Cell Phone Etiquette

Share Button

Remember life before cell phones?  People smiled to strangers in the elevator instead of playing Candy Crush.  You could pretend to be lost, ask a hot girl for directions then invite her to a “Chicks drink free happy hour.”  When you jumped off that two story building thirty million people didn’t watch you break your pelvis on YouTube.  Life was good.

Now there are now more cell phones than people in the world.  Only cab drivers are capable of using two cell phones simultaneously and those guys took years of practice to get good at it.  Let’s dive into the other types of cell phone wrongdoers.

Your Typical Abusers

Miss. Ringtone—I didn’t know phones still had these.

Mr. Xanac—It is ten pm.  The party is happening like the drunken beach house scene in Weekend at Bernie’s.    Everyone is laughing and meeting new people– except one guy.  He sits on a stool in the corner thumbing through his three friends on his MySpace account.  He wonders why his life looks more like Tom Hanks in Castaway than the guy in a Nicholas Sparks novel.

Mrs.  Ansel Adams—When people used to use film to take pictures, it meant something.  You only had twenty-four snapshots per roll; not 8,000 pictures combined with sixteen hours of video on your iPhone9.  You made every picture count.  You didn’t take pictures of fireworks on the Fourth of July, every time your kid spit up, or rapid fire shots of your friends throwing back that tenth shot of Skol vodka.  Here’s a tip:  Live in the moment, you might enjoy it.

Mr. Bluetooth—You, Mrs. Blackberry and your kid Flip Phone should all get a room.

Ms. Tears For Fears: “Shout, shout, let it all out”—Because you bought one of the bottom-shelf Cricket phones don’t make the rest of us listen to you as you attempt to yell from Newark to Kansas City.

Michael Douglas still wants to be Ivan Boesky

Mr. Big Deal—It is no longer 1988.  Talking loud on your cell phone as you walk down the street wearing the free suit from the Men’s Warehouse ‘Buy 1, Get 3 Free Special’ makes you obnoxious, not Gordon Gekko.

The Waze App—Drivers of this century know you can’t text and drive.  Apparently, it is still ok to fumble around with your phone as you confirm an accident or police presence while flying down the highway at eighty mph.

Mrs. Mulit-tasker—Conversations with these people are like you watching the Super Bowl in real time while your neighbors are on a fifteen-second delay.  They just can’t catch up.  This is how the conversation goes [the whole time them clicking away on their phone]

You:  “Blah, blah, blah”
Her:  “Yea…”
You:  “As I was saying, blah, blah, blah”
Her:  “Sure, sounds good”
[she finally looks up from phone giving you her full attention]:
Her:  “Wait, wait, no.  I’m not going to have a four way with you, my sister, and an escort to be named later.”

Mr. Britannica—”Wait, I’ll look it up.  It will just take second,” this person needs to verify every friendly, bar argument with Wikipedia.  Everyone stands around listening to seconds of their life waste away until Eager Beaver can verify the five tertiary reasons why the Peloponnesian War lasted as long as it did.

This Must Stop

I’m organizing a protest next Tuesday at the National Mall:  “Cell Phones Have To Go”.  I’m not going to be there, but if you could go on my behalf, that would be super.

Share Button

I Want To Be President

Share Button

Every four years, every yahoo who has any aspiration of becoming a global leader climbs out from their hole and says, “I’m running for president.”  It really doesn’t matter that most of these candidates are completely incapable of holding down a regular job, so running for office seems like a completely legitimate career move.  Additionally, if they win, the benefits are pretty sweet too (secret service, complimentary stationary, free meals).

Just imagine how much better my  life would be
Just imagine how much better my life would be

If we learned anything from the movie Dave, we know that even a guy in a coma can keep the country running for several months.  Fortunately, I run this slick blog, which has experienced exponential since it launched (and we just picked up another subscriber last week).  Using this platform, I could be the voice of three hundred million people from my couch.

I know there will be naysayers telling me that I can’t run the biggest powerhouse this side of the sun, but to them I say, “There may be a steep learning curve, but I can’t be the worst.  It is almost impossible to be last out of 45.”  Even Nixon didn’t get fired.

Once elected, I would absolutely abuse my power.  I would call up famous people that I always wanted to meet:

 “Hey Gisele, you, Tom and the kids come over and we’ll fire up the grill.  I got what is left of Nirvana playing a concert here tonight.”

“Ricky Schroder, I’m calling you from the White House.  Get your silver spoon ass over here.”

“Bill Cosby.  Guess what’s not coming your way:  A pardon.”

With the ultimate VIP pass, you could expect to see me at the Super Bowl, Jay-Z’s Academy Awards after-party, and several random warehouse raves.  I would also make guest appearances in movies (playing myself, of course), TV shows (like The Bachelorette where I would straighten out some of those dudes—seriously, you and nineteen other guys are chasing the same girl-that’s just dumb, you have a 95% chance of losing).

Hey, Chris Asdids remember when you made me repeatedly pop my collar on the school bus in first grade?  No?  Well I do.  Consider this a heads up when SEAL Team 6 tosses flashbang grenades into your house as a training drill.  They just make a lot of noise and light.  You’ll poop your pants in fear, but you’ll be fine otherwise.

For a hefty fee, I would use the new iPhone to make a call during the State of the Union Address, carry a Pepsi while boarding Air Force One, or do the occasional infomercial for the ThighMaster 2.  I would also start charging for autographs and selfies.  I’m going to be out of a job in eight four years, so I need to start building my brand.  The president only makes $400,000 a year as the CEO of a company with $17 trillion in revenues.  Larry Ellison made $67 million running Oracle last year and his company only did $38 billion in revenues, so you see why I would need to moonlight.

Is this a little self-serving?  Absolutely, but you would do it too.

Share Button

Underage Bar Fighting with Special Mention of the Marlboro Man

Share Button

Back when men worked for scale and magazines still allowed ads with the Marlboro Man, my father used to regularly take me to “Kathy’s Bar” at Damen and Lawrence.  I was only four, but I realized that this working man’s bar would be my Friday nights of the future if I didn’t graduate from eighth grade.

After a long day at preschool, I was at Kathy’s throwing back a Coke and snacking on peanuts.  A commotion arose from some of the regulars by the pool table.  Two ironworkers came to the forefront of the group and squared off in the center of the bar.  The intensity of their slurred speech and violent finger pointing told me this was not an argument over the Cubs game.

Make it a double
Make it a double

I knew this wasn’t normal bar behavior and I looked to my father for how to respond to this potentially life threatening situation.  My father abruptly turned his chair.  He was now in the perfect position to watch the throw down.  I was so close to the action, the spittle could land on me.  I kept glancing back at my dad for clues to run out of the bar for our safety, but my father was ordering another beer from the waitress as if he was sitting ringside at the Spinks-Holmes fight.

“Dad, dad, what’s going to happen?” I asked as my spine tensed up and adrenaline pumped throughout my body.

“They’re going to fight,” he retorted while tossing some popcorn in his mouth and leaning back in the chair as he perched his shoes on top of the table.  “If you don’t turn around, you might miss it.”

I had seen preschoolers bitch slap each other on the playground, but this was a real, unsupervised fight.  There were no teachers to break it up, no helicopter parent able to airlift Little Billy out trouble, nor a code of honor to stop once one boy starts crying.  These were two full size dudes about to go full tilt drunken bum fight.

Suddenly, a maiden appeared between the men. I wondered if they were going to beat her up too.  I glanced back at my dad.  He stood up and walked away.  What was he doing?  A real life version of Van Damme’s epic movie, Bloodsport, was unfolding in front of me.   My dad abandoned me.  Was this one of those early manhood tests?  Survive a bar fight and become an adult?  If I could survive, I knew what story I would be sharing at ‘Show and Tell’ on Friday.

The standoff, like two wild elks squaring off over a mate, continued.  They circled each other while the woman stood in between begging them to back down and resume the pool game.  The intensity built as one of them grabbed a beer bottle.

“Please there are children here!” she shouted as her missing teeth came into my view.  No longer part of the peanut gallery, I was involved.  With that desperate plea, the men backed down.  They exited with a few vulgar words as the bar returned to its normal state of affairs.

My father returned and sat in his chair.

“Dad, where did you go?  These guys fought each other,” I exclaimed as the intensity in my voice had yet to subside.

“I went to the bathroom.  And these guys didn’t fight,” he calmly stated as he took a pull out of his beer, “as soon as a girl gets in the middle of two guys arguing, it’s never going to happen.”

I took in this vast wisdom.  Other classmates of mine where playing with Legos and watching Sesame Street with that stupid yellow bird.  I was learning how the real world works.

“Besides,” he continued, “there was way too much talking.  Real bar fights happen with a punch, not a bunch of yelling.”

Kathy’s Bar is now a T-mobile, the Marlboro Man has retired to that great cattle ranch in the sky, and the union worker has faded into the history books much like Jack Dempsey.  However, I still have the memories of surviving my first bar fight.

Share Button

Spring is Here; Let’s Get Ready To Protest

Share Button

After five months of sub-zero weather, half of America breaks out the placards and megaphones to fire up chanting and rioting all in the name of fighting the perceived wrongs in the world.  Welcome to the start of the ‘2015 Protest Season’.  Do the three months around the winter solstice yield a time of peace and tranquility void of all inequalities?  Or was everyone in preparation mode?  As soon as outdoor seating stars showing up at restaurants, everyone thinks they are Che Guevera rallying the masses to force change via their right to assemble.

The Protestors Are So Impassioned, But Why?

“Exercising their freedom of speech” is the common response.  When I ride my Schwin around the block, I don’t get a fancy yellow shirt for winning a stage of the Tour de France like that drug addict Lance Armstrong.  I just sit my butt in the couch and finish watching The Talk while I tell myself I am a winner.  I only exercised my right to work out.  No one else notices the results and no one else cares.  Just like no one says to a protestor, “Great job waving that sign and avoiding the tear gas.”  Congratulations to that protestor who showed everyone that they are a moron for missing a day of work so they could get out and exercise their first amendment right.

What Are They Fighting For?

Armed with poster board, crayons, loudspeakers and the occasional bass drum, these do-gooders take to the streets.  They have their chants, their leaders, and their human chains.  I am sympathetic to many of the protests, but for many I don’t see what they are trying to accomplish:

  • Treatment of prisoners in Guantanamo Bay—If you want one of these lunatics to bunk up in your spare bedroom, go ahead.  Please invite them to your second home in Antarctica—not to my homeland.
  • ”Save the Earth”/Greenpeace hippies:  I don’t think the earth is really listening.  It has been here for five billion years.  400 people singing “We are the World” is not going to prevent global warming.
  • Any group with an acronym instead of a proper name—If your own protestors don’t know what the letters stand for, no one else does either.
  • Most PETA protests—If a new eye cream is going to cause a nasty rash, I would like the monkey get it first.
  • 1% Protests (Occupy Wall Street)—If they succeeded in removing the 1%, wouldn’t the next 1.0101% become the new 1%?

In Conclusion

Pick your cause, post your bail money in advance, and enjoy the season.

Share Button

Creating Life and Dropping Names

Share Button

Sorry you work at a cubical job. Despite playing the occasional game of laser tag and reminiscing about that one time made out with Kristy Cedarson in fifth grade, your overall life rating is hovering around a D-.  Your failure as a human doesn’t mean you need to send your kid down the same path, but it is up to you to start them on the right track by naming your child correctly.

Here are some helpful tips on proper naming to set your child up for life success instead of living on skid row (NOT “in the band ‘Skid Row’”-which would be awesome):

1)  Jedidiah, Christabel, Cillian:  If you, as an educated adult, need to take a ‘Hooked on Phonics’ course to learn how to spell your newborn’s name, your kid will be repeating kindergarten until they are ten years old trying to pass the ‘spell your name’ test.

2)  Bill, Ronald, John, and Barry:  Stick to naming your boys after US Presidents.  Barry–a US President?  You bet he is.  Before Barack Obama was balls deep in pension for life elected position, he went by “Barry”.  You can read about it here.

3)  Don’t go all ‘Coldplay’ and name your kid after a fruit.  If you created a human life with Gwyneth Paltrow, go ahead and name your kid after a Yugoslavian auto part if you want.  However, you knocked up your neighbor who supplements her disability check by selling prescription pills, so stick to the naming rules.

4)  Take a hint from George Foreman.  Naming kids is hard, and Foreman knew after years of punches to the cranium and burns by his own grill, he was incapable of such a momentous act.  George Foreman named all his boys and one of his girls after President George Washington.

5)  Crystal, Misty, Serenity, Destiny, Lexus, or any other bank teller name.  Bank teller is the career path of the retired stripper, but tellers don’t get free tanning and cash tips.  I’m sure you have some obtuse reasoning for these names, such as ‘Summer is my favorite season’ or ‘I always wanted to go to France, so I’ll name her Asia’, but when you’re old and pumped up with Viagra, you don’t want to avoid “$1 Dance Night” at the local strip shack because your daughter is working.

Just like that awful tramp stamp you got in college, this is a lifelong decision.  Don’t screw up your kid’s life by taking a flyer on their name.  Put down the Allen wrench that you are using to assemble the baby furniture and put some real thought into your child’s future.

Share Button

How to Make Your Own Craft Beer

Share Button

The stalwarts of alcohol have failed the United States of America.  The nation’s drinkers no longer reach for Bud Heavy, Coors, or our south of the border friend, Corona.  The masses have turned to micro and nano beers such as Fred, Donkey Punch, or Blithering Idiot to raise their BAC and lower their inhibitions.  These new beers, known as craft, or “hey mom, look what I just made in the bathtub,” are spreading across our country like measles in both the pre and post vaccination era.  After careful research consisting of two Google searches and overhearing the endless conversations of guys talking mindlessly about waiting in line for fourteen hours for a two pack of craft beer, Skiinginjeans will show you how you can be a true player in the craft beer scene.

Your Image

Being a brew master is more than just making a sub-average beer.  It is about projecting an image as a brew master to your legion of devoted followers.  These worshipers will not look to a deity with a custom suit, a MBA from Wharton, or a jaw line so square that Office of Weights and Measures will use it as the mold for T-squares.  Hide your country club membership card and put your Tesla in storage.  Your disciples demand a heavily bearded, overweight, flannel-wearing dude complete with one of those gas station mesh trucker hats.  You must guide your people to a place where homemade beer, no matter how awful, doesn’t seem as commercialized you’re trying to make it.

The Product

Beer is beer.  Some of it is dark and some of it is light, When your mom catches you puking in her bushes after a late night at McGillicutty’s, you can be rest assured that the beer did its job.  It really doesn’t matter what you bottle, just shoot for an alcohol by volume level of at least 10%.  Even though you are dealing self-proclaimed beer experts who liken their ability to the best sommeliers, they just want value for their money.  After a long night of drinking your heavily fermented, $8/can concoction, if they find themselves waking up next to a hipster chick who has not shaved her armpits since the Clinton administration, you did your job.

When to Sell Out

There is a very good chance you will go out of business before every netting dollar one.  Your product is like a viral meme; once everyone has seen it, no one cares for a second look.  In the slightest chance, a buyer does approach you and you do sell your brewery, make sure you include your used bathtub and strainer—that is where the real value in your company lies.  When you finally address your finicky customers to tell them that you sold your company, you are never to say, “I sold this company.”  Words like these will only turn off your beatnik zealots because you traded in years of wasted time for a handful of Lincolns and maybe a couple of Hamiltons.  Tell your followers that you have turned over a new leaf in your business and by partnering with a major brewery, you can seek out new adventures by moving to Colorado and opening a legalize drug operation.  They will respect your devotion to a new cause that, unbeknownst to them, is on pace to have a larger market than beer.

The Future

If you want to see what the craft beer industry will look like in twenty years, look at the current value of baseball cards from the 1990’s.  They are worthless.  This craft beer fad is on par with Ty Warner’s Beanie Babies (Warner is currently on probation for tax evasion), Hyper-Color shirts (Generra, the company that produced the shirts, went bankrupt in 1992), and Ralph Macchio (no commentary needed).

Share Button

A Short Lesson in Pronouns

Share Button

I was in your office last week and I overheard this conversation between two co-workers:

“We smoked them last night”

“They did a great job running, but we just couldn’t punch through their defense”

“You’re right; we lost that game because he can’t coach.  Next year they need to focus on their back office and not on our franchise guy”

“You played a great game, congrats on the ‘W’!”

Confused?  Both of these guys walked away thinking the conversation was transparent.  In reality, one guy was talking about his kid’s debate team and the other was talking about an amateur jai alai match played in 1992.

More heart attacks occur on Monday than any other day of the week (We site sources here at skiingingjeans.com).  I once flipped through the pamphlet “Diabetes and You,” so I am qualified to tell you that listening to conversations like the one above is the primary reason you will end up in the supine position on a gurney headed to the hospital.  Your brain overloads with so many synapses firing to attempt to understand the ill-connected pronouns that your heart implodes.  On the way to the hospital, some nineteen-year-old, pre-med EMT trying to become the next Doogie Howser will break your ribs doing chest compressions while slipping you the tongue as he treats you like a Resusci Anne doll.  This near death experience is much more enjoyable than listening to Chuck tell you how he threw for 350 yards, went 12-15 from the line, scored an empty net goal, and held Derek Jeter to only one hit over the weekend.

At the hospital, you will probably overhear two doctors having a similar, pronoun filled conversation that you just had with your co-worker.  You will fall into another cardiac arrest and the staff will run for the defibrillator.  They will yell “Clear!” and bring you back to life like Mark Ruffalo in Just Like Heaven.  Please note the medical team doesn’t yell, “You get clear,” “We got clearance,” or “They need to get clear so y’all can blast him.”  They just yell “clear.”  No pronouns are used and it is crystal clear, right?

Newsflash:  You are not on the team.

If “your” team wins the championship and you do not receive a trophy, ring or other item that will later be hawked on eBay when you’re headed for bankruptcy, you are not on the team.  Yes, the owner, the players, and the groundskeeper all say, “fans are a part of the team.”  That is marketing 101.

Aside from the fact that you are not on the team’s payroll, the logic of claiming any type of ownership is bewildering.  Next time you’re at the ballet try to catch yourself saying, “We almost stuck the landing in the third act, but that fall probably cost us the rest of the season.”  In both cases, sports and ballet, you are the consumer.  You expect to be entertained for the money you pay for a ticket, but don’t expect any fanfare for you when they do well.

No sane person will venture outside to get the newspaper with wind chill levels reaching sixty below zero.  However, lunatics, using ice picks to break up frozen beers while losing fingers due to frostbite, will gladly fork over $150 a ticket to watch twenty-two meatheads play catch in an arctic blast.

“Being a Packers fan is in your blood, hereditary even.”

In your blood?  Flight or fight is in your blood.   Wisdom teeth are in your blood.  Sickle-cell anemia is in your blood.  Cheering for a sport created a hundred years ago is not an evolutionary feat.  Until hockey players grow gills and live underwater, sports are still a fad in the annals of man.

Save yourself a trip to the hospital for cardiac arrest and keep your fingers intact by avoiding pronoun abuse.

Share Button

Hello Baby New Year: Here is Your Resolution

Share Button

With 2015 starting up, it is time to pull out that list of 2014 New Year’s resolutions.  You casually cross out “2014” and change it to “2015”.  If you’re like most overweight Americans, you have “Get in shape” or “Lose XX pounds” on this list.  Instead of writing some vague statement like “I’m going to be less of a fat ass than last year” or “On Sundays, I will take the stairs instead of the elevator” on your 2015 resolution sheet, why don’t you write something quantifiable like “I’m going to run a 5K in less than 25 minutes.”

Here are some pointers for running your first 5k:

1)   When you sign up for your race, you will get a T-shirt with the name and date of the race on it.  You wouldn’t wear a “Boy George 2015 Revival Tour” shirt to The Brass Rail bar in Fort Wayne, Indiana to watch the has been singer belt out “Karma Chameleon”.  Don’t turn your first 5K into amateur hour by sporting the crisp, new race day shirt of the race you’re in.

2)   Never run the entire 5K distance in training.  Marathon training rules apply here.  Let’s face it, a 5K is your marathon; this is probably the most physical activity you’ve had since you ran the mile in seventh grade gym class.  Keep it simple; one mile here, two miles there.  There is no need to pull a hammy a couple of weeks prior to your big Chariots of Fire moment.

3)   If the race you’re in is big enough, you will be assigned a starting corral.  Since you have no race history, you will be assigned the last corral.  Everyone has to start somewhere, but when you start the winner of the race will be crossing the finish line at the same time.  Your corral will be behind the people with walkers and dudes almost as lame as you.  Pay no attention to your assignment.  Get to the front of the race, and come out guns blazing.  There is a chance that you will be the race leader for the first fifty feet before some Kenyan blows past you.

4)   Carb loading is not just for marathoners.  The night before the race, go out and eat.  Don’t limit yourself to carbs.  Eat everything you can get your hands on.  No french fry is too small, no beer has too much gluten, just eat and drink.   When you’re running almost four miles (I rounded for your ego boost) the following day you’ll be grateful you have the internal fuel to carry you through.

5)   Water stations.  Seriously?  Do you pause your Growing Pains collector DVDs so you can rehydrate while watching Carol learn about the dangers of drinking and driving?  You’re not doing the Bad Water Ultramarathon, you’re doing a warm up run disguised as a race.

6)   The last thing you need to go with your sore quads and strained calf muscles are bloody nipples.  Marathon guys are always chaffing and bleeding in weird places.  Don’t take chances.  Get some lube and apply it liberally like Burt Reynolds in Striptease.

7)   Babies poop themselves and so do winners.  If you’re struggling at mile 1, the last thing you should do is take a break to relieve yourself.  Face facts:  If you sit down to poop, you may never get up and finish the race.

It is better to be an embarrassed winner than a clean cut loser.
It is better to be an embarrassed winner than a clean cut loser.

8)   Stretching is for people who do yoga.  Don’t confuse your body with poses and saying “namaste”.  Any time you waste stretching, is time you are not running.

9)   This is the point when most running literature says you should consult a doctor before training.  I know a guy who use to be a doctor (that’s a nice way of saying “lost his license without admitting guilt”); he said that running through the pain is the best way to be a winner.  Ignore those shin splints, cramps, heart palpitations, and asthma attacks.

10)  If you get lapped by the 10K leader on your 5K run, just pull off to the side and cheer on the real athletes.

Share Button

Tis’ the Season…For Wasting Money and Time.

Share Button

Carolers, mostly people rejected by the gratis church choir gig, are quickly shooed off your stoop so you can get back to your eggnog I.V. drip before passing out on the family sofa. Your family sings “Happy Birthday to Jesus” then attempts to blow out 2,000 candles on a birthday cake.  Your aunt pumps so much sugar candy into your nephew that he hurls all over the green bean casserole saving everyone from pretending they like those goofy fried onion things.  These things are all good Christmas.  The biggest problem with Christmas is the gift giving, and this ruins the entire holiday.

Children are the only group of people deserving of gifts.  They have no money.  Their parents are in the process of going broke paying for their travel baseball teams, guitar lessons, and college applications. Buy them something cool like illegal fireworks, a used Porsche 911, or some other age inappropriate toy.  You will piss off their parents, but the kids will deify your forever.

Adult gift giving is a waste of money, and more importantly, time.  If you want to see the holy light, read this Bloomberg article.

SIDENOTE:  If anyone needs a gift, it is Michael Bloomberg.  That guy was mayor of a one of the biggest cities in the world for over a decade and was only paid $13.

How many times have you re-gifted a banal gift?  Think of all the time that was invested in thinking of that gift.  Then there was more time tied up in going to some tchotchke shop to buy it, figuring how to wrap the thing, and finally having the audacity to hand you something that you should have never unwrapped and simply scratched out your name and written “Uncle Louie” on it and re-gifted.  Wouldn’t it have been easier just to give you a twenty-dollar bill and saved everyone hours of time, an uncomfortable exchange of “thank you” and forced smiles.

Sure, cash is a little tacky.  It is rude and informal in the eyes of the gift pushers, but it gets the job done.  Find someone that would rather get an in the box, never-been-used fondue set (value of $100 plus the aforementioned time suck) over a crisp Jackson right out of wallet and I will show you a schizophrenic.  If you receive a fondue set, you’re going to put it in the basement next to your other unused fondue set that some guest bought for you off your wedding registry fifteen years prior.  Keep the fondue set on the Wal-Mart shelf and make it rain right into my wallet.

White elephant gift exchanges are great.  I rock at those.  I’ve given away 2,000 pennies (stolen immediately), toilet paper (seriously, aside from people who wipe with their own hand in some third world country, everyone uses this stuff), and an Obama Chia Pet (this one goes out to all you Republicans).  Practical gifts with real world applications are the secret to winning these exchanges.

Don’t get creative and think that someone really wants a never been used Dada themed appetizer tray you found on page fourteen of Craigslist.  That thing is getting tossed out the car window as soon as the husband clears Grandma’s driveway on the way home.  If you spend more than two minutes trying to think of a “great” gift idea, you overthought it and your gift will be as appreciated as a virgin Manhattan.  If you must give a gift, stick to the basics of alcohol, cash, or toiletries.

“It is the thought that counts.”  These are the six dumbest words ever strung together.  If the thought really counted, no one would give physical gifts, everyone would just telepathically send you positive, up-lifting messages.  Your head would echo with Tony Robbins on repeat until you gave yourself a lobotomy to stop the voices.

Christmas is an obligatory time of seeing relatives you only see on December 25.  Keep Christmas simple:  Don’t gift.

Share Button

Trials and Tribulations of the All-Inclusive

Share Button

You finally got away from your 9-5 job.  The warm ocean breeze brushes against your face as you saunter up to a grass hut bar, where a Tom Cruise (go to 3:00) looking bartender awaits your arrival.   You exchange non-committal, witty banter laden with major sexual undertones.  He slips you his number.  You rendezvous with him later.  Life is just grand.

Sorry, this isn’t Cocktail; this is a cattle call for US vacationers.  Instead of Tom Cruise, whose career peaked in that classic 80’s movie, you get a guy who makes IBM’s Watson computer seem slow compared to this little drink dispenser.  There is a line of people twenty-five deep and the poor bastard, Jorge, needs to serve all of them before his boss comes back from break and fires him for incompetence.

We will forget Jorge has ten times the productivity of his counterpart in a first-world country.  Since Mrs. McGriddle, who only eats at buffets even back in the States, was served a Rum Runner instead the Strawberry Daiquiri she ordered, the manager sends Jorge back to the village.  Keep eating McGriddle.

After pounding watered-down, bottom-shelf island drinks there is a greater likelihood of a major sugar crash than a room-spinning headache, but now you are ready to get your blood pumping.  You head to the activity shack and hit up some Spanish lessons.  The locals laugh at you behind your back as you butcher words like “cerveza”, “el queso está viejo y pútrido,” and “ponche burro”.  Now that you’ve successfully embarrassed yourself in front of all of Mexico, you’re ready to challenge your mind playing bingo with old ladies wearing one piece bathing suits complete with those frilly dresses that attempt to conceal their FUPA’s.  B-27 sucka.

Unproven fact:  More people develop Type 2 Diabetes after a weeklong all-inclusive trip than years of drinking pop.

The all-inclusive vacation is really a summer camp for adults.  “Hi, I’m Chuck from NY, this is my wife Cindy; Chuck and Cindy or ‘CC’.  Get it, carbon copy?”  Spending a weekend catching falling knives is more fun than fifteen minutes with this power couple.

Try to avoid the stalker couple that clings to you the entire trip.  You can’t shake them.  They pop up all the time, like that butler in the Adam Sandler classic Mr. Deeds.  Just when you think, you’re going to sit down and start that over-due library book, there is the poor man’s ‘Brangelina’ sitting at the edge of your Chaise lounge asking if you want to play Ping-Pong or one of those ridiculously oversized chess games.  I don’t know about you, but I always use a wheelbarrow to move my knight up two and over one.

Everyone at these resorts should be required to take a vow of silence.  It is cruel and misleading to associate with people who you are never going to see again.  After your college years, you don’t make new friends; you have ‘couple’ friends and acquaintances.  Sure, some of people will stick with you until the day you die, but you will not be able to laugh about the time you chased Roger Staninson all over the playground when he confirmed all speculation that he was into Zoophila because he named his cat ‘Squeeze Box’.  Do the overly tanned guy from Hoboken a favor and shoot him down with a stern look of superiority and solitude before he considers naming you the godfather of the kid him and his wife conceived yesterday in cabana that you are currently sitting in.

All-inclusives are great, but so are Thursday nights at TGIF’s sucking down Double Berry Mojito Shakers while gorging yourself on the Endless Appetizer Special.

Share Button
Page 3 of 4
1 2 3 4