Cell Phone Text Templates Designed for Martyring Mothers

“Please call me back.  I paid for your college tuition, and subsequently had to re-finance our mortgage, and all I ask in return is that I hear your voice every few weeks.” 

“I love you!  If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have sacrificed my youth and career for you.” 

“Where are you?  I’m staring at a week old crossword puzzle I’ve completed waiting for your father to get off the computer so I can check my email in hopes one of my children has written to me.   Can’t wait to see you!”

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes.  It would take me considerably longer but I’m skipping my yoga class, the two hours I cherish every week, so that I can meet up with you.” 

“Urgent: call me back.  Remember when I broke my ankle running out the kitchen door after I heard you scream from pain in the back yard?  As it turned out, you just got stung by a bee and I had to spend the next 3 months is a high ankle brace.  I still don’t regret that moment.  It sure would be nice to hear your voice.”  

Making an Impact

Dear Alum:

As a freshman in the fall of 2004 you first participated in the IMPACT survey, a major, longitudinal study of alcohol use and other health-related behavior during the college years.   During the next four years you continued to record your alcohol and drug habits for the purpose of our research. 

The goal of IMPACTS is to understand the nature and contexts of drinking and other substance use during the college years and the varied effects of substance involvement on psychological, social, and academic adjustment.  Over the span of the last five years we’ve compiled and analyzed the data and have reached a startling conclusion:  You are all a bunch of pricks. 

This definitive hypothesis is reflected within the disingenuous manner you approached this survey.  First of all, in regards to choosing race/ethnicity, a staggering 67% of you selected Samoan, 22% chose Alaskan/Inuit and an inexplicable 3% indicated the “Other” option and wrote in “werewolf.”  (You guuuyyysss!*)

Also, when asked how many drinks of alcohol you consume on an average week, 82% of you claimed choice E: 100 or more.  (Now that’s what I call a paaarty!*)  If that’s not bad enough 48% of those that answered this option manipulated the 100 in order to fashion a woman’s exposed breasts.  (Sweet!*) 

Furthermore, in the section related to drug substance use, a jaw dropping 91% of you claimed that you have an addition to phencyclidine, or Angel Dust. (What!? But this is the last drug one would expect you to take!!*)  When asked how you procured said drug you unanimously replied that you manufactured it yourself. (Hahaha!!!LMAO!!!*) 

Now I understand that as a college student you probably thought it would be amusing and/or ironic to sabotage our survey but you little jack offs don’t have to present this data to the Board of Trustees, I do.  It’s my reputation on the line here when I have to explain to the group that provided a lion share of this study’s funding—which, yes, also included those Papa Johns gift certificate incentives—that our campus, the University of Missouri, is experiencing a deluge of alcoholic Samoans who are perpetually high on the Angel Dust they composed in their dorm rooms. 

The biggest IMPACT this study has provided me is that I now realize that although our campus isn’t filled with drug abusing werewolves it is overwhelmed with a bevy of asshole pricks. 

Screw y’all,

 

Ken Turner

IMPACT Lead Researcher

 

*denotes sarcasm 

Parallels Between Obama’s Limo and the First Car I Drove, a 1984 Crown Victoria

Limo.) Has a Hemi powered engine installed. 

Crown Vic.) Has not one, but two wheel drive.  

—

Limo.) Fully equipped with a state of the art GPS tracking system. 

Crown Vic.) A MapQuest printout from my house to Six Flags is taped on the dashboard.

—

Limo.) Body has 5 inches of reinforced steel that can withstand a bomb explosion. 

Crown Vic.) Body has 5 inches of reinforced steel that can withstand a bomb explosion. 

—

Limo.) Stores containers of Obama’s blood in case an emergency blood transfusion is needed.

Crown Vic.) Stores a Sun Drop bottle full of my urine after an emergency road trip bathroom break.

—

Limo.)  Has a code name: Stagecoach.  

Crown Vic.) Has a code name: Bitch Slayer.

A HS Senior Photo Session in the Mid 19th Century

Please take a seat, Garret.  I see that you are brandishing your weapons–good.  Just to confirm, you are signed up for the B package which entails two indoor musket poses and one outdoor pose in which you have elected to lean against your surrey.  That’s a pretty carriage you have there, boy; you’re sure to attract the eye of a pretty gal next to that thing.   Yes, yes, I’m sure you must be very hot at the moment—with the account of all these lights and your thick wool suit—so I’ll try to make this go swiftly.  

Place your right hand higher on the musket…higher…higher…now just a smidge down.  Good. Now rotate your hand a little bit so that I can capture your class ring.  Did you know my cousin is Ulysses Josten, the man who made and sold you that ring?  That’s right, he treks from town to town with that business.  He told my Aunt that he has a visionary quest to one day tailor specially designed jackets for all high school upperclassman.  Aunt Joan suspects he is a fairy for harboring such a premonition but he claims that the athletic children will cherish his designed jacket the most. Ok, ok, I know it’s hot.  Back to the crux of the matter.  

I bet you’ve had your picture taken before so you should know the routine: just stare at the camera obscura in such a fashion that you appear distant and devoid of  human emotion…more distant…more distant….ok, that’s too distant! You are starting to tear a hole in my soul—tone it down.  Yes, that’s better.  

Now why would you grow a dignified neck beard if you don’t reveal it in your class photo?  Elevate your chin, Garret Dixon!  Ok now hold that pose perfectly still while I aim shot at you.  Damn!  You blinked!  I will have to get another shot but first I have to wait 10 minutes until my silver halide particles cool down before I can recharge my collodion tubes.  Yes, I know it’s hot and you’re wearing a wool suit!

Birds out of Paradise

Hello, you have one new voicemail:

Oh hey, Denise, it’s Phillip, the bird of paradise that you checked out today as a possible suitor.  Say, listen, I just wanted to call and say no hard feelings for not choosing me.   I heard you ended up picking Martin as your mate and I think that’s great; you two are going to make a wonderful couple.  Sure, I was a little hurt after you made your verdict, but the more I thought about the more I realized that you and Martin make an ideal couple because you are both a pair of vapid philistine assholes!  How you can you not appreciate what I have to offer, Denise? Ohhhh, Martin can make his chest feathers turn red.  Big f-ing deal.  I can instantaneously morph into a beautiful oblong shape filled with an assortment of brilliant black and blue hues!  And what gorgeous transformation do you perform?  Oh, that’s right—you don’t.  One of the greatest injustices in this world is that nature dictates I, the majestic male, have to impress you, the bland female. It should be the other way around!

Normally, I wouldn’t be that upset but there was a film crew there today documenting that entire embarrassing debacle.  I bet they mocked me during it and I can’t say I blame them.  You made me look like a fool, Denise!  I gave it everything I got and you just idly stood there burning a stony stare into my soul. You know how long it took me to get my space prepared for you?  But you were aware and I’m sure you reveled in that.  You have been waiting for that moment ever since you caught me sashaying in front of Laurie the other week at Rick’s party.  How many times do I have to tell you that it was an innocent encounter? 

Well, I hope you and Martin are happy together and have a fruitful life full of insipid little chicks.  Don’t worry, while you two are not doing anything to further advance our species, I’ll carry the burden of ensuring we continue to evolve into unique, mystifying creatures.  And I’ll probably do it with Laurie! You don’t deserve me you tawdry harlot!!!!

End of Message.  

 

Sex on the Beach

Making love on a beach has often been romanticized in literature, television, and film.  Although I’ve never performed this act on this landscape, I imagine a much different result:

–(kissing) Mmmm.

–(kissing) Ohhhhh.

–Wait a second.  (teeth chatter) It’s so cold!

–Yeah, I wasn’t expecting such a big drop in temperature at night.  But the stars are out, the waves are crashing, and there is saltwater in the air.  I suppose all I need to do now is to warm you up.

–(moan) Ohhh…

–(moan) Yesss… 

–Wait, wait!  You are getting sand everywhere.  You feel like an emory board.  

–Oh, sorry, babe!  I’ll wipe some of this out of the way.  

–That’s ok.  This is so romantic; the moon is so bright.

–This is perfect.  I love you.

–(moan) Ohhh…

–(moan)  Yesss…

–Wait, wait! Roll me back over!  

–What’s wrong?

–You rolled me onto a broken shell.  I think I’m bleeding.

–I am so sorry!  Want me to run inside and get a band-aid?

–No, that’s ok.  Let’s not ruin this moment.  Just use your sock to soak it up.  

–Ok.  (pause)  God,  you look so beautiful.

–(moan) Ohhhh…

–(moan) Yesss…

–Stop, stop!

–What now?

–Is that a man walking a dog out there?

–No, no, I don’t believe so.

–Good.  

–That’s a child with him.

–Let’s hurry up and leave then!

–But you’ve always wanted to make love to the sound of waves.  We go back home tomorrow–this is our only chance.

–How bout we just do it next to the hotel tub?

–Sounds good.

My Reaction During a Viewing of a Documentary about Creatures that Inhabit the Bottom of the Ocean

JESUS!  Oh my GOD…..that can’t be real!  This is merely some CGI special effects.  Did the Pans Labyrinth guy do this?  Wait, this is REAL?!? No…..no…..NO!! What the fuck is that thing!?  It has GLOW IN THE DARK flippers on its head and has tubes holding sharp teeth on its ass!  WHOA–What the fuck was that?!?!  It just got lured and eaten by a TRANSLUCENT fish that has a miniature fish attached at the end of his antenna!! This is some screwed up shit!  That thing is scarier then the creatures in Alien!  I feel like I’m high right now!  That’s it, I must be high….Wait a second, I’m not high!!!  This is real life?!?  Do the Christians know about these documentaries?  THIS DISPELS GOD!!  What kind of benevolent deity would create such horrid monsters!?!?  I’m going to piss myself!!  That FUCKING CRUSTACEAN HAS SPIDER LEGS!!!  Crustaceans shouldn’t have spider legs!!  Spider legs belong on a spider!!  Did you hear me, nature?!?  SPIDER LEGS BELONG ON A SPIDER!!!

Reflections on Having a Football Thrown at my Crotch From Jeff Tweedy’s Son on the Historic Second City Stage

One of my good friends, Jimmy Pennington, is a night shift manager at Second City.  In addition to his normal job responsibilities (from all he’s relayed to me this entails firing teenage skanks and kicking out drunk, rowdy audience members)  he is in charge of organizing the talent schedule for their annual 24 hours of improv charity event.  What charity you ask?  I think it’s for kids with some sort of affliction (sickle cell? diabetes? lower class?)  Whatever, that part of the story doesn’t matter; what does matter is that Jimmy was allowed to ask a few of his friends to sit in and perform throughout this full day event and, as it turns out, a lot of his friends couldn’t do it so he asked me!  He scheduled me into a three hour time slot to perform with some of the greatest improvisers in the city–oh, and I’d get to stick around afterwards to watch Jeff Tweedy do a solo set.  It’s not what I had originally planned for that evening (Totinos pizza and watching “One Tree Hill” on Hulu)  But still,  not a bad Wednesday night. 

When I entered during  hour 21 of the performance I was, to put it subtly, a vat of piss and vomit ready to explode into a flaming lake of utter fear at any moment.  All the performers on stage were established, meaning that they’re not only ridiculously talented but they’ve been around for several years.    In other words: they are the cool, lettered seniors and I am the bugle boy wearing freshman who somehow wandered into their party.   (Or, to use an incoherent analogy that holds no relevance to this situation: they were the snickers bar and I was the cowboy hat.)  Needless to say, my prediction that my timidness would translate into transparenecy on stage held true. 

Except for one shining moment.   

Halfway during my set they held an auction in which, for a $20 donation, you’d get to throw a Nerf football at the crotch of a notorious loud mouthed main-stage performer as he berates you.  During this auction they decided to give the ball to Sam Tweedy, Jeff’s 6 year old son.  Being that he is just a mere child he was permitted to go onto the stage and throw the ball just a few feet away from said performer’s mid section.  Now, just as any rambunctious little rug-rat, Sam decides–hey, why throw this ball at the person people are directing me to throw at when I can instead chuck it at the unsuspecting person directly to the right of me?    

A couple of things struck me as Jeff Tweedy’s son hit me in the crotch with a football on the historic Second City stage: 1.) A football, obviously,  and 2.) The realization that 2008, albeit a tumultuous year for the nation’s economy, housing market, car industry, and a majority of retailers in general–was a pretty landmark year for this guy.  This year has ushered in many great experiences including:

Witnessing, first-hand, the Obama rally on election night.  A truly once in the lifetime experience–when else will I get a chance to see an elderly white woman dancing with two black teenagers in the middle of Congress Blvd?  Take that image and eat a bag of dicks, Norman Rockwell!

Living  in a place by myself.  Finally, no more roommates who pester me with the request to lounge around with my shirt off!!!

Meeting an amazing gal.  And, subsequently, MAKING OUT WITH A GIRL!!!

Growing a beard for the first time.  This change in appearance has caused my co-workers to view me as a 30 something guy who down on his luck; finally, I fit right in.

So,  getting hit in the crotch with a football by Jeff Tweedy’s son on the historic Second City stage was really just the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae that was known as 2008.  (Or, to use another incoherent analogy that holds no relevance to this situation: My Second City performance for charity experience was like a blanket lying next to a very tall speaker that played chamber music.)

I’m looking forward to what 2009 has in store because if it’s anything like 08, then I’m sure it will be another year where I make big strides in becoming the man I’ve always wanted to become.  If you know me then you realize there is no way I’d conclude with such a corny ending–so, I leave you with this image: as I’ve been writing this entry, I have been constantly applying new ice packs to my nut sack.

A Haiku for Minkus

Boy Meets World with Nerd

Once America’s Sweetheart

Until One Tree Hill

Frank Opinions

15 years ago Lisa Frank was ridiculed in classrooms all across America.  In study halls, 5^th grade boys would slam her work:

 “That shit is so gay.”

200 years from now Lisa Frank will be one of our generation’s most lauded artist.  At the Louvre, curators will rave about her work:

“Ms. Frank was clearly one of the most innovative artists of the late 20^th century.  We are pleased and honored to have her complete body of work, all 86 coveted pieces, currently on display in our exhibit: Lisa Frank: The Trapper Keepers.  To discover the true brilliance of this venerable artist, lets take a look at one of her paintings entitled, “Unicorn’s Kissing on a Rainbow in Outer Space.”  The first thing you notice about this piece is that it is composed on an unconventional medium; her canvas of choice were elementary school folders which is ironic as there is nothing elementary about her artwork.  Notice the bold neon colors peppered throughout—these rich, vivid strokes instantly transport the viewer, much akin to William Blake, to mystical far away lands that evoke a child’s innocence.  And just like any great artist, Frank transcends mere aesthetic properties and reaches the stature of an intrepid social/political activist.  The main theme present in “Panda Bear Hugging a Pony on a Shooting Star” and “A Toucan Eskimo Kissing a Walrus on a Lilly Pad atop of a Lake Located on the Rings of Saturn” are that of hope ; hope that different worlds and creatures can look past their troubles pasts—that, yes, Panda Bears and Ponies can leave their respected ecosystems and are allowed to canoodle in outer space.  It is this ideal that was instilled into the youth of America and it is our belief that the work of this pioneer artist was paramount in propelling that generation to elect Barack Obama, the first U.S. black President, in 2008.  For these reasons it is obvious that Ms. Frank was an American treasure—a treasure of neon gold that sparkles like a star that overlooks two jungle creatures making out.