From the Archives: Arms Smuggling

There comes a time in a young man's life in which his instinctual need for migration comes to a head. The need for adventure is too great for me to ignore for long: I live off of movement. And bacon, but that's besides the point.

It's a fine line I walk.

When I was 15, I began a grand adventure. My high school had arranged a France trip, to occur during February vacation (for those not living in MA, a week in February is taken off of school, likely originating from that time being the most likely for flu outbreaks).

We flew directly from Logan International Airport in Boston to Paris, France, where I immediately saw a sign that said "surrenderez-vous." I'm not kidding. And this was in the time of "freedom fries, fuck yeah!" Of COURSE you'll be surrendering to some pimply 15 year old.

Now, during this trip into an ancient land, we went to a city called Mont Saint-Michel. Long story short, a bunch of monks saw a big rock a few hundred meters off the shore, and when the tide went out, walked over to it and build a monastery. This was because France is France, and while their vow of poverty didn't permit them to escape the nation of a thousand smells via ship, no one said they couldn't simply walk the fuck away.

Sadly for the monks, every other nearby French person also wanted to get the fuck away. So, slowly but surely, the giant random rock with a church on top became a giant random rock, property of France.

The monastery became a town. The town became a castle. And the castle still stands as is very cool to visit.

So, visit we did.

And naturally, the place had become tourist-ized to hell. "We're a castle. What do people want... bread? Food? Actual culture? FUCK NO, get me some swords n' shit!"

And so, we come to the next phase of a young boy's life: Weapon Fascination.

I was so easily allured by all the shininess. And so, I bought a *few* things.

"Yaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy"

And, naturally, every single one of my classmates also on the trip got a bunch of swords. Honestly, we could've started the next Crusade just for shits-n-giggles.

After spending a great deal of money adding weight to my airline luggage, it was time to break the law by transporting undeclared weapons into post 9/11 America  go home.

Now, in the airport in Paris, there was a small desk set up where an American official asked us, oh, just a few questions. One in particular stuck out to me.

Something must have tipped them off, because on the back of my passport I had an orange sticker. Everyone else had a white sticker on theirs.

So naturally, I was concerned.

So we went through, hopped on the plane, and went back to the states. And of course, we had to go through customs.

I went through as the TSA serial rapist inspector took my passport and directly looked at the back for the sticker that would determine my fate.

And it was in that moment, when I felt my first heart attack coming to whisk me to the underworld, where I became really thankful of TSA educational requirements.

I'd apply there if the coworkers wouldn't melt my brains.

And so I walked probably the fastest I ever have through the door and onto the bus to take us back to school and to home.

All in marvelous liberty-loving contempt of federal and Massachusetts state weapons laws.

God Bless America.

Have you ever been on an international trip? Tell me about it in the comments. Be sure to like and share this on Facebook like the attention-seeking whore you are.

Poop: An Exploration of the Unknown

Ah, parenthood.

The movies make it seem so glamorous. There's clearly fake screaming, to be fair. But besides that, you're spoon-fed a wonderful, cozy image of labor and young children that makes your face shrivel up in a ball of estrogenic joy.

After all the definitely-not-idealized love fest, it comes down to business.

Namely, doo-ing business.




The very first diaper was mine to clean up after. Now, it wasn't my first rodeo, and I'm not the stereotypical herp-derp of a guy.

However... there may have been some things I wasn't fully aware of.

Such as...

Lesson 1: The first few poops are pitch black.

And who could forget timeless classics like...

The smells get worse.

And, well, countless other lessons that are less like a teaching moment and more like battlefield experience.

Don't get me wrong, I love my son. Very much. He's an adorable velociraptor. But he lives up to the name, and for first-time parents, there is an adjustment.

But it's a good, worthwhile adjustment. And I'd do it a billion times.

"You're lucky you got ONE."

The Games We Play

When you’re unemployed, you discover that you have quite a lot of free time. And, as the flawed human beings we all are, this time is sometimes used in peculiar ways.

Thank Goodness we're not, like, curing cancer or something.

One of the most common things people gravitate to (and by “people” I mean males aged 14-30) is games. They’re fun. To me, some feel like being a general, while others feel like being the main character in a movie.

But sometimes, this doesn’t translate over very well to your better half…

Damn.

Sometimes, you try to reconcile…

"I don't even know how you did that... Super Mario Bros doesn't usually have a HitlerMode.

But other times, you just try to hide it like the shame-ridden thing you clearly are to her.

And, after three years, I had almost given up hope…

And then it happened.

She discovered Civilization V.

It was incredible.

It was terrifying.

I gave her small lessons here and there, but she figured out the majority of it herself. And, last night, she claimed her first Domination victory.

And, soon, there will be multiplayer…

Thankfulness in Fruitlessness

Ah Thanksgiving, the only holiday where we claim we’re thankful, and then spend the next few days literally killing people to get more stuff we want.

It’s the American way! Whoo!

When you’re jobless, the sales and bargains don’t apply to you because you’re already thankful for what you have you can’t afford anything anyways.

So, naturally, one has to get creative as to what to be thankful for.

It’s the simple things, really. And, yes, before MaterBaconia and LavaGirl and assorted friends, family members, and talking sinks start yelling at me: Yes. I am supremely, and very very VERY thankful for each and every one of you. You’ve molded me into the (psychotic) person I am, and you keep me going.

Thank you for being who you are, and for helping me figure out who I am.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

The State of the Blog (1st)

GNSNEEEEEEEEE FIS SGN?
?LSFNTS.HTML
THw#=English
Beginning Transmission:
Greetings, people of Earth.
We have your president.
He seems to have a high bacon content.
We'll be serving him on the side.

... other than that, nice place you have here. See ya around!

End Transmission.

Breaking the Ice Through Brute Force

The Interview.

If you didn’t shutter or nervously chuckle at that, there’s something wrong with you.

Interviews are like the Final Boss of the job search. If you win, music plays, you open the big chest, and DOO-DOO-DOO-DOOOOOO! Your job offer hovers above your triumphantly raised hands rotating.

It's your eviction notice.

This is a tricky place, however. You get asked questions and you’re expected to come up with good answers. Not *just* good answers, but AMAZING, SURPRISINGLY ELOQUENT answers that would make Cicero jealous.

"You leave me out of this."

And, naturally, when you’re away from the high-pressure area of Mr. Boss’s office, you can come up with some pretty good answers.

But when you go there,  you’re going to fuck it up. Royally.

Oh yeah. All the fucking time.

Yeeeah, there can be some pretty catastrophically awkward moments in an interview. And they are damned near unavoidable. One misstep, and it’s into awkwardland you go.

And no one can prevent it.

It’s impossible to avoid the ensuing onslaught. The best you can do is to follow some sort of procedure in order to either get out of the awkwardness or to brace for impact…

Everyone faces awkward moments. Just most don't completely implode when it happens. 

... this *might* be the reason I'm still unemployed...

Comment and share below! 

The Hall(mark) of Horrors

As the holidays approach, there’s many things to look forward to.  Cookies, decorations, Santa, food, presents; all these things just bring out the awesomeness of Christmas.

But there’s a dark side to this, as well, and any guy who’s been in a relationship before knows there are certain obligations. And these include, amongst other things, watching Christmas movies.

… specifically, watching Hallmark Christmas movies.

Know Thy Enemy

"What's a Hallmark movie?" you ask, stepping off from the plane you took from your native North Korea after hours of customs processing and hiding from the secret police. IT IS THE BANE OF YOUR MANLY, LOGICAL EXISTENCE. 

Every Hallmark movie I've seen (and, with 5 sisters, a fiancée, and a LavaMom who LOVES that satanic channel, I've seen too many THE HORRORS OF WAR), has had the following prognosis:

Middle Aged Female Protagonist's life is going sooooo well for the first 15 minutes. Then, it all turns to shit and she ends up alone (divorce, separation, or her 14 cats all died of dysentery). The next FIVE HOURS are then devoted to her finding a friend and working herself back up to an even better position than when the movie began, through a series of way-too-good-to-ever-happen-in-reality events. All the while, no matter what, you are perfectly clean, well dressed, and considered attractive by your alternate-universe's social standards. And, at some point, the SuperRichAndGoodLookingGuy™ magically becomes attracted to you. Of course, 3 hours of the courtship revolves around how "it'd never work." At the end of the movie, Middle Aged Female Protagonist is now happily planning her wedding to SuperRichAndGoodLookingGuy and everyone loves her so much and SHE GOT TO BECOME AN ARTIST LIKE SHE ALWAYS WANTED. YAY.

... oh, and it's all produced on a budget the size of my monthly allowance. (read as: 15¢)

Over the years being tortured by this shit, it’s become clear to me that there is a pattern that occurs every time a Hallmark movie comes on. 

Interestingly enough, it’s the Stages of Grief.

Stage 1: Denial

"Oh no, we can't *possibly* be actually watching this," you think. These movies are terrible. Surely she knows that! She MUST be just flipping channels...

Stage 2: Anger

You rise up from your seat, dazed, confused, and angry. YOU THOUGHT SHE LOVED YOU. Or at least liked you enough to NOT subject you to the terror that is a Hallmark Christmas movie. That level of cheese is dangerous to one's health.

Stage 3: Bargaining

You frantically search for excuses, reasons why, and favors you can do in order to avoid your fate. 

Stage 4: Depression

You have run out of options. It's all over and you know it. You will be forced to go through this.

Stage 5: Acceptance

You've been hypnotized into a mindless shell of your former self. You have no identity, no wants or desires outside of the fatal case of Hallmarkitis. Your personality has melted into a formless glob of cheese. You're a Hallmark Zombie.

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