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A Simple Request

I think my relationship is on the rocks.

I recently told this chick I’m seeing that it’s unacceptable for her to have dated anyone before me.

On every trip to her house since then, I can’t help but notice the lack of effort she’s put into obeying my command—travel through time, and change the past. One day, when she was in the restroom for a really really long time, I poked around a bit. An investigation of her internet search history came up with exactly zero schematics for a flux capacitor. The ‘Recently Watched’ category on her Netflix showed she hasn’t viewed Quantum Leap, Timecop, or the episode of Family Matters where Urkel invents a time machine. On the bookshelf, there was nothing even close to the subject of physics, let alone the theory of relativity, knowledge of which is essential to transcend linear time.

How I interpret this: she has not even thought about travelling back in time to change her relationship history in order to make me happy.

Next time I’m visiting, when she’s passing the laxative-laced Taco John’s meal I will have brought for her, I think I’ll use the alone time to inspect the shed and see what’s going on in there. From the outside, it doesn’t appear big enough to house a DeLorean, or even a circular metal pod that is thick enough to withstand the sparks and zaps that occur when space-time is warped, but we’ll see.

If the shed doesn’t turn up anything, the excavation of her yard then begins, in search of a large elliptical disc that she maybe recovered from aliens and is using to reverse engineer their technology in hopes of making the buttons and gears more useful for human hands.

If that doesn’t work, I don’t know.

 

 

 

Throwback Thursday

Here’s a photograph from last summer, the day the gal I’m going steady with and I attended our first Minnesota Twins game together. They played the Phillies on what turned out to be a gorgeous June evening. It’s a good picture—you can see the Minneapolis skyline in the background, and hometown hero Joe Mauer at the plate. She kind of ruined it by talking, but it’s still a fun memory.

twins

 

My Life—‘A Brilliant Cadenza’

February 25, 2014 2 comments

The other night, while The Chick That Hangs Out At My Apartment Sometimes and I were sitting around, having a few beers, we decided to do something crazy. I got out a book that had just arrived in the mail. Within the pages sat a smorgasbord of moves and new ways of thinking that could be a lot of fun for a couple kids with a buzz on.

The book I’m referring to is My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer.

It contains move by move notations of 60 matches handpicked by Fischer himself. Imagine being in the same room as Michelangelo wrote homoerotic poetry to Tommaso dei Cavalieri, or shaped a block of marble into the form of a nude man. Only on the rarest of occasions are we allowed to witness genius in action.

We chose a 1962 showdown between Fischer and Argentinian Julio Bolbochan. The match, titled in the book as ‘A Brilliant Cadenza,’ was immediately mistaken by me for ‘A Brilliant Credenza.’ My confusion was soon cleared up, as it was brought to my attention that a glorified cupboard had nothing to do with a chess game.

The whole point is this: when I write my autobiography, documenting the time I got my master’s degr—landed my dream jo—accomplished something, I am stealing A Brilliant Cadenza for the title of the book. Or I’ll use Brilliant Credenza, just to screw with people.

Categories: Books Tags: , , , , ,

A Coup de Grâce Can Score You Major Points In A Relationship

November 20, 2013 1 comment
coupdegrace

French.

The hallmark of a great man is being able to stand up and say, “Hey, I was wrong.”

Yes, I made a mistake.

How? Well, for one, I told my girlfriend that I would not kill her. Major flub.

Why would I kill my girlfriend? I wouldn’t, under normal circumstances.

Let me frame a normal day for us. I pull into her driveway, and sit in the car honking the horn (I have programmed a Pavlovian ‘sound-of-horn=come-outside-NOW’ response deep within her psyche). But wait. Pretend, for this hypothetical exercise, she doesn’t immediately come out. So I have to physically lift my body out of my car, huff all the way up her sidewalk, onto the deck, to the door. It’s never come to that, but I imagine I’d be pretty angry by that point.

We can all see where this is going, but stay with me. Next, I begin pounding on the door, yelling, ‘GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!’ I haven’t conditioned a response for that cue into her yet, but I think she would understand what I wanted her to do. I stand there, agitation escalating, but also happy with anticipation, because Pavlovian cue or not, she always knows to bring me a beer and a Snickers bar when I am at her house, no matter where on the property I happen to be located.

She still hasn’t exited her house. At this juncture, it’s apparent that she’s trying to get my goat on purpose. Poor move.

But then let’s say I peek in the window, and any one of the following scenarios has occurred:

}She was on a stool, trying to make a deposit in the Swear Jar on top of the refrigerator, slipped, grabbed the gigantic cooling device for support, and pulled the whole thing down on top of her, turning her body into a pancake.

}Her cats, ever recalcitrant, finally snapped and ate her limbs and vestigial organs.

}She was in the community pool, swam too close to that thing in the bottom, and got her guts sucked out her ass.

The point I’m trying to make is that some horrible accident has happened where she would be better off dead. Unless of course she wants to live as a no-limbed pancake that’s missing a good percentage of its digestive system.

The French refer to it as the ‘blow of mercy,’ the coup de grâce.

I would be a terrible, terrible boyfriend if I didn’t do that for her.

Women Need To Know That They’re Not Dating A Lunatic

September 23, 2013 12 comments
lunatic

A lunatic.

Women like to feel safe, protected, secure. That’s why the other night, when me and my girl were sitting in a dark parking lot enjoying some gas station sandwiches, I gazed into her eyes, took her hand in mine, and told her, in all seriousness, “I’m not going to kill you.”

That’s the most reassuring thing you can tell your significant other. Well, one of the most reassuring things. Once, when we were sifting through garbage looking for dumpster donuts, the alley light reflected just right off a pool of a homeless man’s urine, and I couldn’t help but let her know: “Your eyes are so beautiful. There’s no way I would ever spend my nights and weekends modifying my vacuum cleaner’s motor to give it enough power to suck those gorgeous spheres right out of your head and then display them in a jar of formaldehyde on a shelf next to my bed, leaving you as an eyeless freak.”

Because, you see, most women don’t want to be tortured either. It’s important to remind them that you don’t plan on putting them through that.

I can recall another time, shortly after we were digging through that dumpster, when we went to the actual dump itself, in search of the mother lode. You see, the top layer of junk preserves any foodstuffs below quite immaculately, makin’ for good eatin’, if you’ve got a free afternoon for siftin’ and pickin’. But I digress. So there we were, having one of those romantic trash fights you see in movies. As I was about to slam an old toilet seat over her back, the curves of her body were caught in silhouette against the flames of the incinerator. “You have such an amazing body,” I said. “If I were some sort of psychopath, I would be salivating right now, thinking of how I could chop you up into little pieces, dump them off at a hog farm in Wisconsin, and be back in time for breakfast. But I’m NOT going to do that.”

For a relationship to survive, the woman needs to know these things. These ladies, they lay awake nights, sweating, staring at the ceiling, wondering to themselves: “I really like this guy, but I really want to know if he’s going to lock me in a basement for a week, only feeding me dog food and rainwater, while he wears my clothes and tells me how stupid they look. If only he would tell me that he isn’t going to do any of that.”

This is why heartbreak the world over exists in such large volumes. If lovers would just speak from the heart, and let their partner know their true feelings, we could all be happier. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go call my girlfriend to let her know that I will NOT be making a stir fry out of her calf muscles and all the vegetables sitting on my counter.

Things I Learned From “Scoremanship” by Frank Gray

Title: Scoremanship

Author: Frank Gray

Published: 1969, Bantam Books

Here are some things I learned from this book.

-A quote on how the “Distraction Technique” works:

“Tell her, ‘I’d like to treat you to the world’s best food by cooking dinner for us at my place tonight. What would you rather have—spaghetti or lasagna?’ By making her decide which she prefers, you have caused her, automatically, to agree to come to your apartment—which was what you were after in the first place.”

What I learned: When a woman is presented with a choice between spaghetti or lasagna, saying “neither” is in no way an option. Women are incredibly easy to fool, and can be tricked into going on a date with you.

-On how to pick up a woman in an elevator:

“As she gets out, follow her…..If you are courteous, she will be flattered…..Invite her to have a drink with you…..Girls love the idea that a man wants to talk to them. Chances are she will give you her phone number.”

What I learned: Stalking a woman on or near an elevator will not creep her out. I think it also helps if you stand behind her, occasionally leaning in for a sniff, and collecting stray hairs off of her head and clothes. When she inevitably comes back to your place, she will be impressed that you took the time to craft a hair doll in her likeness.

-A section entitled “Probing” offers this:

“If, by chance, when you take her hand, she pulls it away or gives you the feeling that you’re rushing the situation, cool it for awhile; then, of course, start again.”

What I learned: No means yes.

-When you’ve got her at your place:

“If she says, ‘I want children and a white house with a picket fence,’ that’s what you want. If she says, ‘I want to be a swinger and don’t want to get to bed until two and I don’t want kids right away,’ that’s what you want.”

What I learned: Don’t be yourself. Women hate you.

I Wonder What Bizarre Sexual Proclivities My New Neighbors Will Have

When you dwell in an apartment complex, you get to know your neighbors over time. A large portion of these relationships develop based on how well the contractor decided to insulate the partitions above, below, and side to side in each unit. I’ve heard all the basic stuff—one guy liked to shag his girl, then scream and punch the wall. Another couple would have loud, frivolous arguments, pause to bump uglies for a few minutes, then continue on with the bickering. One coital instance had me believe, but never confirm, that the dog-lovers had thrown little Fido into the mix.

And I’m not over here straddling a stepping stool topped with phonebooks, pressing my ear to the ceiling. If I’m on the couch and I hear these freaks digging in, I’m not about to get up and inconvenience myself just ’cause somebody wanted private time. I sit where I sit, and I hear what I hear, which brings me to wonder what kind of feats the new downstairs neighbors are going to bring to the table.

The former people below me had a brief, unobtrusive sexual calendar that was very accommodating for me. Only woke me up a handful of times.

But it’s been quiet down there lately. Maybe they’re waitin’ on me to set the tone. Little do they know, I only get my lovin’ on in high-class steak joints, in order to avoid the shame that comes with communal love-making. I believe it was a little known bard from the 17th century that quoth, “Don’t crap where you eat, and don’t love where you live,” at least according to what is scratched in the stall where I get it on. In the men’s washroom, everyone assumes you just downed a choice cut, and are enjoying an opulent BM. Nothin’ weird about that.

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