It's My Fucked Up Head and I'll Cry (or Not) If I Want To

I've been to a few funerals where I haven't cried thinking about those RIPing. It's weird because I'm pretty awesome at crying when it comes to movies and even some TV shows. One time I was watching Tracy Morgan in a faux sentimental scene on 30 Rock and I welled up and got chokey. That was uncomfortable. He was saying how thankful he was for his posse who always had his back and then he made an extremely forced sad face and I felt a genuine tear building in my eye. I almost slapped myself for making me feel so awkward. "That's what you get for crying at jokes."

More recently I was driving home, listening to Marc Maron's WTF podcast and Lisa Lampanelli mentioned the movie "Field of Dreams" and how everyone loses it during the scene when they play catch. I lost it in my car. I didn't even have to watch the movie. I heard someone give a one second synopsis of a scene and I had streams down my cheeks, yet when someone from my extended family dies I could care less. I guess that makes me an ultra sensitive dick. There's got to be some kind of middle ground: I should be able to cry at least a little when someone I'm related to dies and maybe during a movie dealing with the holocaust ("Indiana Jones" not included, although I'd let "Inglorious Basterds" slide ).

I do feel guilty about not feeling sad at funerals though so what I'm going to do now is imagine dead relatives within the context of movies I've cried during. "Aunt Betty, I'll miss you. I still remember the time our plane crashed in the Andes and I had to eat your butt cheeks to stay alive." Or "Great Uncle Gary, it's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault..." and of course, "Oh Cousin Jackie, don't call me Shirley."

Comedy Spillage Radio

Hi Hirshonoids,

Every now and again you can hear me in the form of various characters on Comedy Spillage Radio with host, Shawn Cornelius.

Check it out here!

Love,

Myself

Meditatin'

Hey meditation, you're cheaper than medication and most people from monks to psychologists say you can bring me to a higher place and make me happier. But when I listen to the gurus on your babbling brook and ocean waves CDs, they all speak with this soft, slow monotone and sound dangerously close to brain dead. If those are my role models, are you saying I need to have a lobotomy to be happy? I'm not motivated to reach a higher consciousness when it's just going to make me sound like Mr. Rogers meets HAL, the evil computer from 2001 Space Odyssey. I'm not reaching a higher awareness. I'm getting the dazed and confused brain of Spicoli from Fast Times. Congratulations meditation, you've found a way to make me a pot head without the fun and social benefits of smoking pot with friends. That being said, I'm going to continue to try you out as you and your gurus help me fall asleep at night.

What Women Don't Want

Regularly I learn new things that women don't like. This past weekend while in Hartford, Connecticut I discovered that when a women asks you to guess her bra size, she doesn't like it when you just squint your eyes, plant your nose within a millimeter of her breasts and stare for a good three minutes without saying anything. Bobbing your head while cupping the air around her breasts with your hands doesn't seem to arouse her either.

Dear women:

Please don't ever ask me to guess your bra size again. I'd rather guess how fat I think you are or the number of hairs you have in your mustache.

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Dear salesmen who travel around to aviation trade shows around the country and don't understand how a guy like me could possibly lack confidence:

Please don't try and set me up with another 6"2 former high school basketball star who greets me with a pained expression on her large face when you introduce me as "the funny man" and then forces me to guess her bra size. I know you mean well, but you're making me feel like an asshole.

Here's bachelorette photo I crashed: