Stuh-Stuh-Stuh-Stutter

In the summer of 2009 I decided to develop a stutter. I surprised my mom with it first, unveiling it in the very first text message I ever sent her ("i fee-fee-fee-feel like chi-chi-chi-chicken tonight, li-li-li-"), and then performing it through an entire dinner that she spent clenching her teeth tightly and scraping her fork against her plate. When I was washing the dishes later I saw that she had scraped the words "idiot son" into her plate. Success!

A few days later I sent my boss an email asking for a private meeting. He replied with "anytime" and so I marched over, closed the door behind me, and sat down. "What can i do for you?" he asked politely. "Weh-weh-weh-weh-weh-weh-weh-well..." I began, and smiled to show relief when I finally got the word out. He smiled nervously back. "Weh-weh-weh-weh-weh-well, suh-suh-suh-sir..." I continued, and again paused to smile with false relief. "I be-beh-beh-believe that I ha-ha-have been do-dooooo-do-dooooo..."

"Doing?" my boss offered. I smiled. I opened my mouth to start again, and he stopped me. "What do you want? A raise? You have been doing a good job. A raise it is. Yes, a raise. Three percent?"

"Weh-weh-weh-weh-weh-weh-weh..." I started.

"Five percent!" he said, and he looked at the door to his office with a look that said "escape is so close, yet so far away..."

I smiled, then concentrated: "Weh-weh-weh-weh..."

"Ten percent!" he shouted gleefully, and here he jumped up, shook my hand, mumbled something about coffee and clients and meetings, and ran out of his office. Success!

Read more about my stuttered adventures this fall when my self-help book, "Stutter Your Way to Success" is released. It's sure to be a real home run!

Damn Straight

You never know who's going to get you in the dark, when no one is looking but the moon and the trees and the earth below. It could be the devil, or it could be Pete Rose. It could be a little cat with long arms or a ghost with low self-esteem. All could be silent at this moment, but all will not be still. Take heed knowing that I know your name and your story, or don't.

On this day in history - August 18 - someone, somewhere, was abducted by aliens or Pete Rose. No one knows for sure, except Pete Rose. It is sad to think that someone is sitting in a basement (alien or Pete Rosian) without hope. By pointing this out, I've assuredly informed a necessary fear we all must have when walking alone at night.

Don't think it can't happen? It will happen, every August 18th, forever. When Pete Rose dies, the aliens will take over, and when the aliens die, Pete Rose's ghost will start it up. This is no laughing matter. I mean, I am kind of laughing, but I shouldn't be. I'm actually laughing at something unrelated. Back on track, I could be next for all I know; Next in line to lose it all! Hey, don't say I didn't warn you. You're all going to die one day. Might as well not think that day is far away. Might as well embrace the ghost of Pete Rose, the living, breathing Pete Rose and the intention of an anthropomorphic alien that wants to abduct you.

Sleep!

If sleep was a video game it would be broken down into difficulty settings which would be given clever names to demonstrate the user's skill level who would be able to accomplish sleep at that skill level. The first would be easy: "Captain Catnaps". At this setting the user is given a soft bed in a dark room in a quiet neighborhood. The air would be mild, and the user would be given adequate time to leak the lizard before setting down. As the round progresses, slight things might occur in an attempt to stir the sleeper, but nothing too major.

The next level of difficulty would be medium: "Sergeant Snores". Here, the room isn't as dark, cars pass occasionally, and the air is just a little bit too warm. Sometimes through the night a pet dog might come in, investigate the sleeper, then leave. A neighbors TV can be heard quietly through the wall. Navigate your way to victory, sleeper!

The hard level would be "Rip Van Winkle". Here, the user is required to sleep in a room with a buzzing neon sign shining in to a room too hot while roommates watch and cheer sports and randomly come in and out of the front door, slamming it each time, shaking the whole house each time, calling to each other from one side of the house to the other to bring more beer, then maybe engage in noise contests. Occasionally a round of karaoke might break out. The sleeper does not have access to any weapons.

Cheat mode would be called "Ambien". Using cheats, sleeper can unlock a difficulty mode that maybe .01% of participants will be able to beat: "Coma".

What difficulty level do you sleep at?

Internet Magic

Sometimes the internet is like a giant Easter Egg Hunt. Not in that romanticized way that you see on TV when they show that White House version with little girls in white dresses on well manicured lawns finding brightly colored eggs, I'm talking about the kind normal kids have. You know the type, running about the dirtiest corners of your backyard trying to find grey-brown splotchy eggs that you made the night before trying to create a rainbow by dipping the egg into all the colors. The greatest discovery you make is usually nothing to do with Easter. It may be an old toy, a rusted piece of silverware, dried animal scat, or maybe even one of last years eggs and an odor that 16 years of huffing metallic paint won't chase away the memory of. Sometimes though, you find a lost treasure, something long forgotten and magical. Well, today I asked the internet for an image of a Sloe Gin Fizz cocktail, and it gave me this :

All Quiet on the Western Front

August 4th, 1993: A federal judge sentences LAPD officers Stacey Koon and Laurence Powell to 30 months in prison for violating motorist Rodney King's civil rights, a decision which doesn't upset anybody very much.