I ended up on the moon.

Alright. Very funny. You got me, I admit it.

Now will someone please come and get me off the moon?

I guess I had it coming, huh? I did get pretty drunk last night. I must have passed out and you guys pranked me by shuttling me 238,857 miles from earth and abandoning me on the moon. Good one.

Last thing I remember I was hitting on those women who kept telling me about their kids and they wouldn't give me their cell numbers and then I had another shot and now here I am close to suffocating in an atmosphere one-thousandth as dense as earth's.

Whose idea was this, anyway?

Sure, I know one of you guys might be mad at me or something if I ever messed with you in your sleep. but I really don't think I deserve being ditched in some 200º F lunar crater. And I'm totally sorry if I was ever a dick to you, but this is way worse than drawing a dick on your arm, dudes. Not cool.

How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow? I can't phone my boss up and tell him I'm stuck on the moon because everyone already calls me "The Boy Who Cried Stuck-On-The-Moon." Poor planning on my part.

But, then again, I never really imagined I'd actually get left for dead on the surface of the moon.

I know I'm supposed to be a good sport and have a good laugh at myself but I think if I sound a little P.O.ed it's because I deserve to be and it's not because I can't take a joke. I know people say I can't take a joke and maybe it's true sometimes, but damn I wish you assholes hadn't left me on the mother-effing moon.

I've got an appointment to get my cast off on Monday and if I miss that I'm gonna be so mad. And, while I'm talking about the cast, I just wanna say that being in one-eighth earth's gravity doesn't feel great on my healing hand.

It's pretty inconsiderate is all I'm saying.

Some one come pick me up. And bring some clothes. Can't find mine.

I definitely don't.

You ever sit alone on a weekend night, singing along to "She Will Be Loved" on repeat?





Yeah, me neither...

I had a simple costume.

You got it! Thank God, someone finally got it. I'm dressed as an AMISH person. What's so hard about that?

It's a simple costume.

Look, I've got the suspenders, the beard, the straw hat, the blue collared shirt, and the black work pants. I'm totally Amish.

I was worried that some people would see my right hand in a cast and think that the cast was part of the cosume. It's not. I'm not Amish-Dude-With-A-Cast. I happen to have a cast during Halloween and I'm dressed Amish. And you saw that in me.

I also got a more than a few curious glances at the pistol I have on my waist here. I'm sure those children were just trying to figure out how the gun played into the costume. Silly kids! The gun's not part of the costume. It's for protection! Have you seen the crazy people out in San Francisco on Halloween? A man's gotta protect himself. I keep the safety on most of the time anyway.

And the syringes sticking out of my pockets? I heard some people asking about those, too. Relax, people! No need to get so scared of the Amish guy with all the mismatched syringes hanging out of every one of his pockets! They aren't part of the costume. They're for me! To take a little bit of the edge off! Who knows what's in 'em, but they sure do wonders. Halloween can be so stressful, what with all these little kids screaming and running away from me just because I'm an Amish man with a cast, syringes, and a gun totally covered in blood.

Am I the crazy person here!? I mean, so what? Can't a guy covered head to toe in blood just be dressed as an Amish person without having every passerby pull out their cellphones to call the police as he limps by?

Nearly every last drop of blood on me is my own! I was hit by a car downtown earlier tonight. It sure is hard navigating all those confusing one-ways around Market St. when you're super high on a grab bag's worth of syringes you got from a guy named Scratcher in an abandoned warehouse. I tried to get the driver's insurance information, but once I pulled out my gun and let out a few warning shots, the guy just drove off! Can you believe it? A hit-and-run. Some people, man. Really makes you wonder.

Oh, no, don't worry. I'm feeling fine now. I've re-set most of the broken bones now myself, and I have had quite a lot to drink since then. So I feel surprisingly good for suffering such apparently-massive damage to the entire right side of my body. I myself am surprised I'm still standing.

Yeah, my doctor said I shouldn't be drinking while I'm on these pills he gave me, but thank God I ran out of them three days ago. Where's the fun of Halloween if you can't drink because you're still on your anti-psychotics? LET'S DO SOME SHOTS!

What are you supposed to be, anyway?

Zombie Michael Jackson?

Not cool, dude. Too soon.

Me and a little piggy. Before all the blood and most of the drugs.

I apologize.

Loyal readers of Reasons I'm a Bad Adult (the 8 or 9 of you):

You all assuredly have heard about the personal troubles my fellow entertainer David Letterman has been having. A blackmailer caught him with his pants down, so to speak, and he decided to nip the problem in the bud by fessing up on national television. And it worked. Yes, his public admission of guilt on the Late Show was a success. It was sincere and funny, but, most importantly, it was great for ratings! Viewership shot up fivefold when the nation saw that this great comedian was vulnerable and human. In that self-centered, fame-obsessed spirit, I've got some apologies of my own to make.

First, I want to apologize for the opening sentence of that last paragraph. If you take a second look at it, you'll notice that I called Letterman "my fellow entertainer." To call him my "fellow" anything is a huge gaffe on my part, and I could not be more remorseful. To be perfectly candid, as I feel I must in such a public forum, my true "fellow" entertainers are something more akin to childrens' clowns and open-mic folk singers. Dave created The Top Ten List; in high school I used to have my classmates gather round me and have my buddy Zack kick me in the stomach. See? I'm sullying Letterman's name by just mentioning him. So I offer my humblest apologies to all those I caused pain when I insinuated that Dave Letterman and I were colleagues, including Mr. Letterman himself, his family, the whole Late Show staff (especially those he had sex with), and my loyal readers (hopefully it will be more than just the 8 or 9 of you once the news of this mea culpa spreads).

Next, I must apologize for the tardiness of this joke, the staleness of this premise. I mean, this whole Letterman thing happened, what, like two or three weeks ago? For the love of God, I wrote about the balloon boy the very same day he fake-floated away. But I decide to crack a Letterman joke almost a month after everyone else stopped talking about him? I have no one to blame but myself. Sure, I could tell you that I've been too busy, that I've been dating someone new, that I've been working on a soon-to-be-completed novel, that I recently got promoted at my job. Yes, I could tell you those things, but I would be lying. Because none of those things are true. I simply wasn't quick or smart enough to come up with a worthwhile idea for a post at the time, so here's something semi-worthwhile a few weeks down the line. That was wrong and lazy of me, and I'll be the first person to admit it.

And finally, let me apologize for taking advantage of Mr. Letterman's misfortune. What kind of vain, shallow, hateful person would use a celebrity's private pain to further his own career? Me. What kind of empty, soulless, vile husk of a man would exploit a talk show host's admirable candor in order to gain a few more readers for his middling, low-brow blog? Me. What kind of wine goes with a fine veal scallopini? Cru Beaujolais. You get the point; I'm exploiting the guy.

So, again, I'm sorry. And tell your friends.

--Tony

I have side effects.

Tony Payne has proven effective in cases where one needs a totally-straight-but-somehow-still-kinda-gay friend (costume parties, dance contests, opinion on clothes you just got at Nordstrom), occasional comic relief, or someone to split a cab to the airport with. However, people who have hung out with Tony have reported several undesirable side effects.

Side effects associated with Tony include:

Being forced to read, and laugh at, his blog in front of him.
A lingering, vaguely unpleasant smell.
Thoughts of suicide.
Hearing him repeat the same damn story about "how cool" he was in college, despite the fact that you know it can't possibly be true.
Awkward silences.
Thoughts of murder.
Wet shoulders from when he cries on them because you accidentally brought up his exgirlfriends or childhood dog.
Thoughts of murder-suicide.
Making things maybe just a little bit too gay.
Diarrhea.

I launched myself in an experimental, homemade hot air balloon.

Thursday, October 15 2009

OK. One bottle of water? Check. One blanket? Check. Tenuous grasp of meteorology, physics, and direction? Check.

I think I'm ready to launch myself in my experimental, homemade hot air balloon.

God, this is gonna make me really famous. Everyone down below is gonna see me and they're gonna call the news and say "There's this guy in a shoddy-looking hot air baloon up in the sky!" and the local news will alert the national news and pretty soon all of America will have its eyes on me!

Fifteen minutes of fame, here I come!

Just gotta hack away at the ropes tying me down, and we are OFF! Just me, my blanket, my radio, and my overwhelming desire to adored. Nothing's gonna stop me now. Not the precarious open flame above my head, outdated map, or lack of safety equipment. NOTHING!

Time to sit back-- Hm. Not a lot of space inside this old laundry basket I'm using as the passenger compartment. Time to just squat back, turn on the radio, and wait for the news to start talking about me.

Wow. Well, according to the radio, someone out in effing Colorado is up in the air right now. In a mother-effing homemade hot air balloon. Mother-effer!

And, gee, wow. I'm floating a little high right now, aren't I? There's no way to control that is there? I think I'm just gonna have to keep on floatin'.

Ok. What can I do? I guess I'll just have to wait until people see me and then just hope we both get famous? We can both get famous for doing the same thing on the same day, right?

Just squat back and listen to the radio.

For the love of God, he's six. The other hot air balloon has a six year-old in it. Alone. Mother-effer! I'm never gonna get famous now!

I'm just embarrassed now. Now I'm just a twenty-three year-old with too much spare time cuz I'm on worker's comp.

I wish I could just lower this balloon and forget this whole thing. But I don't know how to lower the balloon. I was hoping the police would have to shoot the balloon out of the sky. Don't think that'll be happening since there's a six year-old doing the same thing now. Dammit. The world's supposed to be watching ME!

It's getting pretty cold up here too, man. I sure wish I'd brought more than one blanket.

Oh crap! The little kid's balloon landed and it was empty! WHAT? Oh my god. If he died, people are going to HATE hot air balloons. I'm gonna look like such an idiot in one. So help me God, if that kid died I will be SO pissed.

Up here the air is... thin up here. Having a hard time... thinking straight.

I think I'm over a body of water. I can't even tell right now. Why isn't the radio talking about me? Still talking about that... stupid six year-old, how he was on "Wife Swap" and how MAYBE he died when he... MAYBE fell out of a homemade, experimental hot air balloon his dad made?

Holy... moly. They found him.... alive in his... attic. I'm gonna kill him when... I get down from here.

I was rejected.

18 September 2009

Dear ANTHONY PAYNE:

Thank you for your recent attempt at hooking up with Caitlin Schlessinger. As one of the coolest , hottest girls in San Francisco, Caitlin is hit on by dozens and dozens of guys every weekend. On the night you tried to get her number, you were just one of fifteen to ask her.
We regret to inform you, however, that Caitlin is unable to offer you her phone number. In order to stay viable in today's dating market, she cannot have a conversation with just any guy who asks to buy her a drink at a bar. And offering her a Pabst tallboy didn't really help your case.
Caitlin takes a holistic view of men who approach her. Playing "Big Buck Hunter" and "Terminator 2: Pinball" by yourself in the corner of the bar for an hour did play a role in Caitlin's deliberations.
Please remember that no matter how flattering a bar's light may be, there is very little it can do for you in terms of your height. Might we suggest lifted shoes?
Best of luck in your future attempts at hooking up with girls; we are very sure there is some mousy, glasses-wearing, indie-chick out there you'd be great for.

Sincerely,

The Caitlin Schlessinger Admissions Board


P.S. Please do not post a "Missed Connection" about Caitlin; she will not respond. Girls like her don't search for themselves on Craigs List like you do.

I should apply to be a Taco Bell manager.

I should apply to be a Taco Bell manager. This is how I imagine the interview going.

"Tony, over the ten days you and your friend Jeff drove cross country, how many days did you eat Taco Bell?"

"Eight."

"You've got the job.

I traveled back in time.

So I ran into this girl I went to high school with. I never really knew her but she was pretty and cool and nice. And when I saw her at this bar, she told me she wished I had asked her to homecoming sophomore year. Instead, I didn't ask anyone and stayed home alone.

Coincidentally, I invented time travel. Don't ask me how. (That's a subject for another entry!). I decided to put my invention to good use; I was gonna have Sophomore Me ask this girl out!

I turned the dial aaaaaaaaaaallllll the way back to the Fall of 2001...

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Present Me: Tony, it's me! You, from the future! I invented time travel to tell you--

Sophomore Me: Aw, shit, man.

Present Me: What?

Sophomore Me: Are you kidding me?

Present Me: Huh? What's wrong?

Sophomore Me: I don't get any taller?

Present Me: What? No... Still five foot seven-ish.

Sophomore Me: Awesome. Real awesome.

Present Me: Okay. A) I don't like your tone. B) Shut up for a second. I came here to help you, dude.

Sophomore Me: How?

Present Me: You know Jessie? The girl. A year older than you? I ran into her at a bar in the future and she told me she had a crush on me in 2001. That's now! You should totally ask her to Homecoming.

Sophomore Me: Oh sweet. How old are you?

Present Me: Twenty-Three.

Sophomore Me: Uh-huh. And what do you do for a living?

Present Me: Me? I work for Enterprise. Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

Sophomore Me: Oh. Huh. You, uh, in management there? Doing marketing for them, maybe?

Present Me: No. Just renting cars. Out of SFO.

Sophomore Me: You're shitting me.

Present Tony: I shit you not.

Sophomore Me: Fuck, man. For real?

Present Me: This conversations not about me, it's about you.

Sophomore Me: I am you.

Present Me: Shut up.

Sophomore Me: And you're telling me I rent cars when I'm twenty-three.

Present Me: Will you lay off me, dude? I invented time travel.

Sophomore Me: And the best idea you could come up with was a plan to get a fifteen year-old laid?

Present Me: You make it seem creepy.

Sophomore Me: It is creepy.

Present Me: Whatever, dude. At least I've had girlfriends.

Sophomore Me: Well, you obviously don't have one now.

Present Me: Oh yeah? How are you so sure?

Sophomore Me: Dudes with girlfriends don't worry about the girls they didn't get with 8 years before.

Present Me: I think you're really missing the point here. I time traveled.

Sophomore Me: I think you missed the point. You depressed the fuck out of me.

Present Me: Come on, dude. I went to a good college. Had lots of fun. I went to law school.

Sophomore Me: You went to law school? And you rent cars?

Present Me: Well, I dropped out.

Sophomore Me: Huh.

Present Me: What? What is it?

Sophomore Me: ...Nothing.

Present Me: You can't just say, "Nothing." I know you better than that.

Sophomore Me: I'm just really bummed these are the best years of my life. I mean, getting turned down by girls all the time, being the best runner on the worst cross country team in the county, and being second-chair saxophone in the Marin Catholic band. This is as good as it gets?

Present Me: At least you're thin.

Sophomore Me: Ah, man. You're thin, too!

Present Me: You mean it? I look thin?

Sophomore Me: No, you're a fat piece of garbage. Go back to the future. You make me sick.

Present Me: I had no idea I was such a dick.

Sophomore Me: What are you gonna do about it, you quitter?

Present Me: If I kill you, will I die?

Sophomore Me: Try me.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Moral of the story, if you travel back in time and kill an earlier version of yourself because it turns out you were a huge jerk, it doesn't kill the future version of you. And there's only one set of fingerprints at the scene.

The space-time-continuum is some crazy stuff.

I am not the funniest person in the world.

Michael & Michael Have Issues	Wed 10:30pm / 9:30c
Break-Up Sweatpants
www.comedycentral.com
Joke of the Day Stand-Up Comedy Free Online Games

I thought of "2 Girls 1 Cup" Second

2 August 2009

Mr. Marco Villanova, creator of “2 Girls 1 Cup”:

I apologize upfront. When I made a nearly exact copy of "2 Girls 1 Cup," I had no idea your film existed.

I think I ought to blame my friends. They must have known about “2 Girls 1 Cup.” It seems like everyone in America was aware of it but me. Why didn't they warn me when I said, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if I got someone else and shit in a cup and had the other person eat that shit and then have both of us puke that shit into each other's mouths?” They just looked at each other knowingly. Like they wanted me to be humiliated, to be found out as a fraud, a Johnny-come-lately in the shit/cup/vomit game.

Never once did they say, “Oh, Tony, I think that's been done before,” or “Oh, like in '2 Girls 1 Cup,'” or “That idea borders on the insane.”

Perhaps, understandably, they thought I was joking. How could they have known I was serious enough about amusing my fellow man to shit into a cup, have another person eat that shit and then have both of us puke that shit into each other's mouths?

But no one even tried to stop me. Not once in the dozens and dozens of times I mentioned the fact that I was planning on doing it. Not when I said I was renting camera equipment to do it. Not when I asked anybody with a garage if I could film there on a Saturday. Not when I called and asked everybody I knew for some bleach, explaining “I'm going to be covered in shit for that video I've been telling you about for a few weeks now.”

It's like they were conspiring against me.

Imagine, Mr. Villanova, if I had gone through with an idea for a film revolving around the antics of secret-agent guinea pigs. Imagine I had acquired the technology to computer animate guinea pigs, written a hilarious script about their antics, totally financed the production, and then filmed it, all while my closest friends were well-aware of the existence of the recent box-office sensation “G-Force.”

Now, imagine that the guinea pigs are not guinea pigs but, rather, human waste. And imagine no computer graphics whatsoever. Just lots of very real human waste. That's the point I'm at now.

Or if I had had the idea to put Brendan Fraser in a 3-D joy ride into the depths of the earth, all while they knew about “Journey to the Center of the Earth 3-D.” Same deal, but instead of Brendan Fraser, it's me and someone else, and instead of going into the center of the earth, we do horrible, horrible things to one another with human waste.

I think you get the idea.

How can I ever be respected again as true humorist now that I've been made a fool of? Now that I'm second-fiddle in the shitting-into-a-cup-then-having-another-person-eat-that-shit-then-both-people-puke-that-shit-into-each-other's-mouths world?

Mr. Villanova, can you offer me any comfort at all? A kind word from a genius such as yourself could do much to warm my heart at such a dark time.


Sincerely,
Tony


P.S. It's not impossible to think that my version of the film could still have true cultural merit. A sequel of sorts. A Godfather II to your Godfather. But with far more shit, of course. Keep in touch.

I was interviewed by the police.

Good Cop/ Bad Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Bullshit! We all know you did it!

Good Cop/ Bad (Incompetent) Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: ...
Cop 1: Anything to say, Al?
Cop 2: Huh? Oh, I wasn't paying attention.

Good Cop/ Good Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Okay.

Good Cop/ Nonsensically Racist Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Oh, you quarter-Italian, quarter-Irish, quarter-German, quarter-Welsh pieces of shit are all the same!

Good Cop/ Chinese Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: 我讲中文

Good Cop/ Self-loathing Cop Who Covers Up His Low Self-Esteem By Talking About All the Girls He Gets
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: I got so much goddamn pussy this weekend.
Cop 1: Al, come on, man. Focus! Is everything alright?
Cop 2: Yes.

Good Cop/ "Bad" (Michael Jackon song) Cop
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: Cha'mone!

Good Cop/ Cop Who I Have Incriminating Photos Of
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: ...Let him go.

Good Cop/ Self-loathing Cop Who Tries and Fails to Cover Up His Low Self-Esteem By Talking About All the Girls He Gets
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: I got so much goddamn pussy this weekend.
Cop 1: Al, come on, man. Focus! Is everything alright?
Cop 2: ...No.

Good Cop/ Coked-up Cop Who Is Working on a Screenplay
Cop 1: We wanna make this easy on you. If you didn't do it, just tell us who did.
Me: I have no idea!
Cop 2: And then. And then! And then you realize that the dad, the dad, is the one who's been stealing the money from the business the whole time! It's a twist, man. It fucking ends with a twist! It's gonna be huge, man! I got lots of good shit bouncing around in my head, dude. I'm going to LA! I'm gonna do it.

I think my boss is the devil.

Me: *Knocking*

Boss: Who is it?

Me: Hi, boss. It's me.

Boss: Oh, hey, Tony. Yeah, yeah. Come in, bro.

Me: You wanted to talk to me?

Boss: Yeah, Tony, yeah. Wanted to talk to you about your career.

Me: Oh, okay. What about?

Boss: Well, to be honest, Tony, your numbers really leave something to be desired.

Me: What? What numbers? I'm selling well, getting corporate account leads. I'm bringing in a lot of money here.

Boss: Tony, sometimes it's not about the money, dude. *Pause* Sometimes it's about the virgin sacrifices.

Me: Yeah, been meaning to talk to you about those...

Boss: This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, Tony.

Me: I know, I know. It's just... I'm still not really sure how I feel about sacrificing virgins.

Boss: Okay, well, how many have you got under your belt now?

Me: Um, zero, I think.

Boss: And how many did we agree you should be sacrificing each month?

Me: I think you said the corporate minimum was seven.

Boss: So... that leaves a... shortfall of... seven. Thus far.

Me: Yeah. Good math. But I was talking to some other managers and they were saying there's no company policy on virgin sacrifices.

Boss: *Booming, gravelly voice* WHO DARES DEFY ME?

Me: Brendan. From accounting.

Boss: That d-bag.

Me: But I'm doing great at my goat's-blood-drinking.

Boss: Great. How many pints a day?

Me: Four or five. At the very least.

Boss: Good, good. And the snatching-babies-from-open-windows?

Me: Two so far this month.

Boss: Excellent. Quite excellent. The dark lord is pleased.

Me: *Blushing* Thanks...

Boss: You know, Tony, if you just threw a few more bricks through church window, I see no reason why you couldn't be doing my same job in a thousand years.

Me: You really think so?

Boss: No. I'm leading you on. I am pure lies and confusion.

Me: Oh. So you didn't really like my tie last week?

Boss: That tie made you look fat.

Me: How can a tie make someone look fat?

Boss: I don't know. But you found a way with that tie last week. And gay. It made you look gay, too. Tony, all I'm saying is that you've got to really want it.

Me: Want what?

Boss: The destruction of all that is good and holy and decent.

Me: I'm beginning to think maybe this job's not for me.

Boss: You can't ever leave, Tony. Ever. EVER! Mua ha ha! Ha ha ha! *More maniacal laughter*

Me: Really? Ever?

Boss: Well, two weeks. We'd need two weeks notice.

Me: Oh, that's not so bad. Okay, so here's my two weeks notice.

Boss: And there will be exit interviews! *Self-consciously spooky voice* Exit interviews! And paperwork! Mountains and mountains of paperwork! Mua ha ha! Ha ha ha! *Still more maniacal laughter, but this time it's obvious he feels anxious that I'm undaunted* Scared yet?

Me: Um, gosh. No. No, I'm not.

Boss: And you'll have to meet with Cheryl. FROM THE FIERY DEPTHS OF HUMAN RESOURCES!

Me: I like Cheryl. Cheryl's nice. What's wrong with Cheryl?

Boss: No reason. *It's clear that he's really hiding some pain behind his coal-black eyes* No reason.

Me: It's okay. You can tell me.

Boss: The... The bitch turned me down for a date.

Me: What? You? Why? You're suave. You're a good talker. You possess mind-control.

Boss: She said I reek of sulfur.

Me: *Pause* Noooooo...

Boss: Really? You don't think I reek of sulfur?

Me: You... I hardly ever noticed.

Boss: I tried covering it up with some Old Spice. Does it work?

Me: Well, you're not using too little Old Spice. I will say that much.

Boss: Shoot, man! I can't do anything right! I drive such a nice car, I go to such hip dance clubs, I am the creator of famines and plagues. And still, I can't get a nice girl. *Wipes what appears to be a tear from the corner of his eye*

Me: Hey, listen. It's been great. I'm gonna go back to work now, alright. But my two weeks notice is in, okay? Do you want me to be the one to e-mail Cheryl?

Boss: Sure. You know what? You wanna grab a drink tonight after work?

Me: Oh. Me? I'm... I'm real busy. I've got to walk my dog and do some grocery stuff.

Boss: No prob, no prob. Just some time before you quit, alright? The two of us. Out on the town. Chasing skirts! Eat some souls? I know this great place to steal some souls.

Me: Definitely. Definitely. For sure. Chasing skirts. *Backing out the door*

Boss: Alright! You're not just leading me on, are you? We're gonna get drinks? *Really desperate, sad, and pathetic looking*

Me: Yeah, man. For sure. It's gonna be fun. *Inching closer and closer to the exit, one foot actually out the door*

Boss: You're the best! The best! Oh, this is gonna be awesome!

Me: Awesome, for sure. Hundred percent.

Boss: We're bros! Bros for life!

Me: Bye. *Out the door, closing it behind me*

Boss: It's good having a bro. *Presses play on his computer. “Birthday Sex” comes on* This my jam!

I love wine coolers.

I LOVE WINECOOLERS!!!1!

i Don't eevn care who konws about it because they are sooooooo good. Im a bad adult or whatever ths stupid blog says so i can like win e coolers and pass it off like its funny and not effemnate.

kI dont wanna go to work anymore i just wanna drink wine coolers all the time.

I just had a red one& it tasted like a Juice squeeze and bfeore that i had a blue one and it tsted like a melted otter pop. Generic otter pops wer bad but the real ones were real good and the blue wine cooler tasted like teh real blue otter pop.

I went to some stupid praty today and ths girl was drnking a YELLOW wine cooler and i drank one to be funny aND NOW ICANT STOP DRINKING THEM.

aFter my 9th or 11rd this girl said 'tony stop drinking tho wine coolers and get out of m y house." broken bartles &jaymes bttles are good weapons and i cut her real good with it because she cant talk like that about wine coolers.

My shirt's all stianed yellow blue and green and purple cuz i 've been dirnking wne coolers all day and red with bloodcuz i think just killed someone for telling me t o stop.

If you try to go to a bar adn order a wine cooler theyl'l tel you they don't sreve wine coolers and theyll tell you "oh my god is that blood on your shirt? & whydo you have a broken bottle? someone call the cops!" and when he wont quiet down whn you tell him to quiet down youll have to cut him with yoyur broken bottle.

a good way to get more wine coolers without piaying for them at a liqor store is to be coveredin blood cuz the guy behind the counter wll know how much you love win ecoolers and he'll know its not worth it trying to stop you

a g]ood way to get a free cab ride is oFfEer the cabby a wine cooler for a ride and promising not to hurt him with a broken bottle if he drives you home.

I just added tonic water and paint thinner to windex and ti doesnt taste like a wine cooler or otter pop but it's ok and i'lll probbly drink more. i'm good at making Wnecoolers.

i wanna be a Professional winecooler taste tester but i dont no how much they get payed but that's ok because i think i have a good idea about how to not have to pay rent. it invloves a broken bottle.

I planned poorly for being stranded on this desert island.

1. Okay. I really wish I didn't put Rumours on my list of five things I'd bring if I were stranded on a desert island. Granted, it's one of the greatest albums of all time. Definitely Fleetwood Mac's best effort. But, man, there are dozens and dozens of things I would have rather brought. And, dude, if I wanted to bring along a CD, I should have put a CD player on the list too. Then there's the issue of electricity. Or at least batteries. That's another thing I'd need to put on the list just for a Fleetwood Mac album. That would have been 60% of my list just to hear “Go Your Own Way.” “Rhiannon” and “Landslide” aren't even on Rumours, for God's sake.
God, it is hot on this desert island. It is really a desert island.
I would gladly, happily, trade out the CD for a bucket of cool, fresh water. Or the ability to purify the spring water that's been giving me debilitating diarrhea since I washed up on this god forsaken island's shores.
Or even just one of those dinky fan/mister things. You know what I'm talking about? The spray bottle with the fan? I am blistering in the daytime heat. Blistering. Some balm would be a good thing for the list. Because I am literally blistering.

2. I admit, yes, I was initially glad to have brought along For Whom the Bell Tolls. It's my favorite book. It gets my heart beating every time. The action. The drama. The romance. The fact that the paper makes excellent kindling. Sure I was only able to use it for one night of fire and sure I've been quivering and shaking in a fetal position as I try to fall asleep ever since, but how was I to have known that the temperature would drop so radically at night?

3. And at first I was happy to have brought along a lifetime supply of ChocoTacos. Yes, they're delicious. Yes, they were refreshingly cool under the hot tropical sun. Yes, I am glad to have had any sustenance on this barren sandbar 2,000 miles from land. But, again, ChocoTacos are one of those things that require other things to be of any actual use. Mainly refrigeration. Because now I have a lifetime supply of melted-ice-cream-filled mylar bags. And now they are attracting ferocious fire ants, which are very scary in light of my aforementioned blisters.
Maybe if I store the ChocoTacos on the other side of the island, the ants won't find me. Oh no, they see me. Oh, God, it's too late! They're coming right for me and they smell fear!

4. Flares? Nah. A radio set? Nope. Anything to construct some rudimentary shelter? Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just great with this Whoopee Cushion I asked for.
Oh, I am so glad to have brought along some comic relief. Just listen to it. PFFFST! Oh, the hilarity. I would laugh if my throat weren't so painfully, painfully parched.
Good news, though, everybody. At the rate I'm losing weight here, I'll be able to use the Whoopee Cushion as a flotation device in about three days.
Are there sharks out there?

5. But I am glad to have brought along Roscoe, my family dog. Sorry, Roscoe. You were delicious.