Seriously. 'Cause he's a dickwad.

...I suck at a lot of things. Financial planning, for example. Yet I have never felt a need to announce that I am going to continue sucking at something for FIVE MORE YEARS!

Never before have the first eight words of a sentence been so wonderful, and the last two so disappointing.

Mr. Awesomeness Monologue
for OdM 09/24/2004

Whoever introduces me asks the closest sitting female audience member what their name is, and then loudly repeats it so I can hear, and then asks them to hold the resume.

I am introduced – I jog onto the stage wearing a suit and tie…and a ratty sheet as a cape. I yell backstage…

No need to thank me, screaming mob, that man won’t be talking loudly on his cell phone any more!

Awesomeness, Deactivate!

I remove “cape” and hang it up somewhere – I approach the female audience member.

Alrighty. You must be [her name]! I'm glad you made it. I'm Mr. Awesomeness, nice to meet you. Sorry about all of that, I don’t usually like to deactivate my Awesomeness in front of people, but I thought it would be even ruder to remain Awesome while interviewing you. A lot of people find it pretty…intimidating.

(I pull up a chair.)

Is that your resume? Thanks. So...I see you've been working as an administrative assistant for quite some time. Good, good. Lots of experience in office environments. Microsoft Word and Excel, good. 80 words a minute, really? Now THAT'S awesome! Ha ha! Sorry, I can’t resist sometimes.

Hey. Do you smell apple pie? It smells GREAT! Where IS that delicious apple pie? Oh THAT'S right...FUCK!

I crumple the resume as I scream. Beat. I look distant for a bit, and then come to, examining the resume.

I don't mean to be too anal, but you might want to think about bringing UN-crumpled copies of your resume next time. Anyhow, I can tell you right off the bat, this position will be very different from any other personal assistant jobs you've had. This job has unique duties, because I am a unique individual. I call myself Mr. Awesomeness. I am a self-described superhero. I work out of this office, but I'm basically out and about most of the time, trying to fight crime. Doing my best. Doing…what I can.

I do not possess any 'powers' in the traditional sense. I do like to refer to 'Awesomeness' alot, but that's mostly just to psyche myself up. So if you take this position, you'll have to put up with me blabbering about Awesomeness quite a bit! I apologize in advance. Let's see. I don't have a superhero outfit really, but I will occasionally wear the Awesomeness Cape, which is a soiled bedsheet I tie around my neck. Again, that's mostly just to psyche myself up, provide a little flair when I think it's necessary. Um, what else. You’ll probably see me on the news often, mostly in a negative sense. People just aren't used to seeing a regular guy like me fighting crime. And what's worse, the media and the public and the authorities often don't agree with me on what crime IS in the first place. For example, not everyone would agree with me that talking too loudly on your cell phone on the bus is a grave crime punishable by severe Awesomeness. By which I mean punching. So yes, sometimes the media will portray me as an 'Attacker', or 'Thief', or 'Blabbering Defecating Lunatic', among other things. Like I said, people don't always get me.

So before I outline the basic job requirements and duties, let me just give you a quick rundown of my origins. Every superhero has an origin, and I'm no different. It might help you understand me a bit better. Would you like a Snapple? Toblerone?

I begin to eat a Toblerone.

My origins don't involve Gamma Rays or plummeting to Earth in a spaceship to escape my homeworld's destruction, or getting bitten by a radioactive spider, nothing like that. Don't I wish. No, my origins are much more mundane. In June of 1992, while adding a deck onto my house in Lake Ronkonkoma, I accidentally shot myself in the face with a nailgun. Six times, right up the left nostril. Why six times? Well, the first nail must have triggered my grip reflex or something, because before I knew it I'd emptied the entire cartridge of nails into my brain. This had two main long-term effects:

ONE - I became Mr. Awesomeness, a man dedicated to fighting that which he perceives to be crime using the one power at his disposal...Aweseomeness.

TWO - I have recurring olfactory hallucinations during which I:

a) smell apple pie,
b) get very angry because I suddenly realize there really isn't any apple pie and that I'm only smelling it because there are six nails in my brain, and then
c) completely forget that I ever smelled the pie or got angry.

So don't be alarmed if I do that! It's just those six nails talking. Talking to me always. (sigh)

My powers: like I said, none. Save the power of Awesomeness.

What is Awesomeness? Well...Awesomeness is all around us. It protects us and binds us. There is a bit of Awesomeness in every moment. When a dog sticks his head into a cereal box, and then walks around with the box still on his head, for example, that is Awesomeness. There is Awesomeness in the sigh a woman makes when she first realizes you're a really top notch kisser. There is Awesomeness in a man who just threw his candy bar wrapper on the ground being punched in the throat by a man in a suit wearing a soiled sheet as a cape who is screaming "Awesomeness Now!" And so on.

Pull out a filthy scrap of paper.

I wrote myself a letter:

(read) Dear Mr. Awesomeness,

You're doing an Awesome job. Keep it up. Hey do you smell that ah fuck.

Sincerely,
Mr. Awesomeness

What are my weaknesses? My "kryptonites", if you will? Well... guns. Knives. Falling from a great height. Falling from a moderate height. Large dogs. Medium dogs that have not been raised properly. Not getting enough sleep, or enough to eat. Bee stings. Being underwater for too long without some sort of breathing apparatus. Getting hit by something fast and heavy. Poison. Electricity. Fire. Exposure to the elements. Too much of a particular drug. I could go on.

What else. The basics. I need you here at 9am sharp, tied to that small section of train track in the pantry, every morning. It's how I start my day. Screaming is a plus if you're up for it. I'll untie you, carry you to your cubicle, and then I'll be off. You'll get used to it, there's plenty of twine in the cabinet. Don't go nuts and tie yourself down too tightly, because like I said, I'm just working off of my natural strength. No super powers. Now that I mention it, the whole 'I Have No Super Powers' thing will be a big factor in our day-to-day working relationship. So - give me ample transit time in between meetings on my calendar. The only 'Super Speed' I have at my disposal is my trusty Vespa. Confirm appointments with me please! Don't assume I can read your mind. Because I can't. That would be a super power, and I have none. There are menus in the filing cabinet - you'll be expected to use my credit card to order me lunch every day. I need food, just like everyone else. But not bread or pasta. I forgot to mention bread and pasta in my list of weaknesses. What else? Oh yes. Reptilion. It is very important that you do your best to prevent this guy from finding me. If he calls, "Mr. Awesomeness is out", got it? Try to stear me clear of the supervillains in general. Except for Captain Dastardly. He’s like me – no powers, just a soiled sheet. Sometimes I like to tussle with him. Anyway, let's go take a look at the Awesomeness Cave while I tell you about the benefits package.

[still a work in progress but should be fun]

I'm there baking hot. Flat-out in the sun, my guns pumping 225 ten times with a howl. Wash down my workout with vultures and asphalt. I'm all hot-rods and whiskey. The distance to me is measured in musk, mullet flaired-out beneath my "Pembrose Cashews" trucker's cap. I am enveloped in gawks when I strut - from the cab of my road mongrel to the door of any burger hole. My ripples gleam and bulge when I flex, crests of muscle crashing upon shores of sawed-off denim. They'll scare a coyote. But now - just baking hot. Flat-out and 225 howling. Awash in dust and diesel. Cigarette butts and steel-toed grunting. I am so totally all hot-rods and whiskey.

[clapsmatter]

Thank you! That one's called "Hot-Rods and Whiskey". This next one is called "Your Sister Is Not A Christmas Ornament".

Does she look happy? She's crying, Jack. Get me the footstool.

Thank you! I'll be at the bar signing copies of my book Poetism: A Sense-ology.

...it's doing all the work for him! He's just pressing play and sipping whiskey out of that thing, right? WHO'S WITH ME!??!?! BAH!!!

Yes, it is I! The Man With Unfortunate Teeth And A Briefcase Full Of Pussy. Yet again I have traveled to these parts on some ill-defined errand, and yet again I have chosen to stop by a small theater space in order to answer your questions about my terrible teeth. And of course, the briefcase full of pussy. Shall we begin? Very well!

Q: Why do you have such unfortunate teeth?
A: An astute question. My unfortunate teeth are the price I must pay in exchange for being gifted with this possession -- this enchanted compartment that is now manacled to my right wrist. The aforementioned...briefcase full of pussy. A fair price to pay if you ask me. Next question.

Q: Why not just get the teeth fixed?
A: Again, certainly a logical query. Were I to get my teeth adjusted in any way, shape, or form, it would qualify as a breach of the contract that has provided me with this: a briefcase full of pussy. As per certain provisions in said contract, the nature of which or the cosignee of I cannot divulge, any alteration of my teeth for the better - and as you can see they can only GET better - would result in a significant decrease of both the quality and quantity of pussy. In this briefcase. Who else has a question? Yes, you.

Q: Is a briefcase full of pussy really worth having such terrible teeth?
A: I prefer the term "unfortunate teeth." And to answer your question, hell yes.

Q: Do you brush your teeth?
A: Yes. But only to enhance my breath. The teeth themselves are beyond help.

Q: What about Crest Night Effects, that whitening stuff, have you tried that?
A: No, I'm pretty sure that would violate the briefcase full of pussy contract. Any other questions? Anyone?

(beat)

No? Well I guess I'll be-

Q: What exactly is a briefcase full of pussy?
A: Finally! I was wondering when you'd...I mean people get so hung up on the teeth thing, they often forget to ask about the pussy contained herein. At any rate, like I said, this briefcase is positively brimming with pussy. It's quite amazing. Next question.

Q: But what do you mean by that? It's a briefcase! A normal sized briefcase! How can there be one woman in there, let alone several?
A: Women? There are no women in here, that would be ridiculous and impossible. No, this briefcase contains one thing and one thing only. Pussy. Wet, tingling, eager-to-please-make-ya-weak-in-da-knees bitchslap whackattack pussy. It's mindblowing.

Q: Can we look inside the briefcase?
A: No. To allow you a glimpse of the pussy within this briefcase would be tantamount (AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes! I finally used the word "tantamount"!) to signing your death warrants. I can not face that grim responsibility. The forces that have cursed me with these teeth, blessed me with all this pussy, and sent me here to New York City on some ill-defined errand would wrench you from your reality and splinter your souls were I to share the sugarsnap, so to speak.

Q: Please?
A: No.

Q: How do you...I mean...when you want to use the...how does it...
A: Like I said, it's totally mindblowing. I can't really explain how I make use of it. Suffice it to say, a towel and some candles are involved, as well as a Barry White CD. From a distance, you'd probably think I was just dancing nude in slow motion, the briefcase open on the floor, the whole scene bathed in light. Upon closer inspection, you'd see what I was doing and how it was being done. And then, like I said earlier, your soul would be destroyed. That's why I do it in private. And oh my God it's awesome.

Q: What kind of a mission are you here for?
A: I can't say.

Q: Do you date?
A: Good question! Most men assume I wouldn't want to, due to the infinite supply of pussy at my disposal. However, I often miss the companionship of a good woman. Most women are both put off by my teeth, and by my liberal use of the word "pussy". Not to mention my liberal use of the pussy itself. I am almost a Communist, my use of it is so liberal. It's totally-

Q: Mindblowing, yeah we get it.
A: Good. Alright I'm off!

This past weekend, while visiting my folks down in South Jersey, I was given a glimpse into the inner workings of my father's mind - specifically, into the way he perceives himself and his role in the world, and how others perceive him. I would be willing to bet a good number of fathers feel this way too. We were watching television, and a new Verizon Wireless commercial came on. It was the one in which the father proudly gives two new cell phones to his daughters, who are then distraught to find out he's given them the phones so that they can be in touch a lot more. Then the Mom pops in and mentions that they've got the "In" plan, whatever that is, which will allow the girls to talk to their friends a lot more too! Yay! Mom and daughters embrace, and just as Dad is about to join the lovefest and embrace all of them as well, they bound out of the room, leaving him hugging air and looking after them wistfully. This is when my Dad shouted at the tv:

"NO ONE WANTS TO HUG YOU, YOU SHMUCK! YOU'RE JUST THERE TO PAY THE BILLS!"

Yes. Fathers across the land, a show of hands.

THAT'S RIGHT! YOU TOO CAN NOW HAVE THE SAME SENSE OF HUMOR AS THE GUY I JUST BOUGHT COFFEE FROM! HERE'S HOW:

1. POUR ME A CUP OF COFFEE
2. HAND IT TO ME
3. WITH A SMILE, SAY "10 DOLLARS"
4. NOW LAUGH!

YOU SEE, THE COFFEE WAS ONLY ONE DOLLAR!

NOW GO OUT THERE AND SAY THAT THINGS COST RIDICULOUSLY MORE THAN THEY DO WHEN YOU TALK ABOUT THE PRICES OF THINGS! COMEDY!

THAT'S RIGHT! YOU TOO CAN HAVE THE SENSE OF HUMOR OF A MISS AMERICA CONTESTANT! HERE'S HOW IT WORKS:

1. SAY SOMETHING. ANYTHING.
2. PAUSE.
3. SAY "JUST KIDDING."

THERE! THE SECRET IS OUT! NOW YOU TOO CAN HAVE THE SENSE OF HUMOR OF A MISS AMERICA CONTESTANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey fellow admin assistants! Have I got a helpful hint for you! Feeling down about your job due to what I like to call "The awful people you work for"? Well then, try this: Just Flip It! That's right, just flip it! Make believe THEY work for YOU. It's easy! Just go through the day, moment-to-moment, and flip it! Still confused? Here's an example:

BEFORE FLIPPAGE: I better get that long itemized list of action items out of her outbox before 10am, or I'll never hear the end of it.

AFTER FLIPPAGE: SHE better have that long itemized list of action items in her outbox by the time I bring her her protein shake, or SHE'S going to have a lot of screaming to do later while I cry in the restroom!

See? Now YOU'RE the boss! Just Flip It!

And three of them are "Careless Whisper".

We're getting older. As the human race continues to master the art of staying alive, our average life expectancy is going to continue increasing, and the number of incredibly old people is going to shoot through the roof. At the same time, we will have artificially altered the Earth's climate to such an extent that the seasons will be no more, and naturally occurring weather patterns will be a rare oddity. Thus, the job of weatherman will slowly, over time, evolve into the job of "Guy Who Announces The Names of People Who Are Turning 100 Today". He will stand in front of a bluescreen on which is a projection not of a weather map, but of a hawk disemboweling a woodchuck (the national symbol of The United Citystates Of Free North America in 2318), and he will simply list names. Every once in a while he'll do the weather, but only when the IWIHL2SWN* shield isn't working properly. Um. Toodles!

*It Worked In Highlander 2 So Why Not

If I ran a newspaper, and a huge story broke about a guy who absolutely LOVED nuts getting laid by a promiscuous woman who had a fetish for guys who loved nuts, that would be the headline I'd run. Yeah, I'm still treading water here folks. Those shirtless photos of me are creepy.

Buy this book! I wrote exactly one page of it.

Another book I've written exactly one page of?

So You Can't Remember Why You Always Smell Apple Pie: A Collection of Nail-Gun Accident Poems

...but if you leave a message I will return your call as soon as I finish destroying the Gulf Coast! Hoo! Ha ha YES. Just kidding, I'm not a hurriBEEP.

...is a new phrase I've coined. The people who run this world seem determined to maintain it.

You know what? After I wrote this I guessed that I probably wasn't the first person to come up with this phrase, so I googled it.

Ah well.

I'm sure if you googled all the blogs (a phrase that would not have made any sense just a year or two ago) that were googlable, you'd find countless instances of the phrase "...EVERY day from now on, I swear!"

Well, I promise to post something every day from now on, I swear. Or at the very least, I promise to promise to post every day every so often, usually after long absences such as this past one. But c'mon, at least that last e-mail post was entertaining, and chock full of voyeuristic awesomeness.

Before I end this post and move on to a few that will hopefully contain some entertaining content, I would like to point out a few changes to the site:

1. The new navigation bar at the top of the page - I'm not sure what it does!
2. Disturbing new photos of myself! Andres smash!
3. A tiny envelope link at the bottom of each post which lets you e-mail that particular article directly to someone else.

Well there you have it. Also, I'm link-happy, so ask me to link to you and I just might unless I don't want to.