Who I'll Marry

Because I am single, it would appear that I have a conglomeration of options to pick whomsoever I wanted to date. I like to think of myself as a nice catch, so finding a member of the opposite sex who semi-tolerates me shouldn't be too difficult, right? Well... whatever the case may be, I remain single. It could be because I'm shooting too high. You can decide for yourself, for here are the top three women I'm holding out for with hopes of marrying them.

1) Zooey Deschenel

A lot to like here. She's beautiful, she's witty, and she's got (in my honest opinion) a really sexy voice. She currently sings in a two person group known as "She and Him". If you need proof that angels exist, just listen to one of her songs. Or check out this clip from behind the scenes on CONAN:

Hell... yes. If she could meld her character's personalities from ELF and 500 days of Summer, then that's the perfect girl for me. Also, I'm sure her child bearing hips will be sure to give me a fit, masculine child. I don't want to plan too far ahead. Just giving myself something to shoot for (pun intended...?)

2) Taylor Swift

I first started paying attention to T. Swift when I heard Love Story for the first time. First of all, great song. Second of all: How can you not like a girl who has big enough balls to change the ending of William Shakespeare's classic tragedy? That's like changing the ending of the Titanic so that instead of hitting an iceberg and sinking, everybody lands safely and eats pie at a carnival. Point made.

She's also pretty damn cute and although I wouldn't classify her looks as "hot", she is definitely beautiful. Taylor Swift, if you're reading this, you should probably consider a life of happiness with yours truly. I'll give you plenty of great inspiration for love songs. Also, I want you to read me a bedtime story as I fall asleep. Just saying.

3) Mrs. Carlson

Every boy has a crush on a certain teacher as they're growing up. For me, it was the darling woman who taught me in pre-school. Ahh yes... I had a huge crush on the woman who taught me to keep my mouth away from that plate of glitter and glue. Sure, she was too old for me back then... and yes, the last time I saw her was 18 years ago, but that doesn't mean I should give up hope. Although I can't remember what she looked like, I'm sure she was pure beauty personified. I only go for the hot danes.

* It should be noted that this picture is not of Mrs. Carlson. But who knows, it could be...

There you have it, ladies. If you're one of those three, do not hesitate to phone me directly. I am ready and willing.

Tats

I’ve occasionally entertained the idea of getting a tattoo. It’s a short-lived debate because I’m too much of a pre-pubescent girl to actually go through with it. A tattoo is sort of like a bumper sticker: something you get for yourself, but it also serves as a badge to show off to all around you. It’s also stuck there forever. We’ve all seen those cars with bumper stickers for something that’s completely out of date. Ones like, “Ross Perot for President”, or “I Heart Women Suffrage”. Sorry to tell you but these aren’t really relevant today. Yet, there they sit on your tired vehicle. If you try to remove ‘em you can never quite get it all. Every person approaches an outdated bumper sticker the same way:

"Okay. All I have to do is pull up on this one protruding corner. Look sticker… my track record of removing you cleanly is spotty at best. But this time it’s going to be different. Today is the day that I get ALL of you. I can see your weaknesses clearly now. OK, world… await my victory!

(riiiiiip) “Shit! It happened again! Okay, this isn’t terrible. I think I got a third of it off now. Just gotta dig under it a little more… and… I’ll… have it. . . (riiiiiiiiip) Shit! It’s ok. Keep your calm, Tim. Everything will work out in the end. Half… way… there.” . . (Riiii Riiiiiii Riiiiiiiiiiip Rip)

“HA!! HA HAAA! VICTORY! You were a stubborn little bastard but I got you now. I laugh in your pathetic little sticky face. HA HA HA.--- Now what the hell is this sticky residue you left behind? “

Truth be told, you can never remove a bad bumper sticker completely. Tattoos are permanent in the same way. Sure, you may be able to get them removed somewhere down the road, but who in their right mind wants to be left with a sticky residue (or in this case: sticky residue = a puss filled skin sac).

Going hand-in-hand with a tattoo is tattoo regret. All kinds of thoughts fly through your brain. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten my dogs name tattooed on my scalp.” Or, “Maybe it isn’t the brightest idea to tattoo my bank account under my wrist watch”. Twenty years from now I don’t want to be staring at my kickass Blue’s Clue’s tat seeing the word, “loser”, instead of an innocent blue paw print. That and the fact that having a plethora of kids pointing at my leg shouting, “A CLUE! A CLUE!” is plain creepy.

There’s a long list of things that I’m afraid of. It’s a list so extensive that it rivals anything that Schindler could ever dream of compiling. Tattoo regret makes that list. BUT!.... here is my proposal for a totally awesome tattoo that would make everyone around you jealous. This idea was born from the fact that if I were to tattoo my body, I would want something Irish. I’ve thought about a Celtic cross, an Irish flag, or hell, maybe even a box of Lucky Charms cereal- all amateur compared to what I came up with:

Ready for this? Located on your left wrist is a tattoo of a leprechaun. Travelling up your entire arm to your shoulder is a rainbow. This rainbow continues the entire way across your chest until it reaches your other shoulder, then travels down your right arm. Waiting at your right wrist will be a tattoo of a pot of gold. BOOM! Genius, I know.

Upon telling this to a co-worker, I was notified that it “sounded sort of gay”. That person is a fool. What, it’s gay just because there’s a rainbow involved!? Screw that. I have zero problems with gay people, but who do they think they are for hijacking the rainbow and making it theirs? They had no right to do that. Rainbow’s are totally badass, right? Gay people need to seriously consider a different symbol. Richard Simmons could be a possibility.

FREE THE RAINBOW!

Scars... Sexy, right?

Chicks dig scars. At least that's what I've heard. If you ask me, I don't particularly understand the obsession. Are girls really sitting around going, "Tommy has a nice body, but ya know what... it's really missing some sort of disfigurement to make it a GREAT body!" ? If they are (they are), there are some serious fetish problems prevalent in todays youth (there are). After all, R & B singer Seal has it working for him.

Ladies, you're in luck... for concealed beneath my polyester exterior lie not one, but two scars! Woooo two for the price of one! Driving you wild, isn't it? They are located flush on my hairless, egg white, chest. By now, you're no doubt wondering how it was that I obtained such manly medallions. Before I continue, I must warn you that some of these details are disturbing. Continue reading at your own risk... for the manner in which I obtained these scars may shock you. I guarantee, you're opinion on me will change by the end of reading this (it won't).

SCAR NUMBER ONE

I must have been no older than six or seven. Each and every summer, my family would vacation in Cape Cod at our families getaway house. Located in my bedroom sat an antique rocking horse. Made of wood and standing about four feet by two feet, this rocking horse was a cornerstone of the bedroom. When I was little, I would delight in spending countless hours (minutes) on this horse. But now I was six (or seven) and the horse was too small for me. Instead of climbing on top of it, I melancholically pushed the empty apparatus from the front. I would start out slow, then increase the rate and speed at which I pushed and shoved. That was until it kicked back. The tip of the nose caught my flat chest square, and out poured blood. Before you knew it there was a pool of blood all over the carpet. I would eventually pass out from losing so much blood only to awake at Cape Cod General Hospital -----

Okay, okay... that really isn't true. I tried to juice that up a bit for ratings... and sympathy. Truth is, there wasn't too much blood at all... but there was a gash (more of a scrape, really). In actuality, it really didn't hurt. Yet, to this day there remains a one inch scar from this fateful incident. (Remember... I warned you to stop reading).

SCAR NUMBER TWO

I... am... ticklish. Very ticklish actually. This has been a constant struggle for my entire life. Take doctor visits for example: When my doctor had to do that test where they lays hands on your abdomen, I would be giggling like a little girl. It was embarrassing. Every time... giggles. Not very manly whatsoever.

As soon as anyone got their hands (no pun intended) on this piece of information, they would not hesitate to use it. I was tickle fodder. An old girlfriend (as in ex, not elderly) used to abuse this knowledge constantly. I would be doubled over on the floor, laughing hysterically, trying to gasp a breath, while praying that it would soon be over. The tickling got so severe that at one point, I obtained a nice scratch on my chest, located kiddie corner to my rocking horse scar. It bled a little... and it hurt... but this girl just kept on scratching me to death. All the while, there I lay, laughing hysterically at my pain. Needless to say this was not a proud moment in the life of me.

There you have it. My two scars: one from a rocking horse. The other from a fight of tickles. Manly, right? No? It would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

:)

My Morning

This morning I had a homeless man dance up to me.

Before I launch into my story of this homely looking individual, let me provide some background information. NOTE: Ironic that homeless people look homely.

For five days a week, my day job requires me to be a Mike Rowe wannabe.

Job title: Fire Extinguisher Technician

Employer: Moore Fire Equipment

Location: The ghetto (Hood would also be acceptable)

Usually, when explaining my job to an interested party, I receive a plethora of confused looks and follow-up questions. When I said that I'm a Mike Rowe wannabe, I meant it. This is because, depending on the day, my work can take me to places I've never been before. Places like this for example:

I work at the family business started by my grandfather. We service, inspect, and sell fire extinguishers for both commercial and private facilities. We also install fire suppression systems in restaurant kitchens. If you ever want to know how clean a restaurant's kitchen is, I'm the guy to ask. (Hint- Don't eat Chinese!) Regardless of where I am on a given day, the work usually incorporates some kind of back-breaking labor. I swear I haven't had smooth or clean hands in over a year. When the job doesn't take us on the road, you can find us working in our shop (located in the gut of Albany. AKA The ghetto).

It goes without saying that the business is located in a rough patch of the city. There have been shootings down the street, stabbings around the block, vandalism on vacant buildings (to which there are several), and enough littering to overwork a Wall-E machine. Case in point, just a few weeks ago, two of our car windows were shot out by BB's:

Check around the nearest corner, and chances are you'll find at least one transient wanderer; most making you extremely uncomfortable at the slightest bit of eye contact. Now to my story:

My morning started just like any other:

-Got to work around 8

-Made Coffee

-Opened garage door to vent the humid shop air out into the wild

-Set up workbench

-Watched a homeless man do jumping jacks-----Hold on, what?

Before the Susanne Summers workout session began, I made a key flaw that drew this man's attention: I made eye contact. All of a sudden, his direction of travel shifted from the sidewalk to our shop's driveway. He then told me to watch what he was doing. Now... inside my head I had already begun saying a "Hail Mary" while I simultaneously scanned the area for the most accessible device to use as a weapon.

Instead of attacking me, the homeless man (dressed in a pink Yankee's jersey nonetheless) began doing jumping jacks in our driveway. He mumbled for the most part but some of what he said was clearly audible:

"This is how you to it bro. This is how it's done. I do this everyday."

Not knowing what to say, my brain just spit out, "Oh. What are you doing, exactly?"

Still flailing his arms and legs about, he replied, "I'm just living life. I do this everyday. I jog in place five miles everyday. This is living. This is the life."

That's right. He jogs five miles a day... in place. So....... he's pretty much a human treadmill. The poor man's treadmill, if you will.

After advising me on living life to the fullest, he proceeded to meander closer to me. The uncomfortable feeling inside of me increased at this point. Instead of approaching me directly, he veered off to some nearby pine bushes. "This is what it's all about," he said. He then took a branch in his hand and breathed in heavy through his nose. Now, I could be wrong, but what I think he was trying to convey was that you have to stop and smell the roses. Only, with no rose bushes located anywhere on the block, he decided a plain pine bush would suffice. However odd his gesture was, his message was clear. A few more lines of dialogue were spoken. He filled me in on how he doesn't understand why people stare at him while he does this all day long. Hmm... I didn't really have an answer for that one.

Eventually he sauntered off never to be seen again. As I went back to work, all I could think about was his odd display of wisdom. "Stop and smell the roses", I thought. Wise words to live by. In today's world, we're all moving a thousand miles an hour to get as much done as we can. In our cars... on the street.... at our jobs... it seems we're always in a hurry. The bottom line: Instead of running all over the place, why not jog right where we stand? We might notice a thing or two about our surroundings that we never took in before... Some new appreciation for life that wasn't there before. Sometimes, we need to take time to stop and smell the roses. That's the lesson I learned from my homeless fortune cookie of a friend.

(Side note: After he left I swiftly closed the garage door to avoid any more contact)

:)

Rant

The world is going to shit.

"Why, Tim... what makes you say such a thing?"

Let me explain.

This has zilch to do with the ever-staggering economy. Nor does it relate to Iran or North Korea furthering their agenda to destroy the world. It doesn't even pertain to terrorists, NYC mosques, rabid dogs, little old ladies trying to cross the street, or gender confused cuttlefish. No, my friends. What I have in mind is far worse than all of these factors combined.

Jersey Shore's "the situation" is making five million dollars this season.

FIVE MILLION DOLLARS!!!!!

I shit you not.

Gee... I wish I could make a cool five mil by being a morally reprehensible, stereotyping scumbag. Take a look around ladies and gents. This is the world we live in. A world where thousands of American businesses are struggling to keep up their payroll while giant douches like "The Situation" stand to get fat.

Evidently, he goes by this name because his abs are actually what "the situation" refers to. What.... a..... jackass. I have a name for my abs too. I call them the Tyrannosaurus Rex... because much like the T-rex, they are extinct. All right Mr. TV Producer, can I have my check now?

It's not just "The Situation". It's everything about that show. Snookie looks like something mothers threaten their kids with when their acting up. "Kids, if you don't behave the Snookie will come eat you." Then she pulls out a picture of what the monster looks like, and the children promptly jump out the nearest window.

Then there's Pauly D; a guy who must have gone to the barber after watching a marathon of the movie "Eraserhead".

*Which is which???

Honestly, do girls go for the "troll doll that just got dropped in the toilet" look? If so, I'm in for a lonely life.

In the end, I really don't care that these people are walking stereotypes capable of offending every race, creed, and code. That's not the part that bothers me. It's the fact that they are, indeed, members of the human race. You see, I'm a big fan of the human race. Every living person has substantial potential to make the world a better place to live in. Yes, every so often a bad egg comes along and wants global domination. And yes, some decide to hack up their family members because they heard a voice in their head forcing their hand. But people for the most part are inherently well intentioned. Annnnnnd then there's the Jersey Shore crew.

We're screwed.

Waldo: I hardly knew ye.

Growing up, I had a vast collection of "Where's Waldo" books. This was my home school version of Geography class. It would later lead to problems in school when my teacher asked me to find the state of Wisconsin on a map. After exhausting my search I gave up, citing the fact that although one state looked like it had the red and white colored hat, it lacked the glasses. Another day, another F on the report card. That teacher just didn't understand the cultural phenomenon that is Waldo. I couldn't recognize my own country on a map, but man was I good at picking out an odd looking man in a crowd of people.

Waldo really was an odd looking individual. Close your eyes and it doesn't take long to picture a slightly homosexual looking Jeff Goldblum decked out in red/white stripes and sporting a pair of glasses. What kind of fashion sense does this guy have? But it wasn't just Waldo. On every page there were crowds of people wearing eerily similar outfits. Waldo "impersonators" if you will. They were solely responsible for throwing you off the trail, making you think you found Waldo, only to make you look foolish when it was revealed that you still had searching to do. In other words, these guys were dicks. Some would wear larger hats with the same colored stripes. Others would wear striped overcoats. And others still wore glasses with square rims instead of the traditional circular optics. Waldo must have had a lot of sway in this society to be able to influence that many people. (Coming soon: Queer Eye for the Waldo Guy) And am I the only one who's concerned about the cane? Why is he handicapped at such a young age? Is it a bone deficiency? Does he walk with a limp? Dear Waldo creator, please write an origin story. Thanks.

In each and every Waldo book, the objective was simple: find Waldo. Perhaps I'm in the minority of people who desperately wanted to know why. Why should I find Waldo? What the hell did he do to merit this kind of investigation? To me, it always felt like Waldo was just trying to get away for a while. We all need a vacation, don't we? Instead, no matter where he went, there were thousands of probing eyes waiting to shout out his name. "Ooh let's go to a medieval castle" -FOUND. "How about a middle eastern marketplace" -FOUND. "A glacier in the south pole?" -FOUND. Poor Waldo just couldn't catch a break. You don't need to ask a celebrity what it's like being constantly bombarded by the paparazzi day in and day out; just ask Waldo. Angelina Jolie ain't got nothing on him.

Still, I kept looking for Waldo and pondering these sorts of questions. What did Waldo do for a career? He must have been massively successful in order to afford all of the trips he took. I like to assume he was a playboy billionaire. His parents made their fortune as oil tycoons, but due to a fatal car accident, he was left with their fortune. Now, in order to grieve with his loss, Waldo travels the globe in search of solidarity. I think that would make a good movie.

There could also be a deeper meaning to these books, aside from just killing time and enteraining your children with A.D.D.. Perhaps the Waldo books serve as a cautionary tale for the future. Something every setting has in common is that they are all severely overcrowded. Just take a look at this picture:

See? There are wayyyyyy too many people in one area. Where the hell are they? Every place can't be Disney World on the fourth of July. It appears in this image they're selling vacuum cleaners in one area and boots in another.... WHAT!?!? This many people for boots??!! As you can see, not many people are even buying these items. There's no identifiable line anywere. Everybody is just standing in the way. If only they would move, I could warn Waldo: "WALDO, GET OUT! THEY'RE REALLY SHITTY LOOKING VACUUM CLEANERS. YOU'RE WASTING YOUR ENTIRE SATURDAY! NOOO!"

Another movie idea: A wacky school teacher named Waldo has just killed one of his students who always spoke out in class. Scared and on the run, he seeks refuge across the globe. Due to his increasingly growing popularity and influence, he convinces droves of people to wear disguises to throw off the cops. Will they find him and bring him to justice? It's up to you, dear viewer, to ask yourself this question, "Will you find Waldo?".

Hollywood, I'll be in touch.

These are just things I ponder sometimes...

Duck.... Duck..... Duck!

I miss playing Duck, Duck, Goose.

Ahh those were the good old days. A time when we would all be content just sitting around a circle tapping each other on the head. They were simpler times indeed. Times when a game of tag could occupy three hours of every day and give you a great nights sleep every night. Sometimes I try to relive these days by going out on the street and touching people at random while notifying them that they are indeed "it". Results haven't been positive thus far, and have resulted in numerous restraining orders and psychiatric appointments. However, I have now built up an immunity to pepper spray so it's not all bad.

There should be nothing wrong with a group of twenty-somethings all getting together to compete in these activities again. The next time somebody asks you to help fill out a game of basketball or football, notify them that you applaud their leadership but would much rather engage in a rousing game of tunnel tag! The look they give you is one only reserved for us true revolutionaries.

Duck, Duck, Goose was also a fantastic sport (yes, a sport. It's coming to the olympics soon). This was a game that taught kids at an early age how exclusionary it is to be a goose. Nobody wants to be a goose. We all want to be ducks. If someone calls you out as being a goose you have to defend yourself by tackling them as quickly as possible, thus proving that you are way more duck than they could ever be. Tip: If there's a girl you have a crush on, make sure you make her the goose every single time. You'll revel in the time you get to spend grabbing for each other.

Why bring this up now, you ask? Well it just so happens that I saw a pack of ducks swimming today as a tight-nit group. Off in the distance on the lake, a goose. A smart, yet cautionary game this Duck, Duck, Goose turned out to be. So what did I do with this pack of happy looking ducks? I fed them bits of bread of course. The goose got nothing. Just as well. Have you ever tried approaching a goose? They hate humans... and I think they're plotting something sinister. We've tried to appease them by allowing them to have their own brand of vodka, what else could they possibly want? Keep a keen eye, that's all I'm saying.

Also, I just want to say that feeding the ducks brought a certain level of glee to my heart. It really is enjoyable knowing that you helped some kind of creature gain some sustenance for the day. This will probably make me a good candidate for fatherhood. Some day I will have little ones relying on me to be fed. And when that day comes, I will place them gingerly in the tub and start throwing bread crumbs at them. Ahh, I can't wait for that day to be here.