World Peace

I must admit, when I see the "Feed the Children" or "Sponsor a Child" commercials it does tug at my heart strings. I can't help but want to reach into my wallet and pull out a shiny quarter, pop it in the mail and in return receive a picture of Ashmael or Napur drinking a bottle of Evian. As you sit on the couch finishing up A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila or Flavor of love, the commercial cuts to starving children eating ants off the ground. "Meet Keisha. Keisha has never tasted a drop of clean water in her entire life".......and you're sitting there having just finished a 6 inch Sub beating yourself up for not getting the 12 inch because your still hungry. "For a mere 15 cents, you can provide Keisha with clean water
diapers
a new pair of shoes
toys
a bed
a memory foam mattress
Crest white strips
Apricot Body Scrub
For 15 cents? Keisha can honestly get all of that? And then you are periodically updated via mail as to how Keishas doing. The letter makes no sense because she can't spell, so it reads,

The Crest Strips haves work nice.
My mouth is white like snow fall.
My tummy is now always full.
Keisha

And sure enough, in the picture her teeth are a little bit brighter and her skin looks smoother thanks to the Apricot body scrub, and you feel good.

Happy Birthday Big Guy

I have yet to understand the whole “blow up” lawn ornament fad. Who is sitting in their living room looking out at their giant blow up snow globe and thinking, “That looks great.” The average lifespan of a blown up snow ornament is roughly 22 hours. They usually deflate, or tend to tilt to one particular side looking even shittier than they originally did. I’m blaming Sam’s Club for this trend. Sam’s club has a mission statement that essentially says, “We are dedicated to serving the laziest men and women in America who don’t have the lung capacity or the energy to make multiple trips to the grocery store. We take pride in out 32 packs of Tabasco sauce and 44 packs of raisins.” Sam’s would encourage the men and women of the Christmas season to opt for a lawn decoration that is the epitome of laziness. Plug your deflated lawn ornament into an air blower and voila, Merry Christmas. They just look bad. You could honestly put an inner tube in your lawn and it would have the same effect. Same goes for the light up nativity scenes. Ladies and gentlemen the baby Jesus is not some “trinket.” He gave light to the world and he should not be diminished to a plastic light up doll. If you want to have a light up Joseph, by all means go ahead, he wasn’t that important, but to disrespect the baby Jesus, that’s crossing the line. To have the baby Jesus sitting in front of a ranch style house next to a blow up ornament is sacrilegious. The baby Jesus might as well be sucking on a candy cane while wearing Uggs.

This Gift says "I love you"

Christmas isn't defined by gifts. I get that. It's Jesus' birthday which means that it's all about love and that those gifts should really be going to the poor. All right, I'll take the bait. I've completely given up on the whole gift thing. I could embroider a list into my moms forehead and she would still somehow end up getting me something that I do not want. "I thought you wanted an oven mitt?" It's an endless battle, and I have finally surrendered. Two of the worst gifts I have ever received came from my mother and my great aunt Sue. Mom is one of those mom's where she thinks she knows her kids inside and out and therefore poo poo's Christmas lists. She's too good for them. Instead we end up with gifts like Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul and the The Never Ending Story dvd. One year, having woken up in a fit of Christmas joy I made my way to our tree. It was a morning so splendid, that I thought for sure Jesus had chosen our family to spend it with. Everyone was smiling, snow was falling and our fireplace was ablaze. I fell victim to the christmas spirit and hugged all my family members while giving them a meaningful wink accompanied with a "Merry Christmas." I open my first gift, which pretty much sets the tone for the rest of Christmas. As I feverishly ripped through the neatly wrapped package, my Christmas instincts hinted that it was clothes. A minor dissapointment, but maybe it was something I would actually like. The wrapping having cleared I stared at the gift that lay in the box in front of me. What? This could not be right. I lifted the shirt to verify that this was actually what I thought it was. 4 letters stared me in the face. F U B U. Fubu? A fubu shirt? Still holding the shirt eye-level, I moved it ever so slowly to the left and gave my mom a quizzical look. "I just loved the vibrant colors!" The second worst gift I have ever received came from my great aunt Sue. I will cut her some slack due to the fact that she is in a nursing home, however that is not an excuse. Aunt Sue one year handed me a gift in a rather half ass fashion. "Here," she said as she shoved it my way. Apparently old age comes with an ass hole attitude, because she's a little bitter and angry. I opened up her gift to find another article of clothing. Damnit. There was no glimmer of hope in this gift, this would not magically turn into an article of clothing I would enjoy.....this was going to be shit. This gift had a different flare than the FUBU shirt, it was a jean vest. "Thanks Aunt Sue, I needed this." My aunt Sue then, without looking me in the face says, "The bottom is extended, and has belt loops." Sure enough, she was right. Instead of ending at the waist, this magical jean vest kept going to about mid thigh. It also had a map of the world on the inside of it.

Let's Get Physical

I am terribly paranoid to work out in a gym. I could care less about my physical appearance, or if my Nike's show hints of dirt, but what troubles me is I know I look like an idiot. Like a complete moron. I know some guy on the treadmill is looking at me and thinking, "What a dumbass. That machine is for your arms, not your legs." I mentally take on the role of a marathon runner. I have 2 or 3 water bottles that never leave my side. I grab complimentary towels right and left wiping off imaginary sweat while pretending to heavily pant. To be blunt, I'm a gym asshole. I jump rope. I drive to the gym to jump rope. I am intrigued by cycling and am clueless when it comes to those giant pastel colored balls. I have no clue what those are used for, but I know it's not for bouncing. I prefer to steer clear from the locker room. I don't like to wash my hands next to naked people. I never got that whole, "What's the problem? We're all women." The problem is you're all naked and your kids are naked and you're all back here having a pow wow and are showing no signs of getting your gym clothes on anytime soon. The naked ones just hang out. Their leaning against the sink, their kids are opening every available locker....I just don't like it. It's not my cup of tea. The worst is when a naked kid comes up to you and just stares at you. First of all, you can't look at the kid, because that's perverse, so you just freeze and stare straight ahead hoping they leave. It would be my same strategy if I was approached by a dinosaur. Cease all movement until it goes away.

Frederick Douglass

The other day I had a flashback to my childhood. I was not a cool kid. I didn’t have any hair until I was two and most of my days were spent face first in the carpet with a full diaper, but I was reminded of a statue that was in our backyard. Growing up I never thought it was weird that we had this statue, but looking back, it was really weird. We had a statue of a little black boy. He was about two feet tall and he was just in our backyard. Growing up, I genuinely thought this kid was real. I thought this little black boy was being punished by my parents and was forced to be outside. As I got older, people would ask about it and I thought nothing of it, “Oh, that’s just our black boy statue.” But now that I’m thinking about it, why the fuck would we have that? That’s not like having a goofy birdbath or a worthless shed…….that’s a black boy statue. Maybe it made my parents feel better? You know when people accuse you of being racist and everyone shoots back with, “No! I have a black friend!” Maybe my parents excuse was, “No way Jose, I have a black statue!” People would always comment about it too, especially at dinner parties. Conversation always went something like this, “Oh my god! You’re yard is huge! I bet the kids just love, what the hell is that?” My parents would just laugh. There was never an explanation as to why we had this little black boy in our backyard. Was it in remembrance of a long lost black brother? Were we former KKK members? I just have so many questions…….

Rashtastic

The other day I was minding my own business most likely staring off into space, or retrieving the mail or making sculptures out of pipe cleaners, which is what my days have consisted of the past few weeks, but I overheard someone say, and I quote, “That guy, man he's rashtastic.” I anticipated the other person to reply, “What the fuck does rashtastic mean?” but instead, he replied, “Yeah, he is rashtastic.” Am I out of the loop? Rashtastic? What, did urban dictionary make a contribution to society by developing rashtastic? What a shit word. I began combining words together in an effort to get to the bottom of rashtastic. Fantastic combined with rash? That’s all I could come up with. I suddenly pictured a young kid in Levis with a bull cut luring kids over to the corner of the playground. After formulating a decent sized audience, he slowly lifts up his Abercrombie tee to reveal an incredible rash. It’s a combination of vibrant colors swirling together to form an optical illusion with hints of glitter. Kids stare with gaping mouths at the rash the size of Asia that lies before them. Marcus, the loner in Mrs. Templeton’s fourth grade class quietly whispers from the back, “That’s rashtastic.” A rash so fucking incredible it exceeds a birthmark and can only be rashtastic. Kids turn around, intrigued by Marcus’ new word and suddenly he redeems himself from years of bed wetting and glue eating and snags 15 minutes of popularity. Rashtastic….spread it on.

My First Review

I have received my first review from my show, "Denises Friday Night Book Club" at Second City's skybox theater. Enjoy

One of my favorite scenes from the evening involved to co-workers, Meryl and Regina - performed by Katie O'Brien and Kristen McLaughlin. Kristen's character accidentally swears while making a mistake at the computer. Katie, her cubicle mate, takes this as an opportunity to bond and give herself permission to "unleash." In the hands of less experienced actors and writers, this scene could easily have gone blue quickly and become more about the vulgarity than about Kate's character's undercurrent of desperation to bond with her co-worker.

Megan Presslak, Katie O'Brien, and Kristen McLaughlin excel in the (thankfully) multiple female roles Greg and Brian have written for them.
^JOE JANES Joe is a writer, director and actor in Chicago. He teaches at The Second City Trainer Center and at Columbia College.

Handicap This

I've always had a strong desire to go see a taping of a show. The Colbert Report, Late Night with Conan O'Brien or the Ellen show. I just think if would be an absolute blast, but here's my dilemma. I would travel to New York or L.A. to experience such an event, but I don't want to have to fork over a chunk of a change in exchange for a seat in the back corner where I can't even catch a glimpse of Jay Leno's famous chin. After careful observation, I have made an amazing discovery. There is one tool I could use in an act of desperation to grab a front row seat. It is now that I ask you to watch the video below. Pay careful attention to where the wheelchair is located. Go. Watch.




Did you see that!? That wheelchair is practically on the stage! That guy is practically a guest on the Ellen show. All you would have to do is show up to the taping in a wheelchair. It's not like their going to "test" if your handicapped. Just deny being able to walk and if they "test" the feeling in your legs by hitting them with a hammer or with a solid punch, just suck it up you whimp, your getting a front row seat to the Ellen show.

I'm Sorry

Dear Flight Attendants,
Hey there. Me again. Just wanted to send you some Christmas cheer and my apologies for not paying attention to your safety presentation on my Thanksgiving Flight home. I should know how to properly put on a face mask, and in the event that the plane were to crash over a body of water (unlikely, but I'll play along), I should be aware that my seat cushion could save my life (bull shit). I also would like to apologize for un-buckling my seat belt as the plane was making it's way to the gate. You are correct, something terrible could happen after we have landed. The plane could tip over? Or catch on fire? Or it could run into the airport? I would also like to apologize for when I asked if this was the newest edition of SkyMall Magazine. Yes, it was a jackass question. I am also deeply sorry for running up to the cockpit and banging on the door while screaming, "It's my birthday! It's my birthday!" I had completely forgotten that whole 9/11 incident. It was also inappropriate for me to put my complimentary drink in the overhead compartment. It was an open drink and I have no idea why I thought that was a good idea. Oh, and I completely forgot that I had a knife taped to my inner thigh. That was out of line. I should have never tossed my neck pillow as if it was a frisbee and it was completely out of line for me to give that baby next to me that Airbourne pill. And It was uncalled for when I called that individual wearing a turban Osama. You're right, not everyone with a turban is named Osama. I had no idea his name was Mark. He certainly did not look like a Mark.

Happy Holidays,
Love Katie O

Boy O Boy

2 years ago I graduated to the "adult table" for Thanksgiving dinner. Apparently someone informed the rest of my family that I had gone through puberty, and access was granted. There is one haunting question I receive every year.
This years Thanksgiving dinner table talk was "The side effects of medicine", because conversation has stooped to everyone comparing health problems. Fun Fact: Apparently everyone in my family has a case of Restless Leg Syndrome. I thought this was a bull shit disease because the commercials start off with "If I don't move for hours on end, my legs feel funny. Restless Leg syndrome." I always sat on the couching thinking, well yeah, that happens to everyone. Anyways, everyone is talking about the side effects of their medications. Grogginess, headaches..you name it. My grandpa's winning because he's basically announcing he's on death row, when my Uncle Bob throws his fist on the table and declares, "Regardless of what medication your on, you should just expect to get a mild case of diarrhea." So, there I sat, absolutely disgusted with the conversation at hand, when somehow the diarrhea comment led to, "So Katie....Do you have a boyfriend?" Damnit, there it was. It came out of nowhere. That question always conveniently comes right as I have either A) Spilled gravy on the front of my shirt or B) As I am simultaneously eating two pieces of pie. "Nope, I still don't." Then they ask "why not?" And this is not rhetorical, their looking for an answer. "Because I have an STD. Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! Let's eat!" So I take a bite of pie, swallow and begin with, "You know, I'm not really looking..I haven't found anyone worth while.......I'm just SUPER busy...busy me, between church and the grocery store and walking for miles on end, I just can't seem to find the time!" And before I know it, suddenly my family has turned into E-Harmony and Match.com, every public outing turns into speed dating. "Look, he has a backpack, I bet he's smart!" "Look, he's wearing sunglasses, I bet he's super cool!" "Once he gets rid of those braces and Skechers, he will be a 10." Then it just gets ridiculous. "Kathleen, I know he's in a wheel chair, and yes maybe he wears diapers and the right side of his face is paralyzed, but he really is a sweet guy and probably has a stellar personality."

Honestly?

Honestly?

Happy Holidays from the Williams!

I love Christmas cards. I love the seasons greetings and the Happy Holidays. I love the pictures included inside, everyone in holiday sweaters at some ski resort, or in front of a giant pine tree. My favorite thing about Christmas cards are the one page updates. It's the families year in review summarizing each child's accomplishments onto an off white letter surrounded by a border of hollies. For once, I wish a family would be completely honest in their holiday update. Below is a fictional holiday update from my fictional family. This is what the holidays are about.....

Greetings friends and family! What a year it's been! Well as you know, the Williams have had one crazy and blessed year! We are so fortunate to look back on our blessings and share them with you.

Kristen, our oldest daughter, is entering her senior year at Brown High School. She's looking forward to moving onto college where she can escape her parents grip! Hahaha. As you all know, we had that brief pregnancy scare earlier this year. What a mess that was! Haha. We still, to this day, thank God that Kristen did not give birth to a child. We're happy to announce that she is no longer dating Wayne, who now goes by the name of "Spattered Blood". Kids these days! Kristen is looking forward to earning her parents trust back, and might we add, she's well on her way. She's already removed the eyebrow ring and lip ring! Hallelujah!

Marcus, our middle child is the brains of the family! He's still at Wabash Middle School and is carrying a 4.0. Marcus recently took first place at the Wabash Middle School Science fair with his remake of an AK-47 assault rifle. And might we add, it was not made out of pipe cleaners or Legos, no Marcus ordered the parts of the internet and it actually shoots! Haha, mom wasn't too happy due to the fact he used her credit card, but anything for the sake of science! We want to thank you all for your prayers and kind words. For those of you who don't know, Marcus recently spent some time in Juvenile Hall. He brought a homemade bomb and a bow and arrow to school. Luckily no one was hurt! You gotta let kids make their own mistakes!

And let's not forget our youngest Child, Timmy! Timmy is entering the 4th grade and could not be a bigger fan of Harry Potter. Not only has Tim read all the Harry Potter Books, but he decided to spend last summer writing "his own" 8th book to the series! The book is 456 pages and can be purchased at the Walgreens on 90th and Dodge. Tim attended "Slim Down" camp this past summer for 3 months and lost a grand total of 5 pounds! Mom's really trying to help Tim get out this obesity phase so no more Mac 'N" Cheese or hot dogs! Instead we've opted for organic hamburger helper and kiddie cuisines!

And then there's me. Well as you know, this year hasn't been the greatest. Ted and I got divorced. Within the blink of an eye I traded in my Yukon for a Ford Escort! Haha Merry Chirstmas! I used food as an emotional crutch and am definitely paying for it now! It's going to be XXXL for me this year! Hahaha keep that apple pie and turkey far away! I've enlisted a great deal of help from some self-help books and will be a new member to Jenny Craig as of January 2nd. Well thats it for the Williams family! We wish you all a blessed holiday season! May God enter and bless your life and may your hearts be warmed this Christmas season!

Love, Mary, Kristen, Marcus and Timmy!

Grocery Store Disease

For the longest time I thought one of my best friends brought the best out of me. Always encouraging me.....supporting me. Boy was I wrong. I'm talking about the grocery store. We use to be best friends, but that's behind us now. I'm not a good cook...I'm just not. I burn things, I have no idea what teflon is and I can't boil noodles. I'm pathetic...I get that. But the grocery store....that was a place i thought I had under control. For some odd reason when I step into the grocery store I get this "top chef" mentality where all the sudden my brain tricks me into thinking I'm a rockstar in the kitchen. I think to myself "Tonight...lobster bisque sounds delicious. Maybe veil?"
Which is ridiculous. I tend to gravitate towards the spice aisle. Before I know it my hands are confidently grabbing thyme, oregano and mustard seed. All the sudden I'm grabbing other innocent shoppers and recommending ingredients.
"Oh, your making a balsamic fig chutney with roasted grapes? Here lemme help you. Might I recommend minced garlic cloves?" Yep, I'm that ass hole. And then the produce section. I fucking flip out. Everything is so colorful and I feel like that color should be embraced...so in my cart goes sweet potatoes, spaghetti squash, lemons and limes. I'm dancing around with my shopping cart, weighing bull shit items like flax seed. I'm practically starring in my own ridiculous musical while everyone whispers "she's definitely retarded..she should not have a cart." Then I get up to the register and as I'm watching all my ridiculous items pass by I'm reassuring myself thinking, "Good purchases...solid purchases." Then I'll tell the cashier to "hold on! I forgot an item!" And i will run and grab hydrogen peroxide........pathetic. It's a disease really. I have a disease.

Icing on the cake

Today I was interviewing someone on the phone. We were about half way in when I hear this

"Yeah, um can I get a crunch wrap supreme with a side of Nachos and Baja Mountain Dew? No, not the regular mountain dew, the baja mountain dew...
................
.....................
...........................

She was in the taco bell drive through. She did not get the job.

Carol has a Flute

I'm not really a "movie theater" person. I would rather watch a movie in the privacy of my own home, but there is one reason I absolutely love going to the movie theater, and that reason is the flute melody. That adorable 3 second melody that plays as the giant AMC letters appear on the screen, adorned with a shooting star. I think that melody is hilarious and this is why.

What if you were hired by AMC theaters to play the flute melody? What if that was your only job? What if your name was Carol, you were 15 years old and rather than opting to work at the local BK or Boston Market, you opted to be AMC's flute girl. Carols mom pulls up to AMC Theaters at 2pm everyday in her Astro Van. Carol jumps out with her kahkis on and starched AMC polo, flute case in hand. She runs into AMC, looks at her CASIO watch and realizes she's running behind schedule. She won't have time to warm up. Carol clocks in, checks her schedule in the employee lounge and realizes that she needs to be opening for Saw IV in theater 6 in 2 minutes. In record time, she pieces her flute together, races to theater 6 and makes it just in time. As the last preview shows, Carol takes her place underneath the exit sign, approaches the flute to her lips and as the giant AMC letters make there way across the screen, she nails her flute melody. She bows, in the dark, because the theater resuses to turn on the lights for her 3 second performance. She then darts next door to theater 7 to open up for Bee Movie. She will work until 6pm, grab a slushie, spill it on her khaki pants, and then wait for her mom to pick her up.

I, sadly, think of this scenario every single time I hear that flute melody.

Heaven

When I die, I hope I arrive at Heaven, assuming I have jumped that hurdle and actually make it to the gates, I would like God to be standing there, grab my hand and ask "Katie, what would you like heaven to be like?" That is when I will pull this video out of my back pocket and say, "here pal, this is my heaven." This is what heaven should be.

Shut Yo Mouth

My mouth has a mind of its own. For some odd reason my body has programmed itself to prioritize my mouth over my brain. For example, I was working at home a while back, doing my job, when I interviewed a woman over the phone. Her baby screamed through the whole interview. Towards the end of the interview, I politely said, "And for the next round of interviews there can't be any noise in the background" She apologized, giving me some sob story about how she was a single mom, frequent Wal-Mart shopper, etc, then I said this......
"No, I completely understand, I have two kids of my own."
?
Fucking Mouth.
Well this happened again, last night at one of my Improv Olympic classes. During our 10 minute break, we gathered and began talking about how technology is really advancing. Fascinating convo right? Well, I felt like I needed to jump in and be heard. Discussion had climaxed when someone mentioned robotic advances to aid in warfare, when I said this,
"Kind of like the roomba". My brain up to this point had desperately tried to keep my mouth shut, but alas, the mouth won. Everyone looked at me in a quizzical fashion, until someone broke the silence by saying, "Like the robotic vacuum?"
Yes, in the midst of desperately wanting to fit into to this technological conversation I had blurted "roomba". So I confidently kept with it, "Yeah that robot vacuum. Talk about technology!"
Whoever brings up the roomba in conversation might as well wear a sign that says "social outcast." I made a terrible mistake last night.
I brought up the roomba, which had aboslutely nothing to the do with the conversation at hand, except that it was "kind of like" a robot.
Well done mouth, well done.

Food For thought.

This is a thought that constantly creeps into my head and drives me crazy. Why do we laugh? What determines what is funny? Why is it when you see or hear something funny, your body is programmed to open your mouth and make an obnoxious noise? It just seems like a bizarre response. What is humor? Are you programmed with a particular humor? Is it developed?
Just some food for thought.

Scene

Well, I guess I could post an actual scene I've been working on. It's a rought draft and there are bound to be typos. I don't know if I'l really post these, I haven't decided....could be weird......

(A very slim and fit women of 35 stands in front of a circle of chairs that are filled with overweight women)

Melinda: Hello Ladies! My name is Melinda and I would like to welcome you to the first day of your new life! Who’s ready to shed pounds and rediscover themselves? There’s only one woman who can help you, and that women is Jenny Craig! Welcome to the program ladies! Woo hoo! You know, I was once just like all of you. I was once sitting in those chairs just like you. Except, I wasn’t in just one chair. No ladies. I sat in two. Yes, that’s right, I weighed an astonishing 499 lbs. I couldn’t even get out of bed. I couldn’t drive a car. I felt hopeless. Then one day after finishing off en entire birthday cake and a loaf of bread after the 700-club morning show, I saw a Jenny commercial. I picked up the phone that day ladies and made the call that saved my life. I called my husband who was in the next room and asked him to get the astro van ready. I hadn’t left the house in 15 years, not too mention I hadn’t even gotten out of that bed in 5 years. One of the pillows had molded to my back and had started growing on my skin. Ladies, do you know what its like to have stayed in the same position for 5 years? I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t even roll over. My husband called an ambulance and with a little Crisco and a homemade pulley device, they were able to get me to my first meeting. I sat with women just like you. We shared our stories, and now I would like us to do the same. Meredith, we will start with you.

Meredith: (very quietly and embarrassed) Hello, I’m Meredith and I joined Jenny because according to my husband I’m a lard ass that resembles the Pillsbury doughboys fat older sister who they can’t show on TV because she’s so fat she repulses customers who are interested in Pillsbury’s delicious pastries. Not too mention, swimsuit season is around the corner.
Melinda: Thank you for sharing Meredith. Lets have Mary-Beth share next.

Mary-Beth: Okay, Hi. I’m Mary-Beth and I have to say I’m a little nervous. I’ve never been to a meeting like this before, well; I guess that’s not true. I use to be a sex addict and the meetings were similar. Ironically everyone there was overweight too.

Melinda: Thanks for sharing Mary-Beth. I know this is a big step and a big decision that takes a lot of courage. We here at Jenny Craig applaud your bravery and courage and embrace it. How about Linda, will you share with us Linda?

Linda: Well, I use to be anorexic, and as you can see, that backfired.
(Lights)

Claim your Bag...or else.

Airports.
I love airports. I really do. I enjoy my time spent there. One thing that has always kind of caught me off guard is baggage claim. I think baggage claim is obnoxious. Everyone stands with their knees practically touching the conveyer belt waiting for their suitcases. Everyones is a hurry, gotta go...gotta get my bag and go. Luggage comes rolling out and you always have that one jackass with the bright yellow bag with like duck tape just plastered all over it and your thinking in your mind "eh, kinda smart..at least he knows which bag is his."
But then have you noticed that that guy....is never there to claim that one bag that stands out! Thats the one bag that is always rolling around at the end. Then, how great is it when you see someone across the way grab your bag. Your black suitcase. So, instead of yelling you just throw your arms up. Thats all you can do. You just throw em up. Your thinking "Maybe if my arms go up that guy will think......oh her suitcase..whoops". Then you run over "Oh, um.....um...my suitcase...mine. Mine!" You just point. Then they get all defensive.
"No. no miss this is my black suitcase. I had the tag bent this way so I would know"
"But it has my name on it"
They check..it does. So they just drop the bag and run back to the conveyer belt fearful that someone else might have stolen their black suitcase. And that yellow bag with duck tape is still rolling around, no ones claimed it yet. Then you have that one guy who has already claimed six giant bags and he's waiting for his seventh black, swiss army bag to come around and your thinking "where the hell are you coming from that you need that much luggage"
Then there's the other guy who's muttering "Jesus christ, I knew I shouldn't have checked a bag. I knew it! Is anyone else missing luggage? Mine is not here. Anyone else?...THE ONE TIME I CHECK A BAG! Christ! No one else is missing anything?"
You know...thats where you should go if your homeless. Baggage claim, just grab some bags and head on out. No one would know. You could make a bundle reselling some of that stuff. It would be like a grab bag, you would never know what you were going to get. That makes life fun.

Sports Clips

I have a bone to pick with Sports Clips. And that bone is that Sports Clips is ridiculous.
"Welcome to Fucking Sports Clips"
God forbid you go to a haircut establishment that might make you look "foolish" like family cutters or supercuts. Screw foolishness...head on over to Sports Clips and be a man. Get a mans haircut. At sports clips your manly and sporty at the same time. We at sports clips wear Jerseys and as an added perk we give you a whistle and a complimentary water bottle filled with that cool blue liquid we use to clean combs. Fucking sports clips! You like football? Thats a perfect reason to get your hair cut. Baseball fan? Come get a cew cut and hold a bat in the barbers chair. Swimmer? We will buzz your head while wearing a speedo. Come on in. Come get your hair cut at a place that is filled with excessive amounts of testosterone all the way down to our J. Crew products. Come in today and with a shampoo purchase of $35 dollars or more we will throw in a feww jock strap. Fucking sports clips. Time to get your hair cut like a tool. For tools. By tools. Sports Clips.

An Anniversary adorned with porn

My family is very Catholic. In fact we're so Catholic, that my grandpa has gotten to the roots of our geneaology and has proudly proclaimed that we are the long lost, distant relatives of St. Anthony....yes St. Anthony. So next time your brag about your Lexus, or getting into Stanford law....I will have one up on you.
Anyways it was recently my grandparents 50th or 60th wedding anniversary. I'm not sure which one......anyways, my grandpa had planned to shower his bride of eternity with a "rare" gift. He wanted something special....something that says "we've been together a lifetime...this is a token of our love for each other" So, who else to consult when buying an anniversary gift then your local parish priest. Father suggests to my grandpa that there is this beautiful rare brazilian gem that would be perfect. My grandpa, cane in hand and with a twinkle in his eye knows that my grandmother will love this gem. Having only to go off the knowledge the parish priest has given him "brazilian gem", he logs onto their new computer and googles "brazilian gem".
whoops.
Well, brazilian gems did pop up. Naked, brazilian gems. Grandpa had stumbled upon a sea of porn while attempting to purchase a gift for my grandmother for the upcoming anniversary. Ashamed and full of Catholic guilt and blanketed with sin,he is embaressed to tell anyone but has a dilemma because they keep getting porn pop ups. Finally he breaks the news to the family at my moms birthday dinner pleading with my uncle to help him with his computer problems and solve the brazilian gem porn dilemma. In a fit of laughter, while simultaneously creeped out, we all ask if this was actually a "mistake".
My grandpa, now a little angry and ashamed, said that he had prayed many rosaries and has gone to confession even though he witnessed the images "accidentally"
My grandmother simply said, "He said it was an accident, and I believe him" and she left it at that.
Now thats 50 or 60 years worth of love and trust.

Anorexia:Abercrombie::Cocaine:

a) Kate Moss
b) Birtney Spears
c) Lindsay Lohan
d) all of the above

What's your fortune?

I recently read an article in the New York Times that talked about the fortune cookie. Apparently an extremely large supplier of fortune cookies (can't think of the companies name off hand, maybe Wonton?) is taking fortune cookies in a new direction. Instead of the upbeat and inspirational fortunes such as, "Success can only be measure in smiles", or "Wealth comes from hard work", some fortune cookies will now have crummy fortunes like, "You will die, eventually," and "You will never be successful at your job." This, in my opinion is sheer brilliance. I wonder if this Wonton company has any idea how much of a ripple affect they could cause with this new "fortune cookie strategy." It will change chinese restaurant conversation forever. Everyone knows that at the end of the meal at your local Fuji Inn, conversation stoops to this level,
"Everyone read their fortunes aloud! But wait! I heard if you can get the fortune out of the cookie without breaking it, it really will come true!"

"Oh yeah, well I heard that if you crack it in one try it comes true!"

"Oh yeah, well I heard if you crack it at a 48 degree angle, it comes true!"

"What does yours say, Susana?"

"Mine says, your future breast augmentation will go badly"

(dead silence)

"Wow, how weird if that, Susana weren't you thinking about getting breast implants?"
"Yes, yes I was. Um, I've never gotten a fortune like that before...what does everyone elses say? Lucinda?"

"Mine says, Your partner will soon grow bored with your nagging and misshaped body"

Chinese food, as if it wasn't awkward enough (what the hell is a snow pea anyways?), will now become extremely awkward! I want to propose some fortunes to Wonton and pitch some ideas. So, you know how Chinese fortunes always have a row of "lucky numbers?" Well, what if Wonton changed that to your "predicted date of death." It still follows the whole number pattern, but its still keeping with this downer attitude. Some fortunes I would propose would be,
"20,000 tredmills couldn't help you lose that baby weight"
"If I saw your face everyday, I would move out too"
"Your lucky you have a pet, that will be your only companion"
"You will become dependent on an oxygen tank"
"That PTA speech was your defining moment"
"Your child hates you, and always will"
Wonton, those are my ideas. I would be happy to be a team player in this morbid and sad new strategy. In fact, please, I urge you to allow me to be a part of your company. I love chinese food, and fortune cookies, but I especially love shitty fortunes.

Family Game Night......

Family Game Night. That pathetic attempt made by parents to bond as a family. It's that chance to get James, the eldest son who has the most potential, to refrain from his hippie pot smoking for one night. It's that attempt to have Mary Louise, the middle child with scoliosis and braces, to for once feel included. It's that oppurtunity to keep the good looking child, Mary Beth in for one night and have her keep her clothes on. It's family game night. My family tried this once. My mom originally publicised it as "family movie night", but Blockbuster, Family Video and Hollywood Video have pretty much had it out for our family for about 10 years because we have fines off the charts. Honest to god we have had Big Fat Liar, the incredible cinematic production starring noneother than Frankie Muniz, checked out for about 6 years now. So, since our family was banned from renting movies for life, my mom thought substituting a board game would increase our chances at bonding because we would be forced to converse. Let me explain something to you, my family is equivalent to a bag of gardettos. None of us look alike, we don't really get a long and we've been shoved in a bag and forced to get along and experience this rare thing known as "love." The O'Brien family owns 3 games. Monopoly, Risk and Yachtzee. My poor mom, pathetically excited that we were all together on a Friday night splurged and bought junk food. She bought bugles. Bugles? No one really buys Bugles. It's like Uncle Bens Rice, sure its advertised, but no one really seriously thinks about ingesting either of those products. So there we are, all five of us kids and my mom and dad. We take a vote and monopoly wins, but alas, the fricking board is missing. All the money is accounted for, even the houses and chance cards are in ziploc bags, but the board is gone. Yachtzee is a no go because we realize, oh right, we don't even own the game yachtzee. And Risk, well Risk just sucks and you can't play that with 7 people. The bugles are un-opened, and there we are at family game night with no game, while simultaneously being on blockbusters shit list. Family game night was a bust, and we never tried it again.

If you have yet to encounter sheer brilliance, then allow me to introduce you to Van Morrison

A brief history lesson....

The rat tail. Distinguishing the white trash from the non-white trash for over 20 years. A hair cut designed to say to the masses "look at me, I'm a giant fucking freak". A hair cut so low on the hair cut totem poll its equivalent to leprosy. You know what its like when you spot a real live rat tail on a youg boy next to the claw machine at Denny's. You think "get out of here...I need to get out of here". Have you ever sat next to someone in a movie theater with a rat tail? Torture. I haven't, but I've heard horror stories. The rat tail lightly drapes itself over the back of the movie theater chair as if it has a mind of its own. It purposely lingers close to your popcorn and coca cola slushie. I was curious as to how this hair cut could have possibly come about. Who thought, "I know! I'll shave my head and leave just a little bit in the back. That will show the kids at school!" I use to think you would honestly have to be mentally ill to WANT such an awful haircut. But, as it turns out, there is some history behind the rat tail. Apparently, the rait tail sprung from the 1980's star wars/ jedi knight phase. Apprentices becoming Jedi Knights MUST have a rat tail and then once the apprenticeship is complete, the infamous rat tail is either "burnt" or "sliced". At this point I was relieved, at least there was a reson that this hair cut had come about, but then I thought. Thats inexcusable. Everyone knows Star Wars is fiction. Fiction, you freaks. You don't take it seriously. FYI: Jedi Knights are not real, making the rat tail a fictional hair cut. This is a plea to the white trash of America. You can keep your menthol lights and you can keep your mullets. You are allowed to leave the kiddie pool out in your yard year round and I will even let you park your Bronco on the lawn, but for the love of God, rid yourselves of the rait tail. It makes you look a lot worse then you already do. The rait tail is a dangerous thing. It has a mind of its own. Its curls on its own for gods sake.

BOO

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I always get disappointed looks and sassy comments such as "What about Christmas!?" Mmm, sorry. Christmas doesn't jingle my bells. The only thing I love about Christmas are those crazy Coca Cola polar bears. In my opinion they have more christmas spirit then Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all those manger animals combined. But Halloween....now thats a holiday. Each year I go to great lengths to prepare a great costume. This year I've toiled over being Harriet Tubman (two words: underground railroad (third word-->) bitches) Then I thought I would try the whole "slut thing" for Halloween. Caddy Harron infamously said from the teenage cinema bible, Mean Girls, "Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it." And, its true. My slut ticket was going to be a modern day Martha Washington, but then I thought thats a weird slut choice. Besides a previous marriage to George, there wasn't anything slutty about her and apparently she was really boring and was just a homemaker at Mt. Vernon. SO i abandoned that idea. Then I thought about being a pregnant prom queen. Granted, its not funny if you were the prom queen at one time while you were pregnant, but to everyone else its kind of a funny concept. So then, I thought, "why not be Veronica from the 6th station of the cross?" For those of you who aren't familiar with my homegirl Veronica, she was the charming women on the side of the road who happened to have a wash cloth handy while Jesus was burdened with carrying that cross. She essentially gave Jesus a quick sponge bath on his way up to calvary and as a thank you, Jesus left an image of his face on the washcloth. It probably became a family heirloom, or maybe she framed it? I don't know. So, I think I am going to be "station 6, Veronica wipes the face of Jesus." My costume you ask? Some biblical clothing (most likely a sheet), a painted on tear, and yes, I will be carrying a washcloth around with jesus' face on it. And i know you might be thinking to yourself, "how lame". This is not lame my friends. Lame would be if I was a hooters girl or a beer keg.

Awkward.

Location: Chicago Public Library Lincoln Park Branch

On Wednesday evening I walked to the Library. Placed Barrel Fever, by David Sedaris into the return book slot and noticed that the two computers equipped with card catalogs were occupied. I roamed through the stacks for a while waiting for a computer to open up. 15 minutes later, the computers were still occupied. I approach the front desk,
Me: "Excuse me, are those the only two computers that have card catalogs on them?"
Librarian: "Oh, are you the woman looking for books on sexuality?"
.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................. What the fuck?
Me: "Um no, actually that wasn't me."
Librarian: "Oh sorry, yes those are the only 2 computers with card catalogs."
I walked away shame faced. Who knew the library could be so awkward?

Americas Next Top Rape Victim

Americas Next Top model. My guilty pleasure.
Actually the reason I love this show is not for the quality modeling, nor is it to admire the beautiful faces that adorn the television screen, rather it is to pay homage to my "mama", Tyra Banks. Having litterally made millions off the world known as modeling, talk shows and reality shows, Tyra is a big, bad, beautiful bitch who I have come to love and admire. She's the attractive Dr. Phil; the "lighter" Oprah. She's a mixture of chocolate and vanilla poured into a very shapely and attractive mug. Shes my gurl. I love it when Tyra sits the models down for "one on one" girl chats. During these "one on one" chats this super, super model lowers herself to their level by wearing Levi jeans and removing her shoes. She curls up on the catch and almost always says one of these lines to the hopeful models,
"So....you were raped. What was that like?" The model always responds...."oh Tyra. It was tough."
"So....you grew up homeless. What was that like?" The model always responds. "I had nothing Tyra. No heels, nothing."
"So ....you were abused. Tell me about it?" The model always responds, "It hurt, and bad"
Those are the most popular three. Somehow every gorgeous young women in america that makes it on these shows has had one of these 3 awful situations. Now and again you get a wild card, 
"So, your mother was a transvestite that made you run around naked." The model always responds......"Yep."
Its a god damn modeling show, its not beautiful counseling. When Tyras "one on one" chats come to a close, the model is sobbing, Tyra rises, gives the girl and hug and says, "You've come so far. Don't let anyone tell you your not gonna be somebody"
Ironically 15 minutes later Tyra cuts them because they were either fat, immature or lacked "personality". Ah, tough.
As the camera pans the models ribs peek through blouses and tank tops. I don't know about you, but nothing says sexy like visible ribs. If i can see someones entire clavicle and ribs I think to myself, "shes classy". Or, if i can fit a ponytail holder around their thigh, I think to myself, "I wanna be your friend."

This is why you need to get a degree....

I have a ridiculous job. if you know me pretty well, I've complained to you about it. Although, I should keep my mouth shut because it is a great job. I get paid really well, and I can work in my pajamas, so no complaints. Let me explain......I work for H&R Block. Basically I pick up the phone and call people, ask them some ?'s, and then determine if they are competent. If they are, I give them a green light and hire them, if their not, I give them this bull shit line, "I am going to pass on your information to my supervisor and if they are interested in hiring you, they will call you. However if they don't call you within the next two days, they will have moved on with further candidates." This is code for, "you were someone how dumb enough to fail my 1st grade level ?'s. No one is going to hire you. Not even Burger King."
But, here the thing.
I don't call people named Bob, Ralph, Susan or Carol.
No, I call people like this (actual names of people I have called)
1. Joei. --This is pronounced "Joey". Replace that 'i' with a 'y' or forever remain on the shitty name list.
2. Concepcion--pronounced "conception". Do you not realize the definition of your name is "fertilization" or "inception of pregnancy?"
3. La-Crystal. Your life would be so much easier if you just erased the "la"
4. Whytny-Pronounced "whitney" but spelled with every fucking consonant imaginable.

Other favorites include, Jamesetta, Tekyla, Dinesha, La Kayla, LaMarr and Toddler.
People always give me a hard time when I make fun of these names. "its a cultural thing." This is not cultural. Muhammad is a cultural name....but CONCEPCION....CONCEPCION...that is crazy. Thats not cultural. Thats called under the influence. Thats what these names should be referred to, Under the Influence names. UI names..
"Whats her name?"
"La-Quayla"
You don't think to yourself, "Ah! A cultural name!"
No.
You think to yourself, "did she just say fucking "La-Quayla?!'
Then i receive this argument, "well their parents probably wanted them to be unique"
Unique as in the kid eats lunch alone for the rest of his life while people whisper, "did you hear? That kid in the corner, his name is Tequila."

Homeless, not helpless

Sometimes the homeless can be a tad overwhelming. Its a little overwhelming when a large man clad in 5 different coats shoves a cup your way saying, "Miss, help a brother out" or "Mornin' Miss, please?" At first I gave into their opression. I would throw a quarter in, or drop some change into their hat. Theres definately a technique and quite frankly, an art to being homeless. If you have a homemade sign that says, " Desperately Hungry, please help", I will not give you money. For two reasons. 1) Thats half-assing it. I want to hear tragedy. I can see you look like shit, but where is the story behind it? 2) Mis-spell some words if you want my charity. Why have you correctly spelled "Hungry" and "desperate", as far as im concerned your too educated to be on the streets. And, the phenomenon that seems to be catching on is the homless man with no legs. This use to be a rare find. The war veteran with no legs who sits on the corner still recovering from shell shock. He was the one people would walk by and think, "Crap, he is homeless and has wheels for legs. He gets a 5." But now, their on every corner. How many homeless men with missing legs can one city have? I saw 3 the other day! Either someone is teaching some kind of homeless legless illusion class where you are taught to create the illusion of having no legs, or there are literally hundreds of these guys wheeling around.

I finally took the plunge. I finally mustered the guts to move to Chicago and make an attempt at my "dream". Cheesy and cliche. Bear with me. For some odd reason I was compelled to leave a fabulous scholarship, a very respectable school and a promising future all for an improvisational comedy troupe. I had all the confidence in the world in my decision. It was instinctive, it felt right and I was willing to work. I was more than willing to get down and dirty to make second city happen. I flew into O'Hare, hopped on the train, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the city. Its amazing how a place so alive and so overflowing can make you feel so small and insignificant. So here I am. Adjusting to public transportation and slowly getting use to the fact that somehow everything smells like urine no matter where you are. Adjusting to screaming and screeching, sirens and honking and the homeless shoving their dirty hands into your pockets. Getting use to washing my hands every 15 seconds out of fear that I might have picked up ebola on the train. Keeping personal belongings close and money even closer for fear that every passing person might swoop in and claim it as their own. Finding my own rythm on my own. My rythm of interaction with strangers and my rhtym of confidence to say no to sollicitations and window shopping. Adjusting to the inadequate feeling of the gold coast. Straining my neck to catch glimpses of fabulous apartments that I know I will never own. Bumping into botox beauties and men in suits that cost as much as my college education. Why is a single bus ride 2 dollars? Why do I see the same elderly gentlemen walking behind me every morning? How come I am fearful to carry a purse, even in daylight?
I still need to buy an umbrella. God forbid I get caught in the rain.
Why is the woman at the Lincoln park library a raging bitch?
Why is my only proof of chicago identification a library card?
Im here.
I like it
and I will soon love it

Blue line

One of Omahas best kept secrets for coffee lovers of all kind is the Blue line. This train themed coffee hot spot located right on the corner of good 'ole Dundee, is my clubhouse if you will. It is my retreat, my own personal coffee fort, where I always go on the weekends to order a hazelnut latte and read, or write. The appeal is rooted much deeper than just delicious coffee. The Blue Line has a down home feel to it and is home to many regulars. Its insides are filled with elitist professor types who, by the looks of it, do not own combs and find matching to be a thing of the past. On one of my most recent visits, I was nestled in the corner table, content with a book and my half drunk latte when a large, Armenian gentlemen with a cut off t-shirt came in. I had never seen him before, so I dismissed his presence although I was intrigued by the fact that he was a very hairy gentlemen. In fact, his classy cut off t-shirt was having trouble keeping all the hair in from his back all the way to his front. I wasn't disguted, I was more impressed. He looked mobbish. A gold ring on the pinky, no socks with his shoes and gold chains adorned his neck. He rings the bell on the counter, even though the blue line employee was right there and requests a bicycle pump. What the fuck? He's hairy and he's requesting a bicycle pump.....I immediately put my book down. Acting as if im looking over the menu, I begin to snoop. The skinny employee behin the counter says "a bicycle pump?" He replys "Yes! A bicycle pump!" The woman explains that this is a coffee shop and unfortunately, there are no bicycle pumps, but she tries to draw him in to buy a scone or some freshly baked banana bread. "Look, I need a bicycle pump!" His voice isn't so much raised, but he sounds almost excited. "We really don't have one sir, did your bike tire blow out or something?"
"No, I just stole this kids bike though and the motherfucker had a flat tire!", he laughs and then says "Oh well..."


So, as if on cue, I burst out laughing. This middle aged Armenian man stole a god damn bicycle only to find out that karma bit him in the ass and left him with a flat tire, and now he is in search of a bicycle pump.

People make me laugh.

Jesus Freaks

I’ve had religion in my back pocket since birth. Born and raised catholic, it was burnt into my brain that if I did not attend church every Sunday, I would be doomed to the fires of damnation and would have to prance about with all the other evil spirits while everyone else “partied” in heaven. Jesus was a tactic my parents used to instill fear while they attempted to mold us into perfect human beings. “Kathleen, would Jesus cop an attitude while mopping the floor?” or “Kathleen, would Jesus have shaved his brothers eyebrows and given him a wedgie”? Nice try mother, but unfair argument, Jesus didn’t have any siblings. Booya. Point being, I’ve had to suffer through Sunday mass for 18 years. I’ve just recently noticed that the sole purpose people attend mass is because they think they “have” to in order to get to heaven, or be in good standing with the big guy. It just aggravates me that 99.9 percent of the people in mass are simply worshipping their blackberries as they check e-mails during the readings, or are playing tick tack toe on the church bulleting during the sign of peace. Why hasn’t anyone had the dignity, or the balls to raise their hand during mass and say “I’m really fucking bored?” I’m not dissing on religion and I’m certainly not making fun of the institution of church, all I’m saying is, no one is there for the right reasons. I won’t be hypocritical, my whole life I have robotically attended mass because I “have” to. In fact, I hate it. I just propose that we make mass a little more fun. Maybe someone could blow fire during the gospel? Or maybe the priest could magically produce a dove from his sleeve as he describes the resurrection? Or maybe each pew could have a talking Jesus doll and when you pushed Jesus’ hand he could say “And peace be with you” or “God damnit Judas, strike three and you’re out!”

Vending Machine Etiquette

Yesterday I conducted improper vending machine etiquette. I work in a building where the vending machines are "conveniently" located in the basement, which I must applaud, is a brilliant strategy for my office building. The entire building seems to be made of up the "big boned", smoker, over 30 crowd. Their not particularly friendly, spandex is a common wardrobe item and they all hate me. These vending machines (2 to be exact) are hidden in an eerie corridor right next to Tom "the engineers" office. Tom is not an engineer, hes a custodian, but he felt it fit to tack "engineer" on his office door. He's a liar. Bottom line, I rarely venture down there for 2 reasons. 1) Its pretty dark and Tom just hybernates down there patiently waiting for someone to appear so he can lurk out, introduce himself, then proceed to inquire about your entire life. And 2) I'm not a big lover of junk food. Yesterday, however, bored and craving chocolate I had the brilliant idea to get a reeses peanut butter cup, freeze it in the freezer and then eat it. This was a brilliant idea, so I thought. I get in the elevator, hit the B, button, which I must point out, is never located near floor 1. If you ask me, in an elevator the buttons should go in ascending or descending order. You don't just throw the B in there next to floor 3 or 4. Thats annoying. Its like the Free Space in Bingo. You know it doesn't belong and you have to fumble around it the entire game. So, down I go, into the office basement. The vending machines are glowing and welcoming, but what is this? Someone else is down there. What? It's not Tom, but rather, a rough looking woman who looks like she might be a cannibal. I'm completely caught off guard. I've never seen anyone down here before, besides Tom. We reach the basement vending machine at roughly the same time and we're stuck in that human pickle situation. Those aggravating situations where you put your foot forward first, then they do at the same time and you mumble "woa, sorry go ahead" then they talk over you saying "No, my fault, you go" and then you both proceed to stand their staring at eachother debating if you really should take their advice and go. Human pickle. It sucks. And there I stood, with cannibal woman. Well I blew it. I offended her. Upon reaching the vending machines I'm thinking "Go for it. Just go for it. Take the initiative, just avoid the human pickle situation all together." So I go. Worst mistake of my life to date because in response, cannibal gives me the disgusted sigh. Its not quite a hiss, its a little more weighted with a pinch of big bad bitch thrown in. I pull out my dollar bill, which is crinkled, stuff it in the vending machine, practically shaking because the thing behind me is pissed. The machine keeps spitting the bill back at me. "whoops!" THATS ALL I COULD SAY! "Whoops" i just kept repeating it. Finally it accepts the bill, I punched D4, grabbed my candy and collected my change. Fuck it, I am not waiting for the elevator. I opted for the stairs. For furture vending machine users, there is a proper etiquette. You should never take initiative and just go to the vending machine. In a situation where there are two individuals and you reach the vending machine at the same time, either engage in the human pickle, or politely announce that "your still deciding".

I wish my name was craig

I am willing to shamefully admit that I have become a craigslist junkie. In my early internet days I was never impressed with e-bay, google earth or you-tube. I had no interest in watching a cat play the piano, or an overweight woman falling off waterskis while her family guffaws as her one piece swim suit desperately tries to hold in the fat that is yearning to break out. You know what I'm talking about. It had no appeal to me. I was perfectly content with the many wonders of facebook, and cnn.com. I ocassionally read a blog or two, and then retired from the computer after merely 15 minutes of "surfing". But now, I have discovered craigslist and have become Jerry. You know, the kid who locks himself in the basement den. Jerry's only ten years old, but he has the skills of a 35 year old when it comes to a PC. He's familiar with all the websites and is an advocate for the internet. He wears shirts that read "I hear noises in my head" and "PC: Personal computer or paternal companion?" He spends many a night on his parents computer googling god knows what, only to prop open to the den door at 7am for nourishment a.k.a cheetos. He's completely isolated. He belives the matrix is real and he is a firm believer that cyber space is his closest companion. I'm not that extreme yet, but I have disovered my new best friend and amigo...craigslist. Created by an individual, who I am assuming, was named craig, it is a website that has become my guilty pleasure. It's ebay's kid brother. At first it started with innocent "shopping". Looking for furniture for my apartment, dvds and books. Then one day while working at my 9-5 office job (oh hey real world, hows it going?) I discovered the personals section. It was a wednesday I believe. Tired of seeing busted couches and shitty lamps, I wandered into this pandoras box, which was appropriately titled "personals". I began scanning the omaha personal ads on craigslist and was enetertained for an entire hour. I had found the buried treasure, I had won the lottery, I had basically stumbled upon Jesus' tomb. Titles for the personals read
"Jew Available"
"Yes, I smoke"
"Let me be the prop in your fantasy"
"Weak for Asian Princesses"
"Submissive female who wants to be treated like dirt, but not abused"
This is my new playground. I find the greatest humor in reading these ads. I scour them everyday laughing at the exspense of others. This personal site just screams in print "Loneliness"...and literally. So if you are ever bored, instead of engaging in a physical activity outside such as frisbee or golf, and rather than plopping down in front of the television set...log on to craigslist. I guarantee you will become a fan within the first 5 minutes.

In the Beginning.....

Blogs seem pretty 4th grade to me. It ranks right up there with sketchers and retainers. So why am I subjecting myself to the scrutiny of the ever cosmopolitan "blogger"? Well, I suppose the main reason is because I've been encouraged to "develop" my writing. This fall I will be be planting my feet in Chicago with the hopes of attaining a degree at Second City. Do they hand out degrees? No. Do they have robes or diplomas? No. Is it even a college or respectable University? Absolutely Not. However, they do have a gift shop and a bar. Which, when you really think about it, thats all that college consists of anyways. Second City is primarily composed of classes that focus on comedy and improvisational performance and writing. It is the almighty tool to success for comedy, or so I like to think. I use to blog. I remember kind of enjoying it? I keep a notebook with me and write down humorous everyday things that I happen to encounter, so I figured that I would "get with it" and do it "blog" style. So, I guess, expect more to come? Yes, expect it.