My friends often ask, “How come you’re tired all the time? How can you take so many naps?”
Because it’s easier to say I’m tired than depressed.
If you’re tired people think, “What a bum.”
But if you say you’re depressed people think, “how do I get out of this conversation without it being awkward?”
I picked the wrong species to be.
Every animal I see at the zoo is in the middle of a nap. People still go to the zoo.
Bears get to sleep all winter and no one’s like “I don’t care if it has seasonal depression. What a lazy piece of shit.” Instead, People are scared of bears. I’d love to take a nap, wake up, and have people scared of me. “Dan, sorry to disturb your hibernation. It’s just that you owe for four months of rent and electric bills, but you know what, I’ll cover it. Just don’t maul me.”
The caterpillar slugs around, puts up with that shit, takes a nap, and wakes up as a butterfly, a way better creature. It went to sleep as Slingblade and woke up as Batman. It’s like She’s All That except instead of a new wardrobe you just take a nap in a tiny bedroom. Naps aren’t bad. We’re just forgetting a cocoon.
I wish I could wake up with the ability to fly.
“Hey did you hear about Hirshon?”
“Hirshon-Nap Hirshon?”
“Yea, things are looking up for him. He’s got wings now.”
“How’d he get those?”
“Took a power nap.”
“Man, that guy was right all along about naps.”
“Yea, and he has eyes that shoot lasers.”
“How come?”
“Because he never gets laid.”
“What a hero.”
Don’t be down on naps. They’re not a sign of laziness. They’re a chance to fl… (Blog not finished due to nap).
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
I Won 8 Olympic Gold Medals But Then I Got High
Michael Phelps is catching flack for smoking pot.
He's been smoking pot for awhile, but everyone thought he had chlorine in his eyes.
“Is he on acid or just practicing the back stroke midair?”
“Is he on crack or does he always wear a speedo?”
The guy won 8 Olympic gold medals. What else do we want from him?
People say he shouldn't have done it because he's a role model and that sends the wrong message. That doesn’t send the wrong message. That should be the message: win 8 gold medals, make $40 million from endorsements, appear on Saturday Night Live and the Wheaties box… Then relax however you want. You’ve earned it.
If he was caught smoking pot five seconds before he won the 8 Olympic races that might send a deceiving message to aspiring Olympic swimmers that pot makes you swim faster, but if you fall for that old gag then you deserve to lose in the Olympics.
It'd be a worse message if he was caught on camera not having fun. "Look kids, you can win 8 olympic gold medals and still be miserable. Just give up."
The only message that would’ve been better would be if he’d smoked from a water bong? “Swimmers, don’t smoke pot. But if you do, at least stay in the water.”
He's been smoking pot for awhile, but everyone thought he had chlorine in his eyes.
“Is he on acid or just practicing the back stroke midair?”
“Is he on crack or does he always wear a speedo?”
The guy won 8 Olympic gold medals. What else do we want from him?
People say he shouldn't have done it because he's a role model and that sends the wrong message. That doesn’t send the wrong message. That should be the message: win 8 gold medals, make $40 million from endorsements, appear on Saturday Night Live and the Wheaties box… Then relax however you want. You’ve earned it.
If he was caught smoking pot five seconds before he won the 8 Olympic races that might send a deceiving message to aspiring Olympic swimmers that pot makes you swim faster, but if you fall for that old gag then you deserve to lose in the Olympics.
It'd be a worse message if he was caught on camera not having fun. "Look kids, you can win 8 olympic gold medals and still be miserable. Just give up."
The only message that would’ve been better would be if he’d smoked from a water bong? “Swimmers, don’t smoke pot. But if you do, at least stay in the water.”
Sunday, February 1, 2009
If you see something, try porn.
The New York City subway has a policy to stop crime and terrorism: "If you see something, say something."
The problem is I'm always taking naps on the subway so all I see is dreams. I report them though. I'm a samaritan like that.
I slap the emergency button, stop the subway, jump off, grab a security guard and say, “I just got laid” because even in my dreams that’s a pretty big deal.
I think about sex too much.
One reason I have trouble conversing with women is because I’m thinking about sex the whole time.
“What can I say to lead this to sex?”
Usually I choose the wrong thing to say.
Thus why I should work in the porn industry. Besides the fact I’ve watched so much porn I can write and direct it at this point, working in porn would be good for other aspects of my life:
1.) I wouldn’t think about sex as much at night because I wouldn’t want to take my job home with me after working on it 9-5 every day.
2.) My weekends would be freed up since I wouldn’t waste so much time trying to get laid.
3.) And most importantly I could focus on the more important things in life, like macramé and my attempt to get my name in the Guinness Book of World Records (most bagels eaten in a week).
So porn, here I come…on your face.
The problem is I'm always taking naps on the subway so all I see is dreams. I report them though. I'm a samaritan like that.
I slap the emergency button, stop the subway, jump off, grab a security guard and say, “I just got laid” because even in my dreams that’s a pretty big deal.
I think about sex too much.
One reason I have trouble conversing with women is because I’m thinking about sex the whole time.
“What can I say to lead this to sex?”
Usually I choose the wrong thing to say.
Thus why I should work in the porn industry. Besides the fact I’ve watched so much porn I can write and direct it at this point, working in porn would be good for other aspects of my life:
1.) I wouldn’t think about sex as much at night because I wouldn’t want to take my job home with me after working on it 9-5 every day.
2.) My weekends would be freed up since I wouldn’t waste so much time trying to get laid.
3.) And most importantly I could focus on the more important things in life, like macramé and my attempt to get my name in the Guinness Book of World Records (most bagels eaten in a week).
So porn, here I come…on your face.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Limo Liner
Yesterday I lost my car keys in my parents’ house. If you ever want to hate everyone you talk to then lose your keys.
“Yea, I fucking checked my backpack 17 times! Don’t tell me to look again.”
“No, they’re not in the ignition. Stay out of this grandma. You’re not helping.”
Since I wanted to get home sooner than later I decided to treat myself to a trip down to New York on the limo liner bus.
When you get on a limo liner, you expect a lot for your $89. That’s worth approximately 6 Chinatown bus trips. For this much money I could have my bus break down six times on the high way because the driver was talking on his cell phone while doing 90 miles an hour in the breakdown lane with no permit, registration, or gas.
The good part about the limo liner, in addition to a complementary bagel and free viewing of Pirates of the Carribean: At World’s End, is that you don’t risk decapitation on a Greyhound and having your body eaten while you’re asleep. If I’m going to be murdered, it’s going to be in luxury.
We also have Wifi on here, which means I’ve checked email 80 times. Whenever I check my email I never have new messages. I should check to see if I have other things, like depression and a pitiful sex life. Then that wouldn’t show up so much. After that I should stop checking to see if I have my car keys and when they magically reappear I’ll drive home in the Ferrari I didn’t check to see if I had.
“Yea, I fucking checked my backpack 17 times! Don’t tell me to look again.”
“No, they’re not in the ignition. Stay out of this grandma. You’re not helping.”
Since I wanted to get home sooner than later I decided to treat myself to a trip down to New York on the limo liner bus.
When you get on a limo liner, you expect a lot for your $89. That’s worth approximately 6 Chinatown bus trips. For this much money I could have my bus break down six times on the high way because the driver was talking on his cell phone while doing 90 miles an hour in the breakdown lane with no permit, registration, or gas.
The good part about the limo liner, in addition to a complementary bagel and free viewing of Pirates of the Carribean: At World’s End, is that you don’t risk decapitation on a Greyhound and having your body eaten while you’re asleep. If I’m going to be murdered, it’s going to be in luxury.
We also have Wifi on here, which means I’ve checked email 80 times. Whenever I check my email I never have new messages. I should check to see if I have other things, like depression and a pitiful sex life. Then that wouldn’t show up so much. After that I should stop checking to see if I have my car keys and when they magically reappear I’ll drive home in the Ferrari I didn’t check to see if I had.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Karma & Lies
I told my friend, “my windshield needs to be replaced and insurance doesn’t cover it.”
And he said, “Here’s the secret for fixing that…” which I thought was the introduction to a wholesome idea... like if I mixed crazy glue with happiness then I could seal the crack forever.
Instead…
He told me to call one of those truck companies that carry salt or rocks and say, “I was driving behind your truck. Something flew off the top of it and cracked my windshield,” and they’ll replace my windshield for free without question because that happens so much.
Here’s why this wouldn’t work for me.
1.) Karma affects me more than most, probably because I assume everything relates to Karma.
“There’s no milk for my Corn Flakes? Thanks a lot karma.”
“The economy’s bad? It's because I lied to the salt delivery company.”
2.) I’m a terrible liar because I don’t have the confidence to stand by my lie. If I called the salt delivery company I’d be the first person in history they’d know was lying.
“Judging by the crack in your windshield I can tell you didn’t come anywhere near a salt truck and since we can prove this in a court of law, we’re going to sue and arrest you for fraud.”
“You’re absolutely right and I’m wrong about everything.”
Then because of karma I’d get the maximum sentence and be someone’s bitch within ten minutes because I don’t know how to lie.
“What are you in here for?”
“Um, kind of a long story, but basically I was murdering my friend for telling me I should call the salt truck company and…”
“You’re my bitch.”
“But I don’t have time to be your bitch. I have a doctor’s appointment at 4 and then…”
“You just bought yourself another butt raping my friend.”
And he said, “Here’s the secret for fixing that…” which I thought was the introduction to a wholesome idea... like if I mixed crazy glue with happiness then I could seal the crack forever.
Instead…
He told me to call one of those truck companies that carry salt or rocks and say, “I was driving behind your truck. Something flew off the top of it and cracked my windshield,” and they’ll replace my windshield for free without question because that happens so much.
Here’s why this wouldn’t work for me.
1.) Karma affects me more than most, probably because I assume everything relates to Karma.
“There’s no milk for my Corn Flakes? Thanks a lot karma.”
“The economy’s bad? It's because I lied to the salt delivery company.”
2.) I’m a terrible liar because I don’t have the confidence to stand by my lie. If I called the salt delivery company I’d be the first person in history they’d know was lying.
“Judging by the crack in your windshield I can tell you didn’t come anywhere near a salt truck and since we can prove this in a court of law, we’re going to sue and arrest you for fraud.”
“You’re absolutely right and I’m wrong about everything.”
Then because of karma I’d get the maximum sentence and be someone’s bitch within ten minutes because I don’t know how to lie.
“What are you in here for?”
“Um, kind of a long story, but basically I was murdering my friend for telling me I should call the salt truck company and…”
“You’re my bitch.”
“But I don’t have time to be your bitch. I have a doctor’s appointment at 4 and then…”
“You just bought yourself another butt raping my friend.”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
ER
Chilled in the hospital ER yesterday.
I'd never been to one. Before now I imagined Emergency rooms looked like someone was filming a sequel to "Carrie" and the only way in was if you were hemorrhaging from the face.
There must be a "seriously this is an emergency" emergency room because people didn't seem that sick where I was.
I couldn't believe I got in. "Oh, you find it inconvenient to wait for a doctor's appointment? Sounds like an emergency. Come on in and sit with some of the most ridiculous people."
There was a guy there who was hitting on a girl two seats down from him. That's really where I'd go to hit on someone. "You got syphilis? Me too. Small world. I bet we have a lot in common. Do you also like to have sex with creepy guys you meet in the ER?"
Some people probably weren't even that sick to begin with, but got sick waiting in the emergency room. My nurse who looked sicker than anyone there. He must've been employed just to infect people in case they weren't sick enough to stay.
When I sat down all he said was "what?" He looked too tired to say anything else: the perfect person to treat me.
I assumed he wanted to know my ailments. I told him everything I could think of. For some reason I always feel like I need to impress the doctor with my fucked up diseases, like he'll be like "wow, how do you cope with that? Have a lollipop and a certificate, my wacky friend."
My nurse wasn't impressed. He just nodded.
Then, while looking at my driver's license, he said, "how do you spell your last name?"
1.) My last name is spelled the same way it appears in bold font on my driver's license.
2.) Every race, color, and creed can be found in a New York ER, yet "Hirshon" is the name that throws him.
If you have a problem reading words, maybe you shouldn't be working in a hospital. That handicap tends to cause problems.
Three hours later I got my own room for more waiting. I knew I'd miss sitting next to the skinhead with the "Kathy" neck tattoo, but was happy to get a chance to lie on one of the world's most uncomfortable patient beds. If you like a mattress made out of 2x4s covered in dirty leather and wax paper then heaven has a place for you in the ER.
Turns out I'm sick. Thank god. I was going to be pissed if I wasn't.
Getting better.
I'd never been to one. Before now I imagined Emergency rooms looked like someone was filming a sequel to "Carrie" and the only way in was if you were hemorrhaging from the face.
There must be a "seriously this is an emergency" emergency room because people didn't seem that sick where I was.
I couldn't believe I got in. "Oh, you find it inconvenient to wait for a doctor's appointment? Sounds like an emergency. Come on in and sit with some of the most ridiculous people."
There was a guy there who was hitting on a girl two seats down from him. That's really where I'd go to hit on someone. "You got syphilis? Me too. Small world. I bet we have a lot in common. Do you also like to have sex with creepy guys you meet in the ER?"
Some people probably weren't even that sick to begin with, but got sick waiting in the emergency room. My nurse who looked sicker than anyone there. He must've been employed just to infect people in case they weren't sick enough to stay.
When I sat down all he said was "what?" He looked too tired to say anything else: the perfect person to treat me.
I assumed he wanted to know my ailments. I told him everything I could think of. For some reason I always feel like I need to impress the doctor with my fucked up diseases, like he'll be like "wow, how do you cope with that? Have a lollipop and a certificate, my wacky friend."
My nurse wasn't impressed. He just nodded.
Then, while looking at my driver's license, he said, "how do you spell your last name?"
1.) My last name is spelled the same way it appears in bold font on my driver's license.
2.) Every race, color, and creed can be found in a New York ER, yet "Hirshon" is the name that throws him.
If you have a problem reading words, maybe you shouldn't be working in a hospital. That handicap tends to cause problems.
Three hours later I got my own room for more waiting. I knew I'd miss sitting next to the skinhead with the "Kathy" neck tattoo, but was happy to get a chance to lie on one of the world's most uncomfortable patient beds. If you like a mattress made out of 2x4s covered in dirty leather and wax paper then heaven has a place for you in the ER.
Turns out I'm sick. Thank god. I was going to be pissed if I wasn't.
Getting better.
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