Puppy Love.

7 Mar

No matter how good you are at bowling, it doesn’t make you cool. Some sports are like that. These are the sports that I like to play. Because being shitty at bowling is perfectly acceptable and not eligible for judgement. Are you and the gutter in a committed relationship? You’ll still make friends at the alley. Do you nail all strikes and spares? Still not getting laid. It’s interesting. Now, if you can’t make a free throw in PE basketball, you may as well switch schools and fake a doctor’s note the entire semester that keeps you out of participating, or convince your phys ed teacher that you are his “aide.” (I did that one year. It actually worked. I spent every other day hiding in his office, ordering Pizza Hut from the locker room. I got an A both terms).

Brinks Home Security commercials are SOOOOOO gay. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you will. The scene: a cheesy, “picture perfect” home scenario is taking place, something like a mother and daughter giggling together, eating popcorn, watching Lifetime movies and having a mother-daughter bonding “girls’ night,” when suddenly, a dark, ominous figure breaks the back door in with his face. Startled by the immediate squealing of the home security system, he stops dead in his tracks, snaps his head to the left and right in a panic, and then bolts from the scene, as a Bud Lightyear voice in a stupid robotic tone says, “You-have-been-detected-by-our-home-security-system—–Leave, NOW!” So gay. So, so gay.

I wish my cable box wasn’t on the fritz. I’m really into an episode of Animal Rescue right now. Will they save the puppies from the puppy mill???? Will they??? The suspense is killing me! I guess I’ll never know.

Is it wrong that I feel more compelled to help starving animals on television than I do starving children from third world countries? I wonder this as I watch Animal Planet switch over to a commercial break for Compassion International. Sure, the skeletal children in Africa tug at my heart a bit, but those starving puppies neglected in junk-filled back yards in the ghetto? It brings tears to my eyes and makes me feel an overwhelming guilt, like it’s my personal responsibility to go rescue their furry little helpless bodies from inevitable doom.

This afternoon I brought my car into Midas to get my oil changed and to also investigate an abnormality that cropped up on Friday. When my car decelerates and hits exactly 23 miles per hour, it shudders violently for a moment. At first I suspected my brakes were the culprit, and figured I would need my rotors replaced. Then I noticed that even when I didn’t brake, it shook at 23 mph. A tire balance or alignment issue perhaps? I figured I’d let the car doctors decide, since I can barely spell “car,” let alone diagnose a mechanical issue. So I gave the mechanic my keys, got settled into the waiting room, dispensed a Diet Dr. Pepper from the vending machine, which exploded all over my jeans when I cracked it open, and waited.

They changed the oil and checked out the shudder issue. Their answer?

“We’re not really sure what’s wrong with it. Everything seems to be fine…..you might just want to continue driving it around until it gets worse and you start to feel like it’s dangerous.”



I guess I’ll do that then.


“I’d like your address, please. When I typed in ‘address,’ my phone immediately started auto-correcting to ‘Adderall.’ I’m a drug dealer.”


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