Go Ahead Bro, Have the Last Slice of Pizza

Sure, dude, you can have the last slice. It’s cool, I’m not very hungry any more anyway, although I do wonder why you’re so hungry, considering how you went to town on my cereal when we were at my house today. To think I almost bought the generic stuff since I’ve been having cash flow problems.

No, it’s not your fault that I’ve been broke lately. Sure, I did pay more for this pizza than you did (even though you ate more of it than me without even counting that slice you’re insisting on eating). That car accident was totally my fault. I mean yeah, it didn’t help that you were being an idiot in the passenger seat by throwing the tennis ball at my head, and I probably would have been able to stop the car pretty easily (which I always do) had the ball not found its way underneath the brake pedal, but whatever. And sure, I was giving you a ride somewhere since you don’t have a car (couldn’t afford the insurance, was it?) so a few extra bucks would have been the least you could have thrown my way in this time of need, especially from the guy you still owe $700 from that time you were super broke. Yeah that’s what friends do. By the way I take that back. Not laughing hysterically when the rich guy got out of the Beamer with a pissed off look on his face while I was trying not to cry for the first time in years would have technically been the least you could have done, but I don’t know why I’m bringing this stuff up. We’ve got each other’s backs, so have at it. No, seriously, take the last slice.

Speaking of having each other’s backs, I’m glad you’ve got mine. In fact, the only time I can think of when you didn’t have my back was the time we were at that club and those two guys were throwing crap at me and before I confronted them I asked you, and I quote, “so you got my back, right? Because I’m not going over there if you don’t,” and you said, quote, “yeah man, you know it,” and I went over there and they broke my nose and fractured my arm. No, I know, that girl you were talking to instead of having my back was hot, at least when you look at her in and out of consciousness. Why aren’t you taking it? I told you I don’t want it.

Yeah, you ended up hooking up with that girl, didn’t you? You’re always getting the chicks. It must be easy to do get chicks when you don’t have a friend who, when you’ve finally gathered up enough courage to talk to a girl you’ve been interested in for a while, interrupts you with such witticisms as “hey, good for you, trying out this heterosexual thing” or “wow! A woman in this county that doesn’t have a restraining order against you. Have you told her you’re a sex offender yet? Don’t forget, it’s the law” or “hey man, the pharmacy just called—apparently your herpes medication prescription got mixed up with the results from your HIV testing.” No, it’s cool. I’m just messing with you, I’m not mad about any of this stuff. Hey remember that time you hooked up with my sister? I know, it was a one-time thing, even if you did tell her at the time that it was more. She stopped texting you now right? Good. Teenagers!

I notice you didn’t eat the crust. Are you full now? I probably would have eaten the whole slice, but then again I’m the one who paid for most of it. Did you need a ride home? Let’s go . . .

Why Accountants are Sexy

For the last three years of my life I have been confronted by a negative stereotype that accountants are bland and docile.

This misconception is most damaging with the ladies. The general consensus is that we are nerds, penned up in the basement, content to crunch numbers all day long without seeing the light of day. Some women, I understand, would not consider dating one because we are not “bad” enough. These ignoramuses would be interested to know that it is virtually impossible to commit a white-collar crime without the aid of an accountant, and most perpetrators are accountants of some sort. In fact, financial statement fraud, by definition, requires the aid of a Certified Public Accountant. White collar crime is the only conceivable way to smoothly steal millions of dollars.

Which man would I think most thrill-junky women prefer: the motorcycle-riding white trash that knocks off liquor stores for $200 a pop or the rogue accountant who robs several million dollars from shareholders? I guess it depends: would they rather buy four kegs and throw a party after the heist or sail around the world on a brand new yacht?

And who catches these crooks? Forensic accountants! They have to carry guns because it can be dangerous. Oh so dangerous.

Have you ever heard the phrase “I’d better run this by my accountant?” Everybody in the business world has said it at some point. They are afraid to do anything without the accountant’s nod. That’s because we’ve got power.

So ladies, whether you’re into criminals or cops, money or power I recommend you wear that swoop-neck blouse, miniskirt and dark lipstick the next time your company is being audited. Be careful, though, because it’s actually illegal to have a romantic relationship with an auditor. That makes us even sexier, doesn't it? You see, by being simultaneously bad and rich, accountants present the intelligent woman with a rare opportunity to satisfy her primal but otherwise mutually exclusive desires for both danger and money.

The Truth About My Brother

In light of a renewed attempt by those in my family to further disparage my reputation, and lest I be considered a coward, I feel it appropriate to share some things about my brother, which one I will not specify. You may look at him and see an attractive, articulate, young professional who has been places and is going even more places, but here’s the side of the story you don’t hear.*

For most of his time in Brazil he had to wash his clothes in the toilet because that was the only water source in his apartments.

He never removes the lint from the lint trap in any dryer he uses. NEVER.

He has a poster of Ryan Seacrest in his room. He also has a photoshopped, framed picture of himself hugging Ryan. Draw your own conclusions.

He has paid full price for every piece of clothing he owns.

He went through a Chuck Norris stage when he grew a beard and tried to roundhouse kick everybody he met in the face. Even little kids!

No matter how simple they make Geiko, he still can’t use it.

His favorite sport is Soccer, which is un-American. He was even more interested in it when he got back from his trip to Europe, which would make any reasonable person suspect that he made terrorist ties there.

He doesn’t like seafood. I think that’s because he’s racist against Asians.

He has dated many lawyers. I suspect that this is because he is engaged in illegal activities (maybe the terrorist activities implied above?) and will need the representation. Think about it: who else keeps in touch with their ex-girlfriends? Nobody.

When I was around 10 he convinced me that our dog wasn’t a dog but actually a midget in a dog costume that my parents paid to be my friend because I was such a loser. I cried for years.

He knows a wrong way to eat a Reese’s, but not the same way Chuck Norris knows, because my brother discovered this way while trying to eat it one of the right ways.

He drives a motorcycle. I challenge anyone reading this to name one member of society who was productive while driving a motorcycle. Does that make him a lowlife?

He also drives an Acura. Are you a hard-A pretending to be a metrosexual yuppie or a metrosexual yuppie posing as a hard-A? Make up your mind, nameless brother of mine!

He once dated a horse. Not a girl who looked like a horse, an actual horse. I won’t embarrass him any further by saying who dumped whom.

He shampoos his hair and then puts stuff in his hair that makes it look like he didn’t. It doesn’t take an expert in supply-chain management to figure out how inefficient that is.

He doesn’t know when to use a half-windsor and full-windsor tie knot.

He eats a whole lot of candy. He started eating candy when somebody told him it was made by handicapped children in sweatshops.

Last I counted, he owns around ten watches. I think he may have obsessive compulsive disorder—why else would he want so many ways to know exactly what time it is?

He shaves his arms. He would have you believe that he does it for looks, but it’s really because he has no emotions and doesn’t want anybody to notice that he never gets goosebumps, even when he sees puppies die.

*At least one of the reasons you never hear this side of the story is because it is at least partially made up by me. But some of these things could conceivably be true, and in fact one or more of them is.

A Magical Night

Last week I had an amazing date. This entry contains my most intimate feelings, and I’m only publishing this because I know that the girl this is about will never ever read this. To be fair, not all of these things actually happened under a narrow interpretation of the word “happened,” but when you think about it, what is reality but a bunch of things you believe to be true? And if I tell myself they happened so many times that I convince myself, what’s the difference between that and something that truly took place?

From the beginning she was so mysterious to me. Invisible flying tiger mysterious. So of course I asked her out. Man, if she found out I compared her to an invisible flying tiger I would just die.

First, we went to Chili’s. She ordered a chicken sandwich with fries. I know, a sensual combination. She was so suggestive in the way she ate, I had a hard time finishing all my tortillas. But I was hungry so I did. She even offered me some of her fries—a well-known girl code for “take me now.” It took some self-restraint in the face of such licentiousness on her part, but I was determined to maintain my gentlemanly reputation (the last thing I want is my number written on the institute ladies’ bathroom wall underneath “call for a good time”). Of course she only ate half of her sandwich, which allowed her to leave the other half in my car so that its erotic aroma could further tease my emotions. She asked me several questions about my past relationships, some of which would make a sailor blush. Again, if you know her, don’t let a single word of this get back to her because she will kill me.

The next stage of the attempted seduction occurred at the miniature golf course. It was there that she confessed to me, in the most direct of terms, that she was once a nanny in Germany. It was as if she had tapped into my innermost thoughts and found my wildest fantasy, which involves a German nanny among other things. She then let me win the game by a large margin (another calculated turn-on, no doubt). Thank goodness she’ll never see what I am saying, regardless of the fact that it’s on the internet for the entire world to see. That would be very embarrassing.

Then we watched the go-carts at the track, betting on who would win. Again, she let me win, but she did it in a mystifying way. She placed her bet on a car that was ahead at the beginning and well behind by the end, while I bet on a car that was behind and eventually pulled ahead. I felt that this was her subtle way of further informing me that her feminine desires were a mystery, and while a man may gain her favor for a time, it is entirely possible that another, faster moving one can easily take his place. Again, I can’t state emphatically enough that I don’t want her to read this, even though she’s one of my facebook friends and the link to this blog is right there on my page and I told her that I was going to post an entry about our date.

At her doorstep, she told me that I was the most amazing man she had ever met. She said she couldn’t have even possibly dreamed of meeting a man as attractive as I was to her. She wanted to know the next time she would see me so that she could begin to count the minutes. In the spirit of a huntress she went in for a kiss but I drew strength from some unknown source and pulled away. If this is going anywhere, first and foremost I need her respect. I couldn’t help thinking as I drove home in my intoxicating chicken sandwich-scented car that I had gained it that night.

Baby You are, For All Intents and Purposes, the Most Amazing Woman I’ve Ever Met

This one’s dedicated to a relatively special lady. She knows who she is:

Baby, you’re virtually breathtaking. Almost the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen very few eyes as enchanting as yours and feel similarly about your lips.

The mere thought of you sends shivers most of the way down my spine. While it doesn’t quite make my palms sweat, it gives them a definite moisture that was not there before. Even writing this right now, while I technically can stop smiling, it requires a focused effort, and I admit that I’m still eating and sleeping at a healthy level, but I have been doing both a little bit less than usual since meeting you.

You occupy a portion of my thoughts that is near a majority of those thoughts dedicated to women, which is a majority of my thoughts. That’s a pretty big chunk if you think about it. Did that make sense? Being almost in love is a funny thing, because it doesn’t make sense unless you think about it a bit. Just today, I hardly noticed most of the other women around me. In fact, the only ones that were able to catch my eye were, well, very hot. Believe me when I say that I only have eyes for you and a select few others.

Do I have a chance with you? That almost-consuming question has quasi-lingered, rendering my mind still useful, but not for as many things as it could focus on before. If you are unsure I would do or attempt many things to win your affection. I would ride up to 75 miles on a bicycle. For your heart I would run 4 miles, provided I could take a break in the middle. I would even climb a mountain for you depending on my schedule, the height and how my ankle is treating me (a big “if” lately, but that’s for another entry).
Please put me out of my discomfort and tell me! If your answer is no, I certainly understand and will have to figure out how to live without you. If you do feel the same way, however, this could be the beginning of an above-average relationship, one in which I, after some consideration, promise that I will be there for you for a lot, if not most, of the rest of your life.

Accusations that I use a Thesaurus are Preposterous, Outlandish, and Downright Not Sensible (Which is an Antonym to Preposterous, by the Way)

A comment to my most recent entry contained a conjecture, also known as a supposition or a deduction, that I use the aid of a thesaurus to artificially augment, or enhance, the range of my lexicon. I categorically, positively and unconditionally deny making use of any such thing.

Such accusations are unfounded, groundless, unsupported, baseless, unsubstantiated, speculative, tenuous, and unproven at best. They are malicious, hateful, spiteful, malevolent, mean, nasty, cruel and wicked at worst. The only way that somebody could offer this termination would be if they were suffering from a lowliness complex or some advanced (though not irrational) form of sibling enmity. The only people who would believe such an insipid claim would have to be gullible, naïve and easy to fool.

I’ll sever to the pursuit: such a distrustful Thomas has put me in somewhat of a grab-22. I mean, since I resolutely, doggedly and decisively stick to my firearms it probably seems like I got up on the mistaken region of the cot. If, on the other give, I had ignored the claim, my silence could have been misconstrued as a tacit confession or coming-clean that the feline had been let out of the sack, my fast route to blogger-stardom would be compromised, threatened, endangered, in jeopardy, vulnerable, exposed, in danger, or even at risk. But the dollar stops here and while I will in the future let sleeping canines loll regarding this untruth, I would appreciate being given the advantage of the uncertainty.

The Blind Date

I'm in favor of blind dates for the following reasons:

Unlike other cultures, where there are blind marriages, the closest our individualist culture has come to allowing others to make one's own mating decisions is the blind date. It's hit or miss, so it's risky (definitely more exciting than a normal date). I have had a lot of fun on blind dates. My brother was set up with his wife by friends, and she's way cool. On a blind date, more than in any other social situation, I know for a fact that another person whom I have never met is single, looking, and is giving me a chance. I will probably have things in common with her (at least the third party thinks so), and am in the same approximate league. I can get away with making the date cheap, because I don't know the person.

I'm convinced that life would be easier if the dating scene were restricted to blind dating. Think about it--shyness would not be a factor and, unlike dating somebody from work, a class or a social group, there will be very little awkwardness afterward if things don't work out, since the two people would rarely see each other. In short, the cost:benefit ratio is just so much lower than with traditional dating.

What's the worst that can happen? Spending an evening and a little bit of money with somebody I don't really click with. It beats watching a movie with my roommate. Don't get me wrong, it would be an exhausting experience if it were more than once every week or two, but I can't think of a more effortless way to branch out.

I have a blind date this week and you know what we're doing? I'm taking her to a friend's birthday party and, as you may have guessed, there will be no cover charge.

Welcome to my Blog

To anybody reading this:

Two of my brothers told me to check out their blogs and, never to be outdone, much less by siblings (I am after all a middle child), here's mine. You'll find my grammar, diction and spelling impeccable, and the scope of my vocabulary more expansive than either of theirs.