Hello. My favorite show in the whole wide world is on. Again. Another re-run. I love re-runs. I’m being facetious of course when I say that it’s my favorite. And right now I’m close, very close, to gaining the ultimate satisfaction trip after I rip the TV out of the fucking wall and throw it through somebody’s car window.
It will be like that scene from Office Space when they beat up the fax machine with baseball bats in a field, only this scene will feature an Adidas shoe, and maybe a rock, and a TV, and I just want to see Ray Barone’s digital face behind a piece of shattered glass for once. Do they make TV screens out of glass? Or plastic? I don’t care.
Whatever they use, it better sound cool when I break it.
There’s no way people watch shittiness of this magnitude. This…show…should be aired on TV’s in terrorist detention camp cells. You know what? Speaking of, I’d rather get waterboarded with chocolate milk than have to sit here and listen to this whiny d-bag and his bitchy wife argue about sex.
Wait, did I see this episode? The one where Ray and what’s-her-face are arguing about sex?
Bitchy Wife: No Ray. Not tonight. I’m tired.
Raymond: But you’re always tired!
Bitchy Wife: Oh stop whining, Ray.
Raymond: But there was that one time when I did that favor. For you! Remember that favor?
Bitchy Wife: Ray, putting the toilet seat down isn’t a favor.
Raymond: Yeah, yeaaaahh. Remember that time? When I did that? I did that for yooou. Yeah, see?
Somebody should bring that show back long enough to fire the writers.
You have 40 seconds to live, Toshiba.
Have you ever had one of those moments where suddenly, out of nowhere, you felt really nervous for absolutely no reason? Maybe, like, you’re standing in line at the grocery store, staring at someone’s bananas on the conveyor belt…
…and then you begin creating this catastrophic what-if scenario in your head in which you all of the sudden FREAK OUT and hold up the register with a banana under your shirt, which leads to some kind of hostage situation, which leads to police helicopters and news reporters and swat teams, which leads to your mugshot being flashed on CNN headline news everywhere, which leads to getting hit in the head with one of those bean bag guns, which leads to you going to prison, which leads to having to share a cot with some guy named Dimples who likes to cuddle, which leads to a terrifying stroll down the death row corridor with a potato sack over your head, which leads to being strapped into the electric chair…
…and then the very polite girl at the register timidly says, “your total is $4.99”, sir, and you’re all like,
“PLEASE DON’T SEND ME TO PRISON IT’S JUST A BANANA LOOK!”
And then everybody looks at you with weird looks on their faces, and probably thinking to themselves that that’s exactly where you belong…
That’s called Anxiety. I do that sometimes. Well, sorta..
But it got me to thinking (irony) about how much anxiety (and depression) have helped me write stories. After all, that’s basically what anxiety is, right? I guess it’s all in how you look at it. Are you a “poor, helpless anxiety sufferer”? Or, do you have the gift of being a fucking great fiction writer? When you think about it, having a freak out episode, or an anxiety or panic attack, or a grey matter meltdown, or whatever you wanna call it, is nothing but a series of creatively fabricated events that never happen. It’s fiction. A lot of the time, it’s really good fiction.
So I thought it would be a cool idea to celebrate our varying degrees of mainstream neuroticism by kicking of a BLOG HOP starting HERE this Thursday. Anxiety deserves a laugh, and for that matter, Depression does too. Rather than sit around and cry about it, why not recognize these things as gifts? They are weird gifts, yes: “Gee, thanks for this, um, gift stuff…”
The point I’m trying to make is this: Apply it to Something. Many already do, and just don’t recognize it. Maybe you’ll learn to recognize it beginning today?
The blog-hopping story – similar to the one told at the intro to this post – will mozy on down a long trail of other crazy people – all with the ability to produce great anxiety-inspired fiction. If it works (it’s already working), you’ll get a chance to read a really funny, highly outlandish story, collectively told in very small parts by a lot of really talented writers. You’ll get to visit all off your buds, click the like button, fart, and move on to the next blog in no time flat.
Sound like fun? It will be!
Want to join? You should!
Sign on the dotted line in the comment section!
Oh, and Psst! Ericka Clay is playing along at some point along the story path, so you know it’s gonna be 2 legit to quit. Nothing like a good old fashioned name drop.
I’m sad to announce that The Official Sleep Deprivation Challenge is now officially over. Put down your Pom-poms and exit the bleachers in a single file line. [Insert distraught emoticon face.]
At approximately the 120 hour mark of the competition, I face planted into a bowl of macaroni salad and woke up six days later to a beard, dozens of misc. stains on the upholstery, a roof full of mortar shell debris, a bathtub full of jelly beans (?), and a fucking cat that apparently lives here now (cat story coming soon).
My brain shut down after Day 2 of the challenge, making it difficult to write anything down other than “dur…” But, by the power of Zues, I somehow managed to keep a daily log.
Here are a few entries from the remainder of the challenge: Continue reading
**Part One and Two can be found here: Chowderhead’s Official Sleep Deprivation Olympic Challenge. and here: Sleep Deprivation Olympic Challenge: Day 1 Results
Day 2 Recap: Fear and Loathing at the Local Laundromat
I spent the first few early morning hours at some dirty laundromat around the corner, glazed over, watching a pack of wild goobers meticulously folding their yellowed whites.
At one point, the Chowderhead at the front counter started to get lippy with me after I expressed my concerns over the excessive lint piles that, in my opinion, should be periodically swept from the folding tables.
I made a very dry remark about her missing front tooth after she refused to acknowledge my request, and the next thing I recall was a sort of white flash – like a computer rebooting – and myself on all fours, on the floor, staring at the tooth that had been forcefully removed from my head.
Luckily, for the sake of this experiment, I didn’t completely blackout. Continue reading
**In case you missed the introduction to this whole mess that I’m subjecting myself to, be sure to read here first: Chowderhead’s Official Sleep Deprivation Olympic Challenge.**
Well, Day 1 of the challenge began and ended with only a few minor burps, but all in all, things are going pretty smoothly.
It’s important to note:
I haven’t officially been awake for twenty four hours because I accidentally fell asleep during the first hour while watching an episode of The Real Housewives of some posh, tropical county. Shortly after that I slipped on a bar of soap in the shower and hit my head on the soap tray.
I still don’t really know exactly how long I was out for..
However, as the early hours of this study peel off the clock, I’m starting to feel like sleep is just an overrated, productivity-killing waste of time. I mean, how the hell are we supposed to advance as a society when everybody’s larding around for eight hours everyday?
I intend to take full advantage of those additional eight hours each night by catching up on a few chores that I’ve been meaning to get to for awhile.
Summary of Events, Accomplishments, and Other Stuff from Day 1: Continue reading
**Disclaimer: Do not try this at home, dummy.
After submitting countless applications to participate in one of those paid studies in which the white-robed, clipboard-carrying people tie you up to a bunch of electrode-thingies and tape your eyes open for days on end, I was unfortunately denied, repeatedly, and labeled an unqualified candidate because of my excessive use of the word, fuck.
I’m slightly offended and deeply troubled that I will not be receiving any monetary rewards. However, I will not be denied the experience.
Because of this recent turn of events, and because I have nothing better to do, I’ve decided to conduct my very own, very informal, very unprofessional, and obviously, very stupid experiment, in which I will willingly subject myself to a semi-thorough, unsupervised sleep study.
My goal is to tie or break the current word record of 18 days, 21 hours, and 40 minutes without sleep. I will report back with my findings.
Here’s some scientific crap about sleep:
-According to most academic journals, the human body requires anywhere from 6 to 10 hours of sleep per night. (6 hours my ass!)
– Seventeen hours of sustained wakefulness leads to a decrease in performance equivalent to a blood alcohol-level of 0.05%. (That means that in three weeks I will feel like I drank a cement truck full of beer in approximately ten minutes.)
– It’s impossible to tell if someone is really awake without close medical supervision. People can take cat naps with their eyes open without even being aware of it. (Becca does that)
So I’m sitting on a park bench whining to some random nerd, when suddenly, he cuts me off mid-sentence and barfs something common, stinky, and cliche all over my new shirt:
Nerd: “Well, you know what they say: when life hands ya lemons, ya make Lemonade!”
Adam: (internal monologue) “Alright dude, atomic wedgie or wet-willy with mayonnaise…Take your pick.”
But before I could baste his eardrums with burger condiments I had a grand epiphany. Something came out of me that I didn’t think I was intellectually capable of producing:
Adam: “That’s a complete waste of an opportunity.”
Nerd: “(dumbfounded) Opportunity?”
Adam: “When life hands you “lemons,” you don’t just lard around getting porch-drunk on lemonade?”
Nerd: “What do you propose instead?”
Adam: “I propose that you start stockpiling your “lemons”and break into the lemon-packing industry after you’ve raised enough startup capital.”
Adam: “Start by aggressively negotiating your warehouse facility and packing equipment, and purchase a large farming plot close to the equator. Build, train, and squeeze every last nickel out of an efficient labor crew. Continue reading
…so I’m sitting in this cafe, slumped over a piss-warm cup of dark roast coffee, casually tossing ashes into the tray at the end of the table. The lighting is inadequate where I’m seated, making it difficult to study the entrees on the menu.
I pick up on a one-sided conversation coming from the booth adjacent to me, involving a pig-headed suit and tie, yammering into a phone about a stock deal gone sour. The woman seated in front of the man appears emotionally detached, which is indicated by her body language. She ignores the man and blankly stares off at a young female clearing the surrounding tables.
I’m overcome with remorse for the woman and her situation, finding myself privately analyzing the dysfunctional correlation between the two. Clearly, she’s numb inside; another wandering soul, financially bound to some corporate meat head.
The murmur throughout the diner adds to the endless chatter taking place in my head, but the humming is abruptly halted when, without warning, an explosive discharge of profanities and pent-up rage erupts out of the woman. Continue reading