Feb.14.2008 A Very Pick-Up Artist Valentine’s Day
Here on Blog of Hilarity, I like to open the floor to friends, well-wishers, and people who amuse me. Today is BOH co-founder and my bestest pal Tommy’s field report from a seminar with one of the stars of VH1’s The Pick-Up Artist, Matador. Enjoy!
On this Valentine’s Day, I blame both Mystery and the homeless guy at Baja Fresh.
Yesterday was supposed to the day I saw two real-life television Pick-Up Artists share their wisdom. Two events, within blocks and hours of each other, free. Furry-hat and eyeliner wearing Canadian c*cksmith Mystery as the main course, and for the appetizer, his very jacked and somewhat greasy sidekick Matador. I was ready for a pair of Master Classes on the lessons I gleamed from Vh1.
That did not happen. Filet mignon Mystery bailed, and I had a leathery Matador salad for dinner. I almost bailed myself for some pre-Valentine’s speed dating. Out of my devotion to you, Dear Reader, I skipped out on an hour of many awkward conversations for a single awkward lecture. As you might expect, the salad just was not that satisfying.
I don’t want to beat up too much on Matador. The guy had to deal with a 300-person lecture hall full of snarky young people who were not paying hundreds or thousands of dollars to hear his pick-up analysis. He got thrown into the position by Mystery’s cancellation. It takes a particular sort of situation for Robin to cover for Batman when he’s filming a new season of his show/doing blow/flaking out/having a very legitimate reason to not make it. This was not it.
Matador’s talk was titled “Seduction: How to Get The Girl You’ve Always Wanted.” Matador’s subject was “Boom-Boom-POW: Evolution and The Time I Clothes-Lined a Homeless Man at a Baja Fresh.” His talk was surprisingly dry: muddled, hard to follow, and low on “pick up insight” beyond a typical episode of the Vh1 show. He talked at length about a human evolutionary impulse to survive and reproduce, and how “*this* game” was about framing one’s self as positively as possible by those terms. He discussed how reading a book a week made him a well-read person, and used two guys from the audience to hit on each other.
That is to say: I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Matador didn’t stray at all beyond the basic premises of “The Game” and “The Pick-Up Artist” and its various spinoffs. In doing so, he flexed a lot and made a punching method and said “Boom-Boom-POW” at random intervals. He also strung together a series of anecdotes in which he variously:
–made out with a woman and stared down her boyfriend, ultimately losing her after thinking he might have to go “Boom-Boow-POW” and fight
–saw a chubby guy on a bicycle win said woman and evaluate his life
–suggested that we go on Google Earth and find images of huts in Africa
–clothes-lined a homeless guy who started throwing food at a Southern California Baja Fresh.
That last incident was my favorite. Like a good storyteller, Matador made sure that we saw that his arm swung across his body (”huaaah!”) onto the raging homeless guy’s neck (”BWOW”). I have no doubt that this was an enormously painful experience. Matador’s biceps are the size and shape of heavy, dense medicine balls (not the really big ones, of course, but big for biceps — work with me!). Based on his PVC pants, he is also fairly open about sharing other pertinent facts with his fans. To answer your question: a little from Column A and a little from Column B.
After an hour and twenty minutes, give or take, he was done. I wasn’t disappointed or angry so much as I was kind of bored and confused. Matador was game, but his remarks were unorganized and felt more like a stream-of-conciousness riff than a constructive breakdown of his craft. He also flexed a lot (granted, it was quite a Gun Show).
I called a friend who skipped out on the man to go speed dating. His report: really good event, except for the part where he talked to all of these people he doesn’t want to date.
So there you have it, folks. My forecast for Valentine’s Day: boredom and confusion. My advice: snatch up the first person you have a coherent conversation with. I might normally advise against random gestures and loud noises, but since Matador was pushing that last night, you should go with your gut. Happy hunting!
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Aug.28.2007 My Genius Coaching Will Win My Fantasy Football League
Today’s special guest is Room Tone’s former resident Sports expert QW. Let’s see what he has to say.
Allow Me to begin my thoughts Today by giving some credit to Vick Mackey for manning up and admitting that what he did was stupid and very messed up. I also don’t want to hear anything about how it was just because of who he had fighting. The truth is this: Pokemon are built for combat, and had he used his land to raise Squirtles he would have a Nobel Prize. But he didn’t and here we are, scratching Ourselves and waiting for someone to give me the opportunity to make some profit off of that whole enterprise. The hell with that guy. People tell me his show is good, though.
But I’m not Here to talk about that today. Let’s talk about Fantasy Football. That leads me to my next point today. I had a Fantasy Football Draft Last Night and the computer spat in my face and gave me that schmuck O.T. in the third round when Dave From The Internet used his computer to jack up my connection. I hate that guy. You might think I sound nuts, but the guy did it in the third and fifth rounds. I don’t like that his computer took over mine like that because it was a major dick move. This is why I continue to advocate for a Live Draft so that I can use my patented Means of Intimidation to get the players that Colonel Mustard’s Mana Deserves.
Although that dick messed with my draft, I’m still happy with my Team. I try to generate a solid mix of personalities that I feel will create good Team Chemistry. That’s why O.T. being on this squad is so upsetting. All he does is aggravate the people around him. That means he’s so going to piss off my other guys. I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to tell my players. I promised them a team-first environment, and here we are. The second I drafted him my first two picks yellow happy faces became gray straight faces. From :-D to :-| in an instant. I hate that guy. He sucks. Somebody used my cup. After that, every guy I drafted defaulted to :-| or worse. I had to pass on McNabb because he said he would demand a trade. I think he’s gonna have a nice year, but F that guy because he sucks and he won’t get along with my team.
So I think I’ll get a lot of touchdowns. I’m thinking of running Stephen Jackson and MJD in a dual back set until basketball season starts. My Boy Kitna’s gonna chuck it, and hopefully O.T. will grab his balls and not anyone else’s. The pieces are there, but I’m thinking of instituting some kind of bonding activity for my guys. If any of you know any ropes courses, let me know. I am accepting applications for Offensive and Defensive Coordinator positions. I need someone to tape games, so if you’re a Good Analyzer you’ve got yourself a job. I’m also concerned because I didn’t draft any offensive linemen.
To My Players: Work hard and I will reward you with praise and a signing bonus payable in future playing time on my teams, both Fantasy and Madden.
Let this note be a Message to the other Shmoes in my League: tamper with my players and I will report your ass to the commissioner. Try stealing my playbook and I will Jack You Up. If you want a clue to my Stratego, check out the Wing-T I just lodged up your tailpipe.
One of you people took my Binaca.
Aug.14.2007 Rubbing it in the Ex’s Face
Today’s special guest is the lovely and talented Kelly, also known as KM on Room Tone. Kelly brings her humor and hatred for all things beautiful to a little ditty about breaking up and the Internet age.
Breakups are a nightmare. Not really ever having had one, I say this based on witnessing firsthand, the most awful, childish, hurtful things that have ever taken place between other people on a regular basis for about twenty-four years. It’s not me, it’s you. Don’t ever call me again. I’m getting a restraining order. I’m actually a dude. However it goes down, when all is said and done, the majority of people are not immediately, or sometimes ever able to be friends with people they used to have sex with. And if they are, everyone knows it’s kind of a crock of shit anyway.
I think it must have been easier to deal with breakups before the internet really hit it big. The worst you had to face as a chick who got dumped, and whose boyfriend has moved on, was possibly witnessing the two of them slow dance at homecoming. Now, technology has paved the way for these emotionally vulnerable individuals to stab themselves in the heart on a daily basis, keeping the wound fresh (and frankly, starting to turn gangrenous). Access to your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s MySpace or Facebook profiles is a commodity of great value, at first so you can laugh at her obvious flaws and detract from the rejection you’re feeling at the time…and then later so you can monitor their progress as a couple and weep softly in the fetal position when you register the fact that you’re nowhere near in the same place they are with your re-bound guy. Not that it’s always something to be envied; it’s usually not, but you’ll have no trouble convincing yourself that it is.
I think it’s relevant to point out that this dynamic has been evolving for years. Since long before MySpace and Facebook. In my day; this war was fought over away messages and AIM profiles. Rapid quote updating took place, and emoticons with pursed lips were flying about. Whereabouts were always very in-your-face and meant to induce jealousy. It could get really ugly.
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Aug.08.2007 A QW take on Barry Bonds
The Blog of Hilarity is often visited by special guests. We received a handwritten note from one of our favorite sports prognosticators, Room Tone’s QW. Here’s what he had to say about Barry Bonds’ new Home Run record.
So last night, Barry Bonds hit his Seven Hundred and Fifty-Sixth Home Run, and I watched. Don’t act like you didn’t, because I know you’ve been watching this show too. We’ve all been following Barry’s story for years, and we’ve all been trying to figure out how it was gonna End. Let me be the first to say: I TOLD YOU SO.
“Barry Bonds will break the all-time home run record. And he will do it by knocking one out of the park. PRINT IT. Also, nobody important will be killed off.”
And here we are. Over one thousand Hours Later, and Barry Bonds has broken the all-time home run record. And on top of it, he did it by KNOCKING ONE OUT OF THE PARK. Breathe in my predictive capacity, America. A lot of you Yahoos speculated about how he was going to do it. Dave From The Internet swore he would do it by socking a Dinger while decapitating Hank Aaron. Violet Beauregard said — and I might be paraphrasing — that the streets would run with blood. She said that when Barry got surly with those reporters by his locker that time, that was him giving us a clue to how he was gonna do it.
Well, here we are. Dave From The Internet. No Dinger was socked. For that matter, no fence was cleared, no bomb hit, no ball bopped, no bones were piled. What did happen — and you can go rewind your VCRs if you don’t believe me on this — was one was knocked out of the park.
But just because I called it doesn’t mean it was great. It gives me no satisfaction to report to you on this Crappy Episode. After he did what he did, no one shot flames out of their eyes and nobody got Naked. I thought something cool was gonna happen when that old guy showed up on the video screen in his suit. It was totally set up for him to issue the Challenge to Barry for them Settle This Issue Like Men. But he didn’t. He said some stuff, I guess. And everyone smiled.
I kept watching this show waiting for the build-up to pay off with something awesome, like a brawl or Settling This Issue Like Men. But Here We Are. Just like I called it, he knocked one out of the part. I was right and all of you were wrong. What a Crappy Show. You owe me money.
Aug.06.2007 Should Interns Be Allowed to Telecommute?
In the wake of Room Tone closing, the Blog of Hilarity is now home to several of the former site’s writers. Today’s guest writer is Edgar aka EP, an Intern in NYC with something to say.
It’s 11:09 a.m. Having gotten up at 6:45 this morning to make it in to work on time, I have been here, in my neatly pressed shirt and tie, for two hours and no work has been done. The one fifth of remaining tea in my paper cup has gone cold. It sits next to a retired Bic pen that has been laid to rest on a blank pad. I should be doing something productive; after all, I have been an employee here for two months. Now, of course, if I were to mention that I am an intern, this scenario would become justified. Such is the unwritten code of the intern: you have the right to be lazy. Naturally, it would seem that I have tossed myself into this category – just another lazy school kid daydreaming about his next kegstand, right?
I wish that were true, yet the sad fact is that I am a dork and I want work to do. But lately, there have only been a few tasks here and there. As a result, I spend at least five of my eight hours at work a day reading news on websites, allowing my eyes to inch ever so gently towards blindness (Gmail is blocked, so consequently, I can’t gchat the day away with my homies). Even more disheartening, I sit at an open cubicle, which means, as I have embarrassingly learned, I can’t make personal – though they may be quiet and non-offending – phone calls without people griping to my boss about my unprofessional behavior. It almost makes me wish that I had been on the phone loudly talking about scoring drugs and flagrantly throwing money at strippers. At least then we they complained with details, I could’ve made a counter claim about my co-workers infringing on my privacy.
In any case, no matter how you slice it, offices suck. Yes, I am aware that this is a joke that continues to be beat into the ground, but that does not make it any less true. Something about the environment steals a piece of your soul: conference calls you pretend to listen to and care about while you draw hearts and/or your name in bubble letters, outlook accounts that get full with notices from other departments about Team spirit or about how your work needs clarification, windfalls of paper clips. I like to imagine that there’s an office king with a Scrooge McDuck-like money vault and instead of diving and swimming in money, he’s swimming in paper clips and highlighters.
I realize that this is supposed to a valuable experience. I’m getting a chance to lay the foundation for when I get out into the “real world.” Network young man, network! All the same, part of me feels like I can get this work done from home – f*ck networking. And if I got to telecommute, then I could catch those episodes of Maury where they do the paternity testing (“Yes!! I’m not the father! Face!”). I could walk around in my PJ’s, eat cereal at 11:09 a.m. (see where I’m going with this?) and still get the same sh*t done. The only difference is that I would enjoy it more, and I wouldn’t have to stand – not sit – on a train for an hour each morning amid hobos and absentee fathers in order to get that quality job experience.
In my city – NYC – Mayor Bloomberg has made it a priority to encourage more people to telecommute. Well, I salute you Mr. Mayor for your efforts. Just be sure to keep interns in the loop. – EP.
Aug.03.2007 My Week Off the Grid
Since Room Tone and the Blog of Hilarity have now been squished into one hub, like a wacky comedy with mismatched roommates, you’re now getting the fine work being done there right on this very page. Today’s Guest writer is former BoH writer and Room Tone Editor, Tomas. Let’s see what he has to say.
I’m sitting on a couch at a mall near my parents’ place in Florida. Natural light is pouring into the atrium, where I am joined by a few old guys waiting for their wives at Dillard’s. The air conditioning is on blast, so I’m staying cool while enjoying the highlight of my day: my hour of internet access.
About ten days ago, I started my morning like every other. I rolled out of bed, emptied my bladder, sipped some orange juice, and turned on my computer. When I went to check out my morning headlines, my browser greeted with the famous white box on the gray page: “ADDRESS NOT FOUND.” My internet was out, and no amount of turning modems and routers and computers off and on brought it back. The cable company came the next day and replaced the wires behind my parents’ home. The TV looked clearer, but so did “Page Load Error” on my screen. We waited a week for the cable company to address the source issue before canceling the service and signing up for DSL from the phone company. A few days later, I’m writing this offline and hoping to post it via magic.
I’ve been coming to the mall every day since. I grab a wireless signal and try to take in the internet for an hour a day. In the atrium where I sit, the sound system loops a piano covering pop hits. It’s a pretty classy touch for a mall. The first time I came to use my computer, I thought the piano was coming live from the baguettes-and-wraps joint behind me. I was corrected when I heard “Circle of Life” twice in a half-hour. Between that and covers of “I’m Still Standing” and “Benny and the Jets,” I figured out that the Earl of Sandwich (or its manager) is an Elton John fan.
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