Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Cat's Meow





Those of you who know me are aware that I live by myself and that I tend to prefer it that way. It gives me the freedom to fart and sing freely without having to be concerned for the safety of others and watch Armageddon as many times as I want in my underwear. But this week I have a new house guest who by some miracle not only is hairier than me but also cares even less about where he poops.

That's right, I am currently living with a cat. His name is Chewie, which I'm assuming is because where you might see my mangled, bloody toes and think, “Ewww,” he thinks, “Mmm lil' smokies!”

Chewie is actually not my cat, but I'm watching him for a little while. Why would I agree to that? Well let's just say his owner may or may not have a cellphone video involving shots of tequila, a mechanical bull and one too many Y chromosomes.

Actually in all seriousness I love cats, so for me this is awesome. A relationship with no long term strings attached! And he can't talk back to me! Plus my cat back home is named Chewy so it's like a little piece of home that follows me around and tries to gnaw off what is left of my toenail.

Now, this is not the first time I've watched this particular cat, so when he came over this time he immediately made himself comfortable. A friend was sleeping over on the couch, and upon noticing this, Chewie jumped up onto my bed, stomped around on my crotch and then gave me a very stern look as if to say, “Hey man, there is some weirdo sleeping on my couch.”

Now like I said I grew up with cats, so none of this is new to me. In fact, we've even settled into a routine.
To demonstrate, let me tell you a story called: 

“Chewie and Mitchell Wake Up in the Morning”

Since his internal clock is apparently in sync with London standard time, at 4 a.m. Chewie decides it is time to wake up and embrace the day from his sleeping perch right above Mitchell's head. Unfortunately, his idiot bunkmate is still sleeping. So after some extensive stretching involving claws, he decides it is time to wake Mitchell up. 

Chewie begins this lengthy process my placing both his paws on Mitchell's face and and nudging in much the same way you might check to see if a person were still alive after drinking an entire bottle of tequila. When that doesn't work, he then begins to shove his mouth in your nose, which seems cute until you remember where his mouth has been.

Awesome, Mitchell is up! That means he can play! This of course means that Chewie can go the living room to retrieve his favorite toy in the world, which is a two-foot long piece of yellow string. But what's this? Mitchell has gone back to sleep! This is unacceptable, and so Chewie will jump onto Mitchell's chest and continue to nudge Mitchell in the face while holding the string in his mouth.

At this point, Mitchell has a cat sitting on his chest and cannot breathe so is forced to wake up. Mitchell then throws the string so Chewie can fetch it, which of course causes him to go skidding across the wooden floor like a drunken Apolo Ohno. (If you have never seen cats on wooden floors, it is literally the most entertaining thing in the world.)

At this point Mitchell tries to walk to the bathroom to fix his hair, which as a result of having a cat sleeping up against it all night, looks like soemthing from an episode of Dragon Ball Z. Unfortunately it is still dark, and Chewie happens to be a black cat who at the moment is weaving in and out of Mitchell's legs with a string. What happens next looks something like this.

Now that Mitchell is lying on the floor tangled up worse than a dolphin in a Japanese tuna net, it's time for Chewie's favorite part of the morning: watching the toilet flush. Seriously, I have never seen any living creature so enamored with running water. He spends more time with his face in a toilet bowl than the Olsen twins.

But enough with with that, it's time to eat! And sure, cat food is great, but that breakfast burrito Mitchell has looks waaay better. So while Mitchell isn't looking, Chewie jumps up on his lap and sticks the face he just had in the toilet bowl into the burrito! But Chewie decides he doesn't want it after all, and judging by how Mitchell is now looking at the burrito he must not want it either.

Now, frankly it's been an exhausting 15 minutes for Chewie what with all that running around, so it is time to take another nap. And where better to take a nap than on Mitchell's work shoes! Of course Mitchell lifts me up and takes the shoes out from under Chewie as he goes to work. Sometimes humans are so inconsiderate of other people's rest...

Monday, October 1, 2012

All the Wrong Calls

So it's obviously been a while since I wrote on this site, but frankly if you've missed it then you have bigger issues to deal with. And besides, it wasn't because I'm a lazy, unmotivated slouch. OK, maybe it's a little bit of that, but it's mainly because I, inspired by the NFL referees, have been on strike.

Why am I on strike you ask, especially considering this is not a job and even if it were I would be my own boss and I don't get paid? Because it's the American thing to do goshdarnit and I am nothing if not a patriot.

Never the less, another strike of almost equal importance has required me to come back and resume writing for all five of you out there who stumble upon these articles while Googling ways to get out of jury duty using well-placed deposits of bodily fluids. Besides, my replacement column writer, Tim Tebow, wasn't exactly getting the job done. I know he said he was willing to fill any role to help me out since he wasn't exactly busy with the New York Jets, but his writing left a lot to be desired:



Yes, OK I get it Timmy, now stop eating your crayons. So I'm back and this weekend also marked the first weekend the real NFL referees, who had been on strike for the first few weeks of the season. Unfortunately, the NFL referees brought in to replace them were not exactly qualified. I mean, one of them got fired as a referee for the Lingerie Football League. I really hope it was for giggling while calling “illegal touching,” on one of the models.

So needless to say, these replacement refs struggled. Refereeing in the NFL requires poise under pressure, quick reaction and at least a basic understanding of how football actually works. The replacement refs were slow with calls, they missed penalties, they let fights get out of control and I'm pretty sure at one point tried to call double-dribbling on a running back before declaring that he had in fact cleared the puck from the fairway.

The final straw came on Monday Night Football, with the Green Bay Packers playing the Seattle Seahawks. On the final play of the game, a Seahawks receiver – in what may have been offensive pass interference – shoved his defender out of the way then shot him with an AK-47 and stabbed him with a prison shank to try and get open. The defender still managed to catch the ball, but by virtue of being in the same area code as the football, the ref gave possession to the Seattle receiver, allowing them to win the game.

Needless to say the outcry began almost immediately. People who wouldn't know the difference between a wide receiver screen and a Broadway showing of Moulin Rouge were up in arms. Players were up in arms, fans were considering boycotting, and Donald Trump accused NFL commissioner Roger Goodell of being born in Nairobi.

Luckily within the next few days the NFL and the referees decided to end the strike. They said something about reaching a fair number, but I'm still Ed Hochuli just started bench pressing his opponents into submission. Just like that, the referees were back out on the field being showered with applause just minutes before fans started raining venomous vitriol back on them for "Oh come on ref that was CLEARLY HOLDING!"

Sorry, I got a little caught up there. Anyway, when this is all said and done and the replacement refs are back to calling powderpuff sorority games and working at Footlocker, I think we will all have learned a valuable lesson. We should never take what we have for granted, because we never truly miss something until we lose it. After all, in a time when our country is more divided than ever, Americans were able to set aside their differences, stand hand in hand, and - in a true show of unity and togetherness - chant "Buls**t on national TV so loud the English could hear it. I love America.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Movin' Out


So after three years, on Sunday I moved out of the apartment complex where I have lived for the past three years. Now, I don' t mean to point fingers, but as in the breakup of any long-term relationship, someone is at fault. In this case it is my apartment complex.

Sure it was a nice enough place, but they were hiking up rent as if my unit was sitting on the last oil deposit in the western hemisphere. Plus they were kicking me out two days earlier than they initially told me, which meant all my arrangements with the moving company held as much water as a pasta strainer.

Now, making meat-headed jocks like the ones who made fun of me in high school carry boxes of my underwear wasn't the only reason I wanted to hire a moving company. Due to the early end of my lease, I will actually need to move things twice, and moving is the third most miserable activity ever after prostate exams and watching “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.”

And so for the past few weeks I had been preparing for the move, which for me means clearing out my fridge by eating and drinking everything in there. I was thinking of getting this app that tells you what to make with the things in your fridge, but I figured that was a waste of time since all I normally have in my fridge is beer.

Anyway once I drank all the beer (that took about three hours), I needed to recruit muscle. Getting people to help you move has been one of the hardest tasks since the dawn of man, and I’m almost positive it’s the reason nomads settled down and started society. It was just too much effort to move things, especially back then when they didn’t have six-packs of beer to trade off, as our long-lost cavemen Wog and Oog demonstrate.

Wog: “Hey man, my woman kicked me out of the cave. Think you could help me move some stuff?”
Oog: “I don’t know man, I’m pretty busy with…  uh, stuff.”
Wog: “C’mon, I’ve only got a bunch of clubs and loin cloths.”
Oog: “Yeah, but the Olympics are on. Bruce Jenner’s original face will be making an appearance.”

The only good thing about the move is that I loved driving the U-Haul around. It may have had the turning radius of the Titanic and the stopping time of a greasy fish on a slip-and-slide, but there is nothing more exhilarating than rumbling along the road in a two-ton hunk of steel. I especially enjoyed driving it in Boulder, which is ripe with bikers and Subarus that I was very tempted to run over and toss in the cargo space.

But I resisted because I needed that space for my stuff. Luckily I had very little in the way of worldly possessions, because as a Buddhist I believe attachment to material things only leads to suffering. Also I am a cheap bastard. Most of my things I threw away because it was all stuff I had I either stole, borrowed, got for free, or picked up off the side of the road. And that’s just my cutlery.

Anyway, once I cleared out all the wristbands and taxi cab and chicken wing receipts from under my bed I was done. After sticking a rotten fish and an angry raccoon in my bathroom to show the apartment managers there were no hard feelings, we set off for the storage unit.

Now, when I rented the U-Haul, they gave me a discounted storage unit that they said was “just outside of Boulder.” Unfortunately, the storage unit was no more “just outside of Boulder” than New York City is “just outside of North Korea.” I was certain that at one point we were in Kansas, driving along with our U-Haul truck across the Midwest like the modern-day Joad family. Also, for some reason the U-Haul radio played “Call Me Maybe” at least six times.

When we finally got to the storage unit, we were – geographically speaking – in the middle of nowhere. At that point I could have just tossed my crap on the ground rather than lock it up in a unit because the odds anyone would find it out there were low.

And once we met the guy in charge of the storage facility we wished we had just done that. To say he was as stupid as a cow would frankly be an insult to cows. It literally took him 30 minutes to process a form that had three lines on it, two of which were the time and date. Anytime he had to perform a new task, you could literally see his brain shut down and reboot.

Somehow he eventually managed to find the right color crayons to file the paperwork or whatever and we unloaded my stuff and got the hell out of there, with “Call Me Maybe” playing the whole way. It took longer than I had planned, but I was comforted by the fact that when we got back, a group of women in my apartment complex who had arrived in a U-Haul at the same time as us were still there four hours later still apparently trying to figure out how to open the cargo door.

All this gave me an idea, as usual, for a get-rich quick business. I am going to start a moving company called “Haul Me Maybe,” which will specialize in moving college women out of their apartments. Why college women? Because it would be way easier to get idiot frat boys to work for my company if they knew they were going to be working in cut-off shirts in front of coeds every day. I even have a theme song in mind:

“Hey I just moved out,
And this is heaaaavy.
So here’s my sofa,
Just Haul Me Maybe.”

It’s genius! You hear that Carly Rae Jepsen? You could be our spokeswoman when your one-hit career inevitably ends. So call me maybe.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Waiting in the Weeds


 As a romantic who believes in true love, I'm always looking for the magical ways in which the universe brings people together. Wait, that didn't sound right, let's try that again: As a jaded, cynical single person I often laugh at the desperate ways people try and meet their soul mate. Yeah that sounds more like me.

So you can imagine how hard I laughed when I saw this story. Apparently these people pay to pick weeds in a garden, thus meeting other people who have at least one thing in common with you: They were also stupid enough to pay to pick weeds.

Now, let us go over just a few of the many different reasons this is such a stupid idea. For one, picking weeds is not enjoyable. I grew up on a three-acre coffee farm and I was often assigned the task of picking weeds. I rarely did however, because it is hard work that takes place very low to the ground, which hurts. I normally just sat on my bucket and proceeded to pick all of the weeds within my reach, which resulted in a perfect circle of clean dirt surrounded by weeds. Actually, maybe that’s how crop circles are formed…

Also, I’m pretty sure dates shouldn’t involve more dirt than alcohol. I personally have no problem drinking while sitting in the dirt, but I’m going out on a limb and assuming most women don’t like to be sweaty and dirty. Heck, most of the girls I know freak out when they smudge their makeup.

Now you are probably saying to yourself, “But I haven’t found anyone by going to bars or going on conventional dates, so maybe this will work.” Nice try, but that if you are having trouble picking up women at bars full of drunk women, you might be pointing the finger in the wrong direction.

And yes, I’m sure all of you are hearing this and saying that me giving advice on dating is like Paris Hilton lecturing on the Higgs Boson particle. But it’s not that I haven’t been on dates, it’s just that I mess all of them up horribly. Women say they want a sense of humor, they just apparently don’t want that humor to be sexist, racist and religiously insensitive. And that leaves me with very little material, since I am not going to talk about my feelings.

In fact, half the time I never even make it to dinner. I used to work a night shift, which made dinner dates a bit of a challenge. On one particular occasion, I promised some girl I would meet her for food at ten, which is very late for dinner but was still cutting it close to the end of my shift. Sure enough, I got slammed with work and was still in my office at 11, when I had this text conversation:

Her: “Hey jerk, you’re late.”
Me: “Sorry, apparently my boss still owns my nuts until 11:30.
Her: “So what are we going to do? This place closes at 12.”
Me: “I hear the Burger King drive-thru is still open.”

OK, so I’m not exactly “Bachelor” material. Or even “Flavor of Love” material for that matter. But what I lack in suave and manners I more than make up for in my ability to come up with ideas for stupid reality shows based on my failings.

This one will be called, “Last Resort.” The general premise is that we take a bunch of singles who are so bad with the opposite gender and at finding love that even eHarmony and Match.com couldn’t find them a match. We stick these people in a beautiful, isolated tropical resort with each other and watch the awkwardness begin! 

Will any of them actually find love? Of course not! It will be pure carnage! But you will watch it for the same reason you watch the American Idol auditions: We love watching people getting their dignity stomped on like Dance Dance Revolution pads. Who knows, maybe in addition to making me filthy rich, my new show will inspire you to go out and give love a chance, maybe even pick some weeds. If you ask nicely I’ll make room on my bucket.


Friday, July 6, 2012

America the Beautiful


Like every true American patriot out there, it was with great joy that I celebrated the birth of this greatest of countries on the Fourth of July. Because I love this great country of ours, and every other country in the world frankly can go wallow in their untreated sewage.

Now, I have to say Boulder is not a very “American,” city. It doesn't eat much meat, it likes to drive high efficiency vehicles, and I'm pretty sure most of the residents here like trees more than people.

But never-the-less, Boulder does have a very American way of celebrating Independence Day. Every year, thousands of college-aged kids get together on the shores of the Boulder Reservoir, take their shirts off and get absolutely plastered.

Now, this being the first summer in Boulder I wasn't working on July 4, I was pretty excited for our trip to the Res. We were so excited in fact, that we started drinking the night before we were supposed to go up. We drank a large amount of very patriotically designed cans of cheap light beer to celebrate, except for one idiot who brought French beer. Now, Mexican's without papers are one thing, but anybody who brings French beer to a Fourth of July party deserves to be ghosted to Guantanamo and forced to listen to “Star Spangled Banner” on repeat until they die.

Anyway, as it turns out, drinking a lot of beer (French or not) the night before you are supposed to do something is not a good idea. Of the dozen or so people scheduled to go, only two of us showed up at the meeting spot on time at 8:30. So what did we do while the rest of the crew was working off hangovers? Why the most American thing there is to do: We drank more beer in the garage.

Eventually everyone else arose from the dead and we drove off to the Res, singing “God Bless America,” and generally being obnoxious Americans the whole way (which was highly ironic considering we were driving a Toyota).

We finally got to the reservoir and literally the first thing we see are four hot, drunk women in red, white and blue bikinis waving around a large American flag and screaming randomly. At that point I don't think I could have been prouder of my country, and I had a feeling it was going to be a great day.

You see I intended to embrace that oh so American tradition of ingesting large quantities of beer and then getting shot down by women way out of my league. And there were a lot of women there out of my league. There may have been homely ones there, but I didn't see them. They may have been turning them away at the gate.

After creating a pile of aluminum at my feet and offending several women with inappropriate jokes about flag poles, I decided to go into the water, since I could always mess up pickup lines later. Now, just to be clear, they call it a beach, but it’s not. This is not the ocean, it’s a man-made hole they filled with water. It’s no more an ocean than my toilet. It doesn’t have sand as much as it has cement mix and there are random roots and plants floating around in it.

But it did do one thing, and that was cool us down, which was very important. Because when we set out a list of things to bring, it sort of looked like this:

1.      Beer
2.      More beer
3.      Chips
4.      Things to sit in while we drink beer
5.      Beer

This list, while beautiful in its simplicity, left out a few things. Sunscreen for instance. Also, tents and water.  By the end of the day we looked like Hellboy extras.

But despite the fact that it currently hurts to move, I would consider the day an enormous success. Because Independence Day celebrates the day when a brave band of colonists revolted against tyranny for the right to shout “''Mmerica, F@$% YEAH!” at the top of our lungs while drinking beer and eating apple pie with our hands. Our forefathers would have been proud.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Reunited, And It Feels So Good


So I just got back from a trip back home to Hawaii, where among other things I went to my five-year class reunion.

Now I know a lot of you are a little confused by that. I mean, I really don’t know anybody else that had a five-year class reunion. But our class was so close and cohesive that we would cross mountain high and river wide to see each other again. Also I was going to be back home for a wedding anyway and I really, really, really wanted another socially acceptable reason to drink.

Now when I ran for senior class president, I didn’t do it thinking I would have to be organizing these reunion things. Actually, I’m not really sure what I was thinking when I ran for class president. Or what the people who voted me were thinking for that matter…

Anyway, regardless of the reason, I found myself suddenly in charge of organizing this thing, even though I lived 3,000 miles away and have a well documented history of being very lazy. I mean, there are some classes with elaborate websites that have individual class profiles. And I thought a color-coded Excel spreadsheet with contact information was hard.

So I decided that instead of having an elaborate, fancy get-together at a hotel that would require me to wear pants, we would just hold a barbeque on the beach. And when it comes to a class reunion on the beach, there is one thing that you have to make sure you have, and so I called my dad to make sure the most important part of the reunion went off without a hitch:

Me: “Can you go get us a liquor permit for the pavilion?”

Once that was taken care of, the rest of the details – like whether I remembered to invite any of my actual classmates – really were minor. And finding my classmates was a little harder than I was anticipating. For a bunch of people who grew up stranded on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, the members of my class sure did scatter across the globe. In addition to being all over the U.S., there were also classmates in all manner of foreign countries, including China, Nepal and Alaska.

Now that we invited some people, we had to get our class money to buy all the food. This also turned out to be a lot more complicated than I anticipated, because for some reason the bank really did not want to let me create an account for the class.

 Judging by the questions they were asking me, it appeared the bank was convinced I was going to take the money we had and buy myself a one-way ticket to live a carefree life on the beaches of the Caribbean. At one point they made me and one of our officers sign a form whose sole purpose was to ensure we didn’t use the money for online gambling.

Then the actual day of the reunion came, and all of a sudden it was all worth it. I was sitting just a stones throw from the ocean, sitting with my feet up and a cold beer in my hand as a cool sea breeze blew through my hair. Then my darn classmates showed up.

I’m just joking of course, it was actually really nice to see everybody. Sure, I had forgotten to rent a Lamborghini and bribe a hooker to pose as my girlfriend, but that really didn’t matter because I did have one thing that I did not have in high school that made it all OK: lots of beer. I wasn’t exactly the smoothest socialite in high school, but with beer, I was still a muttering dufus but now I could blame it on the beer.

All in all it was a really fun day reconnecting with the class, and I hope to see even more of them at the ten year reunion. Of course, someone else might have to plan it, because my plane for Tijuana that I bought with class money leaves in a few hours…

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Tie the Knot


So as you know, same-sex marriage has been all over the news lately. Or at least you would know if you stopped just sitting in your room all day listening to “Call Me Maybe” on repeat. I mean, how many times can you -

iPod: "…and this is crAAAAAzy-"

OK, OK I get it you love this song. But just pause it for one second. OK?

Because this is a very serious issue at hand. So actually, I’m not sure why I’m talking about it. Me and serious issue normally clash worse than Amanda Bynes and parked cars. But all of the country’s leaders and most influential figures are talking about it, which means I have to discuss it to make sure at least one intelligent person weighs in on the issue.

Now just to get this out of the way, I think same-sex couples are no different than straight couples and have every right to get married before then going through an ugly divorce, because I believe in equality when it comes to misery. I mean, after seeing all the ugly separations and restraining orders and grisly murders we’ve gone through because of marriage, I’m surprised they still want it. Because this is what most straight guys would do if marriage weren’t legal for us:

“Ohh sorry honey, I would looooove to marry you and eventually have you chop off my head with an axe for insurance money after I cheat on you. But the good state of Colorado says it’s illegal. Both the marriage and the axe part.”

But whether marriage is a good idea safety wise is irrelevant, same-sex couples should have the same right to tie the knot and confirm their tax breaks true love. Even if I didn’t plan on using it, I can’t imagine being denied a right that every other person on the planet took for granted. 

For instance, I am a staunch supporter of gun rights. Sure, I’ve never fired a gun in my life and I’m pretty sure having one would pose a safety risk to both myself and anyone within 100 yards of me. But if you were to ever take away my right to wander into the hills and fire projectiles at beer bottles I just finished drinking, my legislators would be hearing from me. As soon as I figure out who they are.

One mistaken notion is that allowing same-sex marriages would somehow ruin the idea of the “nuclear family.” Bristol Palin even chimed in with her two cents, saying every baby should have a father and a mother. I find this highly ironic, since Bristol got knocked up, which means her baby will only see it’s father to collect child support checks. 

Another politician said a child requires a man and a woman in a loving marriage. Considering I’ve seen a man and a woman who barely know each other raise babies, I know the only thing you need to produce a child is a bottle of tequila and a lack of pharmaceutical resources.

Speaking of tequila, there is really only one group of people who should never be allowed to get married. And that is celebrities. Seriously, we won’t let two guys marry each other but we let Tom Arnold and Roseanne Barr get married? OK, so that’s sort of the same thing, but you get my point.

But ultimately, the reason I’m in favor of this is I think everybody has the right to make their own decisions. Even though most of the times we make the wrong ones. For instance, even though my doctor would probably tell me it’s a bad idea, I am about to eat this entire box of Oreos. Because there is one thing that makes this country obese great. But I think the great William Wallace can say it better than me…

Mel Gibson: “FREEEEEEDOO-”

iPod: “so call me mAAAAAAybe.”

You just couldn’t wait til the end of the note could you?

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Draw Something Ugly

It's time that we take a look at the smart phone app that is sweeping the nation faster than a case of syphilis in the Hilton household. That's right, it's Draw Something! For those of you who haven't ever tried it out, you basically send a drawing of a word to your friend, who then has to guess what the word is based on your truly horrible artistic rendering.

Sure, you hear all these stories about people who apparently could paint the Sistine Chapel on Draw Something. But do you know what all those people have in common (aside from way too much time on their hands)? They are all cheating. I don't know how, I don't know why, but they are cheating somehow. Maybe they are using iPads or those special pens. Maybe they know a really tiny person whose fingers actually fit on an iPhone screen.

Because let's be honest, most of your drawings looks like somebody attached a thick marker to the butt of a three-legged weasel stuck in a cage full of African killer bees. There is a reason most people do not draw with their fingers past the first grade. It's like performing brain surgery with a butcher knife and a sledgehammer.

Then of course, you have the people I play with (not to give away their identities, but “twin” is involved in their usernames). Now their drawing is far from bad. The weird thing is, they almost never draw. They apparently got the memo that the game is called “Write Something,” because that is normally what they do. Sometimes they try to draw it and then give up:

And then sometimes, they just say “F**k it.”

But the funniest part is trying to watch them (and one of them in particular) try to spell words when it's their turn to guess. For instance, using artistically accurate and descriptive stick figures, I attempted to draw the word “macarena.” Now, she got the word, but as the letters went up, you could tell she had absolutely no idea how to spell it. First she tried “macerana,” then “macarane,” and then for some inexplicable reason tried about five different variations that involved the letter “Q.” (She also thinks there is a “U” in Kirby.)

Now, I'm not being condescending, because I would probably write out all the words too if anybody could read my handwriting. I am probably the worst Draw Something player in the world. I make refrigerator art look like it should be in a glass case at the Louvre. For instance, can you guess what this is?

It's supposed to be Aladdin, but I think we can all agree it looks a lot more like the monkey he hung out with.

I think if there was ever a word that did not describe me, it would be “artistic.” My mom and my sister can paint and draw and are very “right brained,” where I would be more accurately described as “no brained.” I was that kid in kindergarten who all the teachers worried about because in art class I could never color inside the lines and I always chose to draw landscapes involving colors that never appear naturally in nature, such as neon orange. Also, I never drew clothes on any of the people in my pictures.

I actually did win a drawing contest called “Sight Is Beautiful,” when I was in kindergarten, proof beauty truly is in the eyes of the beholder, and those beholders are clearly idiots. I think they let me win because they assumed I was retarded, since I swear I drew one of my fish half purple, half gray with blue stripes and green fins. (I apparently was very intent on using every single marker in my “LSD Crayola” starter pack.)

So obviously my name will never be alongside the likes of Leonardo, Rafael, Donatello and Michelangelo as an artist (or as ninja turtle). In fact, I got kicked out of an art museum once for sitting down on what I thought was a bench that actually turned out to be a very expensive piece of art. So I will instead settle for sharing my splotchy caveman-like portraits with people I force to play Draw Something with me. At least now that I have unlocked the “beach” color packet, I can now draw the pictures of myself that I really want to...