July 11, 2014
Let’s Learn Sociology: His Name Is Not Woody

A few years ago, I lived on the same block as a young girl who was forever walking her shaggy little dog. 
One day I heard this girl addressing the dog by name.  “Bilbo, it’s time to go inside now!  Come on in, Bilbo, let’s go home!  Come on Bilbo!”  Through my shrewd powers of deduction I was able to extrapolate that the dog’s name was “Bilbo”, and I retained this factoid within the warm, pulsating lobes of my soggy thinkmeat as I imagined there would be a time when it might come in handy.
I was not a fan of this particular little dog-walking girl, for reasons that seem mean-spirited in retrospect.  She was not the same little asshole who told me my skin was too white that time, nor was she the little punk shit who raced me to the bus stop so mom could skip ahead of all the people waiting in line.  As I think about it, I have had problems with a few kids in my general vicinity, but in true me fashion, I don’t blame myself for this.  Those kids are dicks. 
Bilbo’s guardian, however - she never did anything wrong to me, not specifically.  It was more of a Hannibal Lecter vs. Benjamin Raspail type of situation.  She was just a garish and unpleasant kid in a lot of ways, and her poor flute playing was diminishing the entire orchestra.  She was always barefoot, and her feet were filthy, and she was constantly shouting at that dog in the street with her filthy exposed feet.  Her face reminded me of kids who were unpleasant to me when *I* was a kid, five thousand years ago.  Her stupid ponytail and inappropriate butt shorts gave her a constant wedgie, which she could not quit digging at.  She had perpetual Jam Face.  Who eats jam every day?  Employ a napkin please, my god.  Eugh.  Just eugh. 
Please forgive me for judging a child in this way, those among you who are of a finer ethical class than I.  I am the mother of a little girl now, and the idea of some snotty bitch judging her feet in front of her own house makes me want to punch this hypothetical person in the face, but this was years ago, like I say.  Before I grew a compassion gland. 
In any case, this hapless child had done little to earn my ire, but nonetheless, she had it.  As a result, I also found Bilbo distasteful.
I am a terrible person.
Sifu and I were discussing affairs on the block one day when he mentioned the girl with the dog.  “That dog’s name is Bilbo,” I said.  “I heard her calling it Bilbo over and over again with her horrible little voice.”
"What is your problem with that child?" Sifu asked me.
"I am a terrible person," I said. 
Sifu, who is a lifelong Tolkien fanatic, thought “Bilbo” was a perfectly good name for a dog, and remembered it.
Weeks passed.  One day, Sifu came home from w*rk, and as he entered our apartment, greeted me with a look of perplexed disdain.  “Why did you tell me that dog’s name was Bilbo?” he asked. 
"Because that is what the filthy little child who owns the dog was calling it."
"I just saw that kid’s mother walking the dog, and I said ‘hi Bilbo!’ and the woman looked at me like I was crazy.  ‘My dog’s name isn’t Bilbo.  It’s Rufus.’  That’s what this woman just said to me."
"That crazy kid was calling it Bilbo.  I am not making this up."
"I told her I called her dog Bilbo because my wife is a liar."
"I am not lying.  That lunatic kid doesn’t even know her own dog’s name."
"I’m sure that’s what happened here."
I may be a terrible person, but I would never mislead someone into thinking a dog’s name was Bilbo if it wasn’t.  That’s not how I was raised.
But Bilbo the dog is not what I want to talk about today.  Today I want to talk about two situations involving people I have w*rked with in the past.
The first situation was when two guys, Jack and John, were hired on the same day.  They were introduced to me in passing, and I absorbed that their names were Jack and John, but I failed to assign an appropriate face to each name.  They both looked similar, and they sat next to each other performing similar tasks, so all conversations with JackandJohn could be handled as a combo deal. 
Until the day that I, the consummate professional, was tasked with informing Jack, but not John, of some critical w*rk related matter.  ‘Give this information to JACK’, I was told.  ‘John doesn’t need to know about it.’
It had been months since they started at this point.  It was now simply too late to consider asking anyone at all which one was Jack and which one was John, because in doing so, I would be outing myself as a completely oblivious moron.  So I did what any rational, thinking adult would do.  I snooped on their desks and messed with their phones until one of them produced a name, and then I threw caution to the wind and addressed one of them by name.
I guessed correctly and never again forgot who was Jack and who was John. 
But Jack and John and their stupid phones and name are not really what I want to talk about today.  Today I want to talk about another guy I w*rked with, who was introduced to me on his first day, and then I never had anything further to do with him until almost a year later. 
Throughout the course of that year, I had determined, somehow, that his name was Woody.  Every so often I’d address him, in passing.  As Woody.
Which by now, you, super sleuth, have determined, WAS NOT HIS NAME WHY DID I THINK HIS NAME WAS WOODY????
One day, Not Woody casually asked me why I kept calling him “Woody”.
"Because that…is your name?"
"Nope, my name is Jeff."
His name was fucking JEFF.  Jeff doesn’t even sound like Woody.
Jeff Not Woody and Jack and John and I no longer w*rk together.  And I no longer live on the block where Bilbo and his unpleasant little mistress patrolled the pavement with their murky toenails on display for everyone to enjoy.  I guess this is all for the best.
But I think of them often, when I am trying to remember some jerk’s name.  I think, “perhaps a pneumonic device should be used to retain this data for future use”, but then I remember that what I actually want is a MNEMONIC DEVICE, and if I can’t even remember the kind of god damned DEVICE I should be utilizing, I have no chance of remembering the name of someone I never want to talk to.  So why try.
You have learned Sociology.  Go in peace.

July 10, 2014
Astonishin​g Shit You Can Buy: High On Opie…um?

You guys.  I wish I could tell you how many millions of times I’ve gnashed my teeth and torn at my clothes and wished I could have a ceramic mug featuring an artistic rendering of a guy scoping out women’s weird asses at a bar painted by actor and director Ron Howard.  Dozens of millions of times, probably. 
I would pay up to $27 for such an item, if only the universe would provide me with an opportunity to do so.  I would be so happy if such a thing were possible, I’d even pay extra for rush shipping. 
But we do not live in a dream world, friends.  We live on dystopian Earth, a cold and unfeeling planet where adorable animals are going extinct every day.  A planet where hearts are broken, lovers are parted, mattresses are drenched with load and Barry Manilow concerts get cancelled, where beloved pets are lost and lives are ruined and there are fucking bummers and downers around every corner.  This is a world where dog anuses appear on television where CHILDREN can see them.  An EVIL world.  
There is no bright spot of light in this life.  There is no secret pocket of joy overflowing with unanticipated satisfaction and glee.  There is no supreme mug out there ready to hold my coffee and carry it to my face whilst festooned with original artwork lovingly crafted for charity by the director of The Da Vinci Code HOLD THE PHONE:
As it turns out, dreams can come true, motherfuckers.

July 9, 2014
Celebrity Hoarders, Episode 1

Good afternoon, and welcome to Celebrity Hoarders.  Following in the footsteps of former Big Boss of the Day Matt “Haz-Matt” Paxton, in this important series we are going to help celebrities in need with their cloying emotional and psychological disorders.  This session is close to my heart, because we are going to delve deep into the psyche of a man who has had a profound influence on me personally, as well as millions of others.  For generations, female loins have erupted like volcanoes at the sound of his voice.  For decades, men have been driven to underground caves due to a sense of profound inadequacy in his presence.  Women want him.  Men want to be him.  No coiffure can withstand his potency.
I refer of course to the one and only Barry Gibb.
Barry Gibb is his name.  Sweet, sexy music is his claim to fame.  And hoarding gold necklaces is his game.  Behold.
Rev. BIOU 13:  Hi Barry, I’m a minister but I’m not a licensed psychologist specializing in obsessive compulsive disorder and hoarding like Doctor Suzahne ChaBOW.  I’m not an expert but I want to help you.  I am here for you.  I want to help you understand what’s happening in your home and in your life.  Tell me a little bit about the chains.
Barry Gibb:  I really like gold chains
Rev. BIOU 13:  Do they make you feel sexy?

Rev. BIOU 13:  What if I were to take one of these gold chains and remove it from the property.  If I were to tell you that I’m going to take this chain, and you will never see it again, on a scale of 1 to 10, how anxious would you say that makes you feel?
Gibb:  That would make me feel extremely anxious, Reverend.
BIOU:  Would you say it makes you feel “10” on the anxiety scale?
Gibb:  It would make me feel like I was losing a part of myself.  I would feel like…like it was difficult to breathe.
BIOU:  So, very anxious then.
Gibb:  Yes, a ten on the scale.  At least a ten.  Nobody has the right to tell me what to do with my home. 
BIOU:  You are Jive Talkin’, Barry.
Gibb:  I’d like you to turn the cameras off for a minute.
BIOU:  What if I were to say, given the amount of space you have here, that in order to live a healthy life in this home, Barry, you’d need to cut down on the amount of gold chains by about 75%?
Gibb:  I don’t think that’s a reasonable number.  I don’t find that do-able.  I can maybe give up…two of these gold chains.  No more than that.
BIOU:  You know, your family is hurting, Barry.
Gibb:  I can feel that.
BIOU:  You understand that even without the chains, you’re still Barry Gibb.  You’ve still got all this love in your life.  You’ve still got the chest hair.  You’ve still got a lot of sunglasses, and, you know, the thing with Grease and your history.  All of that stays with you even if you let some of the gold chains go.
Gibb:  I think I’m ready to let some of them go.
BIOU:  You’re ready?  Oh Barry, I am so proud of you.
I think with aftercare and the support of his family, Barry Gibb can move on from his gold chain hoarding into a positive new future.  He will absolutely need the encouragement of those closest to him to keep him from going right out and buying MORE gold chains, but with time and therapy, I think he can beat this, and I am so proud to have been part of his recovery.

Without the chains, he’s still Barry, and nobody can take that away from him.

July 8, 2014
Did You Know?

Sometimes, it is difficult to tell who composed the beautiful lyrics that define our culture.  For example, Andy Gibb’s 1978 smash hit “Shadow Dancing” was originally penned by none other than Oscar Wilde!
This is what you call gentle foreshadowing for tomorrow’s post by the way.  But that doesn’t change the fact that Oscar Wilde wrote easy listening disco classics for us all to enjoy.

July 3, 2014
Big Boss of the Day - Some Kind of Comedian

It was many years ago, although it seems like only yesterday.  When I think about it, a bleakness begins to envelop my soul.  I feel a shame burning within me, and I didn’t even do anything wrong.
I know it was many years ago, because the Big Boss of This Day and I haven’t spoken in years.  I either lost track of him by accident, or he lost track of me on purpose.  I’ve been given indications from fairly objective third parties that either alternative is equally possible.
I wish we hadn’t gone our separate ways entirely.  I always liked him, even though I later came to find out he found me…”frightening”.  That is the word that was used.  Frightening.  Me!  I’m as sweet as pie. As sweet as motherfucking PIE.
In any case, he’s gone now.  Misty watercolor memories…
I have a lifelong aversion to singing children.
I realize how awful that sounds.  There is nothing more pure and innocent and joyful than a happy child, unless that child is happy because it is singing to you in its horrible shrill little ogre voice.  I’m not a big Child Person.  I mean, I adore my own child, I love her with an intensity unprecedented by any other love in my whole human-like experience. I would willingly lay down my life for her.  She is still a bit too small to say much of consequence, but her every utterance swells my heart with pride and love and its so incredibly foreign to me, because other people’s children freak me right the fuck out.  Flashback!
I was a subdued kid, overall, but my mother reports that I was unable to ever pass an American Flag, even in public, without launching into a full and loud rendition of the National Anthem.  She dreaded to take me to the post office for any reason, lest my warblings draw attention.  And this is horrible, and it was horrible of me to do that, and my mother is an angel for not committing a very late term abortion on me up until the age of six or whenever I stopped singing at flags, but even this is not as horrible as the type of Child Song I am thinking of right now.
My older cousin was much more theatrical than I was.  I turned every trip to the DMV into a musical but she was inclined toward performing in local theater productions, and the whole family would have to go to watch her on stage, hamming it up. 
We’d mob her backstage after the horrible thing was over, pile flowers onto her, praise her dramatic mastery as Girl #4 or Milkmaid #2, and then we’d all go out to eat.  I have many such memories, squirming in some community theater’s uncomfortable wooden folding chairs in a hot auditorium, waiting for her to finish her moment in the sun so I could GTFO and get my chicken fingers.  On some level I seethed with envy as well, which is how I came to play “Bridget” in a local production of “Heidi”.  I still remember my one and only line:
"Oh look, it’s that girl from the village, I believe her name is ‘Heidi’!  I’ll go get my knitting."  (exit stage left)
I believe her name is Heidi.  They say there are no small parts, only small actors, but whoever they are, they never tried to make Bridget into a dramatic powerhouse worthy of standing up and taking note.  
I was ten at the time, and my cousin was twelve, when we were riding in the car with her strict Catholic parents, and she launched into this perfectly great piece of entertainment for all of us to enjoy:

I will never forget the discomfort I felt when her dad, my stern uncle, turned his head 180 degrees around on his neck while driving the car, looked at the two of us back there and said, “Just what the holy hell are you saying in this song?”
It is probably due to my formative experiences with this outgoing cousin that I am so squeamish about watching people I know perform on stage.  I don’t care how good they are at what they do - I hate seeing it.  It doesn’t matter if you’re the funniest guy I know.  If you want me to sit in an audience and watch you tell jokes, on stage, in front of a whole room full of people, while chairs squeak on floors and bored muttering gets louder and waitresses shuffle in front of you and cost you your train of thought and kill your delivery, I will stop taking your phone calls forever.  For EVER.
Which is exactly what happened with Today’s Big Boss of the Day.  Who shall remain nameless for reasons which are about to become clear.
We’d met at a few parties hosted by mutual friends, and I thought he was the funniest.  He told me an anecdote about cracking his weiner in half during a very energetic evening of romance that had me literally clutching my sides, weeping tears of joy.  He told me a story about how me made it rain on a camping trip and ruined the weekend for the rest of the eagle scouts and I was gasping for air.  He had that natural comedic I don’t know what as the French say.  He really had his banter worked out.
"Not really no.  This is a different thing entirely.  It’s spontaneous and it’s called wit." - Edmund Blackadder
The point is, he was hilarious.  I don’t know what I did to scare him off but maybe it was how hard I laughed at his “I broke my dick off” routine.  Because he really did snap his boner in a painful sounding way.  Who knows. 
And then he invited me to watch him do stand-up.  At a comedy club.  On stage.
I pictured him up there, at some desperate place called “Cap’n Wacky’s Laugh Shack” or something.  A brick wall backdrop, an audience of people who just want to get drunk.  Fluorescent stage lights making ghoulish shadows of his features.  Sweat beads on his face as he tries - tries! - to eke a little mirth out of the humorless wraiths who haunt a place like that.  Four or five friends planted in the audience, there out of a sense of dutiful compulsion, laughing a little too loud, a little too hard.  “Is he going to tell the broken dick story?”  “God I hope so.”  Watching him die up there.
It was too much.
I never went and eventually the invitations stopped coming.  The memory still haunts me, though.  Can the memory of something you never saw still haunt you?  Or is that a different thing entirely, spontaneous, and called a morbid imagination.  Blackadder is never to be found when I need him for clarification.
But here we are, wrapping up Awkwardness Week.  Tomorrow is a holiday and on Saturday we all die.  Who better to bring this week to a close for us, Idiots? 
My friend, the Comedian, you are the big Awkward boss of the day.  I’m sorry that I never went to your show.  Today I give you a standing ovation.  
I’m sorry you broke your dick, too.  

July 2, 2014
Awkwardnes​s Week: Proctorological Examination

Due to some recent shifts and fluctuations in my place of employment, last week, I was made to take a proctored exam. 
I had not done this in many years, since college, the DMV, the SATs, etc., and I was tense about it.  It was all the stress and getting stabbed through the skin of medically mandated bloodwork, without the presence of biological malfunctions beyond my control to blame for falling short. 
Because I am a failure at relaxing, I got so worked up about this meaningless exam that I gave myself a blinding tension headache the day before I was scheduled to be tested, and it lasted for three entire days.  Three days of acute suffering over a test I can easily re-take, the failure of which is virtually without any consequences whatsoever!  Literally nobody of any importance in my life even has to know whether I’ve passed it or not.  Three days of my limited lifespan spent wincing with intense awareness of every discomfort.  I’m top notch at overreacting these days.
I was stressing.  I’m still waiting for the results, but I don’t care what they are, and will refuse to care unless I have to re-take the fucking thing.  Life’s too short to waste double the amount of time you’ve already wasted being miserable.  Even I have limits.
As I went into my ordeal, I was as confident as I could be in something I didn’t care about at all.  I studied the materials thoroughly and left my house obscenely early, because I abhor tardiness.  But when I arrived at the testing center, I was surprised to find a mass of other test-takers, lining up around the block to get into the building. 
I was alarmed to see that these people, some of whom were actual, literal mouthbreathers, had brought along a friend for emotional support.  Many of them had flashcards.  Many of them had heavily highlighted notepads filled with scribblings.  Some of them had #2 pencils.
WAS I SUPPOSED TO BRING A #2 PENCIL?  The website said nothing about this.  I wasn’t even in the building yet and already lagging behind the crowd.
It was too late to do anything about it.  I figured if need be, I could offer a stranger $100 to give me one of her pencils.  If that failed, I could punch somebody until they were unconscious and relieve them of their pencil.  Anything for success.  Anything for victory.
It also seemed like an unusually large crowd, but as I had never done this before, I accepted that maybe this was standard.
Nope.  The facility was not equipped to accommodate everyone.  We were ushered from room to room, eventually settling on (and filling to capacity) a large auditorium, where we waited until additional proctors could be located.  Where was this reserve of trained professional proctors, hovering in a constant state of readiness, I wondered.  I envisioned a volunteer fire department, staffed by plump older ladies in colorful smocks.  When the alarm sounds, they slide down the pole into the classroom, poised to supervise.  “We’ve never had this many people here before,” said the chipper lady who handed out the applications.  “What in the heck is going on today!  We’re not going to be able to let you all leave as you finish the exam, because of the crowds.  You’ll have to wait until we come around and dismiss you.”
So I had that going for me.
Eventually we were handed our stupid pencils (no need to punch anyone whatsoever) and given an extensive lesson on how to use them (the pointy end makes the mark on the paper), and the penalties for dishonest behavior were explained to us in great depth, and we were free to begin the exam.  A flock of proctors paced the aisles, making sure we weren’t using our smartphones to cheat.  I felt very five years old again.  I kept my eyes aggressively on my own desk, hardcore within the letter of the law, filling in full and complete circles and not turning my head so much as a millimeter in any direction, not even to glare at the GROWN MAN sitting behind me, who was rhythmically drumming on the back of my seat with his imbecile feet.  It was clearly a nervous response on his part but I resisted the urge to murder him because murder was specified in the introduction as grounds for dismissal from the test.  Do not murder anyone in the room!  They were very clear about that.
I was busily filling in my circles when a middle aged lady proctor breezed past my desk, gazing around for evidence of wrongdoing.  It was just as she passed me that a tiny fart squeaked out of her butt, right onto my desktop.
She kept on moving, cool as a cucumber, as if nothing had ever happened.  Cool as a farty old cucumber, shooting methane at me for no good reason at all.
How am I supposed to take this business seriously, now?  How am I supposed to observe the sacred and inviolable institution for which I was being examined, when little ladies in flowered tunics can toot in your face while you toil?  This was a government building, WITH a security desk and everything.  There is supposed to be a somber decorum present at all times.  There was a great seal of the state of New York in the lobby and I had to present identification.  For the privilege of getting farted at.  I say!
I finished my test and beat a hasty path out of there. I was afraid that if I lingered too long in the vestibules, someone might be permitted to come along and flick boogers at me.  Is this what our nation has come to?
But this raises some perplexing questions.  Such as, what if I fail?  Am I subject to additional farts?  Is it because of the fart?  Was my brain scrambled?  Post traumatic stress disorder!  How will this impact future test-taking scenarios.  If I pass, was that the fart’s doing?  Are gifts of knowledge and understanding borne on warm, fragrant winds? 
I hope I never have to find out.
Your moment of awkwardness for the day.

July 1, 2014
Awkwardnes​s Week: My Name is Rico. I Wear a Diamond

I was rocking out to Copacabana for reasons that I should not have to explain.  There had been no traffic.  I was at least an hour early for w*rk. 
I got to the building.  Copacabana is a really long song!  Have a banaaaanaaaaa.  I was in the zone.  Earphones in.  Big sunglasses because I like it when tourists and perverts target ME specifically for conversation, and the phones/sunglasses combo is one surefire way to ensure that happens.  Nothing says “talk to me!” like all signs pointing to “leave me alone!”
The streets of New York are loud and if you want to hear every Manilowian nuance you MUST turn the volume up!  All the way, until your eardrums become numb to everything.  That way, when the tourist repeatedly gestures for you to acknowledge her, you can say “what?  WHAT?” twelve or fifty times because you are deaf.  And they cannot take a hint, so they will allow this to go on.  God, fuck everybody. Seriously.
I get on the elevator.  It is crowded.  I am not a fool - I turn down the volume almost all the way.  I learned my lesson with the Van Halen incident.  I will never make the same mistake twice.
I notice a man’s head in the reflective surface of the elevator door.  It is bopping along in time with the music coming out of my headphones.  This is no coincidence.  He can obviously hear what I’m listening to. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it but the writing is on the wall.  He knows.
The elevator gets to my floor.  The doors open.  I slip out and turn my head just enough to identify the owner of my company, moving his head in time with the copa cagoddamnedbana.  HE KNOWS.
El jefe is a stern man.  Humorless.  Serious and successful.  No nonsense.
He knows I appreciate Manilow.  And now, I know he does too.  We are like two deviants exposed.  The world becomes a carnival House of Mirrors, a thousand harsh and judgmental eyes staring down at me from every direction, and they are all my own.
Your awkward moment of the day.

June 30, 2014
Awkwardnes​s Week! Too Close for Comfort

Following the unprecedented success (dozens of views!) of Conundrum Week on Simian Idiot a while back, and in light of the chaotic real life week ahead of me, and in consideration of the fact that on Saturday at 7:00 A.M. you’re all going to die a fiery death when aliens destroy the planet (I’ll be okay, but you might want to get your affairs in order), and because of the holiday approaching which will bring my readership out into the harsh light of the burning thing in the sky instead of under soothing fluorescents where my words of wisdom can be read, I am going to introduce…A THEME.  (children groan).  (This reference is incorrectly seasonal).  (It’s that time…
There there, children.  Here, to make up for my lazy theme posts, here is a picture I took last week of a very real storefront window in midtown Manhattan, where commercial real estate costs a fortune and tourists flock by the thousands to appreciate the artful displays:
Doesn’t that make you feel better?  What a wonderland of whimsy this image so eloquently suggests!
It’s Awkwardness Week, and every god damned day of it, I am going to present a REAL LIFE AWKWARD MOMENT in scintillating anecdotal format.  If you start to feel yourself cringing inwardly, just gaze into the hypnotic eyes of the cluster of creatures above and let their intensity bring clarity to your soul once more.
Let’s begin!
The house I live in belongs to my mother in law, who lives in the apartment downstairs.  She bought it when Sifu was 14, and the apartment we inhabit is the very one he grew up in.  We now screw in what was once his mother’s bedroom.  Weird!
There are quirks to living in your spouse’s childhood home, such as unearthing boxes of his toys in the boiler room, and ripping down the 1987 style wallpaper your landlord/mother in law lovingly installed over every square inch of wall and ceiling.  “It’s not that I don’t like your wallpaper!  It’s just that I feel like I am doing to die every time I see it.”  “It probably looked good in its time.”  These are things you should not say.
When they first purchased the house 23908235 years ago, there was a vacant lot next door.  As it was a little too small for a comfortably sized house, it was used as an extra large backyard by the next house over, the owners of which also owned the little plot of dirt between us.  A few years ago, the owners of that house moved away, and sold their vacant lot separately, to a guy who was undaunted by its size because he only needed a small patch of earth to build a very small meth lab on.
A year later, after the lab was closed down and the entrepreneur presumably incarcerated, the lot was sold once again, to an enterprising and moderately crooked attorney who determined that a house for rent paying humans WOULD be built on it, no matter how small and unpleasant that house had to be, and no matter how many corners he had to cut in its production.  He built a ridiculous shack on the property, and upon failing to obtain a certificate of occupancy for his ramshackle shit structure, proceeded to rent it out illegally until it was ONCE AGAIN sold to a very nice family of 32190825 Albanian immigrants, who moved in and began their enthusiastic pursuit of the American Dream.  They are a lovely family and I enjoy having them as neighbors.  Their teenaged children are exposing me to all the pop hits of Albania via their festive backyard barbecues.  I especially love their old grandparents, who sulk on the front steps in socks, sandals, and kerchiefs.  They remind me of the very old people of my own family who are now gone, but who could scare off even the boldest of children with their inadvertent natural scowls. 
All of this backstory is essential to the awkwardness, I assure you.  Hold tight.
The point of all this long-winded narrative is to explain that, when Sifu grew up in the house, and when I met him and his mother and for the first ten years of our acquaintance, there was nothing whatsoever outside the windows of the home except a patch of grass and some shrubs.  You could look outside and stare off into the distance, and that was what we were used to.  Now there is a house there, RIGHT there, with a million people living in it.  If we were of a mind to, the old granny next door and I could reach out our respective kitchen windows and graze our fingertips together.  So, for the avoidance of discomfort, we put up some privacy blinds in that window when we moved in, and we closed them, and we never opened them again until one night when Sifu did.  I was reclining in the other room.
Sifu:  “Rev?”
BIOU:  “Yes my love?”
Sifu:  “Have you ever looked out our kitchen window?”
BIOU:  “Not in a long time.”
Sifu:  “Probably not at night, either, right?”
BIOU:  “Nope, I don’t think I’ve ever looked out that window at night!”
Sifu:  “Then you probably don’t know that just below our kitchen window is our neighbor’s bathroom window.”
BIOU:  “No, I was not aware of that.”
Sifu:  “You probably also did not know that the neighbor’s toilet is positioned directly under that window.”
BIOU:  “I can honestly say I had no idea!”
Sifu:  “You probably never looked out our kitchen window and glimpsed our neighbor with his pants down around his legs, enjoying a hearty shit.”
BIOU:  “I…no.”
Sifu:  “I just saw our neighbor’s balls.”
BIOU:  “You saw his balls.”
Sifu: “You are never to look out the kitchen window.”
BIOU:  “No argument.”
My neighbors take tremendous pride in their tiny, awkwardly shaped house.  They meticulously maintain their postage stamp sized backyard, diligently keep every molecule of trash out of their driveway, they keep their car gleaming and they completely dismantle and disinfect every element of their grill every single time they use it, which is insane to me, but if that is their standard of cleanliness, then good for them.  I admire their ethics.
And I can watch them take a dump, any time I want to.  Which is never.
This has been your Awkward Moment of the Day!  See you tomorrow for more squirm.

June 27, 2014
Let’s Learn About Fashion: Mentioning the Unmentiona​ble

You know how you can tell you’re living your life right?  Sometimes the universe sends you a sign that you are on the correct path.  A path to greatness.  A path to fulfillment.  A path to hilariously highlighted men’s wieners and butts and stuff.
You can tell when not one, not two, not three, but MORE THAN THREE (4) of your friends, who have no connection to each other outside of their affiliation with you, independently and without provocation, alert you specifically to this thing that’s been discussed in various online forums and media outlets which can only be described as a Tension-Mounted Side-Riding Ball Hammock.
 Pictured:  Safe for work censored photo of the side-lying wang slang
That’s not true.  I’ve been describing it in dozens of ways.  After careful deliberation, I’ve come up with the perfect name for this item.  The “Ding Dong Sling Thong”.  I’ll be waiting for my royalty checks, manufacturers of this important item.  Make them out to the Big Boss of Private Areas.
After the first two people told me about this wonderful thing, I was starting to feel pretty self-congratulatory.  By the fourth incident, I was starting to ask myself some serious questions.  But by the fifth, well, I was back to high-fiving myself because as a well-established connoisseur of men’s underwear, I realize that my trajectory can only be up, up, up, and that’s a nice place to be, spiritually. 
However, the “Sack and Crack Side Strap and Snap” is not what I want to talk about today.  Today I want to talk about the 3D Padded Coolmax Bicycle Cycling Underwear Shorts, brought to my attention by the ever observant Mister Sister, because while sometimes it’s preferable and appropriate to manipulate circumstances so that absolutely everyone in creation is able to view your most intimate scrotal secrets, sometimes, you want to remind the world that you’re more than just a barely concealed set of reproductive organs with an extremely tenuous grasp on a flimsy scrap of fluorescent nylon:

You’re also a busy primate on the go, with a bright blue gooch that everyone needs to stand up and take note of.

If you’re like me, you now own a google account with a search history containing the phrase “monkeys with red butts”, but if you are TRULY like me, you also hold a finely honed appreciation for the parallels we humans, as a species, have drawn between ourselves and our simian forebears.  While most Japanese Macaques do not own bicycles, IF THEY DID, they’d look no cooler riding their ten-speeds in circles around the 7-11 parking lot than you can with a pair of 3D Padded Coolmax Bicycle Cycling Underwear Shorts.  And if we can aspire to anything in this life, why shouldn’t it be to look at least as suave and sophisticated as a flamboyantly assed monkey on a bicycle?

"Google Image Search:  For Times Like These"

These things are coming down in price dramatically, as well they should, because the cost of that extra scrap of black fabric they didn’t use to cover the highly detailed buttcheek embellishment is saving the manufacturer billions.  But don’t assume that the price is gonna stay low forever.  Fashion, like a monkey on a bike, is cyclical, and once the Weenie Bandage trend blows over, a backlash is going to send the price of these things sky high.  Remember who fucking told you this!  Buy seven or eight of these things right now!
Remember.  If people aren’t painfully aware of the intimate details of your Netherland Valley of Shame, you aren’t fashioning.  

June 26, 2014
Former Big Boss of the Day Check-In: Where Are They Now?

Friends, we are in the midst of an epidemic.  You probably weren’t aware because it’s difficult to see the world outside your own face over the rising crescents of your eclipsing jowls but there is a fatness situation out there and the very planet is struggling to sustain it without collapsing in on its own warm, buttery crust.  Look at you, fantasizing about eating the entire Earth as though it were a croissant.  You are out of control.
Who among us couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds?  Look at you.  You look like a loaf of unbaked bread dough stuffed into a pair of threadbare, gasping pants.  The very fibers of your underwear are screaming for their lives, and not just for the obvious reason of direct, unobstructed contact with your enormous, whale-like ass.  They are screaming for they are like to rupture at any given moment, exploding to their individual molecules while geysers of your rippling flesh burst forth like a fucking tidal wave.
What I’m saying is, you’ve gained weight.
But fear not - former Big Boss of the Day Dr. Mehmet “What Shape Are Your Doots?” Oz is here with a diet scam I mean plan that cannot fail to whip your massive load into shape.  It involves lean, clean protein, it’s paleo friendly, and it’s loaded with Vitamin O.
Grilled Dr. Oz.
Served with a side of steamed greens, you can eat a 32 oz. Oz and feel full and sated and the pounds will melt from your gargantuan ass like butter on a baked potato.  Mmm, potatoes.  STOP THAT!  That’s fat thinking!  That’s philardsophy.  That’s fatasizing.  You’re better than that.
Tuck into a filet mignoz with a pile of brown rice and a side salad and feel the thin, inner you come to life!
And while you’re at it, make sure your poops are in an “S” formation.  There will be a quiz later.

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