http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/ Fearless rantings of a monkeying advertising writer... en Copyright 2012 Tue, 07 Jul 2009 13:27:08 -0800 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Thank you for the encouraging responses to my previous post. I'd like to particularly thank "cialis overdose", "phentermine hong kong" and "free insurance quotes" for their words of support. Perhaps I'll try a new technique this weekend during my bachelor party, and "tweet" the happenings (notwithstanding the fact I don't have a twitter account). So, if you read updates such as "just puked on a beaver" and "didn't know a shotgun could open a coconut" it'll be for that reason. http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/07/thank_you_hong.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/07/thank_you_hong.html Tue, 07 Jul 2009 13:27:08 -0800 I'm less than five weeks away from my public, civil, and religious commitment to a 27-year-old woman from Union County, New Jersey, and I've been unable to find the desire to record my thoughts. Instead, I've been meekly trying to complete this entry for over a month. Every time I start a sentence, my cells flood with disinterest and I close the window. This is unfortunate, as this site, in some form or another, has served as my front-facing communication solution since 2000. While over the past years I've found the time to assess the social implications of a co-worker flossing while I was taking a crap, the physics behind the riding of a koala bear, and the revulsion of those who recklessly use terms like "gang" and "ciao", I've found myself unwilling to write during what is arguably the most important weeks this blog has ever experienced. When I started writing in 2000, blogs were new. The very concept of an "online journal" provided enough novelty to maintain an audience, regardless of the content. This is no longer true. Technology has delivered new ways to present content. If you still have a blog, it has to stay ahead of the curve with interesting or niche content. Just being a blog isn't enough. Initially, I never intended to write about my day-to-day life. My first ever posts were made to avoid having to send mass emails as I traveled across the world for the first time. Blogs are obviously at their best when the writer is doing something interesting that people want to hear about. Originally, my trip provided that content, and subsequent years have been punctuated by the occasionally interesting experience. In between these interesting experiences are mostly private experiences, which, while interesting, cannot be presented to the public in the form of a blog. Feelings would be hurt. Boring experiences fill the remaining void, and boring experiences aren't worth writing blogs about. They are supposed to be Twittered or thrown on Facebook. Life can now be successfully be updated in twenty word status updates. Two thousand word entries seem wasteful. Everyone is online. Everyone is posting. Our attention spans are under assault. You cannot keep up. Content is flooding the internet, in some sense polluting the ideal of quality I once strived for. Just because you can self-publish, doesn't mean you should. Furthering the slow, but certain, demise of this blog, is the reality that I no longer have an audience. The group I once wrote to so many years ago has dissipated and fragmented, leaving individual readers who no longer even know the people or places I spend most of the time with these days. There is no relevance. In short, times have changed, and my forthcoming wedding has confirmed this fact more than any other, which is directly why the issue of this blog has been brought to a head. Half the attendees at my bachelor party are people I met in New York. None of those people read this blog. Half the people this blog was originally started to keep updated weren't even invited to the wedding. Some of the ones who were invited aren't coming (or responding at all, particularly those based in Seattle). This follows logic. To some extent, those friendships are locked in the past. We shared a common time and lay claim to the same memories, but they reside in the past (when I weighed thirty pounds less). This blog never caught on with my family. My dad still thinks the internet is the name of a fishing apparatus. Writing about the stress his recent declaration of bankruptcy has placed upon the planning of this wedding wouldn't serve much purpose. Debbie may peek in every now and then, but her blog better explains the issues where our lives intersect, particularly when those issues involve Airbuses that break apart in the sky, in a way I promised was mechanically impossible and understandably damages the fragile truce recently made with a fear of flying. Some have issued complaints about the cost of attending a New York wedding. This is an inevitable byproduct of the aforementioned life changes. Everyone now lives in different places and varying levels of family building. This is simply a consequence of getting married in my thirties. I've paid my own dues. I've spent over $12,000 in the past four years attending five destination weddings and two bachelor parties. The bulk of these trips came in the first few years of my move to NYC to start a new career, during which I made $35,000 dollars a year while crippled with $60,000 in school debt. Ironically, the people who have bitched the most to me have the most (Lee will still be trying to sleep on my couch when he is 58 and has four kids). In other ways, the old group continues to impress. In an epic show of class, the friends whose wedding I most regret not being able to get to in the past years, P and Rosie, have been the most gracious and accommodating in their attempts to make it to mine. To you, I can only offer my sincere apology. Had I known at the time the immense amount of emotional energy and effort it take to plan a wedding (and the importance of RSVP cards), I would have sacrificed what was needed to come out. Hector and Gao never hesitated in their acceptance. Ditto to Kenta, Kenny, Noah, Katie, Taj. I appreciate the sacrifices. As I know, it takes supreme effort. To those who have recently been laid off, I'd suggest a career as a babysitter, as i've been told California has a severe shortage of them. This entry has proved the point. I had to write all of these reflections in one bulk entry, when instead it should have either been broken up into a thousand separate status updates, turned into a comedy piece, or funneled into a short film rant. The blog has served its purpose nobly. But unless I suddenly get a job as Megan Fox's personal assistant, or attempt to sail around the world in a beer keg, or become a White House correspondent, it is time for this blog to get in step with all the other changes that have swept through our world. Thanks to those of you who have stuck around this long. I look forward to delivering content to you in new, exciting, and, hopefully, entertaining ways. http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/06/wedding.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/06/wedding.html Fri, 12 Jun 2009 15:25:47 -0800 The tool does an accurate job of summarizing what I've accomplished in the previous thirty-three years (a straight baby-blue line of blah), and how quickly I am unavoidably and inconsequentially sliding towards old age. But hey! At least when I hit the end I'll have a Roth IRA that I can use to pay for Lipitor and Hip Replacements!]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/06/slide_on_over.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/06/slide_on_over.html Tue, 09 Jun 2009 15:31:45 -0800 Hey Nana! and have a new question posted every day. Kind of like Fuck You, Penguin! But then I had knee surgery and got engaged, and i'm lazy and this idea no longer inspires me, so I don't think I'll put time into a site anymore, but I will post some of the early entries here: HEY NANA! Stop calling yourself nana. You're not fancier than a grandma. HEY NANA! How'd your feet get so swollen? HEY NANA! You accidentally colored your scalp instead of your eight pieces of hair. HEY NANA! I don't think that hair color has been identified by science. HEY NANA! Where'd you get that Buick? HEY NANA! Why do you have more facial hair than me? HEY NANA! Why are you carrying more bags in your bags? HEY NANA!Why'd you vote down the school budget? HEY NANA! You left your blinker on. HEY NANA! Is Pop in heaven? HEY NANA! How much is your Franklin Mint statue collection is worth? HEY NANA! Thanks for blocking traffic for forty minutes as you crawled onto the bus. HEY NANA! What happened to your eyebrows? HEY NANA! Why do you eat dinner at 3? HEY NANA! Why are there tennis balls on your walker? HEY NANA! Stop insulting Beyonce HEY NANA! How old is the candy in that bowl? HEY NANA! Don't send me that email forward. HEY NANA! Why are you selling dad's baseball cards for 1/100th of their actual value? HEY NANA! Stop pulling out your old-ass bags as your plane is sinking HEY NANA! Where'd you get those fashionable shoes?]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/hey_nana.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/hey_nana.html Fri, 29 May 2009 14:09:53 -0800 So let you and me have a quick talk, Yahoo!. If you'd like to encourage me to take a trip, please refrain from reminding me that I am pasty, white, and have a coral reef of fat swimming above my waist. And the picture of a man in your ad has reminded me exactly of this, because he is ripped, tan, wearing white capri pants, and holding the hand of a female model in red. Am I supposed to identify with this couple? Like "oh look there's me and Jill walking down some random beach in the southern hemisphere". Instead I am thinking "shit I haven't been to the gym in six days and had a bag of chips for lunch". If you want me to go, show a really fat dude with floaties around his arms holding the hand of an elderly woman pushing an oxygen tank. I might think "hmm i'm better then them I should take a vacation". ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/traveling_to_a.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/traveling_to_a.html Thu, 21 May 2009 13:50:25 -0800 this to me. You move from Washington to Eagle River, Alaska, which is pretty much the home of bears, I mean come on - "Eagle River"? There's eagles at a river, which means there is fish at the river, which means there are bears at the river, not to mention you are in Alaska. And then you start up a nice little suburb and people move into houses next to the eagles and fishes and bears, and then you complain about the bears? You want to kill them? That's quite rude. That would be like me moving into the White House and then complaining that there were too many black presidents walking around. At what point were you given priority to move to where the bears were, express dismay at their presence, and then demand that they should be killed? I've already described my personal solution to this problem: If you do not like bears, move out of places where they live, rather than killing them all so you and your ignorant kids can drink their Hi-C in peace. Look, if I were in my second-floor walk-up apartment in Brooklyn, and a grizzly bear sauntered out of my kitchen with a bag of cheesie poofs, I'd be pretty upset. I might even be ok with someone killing it. But if I lived in Eagle River, and saw the same thing, I would not be upset. This happened to me in San Diego. I lived at the edge of a new development of houses built into the canyons. Coyotes live in dry brush canyons of the American West. Hence, there were coyotes that would get into garbage cans, eat cats and small dogs. There were also rattlesnakes and black widows (white widows too .. lots of old women in general). Some people wanted to kill all the coyotes. I would invite the coyotes into the backyards of these people with the aid of dead rabbits. If you don't like coyotes, don't live in the canyon. Or at least don't bitch. I live in Brooklyn, New York, and have yet to see a alligator, boxing kangaroo, jellyfish, or any other animal. It is one of the perks of living here. So if the bears upset you, we'd be more than happy to have you. Eagle Creek is their home - not yours. ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/grin_and_bear_i.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/grin_and_bear_i.html Mon, 18 May 2009 15:26:41 -0800 The Biggest Loser finale last night. While I found it inspirational and could see why it is popular, it says something illuminative about America that our most popular show idolizes people whose entire claim to fame is that they found a way to stop being so fat.]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/achievements.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/achievements.html Thu, 14 May 2009 15:00:28 -0800 From The New York Times, May 4th, 2009: "As Dr. Mark L. Willenbring of the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism put it in Ms. Benton's book: "People can be dependent and not have abuse problems at all. They're successful students. They're good parents, good workers. They watch their weight. They go to the gym. Then they go home and have four martinis or two bottles of wine. Are they alcoholics? You bet." I interrupt this article to say: oh shit. Now, back to the article. "In the interview, Ms. Benton listed several characteristics that can help people recognize themselves as high-functioning alcoholics: ¶They have trouble controlling their intake even after deciding that they will drink no more alcohol than a given amount. ¶They find themselves thinking obsessively about drinking -- when and where and with whom they will drink next. ¶When they drink, they behave in ways that are uncharacteristic of their sober self." Well, it's official. I'm a functioning alcoholic. At least according to Ms. Benton, Dr. Mark L. Willenbring, and the NY Times. I certainly behave "uncharacteristically" of my sober self when I drink (which is, in fact, why I drink in the first place). I often consider when and where and with whom I will drink next (which is, in fact, the sole reason I ever have for leaving my house). I definitely have trouble controlling my intake, although, who exactly sets a pre-given amount of alcohol to drink before they go out and drink? Do they bring a scale with them to the bar? A measuring cup? Remind me not to drink with these people. So, I'm a functioning alcoholic. Before continuing, let's break down that phrase. Am I functioning? Well, apparently, yes, I am. If I were a non-functioning alcoholic, would I even be able to write this blog? No. I'd either be too interested in drinking to write, too drunk too write, or too drunk to pay rent on the apartment I'd need to write from. And why is the idea of functioning at anything bad? Like what about a "functioning construction worker"? A "functioning dolphin"? A "functioning popsicle "? I'd gladly hire a functioning construction worker to work on my functioning kitchen. But then they throw out this negative word after the positive word, to fuck up the original word and push you into double-entendres. As far as the alcoholic part, I had to dig a little deeper to determine exactly what that meant. Fortunately, the NY Times provides more insight. From another article we learn the following: "12 ounces of regular beer = 8 to 9 ounces of malt liquor = 5 ounces of table wine = 1.5 ounces of 80-proof hard liquor. Thus, one bottle of wine equals five drinks. Forty ounces of malt liquor or a half-pint of hard liquor equals four and a half drinks. Also, many light beers have nearly as much alcohol as regular beer, and a single mixed drink can contain three or more standard drinks. The institute defines low-risk drinking, for men, as consuming no more than 4 drinks on any day and no more than 14 drinks a week. For women, the limit is three drinks on any day and no more than seven drinks a week. Drinking more than these amounts in a day or during a week is considered at-risk or heavy drinking. " This is problematic considering on Saturday night alone, I exceeded their definition of 14 drinks a week. Which I think, according to other sources, makes me a binge drinker in addition to being a functional alcoholic, although I'm not sure how many nights a week of drinking are required to make me functioning. I may have two bottles of wine on occasion, but not every night. Here's the problem: so what? According the aforementioned asshole's definition, we are successful students, good workers, good parents. We watch our weight and we go to the gym. We go to church. We pay taxes. SO WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM! How perfect would you have me be? What would you have me do after two hours at knee rehab, ten hours writing copy for a Roth IRA Rollover ad, and forty minutes on a subway? Watch Everybody Loves Raymond episodes while eating carrots and reading the Bible on my Kindle before sipping some tea and turning in early? And what, exactly, is the consequence of my alcoholism if I am functioning? The harshest consequence for you all thus far is disruptive phone calls at 3:22 A.M. or paying witness to bad dancing. This gets back to the core argument against vegetarianism, abstinence, temperance, early bedtimes, and every other extreme argument Puritan America throws at me: My goal isn't only to extend life, it is to enjoy it. Watching TiVo while eating carrots is more enjoyable with an Old-Fashioned in my hand than it is with a Lime Spritzer. This holds true every day of the week (at least for me). Drinking helps minimize stress. It helps me meet new friends. It has directly helped me get promotions. It has helped me tell the truth. It has helped me see a side of people I never would have otherwise. It helps me enjoy life. Yes, sometimes it also helps me throw up and throw remote controls. If that makes me a functional alcoholic, then so it does. However, that definition must reconcile the fact that of the past year at work, my fondest memories are of the going away parties and happy hours and lunches that turned into dinners, not the work itself. Puritan America seems content to preach to value of modest living, without preaching the reasons. If 14 drinks a week makes functioning alcoholics, then the entire country of the Czech Republic is comprised of functioning alcoholics, as they have two half-litres of beer with lunch, and a minimum of two with dinner. They are also twice as happy as any American I've ever met, but apparently that is besides the point. According to Puritan America, life is for extension, not enjoyment. In Puritan America, eighty-eight years of boring life with boring meals and boring conversations is worth more than seventy-nine years of exciting life with unexpected experiences and new friends and nights that melt away into mornings and, eventually, hangovers. I may even call Dr. Mark L. Willenbring later tonight to tell him what I think of his definition. I may be a functional alcoholic, but I find that preferable to being a functional asshole. And let me end with a quote from the great Winston Churchill (who drank every morning and every night and lived well into his eighties): "He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire". ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/_from_the_new_y.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/_from_the_new_y.html Wed, 13 May 2009 18:14:46 -0800 camarones? Were so many Americans demanding pasta that you readily gave up your own cuisine to make a buck? And why was I buying it? Mostly because I was still under the impression that you were the Mexico of my youth, when my family would drive down Highway One to Ensenada, the air heavy with the smell of rotting kelp and donkeys, stopping along the way in La Mision for a seaside lobster dinner, costing at most $9.99. You see, Mexico, that was your charm. Your ocean was the same one we had in San Diego, albeit a little dirtier. Your people were pretty much the same too, especially those of us who worked in San Ysidro. What we came for the culture and the price. It was well known: There were deals to be had in Mexico. While yes, I was a spoiled white suburban boy from the United States coming to exploit your country with the money daddy gave me, you must admit you were complicit in the affair. You gladly sold me shitty, fake leather wallets for well more than they were worth, to mention nothing of your adobe pigs and rough-hewn blankets. But the relationship was good! Why did you have to change it? I happily gave you money, convinced I was getting a deal. And you happily took my money, convinced you had ripped me off. But you had to get greedy, Mexico. You weren't happy being Mexico any longer. You wanted to be a browner version of the United States or Japan or Sweden, with better beans. When I went to Cozumel in 2005 you charged me $5,250 for a beach house, which officially put you in the territory of the Hamptons and well-past the territory of the Florida Keys. And unfortunately, you aren't much prettier than Florida Keys. You see, Mexico, the Hamptons can get away with that pricing because the laws of the United States guarantee certain ... privileges ... that we Americans are will to pay for: Plumbing, potable water, prevention from attacks by hungry wild dogs, food not seasoned with Hepatitis A, and regulations on cabs. I mention this last one, Mexico, because you charged me $60 to go one way between my house in Cozumel and the grocery store, which was twenty minutes away. In case you've never been to New York City, Mexico, a taxicab from JFK to anywhere in Manhattan is limited to charging $45, by law. So now, Cozumel, you have become even more expensive than New York City, meaning I have no reason to visit you. You've lost your charm of an affordable vacation spot. Did I mention the monstrosity known as Cancun? You know, that city your government built in 1967 after a study by Banco de Mexico as to the best location for ripping off American tourists? The place with over 150 hotels and 380 restaurants, most of them chains? Did you know last time I was there I asked our hotel concierge where we could go for an authentic Mexican dinner, you know, since all I saw around me were Tony Romas and Buffalo Wild Wings, and you sent us on a twenty-five minute drive just to find Mexican food? And once we were there each dish was $18.95 or more? Granted, I wasn't expecting you to send me to a local plumber's house for a free menudo dinner, but something closer to "authentic" would have been nice. So now, Mexico, I've read that the IMF has released a report warning you are in grave danger of going bankrupt, similar to Iceland. And then the Swine Flu hit (which was originally called the Mexican Swine Flu, until you balked). And you know what? I couldn't be happier. Don't you see, Mexico? That's why we go! The thrill of possibly catching Swine Flu! And the deals that come with that threat! It's the same reason I went to Jack in the Box two days after six hundred people were sickened with E. Coli! The deals! If I wanted to go somewhere clean that strictly followed the most stringent of health codes, I'd go to a resort in Palm Springs or Sedona. But I don't. I go to you, Mexico, for Mexican food and fresh Seafood (not Italian food or Chinese food) that is more affordable than that I might buy in, say, Oslo. I go to you for a beautiful view of the Caribbean Sea or Pacific Ocean that is below a fair price of $150 a night. I go to you for your people, and your music, and your land, and yes, for your prices. Don't ever forget If Mcdonald's started charging $18.95 for a burger nobody would go. And yet they are the among the richest companies in the world. One 99-cent burger at a time. While I admire your desire to find the success of a country like the United States, and match our wages, and our popularity, and our sanitation, once you reach this point, I have no reason to go to you any more, Mexico. All you will have become is a lesser version of the United States, replete with overpriced houses and dickhead Investment bankers and restaurants that charge $14.50 for guacamole and chips, and that is exactly what I am trying to escape. I'll have to find somewhere else affordable. Guatemala. El Salvador. A war-torn country. So, whether you know it or not, swine flu and bankruptcy is the best thing to ever happen to you. And yes, that is the opinion of a spoiled white ignorant American asshole, but believe me, you won't care about that when I agree to buy your fake gold necklace for $15 dollars more than you spent on it. I will be happy thinking I'm exploiting you, but deep down, you'll know you are exploiting me. You'll know that for all my arrogant judgments and feelings of superiority, you are better than me. And that, mis amigos, is what makes neighbors muy bueno.]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/fuck_you_mexico.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/fuck_you_mexico.html Tue, 12 May 2009 10:55:02 -0800 confession, or, if you are over 170 years-old and know the Beatitudes by heart, reconciliation). This request has put me on edge, as it has been some time since my last confession. For one thing, I am no longer familiar with the process, and when I'm not familiar with a process, I do something stupid. Further, I sin about forty-eight times a day (leaving me just behind the daily pace of a jaywalking weed dealer and John Edwards), so I'll have to make a selective decision as to which sins I actually highlight. In any event, I have been practicing so I can be prepared for the day. I see it going something like this: Hello, Father. It's been ... maybe .. sixteen years since my last confession? Seventeen? I can't quite remember. I think it was soon after I killed that Nicaraguan slutbag in San Ysidro [Awkward Pause] Ha, ha, just joking, Father .... I'm aware this probably isn't the best place for jokes. This is just a little ... uncomfortable ... so .. anyway, it has been sixteen years , let's say, plus or minus fifteen years, since my last confession. And let's just say I have some sins backed up that need some absolving. Where do I begin? With the masturbation? That one is fresh on my mind because, well, anyway ... That's a big sin, right? I remember reading the small book my mom had when I was a kid ... I think it was called "Raising Children in the Catholic Tradition" or some shi - some shiznet. Anyway, there was a chapter in there on how to guide your children away from the act of self-pleasure, because self-pleasure was a sin. It even had some logic about why it was a sin - which wasn't all that logical, if you don't mind me saying. Apparently, the chapter wasn't very effective, as I still - Well, is touching the head of your God Rod for pleasure still a sin? Is the church still against everything that feels good? [Awkward Pause] Right, right. So there's that, which I'm sorry for. And - hey is swearing a sin? I mean, I know taking the Lord's name in vain is a sin - Goddamn, etc. But the others? Shit? Fuck? Because, I do that a lot -to describe temperature, the quality of food, whether or not I think there are wild hamsters. So. Hmmm. I mean, do you want me to go into big sins? Like the seven deadly sins? Like ... avarice? What is avarice again? What? Greed? Like drinking two beers when you should only have one? I definitely have to ask you to forgive me for that then. Sorry, I mean ask God to forgive me. I definitely do some of those other deadly sins, too, like at least three or four of them. Lust, envy, sloth - Hey did you see that SNL skit on sloths? Pretty funny. Oh right - You probably have to be in bed early on Saturday nights since you, uh, you know .... So ... are you looking for specific sins here? Like the other day when I was late to work and I said it was because of dentist appointment but really it was because I was hungover? Is being hungover a sin? I definitely plead guilty to that. And drinking - but I know you guys drink so I think I'm cool there. Water into wine, right Father? So where were we. Right, specific sins. Do you actually have to do the sin for it to be a sin? Because the other day this chick got on the elevator talking on her cellphone, and then kept going "hello? hello? are you there?" after the doors closed and we were shooting into the sky. Who gets surprised when they lose a phone connection in an elevator? So I briefly imagined pummeling her face into the elevator doors. But just imagined, of course. Would never do something like that. Unless I was drunk, maybe. But I'm usually not drunk in elevators, fortunately. Is that enough? Do you want me to talk about my last trip to Vegas? Because I'm not sure how much time you have ... Ok .. I'll just be over here then, saying some Hail Marys and Our Fathers and all that. Thanks. ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/avaricial.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/05/avaricial.html Wed, 06 May 2009 15:19:21 -0800 children, which i believe is the Latin name for the cheerful little human beings that always seem to present when visiting certain friends. My reflections have led me to conclude that it is not children I fear, but parents. Children are innocent and laugh when they fart. Parents are pretentious, and walk around with things like this attached to their persons: Only parents have enough time and memories of the movie Adam to imagine up contraptions like this: Parents roll their twins down the narrow aisles of tiny, packed New York restaurants, openly defying the idea that you should wait at least twelve hours after having babies before bringing them to a long, romantic dinner . But it's cool because hey, they're alternative. They still wear Pumas. Parents also think that because they're parents, they're automatically qualified to tell other parents about how to be better parents (the simple act of giving birth doesn't instantly qualify you as a parental expert. Look no further than Joseph Goebbels, or, say, Britney Spears). Celebrities are particularly adept at this. They were the 12 trillionth person to have a child over the course of human history, and yet, they believe they're experience was unique enough that other people would find it unique: Thank you, celebrities, for teaching the world how to be better parents. I'd also appreciate it if you could teach us how to be better mechanics, field marshals, and secretaries of the interior. In the future, save your writing efforts for the day when you climb Mt. Everest with artificial limbs and a blind alpaca strapped to your back. That's a story I might find interesting. You pushing a kid out of your vagina is not, even if that vagina is well known, having been featured in People. As my own parenting days approach, I shall work to make the transition as smooth as possible. To be accepted by the Park Slope sect, I'll buy Pumas, drink strawberry belinis, walk Jill around on a leash, criticize the local Kindergarten's syllabus with parents (hand painting should always come after nap time), and write edgy, alternative parenting books like Babies and Beer: What Brewing Beer Taught Me about Raising Children and The 20-year hangover: The Guide to Drinking and Parenting . Then, when the day happens, I'll be able to hit the ground running. ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/04/as_married_life.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/04/as_married_life.html Sat, 11 Apr 2009 16:28:14 -0800

Brita/Pur water filters: Water filters serve as the ultimate example of American consumerism. In most countries, the biggest problem is potable drinking water. In America, we pay to filter water that has already been filtered, and make drinkable water even more drinkable. This one was easy - I used to vomit quietly every sixth week I had to pick up a replacement Pur filter at the corner Duane Reade. These filters average close to $14 dollars and came with a cute little sticker telling me exactly when the filtering prowess of that filter would expire (it said six weeks, but we found it to be more like four). Since January, Jill and I drink water from the tap anytime we are thirsty. In a surprising development, we haven't died.
Savings: $14 per month

Dry Swiffers: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH A BROOM!
Savings: $12 dollars per month

Glad ForceFlex Stretchable Strength Garbage Bags: I fucking hate garbage bags. THEY ARE BAGS WHOSE SOLE PURPOSE IS TO TAKE OUT YOUR GARBAGE WHICH MEANS THE BAGS THEMSELVES ARE GARBAGE WHICH MEANS YOU ARE ACTUALLY PAYING FOR FUCKING GARBAGE YOU FUCKING RODENT! Only Americans could be convinced to spend $8.49 on bags you immediately throw away.
Savings: $17 dollars per month

Mach 12 razors: I'm actually unaware of the current sound-barrier-busting level of razors, as I stopped buying them over five years (as evidenced by the corresponding growth of my beard). All I know is that when I first moved to New York, I went to a Duane Reade to purchase a Mach 98, and saw that the price came close to $18. Replacement blades were even worse, coming in at around $22 for a ten-pack. I bought a bag of disposables that day for $5, and never bought another razor again. As an added savings, I'd recommend you move in with a woman (or head-shaving man) and have him / her buy the razors which you then proceed to borrow.
Savings: $18 per month

Wet Swiffers: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH A MOP!
Savings: $14 dollars per month

Cottonelle/Quilted Northern/Charmin Toilet Paper: IT IS YOUR FUCKING ASSHOLE! Do you really need to pamper it like it is the prince of Sweden? This one is easy as possible: You go to a store, and you see that the local Rite-Aid brand is 89 cents for a roll. Then you look at Quilted Northern and see that it is $1.89 for a roll. If you then decide on that Quilted Northern toilet paper, you have failed at your job and deserve to die broke and miserable with a beautiful anus. The savings here go beyond price: Charmin, because it is soft and fluffy and made of clouds, only has like 12 crap-wipes per roll. The Rite-Aid brand, because it is thin and barely covers your thumb, offers 23 crap-wipes per roll.
Savings: $8 dollars per month

Oral-B CrossAction Pro-Health Toothbrush with CrissCross and Power Tip Bristles: As a man who works in the advertising industry, I can advise you that any product using words like "CrissCross and Power Tip Bristles" is to be avoided at all costs.
Savings: $5 dollars per month.

If you haven't picked up on it, these are mostly all products that you have to buy - toothbrushes, toilet paper, razors - and I've already saved you over $60 per month. When you add in all the shit you buy every month that has no use - lotions targeting a certain area (why would you buy a hand or foot lotion when you can just buy a body lotion and cover the whole fucking thing?), dish soaps in areodynamic containers designed to withstand tornado-force winds, and spice racks - I can save you well into the hundreds. ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/03/buy_your_beware.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/03/buy_your_beware.html Tue, 24 Mar 2009 10:13:59 -0800 Come hither, where we will share ham treats and stories about the revolution. Mini-lion has a heart murmur. Or rather, this is what a veterenarian hypothosized after five minutes of listening to the stethoscope pressed against her fuzzy chest. Something sounded .... wrong. Upon informing a co-worker of mini-lion's diagnosis, he blandly muttered, without lifting his head from his computer screen, "My friend has a heart murmur." And so it is. Research reveals a heart murmur to be a general term, nontechnically meaning the heart makes an abnormal sound when it beats (assuming a normal heart speaks clearly like Obama, Alice's heart mumbles like me after the century club and a scotch). They can be quite harmless, a unique soundprint created by the heart while pushing blood through valves, affected by stress or exercise. Of course, heart murmurs can also be mortal, caused by a heart valve that fails to properly close, or a hole in the heart. For both humans and furry cats, they rate the severity of heart murmurs on a scale of 1 to 6. 1 means no problem. 6 means you should definitely have a will. We won't know mini-lion's rating until her heart is examined via an echocardiogram by a cat heart specialist (not sure why they don't just do a CAT scan .. wait for it ... wait for it ...). In the case of a human, a heart specialist costs several thousand dollars. In the case of a kitten, that specialist costs eight-hundred dollars. Apparently, being a member of the feline family gets you a 60% discount. Unfortunately, mini-lion has not yet joined the working world (i give her a pass because of the fallen economy), so her financial contributions to this test are limited. And, though mini-lion has become a cherished part of my life, eight hundred dollars to x-ray her heart seems a bit much. The problem is, there is no real solution. In humans (which society has deemed more important than kittens), serious heart murmurs can be treated with medication, surgery, or catheterization. These treatments are theoretically possible for kittens, but are financially unrealistic. I'm not quite ready to pay ten thousand dollars to have a pacemaker installed upon mini-lions heart. We've been forced to confront the question: what is a life worth? For humans, the answer is easy. You spend money until there is no more money to spend. For kittens? There's a finite number. We just haven't determined what it is. Somewhere in the thousands, it seems. So you have to quantify the importance of the test. Over 25% of kittens have a heart murmur. For many, it disappears within a year or two. For others, it requires monitoring and minor lifestyle adjustments. For some, it will result in a "major heart episode". In any instance, there isn't much you can do. So, we are paying eight-hundred dollars to diagnose a problem that we can do nothing about. Bad heart or good heart, mini-lion needs to be spayed. If she isn't spayed, she'll begin spraying urine on our couches, walls, and faces. Then, she'll begin to hump our shoes and and Swiffers. Next, she'll begin looking at me in an alluring way that will make me thoroughly uncomfortable. As a final performance, she'll begin moaning and meowing like someone is pulling a uekalele string across a toilet bowl for weeks on end. Of course, as part of a system of professionals that looks out for one another's financial well-being, our veterenarian will not spay our kitten until we get mini-lion a heart echocardiogram. Putting a small animal with a defective heart under anesthesia is a major risk, a risk that most veterenarians are unwilling to take. So we have to get her heart checked out. We found a place that did it for $400. We also found that some veterenarians will do the spay without first determining the health of the heart, but they also make you sign a waiver acknowledging your understanding that the kitten may never wake up from surgery. The problem is, even if her heart is bad, we'd have to attempt the spay anyway, or give her away. It is impossible to live with a unspayed cat. But still, not waking up from surgery? Mini-lion is part of our family. Every night I come home, she is sitting at the door, staring up at me inquisitively, hoping that I am brought home a fresh Alaskan salmon or dead bird. She sleeps with us, eats with us, and watches the Phoenix Suns lose with us. I would be deeply affected if she left. Can we risk that, mini-lion? huh? We have to. Whatever the result of the echocardiogram, mini-lion will have to be spayed. Good heart, bad heart, it will be the same result. So paying to find out information that will result in the same decision is useless. Mini-lion asks for your prayers.]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/03/_come_hither_wh.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/03/_come_hither_wh.html Thu, 05 Mar 2009 16:42:30 -0800 Modern Marvels and Mad Money and other shows with repeating M's. You can eat what you want - frozen enchiladas from Trader Joes, frozen tamales from Trader Joes, and frozen pizzas from Trader Joes - and don't have to exercise in any way, other than occasionally picking up and ringing the small bell that calls over your fiancee. Fortunately you won't be all that hungry as a result of the medication, general lethargy, and Jim Cramer's voice. You'll shave off three pounds in a the first few days alone as your quadriceps and hamstring atrophy, giving your leg the appearance of a yogurt pop licked by a dragon. Soon, more pounds will melt away from other muscle groups, including your assle (ass muscle), shoulders, and calves. Sadly you will regain some of the lost weight as your arms grow terrifyingly huge from climbing up and down subway stairs on crutches. Ignore the epidermis burns underneath your armpit. The biggest loss, however, is gained from the suspension of daily alcohol consumption. Fourteen days of beer avoidance is guaranteed to drop eight pounds: The removal of beer calories will account for five of those pounds, while the removal of chicken wings, Wendy's, and egg and bacon sandwiches consumed in a drunken Godzilla eating spree will remove the additional weight. This weight loss provides you a brief respite from your generally pudgy, melted rubber build. As with all diets, however, the weight will eventually return, as you reclaim the daily alcohol and fries consumption that serves a crutch for your weak ability to deal with the rigors of daily life and Mad Money watching. ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/03/aclr.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/03/aclr.html Wed, 04 Mar 2009 15:58:52 -0800 responded so quickly to my wedding invite. Thank you, Murphy, for your continued service to a lifetime of smooth sailing. Jill wondered why I laughed when I received his letter. It is because I was fully expecting it. As the Huron Reflector newspaper so aptly put in November of 1841: I never had a slice of bread, Particularly large and wide, That did not fall upon the floor, And always on the buttered side. ]]> http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/02/murphys_rsvp.html http://www.monkeyscribble.com/blog/2009/02/murphys_rsvp.html Fri, 20 Feb 2009 10:23:34 -0800