Unreasonably Sad Movies

Fellas (and tough girls), have you ever had the urge to be utterly stripped of all dignity?  Shit I know I have.  I think everyone should be embarrassed in its purest form every once in a while - it keeps us all honest.  But it's one thing to have a blush-worthy experience and another to be cripplingly humiliated by films they play on ABC family and the like.  The following are a couple of movies whose writers decided they wanted to rape me of my man-cards one movie-induced tear at a time.

First up…is "Up".  While all-in-all the movie has a happy ending and some hilarious characters and quotables, the first 10 minutes of this movie were clearly written by an emotionally bankrupt Nazi raised in Detroit.  It is one of the most upsetting opening sequences of all time.  A boy and girl are childhood sweethearts determined to live their life to the fullest as adventurers.  They get married and through a series of unexpected life events, never quite have the money to go on any of these excursions.  Then the wife dies in the most depressing montage ever.  Cool - I'm now streaming tears in front of 200 ten-year-olds and their gorgeous babysitters (who apparently have more control over their emotions than I do).  Thanks, Pixar - see if I go to the premier of "Toy Story 8 - Oh My God I Totally Used to Have That Toy - I Relate to This!".

The other item on this despondent roller coaster of shame is "Marley and Me".  If you've ever owned a dog, or a soul for that matter, this movie at the very least marginally upset you.  Of course that's the understatement of the century in my case.  I was blubbering violently at the end of this movie.  The most embarrassing part about it is we all knew the dog was going to die at the end of the movie the entire time (don't even try to tell me I ruined the movie for you right there...liar).  Even with two full hours of Owen Wilson's train wreck of a nose preparing me for the inevitable I still couldn't hold it together.  By the way, take a step back for a minute - what kind of asshole writes a movie about a dog dying?  Think about it.  Some guy, somewhere was eating breakfast and thought it would be worthwhile to write this movie.  I bet he was eating GrapeNuts...that mother fucker.

Closing thoughts - I have the emotional restraint of a 13 year old girl on her period.

Dear Sunday, you're a dick.

The other day I failed miserably at an attempt to explain the 1-10 girl rating system that guys use. I realized today the reason my definition was so lacking was because it was entirely half-hearted. Lately, rating girls has been about as much fun as watching bread rise. I always find it degenerates into 10, 7, or “fuck no” *dry heave* - and where’s the fun in that (minus the dry-heave - that’s hysterical - but more on that at another time).

So instead of rating girls - I’ve decided to appraise something completely irrelevant and typically mundane: days of the week (in descending order).

1) Saturday - Saturday is a 10/10 - it’s a complete day off, you can rage before and during it, and it has a perfect ass. If you don’t like Saturday, fuck you.

2) Friday - Friday is like Saturday’s less attractive (but still cute) sibling who is desperate to please you. ”Sorry I made you go to school/work today…but to make up for it I’ll get blackout with you tonight”. No matter how bad your 9-5 is on a Friday it’s always going to give you that complimentary handy under the table to try to win you over.

Things got a little more challenging as I came to the middle rankings:

3/4) Wednesday/Thursday - The ordering of these two depends on your lifestyle. If you have a carefree job or are still in college, Thursday is clearly the superior choice. If you work in Satan’s banana hammock like I do, Wednesday edges out ahead every time. So obviously if you’re in the former category, Thursday is just Friday without makeup on. Same promise of a good time but with a much worse walk of shame the following morning. Instead of walking home where you can shower off the glitter and self-loathing you have to walk to class or the office instead. So why do I put Wednesday ahead? Boring/simple response: hump-day. Getting through half of the week feels like a combination of inventing sex, winning World War II by myself, and waking up to discover I’m the comical black dude from the Old Spice commercials. Every. Single. Week. But I still have to go to work for another 2 days so Wednesday is #3.

5) Monday - Ok, yeah “having a case of the Mondays” is totally legit, but Monday is like that subpar guy/girl you accidentally dated in high school. Monday is the one you broke up with using the line “it’s not you…it’s me”. Sure, nobody really liked them while you were dating, and yes, any time you think of them you kind of want to put a hot iron on your face, but did they ever promise to be something they weren’t? No. With Monday you always know what to expect. Yes you’re going to have that “2:30 feeling” all day BUT YOU’RE READY FOR IT. Reliability and candor count for something in this world - kudos to you, Monday.

6) Tuesday - It’s Monday without that “I just drank my weight in alcohol and slept for 50% of the past 48 hours” feeling. Tuesday is a pregnant Monday…or a Monday with herpes - take your pick. Either way nobody likes Tuesday very much.

7) Sunday - ”Oh my god why is Sunday dead last?” “Sunday is God’s day of rest!!” “I use too many exclamation points to argue my case!!!!!!” Hear me out - my beef with Sunday is that it’s the bastard child of deception and a kidney stone. When Sunday’s first coming at you from across the block you think “Damn! Who’s this bombshell walking my way”. As you get closer Sunday’s trimmed body moves from a 10 to a 7 - that’s ok. 7’s are still something to be proud of! And that’s when you notice the snaggletooth/crustache combo. What the fuck, Sunday? You tricked me! I thought you were going to be like a reverse Friday! No. You know what Sunday is? Sunday is hangovers, chores, and spending the entire day dreading going back to school/work. Sunday is an asshole.

blrf

Balls

This afternoon an ovary-laden friend of mine asked me, “Why are boys ALWAYS scratching their balls?” Now normally this question-complaint hybrid is brushed aside with “just because” or “you wouldn’t understand - you don’t have testicles” but today I decided to brave the storm and field this inquiry. So ladies - listen up.

Obviously, to guys, there are countless feasible reasons for ball-scratching. In fact the “just because” answer isn’t that unreasonable in our minds. However, to be fair I’ve decided to break it down into three fundamental categories of why we grape-grapple.

1) Pubes - let’s get the gross(est) one out of the way. If a guy hasn’t manscaped in a while and all of a sudden decides to cut his field for the PGA tour he’s going to have something worth scratching. Girls - imagine shaving that unsightly mustache you’ve been rocking for the better part of this week. When you decide it’s time to shave for a weekend at the bars you might find yourself in a similar situation.

2) Stage Five Clingers - Humidity + Balls = Balls stuck on the inside of your leg. Pretend you’re 9 years old and at the dentist. You’ve just chomped on that Styrofoam fluoride nonsense for 5 minutes and it’s time to pick a toy. Stickers? Shit no - those are a one-and-done deal. Tooth related figurines? Don’t waste my time. There’s seemingly nothing worthwhile in this basket of crap…but just before you give up and decide nothing could make up for the fact that you can’t eat the chocolate in your mom’s car for an eternity (aka 30 minutes) you find the toy of all toys. One of those rubbery sticky jelly hands that you can slap around and stick to any and every surface. The kind of toy that can and will drive anyone over the age of 15 insane. Oh hell yes. Ridiculous anecdote aside. When your balls stick to your leg its as if you had 5 of those little sticky hands stuffed in your pants. Tell me you wouldn’t “adjust your situation” I dare you.

3) Just because - sorry, but I’ve decided this is fully acceptable. Most people like using their hands to play with things. Bending paperclips in and out of shape, doing that pencil-twirling trick that I CANNOT FIGURE OUT, scratching your balls. It’s not a conscious effort. We aren’t trying to be disgusting. It’s just something to do with your hands.

In summation:

Balls - stop asking why we scratch them and just accept the fact that we do - it will make your life a lot less complicated.

blerph

Titles. Hobolympics

It’s taken me all of 5 minutes to discover the hardest thing about blogging is coming up with a title for the blog itself. It’s not like naming a child where you just grab one of those name books, mash your finger onto a page and pick one to throw on the birth certificate - a blog is important. A blog is forever!

At first I wanted my title to incorporate Charlie Brown in some way because I’ve been told my personality resembles that of the prepubescent balding Peanut…awesome. Perhaps I should be thankful that I can identify with such a widespread childhood icon but I think I’d prefer to be associated with one of the X-Men…or Watterson’s Calvin. Back to the point at hand though - the bottom line is there’s no way to put Chuck’s name in the blog title withoutimmediately sounding like the suicide letter of a Death Cab groupie. For the time being I’m going with some good old fashioned onomatopoeia that sums up my capacity for titling - blerf.

Onto more pressing matters - Bums. I’ve lived in and around a few major cities in my life and I’ve seen my share of homeless members of society but I have to say I’ve never experienced bums with the same impetus as those that surround me these days in Boston. New York bums know the standard tricks - cardboard signs, cups of loose change, lack of soap. London bums - well, let’s face it, every Englishman wears a top hat and monocle so you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a vagrant and a member of parliament (hint: there isn’t one). But these Boston bums run circles around the rest of the world’s transients. I’ve been followed, yelled at and had miscellaneous objects thrown at me (with impossible accuracy). Maybe I ooze that Charlie Brown aura and they think I’ll be a pushover for a few bucks but I’m inclined to think that these guys are simply in it to win it. They’ve committed their life to bumdom and if they’re gonna be homeless they’re going to be the best at it.

Being the philanthropist that I am (read: horrible person) I came up with a plan to help get some of these guys off the street: Hobolympics. I’m not talking your run on the mill “Bumfights” (what is this YouTube 2003?) I’m talking full-blown, torch-carrying, creepy-beijing-opening-ceremony Olympics. I’d love to flesh this idea out further but I’ve got nothing beyond a “Dumpster Diving” event and a grand prize of ironic tax exemption.

blerf