Nothing Without You...

Everyone relies on someone, somehow, some way, at some point. Either that, or you wouldn’t be reading this, because you died shortly after birth from malnourishment. It’s a fact that acts as one of life’s many foundations. We don’t change it, we simply build around it. Kind of like when I was 11 and threw a large rock into the largest anthill ever constructed. The ants couldn’t remove it, so they just went with it.

Some people, however, learn to depend on someone or something early on and, in some cases, would never exist without whatever it is they may be clinging to. In many cases, they don’t even enhance what they mooch off of in order to survive. There are even inanimate objects are guilty of this. They never even give out so much as a thank you note to their life support. So, I contacted several of these nouns (people, places and things) in order to see if I could get them to write a brief thank you note to the one thing they should worship more than anything on the planet: their better half.

Below, I have compiled the responses I did happen to receive from these nouns (I will publish the responses as they roll in). Finally, they show a little bit of respect…

Dear Sports,

"Really? You stood in line for threehours to 

have me sign your Big Book of Basketball?"

  Thank you for being an integral part of our every day lives. You equate to over 90% of everything we have stored in our brains. Because of you we have reason to wake up in the morning; we have a reason to dress like we are 13 again; and we can maintain conversations with other men, which allows us to compete with one another through our vast knowledge of you without even being moderately athletic or having any sort of coordination at all.

Without you it would be unacceptable to run around shirtless in the cold; people may find it weird if we touch our best friends’ asses and yell “good hustle!” when they get off the phone with the pizza guy; we would just be millions of smelly men in parking lots, eating bratwursts in a parking lot as if it were some kind of homeless people convention; the beer industry would collapse; we would only use the Internet for video games and porn; we might feel the need to be **gulp** productive at work instead of getting freaky with all of your junk online. Sorry, we meant “looking at stats online.” Truth be told… We love you. Hold us.

     Eternally Grateful,

          Tailgaters and Fantasy Geeks

Dear Old People,

  We’re not really moochers, right? You love us. We work so well together. As a matter of fact, one might even venture to say that you need us more than we need you. You would have nothing to live for if it weren’t for us. What are you gonna do? Play with your grand children?! Yeah, right. You need exercise to survive past 60 and are easily persuaded by infomercials showing silver foxes play with me on the beach. If anything, you owe us a letter of respect and adoration. We don’t beep to let you know something of value is nearby; we beep to let you know that we are your life support. When you stop hearing that beep, it’s because you are heading for that light at the end of the tunnel. And no, that’s not an ancient golden artifact, that’s a Corona bottle cap on the beach. Man, if the actual bottle is close by, you might be able to take it to Michigan to collect your nickel. Then maybe you could get a tank of gas, go see a movie and buy a candy bar with the change… You know, like when you were kids…

     Waiting for Your Apology,

          Metal Detectors

Dear Mildly Attractive Stripper,

  I really, REALLY would have no clue what to do without you. I have absolutely no marketable skills, no education, no self-esteem and no boyfriend. I couldn’t land a job picking up the Corona bottles buried in the sand that the Metal Detectors were talking about. I will absolutely drive us to our shows, and do as you say. I will even give you a majority of the tips and pretend it doesn’t bother me. You are my everything… until you hit 30…

     Your Plush Imaginary Coattails Passenger,

          Ugly Stripper

Dear Mexican Food,

  You’ve boosted my sales immensely. No one puts me on anything but you. You’re my landing pad. A little dollop here, a little dollop there and my job security is cushioned. I love rubbing myself all over you (just don’t tell the salsa. She hates when I do that)… What’s that? You’re down with a little me, you, Salsa three-way? I’d be lying if I said I weren’t at least a little intrigued… How do we approach her with this suggestion?

     Impatiently Waiting,

          Sour Cream

Dear Sour Cream,

  Are you kidding me?! It’s YOU that complete ME. People love you. Without you, there would be no me. For thousands of years, you have been around but people were embarrassed to eat you directly from the tub with a spoon. It was just taboo, like sex. Everyone wanted some, but doing it in the open was socially unacceptable. So then I came about. I am like your bedroom in this twisted culinary/sexual analogy… A place to do it that no one questions. I mean sure it’s nice to sneak a bite in the park or at work, but you know that if you want to be safe, just throw some on me. I am there for you baby.

     Yours Always,

          Mexican Food

Dear Mexican Food,

  This analogy has me all worked up… What did Salsa say???

     In the Mood for Some You,

          Sour Cream

Dear Sour Cream/Mexican Food,

  You had me at “twisted culinary/sexual analogy.”

     So In,

          Salsa

Dear Facebook,

    Before you, no one cared when I was brushing my teeth or just ate three granola bars and a packet of fruit snacks. Now, 457 people care. I can tell because they haven’t defriended me. Who would have thought my life would be this interesting? You’re a dream come true!

     Intimately Yours,

          Boring Egotistical Asshole

Dear Internet,

   Man, where would I be without you? A columnist at a newspaper? No one reads these posts… A newspaper would never hire me. I write things about magical lands where boys are pure evil. I write about food condiment ménage trios. I write about Terry the Bounty Hunter. There is absolutely no medium or market for what I write. Without you, my thoughts would stay in my head where they belong and never surface for the world to see. The world would be a slightly smarter place, as everyone is now dumber for having read to the end of this post. Thanks for not limiting or censoring me.

     Futilely Leaching Since December,

          Roy

To Whom It May Concern

Dear Rice Krispies,

  When you stopped selling Rice Krispies Treat Cereal in stores, you lost me as a customer. I don’t want to have to buy my cereal online. How am I supposed to get whatever 10 essential vitamins and minerals your incredible product replenished my body with now?

Dear Drivers,

  I am both amazed and terrified at your inept abilities in navigating a roundabout. It embarrasses me to be a part of the human race when you associate yourself with me and can’t maneuver a very simple traffic obstacle.

Dear Left Shoulder,

  Why are you slightly hairy, when my right shoulder is not at all?

Dear Right Shoulder,

  Get Left Shoulder back in line. He is acting completely out of control.

Dear Hair on my Head,

  It’s mind boggling that even though I lose upwards of 100 strands of you a day, you manage to replenish yourself. It’s like each hair follicle is a Kleenex dispenser for hair. Well played.

Dear BP,

  I am pretty sure it’s not a good idea to televise an attempt to fix your oil spill disaster, especially when you appear to be soliciting solutions from the Internet. If you’re listening, here are my top five solutions:

-          Giant tampon

-          Magic

-          Pay everyone to pretend nothing happened

-          Create a large vacuum to suck the water out, add vinegar and sell product to chip companies for a “BP Sea Salt and Oil and Vinegar” chip

-          Force Sarah Palin to speak on the subject in a Nationally televised event that will most definitely somehow end up having her say something that makes it look like it was her fault

Dear Lady Gaga,

  You’re embarrassing to listen to, so stop making music that I want to listen to in my car.

Dear Bed,

  Why do you seem so much more appealing to me at 7AM than 9PM?

Dear Animals,

  Thanks for racing each other and letting me gamble on it. I can’t imagine a group of trained animals I wouldn’t have interest in betting on/watching race. This applies to all animals; Not like animal fights. Sure dogs and cocks fight just fine, but I am not too sure you can get a gambling ring at your house that involves two horses fighting. Wrong animal activity Ron Mexico; you should have raced the dogs.

Dear Washington State University,

  Donations? It’s so nice of you that you remember me now that I have a degree and a job. I’m sure we will never forget the good times we once had. You know? Like when you waited until people purchased their meal plans and then jacked up the prices of food campus wide? Or when you used to send me the notices of delinquency that threatened to have the police evict me from my dorm during finals week every semester like clockwork for seven straight semesters? Yeah. Those were the days. I will be sure to support your programs now because you treated me so kindly. Keep those “How Coug Are You?” mailings coming my way. I haven’t forgotten to donate; I have just been really, really busy lately. I don’t tear them up and throw them away every time though. I swear.

Dear Wal-Mart,

  I know everyone hates you, but I am okay with you for two reasons. One, the type of people you attract to your store are website-worthy and, without your store, there wouldn’t be a dense population of these people to photograph in any one small location other than in parts West Virginia and Kentucky. And two, because I just went to the Kellogg’s cereal finder home page and found that you carry Rice Krispie Treats cereal!

Dear Target,

  I would like to thank you for being the only local carrier of Berry Berry Kix, which I also had to use an online cereal finder to locate.

Dear People Reading,

  Why are you reading something written by someone who has used online cereal finders before? “Finders.” Plural. Really?

Dear PlayStation 3,

  They say time is money. I am filing a class action law suit against you. You owe me a lot of money.

Dear Confidence,

  People tell me to have you. Sometimes I pretend to and it always ends badly. Women can smell fake confidence. It smells like urine running down one’s pant leg.

Dear Pedestrian,

  When I am driving and you are crossing the street, we don’t need to have the “go ahead, wait, you want me to go? No please go. No, you go. Alright, fine. Oh, wait, you went at the same time, let’s both stop. Go ahead,” charades, which stem from confusion about who should go first. How about you go when I tell you to because I am operating a lethal weapon. This isn’t a threat, I am just saying. If I had a gun and told you to go, I bet you would do it. Do you know why? Because the person with the upper hand has the final say. Deal with it and cross the damn street. *Honk*

Dear iPhone,

  No I didn’t mean “he’ll,” I meant “hell,” damn it. Stop correcting me. I can’t remember the last time I used the word “he’ll” in my writing.

Dear Teeth,

  I am 24 years old now. Under no circumstance should you be biting my lips. I have been chewing long enough that it shouldn’t happen. You make everything you’re attached to look uncoordinated and foolish. It’s embarrassing.

Dear Barney Stinson’s Doppelganger,

  I hate you.

Sincerely,

   Roy Vincent

My Religion

Any chance my Magic Sherpa came

early and dressed me like this so I

could one day form my own religious

faction and have this be the symbol?

Those of you who know me may know I have never been a religious man (Those of you who don’t, thanks for reading anyway!). That’s not to say that I am not a very moral and ethical person; I’m just not religious. I have always thought that maybe, just maybe, religion was created to explain the inexplicable. It would make sense. But this piece isn’t about being preachy or starting debates or resurrection, or mountain Gods or goat’s blood. I love religion. I think it helps everyone involved become who they are and, at the very least, it spreads (mostly) great morals. But through the years, I have become who I am by coming up with my own answers. My own theories. My own religion.

When picking a motto to live by, it is a horrible and bitter realization when you come across another cliché that acts as a contradictory statement.

Nice guys finish last.

“Hmm… Maybe I should be a dick, I don’t want to finish last.”

The good die young.

“Yep, no time to be good and die young while finishing last. Being nice and good sounds like an absolutely awful idea…”

He who hesitates is lost.

“Excellent. Act on impulse. I like it.”

Patience is a virtue.

“Wait… So which route do I take here? Man, does this count as hesitating?”

So, which do you pick? They say that your late teens to late twenties are the years you find yourself and figure out who you really are. I am 24 and have no idea who I am. I wake up in the mornings sometimes and think to myself, “When I grow up, I want to be a---,” then I snap back to reality when I notice, “Shit. I am grown up.” Do I have to actively search for myself? Or should I just hang out and hope he finds me? Not only do I secretly hope a Magic Sherpa shows up one night and tells me what to do for a career, but also that this Magic Sherpa might tell me who I am going to be as a person when I grow up. I have come to believe in this Magic Sherpa.

This girl's Sherpa was asked to leave shortly after this

heart-chilling display.

I wonder if this Magic Sherpa doesn’t guide me, but actually dictates who I become. In that case I really hope I don’t get the child molestation Sherpa. I mean, if this is the age where one is to find himself, it must be a very bitter realization for all of the creepers who wake up and realize a Magic Sherpa commandeered their personality and they think “Damn… I am going to be a serial killer.” Or “Damn… I like to eat people.” Or “Damn… I really like to wear my hair with a bump in the front so that it looks like I may have a severely misshapen head.” (Ladies, you know who you are.) There has to be something else to blame it on. Nay, someone. The Magic Sherpa.

Sometimes, in life, you do stupid things. Embarrassing things. Things that you hope never come back to haunt you. Some of these things might include: growing a moustache and chronicling it on the internet, wearing JNCO jeans, having a bowl cut, listening to copious amounts of gangster rap, listening to very girly music (like, really girly), liking Gilmore Girls, blow-drying a cat, eating a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts right before you eat two foot-long meatball subs and then going swimming, rocking a fluorescent orange rat tail, wearing baggy sweat pants that looked like Lark Voorhies and Dustin Diamond were going to jump off of the pattern, etc. These are all things that Royligion can forgive and forget. The Magic Sherpa knows that was who you were, not who you are. He is here to guide you, hopefully down the right path.

Are you here to provide me with
creative writing advice? Or are 
you going to try to convince me I 

should be committing genocide
of some sort

I fathom my Sherpa is a bit of an ass, but has good intentions. He’s a bit loud, a bit self-deprecating, but all in all, he’s a pretty kick ass Sherpa.  Maybe my Sherpa has been around longer than most, but has failed to tell me who to become due to his nasty procrastination habit. Maybe he came to me when I was four and taught me to ride a bicycle. Maybe whenever I smell chicken noodle soup, he goes and checks to make sure it’s really soup and not someone with BO that smells like chicken noodle soup before I say “Mmm, that soup smells delicious.” Maybe in college, he brainwashed my entire University into thinking they should give me a degree in Mathematics. But, despite all of this, he knows his window of opportunity to enlighten me as to who I really am (and will remain) for the rest of my life is closing. And though he sounds ridiculous, and I imagine him to look a little like an ethnic Great Gazoo, he gives me something to believe in and something to look forward to; He gives me faith.

One day, when he decides it’s time, maybe then he will show me how to right my wrongs. He will teach me to play the guitar. He will show me how to write more better. He will show me what I really want to do when I grow up…

Mmm... Food.

On one of my typical evenings, as I waited behind a woman who was somewhere between elderly and middle-aged in the Taco Bell drive-thru, I thought, “Why in the hell is she not pulling up? Is there a Smart Car I can’t quite see between her and the next guy? Maybe a Mini Cooper? Maybe some sort of decommissioned military vehicle?” There was that much space. I could have parked a fire truck in between her and the next guy. True story. Well, the whole drive-thru thing is true, but I may be embellishing on the gap size she was leaving. Either way, the point is this: It requires a certain type of person to do this; someone new to the vehicle they’re driving, someone new to life and oblivious to their surroundings, and someone new to fast food.

It was evident that this woman was not a car-jacker. No one steals a nice mini-van. (Although if someone were to steal a mini-van, it would probably be a woman around her age… but that diminishes my argument and overall point). And you could tell at a glance that she was built for this car. It just had a “her” vibe. Sometimes you can look at someone and just know whether they’re in the city they are originally from, the clothes they normally wear or the car they usually drive… or not (it’s a skill I have… I wish I could trade it in for good looks or to be better at basketball), and this car was absolutely hers. I’d bet my life on it.

As this woman looked back at me in her driver’s side mirror, trying to gauge my level of dissatisfaction with her ability to pull forward, I ruled out her being oblivious. She wanted to help me pull forward to get me that much closer to enjoying the culinary delights provided by Taco Bell (and at reasonable prices, mind you), but she just didn’t quite know how. And, trust me, I can identify oblivious. I have mirrors; an oblivious man inside stares back at me 100% of the time. At times she seemed more concerned with me being content than she was about how far away from the next guy she was. However, despite still being a good 8 feet behind the next car and blocking my access to the speaker, she was not making any progress. It was seemingly her just rocking her car back and forth without actually letting off the break to give the appearance of someone who is trying to ensure they were killing the flea under their tire. Her break lights flickered like a strobe, yet she made absolutely no progress forward. You may attribute this behavior to lack of familiarity with the vehicle, or just bad spatial awareness, but something about it just didn’t seem right in this moment. She seemed to be confused and flustered by drive-thrus. This wasn’t something she did a whole lot of, and you could just tell.

No matter who you are, you can’t be something you’re not. Rich and cultured people are out of place at Taco Bell, and if you frequent Taco Bell, you’re probably not exactly blending in at a “fancy place.” That’s how the world works. Classes divided by money. Now, this could go one of two ways from here: I could write a long paper about how classes came to be and how they reflect on our culture and why they have been necessary in America for our entire history and on a go-forward basis… Or, I could contrast the difference between these two types of patrons at the different restaurants (fast food and “fancy”) that I just outlined. And, like two opposite-sex best friends who got slightly drunk and had a curious mutual attraction to each other and got a little overly flirtatious, you know where I am going with this, and I know you well enough to know where you want this to go…

Fast Food

The Rookie:

The Rookie fast-fooder (yes, I just coined that… I think…) will often be overdressed and look severely out of place within the establishment. They regularly refer to Burger King as a “restaurant” and refer to Wendy’s as “Wendy’s Old-Fashioned Hamburgers.” You can’t class it up. Tone it down a bit. It’s a sketchy brick building circled by run down cars waiting in line, smells like fry grease and has two or three gigantic dumpsters 30 feet from the back door next to the fat man wearing an undersized polo-shirt with a Pippy Longstocking doppelganger logo on it, smoking a cigarette. That’s as classy of a description as one should be legally allowed to use to paint a picture of Wendy’s. That’s not to say it’s not delicious though.

This person will typically analyze the menu for 7-10 minutes while looking for the healthiest thing on the menu and are alarmed to notice that one doesn’t seem to exist. This person often asks what’s on four or five different items and are confused when offered a “meal deal.”

This transaction couldn't be
more awkward, could it?

“I thought I was ordering a meal… And Super-Size? Do they have some sort of high-tech ray gun back there? Man, I’d better just nod and smile…” they think.

They grow increasingly uncomfortable and don’t know what to do with themselves during the time between ordering and before they get their food. They also often ask employees washing nearby tables for ketchup, napkins and refills. 

They are the ones who leave giant gaps between their car and the next at the drive-thru and are vastly confused by the two-window concept.

The Veteran

“Welcome to Taco Bell, can I take your order?” the pimple faced high school boy asked.

“Yeah, I will have two chicken burritos and a five layer burrito,” the tall, pale, gangly redhead on the other side of the speaker replied like clockwork.

That is a veteran order. Why? Because it requires no thinking. The man ordering here knew what he wanted and didn’t waste any time ordering. He had probably placed his share of orders to Pizza Hut in his time to the point he had their phone number memorized (943-4781), and he was confident and cool when he was called up to order. No special orders and no questions. Add onto that his impeccable ability to know how close he was to the next car and see how much room the car behind him needed to access the order box and you have a veteran. Plus, he was clearly very physically attractive given the minimal details about him. Those are just bonus points. The $3.22 exact change is the icing on the cake. The transition was the exact opposite of Larry David purchasing pot from a Hurley on the street (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcf2CO65lf4). Smooth.

Fine Dining

The Rookie:

The Rookie considers “Fine Dining” to be Olive Garden and Applebee’s. They often ask if they should seat themselves and they wear their “fancy jeans,” “fancy shirts,” “fancy shoes,” and their cleanest baseball hat. These people actually refer to these articles of clothing as “fancy” and also use terms like “fancy place” (See the fourth paragraph). When asked to name “fancy restaurants” they incapable of coming up with anything other than “Olive Garden and Applebee’s.”

Yeah. Just chug it, that'll blend right in. 

The Rookie will think heavily, but refrain from asking, about the location for a drive-thru window of the establishment. They will not recognize 88.6% of the menu’s items, and butcher the pronunciation of the other 11.4%. They will ask for more water once they take a large bite out of, what they refer to as, “Horse-relish sauce” because they thought it was tartar. (Side note: Their excuse of “I thought it was tartar sauce” still doesn’t make it acceptable). They will ask for extra “croissants” on their salads when they really mean “croutons.” They will get uppity as if they have interest in starting a physical altercation with the waiter when corrected over the same croissant/crouton confusion. They will not have the slightest clue as to how to eat anything that is put in front of them and will pick at it until they recognize some of its composition before proceeding to eat.

They will have trouble identifying the prices because they are just a number with no cents next to them or dollar sign. This person will also make at least three comments on how many meals at Jack in the Box they could get for the price of one appetizer. They will order based solely off of the prices once they identify where they are located on the menu. They may even ask for a “value menu” or a “children’s menu.” There’s a decent chance that there is one attempt at sending an order back asking for it to be “Super-sized.” There is a significantly higher chance that they at least think hard about stealing the silverware, justifying it by claiming their meal was outrageously priced. This person will pay, tip low, and consider actually skipping out on the check before deciding to just work overtime all next week to make up for it. But a little less overtime if they make off with a knife…

The Veteran

The Veteran stares for the length of the dinner in awe at whatever family member of mine is sitting two booths down from him wearing a t-shirt and eating straight horseradish with a spoon. He tips his waiter a bit more than normal just because of the waiter’s unusually rough night that the Veteran has witnessed…

Guide to Bachelorhood: Tip #4

Tip #4: Embrace the lame.

I’ve never been much for house parties, clubbing or bars and such. Which, to most people, translates to “the fun stuff.” Consequently, I am pretty sure I am not considered the most “fun” guy. In fact, one might even use the word “lame” to describe me. Girls hate lame. One can be lame in a variety of ways (mollestaches, liking things women like, having a ridiculous diet, etc.), but being actively lame by women’s standards needs to be done properly. Luckily, I have it perfected.

As the saying goes, “Girls just want to have fun.” It’s cliché, but it’s true. Who doesn’t know that? There’s a catchy song and everything. Women are like their own brand of human and their advertisements are that Cyndi Lauper song if it were played over the Vegas ads on TV (the ones with the party montages, not the ones where people fake holidays to get out of work). On repeat. For eternity. It was predestined. Even before instruments existed, cavewomen had that song stuck in their head. It is a little known fact that the Y chromosome contains immunity to enjoying that song. Adam had a lobotomy when Eve wouldn’t stop humming it and from then on, men were then created with equal hatred for the song. Several of the previous statements may or may not be true, but the first one stands. What does this mean for you? That’s simple. You have two options: you can avoid fun altogether, or you can learn to have fun doing things that women hate. Assuming you haven’t had any part of your brain removed, you have probably chosen to go with Option Two, embracing the lame. Good choice!

Now, we already know the key things we can invest time into to ward off women. If you want a woman to leave the room, turn on ESPN, cartoons, a non-romantic comedy or a videogame. But this is becoming increasingly more difficult now days. Now, more than ever, women are embracing sports and, in some cases, videogames. Women are seeping into the cracks of the things they hate so they can pretend to like them in an attempt to drive us away from these activities. So now, much like the black population changes slang words once white people start to butcher them by trying to sound cool, men need to adjust our entertainment sources to keep women the hell out.

Panama City Beach, Spring Break 2007!!!

Personally, I have always been a huge proponent of board games. I have also always been single. Now, I can’t definitively say that there is a direct correlation between the two, but I can say that I do have hard evidence to support that claim. Once, in a public speaking class, for an informative speech, I chose Uno (the card game) and its many variations as my topic. 60% of the class was female. 60% of the class stared at me like I was an idiot. Guess which 60% that was… I’ll be waiting for you at the next paragraph when you’ve made your guess.

(I am not dignifying your guess by revealing the correct answer.) Bachelors, I submit to you this: Board games can solve the above mentioned problems. I am not talking about poker either. There’s nothing wrong with poker, but women are too enticed by it. It’s too mainstream. They even televise it when real sports aren’t being played on ESPN. And at 3am. Nothing turns a girl off quicker than “Hey, instead of me taking you to dinner and a movie, do you want to come over and play some Scrabble and order pizza?” That’s the end of the conversation. Nothing more need be said. (On a side note, if you need to gamble, why not switch to Tonk? You might remember it from such gambling debts as “Gilberts Gotta Gun” and “Barkley Blows Bankroll.” Apparently the game my family from the South has always loved has surfaced as one of the issues behind the NBA gambling problem. I am afraid to play with my Grandma now for gun related violence concerns.)

The great part of this strategy is that it’s not going to have to change again. With sports, women can sack up and dive in and learn because there’s nothing other than “it’s boring to watch, let’s watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade” keeping them away from it. There are no actual obstacles between women and liking sports. If anything, members of the opposite sex running around and dominating each other should be enticing them. They are learning this. Whereas with board games, we’re set for life. You can whip out a deck of cards and play some Solitaire to drive her off. There are so many aspects that have an innate ability to immediately repulse women from board games:

Rules:

Women make their own rules and have no interest in following yours, the department of licensing or Hasbro’s. Fortunately, there is a rule book. This renders “You killed my army because you rolled a higher number than me? That’s stupid,” a pointless argument. I am not giving you pity because Cyndi Lauper replaced the part of your brain that processing logical reasoning with that song when human beings came to be. This rule book may be written in broken English in some places, but we both know what “First, it the first player turn to roll die first,” means. And no, you don’t get to go first because you have more ovaries and less testicles than me.

Duration:

Now, I am sure some women will read this and think, “Hey, I like board games!” But I have yet to meet a girl that has any interest in playing Risk. And very few that enjoy Monopoly. Why? Because they take for-ev-er. Do you know who cares very little about how long a game takes on a Friday night? Someone who doesn’t have parties and bars to go to, that’s who. It’s funny how many women have issues with some things taking too long and some things not taking long enough. The length of the game gets them every time. Which is strange, because I always thought it was about width. Man I hope my Grandma doesn’t read this...

Names:

The biggest potential repellant of a woman from a board game has to be the name. The names of everything in the game can work against it (or for it, depending on how you look at it). There are several different name categories that provide shelter from women. Some names can scare them away based on the nerd factor (The Settlers of Cattan). Some can relieve you of their presence simply by virtue of the terminology of the game (“Your level four Elf is no match for my level 7 Trogdor the Burninator!”). And most importantly, the inherently dirty sounding names of some games (Quelf, Bonkers, Parcheesi, Mancala, Scrabble, Tonk, etc.). Again, Tonk is highly recommended…

So give it some thought, find a game you enjoy that has all of these elements and then submerge yourself in it with your friends. You’ll be shacked up with four other single men on a Saturday night racking up gambling debts instead of out socializing in no time. I can promise your immediate shelter from pretty girls. I can’t think of too many situations where it wouldn’t sound out of place for a girl to exclaim “Man, I wish we had a few more people here so we could get some good Mexican Train going!” Well, save for the set of some sort of X rated film or NBA All-Star Weekend. 

Parenting 101: Questionnaire

The things you learn when babysitting teach you a lot about where you’re at in life. It tests your patience. It tests your attention span. It tests your ability to not murder someone you’re definitely capable of dismantling. And ultimately, it just all around lets you know if you are ready for parenthood. While the answer can never be an outright “yes” after babysitting, it can absolutely be an outright “no.” 

Sometimes the cuteness factor of children can blur the line between “maybe” and “no.” In these cases, we need to have a self-questionnaire. Here’s where I come in. The man who was raised (very passively) by a man who claims he has “always thought” that the plot to War of the Worlds might be true. (Don’t worry; he’s referring to aliens stashing spaceships in the ground, not Tom Cruise getting himself and his children through the impossible in a mini van. That would be crazy talk.) I will be creating this questionnaire. And when I say that, I mean right now. Instant gratification! So, grab a pen and play along!

Are you ready for parenting? (That’s the title of the questionnaire, not a question from it. However, if the answer is “no,” you can probably stop reading.)

Want one? How about three?

1: Do you like owning things that are in tact and in good condition?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. People who voluntarily have children make a bold statement that says, “You know what? Our house looks a little too nice. Let’s have someone completely destroy it.” Bam. Nine months later, a kid pops out. My four-year-old nephew broke my roommates model Lamborghini’s side mirror and somehow managed to rip the steering wheel out which had been immediately preceded by him causing my roommates Washington State University Mr. Potato Head to disintegrate upon touching it as if it were made of ash. Man, they sure make those novelty Mr. Potato Heads true to form. 

2: Do you like to sit and do nothing at any point during the day?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. With kids, not even TV can spare you for a few minutes. You’d damn well better start liking Spongebob Squarepants and all of those movies where the dog manages to dominate seven-year-olds at sports and the refs allow it simply because there’s no rule specifically against it. You had also better start drinking coffee mixed with a Mountain Dew creamer (add sugar to your liking).

3: Do you hate playing Hide and Seek, especially when in small quarters?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. Nothing is more appealing to a child than playing Hide and Seek. If there were prisons for children under five, there would be nothing but 8’x10’ cells full of children yelling, “Found you! Your turn!” and being incredibly proud of their accomplishment, no matter how horribly the other person is hidden.

4: Do you believe what children tell you?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. They lie for the same reasons everyone lies. Either because they are avoiding trouble, or think it’s funny. And really, who doesn’t love a good lie? Kevin (my nephew) decided to lie about needing to pee 10 minutes after he had just peed, which resulted in me leaving my two nieces unattended in a crowded Red Robin for 5 minutes once he started yelling “I have to pee! I have to pee!” His intentions were relayed by him from behind a locked stall door moments later with an overly excited “I tricked you!” Simply hilarious.

5: Do you hate saliva, urine or fecal matter?

Well, it's a step up from grapes!

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. Because with children, you will get all you can handle. They put everything in their mouth. (Not the urine and fecal matter, I am specifically talking about saliva here. The other two are self-explanatory as to why they are deal breakers.) Plus, they have fat cheeks. This leads to seeing a two-year-old start chewing, you squeezing theirs cheeks and then having a grape completely smothered in saliva dispensed into your open palm. Followed by a matchbox car, a paper plane and half of a chopstick. 

6: Do you hate cats?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. While they won’t claw the hell out of you like cats will, children routinely want to climb, hang, jump, hold and cuddle the hell out of you when you least want it and yet never have any interest in being held when you want to hold them, just like cats. This is just one of several things that children and cats have in common.

7: Do you hate it when someone tells you they’re hungry and yet, won’t eat?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. Being a parent is like permanently being on a bad date. My starving niece ordered a mini pizza and I handed it back to the waiter an hour later with marble sized bites taken out of just two of the pieces. And hell yes she wanted some fries with that! 

8: While babysitting, do you focus too closely on the child that you stop focusing on yourself to the point where you might need someone to babysit you?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. After joking to the waiter about wanting a sippy cup with a plastic lid and a straw like my nieces and nephew all received, I managed to spill my water everywhere while trying to stop Kevin from shoving a napkin in his mouth. This happened right in front of the cute girl in the next booth who was also babysitting. Wonderful. After dinner, I grabbed their four coats (yes, three kids, four coats) and while waiting for balloons was approached by the bus girl who handed me my own coat which I had forgotten. 

9: Do you often have difficulty restraining your hands from aggressively attacking the head, eyes and or throat of the child or children you are watching?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. In my most recent babysitting excursion, I flashed back to a conversation I had with a good friend of mine about the theory that children are cute because they have to be in order to survive. They use it as a self defense mechanism. We would simply kill off anything ugly that did most of the things that children do, but because babies and children are cute, we cover it up with, “They didn’t know any better!” So, while babysitting, I began to develop more to this theory. I introduce to you, “The Cuteness/Annoying Ratio!” 

If the child in question isn’t adorable enough to at least make up for how obnoxious they are, they have a very low (under one) Cuteness/Annoying Ratio and are probably on the verge getting smacked upside the back of the head. Children learn this and instinctively reduce their obnoxiousness to up their ratio and survive to see another day. This is why the smart people in the world are seldom attractive and the attractive people are often morons. As a matter of fact, this same ratio applies to adults as well. There is exactly zero chance that Jessica Simpson would have left the Newlyweds marriage on anything less than a stretcher (more likely in a body bag) if she fell below a C/A Ratio of 1. None. 

With that said, my nieces and nephew, whom I love dearly, are lucky their ratio’s are all significantly over one. I’d even say they’re in the two range. Except Kevin. He’s been around 1.50 since the recent deflation of his grape-wielding cheeks.

10: Do you regret having agreed to babysit in the first place?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. 

I asked myself that question, and despite every answer until now being a very emphatic “YES,” I am proud to say that I have never regretted a second that I have spent with those kids. I am absolutely not ready for children, but I can at least see why someone would be. Let’s just hope my kids have an unparalleled C/A Ratio so I don’t end up in an orange jump suit playing Hide and Seek with a man named Shark. He is probably very good at it.