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


Friday, April 23, 2010

I am not someone you want to mess with.

Hey, do you know who you're talking to, buddy?

Listen, pal. You do not wanna screw with me. No sirree. Don't even try it. For your information, I am one crazy mother.

I am so crazy, I often confuse the proper uses of the words 'affect' and 'effect.' That's right. And there's no use trying to teach me, because I still forget which is which every time. So ask your self, pal, is it worth the risk?

What? What do you mean that doesn't make me crazy? What do you mean those are commonly misused words? You know what? Forget that. Forget it. I'm still crazy, though.

You don't know who you're dealing with, friend.

I'm so crazy I respond to my own personal ads I place in weekly alternative newspapers. Does that sound like someone you want to mess with? Someone who talks to themselves using disappearing, unprofitable media?

Why are you saying that's sad and not crazy? Sad how? Sad like it makes you realize how bad I'd beat you in a fight or sad like it makes you realize how pathetically dull my existence must be?

I've been crazy since birth, man. Absolutely loco. When I was a kid, I used to get my action figures and pretend to have battles between them. That's right. It was Transformers toys versus Hulk Hogan toys versus the Ninja Turtles versus God-knows-who-else. Absolute insanity. That's a crazy, crazy kid.

You did that too? Impossible! No! No. I refuse to believe that, quote, "literally every other young boy does the exact same thing."

Well, get a load of this. When I was a kid, man, I spent the night in the attic after I had a fight with some of my extended family who were staying at our house before we all went on a big Christmas vacation. But because I was in the attic, I overslept and everyone forgot about me. And you know what happened then, pal? My whole family went on vacation without me. Leaving me all by myself on Christmas.

Then a short robber and tall one tried to break into my house. Yeah, and you know what I did to them? You know what me the adorable little nine year-old did to those two guys?

How did you know I iced over the front stairs? And that I super-heated the door knob so they couldn't get in? And that I made the robbers think I was a violent criminal by playing the audio from an old gangster movie?


What about the time I did a similar thing to those very same robbers when I was at a hotel in New York City? Yes, the bellman at the hotel did look a lot like Rob Schneider, but I hardly see what bearing that has on any of this.

Where are you going, man? Hey, don't you walk away from me like that! I'm crazy, you know!

Monday, April 19, 2010

I let someone else write one.

 Last week, my friend and writing partner Nate Hinchey asked me if he could write a piece for Reasons I'm a Bad Adult.

"What a great idea," I thought. Not only is Nate funny and an all-around bad person, but I am also fresh out of ideas. A perfect storm!

 I Like Watching Little Kids Eat It

Tony’s not the only bad adult. There are literally thousands upon thousands of sub-par, no good, really terrible adults out there in the world. I should know. I’m one of ‘em.

Why? Oh, a lot of reasons. But the one that most readily comes to mind is the staggering level of joy I experience when I watch a kid eat it.

Yeah, eat it, kid.

Sorry, I thought some kid I saw out the window was about to eat it.

The year—2006. The place—a Comfort Suites in Skokie, Illinois. I was lounging in an undersized hot tub next to the hotel’s indoor pool, doing my best to enjoy the tepid bursts of bubbles and lamenting my choice of discount lodging. Then, all of the sudden, my fortunes changed.

A chubby little tweenie (oh, God… yes! I love watching fat kids eat it!) marched into the pool area stripped down to his trunks. I could tell by the look on this kid’s face that he made his own rules—he had probably just finished a meat-lovers Grand Slam at the Denny’s connected to the hotel, and he’d be damned if he waited a full hour before he showed this pool what for!

So it didn’t surprise me, in fact, it actively excited me, when this tubby little boy started to pick up speed as he tooled around the edge of the pool.

Let’s pause for a moment and consider—what would a GOOD adult do in this situation? First off, probably not let your 11-year old roll down to the hotel pool on his own (as I said, there are plenty of us bad adults out there.) But more pertinently, a good adult probably would’ve had warned the kid that it’s not a good idea to run around a pool.

Smash cut to—me, bad adult. If this kid gets going a little bit faster and plants his foot on just the right slippery tile in just the right way, I’m gonna get to see some serious eating.

In my defense, I did manage to restrain myself from saying, “Hey kid! I could totally run around that pool faster than you!”

Mainly because he didn’t need any encouragement. I think the thing I love most about watching a kid eat it is the look on their face right before they realize they’ve lost control—there’s a sense of absolute invincibility, a belief that they are the masters and commanders of their far side of the world.

And then they eat it.

He hit the right tile. He slipped the surly bonds of earth. He came down on his belly like a penguin coasting down a sheet of ice. It seemed like he glided across the entire pool floor before he plopped, a la Augustus Gloop, into the deep end.

I leapt to my feet. I screamed. “Yeah, kid, ohhh, it’s so good when you eat it like that!”

However, I came out of the tub a bit too fast and my swimsuit had fallen down to my ankles. And APPARENTLY, a guy can’t express some innocent satisfaction at little kids ‘eating it’ when he’s standing naked in a kiddie pool… err, hot tub.

50 hours of community service. Worth it.

-- Nate Hinchey

Nate and Tony can be found on Twitter @twoguysinspace and you can find just Nate on Twitter @natehinchey

Thursday, April 15, 2010

I forgot how to put on pants.

Ok. Just cool it, Tony. COOL IT! You can do this!

It's easy. You've put on pants nearly every day since you were four. Right leg goes into the-- No, that's a pocket. Maybe if I just slide my hand through that belt loop, I can-- Oh, goddammit! I can't do anything right!

This is so embarrassing. Here I am, looking like a buffoon in my shirt, tie and sportscoat, and down below I'm just as bare as the day I was born.

This will never fly at work. Unless... Unless... Maybe I can make this my "look." Yeah! I can be the guy who dresses stylishly sans pants.

Yeah, that's it! People won't look at me and think I've forgotten how to clothe my lower-half; they'll see me as a pantsless fashionista!

I'll be that guy who ushered in a new era of fashion! Pretty soon, everyone will be walking around decked out in their finest upper-body wear while naked as a jaybird from the waist down.

I can see it now...

They'll call it the "Tony!" A man and woman will walk hand in hand in public, their nether regions covered only by the bottoms of their shirts, and people will say, "Look at that couple, pulling a 'Tony'! They look so sexy!" "Pants-free is the way to be," they'll cheer.


Right?... Right?

Oh, who am I kidding? I need to put these damn pants on. I look ridiculous. I've got such hairy legs. Damn my Sicilian blood!

Don't cry. Oh god, don't cry. Tony, if you cry now, things will only get worse. You know how your fingers swell when you get teary, and you cannot afford to lose any manual dexterity!

No. Oh, no. Here come the waterworks. Why are there so many damn clasps and buttons?! My fingers are like sausages!

How wrong all those people were who said, "I'm just like everyone else; I put my pants on one leg at a time." Well, newsflash to all those people. NOT ALL OF US PUT ON PANTS ONE LEG AT A TIME! Some of us don't know how to put pants on at all.

It makes me feel like the pants industry doesn't even care about me.

Why don't these things come with a manual? Am I supposed to fit both my legs into one side of the pants and use the other one as a backup? No. That won't work. I don't fit. Is it because that's not how it's done or is it because I'm gaining weight?

Do I go in headfirst? Let's try that. Hrgh. Hrrrak. Can't breathe. GASP. Can't breathe. GASP. Okay. That's probably not it.

I should try it one more time, though. In I go. Glargh. Help! Glurrgh. Okay, that's definitely not it.
Wait, the tag! The tag has instructions! What's that fine print say?

Oh. Silly me... They're not even meant to be worn; it says right here, "Dry Clean Only."