My New Skill

There is a new skill I've been demonstrating at work of late, and that's good. It's always nice to demonstrate new skills.

Unless, of course, that skill is data entry.

Back in middle school, when crusty Mrs. Droopy Cheeks taught us typing on baby blue Remington electric typewriters, I averaged 60 words-per-minute, and I expect my pace has increased since then. My boss has frequently marveled at the speed and alacrity with which I bang out letters, emails, and other correspondence.

Sadly, she realized that I would be a right down reg'lar whizz-bang at this snappy little database enhancement project we've got going on 'round these here parts.

Street address. State. Zip. Name.
Street address. State. Zip. Name.
Street address. State. Zip. Name.

Lather. Rinse. Hate-fuck me raw with a broken Coke bottle. Repeat.

This, apparently, is what my life has become. I am now, unofficially, a data-entry clerk. Shall I introduce you to my Master's Degree? It's in the house somewhere, under some dust, shame, and possibly dog pee.

Rather than bitch and cry and moan about how I'm now a data-entry clerk, I think I'd (and you'd) be better served if I presented you with a list of things I'd rather be than a data-entry clerk....

* Tied up inside the trunk of a Gotti's Cadillac.

* Imprisoned & sharing accomodations with a prisoner named "Baby Fuck Johnson."

* Unemployed.

* A retarded rabbit being product-tested upon by crazy Revlon lipstick scientists.

* Trapped in a broken elevator with the Lawrence Welk Show.

* An ICU patient.

* Onstage with no trousers and no memory of what my lines are.

* Hairless.

* Have a disease that only enables me to blink once every New Moon.

* Naked, wrapped in cheesecloth and defecated on by the Oakland Raiders.

* A devout Catholic.

* A thong worn by any daytime performer at the club "Castle Muffenstein."

* Be a guest at Martha Stewart's house for Christmas.

* Sixteen and pregnant.

* Whole-Milk-Boarded by America's bravest.

* Conjoined twins with Jesse Ventura.

* A herpe.

* Forced to eat one (just one) of my late great-grandmothers blackened liverwurst hamburgers.

* A twitchy, one-eyed cat at a pet adoption agency.

* A night neighborhood watchman in Harlem.

* The butt of a Borat joke.

* Tased on COPS.

* A hemophiliac descendant of the inbred, chinless ruling class of the Hapsburg monarchs.

* Fingerless. Try giving me data to enter now.

The I Don't Give a Fuck List

I've decided, today, that there are a lot of things in life that I don't give a fuck about.

I've decided, today also, to list those things, because I am extremely pressed for time, and I am also very sorry for not having had time to post a substantive blog this morning. I don't know why I ran out of time, but I did.

I now implore your pardon with my List of Things I Don't Give a Fuck About:

1.) Kanye West

The next time you interrupt someone, I hope it's a carjacker and he shoots you in the face.

2.) Jay Leno

Your show moved to a new time slot? Go fuck yourself.

3.) Taylor Swift

Aww-- did the mean black man with crop circles in his hair hurt your wittle feelings?

4.) Joe Wilson

The next time you interrupt someone, I hope-- oh, wait...

5.) Patrick Swayze

Yeah, sorry. I just don't. And, if I hear another soundbite of "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" I'm going to break off my own left arm and stab myself in the eye with the jagged ulnar bone.

6.) Acne

I'm over it, Zit. Bring on the pus, Gus. I just don't care anymore. A regular uniform of sweatsuits can't be far behind.

7.) Whether or not the recession is "likely over."

Ben Bernanke, why don't you just shut the fuck up?

8.) Marc Jacobs

The New York Times calls him the "Now Man." Do we give a fuck about that? Highly dubious.

9.) Barack Obama's dog

Remember when we gave a fuck about that? I don't.

10.) The deplorable situation of death row prisoners in Japan.

NPR tried to entice me to give a fuck about that in a news report last week. It almost worked.

11.) Dan Brown

Why do I think that at least 85% of bloggers are better writers than Dan Brown? Including the ones who only post YouTube videos.

12.) Injured professional athletes

I'm so sorry you injured your wrist doing that touchdown dance. Maybe you can make a sling for it out of a few dozen ten thousand dollar bills.

13.) Meredith Vieira

Don't worry, honey-- I wouldn't forget about you.

14.) All of the other things I should be doing instead of blogging.

Hey, it's work-- it'll still be there tomorrow.

15.) Pop culture

Now that my former best friend who works for MTV doesn't speak to me anymore, I never have to endure another conversation about inane assholes and idiots, charlatans and harlots in the entertainment industry that I don't give a fuck about.

16.) Swine flu

If you were a real illness, you'd be called the fucking Tiger Flu or some shit, man. Come and get me, piggie sickie!

17.) The Number 17

Eat me, One-Seven!

18.) People who are related to me but aren't my immediate family.

I have no time for you, uncles and such. Sorry. Thanks for the wedding gifts, though.

19.) My clothes

I don't think I own a shirt or pair of trousers that doesn't have some kind of stain on it, or isn't wrinkled or outdated. So? You going to arrest me, Marc Jacobs?

And, finally, the thing I give a fuck about the least:

20.) People who don't like my blog.

Follower 43, I don't know who you are, or what I did or what happened, but I just don't give a fuck.

THIS JUST IN:

Kate Gosselin's new haircut-- definitely number 21 on the list.

Mission Somethings Accomplished

I was given the day off work today.

It's an unusual event, and I sat down with Mrs. Apron last night to plan out how I would spend my precious day out of the occupational clutches. Some people tan themselves on their days off. Some people go to the zoo. Some see their friends, or their shrinks. Me? Well, I had a little list.

It was called:

Mr. Apron & Kumar's Jerk Off Day List

1.) Install flakeboard in kitchen cabinet.

2.) Strip wallpaper

3.) Call paint-covered loser (the second painter with the moth-eaten sweater) and ask WTF re: quote.

4.) Cancel Closet Goy appointment.

5.) Resolve legal billing question for lawyerly mother-in-law.

6.) Pay car payment (in pocket)

7.) Pay car insurance (on mantle)

8.) Go to Staples and buy a fucking filing cabinet.

9.) Haircut?

10.) Masturbate.

11.) Vegetables for Stir Fry (sugar snap peas, bee-bee corn)

12.) Masturbate again.

13.) Pleasure drive.

14.) Banjo

15.) Blog (and help Dad with his work blog)

16.) Pick up Mrs. Apron's prescription.

17.) Pittsburgh funeral on webstream - 1pm.

It's an ecclectic to-do list, isn't it? The product of a disordered mind with with a flailing desire for structure, order and accomplishment.

Well, Johnny-- how'd he do?

1.) I did not even attempt to install the flakeboard in the kitchen cabinet. No way. Didn't get near it. Requires a drill. Drills scare me. It's why I don't go to the dentist and avoid construction sites certain porn sites.

2.) What? There's wallpaper that needs to be stripped? Where?

3.) Right. So, I called the stumbly, erratic, paint-covered, poorly-dressed painter. His mom answered the phone-- the one who either dines on meth or enjoys repeatedly slamming her head onto formica surfaces.

Me: Hi.

Her: (Silence.)

Me: Um... hi. Is Brian there?

Her: Who?

Me: Uh... Brian?

Her: Oh! Er.... No.

Me: Okay. Well, can I leave a message?

Her: Sure.

Yeah, "sure" is right. Sure, he'll get that message-- just as sure as this blog will one day be an international best seller. Just like I just won the UK Lottery again (third time this month!). Just like my scent is an instant female lubricant.

Sure. I might as well have left the message with his cat.

4.) Closet Goy = Cancelled.

Closet Goy Receptionist: Well, I'll have her give you a call back and you can discuss it.

Me: Uh, no, I don't think you understand. I don't want anybody to be giving me a call back, because there is nothing to discuss. I cancel. Period."

Whore.

5.) Legal issue resolved. My mother-in-law sometimes doesn't know her own email address. This presents problems.

6.) Car payment paid. Only $5,736 left till I completely own.... a Ford Focus. Yeah.

7.) Car insurance paid. Come hit/steal/immolate my Ford Focus!

8.) What? We need a filing cabinet? Where?

9.) What? I need a haircut? Where?

10.) You know you're having a real busy day off when there's no time to masturbate.

11.) We had leftover matzah-ball soup for dinner. Fuck the stir-fry.

12.) See #10.

13.) Well, I drove a lot today. None of it was pleasurable.

14.) Played banjo from 4:17pm-5:06pm. Fingers & shoulder hurt.

15.) Blogged this morning, oh, and now! How fucking meta!

16.) Picked up the prescription. Now my wife will be free of acid reflux for another month.

17.) Attempts to view the Pittsburgh funeral ceremony subverted by no video link on the webstream. I could have just listened, like old timey radio days, but who has the patience/imagination for that?

Here were the things I did today that weren't on the list:

* Drove the dog to the groomer. He looks and smells so fantastic I can't stop kissing the big, gray bastard.

* Mailed a copy of my book to the webmaster of an anti-Mumia blog. He's agreed to post selections on his site. Can you say "royalties?!" Actually, can you say "death threats?!"

* Drove a copy of my book and a donation check to the Officer John Pawlowski Memorial Trust Fund to the 35th Police District, and was brought in to meet the Captain. He was touched. "Can I take this home with me tonight?" he said, referring to the book. "You can do whatever you want with it," I said. Better he take the book home than the check.

* Drove to the hardware store (three fucking times) to buy one door knob, then another, then return both. A vain effort to replace the obscenely filthy, mung-covered door knob on our kitchen door. Ended up just scrubbing the existing door knob with a "Chore-Boy" steel-wool and windex. All of the mung eventually came off, running in brown and green rivulets down my hand, causing me to gag. Door knob looks excellent, though. Realized that product names like "Chore Boy Steel Wool," "Aunt Jemima Pancakes," "Uncle Ben Rice," and "Good Little Negro Industrial Varnishing Exfoliant" are offensive and should be abolished, along with antiquated sport team names like "The Cleveland Indians," the "San Francisco Homosexual Panics" and the "Palo Alto Retards."

* Bought my wife a pair of shoes (coral red Keens-- cute!) at a swanky boutique. Not necessarily my style since Mrs. Apron turned me onto T.J. Maxx, but I was in the neighborhood killing time while the groomer was finishing perming my dog's asshole. The makeup-caked sales associate gave me the bag and said, "And here's your shoes and receipt and, by the way, you're the best husband in the world."

Awww.

Not quite. If I were, I would have installed that fucking flakeboard in the kitchen, too.

Resolution Road

Everyone's looking to better themselves, aren't they?

Well, of course, some people probably can't, but most of us can find dimension of our personality to tweak, to enhance, to augment.

I've been thinking a lot lately about my own disposition, because definitely one thing that self-centered people tend to do when they're bored or unfocused. They do other things too, of course.

It's difficult and unpleasant to ponder self-improvement with any degree of seriousness, because, if you're doing it correctly, you will encounter unpleasant truths about yourself that you'd probably rather not know like. You may think you look one way to yourself, but you look completely different to others. You may realize that you're really disliked by others, or that you're engaged in some sort of cult activity.

I've decided to compile a list of things I need to start doing in order to improve who I am. This didn't require expensive, or even cheap, analysis, nor did it require that it be New Year's Day. It just required a little thought, so here we go.

THINGS I NEED TO START DOING

Changing pants more frequently.

People who see me on a regular basis (my employer, family, friends, wife, postman, etc) probably think that I own only two pair of pants and/or that I am a filthy human being. They're wrong about the former, right about the latter. I must own at least twenty pair of trousers and yet I insist on wearing the same pair for at least three days straight at a time, usually more.

"You've got to stagger," my father said to me one day. Once he's noticed, then it's definitely time to act.

Stop being so judgemental.

As you know, I have a real problem with this one.

Listening when people talk to me.

Old friends of mine will tell you emphatically that I am a good listener. New friends of mine-- oh, wait-- I don't have new friends. Maybe that's because I don't listen to new people when they talk to me. If they do talk to me. I couldn't really tell you. I feel like I have lost all capacity to focus on people's inane bullshit (oops-- judging. Sorry.) and I instantly forget anything people tell me, including their name and any other critical information that would have otherwise assisted me in either becoming their friend or learning something. I've also begun a rather unsettling habit of looking through people instead of at them. I wonder if people can tell.

Dusting.

Is it just me, or is dusting something that you only see people do in movies and TV shows, but nobody ever does in real life? Or is that just what I tell myself to justify the fact that I don't dust?

Shutting my mouth more.

My mouth has always gotten me into trouble. When I was in elementary school, mouthing off to a bully on the schoolbus earned me a hockey stick to the chest, a punch in the chest and another one in the stomach, all on different occasions and from different miscreants. In middle and high school, there was more trouble. People say that they want to know what you're thinking, but they don't. Take it from one who, more often than not, says what he's thinking.

Grooming the dog.

God, he smells.

Eating less meat.

You'd think that someone who is as hypochondriacal and obsessed with death and his health would take better care of his body, but I don't. I eat meat a lot, whenever I can. We do not often have it at the house, but I consume more than my fair share of flesh when we go out. Meat has even insinuated its way into the house on occasion, in the form of turkey burgers and lunchmeat. Not exactly a 20 ounce Porterhouse, but it's still going to kill me.

Blogging less.

By the way, you're all supposed to leave comments begging me to not blog less. But, I feel like it's taking away from my focus at work and quality interactions at home. Plus, it's been five months and I still only know 5 banjo chords. I blame you.

Creating a mass movement to stop Oprah.

Seriously, she sucks. Write to your congressman or something.

I've Got a Little List

I used to make little lists on the old blog. Oftentimes they were lists of things I either didn't like or things that I should have been doing instead of blogging. Today, it's going to be the latter.

Here's a little list of things I should be doing instead of blogging:

* Paying bills.

I don't know why I feel so compelled to pay bills. Maybe it's the paranoia over the mortgage we just took out, whereby the creepy bank gets to own my naddies until said objects become nothing but shrivelled Raisinettes. Maybe it's my desperation to preserve my credit rating. I just went through all the bills downstairs-- the earliest a bill is due is the 27th, and I'm already itching to write checks. Maybe I'll pay one or two after I'm done blogging, just to make myself feel better.

* Changing the oil in the car.

The sticker fell off, a long time ago. I have no idea when this car is due for an oil change, but the guilty pang in my chest is telling me I should have brought the car in probably six months ago. Either that or I have coronary artery disease. I'm sure the car is pitifully overdue, but it's one of those awful, cyclical things-- like when you meet someone and immediately forget their name, and then you see them again and it's too late to ask them their name again, so you just go on with you life, pretending that you know their name when, really, you don't. Well, this is kind of like that.

* Masturbating.

I've cut down markedly on this little pastime of mine since I started blogging. Aren't you honored?

(By the way: if you ever decide to blog about masturbating, take my advice: do not do a Google image search for a clever hyperlink. It's not worth it.)

* Practicing the banjo.

I got the banjo Thanksgiving weekend. I still only know four chords. Please tell me to go practice.

* Shower.

How often are you supposed to shower?

* Engage in any number of home improvements.

Yeeeeah..... um..... there's a lot to do around here. There's nothing like an old home that was inhabited for almost three quarters of a century by an elderly crow to necessitate constant improvement and labor. I know there's wallpaper to strip, furniture to move, boxes to unpack, clothes to wash, flowers to plant, walls to paint, floors to shine, shelves and a guest bed to assemble but.... um...... yeah....... blogging's easier.

* Shave.

The beard that I once so enjoyed is now starting to get on my wick. I don't like it when the corners of the mustache enter my mouth-- it's fucking gross. I don't know how those Civil War guys did it.

* Take a walk.

I know I should, but I don't feel like it. Mrs. Apron and I are going to take one tonight-- isn't that good enough?

* Call my sister.

Hmmm... no, that's okay.

* Obsess in the mirror over every perceived physical abnormality I can find.

See-- there's this mole on my left leg....

* Arrange clothes in closet.

This house was built in 1928-- there aren't any closets. I don't quite understand why-- didn't people wear clothes in 1928? Didn't they have to store their arm garters and spats and mink stoles somewhere? Where the fuck did they put all their bowlers and their saddle shoes? WHERE THE FUCK ARE OUR CLOSETS?!

* Call a closet company.

Okay, okay. I will do that. I'm sure that will give me more blog fodder anyway.