If I were on "Jersey Shore"

I'll admit it right here for the first time: I have watched a full episode of MTV's "Jersey Shore."

It was a blustery spring night, the year 2011. I was at home, alone, near midnight. The glow of the television in pitch blackness was the only source of radiance save for flashes of lightning that ruthlessly pierced the darkness and illuminated the bed sheets shamefully veiling my self-conscious bones. All light slowly drained from my soul as an emblem of the wrought betrayal of a once resolute television fortitude. Outside my bedroom window the heavens wept in a continuous torrent that formed a wall separating me from all other existence.  Crashes of thunder resonated through the walls, seeming to penetrate into the deepest chasms of my morality.

On the screen, 8 pretentious morons trampled all over the unfortunate shores of New Jersey with the collective grace of a mentally handicapped orangutan. One of them insists that his abdominal muscles represent a "situation," and he does not hesitate to expose said "situation" in a bout of voyeurism to any passerby that has female reproductive organs. Another goes by "Snooki," a name which I still insist should have a "the" in front of it, because her physical appearance is akin to that of something called The Snooki Monster. Another character is named Ronnie, which is close enough to "Roidy," which I don't believe to be a coincidence (the steroids probably give him hemorrhoids, so it works on two different levels). Then there's "JWoww," I'm guessing because one can't even finish her full name without being "woww-ed" at her giant, artificial, bosoms. According to the opening credits, this character tends to "rip mens' heads off" after she sleeps with them. I still cannot understand why she would want to advertise this - quite the red flag. The other characters seemed normal enough at the start, besides Pauly D's ugly hairdo. I very quickly discovered, however, how wrong I was.

As I lie there, in the most utter disgust of my current choice of television programming, I imagined what it would be like to interact with these people. I imagined what it would be like if I was in the Jersey Shore house....

(This screen is getting wavy. A harp plays. These words are gone, and now, you see me, in a sleeveless t-shirt and swimming suit, sitting in a chair in the Jersey Shore house living room. The rest of the cast are randomly assorted around the house. "The situation" walks in)

Situation: "What's good bro?"
Me: "Uhh, lots of things. This house is pretty good, the beach is good, great, actually."
Situation: "Huh?"
Me: "What?"
Situation: "Bro, you really gotta hit up GTL with MVP, you're white and scrawny as hell bro." (shows me his abs).
Me: "What's GTL? And who is MVP?"
Situation: "Bra, GTL. Gym, tan, LAAAUNDRYYYYY! With me and my BOYS, Vinny and Pauly. MIKE. VINNY. PAULY. M...V...P!"
Me: "Could you not refer to me as a brassiere? Also why are you yelling?"
Situation: "What bro, you wanna go?"
Me: "Uh, no, just wondering why you're yelling."
Situation: "COME AT ME BRO!" (stands right in front of me, and at my lack of responsiveness, shows me his abs).

(Ronnie walks in)

Ronnie: Guys, break it up! STOP FIGHTING!
Me: "I'm not fighting, I'm sitting in this chair."
Ronnie: "STOP IT! LET me handle it, OK?? Situation, why you always gotta be stirring up drama bro?"

(Situation and Ronny start fist fighting, as I watch from the chair. Camera goes from the fight, to the chair. Fight, chair. Fight, me in the chair. Fight, chair)

(Pauly D and Vinny come in)

Pauly: "What's good bro?"
Me: "Uhh...the house? The beach?
Pauly: "What?"
Me: "Huh?"
Pauly: "You comin' out with us tonight bro? Me and my BOY Vinny are gonna pick up some hot CHICKS."
Vinny: "We're gonna get it innnn, bro!"
Me: "Get what in?"
Vinny: "Get it in, bro, smush.
Me: Get what in? Smush who? Huh?"
Pauly: "Bang chicks man, bang chicks."
Me: "Ohh, I see. Bang chicks. For a minute there I thought you meant Ronnie was gonna smush some girl because he's so big and muscly. He he he he."
Ronnie: "I heard that bro, YOU WANNA GO??"
Me: "Just joking man."
Ronnie: "That's ****ing right you're joking!"
Me: "Yeah...I am."
Ronnie: "That's RIGHT!"

(Snooki waddles in)

Snooki: "What is all this yelliiiiiinguhhhhhhhh? RAAAWHHHRURRRUHH!!"
Situation: "It's chill Snooki, the new bro is causing drama."
Me: "I'm just sitting in my chair."
Situation: "Stop talking sh** bro!" (shows me his abs).
Snooki: "WWWWHRRRRRRRRRUUUHHH!" 
Me: "I think I'm gonna go to the beach..."
Ronnie: "Why don't you wanna be part of the group bro? Why you gotta be separated man? We're a FAMILY here bro."
Me: "Because you guys are insane."

(At that, JWoww comes in, smacks me in the head with a bosom full of silicon, and I fall to the floor unconscious)

I figure that is pretty much how it might go. Personally I think it would make for quality TV, but I don't think the producers would be keen to add a scrawny white guy from Colorado to the mix.

That would add a level of normality that is just unacceptable for the viewers of "Jersey Shore." 

Duvet-induced double nighttime showers

I'm writing this in a state of clammy dismay.

Why clammy?

Because I just spent 30 minutes crawling around the inside of a duvet cover.

Why dismay?

Because spending 30 minutes crawling around the inside of a duvet cover is dismaying. Also, because I was reminded by these activities that I own and utilize a duvet cover.

I'm rather embarrassed about it, actually. Single men in their 20's should not be sleeping underneath anything that contains a silent "t." I think my mother bought it for me years ago. I thought you wanted me to stay a child forever, mom.

Returning a down comforter to its duvet cover should not be a one man (or woman) job. While trying to justify my world record longest time of 30 minutes might be futile, I bet I'd be hard pressed to find someone who can do it in under 10. To this day I still have not developed a good strategy. I must physically venture into the muggy darkness of the duvet cover, where my blind attempts at filling in all the spaces with down leave me lost, scared, and confused.

...and a sweaty mess. All because I decided to wash my sheets - what a silly decision that was. I may never do it again.

While that last statement is of course a joke, it is at the same time deadly serious. 

Here's why. 

I'm a night shower-er. I've always been a night shower-er, and it's only kind of shower-er I will ever be. Day shower-ers have to deal with the distressing shock that comes with being struck by water while still in early-morning zombie sate. They also have to get up earlier in the morning. While they shower, I sleep. 

As a night-shower-er, I rarely ever crawl into bed without having been thoroughly bathed 2 hours prior at most. This being the case, I submit my sheets can never get dirty. Every night they receive a freshly lathered, squeaky clean specimen. My bed-wetting days are long gone, and any oils/greases that exit my pores during the night are freshly produced, clean oils/greases, because the old, dirty oils/greases have just been lathered away. In summary, I believe this is justification for never washing my sheets, ever. 

I know what you're thinking - "no wonder he's single." Perhaps, but at least I get another hour of sleep while the day shower-ers are scrubbing away just to go out into the filthy world once again. 

I just got way off topic. This was supposed to be about duvet covers.

Oh well, let's embrace the tangent.

Now that today's installment of duvet cover madness is all over, I suppose the only reason I'm still fairly flustered is that, because of the sweaty activities I just detailed, I have to take another shower - my second shower of the day (night).
 
Along with being a night-shower-er, I'm also a one shower a day...-er. I HATE taking two showers for several reasons.

For one, two showers a day means the use of two clean pairs of underwear a day. This means halving the time between two consecutive laundry days, which is a major problem. 

Additionally, two showers a day means I use twice as much shampoo, which doubles the frequency of having to buy more. Is there anything more daunting than making a decision in the shampoo aisle? The temptation to try a new brand is often overwhelming, but if you make a mistake, you're screwed every single day (in this case twice a day) for however many days that bottle lasts. 

Also, how exactly does one know what "type" of hair one has?

Dry? Well yeah, as long as I'm not in the shower... 
Oily? Depends on how long it's been since I've showered... 
Coarse? If I feel each hair individually, yeah... 
Soft? I've never felt someone's head and thought they had hard hair...
Damaged? Is that after a haircut...?  
Thick or thin? How is that even measured? Is it by ease of movement of one's hand through one's hair? If so, wouldn't curly always be thick and straight always be thin...? 
Normal? What does normal hair mean?? Is normal the absence of all the above? Presence of all the above...? 

To me it seems my hair is all these things depending on the conditions. 

Buying shampoo just sucks, and I would like to avoid it for as long as humanly possible, which means one shower a day, at most.

I have one more shower comment:

Does anyone else think exercising in the shower is a great idea? You're naked, constantly being sprayed with water, and immediately after you're done you can take a shower! It would save people so much time. This idea is still in preliminary stages, but I think someday I might try to invent one of those all-in-one workout machines designed for the shower.

That's all.

Because no one has ever done airport humor, part II

I am very disappointed with Southwest Airlines. They've implemented a new seating system which is really pretty awful, and I would like to discuss it here in hopes that someone less lazy than me starts a petition. 

For those who don't know, the super hip new idea is to get rid of seating assignments, and instead assign each passenger a boarding "zone," and once your zone is called you can embark and sit wherever you want on the plane. Wherever you want?! That sounds GREAT! Imagine the possibilities! On the surface yes, but when you get down to it, all the possibilities provide problems... 

In such close quarters, you can't help but care deeply about what the people you are going to be sandwiched between for a matter of hours look like. This causes a shift from racial profiling at security to facial profiling on the plane. 

You find yourself slowly wandering down the aisle, no particular destination in mind, looking left then right, scanning faces, as if you're trying to spot a suitable life partner. You want to sit by people who look friendly and happy (but not so much so they are going to talk to you - I hate airplane small talk, I just want to sleep), not irritated and mean - no one likes that energy on a plane. You need to avoid people who look like potential armrest hogs, window hogs, sweaty hogs, snorers, vomiters, loud eaters, open sneezers, short short-wearers, frequent pee-ers, tomato juice drinkers, smelly farters and heavy perspire-ers. All of this makes you feel like a bad person because you're judging people by how they look, but you were forced into it by Southwest and their need to be different.  

What if the only two seat options left are next to a fat guy or next to a skinny guy? Now you feel like a jerk for picking the skinny guy and reminding the fat guy that he's fat and no one wants to sit with him! And what if the seat you want is right next to an attractive member of the opposite sex? Then, if you sit there, you're labelled by them and everyone else as one who shamelessly hits on complete strangers at any and every opportunity. You don't want this label (even if it is an accurate one) so you are forced to choose another seat just because this person got assigned a higher boarding zone than you and happens to be attractive. How did Southwest not think of these potential issues before implementing this disaster? Just put me in a seat! If I don't like it I'll just have to deal, rather than sit for 4 hours in deep regret of my decision to park myself next to the guy who settles on clipping his fingernails all over my tray table as an appropriate airplane activity (seriously, it happened to me, and one clipping flew into my ginger ale).

Don't go book your flight on Southwest thinking it all only starts at boarding. Oh no, it begins at the gate where you are forced to line up like prisoners by boarding zone and by number within said boarding zone, and you must do so according to a series of very confusing numbered columns and partitioning TV screens. You are not aware of other passengers' boarding zone numbers and so if you want to line up numerically according to Southwest seating policy, you must creepily peak at your fellow zone patron's boarding passes, or ask them what their numbers are, to which they look at you like you're a nutcase, to which you realize you are a nutcase for asking, which leads you to believe Southwest views all their customers as nutcases.

If you want to write the petition, feel free to use any of the above material.

And what's the deal with window people? Why on EARTH would you ever want the window seat if you are over the age of 12? Have you ever had the window seat and had to pee? Do you not feel any remorse at all for making two separate people have to close their book, take off their headphones, unbuckle their seat belt, lift their drink, put their book, headphones and drink in their lap, lift their tray table, partly stand up, balance their items on their seat, fully stand up, and step out into the aisle? By the time they repeat all the above steps in reverse order to sit back down, you're back from your precious pee and they have to do it all over again. And what if they're sleeping? Is there anything more awkward than waking up a stranger? I think every seat on an airplane should also be a toilet, so that window people can sit at their little window and not be a nuisance.  

Window people...

It's not like you can see anything out there for 95% of the flight anyway. The only advantage I can think of is that you can lean on the window. I suppose that's something.

I'm an aisle kind of guy myself. I like to lean heavily on my own personal outside armrest (all others are fought over viciously), and stretch my legs out. That's right, I'm one of those guys who leans into the aisle. Flight attendants hate me, but it's ok because it's their job to pretend that they like me anyways, and I'm very easily convinced by fake nice attitudes. Also, I've mastered the art of sleeping but still being fully aware when the drink cart is coming. I've had far too many bruised shoulders and run-over toes to ever be 100% unconscious on a plane.

That's all I have on air travel for now. 

Does anyone else get the feeling my blog should really be called, "First World Problems?"

Because no one has ever done airport humor, part I

My uncle embarrassed himself in drastic fashion by beginning to de-pants in front of hundreds of queued air travelers at airport security. The bad news (from a comedy standpoint) is that his wife was there to stop him before he unknowingly exhibited full consent to strip search. The good news is he's not alone.

Eventually, everyone who flies will do something stupid at airport security, and, eventually, everyone will scoff at someone else and think, "I would never do anything that stupid at airport security." In the aforementioned case, my uncle's instinct kicked in, instinct that has been honed through decades of taking off his own garments and that dictates step two after removal of the belt is removal of the pants. Apparently this instinct takes effect regardless of current location, but you can't really blame a guy for being that ultra-habituated to airport lines. Such pardon can't be afforded to certain others.

Can we start with the TSA haters? Listen, I know personal privacy is a hot button issue these days, but an even bigger issue is me plummeting to earth in a metal fireball after a crazy person gets through security with an explosive strapped too close to his ding-dong for a TSA agent to detect it by pat down. I say pat down more ding-dongs. To make it easier on discomfited patrons, the TSA's new slogan can be: "It's more embarrassing for us than it is for you!" And you know what? I'll take my .000000001% higher chance of getting cancer in the new millimeter wave scanners if it they provide me even 1% more peace of mind that my transatlantic trip from A to B does not involve crashing into the C. 

Of course the TSA isn't perfect, but what better way is there to run security? Should we start flat-out profiling people like they do in the middle east? Israel's form of airport security entails a large Israeli soldier staring at you as you stand in line, and he is trained to detect that single drip of nervous sweat that falls down your face, and if that face happens to be Arab, you get questioned. I'm sure all the people that think pat downs are a huge inconvenience would love that treatment!

On a lighter note, there's nothing I quite enjoy more than waiting my turn at security, and watching the woman in front of me with 18 rings, 6 bracelets, 62 earrings, and a metal-studded belt try and get through the metal detector:

     BEEP BEEP BEEP!

               TSA agent: "Mam, please remove your jewelry."
               Woman: "My rings too?"
               TSA agent: "All jewelry mam."

     BEEP BEEP BEEP!

               TSA agent: "Mam, did you remove all your jewelry?"
               Woman: "Even my bracelets?"
               TSA agent: "Are they metal?"
               Woman: "Yes."
               TSA agent: "All jewelry please."

     BEEP BEEP BEEP!

              TSA agent: "Mam, do you have anything in your pockets?"
              Woman: "Just a few quarters! This is an intrusion of my privacy!"
              TSA agent: "Please take everything out of your pockets."

     BEEP BEEP BEEP!

              TSA agent: "Mam, your toe ring..."

It goes on and on like this until the agent is forced to perform a thorough pat down, during which he fills half a dozen bowls with various metal objects, which the woman ironically forgets to reclaim as she storms off to her flight in complete and utter disgust.

Speaking of complete and utter disgust, I am now going to employ one of those really annoying "to be continued" tricks, because otherwise this would be way too long and frankly who wants to read long blog posts?

Stay tuned for part II.

The Ballad of Costa Rica

There are certain families of five

who doubtlessly never should drive

through a far foreign land filled with jungles and sand

luck be to make it alive

Replace coffee machines with rice and beans

roads with potholes and dirt

sun is expected but still not respected

prepare pale skin to be burnt

Here there are creatures unseen in the states

big scary lizards and venomous snakes

Curious crabs will crawl on your hand

but worst of all in this dangerous land...

Coca Cola is not

the only form of bubbling crapola

Laughter ensues and an ego is bruised

while samples of 'selfies' are being perused

Life on vacation is after all simple

joy can be felt from a single pimple

Big ocean waves are a stressed father's foe as he sits alone in worry

all the while angry fists rain down on his bathroom door with fury

Fathers are worried while sisters are hurried

for dinner downstairs awaits

but still they are primping not thinking of skimping

they'll never leave hairdos to fate

Fathers are worried while sisters are hurried

while mothers scurry about

collecting those things other families don't bring

this mom leaves nothing in doubt

Fathers are worried while sisters are hurried

while mothers scurry about

but brothers and sons just want to have fun

so they take a different route:

Don't worry it's fine

Don't hurry there's time

Don't scurry to rhyme

even when one is available