The "Whilst I Shit" List

I have some free time on my hands, so... THIS:

* Do people who say "Here's the deal" actually know what the deal is and, if they do, must they always say "Here's the deal" like they're doing the person to whom they're addressing some major league favor by letting them in on what the alleged deal may be?

* Am I a bad parent for having a screen-shot of Oliver Reed, drunk off his ass during an August, 1987 appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman as the background on my cellphone instead of a googly cute picture of my twins?

* Is there some reason that my father just texted me and referred to me as "Boogie"?

* Why didn't Bobby Brown dump the contents of a forty and scatter some blow on top of Whitney's coffin?

* Why do we have a baby monitor when our house is the size of a roll of Mentos and the only sounds it picks up regularly are those of the dishwasher running and our fourteen year old dog breathing like a diesel engine?

* Does anybody actually read "Rex Morgan, M.D."?

* Would more Catholics regularly go to confession if there was a photobooth inside the confessional?

* When was the first time I realized I had swamp-ass?

* When did push come to shove and, on that related topic, when am I going to get to shove somebody? Because there's a lot of motherfuckers I really want to shove, preferably face-first into a brick wall.

* Why isn't there an idiot light on your instrument cluster that tells you when you have a headlight or a taillight out, which could conceivably save you from getting pulled over and/or having to deal with an expensive ticket? I'm sure more expensive cars than I can afford to drive have such an idiot light, but I'm not only an idiot, I'm a poor idiot.

* Is there a porn version of Facebook called "Pussybook"?

................

* Okay, just checked. Why isn't there a porn version of Facebook called "Pussybook"?

* Can a non-Jew get away with telling the "How many Jews can you fit into a Volkswagen?" joke?

* Will the Professions meme be going to go away before I'm compelled to insert a lobster fork into my Adam's apple and rotate it vigorously?

* If the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, will I still get a stomach ache if I eat it without washing it first?

* Is all this fucking ear hair really necessary, God?

* Is it weird that, sometimes, when I'm feeling bored, I go to the ATM, withdraw money, stand there staring at it as it comes out of the machine, grab it, scream wildly, "I WON! HOLY SHIT! I WON!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!" and run away, get into my car and speed away?

* Would people still talk to me if they knew that I used to wear boxer shorts with Teletubbies on them? And by "used to" I mean, like, a year or two ago, and on the day of my wedding?

* Is all this fucking nose hair really necessary, God?

* Will cigarette holders, spats, and monocles ever come back?

* Would my life have been better or worse if I went to my high school prom and, if I went, who the hell would I have gone with?

* Why are there people in this world who insist on tucking in polo shirts?

* Do I dislike Jon Stewart merely because I'm a contrarian and everybody else loves him and will I ever be man enough to just admit it already or do I dislike him because he's a smug, pompous ass who doesn't understand that a comedian's primary mission should be to just make people laugh?

* Is all this fucking shoulder hair really necessary, God?

And, of course:

* If I'm fated to die on the toilet, so be it, but please-- please-- let it be on a nicer toilet than this one.

Is It Wrong...

* that I imagined coworkers yesterday waddling around with their Valentine's Day bouquets shoved, flower-first, into their assholes?

* that I wanted the Watson computer to give Ken Jennings an energetic roundhouse to the face?

* that I think Asians are all good at math and make silly, high-pitched noises when intercoursed?

* that I talk about swamp-ass... at work?

* that I probably don't shower as much as I used to?

(Maybe hence the swamp-ass?)

* that I think of those nasty pictures of STDs they showed us in 10th grade whenever I look at cauliflower, pickles, pictures of certain "friends" of mine on Facebook, and cottage cheese?

* that I put the comma after writing a date with the "th" after the number, like "February, 15th, 2011" even though I know it's superfluous if you use the "th"?

* that I say inappropriate things all the time, like "assdribble" and "jizzdonkey"?

* that I don't iron my dress shirts? (If they're really bad, I just throw on a sweater!)

* that sometimes I forget to give the dog his Chondroitin?

* that, while patients are talking to me about their overdoses and extensive histories of trauma, I am sometimes engaged in the act of slowly and silently squeezing out a fart?

* that, at age 30, I still can't address a grown man as "Dick" without fighting passionately against the urge to laugh in his face? (His DICK FACE!)

* that I don't want to live near my sister?

* that I can't stop thinking about cheating... on my car?

* that I listen to NPR for the entirety of my 35-minute-long commute to work and still have no idea what the fuck is going on in the world?

* that I don't want to talk to a single one of my neighbors as I pass by them while walking my dog, or walking to my car, despite the fact that they all probably think I'm the next Unabomber?

* that I get really excited when I have a clean poop, where nothing appears on the toilet paper after wiping? (This is also known as the "Immaculate Shitception," in religious circles.)

* that I just wrote that last one?

* that I derive extreme pleasure out of making fun of people who are less fortunate than I, and more fortunate than I, and who I suspect are on rather equal footing as well?

* that I didn't know what the fuck to write about today, so I decided on taking the path of least resistance and wrote out this shitty list?

* that I eschew modern conveniences, such as Blackberries, emoticons, re-appropriated men's hairstyles from the 1970s, and Skechers?

* that I maintain that Valentine's Day is for insecure D-bags?

* that I love doing this shit?

I'd Like to See...

When you blog every day, sometimes the idea of writing in paragraph format is just a little too daunting. A little too overwhelming. A little too.... para...graph... y.

Structured.

Scholarly (um, me?).

Earnest.

A little too Ernest Borgnine.

See, I like to free-associate. I'm a free-wheeler. I'm an eighteen-wheeler. I'm eighteen and pregnant. I'm young, dumb, and full of cum. Well, at least the latter two are true. Oh, God-- what am I supposed to do with all this cum?

I would like to donate at least some of it to science or whatever. My wife recently asked me if I'd ever donated semen to a sperm bank. I laughed in her face. I mean, didn't she think that would have come (ha) up in any one of our first month's worth of date conversations? I mean, I'm pretty liberal with information, especially information about my dick and related ballsack. Had she asked, I would have told her. Hell, I would have told her even if she didn't ask. Especially if she didn't ask.

I like to talk about stuff like that. It makes me feel, I don't know-- gay?

In the Victorian sense, of course.

So, right. What I was trying to say was I'm really not feelin' the whole paragraph vibe today. So I thought what I might do would be to compile a list of things/people/instruction manuals that I would like to see. The idea hit me while Mrs. Apron and I were at the gym last night (yes, we still go, thank you, just not as often, thank you anyway) and, on one of the televisions was playing one of the "Pirates of the Carribean" movies. I don't know which one it was, because I've never seen any of them, but it was one with the guy who has an octopus for a face and he kills this perriwig-wearing motherfucker by grasping onto dude's face and neck with his tentacles and shoving said tentacles in dudes mouth and they pop out his nose, which made me laugh on my stationary, recumbent bicycle.

(By the way, I had to look up the spelling of both the words "recumbent" and "stationary", because I am getting progressively stupider, probably due to the inevitable atrophying process of my brain as well as the fact that I watch too many shows on A&E.)

Anyway, while watching this asspirate movie I thought to myself, "Gee, I would really like to see one pirate movie, just one, where absolutely nobody, anywhere, has on a fucking eye-patch."

I mean, really. What is it about being a pirate that makes people so prone to losing one eye? Do those fokakta parrots pirates are required to keep on their shoulders claw out pirates' eyes? Or is it part of some superviolent, homoerotic initiation ritual on pirate ships that involves skull-fucking? I don't know. And I don't wanna know. All I know is that I would like to see....

* A pirate movie where not one motherfucker has on an eyepatch.

* A black, female president of the United States who is not named Oprah Winfrey. One named Pam Grier would be sexcellent.

* Astronauts on a space mission fornicating in zero-gravity. Is it even possible? And would mission control play Barry White music during the event? Come on, you're curious.

* More people say, "I'm sorry." And not just to me, either.

* Chocolate covering every single solitary thing that I eat for one week.

* Probably at least eighty-seven different females from various walks of life in any reasonable and prudent state of undress. (Don't worry, Mrs. Apron, you're on the list.)

* An antique Volkswagen Beetle in my parking pad. (I know I don't celebrate Christmas, but I do make exceptions.)

* My mortgage disappear by fairy magic.

* My grandfather again.

* Kim Jong Il in a bathing suit. NOT a Speedo. Like, one from the 1920's or something.

* Two tortoises doing it. Mrs. Apron and I actually saw this once, at the zoo, and it was hilarious. I want to see it again.

* Two chicks doing it. Sorry, I know that is so predictable, but that is where my mind immediately went after typing the sentence about the two tortoises.

* Actually, scratch what I said about my grandfather-- I don't need to see him again. I would, though, really, really like to meet my grandmother.

* Any car with a Pro-Life bumper-sticker drive above the speed limit.

* Any surviving member from "Monty Python's Flying Circus" for a private tea. Even Gilliam.

* The D'Oyly Carte Opera Company produce a full-scale production of any one of Gilbert & Sullivan's operettas again. They went bankrupt years ago and have ceased fully-staged shows, much to my dismay. I'd even consider getting on a plane to see such a sight.

* A way to get to Europe without getting on a plane.

Here's a List, Because I'm Rushed:

Hi! If you were expecting something coherent, or substantive, or well-organized, or worth your time and energy, then I don't know what to tell you. You're an idiot. Why would you come here for that? Go watch "The View" or stick a shampoo bottle up your hiney-hole. Jesus. What am I-- 7-Eleven? Come on.

I've got about nine minutes for this here particular blogging adventure and, trust me, it's gonna be short, ugly, and tough to look at. And that, motherfuckers, is what. she. said.

Things that make me panic:

Being constipated

Having diarrhea

Having to spell "diarrhea"

Being late

Being early

Being on-time

Being spoken to.

Speaking in public.

Speaking to people one-on-one.

Speaking to people on the phone.

Making plans to socialize.

Canceling plans to socialize.

Socializing.

Checking out women.

Checking out library books.

Checking my windshield washer fluid.

Checking my bank balance.

Czeching the Republic.

Shopping.

Making dinner.

Making love.

Cleaning the house.

Cleaning the body.

Looking into my rearview mirror.

Being thought of mistakenly as a pervert.

Being thought of correctly as a pervert.

Tacchycardia.

Looking for my favorite pair of socks and not finding them.

Being asked to accomplish tasks.

When people have faith in me.

When people have no faith in me.

Knowing that it's time to go to sleep.

Thinking about death.

Doing the laundry.

Um... there are things I'm forgetting, but I'm panicking because I have to leave the house in two minutes.

Oh-- right: forgetting things.

Got it.

Hold Me, For I am Scared

For someone who wants to be a cop, I sure scare easy. I pulled up in front of my office on Thursday morning and one of my neighbors walked up to my car and tapped lightly on the driver's side window. I screamed, "JEEE-SUS!" and jumped so high that my goddamned head almost cracked the sunroof glass. It's a good thing I'm not a cop yet, or I'd have drilled the woman between the eyes.

And that would have been sad-- because she was probably unarmed, and she is also very nice. And you know that's not a compliment I throw around a lot.

When you're Jewish and have forearms the girth of malnourished twigs, you tend to be scared of a lot of things, I find. Maybe it's because I'm hyperaware of things that could pose injury and/or death, or maybe it's just because life is inherently fragile and the world is inherently dangerous. My wife, sometimes to fill a brief conversational lull, will remark on how easy it would be to just drive her car into the opposing lane of traffic and slam into an oncoming car.

And then we enjoy pot pie night and watch "Jeopardy!"

Seriously, though-- life is full of dangers, not just my wife's metallic orange Honda Fit that you might want to pay a little extra attention to if you see it zipping around the next time you're tooling around suburban southeastern Pennsylvania.

What dangers, Mr. Apron, I am rhetorically hearing you ask yourself as you read my blog in a state of seminudness with Q-tips sticking out of both ears. Well, I'm glad you asked:

1.) ALL THAT SHIT UNDER THE HOOD OF YOUR CAR

Most of you who read this blog are female. We can all acknowledge this. I think Sebastian peaced out months ago, and I don't know what the hell happened to Jay. What is it with these British males and their sense of non-commitment? They could learn a thing or two from all of you Canadian women.

Anyway, being female, many of you may not spend much time under the hood of your car. I'm not saying this to be sexist, or an asshole, or even a sexist asshole. This sexist asshole-like statement is at least somewhat research-based. I conducted a psychological study (such as it was) back in college that had to do with knowledge of your own automobile. 10 male participants, 10 female participants. Each one had to answer thirty questions about not cars in general, but their own car. What does your speedometer go up to? How many cylinders are in your car's engine? Does your car have dual airbags? Does your car have Anti-Lock Brakes? Is your car a four-speed, five-speed, or six-speed? Does your car have a power driver's seat? Those kind of questions-- I even asked "What is the make and model and year of your car?"

The women all bombed. It was painful.

Anyway, maybe you do or maybe you don't spend a lot of time under the hood of your car. I think that's good. Do you know how many things under there can hurt, maim, and/or kill you? At least seven. All those belts and chains and fans-- and don't even get me started on the fucking battery! The first time as an EMT I had to jumpstart a stalled-out ambulance I almost passed out from the sickening anticipation that I was about to be electrocuted.

So, yeah, I'm scared of everything under the hood of my car. Except maybe for the windshield washer reservoir. But that scares me too, a little. When I fill it, a little pee comes out. Because the hood could slam down on my head at any second-- just like the sky on Henny Penny.

2.) GETTING HARRASSED

This is not one of my irrational fears-- because it happens a lot. I don't know-- maybe it was the moustache (which went the way of the dinosaurs yesterday, Halle-jew-yah!!!!!) but people seem to take great delight in shouting out random epithets at me. Some of them don't even make sense. Two black kids cornered me while I was taking out the trash at the theatre and asked me if those were my "real seeing glasses." They then informed me that I looked like a "big, ugly dyke" they know.

Nice.

I get that I'm probably not going to make it to the 10 Sexiest Men, but, really-- I don't think I look like the Elephant Man's cousin. What is it about me that attracts the random, negative attention? The only reason I haven't been jumped yet by these uncouth youths is because I am usually able to resist the urge to blurt out something about hate-fucking their grandmothers' corpse-mouth.

3.) GETTING JUMPED

As I get older, my patience with the random epithets will most likely wane and I worry that I will soon no longer be able to resist corpse-mouth replies. And then I will get my head stomped on. And then I really will look like the Elephant Man's cousin.

4.) GETTING INTOXICATED

Sooner or later, a situation is going to present itself where I will cave to the immense psycho-social pressures of society and either imbibe a licentious quantity of alcoholic beverage or snort rat poison just to be accepted into some writer's clique or, depending on how the next couple years go, plumber's union. I've never been drunk or stoned or high before, and the idea of it scares me. My brain is so fucked up and haywire as it is, I don't know if it could handle the introduction of some hallucinogenic or depressive substance. Kind of like adding a 438th ingredient to Salsa-Flavored Doritos.

5.) MY FAMILY

No joke-- my family scares the shit out of me. They're weird and unpredictable and say fucked up things, and, since my sister's baby was born we're all completely manic depressive. Any one of us is capable of pretty much anything at this point. Eight years ago, a girl broke up with me because my family was "too boring." Well, that was part of the problem. Another part was that I liked cuddling and she didn't.

So, my family legitimately scares me. Chances are they'll just putter and worry themselves into their graves without much fuss, but there is the outside chance that the stress of life will compel my mother to violently rapel, SWAT-style, through the glass booth of the local college radio station and start broadcasting mind-control messages in some invented language and my father will become a gay porn star who always wears sunglasses.

6.) THE DOGS

One is elderly, one is a puppy. I'm scared the old one is going to die, and I'm scared the young one is going to make me kill myself. Honestly, one more turdlette on the rug and I might throw myself down the stairs with a bedsheet tied around my slender, swan-like-though-hairy neck.

7.) UNEMPLOYMENT

I know it's so cool that "everybody's doing it" these days, but when my job ends on August 27th, I'm petrified that I won't have a job, even a shitty-assed lousy one for which I am intensely overqualified, for me to do. This fear is justified because I've applied for at least thirty shitty-assed, lousy jobs for which I am intensely overqualified, and nobody's called me back. Maybe I should start applying for Human Resource jobs. I'd love to get paid for not calling anybody back all day.

8.) TELEVISION

I'm afraid that I watch it too much. And, yet, whenever someone I know talks about or references something that happened recently on TV, I invariably have no clue about what the fuck they're talking about.

9.) DYING

Come on-- you didn't think you were going to get a Top 10 Fears list from ME and have that one missing, did you? Please.

10.) GETTING SALMONELLA POISONING

My wife and I bake a lot, and she's a spoon-licker. Every time she does it, she looks at me with this naughty grin and lifts her eyebrows up and down. And she never gets sick. I don't get it. You people who eat cookie dough are fucking balls-up rebels. And you're also nutty thrill-seekers. Why don't you just run your tongues along the rims of your toilet bowls?

Hi! Look at Me: I'm Thankful!

Lots of people wait until November 25th or until they've been hit by a bus to talk about being thankful. So, this morning, March 1st, 2010, I thought: shit-- why can't I talk about what I'm thankful for today? I mean, it's my blog, right? Right. So, off we go!

I'm thankful....

* that it's not Christmastime.

Because nothing makes you want to shotgun your face off more than walking through Marshalls while Christmas music is simmering through your cerebral cortex. I think "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime" might be the worst song ever written, outside of the theme music for "The Lawrence Welk Show" and "The Quicker Pickerupper" jingle. Between the awful, piped, canned music, the incessant advertising, societal pressure, and the "He-wished-me-merry-Christmas-but-I'm-Jewish-so-I'm-offended" horseshit, Christmastime serious makes me want to damage my face with a penknife or high-powered semiautomatic weapon.

* that it's not election time.

As far as I know, no federal, state, or local campaigns are going on right about now, and I think that's just fantastic. Outside of Christmastime commercials, there's no advertising more obnoxious than political ads and, during election season, we are perpetually ass-fingered with ads for liver-spotted white, Protestant men in ill-fitting suits with red or blue striped ties (depending on party affliliation) throwing babies and shaking hands with snowballs. On Saturday night, I actually had a fight with my mother-in-law who is convinced that Bill Clinton isn't as big a scumbag as John Edwards, because Clinton just ejaculated on Monica Lewinsky's dress and cigar-banged her, but he didn't impregnate her while his wife had cancer. "Yeah," I said, "but they both broke their marriage vows, and they're both disgusting pigs," I said, "one of them just happened to pay attention in 7th grade health class and the other didn't." She was not amused. And I hate politicians.

* that it's not snowing.

Because I've had just about enough of that shit. If any more of that comes our way this winter, I might have to pop a cap in some snowman's ass.

* that my wife doesn't have F.G.S.

You brothas know what I'm talking about (actually-- do any men read my blog?). F.G.S. = Fat Girl Smell. My father, the Israeli, calls it "ovesch," and it's a term utilized to describe the funk that emanates from certain women who are obese and who retain certain curds and/or other byproducts in folds under their underarms, under their breasts, or in their scalp folds, thus producing F.G.S.

Mrs. Apron is neither fat, nor does she produce F.G.S., and I'm very thankful for that. I once went on a blind date with a girl who produced the dreaded odor, and I was crestfallen. On her online profile, she professed to be "more fun than a barrel of monkeys" but, unfortunately, a barrel of monkeys is what she smelled like.

* that we did not bring Knucklehead, the crazed, homosexual beagle home.

While my dog would have benefitted (?) by getting his cock sucked on an incessant basis, that dog would have turned our home on its roof and our lives on its ass. We would not have survived that neurotic, spastic, fruitty-assed dog. Quite plainly, it would have buried us, and, after a sufficient period of mourning, would have dutifully returned to vacuuming our dog's dick.

* that I do not have cancer.

At least, not that I know of. You know-- how do I know for sure, right?

* that my penis works.

It's not something you really think about until it's broken, but my penis does what it's supposed to do, by and large, and I'm pretty thankful for that. I think there are people who think it's vulgar to thank God for their penis, but I don't. I mean, he gave it to me. It's supposedly an agent to make babies (Jewish ones at that!) and so I don't feel awkward about it at all. I mean, it'll never be a movie star or anything, but it's fully functional if not aesthetically winning. So, thanks, God. My dick's what's up. Or... er...

* for my car.

As most of you know, I drive a 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser with 78,400 miles on the odometer. It has a big dent by the right passenger's door that has rusted, there are scratches all over the trunk, roof, and now the front windshield courtesy of enthusiastic snow scraping from the last blizzard, it's underpowered, gets terrible gas mileage, and has the turning radius of a triceratops on lithium, but it's completely paid off, and it's mine. I can do whatever I want to it. I can paint it purple with black polkadots if I get the itch. I can race it at Soap Box Derby Day or paint flames on it or cover the floor in red shag carpeting. Maybe one day I'll dump it in a fucking swamp in Bud Lake, New Jersey and try to claim the insurance on it. They'll probably mail me a check for $307.21. Hello, VW Beetle down-payment!

* that I still get zits sometimes.

Whenever I look at my burgeoning crow's feet or my gray hairs in the mirror, I'm actually comforted by the fact that they're sometimes complemented by a pimple, usually on my temples, where I constantly rub my fingers in exasperation, usually at work. I'm still young, goddamnit. And I've got the little pesky pustules to prove it.

This concludes my thankfuls for March 1, 2010.

Thanks.

This is Stupid

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a list of things that are stupid.

* Girls, take off your big sunglasses. They looked good on Sophia Loren but, for some reason, when combined with tight white t-shirts, skinny jeans, Uggs and long hair, they look stupid.

* Boys of a similar vintage-- get a haircut. Your Dukes of Hazzard-era wannabeeflowbee bullshit hairstyles look ridiculous and stupid. Males should not engage in the act of brushing hair away from their faces. Ever.

* The Smart Fortwo. It looks like a sneaker, and it looks stupid. And only one of the parts of its name is true.

* Sarah Palin: you are stupid. And, in the words of my 61-year-old Israeli mechanic, you "would have made a good prostitute."

* My sideburns. They didn't look stupid in the 1880s, but, now, they do. Fortunately, once Pirates closes, the sideburns will meet a hasty death at the bathroom sink. At least I'm not under the delusion that trends of a bygone era still look good today-- you know, like the girls with big sunglasses.

* Professional journals are definitely stupid. They are printed to justify outlandish membership fees, they clutter up the houses of educated, professional people, and nobody reads them. Except stupid people.

* "The Today Show" is easily the stupidest show I watch with any regularity. And I watch "Project Runway."

* Waiting periods for handguns as a measure to prevent people from going out and killing each other are stupid. If some motherfucker wants to kill you, do you really think he's going to be bummed out enough by a six-day waiting period to abort his plans to end your miserable existence? No. And, if he's that impatient, he'll go to any number of illegal gun sellers in Philadelphia who operate out of their car trunks or neighborhood ice cream trucks.

* Advertising in newspapers is very stupid. You might as well put a sticker with your company's logo inside your neighbor's basement toilet bowl.

* The Two Party System is stupid. This is America, Goddamnit, and, if you're filthy-rich, you should have a legitimate shot at the presidency even if you're not a Republican or a Democrat.

* Dialogue in pornos is pretty stupid and, frankly, embarrassing. Nothing makes me lose my erection faster than hearing a half-retarded himbo utter some pathetic, cheesemo line in a porno like, "I thought I was here to fix your plumbing, not your love life." Please. Leave the talkie-talkie to David Mamet and Merchant-Ivory.

* I've always thought that lines were stupid. Shouldn't we all be first?

* I kind of think report cards are stupid. My mother recently showed me one of my 1st grade report cards. Apparently, Mr. Barrett, "thoroughly enjoyed my creative writing." I mean, really?

* People who don't read this blog are obviously stupid. We humble few, the members of the My Masonic Apron fold, are the enlightened elite, although most of us are probably psychologically maladjusted.

* Teachers who sleep with their students are pretty goddamn stupid. I mean, Jesus-- get a grip, people. And preferably not a grip on your students' hee-haws.

* The speed limit, whatever the hell it is, is stupid.

* Your boss is stupid. In fact, he's a fucking stinky stupid-head. And you can go right ahead and tell him I said that. Right after you're done reading this blog. At work.

* Bra-closures are stupid. I mean-- come on. Life's hard enough, isn't it?

* Christmas is stupid. Sorry, Jesus Claus.

* Prosciutto and cheese balls/rods are stupid, but I'd eat it anyway.

* People who change lanes on bridges and in tunnels are stupid, and they're totally asking for it.

* My dog is stupid, and his tussie-hole smells. But I love that bastard.