This blog explores the breadth and depth of just how truly horrible I am at being an adult.


Wednesday, December 17, 2008

I would like to thank my low self-esteem.

They say it's good to set tangible goals for yourself; if you want to be successful in life, you have to know what you're striving for.
Well, I know I like entertaining people, so I've decided to write an acceptance speech for some big award that recognizes what a great entertainer I am. I don't know exactly which award I'll be winning, but I do know who I'd like to thank. So here goes...

Wow, this is such an honor! I've won an award! This is total validation of my worth as a human being! Whoo-hoo!
Man, when I was in kindergarten and peed myself because I couldn't undo the clasps on my overalls, I never thought this was going to be happening! And I bet my classmates who were laughing at me then weren't expecting this either. But I've been trying to make people laugh ever since.
Well... wow! So many people to thank... ummm... First and foremost, I'd like to my low self-esteem! Without you, low self-esteem, I would never have the drive, the spirit, the borderline-neurotic desire to please people. I mean, if I were well-adjusted, would I have the desire to debase myself in front of complete strangers? Not at all.
God! Who else? I'd like to thank all the girls in high-school who never talked to me. It was you that made me find new ways to get attention (cuz God knows I wasn't gonna get it for my looks!).
And Mrs. Giacometti! I can't forget you! Even after all the therapy! When we had a parent-teacher conference in sixth-grade, you told my parents I would never amount to anything. I guess I proved you wrong, which has been my driving motivation since I was twelve.
I also have to thank my utter lack of sports skills. You've been a constant presence in my life, utter lack of sports skills.
And how can I even begin to talk about sports without thanking the girl I lost to in a wrestling match freshman year of high school. And all the girls teams my CYO baskteball team regularly lost to in third-grade. Man, what memories.
Okay, okay. They're telling me to wrap it up, so I just have a list of people...
All the guys at bars who girls would rather talk to than me. All the job interviewers who never called me back. All the really, really, really awkward, embarrassing things I've done that I feel I have to make up for. Gosh, the list goes on and on.
Thanks to all the people who were funnier than me in college. I've now accomplished my one goal! In your face! Proof that people like me more than you! Yay!
And last but certainly not least, I have to thank drugs and alcohol. You guys were there for me when no one else was. And I know you'll be there for me again.
Thanks everybody! And keep loving me! Please! Please?

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

I was in law school for two months.

I've withdrawn from my law school after being a student there for two months.
To put things in perspective, here's a list of things I did longer than two months.

Thought it was cool to shave my stomach/chest.
Considered "Last Resort" by Papa Roach to be the pinnacle of musical achievement.
Ate a Philly Cheese Steak every night at my dining hall.
Enjoyed the comedy of Wayne Brady.
Was convinced "naive" was pronounced the same as "knave."
Dated a girl with the same first name as my sister.
Was angry they killed Liam Neeson in the first Star Wars prequel.
Used "I'm in law school!" as a pickup line.
Had a red beard.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Coming soon...

The return of Bad Adult...

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I shaved my beard.

Yes, I shaved my beard.


at least I still have a sweet mustache, right?

And awesome monocle.

Monday, September 8, 2008

I got some bad news today.

I got some rather unfortunate news today. I found out that one of my former high school teachers has been charged with molesting some male students. It's weird, but I never noticed anything creepy about the guy at all. And here he is, seven years later accused of taking advantage of some of his students who were in the same position I once was. That's a mind-fuck, right? It really makes you wonder... what's so bad about me?

I mean, why did this guy never once make a pass at me?

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm fully aware that it's no fun to be robbed of your innocence by someone in whom you've placed your trust. Someone who should be guiding you through already-difficult years of adolescence. But still, I can't help but wonder what it was about me that was such a turnoff for him.

And let me just say, I'm not into guys or anything. Not in the least. But would it have killed him to just once have made an inappropriate comment about, say, how he was pleased to see me growing into my body?

While I'm sure that had I been fondled by this man back in the day, I would be negatively impacted for a long, long time, at least it would cure my lingering suspicion that I'm a disgusting fatty.

It's things like this that can really scar a person. It's almost enough to make you lose faith in our education system. How can things like this happen? Of course, I'm speaking now of the abominable sexual abuse perpetrated by the teacher.

I am not speaking about his rudely having neglected to "accidentally" graze my package with an errant hand while I stayed after class. Didn't he even care about what I may have been packing? Didn't he even care about my feelings?

Sunday, August 31, 2008

I use the 'Missed Connections' section on Craig's List.

I don't know if you read these things, but it's worth a shot...

You were in Golden Gate Park yesterday morning. The way the early afternoon light struck your face as you talked to the pigeons... I gasped when I saw you. And it wasn't just because I was shocked at the fact that you had black trash bags on for shoes. I mean, that was part of it, but it was also how well-decorated your shopping cart was. Were those cat skulls I saw glued to the front? I wish I could have gotten a closer look.

You saw me, I think. Maybe the sun was in your eyes. Maybe you were blackout drunk from drinking from that jug of turpentine.

But you turned towards me and smiled that big semi-toothed smile at me. I hope you weren't just hallucinating that I was your abusive stepfather coming back from the dead to reconcile with you. Because I'm not.

I'm just a boy who's smitten with a homeless lady. At least I hope you're a lady (I've been wrong before).

I was wearing J.Crew chinos, loafers, and a green Polo. You threw a handful of acorns in my general direction. Why? Are you too shy for my attention?

I hope you make it to a public library soon so you can use the Internet and read this post. And so you can bathe in the restroom.


Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I start school today!

In just a few hours, my tenure at law school begins. I think it'll be over just a few hours when they realize what a complete fraud I am and how little I deserve to be there. But here's my list of what I have to pack for my big day!

(Note: My law school only provided me with a partial list of what I'll need for them, so this list right here is partially informed by my list from my time list before I entered 4th Grade at St. Vincent's Elementary School)

Civil Procedure 7th Edition, Yeazell et al., Aspen Publishers, New York City, 2008.
RoseArt Crayons, 24 Pack. (Oh man, I'm gonna get made fun of, cuz everyone knows RoseArt is the cheap brand and they break if you apply
any pressure to them)
Blue Dockers, White Keds, White Polo (Tucked in at all times), Blue Sweatshirt with St. Vincent's Logo.
Computer with LawExam Software installed
No POGS allowed. (That's good, cuz I don't want any of those soulless future-lawyers stealing my Slammers)
A knife with which to stab my classmates/grade-competitors in the back. (Oddly, this is on both the list for law school and grammar school)
A really bad haircut that I will be embarrassed by in 10 years.
Post-It Sticky Notes
Snap bracelets
One Hi-Liter per class
One Valentine Card per student in class (Why do I have to give one to everyone?)

Oh man, I'm sure I'm gonna forget something! Everyone's gonna laugh at me!

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

I have no clean clothes.

A letter to myself about what a fucking idiot I am.

Dear Tony,
You're a fucking idiot. You're at work, writing your stupid goddamn blog. In dirty, old clothes that don't even fit you. Because you're a total 'tard.

All of your clothes are at the cleaners. You clearly did not think this one through. You should bring your work clothes to the cleaners before you totally fucking run out of anything to wear.

You make me sick. And not just because a sweet, meaty stench is arising from the poorly-tended clothes you managed to scrape together this morning from the bottom of your closet, but also because you are so dumb it makes me nauseous.

That pair of pants? When's the last time you wore those? Your eighth-grade graduation? Cuz they pinch you at your waist (lay off the PBR, fatty) and they are short at your ankles. By the way, your socks are navy blue, not black like you thought they were this morning. And I'm not the first person to notice. Everyone else in the office saw it. I'm embarrassed for you.

Why are your sleeves rolled up, Tony? Oh, is it because you're wearing a cheap shirt you got on sale at the Gap Outlet and its sleeves are too long, seemingly tailored for Stretch Armstrong? Not only was it at the Gap Outlet, it was on the clearance rack. Did you think the thing was gonna fit you like a dream? It was $4.99 and the cuffs go past your fingertips. And I can see your undershirt through it. And I can see your nipples through your undershirt. Fatty.

You need to take a fucking girl with you next time you shop.

Oh, I forgot, you're a bearded loser in San Francisco, a city full of bearded losers. And they all like your cool 'underground' music. (Oh you're soooooooo trendy!) But, guess what, all the other bearded losers dress better than you. So good luck finding a girl to go with you anywhere.


P.S. Everyone in the office went out for drinks yesterday and you weren't invited.

Monday, August 11, 2008

RIP Isaac Hayes and Bernie Mac

Two black icons died over the weekend, and the world will assuredly be a different place without them.

Bernie Mac was one of those comedians that helped shed light on the differences between black people and white people. "Black folks act like this while white folk act like this." I think the main difference is that black people thought Bernie Mac was funny. Jk Jk. Lol. That's not true, because if it were, I would be the blackest man on the planet, because I found Mr. Mac hilarious. And I, for the record, am not the blackest man on the planet.

And God bless Isaac Hayes, another very funny, iconic African American who left us this weekend. God bless him and his shaft. Er. I mean, God Bless his breakout single 'Theme to Shaft.' Between that song and his South Park-based 'Suck My Chocolate Balls,' I think the American public knows more about Mr. Hayes' genitalia than any other recording artist since (insert dated reference to R. Kelly or Michael Jackson here).

They'll both be missed.

PS. I'm really glad Morgan Freeman is gonna pull through following a serious car crash in Hollywood last week. Because who will I imagine is providing the narratorial soundtrack to my life if he dies?

Friday, August 1, 2008

Reason I'm a Good Adult #1: I have a beard

From time to time I will do something that negates earlier statements as to my horribleness as an adult. I hope to document such instances in a segment I'd like to call "Reasons I'm a Good Adult."

I have a beard. An occasionally patchy and always reddish beard, but a beard nonetheless.

You know who else has a beard?
Rasputin. And this guy. And celebrities at their absolute worst (here, here, and here). That's some pretty bad company.

But you know who is some
good bearded company? Ernest Hemingway.

You may be saying to yourself, 'But, Tony, wasn't Hemingway a womanizing alcoholic in such a constant need of a fix that he would go so far as drinking rubbing alcohol for a fix? Wasn't he so crazy that he submitted himself to electroshock therapy? And didn't he, you know, improvise a Jackson Pollock painting using only a wall, his brain, and a shotgun?'

I agree. I mean, I like Hemingway as much the next guy. The Old Man and The Sea? Ferdinand the Bull? For Whom the Bell Tolls? All classics. But he did do some pretty crazy shit in his life.

True, true, my friends. But all that stuff is child's play (not to be confused with the 1988 horror movie of the same name) with the following mindfuck of a photo.

"Oh, hey Ernie. I didn't realize you had taken up a part-time job being understudy for an Off-Broadway production of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"

Look how obviously batshit crazy he is. And the best part is that he doesn't have a beard in this photo. That clean, beardless face that is only hiding that horrifically insane mind vindicates every bearded man in the universe because it shows that maybe MAYBE having a beard made one person at least a little less crazy.

Monday, July 28, 2008

I'm no good at working.

Though the story of how I was hired and quit in one day this summer probably deserves its own post, I feel compelled to tell you that I am horrible at working.

I was hired to my new (second of the summer!) job at the end of June. Literally that night I came down with a fever that had me simultaneously hallucinating that a) I, taking it one step further than Matthew Broderick in 1983's WarGames, had instigated a global nuclear war which led to the apocalypse, and b) my bedroom walls were made of rainbow sherbet. Needless to say, I missed my first day of work. And my second.

Boy, was my boss unhappy. I thought I was gonna get fired before I'd even been to the office. Luckily I was able to have someone drop off some paperwork at my apartment so I could arrive at the office ahead of schedule on Day 3. So everything worked out.

And then less than a month  later I went on a family trip for a week up in Lake Tahoe.

Now I'm fucked. I have so much work to catch up with.

This was all a long way of saying that I'm gonna actually try to do more of what my job description says over the next few days and less of bragging about how hilariously juvenile my life is.

But the term of the job ends in three weeks anyway. Ain't I a stinker?

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

I don't know how to interact with children.

I'm spending this week up at Lake Tahoe with a lot of my extended family, who have all rented cabins within a few miles of one another.

Out of all my ten or so cousins, I am one of three without children. I'm also the youngest of the cousins, so when it comes to hanging out with people at these family gatherings, I find myself unpleasantly torn between hanging out with a forty year-old cousin who sells pharmaceuticals or his four year-old daughter who obsesses over cartoons I've never heard of.

The kids refer to me (I kid you not) as "the boy with the big orange beard." That's a confidence boost.

The other night over dinner in our backyard, one of the darling angels who calls me that said, "Hey! Hey! Hey! (She's a little hyper-active.) Hey! Hey! Do you know any jokes?! Do you know any jokes?!"

I said, "Sure. Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Smell mop."

"Smell mop who."

Please say, "Smell mop who," aloud, because that's the punchline. Yell it aloud if you're in a confined space with other people. Please.

Well, these little girls that I told it to fucking loved it. Instantly. I guess my target comedic audience is people with one year of elementary school education.

My aunts, uncles, cousins, and sister were not so happy that I taught these little girls a bathroom humor joke. Even worse, the girls were screaming "Smell mop who!" at the tops of their lungs well past dessert time.

I don't know if the adults will let the kids hang out with the boy with the orange beard anymore.

Friday, July 18, 2008

I can't find a roommate.

Is it because of my Craig's List post?


I'm a 22 year-old college grad about to start at law school! But don't worry about that; I'm not ready for my soul to whither just yet! And don't worry about me becoming an asshole in the next few years as I get closer to being an attorney; I'm already an asshole!
I've got a sweet two-bedroom that I need a roomie for!

Brown hair and patchy, reddish beard
Pasty white skin
Vague resemblance to the Lucky Charms Leprechaun (so don't expect to see me wearing
too much green!)
I'm into whatever music other hip people are into, but if
too many people like them, I'll stop.
I also love watching really bad movies, listening to bad music, and reading tabloids but all with a sense of irony and superiority.
How about an out-of-context true story about me? Okay. Carlos Santana once drove over my sandwich in his Mercedes.

Don't worry! My eyes aren't really lasers!

A girl (Don't worry- It's not cuz I want to get with you... I want get with your
But, still, you have to be single.
You must like NPR (You must be able to name the hosts of two of the following three shows:
Fresh Air, This American Life, and Car Talk)
You must not care that we are paying the same rent as one another, yet I get the one parking spot allotted to the apartment.
You must not watch bad movies, listen to bad music, or read tabloids without a sense of irony and superiority.

Oh, and I do heroin. No cats; I'm allergic!

Monday, July 14, 2008

I think poop is funny (Part the Second)

That's James. With what appears to be poop around his mouth. I don't think the photo was taken on the night in question, so, even though I don't have much faith in James' everyday hygiene, I'm pretty sure the photo would test negative for the presence of feces.

Whether it is poop or is not poop, I don't know, but I do know that this picture is pretty old, probably at least five years, from when we were in high school. James is something of an adult now, or at least more adultish than he was when he shat for cash outside an abandoned house. He's still in college, but he has a girlfriend who seems waaaaaaaaay too normal/cute for the man who once farted on MY then-new girlfriend back in high school. And I'd like to think he's grown out of that phase.

But when I met his girlfriend just a few weeks ago on James' birthday, I said, "Do you know about the time James pooped all over himself... sober?" Apparently, this had never come up between the two of them, even though they've been dating for two years now. I opted not to recount the story for her right then and there, and thought I'd let James explain himself and his self-shitting ways at his own discretion.

But that brings me back to the actual self-shitting. When we last left our protagonist, he was covered in poop, literally head to toe in poop.

And we, his "friends," had a moral, philosophical, epistemological (IDK what that means) dilemma; what does one do with a dude coated in shit?

Our idea? Coin-op car wash. Just think about it a second and realize how startlingly reasonable we were to think that up. But there was a problem... the car wash was across town.

We got him in the car, the trunk of Sean's Explorer. This is where storytelling becomes difficult. I don't know how to describe just how god-awful James smelled. To say it was the worst thing I have ever smelled would be to do his poop-stench an injustice. If God had created a tenth plague to send down upon Egypt, it would have been the smell in the Explorer that night. Yahweh took it easy on the Pharaoh by holding back on the hippie poop.

It was bad.

The five us not covered in human waste had to act like dogs on a Sunday drive and stick our heads out the car window as we rode into downtown San Rafael. There were only four seats by windows in the car. The fifth man, the one sitting bitch in the backseat, had to climb over me and stretch out his body so he could get some fresh air. The smell was so bad that if one had been exposed to it for too long, he would've passed out. And then, like some sort of fecal smelling salt, he would've immediately been awoken by the very same thing that knocked me out.

As we hit the first stop light, I noticed something strange or, rather, someone noticed something strange about us. A young lady in the car next to the Explorer looked at us, perplexed. Here were five young guys craning their necks, trying to leave as little of their own body in their car as possible. I could see she was trying to formulate some question for us, but I cut her off at the pass.

"My friend pooped all over himself," I said. That's all that could be said.

And we drove on.

The Canal is the name of a notoriously dangerous part of San Rafael, a notoriously safe city. It's home to a large number of undocumented immigrants, gangs, prostitutes, and (fortunately, for the purposes of this story) the aforementioned car wash. Keep in mind that it is now long after sundown on a weekend night.

My gang of whiter-than-whiteboys rolled up to the ghetto car wash, aware that we were in the midst of a shit-filled night we would not soon forget, giddy like Catholic schoolgirls (well, we were mid-puberty Catholic schoolboys, so I guess we weren't that far off).

We stepped out of the Explorer. filled the coin slots up with our loose change, and readied the hoses. "Step up, James. It's time."

"Dude, I don't know. I-- I'm wearing all my clothes," he protested.

"Your clothes are covered in shit, man! Take 'em off!"

He acquiesced to our air-tight logic and stripped to his ratty boxer shorts. You haven't forgotten that we're in the middle of the ghetto late at night, have you?

Everybody took a turn, and we hosed the shit off of him. We hosed the shit out of him. Just like when washing a car, we first used soapy water. There is no pressure setting for 'human flesh' on the dial, and James expressed his displeasure instantly.

"Ah! Fuck! Fuck! It fuckin' hurts!" That didn't stop us. "Ah! Get it out of my ass! Don't aim it up my ass!" You know that only egged us on, especially combined with the fact that he scampered around like a little girl as he said this all.

I don't know when this next part began, whether it started right when the washing did or midway through or what, but at some point, a small crowd began to congregate not too far away.

There was a bowling alley across the street that had a bar in that catered mostly to the immigrant community of the surrounding neighborhood. It began to trickle out a few spectators. They cheered us on, literally hooting and hollering like Romans at the Coloseum; they wanted to see a naked crazy gringo get tortured by some other crazy gringos. And they got what they wanted.

Because then I used the giant foaming brush, the toothbrush of the gods. I feel bad about this part, because I was the one that personally did it, and I ended up scratching up James skin pretty bad with it. He bled a little. Hey, but at least I got all of his poop off him, right? And, always being an attention whore, I had to please my audience right?

When the wash was over, James was understandably upset. He was cold, wet, scratched up, and humiliated. But he did have eight dollars coming his way for all his troubles right?

As he angrily climbed into the car, he said, "Dudes, gimme my fucking money."

"Sorry," someone responded. "We spent it all cleaning you off."

Friday, July 11, 2008

I'm excited it's Free Slurpee Day

What says 'obviously should not be allowed to live by myself' more than the fact that I can't wait to get out of work and get a free cup of semi-frozen sugar-water?

Every July 11th (7/11, get it?), 7-Eleven gives out free Slurpees. Be there, or be square. Or, rather, be there or be a responsible adult.

More to come on James' poop escapade soon.

Monday, July 7, 2008

I fart in my cubicle

I work for an unnamed, fairly-important government office in Oakland. I am working in a cubicle for the first time in my life. I just got to work about fifteen minutes ago. I sat down and farted. Then a fairly-important person in this fairly-important office walked in to introduce himself to the new guy. It smelled heavily of farts.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

I think poop is funny (Part the First)

To me, the following clip nears the pinnacle of comic genius. Simple, yet excrement-filled...

I have this friend, Jeff, that I met in college. Whenever somebody mentions poop getting on someone's body (it comes up surprisingly frequently...), he bursts out laughing and asks, nay, DEMANDS that I tell the following story. And I always comply with great gusto.

So my high school punk band, Anti-Life (sick name, am I right?) was supposed to have this show at this old abandoned house. The walls were spray painted with our logo (with the "A" in "Anti" replaced with the Anarchy symbol, of course) and random mottos of the day like "Please Die" and "Abort Yourself." We were pretty edgy for being from Marin, the second-richest county in America.

Well, one night, as we were scoping the "venue" for our "gig" my buddy James suddenly declared, "Dude! Guys! I gotta poop. Let's go."

Now, with emphatic delivery like that, you know the poop is imminent. We, being the nice guys/good friends that we were, replied, "Fuck you, dude. Hang on."

"No. Guys. I gotta shit. It snuck up on me hella bad. I gotta shit."

I can't imagine how different my life would be if someone (I forget who, but bless his soul) had not yelled out, "Just take a shit in the road, dude."

Someone else, equally brilliant and worthy of sainthood chimed in, "Yeah, dude, we'll give you all the money we all have in our pockets if you take a dump in the middle of the road."

We counted out cash. We had eight dollars. And James, smelly hippie James who came from the town where there was the single biggest LSD bust of all time, accepted.

This abandoned house was right before a coastal county park that was kind of removed from town, but if anybody happened to be going into or out of the park, it would be via this road. And I can imagine a few reasons why people would be driving in and out of the park late at night; McNear's Beach Park has some sweet make-out spots.

So we four onlookers ascend a small hill to where we have parked our car, my buddy Sean's Explorer. We gaze down from a safe distance as already-smelly James pops a squat that straddles the center line. We await a few seconds and I see what we were all hoping we would see; approaching headlights.

Someone yells, "CAR! JAMES! CAR!"

Then I hear the most heavenly words my sixteen year-old ears had ever heard flow sweetly from James' mouth as he stands up and runs out of the road... "It's dangling! It's dangling!"

James' poop was hanging from his cheeks as he ran up the hill to us. But by the time he reached us, the situation had changed. "It's all over my legs now, guys!" Whether it had changed for the better is for you to decide.

James, as ashamed as someone who doesn't regularly shower can be, said, "Let's go. I just gotta get to a bathroom and clean up or something. It's on my pants and stuff."

We, his friends, were in such a mob mentality that we all spat back at him, "No, fucker. If you don't go down there and finish your shit, we're not giving you your eight dollars."

We knew James' love of money and apathy towards hygiene too well. He descended the hill and dropped trow in the middle of the road.

God has comedic timing, folks. I don't know what the hell James was doing at this point, but when we yelled out, "CAR! JAMES! CAR!" again, the stars must have been aligned in our favor, because as we see James running up the hill this time, he's gripping his own head (picture an exasperated accountant or a man in disbelief that he doesn't have his toupee on). What is so fortuitous about this all is that as we first see his head-gripping silhouette, we hear him yell the newly-crowned sweetest thing my sixteen year-old ear had ever heard; "IT'S ON MY HANDS! IT'S ON MY HANDS!"

For those of you not following the story thus far, let me break it down like a logic problem for y'all. James has his hands on his head. James has poop on his hands. Therefore, James has poop on his head.

Imagine four sixteen year-olds laughing so hard they feared they might die of asphyxiation and let me recap. James has poop on his butt. James has poop on his legs. James has poop in his pants. James has poop on his hands. James has poop in his hair.

And that is just the first half of the story. Stay tuned to learn about how we cleaned James off and the strangers who watched/cheered us on.

Friday, June 27, 2008

I don't know how to interact with girls

The first issue I have in regards to interacting with girls is a prima facie problem; I still call them girls. Now that I'm an adult, I really need to get on the boat of calling girls by their adult names, such as "women" or "ladies." A few "women" have called me out on it and it's stopped me dead in my tracks in my path to having them let me touch them.

I went out to some bars in San Francisco last weekend. I hit it off with a girl at one of the drinking establishments I stopped by. Sorry. I hit it off with a woman. She was extra not-a-"girl" because she was four or so years older than me. Hey-Oh! Put a check in the box marked "Tony is an adult"! Four years older than me!? That surely makes me an adult! Nay, my friends, nay. I neglected to tell you that, like some depraved, over-sexed seventeen year-olds, said woman and I started making out at the bar against the wall. Go ahead and erase that check from the "Tony is an adult" box. Grab your RoseArt crayon and and childishly scrawl an X in the "Tony is a Bad Adult" bubble. And then eat the crayon. It's okay, it's non-toxic.

Okay, regardless of all that. I actually went on a date with this same woman the next day. An adult-ish date, no less. Things go surprisingly well. She's a really nice, sweet girl. Woman. She's definitely a real adult. She's got a real job in a real office and everything.

She, for some reason, finds me nice enough to invite back to her place. Fast forward a few hours and we're laying down together (don't let your dirty minds wander; it was totally chaste). I can call it cuddling, but I can't tell if that's really an adult thing to say or a childish one. But anyway, that's what we were doing. She looks at me and says, "Tony, you were in a comedy group in college. Tell me something funny."

This is where shit gets really, really un-adult. This is where someone who is good at being an adult would say something like... I don't know. I'm such a frickin' man-child that I can't even think of what a mature person would say. But let me tell you what I did say ...

"So my first job, when I was fourteen years-old, was working down at Fisherman's Wharf. I worked at a crab shack. You know, cracking crabs, boiling lobster, frying fish, selling it all to tourists. Well, at the end of every day, I would end up smelling of what I was cooking all day: seafood. I reeked of it. It oozed into and out of my pores.  I would take the ferry back to the North Bay, where I lived. Now, when I got on the ferry, it was commute time. Everyone's leaving San Francisco. I would rush on and grab a seat. And, since it was such a packed ferry, all the seats around me would get taken right away. Totally wiped from a day of dishing out crab salad to German backpackers, I would fall asleep immediately. I would awaken a few minutes before we docked in Larkspur, and you wouldn't believe what I saw... All the seats around me would be empty. Yet it was standing room only. I smelled so bad that these people would rather stand up for the hour-long ferry than sit next to me and bear my stench."

Yeah. I said that to a woman in bed. I did it. But the fun didn't end there, folks. Before she could even tell me, "That is so gross," I continued...

"Now, my dad worked not too far away so some days he would drop me off in the morning and pick me up when my shift was over. I remember one of the first days after work, I stepped into his car and I smelled so bad of crab guts and sizzling clam-oil, he said, 'Oh my god. Please fart.'"

This the story I told to a nice, attractive girl as I was in her bed. And that is a reason I'm a bad adult.

Disclaimer: The girl (hehe) in this photo is not the one mentioned in this post.