How do you want it?

During the heatwave, I was moved to meditate on my own death, and what a relief it might be if the heat continued. You can't always choose how you are going to die (like most things, if you procrastinate long enough, it will be chosen FOR you. Hurray!) But I was trying to think how I would want it to go down, if I had to choose. Here are some of my ideas.

• I think it would be interesting to be slaughtered by a serial killer who was so charming and friendly that his victims' last words (always videotaped and sent to the media) were, "This guy is really not so bad. I didn't think I would say this, but I am gonna miss him."
  
• One of those people who makes that dessert called "Death by Chocolate" and can't stop saying the title because it's SO CUTE is shoved off a building and lands on me, killing us both instantly. I think people would have such mixed feelings about that.
  
• I train a squirrel to fire a gun, and he shoots me. The bullet just passes through my ankle, but the irony of it all kills me.
  
• I watch an entire episode of Mama's Family and die of shame.

How would you like to die? Hello? Is this thing on?

Things to Do When it's Wicked Hot

Hello, gentle reader(s). It's hot in my home. I don't do well in the heat. I was made for flannel. And flannel was made for me. And if you don't like it, well you can take it up with my congressman. I'm not 100% sure who that is, nor am I certain that it falls within his or her purview to help you. Or 'purrview' if you like. Or 'perv=you' if that's what you need to continue onward into this post. Personally (or pursonally), I don't really care what you do at this point. It's too hot to care.

But what I will do, sans care, is to suggest some things you can do to beat the heat. Or at least to beat the next 80 seconds or so as you read the rest of this post. Or just to 'spend' those seconds, while the heat beats you like it was your daddy.

How to Beat the Heat!
by Jeff Mac, the guy who writes everything on this blog.

• Stab someone with a fork, and then shout, "Just kidding!" as you run away.
• When your significant other comes into the room, don't get up or acknowledge them in any way. Wait until it gets really uncomfortable. (Depending upon the state of your relationship, this waiting period can be as long as 45 seconds, or just instantaneous). Once he/she begins to wonder if you're ok, say with absolutely no emotion whatsoever, "Surprise." And then go back to ignoring them. Do this until autumn, or until they sing something by Gilbert & Sullivan.
• Butter your floors and pretend to be a really unhealthy grilled cheese sandwich. Repeatedly have the argument with yourself that you would be MUCH healthier if he had used cooking spray. When asked who 'he' is, blink once and say, "Why, the lord."
• Rant and rave about how the heat is a result of global warming. When someone asks you how come winters are still cold, sing the last phrase of the song "Ebb Tide" and burst into flames. (This is a FUN one!)
• Hire a mariachi band to follow you around playing old Corey Hart songs*, but refuse to admit that you hear or see them.

Well, that's it. Too tired to wrap up.

*Is there another type of Corey Hart songs besides 'old'? Gosh I hope so.

Favorite Google Searches So Far...

Well, as I've mentioned here before, I sometimes can tell what people Googlesearched that brought them to this website. Here are my current favorites:

• getting out of jury duty: See, Mom? I'm helping people! Unless, of course, the person actually ready my advice in which case...not so much.
• "Jeff Mac", tattoo: I've never had anyone Google my actual body*. Or my vast archive of Fantasy Island fan fiction. Thanks, odd person!
• Darryl Hall 2005: This one...I'm really happy about this one. I know that guy or gal must have been disappointed. I really hope it was Darryl Hall Googling himself to see what was happening with him this year.
• Toe-thumb: I didn't know this was a thing. I thought it was just a description of one guy who happened to have a toe-thumb who touched my sneaker with it on the subway. I wish I hadn't thought about that just now. I was just getting over that shit.
• Pooped herself: This was a search that came from somebody in the UK. Well, top o' the lorry to you, matey! Glad you stopped by. I can't be sure what you were looking for, but I'm betting it wasn't my little review of America's Next Top Model where one of the models may or may not have been accusing another one of crapping her drawers.

Well, that's it for now. I hope to be googled in more and more interesting ways. And to get me started: Goatbag, Keymaster of Gozzir, Charleton Heston's backhair, Sergeant Bilko. I expect that will up my hit counter considerably.

*Well, there was that one time, but I was a sophomore in college. I don't think that should count.

A.T.F. the movie! (as told by someone who wasn't really watching)

So, I sort of watched a movie called "A.T.F." starring...uh...'Judging' Amy Brennemannnanemen. That's as close as I'm likely to get on that name. Not because it's a tough name to spell. I'm just not that interested in spelling it.

Not unlike how not-that-interested I was in watching the movie. I don't know why I even had it on, but I have to recommend a detached style of viewing for this film. I saw about 40 seconds of it every 15 minutes or so as I did various things around the apartment. From my viewpoint, it went like this.

Hey, that's Amy Branamananamanaaan! She's cute. She's got a gun. Goin' into the Branch Davidians thing at Waco. Her buddy got shot up pretty bad. She's sad.
...

Somebody's yelling at her in court. She's doing the big-girl-not-gonna-cry crying. Ohhh, I think she's remembering something sad and sort of keeping her chin up in the process

...

Is that Judith Light? No, it's Christine Lahti? Nope. I don't even know who Christine Lahti is when it's HER, let alone when it's THIS lady. Who is that lady? I don't know but her weird dog with the totally white eyeball just sniffed her car, and she got scared. Of bombs, near as I can tell

...

Hey, Amy B. is makin' out with some dude. Sad makin' out though -- she was so sad and teary that she had to mash her face up against somebody. I wonder how come she doesn't just eat a lot of ice cream like everybody else? I wonder if one of them is actually going to put the other one's entire head into their mouth?

....

Oh, she's in a bombsquad suit saving a baby from a boobytrapped highchair. Uh, do they just let you do EVERY job in the A.T.F.? Does she work in the cafeteria as well? Don't you have to have specialized training for the different jobs?

...

No, you don't! Cuz now she's undercover! Buying guns from survivalists. Oh, everybody knows she's a cop. No they don't. Yeah they do. The not-Judith-Light-but-close-e-damn-nuff lady wants her pulled out of there. Her ego is writing checks that her body can't cash. And then...


I missed the end. But since it was made for TV, I have a feeling that everything turned out just fine. She got promoted to judge, and was awarded Tyne Daly for Valor in the Face of Something.

Starting my own religion

I am not a religious person, but I do enjoy watching religious people. I think they are adorable and hilarious. I want to invent a religion that exists solely for my own amusement.

Aaaand, premise complete!

Here are some of our beliefs:

• The Buddy System: Like Scientology, we will target celebrities. But we will pair them up in fun and interesting ways, and the "buddies" must hold hands at all times. For instance, we are going to target Ewan MacGregor and Shaquille O'Neal. They must always hold hands, even during NBA games when Shaq is on the court. The Miami Heat will have to hire Ewan at power forward to keep them close together, and they will probably have to alter a lot of their plays. When asked why they are holding hands, both buddies will emphatically deny that they are doing so, and insist that they are the victims of religious persecution.
  
• Fantasy Tax: Anytime a member of my religion has a sexual fantasy about anyone else, they must ask that person for a 5 cent fee using a bullhorn or a concert-grade PA system. The rationale is that you are spending your mental energy trying to please them sexually, and you deserve some small compensation. The amplification is there to show that you are comfortable with yourself and you are not ashamed of your sexual impulses.
  
• Pilgrimage: Like many religions, we have holy sites that our members are required to visit at least one time in their lives. Our holy sites are Northern California, South Africa, and Australia, the homes of the world's population of great white sharks. Once at the holy site, you must reflect upon your sins while swimming in the ocean, wearing a seal costume smeared in blood. Whatever happens next is exactly what you deserve.

There are many, many more requirements for joining my new religion, but I can not reveal them here as they could be dangerous to the minds and souls of the unprepared person. Also, I'm charging $5,000 bucks for them so scram, you.

Shark Fears

As my good friend, Sarah Fisch, has pointed out -- SHARK WEEK is upon us. It's a sort of a national holiday for me because I am terrified of sharks. And very impressed by them. And they are on the TEEvee, which means they are awesome.

In fact, nearly everyone is afraid of sharks. I think it has to do with the fact that they bite us sometimes. I don't care that you are nearly 10 times more likely to be killed by a falling coconut (apparently that's true.) You just try to come up with some scary theme music for falling coconuts. No? Yeah, thought so.

Anyway, the point is this. Sharks have fears too. Fears that can be exploited if you are ever attacked. Here's are the top fears that sharks have, and how to use them to your advantage:

1. Fear of Speaking in Front of a Group. It's just like humans. So, if you are being attacked, immediately put on a nametag and say something like, "I'm really looking forward to your presentation -- how do you handle the pressure?" Either that or take out your travel podium and hit them in the nose with it.
2. Fear of Commitment. Sure, sharks are all aggression* and teeth when they are coming at you, but let them get the hint that you are looking for something more permanent and they are out the door. Consider asking the shark to help you move, or leaving an extra toothbrush at its apartment**.
3. Fear of Success. This is a little known and lesser understood aspect of the shark psyche. A deep seated self-esteem problem where the shark does not believe it deserves to devour you. When you are about to be attacked, try saying something like, "Wow, attacking a person. You're really taking on quite a lot. It's so great that you feel ready for such a big accomplishment!"
4. Fear of Intimacy. If a shark has already bitten you, spoon with it. Nothing sexual, just let the shark know how close you feel to it. And if that doesn't work, whisper, "What are you thinking?"
5. Fear of Abandonment. When a shark is circling you, let him know that if he doesn't stop, you will leave the ocean.

Good luck. I hope that your confidence in my theories isn't in any way shaken by the fact that I refuse to test them. Enjoy!

*I had to do the old football cheer in my head to remember how to spell this. That's called 'full disclosure,' people. Look it up.

** I seriously doubt that most sharks have apartments. I mean, look at them. Do they look like they are RENTING? No, I don't think so.

Blown C.I.A. Coverage

Ok, in light of all of this C.I.A. leak stuff, I feel compelled to address something about myself and my covert status. A friend of mine used to think that I worked for the C.I.A.

(There. I said it. And it feels so good to let that out, like a first date burp where you hold it in hoping to convince your unwitting companion that you're a robot incapable of unsexy body functions.)

She thought I worked for the C.I.A. because whenever I explained my dayjob to her it sounded vague and boring, and she surmised that it was a cover story. (She was a big fan of Alias.)

The truth was (and I can only speak about this on double super secret background) that by my description, she didn't understand my job. Come to think of it, neither do I. Maybe I am C.I.A.!

Of course! I can't believe I've been lying to myself, right under my own nose all these ye--Ow! What the...? Poison dart? Gack! Oh, I'm good. I'm very, very good. Glurble. Glurk.

...

Uh...ahem...hello! Hello, blog audience public people. It is I, just the ordinary, ah, Jeff Mac here. Signing off...just like he...ah, I mean just like "I" always do.

Because I am me, you see. And not an assassin sent to kill me. Uh, him. Jeff Mac, I mean. Who I am.

(sigh) Oh forget it. You're all going to have to be eliminated. All seven of you. I'll be at your homes in a few minutes with either a poison dart or an umbrella filled with an oil slick or something. Please be patient.

Give the man a break

I know that Bobby Brown is getting a lot of crap lately for being, you know, crazy. He's got that show where they follow him around and allow him to behave like a lunatic. I haven't seen it, but my understanding is that if you only saw that show you might think he was maybe on, I don't know, let's call it "crack."

But I am here to tell you all something. I had a dream last night in which I was watching TV with Bobby. In the dream, he seemed very normal, and quite amiable. I was not expecting him to be that easy to be around. Self-effacing, respectful, and not on any crack that I could see.

I think everybody should just calm down, and judge him NOT based upon what you see with your own eyes, but upon what my subconscious decides to have him do arbitrarily. It's only fair, people.

A life lesson...

I was on the subway the other day, and...no, no I really was. Listen, if you are going to doubt me this early in the blog we may as well just call the whole thing off. No, I'm serious. I need you to believe me on this. I was ON the SUBway. Ok? You sure? Thank you.

Ahem.

In any case, after a couple of stops on the train a family of what felt like thousands (but was probably only five) entered my car. It was like being inside of a ferris wheel engine. Children leaping on things, adults howling at each other. Laugh laugh laugh, talk talk talk. Lawn chairs flying around, ocean toys, beach towel capes.

Listen, I am from Connecticut where denial is a sort of ancestral tradition filled with pride and power. But this was testing even MY abilities to pretend not to notice stuff. I decided after a couple of stations that I would switch cars.

I was sure that I would be walking into a karmic nightmare. Life would say, "Ah, you don't want to hang out with the Decibel family? Ok, how about THIS?" and I would be presented with the smelliest, hook-handed homeless person ever to rule over the subway mole people.

But no, it was silent as a tomb. Lovingly air conditioned. Several adults sat serenely, reading their smart people books. You could almost hear soft jazz xylophone playing in the background.

And I wondered -- is this what I want? This silent sterility*. That other car had been loud and obnoxious, but it had LIFE in it. Is this antiseptic** library really what my soul craves? Wouldn't I rather be back in that other car filled with the childlike energy of the living, breathing earth? Wouldn't I like to gain a little of that life back for myself?

The answer was, of course, no. No fucking way. My new car was awesome. Those other bastards can rot in there. I'm staying in snoresville.

* I'm speaking metaphorically here, of course.

** See above. I'm sure there was enough bacteria in that subway car to fill a bowling ball carrying bag thing***.

***I realize that was not the greatest metaphor in the world****.

****I also realize that putting a footnote within a footnote might seem unorthodox and confusing. But that's me, people. Oh, I'm sorry -- did I just blow your mind???

Think about it

An old friend of mine recently told me that she thought I "think too much." Oh really? Gee, you figure? Do you honestly think I haven't thought about THAT? Of course I have -- I think too much! I can think about ten different things at any given moment. During a serious relationship talk, I can think about a sandwich I really like. And vice versa. It's like being ambidexterous, but without the burden of being considered cool or interesting.

Here's my little tip. If you know someone who thinks too much (and if you're reading this website, you know at least one such person) you don't need to tell him. It would be like saying to a drowning person, "You know what your problem is, is all that water that you keep putting into your lungs. It's really holding you back. Seriously, I think if you stop breathing the water, you're going to find a world of difference."

See you at the bottom of the barrel!

I was recently told by a friend of mine that the economy is in trouble. Now, I must confess that I had heard about this before then. But when you're me, the economy is always in trouble. I don't need to wait to hear about the market to know that I'm not doing very well. (It's comforting, in a way. All those Wall Street types have to wait with bated breath to find out whether or not they are screwed. With me, mystery solved.)

Which brings me to our current economic problems. (And no, the fact that I'm posting on this after we've been in this slump for years doesn't bother me in the least.) If the Chinese do whatever it is that my friend told me they might do to the yen, our economy would basically collapse.

At that point, everybody will be scrambling around, trying to figure out how to adjust to their total lack of worth. Basically, everyone would be just like me. Except that I'll already be used to it.

All of a sudden, being a total financial fuckup isn't looking like such a stupid idea, huh? The fact that I own nothing of value suddenly becomes an advantage. Who knew that having absolutely nothing to show for myself would turn out to be such an asset? I feel so vindicated that all of my foolish, irresponsible decisions are finally paying off.

Guidebook for Parents

Hello, parents of small children. Or of gigantic children. I have compiled several helpful hints for you folks. I know that once humans spawn, large portions of the brain shut down to make room for the, "No, no, NO don't eat that!" parts. Hey, that's fine. I just wanted to give you a quick rundown of all the things that we, the unchilded, would like you to keep in mind.

1. Your child is a bit of a nuisance to everyone but you. No one is interested in how cute they are, especially if they are going to be that loud.
2. Please re-read rule one until it sinks in. Yes, even YOUR child. Not just the smelly, dirty children.
3. Don't show me pictures of them. If they are here, isn't that bad enough? And if they are not here, let me just sit and enjoy the quiet.
4. I am not a monkeybars. Seriously, your kid is playing with fire right now.
5. Please let your kid play with fire right now. How else is he going to learn?
6. Please keep the child out of everybody's way. Just because you have chosen a life of inconvenience and exhaustion for yourself is no reason to punish the rest of us.

Feel free to place these rules somewhere that you'll see them. For instance, tattoo them onto your child.

Thank you.

P.S. To the person in the UK who got to my site by Googling "Pooped herself": God Bless you, sir or madam. I hope you found what you were looking for.

SURPRISE!!!!!

Happy 229th Birthday, America!!!

Were you surprised? No, honestly, were you? You have no idea how hard it was getting you out of the house so we could set up the party. I mean, with all that stuff about "Weapons of Mass Destruction" and everything? I did NOT think you were going to buy that!

Anyway, I hope you are enjoying your Independence Day, USA. And please, please when you see the founding fathers, don't tell them about George W. Or the Patriot Act. Or all the church & state stuff going on. And you probably shouldn't bring up the fact that Britain is now our only friend (man would THAT confuse the hell out of them!) And maybe don't mention that we spend your birthday mainly by eating hot dogs and getting hammered while mafia guys set off really pretty explosions for us to look at.

In fact, if they call to ask how things are going, uh, pretend you're not home. Totally screen that call. They don't really want to know.

A final thought on Jury Duty

Hello, gentle readers. If you didn't read my previous entries on Jury Duty...uh...well, I had it. There! All caught up!

As it turns out, there are several ways of getting out of serving if you are called. I will not include the one that my friend and NO HITTING co-host, Becky Donohue, uses-- "What are you, crazy? Who goes to jury duty? I throw the fucking thing in the garbage, tell 'em I never got it!" That's just a little too overtly anti-establishment for me. I prefer to shirk my duties from within the system. Also I am a chump, evidently.

So, if you are being questioned in a case, here's what you do. The judge will tell you EXACTLY what to say. For instance, in my case they kept asking each juror if they could view cops just like they would anyone else. Here is an actual interaction that occurred:

Judge: "Can you be objective when hearing the testimony of police officers."
A: "Uh...I don't think so."
Judge: "You don't THINK so?"
A: "No...I don't trust cops."
Judge: "And you couldn't put that aside for this trial?"
A: "Ahh, not really, no."
Judge: "Ok...you're dismissed. But...you should WORK on that."

Tough guy, that judge. Tough, but fair.

Now, I could not bring myself to say something like that. And to be honest, I wasn't totally dreading serving. The defense lawyer was hilariously pitiful, and I think I would have found his attempts to get his totally guilty client acquitted to be charming and quaint. However, I was not picked to serve. Why? The reason is simple.

They were afraid of me. They were terrified of my jury powers. I would have taken over that case, and every one in that room knew it. The defendant certainly knew it. Every single time I spoke, he (pardon me) shat explosively. (As a matter of law, the prosecution objected but was overruled. That falls under the protection of the First Amendment, thank you very much.)

Look, I've seen television. I know the score, if I may use the slang of a 20s dancing girl. I know the difference between Murder 1, Murder 2, and Felony Murder. Or at least I THINK I do, and that's close enough for me, baby. I already had several objections. I hadn't voiced them yet, but the time was coming when I was not going to just sit back and let these people run amok through our legal system.

To be honest, it's sad they didn't pick me. For them. I'm sure they could have learned quite a little bit about law, about love, about life. Your loss, Kings County Superior Court. See you in six years!