Monday’s Exciting List of Verbal Argument Finishing Moves After The Other Party Storms Out The Door (Kitchen Edition)

  • Pick up glass vase of fake lemons, smash on floor.
  • Wave arms in screaming 360-degree motion by Calphalon pots (hanging from ceiling), causing 55% of them to go crashing to floor, cracking elaborate South American-imported tiles.
  • Open fridge, pull out crisper drawers, scatter fresh vegetables everywhere.
  • Pull answering machine from wall, throw through glass partition window.
  • Tap into adrenalization power, pull microwave from mounted position above stove, throw into adjoining family room area, breaking pricey glass coffee table.
  • Rip fake plastic skin off fake plastic apple in fake plastic fruit bowl, scream to the sky.
  • Kick hole in metallic garbage bin, get foot stuck, swing until gravity pulls screaming bin of death towards wine glass cabinet — breaking 40% white wine glasses, 90% red wine glasses.
  • Rip off cabinet doors under sink, grab industrial sized Costco bottle of dishwashing liquid, squeeze so hard and with so much rage that stream of green gunk coats ceiling in a wave of Swamp Thing-esque pudding-skin.
  • Crazily huff, scream, then grab margarine container plastic top with teeth, gnawing until the rage has gone.
  • Eat the leftovers in the Tupperware.

Today’s Post In Which I Blatantly Attack The Concept of Stupid Obstacle Courses

Rope swings.

Rope swings on their own are horrible enough with the leg burn and the hand scratches and the vertigo inducing swinging motion going on the whole time. They’re even horribler than horrible when they’re perched high above a muddy hole in the ground. But combine them with huge 18 wheeler tires you have to run through, tall walls you have to climb over, hard-boiled egg walks, trampoline jumps and things involving squirt guns — and you’ve got the All-American obstacle course.

A concept that I am about to blatantly attack.

Revising The Male Urinal Coefficient

I’d like to officially revise my thoughts on the male urinal coefficient.

The Male Urinal Coefficient for those not in-the-know, is a complicated and elaborate equation that men have ingrained in their minds — some say it’s almost instinct (next to breathing and sleeping). The Coefficient kicks into high gear when a man enters a public bathroom and is faced with a wall of urinals. At that point, based on which urinals are free and where people are standing, the instinct and equation kick in — thus allowing the man to decide the best place to stand.

Today, I revise my previous coefficient.

I Am The Master Tracer

I can’t draw for sh*t, but I can trace anything to death.

Which just goes to show you that art doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with talent, “an eye for art,” the ability to see the world in a unique way, or even eye-hand coordination. Impressionistic art, surreal art, traditional, retro, whatever-art — nothing stands a chance when you give me an opaque piece of trace paper and let me loose like a chick in the shoe department of Nordstrom’s.

And that’s simply because, in a nutshell — I kick ass as a Master Tracer.