Reading the news every day, which thankfully I do not do, gets tedious. That’s why I no longer do it. There’s always a headline about George Bush’s approval rating (which can hardly be called an “approval rating.” It’s more like a disgust-o-meter), an article about Iraq, which is just a re-print of the previous day’s coverage, since the only thing that changes over there is the date. Then there’s the human interest story. “Local Ice Cream Man Serving Scoops For Fifty Years.” Big f-ing deal, people. If I wanted to read about the ice cream man, I’d pick up my copy of the trade magazine “Scoops,” which I subscribed to $49.00 before I’d hit “rock bottom” with my alcoholism. But this is beside the point. The point is, we need more good news.

    By “good news,” I of course mean “amusing news.” Hmm. By “amusing news,” I mean “amusing headlines,” because I don’t want to have to read a whole article just to find out what should already be summed up in the single, fragmented sentence of the headline. What do I look like, a librarian? An archivist? Someone who gives a shit? No! No I do not. I’m in for cheap, quick thrills (my phone number to follow). Which would you rather read, an article headlined “White House Unveils Overhauled Medicare Prescription Drug Package,” or “ Suspicious Donkey Blocks Traffic on George Washington Bridge, Bomb Squad Responds”? Now, obviously, any sane person would want to read the headline concerning the wayward donkey. Partly because there’s not any need to read any more than the headline to get a laugh, and partly because no one cares about Medicare anyway, unless we need it… in which case, we can look on some web page or ask someone boring.

    I think you know where I’m headed with this. We need to all form a pact to commit at least one amusing crime per year, so the headlines will never be dull. For instance, one of you could pack a donkey with suspicious looking gear (no real explosives, please. This is for the sake of amusing headlines only), and send it out on the GWB. Another one of you could bludgeon your friend to death with something funny, like a road-kill possum. I know, you’ll miss them, but the rest of us will be all like “what? That shit’s crazy!”  Someone else can deliberately get caught peeping in the windows of an old-folks home. You’ll never live it down, but trust me, it will be worth it… for me. Thanks in advance.

I love you,
Trevor

Ewwwww! It touched Me! Ack! It was horrible.

Nobody should ever be touched by anything they don't want touching them, this is law. So then why did I end up being touched? This is far worse than any priest touching little boys.

It's not like I was actually forced to stand there. It tripped, or stumbled, or something. But the endgame was the same. It ended up making contact. And it was not pleasant.

Why is this such a big deal? Why, you ask? Let me answer your question with a question. How could you ask me such a thing!? I'll pretend you never brought it up.

Ew, it was so weird! And unnerving! However, it happened. And life must go on.

That Angel better write me a letter of apology.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I interrupt your ordinary, run of the mill, somewhat disappointing afternoon in a lifetime of similarly depressing afternoons to bring you an important announcement. Chimps are taking up arms. Seriously. Click this link if you don't believe me. It's in the NEWS.

Yes, scientists have observed chimps making spears, and hunting bush babies with them. Or should I say, that's all they've hunted with them for NOW.

I don't enjoy coming off as alarmist or reactionary, but I think that you think that I think that I know (which I do) that this friendly, easy-go-lightly spear making can only remain a quaint footnote in zoological journals for so long. Before long, the chimps will be competing with Al Qaeda for for nuclear material from the ill-guarded Soviet Stockpile. And who would you rather sell plutonium to - bin Laden, or some chimp who might let you take a picture of it in a funny outfit. In fact, I would totally buy a poser of a chimp in a radiation suit and a caption "I hate Mondays," or "Who Farted?" Either one would get my ten bucks.

But seriously, the issue at hand... Ok, one more idea. A chimp in a radiation suit with a mushroom cloud in the background. The chimp will have  a guilty look on its face, and the caption can be either "Oops," or "bin Laden's a Fag." I'll take one of each of those. But back to my point, we have to curtail the interspecies arms race before it gets out of hand. I suggest the following course of action:

1. Find Jane Goodall, whose name is practically synonymous with chimps as well as international espionage, and arrest her. Then we send her to Gitmo and find out a) what she knows b) what secrets she herself sold to the chimps, and c) if she has any baby chimps that we can dress in pink skirts for some posters.

2. A UN team should be sent to inspect the sophistication of the chimps current spear stockpile, assess it's potential payload capability, and take pictures of chimps in UN outfits.

3. If necessary, impose sanctions against the chimps, limiting their access to bananas, as well as spear-worthy sticks.

4. The CIA should consult the Man with the Yellow Hat for more detailed insight into their historical interaction with people, and history of mischief. He never tolerated the antics of lower primates, and always warned that this day would come.

5. If necessary, we should declare war on the chimps. It won't be pretty, but it will be hilarious, touching at times, and very cute. Everyone who wrote this blog should be awarded a chimp POW as a helper monkey for future blogs. That person, whoever he may be, will be responsible for supplying a computer to the chimp, and then taking its picture, and adding the caption "I hate Mondays," or, alternatively, "Who Farted?"

Follow this protocol, and we should be safe from chimps for at least another 4 million years. But that, my friends, is how long the war on terror, and chimps, may last.

Your vigilance is most necessary, and most appreciated.

-Trevor

That's right, get playing!

That's what some video game makers are saying of their software designed to help people overcome low self esteem. Yes, it turns out that more interaction with real people (who disapprove of YOU, yes, YOU. Reading this. Right now. YOU.) is not what you need. They'll only make you feel worse about yourself by pointing out your flaws, or being generally better than you at everything. "What's the solution, Trevor?" you ask.

"That's a terrible question, idiot." I reply. But now I'll tell you anyway. The solution is exactly that video game I was hinting at earlier! What a coincidence! It's called Mind Habits, and it will (supposedly) make you (feel like) less of a loser! The guy on the web home page is leaping down some grassy hill (not so far off from jumping off a cliff, mind you). I guess it worked for him. Either that or he just took Cialis. I'm pretty sure people do that in those ads too... Oh, and Paxil ads... And Claritin (but there'd be flowers instead of just grass).

Aaaanyway, the only side effect is that it will also make you play more video games, since it is one, and I doubt there are very serious online communities of this self-esteem game. Playing another video game will make you slightly more of a loser* In closing, my own personal recommendations for electronic confidence builders is looking at other people's Myspace pages (preferably in the South East or midwest), go to hotornot.com (if it still exists. I'm not even making that a link. You might actually go there), or just play a first person shooter game. Just don't suck, or you'll feel worse about yourself... Cause you suck.

I suck too,
Trevor

*Contrary to an article in last months "Online Gamer Magazine," but that has yet to be peer-reviewed. Cause that have no peers.

I was cleaning the bathroom yesterday, when it occurred to me how rarely I do that. Why? Because it's disgusting and  unpleasant. That's why.

I know. On the surface, it would seem that I'm a filthy pig, and that I live in a sty suitable for only such a creature. However, this is remarkably not quite the case. In fact, I've merely evolved the species of single man in my own little way. I've lowered my own standards of cleanliness juuust enough so as to make someone else clean the bathroom before I even know it's dirty. This took years of meditation and training to achieve, but now that I'm here, it's a whole new world. It's almost as though the bathroom magically gets cleaner, and yet, I don't have to lift a finger. The only thing is, you can't let on that this is your strategy, because if you do, you can be lured in to a game of "toilet bowl chicken," where each roommate tries to tolerate the level of filth just that much more, forcing the other to clean it. This just sets you up for mutually assured destruction. Find a picky roommate, and you're all set.

My advice to all you gents: follow my lead. If you're lucky enough, you can marry into this situation as well, and then all you have to worry about is a lifetime of resentment! Other than that, it will be the perfect marriage!

-trevor

There's good news for everyone this Valentines Day! No, you don't have a secret admirer. Sorry. Your admirer is the opposite of secret, and he's standing outside your window as you read this, holding a goldfish bowl housing an upside-down-floater, and a bouquet of what were roses this morning when he first started his quest to find you, his one true love.

Anyway, the GOOD news (which is at the same time BAD news) is that love seems to exist in a specific spot in your dumb old brain. The good news is: it's all in your head, and if you start acting like too much of an idiot, or dressing in matching outfits as your significant other, theoretically you could remove part of that section with a paring knife, so you could re-join your friends when they play poker, or go bowling, or your girlfriends when they shop or pee together. Simple, home-brain surgery can be a near instant cure for too much love. (An interesting fact that I just made up is that the Ancient Egyptians used to do this on themselves.)

The bad news is the same as the good news, as I said. It's all in your head. Forget the spiritual, forget the mushy stuff. Love, it turns out, is akin to mental illness. It's all in your head. A bunch of whacked out neurons firing in concert, tricking you into spending your money on someone for no logical reason. See above-referenced cure. Incidentally, that particular spot in your brain is, according to above-linked article, very close to where the drives for food and water are in your old ball of thinking goo (as the science people call it).  So maybe, you're not in love, but just thirsty. Drink a tall glass of water before you ask anyone out. You may not need a mate, just a faucet.

Not to be bitter. it's just that I'm bitter. Yes, I'm alone on this V-Day. Sigh. The other bad news, by the way, is that the parts of your brain that activate during rejection are right there in the physical pain section. So excuse me if I go off and mope around and drink champagne straight from the bottle, and cry myself to sleep listening to Sinatra records. Or maybe I'll take the non-depressing route, and go to a strip club or casino. That's the way to spend any holiday with a high rate of suicide.

Well, you're probably on some cozy date right now anyway, so that's all for now. I'll let you know in the morning where the "I shoulda  quit when I was up" and the "hey, hey! She can touch you, but you can't touch her" sections of the brain are...

Thanks for being there,
trevor

Author's note (just kidding, I'm not an author. I just write a blog, like you): After a long hibernation to let the carpal tunnel syndrome heal, it's time to write some more blogs. Why? Because it gives me a reason to read the news.

I'm writing today (and coming out of writing hibernation, as outlined above), because of a grave couple of problems I've watched get worse and worse over the past couple years, and I've noticed a distinct lack of coverage of these problems in the mainstream news. These problems are known (exclusively to me) as the Silent Inflations. They do not have the cha-ching sound associated with normal, economic inflation. Instead, they go unspoken and unnoticed, waiting to pounce when we least expect.

I'm talking, of course, about Favor Inflation, and Fashionably Late Inflation. Let's start with the former.

Favor Inflation. When I was a kid, people used to ask favors of each other as they do now. The difference was, if a favor was a small one, it was referred to as merely a "small favor." If it was average, (like a ride to the airport at a reasonable time of day, for example), it was referred to as such. People would only ask for "huge" favors if they were actually huge (like killing an in-law, which was more socially acceptable back then).

These days, I never hear of the small favor. Not even the regular one. Everything is treated like some huge ordeal, regardless of the gravity of the situation. Today, someone asked me if they could ask "a huge favor." I pulled out my shotgun, and said "I love you. Anything. It's your mother-in-law, isn't it?" It turns out they just wanted a cup of coffee. I felt like a fool. I reluctantly put down my shotfun and got the coffee. I hate to get coffee with my adrenaline all up like that. The other problem, besides heart-pounding trips to Starbucks, is that we just don't have the terminology anymore for REAL huge favors, such as muder, or changing a diaper. Here's another idea. Don't ask someone if you can ask a favor. Just ask the favor, because we don't want to sign up for unknown favors. Especially not big ones. Espeeeeecially not big ones that turn out to be small ones.

As for Fashionably Late Inflation, I think you all know what I mean. It used to be that if a party starts at 9, it's under way by 10. At least a core contingent will be there. These days, you show up at 10 for a party that starts at 9, and you'll look like a shlep. Or an idiot. Or a guy with no friends. Granted, past 9:01, the throwers of the party will thank GOD that someone came, and they'll awkwardly entertain you even though they know that you suck. You will want to eat their food and drink their beer, but it will be so perfectly laid out at that point that it will seem rude to eat and drink them. Well, here's my advice. Drink heavily and get innapropriately drunk before the next person arrives. That person might be me, and then I'll feel ok about eating and drinking, and I can also divert any attention from myself for ALSO showing up too early by 2007 standards by pointing at you and making comments about your disgusting behavior.

Ok, people. There you have it. The rest is up to you. Don't ask me to do anything for you ever, and for the love of god, drink a lot early, and maybe break a piece of furniture. Oh, and dress worse than me. As a rule.

-Trevor

People these days are concerned with so many things, that it causes them to worry about the wrong ones. They get confused, and it throws off all their priorities.

For example, person A, who has asked that he remain anonymous (his name starts with A, and ends in 'drew.' That's your only hint), is (hypothetically) concerned with all his homework for college, plus his job, plus his student loans which are stacking up, but he has neglected to take a shower in the past month and a half.

At first you may think "Ew." Then you might think "actually, that's not so bad." But then you might think "wait, I thought it said 'a day and a half.' A month and a half? That IS disgusting." This time, you would hit the proverbial nail on its proverbial head. You'd kick the proverbial walrus in its proverbial groin. In short, you would be right on the (proverbial) money.

There would be no real money involved. Or would there? Would there potentially be an economic penalty for A's lack of hygiene? Let's take a closer look.

Our pathetically disgusting hero, A, walks into a store that has a sign that reads "now hiring someone to sit around and do his homework while making big money to pay off loans!" He goes to the manager and says "I'm your smelly man! Where do I sign?"

The manager, it turns out, witnessed his father being beaten to death by a smelly, smelly college student when he was only a boy. Countless thousands of dollars later, the therapy has almost cured him. Almost.

"I wouldn't hire you if you were the last man on earth! If that were the case, I would be more concerned with where everyone else on Earth went, and how I could get in touch with them, if they were indeed still alive! Either way, you get NO JOB! Scram!

This could happen, people. Keep showering. You don't want to end up like Andrew do you? I mean... A. Do you?

-trevor