LA River Cleanup

This morning I participated in the LA River Cleanup. I came home wet, dirty, sweaty, and bloody. In other words, it was fun. I was a pretty eager volunteer and put myself into precarious situations in, around, and over the river in order to retrieve litter. I consider this courage extra generous considering that I'm uninsured. I felt like Liz Lemon on this past week's 30 Rock stopping at nothing - or almost nothing - to get a bag out of a tree.

Volunteering did not just mean picking up trash - I also looked after the elderly. An older hippie man saw a plastic bag tangled high in a tree that I had already passed by because I couldn't reach it. I told him it would be difficult, but he said he was up for the challenge and began climbing this tree with thin branches. After watching him fall twice, I went over to spot him because I was concerned for his well-being. A few minutes later, an even older man came to "help" and started climbing up the tree that could barely support one of their weights and definitely not both, so now I was trying to give a boost and chaperone two old men in a tiny yet tall tree. It took half an hour to accomplish, but they got the bag. I think it would have been smarter to skip that considering how much other trash that needed attending to, but they failed to see the forest through the trees, or past the bag in the trees, as it were. Also, I don't think killing the tree in the process of retrieving a bag really constitutes saving the earth, but I was focused on saving the human lives in this case.

Most of the trash consisted of plastic bags. Somehow they'd wrap themselves around trees in a way that it would take legitimate effort to peel them off. There were a few other fun items I came across however:

* golf balls
* a doll torso
* a banner wishing CONGRATULATIONS
* sports apparel
* a large kitchen knife
* cute heart-shaped sunglasses, which I might have kept were they not right next to the large kitchen knife
* gloves - evidently people who had been cleaning in previous years didn't really get that leaving the gloves behind added to the problem

The grossest thing I found was actually a winter hat. I picked it up and reeked of poop. Since it was right next to a shopping cart, I suspect that a homeless person had been using it as toilet paper. Fortunately, I was wearing gloves.

The most dangerous thing I encountered is when the curled remains of a mattress box-spring that had been pulled from the river rolled back down the hill right at me as if it were a tumbleweed. I saw it with plenty of time to get out of the way, but had I not, I'd be missing an eye and dealing with nine kinds of tetanus.

I may look like a cutter with all the scratches up and down my arms, but you haven't killed me yet, LA River!

How Come Nobody Asks to See My Birth Certificate?

"President" Obama released his birth certificate today, and my worst fears were confirmed: he's black. Surely they'll impeach him for that, right?

I've never previously considered myself a birther, but seeing this document made me more skeptical than ever. Here's what I find fishy:

1. Obama's mother's first name is supposedly "Stanley." That is a man's name. Obama's parents are clearly a gay couple, and must have adopted rather than giving "live birth" as this document purports.

2. Obama's street address is listed as a highway. You can't live on a highway.

3. Someone checked the "No" box as to whether Obama's residence was on a plantation. I realize his mom more feminine dad's story was that they lived under a freeway overpass, but since people were super racist in 1961, someone filling it out at that time would have checked "Yes" even if it were just a joke.

4. The doctor's signature is legible. Fakeeeeeeee.

For those reasons, I am joining the courageous group of people who called for Obama's birth certificate, then finally got it, but will now latch on to any other reason to whine about illegitimacy. Never give up!

Not Family-Friendly

A reminder: This blog is not family-friendly. I say that both because the content can sometimes be off-color, but also because it is known to irritate certain members of my family.

This blog is a performance, intended to entertain. It is mostly compromised of humorous, true anecdotes from my life, includes some observations that I make about other people and things, and is peppered with comments (often offensive) that are not meant to be taken seriously.

Most recently, I upset some with my Earth Day post from a few days ago. It was purposely crass, and though told in first person, not a reflection of the way I am or how I actually speak. It made me laugh because it IS stupid and it IS inappropriate, and was meant to satirize someone of that ilk. The shock value clearly worked.

Yes, it is "embarrassing," but this blog would be nearly bare if I were to remove all of the posts that humiliated myself. I have always been complimented for having a funny, thoughtful, yet self-deprecating approach to writing. I tend to agree that my talent lies in making myself the butt of many of my own jokes. While tearing myself down, I'm simultaneously building myself up. Maybe I need a psychologist to figure out why that happens.

I'd like to hope that despite looking like a dumbass, I'm still somewhat lovable. Not universally loved - my sense of humor is not for everyone, and I know that - but I think that is what people enjoy about this blog is that I make myself vulnerable in ways that most wouldn't, and I have a good time doing it. Have you read most personal blogs? They are boring. I think my deviance is what makes this blog popular.

On the other hand, if you think I just look awful on this site, then I encourage you to stop reading. I can be polite and pleasant in real life and there are plenty of people who have the highest regard for me because they only know that side of me. That said, there are plenty more who have that same regard while being aware of my duality. If you prefer the former, let me know, and I'll be happy to send you just the sanitary* updates.

If somehow you are reading this material and know my parents better than me, please don't let my blog be a reflection on them. I assure you, this blog would be entirely different if they edited the content. They are great parents who raised me to be a proper person. I grew up a drug-free, good student who didn't even curse. (I know some of your kids, and they can't say the same!) Judge me if you wish, I've opened myself up to it, but don't judge them.

There's also a major culture divide from where I grew up, Connecticut, and where I live now, Los Angeles. I attend comedy shows where the performers say words I would never dare say aloud, and I taught in public schools where teenagers could "joke" about raping their teachers without facing any consequences. So the truth is I'm a little desensitized to some of the more lewd content. I'd contend that I've still got more Puritan in me than hoodlum, though I realize the way I portray myself here doesn't always reflect that.

But I'm me and I'm not going to stop being that. Oddly, the things that would "ruin" you in Connecticut are the same things that can make you in Los Angeles. If reality TV has taught me one thing, it's that you've got to embarrass yourself somewhat before anyone pays attention. (What a progressive society!) I honestly feel that this blog has been and could be one of my tickets to growing as a person, growing as a writer, and becoming successful. I assure you, I don't bring dick jokes to work (unless that's what they task me to do!) and keep it entirely professional. If you ask me, some of the cheesy things I have agreed to write for money are more "offensive" than anything you can find here. But I still do it happily and terrifically!

Wow, that was a mouthful. Love you all!

* And by sanitary, I mean the second definition Webster has listed rather than the third. (Sorry, but you could try to make me as appropriate as possible, and I'll still be making poop jokes 'til I die.)

Get a Rise out of You

It's Easter - he has risen! Fortunately, you don't have to be a Christian to celebrate the occasion. Here are ten things other than Jesus that rise that are also worthy of your commemoration today.

10. The Sun

9. Helium

8. Sleepers

7. The Phoenix

6. Revolutionaries

5. Slopes

4. Paul Reiser

3. Bread

2. The Roof/Party-Goers

1. Courtroom defendants

Raise a glass to these ten awesome risers. And an extra shout-out to Jesus for leading by example.

I'm Not a Racist

I'm not sure how the "colored man" was able to show that much restraint with the 90-year-old caller. He probably could tell that, although her argument is problematic, she is not a racist. (Thanks to Alex for showing me this clip.)

Tree Hugging Is Child's Play

Happy Earth Day! Today I celebrated by a digging a little hole in the soil and planting... my dick in it. There's nothing like a little (sing it with me) "EarthDay Sex." Mother Nature is the hottest MILF in the game.

Dodgeball

Dodgeball gets a bad rap. I can't even count the number of adolescent-focused movies and TV shows that portray dodgeball as some traumatic event where bullies destroy the likable weakling. However, even as one of those likable weaklings myself while growing up, I enjoyed the game.

Recently, I joined a local dodgeball league. It took a couple of weeks for me to figure out how to effectively dodge, catch, and throw (all right, I still don't really know how to throw), but I came to like participating. All it took was that first ball to the face to realize that "that didn't really hurt" and for me to start playing with no fear. That said, a ball to the crotch does take a while longer to shake off.

My team's name was Wu-Tang Flan. If for no reason, joining dodgeball was worth it just to get the t-shirt. I'm not sure who designed it, but I will definitely be repping the "WTF" off the court, as well. Awful puns for the win!

Are You Ready for Easter?

My neighbors are!

Fancy Feast

Where are the family values people now? Marriage is meant to be between a man and a woman, not a man, a woman, and a cat as this Fancy Feast commercial* promotes. I hereby call for a boycott of Fancy Feast and demand that this sinful, deviant advertisement be removed from the airwaves.

*I caution you against reading the frightening YouTube comments, which are full of lonely cat women who absolutely adore the idea that there are men out there who will propose to women despite the fact that they will always come second to cats.

10 Things to Say to a Creed Fan

My friend Lena knows a guy who is a big fan of Creed, and now she has made it her mission to convince him that the band’s music sucks. Ever since, she has been trying to enlist my assistance in this project. While I agree that this dude’s taste is questionable, it seems even lamer than being a Creed fan to spend time developing creative insults about musicians that haven’t even been relevant in the past decade. Nevertheless, Lena has pestered me on a daily basis for a couple of weeks now, so I’ve relented. Mainly it’s because I’m afraid: Lena has killed someone before, and how can I be sure she won’t do it again?

With that in mind, here are 10 Things to Say to a Creed Fan:

1. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that when you said, “My favorite band is Creed,” you meant to finish that with “–ence Clearwater Revival.”

2. Speaking of “Higher” I’m going to need a lot more drugs before listening to that song again.

3. Even wolves can’t stand Creed.

4. Did you know Creed used to be called Nickelback? The band had to change its name when concertgoers kept demanding even higher refunds than that.

5. I also aspire to have such reverence for my country that I sing the National Anthem like I’m the lead singer from the Crash Test Dummies.

6. …Or as I like to call him, Scott Stapp infection.

7. Creed has the honor of joining esteemed colleagues Michael Bolton, the Baha Men, and Milli Vanilli as musicians whom people routinely ask, “How the fuck did you win a Grammy?”

8. If the Beatles were arrogant for claiming to be bigger than Jesus, perhaps Scott Stapp is humble for merely trying to be Jesus.

9. I love Creed enough to throw a bottle of Orangina at their faces. Wait, you mean that’s not how you treat someone you love?

10. I always thought that song should be called “With Legs Wide Open.”*

* I include this last one because if you are this desperate to tease a Creed fan, you must secretly want to bone him.

** My best Creed insult might actually come from a real-life interaction my friends and I had with them in 2002. It has a sad ending ☹ ☹

The Grassroots Activist

Earlier today, a hippie intercepted me in front of Trader Joe's. "Do you want to stop the war in Afghanistan?"

I'm weak, so I was unable to wiggle my way out of hearing her spiel. She kept making liberal points that she knew I would agree with to butter me up. Each time I agreed she insisted on a high five. I'm not rude enough to decline a high five, but it is obnoxious to have to high five someone around ten times over the course of three minutes. Particularly not her hands: she clearly doesn't wash her hair, how can I be sure that she doesn't do the same with her hands?

The hippie wanted me to pay her a monthly membership so that I could receive emails about things I already knew about and agreed with. I declined, but she kept naming different reasons why I might change my mind. After several failed attempts, she asked, "Haven't you ever been part of a grassroots campaign before?"
"Not really," I said.
"Not really sounds like maybe you have," she said.

At this point, I was thoroughly annoyed and wanted to end the conversation ASAP. I thought back to my days in high school when I led a fake campaign against sheep humping that resulted in me being nominated for the Class Activist superlative.

"Well, I once worked to help stop bestiality," I told her.
"Are you serious?" she asked.
"Yeah, it was a big problem where I used to live."
"Oh, wow. Okay... um, thanks for your time."

And that is how I learned how to effectively end conversations with pushy people who want your money: bring up people having sex with animals. You don't even have to say you're in favor of it, just mention it and they won't want to talk to you anymore. I mean, it might not be the first thing I resort to the next time a kid comes to my door peddling newspaper subscriptions, but it's nice to have something to add to my arsenal.

How about Thai?

This joke is from tonight's episode of Community.

Coincidentally, just yesterday, I posted a quote from a friend's mom saying that "Chinese people are the Mexicans of Asia." Maybe she's not racist, maybe she's a writer for NBC.

However, I'm a little confused now. If Chinese = Mexican and Thai = Mexican, then via transitive property shouldn't Chinese = Thai as well? People need to be more explicit with their stereotypes if I'm ever going to feel all right about sharing their sentiments. I need to understand what the insulting generalization is because I don't want to come across as ignorant.

Chexicans

"Chinese people are like the Mexicans of Asia." - a friend's mother

I really appreciate this quote. If you're going to be offensive, be horribly, horribly offensive, I say. Most bigots only manage to put down one culture per sentence, but she is showing some efficient racism.

Moreover, I admire her brazenness. She presupposes that her audience already has disdain for Mexicans, which will then automatically carry over to Chinese people by way of comparison. It's like a twist on a movie advertisement: "If you liked stereotyping Mexico, then you'll love stereotyping China."

You know what's even more ignorant than this quote? Me and everyone else who has dismissed it as ignorance without bothering to hear out her explanation. Maybe she has favorable opinions of these populations and the comparison is meant to be complimentary. After all, I reached the same conclusion that Mexicans and Chinese are similar four years ago based on hard facts, including a Venn Diagram.

Profound Possibility Is Imminent

Sometimes I receive event invitations on Facebook that leave me confused as to whether or not they are jokes.

I am a scholar of reality television, so I can appreciate the academics of seemingly trivial things, but what does that description even mean?

I actually would attend this class if I were sure it were facetious, but I kind of suspect people will actually be earnestly practicing the movements of inert characters in boring scenes... and I'm not sure why.

My Uncle Oswald

Your favorite childhood author is a dirty man.

On a recommendation from Kurosh, the Erotica Book Club read Roald Dahl's My Uncle Oswald. I wasn't aware that Dahl, best known for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach, and Matilda, also wrote novels for adults, let alone adult novels, but Oswald is an enjoyably bawdy tale. I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that an author with that kind of fantastical imagination could harness his powers for filth.

It's the first book the group has read that is funny because it's supposed to be funny. Dahl's prose is easy, fun, and dripping with wit. Some in the club complained that the book isn't erotica, which is true, because it makes sex the object of satire more than something hot. Nonetheless, everyone agreed that they really liked it.

At first we thought the book would be a tale about the cad Oswald and his conquests, described amusingly like so:

"There is nothing particularly illuminating to report about the barney that followed, except perhaps to mention that her Ladyship astounded me with her sofa-work. Up until then, I had always regarded the sofa as a rotten romping-ground, though heaven knows I had been forced to use it often enough with the London debutantes while the parents were snoring away upstairs. The sofa to me was a beastly uncomfortable thing surrounded on three sides by padded walls and with a horizontal area that was so narrow one was continually rolling off it onto the floor. But Lady Makepiece was a sofa-wizard. For her, the sofa was a kind of gymnastic horse upon which one vaulted and bounced and flipped and rolled and achieved the most remarkable contortions." (36)

Except that partway through, the book really becomes a story about his economic pursuits. Oswald lives by the motto "It is better to incur a mild rebuke than to perform an onerous task" (158), but finds success anyway, mainly because he lives by two important money-making principles: 1) find work that amuses you and 2) make sure your customers are enjoying what they pay for. I can get behind that.

Fortunately for fans of smut, although Oswald's wild days subside, he hires a young, beautiful, headstrong woman named Yasmine who he essentially pimps out. Without spoiling the plot, the business is way more brilliant than your average prostitution ring. The book also serves as a piece of historical fiction, so if you've ever wondered what Pablo Picasso, Sigmund Freud, Albert Einstein, or dozens of other famous visionaries were like as lovers - here is a (fictionalized) account.

There was a lot to discuss at the meeting, including what constitutes rape. (In an odd twist, I'd argue that the rapists are actually the victims, though you'll have to read the book to understand why.) Also: would a gay man penetrating a woman masquerading as a man not realize he was inside a vagina rather than an asshole? (One club member responded to this query: "Honestly, I probably wouldn't even care.")

If you liked Dahl as a kid, give him a try as an adult, too. You'll be surprised how similar his style remains despite the shift in audience, and what a dirty mind this guy has.

Parking in Rare

At first I was like, haha, what a big, dumb sign with a big, dumb misspelling.

Then I remembered how impossible it is to find parking in that neighborhood. Touché.

I Before E, Especially in Bieber

Not all nerds are into science fiction. For example, I haven't even seen Star Wars. However, that doesn't make me any less of a nerd because I will laugh for days at grammar-related jokes. Hence, my favorite Twitter feed is @FakeAPStylebook, an account devoted to promoting phony grammatical rules. Here are some of my favorite tweets from them:

1. Always remember to close all parentheses. We're not paying to air condition the entire paragraph.
2. Do you hate your readers? Put asterisks in your stories that don't lead to any footnotes.
3. Spell out the words "less than three" to avoid confusion with things you totally heart.
4. Do not place a newspaper's name in quotes unless they have switched to exclusively publishing online.

Today, @FakeAPStylebook held a contest to win its new book Write More Good, which I will definitely read at some point in the future. In order to win, entrants had to submit a question. I took that to mean a funny grammar question, but I think they chose the winners based on which questions they could think of a funny retort for. At least that's what I'm telling myself because mine were too good not to be chosen. Obviously, someone who riffs on grammar for so long that his friend threatens to leave unless he changes the subject* deserves this prize.

**

* This story is true. Also, this asterisk led to somewhere because I love you, dear reader.
** The Bieber rule is something I legitimately had to teach myself after misspelling it "Beiber" multiple times in a pop culture article I wrote.

My Dad Is All That and a Bag of Chips

I just found out that my dad is competing in a triathlon in a few months.

This news concerns me for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it sounds daunting; I don't want my dad getting hurt. Secondly, this makes me look bad. I have to berate myself for an hour just to get myself to jog for fifteen minutes, and here my dad is going to swim a mile, bike twenty-five, and then run six. Show off.

He bikes and runs, so the only part he is worried about is the swimming. He's not an experienced swimmer, and since swimming is the first leg, it could take him out of the triathlon before he even really gets going. Consequently, he's been practicing in a local pool. Immediately after his first training session, he weighed himself and found that he had gained five pounds - that's how much water he swallowed.

My dad's going to have to learn how not to drink the water because, not only will it slow him down, but he's going to be swimming the race in the Hudson River. The Hudson River is so unhygienic that dead bodies request not to be tossed in there. I know that swimming is usually listed with hugging and sharing a toilet on "Things You Can't Get AIDS from Doing," but I'm pretty sure no one has put that theory to the test in the Hudson River. No one is stupid enough to volunteer.

He heard a statistic that stated, because of the current, a bag of Doritos can float a mile down the Hudson River in just under half an hour. I can't find this figure online, but I don't doubt it's validity since I'm sure Doritos bags are just some of millions of pieces of trash bobbing in that river.

Now my dad's motto has been "I can beat a bag of Doritos." Unfortunately, in all his practicing at the pool, he has yet to swim faster than his hypothetical snack food opponent. He hasn't given up, however. Instead he plans to buy a bag of Doritos to put in his office to keep him motivated. If I were in his shoes, I think I'd just eat the bag of Doritos to show it who's boss, but that's probably why I'm not competing in a triathlon.

A Victim of Outsourcing

I lost some of my hours at a job I have due to outsourcing. A higher-up decided he could save money by having people in India write the content that Americans had been writing more cheaply. As it's been described to me, there is a "farm of Indian doctors and scientists" who can write knowledgeably on health topics.

Some of my hours rebounded, however, when it was soon discovered that the Indians' articles were not usable as submitted. They were clearly scientifically smart, but their writing is not friendly to American readers. It then became part of my job to edit these pieces for grammar and clarity; the site aims to break down complicated issues to a mass audience, and these well-educated, non-native speakers just don't often communicate the information in the manner desired.

So now I bill hours to fact check and rewrite pieces that were previously completed competently by American writers. I've tried to point out that this process is neither more efficient nor less expensive than before, but if there's one thing I've learned about the business world it's that people love tossing practicality aside to spend lots of money on finding a way to save a little bit of money. Quick, somebody give me an honorary MBA.

The biggest problem with the Indian writers is just their unfamiliarity with American vernacular. They'll use fourteen medical words to describe what I'll ultimately realize is a "heart attack" rather than using the simple phrase. They'll describe passages of time in "fortnights." They'll say that rats "ate the food with relish"... and just when I wonder why scientists put relish on rat pellets, I'll realize that they meant to say that the rats were enjoying their meal. It's not that it's wrong, it's just that it's not right.

My boss was out of the office this week, so I was asked to give a final examination of some of the latest Indian articles. Amidst the usual errors was an article about the health benefits of rape. Yes, you read that correctly. First I was shocked, and then I couldn't make sense of the article. It said things like rape being high in antioxidants and a good source of carbohydrates.

It turns out the Indians weren't actually wrong. After a little research, I learned that rape is a kind of edible plant. (If you Google "rape vegetable," one of the top results is this tactful article "Is It Rape If She's a Vegetable?) However, the fact that they never bothered to explain that rape is a plant is problematic, especially when the majority of Americans would look at that and think "awful sex crime."

I have no doubt the site would love a link from Gawker, but I don't think they want it because of what would have been the world's worst headline had I approved the working title: "The Nutritional Potential of Rape."

UConn Wins

UConn won the NCAA basketball tournament last night.

That news would normally be followed by an exclamation point or four, but it's hard to muster the enthusiasm with everyone talking shit about the game.

My two favorite teams, UConn and Butler, made the finals. This conclusion is unprecedented in the life of sports-watching Kevin, especially since I tend to root for the underdogs. To be fair, both of these teams were underdogs coming into the tournament, but proved their talent and determination.

I'm not going to pretend the game was a pretty one, but I'm also not going to agree with the hoards of sports pundits who call it the worst/ugliest championship game in all of sports. It was still a hard-fought game, and if it had occurred at any point prior to the final game, it wouldn't have blemished the accomplishments. However, since it ended on a strange note, many keep commenting that the title deserves an asterisk.

To that, I say PHOOEY. All y'all are just jealous that UConn refused to lose whenever it counted. Connecticutians don't have much - don't take our college basketball from us, too! You may have managed to take the excitement from me, but you won't succeed at making me sad. You see, I can't feel sad because I'm already indifferent.

That's right, I'm indifferent. I'm not about to let sports make me feel bad. Fanaticism is stupid anyway. I was in for the excitement, but I'm not up for getting upset about something as trivial as a sports game. If you want to keep shitting on UConn's win, that's on you, but I'm going to go back to not caring about sports again for a while... at least until I forget why I developed that stance in the first place.

Meeting the Amish

Though I already blogged about my friends and I drunkenly running around the Venice boardwalk dressed as homesteaders on the Oregon Trail, I left out one of the funniest anecdotes.

Our costumes were awesome collectively, but when we split into smaller groups, without the covered wagon visual cue, strangers mistook us for cowboys, Pilgrims, and Mormons.

When Clare, Allison, and Jonelle wandered away to find a bathroom, they ran into a couple of men working security on a golf cart. In an area dominated by bathing suits and designer t-shirts, the men were confused by the ladies' outfits. They asked whether the girls were Amish, and, deciding to have some fun, the girls said that they were.

"What is this, your rumspringa?" one man asked. Rumspringa is the rite of passage in which Amish young adults go experience mainstream life before deciding whether to commit to the religious lifestyle permanently. Either the guy knew that Amish people don't normally frequent Southern California beaches or noticed that the gals were intoxicated and must be taking a break from their strict rules.

Again, the ladies played along with the rumspringa idea, prompting Allison to pretend that she was unfamiliar with golf carts, so they happily showed her how it worked and let her sit on it, before asking to take pictures with the girls. Amish people aren't supposed to pose for photographs, but I guess all bets are off on phony rumspringas.

What's most hilarious to me is that these guys were smart enough to be familiar with something as obscure as rumspringa, yet dumb enough to believe that drunk girls, one of whom is black, wearing cardboard bonnets and touting an I-phone were actually Amish. Regardless, I'm sure they'll get just as much pleasure telling their friends about the day they met Amish chicks on the beach as I get from telling this story about them.

Happy April Assholes' Day!

Not familiar with this holiday? Well, it's the day after April Fools' Day when people who play tricks on their friends are once again called what they truly are: assholes. Look out, assholes, there's no longer a playful day of mayhem to hide behind.

If you want to fool a friend today but resent being called an asshole, you could always try to insist that it's actually April Procrastinators' Day. Doing that, however, just makes you an even bigger asshole, so good luck with that... you asshole.

Fool Me, Fool Me

To everyone who keeps writing "April Fool's Day" instead of "April Fools' Day"... it's called a plural possessive. If there's just one fool, then clearly it's you.

Really, though, I've found that the only fool is the one trying to play the tricks. I was an April First prankster as a kid, but even when the jokes were successful, the burden always wound up on me. I turned the clocks forward and had to go wait out at the bus stop way early. I put ink on the telephone receiver and then had to scrub it off. I placed a bucket of water on top of a door and ended up soaked myself. I wrapped cellophane around the toilet, then had to clean up after my sibling peed on the floor instead.

So I'm over it! No more "fooling" for this guy. The only fooling I'll consent to is of the "Lovefool" variety. Can we all agree that this Cardigans classic is one of the best songs ever?



The dance beat is simple, but superbly distinctive; I'm shocked that I haven't heard a hip-hop artist sample it yet. I remember requesting it at a bar mitzvah reception, and feeling like a champ as my fellow thirteen-year-olds shook with all their might. Even now when I perform it at karaoke occasionally, my favorite part is that within the first three seconds there's always a screech of excitement and recognition as people rush for the dance floor.

In college, I had a MIDI version of "Lovefool" for my cellphone ringtone, which was simultaneously hilarious and awful and hilarious. I miss it, so in honor of the holiday, I'm going to find a crappy instrumental version of this song to be my ringtone all over again. When I can't figure out how to change it back in a few days, I'm sure that, again, the prank will be on me, but being stuck with "Lovefool" as my ringtone is hardly a bad thing. In fact, you'd be a fool not to do it.