In movies and TV, I tend to admire self-reliant men; people who can defuse a bomb with nothing more than a can opener, a piece of string, and maybe some duct-tape. Guys like MacGuyver from MacGuyver, or Die Hard Guy from Die Hard. In real life, however, I am not one of these people. I lack internal resources. I give up easily.

A few months ago, I reported on the fact that I was quasi-homeless. Well, I’m still quasi-homeless, because, as I just mentioned, I suck and I lack internal resources and I’m not good with this shit. Since the last time I discussed this, I have stayed with friends, semi-friends, random strangers, co-workers…

And now, currently, I am staying with my own personal writing groupie, “Danielle” (not her real name), who lives in Tennessee, and who would like everyone out there to know that she is: (1) “Hot” and (2) “Fashionable.” In fact, she strongly urged me to mention those two things about her. Anyway, and so now I live with Danielle, who I met via the comments section of a website, after I had written an article for that website. Here is an interview with her where we discuss how all of this came about…

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Me: Hi. Hey there, Danielle. Are you ready for your interview?

Danielle: Am I supposed to answer that part? Probably not. Okay… go.

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Me: So, um, would you like to talk about how we met?

Danielle: I read a bunch of your articles and sent you a really stupid gushy fan letter on Facebook. I was probably drunk at the time. I didn’t really expect a reply, but you messaged me back eventually and told me you thought I was hot, so that was cool….

Me: I said you were hot? Did I, like, wait a while into the conversation, or did I say that right away?

Danielle: …Let me check Facebook really quick.

Me: Okay.

Danielle: Okay, found it. The subject line was “unsolicited message from a stranger” which at the time I thought was kind of cute and clever, but now I realize… not so much. And apparently I sent it at 4:42 PM, which means I was (hopefully?) not drunk. …You replied later that evening (7:31 PM); [you said], “Yes, all my hot fans always end up living in Tennessee or Japan or some shit.”

Me: Ri-iiight. I remember now. So flash-forward a couple of weeks, and now I’m living in your house in Tennessee. Would you like to discuss how that came about?

Danielle: I think it was a couple of months, actually. Anyway. Oh, okay, I remember now. I was at a party. A really boring housewarming party. So I was on Facebook chat on my phone and you sent me some random messages. The first one just said “um.” Followed by “we’ll, um, chat when you have time.” …I mean, I hadn’t really been in communication with you previously so I chalked it up to just being some random drunk message.

Me: Ahem.

Danielle: Anyway, as I was saying, I was at that boring party so I wrote back… “Did something happen to warrant this “um” or is it just a random thing…?” Ohhh, I should mention I was also on Adderall at the time, which for me makes everything seem super serious and URGENT! And also I replied because you’re, you know, really hot.

Me: It’s very polite of you to say so. …And so, whatever else I wrote was compelling enough for you to let me take a bus to your house. Because I was homeless at the time.

Danielle: It had a lot to do with the fact that I was bored, and wanted to see if you would actually do it. I think we ended up talking on the phone the next day. We did. I found another FB message: “Oh Oliver, stop being so dramatic. If it’s that urgent you can text me. I’ve had enough champagne to give you my #. 901-XXX-XXXX.”

Me: You thought I was kidding, but then I actually showed up at the bus station in Nashville. At three in the morning. What did you think when you first saw me?

Danielle: (1) I felt relieved that you were the same person [as] in your FB pictures. (2) I felt relieved you weren’t fat. (3) I also thought that while you were quite handsome you… looked like someone who had been on a bus for 17 hours.

Me: The thing I remember about you is that I had just been on a bus for 17 hours. …And when I first saw you, you were on your iPhone in your car, and you WAVED ME AWAY, so you could continue your iPhone conversation. …I was a little irritated, but I tried to hide it.

Danielle: I was on the phone with my best friend, who was a little concerned that I was PICKING UP SOMEONE I MET ON THE INTERNET AT A GREYHOUND STATION AT 3 IN THE MORNING. We were discussing whether I should hide all the knives in my house, or whether I should keep one handy in case you were dangerous.

Me: ANY-way, moving on. And then you took me back to your place. Did we make out that night? I can’t remember.

Danielle: We came back to my place and I made you sit on the front steps smoking cigarettes with me for an hour before I would let you in.

Me: Not really an hour though.

Danielle: …Because, an hour is, you know, enough time to judge if someone is a potential psycho killer. It felt like an hour. I was really tired at that point.

Me: So, and then I think we made out. And then — according to what you told me later — after I fell asleep you went through all my bags, to definitely make sure that I was not a serial killer.

Danielle: Right. I think we made out on my couch for a while.

Me: The problem that I kept having was that you kept asking if I was a killer, but if you say “No,” then that just makes you sound like… a killer. It’s a real no-win situation.

Danielle: Right. No killer would admit that they planned to chop you up into tiny little pieces.

Me: Right. And now we live together. Do you have any thoughts about that?

Danielle: I wasn’t finished with my previous thoughts, Oliver.

Me: Oh, gosh. Please continue then.

Danielle: I bet you won’t include this, but after we made out you went in my room and passed out. And by passed out I don’t mean, like, fell asleep. I mean PASSED OUT. Diagonally. Across my entire bed. Snoring. Loudly. I couldn’t wake you up at ALL. I tried that thing where you scratch the bottom of someone’s foot, because someone told me they do that to see if people are dead, which is probably an urban legend. You didn’t react.

Me: I was tired!

Danielle: When shaking you and yelling loudly didn’t work, I… um… splashed some water in your face. (Sorry.)

Me: …What?! …Really?

Danielle: Yeah. But you were taking up my ENTIRE bed. So, at that point, I couldn’t go to bed because you were… taking up the whole thing. And I knew there was no chance of you waking up anytime soon. So I inspected your bags for weapons. The contents turned out to be really boring, but that was a relief I guess.

Me: Okay. So what are your feelings about living with me? Have there been any high points? Low points?

Danielle: One low point. [The] night you got here, I awoke the next morning to the POLICE banging on my door, notifying me that all of my neighbors’ cars had been broken into. But mine wasn’t. So I got all suspicious and paranoid again.

Me: Did you think I had done it?

Danielle: The thought crossed my mind. (Sorry.) …But where would you have hidden all the stuff that got stolen? So, no, not really. It was a fleeting thought.

Me: So you’re kind of my writing groupie, in a way. …Do you object to my use of the term “groupie” here?

Danielle: Kind of? I think you are kind of misusing it. Wouldn’t a groupie be into, like, a bunch of writers?

Me: Well, sure. …Actually, that seems like a good test. If some other writer had written you back, would you have let them come over and make out with you?

Danielle: I don’t consider myself a groupie. If the internet was a band, I wouldn’t be like, hanging around outside the tour bus…

Me: …

Danielle: Another low point is your questionable taste in music.

Me: Right. This is the point where I start massively editing your responses. But never mind that. For the sake of diversity, we’re going to turn the interview over to you, and you’re going to ask the questions now. …So okay. Go.

Danielle: (An actual high point is that you do the dishes… sometimes.) Okay, I’ll ask you stuff now. (1) So, why me and not one of the 2 million other girls who leave you marriage proposals in your article comment threads?

Me: I’m suddenly remembering that I don’t like being interviewed.

Danielle: You hate everything.

Me: That’s untrue. …Um, because you looked really cute? Because when I talked to you on the phone, you had sort of a dirty/sexy voice?…To be honest, you were randomly on IM at the moment that my friend in New Orleans was kicking me out of her place.

Danielle: I like where this is going so far.

Me: …Anyway, and so I spent like a half hour chatting with you on IM, and then I finally got the will-power to ask if I could come stay with you. And you said yes. And I guess it’s sort of a tautology, because I wanted to stay with you anyway, but I really respect people who are willing to do random things like that. That’s really my favorite quality in a person.

And if you had asked me if you could come crash with me (assuming that I still had an apartment), I would have said Yes too. I would let any interesting person come crash with me, if they needed a place to stay. And so I liked that; that we were the same in that way.

Danielle: We are. Well, I would let any reasonably attractive interesting person stay with me, I guess. …Moving on.

Me: Moving on.

Danielle: So what was your first impression of my apartment? Were you freaked out by the insane amount of shoes [that] I own? Did you secretly judge my book/record collection?

Me: Do we have time to fuck before your friend comes over?

Danielle: No.

Me: Or should I answer these questions?

Danielle: I have to do my hair.

Me: Okay, great.

Danielle: Answer the questions, we can DO SEX later.

Me: Your apartment is fine. You have lots of Bret Easton Ellis books, which I like. I think I once considered buying the same Urban Outfitters couch that you have. …But you did tell me that you were rich, and you’re not really rich.

Danielle: It’s an IKEA couch. I never told you I was rich. I told you I don’t have a real job, per se. I told you I had enough money to live comfortably without working. …ANYWAY.

Me: Anyway.

Danielle: Another question — was I more insane or less insane than you expected?

Me: Um, I think you represent better in writing than in real life, so at first you were more insane than I thought. But then for a while I thought you were REALLY insane. …And then it moderated and now I don’t think that you’re that crazy.

Plus, when I was first hanging out with you, you were on Adderall and shit, which didn’t help.

All right, we need to wrap this up, so I’m turning the interview back over to me now.

Danielle: Last question. …Oh, okay – fine. I had a really good one but FINE.

Me: Fine, fucking ask it.

Danielle: …When are you going to start paying me rent?

Me: Excellent. Well, this interview is over. …Hopefully we can have sex later on. Thanks; appreciate it, Danielle.

Danielle: You’re welcome, Ollie.

The post An Interview With the Writing Groupie That I’m Sleeping With appeared first on The Faster Times.

“I want you to hit me… as hard as you can.” …Indeed. And haven’t we all made this request to someone else, at one time or another? Actually, probably not. As typical slothful Americans, we rely on movie stars to take our punches for us – as well as to pilot our spaceships, fight off our futuristic transforming robots, and have sex with our Anne Hathaways. Yep, that’s motion pictures for you. And a movie without punching is like a day without sunshine – that is, it’s something that only takes place about 30% of the time.

So here, courtesy of the good people at Screened.com, is a montage of all your favorite movie face-punches, including the above-alluded-to Fight Club punch, as well as everyone’s favorite human punching bag, Ned Ryerson – Needlenose Ned, Ned the Head – from Groundhog Day, bing. In addition, there’s That Chick being slapped a million times in Airplane!, plus Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, who learned to his peril that punching Rocky was like punching a piece of iron, before promptly being punched in the face himself. Plus sixteen other famous movie punches! See if you can identify them all, or maybe you won’t be able to, because you were busy having a social life in high school or something, who knows?

http://youtu.be/IBhqpziHCtQ

..Yep. Wasn’t that fun and/or cathartic? And in case you have any additional questions – such as Why did we watch this today, of all days? or Why punching exactly? or What are these strange printed words appearing on my screen, is this like some kind of interlinked network of computers that I’m on now, some sort of “net” or series of tubes? – well, please do not ask such questions, for questioning the punching video is a punchable offense.

And now, here’s a special bonus thing: three minutes of Brad Pitt being hit by cars over and over again for some reason. I myself watched until the minute thirty mark in the video, because I’m still working through my feelings about hearing the neologism “Brangelina” 20,000 times in the past five years. Anyway, take that, Mr. William Bradley “Brad” Pitt. Seven Minutes in Tibet? More like One Hundred Ninety Seconds of You Being Pummeled Relentlessly By Moving Vehicles – amirite? Hi, hello? Does no one remember that movie? Sound of crickets? …Aaah, whatever. Screw you guys; I’m going home.

The post Here’s Your Montage of Movie Stars Being Punched in the Face appeared first on The Faster Times.

1) “…That’s so crumbelievable!”

2) “…Straight outta the lower Hebridies… motherfucker.”

3) “…And you can take that to the bank. The money bank.”

4) “…Not without me and my bippy, you won’t.”

5) “…Gazizza, my dilnoofus.”

6) “…What what, in the butt.”

7) “…It’s crazappy!”

8 ) “…I ain’t afraid of no ghost, bitch.”

9) “…That’s dumber than a retarded monkey.”

10) “…Supercalafragulistic!”

The post Catch-Phrases That I Have (Unsuccessfully) Tried to Make Popular appeared first on The Faster Times.

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Fireworks: I can’t think of anything bad to say about fireworks.  They’re loud, they go boom, they’re probably a metaphor for sex in some way — in conclusion, fireworks are good.  What better way to celebrate the anniversary of our nation’s birth than by watching things explode?  It’s a very warlike way to celebrate July 4th, but then, a lot of our national symbols are pretty fierce and warlike when you think about them — bald eagles (very angry looking), the Statue of Liberty (ditto), Sarah Palin (ditto), and so on and so forth…

I also like the smaller home-backyard variety of fireworks, especially sparklers, and especially those little black pill things called “snakes” that don’t so much resemble snakes as they resemble — let’s just come out and say it — small turds of dog poop.  Grade:  A

Picnics: Picnics are really great if you want to travel a pointlessly long distance to eat and if you like bugs getting into your food, and who doesn’t like both of those things, right?  …But then, I tend to think that the outdoors would be better if it was indoors and air-conditioned, so I guess I have no point here.  Grade:  C-minus

Cooking out — Hot dogs, Hamburgers, Bar-b-que, etc: Cooking out requires less traveling than picnics, so that’s good. Hot dogs are cool because even I can cook them, and I especially like burned hot dogs, so even if I do still manage to fuck them up, it’s still good.  Hamburgers are likewise awesome and hard-to-fuck-up-ish.  …And bar-b-que is a big hit with inbred yokels, so whatever.

…And hey, did you ever notice?  Our three “national dishes” in America are essentially hot dogs, hamburgers, and pizza.  Which actually come from Germany, Germany again, and Italy.  That’s two of the three countries that we fought in World War II.  Once again, I have no real point here.  I just always thought that that was weird/interesting.  Grade:  B-plus

Drinking: As far as I can tell, the point of every holiday and sporting event is drinking.  Exceptions to this rule include the following holidays and sporting events:  Arbor Day, Columbus Day, fencing, and jai-lai.  Other than that, if it’s a holiday or you’re watching sports, it’s bottoms up.  Grade:  B

Patriotism: “…Is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”  Of course, it was some pointy-headed English dude who said that quote, so fuck that noise, and USA! USA!  Etc…  It is worth noting that everyone who lives in any country thinks that their country is the best, though — sort of the way that every mom thinks that her kids are the smartest and best-looking.  So maybe Tea Partiers and other assorted assholes could chill it a little with the maniacal patriotism.  After all, no country’s actual motto is “We’re Number Two!”  We’re just not that special, guys — plus, excessive patriotism is dorky and leads to bad outfits, plus it’s oh-so-non-hipster.  Grade:  C

The Star-Spangled Banner: Well, “America the Beautiful” is a way better song, but maybe that’s just because I like songs that reference grain, I dunno.  Also, “The Star-Spangled Banner” happens to be all about the War of 1812, which you can just tell is a dud war, because it doesn’t even have an interesting name.  “American Revolution:  Episode II:  Attack of the Clones,” or “2Brit 2Furious” would both have been better names for this war, but whatever.

“The Star-Spangled Banner” is also one of those songs that has way more verses than you think it does; it’s just that we only ever sing the first one.  (Another song with tons of extra verses:  “Jingle Bells.”  You should look them up sometime.)  Anyway, here are some lyrics from the latter part of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” check it:

“And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.”

…Which is a really convoluted question — and a really long way of saying “Hey did those British pussy out or what?”  But then, I like songs  like this; songs with questions in the lyrics — which includes tunes like “Who Let the Dogs Out?” or “Baby, Where Did My Love Go?” …And by the way, if you need answers to those two questions, the answers are as follows:  “Some jerk” and “It was destroyed by the ravages of time.”  So, there’s that.  Anyway, I’ve said far, far too much.  …And so, happy July 4th, everyone!  Grade:  B-minus

The post Review of: The 4th of July appeared first on The Faster Times.

Well, we already know what the best video game ever made is, ‘cause we already talked about it. But what about its opposite? Well, it’s hard to pin down the worst video game ever made. What defines a terrible game, after all? In my case, it comes down to simple unplayability, combined with a existential sense of malaise. It’s not enough that the game itself sucks; you must actually start to hate yourself for actually playing it.

Some people claim that “ET: The Extraterrestrial” is the worst game ever made, and they have a point there. After all, it was such a bad game that the company responsible for it had to bury millions of unsold cartridges in a landfill, in order to hide their shame. But I have a far worse game for your consideration. And that game is… “Oink!” So, let’s discuss that.

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THE WORST VIDEO GAME… EVER MADE

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httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1JamSHtd_A

Who? “Oink!” Released in 1982 for the Atari 2600.

What? Yes, it’s a video game based on the story of the Three Little Pigs. You play the pigs, and the computer plays the wolf. (The wolf’s official name in the video game: Bigelow B. Wolf. Whatever.) In a rare move for an Atari game, there is actually a two-player mode, in which one person gets to be the wolf and one gets to the be the pig. But considering how the game is set up, this is the equivalent of letting one player play as the United States and the other player as Bangladesh. Or, if you prefer your references to be somewhat more geeky: letting one player play as Darth Vader and the other as Jar-Jar.

Why? Well, it’s not entirely clear. This is really less of a game, and more of a brief essay on the futility of all human endeavor. YOU WILL LOSE! As the pig, you press the button to pick up bricks, and drop them into the gaps that the wolf creates in your wall. The more bricks you use, the faster the wolf will “huff and puff,” and the more holes will appear. (Thus, judiciously deciding when to repair certain holes constitutes the game’s only element of “strategy.”) It’s not fun, and it’s not fun because — (1) Pressing a button to drop a brick into a hole is not fun, and (2) You’ll die really quickly no matter what.

So? So nothing. As Pig Number One (Pig o’ Straw), you will quickly die, sucked down into the wolf’s waiting maw via his tractor-beam-like breath. Successive attempts with Pig o’ Wood and Pig o’ Bricks will yield no different result. You’ll be sucked down to the wolf, and he’ll either devour you raw, while you’re still alive and screaming — or take you back to his house, hang you by your legs, slit your belly open, and commence the butchering process. Luckily, this game doesn’t feature “cut-scenes,” so it’s not clear which. Thanks for having the good taste not to show us, Atari!

Why bother? I’m not sure. Would you take the effort to repair your house, knowing that no matter how hard you try, you’ll be horribly murdered within the next few minutes? I wouldn’t. As mentioned before, this game does feature a two-player mode, so you can play as the wolf, and kill your friend’s pigs. I used to try this as a kid, but my friends would generally stand up and go home. Maybe you’ll have better luck, though. Still, to the best of my knowledge, this is the only game in the world featuring pig-death as a probable result. So maybe go check it out.

How do I play it? You can’t. I mean, there are probably Atari 2600 emulators, but that sounds like a bad idea. You can play some Atari games online here though. I highly recommend “Yar’s Revenge.”

The post The Worst Video Game Ever Made appeared first on The Faster Times.

We all want to seem funnier and more awesome than we really are – especially me, since my job as a humor columnist regularly requires that I pretend that I’m funny all the time. But of course, I’m barely ever funny in real life (as my girlfriend could tell you; and she’s willing to discuss this topic at excruciating length; “All he ever does is play ‘Playstation 2’ video games, how funny is that?” she will say).

In real life, I’m funny about 3% of the time, and even that percentage is probably a bit of a stretch. So what’s the secret of my success? How did I ever manage to become a poorly-paid humor columnist? Well; I’ll tell you the secret. Come a bit closer, so that I can whisper it gently into your ear. Closer. Closer. Okay; that’s too close.

FUNNY WORDS!!! Ah ha. Yes, some words are just plain funnier than others. In the same way that the place name “Walla Walla, Washington” is more amusing than “Seattle, Washington,” certain nouns, verbs, and whatevers are just plain better than others. Why is the word “marijuana” funnier than the word “pot”? Who knows? But it just plain is.

So below is a list of 16 words that I have found to be invaluable in my career of pretending to be funnier than I actually am. Feel free to use these words at any and all occasions. I promise that they’ll be just the thing to “break the ice” at your next wedding, cocktail party, Tea Party convention, or mass suicide-related gathering. Use any of these words, and everything will be totez awesome 4ever. …Trust me. I’m a comedian.

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16 HOPEFULLY FUNNY WORDS

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1) Ofay*

2) Marijuana (pronounced Mar-á-ja-wahna)

3) Banana (pronounced Banana; English-style)

4) Pajamas

5) Closure

6) Supercilious*

7) Yoo-hoo**

8 ) Plenipotentate*

9) Bossa Nova*

10) Pejorative*

11) Subsume

12) Randy**

13) Hellion

14) Jejune*

15) Aesthetic

16) Dowager*

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And here are some examples of how to use these awesome words:

“This marijuana is really jejune.”

“The South African plenipotentate was subsumed by his ofay response to the problem.”

“May I have a banana?”

And so on…

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And a special note: …Those words with one star (*) next to them will make you seem much smarter than you actually are. Those words with two stars (**) will make you seem much, much dumber.

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The post 16 Awesome Words to be Dropped Into Conversation Whenever Possible appeared first on The Faster Times.

But why stop with coffee mugs and other household objects? Why not grade and rate everything, even when it’s inappropriate to do so? It’s a rhetorical question; really, I have no choice in the matter – I am obsessive, and I grade everything in my head. So here, as part of a potentially endless series of these articles, is a column where I give grades to my ex-girlfriends.

Yes, we were in relationships, and now they’re being summed up in a way that allows very little room for nuance. That might be annoying, but hey, I would think it was funny if someone did it to me. Here are my exes, graded on a curve; from Kailey, who gets the top grade, to Sarah, who doesn’t get such a great score. Enjoy. And obviously, all the names have been changed, and some identifying details have been changed as well in order to protect the guilty/innocent.

GRADING MY EX-GIRLFRIENDS

Jessica: She had reddish-brown hair, and blue eyes (I think). We didn’t go out for very long. She broke up with me.

There was nothing super memorable about this relationship, except that Jessica was a fashion model1. This was an important step for me as part of my never-ending attempts to convince myself that I’m not a nerd, and that I’m a stud who can attract hot chicks. I will never be convinced about this, probably because I’m not a stud who attracts hot girls. I dated Jessica, and I’ve dated two strippers, and the whole time I was like, “Am I still a nerd? How can I be, if I’m dating a stripper? Etc…” But really, if you have to ask yourself stuff like this, then you still are a nerd, so the question contains its own answer, which is nice.

Anyway, Jessica was indeed a model, which meant that for the brief time that we dated, I got to practice saying things like: “Yah… so she’s a model… pretty boring really… that whole scene is getting pretty played out… Oh, is that my beeper? Well, gotta jet… late to meet J at Skybar… Ciao…” Meanwhile, my friends would shake their heads sadly, staring blankly at me with a mixture of bemusement and despair. Grade: B

Alexandra: She had dark hair, and I have no idea what color her eyes were – why can I never remember what color people’s eyes are? I’m red-green colorblind, which probably doesn’t help. But I’m looking at Alex’s non-blurred-out photo right now2, and I still can’t tell what freaking color her eyes are. Brown? Green? I guess it’s one of the two.

I met Alexandra on an online dating site; lame, I know. And though I generally find cheating on girls to be so exhausting as to cancel out the minor excitement of getting to have sex with someone else for two weeks, Alexandra didn’t trust me, so she posted a second (fake) ad online with the picture of some actress. She wrote to me and I wrote back. As a result, for several weeks Alex enjoyed the fun experience of reading my attempts to seduce another girl, who was of course her. Not surprisingly, she broke up with me. What is surprising is that I drove straight to her apartment and convinced her to mess around/get back together with me. How I did this, I’ll never know, but I had had a lot of coffee to drink that day.

Even more intriguingly, as soon as I convinced her to get back together with me, I felt this crushing sense of boredom and being-trapped-ness, and though I promised that I would call her the next day, I didn’t. The rationale behind my behavior is:

1) I am a jerk.

and

2) And that’s it.

Also, one time when Alex and I were having sex on New Year’s Eve, we broke my futon, sending it crashing to the ground beneath us in five different pieces. You might be imagining this as a scene of high passion, full of the sort of violent sexy hot thrusting action that would cause a piece of furniture to break. But then, you’d also probably be imagining a more high-quality, sturdier, and better-constructed futon. Grade: C

[No photo here, for obvious reasons]    Carrie: Black hair, black eyes. Carrie was the only girl that I ever had to check into a mental institution (and the police had to break down her door). On the other hand, she also looked like the cute-yet-mean Chinese girl from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” who is kind of my dream girl. You know the girl  that I mean — whatshername – the younger one from the movie; the one who hits that guy on the head with a rock.

…And hey, does anyone else find that scene to be oddly erotic? When the girl hits that dude with the rock? Or does liking that mean that I’m a weirdo, or a… masochist? I hope I’m not a masochist; that would suck. Also, apparently I don’t even know how to spell “masochist,” because it took me three tries to type something that spell-check could even recognize.

Yes, so Carrie looked just like that girl from “Crouching Tiger.” Or maybe she didn’t look like that girl. Maybe it’s just that Chinese people look similar to me. I don’t mean that in a racist way, but the whole time that I was dating Carrie, I was worried. You know when you break up with someone, and then everything reminds you of that person, and you see them everywhere? But 40% of Asian girls already looked like Carrie to me. And then, sure enough, I did finally break up with Carrie, and then I was walking through Chinatown, and I was like: “Everything I see makes me think of her!” Which wasn’t fun.

To sum up, the whole relationship thing was a draw – Carrie’s physical resemblance to my dream girl essentially canceling out the fact that I had to check her into a mental hospital, which really sucked. The two things negated each other, which leads to a wishy-washy grade. Grade: B

Megan: Megan had red hair and green eyes. There wasn’t too much going on here, except that she had the words S-I-N-N F-E-I-N tattooed across her toes. That’s cool, I guess. So, she was an extremist Irish Republican – big whoop; I can handle that. See? I don’t feel the need to over-analyze every relationship. Grade: B-minus

Sarah: Blond hair, blue eyes, Nordic-ish, etc…

Usually, I try to have a reason when I break up with someone; just helps me sleep better at night. But in Sarah’s case, she was pretty, smart, funny, had a beautiful apartment in Park Slope, a sexy, gravelly voice, and had recently sold the screenplay for “Starsky and Hutch” to Warner Brothers for fifty thousand dollars. Nevertheless, I broke up with her, because… what was my reasoning again? According to my friend Dan, it was because, quote, “Dude, you complained that her breasts were too big and she could have an orgasm way too easily.” Good one! Way to think things through, self!

In my defense, there are breasts that are so large that they flop disturbingly to the side, and Sarah could have an orgasm much much too easily; just a thirty-second strumming of the fingers and she was done. For her, having an orgasm had all the sexual difficulty level of playing with one of those cup-with-a-ball-on-a-string toys that you used to have as a kid. Oh, whoops, I got the ball in the cup! Oh, look, I did it again! In fact, this one time we were having sex, and I got caught in one of those awkward sexual positions where your legs fall numb, and you can barely move, and every muscle in your body is straining to collapse, but Sarah was already doing the strumming thing with her fingers and was all like, “Do it! Do it harder!” and I started laughing, saying, “Do what? Stay motionless and try not to collapse on top of you?” and she was really mad at me.

So no, definitely a great decision to break up with her. And I’m sure all my rationales were of great consolation to me as I wandered the streets of New York in mid-winter, lonely and bereft, watching gigantic city buses cruise past with full-length “Starsky and Hutch” posters on their sides, with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson staring down at me with their dead, vacant eyes. …Wasn’t it Dostoevsky who said that if people lived in a beautiful crystal palace, they would have to smash it just for kicks? Whatever. I’m sure he’d be with me on this one and give me a grade of: D-minus

[No photo, once again; duh]    Kailey: Blond hair, no idea about the eyes. Kailey wasn’t technically my girlfriend, since she already had a boyfriend and I already had a girlfriend, but we did have sex while we were [deleted], while I was driving a minivan, on the freeway, which was one of the most dangerous things I’ve ever done and I still feel really, really bad about it.

And as we were doing it — having sex while driving, I mean — I had plenty of time to look out the windows at the other people on the highway that night, and I saw lots of happy families in station wagons and lovers in convertibles going on moonlit drives to upstate New York, and I thought of what we were doing, and I thought of our significant others, and then I sort of suffered through this Bret Easton Ellis kind of moment where I felt like I would never feel good or pure or innocent ever again, and I was sure that I was going to crash the minivan into a concrete divider and be played in the movie version by Robert Downey Jr.

But I didn’t crash and Kailey eventually married her boyfriend and had a baby; plus, her first novel is being made into a movie starring [name of person deleted] — so everything kind of worked out in the end. Therefore, I’m going to cautiously give myself a grade of: A-minus

I might also mention here that Kailey was born in [name of tropical place deleted] and her family was ridiculously wealthy, and she grew up in a mansion and had small [deleted] monkeys that would perch on her shoulders as pets. As a kid, I wanted all of that: the mansion, the monkeys, and the money. I would have fed pieces of fruit to the monkeys.

Ileana: Brown hair, blue eyes? Maybe? Probably? Who knows?  Anyway, as it turned out, Ileana was a famous international photographer who was shot by an Israeli paratrooper while on assignment in [deleted], thereby causing a major international incident in which both the U.S. and Israeli governments became involved. And I wouldn’t have known any of this, if it weren’t for the fact that I do obsessive-compulsive Google searches on everyone I meet.

As a result, when Ileana told me about it, three weeks into the relationship, I had to act real surprised and shocked-ish, which was tough. “Really, you were shot while you were on assignment? …Um, get out. You don’t say. Um, huh. Where was it? Like, were you shot in the butt or something? It was in the butt? Weird. …Say, this isn’t the kind of situation where like the U.S. government becomes involved or anything like that, is it?” The moral of this story being that Google searches can backfire like that; sad. Grade: C-minus

__________________________________________

.

2 Okay, all of the photos were obviously blurred – except for two photos which had to be removed.

The post Grading My Ex-Girlfriends appeared first on The Faster Times.

Hi there.  I’m a writer.  And as a writer, I fail all the time.  But then again, as the great artist Samuel Beckett said — well, he said the following:  “Try.  Fail.  Try again.  Fail again.  Fail better.”  And as for the poet T.S. Eliot — well, he said this:  “Trying is the only thing that matters.”

Of course, those jerks could say things like this.  They were, for instance, famous writers who had won the Noble Prize.  For the rest of us, failing just means that we suck.  (Unless history redeems us and later on we also win the Nobel Prize — but really, who has the patience to wait around for that?)  For me, though, failure has a more personal consequence, as I went heavily into debt in order to go to a prestigious school in order to get a Master’s Degree in fiction.  But I’ve never published any fiction.  Sure; yes, I’ve written non-fiction for money, but does that even count?

The sickening stench of failure weighs heavily on my mind, because these days, I have to field automated calls from Sallie Mae Student Loan Services, Inc.   This joke has been made before by others, but though “Sallie Mae” sounds like a pleasantly bumpkin-ish hillbilly girl, in fact, she is a heartless bitch with a chunk of cold iron where her living, beating heart should be. 

When I call the Sallie Mae loan services line, the robot voice automatically kicks in with the total amount of money that I owe her.  (Yes, I think of Sallie as being “her.”)  “Olii-ver…  Mill-er.  As of…  JANUARY 29TH, 2011, you owe….  one hundred sixty-two thousand dollars, and thirty-five…  cents.”  It is at this point in the phone call when I start pressing every button on the keypad, including the “star” and the “pound” button, in an effort to get this recording to stop.  But it never does.  …Listen, Sallie Mae, I only ever want to know how to get another deferment on my loans.  I do not ever want to know how much money I owe you in total.  I don’t want to know this.

In real life, Sallie Mae doesn’t seem like a pleasant hillbilly bumpkin.  In real life, she probably dresses in black spandex like “Trinity” from the Matrix.  If you met her, while walking down a dark alleyway, she would jump in the air, karate-kick you in the face five times before you even had time to hit the ground, and then wrench the gold fillings from your mouth.  And then she’d still remind you that you still owed her one hundred and sixty-one thousand dollars.  Sallie Mae is a heartless bitch!  There.  I said it.

_____

So ANY-way.  Here, in the spirit of all of that, are the terrible first lines from short stories that I started in MFA writing school, but which I will never ever finish.  One of the few pieces of writing advice that I ever received in grad school was to never, ever start a story with a line of dialogue.  So naturally, I started about half of these with lines of dialogue.  Go figure.  And taste the horribleness:

♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦

“Andrew Brewster had it all, or so it would seem.”

“She said, ‘New York is like a room within a room within a room.’”

“The news that he was big in Japan came as a particularly unpleasant surprise to Donny Jordan.”

“It was a foggy night in Dover, Delaware, the kind of night that makes you stop and think to yourself, I’m in Dover? Dover fucking Delaware?”

“I woke up, groggy and sweat-stained, to find an enormous hole in the center of my black T-shirt, like I had came out on the losing end of a battle against Mothra.”

“The metro station in Prague smelled strongly of urine.”

“And at the end of it all, I packed my stuff, and drove north.”

The day that the killer butterflies came to town was a warn one.”

She said, ‘Accents are a trick that we play on ourselves.’”

“Nights like this, you just don’t know.”

“They met in a bar.”

“Pain.”

♦  ♦  ♦  ♦  ♦

I think the urine one has a lot of potential!  Don’t you?  And the “Andrew Brewster had it all” sentence; I mean, talk about setting up audience expectations!  And, naaaah, I could never fool you guys.  They all suck.

But hey!  Feel free to borrow these first lines to start your own short stories, though, if you like.  Or, just use them as lines to “break the ice” at your latest wedding, family reunion, Tea Party gathering, or cult-ish mass suicide.  It’ll be fun times all around, I guarantee it!  And remember; if you ever despair while writing your own fiction, here’s another piece of non-useful advice – a writer writes, always.  Yes, we all persist always.  Even when he/me/she/you is writing absolute… shit.  Oh well.

The post Terrible First Lines From Short Stories That I Will Never, Ever Finish appeared first on The Faster Times.

N.B.:  In addition to the recipe part, this is all written in the second-person for some reason.  Sorry.

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Hot Sauce Sandwiches:

Grad school. People are supposed to be poor during grad school — especially if they’re majoring in something stupid, like, say, creative writing — but somehow, you have taken it all too far. Originally, grilled cheese sandwiches were a food option. But then, the price of Kraft Cheese Singles seemed to magically rise out of reach. So you move down the food chain, and start eating “American Slice!” brand cheese product.

Sadly, “American Slice!” isn’t even officially listed as a “cheese product” or even as “cheese food,” perhaps because it contains 1% cheese, or maybe they just let the finished product sit next to a pile of cheese, in the hopes that it will absorb some of the faint aroma of cheese, in the way that stuff in your refrigerator does, when you haven’t placed that box of baking soda in your refrigerator.

“American Slice!” costs only $1.37, though — for a pack of sixteen slices — and is a product that you will only ever see during this time in your life, and which is only ever found in the ghetto supermarket near your very expensive grad school. The problem is, according to the ingredients list on the back of the package, is that it’s mostly made of soy. So when you attempt to heat “American Slice!” to make a grilled cheese sandwich it… inflates. Somehow hot air gets between the two layers of soy and the whole thing inflates, so that it looks like a pillow. A sad pillow made of plastic-y soy. This is never what you want from a grilled cheese sandwich.

It’s time to recalibrate. So you move on, and even “American Slice!” seems a little expensive at this point; stupid grad school. So you begin making “Hot Sauce Sandwiches.” To do this, you toast bread, scrape a little butter onto the bread, and then shake hot sauce onto the bread. And that’s a sandwich, based on the principle that pretty much anything can be a sandwich.

One day, while you are “making” your “sandwich,” your friend Dan enters the apartment. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?” he says.

“Um,” you say.

“I can’t believe you live like this. I can’t believe you actually live like this.”

“Right,” you say.

Dan is so annoyed by the sight of your pathetic sandwich that he won’t stay. Then, he tells his friend Roger. Who tells your girlfriend April. April calls you on the phone.

“You eat bread with hot sauce on it every day?”

“Um…” you say.

There really is no good explanation for any of this.

Hot Sauce Sandwich – Ingredients:

Whole wheat bread, because that is healthier.

A very small amount of butter.

Some hot sauce, preferably “Texas Pete” brand hot sauce.

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Hot Dog Pizza:

Oh sweet! Now you’re dating a much hotter girl named Carrie. Which is cool. And she’s so-oooo trendy. Like, she’s vegan. And she rides a moped, which is secretly cooler than a scooter, because everyone has a scooter, but what girl actually owns a moped? This is all to the good. Except for the fact that you don’t have anything in common. What you have in common is this: she’s really hot. This has a way of smoothing over all difficulties, at least in the short-term.

You invite her over to your place, but in your typically passive-aggressive way, you have not prepared for any of her vegan needs. Instead, you start making a dish that you have named “Hot Dog Pizza.” If you scanned your own thoughts during this time and were honest with yourself, you would admit that you are doing this specifically to piss her off. Instead, you can’t admit this to either party, so you run around the kitchen, while listening to comments like this:

“Unngh, you only own one plate and one knife?”

“You’re slicing up hot dogs and putting them on pizza?”

“You know what’s actually in hot dogs, right?”

“Like, pigs’ assholes and such. That’s what’s actually in them.”

“Bar-b-que sauce? What the fuck?”

And so on. And she does have a point. And you are poor — only one plate and one knife. But that’s artsy, right? …Or, not artsy? Did Van Gogh own a lot of plates and knifes? No; he didn’t. But maybe you’re no Van Gogh. Maybe you’re just a failure. This entire conversation is opening up a window to an entire world that you’d just rather not visit.

Hot Dog Pizza — Ingredients:

One “Mama Celeste” brand pizza

Some cheap hot dogs; slice one up and put it on the pizza as a topping

Bar-b-que sauce (optional) — you can sprinkle this on the pizza if you want; it’s already in your refrigerator, so why not?

Alternate recipe that also starts a fight:

Hot Dog Soup:

Campbell’s Tomato Soup

Slice up some hot dogs and throw them in the soup

Listen to comment from girlfriend: “Seriously what the fuck is wrong with you?”

_____

Brownish Goo-ish Gray-ish Mass:

Now the hot girl has broken up with you! Not so good. Depression might be the result, as depression is typically the result of this sort of thing, in many cultures, around the world. But now you are too sad to leave the apartment. Man, she was hot. But now, if you can’t leave your place, you must scavenge, like a modern day-nomad; except the source of your hunting-and-gathering is whatever was left in your apartment at the time of the breakup. Which turns out to be “Cream of Wheat” — a childhood-era food that you have always found to be comforting.

But after several days of Cream of Wheat, you begin to long for some variety. “Cream of Wheat” is bland, unless you add sugar, in which case, it’s slightly sweet, but bland. You start to crave some spiciness and flavor. And hey! There’s still some bar-b-que sauce in the fridge. Interesting. ….But still, you should really not cook up a big vat of Cream of Wheat and add bar-b-que sauce. Really, you should not do this. Random activities like this are guaranteed to make you feel worse, not better. Still, you do it anyway. The result is very, very brown-ish. Not even brown, but brown-ish. Like when you were a kid in Art Class and you mixed all the water-color paint colors together. That kind of depressing level of brown/gray.

Brown yuck gross thing — Ingredients:

Cream of Wheat (cook according to instructions on box)

Bar-b-que sauce

Don’t do this; you’ll feel much worse, honestly.

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Hunter’s Chicken:

Rebound relationship!  You have now magically acquired the talent of seducing girls who are way above your personal hotness level.   But every new gift contains a curse — like the way Superman’s powers contain an unexpected weakness to Kryptonite.  In this case, whatever hot girl it is will be sick of you within three months.

Aw, but Rachel!  She’s cute.  And it’s time to cook for her.  And you remember one thing from your adolescence.  Your dad, who didn’t really speak that much, taught you how to make one dish in order to impress girls:  Italian “Hunter’s Chicken,” or “Chicken Cacciatore.”  It’s the only thing that you can remember being taught by your dad/ having your dad tell you, apart from these three lessons:

1)  Don’t ever get anyone pregnant.

2)  Don’t ever take LSD.

3)  Don’t ever put on a crew-neck sweater while you have a lit cigarette in your mouth.

All of which are good pieces of advice!  And at least your dad wasn’t overbearing, and let you find your own way.  Still, “Hunter’s Chicken”; that was the one other thing that you were taught.  You remember it, right?  You can do this.

“Hi!” you say to Rachel.  Oh, she’s so cute and blond and apple-cheeked, with that nice wholesome-to-slutty ratio.

“It’ll just be a second!’ you say.

No, it won’t.  You know the recipe involves chopped up chicken, white wine, garlic, and olive oil.  But what do you do with these things?  When does the wine come into play?  Is the garlic chopped or diced or what?  You call up your dad.  All parenting has failed you.  This is not literally true, but this is the sort of panicked thoughts that you have in these sorts of circumstances, which is why you’re a spazz, which probably helps these girls dump you.

“Hi!” you say to your dad.  But now, you suddenly remember this — your dad has cancer.  And now you’re bothering him about a recipe.  And you were so freaked out that you forgot for three minutes that he was dying of cancer, which is the lame sort of thing that you do.  And then you and your dad get in a fight.  The fight is all your fault.  You hang up the phone.

Rachel’s still there.  But you still don’t know what to do with the garlic.  Should you just take her out to eat?  You stare at the telephone.  …It’s just a telephone.  People use them all the time, every day, in all sorts of circumstances.  They use them to talk to their family members, even.  …Still, you stare at the phone.  Sadness comes pouring in through it.

Hunter’s Chicken — Ingredients:

I have no idea; maybe you should just make it up for yourself.

____________________________________________________

The post A History of My Past Few Relationships, Presented in Recipe Form appeared first on The Faster Times.

I’m obsessed with ‘Top Chef.’  Well, maybe “obsessed” is a bit strong.  A more accurate statement would be “I occasionally watch repeats of ‘Top Chef’ when they come on in the middle of the afternoon, even though it’s not nearly as good as ‘Millionaire Matchmaker,’ which, by the way, is a totally underrated show, seriously.”

ANY-way.  Sometimes we all dream our little dreamy dreams of reality show glory.  In the spirit of that, and in the spirit of mid-afternoon slothful television watching, I offer you this…

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IF I WAS A CONTESTANT ON THE EMMY-WINNING BRAVO© REALITY SERIES ‘TOP CHEF’

by Oliver Miller

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011 — For his first “Quick Fire”™ challenge, Oliver wows the judges with his creation of… “Quesadillas”!

“…What I do is, I take a tortilla, then put some stuff inside of it,” Oliver explained to the camera. “And then I cook it in a pan. I’ve been doing this ever since college. I put shredded cheese inside, mostly, plus Pace™ brand salsa. Sometimes, if I’m feeling especially flashy, like today, I throw in some avocado as well.”

“Mighty tasty,” said judge Tom Colicchio, munching on the corner of a Quesadilla. “Sometimes, chefs in these competitions, they veer too far toward the avant-garde. But I like what Oliver did today. He took a classic, an old standby, and then punched it up to eleven with the inclusion of avocado.”

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011 — Narrowly avoiding elimination, Oliver pulls it out during the first full day of competition with his creation of “Tex-Mex Quesadillas.”

“…Strictly speaking, it’s not Tex-Mex,” said Oliver. “It’s more of a fusion. What I do is, I take your traditional Quesadilla, then kick it up a notch with the inclusion of Kraft™ brand bar-b-que sauce, as well as some finely diced onions.”

“Great!” raved guest judge Ted Allen. “What I liked here was the ‘wow’ factor. You’re staring at it from the outside, and you’re thinking to yourself, ‘Oh great, another Quesadilla.’ But then you take a bite, and – bam! — from out of left-field! Bar-b-que sauce!”

Wednesday, January 26th, 2011 – The first team challenge. Working with his teammate and competitor Marisa, Oliver completes a “Traditional Hawaiian Luau Feast.” His dish: “Quesadillas Ahola!” (Quesdillas with ham and pineapple.) This dish captures the imagination of the judges, vaulting Oliver into first place for the day, and guaranteeing him immunity for the next “Elimination Challenge”™. Unfortunately, his partner Marisa does not fare so well. The judges find her “Amaretto Poi Comfit” to be “sub-par,” and she is bounced from the show.

Said host and head judge Padma Lakshmi, “You could tell there was a real personality clash in the kitchen today between Marisa and Oliver. Thankfully, the two of them were able to rise above, even though, as we see, Marisa did not make it today. As a chef, you’re going to have to deal with all sorts of hairy situations. I’m just thankful that Oliver could rise above, and also stay true to his roots.”

“Exactly,” said fellow judge Gail Simmons. “As a side-note, I really enjoyed the inclusion of pineapple in this dish! And the ham hinted at the traditional use of pork in Hawaiian cuisine, without hitting you over the head with it. Sometimes it’s better to whisper, not to shout.”

“I don’t know,” concluded Oliver, summing up. “Sometimes you just have to improv. I didn’t have ‘Quesadillas Ahola!’ in my pocket. I just had to come up with it on the spot. You do the best that you can.” He added, shrugging one shoulder: “It appeared to work for me today.”

Wednesday, February 2nd, 2011 – The semi-finals! The “Top Chef”™ contestants are transported to beautiful Marseilles, France, where rapper and guest judge Diddy will help judge their reinterpretations of traditional Southern French cuisine. Oliver’s creation of “Bacon-dillas” (Quesadillas with bacon), earns him some boos and cat-calls from the judges, and lands him in the dreaded “Bottom Three.” Due to his immunity from the last challenge, however, Oliver is excused from elimination.

“Bacon?” said judge Anthony Bourdain. “I just didn’t see the relevance. How often do you see the use of bacon in traditional Southern French cuisine? Oliver was just clearly off his game today; clearly letting himself coast on account of his immunity from the previous challenge. I don’t like to see any coasting here on ‘Top Chef.’ That’s just not the way the game should be played. Just a disappointing, disappointing day here for Oliver. As a side-note, Diddy rated the Bacon-dillas ‘atrocious.’ Those are some strong words, coming from Diddy.”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “Bacon. What? I don’t know, I guess, I thought – you know – everyone likes bacon. Not my strongest performance, I guess. The judges had one point of view, and me, I had another. I stand by my work in the kitchen today, though.”

Wednesday, February 9th, 2011 – The “Top Chef” finals! Squaring off against rival and competitor Elia, Oliver manages to take home the crown with his creation of…. the Quesomelet! Incredible!

“You know what it is, is,” said Oliver, “it’s basically sort of your traditional Quesadilla, except, instead of using your traditional tortilla, I sort of twist things 180 degrees by putting the Quesadilla fillings inside an omelet!”

“Wow,” said head judge Padma Lakshmi. “Just – gosh – wow. I don’t think anybody was expecting this today! You know, all through this – all through this competition, there have been those people who have said, ‘Oh, Oliver’s playing too much to his strengths,’ or, ‘Oh, Oliver’s not taking any risks.’ But I think Oliver managed to silence all of those critics here today. I certainly felt so, at least. …And in the end – in the end, what ‘Top Chef’ is all about is – well, it’s looking into the soul of the chef, and saying, ‘Is there creativity here? Is there passion? Is there struggle?‘ And today, we decided that for Oliver, there was. And we decided to honor that struggle.”

…Unfortunately, during the award presentation ceremony, Oliver was retroactively stripped of his “Top Chef” crown for insulting the head judge, Ms. Padma Lakshmi. According to the other contestants and judges, the statement made by Oliver was, “…Well, I guess you can go back to your home country now, Ms. Former Trophy Wife. …You know, whatever country that you’re from. …What? Africa? Bangladesh? Mozambique? I don’t know.”

A tearful Elia was then awarded with the crown.

_____

Oliver’s Basic ‘Quesadilla’ Recipe.

1 tortilla Some shredded cheese Some medium Pace™ brand salsa Some onions, or avocado, or mushrooms, or spinach Some olive oil

In a medium frying-pan, heat the olive oil until hot. Put the tortilla in. Add shredded cheese, salsa ,and mushrooms, onions, spinach, or avocado (optional). Fold tortilla edge over the contents of the quesadilla. Heat until golden brown on one side, then flip over, and heat until golden brown on the other side. Put on plate. Serve.

Serves one.

(Note: to create a ‘Quesomelet,” simply substitute a two-or three egg omelet for the tortilla in the recipe above. You know how to make an omelet, right? You beat up some eggs and add some milk. And then you cook it.)

The post I Should Be a Contestant on ‘Top Chef’! appeared first on The Faster Times.