I hope the Vikings lose the rest of their games. Here’s why:
/1/ I don’t care (emotionally) about sports.
/2/ I derive a sick, twisted pleasure from observing sports fans get sad about millionaires losing at a game.
And, #/3/, the most interesting reason of all: The ‘1’ from the current 1-6 record came against the Pittsburgh Steelers at Wembley Stadium in London. So, this season, the Minnesota Vikings are undefeated outside America. Inside America, they are winless. Has any team ever been so dominant in one country and so impotent in another? That’s gotta be some sort of record.
Me: “I’m no expert, and I didn’t witness the crime, but, if I had to guess, and keep in mind that I was nowhere near the scene when this monstrosity happened, I would say that the culprit is some sort of fetishist. That’s just me, I don’t know. I didn’t do it, so I can never be 100% positive of this monster’s motives.”
Cub Employee: “None of that matters. Do you realize that I have to clean this up?”
Me: “That’s what you’re worried about right now? The clean up? Think about the people who were in the line of fire. The parents that have to explain this to their children?”
C.E.: “Well, we’ve got a business to run here.”
Me: “All you corporate butt-puppets are the same. We are at a crime scene investigation, sir. Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing? If I had it my way, this store would be closed down, and every employee would be interrogated. Then, and only then, should it be pressure washed from top to bottom, not because I have personal knowledge of just how deep the contamination goes, but because it really is disgusting in here. I mean, look at these markings. Something big was dragged through here.”
C.E.: “So what do you think happened?”
Me: “I thought you’d never ask. This is pure speculation here, but if I were to make a guess, I would say that the culprit ate a starchy, protein-rich meal the night before the incident.”
C.E.: “How can you tell?”
Me: “Silence! I’m not done. Then, immediately after, he, and I’m positive it was a he, because this is a men’s bathroom after all, probably went out and had a few beers, to, you know, ‘take the edge off’ before committing the act.”
C.E.: “That’s very specific.”
Me: “Of course it is.”
C.E.: “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were the one that clogged this toilet.”
Me: “Are you implying that the night before this happened, I had time to go down to Hubert’s in Minneapolis, eat a healthy portion of buffalo chicken pizza, then just stroll over to Target Field, because I have time for that, and then, because I’m not busy enough already, take down a few Surly Benders? Totally logical. And if that wasn’t enough, I topped it all off with a couple more Summit EPAs. Riiiight. Are you insane? Then, the entire next day, I could feel a low, deep rumble in my bowels, for some reason beckoning me to come here, to this public bathroom, not my own, because I could tell beforehand that it would most likely clog my personal toilet, all in order to avoid using a plunger, and a possible overflow? Because that makes a whole lot of goddam sense. Yes, I have that much time on my hands that I can just go out of my way to crap in a public toilet, knowing that there won’t be any consequences, no names exchanged, all the dirty work passed off to some low-level employee whose face I will never see. You honestly believe that I started plotting this out in the early afternoon, specifically singling out this actual bathroom that we are now standing in, because of the anonymity it would provide? And that I never in my wildest dreams would have planned that a maintenance employee would enter, just seconds after I attempted to flush, and flush again, realizing that the plight was fruitless, then go to a urinal, pretending to have just finished there, and wash my hands, acting like nothing had happened? Because that seems like a stretch.”
C.E.: “Our security camera shows you entering the restroom right around the time this was reported.”
Me: “You can Photoshop anything these days.”
C.E.: “Don’t ever come here again.”
Me: “I don’t want to. It’s disgusting in here.”
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!! Halloween is like, totally my favorite holiday. Pumpkin-infused booze. Tons of candy. And, you can dress like a total slut and it’s acceptable because it’s like, Halloween.
I didn’t always slut it up on Halloween. Throughout my teenage years, I dressed like a slut every day but Halloween. Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, birthday parties—so much sluttiness! Halloween was my time to get away from that.
I eventually learned that you gain a certain power by withholding something great, in this case my slutty wardrobe. People began to realize how much they missed the slutty me.
Throughout my twenties I really let it rip every October 31. A partial list of my costumes from that decade—slutty pumpkin, slutty Santa, slutty teacher, slutty doctor, slutty angel, slutty devil, slutty Philip K. Dick, slutty male nurse, slutty ghost, slutty maid, slutty Jason. I was so slutty, I made myself sick!
It was very fun, but now that I’m officially a ‘thirty-something,’ the evolution must continue.
A certain maturity is expected of me now. A slutty, grown-up maturity.
Q: So, what is the sluttiest costume possible?
A: A slut, you’re probably thinking.
You’re wrong, though. A slutty slut is the correct answer.
I will be so slutty, right down to the slutty mannerisms, slutty dress, and slutty psyche of an actual slut, that I will believe I am no longer myself, but a slut with such low self esteem that slutting myself out is the only escape from my slutty life. I will even cry in the shower as I prepare to go out for the night, and wonder why people only call me when they’ve been drinking.
Ah! I can’t wait!