I Hunt the Most Dangerous Game.

First, I want to thank all of you for making it out to my private island here far off the coast of California. I trust that your trip out here on my luxury yacht was most comfortable.

I have called you all here because, like me, you are all very wealthy and, also like me, you are all master hunters.

Look at the walls of my well-appointed study. You will see the mounted heads of animals from every continent. I trust that your own walls in your own mansions look much like mine.

And you have all assured me you were willing to plum the depths of the human soul, willing to test the bounds of the human spirit, in order to hunt a beast you never before have.

I am glad you've said yes, but I must warn you further, gentlemen. Once you have pursued this animal and captured him, you will never be the same again. For tonight, we hunt the most dangerous game... the mouse!

Yes, that's right. Mice.

No, not ravenous vampire mice.

They're not overgrown mutants, no. They're about... average-sized, I guess.

Yeah, just regular old mice. This mansion is overrun by them.

No, they're not rabid or anything. Literally just your regular old field mouse.

Any other questions?

What are you talking about? Of course the field mouse is a dangerous. He is the most dangerous game. I just told you that. Were you even listening? There are literally dozens of them living beneath my front porch and they run into my pantry and... Oh, God, it's awful! Anyway, we better get started killing them. Before they kill us!

Now, underneath each of your seats I have placed twenty-five of what I have called “mice destroyers.” Take a look.

Mouse trap? What do you mean it looks like a mouse trap? I've never heard of such a thing as a “mouse trap.” I created this contraption myself to lure in and destroy these creatures. These diabolical creatures. I assure you it is nothing so simple as a so-called “mouse trap.”

Okay, so here's what you do. Take a little bit of cheese. Or peanut butter. I think peanut butter works too. Then you put it on your “mice destroyer” and then press back the little bar until the spring clicks. Then, and this gentlemen is where you must be very careful, you set these “mice destroyers” underneath my porch and in the pantry. To stop them before they get to us!

But beware, gentlemen, beware! I'm kind of running out of cheese and peanut butter, so only use what you think is sufficient. Sufficient to master and destroy this cunning beast!

What? How dare you impugn my honesty by claiming that I lured you out to my mansion just to take care of a minor mouse infestation. I assure you that I am doing no such thing. I thought master hunters such as yourselves would be a little more open-minded. In fact, I'm kind of disappointed in all of you. How many of you have a field mouse mounted on your walls? Their sharp claws, their menacing teeth!

No one. Just like I thought. Just like I thought.

Now, we must make haste! I have a dinner party tomorrow night and I really want to kill all these little bastards before hors d'oeuvre begin.

No, this has nothing to do with the fact it's impossible to get a decent exterminator out to one's private island. I wouldn't even know. I haven't even called one. Pinky swear.

A cat? You think an everyday housecat could kill all these vile, vicious mice? I've never thought of that. Not a bad idea, actually. Any of you have a cat on you?

No, I need a live one. Well, if I had known that a cat would've done the trick, I wouldn't have stuffed and mounted all twelve of mine. Like assholes always say, hindsight is 20/20, isn't it?

Wait. Shh. Shh! Do you hear that noise? That scurrying beneath the floorboards. Oh, no! The mice! They've found us. The horror!

Everyone remain calm. Remain silent and do not move. If we don't move, they can't see us.

That's right, dinosaurs can only detect moving objects.

Yes. Dinosaurs. What have I been saying? Mice? Ha. I must have seemed pretty silly calling mice the most dangerous game. I'm always confusing mice with dinosaurs. Allow me to clarify. I have a dinosaur infestation. What a brain fart. Sorry!

Okay. To recap. There are dozens of velociraptors, not mice, living beneath my front porch and apparently now beneath the floorboards here in my luxurious study.


Hm. No, I was not aware that velociraptors were the one kind of dinosaur actually capable of detecting still objects. Great. Awesome.

Okay, who's ready to lay some mouse traps?

I searched through a medical dictionary looking for terms that sound dirty.

Bather's eruption
Caecum
Cuboid bone
Maddox rod
Wet pleurisy
Dick test
Stiff man syndrome
Eruct
Rapture of the deep

That was a large part of my Sunday.

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?

BUT I'VE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF HOME ALONE!

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!

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!


Enjoy.

 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

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.

PANTS-FREE IS THE WAY TO BE!

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."

I fixed my computer in 20 easy steps.

Grrrrr. My beautiful shiny MacBook Pro conked out on me earlier this week; it just stopped turning on! And, man, it is really hard to find good, easy-to-understand advice about how to troubleshoot computer problems.

But I finally got it all sorted out, and being the kind soul that I am, I thought I would just tell my readers what I had to learn the hard way when it comes to getting your computer fixed. Hopefully these twenty easy steps are simple enough for even the most tech-illiterate person to follow.

How to Fix Your Computer in 20 Easy Steps

1) Use your roommate Zack's computer to Google how to troubleshoot your own computer. Find nothing applicable to your situation.

2) Scour your brain for anyone you know who's good with computers.

3) Ask your roommate Zack whether he has the phone number for his former co-worker Denise. She was the one whose boyfriend worked with computer hardware, right? And didn't she tell him she thought you were cool?

4) Get Denise's phone number and ask her out to lunch just, you know, to catch up.

5) Take her to someplace inexpensive but classy. A sit-down place, for sure.

6) Notice that she looks a little... different than before. Pale and gaunt. And isn't she acting a little distant?

7) Shrug off Denise's change in appearance and proceed to make small talk. Ask, "What are you watching on TV these days? Have any trips planned? How about this weather, huh?"

8) Casually mention her boyfriend. Ask, "How's your boyfriend doing? Is he still working with computers?"

9) Be taken aback when Denise says she and... What was his name again? Richard? Be taken aback when she says that she and Richard have broken up. That must've been why she's not looking so great.

10) Ask, "So are you guys... still on good terms? Do you guys like, talk ever? About computers?"

11) Look sensitive and caring when she tells you, "No, it was a rough breakup. I'm still kinda not, like, doing that well after it."

12) Call the waiter over and order your meal. That'll cut the tension. Tell her how you've heard good things about this place.

13) When it gets really silent and awkward just before your food comes, ask, "Have you met a new special someone yet? Any new prospects who are good with technology in general or are especially good with MacBooks?"

14) Pretend not to notice as she wipes a tear away from the corner of her eye and tells you, "No, there's no one else. No one else at all."

15) Silently begin to eat your meal. She only pecks at hers, barely touching it. Ask her, "No appetite?" She'll nod silently.

15) Ask, "Were you ever, uh, attracted to any of the computer guys that Richard worked with? I'm sure you must've gotten along with some of his techie co-workers."

16) When she just shakes her head, dumbfounded and slack-jawed at your question, tell her, "Hey, I was just thinking that there's a lot of really nice guys that work at the CompuCity near my apartment. You know, that computer store? I really think you'd find a cool new guy to spend time with there. "

17) She'll say, "Tony, when you asked me out to lunch, I thought it was because you had heard I was single. I thought you were taking me out on a date."

18) Awkward. You were never that attracted to her, but you can still salvage this whole lunch. "How are you with computers?"

19) "Excellent," she'll say.

20) Finally say, "Check, please. My place or yours?"

I'm gonna take full advantage of this free health care.

Oh, snap. In your face, people who hate poor people.

Obama and Pelosi just hooked us all up with free health care, so no matter how we've screwed up our bodies, no one's gonna bill us. How sweet is that?

And to celebrate my new freedom, I'm gonna make sure I take full advantage of the services now available to me.

That weird clicking noise in my ankle? I can now get it X-Rayed... FOR FREE! And now I won't have to just wait for those blinding migraines to pass overnight; I can actually get medicine for them. And the best treatment for that sharp pain in my abdomen will no longer be "Hope-It's-Just-Recurring-Crippling-Indigestion-In-A-Weird-Spot."

But I'm not content to just take care of the ailments I already have. No, no. I want to get as many new illnesses as possible to make sure I get all that's owed to me.

If anyone out there wants practice as an amateur/unlicensed tattoo artist, my skin is now your canvas, since any future tetanus or hepatitis treatment will be FREE FREE FREE!

And I'm finally going to be able to take a live cannon ball to the stomach without worrying about how much it'll cost me. Internal hemorrhaging be damned, I'm gonna live out my lifelong dream of being a circus freak.

I'm even thinking of overcoming my fear of needles so I can take up intravenous drug use.

Now, I bet some of you out there are thinking, "But, Tony, won't behavior like this put an unnecessary strain on a system that is already over-burdened by skyrocketing health costs?"

And that's a valid question. In response, I say, "I... don't know." I just drank a gallon of bleach and I'm having a hard time focusing. My lips feel funny.

Joe Biden was right when he said this is a big fucking deal. And I'm gonna be a big fucking deal when I'm at the hospital, living like a king.

I take questions.

It's time once again to open up the ol' Bad Adult Mailbag. So, without further ado, here's some questions from some Bad Adult fans just like you.

Dear Tony,
Every Penis VIAgra and seealis pill CAN B yours! Nvr has a chance to B so str0ng and p0tent been availible to the pubic, & u can be 1ST! 8O9KL..- All U R need to do is forword cash to 0ur highly trained Drs and they will send to YOU the ULTImate sensationmaking expERience. All women U half EVER dreamd of will be at y0ur disp0sal and begging 4 more. need to bigger? WE Are the help y0u ha ve been praying for. Monies sent to American Products USA Inc. M0gadishu, s0malia.
--Dr. Cornelius Bloomfield, PhD

Dear Dr. Bloomfield,
My credit card number is 8765 9877 0924 exp 11/11. Do you need my social security number? Just in case, it's 908 43 5656. Mother's maiden name, Andretti. Can't wait!
--Tony

Dear Tony,
What's up, you walking shit bucket? Remember me? When you were ten, you thought I was dead and flushed me down the toilet. Joke's on you, motherfucker, cuz I ain't dead. I'm alive and well and ready to kill. For thirteen years I lived in these filthy sewers. Doing pull ups everyday. Drinking protein shakes. Growing strong in my hatred. You think your blog's so funny? It won't be so goddamn funny once I nibble your goddamn fingers off. Get ready to die, you inconsiderate bastard.
--Ninja, your old pet goldfish

Dear Ninja, my old pet goldfish,
You want some of this? You think you can take me? Come and get it, you brainless carnival-prize. If I weren't a vegetarian, I'd eat you whole, but since I won't kill an animal, I will torture you. I will torture you so bad you'll pray you were at Abu-Ghraib. Water-boarding would be a relief from what you're in for, you floating orange turd. You'll wish you were dead. Tell your family to expect the same.
--Tony

Dear Tony,
Please stop posting all that weird stuff on my website. You're creeping everyone out, which is really hard to do on my site.
--Craig Newmark, President of Craigslist

Dear Craig,
Then where else am I supposed to find a tub of rice pudding big enough for three? Riddle me that, nerd!
--Tony


Dear Tony,
FAGGOT!
--Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,
Really more of a hurled expletive than a question. But thanks for the interest!
--Tony

On that note, ladies and gentleman, I seal up the mailbag. See you next time!

I have a zombie for a roommate.

So I've been having a lot of trouble with my roommate Jacob lately. When he moved in, it was great. He was funny, responsible, accommodating. Everything you could ask for in a roommate. But, lately Jacob's been a little... different.

I stopped outside his door. "Knock knock," I said. "Hey Jake. It's me."

He looked up from whatever he was reading. His face was paler than usual. And covered in blood and skullmatter. "Raawraagh! Grrowgh!"

I stepped back a bit. "You know, if this is a bad time, I can come back later."

"Nrraarr." He put down his book.

"Cool, man. Thanks for your time. Listen, this won't take too long. Just wanted to talk about a few things." I took a seat on his suede beanbag chair. I really liked it. I think he got it from the Pier 1 across the street from the apartment. "First," I told him, "you're a great roommate. You always have rent on time. The past couple months, it's been paid in bloody petty cash, as if you stole it out of a hundred peoples' pockets, but in these economic times, we take what we can get."

I could see I had made him angry. "Grrarrrrgh."

"Hey, hey, hey. I'm paycheck-to-paycheck myself. No worries."

"Hrrayygh."

I had to do my best to appease him before I got to hard part. "I really like this suede beanbag chair. You get it from the Pier 1 across the street?"

He nodded and spat up blood.

"That's great. They have really great deals there. Some of my coffee mugs are from there."

There was kind of an awkward silence. It smelled like rotten flesh in the room.

I went on. "Remember a while back when that zombie bit you? When he was going for your brains?"

That perked him up a bit. "Braaaaaaaaains!" The only thing he seems to talk about these days is brains.

"Yeah. Right. You remember. Cool. It's just, and don't take this the wrong way, okay? It's just you haven't been the same ever since then."

"Braaaaaaaains!" He gnashed his teeth and stuck out what was left of his tongue.

"See? That's it. That's exactly what I mean. It's like all you can think about anymore is brains. You used to be such a good roommate. You used to clean the kitchen after you ate, but now you leave bits of people's insides all over the place. You expect me to clean that stuff up? That's pretty disrespectful."

He looked hurt. Confused. Undead.

"I'm sorry, Jake. I might be coming off harsh, I know. But, my God, do you realize how hard it is for me to fall sleep when you're tearing one of our neighbors apart limb from limb? You know I have to wake up at six a.m every morning for work, right?"

Now he just stared at me with those black, vacant eyes.

"And speaking of work, what happened to your job? I know you said that everyone at the office was killed when the zombies swarmed around your building, but have you even sent out any resumes? You used to have ambition and goals. You used to want to start your own business. Now you just hang out with a huge mob of other zombies and attack schoolbuses and shopping malls. Didn't you used to want to start a production company?."

Jacob gargled and snarled. "Grrrhhawwwrrr!"

"Yes, you're allowed to be depressed that you're technically neither living nor dead, but you're not allowed to treat the apartment as if it were your personal zombie den. Have you even taken a look at the Apartment Chores Checklist I put on the fridge? I didn't make it for my own health, you know. I made it so I wouldn't be the only one on my hands and knees scrubbing out your bloody footprints from the carpet."

He nodded in agreement. Or maybe one of the vertebrae in his neck gave out.

"Good, I'm glad we see eye to cloudy, emotionless eye. And I don't want this to change anything between us. We're still totally fine. If you wanna have guests over, that's still cool. Just if you're gonna have somebody crash on our futon, would you give me a heads up whether it's a buddy of yours or just someone you killed and partially ate in our living room? Thanks."

Another awkward pause. I'd said all I had to say, but I wanted to let him know I still wanted to be his friend.

"Well, thanks again. And 'The Jersey Shore' will be on later if you wanna watch with me."

I know what zombies like.

I am burying 'That's what she said.'

Hello, readers.

Today we come to put behind us a phrase that has hurt us too much for too long. A group of words that have caused us too much pain.

Tonight we come to bury 'that's what she said.' This phrase is not a racist or derogatory one; it does not see color or creed. It simply sees tons and tons of double entrendres.

How many times have we regretted asking our neighbor, “Please, give it to me?” for fear of someone saying, “That's what she said?” When eating McDonald's french fries, how often have we been too scared to admit we like the biggest ones best? And how many times have we overpaid for groceries, afraid to tell the butcher we wanted him to give us more meat?

But today we come here to look at the future, not at the past.

So now, come together parents and children and feel free to talk about how long and hard the work or school week was. Even if at any point you had to quote “stay up all night.” Now, whenever we are done with leg workouts at the gym, we will have no fear of saying how sore our butts are. Starting today, when we come in from the rain, we need not be afraid to describe how wet we are. And from now on, we shall no longer be scared to talk about how many of anything we can fit into our mouths. Anything at all, whether it be a dozen cocktail wienies or a pair of sweet ding dongs.

So join me, proud to laboriously detail how you'd love to spend a few hours lathering your minivan's drive shaft with hot oil. It's routine auto maintenance, people, and now we will be free to discuss it without fear.

Freedom from fear. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet.

Don't say it. Don't say, “That's what she said.”

For JS

I'm really bad at sports.

My middle sister is awesome. Let's call her 'A'. She's a smart, kind, fun person. But I submit to you today that she is a thief. A thief of my athletic ability.

You see, I have absolutely, positively no sports skills whatsoever. I am god awful at any and every sport ever invented. The only sport I am even good at watching is baseball. I think if you were to hand me a football, I would spontaneously vomit.

My sister, however, is supremely talented at sports. As far as I can tell, she can play literally every known sport with supernatural ease and grace. She was blessed with the athletic ability of at least three average people.

Three people! You'll understand why I suspect she stole our skills, then, when I tell you that my one other sister is just as deplorable at athletics as I am. (But a wonderful person, nonetheless.)

'A' somehow stole our skills. She took whatever chance we had at being normal and hoarded it all for herself. She was a four-year starter on her basketball team in high school. They easily went undefeated in their league and won the state championship her senior year. And this wasn't no weak-ass state like Delaware or Nebraska. THIS WAS CALIFORNIA!

I, meanwhile, somehow managed to earn our cross-country team's 'Most Improved' award three years running. (We, by the way, were the worst team in the league.)

'A' went on to play Division I college ball, where in her Junior year the team won the Patriot League (a minor league, admittedly, but what have you ever done?).

What made 'A' such a basketball ace? Was it genetics? No. A goal-driven, competitive home life? No. Was it wizardry and magic used to drain whatever natural talent might have been bestowed on me? Probably.

I remember being on my town's CYO basketball team when I was in fourth grade. If you've ever played youth basketball, you probably recall the 'A' team and the 'B' team. The A's were stars and the B's were everybody else. But I wasn't on either of those.

Do you recall the 'C' team? Probably not, since not many towns had them. My town did. Thank God I wasn't on that one.

No, no. I was on the 'D' team. Ever heard of it? If you say yes, you're either a liar or you were one of the eight other kids on the team with me.

We were a team so definitively bad that there never was before and never will be again another 'D' team.

We were a ragtag group of shapeless, weak misfits, the kind Emilio Estevez would turn into a bunch of winners if this were a feel good family film. But we had no 'rise-to-glory' storyline; we had only weekend after weekend of crushing defeat.

We were ten boys who consistently lost to every team we faced. We regularly lost to girls team. It happened so often it eventually stopped being humiliating.

There was a retarded kid on my team. Let's call him 'M.' Now, I know fourth-graders will call anyone who's different 'retarded'. The kid who wore mismatched socks? Retarded. The kid whose parents didn't have cable? Retarded. Hell, I got called retarded for four years because I bought "Magic the Gathering" cards once.

'M,' however, was the more classical description of retarded. Learning disabilities, total lack of coordination, emotional and psychological impairment. Real 'D' team material. And we his teammates, being the horrible little snots we were, took advantage of his fragile state whenever we could.

Imagine an elementary-school gymnasium. There are the two main basketball hoops at either end of the court, but along the sides are auxiliary hoops that can be raised or lowered so more kids can practice at once. Someone (me?) convinced 'M' that those hoops were bonus hoops worth three points.

When he would shoot at them in games, believing he was a hero to our constantly-losing team, he did so with such horrible aim, such utter lack of precision and control, that it looked as though he were intentionally hurling the ball at the spectators in the stands.

If we were to get extra points every time the other team's parents were frightened that a kid with severe learning disabilities was trying to injure them, we would have made it to the playoffs. We could have gone all the way.

I write this anecdote now not to gloat about how mean someone (me?) was to a kid who obviously had it bad enough as it was, but rather to illustrate how rotten yours truly is at basketball. 'M' STARTED ABOVE ME IN THE LINEUP.

The coach would have rather endangered the crowd's welfare than put me in the game. He thought to himself 'Do I want 'M,' the kid who literally cannot tie his own shoes, or do I want Tony?' and he didn't choose me.

It was around this same time that I played my first (and only) Little League season. In one year, I did not make it to base one time. I only made playable contact at bat once; I grounded out to shortstop. Yet in that very same year I got hit in the face with a baseball... wait for it... twice. My face was hit by the ball more than my bat was.

With my limited knowledge of statistics, I could predict that every time my bat hit a ball, my face would be hit infinity times. From then on, I decided to stay home and read Shel Silverstein.

During the year all this was happening, my sister 'A' was playing and excelling on traveling soccer, softball, and basketball teams simultaneously. Coincidence? I think not.

I am a satisfied customer.

Click on them to see them larger.




Too much of a good thing

Half Hour of Evil

Grrr!

A lesson learned quickly.

It prevents your blood from clotting.

Keep It Simple, Stupid

I resolve to not eat cauliflower.

Ok. First, Feliz Año Nuevo! And a word of warning : Be sure to put that curly thing, that '˜' over your 'n' when you say that. Because though año means year, ano without the '˜' means 'anus.' People who speak Spanish will be offended if you wish them a happy new butthole. Unless that's what you really mean.

Now that that's over with, I want to talk about my resolution. I resolve to not eat cauliflower anymore.

This isn't really a new goal for me. Allow me to explain.

I remember being fairly young, maybe seven or eight and a teacher was talking about cauliflower. I thought, 'I've never had cauliflower... And I never will.' I decided that day to never eat cauliflower.

You see, other kids had dreams of being baseball players or astronauts or doctors. My thinking was that those are all pretty hard to achieve, but not eating cauliflower ever? Perfectly attainable. From that day on, I successfully avoided it. It was pretty easy.

Until college, when a girl peer convinced me into eating some since she had so much left over. She made cauliflower soup. It was alright.

College is a time of experimentation.

But this started me down a path of casual cauliflower eating. I just kept eating it whenever it was presented to me. I even have a bag of mixed vegetables in my freezer with cauliflower mixed in.

So as people talked to me about their resolutions these past few weeks, I thought, "Wow, exercising more or reading more books seem like really hard resolutions." I decided this morning to no longer eat cauliflower. I knew I could do that; I did it for twenty-one years.

I knew if I set my goals low, I would succeed. I encourage you to aim to underachieve just like me! You'll let yourself down far less.

Feliz Ano Nuevo!

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.