Chris Rock-ed!!!

I got my mind completely blown last night. Scored some last minute tickets with my buddies Jason and Kojo, got to see Chris Rock in concert at Constitution Hall. Had never seen him live before, what an experience. It was not dissimilar to the time I saw Seinfeld in that I was actually left physically overwhelmed by the raw quality of what I saw. About 45 minutes in, I found myself physically unable to laugh even though my brain was registering joke after joke after joke. The man did an hour and fifty minutes without breaking a sweat. I’ve never been at a comedy that was so long and so good I got second and third winds. It was almost like spending all day at church, only fun.

 

It was a 7:30 Monday night show and the three of us walked out at 10:30 feeling speechless and beat up. It was as if someone had been assaulting us in a dark room for the last three hours and then showed off pictures of our parents sleeping to scare us into keeping our mouths shut. I will never forget the soreness in my face, like a thousand cheek pinches from a thousand aunties; may have been the most sublime pain I have ever felt. Bottom line: the show was really really good.

 

While the show was outstanding in every way, it’s kinda tough for a young comic to fully enjoy a Chris Rock concert. After Rock talks about a topic, it often seems like there’s just no point to anybody else attempting to work that theme anymore. He can open and close the door on a subject all in the same show. As a comic, you may think you’re onto something, finding your voice, got a lead onto some new novel observation that’s going to turn the laughing world on it’s ear. You think you’ve discovered fire, you’re trying to remind yourself to not get cocky about it, but in your mind, you’re like

 

“This idea right here, this is Excalibur baby, they just ain’t ready…”.

 

Then you sit down for two hours and listen to some of the truest stuff you’ve ever heard in your life, stuff so true, some of it transcends being funny, like funny is beneath it. Even as you’re enjoying what you’re hearing, a part of you is gallantly but futilely fighting the strangest, sweetest despair

 

“…Hmm. What the hell am I going to talk about now? What are any of us going to talk about, really? Some of us may make money from time to time, but we ain’t pros. We on some ole’ hobby sh*t and it’s time to wake up… is it too late for me to get licensed as an architect?”

 

The jealous part of you just loses touch with sanity for a second, start thinking of stuff that doesn’t even make sense

 

“Ok, I can see I’m gonna have to break this mofo’s knees or something, see how he tells jokes from a chair… it’s hard to hold a mic AND crutches at the same time baby!”

 

Then he says something else funny and you forget what you were talking about

 

“Hahahahahaa, black women CAN be like that! We love em, but they know it’s true, tell it Chris! Wait… what was I saying again? Damn. I guess I better hit that notebook and get back to work.”

 

As much humor envy as I’m spouting right now, I really don’t want to lose sight of the fact that the show was amazing amazing amazing. The only truly agonizing moment of the evening was standing in the bathroom line during intermission, waiting to see if I’d get a urinal or a stall. I hate urinals. As a general rule I have no interest in being within 3 feet of another man while his pants are unzipped, yet urinals make sure this happens for me on a near-daily basis, yay me. I always end up standing next to some talkative middle-aged ass-clown who wants to pretend like it’s normal to discuss the Redskins coaching staff while your genitals are exposed.

 

My favorite part is the whole show-us-what-you-got thing, the discomfited faceoff between the “grow-ers” and the “show-ers”, you ladies just don’t know what you’re missing. You can tell all the “show-ers” because they stand back like they’re at a shooting range and make a super-demonstrative display about shaking off so everybody can see in their periphery, very obnoxious, and a little traumatic. You can tell all the “grow-ers” because they look around a lot and get up close like they’re about to break into a car, a very nice car in a neighborhood they have no business being in. Some guys get their hips so deep into the porcelain surround, it looks like they’re trying to make a baby with the commode. Whether you’re a “show-er” or a “grow-er” the whole affair is shameful and dehumanizing. Ladies should really cut men a break the next time they want to pummel their men for misbehaving. It’s no wonder we act like immature animals, that’s exactly what they make us pee like.

 

My name is Mike and I spent part of an incredible evening with Chris Rock watching other men relieve themselves.

A Beautiful Day

I love rain. It justifies all my favorite lazy activities, sleeping, watching movies, putting off tasks that could help further my career, rain is a sweet enabler. Had lost track of how much fun it was to be in the rain until I walked to work this morning; not quite Gene Kelly fun, not quite end-of-Shawshank Redemption-fun, but still pretty fun. I considered putting away my umbrella for part of the walk, but raindrops feel really weird when you’re bald, like God is dropping egg yolks on your head. I try to call him out for being an immature prankster, but everytime I just end up sounding like Short Round from Indiana Jones

 

“Ha ha ha, very funny! I very little, you cheat very big!”

 

Has it occurred to anyone else that the character of Short Round could probably have never been filmed in today’s PC society? It was cute I guess because he was a kid, but you probably still couldn’t get away with it today. At least Short Round could say the letter L, so I guess it was still a step forward from Mickey Rooney’s Mr. Yunioshi character in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, that was jaw-droppingly racist. It was funny, but you’re ashamed that it’s funny, kind of like watching somebody fall down a flight of stairs with a bunch of groceries in their hand. I was actually in awe at how racist that Mr. Yunioshi character was, like

 

“Wow. …and nobody tried to burn the theaters down when this came out? Amazing.”

 

Anyway, I think rain is good weather for being at work, especially when you have a desk job, keeps you from daydreaming about being somewhere else. It’s easier to stay focused when the sky looks like you’re about 3 miles from Mordor, Mt. Doom and the lidless flamed eye of Sauron.

 

I want to say thanks again to everyone at the DC Improv for being so cool to me this week. That was a fun set of shows, Judah Friedlander is one of the best onstage trash talkers I’ve ever seen, which is surprising considering how nice he is. Usually you have to be a certified jerk to talk smack like that (always lifting weights because people are waiting in line to beat you up at the first opportunity), but he was really really cool. Had a great time kicking it with the feature Jeremy Schachter, one would really have to go out of his way to not like this guy, plus in addition to being just funny in general, his bit on text messaging is one of the best structured jokes I’ve ever heard. Every time I saw it, it was like watching a magic trick from “The Prestige”. Good times indeed.

 

Last bit of love is for the Improv staff, they always take care of me when I’m there, plus they’re fun to just hang out with. Am not sure I’ll forgive em for the “Smirnoff Ice” incident. I was drinking one after the Friday night shows, kicking it with my boy Bryson, they put some blue stuff in it. I thought it was just flavoring, I thought wrong. Maybe it was just a shock to the system because I had been drinking Shirley Temples all night, maybe anyone who drinks Shirley Temple’s all night deserves to have his system shocked, but whatever the case your boy was lit.

 

What a strange episode. For some reason my chest felt funny and on at least three different occasions I claimed to have captained the USS Enterprise and had a secret love child with Uhura. Woke up on the floor of Bryson’s apartment at 4 in the morning and started writing a blog about my office’s cleaning lady, like if I could get into to doing something routine, my body would go back to business as usual. It didn’t. I can normally hold my liquor better than that, but it was a amusing experience in that I now know how the Native Americans got duped into selling New York for $23 and some trinkets; if I owned a car Friday night, I’m sure I would have sold it to someone for $2.75 and a sweat-stained Capital One t-shirt.

 

My name is Mike and I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about either.

Bad Friend

I realized while I was shaving yesterday that I missed my friend Aparna’s dance recital. By a week. A week Mike? Yes, a whole week, I couldn’t believe it either, what a deadbeat. The only funny thing was that because I was shaving, I happened to be looking in the mirror at the time; it’s very rare to be able to see yourself realizing what an ass you are. Kinda like a poor man’s out-of-body experience, recommended for the budding agnostic who wants to know what all the hubbub’s about.

 

A week. A week a week a week. Wow. Just standing in the mirror like a clown, getting my thoughts together for my own show that night, when my half-assed neurons finally got around to firing…

 

“…Yeah, tomorrow afternoon should be fun, gonna catch this dance recital, get me some culture… I just gotta print a metro schedule, bus should let me off right near Oakton Middle School, what time was that again? …wait, did that flier say the 13^th? Hmm. That would be curious, because today’s the 19^th…ummmm, oh.”

 

How embarrassing. Not just that I couldn’t make it, but that I didn’t even remember to send a message later. It would’ve probably been okay if I remembered Monday, maybe even Tuesday. By Wednesday, the apology window’s starting to close and after that it’s best to have an excuse that involves serious bodily injury, an ailing loved one who took you out for fishing and baseball games when you were a kid, or a case of amnesia (if it works for “Days of Our Lives” and “24”, then why not me?).

 

It wouldn’t be so bad either if I hadn’t sent just Aparna a message the Friday before saying how much I was looking forward to catching the show, having missed last year’s as well. Yeah, I was looking forward to it, so much that I completely forgot to come or at least acknowledge that I missed it. What a jerk. I am literally stupefied at the inferior quality of my friendship right now.

 

Maybe I have Alzheimer’s. Maybe I should say I have Alzheimer’s. Maybe I should pretend not to recognize Aparna the next time I see her, like the toll of 27 years has turned my mind into tapioca, and all in the span of a week no less, it’s a real medical marvel when you think about it. Maybe I should pretend to have sustained a debilitating head trauma that’s left me in a semi-vegetative state. She’ll be so distracted watching me relearn how to use a spoon so I can eat applesauce by myself… how could anyone expect a guy to find Oakton in that shape, right?

 

Maybe I should just man up. Aparna, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I missed your recital, why you’re my friend is beyond me sometimes. It may not that big a deal to you because you’re so busy and might not have even noticed, but it’s a big deal to me because I told you I’d be there. Feel free to post a blog about d-bag friends who forget stuff and then apologize through their blog because they’re too much of a punk to do it in person, or you can do one about d-bag friends who are so narcisstic they think it must’ve rocked your world if they don’t come out to something. Either way, if it makes you feel any better you can kick me in the groin from behind next time you’re in the neighborhood, it’s more painful when the guy doesn’t see it coming. But forreal doe, I’m sorry again A-parn, I really will try to do better next time. By better, I mean I’ll at least remember to send a one-line apology email within 3-4 business days.

 

“Hey, uh, sorry I missed your thing, you know how it is. – Mike”

 

My name is Mike and there’s a reason nobody asks my opinion.

You Know I Don’t Speak Spanish, Right?

There’s this lady who comes to take out the trash in my office. Now if I were brave and/or cultured, I could venture a guess and say she’s from Mexico, Puerto Rico or maybe El Salvador, but I’m not brave or cultured so I’ll just say she was of “Latin descent” (That’s how white people talk when they aren’t sure who’s listening but know they REALLY don’t want to get beat up today).

 

As an aside, I’ve been trying to decide whether it feels more racist to take a bad guess at where somebody’s from and be completely wrong or to be too afraid to speculate at all.

 

“I don’t know where he’s from, I don’t care, wherever it is, I’m sure they’ve got knives…”

 

Why do people bother saying “completely wrong” anyway? Are there degrees of wrong here? Will I get racial partial credit? Only half an ass whipping? This whole line of discussion is wrong, that’s why I don’t talk about race more; even when you’re good at it it’s hard not to sound like an ass, and as you can see here I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Moving on…

 

So anyway, there’s this lady of Latin descent, she comes by my office every day around 5 to change out the trash bags at everyone’s desk. Every day, she goes through this song-and-dance with my white coworkers

 

“Hola!”

“Uh, um hola, como esta?”

 

And then she launches into a paragraph-long response in Spanish that they can’t possibly understand, just nod along to. They know they don’t understand her, she knows they don’t understand her. I guess they must feel obligated by “white guilt” to play along, and she seems to delight in sticking it to em.

 

“Yeah I may be changing trash bags, but you people are my linguistic biatches… never forget that, sucka!”

 

The whole display is very passive aggressive and she repeats this routine for every single employee, every single day. That is, until she gets to my desk, where I politely make a point of cheerily beating her to the punch.

 

“Hello!”

“Uh, um hi.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

 

And that’s it. That’s our conversation, every day, every single f-ing day, word for word, a childish struggle on an epic scale. It was a little tense at first (I know she has to have thought about taking a mop handle to my skull), but I think we’re developing a healthy respect for each other.

 

“Wow, this guy is a some kind of Black Angus, Rancher’s Reserve-grade tool bag, he must be really unimportant to be that petty, I’d better leave him alone, at least until my new mop handle comes in…”

 

She can’t be really mad anyway; she knows she’s wrong. She’s playing on people’s desire not to feel like a bigot so she can punk them into speaking half-assed Spanish against their will. She miscalculated with me though, because I’m not going to feel like a bigot, at least not for that. With slavery and the civil rights struggle, my people have a lot of racial brownie points in the bank, so it takes a lot for me and mine to feel racist, even for stuff that probably is racist.

 

I’m disgusted with how much moral victories like this please me, but please me they do. And no, I don’t feel like she has to speak English just because she’s in America. On the other hand I don’t feel like I should have to speak Spanish either, and certainly not just because she’s wants me to. I don’t want to speak Spanish right now lady. I have no intention of learning Spanish either, not unless I happen to be dating some beautiful Latina girl, the kind of girl you see in old Jon Secada videos, who makes you forget you’re driving an automobile and that cars can’t go through trees, regardless of what you saw on cartoons. If I ever get to date one of those girls, then I will pick up some Rosetta Stone like it’s an organ ready for transplant; the way your boy is going to be sounding stuff out is going to be downright inspirational.

 

“Vas aqui senorita, da me tu leche. Mmmm, es bueno, pero queiro mas. Quieres mas tambien? Si, mas… mas mas, Menos, menos!… arghhh, ooh, no, ah, eh, ah Ay-Yi-Yi! Ehh, whew. Fue fantasticamente, no? Gracias mi amor, me gustas mucho, creo que tienes mi corazon, necissito una siesta… Que? Estas embarazada? Tan pronto? Pero… Umm, lo siento, tengo ir... si ahora… Que? Hah! Solomente si tus hermanos puedan encontrar-me, hasta luego!”

 

Pretty sure both the grammar and the content in that last paragraph is messed up like Chinese civil liberties. My apologies to anyone who actually speaks Spanish or took the time to translate that dreck; your frustration is justified. My name is Mike and nobody asked my opinion in the first place.

Playing Hooky

Why does it seem like the weather’s always nicest on workdays lately? As I walked in this morning, decided it was way too nice to spend the whole day in the office, but I’m gonna have to be here for the duration today. I may have to be here myself until 5, but that doesn’t mean I can’t brainstorm some ways to help you get your dereliction of duty on. Here’s a few ways to get out of the office in a pinch, feel free to add your own ideas in the comments section

 

1) Feign a stomach illness after lunch, like that Panera Bread hit your tummy in exactly the wrong way (And yes, it’s ok to say tummy when you’re talking about stomach issues, I checked. The rules state the use of “tummy is allowable only for female aerobics instructors, hot chicks who think your pot belly is cute, and anyone with serious stomach issues) Give it about thirty minutes, then start groaning and sighing ever-so-audibly, then 10 minutes later, just stand up and say

 

“You know what? I’m not feeling very well, I think I have to go. Um, yeah, I definitely have to go. I’m gonna go.”

 

Jealous coworkers will look at you suspiciously at first, try to loud-talk you out of it…

 

“You’re leaving? But why? It’s only 2…”

 

Just make a face like you’re about to do critical damage to an innocent toilet and you’ll be home free. No matter how much of a hard-ass your supervisor is or how much of a prick your coworkers are, no one wants the demise of your gastrointestinal system on his or her conscience. That’s the kind of thing people never stop talking about.

 

“You know Gina down in HR don’t you? She’s the one who made Mike sh*t on himself…”

 

2) For the more dignified cubicle dweller, pretend you just got a phone call for a personal emergency. This is where acting really comes into play, better practice your lines in the restroom or parking lot a few times before going live with this show, there is very little room for error. The great thing about this scheme is in the age of cell phones and vibrate you don’t even have to get the phone to ring, just look down at your waist and put the phone to your head

 

“Hello? Hey, how’s it going… well is everything ok? Really? How long? Ok, I’ll be right there…”

 

Grab your bag and jacket, you should look stressed and in a hurry like you don’t have time to get into detail…

 

“Um, I have to go, probably won’t be back today, shoot me an email if you need anything, I may not be available this afternoon but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

 

The less you say the worse people will think it is. You’re not lying to anyone, you just forgot to tell people that nothing was wrong.

 

3) For the desperate type, you could always make up an office errand, like a walk to the post office, and then just happen to get “slightly” hit by a car on the way. The office will be so nervous about you suing, no one will protest you going home. You might get a skinned knee or broken fibula, but at least you’ll have a skinned knee or broken fibula in the sunshine.

 

4) Two words: Bomb Threat. Might get arrested, but it probably won’t be until Monday, and who wants to work Monday anyway?

 

5) Take your plastic applesauce spoon and tunnel through the back wall of the copier room. Could be embarrassing if you tunnel through the wrong part of the wall wall and end up digging your way into the conference room, especially if it’s during a meeting, best to check some architectural plans first.

 

6) Wikipedia religious holidays for that day of the week and claim to be whatever obscure religion has that day off.

 

“I’m sorry Gina, it’s the Mayan New Year and I need to be with my family, you know how that is...”

 

7) Slip some ether into the office ventilation system. It’s a little Joker-esque, but as long as there’s no ransom note or property damage, I don’t think you can be charged with a crime.

 

8) Get stinking drunk at lunch and come back to the office reeking of Jack Daniels, accompanied by a woman who is clearly a prostitute but whom you insist on introducing as your new fiancée. Can’t think of a louder cry for help than finding a hooker in the daytime and bringing her to work, if this doesn’t get you sent home, nothing will.

 

9) Cause two office rivals to get in a physical altercation with each other. While everyone’s distracted with talking to the cops and trying to get that stapler out of Clayton’s sphincter without taking him to the hospital, you can be catnapping in the park or driving to the beach.

 

10) As a last resort, try crying vociferously, but don’t say what’s making you upset. Every time someone asks you what’s wrong, begin a heavy-sounding sentence and just start crying harder.

 

“I just…”

“I’m trying to….”

“It’s too much….”

 

This should get you out of the office, but it might be the only suggestion that’s less dignified than the monumental diarrhea. Is actually probably more straightforward to just quit your job, at least you’d have your self-respect.

 

 

I suppose if you had real courage you could just walk up to your boss and say

 

“You know what, it’s too nice out to be cooped up in an office all afternoon. I’m going to a baseball game; I’ll see you Monday. You should get out of here too.”

 

But let’s be honest if you had that kind of leadership potential, you’d probably have a more fun job and wouldn’t want to leave work anyway. I think that’s the real reason, we dislike people who like their jobs too much; they still enjoy working on pretty days. My name is Mike and nobody asked my opinion in the first place.

Ya Can’t Look Gangsta in a Corolla

You can do what you want if you’re driving a Bentley, a Lexus, an obnoxiously large SUV that cost more to fill up per year than the house I grew up in. But if you’re driving a Toyota with a missing hub cap and a trash bag for a back driver’s side window, please please please don’t let anybody see you vogue-ing like you’re a gangster and your ride is the viciousness. I was eating lunch outside yesterday, heard that familiar bass beat from the parking lot behind me, somebody’s bumpin’ some Kanye. I turn around to see who’s disturbing my repast, it’s this clown in a Corolla, driving with one hand on the wheel, leaning back on the center console like he just knows these ho’s better have his money.

 

I’m not making fun of Corollas or people who drive them. My broke ass doesn’t even have a car of my own right now, and when I did have a car it was a 1987 Volvo station wagon. I loved the way it drove but the sunroof leaked, only one of the back doors opened and if you rolled down one of the windows there was a good chance you would never get that bad boy up again. Every time I gave somebody a ride somewhere I have to do a ten-minute flight attendant’s presentation on the emergency exit procedures and “stuff you can’t touch or this mofo might break down”. The saddest day of my college life was noticing I had better luck meeting girls in a nice pair of New Balances than my car. Picking girls for dates up was always precarious, I may have invented speed dating, some of my rendezvous’ were done in record time .

 

“…yeah, I know, I’m happy we’re finally getting together too, I’ve seen you checking me out from across the classroom… so which one’s yours? Oh… oh…hm. Uh, you know I totally forgot I told Keisha I’d help her with her chemistry homework tonight, afraid I’m gonna have to take a raincheck. Thanks for inviting me out though, you’re really sweet…”

“No, I can’t be sweet baby, cause a sweet man would never tell you to get the f*ck out. I think you need to step. Not through that door though, that one’s stuck…”

 

 

People tell me I’m a nice guy, I have a hard time taking credit for that compliment. You kinda have no choice but to be nice to people when you drive an 87 Volvo Station wagon; with a car that old you never know when you’re going to need a ride. Plus you don’t want to piss people off, get em started making fun of your wheels. I had the kind of friends who could make an evening of talking smack about my poor car leave a brother absolutely dumbfounded…

 

“Wow, I can’t believe Kenny just did a half-hour special on my Volvo, Kenny needs church and I need to get my life together…”

 

The difference between me and Corolla-dude is that I knew my car was a “piece”; you’d be hard pressed to catch me profiling in that joker, I was usually too busy praying I would’t have to fix anything this week.

 

I think Corolla-dude’s lean was what bothered me the most. The lean signifies that you’ve made it, you’ve arrived. It’s never really appropriate but at the point where that lean is at least acceptable, the world is kind of yours, and you’re not really driving as much as you’re surveying your territory. That makes sense if you’re driving something that signifies prosperity, a vehicle someone else might actually want. But if you’re driving a dilapidated Corolla, you haven’t made it dog, you’re still on your way, with a lot of work to do yet. Even that’s alright; we all gotta start somewhere, but until you get there, think a little decorum and modesty might be in order. Let’s start by tucking that shirt in, putting both hands on the wheel and paying attention to what you’re doing, because if you still haven’t gotten around to replacing that missing hubcap, you sure can’t afford to have an accident. There now, doesn’t that feel better? And what do we say to the nice man? You’re welcome.

 

My name is Mike and nobody asked my opinion in the first place.

By Any Means Necessary, pt.1

Anyone desiring to run for public office, to undergo the kind of scrutiny you have to go through now to be a public servant, to live that lifestyle for more than 9 months, anyone willing to do that really ought to have his or her head examined. Not just sitting on a couch talking about missing your mommy and not getting to going to the circus, not just an MRI or series tests, that’s not going to begin to scratch the surface. Someone with a lot of free time needs to crack open your skull like a walnut and just spend a week seriously investigating your inner brain function and where things went awry.

 

It goes without saying that I’m starting to get a little exhausted with this political primary season. While from a sensational standpoint this has been the most suspenseful, exciting thing on television in years (don’t know how one can be expected to go back to waiting on episodes of “24” after the drama of Super Tuesday and the debate in Ohio, TV writers must be stressed as hell right now…), my patience is wearing critically thin. Feel on edge lately, like a parent who’s trying not to yell at his kids while company’s over.

 

My mind is blown at how quick McCain and Clinton have been to pounce on Obama for his “bitter” remarks, what a shamefully gleeful frenzy. Think flesh-eating zombies are more deliberate and gracious in how they feed; these two know nothing of “please” and “thank you” or “pass the salt”, it’s all grunts, elbows, and flying entrails.

 

To my knowledge, while everyone, including Obama, agrees that he could’ve chosen a better wording, no one of much socio-political significance has really disagreed with what the man said. Yet everywhere I look Clinton and McCain are trying to use the man’s wording to imply everything else he has stood for has been out-of-touch and invalid, almost criminally fraudulent. I try to listen and relate, but sarcasm overtakes me without warning…

 

“Oooh, say what? He used a word other than ‘hope’ in talking about the American state of mind? You’re right Hilary, that’s definitely worse than telling people you landed in Bosnia under sniper fire. I’m so glad you and Mr. Hundred Years War are here to show us the way, you two are so right. Nothing can change, because to change things you’d first have to say something is wrong and we better not say anything’s wrong or that people aren’t happy, that would be ‘elitist’. Thank goodness you guys are here to protect our interests, you know I can never forget how clear it is that it’s OUR interests that you two really care about most…”

 

I’m personally embarrassed to see how excited these punch-drunk gladiators are at having finally found a foothold by which they can hope to dispatch their confounding adversary. The rawness of the desperation is palpable and wistfully tragic; it’s like noticing your senile grandfather is wandering around the nursing home with a full-blown erection again; he’s thinking if he puts his bathrobe over it no one will notice, but guess what grandpa? We do notice and we’re all a little sad.

 

The willingness to say and do anything in the name of winning is probably most disturbing to me. America’s greatest virtue can also be a fatal flaw sometimes; by fostering that I-don’t-lose-no-matter-what quality in people, people become so obsessed with “not losing” they cease being 3-dimensional human beings and instead become hollow embodiments of their goals. What’s the point of reaching the goal if you lose yourself in the process?

 

I’m so disappointed right now, if Obama ends up being defeated, this should not have been the way he went out, the turning point for a contest of this magnitude can’t be an issue of semantics. How can I respect people who are willing to win that way? This whole ordeal reminds me of those slimy opportunist-type dudes who deliberately build “friendships” with girls who have boyfriends, knowing the whole time they were never interested in any damn friendship. They don’t care about being “friends”, they’re trying to break themselves off a piece of that oh-so-squozable butt, those ooh-just-lookin-at-em-makes-my-hands-hurt breasts. These clowns may come off like friends but they’re really just waiting for homeboy to slip up and get in an argument with babygirl so they can pick up the pieces with that patented Dennis Rodman-quality rebound speech...

 

“Scranton, I would never hurt you like that. I think you deserve better Pennsylvania. You know you should be with me babygirl, look at how much fun we have. Sleep over? I couldn’t possibly butokIjusthappentohavebroughtaboxofcondomsbutitstotallycoolifyouwannajustspoon… Vote Clinton Babygirl, I’m comfortable being the shoulder to cry on when Sir Galahad turns out not to be perfect…”

 

My name is Mike and nobody asked my opinion in the first place.