Monthly Archives: October 2009

Where Are All the Hideous Swamp Monsters When You Need Them?

Posted on October 30, 2009 by Jeff Wysaski

Swamp monsters. They sure do have terrible timing, right ladies? I mean, one second, I’m in the backseat of a 1965 AMC Rambler having a steamy make-out sesh with my dreamy boyfriend, the next I’m being dragged kicking and screaming into the foggy night.

Hey, Swampy! Newsflash: that letterman’s jacket flung over my shoulders means I’m taken!

swamp thingBut then, when I’m single, I can’t catch the eye of a swamp monster to save my life. Can they smell my desperation? Or is it that they only want what they can’t have?

And why is it that every time I sit down to have a nice picnic along the waterfront, a swamp monster sneaks up behind me and carries me away before I even have a chance to eat my Ants on a Log appetizer? But then, when I need to get to the other side of a puddle without getting my high heels wet, where is Mr. Seaweed Arms to sweep me off my feet?

Is it because they think I won’t kick my feet wildly into the air and pound on their backs with my tiny fists as they carry me to the other side of that puddle? Because that’s simply not true. I know they like it when I act scared. That’s why whenever a puddle or patch of mud crosses my path, I place my white-gloved hands over my cheeks and scream bloody murder.

It’s supposed to be a subtle hint that I’m looking to get picked up, but does it work? No.

Or how about when I get home and I have an entire trunk full of groceries? Sure, the swamp monster may show up, but it’s like, hey fish breathe, NOT ME! The groceries! I need help carrying the GROCERIES!

But no matter how much I yell in his ear, he just doesn’t listen. Of course, my friend Janice says swamp monsters don’t understand English, but I disagree. I just think that’s what they WANT you to think. That way, they have an excuse to sit around on their lazy slimy butts when they don’t feel like carrying in groceries, mowing your lawn or helping you rearrange the living room furniture.

And what’s the deal with always carrying me to that same pile of wet, rotting leaves under Stony Creek Bridge? Hello!? You took me here last time you picked me up! How about a little variety? What if I don’t want sea algae and fish heads for once? Maybe I want Italian. Or Chinese.

And it’s like, hello. Obviously this is where you took your ex-kidnapped victims too. That pile of muddy sweaters and hair bows is a dead giveaway.

What? I’m not special enough to take to a new hideout? Pfft. Swamp monsters. Am I right, ladies?

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Your Time Travel Device Does Not Impress Me

Posted on October 29, 2009 by Jeff Wysaski

Gentleman of the engineering department, I applaud all the hard work and long hours you’ve put into building this time travel device. After 14 long months, BioInnoGenFutureAdvanTech Inc. (BIGFAT), has succeeded in our mission to build the first viable, in-home time travel device.

science-fiction-machine-2This technology works flawlessly – easily transporting individuals from one point in time and space to another (and back again). Furthermore, your precision ensures that time placement is accurate right down to both the second and the centimeter.

Having said that, ARE YOU GUYS FREAKING SERIOUS!? This is the best you could do? You actually think I can sell this pile of junk to the American public? I mean, sure, I could sell a white fur coat to a bunny rabbit, and I even found a way to sell all those Bear Attack Simulators you guys came up with last fall, but this? THIS!?

Yes, technologically the thing works fine. I instantly zipped right back to 1992, bought a 2-liter of Crystal Pepsi from Eckerd Drug  with my pre-Sacagewea silver dollar, and zipped right back here with no lost limbs or other ill side effects. But when it comes to doing things right, that’s ALL this product has going for it.

No, I’m afraid the abysmal design of this product is far too horrendous. For one, it looks nothing like the time machine devices you see in the movies. It’s a box. A simple metal box with a time dial on the front. BORING.

People don’t want big, clunky boxes sitting in their guest rooms or garages! They want a sleek, sexy TIME MACHINE! Where are the whirring gizmos? Where are the flashing lights? Where is the steam-powered engine!?

Also, there’s no cup holder. I mean, sure, it only took 0.01 milliseconds to reach my time destination, but during that brief moment, my hand was incredibly cold from holding my Crystal Pepsi!

People want cup holders – especially women. Did you know that number of cup holders is more important to a female car shopper than total number of horsepower!? Of course you didn’t. You’re just a bunch of eggheads who know how to bend the laws of space and time.

Well I’ll tell you something: all the physics and advanced calculus in the world couldn’t save this piece of trash from being a marketable consumer product.

I couldn’t even give these things away. Which, I’m told we could probably do because the technology is so ridiculously inexpensive, we could install them for free in people’s homes and still make money off the patent rights.

I’m sorry. No. Shut it down – pull the plug. I’m afraid the only thing left to do is to burn the design plans and bash this overgrown paperweight in with a couple of Louisville Sluggers. Maybe at least we can recoup some of our losses by stripping this box and selling it for scrap metal.

Here are your bats – get to it. And when you’re done, go ahead and get to work on that gas-powered unicycle I dreamt about last night. It’ll work because it’s my idea – and I like my ideas because I am the BIGFAT CEO and I know what I’m talking about. Trust me, the gas-icycle is going to change the way the world travels. So start building.

And guys, this time, DON’T FORGET THE FREAKING CUP HOLDER!

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How to Become a Princess

Posted on October 28, 2009 by Jeff Wysaski

It’s every little girl’s dream (also mine) to one day become a princess. And why not? As princess, you would have the cushiest job in the world. We’re talking living in a sweet castle, wearing pretty ball gowns all the live long day, and continuously being told how beautiful you are by your royal subjects (now that’s the life). Also, if anyone cheeses you off, well then off with their heads.

princess costumeIf you think becoming a princess is nothing but a pipe dream, think again. It does happen. In fact, a buddy of mine achieved feminine royalty just last week. And just like I didn’t wait around for an invite to come stay at my buddy’s new Romanian castle (indefinitely), you shouldn’t sit around waiting for Prince Charming to show up at your one-bedroom apartment.

So turn off that episode of Gilmore Girls and get cracking. You’ve got to get out there if you want to make your dreams come true. Here are a few ways to become a princess and live your dreams of becoming a tyrannical spoiled brat:

Marry a Prince

Surely you’ve thought to yourself, “If I could just MEET a prince, I could do my Joy Behar impression and he’d instantly fall madly in love with me.” And yes, this would almost certainly work. But the hard part isn’t getting the prince to marry you once you meet him – it’s finding him in the first place. Here are some common ways to “bump” into a prince:

  • Get invited to as many royal balls as possible
  • Find out where the prince buys his groceries; hang out in the produce department
  • Fall asleep in the middle of the forest, wait for Prince Charming to wake you with a kiss
  • Surround yourself with dwarves. Prince’s love dwarves.
  • Kiss as many toads as humanly possible
  • Befriend a crab and sing about…what are they called? Feet.

Get Your Mom to Marry a King

If you’re too comely to attract the attention of a prince, maybe you could get your mother to marry a king (unless average looks run in your family). If your parents are still married, then go ahead and get rid of that nobody father of yours. Try Photoshopping him into an extramarital affair (the gayer the better) and showing the pictures to your mom. Then, help her rebound with the bachelor king of your choice. Tip: kings want one thing in a woman – fertility. So get your mom good and pregnant.

Start Your Own Country

Screw men. Who needs them? If you trek out on your own, you can start your own country and give yourself the title of “President Queen Princess.” Of course, you’ll have to find a plot of land that isn’t already part of another country. Antarctica is a good option (and an ice castle would be super cool). Or, you could simply row out into uncharted waters, drop an anchor and decree your raft a new country (may I suggest Raftlandia?). Either way, bring penguins with you so they can serve you fish and fan you with palm leaves (note: also bring palm leaves).

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I’m Afraid You’re Going to Have to Pay Full Price, Jesus

Posted on October 27, 2009 by Jeff Wysaski

Look, don’t get me wrong. It’s an honor to have you in my line, Jesus. I mean, here I am standing face to face with Jesus of Nazareth – my freaking Lord and Savior! It truly is an honor to meet you, and I mean that. But like I said before, I’m afraid you’ll have to buy a ticket just like everyone else if you want to see the 5:30 showing of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.

jesus christTrust me dude, if it were up to me I would totally let you in for free. Unfortunately, it’s against theater policy to give preferential treatment to ANYBODY, not just you. See, here’s what our training manual says: “It is against Cinemark policy to offer free admittance to any individual of elevated status, including but not limited to celebrities, political figureheads and iconic religious Messiahs.” (that last one is you)

Yes, I realize you died for my sins. And dude, I already said thank you for that. But I’m afraid you’re still going to have to pay full price.

You’re right. I could print you up a ticket without money actually exchanging our hands. But my boss counts my register at the end of the night. If my drawer is short, I’ll get fired.  Is that what you want? For one of your blessed children of the world to get fired from his job at Cinemark?

Also, if I just gave you a ticket, wouldn’t that be a sin? Not only could we go to jail, but we’d also go to Hell!

Oh, you’d forgive my sin if I let you in? Well that’s quite generous of you, Jesus, it really is. But I’m still pretty sure I’d get fired. I mean, I already burned up my one verbal warning last week when I let Dustin Diamond in for free to see Couples Retreat. I knew my boss was going to be mad, but, I mean, come on. I had to do it. It was DUSTIN DIAMOND, for Your sake!

Yes, you are the Son of God. That’s very impressive. And yes, it is a miracle that after 2,000 years in Heaven, you’ve resurrected in my line here at Cinemark to watch Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. But if you’ve come all this way just to watch an animated film – that’s not even a Pixar production by the way – then surely you’re willing to shell out a few bucks to watch it.

No, Jesus, I can’t give you a senior discount. For one, I would need to see a valid driver’s license, which I doubt you have. For two, you’re not old. Granted, your birthday was more than 2,000 years ago, but then you DIED at the age of 33. So, technically you’re not a senior citizen. You’re an undead 33-year-old. And you don’t see me letting any zombies into Zombieland for free, do you? And they were IN the film.

Yes, I know you’re my homeboy, but I’m afraid that doesn’t change anything. And I could go ask my boss to see if he’s willing to make a special exception, but he’s Jewish. So somehow I don’t think that’s going to work in your favor.

Look, Jesus, I would totally love to hang out and chat some more. Maybe after my shift we can grab some Panda Express and rap about God or the rapture or something. But right now you’re holding up my line. So please either buy a ticket or step aside.

You’ll pay? Oh good! Trust me Jesus, you’re going to enjoy the movie. It’s cute. You won’t regret it. It’s definitely worth $12.50 to see all those crazy meatballs raining from the sky.

Oh, wait. Sorry Jesus. We don’t accept gold coins.

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Can I Ride On the Back of Your Harley, Mr. Hell’s Angel?

Posted on October 26, 2009 by Jeff Wysaski

Oh wow, that is quite a Harley you’ve got there, Mr. Hell’s Angel. You know, I’ve always been drawn to hogs. I’d probably have one myself, but my wife won’t let me have one. But hey, don’t let that make you think that I’m not the one wearing the pants in the relationship. Because I’m the man. What I say goes.

badass bikerIt’s just, you know, I promised her I wouldn’t buy one. And what good is a marriage if you can’t keep promises, right? Plus, she’s the one with the job (I’m a stay-at-home dad), so if I wanted to buy one I’d have to ask her for the money.

But wow, that sure is a sweet ride. Say, I don’t suppose you’d let me ride on the back of it, would you? Oh, that would just be a dream come true! Out there on the open road with the wind in my hair and my arms wrapped tightly around a real-life Hell’s Angel! Oh man, all the other mothers at the PTA meeting would be so jealous!

Of course, if I had my druthers, I’d be driving that cherry ride all by myself. But I couldn’t possibly ask you to step off your own hog. That probably violates the Biker’s Code or something.

Plus, I promised my wife I would never even drive a motorcycle (let alone own one). So, technically I can’t get behind the steering wheel. Is that what it’s called? The steering wheel?

But she never said anything about riding ON a motorcycle. So what do you say, Mr. Hell’s Angel? Can I ride on the back of your Harley?

I could hold your machete for you so you wouldn’t have to hold it in your teeth like that.

I’m going to go ahead and take your silence as a “yes.” So let me just go ahead and straddle the bike seat here. Oh wow! The vibrations of the motor are tickling my fanny! Oh, this is just wild!

Say, do you have any sunscreen? I promised my wife that I would always put sunscreen on when participating in outdoor activities. And as you can tell from my extremely short cut-off shorts, these thighs of mine are going to need some extra protection from all those dangerous UV rays. Something 30 SPF or above would really be ideal.

Or, if you don’t have any, maybe I could just drape that leather jacket of yours over my thighs? That would work, too.

That’s a nice jacket, BTW. Is it real leather? It feels like real leather. Where’d you get it? The Wilson’s Leather at the Galleria? Probably.

OWW! Hey, let go of my neck! Put me down! Geez man, what is your problem? If you didn’t want me to ride on the back of your hog with you, you could have just said so.

And you didn’t have to throw me into the dirt like that. Oh great, now I have dirt all over my cut-off shorts. I promised my wife I wouldn’t get these dirty. Great, now I have to go home and try and get these stains out before she gets home from work.

Thanks for nothing, buddy.

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