I have come to the conclusion that I am a horrific blog-maintainer, and that no matter how often I tell myself I will get better, it will probably never happen. It’s like the following other moments in my life:
Situation:
One year I went to go see my dad’s college roommate, who was a professional comedic ventriloquist, perform a children’s show. Instantly, my new life goal was to become a ventriloquist. I convinced my parents to buy a dummy for me for Christmas. It came with a video on how to do tricks like throwing your voice.
Result:
I watched the video once. Throwing my voice took more practice than I had anticipated, so I gave up my dream after a few weeks. The dummy still sits on a shelf in my room. Later in life, I realized my parents spent a lot of moo-lah on that present when there was very little moo-lah to go around. Whoopsy-daisy. I wonder if it was any compensation to them later on that I got great use out of the special stick that you use to move the dummy’s hand when I repurposed it to be my wand in the Harry Potter musicals I made with my friends where I played Harry Potter. Probably not. Sorry, parentals.
That sentence about the wand was quite poorly constructed. Much like my ventriloquism goals.
Situation:
I really wanted a pet guinea pig but my parents weren’t sure I should have one because I did not have the best track record with consistently caring for my pets. I came up with an entire spiel with how I’d be different this time around and exactly how I was going to be a good mother to my new guinea pig. Again, I convinced them to get me one. I don’t know if their multiple instances of getting me things I would never follow through with is more of a comment on how much they love me or how ignorant they can be, but I’m going with the former because that one is definitely true. And because my mom reads this blog.
Result:
I had an adorable guinea pig named Cinnamon. For some time, I took good care of him. Slowly but surely, I became much lazier about cleaning his cage. I have an inferior sense of smell so it didn’t bother me so much, but my mother has a sharp sense of smell so it bothered her a great deal. My laziness exacerbated when I realized that if I went long enough without cleaning my guinea pig’s cage she would do it for me simply because the stench overpowered her.
One day, I realized what a pathetic pet owner I had become, and when a nice man from our church fell in love with Cinnamon whilst doing construction on our home, my mother and I decided to give Cinnamon to him. Cinnamon spent his final years in a specially built habitat with constant attention from the man and his family. RIP little fella.
Ironically, I now own 2 guinea pigs. Even more ironically, I adopted them from a guinea pig rescue agency which made me fill out an application. I had to answer a question about whether or not I’d owned a guinea pig previously. Let’s just say I left out a few details. [Note: My guinea pigs now are much better cared for, although I owe a good chunk of that to my roommates. One of piggies still likes me the best though.]
Here is a list of other things I have started ambitiously and never actually finished:
-Starting my own website
-A slew of novels, screenplays, and short stories
-This list
Interestingly, I began this blog entry intending to write about how I was too damn tired to write a blog entry that told any stories. Then I told two stories. Maybe if I start not intending to do things, I will actually do them.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Aimster Causes a Disaster in a Parking Garage
I am highly critical of others when they do foolish things, especially when those things cause congestion in traffic. LA is brutal enough as it is. Unfortunately, I put myself in a situation last Sunday that morphed my pride into shame faster than a stick of butter morphs into melted cancer when you microwave it in BPA enriched plastic.
I was on my Bluetooth chatting with my Mommy as I pulled into the underground parking garage for Target. The car in front of me got their ticket and drove through, but the bar that blocks the next car from proceeding didn’t go down right away. Without even giving it a second thought, I continued to drive. As the bar came down on the roof of my car, I realized I had just done something so dumb that even I, a girl who has danced around the middle of a street dressed as Harry Potter in a red-and-white striped pirate shirt, was embarrassed of.
After telling my Momma what I had done because getting laughs out of my misery is one of my eagerly employed defense mechanisms, I got off my phone and found a parking space. I decided the best course of action was to go over to the parking ticket machine and push the button for a new ticket. As it was a Sunday and Target is so popular and product-ridden you will probably be able to buy stocks there soon, there was a nonstop influx of cars entering the garage. I threw myself in front of a few before finding a guy with his window rolled down. I quickly explained the situation and asked if I could grab a ticket ahead of him. He looked at me like I was a moron, which was actually fair because I was.
I went up to the machine and pushed a button, but no ticket was produced. After a few more futile pushes, I hypothesized that the machine had a sensor and a car was necessary to get it to birth a ticket. The man pulled his car up further for me, I pushed the button, and the ticket was mine! I thought I was good to go so I began walking away.
About 15 yards later I looked back and saw that the bar to separate the cars was still up. Apparently, those thingamabobs also have a sensor and if they don’t sense a car drive under them, they won’t go down, and if they don’t go down, the machine will not give another ticket. The sounds of many cars honking penetrated the not-so-crisp parking lot air because the chap who’d tried to assist me was holding up one of the entrances to the garage. Cars were backed up past the garage ramp and onto the street.
By now the parking garage attendant had noticed that I was parading around where only cars were supposed to be and he beckoned me over. I sprinted to give the chap who'd tried to help me the parking ticket and then approached the parking attendant.
Parking Attendant (PA): What is going on?
Aimster: I accidentally drove into the garage without getting a ticket, so I tried to walk up and get one from the machine but there is a sensor that won’t let you get a ticket without a car so I couldn’t get one.
PA: So whose ticket did you just give to that man?
Aimster: That was his ticket.
PA: Why did you have it?
Aimster: Because I tried to get a ticket by walking up and pushing the button, but then the machine wouldn’t give him a ticket so he couldn’t drive forward, so I gave him the ticket.
PA: So you don’t have a ticket?
Aimster: No.
PA: Okay. Let me get you a new ticket. You wait here.
He said that last part very sternly, probably sensing that I would only worsen the fiasco if I stepped into the midst of cars again. He returned with my new ticket. I thanked him and sauntered away as quickly as possible and with my head drooping more than Charlie Brown’s would if he accidentally killed Snoopy. The fact that the attendant got me a new ticket instead of just making me pay the lost ticket fee is a miracle that helped me to understand how in LA young, thin, moderately attractive, stupid girls still manage to succeed in life.
Normally I try to learn from all my mistakes, and while I’ll never do this again, I am currently more interested in seeing if I can make money of my idiocy by selling this scenario to a reality TV show starring Paris Hilton, one or more Kardashians, or the Jersey Shore kids. But in my ideal world, it would be a reality TV show starring dinosaurs (a T-Rex would be the ideal candidate for this situation because their short arms would make it difficult for them to hit the button on the ticket machine).
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Aimster Has an Allergic Reaction
I like to be proud of myself for things that are actually completely beyond my control. It gives me satisfaction, like I am naturally beating the world at its own twisted game. One thing I have always felt makes me superior to others is that I am not allergic to any foods. I don’t think less of people who have food allergies; I just like to think that my body was built for greatness.
I recently learned the hard way that when you are snobbishly proud, sometimes a greater force sees fit to smack you sideways and spit on your misery.
I don’t really know how it started, but I suspect it was at a dinner meeting I attended a few weeks ago. The chef had concocted a homemade Italian dish. One bite revealed that it was way beyond my spicy tolerance, but I didn’t want to be rude so I ate my whole portion anyway, hoping that sipping wine after each bite would either alleviate the pain to my tongue or eventually make me tipsy enough to ignore it. That strategy made me run out of wine pretty quickly with neither feat accomplished.
My tongue was still burning when I snuggled into bed a few short hours later, but I felt okay. I drifted off into dreamland. Unfortunately, dreamland was visited by punk-jerk (I am coining that phrase because it describes what I’m trying to get across better than either word on its own) nightmares where I was in pain and could do nothing to stop it. But the combination of wine and lack of sleep made me drowsy enough that I never awoke until I heard the horrid noise that is worse than the screech of a murderous harpy (a.k.a. my alarm clock).
When I did emerge from punk-jerk dreamland, I truly was in pain. My throat and chest felt quite tight and it hurt to breathe or swallow. I began to wonder if I was having an allergic reaction. However, being the responsible adult that I am, I decided that I still needed to go to work.
A few hours into work, responsibility was becoming a side thought. Furthermore, after learning of my ailment, my co-workers insisted I go to the hospital. I decided to call my insurance to get a list of places I could go and still be covered. A customer service operator gave me the information for two urgent care centers and two hospitals.
I drove myself to the nearby urgent care center, where I ended up in an elevator full of moms and children because the building also housed Dan the Man Superkids, which is a gym described on the website as “an awesome new facility designed by Dan the Man to provide and encourage a fit and healthy lifestyle for children”. I made a mental note that I should participate in any study where they can Benjamin Button my age for a day so that I could go play there, but my pain deterred me from pretending to be an expectant mother just so I could check it out.
Upon exiting on the correct floor of the building, I went to sign into urgent care, only to learn that the urgent care people rented out a normal doctor’s facility after hours and during the daytime I would have to make an appointment. Thanks for the head’s up on that info, Aetna insurance. I had just wasted more time not getting treatment for my increasingly tight throat and chest.
The UCLA hospital was the next closest place. Being a graduate of USC, a short moral dilemma where I contemplated whether or not I could bring myself to enter the UCLA campus ensued, but that ended when I remembered that some people slowly asphyxiate to death from allergic reactions and perhaps this wasn’t the time for my Trojan pride.
I got checked in to the hospital and all my vitals were a-okay. They had me take a seat in the waiting room, at which point I decided to check my texts as I’d sent a few freak-out messages saying I was going to the hospital. At that point I’d only heard from my parents, so I guess they really do love me the mostest. After reassuring them that I was going to be okay, which is always a fun thing to say when you have absolutely no control over such matters, I read the magazine I’d conveniently stashed in my purse. Soon after my boyfriend Orongejello got a hold of me and told me he was coming to the hospital. I tried to talk him out of it because I knew he had lots of things to do that day, but he is a good boyfriend and insisted on being there.
I got moved into a teensy-weensy room and had to put on one of the poorly engineered hospital gowns. The gaps between the top and bottom ties were so large that no matter how tight I tied it, the flap was always opening up and revealing my chest. Thankfully, I got to keep my bra on, so I didn’t flash everyone completely.
Two doctors came in, one a veteran and one a newbie learning the ropes. That’s what you get in a teaching hospital. For the rest of this entry, the veteran doctor will be referred to as Burt while the newbie will be referred to as Ernie. Burt and Ernie asked lots of questions, told me that my throat had broken out in a rash, and decided they were going to jam a camera down my mouth and esophagus to make sure it wasn’t closing up for realsies.
Whilst they set out to set up the camera, Orongejello arrived, which made me feel better because he is strong and has medical knowledge so if the UCLA people attempted to poison me upon finding out I was from USC he would be able to stop them. I suppose having a hand to hold was nice too.
Burt came back and moved me into an eye examination room with one of those electric chairs, which he made taller so my throat would be at eye level. He then sprayed my mouth and throat with a numbing spray. It may have been the worst thing to ever enter my mouth, and I tasted things like glue when I was a foolish youngster. It actually stung. If I were an advocate of torture, I would say this should be used to get terrorists to talk. The only problem would be that it numbs your mouth, making it a bit difficult to say anything clearly. Maybe it could be sprayed in eyes. I would probably admit my deepest darkest secrets that only my dead dog knows if someone did that to me (R.I.P. Sparky).
Burt had me grab my tongue and hold it out of my mouth as he put the camera into my oral cavity. After a few seconds of examination, he concluded that my body was not choking itself. I thought I was in the clear until Ernie arrived. Burt asked Ernie if he wanted to try using the camera because he’d never done that before. He briefly explained the process, and then Ernie proceeded. Ernie was not such a smooth operator as Burt. I tried not to gag, but all the willpower in the world couldn’t have prevented such action. I probably sounded like Regan from The Exorcist in the part where she breathes all funny. Needless to say, if I’d had a rubber ducky, I would have jammed it down Ernie’s throat.
Burt had me go back to my original room, where Orongejello and I sat for a few minutes until Ernie came in to tell me that I was indeed having an allergic reaction and to give me antihistamines. After that, they told me to go home and rest up. It was a good thing Orongejello was there because I wasn’t allowed to drive.
There’s not much exciting to report after that. I spent the rest of the day sleeping and for 3 more days eating felt like my throat was the head of a needle and food was an elephant getting forced through. When I finally could consume nourishment painlessly, I made the poor choice of having a hamburger, onion rings, and a Butterfinger milkshake. That didn’t sit so well, but I did watch The Expendables right afterward, so I had absurdly powerful guns and ridiculously awesome knife stunts to distract me from the nausea.
I still don’t know for sure what caused the allergic reaction. I suppose I should go to the allergist one of these days so he can stick some needles in me and tell me what’s what. I have to be careful who I go see though. Those UCLA hospital people may have figured out where my loyalties lie by now, and sticking me with danger needles sounds like a pretty good way to do me in.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Aimster Learns That Being Swedish Doesn't Necessarilly Mean Being Better at Putting IKEA Furniture Together
When I bought my current bed I was right out of college and had no job, so money was a practical concern of mine. I decided to procure my sleeping vessel from the Store of My People, which is what I call IKEA because I am 25% Swedish (although I like to pretend that I am 100% because the Swedes are artistic and talented folk who are attractive and make damn good meatballs). At the Store of My People, I purchased a bed frame with the option of adding a nightstand on one or both sides. In the vein of price savviness, I opted to buy just one nightstand for the time being. Below is a picture of how it looks:
Despite my OCD-approaching love of symmetry, the one nightstand was working out pretty snazzily until April of the Year of Our Lord 2010. This abrupt change was due to the beginning of my relationship with Orongejello. Being the type of couple who sometimes like to relax at home, Orongejello and I would often buy a bottle of wine and enjoy it in bed whilst taking in a movie. When I didn’t feel like holding my wine glass, I would set it safely on my nightstand. When Orongejello didn’t feel like holding his wine glass, he would balance it precariously on random items in my room, where it sat in constant danger of spilling faster than oil in the Gulf.
Because Orongejello would probably do anything for me, I decided I could come close to matching that by buying and building another nightstand for him. Since he was still on his 7 week adventure, I thought it would make a nice surprise for his return, and hence I ventured to My People’s Store and picked one up. I also bought about 20 other things, because you just don’t know you need some items until you see them Swedish style. But I digress.
Last week I arrived home from work at an early enough hour to assemble the nightstand. I was pretty excited because I am a nerd who gets a kick out of putting things together, and since I can’t actually speak any Swedish, I feel connected to their language when I correctly interpret the wordless pictures in IKEA instruction manuals. I began by setting out all of the pieces, screws, and bolts and organizing them into neat little piles. I proceeded to piece the pieces together, and little by little the new nightstand was taking shape.
In case you’ve never lived in a college apartment before, which is another way of saying in case you’ve never assembled IKEA furniture before, you should know a few things about the process. Oftentimes, you will first insert a wooden peg in a hole (and no, I am not turning this into an innuendo-filled entry, that would be too easy and I like a challenge) that will match with a hole in another piece. When you put the pieces together, the peg holds them in place so that you can ram a screw through them both, thereby binding them together more permanently (there really is no way to say those things without making them sound sexual).
Everything was going just dandily for me. The nightstand came together quickly and looked swell. Then came the part where I had to attach it to the bed. The nightstand came with a metal piece that is designed to screw into the bottom of the bed and the bottom of the nightstand. I’ve attempted to illustrate it here:
If you can understand that terribly crude illustration, then hopefully the rest of this tale will make sense to you.
I was trying to figure out how to get the metal piece into the bottom of the bed when I suddenly remembered why I’d built the last nightstand with assistance from my tremendous brother David: this step was better designed for a constructionist with 3 hands.
Hand 1 – Holds metal piece against bed
Hand 2 – Holds screw against metal piece
Hand 3 – Uses screwdriver to put screw through metal piece and into bed
However, God did not see fit to build us with 3 hands, and I was home alone, though thankfully not lost in New York. Other solutions needed to be found.
It seemed pretty obvious to me that the best idea was to use my head in place of Hand 1. So I pushed the metal piece against the bottom of the bed with the side of my head, and contorted myself in a way where Hands 2 and 3 were being put to proper use. This was not an easy task. I had to move around a bit, once testing to see if my forehead made a better hand than my temple (it didn’t). The gap where the screws had to fit was so narrow I don’t think anyone with fingers rounder than highlighters could get in there. To make matters worse, one of the two screws I had to put in got stripped, and I didn’t have another one so I had to exert extra pressure on the screwdriver so it would have something to grip onto. For some reason, I was unable to push harder with Hand 3 without pushing harder with my head, so I came out of that with some unnecessary muscle tension. It probably looked a bit like this:
I chose that picture because the face is how I imagined staring down the architect of the metal piece. The screw didn’t even go in all the way, but I deemed it acceptable because I figured if 1 out of 2 screws is good then that’s satisfying enough (Hahaha) (that one was intentional so I wanted to make sure you knew to laugh). Plus the bad screw was still pretty deep (Hahaha again).
Bonding the nightstand to the metal piece was much simpler, since there was no miniscule gap between the metal and since the nightstand supported itself by fitting conveniently into the metal piece. The last step was to nail a small metal plate between the back of the headboard and the back of the nightstand like so:
I was all prepared to do this when I realized there were no holes on the back of either piece to indicate where the metal plate should go. I decided to enquire the knowledge of my roommates, who had since returned, and after sustaining their predictable laughter from my, “How do I make a hole where there is no hole?” query, they suggested using a nail to create one. That worked spiffily, although it was quite noisy. At that point, I thought I was done. Then I looked at my floor and realized that I still had 4 wooden pegs and no holes to put them in (it’s getting too easy again). I re-looked-at-the-pictures-in the instruction manual (I can’t say “reread” because there were no words to read), and I could not figure out a single place where I might have missed putting a peg. I shook the nightstand a few times and it seemed sturdy, so I opted to just ignore the extra pegs and chalk it up to the distribution machine giving me more pegs than I was supposed to have.
As is becoming a growing trend with my half-fails, I still consider my foray into construction to be a total success. I even put books on the nightstand shelf that I knew Orongejello would like.
The imprint from the metal piece has since faded from my head, by my pride sure hasn’t. The experience even bequeathed me with a potential title for my upcoming bestselling memoir, which I’ll write once the world realizes how meritorious I am:
25% Swedes Conquer All: Stories of a Quarter Scandinavian Kicking Ass and Taking Names.
Because Orongejello would probably do anything for me, I decided I could come close to matching that by buying and building another nightstand for him. Since he was still on his 7 week adventure, I thought it would make a nice surprise for his return, and hence I ventured to My People’s Store and picked one up. I also bought about 20 other things, because you just don’t know you need some items until you see them Swedish style. But I digress.
Last week I arrived home from work at an early enough hour to assemble the nightstand. I was pretty excited because I am a nerd who gets a kick out of putting things together, and since I can’t actually speak any Swedish, I feel connected to their language when I correctly interpret the wordless pictures in IKEA instruction manuals. I began by setting out all of the pieces, screws, and bolts and organizing them into neat little piles. I proceeded to piece the pieces together, and little by little the new nightstand was taking shape.
In case you’ve never lived in a college apartment before, which is another way of saying in case you’ve never assembled IKEA furniture before, you should know a few things about the process. Oftentimes, you will first insert a wooden peg in a hole (and no, I am not turning this into an innuendo-filled entry, that would be too easy and I like a challenge) that will match with a hole in another piece. When you put the pieces together, the peg holds them in place so that you can ram a screw through them both, thereby binding them together more permanently (there really is no way to say those things without making them sound sexual).
Everything was going just dandily for me. The nightstand came together quickly and looked swell. Then came the part where I had to attach it to the bed. The nightstand came with a metal piece that is designed to screw into the bottom of the bed and the bottom of the nightstand. I’ve attempted to illustrate it here:
I was trying to figure out how to get the metal piece into the bottom of the bed when I suddenly remembered why I’d built the last nightstand with assistance from my tremendous brother David: this step was better designed for a constructionist with 3 hands.
Hand 1 – Holds metal piece against bed
Hand 2 – Holds screw against metal piece
Hand 3 – Uses screwdriver to put screw through metal piece and into bed
However, God did not see fit to build us with 3 hands, and I was home alone, though thankfully not lost in New York. Other solutions needed to be found.
It seemed pretty obvious to me that the best idea was to use my head in place of Hand 1. So I pushed the metal piece against the bottom of the bed with the side of my head, and contorted myself in a way where Hands 2 and 3 were being put to proper use. This was not an easy task. I had to move around a bit, once testing to see if my forehead made a better hand than my temple (it didn’t). The gap where the screws had to fit was so narrow I don’t think anyone with fingers rounder than highlighters could get in there. To make matters worse, one of the two screws I had to put in got stripped, and I didn’t have another one so I had to exert extra pressure on the screwdriver so it would have something to grip onto. For some reason, I was unable to push harder with Hand 3 without pushing harder with my head, so I came out of that with some unnecessary muscle tension. It probably looked a bit like this:
Bonding the nightstand to the metal piece was much simpler, since there was no miniscule gap between the metal and since the nightstand supported itself by fitting conveniently into the metal piece. The last step was to nail a small metal plate between the back of the headboard and the back of the nightstand like so:
As is becoming a growing trend with my half-fails, I still consider my foray into construction to be a total success. I even put books on the nightstand shelf that I knew Orongejello would like.
The imprint from the metal piece has since faded from my head, by my pride sure hasn’t. The experience even bequeathed me with a potential title for my upcoming bestselling memoir, which I’ll write once the world realizes how meritorious I am:
25% Swedes Conquer All: Stories of a Quarter Scandinavian Kicking Ass and Taking Names.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Aimster Imparts Valuable Information on STDs
Because the month of July has resulted in me being ashamed of my utter failure to maintain my blog, I felt that I should write a blog helping people who are ashamed themselves. Because that got depressing quite quickly, I narrowed my focus to STDs and those who seem in the greatest need of enlightenment on such a sticky issue, or an itchy issue, or a stinging issue, or what have you. For that, I went to Yahoo! Answers to find some quality Question Myths.
Question Myth #1 - Can a person that had STD that is cured still affect someone if he had a sexual contact without condom?
Let me begin by saying that I was highly impressed that someone who asks such a foolish question used the word “affects” properly. 93% of the population doesn’t know how to do that*. He did, however, forget to use the word “an” after the word “had” and the word “a” after the word “without”, so I guess the grammar brain can’t be all there when you’re worried about warting people up. Luckily for this male, when a doctor says you are cured of something, you really are. But maybe if you got an STD in the first place, you should start using condoms.
Question Myth #2 - Do you think they will ever cure syphilis?
Ummmm…they already have. If this person meant eliminating the disease completely, well, good luck with that. People don’t want to accept they might have an STD and go off infecting others before getting treatment. The “It won’t happen to me” mentality is terribly destructive, especially when it comes to unprotected sex. I bet there are woman spewing goo as green as Slimer from their vagingos and they are still trying to find alternate explanations.
Question Myth #3 - How can chlamydia spread back and forth from gf to bf when they already have the disease?
I don’t even know what this person meant by this question. You can’t get a disease twice. This might be the worst thing I ever say in my entire existence, but I almost hope chlamydia makes this person infertile because people who ask things like this should not be allowed to raise children of their own, especially if they give their children STDs. I am so going to hell for saying that. I hope having ministers for parents gives me some points with the man upstairs.
Question Myth #4 - Could I get syphilis from the holy wine?
No, but watch it happen to me because of the thing I said in the last paragraph.
Question Myth #5 - Can you get herpes of the eye from a cat?
I wanted my first response to this to be “Yes” for two reasons:
1. I still think most cats are evil. Sometimes they try to bite me when I try to pet them. Maybe they think I am going to give them herpes (which I don’t have, no worries, Orongejello).
2. Because in a world where people and animals can affect one another with their biological chemistry, my childhood goal of one day being half dolphin could still be possible.
But really, humans and cats are too different on the inside, not to mention the outside, for this to happen.
Question Myth #6 - What are the possibilities to transmit HIV thru the masturbation from message parlors?
Firstly, this person did indeed mean to ask about massage parlors. Message Parlors don’t exist, but if they did, I’d imagine they’d be a haven for computer geeks where you went and instant messaged people at the computers in the Message Parlor, thereby eliminating the need to approach people directly. It’s the ultimate technological love story:
Guy at Computer 1: I love the way you type.
Girl at Computer 2: I love the way you watch me type.
Five months later:
Guy at Computer 1: Will you marry me?
Girl at Computer 2: Yes! Lol
BAM! Marriage! Babies! And hopefully no STDs!
Instead, I have to respond to this with, “I hope you tipped that masseuse damn well.”
*This statistic is completely made up. But it’s probably true that the vast majority of people don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect”.
Question Myth #1 - Can a person that had STD that is cured still affect someone if he had a sexual contact without condom?
Let me begin by saying that I was highly impressed that someone who asks such a foolish question used the word “affects” properly. 93% of the population doesn’t know how to do that*. He did, however, forget to use the word “an” after the word “had” and the word “a” after the word “without”, so I guess the grammar brain can’t be all there when you’re worried about warting people up. Luckily for this male, when a doctor says you are cured of something, you really are. But maybe if you got an STD in the first place, you should start using condoms.
Question Myth #2 - Do you think they will ever cure syphilis?
Ummmm…they already have. If this person meant eliminating the disease completely, well, good luck with that. People don’t want to accept they might have an STD and go off infecting others before getting treatment. The “It won’t happen to me” mentality is terribly destructive, especially when it comes to unprotected sex. I bet there are woman spewing goo as green as Slimer from their vagingos and they are still trying to find alternate explanations.
Question Myth #3 - How can chlamydia spread back and forth from gf to bf when they already have the disease?
I don’t even know what this person meant by this question. You can’t get a disease twice. This might be the worst thing I ever say in my entire existence, but I almost hope chlamydia makes this person infertile because people who ask things like this should not be allowed to raise children of their own, especially if they give their children STDs. I am so going to hell for saying that. I hope having ministers for parents gives me some points with the man upstairs.
Question Myth #4 - Could I get syphilis from the holy wine?
No, but watch it happen to me because of the thing I said in the last paragraph.
Question Myth #5 - Can you get herpes of the eye from a cat?
I wanted my first response to this to be “Yes” for two reasons:
1. I still think most cats are evil. Sometimes they try to bite me when I try to pet them. Maybe they think I am going to give them herpes (which I don’t have, no worries, Orongejello).
2. Because in a world where people and animals can affect one another with their biological chemistry, my childhood goal of one day being half dolphin could still be possible.
But really, humans and cats are too different on the inside, not to mention the outside, for this to happen.
Question Myth #6 - What are the possibilities to transmit HIV thru the masturbation from message parlors?
Firstly, this person did indeed mean to ask about massage parlors. Message Parlors don’t exist, but if they did, I’d imagine they’d be a haven for computer geeks where you went and instant messaged people at the computers in the Message Parlor, thereby eliminating the need to approach people directly. It’s the ultimate technological love story:
Guy at Computer 1: I love the way you type.
Girl at Computer 2: I love the way you watch me type.
Five months later:
Guy at Computer 1: Will you marry me?
Girl at Computer 2: Yes! Lol
BAM! Marriage! Babies! And hopefully no STDs!
Instead, I have to respond to this with, “I hope you tipped that masseuse damn well.”
*This statistic is completely made up. But it’s probably true that the vast majority of people don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect”.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Aimster Becomes an Investigative Coroner
A few weeks ago my little brother David, my boyfriend Orongejello, and I went hiking. On the way we had a discussion about tackling wild animals, which led to Orongejello suggesting that we have a weekly poker night where tackling different animals would equate a certain number of free buy-ins. And now onto another story that will soon be related.
This week the wondrous Orongejello left to go to Alaska for 5 ½ weeks, which was sad news [polar] bears. When he arrived at the airport, he texted me this picture:
The caption read: “Standing next to the lady whose brother in law shot this polar bear displayed at the Anchorage airport.”
Our conversation proceeded as such:
Aimster: Shooting a polar bear is the easy way out. Tackling a polar bear should equate free buy-ins for poker night for at least 6 months.
Orongejello: Or a picture of yourself over the mantle on poker night if it ends poorly.
Aimster: With the caption, “Died Tackling a Polar Bear for the Love of Texas Hold ‘Em”.
Orongejello: The coroner’s report listed “natural selection” as the cause of death.
Aimster: I wish they could write things like that on coroners’ reports. Like instead of heart attack it says, “40 years of Sunday brunch with chocolate chip pancakes and butter”.
Orongejello: Sounds like a short story: “The Brief Life of an Investigative Coroner”.
Aimster: Personally I would appreciate a coroner who cares that much. Cancer is such a boring diagnosis. “Career in rubber manufacturing that resulted in an overwhelming exposure to BPA” is much more personal, and would even help people to learn what habits to adopt or ditch for health reasons.
And so, to continue my occasional trend with having a socially conscious blog, I've concocted 10 examples of improved diagnoses on coroner reports.
1. So anxious to go sledding she didn’t take the time to properly dress for the cold weather = Pneumonia
2. George W. Bush = War Casualty
3. Failed to shake his college fraternity days = Cirrhosis of the Liver
4. Unstoppable need to emulate Humphrey Bogart = Lung and/or Throat Cancer attributed to Smoking
5. Lives in Los Angeles = Traffic Collision
6. Misconception that friends wearing “D.A.R.E.” shirts would never give him anything unsafe to consume = Drug Overdose
7. Went too far with enactment of the “Five Little Monkeys” song = Brain Hemorrhage
8. Decided that orange was a good color for flowers, basketballs, and her skin = Melanoma
9. Thought that travel vaccines were only for people weaker than him = Malaria (Note: This is my projected coroner’s statement for Chuck Norris.)
10. Overexposure to Fall Out Boy, Simple Plan, Dashboard Confessional, etc. = Suicide
Until next time, remember this: There’s more to measles than meets the eye.
This week the wondrous Orongejello left to go to Alaska for 5 ½ weeks, which was sad news [polar] bears. When he arrived at the airport, he texted me this picture:
The caption read: “Standing next to the lady whose brother in law shot this polar bear displayed at the Anchorage airport.”
Our conversation proceeded as such:
Aimster: Shooting a polar bear is the easy way out. Tackling a polar bear should equate free buy-ins for poker night for at least 6 months.
Orongejello: Or a picture of yourself over the mantle on poker night if it ends poorly.
Aimster: With the caption, “Died Tackling a Polar Bear for the Love of Texas Hold ‘Em”.
Orongejello: The coroner’s report listed “natural selection” as the cause of death.
Aimster: I wish they could write things like that on coroners’ reports. Like instead of heart attack it says, “40 years of Sunday brunch with chocolate chip pancakes and butter”.
Orongejello: Sounds like a short story: “The Brief Life of an Investigative Coroner”.
Aimster: Personally I would appreciate a coroner who cares that much. Cancer is such a boring diagnosis. “Career in rubber manufacturing that resulted in an overwhelming exposure to BPA” is much more personal, and would even help people to learn what habits to adopt or ditch for health reasons.
And so, to continue my occasional trend with having a socially conscious blog, I've concocted 10 examples of improved diagnoses on coroner reports.
1. So anxious to go sledding she didn’t take the time to properly dress for the cold weather = Pneumonia
2. George W. Bush = War Casualty
3. Failed to shake his college fraternity days = Cirrhosis of the Liver
4. Unstoppable need to emulate Humphrey Bogart = Lung and/or Throat Cancer attributed to Smoking
5. Lives in Los Angeles = Traffic Collision
6. Misconception that friends wearing “D.A.R.E.” shirts would never give him anything unsafe to consume = Drug Overdose
7. Went too far with enactment of the “Five Little Monkeys” song = Brain Hemorrhage
8. Decided that orange was a good color for flowers, basketballs, and her skin = Melanoma
9. Thought that travel vaccines were only for people weaker than him = Malaria (Note: This is my projected coroner’s statement for Chuck Norris.)
10. Overexposure to Fall Out Boy, Simple Plan, Dashboard Confessional, etc. = Suicide
Until next time, remember this: There’s more to measles than meets the eye.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Aimster and Her Boyfriend Go Camping
Over the weekend I went camping with my boyfriend in Joshua Tree National Park. [Note: My boyfriend doesn’t like his life to be documented on the World Wide Web, so from here on out, he will be referred to as Orangejello, which is to be pronounced like Or-an-gel-o.] For those of you who aren’t experts on America the Beautiful, probably the most important thing you should know going into this story is that Joshua Tree is in the middle of the desert. But more on that later.
We had a goal to get up at 9:00 am on Saturday so we could pack up, get groceries for cooking out, drive, and have some time to spend in the park before nightfall. We didn’t actually get up until 9:40, and we didn’t manage to pull ourselves out of bed until sometime after 10:00. I am not going to bore you with the rest of the preparatory events, but basically by the time we ate, packed my things, packed Orangejello’s things, got firewood, got gas, ate again (because cereal just doesn’t cut it), and got groceries, we ended up leaving around 1:30. Major fail.
Yet the first tragedy didn’t strike until we were off in the car and picking music, when we realized that we had forgotten the Most Spectacular CD of All Time (and yes, I do believe that deserves to be a capitalized title). I know what artists must fly through your head when you hear that: The Beatles, Michael Jackson, Justin Bieber. Those are some of the best sellers ever, after all. But you would be wrong. The Most Spectacular CD of All Time was purchased by Orangejello and me at a gas station. It’s called Circus Disco and it’s music played at an LA club of the same name (although Orangejello and I didn’t know that at the time). The CD features such amazing tracks as “You’re My Magician” and the destined to be a classic “Push, Push in the Bush”. And guess what, you’re in luck, because you can listen to samples of these spellbinding songs right here: http://www.amazon.com/Circus-Disco-Non-Stop-Mixed/dp/B00006399W/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1276029207&sr=1-5.
We faced this disappointment together, which is probably a testament to our strength as a couple. The rest of the car journey proceeded without any hitches. When we got to the camp we decided the first thing to do was set up the tent. We retrieved all the supplies from the car and began laying everything out. We put the poles through the top and Orangejello started hammering the stakes in with a rock that I found, which means we are resourceful and could probably kick ass on The Amazing Race (if that is indeed the type of thing people do on that show. I’ve never actually seen it). This is when I noticed something was a little off about Orangejello’s tent, namely that it had a giant hole in it. This seemed unlikely so I thought maybe I was misconceptualizing the functions of the tent. Upon 10 seconds of closer inspection, I concluded that the tent actually had 2 giant holes. Upon another minute of inspection, Orangejello and I discovered that the seams on the tent were all glued together instead of sewn.
You’d think that maybe Orangejello had just gotten the bad tent in the manufactured batch, but you would once again be wrong. The tent actually came with seam glue, which indicated that the company anticipated such things happening. Seriously suck it, Mountain Hardware.
We set about putting the glue on the seams, and even though it came with a little application brush, it nonetheless ended up all over our hands. At this point, Orangejello remarked, “I bet you’re not supposed to get this stuff on your skin.” I checked the packaging, which read, “WARNING: REFRAIN FROM CONTACT WITH SKIN OR EYES”. At least our visual orbs were safe.
After a semi-successful attempt at making our tent into a solid entity, we went to the bathroom to scrub the glue off our hands. Initially it seemed to be coming off easily. Our hands didn’t feel the least bit sticky when under the water. But when we tried to dry them, the paper towels were clinging to us. We continued to scrub away to no avail. Finally, I had to scrape each individual finger with a fingernail from the opposite hand, and then proceeded to scrape the glue off Orangejello’s hands because his fingernails, thankfully, were not long enough to do this. However, because Orangejello is wonderful and had done most of the sticky part of the seam sealing operation, there was still a lot of glue on his hands that I didn’t get. But Orangejello isn’t one to let adhesive slathered fingers get in the way of a good time, so he decided the hand washing excursion should come to an end and we should go enjoy the outdoors.
That lasted as long as it took me to tell Orangejello that I didn’t like having to resist the impulse to hold his hand, which prompted him to immediately pick up a rock off the ground and begin scraping his fingers with it. I chose to interpret that gesture as romantic. After he was done with that, Orangejello came up with the snazzy idea that we should wallpaper the glued seams with paper towels so that the glue could not cling to anything we put inside the tent. If nothing else, he has a future as a practical interior decorator.
The rest of the afternoon was grand, so I won’t write about that because this blog is generally not about the things that go right in life. Things going wrong is much more entertaining.
In the evening a giant group of males arrived for a bachelor party and began boozing it up. There’s nothing like the sounds of drunken men to permeate the music of nature in the crisp night air. Luckily, Orangejello is very distracting, so romantic s’more making under the stars (which are probably the main reason to go to Joshua Tree, b. t. dubs) was only intermittently punctuated by sentences like, “You know what really pisses me off? That the Bat Signal wouldn’t work in real life,” and, “So you’re saying that you would fucking lick her clit until it exploded all over your face?” (The answer was, “Yes,” in case you were wondering.)
Orangejello kindly slept on the side of the tent where the seam glue hadn’t been up to snuff and I stupidly slept on some sort of rock, which I didn’t realize until morning when I woke up with a bruise on my back. I was still half asleep when I emerged from the tent to find Orangejello already cleaning things up and cooking food. I changed into my hiking clothes and, knowing how badly I sunburn, decided the first order of business must be to put on sunscreen. I haphazardly sprayed myself and went about my morning. We packed everything up and put most things in the car. Orangejello said we could leave out our bag of food, our jug of water, and our cooler because they would be hotter in my trunk than under the shaded picnic tables. I was afraid someone might steal them, but Orangejello assured me that people in National Parks don’t do that sort of thing. Even in National Parks close to Los Angeles.
We set about hiking and it was lovely. Orangejello took lots of pictures of the wildflowers, lizards, and the most beautiful thing to ever grace the desert, me. Just kidding. I was climbing a rock and probably looked like the klutz that I am. There were some snippity-snappity-cool animals though, like desert chipmunks and crows so giant they would have tackled Tippi Hedren like linebackers had they been cast in The Birds.
Midway through the hike Orangejello informed me that my shoulders were looking burnt. I figured they couldn’t be burning too badly because I’d put sunscreen on. Orangejello wasn’t so sure but I confidently stated, “I know the way I burn.”
What I’ve decided now is that I know the way I burn when I properly cover myself in sunscreen, which is 99% of the time. But because the world just isn’t on my side sometimes, 1% of the time came when I was hiking in an utterly unshaded desert, in the afternoon when the sun is highest, with 100+ degree temperatures. Now I understand why Joshua Tree’s least busy season is summer. You see, when I am tired, I am lazy. When I am lazy, I do not perform tasks to my highest ability. In this case, I had done a horrific job applying my sunscreen evenly. It all started coming back to me: the way I saw the mist from the sunscreen bottle blowing away in the wind, the way I didn’t smell like I’d overdosed on sunscreen perfume like I normally do. The more I thought about it, the more my body made it clear that I had inadequately applied sunscreen to about 70% of my exposed skin. Now my epidermis features streaks of bright red next to white stripes of my pale normalness. If you colored my face blue and drew stars on it I could probably pass for an American flag. Aloe Vera is suddenly my crack cocaine. Orangejello is not fairing much better.
But back to my tale. Orangejello and I had drunk all the water that we took on the hike and were looking forward to getting back to that jug of water we’d left in the shade. But the man upstairs apparently thought we hadn’t learned enough lessons on the trip, because we arrived to find that those enormous crows we’d seen on our hike had staged a full-scale invasion in our absence. They knocked our bag of food to the ground, thereby shattering Orangejello’s plates, and they polished off all our nourishment. To make matters worse, they had violently torn a hole in our water jug and their excrement had made its way inside. Now the only water we had was the product of some melted ice in the cooler. Not a good thing when you’ve been hiking in the hot sun for 4.5 hours.
It was obviously time to leave and get some sustenance. I lathered myself in sunscreen so that I wouldn’t burn even more on the drive, and we began the ride home.
Call me crazy, but I would still rate this trip as a total success.
**Correction** Orangejello has informed me that he prefers his name to be spelled phonetically, as Orongejello.
We had a goal to get up at 9:00 am on Saturday so we could pack up, get groceries for cooking out, drive, and have some time to spend in the park before nightfall. We didn’t actually get up until 9:40, and we didn’t manage to pull ourselves out of bed until sometime after 10:00. I am not going to bore you with the rest of the preparatory events, but basically by the time we ate, packed my things, packed Orangejello’s things, got firewood, got gas, ate again (because cereal just doesn’t cut it), and got groceries, we ended up leaving around 1:30. Major fail.
Yet the first tragedy didn’t strike until we were off in the car and picking music, when we realized that we had forgotten the Most Spectacular CD of All Time (and yes, I do believe that deserves to be a capitalized title). I know what artists must fly through your head when you hear that: The Beatles, Michael Jackson, Justin Bieber. Those are some of the best sellers ever, after all. But you would be wrong. The Most Spectacular CD of All Time was purchased by Orangejello and me at a gas station. It’s called Circus Disco and it’s music played at an LA club of the same name (although Orangejello and I didn’t know that at the time). The CD features such amazing tracks as “You’re My Magician” and the destined to be a classic “Push, Push in the Bush”. And guess what, you’re in luck, because you can listen to samples of these spellbinding songs right here: http://www.amazon.com/Circus-Disco-Non-Stop-Mixed/dp/B00006399W/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1276029207&sr=1-5.
We faced this disappointment together, which is probably a testament to our strength as a couple. The rest of the car journey proceeded without any hitches. When we got to the camp we decided the first thing to do was set up the tent. We retrieved all the supplies from the car and began laying everything out. We put the poles through the top and Orangejello started hammering the stakes in with a rock that I found, which means we are resourceful and could probably kick ass on The Amazing Race (if that is indeed the type of thing people do on that show. I’ve never actually seen it). This is when I noticed something was a little off about Orangejello’s tent, namely that it had a giant hole in it. This seemed unlikely so I thought maybe I was misconceptualizing the functions of the tent. Upon 10 seconds of closer inspection, I concluded that the tent actually had 2 giant holes. Upon another minute of inspection, Orangejello and I discovered that the seams on the tent were all glued together instead of sewn.
You’d think that maybe Orangejello had just gotten the bad tent in the manufactured batch, but you would once again be wrong. The tent actually came with seam glue, which indicated that the company anticipated such things happening. Seriously suck it, Mountain Hardware.
We set about putting the glue on the seams, and even though it came with a little application brush, it nonetheless ended up all over our hands. At this point, Orangejello remarked, “I bet you’re not supposed to get this stuff on your skin.” I checked the packaging, which read, “WARNING: REFRAIN FROM CONTACT WITH SKIN OR EYES”. At least our visual orbs were safe.
After a semi-successful attempt at making our tent into a solid entity, we went to the bathroom to scrub the glue off our hands. Initially it seemed to be coming off easily. Our hands didn’t feel the least bit sticky when under the water. But when we tried to dry them, the paper towels were clinging to us. We continued to scrub away to no avail. Finally, I had to scrape each individual finger with a fingernail from the opposite hand, and then proceeded to scrape the glue off Orangejello’s hands because his fingernails, thankfully, were not long enough to do this. However, because Orangejello is wonderful and had done most of the sticky part of the seam sealing operation, there was still a lot of glue on his hands that I didn’t get. But Orangejello isn’t one to let adhesive slathered fingers get in the way of a good time, so he decided the hand washing excursion should come to an end and we should go enjoy the outdoors.
That lasted as long as it took me to tell Orangejello that I didn’t like having to resist the impulse to hold his hand, which prompted him to immediately pick up a rock off the ground and begin scraping his fingers with it. I chose to interpret that gesture as romantic. After he was done with that, Orangejello came up with the snazzy idea that we should wallpaper the glued seams with paper towels so that the glue could not cling to anything we put inside the tent. If nothing else, he has a future as a practical interior decorator.
The rest of the afternoon was grand, so I won’t write about that because this blog is generally not about the things that go right in life. Things going wrong is much more entertaining.
In the evening a giant group of males arrived for a bachelor party and began boozing it up. There’s nothing like the sounds of drunken men to permeate the music of nature in the crisp night air. Luckily, Orangejello is very distracting, so romantic s’more making under the stars (which are probably the main reason to go to Joshua Tree, b. t. dubs) was only intermittently punctuated by sentences like, “You know what really pisses me off? That the Bat Signal wouldn’t work in real life,” and, “So you’re saying that you would fucking lick her clit until it exploded all over your face?” (The answer was, “Yes,” in case you were wondering.)
Orangejello kindly slept on the side of the tent where the seam glue hadn’t been up to snuff and I stupidly slept on some sort of rock, which I didn’t realize until morning when I woke up with a bruise on my back. I was still half asleep when I emerged from the tent to find Orangejello already cleaning things up and cooking food. I changed into my hiking clothes and, knowing how badly I sunburn, decided the first order of business must be to put on sunscreen. I haphazardly sprayed myself and went about my morning. We packed everything up and put most things in the car. Orangejello said we could leave out our bag of food, our jug of water, and our cooler because they would be hotter in my trunk than under the shaded picnic tables. I was afraid someone might steal them, but Orangejello assured me that people in National Parks don’t do that sort of thing. Even in National Parks close to Los Angeles.
We set about hiking and it was lovely. Orangejello took lots of pictures of the wildflowers, lizards, and the most beautiful thing to ever grace the desert, me. Just kidding. I was climbing a rock and probably looked like the klutz that I am. There were some snippity-snappity-cool animals though, like desert chipmunks and crows so giant they would have tackled Tippi Hedren like linebackers had they been cast in The Birds.
Midway through the hike Orangejello informed me that my shoulders were looking burnt. I figured they couldn’t be burning too badly because I’d put sunscreen on. Orangejello wasn’t so sure but I confidently stated, “I know the way I burn.”
What I’ve decided now is that I know the way I burn when I properly cover myself in sunscreen, which is 99% of the time. But because the world just isn’t on my side sometimes, 1% of the time came when I was hiking in an utterly unshaded desert, in the afternoon when the sun is highest, with 100+ degree temperatures. Now I understand why Joshua Tree’s least busy season is summer. You see, when I am tired, I am lazy. When I am lazy, I do not perform tasks to my highest ability. In this case, I had done a horrific job applying my sunscreen evenly. It all started coming back to me: the way I saw the mist from the sunscreen bottle blowing away in the wind, the way I didn’t smell like I’d overdosed on sunscreen perfume like I normally do. The more I thought about it, the more my body made it clear that I had inadequately applied sunscreen to about 70% of my exposed skin. Now my epidermis features streaks of bright red next to white stripes of my pale normalness. If you colored my face blue and drew stars on it I could probably pass for an American flag. Aloe Vera is suddenly my crack cocaine. Orangejello is not fairing much better.
But back to my tale. Orangejello and I had drunk all the water that we took on the hike and were looking forward to getting back to that jug of water we’d left in the shade. But the man upstairs apparently thought we hadn’t learned enough lessons on the trip, because we arrived to find that those enormous crows we’d seen on our hike had staged a full-scale invasion in our absence. They knocked our bag of food to the ground, thereby shattering Orangejello’s plates, and they polished off all our nourishment. To make matters worse, they had violently torn a hole in our water jug and their excrement had made its way inside. Now the only water we had was the product of some melted ice in the cooler. Not a good thing when you’ve been hiking in the hot sun for 4.5 hours.
It was obviously time to leave and get some sustenance. I lathered myself in sunscreen so that I wouldn’t burn even more on the drive, and we began the ride home.
Call me crazy, but I would still rate this trip as a total success.
**Correction** Orangejello has informed me that he prefers his name to be spelled phonetically, as Orongejello.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Aimster Ponders the Harm of Abstinence-Only Education
Lately I’ve been thinking that I should try to be more socially responsible with my blog, lest everyone think that I spend all my days brainstorming inappropriate pick-up lines when in reality I only spend most of my days partaking in such tasks. Therefore, today I am writing about a topic on which I have practically zero expertise: abstinence-only education. I could look up some statistics, but that would be too much work, so I’m just going to suggest that you take everything I say as the truth.
There are a lot of issues being flung around in politics today, and as a result, abstinence-only education is sometimes relegated to the backburner. Meanwhile, lots of teens have a bun in the oven. [Do you like how I tied together those stove phrases? If so, you are like my Dadio, whom my family tends to regard as the king of “Dad Jokes”.] Most of these pregnancies are unwanted, although there’s always that crazy girl who thinks that if she gets knocked up by the 17-year-old love of her life, they will be together forever and never again will he cheat on her with the slut who lives across the street. Logical as it may seem, it’s not.
Research that I haven’t really read shows that abstinence-only education isn’t terribly effective. Supposedly youths in these programs are no less likely to have sex, but because they were not taught about birth control, they’re more likely to have unprotected sex. As I investigated this topic further, I found a lot of supporting evidence for this argument. I will now debunk some common myths about pregnancy and birth control. I found these quotes on the interweb in the form of questions, so I am calling them “Question Myths” because I am smart like that:
Question Myth #1 – “Can you NOT get pregnant by eating peanut butter before having sex?”
Apparently some people think that the thick viscosity of peanut butter creates an equally thick viscosity in one’s jizz, which keeps it from swimming enthusiastically into the uterus. This is tragically untrue. If it were true, we’d be training children to practice safe sex since preschool, when they indulge in such grand treats as PB&J or Fluffies. I think the only way eating peanut butter could keep one from getting preggers is if one used peanut butter to help swallow an oral contraceptive. I might have to start doing that; it does sound more fun.
Question Myth #2 – “Can you still get pregnant if you jump up and down immediately after sex?”
Oh, ignorant minions, if only this were true. It would be the cheapest form of birth control ever. But it would be messy. Can you imagine hopping up and leaping around as whatever just got shot up into you spewed out all over the place? That would take away from the appeal. But it would be a good way to keep burning calories.
Question Myth #3 – “Can you use a plastic bag if you don't have a condom?”
I know that this is definitely not true for bags from Ralph’s, because I bring those back with holes in them all the time. Especially when it’s a bag holding bananas, which offers a good comparison. Target has pretty durable bags, but they still don’t guarantee pregnancy or STD prevention. It might only be a matter of time before that changes because Target is taking over the world. I should note for all the citizens who are going green that using a reusable canvas grocery bag probably won’t keep you from fertilizing either. Plus it would hurt.
Question Myth #4 – “If a guy drinks really cold water before sex, can he not get a girl pregnant?”
The thought behind this theory is that the cold water would somehow freeze the sperm, thereby rendering it immobile. Obviously, that is not a very well thought out thought, because if the water isn’t even cold enough to be frozen itself, why should it be cold enough to freeze the sperm? Interestingly, I have not come across any wonderings suggesting that drinking really hot water will melt sperm, so this is not a situation like, “What killed the dinosaurs, fire or ice?” But it should be like that, because dinosaurs are awesome.
Question Myth #5 – “Can your baby get pregnant if you have sex while pregnant?”
Currently, this is not possible. But it will be soon, as this query has prompted me to write an excellent sci-fi screenplay. Possible titles are “Devil Baby in My Baby”, “Attack of the Baby of the Baby”, and “Double Baby Squared”. That last one doesn’t make sense but it has a nice ring to it. Coming soon to a theater near you.
Question Myth #6 – “If you get pregnant and have a baby then have unprotected sex with the same male can they make you pregnant again? I am 12 and I know this is a stupid question.”
Oh, to be 12 again. So young and curious about the ways of the world. To have never understood the concept of siblings. Those were the good ole days. And then you hit 13 and you realize that yes, the same person can get you pregnant more than once, and that’s when you start hoping that you can keep that baby out of your tummy if only you push on your belly button really hard after sex. That doesn’t work either, by the way.
If you have a teenager in your life, or a 12 year old, make sure to inform him or her of all the false information out there, especially if he or she is having an abstinence-only education shoved down his or her throat. After all, you don’t want to be the parent with the pregnant daughter who asks, “How did this happen?” and gets the response, “I don’t know! I ate an entire jar of peanut butter beforehand and he drank a whole gallon of cold water. We even did jumping jacks together afterward!”
Note: If this situation actually happens to you, please force your child to give the baby up for adoption. It deserves a fighting chance, after all.
There are a lot of issues being flung around in politics today, and as a result, abstinence-only education is sometimes relegated to the backburner. Meanwhile, lots of teens have a bun in the oven. [Do you like how I tied together those stove phrases? If so, you are like my Dadio, whom my family tends to regard as the king of “Dad Jokes”.] Most of these pregnancies are unwanted, although there’s always that crazy girl who thinks that if she gets knocked up by the 17-year-old love of her life, they will be together forever and never again will he cheat on her with the slut who lives across the street. Logical as it may seem, it’s not.
Research that I haven’t really read shows that abstinence-only education isn’t terribly effective. Supposedly youths in these programs are no less likely to have sex, but because they were not taught about birth control, they’re more likely to have unprotected sex. As I investigated this topic further, I found a lot of supporting evidence for this argument. I will now debunk some common myths about pregnancy and birth control. I found these quotes on the interweb in the form of questions, so I am calling them “Question Myths” because I am smart like that:
Question Myth #1 – “Can you NOT get pregnant by eating peanut butter before having sex?”
Apparently some people think that the thick viscosity of peanut butter creates an equally thick viscosity in one’s jizz, which keeps it from swimming enthusiastically into the uterus. This is tragically untrue. If it were true, we’d be training children to practice safe sex since preschool, when they indulge in such grand treats as PB&J or Fluffies. I think the only way eating peanut butter could keep one from getting preggers is if one used peanut butter to help swallow an oral contraceptive. I might have to start doing that; it does sound more fun.
Question Myth #2 – “Can you still get pregnant if you jump up and down immediately after sex?”
Oh, ignorant minions, if only this were true. It would be the cheapest form of birth control ever. But it would be messy. Can you imagine hopping up and leaping around as whatever just got shot up into you spewed out all over the place? That would take away from the appeal. But it would be a good way to keep burning calories.
Question Myth #3 – “Can you use a plastic bag if you don't have a condom?”
I know that this is definitely not true for bags from Ralph’s, because I bring those back with holes in them all the time. Especially when it’s a bag holding bananas, which offers a good comparison. Target has pretty durable bags, but they still don’t guarantee pregnancy or STD prevention. It might only be a matter of time before that changes because Target is taking over the world. I should note for all the citizens who are going green that using a reusable canvas grocery bag probably won’t keep you from fertilizing either. Plus it would hurt.
Question Myth #4 – “If a guy drinks really cold water before sex, can he not get a girl pregnant?”
The thought behind this theory is that the cold water would somehow freeze the sperm, thereby rendering it immobile. Obviously, that is not a very well thought out thought, because if the water isn’t even cold enough to be frozen itself, why should it be cold enough to freeze the sperm? Interestingly, I have not come across any wonderings suggesting that drinking really hot water will melt sperm, so this is not a situation like, “What killed the dinosaurs, fire or ice?” But it should be like that, because dinosaurs are awesome.
Question Myth #5 – “Can your baby get pregnant if you have sex while pregnant?”
Currently, this is not possible. But it will be soon, as this query has prompted me to write an excellent sci-fi screenplay. Possible titles are “Devil Baby in My Baby”, “Attack of the Baby of the Baby”, and “Double Baby Squared”. That last one doesn’t make sense but it has a nice ring to it. Coming soon to a theater near you.
Question Myth #6 – “If you get pregnant and have a baby then have unprotected sex with the same male can they make you pregnant again? I am 12 and I know this is a stupid question.”
Oh, to be 12 again. So young and curious about the ways of the world. To have never understood the concept of siblings. Those were the good ole days. And then you hit 13 and you realize that yes, the same person can get you pregnant more than once, and that’s when you start hoping that you can keep that baby out of your tummy if only you push on your belly button really hard after sex. That doesn’t work either, by the way.
If you have a teenager in your life, or a 12 year old, make sure to inform him or her of all the false information out there, especially if he or she is having an abstinence-only education shoved down his or her throat. After all, you don’t want to be the parent with the pregnant daughter who asks, “How did this happen?” and gets the response, “I don’t know! I ate an entire jar of peanut butter beforehand and he drank a whole gallon of cold water. We even did jumping jacks together afterward!”
Note: If this situation actually happens to you, please force your child to give the baby up for adoption. It deserves a fighting chance, after all.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Aimster and Dmitrii Write Elevator Pick-Up Lines
Let me preface this entry by saying that if you’re still one of those people who thinks of me as a total goodie-goodie, you don’t want to read this. Or you can read it and learn the truth: that sometimes my mind inhabits the gutter and I intend to bring everyone there with me.
Last week at work my friend Dmitrii and I were discussing the challenge of the elevator conversation. If you have the balls to say anything at all, you have to figure out how to branch into a topic that’s friendly but destined to be short – you only have so much time in the elevator, after all. At first we were going to write a book about elevator conversation starters, but that plan was quickly kicked to the curb when we realized that it would be much more fun (i.e. immature) to think of elevator pick-up lines. We came up with some innocent ones for the not-so-brave, and then a list for those of you who aren’t afraid to grab the bull by the horns.
So here you have it, ladies and gentlemen. You can thank us when you’re getting off on the wrong floor because you’ve just been invited into the apartment of that hottie you were sharing the elevator with. Or perhaps more likely, you can pay your friends to actually say these things just to see how disgusted of a reaction the target can muster.
[Push all the buttons] “I just wanted to spend more time with you.”
“I don’t mind being claustrophobic in an elevator because it means I get to be closer to you.”
“I never wished I’d get stuck in an elevator until I hopped on this one with you.”
"Do you look awkward because we're standing in silence within two feet of each other...or is it because you have a secret crush on me?"
“I thought the lights in this elevator were sparkly, but they pale in comparison to your eyes.”
"You're the most beautiful thing that's ever graced a building security tape."
“Seeing you gets me higher than this elevator ever could.”
“I’m glad this elevator has an emergency button for fires because I’m burning up just looking at you.”
"Do you like your elevator ride slow and gentle...or do you like it rough?"
“This elevator isn’t the only thing that’s going up.”
“This elevator isn’t the only thing that likes going down.”
“I hope there are janitors to clean up spills in this elevator because just seeing you is making me very wet.”
“When you came into this elevator there were only two of us, but since then my dick has gotten so big that it deserves to be its own entity.”
[To be said before you enter the elevator when you see a hottie inside] "You're gonna make me come in this elevator."
And finally, if you don’t feel like being clever: “Nice elevator. Wanna fuck?”
You don’t have to remind Dmitrii and me about how stellar we are, because we already know we exude that naturally. If you too are able to drain your brain of all that is classy, then please, add your own elevator pick-up lines in the comments section.
Last week at work my friend Dmitrii and I were discussing the challenge of the elevator conversation. If you have the balls to say anything at all, you have to figure out how to branch into a topic that’s friendly but destined to be short – you only have so much time in the elevator, after all. At first we were going to write a book about elevator conversation starters, but that plan was quickly kicked to the curb when we realized that it would be much more fun (i.e. immature) to think of elevator pick-up lines. We came up with some innocent ones for the not-so-brave, and then a list for those of you who aren’t afraid to grab the bull by the horns.
So here you have it, ladies and gentlemen. You can thank us when you’re getting off on the wrong floor because you’ve just been invited into the apartment of that hottie you were sharing the elevator with. Or perhaps more likely, you can pay your friends to actually say these things just to see how disgusted of a reaction the target can muster.
[Push all the buttons] “I just wanted to spend more time with you.”
“I don’t mind being claustrophobic in an elevator because it means I get to be closer to you.”
“I never wished I’d get stuck in an elevator until I hopped on this one with you.”
"Do you look awkward because we're standing in silence within two feet of each other...or is it because you have a secret crush on me?"
“I thought the lights in this elevator were sparkly, but they pale in comparison to your eyes.”
"You're the most beautiful thing that's ever graced a building security tape."
“Seeing you gets me higher than this elevator ever could.”
“I’m glad this elevator has an emergency button for fires because I’m burning up just looking at you.”
"Do you like your elevator ride slow and gentle...or do you like it rough?"
“This elevator isn’t the only thing that’s going up.”
“This elevator isn’t the only thing that likes going down.”
“I hope there are janitors to clean up spills in this elevator because just seeing you is making me very wet.”
“When you came into this elevator there were only two of us, but since then my dick has gotten so big that it deserves to be its own entity.”
[To be said before you enter the elevator when you see a hottie inside] "You're gonna make me come in this elevator."
And finally, if you don’t feel like being clever: “Nice elevator. Wanna fuck?”
You don’t have to remind Dmitrii and me about how stellar we are, because we already know we exude that naturally. If you too are able to drain your brain of all that is classy, then please, add your own elevator pick-up lines in the comments section.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Aimster Sends a Letter to Domino's Pizza
Domino’s Pizza recently launched an advertising campaign to promote their all-new recipe, which apparently is so knock-your-socks-off amazing that it beat Papa John’s in a national taste test. I tend to think that a study with that conclusion could only have been constructed by someone as clueless as Paris Hilton, or possibly the Snuggle's Bear. After all, the Snuggle's Bear is so damn cute that he’d be sure to divert peoples’ attention away from the actual taste of the pizza. As for Paris Hilton, well, maybe her fake tan, bad hair extensions, and/or fucked-up nose would prove distracting. Or maybe she would just loan people cocaine from her private stash before they tried the Domino’s brand. That would certainly skew the results.
I was curious about the new and improved Domino’s and thought I should give it a shot. I was going to purchase one until I saw a commercial that changed my mind. Ironically, it was a Domino’s commercial.
In the advertisement, Domino’s claims that basically everyone has tried their new pizza, except for a select few “holdouts”. Because this is about as unacceptable as genocide, they target a specific “holdout” by putting personally addressed Domino’s signs all around his town, and finally by bringing him a pizza to eat whilst they film his reaction. I’m sure even Paris could guess whether or not he liked it.
This commercial rubbed me the wrong way, so I decided to write Domino’s a letter about my feelings. Here it is:
Dear Domino’s Hot Shot Executive,
It has come to my attention that your company recently came up with a new pizza recipe so that people would no longer compare your food to cardboard. Let me begin by congratulating you for this conversion. After all, nobody wants to be told that they suck at the thing they are supposed to be best at.
I was all ready to try your new pizza when I saw one of your commercials on television, and those 30 seconds of viewing left me with great dismay. In the commercial, an entire crew of Domino’s employees/enthusiasts go out of their way to bring one of the improved pizzas to a “holdout”. They then film him sampling the pizza and consider the entire operation a great success when he deems it delicious.
The subject of the commercial began as a common person on par with me: he was a Domino’s new recipe virgin. But then he got a free pizza. I simply cannot understand this. Why should this guy get a free pizza and not me? Is he better than me somehow? Is it because he’s a man and I’m a woman? Are you trying to be sexist? Women like pizza too, you know. Don’t you remember how April ate pizza along with the Ninja Turtles? The man in your commercial received a pizza at no cost. I feel that I should be entitled to the same privilege.
Although you have greatly offended me, there is a simple solution to this problem. Just send me a free pizza, and all will be well again. I won’t feel psychologically scarred, and I will no longer have trouble falling asleep wondering if I am on some sort of free pizza naughty list. I am usually home after 8 pm on Mondays through Fridays. I am also willing to accept a gift certificate.
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter. I hope you have a pleasant day.
And then I included my name and address. I'll let you know when I get my pizza.
I was curious about the new and improved Domino’s and thought I should give it a shot. I was going to purchase one until I saw a commercial that changed my mind. Ironically, it was a Domino’s commercial.
In the advertisement, Domino’s claims that basically everyone has tried their new pizza, except for a select few “holdouts”. Because this is about as unacceptable as genocide, they target a specific “holdout” by putting personally addressed Domino’s signs all around his town, and finally by bringing him a pizza to eat whilst they film his reaction. I’m sure even Paris could guess whether or not he liked it.
This commercial rubbed me the wrong way, so I decided to write Domino’s a letter about my feelings. Here it is:
Dear Domino’s Hot Shot Executive,
It has come to my attention that your company recently came up with a new pizza recipe so that people would no longer compare your food to cardboard. Let me begin by congratulating you for this conversion. After all, nobody wants to be told that they suck at the thing they are supposed to be best at.
I was all ready to try your new pizza when I saw one of your commercials on television, and those 30 seconds of viewing left me with great dismay. In the commercial, an entire crew of Domino’s employees/enthusiasts go out of their way to bring one of the improved pizzas to a “holdout”. They then film him sampling the pizza and consider the entire operation a great success when he deems it delicious.
The subject of the commercial began as a common person on par with me: he was a Domino’s new recipe virgin. But then he got a free pizza. I simply cannot understand this. Why should this guy get a free pizza and not me? Is he better than me somehow? Is it because he’s a man and I’m a woman? Are you trying to be sexist? Women like pizza too, you know. Don’t you remember how April ate pizza along with the Ninja Turtles? The man in your commercial received a pizza at no cost. I feel that I should be entitled to the same privilege.
Although you have greatly offended me, there is a simple solution to this problem. Just send me a free pizza, and all will be well again. I won’t feel psychologically scarred, and I will no longer have trouble falling asleep wondering if I am on some sort of free pizza naughty list. I am usually home after 8 pm on Mondays through Fridays. I am also willing to accept a gift certificate.
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter. I hope you have a pleasant day.
And then I included my name and address. I'll let you know when I get my pizza.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Aimster Reenacts Justin Bieber's "Baby" Music Video
Unless you've been living under a rock, nay, a boulder large enough to fill the Grand Canyon, you've heard of Justin Bieber. And unless there is a giant mass of barbed wire where your heart should be, you love the song "Baby" and can't get it out of your head. These days, "Bieber Fever" is more contagious than the Bubonic Plague.
Last week I found myself reenacting the "Baby" music video for my roommate, Mikey. He told me it was pretty funny, which was like feeding my ego a steak. Therefore, I decided it was unfair to keep that moment between us, and that I needed to reenact my reenactment, but better. This time, I made sure to style my hair with Justin's signature side swept bangs and I wore a hoodie, which Justin wears so often it's hard to believe he didn't come out of the womb that way. Otherwise it's all improv.
If your life is a constant tragedy, a.k.a. you haven't yet seen the original "Baby" video, then you should watch that first. Otherwise my version doesn't make as much sense. You can watch it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kffacxfA7G4
And then you should follow this link to watch my priceless version (and I know I could have posted it directly to this site, but then I wouldn't have been able to see how many views I had, and how am I supposed to track my rise to stardom without that?):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bf9DhZcfJX0
Hope you enjoy. I'm going to go to my room and wait for the producers of Glee to call me.
Last week I found myself reenacting the "Baby" music video for my roommate, Mikey. He told me it was pretty funny, which was like feeding my ego a steak. Therefore, I decided it was unfair to keep that moment between us, and that I needed to reenact my reenactment, but better. This time, I made sure to style my hair with Justin's signature side swept bangs and I wore a hoodie, which Justin wears so often it's hard to believe he didn't come out of the womb that way. Otherwise it's all improv.
If your life is a constant tragedy, a.k.a. you haven't yet seen the original "Baby" video, then you should watch that first. Otherwise my version doesn't make as much sense. You can watch it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kffacxfA7G4
And then you should follow this link to watch my priceless version (and I know I could have posted it directly to this site, but then I wouldn't have been able to see how many views I had, and how am I supposed to track my rise to stardom without that?):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bf9DhZcfJX0
Hope you enjoy. I'm going to go to my room and wait for the producers of Glee to call me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Aimster Spends an Evening with Scientologists
For those of you who don’t know, I work in the entertainment industry, and here in Los Angeles there are a lot of Scientologists in entertainment. Furthermore, many of these Scientologists are powerful folk, so it’s not really a good idea to get on their bad sides when you’re an up-and-comer like me.
Fortunately for you, this grain of knowledge has not deterred me from writing a story about the time I spent with Scientologists last Saturday. Allow me to start at the start.
I have a friend, who for the sake of anonymity I am going to call Xenu. Xenu is not a Scientologist, but some members of his family and some of his friends are. A few weeks ago he was invited to participate in a play. As a good friend, I promised I would attend, and I kept that promise upon learning that the play was put on by Scientologists, being performed at one of the many Scientology centers in Hollywood, and was an adaptation of an L. Ron Hubbard story. So there I was on Saturday, with my brothers Chris and David and my friend Nate.
Some people assume that all L. Ron Hubbard did was write stories about aliens that hold some secret texts upon which the religion is based. Well, I am here to tell you that this is false. Maybe.
Mr. Hubbard wrote tons of pulp novels set in the wild west, the high seas, the air, and of course, space. I myself have never read one of his books so I can’t attest to their literary merit, but you have to give the guy some credit for naming them things like Black Towers to Danger and All Frontiers are Jealous. I mean, that’s personification at its highest.
The program for the evening was a western called Hoss Tamer. Upon arriving at the theater, I was surprised to discover something about Scientologists which I have a huge amount of respect for: they were wearing costumes. When I say this, I am not talking about the cast of the show. I am talking about the people in the audience. I think this should become a universal practice, probably because it reminded me of the days that I used to go see the Harry Potter movies dressed as Harry Potter, and not just on opening night. How awesome would it be if when you went to see Footloose, everyone dressed in terrifically flashy 80s clothing with crazy hair? Or if we all wore loincloths to see Tarzan? Actually, nevermind. That last one just made me turn against my own idea.
In the back of the program I found a glossary of terms that were a part of the dialect in the 1930s and 40s. If in real life I ever call you a “furrin’ lineback with false-fronted pants”, I am really telling you that you are foreign, have a stripe down your back that is a different color than the rest of your body, and have created a façade with your pants to make your penis look bigger than it really is.
After assigning Nate to take care of me in case the lemonade I was given for free was spiked with some sort of drug that would disable my senses and cause me to give the Scientologists money and a pledge of lifelong membership, I sat down to enjoy the show. It was done like an old radio show, where the actors read the parts and there were sound effects and music. Xenu did a wonderful job playing a hammer-headed sidekick to the bad guy (according to my glossary, “hammer-headed” means mean-spirited and is supposed to refer to a horse, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to expand the context). Afterwards everyone was invited upstairs for a reception.
I however, had a goal to accomplish before going upstairs. I wanted to find a souvenir to take home with me, which is a nice way of saying that I wanted to steal something. There were many collections of L. Ron Hubbard books on display in the theater which were sold in a separate section of the building for $10.00. I decided this was perfect. Nate had brought his bag to the show so I figured I’d just swipe one off the shelf and put it in his backpack. We went over to the display and picked a few of them up to see what the options were. After serious contemplation, I decided to go with Man-Killers of the Air. I grabbed a copy and sneakily placed my program over it. I was ready for the next step of transferring the book to Nate’s backpack when he started walking away. Apparently I did not communicate my plan very well. I need to work on that in the future.
Luckily we went outside and I was able to get the novel concealed without arousing suspicion. We then went back inside so we could congratulate Xenu at the reception. Going up the elevator, we noticed that there were keyholes next to the floor buttons. We discussed where you might be able to go with key access, and were highly satisfied with Nate’s conclusion that L. Ron was probably frozen somewhere in the building.
At the reception, we were immediately targeted as people who had obviously never been there before and were offered beverages and a tour. Let it never be said that the Scientologists are inhospitable. They had a superb cappuccino and hot chocolate maker and there were people in costume to whip up and serve the drinks. I hadn’t yet noticed any adverse effects from the lemonade so I decided to have some more. Next there was a costume contest for all the people who’d dressed up. We were instructed to cheer for our favorites and the winner got some sort of box set of L. Ron Hubbard audiobooks. I am thinking that if Xenu is ever in another one of these shows I am going to go dressed up and try to win the prize, just so I can beat the Scientologists at their own game.
Nate and I were separated from Chris and David when we avoided getting roped into the tour by heading to the food table and loading our plates with goodies. As we sat and ate, a woman wearing a giant diamond tiara and a sash that read “Ms. Multicultural” walked in. Being me and not sensing that Nate was uncomfortable and didn’t want to interact with anybody, I decided to engage her in a conversation and asked about her get-up. She explained to me that she received this designation from the United Nations for the work she has done between the U.S. and Mexico. We talked a little bit more and she told us that we must return often. [Note: In writing this entry, I Googled “Ms. Multicultural United Nations” and found nothing. It seems like a crazy title for a person to make up but maybe I just misunderstood what she was telling me. After all, she was “furrin’” and her English was not perfect.]
At this point Chris and David were still off on the tour and Nate and I were too hungry to continue to have sustenance from the snacks, so we opted to leave and go to In-n-Out. After snapping a quick photo of me posing with the Battlefield Earth display, we left. At the restaurant we gobbled some tasty burgers and got free In-n-Out hats which we wore for the rest of the night. We looked grand.
Back at the apartment Chris and David informed me that they were given L. Ron books after their tour, so it really wasn’t impressive at all that I stole one because had I been caught in the act the Scientologists probably would have given it to me anyway. I still prefer to think that I am as quick with my hands as a pickpocket at the Taj Mahal (and yes, I did choose that comparison because it happened in Slumdog Millionaire).
I suppose it’s possible that any Scientologist reading this might hate me now. But you know what, I don’t hate them. And if they try to sabotage my career, I can always try to get a job with the people at South Park.
Fortunately for you, this grain of knowledge has not deterred me from writing a story about the time I spent with Scientologists last Saturday. Allow me to start at the start.
I have a friend, who for the sake of anonymity I am going to call Xenu. Xenu is not a Scientologist, but some members of his family and some of his friends are. A few weeks ago he was invited to participate in a play. As a good friend, I promised I would attend, and I kept that promise upon learning that the play was put on by Scientologists, being performed at one of the many Scientology centers in Hollywood, and was an adaptation of an L. Ron Hubbard story. So there I was on Saturday, with my brothers Chris and David and my friend Nate.
Some people assume that all L. Ron Hubbard did was write stories about aliens that hold some secret texts upon which the religion is based. Well, I am here to tell you that this is false. Maybe.
Mr. Hubbard wrote tons of pulp novels set in the wild west, the high seas, the air, and of course, space. I myself have never read one of his books so I can’t attest to their literary merit, but you have to give the guy some credit for naming them things like Black Towers to Danger and All Frontiers are Jealous. I mean, that’s personification at its highest.
The program for the evening was a western called Hoss Tamer. Upon arriving at the theater, I was surprised to discover something about Scientologists which I have a huge amount of respect for: they were wearing costumes. When I say this, I am not talking about the cast of the show. I am talking about the people in the audience. I think this should become a universal practice, probably because it reminded me of the days that I used to go see the Harry Potter movies dressed as Harry Potter, and not just on opening night. How awesome would it be if when you went to see Footloose, everyone dressed in terrifically flashy 80s clothing with crazy hair? Or if we all wore loincloths to see Tarzan? Actually, nevermind. That last one just made me turn against my own idea.
In the back of the program I found a glossary of terms that were a part of the dialect in the 1930s and 40s. If in real life I ever call you a “furrin’ lineback with false-fronted pants”, I am really telling you that you are foreign, have a stripe down your back that is a different color than the rest of your body, and have created a façade with your pants to make your penis look bigger than it really is.
After assigning Nate to take care of me in case the lemonade I was given for free was spiked with some sort of drug that would disable my senses and cause me to give the Scientologists money and a pledge of lifelong membership, I sat down to enjoy the show. It was done like an old radio show, where the actors read the parts and there were sound effects and music. Xenu did a wonderful job playing a hammer-headed sidekick to the bad guy (according to my glossary, “hammer-headed” means mean-spirited and is supposed to refer to a horse, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to expand the context). Afterwards everyone was invited upstairs for a reception.
I however, had a goal to accomplish before going upstairs. I wanted to find a souvenir to take home with me, which is a nice way of saying that I wanted to steal something. There were many collections of L. Ron Hubbard books on display in the theater which were sold in a separate section of the building for $10.00. I decided this was perfect. Nate had brought his bag to the show so I figured I’d just swipe one off the shelf and put it in his backpack. We went over to the display and picked a few of them up to see what the options were. After serious contemplation, I decided to go with Man-Killers of the Air. I grabbed a copy and sneakily placed my program over it. I was ready for the next step of transferring the book to Nate’s backpack when he started walking away. Apparently I did not communicate my plan very well. I need to work on that in the future.
Luckily we went outside and I was able to get the novel concealed without arousing suspicion. We then went back inside so we could congratulate Xenu at the reception. Going up the elevator, we noticed that there were keyholes next to the floor buttons. We discussed where you might be able to go with key access, and were highly satisfied with Nate’s conclusion that L. Ron was probably frozen somewhere in the building.
At the reception, we were immediately targeted as people who had obviously never been there before and were offered beverages and a tour. Let it never be said that the Scientologists are inhospitable. They had a superb cappuccino and hot chocolate maker and there were people in costume to whip up and serve the drinks. I hadn’t yet noticed any adverse effects from the lemonade so I decided to have some more. Next there was a costume contest for all the people who’d dressed up. We were instructed to cheer for our favorites and the winner got some sort of box set of L. Ron Hubbard audiobooks. I am thinking that if Xenu is ever in another one of these shows I am going to go dressed up and try to win the prize, just so I can beat the Scientologists at their own game.
Nate and I were separated from Chris and David when we avoided getting roped into the tour by heading to the food table and loading our plates with goodies. As we sat and ate, a woman wearing a giant diamond tiara and a sash that read “Ms. Multicultural” walked in. Being me and not sensing that Nate was uncomfortable and didn’t want to interact with anybody, I decided to engage her in a conversation and asked about her get-up. She explained to me that she received this designation from the United Nations for the work she has done between the U.S. and Mexico. We talked a little bit more and she told us that we must return often. [Note: In writing this entry, I Googled “Ms. Multicultural United Nations” and found nothing. It seems like a crazy title for a person to make up but maybe I just misunderstood what she was telling me. After all, she was “furrin’” and her English was not perfect.]
At this point Chris and David were still off on the tour and Nate and I were too hungry to continue to have sustenance from the snacks, so we opted to leave and go to In-n-Out. After snapping a quick photo of me posing with the Battlefield Earth display, we left. At the restaurant we gobbled some tasty burgers and got free In-n-Out hats which we wore for the rest of the night. We looked grand.
Back at the apartment Chris and David informed me that they were given L. Ron books after their tour, so it really wasn’t impressive at all that I stole one because had I been caught in the act the Scientologists probably would have given it to me anyway. I still prefer to think that I am as quick with my hands as a pickpocket at the Taj Mahal (and yes, I did choose that comparison because it happened in Slumdog Millionaire).
I suppose it’s possible that any Scientologist reading this might hate me now. But you know what, I don’t hate them. And if they try to sabotage my career, I can always try to get a job with the people at South Park.
Aimster Goes Sunglasses Shopping
My eyes are extremely sensitive to the sun. Had I been in the movie Men in Black, they probably would have blinded me with the flash from that memory erasing gadget and I could have sued for millions. Although I would have spent the rest of my life without sight, I would obviously have a lot of friends and suitors eager to exploit my riches. If I’ve learned anything from living in Los Angeles, it’s that this is a perfectly viable lifestyle.
Knowing that my eyes water with every sliver of the light penetrating my irises from space, you can imagine my discontent when I snatched up my sunglasses last week and one of the lenses popped out onto the floor of my car. The damage was irreparable. Tragedy had struck and the choice between constantly looking like I’ve been crying and dishing out the money for new shades was no choice at all.
My previous pair of sunglasses were by Michael Kors, but I only shelled out $25 for them due to the magic of Nordstrom Rack. They had been such a faithful companion for so many years that I came to the conclusion that it is worth investing in some nicely made sunglasses as opposed to the cheap ones that might be lying about how much UV protection you’re really getting. So after work on Friday, I headed over to the Beverly Connection, which for those of you who don’t live in LA is a gathering of discount stores across from the Beverly Center, the mall of the stars. So basically it’s like the rejects of what you find across the street.
My first stop was to the trusty Nordstrom Rack, where I tried on a slew of sunglasses only to find that my head is still of childlike proportions and most of them make me look like a bug on acid. Furthermore, every pair had a security tag about the size of my ear hanging from the bridge of the shades. I wasn’t sure how to judge my appearance in these sunglasses when my nose looked like Pinocchio gone plastic. And then I saw a pair that was the exact style I’d had in mind. So I tried them on. They fit well and looked good. Had I found the winning shades? I looked at what brand they were, and instantly felt a pit form in my stomach. They were Juicy Couture, and I began questioning everything I believed in. If I bought these sunglasses, would I suddenly find myself parading around in neon terrycloth sweatsuits, overly tanned and with hair dry as a desert from being overbleached? Would I go on to spend hours of my morning doing my make-up, only to leave the house and tell people that I hadn’t really put any effort into my appearance that day? Thus is the power of Juicy. Fear gripped my heart and I decided to check out the other stores.
First was Ross Dress for Less, of which one of my coworkers regularly sings the praises. This was a bust, as they only had about eight pairs, and three of them were the Jessica Simpson brand which I just could not bring myself to support.
Next I went to Marshalls, where a crowd of women were hawking the sunglasses turnstiles like they were actually discounts for liposuction. After battling through the insanity I managed to try on a few pairs and found two that I liked, one from Coach and one from some other brand that I don’t remember. The only thing about the Coach sunglasses was that they said the word “Coach” all over the sides, and I’m not really one for that sort of incessant branding. And then I looked at the price tag. They were $9.99. I couldn’t believe it. These must have been mislabeled. This was more of a steal than a tipsy and eager college girl’s virginity. But I still wasn’t sold because of all the branding, so I opted to put them on hold and go to one final store, just in case.
I ventured down the street to Loehmann’s and headed into their accessory section, full of promise. They had hundreds of pairs of sunglasses for the choosing, and I eagerly began shoving them on my face so aggressively it’s a wonder I didn’t poke my eye out. I was thinking about how great it is that these stores sell past seasons' designer duds for so cheap when the song “Save Tonight” by Eagle-Eye Cherry came on. I started to wonder if these stores are also a place for past seasons' songs. Hoping that they would next rock my world with a selection from the Backstreet Boys, I continued my search.
Instead of finding something awesome, I began to wonder if my head is misshapen, due to the penchant of every pair to look askew. I found one Jimmy Choo pair that was stellar, but they were still like $200. Seriously, the nerve of that guy. Even his discounted merchandise is an easily calculable percentage of my annual salary.
I walked back to the Beverly Connection whilst contemplating which was the lesser of two evils: sweatsuit-threatening Juicy or overly-labeled Coach. On my way into the complex I passed a Staples Copy and Print Center. What is a Staples doing amidst all these clothing stores? My best guess is that it’s there for actor wannabees at the Beverly Center who need to make copies of their headshots, just in case they run into someone important while pretending to be able to afford things on their waiter salaries.
At this point my decision was made: I just couldn’t beat the $10 deal on the Coach pair, so I went to the cashier at Marshalls and asked her to retrieve them. I was thinking about whether or not I wanted to pay with the twenty I had in my wallet or charge my debit card when the cashier gave me a $65.84 total. I was shocked and confused. I looked at the tag on the sunglasses, which read $59.99. I realized that I must have mixed up the prices for the obscure sunglasses brand and the Coach brand. Of course the non-designer brand is 10 bucks. Coach glasses would never go for that cheap. I withdraw the virginity comment.
I could have said, “Never mind, I misread the price,” and gone to Target to buy non-designer but probably just as durable sunglasses. But I was too tired. So I slid my debit card and walked out of Marshalls defeated and with sunglasses that say the word “Coach” more than I probably say any words in an entire day. Oh well. They don’t look half bad.
Knowing that my eyes water with every sliver of the light penetrating my irises from space, you can imagine my discontent when I snatched up my sunglasses last week and one of the lenses popped out onto the floor of my car. The damage was irreparable. Tragedy had struck and the choice between constantly looking like I’ve been crying and dishing out the money for new shades was no choice at all.
My previous pair of sunglasses were by Michael Kors, but I only shelled out $25 for them due to the magic of Nordstrom Rack. They had been such a faithful companion for so many years that I came to the conclusion that it is worth investing in some nicely made sunglasses as opposed to the cheap ones that might be lying about how much UV protection you’re really getting. So after work on Friday, I headed over to the Beverly Connection, which for those of you who don’t live in LA is a gathering of discount stores across from the Beverly Center, the mall of the stars. So basically it’s like the rejects of what you find across the street.
My first stop was to the trusty Nordstrom Rack, where I tried on a slew of sunglasses only to find that my head is still of childlike proportions and most of them make me look like a bug on acid. Furthermore, every pair had a security tag about the size of my ear hanging from the bridge of the shades. I wasn’t sure how to judge my appearance in these sunglasses when my nose looked like Pinocchio gone plastic. And then I saw a pair that was the exact style I’d had in mind. So I tried them on. They fit well and looked good. Had I found the winning shades? I looked at what brand they were, and instantly felt a pit form in my stomach. They were Juicy Couture, and I began questioning everything I believed in. If I bought these sunglasses, would I suddenly find myself parading around in neon terrycloth sweatsuits, overly tanned and with hair dry as a desert from being overbleached? Would I go on to spend hours of my morning doing my make-up, only to leave the house and tell people that I hadn’t really put any effort into my appearance that day? Thus is the power of Juicy. Fear gripped my heart and I decided to check out the other stores.
First was Ross Dress for Less, of which one of my coworkers regularly sings the praises. This was a bust, as they only had about eight pairs, and three of them were the Jessica Simpson brand which I just could not bring myself to support.
Next I went to Marshalls, where a crowd of women were hawking the sunglasses turnstiles like they were actually discounts for liposuction. After battling through the insanity I managed to try on a few pairs and found two that I liked, one from Coach and one from some other brand that I don’t remember. The only thing about the Coach sunglasses was that they said the word “Coach” all over the sides, and I’m not really one for that sort of incessant branding. And then I looked at the price tag. They were $9.99. I couldn’t believe it. These must have been mislabeled. This was more of a steal than a tipsy and eager college girl’s virginity. But I still wasn’t sold because of all the branding, so I opted to put them on hold and go to one final store, just in case.
I ventured down the street to Loehmann’s and headed into their accessory section, full of promise. They had hundreds of pairs of sunglasses for the choosing, and I eagerly began shoving them on my face so aggressively it’s a wonder I didn’t poke my eye out. I was thinking about how great it is that these stores sell past seasons' designer duds for so cheap when the song “Save Tonight” by Eagle-Eye Cherry came on. I started to wonder if these stores are also a place for past seasons' songs. Hoping that they would next rock my world with a selection from the Backstreet Boys, I continued my search.
Instead of finding something awesome, I began to wonder if my head is misshapen, due to the penchant of every pair to look askew. I found one Jimmy Choo pair that was stellar, but they were still like $200. Seriously, the nerve of that guy. Even his discounted merchandise is an easily calculable percentage of my annual salary.
I walked back to the Beverly Connection whilst contemplating which was the lesser of two evils: sweatsuit-threatening Juicy or overly-labeled Coach. On my way into the complex I passed a Staples Copy and Print Center. What is a Staples doing amidst all these clothing stores? My best guess is that it’s there for actor wannabees at the Beverly Center who need to make copies of their headshots, just in case they run into someone important while pretending to be able to afford things on their waiter salaries.
At this point my decision was made: I just couldn’t beat the $10 deal on the Coach pair, so I went to the cashier at Marshalls and asked her to retrieve them. I was thinking about whether or not I wanted to pay with the twenty I had in my wallet or charge my debit card when the cashier gave me a $65.84 total. I was shocked and confused. I looked at the tag on the sunglasses, which read $59.99. I realized that I must have mixed up the prices for the obscure sunglasses brand and the Coach brand. Of course the non-designer brand is 10 bucks. Coach glasses would never go for that cheap. I withdraw the virginity comment.
I could have said, “Never mind, I misread the price,” and gone to Target to buy non-designer but probably just as durable sunglasses. But I was too tired. So I slid my debit card and walked out of Marshalls defeated and with sunglasses that say the word “Coach” more than I probably say any words in an entire day. Oh well. They don’t look half bad.
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