I must take some responsibility for deciding not to get all Tokyo Drift on your ass and instead opting to slow down and maneuver in behind you. Really, it’s my fault I spent the next five minutes of my life lurking in your exhaust fumes as I waited with growing rage for you to move forward just enough so that I could finally make my way around you and into the left turn lane.

In your defense, you were flashing some flagrant warning signs that should have alerted me to my mistake, but in my defense, I couldn’t see them until it was too late. Why does the clutserfuck-o-clues that a senior citizen home escapee is behind the wheel always have to be displayed in the backseat? My fate is sealed by the time I lay eyes on the catalog of crap nesting in the rear window.

It’s like a whole SkyMall, AARP Edition exploded in my face. What is that, an electric ear hair trimmer smashed between your World’s Best Grandma mug and a heart-shaped needlepoint craft that may as well say, “My other car is a gurney”? Damn it to hell, I do not need to think about that when I’m screaming obscenities at you!

You had it all: the box of Kleenex in case you sneeze whilst driving and suddenly acquire the Go-Go-Gadget arm superpower to reach all the way into the trunk area for an emergency snot rag, the backseat parade of Beanie Babies and other children’s toys that make me wonder if I’ve seen your license plate on an Amber Alert, and the standard lack of upper cranium where a cranium should ALWAYS appear above the driver’s side headrest of all MOVING vehicles.

I want to apologize for repeatedly slamming my forehead into my horn until you pulled over at an ever-accelerating rate, topping out at a shocking seven m.p.h. I didn’t mean to scare you, but for the love of God, there is nothing more frustrating than The Red Light Slow Roll, especially when it starts during a yellow light. Just get up there already! You do not need to leave forty-seven car lengths between your front bumper and the crosswalk. Why must you torture me?

Stop-and-go traffic is bad enough when it involves actual traffic – it is uncalled for when we are only two of eleven cars on the highway. And, really, five of them didn’t even count because they were piled on a dealership truck trailer. That counts as one vehicle! There should never be traffic in a six car situation. Never! I don’t care if Jenna Jameson is getting a mustache ride from a transgender midget on the side of the freeway. You take a gander and you move it along. You don’t creep down the road at negative speeds.

Are you some kind of auto erotic sadist or are you just suffering from the world’s worst depth-perception problem EVER? I do not understand what your deal is.

Did you once fail to break in time and annihilate a crossing guard and half the student body of an elementary school? Did your antenna spear some poor fifth grader, the Jack in the Box head bobbing out the other side of his gored neck? If so, I apologize for screaming at you. I could see how that would be pretty upsetting. I’d probably have some residual PTSD myself if I’d witnessed your classic old-person-confusing-the-gas-for-the-brake scenario; good God, it must’ve looked so much worse through your crazy bifocals, especially if they were those giant, black cataract sunglasses. You know that shit has some 3-D action going on. Why else would the elderly walk around feeling up walls in those things?

So I guess, maybe, I shouldn’t've stuck my head out the window and shrieked all the various things I would’ve liked to do to your car if I’d had a canon and an unlimited supply of bowling balls. That was wrong.

Maybe you read that a driver should leave room to flee in case a carjacker Hamburglars up to your window. But I gotta warn ya, Grandma, the combination of your paranoia and my road rage is more dangerous than any thug’s attempt to hijack your sweet ride.

What I’m trying to say is, I know it was wrong of me to let out howls of maniacal laughter as I imagined what I’d do to you if I had access to a monster truck, specifically the Gravedigger, as featured on the recent episode of The Tonight Show with Conan O’ Brian where the driver obliterated the world’s largest pumpkin.

Thinking about revving that super-powered engine untill your Rascal shook loose from your trunk apparatus made me giddy, but not nearly as giddy as imagining slamming the beast into reverse then charging forward, launching over your felled motorized cart, and landing on top of the roof of your car.

I feel guilty for thinking these thoughts and I need you to know I would never injure your person – only your car. But I guess you have no idea any of this happened anyway…because you were missing your HEAD!

Perhaps I should’ve addressed this to the owners of the presumably nearby Sleepy Hollow Nursing Home. If you’re reading this, will you please invest in a shuttle service for your residents before I invest in a hood-mounted paintball gun for my car? Fantastic. Thanks so much.

Albinism has since spent millions of dollars keeping the material out of the media. The demo, lyrics, and promotional posters, that are rumored to feature Vanilla eating fried turkey at the head of the Last Supper table, have been locked in a fortified safe just outside Barstow.

His music has remained hidden, until last week when Vanilla created an Ebay account in order to raise money for his anger management classes. Court documents reveal Vanilla auctioned off a jar of his leftover eyebrows — accumulated after years of maintaining his signature creative brow design — and four of his concert outfits.

After purchasing a pair of silver crab pants, famed Ebay buyer, igotyoshit187, checked the pockets and found what appeared to be an early draft of a song off Ice’s holiday album. We’ve obtained the text, which was scrawled on the back of a receipt for various weaponry, including a tazer and harpoon gun, both of which were items found on Ice’s person when he was arrested by police last Wednesday after neighbors reported seeing a racially confused gentleman hiding in a tree just outside of igotyoshit187’s bathroom window.

At this point, we have decided the only ethical thing to do is to share Vanilla’s sick thoughts on the holiest of holidays with the public who once supported him. We warn you the following content is graphic and may not be suitable for small children, priests, and theologians who will surely be horrified by Ice’s utter lack of reading comprehension skills in regard to the Bible.

JOSEPH’S BABY MAMA

Yo, V.I.P., let’s kick it!

Vanilla is back on a Kwanzaa mission,

with a rhyme more money than your Harvard tuition.

Rappin. Bustin’ shit up in your ear,

with a story ’bout the holy fetus who blew up a new calendar year.

King Herod. He ruled the land.

Like a motherfuckin’ pimp with a strong backhand.

Flying. Into adobe.

He’ll make your head hurt worse than hearing Lawrence comma Joey doing karaoke.

The three wise men. They cameled up to the curb.

That’s right, bitch, now cameled is a verb.

They pulled up. Hopped off their beasts.

They said, “Yo, Herod, there’s a zygote you wanna meet?”

“Hells yes, that is my plan.

Get back on your camels and go find the little man.”

“Ah-ite, dawg, you the boss.

We know if we don’t go you gone get our salads tossed.”

Camelin.’ Back through the desert.

Knockin’ back forties while we ride, it’s fuckin’ pleasure.

“Hey, bros, where the fuck we are?”

“Shut your bitch ass up we be following the star.”

Trekin.’ Dropping peyote.

Seeing a mirage of all the chicks that wanna blow me.

“Focus. Find the fresh placenta.”

“But how can she be prego if he neva went up in her?”

“Immaculate. Conception, that be how it went down.”

“Bitch please, if Joe believe that he a motherfucking clown.”

“You know my baby mama pulled that shit on me last year and

I said, ‘Bitch, please, I ain’t even tryin’ to hear.’”

Just then, the star is overhead.

There’s the holy son lyin’ in a ghetto ass bed.

“What up, son, why you chillin’ in a barn?

You be sleepin’ on skid row, I gots nothing to rhyme with the previous yarn.”

“Listen. We brought you some shit –

random fucking elements a baby won’t know what to do with.”

Just then, Jesus’ ass got pimped out with gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

What a baby gone do with all that shit, I ain’t never been sure.

After busting on some sick old school wine, the homies passed out.

Then an angel said, “This spot ain’t be nothin’ Herod need to know about.”

On Jesus’ coordinates they ain’t gone squeal.

They just worship his baby ass as they motherfuckin’ kneel.

“Ah-ight then, yo we gots to roll.

Cuz fuckin’ King Herod nearly turned us into moles.”

The angel, he gets around.

He visits old Joseph as soon as the wise dudes left town.

“Broseph, yo, you gots to know,

that Herod’s comin’ to glock you if your ass don’t go.”

Avoidin’ pistol whippings, that’s how Joe gets down.

So he loads up the donkey and they get the fuck outta town.

Yeah, they sneak out.

In the middle of the night.

If this were a movie, starring Woody Harrelson, right?

Then this scene would feature a motherfuckin’ gnarly ass chainsaw fight.

Terantino, he’d call in the extras playing Herod’s army,

Body parts would be flyin’ like a motherfuckin’ harm spree.

But this ain’t one, so they hit the sand.

Jesus rides in a Baby Bjorn cuz they ain’t got no family van.

The family. Livin’ like they in witness protection.

Joe probably still up on Mary’s shit about her freaky conception.

He be wantin’ to take her ass on People’s Court,

so he don’t have to pay no bullshit child support.

They get their freak on, they be make up sexin.’ Now Joe believes Mary ain’t never wanted no other dude’s erection.

Things keep getting better cuz fuckin’ Herod, he ain’t got no GPS reception and his shady ass hunt never makes the connection.

Finally, Herod’s old ass dies

and Mary gets a crazy workout on her sexy ass thighs.

They travel out to Nazareth.

Let me puff on this L, hold up, lemme catch my breath.

Now they building,’ a sweet crib in the promise land,

And that little baby Jesus he grows up to be the man.

At the parties, he turns water into wine.

He got hookers on each arm and they lookin’ real fine.

Now I broken it down with this motherfuckin’ verse,

this be the legit story of the crazy Jesus birth.

*She hates when I call her my death mother. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why strangers ask me what orphanage I’m from when I refer to her as Birth Mother in public.

“Egg Donor,” I said, one wintry eve, whilst attempting to quash my eating claw’s proclivity for robotically jerking its way over to the rooster-shaped dish in front of me and picking up the stick of butter like some prize stuffed animal in an arcade machine and jamming it into my open gob. “What are you making me for supper?”

“Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pie,” she said. She then screamed at the obese family dog to back away from the oven before he “burned his beautiful fur coat off.”

With a great heave she hoisted a giant roasting pan out of the Plath-killer and over to the granite-topped island where I supervised, taking copious mental notes. She slammed it with such violent fervor that I wondered if her Ove Gloves did not have the maximum flesh protection their infomercial boasts. She shook the residual heat from her hands while screaming “Yowza!” and I ignored her cry for help and instead looked upon the vessel in which she’d baked my “vegetarian” stuffing.

I eyed the sick beast sprawled out before me, shaking my head in dismay.

“When did Ralph’s start selling pterodactyl carcasses and where is my Tofurkey, damnit?”

“Nikki! Don’t say bad words and it’s not a pterodactyl.”

“Pshaa, woman. I’ve not seen a sky beast so large since my days of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse. You killed Pterry! Now how will neglected children celebrate the word of the day?”

“Oh, stop. Have some more eggnog,” she said, by way of silencing me.

I obeyed, but only because it was Lite.

After dinner, I scanned the room for a rogue Rascal I might ride to the bathroom, but could not find one. Angry at having to walk the thirty paces to the room of rest, I grunted and glared and pulled myself up, nearly turning the dinner table into a seesaw with my great heft. When I finally completed far more exercise than I’d have liked, I locked the door behind me and turned to greet my twin self in the freshly-Windexed mirror.

Turning sideways, I lifted what should have been a muumuu and stared agog at the eggnog that was now bloating my belly to Octomom proportions. Only this was before that pop culture reference would have made sense (as I am not an employee of Miss Cleo) and so I instead thought my belly bore an uncanny resemblance to a snowman. Yes, the three thick rolls of white flesh could easily stand in for Frosty in a North Pole police line up. I considered busting out the camera tripod, stripping nude, save for a top hat, scarf, and corncob pipe, and getting a jump start on my holiday cards for the next year. But that all seemed like a lot of effort, so instead I stooped back into a pie digesting torpor and did what I’m best at: digesting pie.

As fate would have it, I friend introduced me to her yoga instructor at a birthday party not long after I’d begun training to compete in the Glutton Bowl. When the instructor invited me to attend a class at the studio where she taught, I took one look at her figure and decided that if I could look like her while still failing to contract anorexia nervosa on a daily basis, I should at least consider giving it a try. But I had worked so hard to customize my sedentary lifestyle to fit my lethargic needs and I wasn’t sure I wanted to interfere with the steadfast habits I’d cultivated.

Just then, she lifted her drink and I saw the muscles in her arm contract in such a way that I thought, “Why she is the perfect combination of body types: three fourths Portia de Rossi thin and one fourth Madonna muscular.” I had a quick mental image of where I might land on the celebrity fitness chart and saw myself in the passenger seat riding home from the all-you-can-eat sushi buffet, weeping that it hurt too bad to buckle my seatbelt over my swollen marsupial pouch, and then dropping my eating claw down upon my unzipped pants. In neon letters the words AL BUNDY flashed above my mental image of myself. “Why I must give this yoga a try.”

The first thing I noticed about yoga class was the man in front of me. It appeared he had unfettered access to Will Farrell’s wardrobe from the movie Semi-Pro. Decked out in ’70s-inspired regalia, from his terry cloth head band, to his ass-cradling daisy duke short shorts, he stretched before me, shirtless. On the celebrity size chart, he’s was coming in somewhere between Rosie O’Donnell and Snuffleupagus and I, for one, approved. But what really drew me in and made me decide I loved yoga class before it’d even begun, was the mural of a ravenous-looking tiger tattooed across his back. In vibrant ink, bright blue waves splashed out around the tiger so it seemed to be leaping out of the sea to attack what would be a very confused beach-goer. The man’s impressive smattering of back hair poked through the tiger’s body and thus created a fine 3D display akin to a live zoo exhibit. I gazed at it with much admiration every time I got bored during pashnaramadan-glockenshpiel* pose. *May not be actual name.

The second thing I observed about the class was that I seemed to be smelting to death. There was no convincing me I wouldn’t be reduced to a human puddle by the time the teacher said Namaste.

Thirdly, a pungent scent wafted through the air. If Air-Wick were to capture this heady fragrance, I’m quite sure they’d name it Decaying Feral Dog Wrapped in Old Sweaty Carpet. It made it hard to comply with the constant refrain to “inhale deeply through my nose.” To be fair though, I think a disproportionate amount of the scent could be attributed to the eggnog sweating forth from my pores.

But it didn’t take long to become inured to the smell and every time I felt like complaining, I needed only to look around me at the toned, sweaty yogis whose hard, nubile bodies gave me much inspiration to press on.

I’d say the most difficult part of my first class, besides the constant urge to projectile vomit and pass out from the heat exhaustion, was my longing to rehydrate with eggnog. I had a thirst only the nog could cure and I kept having visions of myself wearing a gray hoodie and dumping a glass of the yellow egg juice down my throat while “Eye of the Tiger” blared in the background.

But alas, I could only quench my need for liquids with boring old water and even then I was only allowed to sip hydrogen and oxygen after suffering through multiple postures, many of which made my face turn purple. For once I am not employing hyperbole. My face actually turned bright strangulation-grade purple. I’d be hanging upside down, twisted like some Cirque de Soleil freak, listening to the instructor say this particular pose improved the complexion, only to look up and nearly scream in terror at my reflection. It looked like Satan had possessed me. I’m talking a purple so deep it was almost red. Almost burnt sienna.

Somehow I survived Intro to Masochism 101 and boy, was I happy I did. Because once the hour and a half ended, I realized I hadn’t been that happy to have survived a traumatic experience since I’d watched The Wiggles during a rough bout of babysitting duty.

For a long time I viewed hot yoga as a recently released prison inmate might view his time in the clink: It sure sucks when you’re on the inside, what with the incessant commands to bend over, but once you’ve done your time, you have a whole new appreciation for life on the outside.

After many sessions, the bile rose up less and less in my throat, and the black fog of unconsciousness only threatened to knock me out an average of two times a session as opposed to the previous ten times a session I’d experienced.

The other day I had a great class and felt rather pleased with my practice. As I lay in the final dead body pose, I realized I had gone a whole ninety minutes without worrying about anything, including when I’d get my next pie fix, quite possibly for the first time in my life. It was only when I left class and got back into traffic that my view of hot yoga changed.

I still think of hot yoga as prison, only I’ve become the old dude in Shawshank Redemption who wants to kill himself after he’s released, not while he’s doing time. This, to me, signals improvement and I’m proud of this shift. I’m proud to say I now truly enjoy hot yoga and only the occasional glass of eggnog.

While reading the news just now, a sidebar with the following headline caught my right eyeball:

“Are You Snoring Yourself to Death?” it asked.

I immediately assumed the story’s title would have to be the best part of the article, due to the awesome rhetorical nature of such a question.

“Why, yes! Yes I am snoring myself to death. Normally when in a semi-conscious sleep state I have difficulty monitoring my breathing patterns as I’m ASLEEP, but now I realize I am not only snoring, but dying! Thank God I came across this article while being rushed to the hospital in the back of an ambulance.”

But then I noticed the accompanying photo of a man modeling the “My Snoring Solution Chinstrap,” which the author of the article touts as a life-saving step forward in the realm of sleep hygiene, and I realized that the headline was, indeed, not the best part at all.

Note Exhibit A where this young gentleman appears to be under the impression that wrapping a jock strap around his head is a smart way to increase respiratory functioning. Sure, it’ll stop his snoring…because it’s strangling him to death. I’d say the creator of this horrific invention had himself a good chuckle when he decided to include a money-back guarantee.

EXHIBIT A

I was pondering whether or not the ear holes were really necessary (because that’s the kind of thing I like to do with my time) when it hit me that Spock must have been the only one available for the prototype fittings. Those cut-outs may be Vulcan-friendly, but they just don’t seem to sit right on the human face.

Hottie

Really, it looks quite painful and just imagine the indents you’d be sporting on your cheeks the next day, the flesh demarcated with red lines. Your face would look like a fat lady’s ass after sitting on a woven beach chair too long. Then again, I guess that doesn’t really matter considering the whole contraption is a sick, sadistic death trap.

As you can see, the model is already posing in classic Law & Order corpse position. It’s like he’s just waiting for the chalk outline to be traced around his suffocated body. Don’t let his peaceful smile fool you – that’s just what $69.99 worth of recycled underoo elastic working against gravity looks like.

I’d like to see a full infomercial for this product. I can just imagine the model sitting up in bed, stretching his arms above his head, then slingshotting his Mexican wrestler mask across the set.

He would smile into camera three and say, “I used to snore myself to death every night, but then I discovered a solution. Ha! Why, it was so simple. All I needed was something that could form a vice grip around the circumference of my cranium and squeeze the sh*t out of it for upwards of eight hours a night. Thanks, My Snoring Solution Chinstrap!”

(Read: I may have accidentally ingested a tall boy of Monster, a mug of coffee, and upwards of one niblit off an Adderall pill.)

My day went well enough.

(Meaning I did not nap from the hours of noon to 11:59 in the p.m. only to rise for a one woman showing of The Big Lebowski pre-night nap.)

Unfortunately, it turned out SOMEbody did not share in my laudable energy output goals and was under the mistaken impression that midnight would be an acceptable hour for him to go to bed.

“Pshaa!” I said. “You can sleep when you’re anesthetized against your will in the mental ward of a Turkish prison.”

I was shocked to discover my logically sound argument did not sway him.

“I’m so tired. I feel like my brain is going to explode,” a certain whiner complained.

How he had enough energy, then, to incoherently mumble that he was too tired to play Boom Boom Rocket until I kicked his ass till it bled is beyond me.

Even more confounding, given his alleged state of exhaustion, was how he mustered up the oomph to add, “What, did you get into some crack today? You’re like an insane ball of energy – stop humping my leg! What? No. Seriously, I said I don’t want to play Connect Four like fifteen times already.”

“Well, fine,” I said. “Marriage is about compromise. You only have to connect three.”

“Oh my God.”

“Two?”

“What’s wrong with you tonight?”

“What’s wrong with your face!” I high-fived myself.

Unintelligible moaning from my not side of the bed.

As you can imagine, I found his response irksome. So I did what any productive, goal-oriented person would do and dedicated myself to my objectives of getting both some delicious nachos and a nocturnal not-nemesis.*

*There is no useable synonym for “friend” that starts with an N and alliterations are the spice of literature, so just shut your pieholes and welcome not-nemisis into your vernacular.

“You will play with me. You want to enjoy a steamy box of chips smothered in cheese-flavored liquid. You are getting very, very not sleepy.”

When my laudable attempt at hypnosis proved too complex for his unenlightened unconscious to grasp, I reasoned that a guilt trip was in order. But it had to be compelling. It had to rouse this dead beat from his semi-slumber. It had to inspire the kind of get-up-and-go that would help me avoid a sleepless night with nothing but my Netflix on demand to entertain me. I didn’t want to watch Whale verses Shark, not this night anyway. I wanted a man on demand, goddamnit!

Having no other viable option, I decided to showcase my dire need for an anti-sleep ally through the art of song and dance.

“Puma,” I said. “I just transposed my inner screamings into a soothing lyrical rendition which shall commence now. Please pay attention.”

More indecipherable whimpering.

“Okay then.” I pointed my ballerina toes and swooped into the performance of my life. This routine involved no less than five (attempts at) triple axels, all of which were completed in close proximity to his head for optimum viewing pleasure. Twirl-crashing into the mini blinds, I sang my heart out, skillfully capturing the pain his refusal to rise was causing me.

“Lonely couch, lonely couch, the prospect of it makes my heart say ouch.”

My operatic crooning crescendoed into such a moving falsetto that my lower neighbor applauded on his ceiling/my dance floor with what sounded like a broom or perhaps an inordinately long dildo, I cannot be sure which due to my obvious point of view constraints.

And while said neighbor’s thunderous approval was encouraging – so encouraging, in fact, that I gave him an encore performance of both River Dance and Stomp – it was clear that my intended audience was not to be persuaded. Indeed esoteric art is so oft lost on such philistines.

Losing steam, dejected and denied (and also nursing a newly gimped out footatarel joint) I gathered up my blankets and trudged to the sofa where I laid down with my Costco stockpile of Fiber One bars. As I bit into the rich chocolaty roughage, I noticed I was holding a makeshift mic. There was only one thing to do:

“Fiber couch, fiber couch, the daily recommended dose bloats my marsupial pouch. Fiber couch, fiber couch, tomorrow morning you’ll make my colon say ouch. Fiber couch, fiber couch, man I’m getting really tired now. Damnbien time, Damnbien time, because I’m too exhausted to end this rhyme.”

No more Adderall, no more Adderall, it makes me stay up until four a.m. writing blog posts that are really baderall.

If anyone knows of a high class alpaca ranch in the SoCal area please leave a comment. I’m kinda in the market for at least one female alpaca, but Big Mama’s got to be show quality. Non of that imitation llama crap and don’t send me to some toddler populated petting zoo, either.

I mean to say that I want to visit a premiere breeding ground for the finest, most sexy alpaca specimens. And don’t write me any hate mail saying, “You can’t get an alpaca at your tiny beach apartment! Where will it graze?” or “You cannot afford an alpaca. Do you have any idea how much it costs to feed and dress an alpaca?” or “You can’t get an alpaca after your bestiality conviction.” Silence! I’m not buying the freaking alpaca to put on my balcony, dummy. I just want to put one on layaway or something until I have a yard. Jesus, what kind of messed up pet owner do you think I am?!

Oh, look at YOU with your little matching beard and toupee set!

But I thought we could just spoon a litte. No?

It’s after one-thirty in the morning and as I was about to commence my nightly ritual of taking my Ambien and watching Raccoon Attack on NatGeo, I happened to glance down the side of the two liter jug of root beer I was swilling. There, on the faux-wooden barrel label, that ominous little exclamation mark in a triangle preceding the word “WARNING” caught my eye.

I paused, mid-swallow, and thought to myself, “No, surely root beer cannot attack as well. Was shattering my illusions that I might safely one day snuggle with the cutest Zoro-masked furballs in the rodent kingdom not enough for you, God?! Must you now taint my favorite non-Mr. Pibb soft drink with images of death, too?”

I considered the caps lock warning, hoping the only reason my root beer bore a disclaimer was because some overzealous fetus-loving organization had won a lawsuit against pregnant caffeine addicts, but then I remembered…A&W isn’t caffeinated. 

At this point I decided I might as well see what new phobia I could add to my list of Things That Make Me a Pussy and was confronted with the single most horrifying tidbit of information I could have read: 

CAP MAY BLOW OFF CAUSING EYE OR SERIOUS OTHER INJURY. POINT AWAY FROM FACE AND PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY WHILE OPENING.

Fine, I thought, I’ll point it away from my face while opening next time, unless I’m wearing my onion goggles, but how in the hell am I supposed to point it away from my face while I’m chugging out of it?

This was only the first of many disheartening contemplations the admonition evoked. Not only was I disturbed that even root beer could force me to relive my formative days as the only girl on my preschool campus sporting an eye patch, but I was troubled by the fact that, apparently, my mother has a secret second job in copywriting for A&W.

Now every time I see someone selecting a soda in a vending machine, I’m going to feel the need to scream, “Stop! You could put my eye out with that thing.” And I was just celebrating the fact that no one had hit me in the eye with a champagne cork over the holidays. I’m so glad my embarrassing urge to duck and cover my face every time someone mentions they’re thirsty is going to last year-round.

Thanks a lot, Authority of Dr Pepper/Seven Up, Inc. Don’t be surprised if you get an irate call on your 866 number when my Damnbien kicks in in another six to nine minutes. We’ll see who needs a warning then. Oh, we’ll see indeed.

So instead of serving up diet advice as I’d promised, I’ve decided to share with you some helpful tips I discovered last night while doing my delicates at the local Laundromat.

Most people dread doing their laundry in a publicly soiled basin under the watchful eye of security cameras. Most people are overlooking one very important fact: You can find more freaks per square foot in a Laundromat than anywhere else outside of a mental institution. But I understand. I, too, used to stare in disbelief as a homeless man attempted to squat into a washer. I also shook my head in disagreement when my millionaire father-in-law informed me that the Laundromat builds character. But that was all before I had developed a full appreciation for the fine people-watching that occurs at my local Alpine Cleaners Coin Wash. So, thank you, insane dude who really, really wanted me to know he’d been circumcised. Without your commitment to my entertainment and subsequently the pysch ward, I could not enjoy laundering my clothes at Alpine like I do today.

As a seasoned veteran of the self-serve fluff and fold, I’ve come to discover certain tricks and tactics for achieving a fast and efficient wash routine. I would have preferred to make a chart or Venn Diagram for the following segment, but seeing as how I have a lot of wet clothes to hang, I will just present the pitfalls and my unique pitfall solving opportunities below in paragraph form.

The most common problem I find at the Laundromat is my crippling fear that someone will steal my clothes. I fancy myself a Forever 21 fashionista, and the last thing I want is to turn my back only to find my $2 hot pink sweater has been swiped so that a crackwhore can sell it on eBay. I used to become so paralyzed by this fear that I could hardly pull myself out of the car, and instead sat there, clutching my Bebe jeans and suspiciously eyeing every woman who dared to look in my direction.

The best way to avoid this problem is to make sure you wear the ugliest outfit you can possibly pull together when visiting the Laundromat. The last thing you want to do is show up looking like J.Lo in a fur coat and $2,000 Christian Louboutins. Anyone seeing you in that getup will immediately mob you, beat you about the head with your stiletto, then make a run for it with your dirty clothes hamper. If you don’t have anything particularly hideous, make a burqa out of a sheet. If it ends up resembling a cheap ghost costume, all the better. Either way, no one will want what you’re washing.

Just last night I donned a brown and rust colored, horizontal-striped shirt from the ’70s that I found in my dead grandmother’s garage. I paired that hot little number with plaid pants so ugly they would have gotten me kicked off the golf course. I would say not to wash your hair a week beforehand, but if you’re a Laundromat regular, you’re already on to that trick. They all are. Then again, they’re also on to the whole not-wearing-fur-coats thing. Anyway, make sure not to wear makeup. If you just can’t go out in public without your makeup bag, I suggest taking a dark brown eye liner and adding a fine mustache just below your nose.  People don’t like to catch ugly coodies. Also, you’ll resemble an ill-dressed Hitler if Hitler were a female-to-male cross dresser. Scary indeed.

Another trick that helps is to establish solid eye contact with the person most likely to steal your clothes. Hold their gaze for a good four seconds, and without breaking your stare, bend down slowly until you can reach into your laundry basket. Gradually pull out a pair of underwear that you have doused with melted chocolate beforehand. Hold them to your mustache, inhale, then drop them into your dark load. You may then break eye contact if your subject has not already turned away to projectile vomit. Works like a charm.

I find that people in Laundromats are oftentimes oblivious to normal social etiquette. They’re quick to shank you over the last open washer or snag your soap if you leave it unattended. If you find yourself locked in the pretend-polite no-you-go, no-you, over the one remaining empty dryer on a busy day, I suggest marking your territory with a violent sneeze. Quickly apologize then say, “Oh, really, you should take it.” You don’t want to appear rude. Chances are, they’ll be so impressed with your fine manners that they’ll simply insist you take the freshly christened machine. If they get sassy about your snot spray, shrug and curtly remind them that it’s not like it isn’t going to dry; it’s a dryer!

Germ phobia is another common pitfall of the Laundromat. Why, if I allowed myself to consider all the bacteria and paramecium with flagellum foot from some gross stranger’s load, the remnants squirming around in my permanent press cycle, I’d really lose my lunch. (Though that might not be such a bad thing considering the high-calorie tub of whip I polished off.) In any case, we have no choice short of setting up a washboard in our showers or investing in a case of Fabreeze from Costco. Those of us who lack washer/dryer hookups are doomed to clean our clothes in other people’s dirt. I don’t have a solution for this. It simply makes me sick.

Make the most of this situation by saving stray pubic and head hairs in a baggie. Sprinkle them liberally over any crime scene you create and watch as the forensic scientists become nonplussed by the abundance of suspects. Tune in to your local news and wait to hear the story about a multiracial gang, with blonde Swedes, Hispanic men, and Asian grandmas wreaking havoc on the Southland. When that story airs you’ll know you’re home free. 

Whenever I’m stuck waiting for my loads to finish, I sometimes find myself perturbed by the unwanted advances of other launderers. In this situation, the best thing to do, is to not offend the lurker. Many frequenters of the mat drive windowless vans and will be quick to bludgeon you and drag you off with their camouflage pants just as soon as they dry. Avoid a confrontation by convincing them you’re insane. I find this not only works well, but it’s also more fun than playing Heads or Tails with your leftover quarters.

While I haven’t seen these people get hit on first, I have seen a lot of patrons at my local Laundromat employing this technique. From talking to themselves, to talking to the change machine in an angry scolding tone, I’ve been quite impressed with their dedication to warding off sexual harassment. The way one man pretended to be crazy by nearly lighting his beard on fire was really quite convincing. Follow his lead and with enough dedication, everyone will leave you alone in no time.

And finally, don’t take a book or a newspaper to read while you wait. Take a quick stroll to the donut shop on the corner, they’re ubiquitous in Laundromat strip malls. Get yourself a fritter (you’ve earned it!) and some more quarters, and wander back to the mat. Sit back, kick up your feet, and take a deep breath. That’s right. You are getting high off bleach fumes. That’ll help you enjoy the scene before you. If you’re as lucky as I am, you’ll also be in close proximity to a developmental center. Enjoy the people-watching, and remember: The Laundromat builds character and your immunities. Win, win.

It’s Day 3 without TV and I have to admit that it just may be the best thing that’s happened to me since surviving the nudity orgy at the Korean Day Spa a couple of weeks ago. (I know what you’re thinking, “Aren’t most orgies nude?” Well, I don’t know, you sick perverts, I’ve never really been forced into one before and now that I don’t have Skinamax it’s unlikely I’ll be doing much research in that area.)

Our TiVo has been annoyingly dramatic lately and it’s not just because of all the Lifetime movies I’ve recorded. Or maybe it is. In any case, it finally shut down for the last time after choking and squealing like Farrah Faucet’s husband in The Burning Bed.

Bri was more excited and unable to hide it than a Pointer Sister as he finally had an excuse to take the digital recorder apart. He loves nothing more than disassembling things, with perhaps the exception of not putting things back together.

I was thinking to myself how weird it is that all guys love to do this and that all guys inevitably end up leaving sharp foreign objects and cables on the floor that will stay there for up to five months at a time. Brian morphed into Bill Nye and popped it open and was performing complicated surgery on stuff when I finally discovered what was so great about taking things apart.

There, before me, was this fascinating little Star Tours city of microchip nuggets and a New York style city grid with green triangular park space and high rises. I stared in wonderment at…the motherboard. I used to inspect the ones in my dad’s office when I was a kid, but I had forgotten how awe-inspiring they are. How can all those weird little bits and pieces produce Walker Texas Ranger?

After an hour of examining this fascinating invention I realized a few things: (1) Motherboards are the coolest things ever and (1A) I am obviously a huge nerd (2) How strange it is that the nucleus of my TiVo appears so complicated while the human brain appears to be nothing but a blob, but then I reminded myself that a blob created this fine technology and (3) and most importantly, I realized that my blob does not need any more interaction with this particular form of technology.

Not only was I aware that it was slowly erasing my time, memory, and ability to distinguish whether or not it would be a good idea for me to order a twenty dollar German engineered towel, but I just didn’t trust such a tricky newfangled contraption. Perhaps it was the Amish in me, but I suddenly realized that I would rather pluck a chicken than waste another hour of my life watching the eighteenth rerun of that Walker episode where the steroid-abusing muscleheads give that anti-drug presentation at that high school? Yeah, I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was too confusing.

One minute these dudes were shooting each other in the ass with human growth hormone and the next they were bitching about crack while they ripped drug metaphor steel handcuffs in half with their preternatural strength. The mixed messages were killing me. It was the same with Oprah. One day everyone was dying of anorexia and the next day she was doing a show about fatties being too fat. Which is it? Anne or Margaret?* (*Fletch reference for the lame man.)

Who knows what all that space age gadgetry shit is doing in that TiVo box if not hypnotizing me into watching yet another Magic Jack infomercial. I just don’t trust small things and the motherboard has small things in abundance. It must have been made by Keebler elves or midgets. Maybe that’s why I’m always craving EL Fudge cookies.

Clearly the TiVo was not safe. There was just no other way to account for the fact that I had no self control when it came to my TV consumption habits. Why I am a beacon of self-restraint. I usually eat only one tub of Cool Whip at a time and have been known to go days without dipping into my miniature pharmacy (if I’ve set pills aside ahead of time).

That little silver TiVo box contained too many unanswered questions: What exactly were all those little nuggets doing in there? Why was there a baby abacus inside? Why was there perfect intricacy throughout, each nugget in its nugget place, but then giant blobs of white goo pushed into certain parts? How did Walker get through the cables? Do you like to hang around the gymnasium, Timmy?* (*Airplane! reference for the extra lame man.) Have you ever seen a grown man naked?* (*That’s just me being creepy.)

I convinced Bri to stop fixing the hard drive and together we bid adieu to Mangum and Walker. TV had become my nighttime addiction and I was finally sick to death of it.

Since we got rid of our TV I have become more productive than June Cleaver on meth. This may have something to do with the fact that I rewarded myself by giving up my TV vice by reacquainting myself with my copious amounts of caffeine vice, but in any case, I had the whole apartment spic and span, reorganized, and gorgeously put together by the end of the first night.

We’ve been living in our new apartment longer than the gestation period of a mid-sized marsupial and yet I had been living out of boxes the whole time because I simply had too many shows to watch to bother with unpacking. No more.

I emptied everything out into a giant landfill of clothes in the living room and went to work on that shit like a proctologist in the lab. Within hours everything was color coded, folded into origami swans, and placed in freshly cleaned drawers. I hadn’t been that proud since the day I found out my little brother did not actually have the extra chromosome.

I’ve read a book a night, started painting again, and even running on the beach. Well, technically, I more or less run with intermittent periods of jogging, then walking, then crawling and eventually sprawling on the sand frightening seagulls with my asthmatic death rattle, but still, I’d say I’m on the road to athleticism at this point. By next week I may even take up the luge, extreme ironing, hot air ballooning, or taxidermy. Who knows? Maybe all take up all four. At once. Anything’s possible. I might stop subsisting on Cool Whip and start cooking. Perhaps strawberry Jell-O with Cool Whip.

Anyway, I was pretty sure I’d be openly weeping after the first hour of TiVo abstinence, but it turns out I feel better than ever. It’s like I’ve swallowed a bottle of antidepressants, a pot of coffee, and gazed at frolicking puppies while eating abundant amounts of chocolate cake. I mean, I always imagined that I could be more productive, but my fear of crack just kept getting in the way. Who knew I could get so much done and still not have to sell my body to smoke sweet rocks?

I keep thinking I can watch all the TV I want when I’m old and decrepit. I can attach a flat screen to the tray on my Rascal wheel chair someday, but for now, as long as I can help it, I need to make up for lost time.

I know Dr. Phil might hunt me down and kill me, perhaps head butting me with his shiny cranium then stabbing me in the eye with his sharp mustache, while lecturing me with painful Southern slowness, but I can’t help stating that the world would be a better place if everyone took their TiVos off life support.

(This is how the pool at my gym has looked since the Olympics started airing.) 

Normally, after three to four seconds on the elliptical machine, I am gasping for breath like a freshly caught trout with a Marlboro red addiction as the Whitney Huston-style sweat tsunami pouring down my flushed Irish face gives off the impression that I have just doused myself in pomegranate juice to cool down. Couple this with my rage at having to avert my eyes from the Fox “News” channel that is playing on every TV, because after all, I am stuck in Newport, A Great Place for Brain Cells to Die, and you can practically see the steam blowing out of my scarlet ears. It’s all very attractive, I can assure you. I know this because I draw quite a few stares from my male gym companions…and the female ones…and the cleaning crew.

While my body may not be in peak form, my Body Dismorphic Disorder most certainly is as I typically pass whole workouts entertaining the kind of negative repetitive thought patterns that would give Tony Robbin’s an aneurysm. But the days of staring down at my NordicTrak display in bitter boredom, spiced up with intervals of panic attacks, are long gone because the past few days at my gym have been the most fascinating ever.

The best thing about the Olympics is that they inspire unathletic people of all ages to go out into the world and, without the necessary training or medical backup that could save their lives, proceed to emulate their favorite gold medalists. My gym is now more crowded than ever and it is a regular smorgasbord of people watching of the highest caliber. This new breed of future Olympian is lifting me out of my usual monotony-induced suicidal contemplations with their grit and determination that is magnificently mismatched to their physical abilities. The fact that they have never before sprinted is deterring no one from taking their treadmills up to 22 m.p.h. like Jamaica’s Usain Bolt. Their legs disappear in cartoonish blurs that, like a cartoon, foreshadow just how far they will fly once they lose control. And I can’t help but wait and watch.

From my semi-visible spy perch overlooking the pool, I peered down with glee to watch a baker’s dozen worth of novice swimmers, their head’s tightly squeezed into swim caps, as they battle the stranger in the next lane in what they seem to have mistaken for a serious qualifying round. Qualifying for what exactly I cannot tell you, perhaps the race to see who can make their head look most like Ron Jeremy’s penis crammed into a midget condom? Yes, if so, then the corpulent fellow in matching Speedo and goggle set shall surely secure this victory. I expect to hear a loud Thwop! as he plucks his cap off his head triumphantly, but alas, all I can hear is the Hispanic couple on the elliptical machines that are separated only by me as they carry on a very loud and intense conversation in Spanish with one another, passing an agua bottle past my face, deterred neither by my annoyed presence or the basic universal rule that applies to indoor voices.

Tired of not being able to adequately eavesdrop on their cryptic conversation and lightheaded from the old man doing lunges and wafting Aspercream in my direction, I decide my time for athletic glory has ended and I leave it to the pros, taking one last look at the pool. Amid epic splashes and flailing arms, the butts of former couch potatoes rise and fall in some energetic take on frog propulsion and I rate their enthusiasm with perfect scores. Gold (Balm Medicated Ointment) all around.