blame them. That’s what I do when I talk to someone with a physical defect. ‘Just don’t look at it. He’s waiting for you to look at it so just DON’T! PRETEND EVERYTHING IS NORMAL!!!’

But the truth is, I really don’t care. I don’t. Go on and look at my ears or stare at my low balls. Because as I mentioned earlier, I’m old now and I simply don’t give a shit.


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I hate cats (not the musical)

I fucking hate cats. Not the musical. Unless it’s about cats, then I fucking hate Cats.

Before my girlfriend moved in with me she warned me that she had a cat and sooner or later it would have to move in with us. So I said, “sure, of course, honey, whatever you need me to say right now in order for us to stop talking about this and continue having sex….” Anyway, I figured the cat or I would die, before anything ever came of it.

But I didn’t die unfortunately. And the good news is cats live to be eighteen — which might as well be forever, because right now he’s 7.

This cat is living the dream. The three of us just moved into a house together (my girlfriend, me and yup, you guessed it, the cat). And he thinks he can just do whatever he wants. He’ll just prance around and lick his little cat balls all over my kitchen counters. Hey kitty, why don’t you try walking across this stove over here, I swear I won’t turn it on. I swear to god. Just try it once. Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t respond to ANYTHING because you’re a cat. You’re “independent.” You “do your own thing.” Fuck you, cat.

Cats don’t bathe. They’re like homeless people. They just lick themselves all day, beg you to feed them and shit into plastic boxes. Get a job!

Whenever I refer to the cat, I won’t use his name, I always call him “the cat” or “your cat” because that’s how you dehumanize something. I read that in Mein Kampf.

I know what you’re thinking right now, why are you such a pussy, Steve? Why don’t you just bury the cat AND your girlfriend while you’re at it? I thought about going all Scott Peterson on his ass, but he had a boat and I don’t. And I need it to look like an accident.

That’s why late night, after my girlfriend goes to sleep, I sneak downstairs and open all the windows and doors in the house and put a trail of mice leading down the driveway, up the street and onto the 405. But there’s so much traffic in LA, he just ends up lowly merging.

How the hell did I end up in this predicament? Oh yeah, I remember. The conversation went something like this…

Me: “I hate cats”
My girlfriend: “I like cats”
Me: “Okay, I’ll get his bags.”

Why would I care about a tiny little cat? Right? I mean, grow up, Steve, it’s just a measly little cat. NO. IT’S NOT MEASLY! It’s enormous. It’s a fucking mountain lion. It’s like 35 pounds and it belongs at the Mirage in Vegas, not my house.

And to top it all off, it isn’t even a normal cat. He has thumbs.

THUMBS. My girlfriend said it was some pterodactyl cat or some bullshit thing to make him sound special. He’s special all right. Inbred. His parents were brother and sister and those sick bastards had sex with each other. And now I’m living with their freak of a son. Their mongoloid child. He has hands. Ape-like cat hands. And every night I can’t fall asleep because I’m afraid I’m gonna wake up with them around my neck.

He just gave me the thumbs up.

The cat watches me pee. He looks at me while I’m peeing and I can’t go. I get nervous. I don’t want him to know he has a bigger dick than me. Then he’ll have all the power.

Lately, I’ve been trying to “sneeze” a lot and “cough up fake blood” when the cat’s around. I’ve hidden ketchup packets all over the house. I figure the only way I’ll be able to get rid of him is if I am allergic. Why is that? Why is that the only reasonable excuse? Can’t you be mentally allergic to something? Isn’t that enough of a reason? Because my soul is covered in hives and it’s really itchy.

Humans and cats have no relationship. Owning a cat is like owning a goldfish. And that is why cats should be kept in glass bowls filled to the brim with water. I told her I would be okay with that.

Does anybody know where I can buy an ALF?


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Random Things about Steve Schneider

Here are some random facts about Stephen Schneider. I know you’re interested….


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I almost got into a huge car accident the other day.

I was flying down the 405 texting on my phone and I floated into the next lane, cutting off this huge bus to next to me who swerved at the last minute and spared my life.

I pulled over and sat in my car for a minute – frozen, my heart pounding away in my chest. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. There was one thing on my mind. The only thing I could think about: What the hell happens to my cell phone when I die?

Because I have sixty pictures of my cock on there right now.

Pictures of my boner in the bathroom, in my living room on my couch, at Epcott with Nana Ruthie….

They’re from text sex. Sextual Intercourse. (Well, the one with Nana isn’t).

The only way I can get a girl to send me a naked picture of herself is if I send one of me first. As collateral.

Okay. Here you go. Here’s my dick. Don’t care.

Then she makes me promise – swear — I won’t show anyone the dirty pics she’s about to send me. So I swear to God. Swear to Jesus, Mohammad, on everyone’s life that I will not show a single soul a single nipple. She sends. And then the first chance I get — I break out my phone at the bar and show everyone the pics. “How cool am I?! I have a naked girl on my phone! Look, Bartender! Look!”

And then it gets awkward when she becomes your girlfriend. Because half the city knows what her pussy looks like. (I’m talking about my last girlfriend, Kim. Not you.)

It’s really tough to get a good shot of your penis, isn’t it? You have to figure out the right angle to make it look bigger than it really is. I find shooting down the side, not head on, so to speak, works better. I also purchased a “Miniature Lighter” which I hold next to it for scale. And then when I send the picture I say in my text, “By the way, that’s not one of those miniature lighters.” Even though it is.

I don’t really consider myself a dick photographer. It’s more like a hobby. But I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I’m thinking about offering classes. Maybe some online stuff for seniors, I don’t know. My real dream is to one day open up my own dick studio. The Academy of Fine Dick.

So where were we? Oh, yeah. Talking about getting caught with pictures of my penis on my phone when I die.

“Mrs. Schneider, we’re terribly sorry about your son. All that we could salvage from the burning rubble was his cell phone. This is all you’ll have to remember him by. This and whatever’s on it. Which is ironic, considering he got into the accident while he was texting on his phone. Would you like to see the last text he sent?”


“It seems to be a picture of some kind….”

“Oh God. Are you sure that’s my son? That’s bigger than I –”

“– It’s the angle ma’am. He shot it down the side, not head on. That’s a miniature lighter. He says in the text that it’s not one, but it definitely is. Look, here’s some of the other pics he took where it doesn’t look as big, see?”

“You’re right. That is my son! So gorgeous!”

I need to get a contingency plan in place. If I go down, who’s got my back? Or my front, rather. Who’s gonna erase my fucking pictures? Can we all just agree right now, right here that no matter what happens or how little we know one another or how much we hate each other, that we all promise to do each other this one final favor?

Wait a second. Nevermind. I just found out there’s an app for that.

Gotta go get an iPhone.


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I never talk about my birthday ever. But I do, however, enjoy when people remind me about their upcoming birthdays — months in advance.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be 27 in less than six months. Yep. December 17th. Can you believe it? It falls on a Friday.”

Cool, I’ll be sure to leave town that weekend. Because birthdays are annoying. Everything about them. For one, what are you talking about? This isn’t the thirteenth century. There’s really no need to celebrate surviving another year. The only people who should be excited by birthdays are old people. And when you’re old, you know what you get for your birthday? You get a fucking phone call. That’s what you get, and you’re grateful. It’s what old people live for. “Can’t wait for my birthday so I can find out if my grandchildren are still alive.”

And then there’s always the burning question of what are we going to do for your birthday. I mean, seriously, what the hell are we gonna do? We gotta figure something out. It’s your birthday for chrissakes. You are having a birthday! We can’t just do what we normally do with you when it’s not your birthday – you know, ignore you, treat you like you don’t matter and talk shit behind your back. We should go roller-skating or something!

If anyone should be celebrated on your birthday, it should be your mother. Think about your mother’s pussy right now. Do it. Think about that horrible day when her vagina ripped down the seem and her pussy and asshole united and became one so you could make your way into this disgusting world. And then take her roller-skating.

Great. Now I can’t stop thinking about my mother’s pussy. Poor thing.

Sometimes having a birthday party is unavoidable – like when your friends throw you a party. Which is the worst thing ever, because birthdays are really just contests to see how many friends you have. That’s a game I’m not very good at.

My best friends made this huge party for me and my only responsibility was to be liked enough for people to show up. Not an easy task since I’m extremely unlikeable. As soon as those invites went out, I started sweating. What if nobody came? I had to do something to make sure people attended. So I began doing charity work for everyone I know. “Hey Morgan, need a car wash? Or a dick suck? You know my birthday’s this weekend….(gulp)”

The Big Day arrives.

I get there a little late, giving everyone some extra time to get there. I can’t show up before everyone else. I’ll let a little crowd build and then they’ll applaud me when I arrive. “Yay, Steve! We love you on your birthday!” It’s gonna be great. I’ve played this scene out in my head all week long. When I arrive, my friends’ backyard is decorated beautifully. Lights everywhere, tons of alcohol laid out on long tables sprinkled with “Happy Birthday!” confetti. There are bowls of chips and salsa and Margaritas as far as the eye can see. And to top it all off, they hired a Mexican Taco Vendor who’s on standby – tortilla in hand, ready to make 500 tacos for me and all my friends.

Wait. Are my friends allergic to tacos?

Because there’s no one there. No one except the one random guy I invited three days ago after accidentally running into him at Starbucks. I can’t fuckin believe this guy came. I barely fuckin know this douche bag and here he is – gift in hand. What a fucking loser.

Me, I mean.

And then my friends who threw the party come running out shouting, “Hey, Birthday Boy!” And I want to vomit, but I hold it together. “Hey! This is so awesome! I can’t believe you got a Taco Vendor!” (Why the fuck did you do this to me?) “Do you have a phonebook?” Because I want to hire a bunch of extras right now. I’m willing to pay them scale if they’ll pretend to be my friends for the night.

Oh my god. I can’t believe my birthday’s only ten and a half months away. August 9th.

It falls on a Monday.


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Awkward Moments in Time

Last week I was at a music festival in San Francisco watching Ben Harper play. That’s not the awkward part. Ben Harper has a song called “With My Own Two Hands” which goes, “I can change the world with my own two hands…” It’s a great song and his band was jamming out and the crowd was going bananas. But there’s this part in the song where he starts repeating the refrain over and over again, “…with my own…two hands…two hands…two haaaaands.” And I turned around and saw this guy standing behind me who only had one hand. Not two.

And the whole crowd was singing along, “Two Hands! Two Hands!” And then the music stopped and people were just chanting “TWO HANDS” over and over again.

This man was on a date. And I could just see his thoughts, “Man, there’s just no escape is there, God? I come to this concert to forget about my missing arm for a few hours, I bring this cute girl along who I was hoping was gonna sleep with me, and now she thinks I can’t change the world — because I don’t have two hands. Was it really necessary to make a fifteen-minute song about this? You’re really fucking me up here…”

I felt so bad — as soon as the song finished, I wanted to do something nice for the guy – so I screamed out at the top of my lungs, “YOU CAN CHANGE THE WORLD WITH ONE HAND! BY THE WAY.” And I looked over at him and with his stubby arm, he gave me the finger, well, it was actually the wrist.


The other day I was at Bed, Bath and Beyond buying the Magic Bullet (As Seen on TV). And I had farted — this is important. There were no more Magic Bullets left on the display rack so I looked up and saw that there were a ton of them way high up on the very top shelf — where they stock them. I tried to climb up the shelves to reach one, but I couldn’t. So I turned around and saw one of the employees carrying one of those Poles Hooks – lucky day. I asked the guy if I could borrow it for a sec so I could get one of those Magic Bullets down from the shelf. And he said, “Absolutely not. Insurance issue. But I can do it for you.” Sure, I said, no problem. So the guy with the pole starts walking over right towards the spot where I had just farted. And it stunk. I didn’t know what to do, it was like sending someone into a burning building. So I just yelled, “Stop! Don’t walk over there.” And he froze — he just stopped right in his tracks — and he didn’t know what to do because it was so weird. He probably thought I was crazy — because he was just staring at me, waiting for me to explain why I made him stop. But I couldn’t come up with anything on the spot, so I just said, “I farted over there.” And he sort of just smiled, and then walked right over, stood in the middle of Ground Zero and grabbed me that Magic Bullet off the shelf with his pole. I didn’t tell him at the time, but I thought that was really admirable.


I used to jerk off to the couple that lives next door to me – they were always having really loud and raunchy sex. And I’d be up against the wall just whackin my penis. Then I found out it was two gay guys. Which made things a little awkward. Because if I had known that I would’ve jerked off way harder.


Whenever I try to throw something away in public – in front of people — like literally when I try to throw something into the garbage from a few feet away, nine times out of ten I always miss. And this is embarrassing because I was obviously trying to look cool in the first place and then I fail and have to go and pick my garbage up off the ground and throw it away a second time. And sometime I miss that one too. And that is probably just the absolute worst thing that can happen to a human being in this world. I don’t fuck around like that anymore though. Now I physically place things in the garbage. I put my hand all the way down to the bottom of the barrel and bury it deep beneath the cheeseburger wrappers and pickles — like I’m afraid it’s gonna jump out. And then I say, “Did you see that? I totally made it!”


When I was in college, I had this professor named Ron Boothe and he taught a class called The Psychobiology of Visual Perception. The only thing I learned was how to spell ‘Psychobiology’ (sp?). Anyway, it was this ridiculously hard class — your entire grade was based on one single test – the final. So the day before the final, everybody was freaking out because there was so much stuff to memorize and it was like absolutely impossible — and you couldn’t just write all the answers on your TI-82 and take it in with you — because there was no calculators allowed on this test. I used to convince my English teachers during tests that I needed to use my calculator. “It’s to count the words.” Anyway, the day before the test, we’re all freaking out until we get the luckiest email in the world. Our teacher sends us an email saying that the exam was postponed because he had to go visit his father who was in the hospital — which was great because we needed the extra time to prepare. So, the following week we’re all in class waiting for him to come in and give us the test. And the second he walks through the door, the first thing out of my mouth was, “No offense, but thank god you had to go visit your father last week, because none of us were even close to being prepared for this test!” And he goes, “Yeah…about my father…he was murdered.”

That was awkward.


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10 things i hate (not including you)

Here is a small collection of some things I hate (not including you):

Borrowing Things
I hate when I ask someone to borrow something (like their iPod) and they say to me, “Sure, Steve. Just don’t drop it.”

I’m glad you said something because I was going to smash it on the ground the second you handed it to me. But, now that you’ve warned me there’s now way I can make that look like an accident.

Next time I’m just going to cut right to the chase and ask you if I there’s something of yours I can break.

I strongly dislike when people invite me to things but make it super-unappealing for me because they clearly don’t want me to go.

“So the reservation’s for 19 and there’s barely any room left – just one chair and it’s nailed to the ceiling and it has a maximum weight capacity of 5 lbs less than you weigh but if you really want to go, I’m sure it’s no big deal. All you have to do is call the birthday girl – even though you’ve never spoken her in your life — and she only speaks Hindi, no English — and just ask her to put you on the list for her private birthday party – the one for friends and family only with no Steves.”

I called.

I’m not a fan of when performers say “controversial things” at concerts just to make people like them or think they’re cool. That doesn’t work in real life like when your girlfriend’s about to break up with you because she just caught you cheating on her and she’s been screaming about how much she hates your guts for hours until finally she says, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

And I yell out “WEED!”

She doesn’t start clapping.

Public Bathrooms
One time I was at a Mailbox Etc. and was told that the bathrooms are for customers only. And I was like, “I just got to make a pee-pee. Please!” But the woman was rude and she was like, “Sorry. Customers only.” So I said fine. ”I’d like to buy a stamp.” I paid my 37 cents, got the receipt, took a shit on the bathroom floor and returned the stamp for a full refund on my way out the door.

But later that day I had to mail something so I went back and bought another stamp. Man that place smelled like shit.

Can the cellphone companies just get together for a weekend and agree that pressing # after you’re done leaving a message brings you back to the main menu instead of sending it after you just finished recording a message that ended like this:

“…oh my God, I’m such a loser. I’m recording that again.”

“Your message has been sent. Goodbye.”

Art Gallery
It really bothers me when people stare at a paintings at an Art Gallery for really long time s because they have now idea what to do. So here’s the SECRET: What you’re SUPPOSED to do is count to 30 in your head and then move on while making a face that says, ‘interesting’ even though you can’t wait to get the fuck out of there.

How Was Your Flight?
“Terrible! I had a layover in Atlanta for two hours. THEN right as we’re about to board they get on the loud speaker and delay us another hour… Finally, they get us all on the plane and we’re about to take off until the captain comes on and says they’re holding us for weather. I look out my window and it’s 90 degrees and sunny – so I said, ‘Maybe we should just drive the plane there!’ didn’t I honey?”

Why do you think I actually care about your flight? I was just asking because we have nothing in common and I have nothing else to say to you. What I really want to know is when are you going home?

Phone Rings in the Middle of the Night in a Movie or TV Show
People in movies and TV shows always turn the light on before answering a middle-of-the-night-phonecall. WHY?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT?

I feel like it was done once and people just thinkt that’s how you’re supposed to make a ‘middle-of-the-night-phonecall’ scene. It’s how it’s done.

If there’s one thing I know I would definitely do if the phone rang in the middle of the night (other than answer it) it would be to turn on 150 watts of blinding light two inches away from my face at three in the morning. But then again, I’m just being logical.

New Number!
Ever get this text from someone you haven’t spoken to in 10 years?

“Hey! This is my new number. Just thought you‘d like to know.”

Thank you. That’s one more number I’ll make sure to never accidentally dial. LEAVE ME ALONE GRANDMA!

Friend Driving Me to the Airport
Whenever I’m running late to the airport and my friend agrees to drive, he all of a sudden will not break the speed limit. He goes extra slow on purpose just to try and teach me a lesson.

But ultimately it is I who teaches him the lesson because I have lied about my departure time, and we left 3 hours before we had to and I made him drive me to the wrong airport first. This way he guns it across town to the right airport because he hates me so much and he can’t stand being in a car with me. There’s definitely a lesson in there.


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me vs. you

I like seeing my friends do well in life, but you know what I like more? When they fail and bad shit happens to them.

The other day my old roommate came up to me and told me how bullshit he was because he just got a parking ticket. And I said all the things a real human being friend is supposed to say in a situation like that like, “Oh dude! That blows! Fuckin meter-maids! They should just get a life right? So annoying!”

But that’s not what I was really thinking. What I was really thinking was, “Hahahahahaha! Yes! I’m glad you got a ticket! You have to pay fifty dollars and I don’t! You happy now you little piece of shit?”

I hope he doesn’t realize I moved his car into that spot.

But that’s what life is all about right? Doing better than your friends.

When my buddy told me his girlfriend dumped him, I told him how sorry I was and how terrible I felt for him and that if he needed anything – anything at all – I was there for him. But that was a lie.

First of all, I wasn’t gonna do anything for that idiot. Second, it made me genuinely happy to hear that news. One of the best days of my life. Seriously. Fuck that kid! That’ll cut him right back down to size. Who the hell did he think he was? Having a girlfriend in front of me!

Why should he be happy? I didn’t have a girlfriend. Nobody was making me omelets or washing my car or whatever it is those girlfriends do. Who knows? It’s all so secretive. But now he’s got nothing. Good.

I hope he doesn’t realize I talked her into it.

Am I a bad person? Yes. But I’m trying to make a point here. Look, if I have apples and you have oranges, I hope you choke to death on your oranges. Apples suck. They’re the worst fruit in the produce section. Nobody wants an apple. You can’t trade an apple for something. That’s why they have to dip them in caramel to get you to eat them. You know what else tastes good after you dip it in caramel? My sneaker.

But you know what I hate more than apples? Success stories.

Whenever somebody comes up to me and tries to ruin my day by telling me a “success story” about some hotshot asshole they know or read about who just accomplished some amazing thing, the first thing I always do — BEFORE shifting into my default emotion of jealous rage with a hint of depression — is ask, “How old he is?” Then I subtract my age from the successful person’s age so I know how many years I have before I need to accomplish that same goal. As I get older, that number is growing smaller and smaller. In fact, I have to make a million dollars before I finish typing this sentence so I’m going to keep typing here and not let this end because once I do it’s over and people will – DAMMITT.

Here’s my schedule for the next 5 years:
– invent a new search engine that’s way better than google
– become a ny times best selling author
– have sex with a black girl
– win an academy award (for having sex with a black girl) – not sure if that’s a category – just thought I could kill two birds with one stone. That’s right – my dick’s a stone. It’s fucking feldspar.

I’m into asking people how much money they have. People often think that success is measured by the amount of money you have. Well, that’s correct. So whenever I ask people how much money they have, here’s what I do after they tell me – I make use of the following equation:

[(how much money they have) + one million dollars] = X

X is how much money I tell them I have.

But it’s not all about your friends failing. It’s also about you succeeding in life and rubbing it in their faces. I enjoy doing this. But you have to act like it’s no big deal.

“I have a new TV show coming out in the Fall that I’m the star of. It’s no big deal or whatever. It’s gonna be on Comedy Central – I wanted it to be on NBC – but it’s gonna be on Comedy Central this fall. It’s gonna be huge though and I’m gonna be really famous and stuff.”

Of course, it’s more effective when you don’t have to lie like I just did. But you have to. You know, sometimes people will just walk up to me and tell me that they just ate at a really fancy restaurant or whatever and they’ll try to make me feel poor. So instead, I’ll just make an awesome lie like the TV show thing so my life seems better than theirs.

I would love to continue writing this blog but I’ve got to go. I have a date with the girl who played Vicki the Robot in Small Wonder [1985-1989]. What are you doing tonight?


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kiddie porn

I just read somewhere that a bunch of people got arrested for having kiddie porn on their computers. It’s a story we all hear too often.

What the FUCK? Doesn’t anybody know how to cover up their tracks?

Get it together guys. Here’s your first problem – STOP SAVING THE PICTURES YOU DOWNLOAD ON YOUR COMPUTER AS


You need to be way more discreet. Rename the picture with a totally misleading name. For example,

this_is_a_gross_picture_of_my_doody” or “Me_and_Grandma_at_the_park_4_real.”

I don’t want to see your doody and I can promise you right now that no one gives a shit about you and your grandma at the park — except maybe your grandma and she’s a fucking idiot. She doesn’t even know how to use a computer. That shithead probably thinks your computer is a television! What a fucking idiot shithead.

More importantly…have you ever even stopped to think for a second that those pictures of naked boys you’re downloading might not even be real? Pff! Yeah. I’m serious. Before you jerk off, you should always open the image in Photoshop and zoom in at least 800% around the crotch area. Sometimes they take man genitals and put them on kids. I know, it’s bullshit, but nowadays anything’s possible. Look for signs of discoloration around the inner thigh near the balls.

And when did it become illegal to look at something? “HEY! Don’t look at that. I said DON’T! Alright you want to test me? FINE! It’s illegal now.” I’d like to make it illegal to look at me. Anyone who looks at me and enjoys it is going to jail. That would be something.

Oh and if the CIA is looking for child pornography on the Internet shouldn’t they be getting in trouble too? I mean HELLO! They’re the ones looking it! How do they even know it’s kiddie porn until they’ve feasted their beady little eyes upon it?

I’m just saying — if I liked child pornography — you know where I’d be working. I’d be in charge over there. I’d be like, “Guys, listen up! We gotta find ALL the child pornography on the Internet today. And I want you to email me every goddamn filthy picture you find. But only the ones where someone’s bending over. I’ll be in my office. DO NOT COME IN. Promise me right now. SAY IT.” And at staff meetings during my PowerPoint presentations I would say things like, “Sickos! Gross!” and “What the hell is wrong with these animals?” but I would have my fingers crossed…around my weiner. You know what I’m saying?

C.I.A. = Child Images-naked Association. I bet you a million dollars.

Have you ever seen Chris Hansen’s show To Catch a Predator? I have a new idea for a show. It’s called To Catch a Manipulative TV Producer Who Will Do Anything for Money. It’s gonna be awesome – it’s about people who will do anything in the world to have their own TV show like exploit the weaknesses of lonely guys who haven’t had sex in 9 years since their wives passed away, who are just minding their own business doing data entry at their crappy job when one day out of nowhere a little instant message pops up on their computer screen that says, “I want to suck your cock so hard right now. I’m 17.” At first the guy’s confused but eventually he replies, “I don’t think that’s appropriate.” But then the girl writes, “shut up you pussy. i’m gonna suck your cock one way or another so lets just meet up.” So then the guy types, “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m a good, moral man and that’s illegal so please stop IM-ing me.” But the girl doesn’t stop, she keeps writing, “if you don’t come over her right now I’m gonna tell everyone at your work that you’re gay and you use Rogaine with Minoxidil.” At which point the man has no other alternative but to meet the girl so reluctantly he adds, “FINE. but we’re NOT having any sexual relations” to which the girl responds, “I will agree to that under one condition – if you just type that ‘you WILL have sex with me,’ I promise I won’t make you get your cock sucked by me.” So the guy says, “fine. I’ll have sex with you. happy?” She says “yes! cum over!” and as soon as he gets to her place the SWAT team jumps out of the bushes and shoot him with rubber bullets and then we humiliate him publicly on national TV and ruin his whole life! It’s gonna be great! Kinda like candid camera. Sugar Ray will host.

Lastly I’d just like to say that nobody’s thinking about the kids here. Organizations like MANBLA are spending too much time fighting for the MANs and not enough for the BLAs. I mean they call them BLAs for chrissake! Bla means boring and not important. Well that’s rude.

These kids are innocent and they have rights. Some of them are just trying to launch a career. Trying to make an honest buck. I know when I was a kid my parents wanted me to work before I was eighteen. I had to work at a crappy dry cleaners for like $6/hour. I hated it. You know much better it would have been to be like – FLASH.. I just made a hundred bucks. Good job, penis. You deserve a raise.


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All of my friends have girlfriends. It’s so gay.

Alright I’m only saying that because I’m jealous. I feel like such a loser when I go on a double date and I show up with a puppet and my friends are like, “Hey Steve, nice puppet!” And I’m like, “Shut the fuck up! This isn’t a puppet. She’s a real person and you better start treating her with a little respect.” And they’re like, “That’s definitely a puppet. You’re moving her mouth with your hand and her hair is made of yarn.” And I’m like, “Dude you’re wrong – just drop it.”

I’m sick of lying. I want a real girlfriend. And not just some crappy one either. I want a good one that can do cool things like cartwheels and back handsprings and the balance beam. Or one that will suck my dick.

But it’s impossible to meet girls nowadays.

I try approaching them at bars but I’m really bad at small talk. Other than micro-machines and mini-bananas I don’t know what else to say that’s small.

It’s tough. After you’ve slept with everyone you know in your social circle and recognize that they’re not “right for you” because they have some sort of physical defect like backne or Spina Bifida, (which they never seem to be up front about), where are you supposed to turn to next?

If you said, Online Dating Services ask the person next to you to give you a high five. You missed – I saw that.

Online dating services make finding your soul mate cheap and easy. For less than $12/mo. you can join a network of thousands of people who share your inability to make human connections in the real world. I mean — that’s exactly what I’m looking for. Someone who no one else is interested in but also likes tennis.

I’m tired of dating people in real life anyways. All those intimate conversations where we connect on a deep level while making exciting discoveries about one another over a couple mojitos on the perfect sunny day at an awesome restaurant that serves the best spinach & artichoke dip in the world.

Who the hell wants that? I’d much rather make an instantaneous decision about whether or not I would date someone based on a one inch picture of their face and a list of 8-10 generic things they like. It’s way easier. Meeting people in real life and getting to know them is so 1990. Who am I MC Hammer? Plus it’s expensive! (2 mojitos + Spinach Dip at Macaroni Grill is $29.95).

Also, it’s nice that online dating is segregated. That way we can all keep to our own like God intended. Although I am a little skeptical about J-Date. It does scare me a little bit. I mean, how do I know that J-Date isn’t just one big global oven? And I’m not speaking metaphorically. Is it possible that your computer can start cooking you?

If so, I can think of a few jews that would be delicious.

But I know what you’re thinking. That’s not the only thing that’s sketchy about online dating. You’re about to say…”The problem with online dating is that no one ever looks like the pictures they post.” First of all, don’t ever fucking interrupt me again while I’m in the middle of something. Second, you’re right – it’s a good point. Sometimes people will get their profile picture done at Glamour Shots and they look totally extravagant with one of those pink feather scarfs wrapped around their neck. But Glamour Shots can be deceiving.

I met up with this girl once after going back and forth with her a million times over email until my fingertips disappeared and I was typing with my wrists. I spent a lot of time trying to trick her into thinking we had a lot in common. I told her I thought Dane Cook was funny. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Anyway, when she finally agreed that I wasn’t going to have sex with her cat like the last guy, we decided to meet up. When I saw her, I almost fainted! Because she didn’t look anything like her picture. Attached to her head was something I was not expecting at all. Something that wasn’t in any of her pictures.

She had a body.

Here I was just expecting a head and she has the audacity to show up with a body too? Sorry but I’m not into three ways. Where the hell was just the head I had been emailing for weeks – it was the head I was in love with. How could she do this to me? She didn’t think to mention the fact that she had a fucking body?!

I went right up to that cunt and I spit in her face. I called her “a lying piece of dog shit” and I told her that “I don’t really like Dane Cook. I hate him. I lied to you about that, head. I lied. You’re a piece of shit, head, you hear me? A piece of shit!

She had no idea what I was talking about. I’m not even sure that she was the same girl I had been emailing from the dating service – it was dark. But whoever it was, she got the message.

Meeting your date always complicates things. That is why I have come up with a better online dating service (one that let’s you avoid all those awkward encounters) by never meeting up.

You never meet each other. But you do get married. The company assigns you a wife or husband based on a questionnaire you fill out. But not one of those annoying ones – this one will only have like three or four questions in it so it doesn’t take all day. And after they give you someone you just email them your sperm (you will be able to do this very soon) and you start a family. And you instant message the kids and stuff on their birthdays or send them e-cards. And you can pay for their college through PayPal.

And when you get tired of it all, you just get a new computer that’s younger and not fat. So who wants to marry me?


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“Say my name, say my name…” – Destiny’s Child

“I don’t know it.”
– Me

I can’t remember people’s names and it makes me feel like an asshole. And it’s not because I’m worried people will think I don’t care about them — because I don’t. That’s no secret. It’s for practical reasons — like when I’m sitting next to someone and I need them to ‘pass me that thing over there.’ If I knew their name I wouldn’t have to stare at them for four straight minutes like a psychopath until they finally look up at me. “Can I borrow a pen?”

When I run into someone on the street whose name I can’t remember, I don’t listen to a goddamn word they say. I just stare at their heads for the entire conversation and run through the alphabet. Fuck the alphabet.

What I really love is when I’m talking to one person whose name I don’t know and another person whose name I don’t know comes over to say hi. So happy to see you! And now I’m like fuckin Friendster and I’m supposed to introduce these idiots.

I usually just say, “HEY! You know…” and then HOPE TO GOD one of them will cut me off before I finish speaking and fill in the blank with their name. Then I act surprised, apologize and pretend that I thought they knew each other even though we all know I’m completely full of shit.

But this time that didn’t happen. Instead, after about three beats of intense awkward silence, I had to finish my sentence. So I just made up a name. I went with “An-ge-la.”

She goes, “Who the FUCK is Angela? I’m Michelle. And why the fuck are you introducing me to the guy I live with? He’s my boyfriend, you idiot.”

I wish people wore name tags. Would that be so bad? The janitors do it and they’re the dumbest people on the planet. People are more responsive when you know their names. Instead of saying, “Hey, YOU, get on your goddamn hands and knees and clean up that puke right now.” The principal can say, “Carl, get on your goddamn hands and knees…etc.” What do you think Carl is more likely to respond to? If you said both, you’re right because Carl’s not gonna risk violating his parole again with another one of his angry outbursts. He knows if he does he’s going right back to the hole.

I like the people who have the balls to call you on it:

“Whatup, Steve? You remember me?”
“Yeah. (lie) Of I course I do!”
“What’s my name?”

Motherfucker. I have no idea. I had no other choice but to use my secret weapon – ‘reverse psychology’ – people used to use it on me all the time when I was one.

“Hey everyone, this guy doesn’t know his own name!”
“Haha, funny – what’s my name?”

Seriously? Why are you doing this to me? Please stop. But at the same time, why can’t I just get myself to admit that I don’t know it? If I could do that this would all be over. BUT I CAN’T! Finally he told me. So I go, “I know, dude.” Another lie.

The best feeling in the world though is KNOWING someone’s name. When I know someone’s name I use the shit out of it. “Hey JAY! How’s it going JAY? This is Jay everybody! Oh, JAY that’s a funny story. Do you know Jay? Jay, Jay, Jay!”

But that doesn’t happen very often. There are so many places I go to on a regular basis where I should know people’s names but definitely don’t. I’ve been going to the same gym for years and – even though I’ve talked to tons of people – I don’t know anyone. Now I wear headphones from the moment I get out of my car to the moment I get back in it. I’m constantly wearing headphones. Even when my ipod’s dead. I listen to nothing. And if somebody starts walking towards me I bob my head like I’m jamming out. Jamming out to nothing. Sometimes people come up to me to tell that my headphones aren’t connected to anything – and then they show me the cord. I usually have no response to that.

I go to the same Starbucks everyday. The girl who works at the counter always remembers my name (which makes me feel good – like I’m the president of my own company) but I have no clue what her name is (which makes her feel bad – like she works at Starbucks). I’ve never even bothered to ask her. I guess it’s because she’s just a stupid machine to me.

There’s a woman that’s been living above me for over two years who’s super loud. It sounds like she has hooves. She’s like a Minotaur or something. She loves to dance and blow on that wood flute thing while she weaves wild tales about Dionysus or whatever. Anyway about once a week when she gets too loud I bang my broomstick against the ceiling and shout, “SHUT THE FUCK UP MINOTAUR!” And she does. The following morning we’ll say ‘hello’ to each other as if nothing ever happened. I wish I knew her name. Minotaur is such a long word to shout.

Does anybody know who my mailman is? How about my dry cleaner whose been scrubbing the cum stains off my pants for the last 5 years?

So what do we do, other than study Facebook everyday before you leave the house? I’m glad you asked. I’ve developed a foolproof way to figure out someone’s name no matter where you are.

As the person you don’t remember approaches you call your best friend. Once the person gets there just hand them your phone. Chances are your best friend on the phone will be like, “Who the hell is this?” and the person standing in front of you will answer, “Naaaame…who’s this?” They won’t know each other so at that point ‘Name’ will just hand you back your phone. NOTE: If you forget ‘Name’s’ name from the time ‘Name’ says it to the time ‘Name’ hands you back the phone just call somebody else.

DISCLAIMER: Due to the nature of this story all characters in it will remain nameless at the present time.


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Couch Time

When I was a kid I always used to say if I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house. But now that I’m older and I’ve come to terms with how disgusting that would actually be, I can honestly say, if I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house.

Ever since I was little, I was always a horny kid.

I remember being like twelve years old and masturbating every 15 minutes. That’s how my family kept time. We didn’t have any clocks. “What time’s dinner?”

“As soon as Stephen’s finished jerking off.”

I masturbated everyday, everywhere — in every room — even in the attic and on the roof. If you held a black light over my house chances are you’d be able to see it from outer space. “Hey, look it’s New York!”

“No. That’s Steve Schneider’s house. It’s covered in cum.”

I think the most exciting part of my adolescence was when I began exploring other ways to get off. (Have an orgasm). At some point plain masturbation became sort of boring. I wanted to feel what it really felt like to have sex with a woman. So I began taking on sexual partners that were known around my house for being inanimate objects.

Things started to disappearing. “Stephen! Where’s that Cantaloupe I just bought? I was gonna cut it up for dessert.”

“I have no idea, Mom.” Meanwhile, my balls are covered with seeds and I’m walking through my front yard, sprinkling them out through the cuffs of my pants like I’m in Shawshank.

I wasn’t the only weirdo, though. My friends would brag to me all about the red-hot affairs they were having with their remote control or lunch meat. We were total players. One friend once told me he fucked a birdhouse. I don’t even understand that. What did the neighbors think? “Honey, what the hell is Jimmy doing over there? Those poor birds.”

I would NEVER stick my penis in a birdhouse. I’d be afraid the bird would take off with it and feed it to it’s young. But I did have sex with other stuff. Once (when I was really desperate) I screwed a pair of flip-flops.

But the weirdest thing I ever had sex with by far was my brother. I’m kidding. It was my couch. Like that’s any better. Well, actually it is.

My parents had this couch in the living room that was fucking gorgeous. Italian leather with soft buttery skin. The back of the couch had these two supple cushions that met to form a small crack that you could stick you penis into. I know what you’re thinking- awesome, right?

The only problem (other than it being a couch) was that it was right up against a mirrored wall so you had to watch yourself face to face as you performed this heinous act. “Squeal couchy! Squeal!”

But other than that, it was pure beauty, man. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

I even went down on it once. But I quickly realized this was a terrible idea when I came up with a mouth full of coins and popcorn kernels stuck to my face. Made like three bucks though.

One time right as I was climaxing, I heard my mom’s bedroom door open. I must’ve been too loud. Because the couch never made any noise. I pulled out — but it was too late. I already came. There was a mess everywhere – all over the couch, all over me and my mom was already on her way down the stairs. I quickly pulled boxer shorts up and stuck my back against the crack, which was…gross.

My mom came down in her nightgown and was like, “What’re ya doin, honey?”

“I’m just fucking the shit out of this couch, ma. You wanna get in on this action?”

Yeah right. I wish I said that. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her. She would never accept me for who I was. I had to keep it a secret. I played it off, “Nothing. Just watching TV.” She came over to me and my heart dropped. I thought ‘what are you doing?’ ‘Stay back.’ But she kept approaching. I was sure she was gonna notice and then tell my father and then my father would punish me by sending the couch away.

But what happened was way worse. While I was sitting there – covered in my own semen, cum dripping down my back — she leaned down and gave me a kiss – ON THE MOUTH and she told me SHE LOVES ME…and I told her I LOVE HER TOO! Ahhhhhhhh! Incest. I basically had sex with my mother. My Dad was gonna kill me. I needed to go to jail. I wanted help. But instead, she just walked back off to bed and I sat there staring into the endless abyss of my dismal future and thought to myself, ‘I think I’m ready to go again.’

Eventually, I went away to college and started having sex with humans which was different. I still think about the couch every now and then. Whenever there’s a furniture commercial on or a Pottery Barn magazine gets delivered, I’ll get hard. What? It’s a good magazine.

Through all the awkwardness and after everything is said and done, I have my couch to thank for helping me understand the true meaning of what it is to “sit down and take a load off.”


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I Heart Airplanes

Every time I get on an airplane I always have the same fantasy – I think some hot girl’s come sit down right next to me — we’ll end up talking about her family and eventually fucking in the bathroom…but it never happens. I always end up getting stuck next to the fat guy on the plane and we end up fucking in the bathroom.

I can’t stand sitting next to people on planes. The second I board, I always put my shit down on the middle seat to make it look like someone’s sitting there (as if the person who’s assigned to that seat is gonna get there and go, “Oh, dammit. Someone else is sitting in my seat! I guess I’ll just get off the plane and let this guy have the middle sit empty.”) I’m an idiot. Still. Why am I always stuck next to the worst people?

SIT STILL MAN. PLEASE. Fuckin Chinese guy sitting next to me once on an overnight flight from LA to Boston wouldn’t stop moving. He’s got a magazine draped over his head which keeps sliding off his face and landing on my leg every five seconds. Dude, it doesn’t work! I wanted to grab it from him and whack him over the head. Instead I just exhaled loudly many times. I showed him.

KIDS SHOULD BE IN THE CARGO WITH THE ANIMALS. I once got this little fuckin weasel behind me that wouldn’t stop kicking my chair the second I sat down. WHY ISN’T THE MOTHER DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THIS? I try to turn around as if I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with my seat so the mother can see but she’s NAPPING. So instead I turn back around and wait patiently for the moment the plane hits cruising altitude so I can slam my seat back to try and SMASH him in the face hard hoping to knock him out. But in the end, his face isn’t there and I miss. And now my seat is that much closer to his dainty little legs so he can kick me harder with more leverage.

After doing my sighing routine, I try shaking my head in an exaggerated way, hoping his mom will catch my drift and stop pretending to ignore me. She doesn’t. I finally say something. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you but your son keeps kicking my chair – you’ve got a little Van Damme back there!” To which she offers, “Oh, I’m sorry – I had no idea.” Bullshit. The kid’s doing the fucking river dance.

It stops for a minute and then starts all over again. So I wait for his mom to fall back asleep and then I peak through the crack of my seat and get his attention. (Whispered) “Hey, faggot. Are you fucking retarded? Are you? No, you’re not. Right so unless you want me to get behind your chair and kick you in the back and kill your mom, cut the shit.

That doesn’t work because he’s not old enough to speak and now the lady next to me is looking at me like I’m a psychopath. Fuck you lady. You sit here. Guess what, I’m farting now. I was gonna try to hold it in. But fuck it. Me and you can just sit in my farts for the rest of the flight while I pretend I can’t smell them. If somebody looks over here – I’m blaming it on you. I’m like a fuckin pig on the plane. I’d don’t give a shit. I just blow ass — you can’t hear ’em — so fuck it. If it gets really bad I’ll pop my head up like a prairie dog and be like ‘what the fuck is going on?’ (my butt’s going on. and on.)

I get anxious when I board a plane. I always try to get to my seat before anybody else in my row so I can get my arm on that goddamm arm rest before the other guy. Otherwise you’re screwed. And you gotta get as many pillows as you can so you can build a fortress around you.

What the fuck are those pillows? That’s like something I’d put in my hamster’s cage – rest your little head on this, Hammy. Those aren’t human pillows. And I’m still trying to figure out what the pillow covers are made of – I know I’ve seen that material somewhere else – oh, yeah — it’s the same stuff they use to make piss mats for dogs. What’d you say? Bring your own pillow? Fuck you. I shouldn’t have to. I once was stupid enough to buy one of those u-neck pillows – those don’t work. First of all, I looked like an asshole carrying it. And I couldn’t figure out which way it goes for it to be comfortable. I ended up putting it on my head like it was a pair of headphones. “Shh. I can’t hear the movie…”

In order to board the plane before everyone else I usually just pretend I’m handicapped. This works pretty flawlessly – the only downside is that sometimes you have to keep up the lie for a long time. I once skipped Christmas security lines by telling them I was a cripple. You gotta say “cripple” – that’s when they know you’re not fucking around. But once I started limping up to security, I quickly realized that I couldn’t stop – I had to keep up the act – they were watching. So I limped to the gate. And then all the people who were on my flight saw me limp passed them through security so I had to limp onto the plane and off it when it landed, and then through the baggage claim and out to the cab. And just to be safe, I’m still limping.

It’s funny when you tell people you’re handicapped because they immediately either grow accommodating/patronizing or extremely skeptical. “This guy isn’t handicapped.” You gotta be on you’re A-game. That’s not something you can fuck around with. All I’m gonna say is remember which leg you were limping on, dude. Remember which leg.

Here’s a good rule of conduct: don’t ever ask somebody with a better seat than yours to switch with you. Somebody once had the balls to ask me if I would mind switching with them from an AISLE seat in an EXIT row to the LAST MIDDLE seat on a plane flying from Israel to LA for fourteen hours. SURE. No problem. Are you out of your fucking mind? Get a fuckin grip. I’ll just take the middle seat because I’m a nice guy. “What’s that? She’s pregnant? Yeah right, I’ve used that one before. Nice try. We’ll see if she’s pregnant when we get to baggage claim.


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This is me walking through Ikea…

“Okay. Just gotta get that dresser and I’ll be on my way. Let’s see…which way are the dressers? Dressers…dressers…Ooh I like that couch. No. Dressers. Okay so living rooms are this way…that looks like dining rooms over there….I like that garbage can. Do I need a garbage can? Wait, what the fuck? Are those shelves just sticking out of the wall? How the hell do they do that? They must be magnets or something. Wait, this can’t be right. It says they’re seventeen bucks. That’s impossible. No it’s not. They’re really seventeen dollars…huh. I guess I should just get one. I have nothing to put on it. Is that a fucking shoe rack? That’s awesome. Stop – find the dresser. Wait where am I? Wait a second. Seriously. Where the fuck am I? I gotta get outta here. How do you get out of here? Alright, I gotta go. Does anybody work here? Okay, I’ll just follow the arrows. Follow the arrows, dude and they’ll obviously get you out of here. The arrows will take you to safety. Wait a minute. Where are you taking me, arrows? No, I don’t want to see the kids furniture. Why are you showing me cribs? Get me outta here. Um…I’m pretty sure I already went that way, arrows. WHAT? Now I’m back at the beginning. There’s that garbage can. I need my Magellan. STOP. I ALREADY SAW THE SHELVES. I’M BUYING ONE ALREADY. STOP PLAYING MIND GAMES WITH ME IKEA. I like that table. I’m gonna throw up. HELP! DOES ANYBODY WORK HERE? PLEASE IKEA. PLEASE. LET ME GO AND I WON’T TELL ANYBODY…I SWEAR. PLEASE….


Dear Ikea,

You make pieces of shit. I thought I bought a wooden dresser from you. But it’s not wood. In fact, it’s cardboard. You sold me a cardboard dresser for fifty bucks. The homeless guy on my street has a cardboard dresser — he made it out of the box my dresser came in.

By the way, how stupid am I? I thought the dresser came with screws! I’m such a dummy! WHY THE HELL DOESN’T IT COME WITH SCREWS? Were people complaining? “Do you believe this, honey? They included screws. God dammit. Now I’m not going to have to get really angry, start drinking early and scare you with that Lord of the Rings sword I bought from SkyMall. I guess I’ll just put the dresser together instead.”

Or maybe you’re just smarter than us, Ikea. It is possible that there are a surplus of screws in the world right now and people just don’t know what to do with them. So you figured you’d create a product that could meet the demands of our modern market.

Meanwhile, I went back to get the screws, it took me an hour and a half, I had another panic attack and they ended up costing more than the fuckin dresser.

Speaking of getting screwed, I once bought a mattress from you and it was not good. I felt like Nelson Mandella for an entire year. I watched The Count of Monte Cristo and became extremely jealous of his living situation. I dug a hole through my bedroom floor and ended up in my landlord’s apartment. She lives below me and was not happy. You owe her money.

I know what you’re going to say, Ikea – but what about our meatballs? Why are you starting in with the meatballs again, Ikea. Guess what, they’re gross. I don’t eat meatballs from a company who also makes toilet plungers. Although it does make sense – assuming you started making meatballs first.

Let’s talk about your hot dogs.

How the hell can a hot dog cost $0.50? Somebody needs to explain that. Because I’m pretty sure you’re making a mistake. I’ve been running the figures in my head for months and I don’t think it’s correct. That price includes a hot dog, a bun, UNLIMITED mustard, ketchup and relish, napkins, the cost to heat the hot dog on those rollers – you know, the same ones you drag your luggage across at airport security, the little plate they serve it on AND the salary of the employee serving the hot dog – for fifty cents. IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. DO THE MATH. It should be way less than that. Unless it comes with screws. Then I would get it.

Please Get Back to Me,


Also, about your pencils – shove them up your ass, Ikea. People don’t use pencils anymore. Pencils are for faggots. You’re a faggot, Ikea.


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Shit Story

I recently ate a bag of SUGAR FREE Salt Water Taffy. “Sugar Free” is actually just another way of saying “This will make your ass bleed.” At the time I didn’t have a thesaurus with me.

I was at an airport and they were selling it right next to the regular Taffy. We immediately fell in love. I was like, “Holy Shit! I can just eat you like you’re vegetables. Screw, you, regular Taffy. What am I gonna feel all guilty and shit? I don’t think so.”

I ate that non-sugary goodness like a fat kid whose abusive parents were upstairs sleeping. Strawberry. Mint Chocolate Chip. Buttered Popcorn. White ones. They were all fun and chewy. By the time I got down to my gate, all I had left was a pocket full of wax paper and the normal emptiness that even real candy won’t fill. I thought about licking the wrappers but I knew that people would judge me.

Instead, I sat down and checked out some of the girls on my flight. All busted and in their sixties. And then out of nowhere, I had to rip one. But there were two people sitting on both sides of me. I did the lean — like I’m looking at the monitor to check out the departure time, but really — I’m stretching my butt cheeks open to fart without making a sound. Pfffffff. Got it out. And then I just sat there and waited for the smell to envelope me and my neighbors. Once it did, I reacted like, ‘Uch. Who’s the fucking pig?’ scrunching up my face in disgust and slightly shaking my head. They knew it was me. I’m just glad they didn’t vote.

Almost immediately there was another one lined up. My stomach kept directing traffic toward the exit. But every time a fart would head down my tunnel, I’d turn it around and send it back up to the rotary. “Couple more times around, boys.” After about ten minutes, there was a pile up. I got up and walked around.

My stomach felt like it was filled with boiling hot shit soup. There was so much pressure — my anus felt like the nozzle of a Super Soaker that was pumped a million times. The second I pull that trigger…I might launch off the airport floor and smash through the ceiling. And then people would think I was a terrorist. And no one would ever be allowed to bring diarrhea through airport security again.

Fuck You, Taffy, you fucking taffy. I ran to the bathroom. I hate public bathrooms. It’s gross. Fucking animals (like me) piss all over the seats and people don’t flush their shit. They just leave their shit there. “Bye, shit. Have a good one. Do me a favor and gross out the next guy that walks in here for me.”

I built the nest. Settled in. And got ready to lay some eggs.

I leaned over my knees and looked under the stalls to see if I was alone. I wasn’t. There was a guy taking a piss at the urinal in front of me. Dammit. I held it in with muscles I didn’t know I had waited for him to finish. I wasn’t about to do this in front of anybody.

He finishes. Walks out. And another guy walks in obviously. And at this point I just say fuck it. I can’t hold it any longer. I’ll just let a little bit of it it out slowly.

Yeah, right. The second I make the decision, the LOUDEST most EMBARRASSING EXPLOSION launches right out of my ass. And I just let it. The noises were so gross and not-even-real that the guy pissing at the urinal starts cracking up. A grown man — who I don’t know — was standing there — holding his penis — and just having the best time of his life at my expense.

And after I finished and he stopped laughing, I had nothing to say. All my life I’ve had a comeback for everything. Never been speechless. But this time, I just sat there – me and my broken ass. I was ashamed. Disgusted. I thought about killing that guy. I didn’t want him to take this story out of the stall. But I didn’t. I did nothing. I just waited there for an extra 20 minutes, hoping the man got on his flight and the paparazzi I imagined were waiting outside the bathroom to snap my picture had all gotten bored and moved on to another shitty story.

I cleaned up and walked back to the terminal. I walked over to this little café near my gate to buy some rice to patch up my walls. I was on the phone with a friend of mine, telling the above story, and as I’m paying for the rice, I hear somebody behind me making farting noises with their mouth. I froze.

“I think the guy behind me at this café is taunting me.”

I quickly turned around and saw this grey-haired man in his sixties, giggling next to his wife. They were both looking at me. I glanced down at my shoes. I was wearing a pair of Air Max ‘90s — pink and recognizable. I thought if that old man is fun of me, I’m gonna have to fight him and his wife.

But I came to my senses and made a face at him like I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I paid for my rice and flew back home and never felt like a human again. Shit.


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Reading Sucks

I just started reading a new book. It’s a thousand pages long. It’s called the torah. It’s not the torah, it’s the kuran. Alright it’s the torah. (It’s not the torah). Anyway, I’m halfway through reading it and I hate it. But I gotta keep going. I need to finish the book so I can put it on my shelf so that when people come over and they walk by my shelf they can say things like, “Hey, did you read that?” And I can be like, “Yeah.” And then they will say, “How was it?” And I’ll be like, “Pretty good. It was long.” And then they’ll think I’m smart or something.

Half the time I’m reading, I’m actually not paying any attention. Oh I read every word so it still counts, but I don’t always (ever) know what’s going on. I think about what page number I’m on a lot. And how many pages are left. And how bad my life is and stuff.

Sometimes I come across words that I’m pretty sure are make-believe. Like factotum. That’s not real. You’re thinking of the word ‘totem pole,’ Author. You need to do a better job proofreading. Also, totem pole doesn’t even make sense in that sentence – you should consider reworking that part altogether or change the book so it’s about Indians. I like the Sioux.

My friend said the only way to truly know whether or not a word is real is to look it up in the dictionary. But what the hell’s the point of doing that? You want me to do more reading? For what? I already have the dictionary on my bookshelf – I wouldn’t be gaining anything. It’s my Free Space. That’s what my Bingo friends call it. They’re ridiculous. I’m actually reading a book on Bingo right now, but it’s about the dog, Bingo, and actually his name is “Benji,” not Bingo. It is a book though.

Books are okay sometimes I guess, like when spiders are crawling around and you need to smash their lights out with something or you when you need to lift your stereo speaker off the ground so you can get better sound quality and for fire. But overall, it just seems like something to do when you can’t sleep and you have a huge erection.

I just think you can learn everything you need to know from watching television. I read that somewhere.


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Yo, You’re Breath Stinks

I keep making up excuses for why I haven’t been returning this girl’s calls. But the truth is her breath stinks – always. It’s so bad that my breath has begun stinking just from kissing her. When we’re alone out at dinner, I prefer texting her instead of talking to her. I told her I have unlimited texts. I don’t even think that exists.

How can she not know? It’s right under her nose. Literally – every time she speaks. Does she think that’s just the way the world smells? Well, wake up (brush your teeth) and smell the roses, girlfriend.

I don’t want to be trivial. And I understand that we all have our things – our defaults. Like I know I have a huge dick and that must be annoying for her, always having to cum and stuff all the time. But I recognize that — I’ve warned her about my dick. She never mentioned her breath.

I don’t think she knows. And here’s why…

When we we’re face to face she would talk directly to my nose. I would always turn my head, offering my ear. Talk to my ear — it can’t smell you. But she would always turn me back forcing me to face the winds head on. I would have to block my nose which caused me to sound like Droopy Dog, which she thought was funny. But it wasn’t really, it was dangerous. I wasn’t breathing and I narrowly escaped death by asphyxiation several times. Shitty way to go, huh?

The best was when I tried to give her a mint.

“No thanks.”
“Nah. Too much sugar.”
Sugar-Free Listerine Breath Strip?
“No thanks. You have so many different kinds of mints.”

I know. I love mints.

I had to be smooth about it. So I slipped a lifesaver in my mouth, kissed her and forced it in her mouth. Suck it. But that only made her breath smell like peppermint shit. And last time I checked, they stopped making Candy Canes in that flavor. Because people thought they smelled like shit.

I had to do some research – I was curious. Why does her mouth smell like someone went to the bathroom in it? What causes bad breath? Did they make a urinal cake that would fit in her mouth? I made an appointment with my online doctor – WebMD.

What I found out was not awesome:
“Bad breath is caused by odor-producing bacteria that grow in the mouth. When you don’t brush and floss regularly, bacteria accumulate on the bits of food left in your mouth and between your teeth. The sulfur compounds released by these bacteria make your breath smell.”

I learned a few things. I learned that I was smelling the Lunchables she ate in 1994 and that those bits of rotten turkey and cracker may have contain information regarding the O.J. Simpson trial. I learned that there was nothing I could do. Ojay was already a free man.

I also didn’t think I could just tell her.

Mainly because it would have involved her responding and therefore – me sme


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lling more of her breath which is what I wanted to avoid in the first place.

And secondly, you’re not allowed to tell someone that. Because you’re not. It would hurt their feelings too much. You just have to not talk to them again and put it in a blog.

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Manager Mother

People outside of LA have no clue how things work in the entertainment business. And by people, I mean my mother.

This is the phone call I get – every day — from my manager/mother, Wendy.

(When reading this, give her a wicked hahd Boston accent.

Wendy: Hiiiiii!

Me: Hi ma.

What are you doing?

Nothing. How you doing?

Good. Did you get my message? I called you before.

Yup. I listened to your voicemail telling me to call you. And I got your text about checking my voicemail. That’s why I’m calling you back.

What’s the attitude for?

No attitude.

Guess who I saw today…Janet Picheny. You’re never gonna believe who her daughter’s working for – Steven Spielberg.

Do I know who that is?

Yeah. Very funny, Stephen. The director, shmiz. He made the Schindlers list.

No. The girl, Ma. Do I know who the girl is?

I don’t think so. But what’s the difference? You should call her – she might be able to do something for you. Do you want her number?

“Hey. How you doing? Guess who ran into your mother today at the nail salon. Do you give up? My mother! No, you’ve never met or heard of either of us — but still, my mom said you might be able to do me a favor and tell Steven Spielberg to put me in a movie. Also, I won’t work for less than a million. Hello? Hello?”

I got a dial tone, Ma–

Don’t be a wise guy, Stephen. You never know. Tell her you’re Jewish.

Are you in-fucking-sane? That’s not how it works.

Then don’t call her.

I won’t.

(long pause)

What about writing a letter to Oprah. Asking her to help. She helps people.

Dear Oprah, I’m a rich Jew living in LA doing everything in my power to become famous. But I just can’t seem to get anywhere L. Would you stop wasting your time building schools for poor Africans for a second and help me?


P.S. – I used be friends with a black guy. (Hope it helps).

Stephen, be serious. I was looking through the magazine – People Magazine you know – and I saw pictures of Mandy Moore hanging out at the Ivy. You should go there. Maybe she’ll think you’re gorgeous and you’ll fall in love.

Right. I’m on my way….

How‘bout being the bachelor? It’s an easy way to become famous. Meet all those girls and all of a sudden you’re a superstar overnight.


I know. I know. (mocking me) That’s not how I want to do it, Ma. I want to make it on my own. I don’t need anybody’s help, Ma.

That was a pretty good impersonation of me, Mom.

Oy, Stephen. It’s very hard what you’re doing. But you’re gonna do it. It just takes time. Have faith.

Are you trying to convince me or are you trying to convince yourself there, Ma?

I’m not convincing anyone. You’ll be fine.

Yeah, I know…. Alright, what else?

What else? Did you watch American Idol last night?


It was great wasn’t it?


What about trying to get on a show like that?

Ma, what the fuck are you talking about? I don’t sing. I gotta go. I love you.

Alright. I love you too. Call that girl.

Alright I will. I gotta go – I just pulled up to the Ivy.


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I’m really good at finding what’s wrong with people and telling them about it. It’s not that I’m good at telling them, I’m just really good ABOUT telling them. I try to do what normal people do and ignore other people’s flaws [because I have plenty of my own (this being one of them)] but eventually it ends up eating away at my patience — making me angrier and angrier – I start looking for it, anticipating it — actually wanting them to do it — the thing I hate — just so I can be right and hate them more. Until I can’t take it anymore and I explode.

My ex-girlfriend does ‘voices.’ I don’t mean she works for Disney or she’s a puppeteer (because that would be cool). What I mean is she does voices — like Robin Williams. All the time.

Me: “Hey, how are you?”
Her: (British accent) “Very Good Sir! Ow’ are you?”

I was good until you did that. Why are you doing that? You’ve never been to England. And I didn’t say anything that remotely relates to anything British.

She is an actress so I understand her inclination to “play” but still — when you do a voice, it needs some kind of context. Here’s what I mean:

Me: “Do you want a bagel and cream cheese?”
Her: (Jamaican accent) “No mon, I don’t tink I be eaten a bagel today. Do you have any rum, mon?”
Me: (no accent) “Nope. No rum, mon.”

Now if she did a Jewish accent – I’d get it – bagel and cream cheese – not funny – but contextually, sure it makes sense. But she didn’t. She pretended to be Beanie Man.

After months of dealing with this internally. And focusing my energy on never giving her anything to play off of, I realized that it was killing me and I needed to say something. I hid all the harmful liquids in my house to prevent myself from poisoning her and invited her over to for an intervention.

Right before I spoke, I realized how weird this was gonna be. I mean who tells someone their ‘voices’ are a major problem? I do.

Me: “Listen…what’s with the voices.”
Her: “What do dou mean?”
Me: (slightly aggravated) “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
Her: “I really don’t.”
Me: (mocking her in a baby voice) “Hi! Wanna come over and pway?”
Me: (continuing as a baby) “I wove you! (for effect) Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Her: “I do that with everybody. You’re the first person that seems to mind.”
Me: “I doubt it. I’m just the first person that’s ever said anything. Look, I understand why you do it — I just want to ask you to please not do that with me. It bothers me.”
Her: “You want me to not be myself?”
Me: “Um…no. I want you to be you. That’s not you. That’s a collection of voices. I feel like I’m sleeping with Sybil.”
Her: “I don’t know what to tell you, I’ve been doing that since I was a child.”
Me: “Well you’re not a child anymore. And I think I know why you do it. I think you’re afraid of being you so you hide behind these characters that aren’t you. And that’s okay. But it comes across as an insecurity – you’re scared to be yourself. But I want to be with you – not the characters… ”
Her: “I don’t really think that’s the case. I just do it because its part of my personality.”
Me: “Maybe you have multiple personalities? If you do, put the nympho on.”
Her: “How long has this been bothering you? Why didn’t you say something earlier.”
Me: “It started bothering me about the third of fourth time you did it. And every time since, which is something around a million, and I never said anything because I thought it would go away on its own but now I feel like we need to put some Tabasco sauce on it.”
Her: “What do you mean?”
Me: “Like you know when people bite their fingernails?”
Her: (sad silence)

Me: “So…what do you hate about me?”
Her: “Nothing.”
Me: (in my head with a British accent) Yes! I rule.

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