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I had a little free time yesterday, so I headed on down to the Walgreens Pharmacy to sit in the massage chair.
Sure it’s crusty and it smells like moldy people, but it touches me in a way that makes me feel loved. Unconditionally.
I like to really get settled in, peer out from under half-closed eyelids, let just the tiniest bit of drool escape the corner of my mouth, and stare at the cute male pharmacist behind the counter.
After about half an hour, I start adding in random twitches whenever he glances over, and my happiness is pretty much complete right around the time his lower lip starts to tremble.
It’s a peak experience.
This time however, my session was interrupted by a pregnant woman who sat down to wait for her prescription and immediately began talking at me.
It quickly became clear she ought to be there to re-up her OCD medication, as she used her hand sanitizer no less than 17 times, reorganized the contents of her purse, and wiped out her left shoe, all while keeping up a running commentary which included asking me if I owned a car and whether or not I had remembered to turn it off.
When I realized that only answering in grunts, low moans and making no eye contact what-so-ever, wasn’t going to deter her, I turned toward her to try my next tactic — the unnerving, hungry stare, paired with a statement of the obvious.
I started saying “So… you’re in Walgreens now,” in a suitably creepy and intense manner.
But she interrupted me before I could finish, to say “Yes, I have a glass eye.”
I immediately denied any knowledge of it, and claimed to not have noticed.
It actually was a pretty good glass eye, so one wouldn’t notice in passing and would only discover it upon looking directly at her, such as during forced conversation.
She went on to explain to me she had it because when she was born, something about her eye, I don’t know I was too busy staring at it to hear what she was saying.
Also, an epic battle was raging inside me. It went like this.
“Go ahead. Just do it. Ask her to take it out.”
“NO. That’s wrong Jonni. You’re not cool.”
“But I really want to.”
“Forget it.”
“But I’ve always wanted to see someone pluck their own eye out. And it might make that popping sound like a cork coming out of a bottle.”
“NO. This kind of behavior is not okay. You’re sick. Knock it off.”
“But maybe, if I ask her and she takes it out, maybe she’ll pop it into her mouth to lube it up right before she sticks it back in her head.”
“You think she’d do that?!”
“Maybe.”
“Neato.”
I cut her off in mid sentence — “Take it out.”
“What?!” she responded.
“Can you, is it, I mean, how often do you take your eye out?” I stumbled over the words, unable to do anything but plunge full speed ahead. “Does it hurt to take it out or put it in?”
“No, not at all.” She answered matter -of-factly.
I opened my mouth to say “Then do it.”
But right then the pharmacist called her name and she grabbed her things saying “Ah, my prescription’s ready. See you later.”
I wanted to reach out grab her sleeve and say “Wait!” I wanted to see her take out her eye, I wanted to roll it around in my hands. I wanted to see her wet it in her mouth before she popped it back into her socket. But mostly I wanted her to put it back in wrong, so I could lean over, put my hand to my mouth, and whisper loudly to her:
“Um… Your pupil’s not showing.”
Vegas baby.
Where everyone’s a whore and it’s easy to wake up to the fact that you’re in a room full of perverts.
Where all the garish opulence and no-expense-was-spared-to-make-sure-you-know-no-expense-was-spared details leave you covered in a thin film of cheap desperation.
Where even the sunshine becomes glitzy as it’s filtered through the giant cloud of money hovering over everything, shifting and rolling like one of the great lakes. You feel the weight of that cloud in your soul, so you demand free drinks and celebrate every tiny win like a last minute death row reprieve.
Where you look out the window and your eyes see the breathtaking views of the mountains ringing the desert, but your heart sees the dead bodies and buried cash circling the city.
Yeah, Vegas.
Where you can learn a thing or two.
I went out to Vegas to meet up with a friend I hadn’t seen in 7 years.
First thing I learned was that I’d forgotten how I hate meeting new people when I’m with my friend Johnny B. Somehow, when it gets to the part of the conversation where you exchange names, he always gets to go first. It’s like this:
New Person reaching over to shake my friend’s hand, “Hey, I’m So-and-So by the way.”
My Friend grabs his hand, “Johnny B. nice to meet you.”
So-and-So offers his hand to me, “And you are…?”
I somehow find myself trying to be as convincing and cool as possible, “Jonni, nice to meet you.”
So-and-So gets that look on their face and hesitates as their brain revolts against this stupid-glitch-in-the-matrix-joke feeling they’re getting and then repeats my name in the form of a question, “Johnny?”
And I find myself trying to respond as confidently as possible, ”Yes, I’m Jonni.”
Invariably at these times I begin wondering why on earth my friend’s last initial has to be B, as that really only compounds the problem. (Oh, he’s Johnny B, so you’re like Jonni A? You’re kidding right?)
It’s very disconcerting to travel around under a cloud of suspicion anyway, (everyone is convinced my name is completely made up, I mean come on, Jonni La Force? Yeah, right) but it’s amplified when I’m the second half of the Jonni and Johnny B equation.
Think about it, have you any idea what it’s like trying to be convincing when giving your real name? It really undermines my sense of reality.
And when’s the last time you were given a look that communicates “Not only do I think you’re one of those people that picks out their own name and insists everyone use it, but you have poor taste in names, you’re unoriginal and just weird choosing the same name as the guy you’re with. Freak show.” (I know there’s supposed to be a question mark at the end of that sentence, I don’t care.)
I also learned that I like gin and tonics.
First time I indulged in alcohol in seven years and I found it very eye-opening.
For instance, I apparently become much more nerdy when under the influence, but I’m just as impaired as everyone else, so I don’t make sense twice as bad.
I begin saying things such as “It’s just like Bushido but with less evisceration” when discussing the rules of gambling. I also am prone to reassuring people by patting their knee and stating “Don’t worry, that’s perfectly appropriate social behavior” and I emphatically pronounced “There must be a way to create a mathematical algorithm that could pinpoint more specifically the areas that it’s most statistically probable the planes dropped the money” when I was regaled with tales of drug and cash smuggling gone wrong in the jungles of Columbia.
Ah well. At least the night I imbibed I was among strangers who don’t care what I do, and close friends who will forgive me my trespasses.
And of course the strangers that night were named Jenny and John. So, yes the group was Jenny, John, Johnny, and Jonni.
Coming up on 5am, many free drinks later, I found myself alone with John, indulging in what I dubbed Slot Machine Confessions.
John opened up. “Alright, I’ve got one. This was back in fourth grade. Or Kindergarten, or second grade. I don’t know, but it happened in one of those grades.”
Me: “Second grade.”
John: “Okay. Second grade. I was suspended for exposing myself to the class out on the playground.”
Me: “So you’re like a sexual predator or a registered sex offender?”
John: “Yes. Exactly. Only I wasn’t. The principle called me in his office and told me I was suspended for exposing myself to all the ladies, but that’s not what really happened.”
Me: “What really happened?”
John: “Here’s what really happened. I was out on the playground with my buddy, and I said to him ‘Hey, I’m wearing He-Man underpants.’ And then I just pulled down the side of my waist band to show him.”
Me: “You were just bragging about your He-Man underpants?” I patted his knee, “I think that’s definitely socially appropriate behavior.”
John: “Yep.”
I remember chuckling about a little kid’s pride in his He-Man underwear as I sat on the plane on the way back from Vegas.
Oh, yeah, I even learned a little something on the flight back. I decided to watch Heroes Season 1, to pass the time, (never saw it before) and I learned that Hayden Panatteire’s hair extensions make me feel like I’m Chekov and Khan has pinned me down and put that little bug in my ear and it’s eating it’s way into my brain, threatening to turn me into his automaton.
Crap, I think I pawned my ability to write hilarious blogs for just a little more gambling money in Vegas.
So I went and tried my hand at speed dating. (I know you rely on me for a lot of your “facts” therefore I felt obligated.)
It’s a good thing I did too, because it turns out that it is NOT as self-explanatory as you would think.
My understanding of speed dating was that you basically compress time until it’s miniaturized. Thus, 12 dates in 12 weeks becomes 6 dates in one night. Instead of spending 6 hours getting to know someone, you spend 6 minutes grilling them like they know the sequence to disarm the bomb that’s about to go off, and you’re the only one who can get it out of them.
I thought speed dating meant more of the good stuff (6 dates means 6 times the LOVE right?) and less of the bad stuff (instead of spending 3 months pin-pointing all the things I don’t like about you, realizing you’re never going to change, and then rejecting you, I could simply slip into hyper-critical mode and dismiss you based on the first words out of your mouth and the way you breath, right? Stupid mouth-breather.)
Realizing that I would have limited time and wanting to use it as efficiently as possible, I took the time to write a list of questions before attending.
Thus armed, the first date begins and I immediately start my rapid fire third degree:
Me: ”If you were a galaxy, which one would you be? And don’t say Andromeda everyone says that.”
Random Dude: “The Milky Way.”
Me: “Pervert. NEXT!”
Second date begins.
Me: “If you were a seahorse what would it feel like?”
Random Dude: “…uh”
Me: “Is it in fact true that your favorite color is Magenta?”
RD: “No.”
Me: ”Goldenrod?”
RD: ”No.”
Me: ”Puce?”
RD: ”No.”
Me: ”Chartreuse?”
RD: ”No.”
Me: “Burnt Sienna?”
RD: “No.”
Me: “Burnt Umber?”
RD: ”No.”
Me: ”Prussian Blue?”
RD: ”No”
Me: ”So you hate color.”
RD: “NO!”
Me: ”Color-hater. NEXT!”
Third date begins.
Me: ”Finish this sentence “I only watch porn when I’m horny, so that proves I’m not addicted…..”
RD: ”……to sex.”
Me: ”That didn’t make any sense. NEXT!”
Fourth date begins.
Me: ”Finish this sentence “I only kick babies when….”
RD: ”…when they’re bad?”
Me: ”Sorry I can’t date a baby-kicker. NEXT!”
Fifth date begins.
Me: ”Have you ever been or are you currently pregnant?”
RD: ”…..”
Me: ”What do Ron Jeremy, Mother Theresa, and my brother have in common?”
RD: ”…did you say your brother?”
Me: ”Name 5 reasons why you don’t believe the Hubble Telescope exists.”
RD: ”Well, I’ve never seen it for one. Two, no one’s even proven that we landed on the moon yet. Three–”
Me: ”I’m sorry, I don’t date paranoid conspiracy theory nuts. NEXT!”
Sixth date begins.
Me: ”What are plants made of?”
RD: ”…um, living….fibers?”
Me: ”Hahahahahaha! Living fibers, that’s a good one. Okay, next question. Let’s see….Have you seen my other sock anywhere?”
RD: ”Yes.”
Me: ”Ewww, you spooged in it didnt’ you?! Creepy, masturbating, foot-fetish stalker! Okay, next question. Let’s see…Why did you wear that shirt?”
RD: ”Because I had it dry cleaned.”
Me: ”Why am I so itchy?”
RD: ”Because you need to be scratched?”
Me: ”If I gave you the gun I have in my purse right now, and the syringe I’m hiding in my bra, how much money could you bring me in the next 12 hours?”
RD: (Leans forward) “Seriously?” (Looks around) “A couple hundred thousand dollars.”
I waved the speed dating Organizer over.
Organizer: “Yes?”
Me: ”So do you guys have a special room for the next part of our date? Or….do we just go to the bathroom? Or…what?”
And that’s when I discovered yet another way that speed dating is not just regular dating at a much faster pace.
Ah well, live and learn.
Tune in next week for : Top Ten Reasons A Restaurant Will Press Felony Charges On You!
with handy bonus feature: How To Broach The Subject Of Bail With Your Boss.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Alright people, you know you’re on a SLIPPERY SLOPE when you start out watching a video on how to open a wine bottle with a phone book ………….. and end up watching an 8 year old breast-feeding.
How does it happen?!
I know you’ve experienced the YouTube abduction as well.
It’s just like an alien abduction only instead of a bright flash of light, there are bright flickering lights. But you still lose a minimum of 12 minutes, and more likely you’ll lose 12 hours.
You come out severely traumatized by the things you have witnessed, and if you try to talk about your experience with others they question your sanity.
Then they demand to be shown proof.
But really, how did that happen to me?! How on earth, did I start out watching a perfectly innocent, normal, helpful, video, teaching me how to improvise/use my wits, and end up waking from an internet stupor, to find myself watching an 8 year old breast feed?!!
It’s like the weirdest, most twisted version of the Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon game.
I will now parade my shame for you.
Let’s see, I started out here
Then went to how to open a bottle of wine with a shoe
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5BoV2KLxYQ
Then went to opening a bottle of wine with a match
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4reHRhT8MNU
Then went to Bar Trick With Shot Glass Revealed, because of course even though I’ve never seen the trick itself, I’ve got to know the secret behind it, right?
Let me warn you, it’s not impressive.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBtG0EafrT0
Then I clicked on the Dime In A Bottle Trick, which by the way directs you to another site to learn the secret behind the trick. But I didn’t go to that site, because I already figured out the trick just by watching the video, ahem, twice..ish.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYOvqfvKnj0
Next I clicked on The Worlds Funniest Dinner Trick, because as you can see I was beginning to pick up speed on the SLIPPERY SLOPE.
By the way, after watching the video I find the title to be a little presumptuous.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ecu1SWO0IM
Then I clicked on Scary Magic.
It’s trite and easy to figure out.
Sadly, that didn’t stop me from watching the whole thing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ToMYdBpTH4I
From there I naturally went to the Magic Baby Finger. This one I’m embedding as I think you should watch it. Not because it’s good, but because I don’t want to be the only one who has watched it.
Just the fact that this guys friends call it his “Magic Baby Finger” clearly demonstrates that they have my kind of a sick sense of humor.
It really went downhill from there as I quickly clicked on Scary Baby, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5awlX_4wPg, not scary at all by the way, Scary Babies http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IxnM2g5YS8, once again – not scary, just stupid. It’s only 30 seconds and I still couldn’t finish it.
And that’s when I spied the MOTHER LODE, or what you would more likely call ROCK BOTTOM.
Come on, how do you see the headline “Breastfeeding …… at 8″ and not click on it?!
I know you’re about to do the same thing I did.
I’m ensuring that fact by embedding it here. Go ahead, click play. What, you think you’re better than me?
Who are you kidding? Watch it.
As you can see, it’s actually no big deal. Just kinda neato, as it’s not something you see every day.
SO……
I will now leave you with the few videos I’m not so ashamed of watching.
First this one – it’s so unbelievably awesome, you’ll be stoked you gave up 59 seconds of your time to watch it,
and you’re going to share it with others,
which they’ll thank you for.
It’s the circle of life.
This one just makes me laugh and it’s only 11 seconds.
You’ve probably already seen this one, but it’s worth putting here anyway.
I mean, it’s got everything.
A brief skirmish between an alligator and some lions, a lion getting flung completely into the air by a water buffalo, a daring rescue that saves a baby, and a pride of lions being utterly vanquished.
Yes, it’s that epic.
Watch it and grow as a person.
Lastly, I leave you with this.
You must go to this link, scroll down to the bottom of the page and watch Building Body Parts From Scratch.
It will fill you with joy, hope, and awe.
Unless your dead inside.
In which case, you’ve obviously fallen too far down the You Tube, and can’t get up.
But really, click here, scroll to the bottom, watch the very last video and BE AMAZED!
http://blog.wired.com/wiredscience/2008/11/top-10-amazin-1.html
Your welcome.
I’ve been wanting to get out of town lately, but the SERVICE ENGINE SOON light came on in my truck about a week ago. As a matter of fact it came on exactly three days after I had the engine serviced.
Of course it makes sense. After all, if you’d serviced me for the first time in a year and a half, I would immediately think “Hey let’s do that again!”
So, back at the same service station, the mechanic’s got my truck hooked up to the diagnostic machine and he’s explaining to me
“It’s just the O2 sensor needs to be replaced.”
We’ve got the hood up, he’s pointing out it’s whereabouts to reassure me of it’s existence, but I can’t see because out of the corner of my eye, I have caught sight of something SHINY.
I’m pretty sure my raven-like response to this SHINY OBJECT only reinforced this guy’s suspicion that I was mildly retarded. My eyes glazed over, and I reached for it before it even came into focus.
Believe it or not, I had already come across as feeble-minded, prior to my face going slack while my stare became fixed somewhere between the mechanic to my left and the SHINY OBJECT to my right, struggling desperately to pay attention to what he was pointing at, but being completely caught up in the fog of curiosity, my right hand groping it’s way and my mouth mumbling “What’s this?” like I was pulling a coin out of someone’s ear.
See, he had a fairly strong…. um… American accent. (I can only describe it as American, because it clearly wasn’t foreign, it wasn’t stereotypically Southern, and it certainly wasn’t North Dakotan.) And I have a lot of trouble understanding even the mildest of accents. Shoot, I barely made it through Alabama without having the natives there convinced I was “touched in the head.”
So when I run into someone with an accent, the net effect is just like the 7 second delay on live feed.
They say something, I nod cheerfully, while my eyes fix theirs with a blank stare. Then right around the time they get a concerned look and take another breath to repeat themselves, my comprehension kicks in and I respond.
So the mechanic’s looking at me with utter conviction that he’s going to have to re-explain what the O2 sensor is, to no avail, and I pull this SHINY OBJECT out of the dead leaves piled up under the hood near where the engine connects to the cab.
This thing was neat-O! No, that’s not the right word.
It was super cool! No, that’s not it either.
What was it exactly? Let’s see, it was….. I know!
It was
Yeah, that’s a picture of the shiny object I found.
Trust me when I tell you the only thing you can say when you find that under your hood is
As I have never seen this object before in my life, I have no idea how it got there.
The only thing I can come up with is that someone left it under one of my windshield wipers and it slid down under the hood before I saw it.
I was either a victim of a random act of kindness, or I have a secret admirer. Either one is totally
By the way, do not ask me why my face looks like I’m having a stroke in that last picture.
I don’t even care ,because finding this shiny object under my hood and assuming it had been put there by someone trying to clearly communicate how they felt about me, caused me to immediately label myself as 100%
However, I must admit, right at the height of my hubris, an awful thought struck me. It was not so
“I have been repeatedly loaning my truck to Becky, (the other girl in the above photos),
what if this was meant for her?!”
She is, after all, clearly
Well, we’ll probably never know, but I take great heart in the fact that it is statistically more probable that it was meant for me, if you break it down by time spent in possession of the truck.
Either way, the mechanic, Becky and I all agree, it is still thoroughly
Okay that’s enough of that.
In summation, it’s clearly a sign from God. He’s stoked about my road trip, he’s impressed with me in general, and he’s glad I worked his son into my last blog.
He even finds it kind of cute that I don’t believe in him.
Now whether I accomplish what I set out to do on my road trip, or I get horribly maimed in a terrible car accident, it will all still be doubly
How awesome is that?!
Woohoo!
