Stories

So when I was about ten or so, I was walking into church with my grandparents one Sunday. I forget exactly who else was there, but I know that me and my grandfather were walking a little ahead of everyone else. I had kissed him hello just minutes before, but as we were walking he said “You’re getting to the age where we’re going to have to stop kissing hello and shake hands instead.” I was embarrassed having to be told this — should I have known already? — but I assumed it was all just a part of growing up and moved on.

After church we went to Friendly’s, which was our custom for a while at the time. We sat in two booths that were divided by a small wall, four on one side, two on the other. But they could take out a small divider so it felt like one booth, but there was still a wall between them that went up to about shoulder height when you were sitting. My parents and grandparents were in the four seater, while me and my older brother Adam, who was about 19 at the time, were in the two seater. See, I know who was at Friendly’s without knowing who was at church, because some sacrilegious people met us at Friendly’s after church because you were allowed to decide on going to church or not after your confirmation, a right I had not yet received.

Anyway, after we ate, Adam was gonna drive me and him home and leave our parents and grandparents to chat more. As we said our goodbyes, Adam reached over the booth divider and shook my grandfather’s hand goodbye. “Perfect!” I thought, thinking this was the perfect opportunity to try out the new handshaking arrangement me and my grandfather had discussed only hours before. So I reached over the divider to shake his hand goodbye, and my mother was appalled. “Craig. Get. Over. Here. And. Kiss. Your. Grandfather. Goodbye.” she said in that staccato voice mothers use when they want to yell at you in public but can’t raise their voice. Humiliated, I had to walk around the booths to kiss my grandfather goodbye even though I knew we weren’t supposed to do it anymore. THE END.

There’s really not a punchline to that story. It’s just kind of an embarrassing story from my childhood. I forget if me and my grandfather kissed or shook hands after that, but I do know that he was a pretty awesome grandfather who just had an old fashioned sense of how people should act, so don’t hold this story against him. Anyway, do you have any similar embarrassing stories you wish to share on the topic?

This is the story of when I voted in the 2004 Presidential Election. It was four years ago and I was working in New York City while living with my parents on Long Island. Oh my! Look how far I’ve come in four years! Here’s to progress! Anyway, I came home from work and went straight to my polling place because VOTING IS IMPORTANT. I waited in line and when I got up to the lady and gave my name, she didn’t have me on the list of registered voters.

“Oh no!” I thought. “Is it possible I’m still registered in Binghamton?” Because I turned 18 while in school at Binghamton and would have registered there because even when you’re a drunk college student VOTING IS IMPORTANT. But I graduated in May of 2003 and moved back home to Long Island and would have registered back on Long Island because I know for a fact that I voted in the November 2003 election, even though it was just a local election because VOTING IS IMPORTANT regardless of how small (even the school board and budget elections, because even if you think teachers get paid too much, it was really nice when we had marching band uniforms for my senior year in high school instead of the red sweatshirts we had to use the previous three years when the budget was voted down). And I would have done that on good old Long Island, so how was it possible that I wasn’t registered there? An unsolved mystery!

The lady was certain I wasn’t registered to vote there, but she directed me to another lady who said “Here, fill out this card to register and cast your vote. It’ll be mailed in and everything will be taken care of.” I felt relieved as I filled out the little card because I would be able to vote because VOTING IS IMPORTANT though I still questioned how I would have voted in the November 2003 election. Oh well. I voted and all was well!

Then I went home and changed into my normal clothes, and wouldn’t you know it? I had a date that night! I don’t remember his name, but we met for coffee. It didn’t start off well when by chance our orders got rung up together and he paid. And when I offered him three dollars for my coffee (strictly out of politeness, because I was certain he’d refuse it) he took it! My measly three dollars for a stupid cup of coffee! Oh, I’m sorry, could you not spring for it? Loser.

Anyway, while we drank our (individually paid for) cups of coffee, the topic of the election came up, and I asked “So, you voted?” and he said “No, I didn’t. I don’t even know if I’m registered.” Horrified, the date ended right there (actually it might have ended when he took the three dollars). How could he not have voted? Doesn’t he know that VOTING IS IMPORTANT? But I smiled and kept the date going because even though VOTING IS IMPORTANT, so is being polite, which people tend to forget around election time.

So the date ended and I never talked to him again because I can’t date someone who doesn’t vote. Not just for the simple fact that not voting is lame, but because it shows a lack of judgment. And while I tend to vent my frustrations with the political process, it doesn’t mean I don’t partake.

So that was that. I was still single, but still a proud voter because VOTING IS IMPORTANT and I had done my part. Or did I? Because a few weeks later I get a postcard saying: “Congratulations! You are now registered to vote! But we’re sorry, your vote in the 2004 Presidential Election doesn’t count because blah blah blah.” So there I was, single and a non-voter. I was devastated! I was no better than my date from a few weeks before! But no, I was the better person because at least I tried, and I would make amends in the 2008 Presidential Election. Plus I totally wouldn’t have taken the three dollars. Seriously, who does that?

This is the story of my bottle of Tanqueray. Felice get out of here! Stop being such a camera queen!

Anyway, let’s start this story when I was like: “Screw you Mom and Dad! I’m moving to Brooklyn!”

And then a year later I was completely broke and like “Jus kitteh! Can I moves back in wit yous?”

So I moved back home and for two years I squirreled away all my money like some sort of savage beast that squirrels away stuff, and yet isn’t a squirrel.

And then this cute little house in my neighborhood went up for sale.

And I fell in love with it and imagined myself in that house and life would be just grand.

And my fantasies may have looked something like this because I would be the master of the Outer Rim Territories my own home!

Another fantasy included me having a cat, because I really want a cat but my Mom (fine, and me too) is allergic.

And the last fantasy involved me being totally sophisticated in my own home and having totally sophisticated dinner parties where people drink sophisticated drinks and talk about sophisticated things like America’s Next Top Model.

And part of drinking sophisticated drinks included owning an actual bottle of Tanqueray for Gin and Tonics because I always get the house gin when I order them and for some strange reason I equated owning my own home with allowing myself to buy the good stuff (even though if I had a mortgage to pay I’d probably only be able to afford water, but go along with me on this).

Don’t ask what that picture is about. I googled sophistication and that’s what I got. Deal with it. So after I was done fantasizing about my new life as a criminal overlord slug the epitome of class and sophistication, I called my bank to see about getting preapproved for a mortgage. I had squirreled away all that money after all!

And they were like:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! And when they finally stopped laughing and were able to catch their breath, they were like “You can afford this“:

And all my hopes were crushed, because while I may have saved all that money by living at home, I still had enough debt in the form of student loans for Scrooge McDuck to swim around in.

And didn’t I go to a state school to avoid spending all that money? Oh right. It’s still pretty dang expensive. Oh, and grad school. Sigh.

But fear not! This story has a happy ending! No, I didn’t win a million dollars and buy the house anyway. But at least now I have a benchmark and a goal to work towards. So while I may still not be a homeowner, or a criminal overlord slug, or the proud parent of an adorable little kitteh, I bought myself a bottle of Tanqueray because I deserve it. Cheers!

THE END.

This is the story of my earring. Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t know I was such a badass? Because I totally am. Except I was never a street fighter. Or an owner of such arms that were so muscley that you get that vein running down them. Or on a show that was really awesome for approximately one season.

I was a sophomore in college, and being the total badass I was at the time, I figured the best place to get a badass earring would be at the home of badass: Hot Topic. Because nothing says badass quite like crappy clothing designed by an annoying (albeit a million times more famous than I’ll ever be) blogger. Hey look! A kitten skull and crossbones! You don’t want to mess with that guy!

So I went into Hot Topic, and picked out this totally badass 18 gauge earring with a blue stud. I swear it was the most masculine one they had. No really. So I get brought into the back room by this really nice lady who looked like this:

And she’s really nice, but looks like crazy. And you know what they say: “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, unless they’re darker than you.” And she’s super excited that I’m getting an earring, and she’s even more excited that I’m getting that particular earring because she has the same one in her: PICK ONE: A) Belly Button. B) Tongue. C) Nipples.

If you answered C, give yourselves a pat on the back. And before I could say “Ew! TMI!”, she was putting an earring in my left ear cartilage. And wasn’t there some sort of archaic rule where gay guys are supposed to pierce their right ear? But I assume that’s a really awkward question to ask a guy before you pierce his ear. And I was such a champ about it. I didn’t cry once! Maybe that’s part of the trick. Distract them images of nipple rings in their ears, and they won’t feel a thing!

And now that I had my new badass earring, I had to go around doing badass things like going to class, doing homework, and reading Harry Potter. Man, it’s a miracle I survived those crazy years. And the first time I went back home from college after getting the earring I had to walk sideways so my mom wouldn’t see it because I failed to tell her about it because I was such a badass and knew she wouldn’t be crazy about it.

And who would have thought that walking sideways wouldn’t be enough to sustain the secret of my earring? So obviously she found out. Let’s just say that she wasn’t too pleased.

But she got over it because I was such a badass she had no choice but to respect my badass ways. A couple of months later I changed the earring to one of those even more badass hoops with the ball in the middle. I don’t even want to think about where that Hot Topic girl had one of those! And while I was home I was waiting tables at Ground Round, and my manager said I had to take out my earring. Did the girls have to take out their earrings, you ask? Nope. Just the guys! Goooooooooo feminism!

Because apparently Ground Round is too classy to have male waiters with earrings, but they’re not too classy to weigh kids when they walk in the door and charge by the pound. You stay classy, Ground Round! But I was also given the choice of either taking out my earring or covering it up with a band aid. And since I was such a badass I chose to cover it up with ridiculous bandaids that were a million times more noticeable than the earring itself. Such a badass!

And since I was wearing ridiculously noticeable bandaids, my customers would always ask why I was wearing them, and I would tell them how my manager made me do it, and they’d feel bad for me and leave me bigger tips. But then one day there weren’t any more bandaids. And I had to take out my badass earring. And this is what I looked like:

And for reference, this is what I looked like with my earring in:

And while I was in the restaurant bathroom taking out my earring, looking at my gorgeous self in the mirror, it dawned on me that I looked exactly the same without my earring as I did with it. So I never put it back in. And even though it’s been seven years since I’ve had that earring, to this day whenever one of my siblings garners the negative attention of my mom, they stutter for a moment and then exclaim: “Yeah, well, Craig got an earring!” Because it was just that much of a scandal. Total badass.

THE END.

This is the story of an awesome guy. You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s ridiculously good looking, and loves animals, and always votes, even for those stupid non-November elections that people hardly remember.

The guy who was captain of their high school football team. He was quarterback and still managed to score like 20 homeruns during every game. It’s like that Bugs Bunny cartoon where he plays all the positions, he’s just that awesome. Wait, am I mixing up my sports again?

If that weren’t enough, he was also an honors student. And he’s the kind of guy that everyone likes because they’re also really nice and humble. And at graduation everyone cheers really loudly when their name is announced.

And people like me are right behind them in the alphabet so it’s even more noticeable when no one cheers for me and all you hear is the clack clack clack of my dress shoes as I cross the stage. And I’m already self-conscious about my dress shoes because they sound like high heels when I walk and the whole not cheering thing makes it even worse.

And afterwards my sister tries to make me feel better by saying that Captain Awesome’s applause was so big that it almost sounded like people were clapping for me also, but it was only because of the slight overlap in name calling. At the time it makes me feel better but now that I think of it “There were plenty of people cheering for you, you just didn’t hear them from all the way on stage.” would have worked better.

Anyway, back to this awesome guy. He goes on to marry his equally awesome high school sweetheart. Did I mention that they were Prom King and Queen?

Of course they were. Don’t you just hate them?

He went to one of those fancy colleges that looks like a castle and has a cool mascot like a Dragon, Tiger, or Ninja, while I went to a state school that still has the same 1970′s furniture since it was built and our mascot was a Bearcat. Seriously, what’s a Bearcat?

So they got married when his girlfriend got pregnant because he was all noble like that and dropped out of college so they could get married and he could get a job and support them. And of course she was one of those annoying pregnant women that hardly gains any weight and still manages to do yoga and shit.

After the baby is born they form this perfect little family. And most nights when the baby cries he’s all like “Don’t worry honey, I’ll take care of the baby, you took care of him all day while I was off working for the man.” And you just want to puke.

And he’s ridiculously good at taking care of the baby in the middle of the night. Like that “Baby Mine” scene from Dumbo, which may or may not make me cry.

And then in the morning he’s off to work. He hates his job. He says his boss is evil. But it pays well and the important thing is being able to take care of his family. Did I forget to tell you that he’s a stormtrooper?

Oh, I’m sorry. Does that change your opinion of him? Because it shouldn’t. He’s still an upstanding guy. He always purposely missed shooting the rebels because he was secretly rooting for them. He’s not sure if that’s the same reason why his coworkers never hit them at ridiculously close range either. He would have joined the rebellion but he needed the health benefits to take care of his family.

Then one day as he was silently cheering on the rebels while aiming at the wall behind them, he was shot by some chick with cinnamon buns on her head and fell down a deep chasm that served no logical purpose.

Amazingly he survived, because he’s even awesome at falling down deep chasms that serve no logical purpose. Is there nothing he can’t do?

As he laid there paralyzed, all he could think about was his family. About how much he loved his wife and son. And how he didn’t want his son to grow up in a galaxy full of daddy issues without a father. He struggled for days to gather the strength to pull himself to the nearby escape hatch. Hunger, thirst, and pain nearly overtook him, but the love of his family kept him alive. Just as his fingers grasped the controls to the escape hatch:

The End.

This is the story of how I survived the transit strike of 2005. Remember that time when all the New York City transit workers went on strike (struck?) and there were no subways and buses and people all over the city had to walk everywhere? And I had to pretend to be like this:

Because people my age are supposed to be radical and stand up for protesting workers and damn the man and all the business, but I was really like this:

And being like: “Those damn whipper snappers! How am I supposed to get to my bingo night?” And what is a “whipper snapper” exactly? I picture them looking something like this:

Which isn’t all that threatening if you think about it. But old people scare easily. Just look at Harrison Ford’s face!

So at the time of the transit strike, I lived in Brooklyn, and worked in publishing and generally lived a super trendy lifestyle like this:

Except not douchey looking. And not that trendy. And basically just sat on the couch all day watching TV like I currently do while I live with my parents, but back then I did it in Brooklyn.

So I woke up the morning of the strike and turned on the news and found out that the transit strike had really happened, and I was like: “Woo! Sick day!” But then I saw that loads of people were walking across the bridges from Brooklyn to Manhattan to get to work and I felt like a loser, and guilted myself into walking to work. So I bundled up nice and warm because around that time New York City looked like this:

Because apparently it’s not a law that all strikes that cause people to have to walk to work don’t occur in the winter. So I put on my iPod possibly playing Tyra Banks’ “Shake Ya Body” and I started off being all like:

But then it didn’t take long before I as all like:

Except I wasn’t completely adorable. (Can someone make one of those for me?) I was more like:

Because halfway across the bridge I reached that annoying body temperature level where you’re absolutely sweating, but completely bundled up, but you can’t take anything off because its freezing, and your nose looks like:

And by this point my gloves are absolutely disgusting from wiping my nose. Did I ever clean those gloves? I doubt it. Oh well. So I finally get to the other side of the bridge and Red Cross is there handing out little packages of tissues and hot chocolate. And possibly doing this:

And did I mention that this was all happening after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, so people in New Orleans were like:

And someone in the Red Cross was like:

“Oh my god! Some white people in New York need to walk over a bridge! We have to bring them little packages of tissues and hot chocolate!” And then they all flew away in helicopters. And the people in New Orleans were like:

“Say what?”

So after I blew my nose and said “no thank you” to the hot chocolate (because it would have been a logistical nightmare to drink hot chocolate with my unwieldy, dried snotty gloves) I had a renewed sense of vim and vigor. I know what vigor is, but what is vim exactly?

And as I walked through the streets of lower Manhattan, I came across a giant billboard that looked like this:

And it makes me think to myself: “Daaayum! Good thing I have those tissues!” and I patted myself on the back for being so damn clever, because even after an hour of walking in the freezing cold to get to work, I never pass up an opportunity to congratulate myself for being awesome make a joke.

This is the story of the average day in my life. Firstly it starts off with me being completely adorable and asleep:

And it’s 4:10 AM and my alarm goes off. And we all have a good laugh over the idea of me actually getting out of bed the first time my alarm goes off:

And I really want to watch whatever they are watching, because it looks really awesome. For the time being let’s just pretend it’s this:

And I do a bit of snoozing, because snoozing is my downfall, and we do some super genius math:

And come to the conclusion that I actually get out of bed at 4:37 AM, and I look like this:

Because I’m really angry that I snoozed 3 times instead of 2 times, and snoozing really doesn’t make you feel better when you wake up, it just delays the act of feeling crappy and makes you angry and Asian.

So I shower and get dressed like this:

Except in reverse because I wear Wonder Woman pajamas to bed, and a respectable skirt suit to work. And before I run out the door, I run down to the computer and publish the post I wrote last night, which only makes me later.

And then I drive really cautiously to the train station because I didn’t take 3 snoozes.

Oh wait, yes I did.

So I catch the 5:35 AM train and hope that the person who sits next to me looks like this:

When in reality they always look like this:

Except they’re not made of crappy computer animation, so they have a weight to them, and that weight gets pressed up against me.

And then I read sleep the whole trip into the city because having your lands ravaged by the white man really takes it out of you:

But if this little girl was supposed to start beating the Warning Drum, you can see why the Native Americans didn’t fare so well. Or maybe it was those disease filled blankets we gave them. Oh well.

So at 7:00 AM I arrive at work in Trinity Center.

No, not the church, the building next to it. And did you know that Trinity Church is where they found the treasure at the end of National Treasure? So everyday at lunch I go to the church and look for the treasure. And by “treasure” I mean “Nicholas Cage” and only so I can tell him what a bad actor he is.

And once I get to my desk I hook myself up to a Roman Numeral 4:

Except it’s filled with:

And work makes me feel like this:

Because you should never write anything bad about your job on your blog, because that’s just asking for trouble, unless you’re Dooce, which in that case it makes you super famous.

And I don’t really leave my desk for lunch because I’m a dedicated worker extremely lazy. Did I tell you I got my yearly review and it was awesome and I got a raise? Go me.

And then at 5:00 PM I slide down the dinosaur tail, which looks a lot easier than it really is:

And then I get home at 7:00 PM and eat dinner:

And I talk about my day with my parents who hate when I say that my day was “fine” because they insist on getting details, even if there is nothing to tell.

And then it’s 8:00 PM and I feel like a zombie while I sit in front of my computer trying to put together a blog that makes the slightest amount of sense, which you can currently see didn’t go so well:

And then it’s suddenly 10:00 PM and I have nothing written so I take a bunch of pictures and make a lame post about my day to post in the morning before I run out the door to catch my train:

And the 10:00-11:00 PM hour is the fastest hour on the face of the planet, because I start to think about getting ready for bed at 10:00 PM and then it’s magically 11:00 PM when I get into bed, and where did that last hour go? And OMG Family Guy is on, and I love Family Guy and I try to look away, but even if I look away, I’ve seen all the episodes a million times, so I still laugh along with the episode because it’s so gosh darn funny. And then I fall asleep.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

This is the story about when I got my first hickey. This romantic tragic story takes place at the Long Island Game Farm, which looks a bit like this:

So apparently “Game Farm” is a fancy word for “Crappy Petting Zoo”. I don’t know why they would even call it a “Game Farm”. There are no games like this to be had:

Seriously, if I landed on Box 87, I would flip over the table and run from the room screaming. And you would so not be allowed to play with my Power Rangers anymore.

Now I know you’re probably thinking that I was approximately this many years old when I got my first hickey:

But in reality I was approximately this many years old:

Except I’m not a lesbian.

Now don’t worry! This isn’t a story about how some random creepy dude took me to a secluded area in a petting zoo and gave me a hickey when I was 4 years old. That is a much scarier story that doesn’t exist. And besides, if this were a scary story, I would have wet my pants by now.

The situation started off a bit like this, with me being completely adorable as usual:

But then one of the pigs put its snout on my arm and inhaled like some sort of crazy vacuum cleaner and the situation started to look like this:

Excuse me while I blow your mind: “If a pig’s snout is so much like a vacuum cleaner, why are pig pens so dirty?”

Back to the story: People think pigs are cute and innocent like this:

But they are really evil and ugly like this and force themselves upon lady pigs and four year old human children:

And their surprisingly powerful snouts work like this:

Which answers the question: “If pigs had superpowers would they use them for good or for evil?” Because this pig’s super suction snout was most definitely used for evil.

So my arm was stuck to its snout for what seemed like:

But in reality the whole situation was probably over in a matter of:

And even though my first romantic experience was incredibly short (even shorter than they are now!) when the pig let go, I had something on my arm that looked remarkably like this:

And as I’m sure you can imagine, I was just as tough then as I am now, so the whole experience made me look like this:

And while I call this “The Story of My First Hickey” it should really be called “The Story of Why I Love This:”

And when I become a rich and famous children’s book author, this will be the wacky story I tell on all the talk shows I go on. But then again, rich and famous authors aren’t really brought on that many talk shows because people don’t recognize their faces, and TV is all about ratings, and if people don’t recognize your face in the previews for said talk show, they probably won’t watch. And if there’s nothing else on TV, they’ll probably just read a book instead. Maybe even the one that you wrote. Oh the irony.